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When Lestrade got out of the taxi, he saw John waiting for him. No jacket, arms wrapped around himself, breath steaming in the chilled air.
"We're sneaking in," John said. "The boys are with Mrs Hudson for a bit. I thought you might like a chance to collect yourself. It'll be all over if they hear you though."
John took his hand and led him upstairs silently. There was tea waiting. John pressed the mug into his hands and sent him off to shower.
He took the tea in the shower with him. It had been a raw day. Raw weather, raw nerves all around. No one liked this sort of case. None of them had signed up for this job to be the bad guys. The heat helped. Hot water pounding on his back, hot tea inside him. John was some kind of miracle.
It'd made him feel a bit guilty, showing up at the crime scene with decent coffee, thinking back to the warm bed he'd crawled out of. The warm man he'd slept next to. There'd been moments when he'd started to piece things together, and his mind had turned away from the case and instead thrown at him the memory of John's breath on his chest, John's fingers on his hip.
He finished his tea. The bottom was viscous with half melted sugar. It was too sweet for him, cloying. He hadn't noticed. Dr Danger thought he needed a quick infusion of blood sugar, apparently. He smiled down into his mug. Not a bad idea. He hadn't managed anything to eat apart from that half a sandwich.
He felt guilty now as well, and wasn't that peculiar. Guilty for having someone to make him overly sweet tea and leave him clean pyjamas on the back of the toilet. They were his from last night, freshly washed, and probably by John. Mrs Hudson always used lavender scented dryer sheets, and they only smelled clean.
He put them on, rubbed at his hair until it stopped dripping, and went to find John.
The kitchen smelled like garlic, and Lestrade's stomach made an embarrassingly loud noise in response - loud enough to alert John to his presence. John turned from the stove with a smile and kissed him.
"Mrs Hudson made it. I'm only heating it up, don't worry. Get a plate?"
He got a plate. John filled it with mashed potatoes, some sort of leafy greens, and ham.
"Beer," John said, and pushed one into his free hand. "Sofa."
They settled on the sofa, side by side. Lestrade ate. John flipped channels and settled on some Bogart film; Lestrade couldn't tell which.
"You've got about fifteen minutes," John said. "Mrs Hudson's feeding them biscuits."
Lestrade nodded, abruptly aware that he hadn't said a word since he'd got out of the taxi. Not even hello. He hadn't said a word, in fact, since he'd left the Morrisons' house. Since Fiona Morrison's little boy, a year younger than Sherlock, had asked when his mummy was coming home, and he'd had to say he didn't know.
He ought to say something. Hello, at least. Hi, John. How was your day? Thanks for dinner. I'm all right, you don't need to worry. But John didn't look that worried, really. He looked calm and steady and capable, and actually quite interested in whatever Bogart was talking about.
And Lestrade had assured enough people he was fine today, especially since he wasn't the one with any right to be not fine. It wasn't his mum up on charges, nor his grandmother.
The television flickered. John's shoulder pushed into his, and John's thigh was solid against his thigh. He stayed quiet. When he was done eating, he set his plate aside. John took his hand and laced their fingers together.
Sometimes Lestrade came home from these cases feeling like he'd trade every scrap of good luck he'd ever had if the universe would just take it back and fix things. Not tonight. He wouldn't give this up for anything.