Gregson stopped by Lestrade's office to drop off a file, passing Watson along the way. Rather than leave, however, Gregson leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms.
"Is Watson back?"
"He walked right past you, Tobias."
"No," Gregson insisted, "I mean, is -- he -- back?"
Their eyes met. Gregson meant more than Watson's physical presence at the Yard. He had interacted with Bradstreet more than Lestrade; he knew how bad it had been for the doctor. Mortality was a terrible thing to confront head-on. It was the sort of thing that could cause youngsters, and even some seasoned veterans, to have second thoughts about this line of work. If the first culling didn't stop you there was always another one on the way; you just never knew when.
Watson was a fighter but every man has his limits. Sometimes it got to the point when you simply had to cry "uncle." The game stopped being worth the candle.
Gregson would not have condemned Watson if this attack was to be that turning point for him. It was his right to choose. It was the right they all shared. But he would be sorry, damned sorry, to see the doctor go.
Lestrade understood and considered the question. His next words made Gregson nod approvingly.
"Yes. He's back."