Bound
"Those things will kill you."
The words cut through the silence of the garage, but it wasn't the fact that it was a reminder that cigarettes were going to kill him that made him stop. It was the tone, the baritone, the way that it resounding off of everything around and niggled the painful reminders of the past.
Sherlock.
It was Sherlock.
Greg was vaguely aware that he'd stopped moving, stopped breathing, really, because Sherlock was dead, John watched him commit suicide, Greg had seen him laid out in the morgue and Molly had reaffirmed what they had all guessed: Sherlock was was dead, Sherlock had committed suicide, Sherlock was in this parking garage...
There was a little shock, but it was almost immediately washed away by resignation. Of course. Of course he would. Of course he would fake his own death. Because that was Sherlock. Sherlock did what no one expected.
"Oh, you bastard," Greg hissed, wrenching the cigarette away from his lips, letting the light of the flame flicker out. He wasn't angry. Of course he wasn't. The clot wasn't dead, after all; how could he be angry?
"It's time to come back," the voice continued, and the form of Sherlock bloody Holmes stepped into the light. "You've been letting things slide, Graham."
"Greg," he shot back, instinctively, immediately. Because of course Sherlock wouldn't know his name, yet, just like Sherlock wouldn't have faked his own death and oh, how could they all be so stupid-
"Greg," Sherlock corrected.
Greg stared up at him, partly wanting to punch him because of the pain that he'd caused him, Molly, Mrs Hudson, John. Oh, John - but that wound on his lip had to have come from somewhere and Greg had a sneaky suspicion that it was from John and if it wasn't from John then John would probably give him his dues soon enough.
Greg moved forward without thinking; he thought he was going to go through with the punching thing but, instead, he threw his arms around him in a strangle-hold and pulled him close.
He wanted to tell him how stupid he was, how much he hated him, how much trouble he'd caused and how he should never expect to ever be forgiven, how much pain and love and terror and depression and-
All he could do was hold him tight to his chest and never want to let go.
Sherlock didn't hug him back, but that was alright. There was enough love within the world for the barmy detective that Sherlock didn't have to show it back. Besides, he wouldn't have come if he didn't care. Of course he cared.
He was a good man, after all.
Love this moment the first time I watched it and, after watching it for the umpteenth time again tonight, decided to finally write the oneshot from Greg's POV. I love Greg and Sherlock so MUCH. *o* (Platonically. Not romantically. Just to keep that clear.)
Also - I know I've been posting a lot of Kingdom Hearts fanfiction. Never fear; I still love Sherlock as much as always, but I've fallen hard back into the KH fandom and I love me some Axel and Roxas. So, just keep an eye out. Sherlock fanfics will be posted in between the KH ones.
I do not own Sherlock. Thanks for reading!