Sometimes Greg really didn't like John, and especially the way he treated Sherlock sometimes. Sometimes John could be so good for Sherlock, like that first day at that first crime scene, when he had kept saying Sherlock was brilliant. Greg had seen the confusion in Sherlock's features, when John kept it up, kept saying he was brilliant. Even when Sherlock had asked if he knew that he did it out loud, John just apologised and didn't make any excuses. And Greg had seen, almost literally, the moment when John became Sherlocks best friend. And he had rejoiced for it, knew that Sherlock needed friends, needed someone by his side, to counteract every single time that Sherlock had been shot down, trodden upon by the masses that didn't like him, that hated his deductions.
Sherlock needed someone to compliment him, to challenge him, and John was that person. And sometimes Greg hated him for it. Hated that he couldn't be that person. But mostly he was just grateful Sherlock had someone like John.
Other times, like just now, when they were standing in the morgue around a body that Sherlock was examining, Greg really didn't like John.
"Do people actually read your blog?" Sherlock had asked the doctor, obviously continuing an ongoing topic of discussion between the two and Greg had sighed, he knew how sensitive Sherlock was about his own blog.
"Where do you think our clients come from?"
"I have a website."
"On which you enumerate two hundred and forty types of tobacco ash, nobody's reading your website." And that had been the wrong thing to say. Sherlock had stood up straight from where he was hunched over the body and had narrowed his eyes at John, who hadn't even noticed he had said anything wrong, and continued by describing the body on the slab.
Greg had stepped forward, scratching his nose, eyes intent on Sherlock and any sudden move he might make, but the younger man had ignored him and left the room, leaving John staring after him in befuddlement.
Greg had send the doctor a look and went after the other man. And now he was almost running, trying to keep up with the detective, who was walking at a brisk pace down the long corridor leading out of the hospital. Greg searched his pockets, as he followed him, hoping he still had that emergency pack of cigarettes in his coat. He figured the detective could use one at this point, and John could stuff it if he saw.
Bursting out of the doors, fumbling with the pack, he stopped short when he didn't see Sherlock immediately. Frowning he looked around before noticing him, leaning against the wall to the left of the exit.
"I hope one of those is for me." He said, nodding at the pack in Greg's hands. Greg didn't say anything just shook two cigarettes out of the pack, sticking one in his own mouth and offering the other to Sherlock. He lit his one with the lighter and took a slow drag before offering his cigarette out to Sherlock, so he could light his one up with Greg's. Sherlock delicately took his hand in both of his own before bringing his cigarette closer to the one in Greg's hand while it was still in his mouth. Greg had to blow out the smoke in his lungs, to keep from choking on it, as he watched Sherlock's lips wrapped around the cigarette.
Something grew tight in his stomach as he watched Sherlock inhale the toxic smoke, and he had to swallow past a sudden lump in his throat. Greg blinked, he must have eaten something wrong earlier.
"I read your blog, you know." He said, and Sherlock frowned at him. "It actually helped clear someone's name once." Greg waited, he knew Sherlock would want to know what happened but he wasn't going to tell him if he didn't react, knowing that sometimes the younger man needed time to process that he mattered, that his genius was appreciated and helpful. Greg cursed John silently, knowing what it did to the detective when someone was being dismissive of his genius mind. He had often seen it happen before the doctor had come along, and he had hoped that the doctor wouldn't be one of those people who dismissed the genius as someone who didn't have feelings like any other person on this planet. In fact, Sherlock was probably one of the most sensitive people around, feeling deeply and strongly. He just had many, many walls built around his fragile heart that took years to take down.
Greg had liked to believe he had come closest to the other man's heart, before the doctor had come round and left him standing in the dust. Now, he didn't know any more. The walls had slammed down once more when John had come round, but Sherlock had started coming over again. Not as often as before, but at least once a week again. So maybe, just maybe, the walls had come down again for Greg.
Greg smiled at Sherlock, only time would tell, and now, he had a story to tell about how two hundred and forty types of tobacco ash had kept an innocent man out of prison.