Archive of Our Own

February 21 08:12 PM
Bored. -SH

February 21 08:14 PM
Still bored. -SH

February 21 08:16 PM
Are you actually capable of not being dull? Is this a physiological condition? -SH

February 21 08:17 PM
You’re wrong -SH 

February 21 08:20 PM
See? -SH

February 21 08:21 PM
Stop texting me you great pillock. I’m in the same damn room. Get off the sofa and join us if you're that bored.

February 21 08:22 PM
Boring. -SH

February 21 08:22 PM
That’s it. I’m telling John.

February 21 08:31 PM
I hope you’re happy Lestrade. -SH

February 21 08:32 PM
I’m good. Ta. 

Mrs. Hudson meets Greg in the hallway, her fingers curled engagingly around air as though holding a handbag has become sheer muscle memory, bag no longer required. “I’ll make you a cuppa,” she tells him, tilting her face up at an angle. It’s an absent-minded demand for a kiss, and he bestows it on her soft, sweet cheek, feeling her work-worn hands clasp gently around his upper arms. 

“You’re a godsend, Mrs. Hudson,” he greets. “You don’t mind if we--?” He nods behind him to the uniformed officers and detectives hovering awkwardly in the entrance. She peers around him and smiles, hospitality mixing with bright-eyed recognition.

“Oh, is that Sally? Hullo there, dearie. And Mr. Anderson! It’s quite a party, isn’t it? I’ll put on some more hot water, shall I? And biscuits? Would you care for some biscuits?”

The chorus of greetings and demurrals from the assembled squad has the sheepish quality of a 1st form class at the start of school. Greg smothers a grin and pats Mrs. Hudson's shoulder. "He’s in, I suppose?"

The landlady's smile is kindly. "Making such a fuss, all morning. Oh, go on upstairs. The boys will be so happy to see you. You'll stop by afterwards for a chat, won’t you? I have to tell you what happened with our Hettie's angina."

The squad is already stumping up the stairs, the thud of footsteps pierced by the furious yell of Sherlock’s protest and the resigned mumble of John attempting to talk him down. Greg tips his head to listen to the cadence of Sherlock’s voice, then glances at his watch. Beside him, Mrs. Hudson does the same thing. “Fifteen minutes?” he asks her.

Her hand flutters at him. “I’ll cut some cake,” she decides, over the bellows of, “Lestrade! Lestrade!” roaring from upstairs. “The flat is always so much tidier when you’re done, though. I’m sure John appreciates it.”

“Is this that delicious lemon cake from Hummingbird’s you had the other day?” Greg asks with interest. “I bet John’d love a piece.”

“I’ll bring some upstairs in just a tick,” Mrs. Hudson promises, smile lines creasing deeper. “It’ll settle him right up. I bought one special, when you said you were coming for a raid. There’s enough for everyone.”

“You’re a godsend,” Greg repeats with sincerity, and catches her drifting hand to bring it to his lips. Her cheeks grow pink with pleasure. “They don’t deserve you. Did you get his stash out in time?” The last of his people have already ascended the stairs; by way of cosmic balance, Sherlock’s voice tumbles back down them. He is eviscerating Anderson’s intelligence using one-syllable words. 

Mrs. Hudson leans in. “I put them someplace safe,” she confides in a whisper. “I don’t think I should tell you where, dear. It wouldn’t do for you to have to arrest me, would it?”

Later, on his way out, he’ll tell her to flush them down the toilet. She’ll do it too, even without John to second him. For now though, the thought of Mrs. Hudson as a holder of baked goods and street narcotics is enough to send him up the stairs with a grin. Amusement wrestles with the need to look angry.

"You're still smiling," John warns when he makes it to the top of the stairs.

"Sorry, mate," Greg says, and arranges his face into a frown that John inspects before conceding doubtfully, "Better."

It won’t fool Sherlock, but the world’s only consulting detective likes having his own intellectual superiority cast in stark contrast by Greg’s strong-armed tactics. It makes his disclosure of brilliance faster. Weighed against the balance of what Sherlock could charge the Yard for his services but doesn’t, Greg considers the signoff of a few hours’ labor a small price to pay. 

And he gets cake and tea, to boot.

It’s not that Greg didn’t spent time in Sherlock’s flats during the five years before Baker Street. It was more that the places Sherlock stayed were waystations rather than homes. Laboratories. Shelters. Experiments in Darwinism, others. Greg’s own flat, cleaner and populated by people rather than vermin, was the same to a less physical degree; a study in failures: as a husband, as a lover, as a friend. They’re neither of them skilled at bonding to places or people, other than the all too sticky demands of the job. Greg has lost the knack, if he ever had it. As for Sherlock, Greg suspects he’s deleted that need, like he’d delete the need for food, if he could. Sleep. Most of NSY.

To John and Mrs. Hudson, home is encapsulated by 221 Baker Street, with its lure of false nostalgia. Friendship. Belonging. Safety. Companionship. In the years before they arrived in the picture, Sherlock and Greg lived in London -- its streets, houses, warehouses and slums fitting together in their own private, jigsaw playground. 

Against the sprawl of an entire city, the distillation of a single point in space and mind is that most dangerous of things: an idea. It’s an attractive one, at that. Greg can see Sherlock being seduced by it, less and less inclined to prowl the lacerated alleys and bleeding corners of society. That the definition of his new home is embodied less in belongings and more in the sturdy friendship of Dr. John Watson is something Sherlock’s slow to realize. Greg has faith he will, eventually. 

He’s a clever lad, is Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes he even sees the obvious.

Greg would be lying if he said he doesn’t miss it, that sympathy of shared understanding with Sherlock. It was one of the only things they were equals in, slipping London on like a second skin that never quite came off. He’d be lying, but it wouldn’t be the whole truth, either. If Sherlock has finally found harbor in his flat, a home, he isn’t courting danger somewhere else, balanced like a diver on the pivot point of disaster. 

It’s worth it to be alone out in the cold, if it means the man’s safe. Greg has had years on the streets, first as constable, then as detective, before Sherlock Holmes was even a curse in an arresting officer’s notebook. Loneliness is a familiar coat. He can cinch it tight if he needs to.

March 3 02:15 PM
Lestrade. Come upstairs. Need blood. -SH

March 3 02:17 PM
Cheek swab or hair follicle would also do. -SH

March 3 02:18 PM
Or semen. -SH

March 3 02:21 PM
Ask Molly after the autopsy.

March 3 02:23 PM
Even you with your intellectual limitations should be aware that Molly is incapable of generating semen. -SH

March 3 02:25 PM
Wait. Whose semen are you needing?

March 3 02:25 PM
Yours obviously. -SH

March 3 02:26 PM
Lestrade. -SH

March 3 02:27 PM
Lestrade. -SH

March 3 02:28 PM
Lestrade. -SH

March 3 02:29 PM
I promise this is for purely scientific application. -SH

March 3 02:30 PM
Are you still sulking about the tissue sample I took? -SH

March 3 02:31 PM
I was perfectly willing to graft it back on. -SH

March 3 02:32 PM
Don’t be childish. -SH

March 3 02:33 PM
Lestrade? -SH

They’ve designated a chair for Greg to use, John says, because the clutter piles up. Having a designated chair will make it easier for them, and by them he means Sherlock, know where he's not allowed to put his stuff.

(What he doesn’t say is that it isn’t right somehow to put him in the seat they use for clients, like he’s a supplicant. The imbalance of power rubs John the wrong way, though Sherlock revels in it. He laps at the honey of NSY’s implied dependency with quick, rough licks of ego and challenge, and never mind if it’s Greg in the chair instead of Dimmock or the others.

“You could be nicer to him,” John tells his flatmate one day, watching through the window as Greg leans on his car, shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Why?”

“Because he’s a human being?” At Sherlock’s blank look, John sighs and points out, “He brings you cases and watches out for you. And he’s a friend, whether you admit it or not.”

“It was a dull case.”

“Then just solve it already. What’s the difficulty?” Greg is pulling himself together, climbing into the driver’s seat. John lets the curtain fall.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Difficulty,” he sneers. “There’s no difficulty. It’s pathetically simple. He should have known better than to bring it to me.”

Wordless, John stands empty-handed in the sitting room and simply stares at him, while Sherlock contemplates the ceiling. It’s only when John finally leaves the room that Sherlock digs out his phone to text Greg a three word message that he was going to send anyway, even without John’s injection of adorable but misplaced sentimentality. Landlord, obviously. -SH.)

Greg doesn’t really care about who owes whom -- Sherlock to Greg for providing entertainment; Greg to Sherlock for bringing closure to the living -- but he’s plainly touched by John’s determination to give him a physical place in their lives. Touched, and not a little puzzled. 

“Anyway, this one’s yours,” John says, frowning down at the faded armchair across from his, and the footprint of heavy books that have worn dents into the leather. He dusts the seat with a hand, then regards Greg with self-conscious hospitality. “When you visit, anyway.”

“He doesn’t need to visit,” Sherlock announces, draped in irritable elegance across the sofa. “That’s my chair.”

“And now it’s his,” John says patiently.

“Why can’t he use your chair?”

“Because I’m usually sitting in it.”

“Or the sofa.”

“Because you’re usually lying on it.”

“Why does he need to sit at all? He doesn’t even have any cases for me. Go away,” Sherlock orders, and rolls over onto his side to face away from them, spine and arms knotted around a fit of sulks.

“It won’t last,” Greg tells John, turning his shoulder on Sherlock and pitching his voice low to infuriate the resident genius. “This time tomorrow, he’ll have thrown the chair out the window or buried it under some kind of chemical experiment.”

John’s little smile flickers, his jaw setting. “He won’t do that.”

“Yes I will,” Sherlock announces, at the same time Greg says, “Yes, he will.”

“No,” John says. “He won’t.”

“Why not?” Greg asks, even as Sherlock’s head pops up with eyebrows hiked, dark hair tousled.

“Because he isn’t a child,” John says, with that dogged faith in Sherlock’s character that never fails to astonish them.

Sherlock and Greg look at each other, mutually baffled. John’s smile flattens.

“Fine,” Sherlock says, burying his head under a throw pillow. “Go away.”

April 8 01:41 PM
Question the sister from Brazil. Ask about the oncologist. -SH

April 8 01:45 PM
What are you on about? What case is this?

April 8 01:46 PM
Strawn. -SH

April 8 01:47 PM
Not mine. You’re supposed to be working on it with Carter.

April 8 01:48 PM
He’s an idiot. I refuse to work with him. -SH

April 8 01:49 PM
He’s fine. You can’t keep running to me when you can’t get on with people. 

April 8 02:54 PM
Sherlock?

April 8 02:55 PM
Tell Carter yourself.

April 8 02:58 PM
Are you telling Carter?

April 8 02:59 PM
Say something worth responding to and I’ll stop ignoring you. -SH

April 8 03:10 PM
Told Carter. That was the last time, you understand?

John comes home from the surgery to find Mrs. Hudson’s door off its hinges and the crisp, fresh-mown tang of sawdust in the air. The murmur of voices inside the flat draws him to poke his head in.

“Everything all right, Mrs. Hudson?” he asks. Mrs. Hudson is standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking up--

Admiring, John realizes, from the brightness of his landlady’s eyes. His own gaze tracks back to the erstwhile focus of her attention, and discovers the bottom half of a man standing on a ladder. The rest of him is tucked awkwardly and noisily into the cupboard, his contortions having drawn the seat of his trousers tightly across his bum. It’s ... quite a nice arse.

“John,” Mrs. Hudson says. Her cheeks turn pink. “I wasn’t expecting you, dear.”

“I just--” John gestures at the empty door behind him. “I saw the door open.” Silence. Mrs. Hudson turns pinker. “I got home early from surgery,” he volunteers. More silence. More pink. Lamely, he asks, “Need a hand?”

“I’ll have to come back with more tools, Mrs. H,” says a muffled voice, and then it’s Greg Lestrade ducking out of the cramped shelving, his hair mussed and a small torch in one hand. His suit coat is off, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks charmingly rumpled. “We’ll have to take it off, repair the wall, and hang it up again. Shouldn’t be more than a few hours’ work. ‘llo, John.” It’s a laconic greeting.

“Lestrade,” John says. “You’re doing construction work for my landlady, now?”

Greg grins with sudden amusement, an expression unusually free of the cynicism and exhaustion that usually shadows it. It transforms him. “His nibs kicked me out while he looked over the files,” Greg says. “Said I was thinking too loudly. Last week he accused me of not thinking at all. There’s no satisfying some blokes.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” says Mrs. Hudson, recovered from speechlessness with the introduction of a safe subject. Her smile is fond. “He’s always so pleased when you come visit, dear. It improves his mood. He was making quite a fuss before he came,” she tells John. “Breaking things, storming about--I was worried the ceiling was going to come down on my head. He’s been quiet ever since, though.”

“Dunno about ‘pleased,’ but if it keeps him out of trouble,” Greg says, climbing down from the ladder to replace an assortment of cans in the cupboard. “I’ll just put your door back on and you’ll be set. I can come back and do your cabinets over the weekend, if you like.”

“That would be lovely.”

“Never saw you as a handyman,” John asks, watching with fascination as Greg picks up a screwdriver from the countertop. The DI flips it with intriguing competence, catching it by the handle before glancing askance at John.

“Man of many talents, me,” Greg says, the slant of his mouth fleetingly bitter before it relaxes. He jerks his head towards the door. “Could use a hand if you’ve got one free.”

John nods, automatically. “Right,” he says. Then: “Yeah. Sure.”

Greg heads out to the passageway outside, his step the same springy, impatient one that Sherlock uses when he’s on the scent.

John lingers behind without thinking, and looks after him. Mrs. Hudson tilts her head to do the same. “Were you admiring his--?” John whispers at her.

Mrs. Hudson whispers back, her gaze still fixed, “Well, it really is quite a nice bum, isn’t it? Rather yummy. Lickable, the girls would call it.”

John stops in his tracks. “Mrs. Hudson!”

Greg stops in the foyer, looking back at them with curiosity.

Mrs. Hudson pats John kindly on the arm. “I’m old, not dead, dear.”

John would like to say that he admired Greg Lestrade from day one -- an attractive man of intelligence, kindness, and more patience than Sherlock deserves -- but John’s initial impressions of the DI are tarnished by an impression of exhaustion, strain, and the awareness of imminent defeat. Lestrade admits it himself when John asks. “...I’m desperate, God help me,” he says, and it is the flat, unvarnished truth. John can read it in the hollows of his eyes, the way he seems almost to collapse in on himself when the volatile genius leaves the room -- as though the strength with which he goaded, prodded, and challenged John’s flatmate has been sucked out by Sherlock and left the DI dry. 

It’s when Sherlock walks away from the ambulance with his ridiculous blanket, his way illuminated by the jolly dance of red and blue lights, that John sees it:  his first hint that he might have been wrong about Lestrade. A tiny grin flickers on the DI’s face as Sherlock turns away, quicksilver bright: there and gone before he can blink. 

(“What did you tell him?” John asks later. 

“Nothing he’ll use,” Sherlock says. 

Drunk on adrenaline, Sherlock’s brilliance, and the discovery that there is life  after Afghanistan, John doesn’t question it. It’s not until even later that he hears what Sherlock said, and realizes what’s implied by that confident reply. )

There's nothing in the news about Sherlock after the Study in Pink. The sound bites coming out of NSY make no mention of the genius at 221B (or his drab, ex-military assistant). John watches the news and spies Lestrade in the background at the press conference, generalized as one of the “many dedicated officers” who worked the case. An NSY spokesperson of some higher rank shows whitely manicured teeth at the media. Good enough to be the face of failure; not good enough to be the face of success, is how John reads it.

Though Sherlock does not care, John does on his behalf. The military has trained him to check with authority before sharing anything verging on official work -- but he’s a civilian now, he reasons, and those operate under different rules. His therapist told him to blog. So he blogs. He gives Sherlock the due he’s owed. If a private corner of his mind takes vengeful satisfaction in wrenching Lestrade’s credit out from under him, he’s too conscious of his own pettiness to admit it aloud.

It’s not until the third case with Lestrade that John realizes his error, and that by a roundabout means. He’s trailing Sherlock back to the street when a hand taps him on the shoulder. 

“Oi,” says Lestrade, and holds up a white envelope between two fingers. 

John takes it without thinking. “What is it?”

“His check. Checks. I reissued the last two as well, since it’s a safe bet he tossed them. I had them made out to you and him, so you can cash them for him.”

John looks down at the envelope and opens it. The number on the slip of paper inside makes his eyes widen. “This is what he makes on a case?”

“That’s what he made on the three cases before this one,” Lestrade corrects. “I used to give it to his brother, but it’d be better if I could give it to you. Then it’d stand a chance of being spent on himself instead of being thrown away.” The DI studies John, eyes shrewd. “You’ll make sure he gets it.” It’s not a question.

John considers taking offense, but it’s a reasonable suspicion. “Yeah,” he says stiffly. He tucks the envelope reverently into his pocket. “It wouldn’t kill you to give him some of the credit, too.”

Lestrade gives him a look, then huffs a tired breath, “Suggest that to him,” is all he says, and then he’s gone.

“Lestrade’s been talking to you,” Sherlock accuses, when John does ask him that night. “Out of the question.”

It is not the response John was expecting, though probably the fact that he was expecting anything from Sherlock is as good a sign as any that he’s cracked. “Why not?”

“All the people who need to know what I do, already do. I get enough banality through my web site as it is. Lost cats. Cheating spouses.” His voice trills up into a nerve-scraping falsetto. “Someone has kidnapped my doggy!”

“You must want some publicity, or you wouldn’t even have a web site.”

“That was just so Lestrade’s superiors would take me seriously. Idiots, the lot of them. I don’t need credit. I just need the work.”

John opens his mouth to argue more -- if there is a man walking the earth who savors the taste of admiration more than Sherlock Holmes, John has yet to meet him -- then closes it. Instead, he sits down in front of his laptop and pulls up his blog. Sherlock is restless, picking things up to inspect them suspiciously and then put them down again, as though he finds their immutability a personal offense.

“You don’t mind if I write about it, though,” John ventures.

Sherlock rolls his eyes up. His opinion of John’s blog as a wasteland in the manure-fertilized fields of the internet has been eloquently and acerbically expressed several times already. 

Companionable silence falls. Then: “It’s too bad Lestrade’s not a better copper,” John says, staring at the blank canvas of a text field. 

“He’s the best of a bad lot,” Sherlock contradicts immediately, flopping down on the sofa with unnecessary violence. “His conviction rate is one of the highest at the Yard. Occasionally, he even shows a glimmer of intelligence.”

“He might’ve been a decent NCO,” John says, letting his voice trail away into skepticism.

Sherlock’s head pops up. “He would have been wasted in the military,” he hisses. 

John smothers a grin and gets to typing.

April 12 02:05 AM
Lestrade, out of milk. -SH

April 12 02:07 AM
Bring some. -SH

April 12 02:13 AM
Are you ignoring me? -SH

April 12 02:24 AM
Still out of milk. -SH

April 12 02:25 AM
It’s 2 AM leave me alone and go to sleep.

April 12 02:27 AM
Can’t sleep need milk. -SH

April 12 02:29 AM
Still waiting -SH

April 12 02:30 AM
Still waiting -SH

April 12 02:31 AM
Still waiting -SH

April 12 02:32 AM
Bored -SH

April 12 02:33 AM
Drink some tea, count some sheep, I’ll talk to you in the morning.

April 12 02:35 AM
Cannot possibly drink tea without milk, which I am out of. You’re awake anyway, you might as well come by. Bring milk. -SH

April 12 02:36 AM
I’m asleep, you prat.

April 12 02:36 AM
Shut it. I WAS asleep.

April 12 02:38 AM
‘Was,’ past tense form of verb ‘to be,’ ‘was asleep,’ therefore not currently asleep. Awake. Bring milk. -SH

April 12 02:39 AM
Also need tongue, pig or human will do, prefer human. Don’t bother explaining to your wife, she’s leaving you again anyway. -SH

April 12 02:40 AM
Still waiting -SH

April 12 02:41 AM
Still waiting -SH

April 12 02:42 AM
Still waiting -SH

April 12 02:44 AM
It’s the man with a large dog at her book club. -SH

April 12 02:50 AM
5 minutes for argument with wife, 3 minutes for wife’s excuses, 2 minutes to get dressed, 2 minutes to find keys under wallet. -SH

April 12 02:51 AM
15 minutes to Tesco and purchase milk, 3 minutes to get taxi, 10 minutes here. Expect you at 3:30 AM. -SH

April 12 03:12 AM
Is John out tonight? Is that why you’re bothering me?

April 12 03:13 AM
He’s asleep. -SH

April 12 03:14 AM
You unbelievable prick.

April 12 03:15 AM
He gets cranky if he doesn’t get enough rest. It’s intolerable. -SH

April 12 03:16 AM
God forbid JOHN be cranky. I have a job you know. I barely get any sleep as it is.

April 12 03:17 AM
Lack of sleep could hardly lower your threshold of mediocrity. John doesn’t drink skimmed. -SH

April 12 03:17 AM
Bought semi-skimmed. No tongue. You’re a fucking arsehole.

April 12 03:16 AM
Disappointing. Any eyeballs? -SH

4:11 AM. Lestrade asleep on sofa. Response to physical touch: none. Inspection. Shirt with coffee stain, buttoned unevenly. Dressed in haste. On second change of reserve clothing kept in desk at NSY. Smell of carbolic soap, so hasn’t returned home in several days. Showered twice at NSY, shaved once. Still not reconciled with wife. Respiration: even. Eye movement: absent. Verdict: sleep stage 3. Not optimal, but satisfactory. 

4:13 AM. Alcohol swab removed from packaging. Acceptable vein identified in Lestrade’s left arm. Old scars in skin: regular blood donor. Remnants of glue on forearm: nicotine patch therapy proving successful. Extraction area sterilized.

4:14 AM. Rubber tubing tied around upper arm. Vein distended. Forearm pinned with knee to anchor site. 

4:15 AM. Sterile wrapping removed from needle. 

4:16 AM-- 

Lestrade says, “If you touch me with that, you’ll live to regret it.”

For a few seconds, Sherlock considers performing the venipuncture anyway. Lestrade’s eyes are still closed; there is a remote possibility that he could convince the DI that this is simply a dream. It is an option that he only entertains for a moment. For all his intellectual failings (which are numerous) and his personal inadequacies (likewise vast) Lestrade is annoyingly difficult to delude about some things.

“Fine,” he says moodily, removing his knee from Lestrade’s arm and yanking the end of the tourniquet to pop it free. 

“Should’ve suspected, when you offered to let me kip on the sofa,” Lestrade says with his voice rough and deepened from sleep. “What’d I tell you about other people’s body fluids? ‘We do not--’ what, Sherlock?”

Sherlock tosses the needle in the general direction of the wastebasket, because it has been wasted, it is waste. It misses. John will clean it up in the morning. Or not. “Orthodox. Stifling. Boring.”

“‘We do not steal other people’s body fluids while they’re being used,’” Lestrade finishes. His eyes remain determinedly closed.

Very determinedly closed. Sherlock studies the tired, careworn face, then leans closer, curious to see if Lestrade will do anything interesting as a result. He doesn’t. Sherlock leans closer still. He can feel the other man’s steady exhalations on his cheek, though the pulse in Lestrade’s throat is picking up speed. Just as he’s on the verge of brushing Lestrade’s lips with his own, a broad hand plants itself on Sherlock’s chest to stop him.

Lestrade’s eyes open, pupils dilated in the dark. Sherlock considers him. 

“Go to bed, Sherlock,” Lestrade says quietly. “I’m not a bloody experiment.”

Sherlock can’t be bothered to dignify that with a response. 

4:22 AM. John’s door closed. Rubber tubing, new needle, tubes, alcohol swab all readied. PTSD and military training likely to alert John if Sherlock attempts stealth. Best tactic: regular stride, no attempt at sneaking. Self-assured approach most likely to convince subconscious that Sherlock is a friendly. Lower probability of triggering incident. 

4:23 AM. John’s door opened.

4:27 AM. 999 call placed from 221 Baker Street.

John’s face says, help.

“I’ll be right back,” he says for the third time, still hovering in the middle of the sitting room between Lila and Sherlock, as though it is only the barrier of his body that protects one from the other. No question to the others in the room who is meant to be protected. No question to anyone but the one being protected, that is.

“We’ll be fine,” John’s date reassures. 

It’s like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Sherlock’s head lifts, nostrils thinning.

Greg, sprawled in the other armchair, meets John’s pleading gaze and lets a grin bypass his mouth to warm his eyes. Got you covered, mate. “Dobkins did the analysis,” he tells Sherlock, because he knows better than most how to provoke this particular bull. “He says--”

Some things are comfortingly predictable, even with Sherlock Holmes. “Dobkins,” the detective crows, and then he’s off, scalding the walls with delighted contempt. 

Reassured, John slips out to change his damp jumper into a fresh one, probably just as hopeless and charming as the first. Greg doesn’t allow his mouth to twitch. Lila is a lovely thing, incongruously normal against the backdrop of crime and the cluttered room. She pales a couple of times when Sherlock dips into the usefulness of maggot puree. Greg has no illusions about why Sherlock is exhibiting such relish over the more disgusting aspects of forensic science. Better that than having him turn his attentions onto the poor girl. Sherlock is the original embodiment of a cockblocker. Greg has nothing but sympathy for John. 

“I can make some tea,” Lila offers, when Sherlock is finally forced by biology to take a breath.

“Ta,” Greg says, giving her all the warmth he can inject into a smile. “I’d love some. Tea’s in the second cupboard, right of the sink. Cups in the one left of it.”

“Sherlock? Want a cuppa?” Lila asks, as Sherlock raises his voice to drown out inconsequential distractions. He hates sharing an audience.

Greg glances at the detective’s willful oblivion, gives Lila a wink. Holds up four fingers. Greg can charm people when he wants to -- less flamboyantly than Sherlock can (when he wants to) but less disarmingly than John does in pure innocence. It’s stood him in good stead in his career. Lila blushes at his wink, her smile softening; a twinge of alarm pecks at Greg and he dampens his grin accordingly. John’s date. She busies herself in the kitchen.

Sherlock is winding down. Greg tugs his attention back to the one-sided conversation. Cue for the next distracting flash of red flag. “I don’t see what difference that makes,” he says stolidly. “Granted that the times might be off, but Charles is the only one could’ve done it. The swab on his hand showed residue. I watched them do it myself. If you put--”

He isn’t allowed to finish the sentence. Sherlock is actively trying to rip out his own hair, it is tragic, tragic, that perfectly good electrochemical reactions are being wasted in what is laughably passing as higher brain function these days. He’s well on his way to working himself up to a grand dramatic gesture, Greg an appreciative if carefully blank-faced spectator, when he suddenly breaks off mid-word.

The flashing green eyes snap towards the kitchen. “No,” Sherlock barks at Lila. “Not that cup.”

Greg sits up. Lila freezes, one of the mismatched mugs half-lifted to her mouth. “What?” she says. Dervish puffs of steam scamper away from the word. “What cup? This cup?” Which is just the sort of unnecessary inanity that drives Sherlock mad. 

Sherlock opens his mouth. “I thought John got you to stop doing chemical experiments in the tea things,” Greg interjects, and wins a look of bright indignation for his pains.

Lila hastily sets the mug down. “Experiments?”

“Don’t drink from that one,” Sherlock orders. It’s certainly not a request. “That’s Lestrade’s cup.”

Lila relaxes. Calls, “Sorry!” while Greg’s tongue fumbles after incredulity. 

“I have a cup?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock says.

“Since when do I have a cup?” Greg has observed the tendency for certain things to be placed in front of him with regularity when he visits 221B: a specific mug, a specific plate, a certain kind of tea, a certain brand of biscuit. That John and Sherlock -- Sherlock! -- should have classified such commonplace things as his is something he has never considered.

Sherlock is regarding him with marrow-sucking pity, eyes huge and darkening. “My God. How do you function with that fuzzy little brain? Does it hurt?”

May 12 2:41 PM
I hope I didn’t inconvenience you. -MH

May 12 2:43 PM
Whatever game it is you two are playing, leave me out of it. Some of us have jobs to do.

May 12 2:44 PM
I would not call it a game. It’s more of a scorched earth policy. One-sided on his part, I assure you. -MH

May 12 2:45 PM
You enjoy that. I’ll be over here with the women and children. Ta.

May 12 2:46 PM
Protecting them with your customary skill, no doubt. -MH

May 12 2:48 PM
My apologies. I assure you, that was not intended to sound the way it did. I meant it with sincere respect. -MH

May 12 2:55 PM
There was nothing you could have done for her, Greg. You have nothing to blame yourself for. -MH

May 12 2:58 PM
Fuck off.

“Twelve minutes,” Mycroft is saying as John ambles in, still yawning from the off-shift blow to his sleep schedule. The older Holmes brother is a statue in the sitting room of 221B, a national monument to the sleek and supercilious. “Ah. Good morning, Dr. Watson."

“Mycroft,” John greets warily. “What’s in twelve minutes?” Sherlock is a broody, sulky huddle of long limbs and rumpled hair on the seat by the desk. His gaze flicks after John, tracking him as far as the kitchen before rolling up in a childish display of temper.

“Don’t talk to him,” Sherlock bites out viciously. He is in one of his more dangerous moods. “You’ll just encourage him to stay.”

Mycroft’s smile is humorless, a wire garrote. “Charming as always,” he says primly, his fob watch still cradled in one hand. “I was referring to how long DI Lestrade has been sitting in his car outside 221.”

“Waiting for you to leave,” Sherlock says, as John plugs in the kettle and goes to look out the window.

Mycroft’s smile lessens by a millimeter. “Greg and I have a satisfactory working relationship.”

From DI Lestrade to Greg in under a second. Sherlock’s hiss and show of teeth is covered by John’s prosaic, “Well, he’s coming inside, now,” and when he drops the curtain he just catches the flicker of -- of something behind him, some shift of awareness in the room. When he turns back though, the Holmes brothers are just as they were:  Sherlock still glaring at Mycroft, Mycroft still watchful behind the armor of his expression.

Letting Greg in is a relief. Between them, Mycroft and Sherlock are dueling event horizons, filling the space between them with radiation and static. By comparison, the DI is the embodiment of sanity. John takes a breath and grounds himself, inhaling normalcy with real gratitude.

“John,” Greg greets, amused. John opens his eyes to find the older man grinning at him, with no sign to betray why he spent so long in his car. Taking a kip, maybe; Greg always looks degrees of tired, though the vigor with which he pushes his body puts the lie to the shadows on his face and the grey in his hair. “What’s the matter? He in a strop?”

John makes way for him without thinking. “Yeah, well,” he begins, part of a sentence that’ll end, “Mycroft,” which is an explanation and a warning wrapped up in one. Before he can finish though, Greg stops dead.

“Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft greets smoothly. 

“Mycroft,” Greg says back, his face blank. John can almost see the dynamic in the room change. Usually when Mycroft and Sherlock are together, there is barely any room for a third person to breathe. Suddenly though, Greg is the one that pulls all eyes, speared by the formidable attention of both Holmes brothers. 

“You smell like fresh bread.” Sherlock leans forward with his elbows on his knees, hands flattened prayerfully under his chin.

It’s true, John realizes. Unaccountably, the temperature in the room seems to plummet. The back of John’s neck tingles.

“Sherlock,” John interjects, answering the sharp alarm of instinct. At almost the same time, Mycroft begins, “I really don’t think--”

“Stopped by for a coffee at a bakery on the way,” Greg says easily, “picked up a bun. Would’ve brought you some if I’d thought of it. Next time. Case,” he adds, lifting a manila envelope. It’s fat and frayed, the outline of the papers inside rubbed white against the cream. “You’ll like this one.”

“Is this the thing you mentioned at the pub a couple days ago?” John asks, taking a few steps into the room. The door is at his back. “The thing with the ears?”

“Two severed ears, one female, one male. Removed while the victims were living, delivered to a harmless little widow in Kensington.” Greg’s mouth tugs up; his eyes are wary. “Couldn’t identify the owners. Nothing in the widow’s background. It either turns into a cold case, or--”

“You’re lying,” Sherlock says flatly.

“It’s all in the file,” Greg says.

Sherlock makes an impatient gesture. “About the coffee. You didn’t go into a bakery. You were outside one. Rear alley. Flour on your shoes but not on your coat. This is Tuesday. I can smell the honey almond buns.” 

Greg goes preternaturally still. 

Mycroft rises, deliberately, fussily, shaking out his sleeves and settling them around bony wrists. “Inspector Lestrade,” he says. “I was wondering if--”

One might as well try to keep stars from exploding. “It wasn’t because of your wife, obviously,” Sherlock drills on, eyes aglitter. “You’ve already given up on her. It was a case. Not the one you’ve just given me. A different one you’re in the middle of-- no, you’re done with it, you made the arrest today. There was a struggle. He hit you in the ribs. Spanner?”

Mycroft sighs. Murmurs, “Crowbar.”

John’s gaze flicks automatically to Greg’s torso. For the first time, he notices the guarded stiffness of the DI’s stance. Sees, too, the small scrapes across Greg’s knuckles, scabs too fresh to be more than a few hours old. Sees Greg’s face, and suddenly feels the adrenaline spike of watching a bullet oil through the air, headed straight for a mate’s chest.

“Sherlock,” he mutters. He might as well be pissing in the wind, for all the good it does.

Sherlock acknowledges Mycroft’s interjection with the barest tilt of head, a rare note of fraternal harmony. “You hit him more times than you needed to. Someone had to pull you off. It’s unlike you to lose your temper, but it wasn’t the resistance that made you angry. Unless he hurt one of your men-- no, it wasn’t that.” The green eyes narrow. “It was the victim.”

“Sherlock,” John says. “Shut it.”

“Are you going to take this?” Greg demands harshly, holding out the envelope. His hand, John realizes with a sick clench, is trembling. Realizing at the same time, the DI tosses the file onto the sofa beside Sherlock. The consulting detective barely even blinks.

“A dead child,” Sherlock decides. “4 or 5 years old, or else poorly developed for the age so that he looked younger. No, she.”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock says, unheeding, “You’ve had cases with children before. This one is different. You knew her. Not closely. You had a conversation. You suspected she was in danger of some sort. You had the opportunity to intervene, but you didn’t.”

John can see Greg’s flinch. “I’ll come back later when he’s not being such an arse,” Greg tells John, who feels unaccountably paralyzed.

“You would have if you could,” Sherlock says faster and faster, his voice rising as the DI heads for the door, “so it was something else that kept you from--”

The door’s slam shakes the room. The silence that falls when its echoes die out is so loud, it hurts the ears.

“Why bread?” John asks at last, staring fixedly at Sherlock, but it is Mycroft who answers.

“One of the only places near New Scotland Yard where Lestrade can be alone without CCTV coverage or people intruding is the rear doorway of a small bakery across the street. He retreats there when he needs a moment’s privacy to collect himself.”

“Because you’re always spying on everyone,” Sherlock says without heat, frowning into his fingers. 

“He spent half an hour there today,” Mycroft tells John, proving Sherlock’s point. 

Sherlock’s gaze lifts to John’s, his eyes self-aware and stricken. Sally Donovan claims that Sherlock lacks even the basic capacity for empathy. Sally Donovan is wrong. It’s not that Sherlock lacks empathy. It’s that those he cares enough about to empathize with are so few and far between, he doesn’t understand how to cope when it happens. “Not good?” Sherlock asks.

John goes after Greg.

Astonishingly, the inspector hasn’t left.

John finds him on the sidewalk, leaned against the wall beside the door. He’s smoking, his eyes unfocused. Remote. If he didn’t know the man as well as he does now, after all these months, he’d think there was no sign of the crack in his armor that Sherlock pried open upstairs. Greg just looks like an exhausted man, a still handsome man, whose shoulders have carried too much weight for too long. A man who needs a break.

John steps outside, thinking regretfully about his coat and the inconsistency of springtime weather. He lets the door close behind him and settles his shoulders against the wood. Greg does not look at him.

After a moment, John clears his throat. “So,” he says. "Case."

Greg continues to smoke meditatively.

"You want to talk about it?"

"Not really, mate," Greg says, and John nods, relieved and disappointed and guilty all at the same time.

“Thought you quit.”

“Yeah,” Greg says. He regards the half-finished cigarette with dispassionate curiosity. “So did I.”

John shifts his weight, glancing up at where the windows of their flat are. They’re barely visible from this angle, a sill and a dark smudge against the wall. “So,” he tries again. Blinks back at Greg. “Sherlock was a bit of a prick just now.”

Greg’s snort is almost a chuckle. “If I’d realized Mycroft was here, I wouldn’t have come,” he admits. Takes another drag. Lets his head sink back, eyelids drooping as he contemplates the building across the street. 

“I thought you liked Mycroft.”

“I’m fine with Mycroft,” Greg says. “Well, I’m not fine with Mycroft, some of the things he does gets right up my nose -- but I don't have any personal problems with him, now he’s stopped kidnapping me in the middle of work. Sherlock’s just at his worst when he’s around, is all.”

“I’ve noticed that,” John says.

Greg finally looks at him, his gaze thoughtful. “He doesn’t do it with you.”

“Act like a complete tosser? Believe me, he does.”

“The other thing.” The cigarette gestures, sketching a shape that should mean something. “Get possessive.”

Of all the words John would have used to describe Sherlock’s behavior upstairs, possessive is one that doesn’t even show up on the list. “How was that possessive?”

“Bit like marking his territory, in’t it?” Greg says dryly, glancing down to flick ash off his fag. “Gets competitive with Mycroft about who can strip me down faster. Thank God Mycroft doesn’t play. Mostly.”

And it’s true, when John thinks about it. Mycroft switching from Lestrade to Greg in a subtle goad of Sherlock. The viciousness with which Sherlock rips Greg apart when his brother is nearby is like a child crushing his favorite toy in a frenzy of mine! mine! mine! mine! 

“Why does he think Mycroft wants you?” John asks, then hears what he asked and thinks about blushing. 

“Bit of a cock-up, a few years back,” Greg says. “They tried to bribe me.”

“Both of them?”

Greg scratches at his jaw. “Separately. Publicly. From each other.” 

John tries to imagine it. He has to grin at the image of the exasperated DI being both rope and prize in a Holmesian tug-of-war.

“Daft gits,” Greg says, almost fondly.

“He doesn’t do that with me,” John says, and Greg drops his cigarette. Grinds it underfoot.

“Yeah, well. Mycroft doesn’t make the same mistake twice. And you--” The silvering head lifts, mouth twisted into something that’s almost a smile. Wistful, even. “You’re special, aren't you?"

May 18 9:04 AM
Hello dear this is my fist texting

May 18 9:05 AM
Mrs. Hudson?

May 18 9:10 AM
John and Sherlock teaching me too phone

May 18 9:12 AM
Good for you. We’ll have you blogging yet.

May 18 9:13 AM
Don’t encourage her. -SH

May 18 9:17 AM
I want the face books? Sherlock won’t help you help?

May 18 9:18 AM
Might need John to weigh in on that one, Mrs. H.

May 18 9:22 AM
Bought cake you like come buy for tea today? Bring Sally if you like

May 18 9:23 AM
Yes ma’am. Sally says she’d love to. Ta.

Greg isn’t the first to know about John and Sherlock, but that’s only because Mycroft Holmes is always the first to know. He might be the second to know, in the sense of truly knowing instead of making assumptions (he never really did); straight from the horse’s mouth knowing, a position he is neither inclined to be nor grateful for being in.

He finds out because he is not John Watson. Who, come to think of it, must have already known, as did Sherlock, which technically makes Greg the fourth to know.

(Mycroft was probably still the first.)

“Sample collection in cattle is done through electroejaculation,” is how Sherlock greets Greg when he arrives at 221B. Sherlock is lying on the sofa in his bathrobe with his hands steepled under his chin, his eyes glassy. “We should try that next.”

"On a bull?" Greg asks with equanimity. He has had stranger conversations with Sherlock.

Sherlock says, "On you, obviously," and closes his eyes.

Greg is accustomed to being asked (or summarily violated) for tissue samples, DNA samples, fluid samples, hair samples, speech samples, and handwriting samples, but he has drawn a firm line on any sample involving body parts between the waist and the knees. Also, any sample extraction method involving the prefix ‘electro-’, ‘bio-’ (biopsy), ‘noci-’ (pain) and, purely on principle, ‘herpet-’ (reptile). In the grand scheme of things, electroejaculation is nowhere near the worst Sherlock has proposed. And at least he has some warning this time, instead of simply waking up one night to discover the great git standing over him with a cattle prod and a sample container.

“I’ll pass. Ask John,” he says, sinking into his designated and miraculously empty chair. He can imagine John’s reaction to Sherlock’s proposition. It’s the kind of response Greg thinks might result in some salutary personal growth for Sherlock, besides being a laugh, so he doesn’t feel bad about suggesting it.

“I should be able to borrow a probe from Bart’s,” Sherlock plows on, unheeding. “You’ll have to get a new bottle of lubricant to ease rectal insertion. The one we used last night is empty. And we’ll have to find your prostate.”

Greg blinks. Says, “What?”

“I found frottage and oral stimulation interesting, but I believe we should move onto penetrative acts next,” Sherlock tells the backs of his eyelids. “I saved a list to your computer. We can start with number 3 and 16 when you’ve acquired a child-sized blood pressure monitor from the clinic.”

Greg’s head turns slowly to consider John’s laptop, open on the desk. “We can, can we?”

Sherlock tilts his head back dismissively. “Don’t touch the sex toys in the oven. I’m testing them.” Then he lapses into silence. Greg is absolutely unmotivated to break it.

John arrives ten minutes later, his footsteps on the stairs as precipitous as though gravity has reversed itself. “I’ve got the-- oh, hey,” he breaks off, grinning his friendly welcome as he trots in the door with a bag. “Got a case? You didn’t wait for me, did you?”  He glances at the lean figure mummified in paisley on the sofa. “Fancy a cuppa? I’m just going to pop in some fish fingers for lunch.”

“Don’t touch the oven,” Sherlock calls impatiently, eyes still closed.

“Why?”

“Sex toys,” Greg says without expression, watching John falter. “Experiment. And you need to buy more lube.”

The smile doesn’t disappear so much as it wraps itself around the back of John’s head in an effort to find someplace to hide. Red races up the doctor’s neck and into his face; it’s like watching a fine merlot being poured into a jumper-wearing wineglass.

“Sherlock, you twat,” John says in a strangled voice. There’s nothing loving about the look he shoots Sherlock, who opens his eyes at last to focus on the rest of the room.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock greets, patently surprised. Then, eager. “Is there a case?”

“Right,” says Greg. He stands, tossing the file he’s been defensively clutching onto the desk. “I’ll be off, then. Text me when you have something.”

A courteous man would call it a tactical retreat. Greg’s honest enough with himself to call it what it is. He runs for it.

They have a lot of secrets, between the five of them.

John's secret (which Mycroft, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson know but Greg doesn't) is that he's attracted to Greg Lestrade. Greg is strong, competent, intelligent, compassionate, and incidentally a very good-looking man. He has the added attraction of being maybe the only man (Mycroft is an institution, not a man) who can understand what it's like to walk London's battlefield with Sherlock Holmes. John’s a man of cosmopolitan and open-minded tastes though, so he shops elsewhere as opportunity arises, Sherlock’s cockblocking talents notwithstanding. All things considered, there are probably wiser choices to fantasize about than their only friend at the Yard.

Still, there have been more than a few times when he’s caught himself, well, looking. He wishes Greg would either wear a tie or button up his shirt. The half-open collar that bares the hollow of his throat is ... distracting.

Sherlock’s secret (which Mycroft and Greg know but John and Mrs. Hudson don’t) is that he has propositioned Greg Lestrade three times. He doesn’t consider it a secret, except in that he has never bothered to mention it to anyone. The first time was an attempt at a retaliatory bribe after learning Mycroft was trying to put pressure on Lestrade. The second time was to get back at Mycroft for (reason deleted). The last time was out of curiosity. Lestrade rejected him all three times, though Sherlock is aware (pupil dilation, rapid pulse, flushed skin) that he finds Sherlock attractive. Lestrade’s reasons were blah blah blah blah. Sherlock finds Lestrade’s scruples tedious and inconvenient.

Greg's secret (which Mycroft and Sherlock know, but John and Mrs Hudson don’t) is that he doesn’t actually love his wife. It’s possible that he never did. It’s hard to remember now, several infidelities (hers) down, but his is the first and the longest betrayal. She never stood a chance against the job. When they’re together, he wakes up to a stranger in his bed and feels cold; he feels more warmth for his men and women at the Yard. Sherlock. John. Even Mrs. Hudson. And yet they fight, they break up, they inevitably get back together, glued together by sticky strands of guilt and habit. He desperately wishes someone would put a stop to them, for their own damn good. (Mycroft is considering it.)

Mrs. Hudson's secret (which everybody knows) is that she is addicted, positively addicted, to the Twilight series. Particularly that lovely boy who plays the werewolf. She even has a shirt she made with the girls of her Thursday night bridge game. It says ‘Team Jacob’ on it. There might also have been some bedazzling.

Mycroft has secrets. Everyone who knows them has been ... dealt with.

June 07 02:18 AM
Rameau is intolerable. I refuse to work with him. -SH

June 07 02:18 AM
You should be on this case. Speak to those imbeciles who call themselves your superiors. -SH

June 07 02:19 AM
Are you dead? -SH

June 07 02:19 AM
Mycroft would tell me if you were dead. -SH

June 07 02:20 AM
Are you in a coma? -SH

June 10 08:21 PM
John is being tedious. He keeps ordering your dishes when doing takeaway. Waste of food and refrigerator space. -SH

June 10 08:23 AM
If you’re dead, you could have the courtesy to inform me. I’ll have to train up another DI. -SH

June 10 08:23 AM
Boring. -SH

June 12 03:15 AM
If you do not reply, I will assume you are dead. -SH

June 12 09:18 AM
Have ordered flowers for your funeral. Mrs. Hudson informs me this is traditional. -SH

June 12 09:24 AM
You’ve made Mrs. Hudson cry. You must be very proud of yourself. -SH

June 14 03:31 AM
Rameau might actually be stupider than Anderson. -SH

June 14 03:32 AM
I should ask Mycroft to have Rameau killed for the sake of England. His culpable stupidity is borderline criminal. -SH

June 14 03:32 AM
Calling Mycroft. -SH

June 14 03:32 AM
Bloody hell, Sherlock. I’m busy. Grow up.

June 14 03:33 AM
Don’t be ridiculous. -SH

June 20 03:12 PM
Sally, this is John Watson. Sherlock’s flatmate.

June 20 03:15 PM
Yeah I know who you are.

June 20 03:16 PM
Right. Haha. Sorry. Wanted to ask. Everything all right with Greg?

June 20 03:17 PM
He’s fine. Interviewing a suspect right now. Why? Something wrong?

June 20 03:17 PM
No reason. Just haven’t seen him in a while. He hasn’t said anything has he?

June 20 03:18 PM
Hasn’t said anything to me. Maybe he finally got sick of your flatmate.

June 20 03:19 PM
He’s still sending cases Sherlock’s way but usually he stops by every couple of days. Haven’t talked to him in three weeks.

June 20 03:20 PM
It’s been busy. You know how it is. Don’t think he’s even gone home for a kip in three days.

June 20 03:20 PM
That doesn’t sound like all right.

June 20 03:21 PM
I’m driving him home after he’s done with this interview whether he likes it or not. Toby swapped his shifts so he’ll have three days off to

June 20 03:22 PM
unwind. He’d probably appreciate a visit. Being off more than a couple days drives him around the bend.

June 20 03:22 PM
Yeah I’ll do that. He’s lucky to have you. Ta.

June 20 03:22 PM
You know it. Cheers.

“Sherlock and me,” John says. “Is that a problem?”

There aren’t many people in the pub at this hour, just after breakfast with hours to go before the lunch crowd. Greg’s choice, this venue; the flat John saw when he waited on the sleep-drunk, bewildered inspector was depressingly sterile, damp, devoid of all but the flimsiest debris of habitation. The pub is a better choice for a conversation. Even this one.

Greg doesn’t pretend not to know what John’s talking about. “Not unless you want it to be one, mate,” he says simply. He takes a sip of coffee and considers John with glazed eyes. He’s dressed in a polo shirt and slacks, which doesn’t present the half-open collar distraction but does plenty to expose strong arms. John would feel guiltier about having woken him up if he didn’t have Sherlock doing the Holmesian version of bawling his eyes out at home. 

“We’re not--” John begins, then flounders a bit because they are, really. Mostly. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“It’s just sex, then,” Greg says politely.

“Right.” 

Greg’s gaze drifts past John to the scarf that’s tangled in his discarded coat (even in summer, England’s climate remains gleefully vindictive) and settles there.

John clears his throat. “He ruined two of my jumpers,” he says by way of excuse. “So he lent me his scarf. It’s not like it’s a bloody love token.”

“It’s 250 quid at Fenwicks.”

John chokes on his tea. 

“Thought so,” Greg says, not unkindly, and leans on his elbows to put his face in his hands. 

This would worry John, but his prudent middle-class soul is still too horrified at what Sherlock has spent on a damned scarf when he can’t even be bothered to pony up two quid for a pack of digestives. “He’s gone through skips wearing this scarf,” he protests.

Distant interest from Greg. “Found anything good in them?”

“The suitcase from the Study in Pink. That severed hand. Oh, the printer’s thumb, remember, from the time-- skips. In a 250 pound scarf?”

“It’s nothing on his coat,” Greg says into his fingers. 

“I’d look like a hobbit in that coat,” John says after a minute, and this drags a chuckle out of Greg, who drops his hands to quiz again, “Just sex?” 

This time, John can admit, “Maybe more.” He gets it out before he can second-guess himself, but hearing it actually out in the open makes his lungs compress. Something must be visible on his face, because Greg reaches out to squeeze him gently on the shoulder. The strength of his hand is electric.

“Breathe,” he suggests.

John flickers a not-smile, abandons it, then gropes for it again. “Right,” he says dazedly. Practices inhaling and exhaling, in case he’s forgotten. “What am I doing? Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock bloody Holmes. They’re going to section me. ‘There’s that John Watson. He was a nice bloke. Went off to Afghanistan and came back so barking mad he decided to have a relationship with Sherlock Holmes.’”

Greg’s mouth twitches, his eyes warming. “Footnote: bravest man in England.”

“Mental,” John insists, feeling giddy with the need to laugh. Adrenaline. 

“Nothing new there.”

“And this,” John says, dragging himself determinedly to the point at hand. He gestures between himself and the scarf, standing in absentia for Sherlock. “It’s really not a problem for you? Because you haven’t been by for almost a month.”

Greg’s gaze is level, a hint of coolness creeping into his haggard face. “You asking me if I’ve got a problem with gays?”

John’s brow crumples. “I assumed you didn’t. Sherlock told me about you two. I meant about us. What?” he tacks on, at the astonishment that flares across Greg’s face. “Did I get something wrong?”

“Me and Sherlock?”

“He told me he--”

“Oh bollocks,” says Greg, and disappears into his hands again. 

“You never took him up on it,” John says, meaning to be comforting but coming out more baffled instead.

“Couldn’t, could I?” Greg comes up once more for air, gripping his cup like it’s a towline to sanity. “Drug addict, brilliant, but unraveling at the seams. Might as well have been a kid, for all the grip he had on reality. Last thing he needed was to have someone else taking advantage of him.”

“He hasn’t been that for a while.”

Greg’s shoulders lift, then slump. “Maybe not,” he says wearily, “but I’m too old to be used as part of some experiment. At this point in my life, I’d rather be wanted for my sake. Not for convenience.”

There’s nothing John can say to that; it’s all too easy to imagine Sherlock using availability as a criteria, risks coldly calculated against the safety that Greg personifies. Which doesn’t prevent his imagination from picturing what might have happened if Greg had said yes. The searing image of Greg pressing Sherlock into the bed and spreading him open makes him shift uncomfortably in his seat, grateful for the table that’s between them.

“You be careful,” Greg says, focusing on him, and John shakes himself back into the present, palming unobtrusively at his groin to subdue treacherous flesh.

“I’d better not hurt him,” he supplies, “or you’ll carve my heart out and feed it to some kind of wild animal. Pigeons, maybe?”

“I imagine Mycroft would manage better than that,” Greg says dryly, and that makes John actually twitch, adrenaline singing gleefully again. “I meant, you be careful of yourself.”

John startles. “Isn’t that Sally’s line? A warning about finding myself chopped up and in the freezer?”

“You don’t have room in the freezer.”

“I’m pretty sure Sherlock could find a way if he was motivated enough.”

Greg chuckles. “He could. Still not what I meant.”

“Yeah, I know.” John studies the pale tea in his cup, closing his expression over his own qualms. “He’s shite at relationships and he’s never done one of these before.”

“Not good at taking no for an answer, either.”

“We’ve already had that discussion.”

“Just as long as you know. He just doesn’t process the logic.”

“Yeah, I know.” And he’s touched, actually, by Greg’s worry for him and corresponding faith that he knows how to take care of himself. For that matter, his faith that he’ll take care of Sherlock. John feels his ears flush guiltily. “He won't make me do anything I don't want to.”

The violin is still mourning pitifully when John gets home. When he’d left, it was to overwrought 19th century gypsies. By comparison, the restraint of Bach is a relief.

Sherlock’s eye peers at him from across the slant of the bow. “Well?” he demands. Horsehair clutches at the violin strings.

“He’ll be by later,” John says. “After he gets some more sleep. Which he needs,” he adds, since Sherlock’s mouth is opening again and the impatience is familiar, even if the context isn’t. “He needs sleep, Sherlock, because he looks like shite. If it wasn’t for Sally Donovan, he’d drop down dead of overwork.”

Sherlock resolves a cadence and then lowers the instrument to frown at him. Surprisingly, he doesn’t comment on Greg’s physical failings, nor Sally Donovan’s mental ones. There’s a look to his face that John recognizes. A year ago, he would have laughed at the suggestion that his flatmate could look vulnerable, much less that John would be able to understand how that glittering jewel of a mind works. A year ago, he wouldn’t have been sharing Sherlock’s bed.

“He’s fine,” John says. “I think he was just trying to give us some space to sort out what we were doing. And he’s in the middle of a bad case. Not worth your time, he said. Just bad. It looks like he’s lost some weight.”

“His diet is atrocious,” Sherlock says with disapproval and a complete lack of irony.

John thinks about commenting, but exercises a self-restraint that, in the circumstances, probably deserves a medal. “He needs someone to take care of him,” he says without thinking. “I think he’s lonely.” 

Sherlock gives him a narrow, unreadable look. “He knows the solution to that.” 

“What, getting back with his wife again?”

Sherlock’s eyes roll up incredulously in his how is it possible for a grown man to be so stupid? expression, but it’s Sherlock, so John just grins as his flatmate returns to his violin. At least this time it’s Mozart.

June 21 09:44 PM
Mycroft, anything you can do to make that thing of John’s legal?

June 21 09:45 PM
That was remiss of me. I’ll have it seen to immediately. -MH

June 21 09:45 PM
Ta.

June 21 09:46 PM
I’m pleased to see you visiting 221 again. -MH

June 21 09:47 PM
You realize that’s the sort of thing that makes you so bloody creepy, yeah?

June 21 09:47 PM
Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment. -MH

June 21 09:48 PM
You’re a bit of a prat, mate.

June 21 09:49 PM
You too, Greg. Take care. -MH

The idea originates, as their worst and best ones often do, from something John says and Sherlock spins out to its obvious, if completely barmy, conclusion. The subject is an international conference of forensic scientists in Leeds, “In Leeds,” Sherlock raves, stalking back and forth in the sitting room like a neurotic panther. His hands dance in urgent patterns meant to convey the sheer impossibility of a conference in Leeds being worth his time. “You might as well hold a conference of sea mariners in Chad.”

John looks up from his newspaper. Sherlock darts him a scathing look. “It’s landlocked, John.”

“No, I know that,” John says, blinking. “You don’t know about heliocentrism, but you know Chad is landlocked?”

Sherlock starts fizzing, so John abandons the question. 

“The brochure says there’s an American contingent coming from the FBI,” he volunteers, picking up the pamphlet from the desk. “According to this, they’re bringing over new developments in forensic imagery and DNA processing.”

“Bah,” says Sherlock.

“Dr. Weineris is coming. Weren’t you exchanging emails with him? We could make a trip of it,” John suggests, because the idea of getting out of London has its appeal in the middle of oppressive August heat. “Get a bedroom somewhere. Relax.”

Sherlock’s eyes glitter, actual interest replacing irritation for a few seconds.

“We should invite Greg,” John says, meaning to the conference, which should have been obvious to anyone. Anyone not Sherlock, that is.

He stops dead. “John,” he exclaims, rapt.

“What?” And this is when John knows he really has gone mental, because between one second and the next, he knows exactly what Sherlock is going to propose. "Oh no. No. Absolutely not."

“You’ll have to be the one to seduce him,” Sherlock decides, whirling on John to inspect him from top to bottom, a raking glare that strips him naked while managing to be completely clinical at the same time. “That should pose no problem for you. You’ve already indulged in sexual fantasies about him.”

Despite himself, John blushes. “How did we-- How do you--”

“Don’t be a prude, John. He’s obviously done the same regarding you.”

“How is that obvious?”

“And he’s already rejected my advances several times,” Sherlock races on, unheeding. “The outdated moral compunctions he’s suffering won’t apply in your case, which makes you the ideal candidate.”

“Did you ever tell him that you wanted to shag him, instead of just posing it as a transaction or trying to force yourself on him?” John demands.

“I would have thought that would be obvious.”

“So that’s a no, then. Sherlock, I can’t just pull a man like Greg.”

Sherlock pauses his wild gyrations around the room to stare at John again. “I fail to see the problem.”

John counts to ten and makes it to six. “For one thing, he knows we’re in a relationship,” he says tartly. “Normal people, ethical people, do not shag the partners of friends. And I won’t do it. We’re in a relationship. I’m not going to cheat on you, just because you want to live vicariously through me.”

Too-bright eyes get even larger in Sherlock’s baffled face. “I wasn’t intending to live vicariously.”

Greg is -- it should be illegal, how Greg looks right now.

“You’re going swing dancing,” John repeats cautiously, in case he’s misunderstood. “With Mrs. Hudson.”

Brown waistcoat and suit that brings out his eyes; buttoned-up collar, tie; fedora tilted rakishly to one side. He looks stylish and debonair, surprisingly comfortable in a get-up that would make John look a right tit. Greg doesn't look like a tit. 

"Thought it’d be a gas," Greg says with a grin that goes straight to John’s groin. "There's some bloke Mrs. H wants to teach a lesson, so I'm her gigolo for the night."

“You know how to swing dance?”

“Man of hidden talents, me.”

Sherlock, who has been prowling around Greg like a cat investigating a suspicious scent, halts in front of him with a final up-and-down inspection. "It suits you," he decides.

"Ta," says Greg, touching the brim of his hat. His eyes laugh. “Coming from you, that’s a real compliment.”

Sherlock sniffs just as Mrs. Hudson comes bustling in. She’s a sight as well, straight out of the ‘40s with the hair, the makeup, the blue polka-dot dress. John just gapes.

Says Greg, likewise taken aback, “Gordon Bennett.”

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock purrs, and of all people, he’s the one who’s a lady-killer suddenly, a slow, fond smile lighting that austere face to warm it beyond recognition. He steals one of Mrs. Hudson’s hands and draws her into the center of the floor, twirling her expertly so that her skirt flares out. She laughs with the delight of a young girl. “You look lovely.”

“Oi,” Greg objects. “Hands off my date.” He swoops in to reclaim Mrs. Hudson with a mock glare for Sherlock. Their landlady’s face is rosy and soft, her eyes shining. It’s more than a bit adorable.

“Lucky bastard,” John tells him.

“Oh, my boys,” Mrs. Hudson says happily. 

“So, a bloke you want to teach a lesson?”

She looks coy. “Just a friend. He could use a little ... push, is all. Long courtships are all well and good at your age, love, but at mine, I prefer to go straight to the good bits and skip the build-up.”

“‘The good bits?’”

“The snogging, dear.”

“Mrs. Hudson.”

“And if we’re lucky, a morning after,” Mrs. Hudson says mercilessly, with a twinkling smile up at Greg. Who just laughs, damn him, and then bends his head over her to give her a smile that could start forest fires. “Oh, that’s lovely,” she declares. She pats him proudly on the cheek. “He won’t know what hit him.”

John lets the magazine he was reading fold gently onto his lap.

A few more minutes of conversation, then Greg heads downstairs to flag down a cab. “I didn’t tell him, but I have an ulterior motive,” Mrs. Hudson tells them in a hushed voice as Sherlock tenderly arranges her wrap around her shoulders. “I thought I’d introduce him to Darcy’s daughter, Tina.”

Sherlock’s back is to John; he can see the long spine stiffen. “Tina?” 

“You know, Sherlock. She’s such a lovely girl, and so sweet. She just came back from the Sudan with those Doctors Without Borders people, helping those poor African people with those horrible little military governments. I’m sure they’ll like each other. It’s a match made in heaven, really-- oh dear, is that the time?” 

Mrs. Hudson flits out the door. Sherlock whirls on John, his eyes wild.

“No,” John says firmly.

“John.”

“No.”

“Tina,” Sherlock says, making a curse out of the name. He pulls at his hair. “She’s exactly his type.”

“He’s allowed to meet women and go on dates, Sherlock.”

“He just separated from his wife.”

“Two months ago.”

“He’s emotionally vulnerable. I would think that as a friend--”

“No!”

“If you had just asked him,” Sherlock complains bitterly.

“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” John bites off the rest of his retort and takes refuge in his magazine. Silence falls. Sherlock is glaring at him, he can feel it, but he refuses to engage. In fact, he is positively absorbed in this article about ... about American prime rates. Those are important, yeah?

Warm hands close around his thighs. Over the top of the magazine, he can see Sherlock sinking down to his knees before him, nudging John’s legs apart to make room.

“John,” Sherlock says. His voice is husky and deep.

“No,” John says, and turns the page without any idea of what the previous one was about. The new one shows the Chinese flag.

“John,” Sherlock says again, his hands sliding higher, his voice sliding lower. “We should go and make sure Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are enjoying themselves. Assist.”

“No.” It’s difficult to read over the rasp of his zipper being pulled down.

“Make sure Lestrade isn’t in any danger,” Sherlock says ridiculously.

“From swing dancers?” It’s impossible to read over the feel of Sherlock’s hand sliding into his trousers. John turns the page. Vaguely recognizes Mao.

“They could be criminal swing dancers.”

“What exactly are criminal--” Sherlock nudges the magazine aside and bends over him. “Nnrgh,” John says. 

He gives up on China’s leadership transition plans. They’re on their own.

Swing dancing is surprisingly fun.

September 01 06:21 PM 
Hello? This is Sally Donovan. I’m using Greg’s mobile. He asked me to text this number?

September 01 06:23 PM
Good evening, Detective Sergeant. How can I be of assistance?

September 01 06:23 PM
Who is this?

September 01 06:24 PM
My identity need not concern you. Why did DI Lestrade ask you to text me?

September 01 06:25 PM
He says, quote, ‘you already know, make them let me go.’

September 01 06:28 PM
I see. I’ll have it taken care of. Thank you.

September 01 06:30 PM
How do you know what happened? Do you really? Do you work for the hospital? Or for the Yard?

September 01 06:31 PM
I am a party interested in his continued well-being.

September 01 06:32 PM
It’s a funny kind of friend who doesn’t even want to give up his name.

September 01 06:35 PM
Please convey DI Lestrade to 221B Baker Street. Dr. Watson will be equipped to provide the care he needs. He’ll be expecting you.

September 01 06:36 PM
The doctors want to keep him overnight for observation. He has a concussion among other things.

September 01 06:37 PM
I have his chart. That will not be a problem. They will be releasing him into your care.

September 01 06:43 PM
How did you do that?

September 01 06:44 PM
Are you friends with John? Is that how Greg knows you?

September 01 06:45 PM
Good evening, Sally. I appreciate the care you’ve taken of him. Mr. Anderson does not deserve you.

September 01 06:46 PM
Oi. Who is this? Greg doesn’t even know about that. Have you been watching me?

September 01 06:50 PM
Hello?

It’s only when Greg is standing at the front door that he realizes Sally has brought him to Baker Street.

There’s a long moment when he stands with his hand on the doorknob, his brain too slow to reconcile the color and the shape of brass with the place he distantly associates with -- maybe not home or comfort, but with sleep, with shower, with clean clothes. “221” read the cast numbers, vivid against black paint. 

It takes an effort to step back. 

“Go on, then,” Sally says, coming up behind him on the sidewalk. 

“The plan was to take me home,” Greg says, but has to stop when the world spins beneath his feet. He grabs the doorpost to lean into its support.

“Steady on,” she says, suddenly under his other arm. He closes his eyes against the snarl of pain this wakes in his ribs. “Your plan was to go back to your flat. Our plan was to make sure you went somewhere where you’d be taken care of. The spooky friend you had me text said to bring you here. You leave the hospital against advice, this is what you get.”

He has to bite back a laugh, knowing it’ll come out harder and harsher than it should. “And you think Sherlock’ll take care of me?”

“I think John and Mrs. Hudson’ll do that,” Sally says, immovable as a boulder. “It’s this or come home with me, and deal with my da.”

“I’m fine,” Greg mumbles into the darkness behind his eyelids.

“And I’m the Queen Mum.”

The door opens just as Greg is trying to think of something biting enough to shut Sally down. He can tell it's John even before he says a word, the draft from inside pushing out the smell of his shampoo and Mrs. Hudson’s baking. The familiar scents relax him despite himself, tugging on some knot inside him to unravel the tension that’s kept him moving the last 72 hours.

"Bloody hell," John says, his voice sharp, and then Sally is shoving Greg through the door before he can excuse himself from the scene. In fact, he's about to risk the vertigo and open his eyes, his heels already digging in, when he hears Mrs. Hudson's wail. And that’s that.

They force him bodily up the stairs, ignoring his protests to pull and shove at him until he gives way. His gait is stiff after the day’s excitements, the hot, sharp pain in his hip evidence enough that it was wrenched beyond its reach, but he makes it up the stairs anyway, clinging to the railing with knuckles that would be white if they weren’t so torn. Sally steers him into the sitting room, protective and possessive, while John hurries ahead to clear off the sofa. Greg can hear them muttering to each other: Sally with the explanations; John with the questions; Mrs. Hudson with the exclamations and tearful endearments.

It’s a relief to sit down.  

The stitches in his side pull when he sits forward, but the painkillers provide a comfortable haze against the ache, provided he doesn’t test them too far. He rests his head in his hands, his elbows finding nothing but bruises on his knees. 

Expostulation. Someone asking him something.

“I hate hospitals,” Greg says in reply, leaving unsaid a tangled pit of phobia and haunted memory.

More talking, hiccupy snatches of coherent sound interspersed by gibberish. Sally demanding explanations about Mycroft but not knowing his name; John sounding puzzled and then getting some of his own back with, “the most dangerous man you’ve ever met.” Sherlock’s line. Not entirely untrue, if melodramatic. 

Rattle of pills. Rustle of paper. Someone draping an afghan around him -- Mrs. Hudson, whose instincts are sitcom distillations of a paramedic’s: blankets, pillows, tea, and daytime television, in that order. She’ll start manic baking the second she gets downstairs, and dither over her street corner herbal soothers in an agony of conscience whether it’s appropriate to offer them to a copper. Even if it is a preemptively drugged out of his mind copper. God help him if she rolls them in a joint first.

The voices die away, herded out the door by John’s calm, peaceable reassurances. Greg loses a few minutes to the sullen static in his brain, only to be brought out of it by fingers prying his eyes open one by one to shine a light into them. Doctors and their obsessive love of pocket flashlights. 

“Fuck,” he rasps.

“I’ll have to,” he hears John say, and then it fuzzes out again into white noise. A little while later (or maybe a long time later) he hears, “bed?”

He doesn’t respond, because ice has formed over him in a permanent frost, locking him into place and pushing pain to a distance. And honestly, for the first time in 36 hours, he feels ... safe. It’s enough to make him drunk. Maybe even enough to let him sleep.

A hand touches his hair, tentative. “Let someone else take care of you for a change,” John says, as the end of some longer speech that he didn’t register.

He loses more time.

Cool, gentle fingers touch Greg’s chin, coaxing his face up. He forces his eyes open to find Sherlock crouched in front of him, his black coat fanned out in wings across the floor. There’s no recognizable expression on that still and implacable face, but his eyes are nearly incandescent with rage. The cold fire of them burns away the ice numbing Greg. He blinks while Sherlock drifts his fingers across the scrape on his cheek, then gathers up his hands to study scabs and splints.

“They tried to crush your hand,” Sherlock says, no doubt deducing the shoe size, weight, favorite band and last-drunk beer of the wearer from the half-moon bruises blackening on Greg’s skin.

“Could’ve been worse,” he croaks out, from a long way away. “Only broke two fingers.”

Sherlock bares his teeth.

Indifferent though Sherlock may be to his own physical health, he is oddly skilled at helping Greg to his feet, giving him just enough support to minimize the pain that tips and yaws at movement. It’s Sherlock’s bed that Greg is gently lowered into, the two flatmates divesting him of his clothes with swift efficiency. He’s too tired to pay attention or be bothered by modesty. Fingers ghost over the worst of the injuries, tickling bare skin -- Sherlock, insatiably curious -- while John’s touch is more clinical, checking bandages and stitches with a murmurous commentary that soothes more than it informs.

“Mycroft has no sense of timing,” Sherlock says peevishly. “At least now that Lestrade’s here, we can--”

“Mycroft has no sense of timing,” he hears John say in quiet outrage.

The pillows smell like home. Greg tumbles gratefully into sleep.

September 01 08:11 PM
I’ve had the appropriate CCTV footage identified. You can access it through the usual means. -MH

September 01 08:12 PM
I suppose you want me to say thank you. -SH

September 01 08:13 PM
You’re welcome, but I hardly provided them on your account. -MH

September 01 08:13 PM
You could have made yourself more useful. -SH

September 01 08:14 PM
As you regularly inform me, it’s not my place to meddle. However, I assure you that if I had known, I would have. -MH

September 01 08:15 PM
Losing your talent for omniscience, Mycroft? Whatever will England do? -SH

September 01 08:17 PM
I should have the names shortly. My people can deal with it without the Yard’s knowledge. -MH

September 01 08:17 PM
Unnecessary. -SH

September 01 08:18 PM
Try not to do anything foolish. If nothing else, consider his feelings if you were injured or incarcerated on his behalf. -MH

September 01 08:25 PM
Sherlock. I see you. -MH

September 01 08:25 PM
Oh, very mature. Mummy would be so proud. -MH

Greg sleeps eighteen hours, waking once just long enough to fall out of bed and creak painfully to the bog before tipping back into the bed again. In between, there are blurred images of John urging him to pay attention, answer questions; bright lights burning his eyes, and feeble attempts to bat them away. Mostly though, there is oblivion.

And then there isn’t.

He wakes because his body has decided that enough is enough. Accustomed to desperate catnaps and aborted sleep cycles, it’s offended at the infliction of actual rest, and jerks him spitefully out of unconsciousness to drop him straight into pain. He drifts into an awareness of aches, some distant stabbing (hah) pains, warmth, and the kind of bone-deep relaxation that comes when the body and brain have completed some impossible endeavor. Somewhere there’s also an acrid undertone of fear, but it’s a memory rather than a prod so he lets it sit where it is, not bothering to evaluate it since he’s felt it before, an afterimage of trauma that will fade away with time.

For a long time he lies passive, too drowsy to open his eyes or reach out with his senses beyond the immediate. Eventually, they yawn and drag themselves up to do their job. They inform him that someone else is in the bed; someone else’s arm and leg is flung across him, dead weights on bruised flesh.

He turns his head on the pillow, opens his eyes, and finds Sherlock asleep next to him. Naked. Of course.

It’s both too much and too little to wake up to, after a handful of days too bloody and terrifying to be entirely believable. Sherlock’s head is close enough that his breath is a warm feather against Greg’s cheek, the striking face heartbreakingly vulnerable in sleep without the frantic intelligence mainlining stimuli behind it. It’s too much effort for Greg to raise his head, so he looks as well at what else he can see, excusing himself on the grounds of concussion for looking at all: long, graceful limbs, sprawled out with a child’s abandon; the boyish tumble of dark hair; the web of faint blue veins beneath the pale skin. 

Not for the first time, he regrets the circumstances and the conscience that made it impossible to take Sherlock up on his offers. Now, of course, it’s too late. Regrets are a waste of time, but. 

He’s just trying to unravel himself from Sherlock--even asleep, the younger man is possessive; the more Greg tries to slide away, the closer Sherlock clings--when the door opens and John comes in on silent feet. There are shadows of fatigue on the doctor’s face, but his eyes are clear and grin when they see he’s awake.

“How’re you feeling?” John asks in a normal voice, apparently indifferent to the picture of his boyfriend naked with another man. Not that said other man is in no condition to do anything about it, for good or ill. 

“Sherlock,” Greg says helplessly.

John chuckles, already reaching for his damned flashlight. “Sorry. He can’t stay in my bed because I’ll try to kill him in my sleep.”

“He talks in bed?” 

Another small sound of amusement. “It’d be too crowded. Me, Sherlock, and Afghanistan,” John says, surprisingly free of constraint given the subject. He drags Sherlock off of Greg, an exercise during which the sleeping man almost manages to pull John into the bed with them, then helps Greg sit up. “I should warn you. Mycroft sent the CCTV footage.”

“What, all of it?”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a sprinter,” John says encouragingly. Greg’s eyes close in pain that’s more spiritual than physical. 

“Should’ve thought of that. Bloody Mycroft.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone take stairs like that, though. The recommended method is to do it on your feet.”

Greg’s eyes open again, this time to glare, and John dampens his grin just enough to avoid an act of violence.

“Is that where you did your hip?”

“And the knees.”

“Could’ve been worse.”

“The rest of it was worse,” Greg says wryly, as John begins unbuttoning his shirt with a casual assumption of intimacy that stumps him for a moment until he remembers: right, doctor. The act of unbuttoning draws his attention to the fact that he’s wearing different clothes than the ones he remembers leaving the hospital with, and, “These,” worn and faded but actually sized to fit him pyjamas, “are mine. Bloody hell. I thought I lost these. Where’d they come from?”

“Bottom drawer of my dresser, next to the medical supplies and the now legal gun, ta,” John says, slipping the top off Greg’s shoulders to begin a thorough examination of his injuries. “Sherlock broke into your flat one day and stole a few changes of clothing.”

He’d be outraged at that, but he can’t muster up more than a resigned, “Of course he did. Why? If he’s making a life-sized voodoo doll of me, do me a favor and make sure it’s not anatomically correct.”

“A Greg Lestrade RealDoll actually,” says John without batting an eye. He slides a hand across Greg’s chest; it feels more like a caress than an inspection. “TM.”

Taken by surprise, Greg snorts out a laugh before he can stop himself, catching his breath when spasming muscles shriek. “TMI, you mean,” he advises hoarsely when the pain subsides and John is holding him gently, letting him lean into his shoulder. “Didn’t need the insight into your sex lives, mate.”

“You can have more than an insight if you want,” John says, and suddenly it’s no longer a joke.

Greg congeals. It’s a step over the boundary between humor and ... something else, something uncomfortably serious that’s reflected in John’s pleasant voice. Shock hollows out Greg’s chest, chased by a stab of disillusionment. He shoves them both down to give John the benefit of the doubt. “An explanatory pamphlet would do the boys and girls at the Yard,” he says as lightly as he can, ignoring the warm hand rubbing circles on his back to draw himself up and away. “‘How to speak Sherlock’ might do for starters.”

John's grin is at odds with the intent look in his eyes, but he accepts Greg's lead, much to his relief. "That's not a pamphlet. That's a ten volume set with footnotes and bibliography. Let's get you into a shirt, yeah?"

It’s damned hard managing the little buttons of the top with two broken fingers on his dominant hand, and it’s an indication of how frayed he is that he’s ready to lose his temper by the second one, prepared to rip the shirt to shreds out of sheer spite. John steps in before he can go ballistic, his fingers quick and efficient, part and parcel of the devastating competence that makes him so bloody attractive. Bitterness scrapes its nails in Greg’s throat.

“You’re a lucky man,” John comments, as though the earlier passage never took place.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Want to rest on the sofa? I’m making lunch.” 

“I should go back to my flat.”

“You’re staying here,” John says firmly. “Mycroft’ll ruin the life of anyone who takes you back to your flat, and you’re too decent to do that to some innocent cabbie who doesn’t know any better. Go rest on the sofa. Sherlock will go spare when he can’t throw himself on it in a dramatic fit of rage later. He ruined another jumper so I threw out his jar of spare testicles,” he explains to Greg’s inquiring glance, and then Greg’s laughing and swearing again in equal measure, the tension of earlier forgotten.

September 02 07:21 AM
Thought you might like to know the last of those blokes who did you got pinched.

September 02 09:01 PM
Thanks, Sally. Where’d you find them?

September 02 09:12 PM
WE found them naked as jaybirds and handcuffed to a lamppost this morning like a Christmas present.

September 02 09:13 PM
Really? That’s odd. Fancy that.

September 02 09:15 PM
Something you want to tell me, oh great and powerful Oz? This have something to do with your spooky friend?

September 02 09:16 PM
Probably the right word. Wrong form.

September 02 09:18 PM
What word? Spooky? Spook, you mean?

September 02 09:19 PM
I assure you, I am only an administrator with a very minor position in Her Majesty’s government.

September 02 09:21 PM
Bloody hell. Your sense of humor is going to drive me round the bend one day.

September 02 09:21 PM
WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU? HOW DID YOU DO THAT? TAMPERING WITH TELCOM IS ILLEGAL.

September 02 09:22 PM
Get your rest, Greg. Good night, Sally.

September 02 09:23 PM
Night, mate.

“You’re taking too long,” Sherlock accuses sulkily. 

“I’m taking the time he needs,” John says with as much patience as he can scrape together, because it’s wearing to want and seduce one man, while restraining and being berated by another one all at the same time, bloody hell, even medical school didn’t prepare him for this.

They convince Greg to stay for four days. Long enough for the worst of his injuries to settle. Barely long enough for them to corrupt him into a life of-- whatever it is that John has with Sherlock, although he has no doubt his Nan would have called it sinning with the light of proud and unholy glee in her eye.

Debauching, is what John is hoping for, but they’re a few steps from that yet. Meanwhile, Sherlock’s vibrating like an overcaffeinated tuning fork, utterly convinced that Tina of swing dancing fame is just waiting for Greg to step out of the flat before swooping down on him like a chic 1940s succubus. Mrs. Hudson is entirely to blame for Sherlock’s paranoia. She putters around the flat, confiding, “I told Tina all about how brave you were, chasing down those awful men and what happened afterwards, it was all over the news.”

“Oh Lord,” says Greg, more in profanity than prayer, while Mrs. Hudson burbles on about Tina’s admiration and excited sympathy; the dear girl would like to drop by and see Greg if that’s all right. Greg has just enough time to look equal parts appalled and intrigued before Sherlock explodes in a tantrum that results in a merry round robin of shouting and hurt feelings. Since most of the latter end up being Sherlock’s, the rest of 221 Baker Street dubs it a successful and cathartic night and go to bed feeling refreshed.

Four days is not much time at all, really. And Greg is ... skittish.

John and Sherlock are as physical with him as they dare, more than they ever were when he was a near daily visitor at the flat. There are little touches, brushes of hands or bodies as they pass. He sits on the sofa and immediately Sherlock wraps around him like a great cat, demanding his lap or his shoulder so he can take up the majority of the space. When he takes refuge on a chair instead, Sherlock oozes his way over until he’s on the floor and leaning on Greg’s legs. He’s about as subtle as a nuclear bomb, which is par for the course. John is less overt, but that would be because he actually gives a damn about the discomfort that Greg is visibly struggling to hide out of gratitude and general kindness.

It would be discouraging, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s obviously surprise rather than repugnance that makes Greg stiffen at each casual violation of his personal space; just as it is self-doubt that keeps Greg rigid until he eventually relaxes and unwinds. He is as starved for touch as John was after his first few months back in England, and like John was before Sherlock, inclined to be suspicious of his own instincts where intimacy is involved.

Bit by bit, they’re wearing him down. He doesn’t tense up anywhere near as much as he used to when John brushes a hand across his back, or Sherlock rests his head on his lap. It’s progress. Incremental, but still progress.

Of course, try explaining that to Sherlock, who’s still convinced the geologic formation of continents was a waste of time.

“The efficient way of going about this would be to simply have intercourse with him,” Sherlock hisses. “Once the initial hurdle is passed, he’ll be far more receptive.”

John stares at him. “And exactly how do you plan on doing that, when he’s already turned you down three times?”

Sherlock stares back at him, eyebrows rising in his, how can you be so slow? expression. 

Oh. “No. Absolutely not. We do not roofie our houseguests.”

“Only the one--”

“No.”

Sherlock huffs, because John is being so unreasonable. “But--”

“That was for science! This is for sex!”

“I don’t see what difference--”

“No, Sherlock!”

Even Afghanistan didn’t prepare him for this.

September 05 09:44 AM
Tick tock, brother dear.  -MH

“I’m going home today,” Greg says.

They’re standing in the kitchen, cleaning up the last of the breakfast plates, and John glances up in quick protest over a handful of suds. Sherlock is doing something stormy and murderous on his violin out in the sitting room, because John stopped him from putting rohypnol in the morning tea; if he hears Greg’s intentions, he doesn’t respond with anything more than an especially vicious squawk on the instrument.

“Stay another day,” John proposes, while Greg’s eyes crinkle around a grin. “You have the time off anyway, and it’s been nice having another body around.” It’s only by an effort of will that he manages to avoid saying your body, since it might be taken in exactly the way he means it.

“You’re cracked.”

“You knew that.”

“And you haven’t had any time alone with Sherlock since I got here,” Greg points out kindly, which is demoralizing; John would much rather have ‘jealously’ or ‘longingly,’ but ‘kindly’ is Greg’s default state, even if he has urgings to act otherwise.

“How do you know?”

“Walls.” Greg reaches out an arm to knock on the divider between the kitchen and the hall. “Thin.”

Remembering several hissed conversations between Sherlock and himself about Greg’s readiness to be taken to bed, John blurts out, “Oh God. I can explain,” but Greg’s just grinning again. It’s an expression mercifully free of uncomfortable knowledge, but softened by a shadow of regret that makes John’s heart squeeze.

“Really rather not know,” Greg reminds, “but you’ve got a boyfriend who should come first--”

“Not my boyfriend.”

“Your partner, then.”

“As if he’d ever let himself come second if he didn’t want to,” John objects, wiping his hands to frown down at his bare feet. Greg is plainly not going to be won over by argument, already burdened with a sense of obligation as he is. John bites at his lower lip, feeling the heady flutter of adrenaline starting to tingle down his limbs and into his fingertips. The violin rages to a vicious conclusion, then cuts off with a thud.

“You’ve been great, mate,” Greg says with finality, setting down his mug. It makes a desolate click on the counter. “But you’ve done enough. I should really get myself out of your hair.”

“Yeah, then,” John says, blinking up at him. “Right. Okay.” And then because he’s truly unable to find the words, and really, he’s always been a man who hurls himself into the breach when he needs to, when lives are on the line, he threads his hand through the hair at the back of Greg’s head -- sees in an instant the puzzled widening of the beautiful eyes -- and draws him down for a kiss.

It’s not, actually, a very good kiss. Definitely not one of John’s best. It’s awkward. Embarrassed. Also embarrassing. He’s too stiff, too worried about how it’ll be received and the possible destruction of a friendship on the other side. Greg is likewise paralyzed with shock, his lips cold and unyielding against John’s. John tries anyway, running his tongue across Greg’s mouth to coax it open, but the other man jerks away at last, his eyes showing white.

“John, what are you--” Greg starts out, sounding more baffled than angry. He breaks off when arms wind around him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides to hold him still. The older man freezes, stiffening as Sherlock nuzzles the join of neck and shoulder; and then John is stepping into him, capturing his mouth to try again.

This time it goes better. 

Greg’s confusion works in John’s favor, and he’s made his initial scout of the terrain; he knows that even if it isn’t necessarily friendly territory, it’s not actively hostile either. John is good at making friends. He kisses Greg like he’s a present he’s been waiting for all his life, an unexpected gift that he wants to take his time opening, savoring each revelation and new discovery to impress it into memory. 

He can feel the stiffness of the other man’s body against his, still trapped in Sherlock’s arms. Later, he’ll do something about it. For now, Greg’s lips are parting for his, ready with a protest only to have it stolen by John’s wordless murmur. For now, he learns the shape of Greg’s mouth and makes a map of it with his, tasting tea and honey in its corners. He lets his teeth scrape gently on skin, tugging at Greg's lip; he explores deeper, hungrier, languid and coaxing, until Greg melts, going pliant against him. 

Greg’s cheek is warm under his hand, the scabs of injury an offense against softer skin. John caresses it, soothes it and apologizes with his palm, then his mouth; follows the line of sensitive, healing skin down his jaw and into his throat. His other hand moves to Greg's hip, sliding up under his shirt to stroke bare flesh, and Greg cracks at last:  a small, helpless sound that reaches down into John’s groin and squeezes.

The older man’s pupils are blown, his breathing ragged. John has to steady himself with a hand on Greg’s chest when he draws away to catch his own breath. Sherlock’s arms have shifted, rearranging themselves to free Greg’s arms but keep him still pinned against him, and he’s buried his face in silvering hair, eyes closed as he inhales with ferocious attention, bathing in Greg's scent.

“Okay,” John says, his voice hoarse. More than anything, he wants to continue as he started, to take this on to its natural conclusion without the interference of talk. But Greg is too vulnerable not to be hurt at their hands if they're not careful, and Sherlock wages love like other men wage war, leaving tragedy and corpses in his wake if his way isn’t prepared.

Sherlock makes an annoyed sound; Greg a disoriented one. John’s the one facing him, so he’s the one who sees bewildered arousal being slowly pushed back by unformed panic and the beginnings of suspicion, neither of them necessary but likewise neither of them unreasonable given the circumstances and, well. Sherlock.

“You’re not an experiment,” John breaks in, before fear can turn to anger and Greg ends up bolting or punching them. “We’re not taking the piss. Sherlock’s not making me do anything, and believe me, he’s tried on other things.”

“Stubborn,” Sherlock murmurs, his eyes half-lidded as he investigates the sensitive hollow just behind Greg’s ear. 

“It’s an invitation.” John sways into Greg’s shiver and only just managing to keep himself from grinding against the taller man. He draws in an uneven breath. Forces himself away, though not so far he can't feel the heat of Greg's body against his. “From both of us. For just a night, if you want--”

Sherlock makes indignant cat sounds.

“--or longer. If you want.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock says into Greg’s shoulder, and Greg quakes, this time in a breathless huff of sound that has nothing to do with amusement because, “Obviously?” 

“We’ve been trying to ask you for a while,” John admits.

“Both of you,” Greg says shakily, his expression heart-rendingly unsure and lost. 

“If you’re simply going to repeat everything we say, there’s absolutely no point in having this conversation,” Sherlock announces huskily. “In which case we might as well save a great deal of time and proceed straight to the intercourse.”

For a moment, John entertains serious thoughts about punching him. But Greg relaxes, if only because the dramatic impatience in Sherlock’s voice is familiar territory and by now Greg’s response to it is Pavlovian, a self-defense of amusement or exasperation that borders on fond.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I find you really, ridiculously attractive,” John says. “And Sherlock--”

Greg’s face closes. 

“Sherlock, how many people have you propositioned for sex in your lifetime?” John asks patiently.

Irritation skids across Sherlock’s face, flattening his mouth into a tight, imperious line. “We’ve already had this discussion.”

“For Greg, then. Tell Greg how many people you’ve propositioned for sex in your lifetime.”

Eyes roll up with all the drama of a thwarted Oscar winner. “Two.”

“Two?”

“One of them was me,” John provides for Greg’s benefit, and then prods Sherlock’s arm to demand, “Did you proposition Greg only out of curiosity or convenience?"

"I wouldn't have wasted the time if I didn't find him compelling," Sherlock says with heavy patience. "Curiosity and convenience would be easier to satisfy through a professional, who would also be more likely to provide a degree of experience that Lestrade is not likely to have attained, even given his wide-ranging past. Is this inane conversation going to take much longer?" he demands, sliding his hand under the band of Greg's trousers.

Greg makes a low, shocked sound, his back arching as he grabs for Sherlock's arm, but John is there, his fingers soothing the tense line of Greg's wrist until it unwillingly relaxes. Sherlock hums into Greg's nape. 

"One more," John murmurs, sliding his hand up other man's chest to feel the race of his heartbeat under his palm. "You need to know we mean this, Greg. Sherlock, would you trade your life for his?”

“That’s a ridiculous question,” Sherlock says, prickly with affronted reason. “There are too many variables. You’ve left the parameters too open. Under what situation? I’d hardly do it if the result was both of us dying, or if his death was inevitable. What if I was the only person capable of solving his murder? What if--”

“Trade,” John enunciates, watching grudging amusement at his expense soften Greg’s face. “I said trade. If someone had Greg and said he would kill him unless you killed yourself, and you had grounds for absolute certainty that his word was good that he’d release Greg and let him live if you died. No strings attached.”

Sherlock huffs. “Well, obviously,” he says, and Greg’s mouth goes slack with shock.

“What?”

“This is boring,” Sherlock whines, his hand moving lower. Greg's breath catches. 

“He wants to shag you,” John informs Greg, hearing his own voice pitch darker, deeper. “To be honest, so do I. You have no idea how hard it was having you sleeping in Sherlock’s bed for four days--”

“If you’d listened to me--”

“Shut it, Sherlock.”

“Both of you,” Greg marvels, sounding wrecked.

John leans into Greg, feeling the other man stiffen again at the contact but then relax almost immediately as John slides his arms around him to draw him close, daring. The feeling of Greg’s arousal against him is a jolt to his own. “Or one at a time,” he says, his voice ragged again. “Whatever you feel comfortable with, we’ll take it,” he promises recklessly on Sherlock’s behalf.

Greg says nothing for a long moment. John holds his breath, feeling everything -- the three of them, the balance of their friendship and what could be more, what could be better -- teetering on a pivot point. Then Greg’s hands settle warm and possessive on his hips. Triumph flares in John’s chest, making him light-headed. Wondering hunger wakes in Greg’s face, hot, bright, joyous in a way that John's only ever seen in Sherlock’s eyes when he’s found a puzzle worthy of him.

“Both of you,” Greg breathes again. This time, it’s a demand.

September 06 10:04 AM
Greg’s superiors at the Yard have extended him an additional two days of leave. -MH

September 06 10:05 AM
Do be sure to inform him when you have a moment. I’m certain he’ll have no difficulties finding ways to pass the time. -MH

September 06 10:08 AM
jkhawerl asd;ljl

September 06 10:09 AM
You too, John. -MH

“You’re not to dance with Tina again,” Sherlock orders much, much, much later.

“Oi. Who made you my keeper?”

“Ask nicely, Sherlock.”

“My understanding of bedroom etiquette as demonstrated by Lestrade--”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m simply pointing out that his obvious preference towards aggressive sexual--”

“Bloody hell, mate. Does the word afterglow not mean anything to you?”

“John’s refractory period averages between forty-five to sixty-two minutes. I’ll need to gather more data in order to determine your--”

“Sherlock!”

“Afterglow, man. Learn to embrace it.”

"My God, Sherlock, you--"

“Boring.”