Who: Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade When: New Years Day Where: Their Room. What: Discussing what happened last night. Rating: PG/PG-13
It must have been just before seven in the morning when Lestrade noticed that Holmes was up and out of bed. He noticed, of course, because they'd spent the night in the same one. He couldn't remember how that had exactly happened, memories of the night before were still far too foggy for him to be certain. What he did know was that he and Holmes had picked up several bottles of champagne during their shopping trip yesterday to buy John's watch. As far as Greg could recall, they hadn't intended to drink them all, but midnight had called for a second bottle because they'd already finished the first and it was downhill from there.
There was some hazy recollection of the kiss, sitting on the sofa and watching the festivities in Time Square. He even had a couple clear memories of getting Sherlock's shirt off but everything that happened between that and what they did when they ended up in bed together was gone. He was still too drunk to try and piece it together on his own.
When Holmes got up and left the flat, Lestrade assumed he wouldn't be coming back for a while. He had no idea that the man had only gone to drop off his gift for John, so happy to have some time to himself he dragged his weary body from the bed and set himself about in the kitchen to put on some coffee and try to shake off the pressure of the threatening headache that was forming as he made the shift to sobriety.
This was, without a doubt, the stupidest he'd felt in a long time. There was no room for drunken fumbling in the kind of relationship that he and Sherlock had -- it was professional. Even if it existed only unofficially and now not at all because Holmes was supposed to be dead, he was probably about to be a former Scotland Yard Inspector and now they'be been transported to some version of New York.
He didn't even want to think about -- about the other thing. The fact he'd been married to a woman for nearly a decade and now wasn't. The fact that Sherlock -- well, that he didn't exactly fit the right perimeters, no matter how he looked at it. Last night just shouldn't have happened.
Still, he was having a hard time ascribing the word mistake to the events of the night before. It felt too heavy and a little bit wrong. There had been something nice about how what he could remember made him feel. It had been a terribly bad idea, all of it, and it was the wrong thing to do but it hadn't been unpleasant and he hadn't been thinking about or wishing for anyone else during a moment of it.
Lestrade was trying to sort out how he felt about the word "misunderstanding" when he heard the lock on their door click and realised he wasn't ready at all to face Sherlock with any of this.