Sherlock Holmes was a man of logic.
This was an absolute fact.
A man with a ridiculously high intellect, he was the smartest and most intelligent person Lestrade knew—a great detective whose genius he could always rely on on his more baffling cases. His was always the greatest mind in the room and he knew it—proud and unafraid to flaunt it as he was. His brain worked at speeds that could outpace light, churning out deductions and solutions to perplexing cases and mysteries faster than the eye could blink.
Sherlock Holmes did not do romance.
This was yet another undeniable truth of the universe.
He had never once shown any interest or appeal in the fairer sex; rather, outside of their dead bodies, it would appear that he simply had no interest in his fellow human beings in general, certain special exceptions excluded. Romance was a foreign subject to him, one he often scorned and turned his nose up at.
This was a fact that Lestrade had learned from his many years of acquaintance with the man.
Which was why he was not at all expecting these absolute notions of his to be completely and irrevocably shattered the moment he walked into the infamous flat of 221B Baker Street one fine June morning.
"Holmes!" Lestrade barged into the detective's room, having been let in by the landlady, Miss Hudson. "I have a new case that might interest... you..." Trailing off, Lestrade took in the scene of the room he'd just walked into.
Sherlock Holmes was pacing back and forth across the room like a man possessed, mumbling incoherent nothings under his breath. While this was not an uncommon sight to see in the humble flat of 221B, the part that had Lestrade doing a double take was the giddy expression on his face, complete with a large, excited smile and an almost manic, gleeful gleam in his eyes.
This was an expression Sherlock only wore when he had an exciting mystery to solve, and as far as Lestrade was aware, there had been no such cases that had presented themselves recently. Perhaps the man was high?
Bewildered, Lestrade turned his gaze onto the other occupant in the room, looking for an explanation. Dr. John H. Watson sat in one of the armchairs, watching his best friend pace around their shared flat with mild amusement. The doctor looked entertained, which probably meant that the detective wasn't high, as Lestrade knew firsthand of the doctor's heavy disapproval of Sherlock's drug habit.
"Inspector Lestrade!" John greeted warmly, standing up from his seat. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't even acknowledge his presence. Lestrade didn't know if he was so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed him, or if he was simply ignoring him. "Good to see you again. What brings you here today?" John asked genially.
Lestrade held up the case files in his hand. "I have a new case I thought Holmes would be interested in looking into, but"—he glanced at Sherlock curiously—"what's gotten into him? Is there a new mystery?"
At those words, John let out a laugh, seemingly very amused by something. "No, no," he assured Lestrade. "Well actually," he amended with a smile, "I guess in a way, you could say that it is."
"Huh? What do you mean by that?"
There was a happy twinkle in the doctor's eyes as he leaned forward to say, "Sherlock's fallen for someone."
Lestrade's brain stopped.
"Inspector?"
"Sorry, I don't think I heard you right," he said with a nervous chuckle, brain struggling to restart. "Could you repeat that for me?"
