Chapter 2

~ Greg ~

They stopped at Greg's hotel to check him out and get the overnight bag, which was all he had been able to pack after the fight. They decided to walk to Baker Street. John looked a bit wobbly on his legs, but Greg knew he could hold his liquor. The fresh air was clearing both their heads a bit.

"Do you still love her?" John asked, as an afterthought to the conversation.

Greg thought about it. "I don't know." He smoked another cigarette while walking silently beside John.

"Hold on." John fumbled in his pocket for the keys. "Jesus, slippery fuckers." He opened the door and placed his hand on Greg's back, who was suddenly shy about entering. "In you go. 221B at your service."

He clicked on the light in the familiar hallway. Greg smelled musty wallpaper, wood, strong cleaners and whatever Mrs. Hudson had cooked up – was that shepherd's pie? It felt right being here, at Baker Street. He felt calm for the first time in weeks. John went ahead of him at the stairwell. Greg followed and couldn't help but notice his firm buttocks in navy trousers. They were right in front of him and looked delicious. Greg felt the sudden urge to grab and squeeze. Hell, how much did he have to drink? Thinking about molesting poor John was just not on. Even though he did have a fantastic arse. Too bad he played for the other team.

Greg forced his gaze unto the stairs before him, which was a good idea because they turned out to be a bit of a challenge. At the entrance to John and Sherlock's flat, John got out of his shoes and Greg tried to emulate him. He had a bit of trouble with the laces on his leather shoes. Suddenly, he felt silly, standing there is his suit, fumbling around with his knots like a five-year-old and giggling uncontrollably while he lost his balance. John laughed back at him and held out an arm to steady Greg. Light was pouring out of the living room. John entered before him.

"Sher... Oh dear God, what is this?" He heard John say. John had nearly fallen into a bunch of boxes standing right behind the door. Greg squeezed into the living room behind him. Sherlock was curled up on his chair near the fireplace, reduced to embers now. He was reading a book and looked up at them nonchalantly.

"Sherlock, what is this?" John repeated.

Sherlock eyed the boxes and then the two men like they were utterly stupid.

"Lestrade's things. Obviously."

"Wha – " Greg was slow on uptake, understandably. He was a bit sloshed. He inspected the boxes more closely. The three in front of him were labeled:

GREGORY TROUSERS

GREGORY SHOES

GREGORY SHIRTS

She only called him Gregory when she was cross with him. "Gregory, please pick up your clothes." "Gregory, you forgot to reserve a table." "Gregory, your mother called..."

"How did you get them, Sherlock?" John wanted to know.

"I broke into your apartment."

"You broke into my apartment?!" Greg yelped.

"Don't worry, your wife wasn't home. Very convenient. She put most of your clothes in boxes. Solid indexing, too."

A small, hot ball of hatred formed in Greg's belly at the efficiency with which Jodie was apparently shoving him out of her life. She had even used the label maker. John grasped his shoulder in sympathy, but he had the decency not to say anything while Greg's vision clouded a bit around the edges and he tried to compose himself. He breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly.

"I need the bathroom," Greg muttered.

"Oh, sure. It's right over there," John pointed to a door on the other side of the kitchen. As he shuffled off to the loo, he could hear John quietly speaking to Sherlock. He made out the words and "flat" and "stupid" and Sherlock's rumbling baritone replied something with "scratches" in an indignant tone. But right now, this was just too much to process. And Greg had had a lot of beer.

~ Sherlock ~

Sherlock sprawled elegantly in his armchair, wearing a dark suit and a crisp white shirt which emphasized his slim physique. One arm was slung around his knee which he had pulled up to his chin. The old files he had disturbed in his earlier fit of boredom were still sprawled around him. It had certainly been an informative excursion, having seen Lestrade and his soon-to-be-ex-wife's shared habitat. The state of the flat had spoken to him elaborately about the state of their relationship, all the little clues pointed the way to the door for Lestrade (whose lock incidentally had been alluring to pick; uncommon model, six pins, satisfying click, 1:47).

Sherlock uncurled and stretched lazily. He let the book drop to the floor carelessly ('Idioms of the English Language'). It was rubbish, but he had been wondering about the horse thing. John stopped staring at the mass of boxes like it would dematerialize them and turned to Sherlock. Red spots across his cheeks, slightly pink ears, eyes sparkling with a strange mixture of excitement, adoration and worry.

"You know, breaking into a DI's flat is a phenomenally stupid thing to do," he chided halfheartedly.

"No one saw me. I never leave scratches."

"No one saw you carrying a dozen boxes out of a building? Come on."

"Could have happened. But maybe I'm a friend and Lestrade could have given me a key and permission."

"Of course," John said, mocking his tone. "It was a bit stupid, nonetheless." Sherlock pretended to inspect a speck on his trousers and shrugged. "It was also a very nice thing to do." John sauntered over to him.

"Was it."

John sat on the arm rest and stroked Sherlock's hair, then his cheek, which felt amazingly tender. "Yes, it was. Here's your reward." John leaned into Sherlock's space and kissed him softly on the lips. Sherlock swayed into his caress.

"You do care, you know," John whispered into his ear like a secret, still stroking his hair and neck.

Sherlock made noncommittal noise and gave John a peck on the lips. He darted his tongue across them. John's breathing quickened.

"You are inebriated," Sherlock remarked. He licked his lips which tasted of John and a slight tang of hops and peat. "You had Guiness and whiskey. Laphroaig."

"Yes, I have. It was lovely and I regret nothing," John smiled. "I think he needed that." he pointed his chin in the direction of the bathroom. "Can you imagine how he feels right now?"

"No," Sherlock said, honestly meaning it. Emotions were still a minefield for him to navigate.

"Well, dreadful, I imagine." After a pause, John added: "Just imagine I threw you out of our shared flat and out of my life for some other dickhead."

Sherlock contemplated that for a moment and came to the obvious conclusion: "They'd never find his body." His arm tightened around John's waist possessively.

"That's reassuring. Sort of," John grinned, and pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. Sherlock buried his nose in John's jumper and breathed him in. John. His doctor disentangled himself after a bit and got up, still slightly unsteady. "Whew, you're right, I am pissed. D'you want something? I need water and aspirin or I'll be dead come morning."