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Lestrade has taken to visiting more often, now that Watson has left, and Holmes wonders at times if he is trying to replace the man. It is an irritating thought, and one night, when he has spent the day pursuing less than safe entertainments, and Lestrade exclaims over the state of his face, he finds the tone so familiar, so similar to Watson's, that he snaps back at him.
"Do not think you can replace him."
Lestrade's jaw tightens at his words, and Holmes thinks that perhaps he has finally said something unforgivable. He can see the strain of remaining silent in Lestrade's eyes, and then they close, and he draws a weary sigh of a breath. He stands, and is at the door before Holmes has decided whether or not he should apologize. "Just," Lestrade says, pausing with his hand on the knob, "Don't do anything utterly stupid simply because he is gone."
Holmes has had many things to say about Lestrade, few of them approaching kind, but even he sometimes forgets that Lestrade is not as stupid as he presents himself. He is standing, not sure when he moved, but closing in on Lestrade, who stands frozen at the door. Close, he is so close, too close for propriety, and he wonders that he could have read the signs so wrong, wonders if it was Watson's presence that hid them. "I am about to do something very stupid," he tells Lestrade, and leans in.
There is no response, and Holmes feels a flash of dismay that he was wrong after all, and then Lestrade is kissing him back, his hands fisting in Holmes' dressing gown, and while they are hungry, his lips are sweet. He is a solid, reassuring weight, in a way that Watson has yet to regain, and Lestrade's head come up as though he has heard Holmes' thoughts. "You are not him," Holmes tells him, tells himself, and he is not sure where the words came from; but it seems to make sense to Lestrade, for he tilts his head to silence Holmes again.
Holmes had not expected such attention in bed; he had not expected anything, but that was only because the thought had never crossed his mind. He is rather astonished to find that a man with such a unimaginative mind can render him absolutely undone, but if there is one thing Lestrade does well it is understanding the way people work, and he applies his knowledge flawlessly.
Lestrade is sprawled on his chest beside him, his eyes half slits of reflected light, watching him in a sleepy daze. Holmes is remembering the liquid quality of his movement, and he raises himself on one elbow to take in the view. Lestrade's back is copper in the dim light, and there, riding the edge of his shoulder blades, are the roped scars that Holmes' hands had discovered earlier. He learns them now with his eyes, and places a hand between them, feeling the bump of vertebrae beneath the skin. They are ragged scars, unusual, and nothing about them quite matches any weapon Holmes can bring to mind. There is something off about the play of muscles beneath his hand, and he leans over further to examine them more closely.
He is not the student of musculature that Watson is, but Lestrade's back is oddly bulky, as though there are more layers to it than there should be. His hand runs up and down the length of his spine, his mind spinning around the facts, unable to find a solution. Lestrade is very still, but he does not tense at Holmes' exploration. He speaks, answering the question Holmes' hands are asking. "You would not believe me."
Holmes is unsure of his meaning; "Would not believe what?" he responds.
"What those scars are from," and Lestrade sighs, his back flexing oddly. He turns his face into the bed and muffles his words, but they are clear enough to Holmes. "Once," and he breathes, "Once, I think, I had wings." And of the many things Holmes was not expecting to hear, this is not even on the list. It does not register, what Lestrade has said, and then, as it does, his hand still between the marks as he searches for words.
"Sometimes I think I am mad," Lestrade whispers, and turns his face back to look out into the room, and Holmes thinks he is seeing something else. "Some days, I can still hear the hosannas, echoing down the sky, and I wonder if it is all in my mind, if none of it was real, if I should be locked away, but, Holmes," and his voice catches for a moment, and then continues, insistent, "I remember them. I remember my wings." Holmes can say nothing, and the evidence beneath his hands speaks to him as he remembers the times he has seen Lestrade watching the skies, yearningly, as though searching for something.
"Sometimes I think I am already in Hell," and it is a plea. "Isn't that where all fallen angels go?" Holmes slides his hand over the nearer of the ragged scars, and pulls Lestrade against him. His skin is chilled, but still sweet. He does not know what to say.