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"Should've asked for her number," Donovan said, as they walked back to the car.
"What?" Lestrade frowned.
"Her number. She was checking you out, Sir. Or given her yours - I'll go back, if you want - give me one of your cards," Donavan held her hand out.
"I was old enough to be her father," Lestrade said, his voice rising.
Donovan shrugged. "You aren't, and anyway why should that matter. She obviously thought you were a fox."
Lestrade couldn't help but smile as he shook his head and unlocked the car. "She was just a nice girl. Christ, no wonder people are so rude nowadays if you've only got to be polite to someone for everyone to think you're after them."
"Please, Sir, I'm not blind. She was checking you out - all that flirting, touching your arm, offering you tea and biscuits. I'm telling you, if it'd been just me in there there'd have been none of that."
"Just...write your notes. And leave out all the wild speculation and stick to the facts, right?"
Donovan shrugged. "I've seen plenty of women do the same when you show up. And blokes, for that matter. Just accept it, Sir, you're a DILF, as far as they're concerned."
"A what?" Lestrade looked utterly confused.
"DI I'd like to fu..."
"Thank you, Sergeant." Lestrade felt the blood rising in his face and ducked behind the wheel of the car as Donovan laughed.
***
"How do you do it, sir?" Anderson asked.
Lestrade swallowed the mouthful of beer he had and set the pint glass back on the table. "What, exactly?"
"The women. Why is it everyone at the station fancies you?"
Lestrade laughed out loud. "Don't know who you've been talking to, but you've got your facts seriously wrong. I know for a fact that a number of them can't stand me. I mean, look at DCI Carter - Christ, she'd kill me as soon as look at me."
"Only because you turned her down at the ball last Christmas," Anderson answered.
"I did what? You the hell have you been talking to? I've never turned her down - I mean, she's never...there's never been the opportunity."
"She asked you to dance. You refused."
"I don't dance - and anyway, she was only doing it to be polite."
Anderson shook his head. "It'd taken her all night and three large scotches to get the courage, and you turned her down."
Lestrade cast his mind back to the December night. He did remember, quite late in the evening, the drunken DCI asking him to dance. He'd assumed she'd been put up to it by someone - some sort of dare or something. Or someone taking advantage of her drunken state to cause her embarrassment. He'd taken her outside for some air and left her there, with the assumption she'd sober up a bit and be glad he'd done the chivalrous thing. Then he waved a hand at Anderson. "You've been talking to Sally too much. She was going on about some witness the other day, too. You lot watch far too much telly."
"Well, there is the league table in the women's locker room," Anderson said, thoughtfully. "Your picture was very high on it last time I was in there."
Lestrade's mind boggled. "League..? You shouldn't have been in the womens' locker room anyway! Stay out of there!"
***
"Interesting," Sherlock announced, as they walked away from the scene of a particularly cunning burglary.
"Hmm?" Lestrade responded, checking his BlackBerry for new messages and wondering if it was worth telling Julie Dixon that when he'd asked to be kept up to date on the spate of purse snatches on their patch recently he really only required the occasional message, not an email an hour.
"The son has homosexual tendencies. It's possible he could have been blackmailed for the alarm code."
"He...what? How do you know?" Lestrade asked, forgetting his emails for a moment. "We didn't even speak to the son."
"No, but he kept finding excuses to come into the kitchen, and he was checking you out."
Lestrade laughed out loud. "What is wrong with you people?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I fail to see what elucidated that response."
"Everyone seeing...seeing things that just aren't there. Christ, it's like some sort of cheesy soap opera."
"If you're referring to my observations about the young man they were definitely 'there'. Pupil dilation, pitch change in the voice, slight flushing on the chest - noticed that when he came into the room the fourth time, and had taken off his jumper to reveal a tight fitting t-shirt and the elastic of his underwear."
"He probably fancied you - you were obviously taking enough notice of him," Lestrade answered.
"I can assure you that the line of his vision was firmly fixed in your direction," Sherlock answered, sounding aloof.
***
"You know, I might be way off here - and I'm sorry, if I am. But..."
Lestrade already didn't like the sound of Watson's opening conversational gambit as they sat in the Baker Street flat sorting through files, whilst Sherlock was off gallivanting around God-knows-where. He glanced up, eyebrows raised in question.
"Is there something going on between you and Sherlock? Or, I mean, it's none of my business, but...well, it's obvious, really."
Lestrade threw down the file and slumped back onto the sofa, scrubbing one hand over his face and through his hair. "Okay, this has gone far enough. It's very funny, I'm sure, but I have no idea what you think you'll gain out of it. So just...tell Sherlock, Sally, Anderson - everyone - that the joke's over, I've had enough, right?"
Watson looked utterly perplexed. "I can honestly say I haven't a clue what you think we're doing," he said carefully. "And I can assure you, whatever it is, we're not doing...it."
"Oh, for Christ's...all I've had, all week, is you lot making ridiculous comments about people fancying me or checking me out. I'm happy just how I am, without you lot acting like a pack of school kids trying to give out my phone number or set me up or whatever else you're doing, right?" He glared at Watson and immediately became aware that Watson's gaze had shifted to the doorway, where Sherlock had silently appeared.
"You're seriously implying that I would become involved in some sort of...game...with your colleagues in order to find you someone to have a relationship with?" Sherlock stated, his tone flat.
"Yes!" Then Lestrade glanced from Sherlock to Watson and back again. "Oh, God, I don't know - but you can't tell me it's a bloody coincidence."
"It is! I mean, well, Donovan did say something the other week, but not...there's no conspiracy. She just mentioned that you had no idea how...well, good-looking you are, and therefore don't notice the effect you have on people, that's all. And maybe...well, maybe it just got us all thinking along the same lines," Watson glanced to Sherlock for some back up.
"You are very handsome," Sherlock agreed, in the sort of tone he used when observing a fibre on a corpse or some other piece of evidence which he found mildly interesting, but so obvious it was hardly worth mentioning.
Lestrade covered his face with his hands. "God," he groaned. "Just stop it, all of you, okay?"
Sherlock shrugged and Watson returned to reading the file in his hand.
***
That night, when Lestrade got home, he headed straight for the shower. He stood under the hot spray, letting it soothe his muscles and wash away the London grime. He tipped his head back, allowing the water to course over his face, occasionally puffing his breath out to discourage the rivulets from tickling over his lips.
"You're a policeman."
The voice made him jump so hard he almost fell over, opening his eyes and immediately getting water in them, blurring his vision.
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" he spluttered. "What the fuck are you doing?"
Sherlock shrugged and walked further into the room. Lestrade wished he had a shower curtain to wrap around himself instead of the clear glass screen. He made a half-hearted attempt to cover himself with his hand, although he accepted it was probably rather too late.
"You're a policeman, yet you ignore – or refuse to accept – the evidence."
"What? Is this about a case? Sherlock – look," then he realised his poor choice of words. "No, don't look – go away, go and…make yourself tea or something. Just get the fuck out of my bathroom!"
Sherlock glanced around, flipped the lid of the toilet closed and sat on it, openly watching Lestrade.
Lestrade turned his back, grabbing his shampoo. Fine, Sherlock wouldn't leave; he refused to let it bother him. He'd played enough football in his youth not to worry about showering in front of other men.
"It's not about a case. It's about you."
Lestrade refused to look around. "Right, you've got problems with my policing. Fine. Generally people would bring up this sort of thing during the working day. Generally people don't break into other people's flats or start discussions about working practice when they're in the shower. I don't think I'm the only one with issues here."
"It's not about when you're working a case, it's about you. You said it yourself; people tell you you're attractive. People around you react to you because you're attractive. People notice you. It's so obvious – some of them may as well just start drooling. Yet you consistently ignore it. Why?"
"You've broken into my flat to watch me shower and tell me I'm attractive," he stated, sounding defeated. He wondered when his life had become so routinely surreal that he didn't even question it.
"Yes." Sherlock confirmed.
Lestrade turned, shampoo bubbles cascading down his body. And discovered that Sherlock was climbing into the bath. Naked.
"What the fu…!"
Sherlock slid his hands up either side of Lestrade's face and, eyes open, gaze intense, and kissed him. When they broke apart, water still cascading over them, Sherlock pulled back very slightly.
"Not to tell you. To convince you."
Lestrade couldn't help but slide his hands around Sherlock's waist and pull his closer.
He still knew they were all completely wrong, though.
~Fin