On the Impulse, Before It's Gone (Sherlock) -FIN-

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Lestrade wasn't a stranger to the idea of suicide. Familiar, really. It'd taken him so long to realize that sitting at his desk waiting to die - trying to quicken this action - was not exactly the best for his mental health. Or his physical, either, but mental was what people really cared about. You could be obese and ugly, but if you were kind, at least some people who didn't care about appearances would be your friend. But you could be the prince of England, and yet as mad as a hatter, and nobody would even think of befriending you. Fucking you for the money? Yes. But friend, never.

But Lestrade had gotten a text, and it was one that made him feel so tight-skinned and uncomfortable…

Holmes in hosptal. Suicide. Thot u might want 2 no. -Dimmock

Fucking hell. Lestrade had never more wanted to strangle the boy. That is, if he hadn't already tried it himself. Well, that wasn't true, Sherlock had probably overdosed, not strangled himself. Not elegant enough for him. He stared at the text while he ate lunch, and while he filed reports, and after he was finished with work, and yet he couldn't bring himself to call a cab on that very phone to come pick him up and bring him to the hospital.

Sherlock had tried to kill himself. He knew plenty of the force would love to threaten Holmes with death, but it was unlikely that any of them actually wanted him to die. Death is painful, but sometimes it isn't. Sometimes it's more of a relief. Maybe someone going suicide wasn't a coward, but should be praised for their bravery? They aren't running away, but moving on.

WRONG. Lestrade told himself. How dare he go back to this old train of thought, this old internal argument? It is illegal to go suicide in some states, suicide only causes pain for those around you. It is a way out. The easy way. But is it? IT IS WRONG.

He didn't want people to see his concern for Sherlock. They all knew that he liked Holmes, more than most people who simply tolerated him, but it seemed wrong for the rest of the force to know about this. Or maybe they would eventually, probably, but Lestrade wouldn't be the one to tell them. It was 9 o'clock when he got out of work. He arrived home at 9:17. He watched television at ordered Chinese. By 11:49 he was in bed and ready to go to sleep.

At 12:18 he called a cab. The whole way, he clenched and unclenched his fists. Maybe going at night was less than discreet, would attract more attention; visiting hours were over after all. Jesus, how tedious this day was turning out to be. When he reached the hospital, he presented his badge to the receptionist. Being a police officer had certain advantages, after all.

Taking the lift up to Sherlock's floor, he realized that this floor was the one they kept the crazies. They phycos. The losers who overdosed on heroin and injected cocaine into their bloodstream. Where he was, once. Where Sherlock is now.

Reaching Sherlock's room, he didn't think to knock. Sherlock would be asleep, probably. This idea was getting worse and worse. Part of Lestrade just wanted to turn around and leave, and Sherlock would never know. He hesitated, before pushing the door open. Sherlock was awake.

"Fucking hell, you should be asleep," Lestrade let his words slip before he even though about them. He stared at Sherlock, took a step closer, stared again… Sherlock looked so pale. So white. Especially next to those hospital sheets, those damnable sheets, that always proved to make people look worse instead of better. Pale and gaunt as always, but maybe paler and gaunter than always, and maybe scared, or determined. Determined to live. Overcome this. Get rid of it. Nobody liked being stopped when they're trying to do something important like killing themselves, after all.

Finally, after a long pause of why-am-I-here-again?, Lestrade said, "I know you don't care, because you're Sherlock-fucking-Holmes, and you never care, but I'm never forgiving you for being such a lazy, arrogant prick." Good god, he was angrier than he thought, wasn't he? "You're a waste of air sometimes, but you're also the one in the room who deserves it most a lot too, and so if you ever do this again, I will bloody well keep you in a cell until you are old and gray and shrivel into nothing, do you hear me Sherlock Holmes?" Lestrade's voice got higher and lower and then got higher again, as he got angry, remember they were in a hospital and he should be quiet, and then decided fuck rules, he was a police man and this man deserved being yelled at.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Sherlock hadn't slept.
Sometimes they simply grew tired of it, and knocked him out for a fews hours with strong medication. Sometimes they ignored it, and let the man silently sulk in his own, self-imposed exile.

His lack of rest wasn't for the reason that one could think. It wasn't deliberate. Fortunately, the time that he had attempted to kill himself by doing basically the same thing for weeks on end had occured in another country, so it was unlikely that they would be watching out for anything of the sort here. It had been a ridiculous idea originally, but not one that Holmes was going to ponder over for any time longer.

After all, living in the past was always a ridiculous idea.

One thought that the detective found himself constantly unable to shake, however, was the pressing anger of what being in the hospital meant. For some, it was a sanctuary. A miracle to others - and even a place of fear for the rare few. But to Sherlock Holmes, it was a reminder.
Given, it was a different hospital. Different building, different staff, different patients - heck, even different country - to the one that he had found himself in a few times for the same reason back in England. But it was still a reminder. There was the same feeling somewhere in his bustling head, and the same thought process as there always was.

He'd just have to get out - which wouldn't be too much of a problem, Sherlock was sure to be able to talk his way out of the mess - and wait patiently for a while. Rushing into things would just cause a mistake, and one couldn't be afforded anymore. The number was increasing. And Holmes wouldn't be able to stand having failed at the same thing so many times.

The man's brother had already visited - much to his loathing. It had been an odd event, as Mycroft hadn't been aware (before that day, of course) that the younger Holmes had already tried to do the same thing five times previously.
And the person to tell him was an unexpected one.
Sherlock was still in some sort of mental conflict as to whether he was able to rationally believe that James Moriarty had been the one to 'save his life', or if was just a terrible hallucination. Either way, he certainly didn't like the idea. His enemy had ruined his plans, which was definitely unfortunate, and also alerted his brother - which was even more so.

Having not expected (nor particularly wanted) any more visitors, the hours had grown quiet, and far too dull. The detective's mind was still whirring, racing far, far in front of the torturously slow minutes. He couldn't do anything but watch time pass by.

How tedious.

This was why the man's face lit up with both suprise and excitement as Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade walked into his room.
And promptly began almost shouting.
"I know you don't care, because you're Sherlock-fucking-Holmes, and you never care, but I'm never forgiving you for being such a lazy, arrogant prick."
Blimey, he really was swearing a lot. The original comment that the consulting detective should be asleep was almost forgotten, as Lestrade seemed to be quite pleased that he wasn't - so he could tell Sherlock off, basically.
"You're a waste of air sometimes, but you're also the one in the room who deserves it most a lot too, and so if you ever do this again, I will bloody well keep you in a cell until you are old and gray and shrivel into nothing, do you hear me Sherlock Holmes?"

Waiting a few seconds after the man had finished talking (just to be sure that he truly had, and wasn't going to unfortunately interrupt a very angry man), Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes, blinking a few times through the silence.
"Hello, Lestrade," He managed to stop the grin that threatened to grow, as even he was now aware that it probably wasn't the right time to look like a happy maniac. Unfortunately, the rest of his brain (particularly the one controlling speech) didn't seem to get the message.
"Oh, you don't have to worry about this happening again. I change the method every time, see. Else it grows terribly monotonous."

There are obvious times when it would be beneficial for the man to keep his mouth shut. Unfortunately, he was constantly unaware of them.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Christ, was Sherlock… smiling? Yeah, he definitely did not deserve any pity. None. At. All. Sherlock was just sort of sitting there blankly, blindingly, stupidly, looking way too happy (which wasn’t really that happy, but Sherlock could have been eating cake and it would’ve infuriated Lestrade right now). “Hello Lestrade,” he said, his grin getting even more noticeable, the bastard. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about this happening again. I change the method every time, see. Else it grows terribly monotonous.”

Never had Lestrade so wanted to punch a man in a hospital bed so badly. He nearly did, actually, went right up to Sherlock with his fist clenched and quite ready to raise it, only to bring it back down onto Sherlock’s cheek. But Lestrade wasn’t completely out of control, and so just sort of moved his arm around weirdly, thinking, Deep breaths, don’t hit the tosser, he is still recovering after all, and bloody hell I am going to fucking kill him.

“Mono – Sherlock – You bastard! Don’t you dare talk about this like it’s the weather because it’s not. Why the fuck would you want to kill yourself?! I don’t care how bored you are, get a hobby! Shooting range, annoying Mycroft, fucking sewing, whatever floats your damn boat just –“ Lestrade stopped, realizing… Yeah. His voice was getting way to loud. He closed his eyes and swallowed, slowly, trying to remember what manners were, before opening his eyes again. Ugh. It made him want to throw up, seeing Sherlock sitting there, smug and obnoxious. Not-dead after trying to be dead. And all around ungrateful. That’s what he was, he was ungrateful. And stupid.

He sighed, still rather wishing he could punch Sherlock, and sat down in a plastic chair that was conveniently close by to the bed. He wasn’t sure whether a chair was in all of the rooms, or this was the doing of a previous visitor, but he didn’t really care. Burying his face in his hands for a moment before settling them clenched in his lap, he looked up at Sherlock’s face. “You know what I meant when I said don’t do it again,” he said quietly. “This. Don’t do all of this again.”

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

The blank stare continued as Lestrade began to ramble off in some sort of rant that Sherlock probably should have been listening to - if only to decrease the other man's anger slightly by seeming to take his words into consideration. A few caught his attention, however, and one particularly loud sentence provoked somewhat of an unwilling response from the gangly detective.
Specifically, the certain sentence was: "...Don’t you dare talk about this like it’s the weather because it’s not..." (though the one that followed was also an interesting one, but if Holmes paid attention to it, it was likely he would become unresponsive due to deep thought for the following half an hour at least).

Sherlock didn't notice as he lowly mumbled something along the lines of: "I'm not talking about this like it's the weather, Lestrade. At least the weather means something, people depend on it. The weather's important."
If he had known he had said it, Holmes would definitely hope that the continuous stream of noise (that was all it really was, honestly) would be drowned out by the older detective's words.

Despite him being able to maintain the expression he usually had when expertly solving another of his cases (a much more intense version of smug, really), Sherlock was caught off guard by Lestrade's reaction.
“You know what I meant when I said don’t do it again. This. Don’t do all of this again.”
Not exactly sure whether or not he winced in response to that, the man suddenly found the other's stare rather uncomfortable. He hadn't anticipated this. In fact, Holmes was probably all round oblivious to the fact that anybody cared what he did anymore or not. And he found himself both surprised and hateful of the fact that there were already two people who made it obvious they did - one being his brother (which, despite it's obviousness was extremely unexpected), and the other being the person currently seated in the chair by his hospital bed.

Sherlock's eyes slid shut, and he only just managed to refrain a grimace - his default expression for the lack of words he was currently suffering from. Not doing 'all of this' again wasn't something he was content to talk about, even if Lestrade wanted to. And it wasn't just because the consulting detective didn't want his thoughts on the matter freely expressed.
For not the first time in his life, the man chose to ignore the comment. In contrast, as one of the few times in his life he had ever, and ever would, do such a thing, Holmes let down his defences as compensation. Quicksilver eyes remained securely shut away from the rest of the world through closed lids. The man behind them didn't want to face the chaos yet, if ever. Though that in itself was far less of a logical move, as the universe inside his head was far more chaotic than the one beyond it.
When he spoke, the voice was quieter than before. But maybe that was just because it was unused to speaking in such a defeated tone. Defeated. He thought the word with nothing less than a disgusted tone.
"I wasn't expecting you to visit." He clasped his hands tightly, his eyes squeezing even more firmly shut as one hand began to subconsciously dig its fingernails into the palm of the other.
"Why did you come?"

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

“I’m not talking about this like it’s the weather, Lestrade. At least the weather means something, people depend on it,” Sherlock mumbled lowly. Lestrade could have killed him.

“Jesus, Sherlock, I can not believe that you seriously just said that. Do you know how many lives are owed to you, how many people you’ve saved? Even if it was just for the work, or you didn’t care about them, you most definitely mattered to them.” Lestrade was calming down a bit now, and lifted his head from his hands. It broke his heart, a little, to see a man so brilliant be so oblivious, self-deprecating enough to think he isn’t worth anything.

Lestrade watched as Sherlock closed his eyes, and Lestrade could practically see his mind whirring. Compensating for the fact that Lestrade cared for him, wanting to disappear. Lestrade didn’t care how awkward or uncomfortable this made the both of them though, because this conversation needed to be and was going to happen, no matter what. It’d been put off too many times in the past, and it had almost been too late…

Sherlock looked… distressed. Lestrade wondered what it was like, in Sherlock’s mind; if it was better or worse to have a brain like that. To have a mind always whirring, to never stop thinking… Lestrade himself thought too much, so what must it be like for Sherlock? God, how horrible. Lestrade envied Sherlock’s genius, but certainly now his conscious. “I wasn’t expecting you to visit,” Sherlock said, and his voice had taken on a tone Lestrade had never heard before. He squeezed his hands together, clenches tightly shut, and said, “Why did you come?”

Why did he come? Dear god, this man was so painfully ignorant! How could he not know how much Sherlock meant to Lestrade? He sat straighter, and stared directly at Sherlock; Sherlock’s pale grey-green eyes were so dim. “You should, expect me to come,” Lestrade said weakly. “I came because you matter. And I will keep coming, whether you like it or not.” He sighed, and bit his upper lip lightly before saying, “For someone as genius as yourself, you certainly are daft. I think you need to be reminded that people do care about you, Sherlock.” Lestrade wanted to say more, how Sherlock should move some of his overconfidence in his ability to analyze peoples’ feelings and move that confidence in himself. He wanted Sherlock to like himself.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

And again with the little speech. It occurred to Sherlock that Lestrade was probably saying such things to plant some sort of idea into his head - to make sure he wouldn't try it again. Though why the man bothered, he really had no idea.
Surprise, surprise.

He was aware that, considering how much force he was using to press the left hand firmly into the right, there would probably be little, arc-shaped nail marks scattered across the surface of his palm by the time the other detective left. It wasn't a thought that alarmed him, per se. But it was something for Holmes to concentrate on whilst he tried to ignore the majority of Greg's words.

“I came because you matter. And I will keep coming, whether you like it or not.”
Was just one of the things the man said.
Sherlock almost spat out a response to that. He nearly let out the words: "Well, I'll make sure you don't find out next time" to accompany his next heavy exhale. But he didn't. Because before he was able to do so, Lestrade once again began to say how the consulting detective mattered.

Poppycock.

"People care about my head," His eyes snapped open, piercing the other man's with a sharp glare, "They care about the fact that I can stop them from going to prison, the fact that I can find whoever happened to kill their friend."
Despite the fact that he now began speaking the words at a mile a minute, as per ususal, Holmes' mind began to drift elsewhere as he talked.

It was true, what he had blurted out in a moment of uncertainty. People do depend on the weather, and he hadn't been speaking of his attempt as such. In all fairness, Lestrade had been partially right. Only it wasn't him that the people depended upon. It was just his head.
People hated him. He knew it, and he had somewhat begun to grow fond of the way many people tended to give him a wide berth. Holmes wasn't one to turn down room to move, after all. It gave him space, distance from those around him. It helped him feel that, no matter how close somebody could physically get, they still couldn't touch him. So he was content with the fact that many only put up with him due to his brain, his intellect, or whatever they were calling it these days.
He was happy, that way.

But if people were going to get in the way because they had some ridiculous use for that head of his - he certainly wouldn't be so.

Distance.

"They care for their own benefits. And from personal experience, Detective, I know that if somebody cares for selfish reasons, then it isn't really caring at all. And I don't mind, in case you were wondering. It doesn't affect anything."
The 'anything' was assisted with a raised eyebrow. Holmes was simply voicing his opinions - in an obvious manner.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Lestrade kept his hands clenched, but the degree of his composure continued to fluxgate in the negative direction. Sherlock was clenching his fists together still, yet harder and harder, and Lestrade, for some reason, thought of the mark it would make on the man’s pal, smooth skin. Sherlock’s breathing was quickened, uneven. Perhaps his words, as pointless as they might have been, were at least making somewhat of an impact on Sherlock’s unending intelligence.

“People care about my head,” Sherlock snapped his sudden glare intense and harsh. “They care about the fact that I can stop them from going to prison, the fact that I can find whoever happened to ill their friend,” the consulting detective said in a rush. “They care for their own benefits. And from personal experience, Detective, I know that if somebody cares for selfish reasons, then it isn’t really caring at all. And I don’t mind, in case you were wondering. It doesn’t affect anything.”

Lestrade paused. It seemed the message wasn’t going to get across to Sherlock, no matter how hard he tried. Apparently, he was just as much as a sociopath towards himself as he was to other matters. How heartbreaking. He thought about what to say next, or if he should say anything next; tried to say something that would matter. He knew nothing he said would ever matter in Sherlock’s mind, or if it did, the effect would soon fade. Perhaps all of this – this visit – was more for the ease of Lestrade’s own mind, rather than Sherlock’s.

“That’s ture,” Lestrade stated evenly. “Most people care only about your head, and your brilliant mind. And that’s not caring. But there are people who aren’t them.” Did that make sense? Perhaps. Not as if Sherlock would really take Lestrade’s words to heart, most likely, but it was the truth still. “As hard as it is for you to believe, people care… I care.”

It was like a bad romance movie. The words – the lines – they were all wrong. Cheap, bland; meaningless? No, they weren’t meaningless. The truth was as dull as could be is all.

“So just… I know my words mean very little to you,” They mean very little to me too, sometimes “But sometimes, Sherlock, you just have to… I don’t know, believe a little?”

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Sherlock was shaking, almost uncontrollably, at that point. Despite having only just spoken, he couldn't quite remember the words he had previously said - and now found himself unable to block out Lestrade's. Fortunately, though, the detective had paused before responding to the man's short outburst. Perhaps (it was with shock that Sherlock thought this) the other man was finally considering what he was going to say.
It could make for more interesting conversation.

“As hard as it is for you to believe, people care… I care.”

Though he was easily able to offend the man within the confines of his own head (the thick walls set up there were considered with the frequently alternating feelings of 'love' and 'loathe' on a regular basis, but try as he might he was simply unable to allow them to come crashing down - they were still needed, even if they were a cause for terrible decisions on Sherlock's part), he found he wasn't able to - at that moment, anyway - externally.
It wasn't a shock when it was revealed that Lestrade did, actually, care for the consulting detective. As it was an indubitable truth that, if Holmes were capable of 'friends', the other detective would certainly be a very important one.
But, in the end, Sherlock was a sociopath. Sociopath's didn't have friends - even self-proclaimed ones.

“So just… I know my words mean very little to you, but sometimes, Sherlock, you just have to… I don’t know, believe a little?”

The man froze - he even stopped shaking, though it had seemed to be far beyond his capabilities only moments before - at the last uttered words.
Believe a little?
Belief was a useless thing. Holmes hadn't even considered doing so for anything since the days of his early youth - when he had been, for years, under the impression that he was going to grow up, and one day become a fantastic pirate, who would embark upon many thrilling adventures and wondrous, profound escapades.
And really, that had been a long time ago.

Believing in anything, the man felt, was far beyond his abilities. It wouldn't be an easy thing to do - of course - and naturally, Sherlock wouldn't have the slightest idea where to begin in doing so.
So he simply stared. Not moving, not speaking, and making only the shallowest of breaths (as, unfortunately, breathing was a necessary habit).
Then all of a sudden, the consulting detective seemed to relax. His right and left hands jumped apart, as though, by touching, they gave one another to foulest of electric shocks, before coming to rest on the surface of the hospital bed at either side of the man's legs. He stared at them wearily, breath catching only slightly as he, once more, began to shake.
So much for a sociopath.

Sherlock was laughing.
No... it wasn't laughing.
Humourlessly laughing?
Still not close enough.
He was...
Well, if there were tears, he would be crying.
Which is possibly the nearest to explaining as possible.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Sherlock’s mannerisms were becoming… Well, odd, for him. Lestrade would’ve called them nervous, if it wasn’t Sherlock. Shaking, freezing. Back and forth; and then, when Lestrade’d asked Sherlock to believe in something… Well, that was the most spectacular part, wasn’t it? Sherlock’s hands suddenly clenched the sides of the hospital bed, and he began to shake again.

Crying.

No, it wasn’t crying. There were no tears. But his breath was becoming taught, just like crying. But no, not crying, this was Sherlock. What was the Sherlock equivalent of crying, anyway? God, Lestrade was starting to feel a little guilty, but…Well, it was nice to see Sherlock like this. No, not nice, actually, a little disturbing. More… a relief? To see that this man was actually human, and was showing it for once.

Jesus, the look on Sherlock’s face; if this wasn’t Sherlock, and had Lestrade possessed a few ounces less of self-restraint than he did, he surely would’ve hugged the consulting detective.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, and his voice wavered, just a little bit. He cleared his throat, and then spoke again: “Being who you are, I know… how you are.” His tone became a little kinder. “I can’t imagine how unbearable it must be in your head sometimes, but… Maybe you could… talk? It doesn’t have to be with me, or it could, and I know if wouldn’t feel like it would help but sometimes it really, really does.” He paused, before adding, “In the long run.”

He had to add that last bit, after all; remembering his own attempts at risking death, remembering the therapy his brother had forced himself into for a short amount of time... The whole thing, talking to his brother, his wife, his therapist… Well, talking made him want to kill himself even more, really. But eventually he realized not keeping the secrets actually did make it somewhat easier to cope. In time.

Lestrade took a risk, and then slowly, tentatively placed one of his hands upon Sherlock’s closer, thin hand. He knew the man would probably take it away momentarily, but he squeezed it, gently. It was the closest to a hug the two of them were probably ever going to get.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

He probably wouldn't have noticed - or at least cared at a later point - about the fact that he was, in his own eye's at least, making a fool of himself. Sherlock had spent time and effort building up barricades, even from those who continuously grew close to tearing them down, and didn't appreciate for one second just how quickly the entire situation had nose-dived even further into an embarassing mess.
Or rather, how he had nose-dived even further into an embarassing mess.

Suddenly, through the tangle of spider's webs that were occupying his head - spiralling off on all directions to make clear-thinking seemingly impossible, the consulting detective was aware of an extremely, very not-good warning bell ringing out through the inner cavities of his skull. The second thing he noticed was that there was something foreign covering his right hand.
It took him a further few seconds of frozen silence (partly in shock, now) for Holmes to realize that the offending object was Lestrade's hand.

If it had been his dominant hand (which, alas, was his left), the mixture of outrage and shock would most likely have caused the man to break at least three of the other detective's fingers purely for doing such a thing.
Fortunately (for Gregory, anyway) the scene didn't continue as so.
Instead, Sherlock settled for a fierce scowl.

He didn't move his hand (in fact, he didn't move at all again, having probably been surprised into doing so), but rather gave Lestrade a look that, if it was recieved how he intended it to be, would persuade the man to remove his own hand.

It seemed almost as though that action had caused Sherlock to gather control of himself again, as it wasn't too much longer before he began to speak. The usual sneering tone of voice was back again to assist the expression - which, really, fit much more comfortably to the consulting detective. Which, in itself, was rather curious. It seemed that he now fit more adequately into the image he had worked so hard to project to others.

But not to dwell on thoughts of that nature too long, after all.

"I would have rather preferred you hadn't felt the need for a visit," he frowned lightly, throwing out the words with an air of nonchalance, as usual.
"I've only just begun recovering from Mycroft."

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Lestrade managed a grin as Sherlock gave him a scowl and a look that was not pleased at all. It was the sort of look that was meant to send criminals running. Fortunately, Lestrade was rather used to it. He got the message though. Squeezing Sherlock’s hand once more for good measure, he let go, and then placed his hand back in his lap. Sherlock’s hands had been cold; he clenched his own hands together and felt warmth settle in.

Sherlock made his face resume into its usual, practically permanent scowl; it made Lestrade feel more comfortable. Seeing Sherlock act human was a bit of gift, yes, but it wasn’t very pleasant to see. “I would have rather preferred you hadn’t felt the need for a visit. I’ve only just been recovering from Mycroft.”

Lestrade laughed good-humoredly, despite the fact that he knew Sherlock would only deepen his scowl at the display. “Your brother dropped by already? God, no wonder you don’t company.” Lestrade realized that Sherlock didn’t actually know the two of them knew each other, let alone why Lestrade feared disliked the man so. Then again, this was Sherlock, so yes, he probably did/would now.

Thinking about the later thing Sherlock had said, Lestrade refrained from saying anything. He’d had his shout, and surprisingly enough, he was pretty sure Sherlock had gotten the message, even if he wasn’t going to listen (unsurprising), so he decided there was no need for saying much more on… on that subject. He did wish Sherlock wouldn’t say things like that though. Of course Lestrade had felt the need for a visit! They were… friends? No, not friends. Not exactly. Colleagues? No, the general definition of colleague in the sense of Sherlock Holmes was “The man who helps out at crime scenes sometimes whom I hate with a passion.”

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Dropping back into routine behaviour was more... comfortable for the detective.
In fact, it seemed to be more comfortable for the both of them - as was proven by Lestrade's grin.

Fortunately, the man removed his hand. Which, as soon as he did so, caused Holmes to immediately place it out of easy reach for the other man, by folding his arm to rest his right hand next to the left - at the other side of his legs. It looked rather awkward (in all truth, it was a little bit so), but naturally Sherlock didn't really care about that.
He was concentrating on trying not to be too alarmed about the fact that the other detective had touched him at all.
Surely he must know that Sherlock never allowed physical contact.

What was even more unnerving was the thought that perhaps he did, but had chosen to ignore it in a moment of idiocy.
Holmes really had expected better of the man.

“Your brother dropped by already? God, no wonder you don’t company.”

As far as he was aware, Sherlock hadn't told Lestrade about his elder brother. The consulting detective rarely said anything personal to anyone, in fact, and so it was a little bit odd (to say the least) that Gregory knew who Mycroft was.
As a response, he frowned slightly. Though it wasn't long before (to his dismay) he was able to conjure up some sort of mental scenario of how the two had met - which really was rather amusing. For a brief moment, Holmes pitied the DI immensely.

He began to chuckle lightly, not because of the other man's words, but simply due to the fact that he could clearly imagine Lestrade's expression upon meeting the older Holmes brother. It was, undoubtedly, one he sincerely wished he had been there to see.
Perhaps he could think of some way for the two to meet in his presence, as an attempt to recreate what was most definitely a hilarious event.

"I didn't want his company, either, mind, so no need to feel offended," he raised an eyebrow, before shuffling in the hospital bed to face the detective.
"How bad was he, then, to make such a lasting impression? I'm curious."

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Lestrade watched with mild amusement as Sherlock awkwardly moved his hand far away from Lestrade. And Sherlock began to… chuckle. It made Lestrade laugh a little too, really. Actually, whenever he heard about Sherlock laughing about something other than a murder, it made Lestrade feel stupidly proud.

“I didn’t want his company, either, mind, so no need to feel offended,” Sherlock said, which coming from him, was extremely kind. Lestrade continued to chuckle as Sherlock turned to face him eagerly, obviously intrigued by the idea that Lestrade knew Mycroft. “How bad was he, then, to make such a lasting impression? I’m curious.” Of course he was curious.

Lestrade paused a moment, thinking best how to answer the question. He certainly wasn’t going with ‘Well, I’m absolutely terrified of him, and also he showed up at my date.’ Or ‘Well, he took off my shirt and touched me and it was kind of really scary.’ He decided on: “Well, I spilled soup over him, ruined his phone, got my clothes stripped off in a bathroom and was called a pathetic puppy. So as first impressions go, I’d say pretty badly.” He laughed, remembering the ridiculous moments. It certainly hadn’t seemed amusing then, but now it was just a little too pathetic to be shameful.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Sherlock stared for a few seconds.
He honestly did nothing, but stare.

If he were to delve into thought about it, Holmes would notice that he was (nearly) proud of the man for having upset Mycroft Holmes, and still being the proud owner of blissful 'existence'. Or even existence, for that matter.
It was obvious (even if he wouldn't admit it) that Lestrade was scared of the consulting detective's older brother - a fact that Sherlock both stored for future reference (he was sure it could possibly be used to his advantage in the future), and took absolute, unprecedented glee in knowing.

Stifling another chuckle (though only just), Sherlock decided he ought to voice a sudden thought. Adopting a tone of near-terror, he stared at the man in [faked, but a rather good imitation of] utter shock.
"Please tell me you didn't do anything stupid in an attempt to help."

And that was just about it. Despite what he had said not being amusing in the slightest, again it was the mental image that caused the reaction. And this reaction?
Sherlock immediately burst into laughter.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Sherlock was simply… staring at him. It was really unnerving, actually. Because he was just staring for aging, thinking, deducing… Oh god, what did he think had happened? “Please tell me you didn’t do anything stupid in an attempt to help,” Sherlock said seriously, but burst into laughter immediately after. Lestrade grinned, because, well, again, it was nice to hear. And besides, this was probably the most normal – human? – conversation Lestrade had ever had with Sherlock. They were talking about feelings and brothers and laughing, and it was nothing short of marvelous.

“Oh, I did. I did a lot of stupid things, actually,” Lestrade giggled back. He barely had the shame to notice his own childish laughter making itself known. Lestrade laughed a lot, but giggled, not so much. “He very non-discreetly told me he was an amazing lawyer who would sue my ass off if I didn’t shut up, though.”

Lestrade grew slightly more quiet, though remained smiling. “He’s sort of a prick, your brother,” he admitted, a second too late before remembering that if Sherlock actually told Mycroft he’d said that, he could expect to be as good as dead. Ah, well, too late. “I mean, I may have just found someone I can’t stand more than you.”