Summary: Written for mjls who wanted wall-slamming leading to making out. Because apparently I can withstand anything except pleading *g*. It was supposed to be cliche!porn, but, erm, went a bit weird. But hey. This just means I still have to write the cliche!porn, right?
"You bastard! You knew! You knew all along!"
Lestrade pushed open the door to the flat so hard it was torn from Sherlock's hand and crashed against the wall, making the glasses on the shelf rattle and the lightshade sway slightly.
Sherlock actually took an involuntary step back, startled by the man's vehemence. "Lestrade! How nice of you to call," he murmured.
"You knew!" Lestrade repeated, clinging to the one fact that had borne him all the way here in a spitting fury, finger jabbing in Sherlock's face. The fact that Sherlock just looked mildly irritated only served to make him angrier.
Over Lestrade's shoulder, Sherlock could see an anxious Mrs Hudson hovering in the passageway, obviously regretting the fact she'd let the inspector into the house. Sherlock gave her a reassuring smile.
"It's quite alright Mrs Hudson, we're fine here."
Lestrade looked over his shoulder and scowled. "I'd start advertising for a new tenant if I were you. Because I'm going to tear this one limb from limb." He slammed the door closed in her nervous looking face and swung back to Sherlock.
"I believe you were about to tear me limb from limb?" Sherlock suggested helpfully. Lestrade's expression twisted in pained anger.
"It's just a joke to you, isn't it? It's all a fucking game. Donovan nearly got shot tonight because of you. Because you didn't see fit to share with us who the murderer was."
Sherlock shifted his shoulders in what might have been a shrug. "I wasn't sure. Not until he made his move. It was a necessary experiment. I could have been wrong."
"When are you ever wrong?" spat Lestrade, seemingly oblivious to the implied compliment. "You should have told us. You should have told me!"
Sherlock shook his head, "No, sorry, it wouldn't have done. She's not that good an actor, if she'd known - if any of you had - you wouldn't have acted naturally, you'd have tipped him off."
"She could have died you bastard!"
Sherlock curled his lip slightly, making to walk past him into the kitchen area. "It'd be a brave bullet that'd do for her," he retorted.
It was the wrong thing to say. Lestrade reached out, and despite being shorter by a good few inches, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder and yanked him round, slamming him back against the wall and holding him there.
"Now you listen to me sunshine," he growled, voice shaking slightly with anger. "You may not like her, you may not agree with her, she may provoke you for the fucking fun of it, but let's get one thing straight, she is a member of my team and a good police officer and you do not have the right to endanger her life for a damn theory!"
Sherlock stared down at him with unreadable eyes. "And what am I?" he asked quietly.
"You? You're a menace. A liability. Above all, while you withhold information, you are not a member of my team." He was breathing hard, fingers digging into Sherlock's shoulders as he held him against the wall, despite the fact Sherlock wasn't struggling.
"Fine." It was almost a whisper. "Then why should I help you?"
"Because - because - " the anger was fading from Lestrade's eyes and being replaced by something dangerously close to bitterness. "Damn you Sherlock, aren't you even a tiny bit human?"
With a suddenness that took Lestrade's remaining breath away, Sherlock suddenly surged forward under his grip, seizing Lestrade's arms and swinging him round until their positions were reversed, with an ease that made it abundantly clear how easily he could have broken the hold at any time.
He stared down into Lestrade's darkly angry eyes, and shook his head minutely.
"Why do you think I come to you at all?" he breathed.
"She could have been killed." Lestrade threw the accusation back at him in vain as if repetition might find the non-existent chink in his emotional armour.
"No. She couldn't. If you credit me with enough intelligence to solve the case, credit me with enough intelligence to predict his actions. She was never in any danger."
Lestrade swallowed, feeling uncomfortably like he was close to being hypnotised by those bright, pale eyes boring into his own. But Sherlock hadn't finished.
"This isn't about Sally, Inspector. This is about you. You're angry because I didn't tell you. You think I don't trust you. What do you want Lestrade, for me to apologise? It would be meaningless. Empty words, because I'm not sorry, because I'd do it again, will do it again, and you'll have other murderers behind bars and still no-one will die."
Lestrade looked at him sceptically. "You can guarantee that, can you?" he asked, quietly.
Sherlock opened his mouth. Closed it again. Repeated the action.
"No," he admitted, dropping Lestrade's eyes for the first time. "No. Even I can't claim to be infallible." The admission hurt, and he waited for Lestrade's triumphant retort.
At the soft words, Sherlock looked up in surprise. Lestrade was finally pliant under his hands, the furious tension drained out of him.
"What?" Sherlock looked bewildered, and Lestrade almost laughed, at the incongruity of the expression on his face.
"All I wanted."
"Me to be wrong?"
"You to be human." Lestrade sighed, shook his head. "What about you Sherlock? Is it enough, to be right all the time? Why do you do this? What do you want? Really?"
The pause that followed was a long one, and Lestrade had just concluded Sherlock wasn't going to answer, when he lifted his head and took a deep breath.
"You. I want you."
"What?" It was Lestrade's turn to look bewildered. Sherlock lifted one hand from Lestrade's shoulder and cupped his jaw, stroking a thumb across his cheek, gently. Lestrade hardly dared breathe.
"You. Is that so hard to believe?" Sherlock sounded sad, distant, and Lestrade frowned.
"Me? You want - me?"
A ghost of a smile returned to Sherlock's lips. "And they say the CID is slow on the uptake."
Lestrade laughed, despite himself. "Nuts. Why - "
"Why you?" Sherlock did smile then. "Why an illogical and irrational infatuation with an intellectual inferior bound up in an indefensible system of entrenched bureaucracy and institutionalism? I don't know. But annoyingly analysing it doesn't seem to help."
Lestrade lifted his own hand, placed it over Sherlock's that was still cradling his cheek.
"Actually, I was going to say, why didn't you tell me?"
It wasn't often that Lestrade saw Sherlock speechless, and he enjoyed the following few seconds rather too much.
But not as much as he enjoyed the ones following that, when he reached out, slipped a hand round Sherlock's neck, and drew him down into a lingering and very satisfying kiss.