Duty and Friendship (Sherlock, Casual) (FIN)

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

“Oh my god, Sherlock, don’t you dare-“
Perhaps the Detective Inspector should work on his timing. Because, naturally, by the time the warning had been expressed, Sherlock was already setting a determined stare through the glass of the windscreen as he drove along the pavement.
Fortunately, there weren't any pedestrians for the man to nearly-run-over. If there had been, it went without a doubt that he would most likely have hit them. And, with a police officer currently in the passenger seat of the car, that wouldn't be a intelligent move at all.

“Sherlock!”

In response, Holmes simply rolled his eyes far too dramatically to be categorized as casually (though somehow, he still managed to make it look completely necessary), and increased the speed.
If Gregory Lestrade wanted to get in a car with Sherlock Holmes, Gregory Lestrade would not forget said time in the car with Sherlock Holmes. Which, being as self-centered as the consulting detective was known to be, was practically code for the man. By breaking the 'rules of the road', he ultimately achieved that - not to mention the fact that, hopefully, the other detective wouldn't ask Sherlock for a favour again. Or at least for a very, very long time.

“Get back on the road this instant, you fucking idiot!”

He tutted at the swearing lightly, though was rather unable to hold back the almost-smile that had been threatening to emerge ever since the passenger went into somewhat of a blind panic.

It wasn't long before Holmes managed to spot a side alley some distance ahead. He would have been likely to miss the thing completely, if there hadn't been the tell-tale flash of a darting street cat as it fled between the buildings on either side. It then took an even shorter amount of time for Sherlock to (hopefully) successfully come to the conclusion that yes, the car probably would fit through.
And with that thought safely in mind, the man somehow managed to perfomr some tricky manoeuvre that resulted in the vehicle turning a complete ninety degrees.

"I suspect that you do not wish to stay in the with myself for longer than is completely necessary," all the while, the consulting detective hadn't once relinquished the speed at which he had been previously driving - and the car was barely over a few inches each side from the walls laying parallel. The alley, as it turned out, was a rather long one. Hopefully they wouldn't run into any bins.
"Thus a shortcut is undoubtedly better."
The flash of teeth shown through the uncommon grin he sent in the direction of Lestrade caused the man to, overall, look rather manic.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Sherlock just completely ignored him and drove faster, aside from rolling his eyes dramatically and pretending to scold Lestrade for swearing, instead of returning to the seconds-ago law-abiding-person’s persona. He’d rather liked that act. Ah, well, nothing good can last.

God, he was paying for asking for that favor, wasn’t he? He would have been better off asking… he didn’t know, actually. He really, really needed to start talking to people old enough to drive and who weren’t criminals again.

Sherlock then chose that moment to swerve quickly around a really quite impossible angle to squeeze into an ally that would likely cut off a few blocks of driving and traffic. Actually, it would make it very close to his house. That was nice. Wait, nice? Oh god, he was not making light of this situation!

“I suspect that you do not wish to stay in with myself for longer than is completely necessary. Thus, a shortcut is undoubtedly better.” Sherlock said, continuing at a frustratingly dangerous pace. Gosh darn it, he really should arrest Sherlock! And besides, that wasn’t even true, Sherlock was just doing his ‘I assume everyone would like to kill me as quick as possible,’ mind set again. It frustrated the hell out of Lestrade. Just because he was a pain in the ass usually didn't men Lestrade did't like him, and in all honesty, he'd spend a whole few hours in the car with Sherlock as long as the man wasn't completely obnoxious. But then, that was probably too much to ever hope for.

Lestrade turned from looking out the front window with a horrified expression to meet Sherlock with a soon even more horrified expression, as Sherlock was sending him what was possibly the craziest look he’d ever seen somebody of sound mind give before. Well, not, Sherlock’s wasn’t of sound mind, not at all really, but he was able to think for himself. Therefore, he knew exactly what he was doing. Oh, that bastard was just trying to scare Lestrade into something , wasn’t it? Or maybe he was just trying ot get revenge for asking a favor.

“Jerk,” Lestrade said, the best insult he could come up with, with that face directed towards him. “Eyes on the road.” He was basically pouting like a child now, which once he realized, first had him embarrassed, and then completely and utterly petulant. Really, if Sherlock could act like a hormonal teenager than so could he.

“You know what I wrote yesterday? I was typing and I messed up your name. I wrote Sherlcock. You are a cock, you now that? I should call you that.” Yeah, he was on a roll now. A role of annoyed and childish sounding remarks that he would undoubtedly regret and die of shame of later on, but what they hell. The dizziness was wearing off now, which was being replaced by a headache, which probably had less to do with having is blood drawn and more to do with being in a car with a maniac.

“And you can’t drive. No, you can drive, you just choose not to do it well. I will personally put you in a cell for a whole day, Sherlock. A whole day, and I’ll bet you’ll die of boredom by then.” Gosh, this felt good, he should pretend to get drunk and do this more often. It was stupidly self-satisfying. “And you’re… dull. That’s the best insult for you, isn’t it? You’re dull.” Actually he wasn’t, Sherlock was definitely the least-dull person Lestrade had ever met, but he wasn’t going to say that, though Sherlock could probably read it on his face anyway. He finished his child’s rant by a huffed, “So there.”

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

It really was a very long alley. Still the car hadn't reached the no doubt wider road ahead, which meant that even if the detective inspector currently stuck in the passenger's seat next to Sherlock Holmes suddenly felt a (considering the driver's route, probably completely rational) urge to 'jump, tuck and roll', there simply wouldn't be enough room for him to open the door. Though this was exactly the same case on the consulting detective's side of the vehicle.

Which, in effect, had both of them rather trapped.

Bad news for Lestrade, in all honesty.

Despite the fact that it was Holmes' fault that they were currently hurtling down the narrow path at a speed that made Sherlock far-too-content to be legal, it had to be noted that the car itself had not suffered from a single scratch - which was quite the achievement when one realized that the wing mirrors were a hair's breadth away from scraping the brickwork. This factor alone proved one of Gregory's many 'observations' to be false. Which only truly resulted in pleasing the younger detective even further.

Though he did initially ignore Lestrade's immature pouting - the puerileness alone enough to fog Sherlock's driving space over with a irritating air of petulance - the other man's words did not have the grace to go unacknowledged.
“You know what I wrote yesterday? I was typing and I messed up your name. I wrote Sherlcock. You are a cock, you now that? I should call you that.”
To be honest, he preferred the immature moods. At least they were near-silent.

“And you can’t drive. No, you can drive, you just choose not to do it well..."

Of course, the other man carried on. Though by then most of the words didn't fully process into his hard drive (the brief flash of 'boredom' and 'dull' happened to find their way to the area of his mind currently inhabited by the force of concentration, though little else). He was far too distracted on the insult to his driving.
Or rather, what his choice of reaction should be regarding the insult to his driving.

Well, if that was what he thought...

It was all timed rather well, actually. Gregory's final words were almost on cue with the consulting detective's actions - so much so that it could even seem as though the entire thing had been rehearsed. The car jerked to a sudden halt as Holmes' foot smashed the brake pedal down so forcefully that it would probably be likely to leave some sort of mark. This in turn caused the seat belts to jam with Olympian speed in order to stop the occupants of the seats from gliding through the front window.
And, as this was all happening at the exact moment a single word of 'there' left the other detective's mouth.

The next four seconds or so was spent by Sherlock making certain that it wouldn't be possible for either of them to simply step out of the door (he having stopped the vehicle now just a few metres from the end of the alley), opening the sun roof with the flick of a button, and turning off the engine before pocketing the keys.
It was probably already evident what his plan of action was.

And so, with a final look of slight annoyance toward Detective Inspector Lestrade, he climbed swiftly onto the roof of the very-much-rented car.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

_{OOC: Ah, of course I had to post right away, because SHERLOCK. Sorry if Lestrade’s/my writing style’s changed a bit recently^^’.}

[/sub][/i][/b]

As soon as the final words were out of Lestrade’s mouth, the breath he’d drawn back in after his long-winded string of petty insults was quickly forced back out as Sherlock quite literally put his foot down, jerked the car forward with a horrible screeching sound, and it was only then that Lestrade realized that he was, indeed, trapped in the car. He also, at that moment, remembered about his rather stupid reaction to blood loss and all the colors around went a bit weird for a second.

There was about five seconds of less-than-blissful silence in which Lestrade wanted to get out of the car rather badly, and then Sherlock, who was quite annoyingly calm, opened the sunroof. Lestrade looked up; the fact that they were in an alley didn’t make the car much brighter, but he still squinted at the blue above. Lestrade didn’t really have time to wonder what Sherlock was doing before Sherlock gave Lestrade really, really amusingly annoyed look before somehow bounding onto the roof of the car wwith very little visible effort.

…What?

“Sherlock!” Lestrade called – well, rather snarled – up at the consulting detective who was making the roof of the car make less-than-comforting sounds above him. He had very little confidence in its ability to not break. Then again, he also had very little confidence in Sherlock having a normal weight for a man of his height – seriously, he was too angled to be even called a beanpole – but it still didn’t really ease his irrational fear that Sherlock was going to come toppling down.

“Get down here right now! What the hell do you think you’re playing at?!”

It occurred to Lestrade that he was using his dad voice. He didn’t much care.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Making his way on to the roof of the car had all gone according to plan - not that there was really much that could have caused it to not do so, in all honesty. Though it certainly was rather fortunate that Sherlock posessed a very good sense of balance - as had he not, it would have been very likely that he could break his arm if he were to topple to one side.

Despite being able to generally block out the voice of Lestrade when he so wished, Holmes did, of course, hear the next thing Gregory had to say.
Perhaps it was the tone of voice that had caused it to slip past his barrier of obliviousness.
“Get down here right now! What the hell do you think you’re playing at?!”
The consulting detective didn't even notice the brief flashing thought of: "what, does he think he's my father? Honestly..., as it was that moment that he chose to make a rather unsteady descent to the ground.

When one considers what it must be like to jump from the roof of a vehicle, one usually imagines that it must be rather similar to leaping from a realtively short brick wall. On the contrary - the surface is considerably slippier, and then, there is of course the small fact of the bonnet of the car jutting from the body, if one is intending to land at the front.
If it wasn't already surprising that he hadn't yet broken, sprained or even bruised anything since deciding to use a non-conventional means of exiting the rented car, it became increasingly more so when he practically threw himself from the top.

In all truth, this was probably just some over-dramatic attempt on Sherlock's part to further aggravate the detective inspector he was supposed to be driving home.

He hit the ground with a tuck and roll, before standing straight with a satisfied huff.
It was fortunate that he was able to keep a straight face (if only just), as Holmes did so want to keep the entire thing completely serious, after all.

"If you don't appreciate my driving, then I see no reason for me to further help you," Sherlock spoke matter-of-factly, holding his chin slightly higher in the air in some form of mock display of dignity.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Oh course, Sherlock didn't so much as listen to him. Not that he could really see Sherlock's face entirely well, seeing as he was on top of the car - a car - but never more had he wanted to just plain hit Sherlock. Lestrade flinched as he heard a loud *crunch* as Sherlock leapt rather ungracefully from the top.

Despite the fact that Sherlock was annoying the hell out of him, Lestrade was suddenly worried Sherlock hadn't made it to the group completely unscathed. He pushed his now unbuckled seat belt off, leaning forward trying to see if Sherlock was lying on the group looking less-than the picture of health. Of course, Lestrade was not unconfident in Sherlock's ability to leap off tall objects and be completely fine - he's seen the man jump between roves before - but it was still a reasonable fear. He'd jumped off a boat once and broken his leg, not realizing that you can actually hurt yourself pretty badly on water. However Sherlock wasn't exactly average like him, so he very quickly realized that Sherlock probably knew a perfectly safe way to do most things people killed themselves doing daily.

He did see Sherlock on the ground, for a nano-second, before the man popped up looking perfectly fine and still pefectly annoyed with Lestrade. Lestrade wasn't exactly sure which of his stupid comments had gotten the consulting detective to do something so dramatic, but all he knew that he just wanted to get damn home.

"If you don't appreciate my driving, then I see no reason for me to further help you," Sherlock deadpanned, and Lestrade groaned when he realized Sherlock was very serious. However, for once, he wasn't going to lose this argument, he wasn't because... Well, the probability of him actually winning this was increasingly slim, but Lestrade could dream, couldn't he?

Lestrade briefly considered climbing out of the car himself, but seeing as he was a good deal older than Sherlock, not nearly as cat like, and was still feeling completely crappy from getting his blood drawn, he was smart enough to know that that was not a good idea.

"Sherlock, you're definitely not driving on the road and most definitely speeding, you're lucky I'm not arresting you," Lestrade growled, though he knew perfectly well that the day he arrested Sherlock Holmes for something like this would, if it ever happened, be more out of amusement than actual anger or felony.

"Will you please just come down here and bring me home?" His voice was snappy, and though he had his dignity, he really did want to be home to just go to sleep for a couple of hours before he had to go to work and deal with Sherlock some more, and so added, just the slightest bit pathetically, "Please."

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

It was growing increasingly difficult to keep away the smirk that threatened to light his face. Sherlock knew downright that allowing such a thing to happen would result in a rather unwanted conclusion - Lestrade realizing just how much the entire situation was amusing the consulting detective.
Hopefully, however, he would get the message, and not insult him when he asked for a favour.

"Sherlock, you're definitely not driving on the road and most definitely speeding, you're lucky I'm not arresting you,"
Holmes simply shook his head from side to side, eyes cast downward in mock disappointment. However fun it would be to, one day, push the detective inspector so far as to feel the need to actually arrest him, even Sherlock knew that this wasn't exactly the right place to do so.
No. He could have much more fun than that.

"Will you please just come down here and bring me home? Please."
Holding back an unsuitable bark of laughter, the tall man simply shrugged his shoulders in response, before shoving his hands into his pockets. They car keys were still there. Not that he had expected them to not be, of course.
And now, he was to practically-tell-the-truth.
Even thinking about it felt weird.

"I can't, even if I wanted to. The car has run out of petrol in case you hadn't noticed," he bobbed his head in the general direction of the driver's side of the vehicle, as if beckoning Greg to see for himself. He probably would check, as Holmes doubted that the man would take his word for it.

Though, with the current location of the car, it would be silly to assume that Lestrade wasn't already realizing what Sherlock was getting at.
"Which means you're going to have to climb out of the car. Sorry."
The final word was hardly sincere, as firmly proven by the slight smile that managed to escape as he opened his mouth. But then again, that didn't matter anymore.
"Or, I could smash the windshield and drag you out if you're not up to that." Sherlock cast a brief glance over the ground around him, as if hunting for some sort of handy brick.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

"I can't, even if I wanted to. The car has run out of petrol in case you hadn't noticed," Sherlock nodded to the dashboard, and Lestrade with dismay saw that he was being surprisingly truthful. He didn’t see the point in Sherlock’s needless dramatics, though; seriously, the man was such a cartoon character! Except, cartoon characters were generally amiable and sensible, both of which Sherlock was not. So no, Sherlock was not a cartoon character, he was a character out of a bloody soap opera from Spain. And believe him, if anyone had ever seen soap operas in Spain? They were the most dramatic things ever created on this Earth. The fact that Lestrade was considering thinking of Sherlock was topping that was a little absurd.

Lestrade sighed with frustration. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t get gas. He had enough sense to rent the car but not enough to drive Lestrade back home. Typical Sherlock.

Which, also meant that Sherlock was basically forcing him to climb up on the roof of the car. And he was pretty sure that he may or may not have the right blood pressure to do something like that. Or the stupid endless childlike energy Sherlock had. Sherlock enforced his annoying point by stating the obvious, to which Lestrade scowled at him. He was continuously surprised by the amount of childish things Sherlock made Lestrade want to do. More things than his own daughter. It was so strange, borderline crazy. And yet he could feel his consciousness telling him not to stick his tongue out at Sherlock because that wasn’t mature.
.
"Or, I could smash the windshield and drag you out if you're not up to that,” Sherlock said, and Lestrade knew the consulting detective well enough to know that he would do it. Which… was terrifying. And illegal. And even more terrifying because he was behind the windshield that had just been threatened to smash.

Which meant one thing: he was climbing onto the roof of the car looking like a bimbo. Lovely.

“Fine, you utter wanker,” Lestrade grumbled, and slowly, unsteadily stood on the seat. He hadn’t done that in, like… forever. Like, it was weird, because the last time he had done this, he didn’t remember violently hitting his head on the car roof.

“Fucking hell!” He swore loudly, and made his way to the opening in the ceiling. “Sherlock you are stark raving mad, you idiot!” The obscenities being thrown at Sherlock were mostly out of spite and not actual context, but they still felt good to get out. And wow, he was dizzy. Okay.

“Och, why can’t you just be a normal person and remember to get petrol?” Lestrade said slightly breathily, and then proceeded to push himself on top of the car. Oh god.

He didn’t take a moment to enjoy the fact that he was taller than Sherlock for a few second, because his head was suddenly swarming slightly again, like it had been ten minutes ago, and he just rather slid to down the side of the car with an unsteady flop.

“Fuck you,” Lestrade breathed when his feet were solidly – or not so solidly – on the ground again.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Now, Sherlock Holmes was typically one in definite control of his reactions. He chose when to tell the truth, when to lie, when to smile when to frown. It was a sort of control that he had gained from (possibly) years of work, and a skill that he constantly prided himself in having. Such a thing made his life, more or less, easier.
In the event that such solidity in knowing what exactly he was doing would slip - thereby granting the consulting detective with one finely unwanted emotion - the man usually tended to forcefully 'delete' any memory of the event.

But there was no way he was doing that with this - 'unwanted emotions' be damned.

It would probably be difficult to determine a certain point when Sherlock's collected composure dropped completely, leaving the man in hysterics. But, at an educated guess, one would suppose that it was around the same time that he realized Lestrade was actually going to climb out of the car roof.

Or maybe it was when he watched in unrestrained glee as the detective inspector hit his head rather forcefully (and probably entirely accidentally - but nevertheless amusingly) on the roof of the car.

It could even have been when the man all but fell from the top of the vehicle, reaching the ground with actions as lifeless as the corpses Holmes tended to spend his ordinary days with.

But then again, when exactly he began to find the entire situation so very humorous wasn't really important. The only thing that mattered was the very visible fact that he was laughing.
Hell, the man was positively in stitches.

It was probably now a fortunate thing that the alley was so narrow, as the consulting detective was easily able to stumble the few steps it took to reach a wall for support. He ended up leaning his back heavily against the brick to simply avoid hitting the floor.
Being barely able to breathe as it was, Sherlock didn't even bother to contemplate a response Greg's cursing. As it turned out, they only happened to make him laugh even harder.

The consulting detective managed to control the laughter once Lestrade's feet were planted on the ground, which was definitely a good thing as, in honesty, he had been getting rather close to tears. Taking a deep breath and shaking his head slightly, Holmes pushed away from the wall before he strode toward the man stood by the rented car.

"There, see? Not so difficult," managing to keep a relatively straight face (the giant grin he was sporting probably wasn't bound to disappear for a while), the man grabbed the detective inspector by the arm to lead him away from the car. He stopped when they neared the end of the alley, transferring Lestrade's weight instead to the wall on the left.
And once again, began to laugh.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Lestrade leaned heavily on the car, and great, just great, Sherlock Holmes was effectively laughing his arse off at him. Lestrade, on the other hand, found the situation far less amusing than Sherlock did, who was leaning on the wall of the alley and laughing so hysterically that Lestrade really, really wanted to smack him.

"There, see? Not so difficult," Sherlock teased, grinning.

"Oh, shut up!" Lestrade growled at him, before lurching forward as Sherlock basically hustled him forward to the end of the alleyway. It was… weird. Sherlock was helping him walk - while Lestrade balance was returning, it wasn't exactly reliable - and that was strange in itself. Sherlock wasn't the touchiest man, after all. Though, Lestrade was more embarrassed, as once they got to the end of the alleyway Sherlock dropped him to stand by himself on the wall and collapsed on the opposite one, once again laughing like a maniac.

Lestrade was going to get him for this.

Sherlock was teasing him, thought this was so bloody hilarious, and maybe it was, hardy har har, but Lestrade didn't find the amusement exactly mutual.

Lestrade groaned, the only good part of this situation being that he could now see his house across the street. As long as he managed not to get hit by a car crossing, he was home, and then he could sleep and pretend this whole mortifying experience never happened.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, exasperated, though he didn't know what to say afterwards. Sherlock was still giggling, finding Lestrade so funny. The prick.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

"Sherlock,"
The man in question calmly waited for Lestrade to expand on that, slowly regaining control over his breathing, having been without a suitable lungful of oxygen for quite some time.
It was extremely possible that he had never laughed so much in his life.

When it became clear that the detective inspector had no intentions of finishing the sentence he had begun, Holmes decided to simply shrug in response, before walking toward Lestrade to take his arm yet again.
"People do always say that you should help the elderly, after all," In all fairness, it would have worked much better if the consulting detective didn't happen to be grinning like a Cheshire cat throughout the entire statement. But it seemed his facial expression was something far beyond Sherlock's control at that moment.

After that (and possibly to avoid granting Greg the opportunity to hit him - which was probably the likely mode of retaliation he would use), the lanky man began to half-drag, half-march the man down the pavement of the street. Naturally he knew where the detective inspector lived, and could see the door to his house not too far down from where they were. Equally as naturally, Holmes did posses a key of his own. For emergencies, of course. But he was entirely intent on allowing the man to open the door for himself - not that it would matter too much if Lestrade took his key from him, considering the fact that he had three or four copies back at 221B.

He expected quite a few emergencies, obviously.

"Nearly home," the consulting detective let out the words in a childish sing-song tone, far too happily to be ordinary. It didn't matter that the car had been left in the alley, nor was it important that Sherlock had absolutely no intention of returning it. After all, he hadn't put false information on the regulation form for no reason.
"I didn't do a bad job, in my opinion."

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

It took Sherlock another few seconds to stop laughing so hard - damn him - before grabbing Lestrade's arm yet again to get him moving. Oh god this was embarassing.

"People do always say that you should help the elderly, after all," Sherlock said wittily. Lestrade glared at him, but actually chuckled a bit himself because it was, in all honesty, rather amusing. As was the thought of Sherlock actually helping the elderly.

"I doubt you've ever personally helped a senior in your entire life," Lestrade snorted, and then went back to pretending he didn't actually need Sherlock's help walking in a straight line as much as he did.

Sherlock then produced a key which was no doubt to his house. Lestrade sighed; of course his sets of missing keys were Sherlock's doing. "Nearly home," the younger man assured him, amusement layering his voice. Then, "I didn't do a bad job, in my opinion."

They reached his front step and Lestrade sighed with relief, taking his key from Sherlock's hand - he was too lazy at the moment to get the one in his back pocket out - and proceeded to fumble with his keys until they moved properly into the slot and clicked. Lestrade looked up at Sherlock and finally replied with a soft, "You didn't do such a bad job, did you?" Between all the annoyances and quirks and making him climb out of the roof of a bloody car, Sherlock hadn't killed him or taken any videos, as far as he knew, and had been kind enough to help him get to his door, which was so uncharacteristically considerate of Sherlock that Lestrade was feeling a little honoured.

He pushed the door open, and gave Sherlock a little smile. "Well, thanks mate." It could've been a lot more awkward - it almost felt like it should have been - but Lestrade was (probably unwisely) feeling quite a lot more comfortable around Sherlock than he normally was at the moment.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

"You didn't do such a bad job, did you?"

Sherlock let go of the Detective Inspector's arm as they reached the threshold of his house, leaning one shoulder against the door frame in a manner that he hoped wouldn't give away his seeming lack of energy. It seemed a caffeine high did run out at some point, after all - and, like everything else, it had an apparent tendency to do so at only the most inopportune of moments. Well that was unfortunate.

Holmes gave the man a blank look as the softly spoken sentence finally managed to reach the responsive part of his brain.
"That's what I just said," the consulting detective blinked a few times, obviously not bothered to hide his confusion at the words. Perhaps Lestrade hadn't heard Sherlock when he had stated practically exactly the same thing not two minutes earlier. Or perhaps it was just another one of those 'people' things that the tall man really had no hope of ever understanding.
For a brief moment, the tiny part of his whirring mind that Holmes usually chose to completely ignore pondered on an odd thought that perhaps Sherlock should be assisted at all times with someone on whom to rely to understand and decipher basic human characteristics that he himself was often puzzled by. Like a sort of guide dog.
But that was quickly brushed aside with a slight shake of the lanky detective's head, as though he was trying to physically banish the idea.

"Well, thanks mate."

Arching one eyebrow in immediate reaction, Sherlock wondered whether Gregory had realized what he had just referred to the younger detective as. It was as though he considered him a... well, a friend. The very idea was laughable at best.
Sherlock Holmes didn't have friends.

Might as well make a point of it.

He cast a glance upwards, as if searching the sky for nothing in particular. Immediately noting that it was, in fact, beginning to get rather late in the day (this supported by the clear evidence of the rapidly darkening blue of the blanket over their heads), the consulting detective was hit with the sudden knowledge that his own flat really was quite far away. And it was always very difficult to catch a cab at this [supposed] time.
And he certainly wasn't going to walk. It was about to start raining.

Pushing away from the door frame, Holmes herded the other into the house so that he could follow, then kicked the door firmly shut behind him. Before even giving the DI even a chance to respond, Sherlock was already sauntering into the living room of Lestrade's house.

"You don't mind if I kip on the sofa, do you?"

He threw himself gracefully onto the aforementioned piece of furniture, making it painfully obvious that he wasn't at all interested in the response, and was clearly going to stay anyway.

Point be made.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

OOC: I've no idea if such housing exists in Chelsea, but I'm assuming it's like most big cities in the respects that I've described bellow.

[/b][/i][/sub]

Sherlock suddenly slumped slightly against the wall of Lestrade's house and after second-long contemplation (which was rather long for the genius) said blankly, "That's what I just said," his voice honestly confused. Lestrade could have laughed.

Sherlock then glanced up at he sky, apparently determined the oncoming rain that Lestrade, even without an enormous brain, could sense in the air; the smell of rain was always pleasant and recognizable, if not a bit grimy here. God knows he god used to that smell from Dublin, because even though he'd been gone from the country for years now, one didn't easily forget the stench of rainwater that would follow you everywhere even in the sun during the many rainy months of the year.

Lestrade was suddenly being herded into the house and living room, as Sherlock somehow closed the door with his foot.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked tentatively, wondering what exactly Sherlock was doing. As he glanced over his house, he briefly thought of how happy he was to be home, finally. Maybe he'd just go to sleep on his sofa, and-

"You don't mind if I kip on the sofa, do you?"

Or not. Lestrade watched, half annoyed and half very amused as Sherlock heaved himself onto his couch, looking considerably more tired than he had before. Lestrade was fortunate enough to live in a house of his own. Like every other borough in New York City, Chelsea was filled mostly of large apartment complexes and group homes. However Lestrade had found a fairly cheep house on the outskirts of town, close to Greenwich, that he could afford.

It was one floor aside from a dingy old basement that held only his washer and dryer, and had two bedrooms (which he hadn't really needed but was sometimes convenient anyway). The larger of the two bedrooms was his of course, as only made sense (though it wasn't all that big anyway), but he still kept some of his crap in the other bedroom. Still, the bed was all made up with crisp sheets that hadn't really ever been used, and so Lestrade made an amused scowl at Sherlock and proceeded to tug gently at the taller man's arm. He knew he couldn't lift Sherlock even if he wanted to, so he just pulled enough to signal to the man, 'Get Up.'

"Come now," Lestrade half-tutted, smirking. "If you're going to sleep for once you'll do it right. Bed." He wasn't sure if Sherlock would even allow Lestrade to offer him the luxury of a bed, he was so petty after all, so whether or not Sherlock slept on Lestrade's couch or in the guest room, he didn't really care. But the bed was more comfortable, and he knew from experience than sleeping on the couch would cause a more than uncomfortable crick in one's neck the next morning, and so a bed was a better choice in Sherlock's own favor.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

It was a little bit of a surprise that Lestrade hadn't tried to throw him out immediately, to be honest. Perhaps the Detective Inspector simply realized that even if he demanded that Sherlock get out of his house at that very moment, it wasn't going to happen.
Though Holmes probably would move if Gregory went as far to draw a weapon on him.
But then - he wouldn't do that of course. Member of the police and all.

The consulting detective bit back a yawn that threatened to make a fool of him (he simply never yawned), and proceeded to fling some of the unnecessary cushions from the sofa he was inhabiting. It was, in retrospect, far more confortable than his own.
Perhaps he could find a way to swap them.
It turned out that he had to remove all but one (for his head) and, of course, the ones that made up the couch itself, to be able to rest his feet just before the arm - rather than hanging over the edge as they were prone to do.

This is actually quite pleasant.

Sherlock probably would have smiled lightly - had his thoughts not then been interrupted by an irritating tugging on his arm. Oh, but he didn't want to get up.

"Come now, if you're going to sleep for once you'll do it right. Bed."

The action of tilting his head so as to suitable stare at Lestrade was matched with almost perfect timing of an obvious arching of his left eyebrow. Pulling his arm freely away from the man, Holmes shot the DI a rather curious look. At least - curious in the way that it had never been aimed at him before.
It, rather clearly, seemed to scream:
'Do you know what you just implied?'
He completely hoped that he didn't. Or rather, completely hoped that it wasn't intentional, at least.

A few seconds later, Sherlock let out something of a half-growl as he rolled onto his front - still somehow managing to stay sprawled out on the sofa.
"I want to stay here."
And with that delightful tone, the man buried his face into the cushion and threw his arms almost protectively over the back of his head.

It was a fine image of a petulant five-year-old.