There were times when he bloody hated Sherlock Holmes.
He was a friend, a good friend, and he liked him. But, geez, sometimes he hated him.
Greg remembered the first time they'd met. He'd just gotten back from testifying against Ned Weston, charged with murder in the first degree. His victim was his girlfriend, and the defense attorney was playing it up as a crime of passion, and Greg knew that the little bastard was going to get off light. The DA was the best in the city, and the boy was handsome, and an athlete. He was also guiltier than OJ Simpson, but Greg was beginning to believe that the truth didn't much matter anymore. He'd been so angry and so upset after his time on the stands that he'd decided he was going home early that day. Sure, he was up for promotion, and the competition was hot and this wasn't going to appeal him to his boss, but after the day he'd had, maybe he didn't want that promotion. Justice. Law. What the hell's the point? No one listens anyway.
He'd been halfway to his office when the doors flew open. Officer Lexington strode through them, red-faced and flustered, and following him was a youth that Greg had never seen before. Tall, but skinny, and not in a healthy way, the boy had wild brown curls on his head and almost blindingly pale skin. He had on sneakers and an old ACDC t-shirt, but, below, nothing but boxers. And he was talking very, very quickly.
"I'm telling you right now, can't you hear? Can't you understand? Your brother has played you for a fool. If you were smart, you'd hire a lawyer. Are you listening? Do you truly think your father left you nothing in his will? Did he hate you? I can certainly understand if he did, but-"
Greg lunged forward as Lexington raised a fist, but he wasn't fast enough. The man swung, and the youth ducked, and Lexington ended up bloodying his fist against the concrete wall instead. Cursing, he wiped his knuckles on his uniform, and glared at Greg. "You take him," he grumbled. "I'm too old for this crap."
As Lexington stormed off in the other direction, Greg looked around the office to see if anyone had been attracted to the commotion. He saw a few curious eyes peeking out of offices, but most were too accustomed to dealing with unpleasant people on the streets to even care anymore.
"When's the wedding?"
Greg turned his attention back to the boy. "What?"
He yawned. "The wedding," he repeated. "Is it the first week of June, or the last week of May?"
Greg hesitated, but only for a second. Lexington wasn't the most personable officer in the place; maybe the boy wasn't so bad. And he was curious how he knew he was getting married at all. "May 29th."
"'Marry in May and you're surely rue the day.' Of course, you could say the same for any month of the year. Horrible institution, marriage. Binding yourself to someone for the rest of your life - what happens if you meet someone more interesting next week? There are over 7 billion people in the world, and the average person only encounters 10,000 during his entire lifetime. The chances of meeting a person that you really should spend your life with - if such a person actually exists, which is highly questionable - are preposterous. Mostly you're just settling for someone who you can moderately tolerate at a time that is mutually convenient to produce a little creature that looks like you, which is egotistical in an entirely different way. Of course, you've already got a head start on that, don't you? When's the baby due? May 30th? Oh, do close your mouth, it's obvious. There are bags under your eyes - you've been picking up extra shifts, saving up money you know you're going to need soon. Your cloths aren't ironed - she's probably too tired or too anxious to be doing anything around the house. And there's a grocery list in your pocket, the first two items of which are pickles and mint ice cream. Odd combination, except for a woman in the early stages of pregnancy. You're not wearing a ring, though; it's possible you don't mean to marry her, but the ever charming Officer Lexington left me with you, so you must be somewhat more competent - which, admittedly, isn't very difficult. An upstanding man like you would marry the mother of your child. So - when's the baby due?"
Greg looked around once more to see if anyone was listening but still no one was interested. "Who the hell are you?"
"Sherlock Holmes." He said it was if it were obvious. "Who the hell are you?"
Greg glared. "Your bloody officer, is who. What'd Lexington bring you in here for?"
Sherlock Holmes smirked. He had bags under his eyes too, Greg noticed, and bruises on his thin arms. "Apparently it's a crime to point out an officer's errors to him. What I'm to be charged with, I've no idea." When Greg didn't respond, Sherlock sighed. "Oh, do try to keep up. I don't know what else I expected - a cardboard box was too complex for Officer Lexington, I don't suppose you're any different. Fine. Let me explain it to you as I did to him, and you judge who should be arrested. Officer Lexington found a box of severed ears in a cardboard box in the park. He believed them to a be a perverse prank from the nearby med students. But they were hacked off and preserved in salt! No medical student would do such a crude job. I was simply trying to tell him that he needed to investigate further. I was telling him to do his job. And now he's brought me here. Perhaps he'd like to me to do his job for-"
"Show me."
Greg took some satisfaction in the slight pause that gave the boy. "Show you?"
"Show me the ears."
And he did. Sherlock Holmes brought him out to the park, and showed him where the ears had been found, and then Greg brought him back to Scotland Yard to see the evidence again. And in the end he'd decided the boy was right - it was murder, not a prank.
"Do you want your name in the papers with the case tomorrow?" Greg had asked a few days later, when he'd come to the boy's brother's flat to tell him they'd caught the murderer. Sherlock looked amused.
"Do I want my name associated with Scotland Yard?" He shook his head. "No. You take the credit, and the promotion that comes with it. Come back next time you need help." And he shut the door in his face.
Greg hated him that day for making him realize how terrible he was at his job. He'd always thought he was good, a good police officer, a good investigator. And Sherlock Holmes, a jobless, scruffy, twenty-something-year-old kid, had earned him his promotion. He liked to say that Scotland Yard had the best; apparently, he was wrong.
He didn't see Sherlock Holmes for a few months after that; he had pointedly refused to take him up on his offer for help. The next time they met, they weren't at Scotland Yard, and Greg wasn't working a desk job. He was out in the city, tailing a drug dealer in an alley at 3 AM, and he was so exhausted that he almost didn't recognize Sherlock Holmes as the buyer. When he did, all the efforts he'd put into following the man unseen were wasted, because he barged through the alley, knocking over a trash can along the way, and instead of grabbing the dealer, Greg grabbed Sherlock. He hauled the boy to a brick wall and pinned him there by the throat. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" He whispered.
Sherlock's eyes were glazed, and he didn't recognize Greg right away. "Buying drugs," he answered with a shrug. Then, "How's the baby? And the wife?"
Greg flipped Sherlock quickly and handcuffed him. The drug dealer escaped into the darkness, but Sherlock spent the night in a cell, and was picked up the next morning by a very disgruntled older brother with an odd name who was cool but polite to Greg.
"He'll be in rehab this afternoon," the elder Holmes said. "I apologize for any trouble my brother has caused."
Greg watched as Sherlock yanked his arm from his brother's grasp on the way out and stormed through the doors. Watching him disappear, Greg shook his head. What a waste, he thought. Greg hated addicts.
When Sherlock emerged from rehab, he sought out Greg. "I don't want a job here," he said bluntly. "I'd rather shoot myself than work at Scotland Yard."
Greg frowned. "Then what do you want?"
"I'm a consulting detective. I want to consult."
"And if we don't need your consultations?"
Sherlock laughed. He was still laughing when he left. "You have my number," he said. "And tell your daughter happy birthday for me."
Greg did call Sherlock. That very week, actually. And Sherlock was smug, and then Sherlock was right, and all Greg really cared about at that point was getting the job done.
And gradually the hatred went away, replaced by a grudging respect, and then a tentative friendship, the kind where he was willing to spend the Christmas Eve dinner at 221B Baker Street and actually look forward to it. John was a big part of that, but, Greg had to admit, so was Sherlock. He was a bastard, of course, that hadn't changed, but he was also…
He bought Lillian a birthday present every year. He never said a word to Greg about it, but every year since he'd gotten out of rehab, there was a green and gold wrapped package with a bow and a small card sitting on Greg's desk on Lillian's birthday. A stuffed bear. A locket. A diary. A jump rope. Lillian called him "Uncle Lock." He didn't know, of course. He'd never actually met Lillian, and Greg wasn't going to tell him, but his little girl looked forward to that gift, and "Uncle Lock" never disappointed.
He was a hero in her eyes, this man she'd never met. He bought her presents, and stopped the bad guys. She saved the cards, and cut out the news articles, and yelled to her parents whenever he appeared on TV. She wanted to but a hat, like the one he wore, and Greg figured he'd probably give in and get her one eventually. Uncle Lock could do no wrong.
Not like her parents. Her parents, who fought nearly every day, not little fights, but big, screaming matches. Her parents, who came and went at odd hours of the day so they wouldn't have to see each other, who never ate dinner together anymore and who called divorce lawyers when they thought their daughter was away at a friend's. Her parents, who had supposedly worked everything out.
No, she's sleeping with the P.E. teacher.
Greg pulled his scarf a little tighter around his neck, his breath appearing in little puffs in the cold night air. He sighed, and stopped.
No, she's sleeping with the P.E. teacher.
Sometimes he hated Sherlock Holmes.
And sometimes he envied him. Because it would be nice not to care, not to feel, sometimes. He braced himself, plastered a smile on his face, and opened the front door.
"Karen? Lillian? I'm home. Happy Christmas Eve."
Remember Sherlock's offhand comment at the Christmas party about Greg's wife cheating on him? What a fun Christmas the Lestrades must have had. Read and review. I own nothing.