More cute nonsense, I'm sorry.
Not brit picked, not beta'ed.
Accepts illustrations if you are up for it.
Anyway, enjoy.
No one seemed to notice it at first.
The freak's gradual detox was coupled with a new found happiness that no one could explain but Sally. She knew that it was because he had an unhealthy obsession with crime and murder. That was the only explanation .
It was the third year into their frustrating acquaintance that a package came into the yard addressed to the freak. "Doesn't even work here, why is his mail getting sent here?" she had hissed at her superior.
Lestrade shrugged, not even bothering to respond to her and instead opted to text the 'consulting detective.'
Said man arrived in record breaking time, frazzled and apparently exhausted but excited nonetheless. He all but pushed past the women to get to the package and rip the brown paper covering to shreds before opening the flaps to extract a bear in a military uniform. The freak rolled his eyes with a surprising amount of fondness before reaching back into the box for a letter. He all but plopped himself down onto the floor in front of Lestrade's desk and began to read the horridly long note while cradling the bear delicately.
"Uh, payment from a client?" the Detective Inspector tried to venture.
The freak flipped his hand in a shooing motion, grumbling "No, husband."
This causes both parties to sputter, Sally recovered first and blurted "Since when have you got a husband?"
He held the letter closer to him and looked up at the ceiling, "Years now, ten at least. Can't recall, John would know. Horribly sentimental about dates."
The man went back to reading his mail before stopping again to look at his company. "Well don't just stare at me, if you have something to say then just say it."
"Where is this supposed husband of yours?" It came out a lot sharper than she intended, but Sally let it roll.
Sherlock tipped himself back a bit and groaned out, "How you can even function daily is beyond me. The bear gave you no idea at all did it?"
Lestrade nodded, "So he is in the army. That explains why you aren't available for cases every six months or so. He's probably on leave then, right?"
The man on the floor merely gave an affirmative noise before going back to his letter.
It was the fourth year marker when Sally accompanied Lestrade to Sherlock's rather dingy flat to retrieve him for a case. He laid sprawled on the sofa with an arm over his head, the gold glint of his wedding ring catching the women's attention yet again. She was ashamed to admit she missed it for three years, apparently he always wore it according to the girl working at the morgue and some of the other yarders who have had to deal with him.
The detective inspector approached him and began to brief him on the situation, to which the freak would only hum or grunt in response and it was obvious to anyone that the man was miserable. It's not that Sally really cared, but she found herself glancing around and taking stock of the extra plates and half finished breakfast growing cold on the table in the kitchen area. Her conclusion: someone else had been there fairly recently and apparently left in a hurry.
She looked around a little more, not so subtly now . Her eyes trailed over the desk were an open computer showed a map to the airport, to an end table that sat the little army bear with a card perched upon it's lap with a messy scrawl of "I love you, Sherlock," and finally her eyes settled upon a photo framed on the mantle of the freak in his signature long coat and scarf and a blond man in an ugly jumper squishing their faces together. The picture was horribly ridiculous, angled like it was taken with a mobile phone, grainy and with terrible lighting. Sally knew the answer before she even asked, "This your husband then?"
The man got off the sofa, grabbed the picture frame, plopped back onto the sofa, and dropped the picture down upon his face. She merely stared at him, utterly confused. "Oh come on Sherlock, this case will help take your mind off it," the D.I. coaxed.
Sally looked for an answer, Lestrade whispering to her as discreetly as he could as the man on the sofa groaned dramatically, "John's just left to go back to Afghanistan this morning."
Which would explain why the detective hadn't been seen around the yard for a while. Finally the freak rose from his position and replaced the picture on the mantle before grabbing his coat and scarf and walked out the door. The D.I. shot out after him and Sally only stayed behind a moment to glance about the room again before shutting the door behind her.
It was the crime scene of the fourth suicide that Sally met John for the first time. He was just as blandly ordinary as he seemed in the grainy picture from the freak's old flat. "And just what do you think you're doing? You can't bring him up there."
The shorter man stopped abruptly, "Oh, sorry, I'll just wait here then."
"Nonsense John," the taller one replied while holding the tape up. "Come along, your medical knowledge is needed."
The women sputtered but didn't say anything, merely watched as the soldier knocked weakly against the detective, who in turn nudged carefully back in turn. It was so horribly sweet, Sally felt she could vomit.
It was on the crime scene of a dead cabbie that Sherlock once again abandoned the ambulance before the paramedics could properly check him over. He was muttering to Lestrade before making eye contact with the doctor through the crowd. Sally couldn't help but stare, she tried to look away as he got off his perch on the end of the ambulance and strode gracefully through the barrier of squad cars before swooping his husband in his arms and thoroughly snogging him in full view of everyone caring to look.
"So, how did you meet him?" Sally sipped her coffee as nonchalantly as possible.
John filled his own paper cup with the sludge before looking at her. He was to the point of crashing, the way his eyes were bloodshot was enough evidence for her of that. "Rugby match. Away game for me, home game for him. He was recording the match in exchange for extra lab time, told me I had bad form."
She put her cup down and turned to face him fully before breaking out, "Why him? What could have possibly happen to have you two keep up?"
The man put his own cup down and crossed his arms. "It's kind of stupid," he admitted. "I missed the bus back and he stayed out with me till my mum could come pick me up. Took hours, it started raining. Chatted for a while and exchanged addresses, kinda were pen pals for a while."
He looked up at the ceiling and sighed wistfully, "Was a couple of years just being long distance friends, then he showed up out of the blue one afternoon. Turns out he ran away, something about his dad and brother. Back rubs and shoulder pats derailed, then we were snogging and had fantastic sex. Been together ever since. Got married right before uni. "
"Does he even love you?" she hushed out, leaning forward.
"God, with the amount of pictures he keeps of us in his wallet, I would hope so," the man laughed.
Sally couldn't help but snicker as well, "And he calls you the sentimental one."
John just laughed a little harder, "Should have seen him at our wedding, then see who the real sap is."
Once the giggling had died down, the woman couldn't help but sigh out, "You really love him then."
"God help me, I do. More than anything."
And she could live with that, even someone as insufferable as the 'freak' deserved something as simple love.