Author's Note: This is a sequel to "The You I Never Knew". You probably don't need to read it beforehand, but it wouldn't hurt. And it's pretty good, if I do say so myself.

John looked up from the paper to see Greg enter the sitting room, bare-chested with his jeans slung low on his hips, and stretch contentedly. When they made eye contact, Greg's eyes warmed and he smiled.

"Sherlock still asleep, then?" John asked.

Greg nodded. "Out like a light."

"Good," John replied. "He needed the rest."

"Well after that, I would say so," Greg chuckled. "I've never seen him like that before. He was like an animal. And I've got the claw marks to prove it." He craned his neck, trying to get a look at his back. "Is he always like that after a case?"

"Sometimes," John smiled. "This last one had him out of sorts, though. So when he finally figured it out, the thrill was a bit much for him, I suppose." He set the paper on the coffee table. "Of course, it didn't help his ego any with you fawning all over him."

"I wasn't fawning," Greg scoffed. "Merely…impressed. More so than usual. You can't tell me it wasn't bloody amazing, him figuring out the killer based on a microwave dinner and the loops on an old belt. Damned amazing."

John's grin grew wider. "Yes, I'll give you that. But it was the look on your face that did it for him. The adoration. Thought you were going start a new religion. 'The Church of Sherlock'. I'm surprised he didn't shag you right there in front of God and the free world."

"Go on with you."

John sniffed. "I've just made tea. Fancy a cuppa?"

"Oh, brilliant, thanks." Greg headed to the kitchen.

He returned with a cup and two biscuits and sat down next to John on the sofa. They sat in comfortable silence for a few, long moments, quietly sipping tea.

John stretched his arms above his head and winced at the sudden, sharp pain, quickly bringing a hand to his injured shoulder.

"Still hurts, then?" Greg asked with concern.

John rolled his shoulder, kneading the muscle, and grunted. "Just a twinge. I know he's always careful, but when he holds my arms back like that for a long time, it stiffens up."

"Yes," Greg murmured, "that position was…interesting."

"You seemed to enjoy it."

"So did you," he teased.

"Which is why I'm not complaining," John laughed. He gave a small shudder at the memory; Sherlock's long, lean body taking him from behind, pulling his arms back to grasp him by the wrists for leverage as he thrust, Greg's fingers tightly curled into his hair as he fucked John's mouth from the front, the delicious feeling of having them at both ends making his groin twitch. Just heaven.

"Yes," Greg sighed, obviously reliving the same event. "You were most…accommodating."

"Sandwiched between the two of you, how could I not be? I'm a very lucky man," he smiled.

"I would say the same." Shadows ghosted over Greg's eyes. "I just don't want my luck to run out," he said softly.

John opened his mouth to ask him what he meant by that, but the DI silenced him with a soft kiss. Greg's mouth was warm and wet, laced with tea and the faint taste of Sherlock still on his lips. John moaned, pressing his tongue to Greg's, the mingling of flavors stirring to life places low in his belly.

They kissed for a moment longer, but Greg pulled back, turning John around.

"Here," he said, a little breathless, "let me help."

Strong hands cupped the injured shoulder and began to work the muscles with care. John sighed and leaned into the comforting touch. Yes, he really was very lucky.

Greg's hands left his body for a second, and he heard the soft whisper of skin on skin as Greg rubbed his palms together. The touch returned, this time warmer than ever so much more relaxing, as Greg continued to knead the aching muscles of his shoulder. They pushed and probed with a gentle surety and John could feel the tension and the burn subsiding. He leaned back further into the press of those magical hands with a contented sigh and closed his eyes. No, lucky didn't seem to be the adequate word. Blessed, more likely, because Greg's hands (along with the rest of him, to be honest) were simply divine.

The massage continued over the curve of his shoulder, the slide of his fingers so wonderful, working their way to his neck and upper back, thumbs moving in deep circles to ease the sting. Truly, the man and his hands were a thing to behold. So different from Sherlock, but their essence undeniably the same. Sherlock's hands were soft and smooth, his fingers long and slender, their touch always soothingly cool at first, but they never ceased to start fires in his soul at their initial caress. Greg's hands were wider, larger, and rougher, but no less tender, and yet strong and demanding in the long hours of the night. A very pleasing dichotomy.

It was amazing how two men, so diametrically opposed in their outward nature, could be so strikingly similar on the inside. They were a gift, perfection even in their flaws, and a small smile played across his lips at how they managed to work together to make him feel whole. Yes, definitely blessed.

"Interrupting, am I?"

John didn't open his eyes at the sleepy baritone coming from the doorway. What made him look up were Greg's hands dropping away with a start, as if he'd been burned. Or caught.

"No," John said, smiling at Sherlock's besheeted form. "Greg's just being sweet. You gave my shoulder quite a workout."

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" The concern was palpable in Sherlock's voice.

"Nothing too terrible. You're awake, then? Rest well?"

Sherlock yawned with cat-like grace. "Woke up cold," he grumbled. "And alone," he added, casting a petulant glance at Greg.

"Sorry," Greg murmured at Sherlock's toes, which peeked out from beneath the sheet. "You were sleeping so soundly, and you needed the rest."

"The kettle's boiled, Sherlock," John offered, turning back to Greg with the blatant invitation to resume the rubbing.

A small furrow creased Greg's brow and he got up in a rush, leaving John's back to chill at the sudden absence of warmth. "I-I should go," he stammered, picking up his shirt, discarded from the night before, and shoved it on. Sherlock watched him with a puzzled concern and John's mouth fell open in silent protest.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

Greg picked up his trainers, not bothering to put them on as he headed for the door in what was almost a run. "Just, um…I've got some things to do. Cases, you know. Um…paperwork and such. I-I'll be on my way, then," he said hurriedly as he moved past Sherlock, bare feet slapping on the floor.

"But, it's Saturday, Greg," Sherlock protested, reaching for Greg and catching his elbow.

"Yeah, I-I know. Just been on my mind, that's all. Need to get it done."

"Greg," Sherlock pleaded.

His eyes darted quickly over Sherlock's face and he stuttered in, hesitantly dropping the briefest of kisses on Sherlock's downturned lips. "Really, Sherlock. I've got to go. Just give him a few more rubs on that shoulder and he'll be right as rain."

He slipped free of Sherlock's grasp and was down the stairs and out the door in the next breath.

Sherlock gaped for a moment and then turned to the sofa. "John?" There was a child-like bewilderment to the question.

John could only meet his gaze and shrug. "I don't know, Sherlock."

Sherlock's face went into full-on frown. "I don't like this, John. He's never left like that before."

"I know."

"It…it troubles me. I don't like that, either."

"Maybe it's nothing." The words sounded hollow in his chest.

Sherlock sniffed. He wasn't buying it.

"Well?" Sherlock said impatiently, wrapping the sheet tighter around him.

"Well, what?" John frowned.

Sherlock gestured to the door. "Go after him. Bring him home."

"Sherlock, he doesn't live here. The man does have a life outside our bedroom, you know."

The frown turned to a scowl. "Well, he belongs here. There's something off, John. He didn't even put his shoes on and he ran out of here like the devil was after him." The scowl moved to pout. "I don't like it."

"So you keep saying."

"Well, fix it then!" he snapped. "You know I'm bollocks at this sort of thing."

John sighed and shook his head. "He's a grown man. Whatever it is, he'll tell us when he's ready. Or not. He's not beholden to us. Not really."

"Well, he should be," Sherlock mumbled under his breath, staring hatefully at the door.

"Come on, let me make you that cuppa." But John's eyes drifted past the doorway as he made his way to the kitchen. As he passed Sherlock in his silent sulk, he couldn't escape the overwhelming sense of worry that charged through him. Sherlock was right. There was something wrong. And John didn't like it, either.

OOO

Greg placed his head in his hands, leaned forward onto his desk and groaned soundly. What had been a niggling feeling in the back of his mind had now become a serious problem. He thought he could handle it, this new dimension to their relationship (whatever that was), becoming part of a connection that was stronger than steel. But steel doesn't bend, doesn't flex, doesn't make for allowances. It can only be broken. Snapped in two. You just didn't walk into something like this and expect it to continue to run smoothly. Or maybe he did. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. But the more it went on, the more he allowed himself to fall, the feeling continued to grow, threatening to overtake him and drown him under the weight of it. Sherlock's question had said it all, making it painfully clear.

"Interrupting, am I?"

He was. Getting between something he really had no claim to. How had he ever thought he had a place there? He should have known he could never carve a place for himself in the force that was Sherlock and John. Stupid, is what it was. Naïve and stupid. He groaned again.

"Idiot," he mumbled. "You stupid, bloody fool."