Archive of Our Own ^beta

Lestrade was not drunk. He'd avoided visiting the bottle in his desk drawer and the twenty pubs between the Yard and Baker Street so that he could be dead sober when he asked Sherlock what the bloody fucking hell he thought he was doing.

Bribing a 65-year-old Albanian cleaning lady to let him into Dimmock's office? Reading and photocopying a case file he'd been told six times he was not invited to put his nose in? And then showing up to question witnesses at the suspect's workplace flashing the warrant card he'd stolen from Lestrade's jacket that morning?

"Do you know how long it's going to take me to clear up the shit you've thrown at me today, Sherlock?"

Sherlock levered himself off the sofa and tied his dressing gown deliberately, not making eye contact with Lestrade as he sniffed, "It won't matter once I've solved the case. All will be forgiven. So stop whining about it, Lestrade."

Lestrade wanted nothing more in that moment than to shove the arrogant, selfish bastard to the floor and crush his trachea. The odds were strongly in his favor that Sherlock's murder wouldn't get the D.I. any jail time, and would probably earn him a commendation and a shiny medal from the Powers That Be. But instead of choking the life out of the consulting detective, Lestrade shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers, lowered his voice and said coldly, quietly. "Wrong."

Sherlock smirked and raised an eyebrow.

Lestrade called Sherlock's smirk and raised two eyebrows. "Dimmock is still not letting you on his case--he's got orders from the PM via Mycroft. It's too sensitive and they don't want your theatrics mucking it up. And you're also looking at being banned from the Yard entirely for at least four months for opening sealed case files. And I'm looking at a reprimand or suspension for letting you nick my ID. At the very least, I'll be at HR every day for a month clearing up the mess and begging for my job."

Sherlock stared at Lestrade, speechless for once. Both men were on the verge of launching new verbal attacks when John walked in. The doc was smiling and whistling cheerily as he stepped into the flat with his usual pathetic shopping bag of milk, jam, and formaldehyde.

One look at the standoff and the whistling stopped. John's body tensed in anticipation of the wave of accusations and counter-accusations that was going to crash into him at any moment. Poor John, always the referee, the peacemaker. Well, not this time, thought Lestrade.

This time he was going for the nuclear option. He and John had held back on deploying it for years, but now was most certainly the right time. Lestrade glanced over to meet John's confused, pleading eyes. The D.I. knew he only had to say the word. John trusted Lestrade to make the call.

"This is a Code Yellow, John."

"Oh wow. Really?"

"Yes. So the only question is: John Watson, would you like to have sex now, or would you prefer to help me murder your flatmate? I'm game for either one."

John took a deep breath and walked to the kitchen to put down his groceries, then turned to respond in a quavering tenor, "I'll have the sex, please." Then more brightly, "And you're in luck, Greg, I just bought a dozen condoms."

Sherlock laughed and then scowled at both men when John came back to the sitting room to hand the multi-coloured, extra-large condoms to Lestrade with a grin.

"Very funny. The pair of you are hilarious."

Lestrade took off his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt, explaining, "We're not joking, Sherlock. We've been Fuck Buddies for three years now. Can't believe you never figured it out. Whenever you're driving us completely mental, we hook up to get rid of the tension."

Sherlock began to whimper, his hands fisting in the fabric of his dressing gown as he tried to maintain control. He appeared, Lestrade deduced, to be on the verge of either a homicidal rage or a stroke.

John toed off his shoes and took off his belt, continuing, "Yeah, it's been a great help. I really don't think I could have survived your shenanigans more than a week without Greg's magic healing cock." He threw Lestrade a wink and dropped his trousers.

Lestrade blushed as he pulled down the zip on his own trousers, humbly waving off the compliment. "Oh John, come on. We've both got magic healing cocks. Mine would be nothing without yours."

Sherlock finally found his voice, and screamed, "Stop it! This joke has gone far enough! I give up! I'll do whatever you say to make it right, Lestrade. I'll . . . I'll apologize to Dimmock, for god's sake. Just please, both of you get your clothes back on! The thought of you and John--my John . . ."

John and Lestrade looked at each other, shrugged, picked up their clothes and turned towards John's bedroom.

When he heard Sherlock begin to whimper again, John turned back and stepped closer to pat his friend on the shoulder. "Sorry Sherlock, but you brought this on yourself. Once the Yellow launch code has been activated, we have to complete the protocol." John put on a tender, sympathetic face for a moment and stroked Sherlock's dark curls. From the hallway, Lestrade watched, fearing for a moment that his FB was about to change his mind.

Not a chance.

John Watson had nerves of steel and a strong moral sense, Lestrade reminded himself. He'd honor their pact. And besides, Lestrade knew exactly what John was thinking, before he even uttered the words, bounding gleefully to where Lestrade was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

"Gotta go now, Sherlock--it's my turn to top!"

Sherlock called out after him in desperation, "John, I have to know . . . if this horror is Code Yellow--what's Code Red?"

John and Lestrade paused their ascent. "Should I tell him?" asked John.

"Yeah. Go ahead, I guess," mumbled Lestrade, "if you don't mind watching his head explode."

"Threesome," said John with a sly smile.

Sherlock looked surpised--then giggled.

Until John added, "Me, Greg . . . and Mycroft."