"It's been three days, John," Sherlock grumbled from the sofa. "Three days," he repeated, as if pointing it out again would somehow add to its importance.

"I know," John sighed, looking up from the laptop.

Sherlock sat up and rubbed a hand over bleary eyes. "He hasn't returned any of my texts. I even called. Called. And you know how I hate that."

"He hasn't returned mine, either. I've left a couple of voicemails."

"This is serious, John. It's not like him."

John closed the laptop and set it aside. "I agree."

Sherlock looked down at the coffee table, shoulders hunched as if the weight of the world was perched squarely on them. He knew without a doubt that's how Sherlock felt. He knew he was running it over in his mind, trying to make sense of it and coming up empty.

"Things have suddenly changed, haven't they?" he asked quietly. His voice was even, but John could hear the concern and the fear that lay underneath.

"Possibly, yes."

Sherlock looked up at him, a frown of displeasure etched across his face. It was the same frown that had been plastered there for the last three days since Greg had left the flat. He was beginning to think it was permanently frozen into the crease of his lips.

"He has been distant, hasn't he? I've been thinking about it, upset that I hadn't noticed it."

"Thinking back, I would say yes." John scooted back in the chair and tucked his feet beneath him. "But you know him better than I do. My purview of observation is limited when it comes to Greg."

"But you care for him as much as I do." It was a statement, but it certainly felt like a question.

"Of course. You know I do. I care deeply for him."

Sherlock nodded absently. "Maybe you're right. Maybe this is nothing. Perhaps I'm not thinking clearly. I-I haven't slept well." John arched an eyebrow. "I know, I know. Neither have you. It's keeping us both up at night. Why do you think that is, if we're both contemplating that this is nothing?"

John considered the question for a moment, and then moved to sit beside Sherlock on the sofa. He pulled the taller man into his arms and smiled as Sherlock melted bonelessly into him. He pressed a soft kiss into the unruly mop of dark curls and sighed.

"Because we're both in love with him."

Sherlock pulled back and stared into his eyes, their depths alive and dancing with heavy emotion. "We are, aren't we?" he whispered.

"Excellent observation," John said dryly.

"Don't get cute," Sherlock mumbled, shoving his face into John's chest.

"I'm always cute."

"Yes, you're insufferably adorable. Now stop it."

"As you wish, my love."

Sherlock sat up, face drawn and serious. "We should look for him."

John shook his head. "He's not a lost puppy, Sherlock. What, are you going to put up fliers? 'Lost: One ridiculously sexy DI. Property of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson'. It doesn't work like that." He put a hand on Sherlock shoulder, pointedly ignoring the sudden pout.

"That's not funny, John."

He gave Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze. "Have you considered the possibility that Greg may not want to come back? There's a reason for his distance. Maybe he's not happy with us."

Sherlock scoffed and scrunched his face, the unspoken "Really?" highlighting his features.

"I just think—"

"I'm tired of thinking!" Sherlock exclaimed, throwing off John's hand and rising to his feet.

"Sherlock!" John pleaded, but he was already headed up the stairs. "Where are you going?"

"To find Greg, of course," he called over his shoulder. "You stay here in case he comes back."

John opened his mouth to protest, but shut it, knowing it would be futile to try to dissuade him. He slumped back against the sofa cushions and offered up a silent prayer that Sherlock wouldn't make things worse, whatever the things were. He groaned inwardly. Not bloody likely.

OOO

Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck and fished out his mobile.

NEED YOUR HELP. - SH

WHAT NOW? - MH

HAVE LOST LESTRADE. - SH

DID HE DIG OUT UNDER THE FENCE? YOU SHOULD BE MORE CAREFUL. - MH

NOT FUNNY. FIND HIM. - SH

DOES HE WANT TO BE FOUND? - MH

IRRELEVANT. FIND HIM. - SH

Sherlock tapped his foot on the concrete as he waited for Mycroft's response. At two minutes, he contemplated texting again. Mycroft obviously didn't understand the urgency of his request. Twelve seconds later, his mobile buzzed again.

HIS KEY CARD WAS SWIPED AT THE YARD ON SAT MORN. NO RECENT ACTIVITY. POSSIBLY STILL THERE. - MH

AGAIN, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MAKE HIM HIDE IN HIS OFFICE FOR THREE DAYS? - MH

PERSONAL. THANK YOU. - SH

PERSONAL AND APPRECIATION? NEVER MIND, DON'T WANT TO KNOW. CCTV CONFIRMS. HASN'T LEFT SINCE SAT. - MH

Sherlock tucked the phone away and hailed a cab. Greg had some explaining to do.

OOO

Greg looked up from his desk as Sherlock swept in with a dramatic flourish, slamming the door behind him. The consulting detective's eyes roved over him with distinct scrutiny and his eyes narrowed.

"Good God, Greg. You look like absolute shite."

"Always lovely to see you, Sherlock. You're really getting the hang of this compliment thing."

"You're avoiding us. Why?"

"Straight to the point. How refreshing," Greg muttered. "You mind closing the blinds? I'd prefer it if the entire Yard didn't witness this conversation."

Sherlock sniffed. "It's your office."

"So it is," Greg frowned. "Don't make me ask you to leave."

Sherlock blanched briefly, but did as instructed.

He'd known he would have to face them sooner or later, but now, with Sherlock standing there, agitated and angry, his heart dropped. He really wasn't prepared for this. Not now. He should have run. Yes, in hindsight, he should have run. Scotland was nice this time of year, wasn't it? The merits of an extremely long holiday in Edinburgh vanished as Sherlock turned and pierced him with a penetrating gaze.

"Happy?"

"That remains to be seen. What are you doing here, Sherlock?"

"I should ask the same of you. Shutting yourself in here for three days. You could have rung. A text, even. I texted you. John texted you. I called. And you didn't answer. What the bloody hell did you think I would do?"

"Apologies," he murmured. "Tell John I'm fine."

Sherlock threw his mobile across the desk. "Tell him yourself."

"Sherlock—"

"Three days, Greg! And not a bloody word. You bolted out of the flat like a scalded cat, without your shoes, without indication that you weren't coming back. Without your shoes!" he roared.

"Calm down," Greg hissed. "And lower your voice."

Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "What happened?

Greg ran a shaky hand through his hair and grimaced. He really needed a shower and some sleep before he confronted this head-on. But looking at Sherlock's tense form and restrained emotion, he realized that wasn't going to happen. Damn. He was going to have to do this now, whether he liked it or not.

"It's complicated, Sherlock—"

"Complicated? A fortnight ago, you kipped off work and we had a two-day love-in at Baker Street like a trio of blasted hippies, and now it's 'complicated'?"

Greg's mouth twitched. "Which one of us was Yoko?"

"Don't," Sherlock warned. "Don't make light of this."

"I'm not. I don't expect you to understand. John, either."

"Try me."

Greg opened his mouth, but no words came. His throat closed painfully and he felt his stomach lurch. He snorted delicately and tried again. "I-I just…it's me. I've been…Oh, Christ, Sherlock, I can't do this. Not here. Not now."

"So come home. Come back with me and we can talk about this. Whatever this is."

Greg shook his head, heart heavy with dread. "Sherlock—"

"Please, Greg. Please. Come home with me." The soft plea was doing terrible things to his resolve. "I promise you can talk to us. John's waiting. Whatever we've done, we can fix it."

God, the child-like expression was killing him, like a sharp blow to the gut. This was difficult enough without Sherlock looking like a kicked dog.

"You haven't—"

His next words were cut off as Sherlock rounded the desk and pulled him to his feet, silencing him with a kiss. It was rough and demanding, and he could feel Sherlock's tension from the past three days ebb into the embrace. It was impossible to resist the pull of his lips and Greg sighed, leaning into him in defeat.

At that, Sherlock gentled, raising his hands to tenderly cup the sides of his face, his fingers stroking lightly over his cheeks. Sherlock released him and rested his forehead on Greg's.

"Please, Greg."

"Okay, Sherlock," he conceded. "We'll do it your way."

"Good," he murmured. "I believe it's also noteworthy to mention that we are in possession of a working shower and an extra toothbrush. You require them." Sherlock grinned.

"Cheeky bastard."

"Yes, but I'm not the one who's ripe. Come on," he said, pocketing his mobile. "Let's get a cab." Sherlock pushed him toward the door.

At least he was going to get his shower.