Greg hovers in the doorway of 221B, leaning against the frame and smiling at John. "So, it's been a couple of days! How are you taking the news?"
John looks up at Lestrade blankly before a strange look arranges itself on his face. "Fine," he says, but his eyebrow is quirked as though he is questioning Greg's soundness of mind.
"I hope it didn't give you too much of a fright," he comments.
John's eyebrows descend, the picture of confusion. "No…" he says, the word drawn out before trailing off. Well, Greg supposes it is a bit much to assume that John is willing to talk about it, even in light conversation. The man is a soldier through and through.
He abandons the subject of feelings and moves on to his real purpose in coming to the flat. "So, where is he?" He asks, looking around. "Thought for sure he'd be here."
John's eyebrows have reached new, furrowed lows. "Greg, are we talking about the same thing? Why would Molly's fiancée be here?"
Greg has a moment, then, a big blank 'does not compute.' His brain helpfully recalls that, indeed, Molly Hooper had announced her engagement a few days back, to a young man she'd been dating for a while. Greg had run into them once at a restaurant, and the bloke seemed sincerely charming and a bit geekish, and Greg had been somewhat relieved that the pathologist had moved on from, well, her previous type. But, of all the ways John could have misinterpreted Greg's words, why… unless…
He stares at John. "Christ… christ, he didn't… you haven't…" He can't finish any of his sentences, and John's expressive face is starting to morph into a doctor's professional concern.
"Listen, I don't know what you're on about, Greg, but I promise I'm happy for Molly. What about... I know you two had something for a while there, are you…?"
"What? No, no. Er, I'm sorry, John, I'll see you later, got to run, so sorry, I'll explain later-" He exits the flat in a rush, leaving John, baffled, behind him.
Greg pulls out his phone as soon as he steps onto the street, and is soon dialing a number he has come to associate with things gone horribly pear-shaped. The line is picked up on the first ring. "How may I help you?"
"Hello, this is DI Lestrade, I need to speak with Mr. Holmes, please."
There is a pause. "One moment." He hears a click, and then a ring, and then an irritated voice on the other end is snapping, "What?"
Greg is startled – he had meant Mycroft – but this will do just fine, because now he can ask the man himself: "Sherlock Holmes, you arse, just what the fuck do you think you're doing?"
"Oh, you've been to visit John, then," he grouches. "Honestly, Lestrade, how could you possibly think you'd find me there, if you need my help on a case you ought to have texted me –"
"I don't have your number," Greg seethes.
"I have my old one back now, of course," Sherlock dismisses.
"Sherlock –" he starts, and the name is quiet, because evidently this is a thing, this selective reveal – "How on earth haven't you spoken with John yet?"
There is a brief, scratchy silence. "I fail to see the need for immediacy," Sherlock says, stiffly.
"What?!" Greg bellows, outraged on John's behalf. "He only still thinks his best friend is dead –"
"Former."
"What?"
"Former best friend. Unless you think John the sort to carry on friendships with dead people," the man corrects calmly.
"Sherlock Holmes," Greg hisses, "the very point here is that you are not a dead person!" He takes a deep breath, calming himself. "When you showed up in my office - I had no idea that you hadn't gone to him first." The and if I'd known, I would have kicked you right back out the door in the direction of Baker Street was implied. He'd seen how John had been. For a while there, it was like John had died too.
But Sherlock must be ignorant of this, because, after a while, he says, "He's moved on, Lestrade. He's content. Why would I want to disturb that?"
"Content," Greg scoffs. "You're the genius here, don't make me – listen, you of all people know what he was like three years ago, and if that was content, well, he's nothing like that now. I mean, he's better than he was, but – Sherlock, don't make me talk feelings with you –"
"He has a steady job and a steady girlfriend, he is leading a relatively healthy, stress-free life, eventually he will settle down and he'll live to a ripe old age. By every conventional measure, he is far better off now than he was three years ago. I'm certain he doesn't need me back in his life."
"And you're just somehow going to hide your continued existence from him? While exonerating yourself and getting back to work on crime scenes? Christ, I know you think we're all idiots, but just how is he supposed to miss that?"
"He won't," Sherlock says shortly.
"So you're going to leave him to find out from the papers? From the telly? He would never forgive you."
"That's the idea."
That pulls Greg up short. Of all the ways this afternoon could have gone, he couldn't have anticipated this.
"Oh, don't be so shocked, Detective Inspector, it's obvious to anyone that he's better off."
"See, that's the thing," Greg says, slowly, "it's really obvious that he's not." A thought occurs to him, then. "Are you – do you not, er, desire his friendship any longer? Figure out that you're better working on your own? Or something?"
Sherlock doesn't answer that; if Greg had been correct, he would have, wouldn't be ashamed to share it.
Then Greg realizes. "You're afraid! You're afraid of what's going to happen when you tell him. My god, Sherlock, you are willing to throw away the best thing you've ever had in all the time I've known you because you're being a bloody coward!"
"All evidence points to the contrary, Lestrade, I've just spent three years chasing down some of the planet's deadliest criminals –"
"Don't tell me that, for god's sake, I'm meant to enforce the law, I can't hear about my consultant going vigilante –"
"I'm not afraid!" Sherlock spits, finally losing his cool, and Greg takes this as confirmation that the man is indeed absolutely terrified.
He takes a deep breath. "Sherlock. Okay. What's the worst that can happen? He hates you and never wants to see you again? Well, isn't that what you were planning to make happen anyway? You know, with the whole not-telling-him thing." Sherlock mutters something darkly on the other end that Greg can't quite pick up. "Listen, mate, I'm going to give you some advice about human interaction –"
"Oh, coming from the cuckold, excellent –"
Greg scowls but talks over him. "If you're going to think that way, like you need to jump ship at the first sign of rejection so you can avoid the pain, then you might as well never have any human relationships at all, since by that logic they're all going to end eventually."
There's silence, for a beat. Then: "That was the plan," Sherlock mutters.
Greg sighs, deep, from the bottom of his soul. He simply stands there for a moment, clutching his mobile to his ear, leaning on the side of his panda car, blocking traffic up Baker Street. Then he unlocks the door and slides inside.
"Well, if you can't talk to him, then write him a letter or something, fuck's sake," Greg says. "Honestly, I don't care what you do. Just… come down to the Yard when you can. I've got some files that need looking at."
With that, he rings off. He places his forehead on the steering wheel for the duration of one more deep breath before lifting his head, turning the key, and driving off into the drizzle.
A/N: This is, in a way, the prequel to my fic "Mission Bells." Once again, not beta'd or brit-picked and thus probably full of inaccuracies. Please correct me on anything I've got wrong, but forgive me the run-on sentences and the overuse of dashes; I'm trying to write the words as I imagine them being spoken. I am shit at writing Sherlock-having-actual-emotions, and yes, I am assuming here that after so many years of dealing with Sherlock, Greg has Mycroft's office number, and yes, I am pretending that Greg and Molly went on a few dates at some point. Reviews and criticisms always welcome! Thank you for reading :)