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Lestrade takes the stairs with caution. He hadn't seen Sherlock in the past three weeks now, and the last one of those had been texting him about a case he should have been jumping at the neck to get to. So that he has heard nothing from the detective is worrying. Lord knows what he got up to this time. He's like a small child in that regard. He gets into everything he shouldn't and asks awkward questions at the worst possible time. He thought his daughter's 'why' phase was bad until he met him.
Sherlock Holmes is the only man he knows that has more lives than a cat. Which is a good thing considering he would be dead if he didn't. Bloody brilliant if a pain in the arse. But after three years of knowing him, he has grown on him – not unlike fungus really. Thus why he is creeping up the stairs, hoping there is some innocent, or relatively innocent, explanation of why he hasn't heard anything. Like another case or an experiment and not serious injuries or drugs.
What he isn't expecting, however, when he opens the door is the see Sherlock having a kip on the sofa. With another man on top of him. Oh... Well that would explain a few things. Never thought he'd see the day Sherlock finally found someone to catch his interest, but it's clearly happened if their position is anything to go by. Good on him.
Thankfully they are both dressed, but the blokes face is buried in Sherlock's shoulder. It's rather cute actually, which is a word Lestrade never thought he would use to describe him. Sherlock is a handsome man to be sure, but then he opens his mouth and ruins the image. Not that's he's always rude or nasty, but he is always... Sherlock. The man is enough to make his own name a description that people who have met him, and some that haven't, understand.
He's tempted to snap a picture as potential blackmail/ proof Sherlock is human, but decides against it. Not that he cares about Sherlock's reaction, but he doesn't know how the bloke would feel about it. They have to be something more than just casual one night stand for Sherlock to be tolerating this. He'd feel bad about jumping straight over friends to assuming lovers, but he doesn't really do friends. He doesn't do people in general really. Lestrade is the closest thing to a friend he knows about and he knows Mrs Hudson thinks of his as a son she never had, but that's it.
He turns to walk out the door, intending on leaving them where they are at – Anderson can actually do his job for once and too bad if he whines it's too hard – when he steps on a board that lets out a creak. He turns to see the bloke move. Oops.
The man startles awake, gasping and grabs something between Sherlock and the couch. Suddenly there is a gun being pointed straight at Lestrade by someone who is clearly not mentally present.
He holds up his hands instantly as he bites back a curse. “Easy mate, no harm done. Sorry to startle you,” he says in a slow, calm voice. Hell, he would have never entered the flat if he knew the bloke was this trigger happy. He's seen it in officers before, when they got out of bad situations. He's no stranger to PTSD.
Then he recognizes the man – Tony Stark. Of course Lestrade knows who he is, the whole world does, but he's been in the news even more lately, what with his kidnapping, rescue and the investigation going on – evidence against Stane, Stark's CFO, in regards to Stark's kidnapping and the illegal sale of weapons. It's a bloody mess right now.
After the initial press conference Stark held, stating he was stopping all weapons manufacturing, he has virtually disappeared. No one seems to know where he went. Focus quickly shifted when it was released why he made the decision he did, but people are still on the lookout for him. So why is he here of all places, kipping on Sherlock Holmes' sofa with the man in question?
“Easy Ant,” Sherlock murmurs, obviously waking up, “he's an idiot, but he means no harm. You're still safe.”
Stark doesn't seem to hear him, but he does loosen the grip on the gun slightly. 'Ant'? What the world?
“That's it. Give me the gun for now. It'll still be here if you need it. But it's just Lestrade. No need to get blood on the carpet, you know how hard it is to get out.”
In any other circumstance, Lestrade would have been offended. 'Idiot' indeed. Talk about him as if he is no one of importance, will he? But right now, he is fine with it. He'd hate to be shot for no reason. And as much as he hates to admit it, Sherlock is right. Blood is a pain to get out of fabrics, be it clothes or carpet. He knows that from experience.
Finally Sherlock gets the gun from Stark, putting it in his dressing gown pocket. Stark blinks and seems to come back to himself. He clears his throat and looks away, visibly gathering himself to make some remark or another.
There's no need though. Now that Lestrade knows Sherlock is safe, he has no desire to stick around. Especially not with another snarky genius in resident. Not that Stark looks up to any smart comments right now. All the more reason to leave and save everyone the embarrassment.
“No need to get up on my account. I came to see if you needed a case, but clearly you're busy with something else. Don't worry, maybe your absence will get the lot more appreciative of you if they have to actually work for this one. Don't worry, I'll keep the boys away. Ta.” He turns and walks out the door.
“Lestrade,” Sherlock calls.
He pauses and turns.
“I'm here alone,” he warns.
He snorts. “I'm not that much of an idiot Holmes,” he rolls his eyes, making sure to be seen before continuing on his way. “Daft bastard,” he mutters as he walks out the building. Questions can wait till later – and boy does he have some. But for now, he has a case to solve. Might be even peaceful for once.
Right.