What Just Happened?
It didn't take long in the grand scheme of things for Greg to fall back into the habit of keeping an eye on Sherlock for any bizarre (well, more than usual) behaviour. In a way he was keeping an even closer eye on her than before, what with John no longer living at Baker Street, and from what he could tell keeping his distance. He had worried about her from her initial reappearance. There was an edge to her, a darkness that for all her peculiarities hadn't been there before her 'death'.
So, with this constant feeling of something being 'off' on his 'Sherlock radar' he could hardly be blamed for keeping an extra close eye on the young woman. She wasn't going to be doing any sudden vanishing acts this time around if he had anything to say about it.
Sherlock had always been a pale, waiflike creature but it was getting ridiculous. The dark bags under her eyes were making her look like she had a pair of shiners and her pale cheeks were becoming almost translucent (he hadn't thought that was even possible) and more caved in with each passing week. And from what he could see of her at the Yard and during investigations she wasn't eating enough. It didn't take a genius level IQ to figure that one out. She was becoming increasingly twitchy and unpredictable in her temper. Lashing out and holding her head like it would blow up if she did not. He was truly worried.
Greg was more than aware that the drugs busts of the past had only been a front to search for any evidence she may have commandeered from a crime scene – it had only been a fluke that he had happened upon her the one and only time she had ever tried anything but he was not above using that to his advantage if he had to – but now for the first time he wondered if her eccentric behaviour and weight loss had a more sinister cause that her obvious inability to look after herself. How she had survived on her own for two years was anyone's guess. And it would continue to be as she refused to talk to anyone – even John – about what had happened during her time away.
Greg's mind was made up for him though when four days past without so much as a text message demanding she be supplied with a case or even a reply to his text message that he sent on the third day.
He was calling John – he was sure the doctor would like to know – and they were staging an intervention.
He wondered what Mycroft 'British Government' Holmes was doing all this time. Surely he was worried about his sisters health…But then again the Holmes siblings were a strange pair. Sometimes acting like the older brother and younger sister that they were and other times almost like father and daughter. Greg guessed it came from their being such a large gap ages…but he had also stopped trying to figure out what made the Holmes' tick years ago.
On the morning of the fifth day he and John were climbing the stairs of 221 Baker Street to flat B. It was 8am, hardly a sociable hour, but they had decided the night before when Greg had told John what he was planning that it needed to be early to get Sherlock when she was most susceptible and didn't have time to throw up an act. They weren't exactly proud of the tactic but it was the only way.
John opened the door softly with his key – Greg was surprised that he even still had it and wondered if he had kept it all this time or if it had been reissued upon Sherlock's return. They stepped into the flat.
Much to Greg's (and he could tell, John's) amazement there was no smell of some mad-scientist experiment. In fact, for Sherlock, the flat was pretty tidy.
"Still in her bed do you think?" he asked John.
"Yeah, the only reason for getting up early is if there is a case. No case, no point to get up,"
"Alright then,"
As one they moved towards the bedroom at the end of the hall and John was the one to open the door and the first to step inside.
"Sherl-" he began as Greg followed him into the room.
The both froze. They had not planned for this outcome.
Sherlock was not alone in the bed.
This…well, this had never happened before.
Sherlock was obviously fast asleep, sleeping stomach down on the mattress, her face buried in the pillow, her riot of dark curls calling about her in wild disarray and making her pale skin even more white.
Greg's eyes – already, he was sure, the size of saucers – widened to the size of a dinner plate when he caught sight of the white scarring crossing the detectives back, peeking out from beneath the strands of hair, a sight made all the more easier to see as it appeared she was only wearing a bra.
How the hell?
Greg began to ransack his brain trying to think of the last time he had seen Sherlock in anything other than a long sleeved, high necked shirt. He hadn't. Not since before her disappearance, his mind supplied. That had happened to her during her absence?
His attention was brought back to the more immediate problem at hand, like the blond man who was using one arm to hold himself protectively over the sleeping Sherlock while he pointed a gun at John with his spare hand. The man's face was set, his eyes harsh. He would pull the trigger and he would do so with no regrets.
"Don't move," he hissed.
"Look, I'm," Greg stupidly made to go for his pocket to pull out his ID.
"I said. Don't." the stranger in Sherlock's bed repeated and Greg froze. Getting John shot would not go down well and the paperwork would be a bitch.
"Alright, Ok," Greg slowly removed his hand from anywhere near his pocket and following John's example he lifted his arms. The universal sign for 'don't shoot' that he knew didn't always translate to the person holding the gun. But then again this guy did not look like the twitchy trigger finger type. If the man pulled the trigger it would be a definite decision on his part, and Greg had a feeling a leg or arm would not be the body part receiving the bullet.
Greg took the standoff as an opportunity to study the stranger. He was blonde and tanned with blue eyes, not quite as expressive as Sherlock's could be though. These eyes were duller, even cold. They were the eyes of a killer. It was the face of someone who had done a lot of things. Things that haunted them. Things they were not proud of but could love with. He was healthy if the muscled arms and chest were anything to go by and the position he was holding over Sherlock looked anything but comfortable and yet he was not showing it – despite the knot of scar tissue Greg could make out on his right shoulder.
The blanket had fallen away, and Greg was glad to see that despite the lack of clothing to the top half of their bodies both of them were very much clothed beneath the waist. Greg found himself thanking every deity and saint he could think of for that small mercy.
The uncomfortable silence stretched on until in an almost suicidal straightforward manor John broke the silence.
"Who the hell are you?" his harsh tone would have been an amusing contrast to his arms being in the air if Greg wasn't in the same pose hoping to get out of the room alive.
The stranger's eyes narrowed.
"Keep your voice down, doctor," he ordered, each word spoken painfully clear and precise.
Greg allowed his gaze to drift to Sherlock.
She was still asleep, breathing steadily, oblivious to the scene unfolding.
He shot his gaze back to the stranger.
"Perhaps I should be asking you gentlemen, why you felt the need to let yourself into a woman's bedroom," there was a pause, "Uninvited?"
From an outside perspective Greg could appreciate how strange and inappropriate their actions could be seen as. But this was Sherlock they were dealing with. Strange and inappropriate was normal.
Greg opened his mouth to begin explaining when he paused. Seeing a glint in the man's eyes. And could just be his imagination, but the man's lips seemed to be curved at the corners ever so slightly.
The sod was finding this funny.
And wait a minute. He said 'doctor'. He knew who John was.
"Now, this is what you are going to do," his aim didn't shift an inch, his protective hovering over Sherlock never wavering, "You are both going to turn around and leave this flat. And I won't put a bullet through you,"
Greg wished he was standing next to John so he could see the other man's face. He just hoped the doctor didn't do anything stupid that would land either of them on a slab being dissected by Molly.
"Like I'm leaving you alone with her," John scoffed.
Greg had never wanted to hit the other man so much since he had met him.
The stranger's only reaction to this little announcement was a lifted brow.
"And what has brought on this sudden urge to be not leaving her alone, Doctor Watson. As I understand it, you have had no problem keeping your distance," he rumbled.
Greg's heart sank. He had suspected that the relationship between John and Sherlock had not just picked up where it had left off, but he had hoped it had been his own imagination.
"Now, I won't repeat myself again. You," the man's eyes burned a hole into Greg for a split second before returning to John, "And you, out now. And don't come back until you can use the bell,"
Silence.
Until Sherlock shuffled sleepily.
"James," she whimpered softly, her legs kicking beneath the covers.
The man all but bard his teeth at them and Greg watched, his hands still in the air, as he lowered himself from hovering above her until he was pressed against her back. The restless shifting stopped.
"Start backing out now gentlemen," he snarled.
"Yes, I believe that would be for the best," a familiar voice sounded from behind them.
Greg spun to face Mycroft Holmes.
The man was staring at them, an angry frown on his face, his umbrella over his shoulder.
"The living room I think gentlemen,"
"But Myc-" John began even as Greg was already moving out the bedroom.
"The living room, Doctor Watson," the tone brook no argument.
Greg heard the footsteps behind him and the door to the bedroom close with a soft click.
"Your concern for Sherlock's welfare is appreciated, gentlemen," Mycroft's spoke as he entered the living room just behind a visibly furious John, "However, it is unnecessary. I shall see you out,"
And before Greg had any idea what was happening or had a chance to ask a question, he found himself on the doorstep to 221 Baker Street with an equally perplexed although angrier John.
"What just happened?" John asked, running a hand roughly through his hair.
"I think," Greg spoke slowly, his mind still struggling wit the last quarter hour of his life, "we just got told to mind our own business,"
Hi guys!
Am I on a roll or what? ;)
I honestly couldn't imagine Greg or John just leaving Sherlock in that sort of situation with a stranger – even if it is none of their business – so Mycroft to the rescue. Because let's face it. Bond was a breath away from shooting them and dealing with an annoyed Sherlock later on.
One of the things that annoyed me about Sherlock's return was that it was clear that some nasty stuff had gone on during his time away and it wasn't really addressed. Not to mention he had been beaten up not long before John was punching him constantly. Yeah, that didn't sit well with me at all.
Moving on from my wee rant.
In my little head universe of my Fem Sherlock Greg has known Sherlock since she was quite young and came knocking on his office door clutching a file of newspaper clippings and telling him he was an idiot. And so a beautiful friendship was born ;)
I really hope you enjoyed this one. Please let me know what you think :)
Stay safe.
x
