Part 2 - Shower Time
The second time Lestrade walked into the flat in the middle of something 'off' he couldn't really read anything terribly terrible into it unless he was feeling uncharitable – which, lately, he was always feeling when it came to Sherlock and her flatmate.
He knocked on the door of the flat but when it only squeaked open on its hinges and there was no reply he let himself cautiously into the flat. Sherlock had accumulated quite a list of enemies during her short lifespan and he wouldn't put it past a few of them to hunt her down.
"Hello," he called stepping over the threshold into the darkened room.
There was no Sherlock stretched out on the sofa in her dressing gown and no John sitting in his armchair reading the paper and announcing anything of interest to the genious. Nothing.
It had been a cold and gloomy day in London – but nothing else could be expected of late November really – and sleet had been falling for most of the day making the pavements traitorous and the temperature bitingly cold.
The inside of the flat was warm though as he walked around the corner to the kitchen. Almost unpleasantly clammy and he glanced around in search of the source and his gaze landed on the door to the bathroom – also sitting ajar – where steam was belching from it.
He could almost smell the steam and feeling came back to his cold nose.
"John! Sherlock!" he tried again, making his way past the kitchen table (which he was pretty sure was at a perpetual state of exploding from all of Sherlock's experiments) and into the hallway.
"Sherlock! John!"
He reached out for the bathroom door when suddenly it opened from the other side.
His mouth dropped open as John stepped out. A fully dressed John wearing jeans and a tea-shirt covered in damp patches and was carrying...Sherlock. A Sherlock who was naked but for a towel.
His eyes bulged. And then much to his relief he noticed bra straps. He hoped that meant there was more on under the towel too.
John stepped back slightly in surprise and Greg noticed the way his arms tightened around Sherlock's back and legs. She was a dead weight in his arms and for the first time Greg looked at Sherlock's face. She was pale as death with a slight flush to her cheeks. He couldn't tell if the flush was from the steam or from sickness.
"Greg, what are you doing here? And in the flat?" John asked him and Greg just stared in surprise.
What the hell was Sherlock doing half naked in John's arms.
"Uh-"
"You know what, never mind. Just wait a minute will you,"
Without another word John came out of the bathroom properly and went straight to Sherlock's room and out of Greg's line of sight, Sherlock safely bundled in his arms the whole time.
Greg stood uselessly for a few seconds before heading back to the kitchen and making use of the kettle. He spared a second to glance inside it to check that none of Sherlock's experiments had migrated from the table before setting it to boil.
There was bound to be an explanation for the situation, he told himself as he threw teabags into two mugs.
But the waiting was doing nothing for his blood pressure. It just seemed so wrong. In all of the time that he had known her he had never known Sherlock to be sick a day – even with all of the late nights and her crazy eating patterns. And to see her looking so pale and helpless in Johns arms – he would never have guesses that the doctor had the strength to lift anyone (even Sherlock's with her skinny frame) – sent a million and one alarm bells ringing in his mind.
He was just fishing the teabags from the mugs and splashing a healthy dose of milk into each when John entered the kitchen looking tired.
He handed the blonde a mug and picked up his own.
"What's going on, John?"
John took a gulp of his tea and sighed in appreciation.
"Thanks,"
Greg just nodded his head and waited for his question to be answered.
"Sherlock won't be able to assist at the Yard for a few days," Greg opened his mouth to speak, it was the run up to Christmas and things always got busy but before he could say anything John continued, "She took a dunk in the Thames this afternoon,"
Ah.
Greg felt a flush of guilt rise up his neck.
"She was in soaking wet clothes for over an hour – I'm surprised that I didn't have to get the anti-freeze to them to get them off her. She'll be lucky if she gets away with just a blocked nose,"
A cough from down the hall proved that the sniffles weren't all that Sherlock was going to have from her little swim in the river.
"John," the girl in question croaked from her bedroom.
Greg was surprised at the speed that John put his hardly touched cup of tea onto the counter and left the kitchen.
"I'll let myself out," he informed the retreating man.
"Yeah, fine," John answered, not even turning back before he went into the bedroom and once again out of Greg's sight.
Suspicions that he had forced to the back of his mind since the couch incident re-surfaced once again as he rapidly finished his tea.
He listened to the gentle mumbling of voices, interrupted occasionally by Sherlock coughing and what sounded like a glass being placed on a table.
It could all be in his imagination.
The shared glances between Sherlock and John. The extra sparkle that Sherlock had about her since the doctor had taken up residence in 221B. The way that John's eyes followed her at crime scenes. Hell, all the was short off was love hearts in his eyes.
Greg tipped back his head and emptied what was left of the mug of tea in one gulp and placed the empty mug into the sink.
He let himself out of the flat and made sure to pull the door shut behind him and walked down the steps and into the freezing cold street.
Was it all in his imagination?