Chapter Text
It was after hours at Scotland Yard. Greg Lestrade had called in a pizza and Anderson had brought beers and everyone was having a pretty good time. The topic of conversation had shifted to Sherlock. "Sherlock hasn't had sex in such a long time," Anderson drawled, "A woman asked to go back to his apartment and he told her he wasn't interested in subletting." It earned an appreciative round of laughter from the group....and then it became a game.
"Sherlock hasn't had sex in such a long time, he almost couldn't solve the Manchester case because the idea of a mistress hadn't occurred to him," Sally Donovan sneered.
"Sherlock hasn't had sex in such a long time, a woman slipped him her number and he figured it was a code he was supposed to crack," one of the forensics specialists offered, getting an outburst of laughter in return.
"Sherlock hasn't got laid in such a long time," Greg started, his words already beginning to slur a bit, "A prostitute asked him what his favorite position was and he told her, 'I don't play football.'" The room exploded with laughter, some toasting with their beer bottles, while others simply took a hearty gulp in celebration. The game continued, each person trying to one-up the last in cleverness or crudeness. Some were well-orchestrated, ("Sherlock hasn't had sex in such a long time, his 69th case was that of a man with a string of lovers and he didn't see the humor.") while others were barely half-thought out ("....something about DNA fingerprinting...").
By the end of the night, rounding on 3 a.m. everyone had left, except for Lestrade and Anderson, who drunkenly exchanged Sherlock jokes over yet another drink. Greg giggled childishly at what Anderson had just said. "Oh that's a good one! That's sssssooo good! Oh you have to tell him!" Greg took out his mobile and began to fumble, punching Sherlock's number as Anderson tried to keep himself from laughing. Lestrade put it on speakerphone, and after a long time ringing, the consulting detective picked up. He sounded slightly out of breath, with audible short puffs into the receiver. "What. Do. You. Want?" Greg giggled and pointed at Anderson, who calmed himself enough to happily say, "Sherlock hasn't got laid in such a long time, the only G string he's ever touched is the one on his violin!" There was a silence, and then, even in their thoroughly inebriated states, Anderson and Greg Lestrade both heard it. Very faintly, on the other end of the line, a voice half-cried, "Oh Sherlock....come back to bed!" The consulting detective hung up abruptly, leaving the two men gaping at the phone, struck silent. "We'll figure this out....when we're sober." Greg managed. Anderson hiccuped in agreement and the two men left the building without another word.