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fic: Close Analysis chapter 1

Title: Close Analysis
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Lestrade/Sherlock (unrequited), Sherlock/John (unrequited?)
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters from the BBC's Sherlock.   Just playing.
Rating:  NC-17 for sexual content and a Lestrade who swears a lot.
Summary:  Lestrade tries to help Sherlock who is confused about an incident with John.  Sherlock is not grateful for long.
A/N: Originally inspired by the glorious eumelkeks icon linking Lestrade and Scudder from Maurice.  Also by some splendid Sherlock/Lestrade fics on here, including those by
[info]suzie_shooter  and [info]nemo_everbeing.


Chapter I


An Inspector Calls


Despite the fancy name, which sounds posh (because French), and which incidentally is not his original name (but let’s not go there, shall we? at least not for now), Inspector Lestrade started life pretty far down the social scale. He’s done well for himself, knows he looks good for his age, has a decent sense of style, likes to preen a bit now and then. But not far below the surface he still and always feels that he’s really just a bit of rough. And he still has that weakness, the one he’s always had, for fucked-up posh boys with gorgeous educated voices and neuroses by the cartload.


Sherlock is - of course - the worst of these obsessions. Has been ever since Lestrade first ran into him intruding on a crime scene, years ago, talking nineteen to the dozen what sounded like complete bullshit but turned out to be spot on. Making Lestrade feel slow and stupid and as if he was still a plodding copper on the beat instead of a nicely-thank-you high-flying officer in the Met. And also - predictably, but it just wouldn’t go away - making Lestrade uncertain whether what he most wanted to do to Sherlock was throttle him or shag him senseless. Or first one and then the other. Probably that. Yes.

He knows that Sherlock has got his number - fuck it, Sherlock’s got everyone’s number, or it feels that way at times to Lestrade. Seems like there’s no-one Sherlock can’t see through at a glance. So it’s been awkward between them, sometimes. Because Lestrade’s brain seems to work even less well around Sherlock. For obvious reasons. Nobody thinks clearly when they’re trying not to get an erection. Or, worse, when they’ve already lost that battle.


Most of the time when he’s with Sherlock, Lestrade manages to keep his mind firmly on his job. If he couldn’t, he’d have had to resign long ago. But sometimes, there’s that moment when he feels his self-control slipping. Not to mention the times when he knows Sherlock is deliberately winding him up. Or doing that thing of being massively rude to Lestrade for no good reason. It’s embarrassing that Lestrade can find this hot.


Life would be simpler, he sometimes thinks, if Sherlock didn’t exist. It would be a lot simpler if he existed but was nondescript-looking, or indeed ugly, rather than what he is: the most gorgeous and fucked-up of all the gorgeous and fucked-up posh boys Lestrade has ever had the hots for.

But today something’s different, and he doesn’t know why. If Sherlock was a dog, Lestrade would say his coat looked out of condition. Probably better not to think about coat and Sherlock in the same sentence. Lestrade’s fantasies about Sherlock and The Coat can still make him blush, and not much does that these days.


Sherlock’s clothes are all part of what makes him irresistible to Lestrade, and what makes Lestrade feel more than ever like a bit of rough (just an under-gamekeeper, but let’s not go there, shall we? or at least not for the moment). The beautifully cut classic suits; the sharp shirts. The coat. (I said, not to think about the coat.) But today Sherlock is wearing what looks suspiciously like a ratty old grey t-shirt over pyjama bottoms. With a blue silk dressing-gown, natch, but still. It’s not like him.


The interloper is not around today, that’s one good thing. Lestrade has taken to calling John Watson that in his head and knows it’s only a matter of time before he does it out loud. At which point, he wouldn’t mind betting, there will be the most almighty row with Sherlock. Ever since that washed-out little ex-Army type turned up it’s been clear that Sherlock thinks he’s something special. They’re like a couple of kids in the playground, new best friends forever. Sometimes Lestrade thinks they’re a bit more than that. Which is really annoying, because he’s pretty sure he could show Sherlock a much better time in bed than John Watson ever will.


Lestrade used to be quite good at shagging, though he hasn’t done much of it recently. And, face it, he’s never going to be up to the old dramatic entry via the bedroom window again. That’s a young man’s game, and Lestrade is not a young man any more. Still, some things improve with age and practice, and he’s willing to bet he’s had more of that than those two lovebirds put together. Not difficult, when one of the two is Sherlock, who apparently doesn’t have a sex life at all. Or else keeps it so cleverly hidden that hopeless plodding DI Lestrade will never find it.


Anyway, JW is out. Which is a relief. But Sherlock is visibly drooping, like a toddler with low blood sugar. Which is worrying. Lestrade is fond of Sherlock, a thing that really shouldn’t have been allowed to happen, but which sneaked up on him while he wasn’t looking. It’s bad enough wanting to throttle Sherlock or shag him senseless or both without also sometimes - like today - just wanting to give him a great big hug and a kiss.


This won’t do. Lestrade pulls himself together. Tries to sound gruff and barely interested.


What’s up with you, then?” Bit too keen, that came out as. But the sardonic glint he usually gets from Sherlock when he shows his feelings too plainly doesn’t materialize.


Lestrade’s lounging in the armchair, making himself at home, or trying to. He feels this look was easier to pull off with a room full of police officers as backup. (“They’re not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they’re all very keen.”) At least then Sherlock was caught off guard. For a moment it almost felt like Lestrade had got him where he wants him. He hadn’t, of course. Ran rings round Lestrade as usual and then sloped off to dinner with his new best friend, giggling like idiots. (Which reminds Lestrade to wash that shock blanket of Sherlock’s and take it back before somebody notices it’s missing. The smell’s pretty much faded now anyway.)


No answer from Sherlock. He tries another cue that sometimes works: “OK, gimme.”


Sherlock gets up off the sofa where he’s been curled up sulking and starts pacing about the room, tugging at his hair as if he’s trying to pull it out by the roots.


Lestrade considers offering to do that for him, but restrains himself. Sherlock and hair-pulling. Another one to add to his list of things not to think about except in bed. It’s quite a long list already, but then he has spent quite a few years compiling it.


I don’t know what to do,” Sherlock says, suddenly and loudly, as if it’s being forced out of him against his will.


Don’t know what to do about what?” Lestrade asks, carefully. Sherlock’s pacing is starting to make him feel giddy; it’s distracting.


No answer. More pacing and hair-tugging. Lestrade loses patience and grabs Sherlock’s wrist, catching him off-balance and pulling him down into the chair with him. This at least has the immediate benefit of stopping the pacing, but Lestrade’s not sure what to do next. Also having a furious disconcerted Sherlock struggling against him is - predictably - a bit difficult to deal with, and probably not going to end well.


Fuck off,” Sherlock says, and pushes Lestrade against the back of the chair - but, oddly, he doesn’t get up, which Lestrade thought for sure he would.


This is all a bit awkward and silly now. Sherlock’s half-in, half-out of the chair. Lestrade feels as if he’s got a big overgrown kid practically sitting in his lap, which should absolutely not be erotic. But it’s not a kid, it’s Sherlock, which means there’s no way Lestrade is going to stay calm. Didn’t really think this through, did you? He clears his throat.


Look, Sherlock, it’s bloody obvious there’s something going on. So why don’t you tell me what it is and - oh, I dunno, maybe it’ll all seem clearer or you’ll find a solution to whatever it is.”


You’re not my sodding therapist,” Sherlock says, with the ghost of his usual stroppiness.


Just as well,” Lestrade says cheerfully; “I’d be struck off if people saw us like this. Anyway, I didn’t know you had a sodding therapist. Is that new?”


I don’t!” Still touchy about that, then. Lestrade makes another effort to compose himself. Any minute now he’s going to have to start going through the periodic table or the alphabet backwards or any one of the many other things he’s tried to think about over the years to stop himself getting overexcited around Sherlock. He tries again.


So, do you want to tell me about it?”


Sherlock doesn’t say anything.


Has something happened?”


Still nothing. Fuck it. OK, one more, and this really goes against the grain, but all Lestrade’s instincts are telling him that this next question is the key. The key to unlock Sherlock, so to speak. Yeah, puns. Great. Concentrate, Lestrade. Big effort. Say what you’ve got to say and then go home.


Is this something to do with John Watson?”


Bingo. Sharp intake of breath from Sherlock, like someone’s just punched him in the gut.


How did you know? How could you possibly - Christ, is it that obvious?” He sounds horrified.


Thanks,” says Lestrade sarcastically.


Sorry,” Sherlock mutters. Lestrade’s not sure he heard that correctly. Thinks he might be hallucinating.




Sorry,” Sherlock says again. “Just - I thought I was doing a good job of hiding it.”


Lestrade could kick himself, because he really didn’t need to hear this. But he smacks that down and tells himself he’s got to do the right thing. Which, right now, means trying to be a good friend to Sherlock.


Bit of a guess, really,” he says apologetically. “Got to get it right now and then, law of averages - ”


He stops, because Sherlock’s hand is over his mouth. Oh shit. Sherlock’s long hands are, it goes without saying, high on the list of things not to think about except in bed.


If I’m going to tell you this then you have to shut up and promise not to interrupt.” Sherlock takes his hand away again. Just as well.


Don’t see how I’m supposed to do both,” Lestrade grumbles, and gets a sharp elbow in the ribs for his pains. Ouch. “OK, OK. I promise. Fire away.”

Chapter 2: The Talking Cure



scallop voices


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