BBCSH 'Gregory'
"John," Sherlock wants to know, later that same evening. Much later. "Why Greg? Precisely." The amount of venom Sherlock inserts into the name 'Greg' is phenomenal. But he really can't seem to help that, so it's of no consequence.
"Pardon?" John blinks at Sherlock; he looks a bit clueless, actually. And it's not as though Sherlock dislikes Lestrade, particularly. In fact, he's very useful, the man, and has even been something of a friend to Sherlock. Excepting not as John is a friend, but one can perhaps honestly characterize Lestrade as a friendly individual, at least towards Sherlock. "What, now? It's his name, Sherlock. That's all."
Sherlock rolls his eyeballs and sighs heavily; he absolutely hates explaining this one small matter of logical reasoning to John, and mainly because it's a bit humiliating, the 'Greg' issue. Also, it's not small, per se. It's blindingly important.
"You don't make it a common practice to address people you know—particularly people you're acquainted with on a purely professional basis—by their given names, John." Sherlock notes that the words 'purely professional' as they issue from his lips are just as poisonous as the DI's first name. "So? Why 'Greg'?"
John wrinkles his nose at Sherlock, squinting slightly and licking his own lips. It's more than bit cute and Sherlock has to restrain himself from kissing the tip of John's nose. But that would lead to diversions, a delightful prospect, to be sure, but not to the point at the moment. Sherlock really does require an answer to this question of 'Greg'.
Mike Stamford is another matter entirely, of course. Sherlock doesn't begrudge Stamford his 'Mike' especially. That was pre-Sherlock and besides, Stamford has admirably served to best purpose in his dull boring life by having the extreme good sense to introduce them, he and John. As potential flat mates, moreover, leading to a consummation that has been acutely enthralling for the both of them, he and John.
But 'Greg'. Sherlock doesn't like this 'Greg' business a'tall, cheers, and John must needs explain his use of it to Sherlock's satisfaction, preferably immediately.
"It's his name, Sherlock," John repeats patiently, and then has the temerity to bat Sherlock across his tumbled pate with a set of hard knuckles. "Nothing more. Why do you even ask?"
The fury which nestles like a small globule of fiery lava in the centre of Sherlock's chest? Which had come into abrupt existence and propelled itself to the forefront of Sherlock's brain several hours earlier, out of nowhere? That's why.
Sherlock thins his lips, and glares at John, twitching his eyebrows in a fulminating manner. Humiliating is the absolute least of it. He feels he shouldn't even have been driven to asking this question of John, and it's galling to be forced to.
On the opposing side, John's utter bewilderment at being interrogated is very hopeful. In Sherlock's experience people get rather cagey when they've something to hide or something they feel guilty about. Clearly John is not feeling the least bit guilty, so it's highly likely that Sherlock has no cause for concern.
But, yet. He'd like that confirmed. Honest John may be, and as the day is long, yet Sherlock's friend could still be harbouring emotions for this horrible 'Greg', which, rather naturally, Sherlock would definitely object to. Strongly, nay—stridently!
"I see," he responds, and very meticulously, drawing out each syllable, his eyes trained on his target in order to detect the merest minuscule signs of imminent betrayal. "You consider him a mate, then? Is that it?"
"A mate," John ponders, and cocks his chin at Sherlock. "Well, yes, I suppose. Why not? I mean, we've gone for a pint together, you know. A few times now."
"AHA!"
Sherlock sits bolt upright and flaps his arms about wildly, nearly knocking John on his very adorable nose in passing. John ducks, fortunately, as he's rather accustomed to the occasional flail of Sherlock's.
"I knew it! I knew there was more to this, John."
If John appeared puzzled before, now he is completely at sea. "Wait, what?"
"'Greg', 'Greg', 'Greg'—'Gregory'!" Sherlock shouts as he twists about and pins John with a burning gaze. "Next it'll be 'darling' or 'pet' or 'sweetie', I don't doubt! John, how could you?"
Of course Sherlock doesn't wait for an answer to that—the entire outburst was rhetorical. He flings himself forward and down, bodily, and smashes his confused flat mate into the mattress instead.
"Oof!" John grunts, abruptly winded by the weight of a full grown male who happens to be thrashing. "Wait, Sherlock!" he exclaims, his eyes widening as he stares up at Sherlock's snarling features. "Are you—are you jealous? Is that what this is all about?"
Sherlock stills instantly. It's more like he freezes in place, his hands gripping at John's shoulder blades, his kneecaps digging fiercely into the bedding. He finds himself swallowing, and that with much difficulty. He's been caught out, most definitely, but then again it has been an inevitability since that first 'Greg' was uttered. And really? It's as though he's been nabbed red-handed with an entire carton of red spray paint!
It takes a great lot of courage, Sherlock discovers, even as he's in the midst of it, to simply nod. Nothing more, as actual words are not possible for him at the moment—he's been pole-axed, actually, with a huge swamp of really foul emotion.
"You fool," John says softly, and to Sherlock's utter dismay, he is grinning. "You. Complete. Idiot. You are, aren't you?"
"No!" That patently false accusation finally works to impel speech out of Sherlock, and it is impassioned. "Not a fool, John—an observer! You call him 'Greg', you've gone to pubs with him and poured down the pints together! How dare you? That's mine, John Watson—that's my purlieu, all mine!"
"Great lump," John says, and wriggles his arms loose enough from Sherlock's pinning grip to set a lovely warm palm on either side of Sherlock's throbbing temples. Sherlock closes his eyes for a second; the warm affection enfolded in that deleterious moniker is marvellous, really. "You have not a single iota to fret over. Of course it's yours, twat. It always has been. Greg's nothing more than a mate to me. You, imbecile, are everything."
"…Really?"
"Of course." The adorable nose that Sherlock loves so much—the one decorating the face of his John Watson—it ends up nuzzled into Sherlock's cheekbone as he's dragged downwards by a smiling doctor. "For ages now. I should've thought you'd have known that already."
"No," Sherlock whispers, and rather gratefully sticks his own nose in John's neck. He very much appreciates John's neck, as it's a warm and fragrant place, and particularly soothing when Sherlock's mind spins a bit too rapidly for the remainder of Earth's axis and ancillaries. "No, not especially."
"Then know it now," John rumbles, and clasps Sherlock just that wee bit harder. "As I've just told you. In so many words, too. And don't bother thanking me for it, either, because I am sure you had this in mind all along. Bloody baby."
"What does that mean?" Sherlock wants to know, his eyes popping open as he flinches. "You don't like it, John? Problem with my methods?"
The very lovely—and quite perspicacious—John giggles as he drops a kiss on Sherlock's miserably furrowed brow.
"Me?" he laughs. "Me, have a problem, Sherlock? No, of course not! Where did you ever get that impression?"
"John!"
"Just because you've gone and engineered a confession, Sherlock, and manipulated me again—again, Sherlock!—is hardly grounds for me to throw a benny at you, now is it? Silly cuss!"
"Well!" Sherlock huffs, subsiding once more and making his clearing head comfortable against the beautiful beat of his friend's heart. "That was hardly called for, John. You were the one to call the DI 'Greg', after all. You should have known what that would do to me. It's all your fault, really. Be grateful I've cleared the air for us, rather."
Sherlock decides the matter of 'Greg' is mostly settled, even as John chortles over top his head, trembling with a renewed attack of the giggles.
"But!" Sherlock states loudly, and gives John a warning pinch at the wrist to demonstrate just how very serious he is. "But, John."
"B-But wh-what, Sherlock?"
There is the one more thing, and Sherlock feels he is being entirely reasonable over it. "No more 'Greg'-ing him, the Inspector. It's 'Lestrade' from now on, nothing else." Surely John will also perceive the situation in an appropriately understanding and accepting way—which is to say, Sherlock's way.
"Ooooh!" John growls beneath Sherlock, his fit of laughter dissipated instantly. "You perfect git! I'll be doing just as I like, thanks! Now come here, damn it, and shut the fuck up! I've had about enough of you today, twat, and that's final!"
"Gah!" Sherlock yelps, in midst of being manhandled, by which it occurs he is wrestled off of John's squirming torso and finds himself slammed flat back into the mussed up duvet not thirty seconds later. "Speaking of throwing pointless wobblies, John, there's no need to—ah!"
"Oh, yes, there is, Sherlock," John shoots back, grim of countenance and clearly irked. "Time for a taste of your own medicine! Grrr! Past time!"
Surely? Or maybe not, Sherlock decides, resigned—and actually quite chuffed—to find his mouth is no longer available for any further protests. As it's been taken up by John's flexing tongue instead. And it may very well be that he's overstepped his bounds more than sufficient for just the one day.
However. However?
Sherlock can't help but crack a delighted grin—something John fortunately doesn't catch, being occupied with eating the grin right off Sherlock's lips as it happens—over his own successes. For whether there's a 'Greg' grating on his ears in the future or no, Sherlock's managed to drive John straight out in to the open, right along with his own perhaps previously overly cautious self, and now there's simply no denying it, not for either of them.
John is Sherlock's. That's all she wrote.