Disclaimer: Characters and series not mine, just borrowing them, not making a profit, etc. etc. All in good fun.

(SPOILER ALERT) This sort of takes place between S3 episodes 2 and 3. Within the month after John's wedding, but before he finds him in the drug den. Its a bit AU, however, since I've set this during a colder time of year.

Let me know what you think.

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Its already late, and Greg Lestrade is in his bathroom getting ready to go to bed (Alone, because the wife has gone to her 'women's book club'. He knows where she really is, but can't bring himself to think directly on it. She won't be back tonight, I know that. She'll tell me tomorrow she and her lady friends had a bit too much fun during their discussion, along with a bit too much wine, so she stayed over in Lucille's guest room for the night. She'll have showered there, too. He's already helped himself to an extra pint at the pub before coming home to his dark, empty house.). He's brushing his teeth when he's startled by a couple of weak knocks on his front door.

"Who the 'ell could that be?" He mutters and spits the toothpaste from his mouth into the sink. Outside, he hears the crash of thunder in the sky and relentlessly heavy rain hitting the roof. Its been the devil out all day. He'll be lucky if he doesn't end up with a cold after having spent a good portion of his day out in it, at a murder scene over by the river. (Pointless as that was. All the evidence was long washed away and it was clear the man hadn't even been killed there besides... He might have to bring Sherlock in on this one, but he wanted to give his own team a solid shot at it first... So who'd be out in this weather, then? And at this hour?)

He can't see much of anything through the spy-hole, except for a dark figure huddled close to the door, sheltering from the storm. He opens it cautiously as another heavy burst of thunder rattles the neighborhood and is more than a little surprised to see a sopping wet Sherlock-bloody-Holmes standing there. He's only been to Greg's place once before, and he broke in that time. (The bastard. Could've just knocked then too, I was home and damned if he didn't know it, but he's always got to do things his own way, doesn't he? Lucky I didn't arrest him. He's always had a bit too much patience for the younger man. More than maybe was good for either of them, he couldn't help thinking sometimes.)

"Sherlock? What're you doing here?" He doesn't answer, doesn't even look at him. Its dim, but Greg can see the tremors in his shoulders and his arms, which are folded tightly over his chest, so he sighs, and opens the door wide, gesturing for him to- "Come on in then, before you freeze to death."

But the consultant detective doesn't move, not for a minute, anyway. Just stands there, dripping. Then it seems to click and he begins to, painfully slow, make his way inside, still not making eye contact.

"So! To what do I owe the pleasure?" He asks with as much cheer as he can muster after a long and miserable day, but Sherlock only remains still, and silent, his body turned away from him. Greg's smile falters and he blinks in confusion. He knows the reclusive detective doesn't like to be touched, but he can't help now reaching for his arm, and gently turning him so they're facing each other. (Something is really not right here. But what? Oh. Could he actually be stupid enough to have gone back on the-? And then show up on MY doorstep?)

"Sherlock? Are you high?" This gets a vaguely startled reaction, at least, and Sherlock is shaking his head mildly to indicate 'no', finally removing his gaze from the floor to look up at him through a drapery of wet curls, before lowering it again. His eyes are bloodshot, but otherwise normal, and instinct tells Lestrade that he's being truthful in this. He knows a Sherlock under the influence, and this isn't quite it.

"Its late and I haven't got the energy for twenty questions, so you wanna tell me what you're doing here, or are you just going to continue standing there, making puddles on my floor?" Sherlock opens his mouth, seems to hesitate, then shuts it again, swallowing down whatever it was he might've said. He just stands there shivering pitifully until Greg can't take it any longer. (Whatever this is, I don't like it.)

He clasps his hands together. "Right then. Take off your coat and I'll go grab some towels so you can dry off a bit, yeah?"

He walks away to retrieve the towels, shaking his head, and trying to shake off the sinking feeling currently making its home in his gut. After a couple of years grieving and regretting the man's (who he does consider in a strange kind of a way, a friend) death, its hard not to feel a bit... protective? at times, now that he's back with them, (Bit pissed as well, putting us all on like that and for so long. but mostly... yeah, its just good have him around again. In small doses, he thinks wryly.), but he doesn't want to make something out of what is probably nothing, either.

TBC

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