"Sherlock, I'm done in. I'll see you at home, yeah? I'll grab a pizza on the way." John Watson waves his hand to his flatmate and turns back the way they'd come hours before, heading toward the main road to catch a cab.

Sherlock and Lestrade watch him go, until Sherlock realizes that Lestrade isn't just watching, he's staring. Sherlock pauses, watching Lestrade watch John, until he can't take it anymore.

"If you'll notice…" he starts, then Lestrade talks over him.

"Do you think he'd like dinner?"

Sherlock looks at him with a frown on his face. "What? Of course he likes dinner. He insists on eating it every day."

"Don't be dense. No, do you think he'd have dinner with me?"

"Of course he'd…oh for God's sake. You mean that sort of dinner." Sherlock rolls his eyes so hard his head tips back. "If you insist on flashing your mating rituals around, will you please refrain from doing it at crime scenes? We're busy."

Lestrade almost chokes. "Would you knock it off? No! I just want to ask him to dinner, that's all. You know, just…dinner."

"Nothing is 'just dinner,' especially where he's concerned," Sherlock snipes.

"Why did I even ask you this? Because I'm insane, obviously. Could you just stop being you for a minute and help me out here?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Your virtue, for what it's worth."

"Sherlock! Just tell me what kind of food he likes."

"Anything."

"Sherlock-"

"No, I'm being perfectly serious. He eats anything. And everything. He spent too much time in the Army, if you ask me. All those men, trying to outdo other as to the most disgusting thing they could force down. I've seen John eat eyeballs. But I'm sure he did it just to discomfit Mycroft, which was glorious, actually." Sherlock smiles at the happy memory, Mycroft's disgusted face as John ordered the pilau and specifically asked for eyes, "if they happened to have any." And then when he ate them…Sherlock sighs dreamily.

Lestrade rubs his hand over his face. Perhaps this little quirk is something good to know, but Lord, the two of them together are like a pair of children, feeding off of and constantly trying to one-up each other. John on his own, though…Lestrade shudders a little at the implications of Sherlock's statement earlier, and wondering what it would take to get those squared shoulders bare.

"So, how about Italian, then," he says desperately.

"Sure, if you want to be boring," Sherlock sniffs, turning back to the scene to examine the bottom of the steps.

"Fuck, never mind," Lestrade growls. Probably wouldn't have worked anyway, stupid flatmate, biggest berk on the planet, fucking egotistical – Lestrade's internal rant is interrupted by Sherlock's impatient drawl.

"Fine. But you better not distract him from cases. He wants to go to Ratzche's."

"The German place? But that's been around for ages, he has to have been there before."

"Not since he's been home. He was saying the other day that he was craving their wiener schnitzel."

Lestrade snickers a little. Perhaps John and Sherlock weren't the only adolescents after all.

Lestrade waits until the next time Sherlock and John come into the office before asking him. He just didn't feel comfortable calling, and he certainly wasn't going to be as gauche as to text.

John walks in his office first, fit and smart in a red button-down and his black leather jacket. Lestrade takes a moment to admire the vee of skin between the open collar of his shirt, the hollow of his throat played in light and shadow.

"Greg," John says, and drops into the visitor chair, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. "That one has a request. As usual. I tried to talk him out of it but, well…" John gives an elegant shrug.

Lestrade doesn't care. He doesn't care if it's the moon, he'll take whatever Sherlock is about to throw at him, since John's here and sitting at his desk, finally, more than two weeks after he'd decided it was time to make his move. Well, eventually make his move.

"I need you to exhume the Culver body for me," Sherlock says crisply, pulling off his gloves and tucking them in his pocket.

Lestrade rears back in shock. "What? No! He's been dead for over a year!" Christ almighty. Perhaps he was grateful too early. "Get the autopsy photos and go away."

"I need a hair sample. I'm sure he was weakened by arsenic poisoning before he was killed."

Lestrade looks at John, who looks back with an "I tried to warn you" look on his face. Lestrade rolls his eyes and John snorts a laugh behind his hand, blue eyes twinkling. "Fine. I'll see what I can do, but no guarantees, Sherlock, do you hear me?" Lestrade shouts at Sherlock's back as Sherlock bolts from the office toward the file room.

John sighs and makes to follow, but Lestrade stands quickly, determined to take this chance before it walks out the door.

"John," Lestrade says, and his voice sounds slightly strangled. He clears his throat and tries again. "John. Could you wait a moment?"

John turns back with an inquisitive smile. "Sure, what is it? Afraid I can't stop him from stealing your phone, sorry."

Lestrade checks his desk and curses. "That little shite. I need to start keeping it in my shorts. That'll teach him." He scowls until remembers why John's still standing there. "Listen, I was wondering…ah, would you be interested in having dinner? With me, I mean. Just you and me. No Sherlock included." He's babbling like a teenager, but John's smile bolsters his confidence a little.

"Just you and me, is it?" John says, his voice going a bit dark as his eyes narrow fractionally, making him look ever-so-slightly predatory.

Lestrade swallows, then clears his throat. Perhaps he's just bitten off a bit more than he can chew. He has heard the rumors, after all. His incoming email chimes from his desk and he glances down, seeing "FOR GOD'S SAKE STOP BEING SO JITTERY OR HE'LL EAT YOU ALIVE" in the subject line.

He looks up and over John's shoulder to see that Sherlock is back, looking through the window, shaking his head sadly and making "crash and burn" gestures. Lestrade straightens his shoulders and walks around the desk to stand in front of John, a little closer than he might under most circumstances. But it seems John likes a little bravado when he quirks a smile and shifts forward fractionally.

Lestrade lifts one hand to reach out and carefully straighten the side of John's collar, his thumb brushing lightly against the soft skin of John's throat. "That's what dates usually consist of, isn't it? Just two people?"

John's eyes flicker closed for just a second. "They do. And is this a date, Detective Inspector?"

"If you'd like it to be." Oh please, please don't let this be one of those ridiculous games between Sherlock and John, one where he'll be left as the prize idiot in a contest he didn't even know he was in.

John ducks his chin with a little grin and looks up at Lestrade with those devastating blue eyes. "I think I would."

"Good. Ratczhe's at seven, then?"

John chuckles. "Did he actually tell you that?"

Lestrade's stomach sinks. "Yes?"

"Unbelieveable. Just when you think he tunes you out." John shakes his head in wonderment, then locks his gaze on Lestrade again, reaching forward to rest a hand over Lestrade's hip. "That's perfect. We can go and stuff ourselves stupid then back to yours for dessert."

Lestrade's brain is starting to feel a bit fried at the amount of heat John's putting off. He's like an inferno; if you step too close without protective gear you might get your fingers burned. Doesn't matter, though; he's reveling in it, willing to take the heat for a kiss of the fire.

"Dessert with you would be more than perfect," Lestrade says, just as John pulls him in by the hip and kisses him, a soft slant of mouths that makes Lestrade melt and wind his arms around John's back, until John's hand slips down to cup his arse. Lestrade gasps in surprise and John deepens their kiss with a hand on the back of Lestrade's neck.

He breaks away, breathing hard, John still in his arms and grinning. Lestrade can feel the answering smile on his own face. "I'll see you in an hour, right?"

"Right," John says and heads for the door, looking toward the window where Sherlock has thoughtfully turned his back. Lestrade can't believe how well this turned out, and as turns back toward his desk to start gathering his things to head home, he catches Sherlock reaching out to give John a subtle, congratulatory bump with his shoulder. Lestrade rolls his eyes.

Perhaps he didn't escape the game after all.

But he's never been happier to lose.