Just "Greg" & Sherlock Holmes

John was riding high off a glorious pull the when he met Mike Stamford in the park. The bloke, who'd called himself Greg, had been good-looking, if a bit grizzled around the edges, and had a voice like rolling in gravel. Greying hair, dark eyes, and the body of a rugger in a cheap suit, John had made him for a copper in three minutes. He'd given him another five to see that John wasn't going to bite and another ten when it became obvious that Greg didn't care.

They'd bought one another drinks and slipped away from the bar to an out the way booth where they could talk more. And talk they did, about rugby and football and how much easier uni had been, hadn't it, and how adulthood hadn't turned out to be paradise they'd dreamed of when growing up was all they'd wanted to do. Greg had been exhausted and wound-up so tight he creaked the first time John kissed him.

John hadn't bottomed since med school, but Greg made it worth it. Those powerful hips were a machine between his thighs, those shoulders perfect handholds when things got a little rough. And how rough they got, John riding him against the dingy bricks next to the pub, his eyes clinched shut to make it last, Greg's large, sturdy hands holding him right where he was wanted. John had remembered when sex hadn't been a chore. It wasn't work, this was human connection at its purest, pleasure in the ink-stained hands of a master. John hadn't come that hard since university.

Greg wasn't in John's flat the next morning, but John didn't take it personally since hardly anyone ever was. He took solace in the slip of paper next to his lamp that read, 'Give me a call if you could ever use a mate – Greg' and he'd listed his number. John had tipped the note into his billfold to keep, no real plans brewing to call on the man but pleased all the same of having the option.

John was replaying the night's events during his walk through Regents Park when he realized that somebody was calling his name.

"John? John Watson?"

John stopped slowed his stroll to a saunter, sweeping his gaze around his immediate area out of habit. He swept right past the man flagging him down the first time, it was only on his second pass that recognized his old Bart's classmate.

"Mike Stamford, that you?" John's battle instincts drew down on taking in his old friend's kindly face.

"That's me. Took you a second, ah?" Stamford waved at his rounded figure in jest. John had learned not to notice. You didn't satisfy clients by fixating on their imperfections.

"Not long at all. How the hell are you?"

He dithered, not altogether bothered. "I got fat."

John huffed.

"I heard you were abroad getting shot at. What happened?"

"I got shot."

The truth was as always something of a mood killer, nevertheless they took it in stride, opting to get coffee from the Criterion on Stamford's wallet. They talked quietly in the interim, something Stamford was good for, quiet and light chatter, thoughtfulness. Now John knew him for more. An inspired wife, aimless yet inoffensive children, an understated love for teaching the thick-headed young. John didn't envy the man his life, but didn't think it could have happened to a worthier bloke.

And then it was John's turn at the chokey.

"What about you? Just staying in town while you're getting yourself sorted?

John scoffed, wishing though he might. Nothing lasts forever, not luck, not good health, not secrecy. "I can't afford London on an army pension." Not untrue.

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else."

Not when this is where I've got my second wind. I've got a reason to roll over rather than wallow. London's in my blood now.

Stamford offered the usual platitudes and they didn't bother John so much when he knew his own words were twisted for a lie. He'd have to come up with something one of these days to remain above board in the eyes of his colleagues and the law. One of these days, right.

"Can't Harry help?"

"Not bloody likely."

"I don't know, can't you get a flatshare or something?"

John laughed, more than a bit knowingly. "Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike chuckled.

John looked to him, wondering what joke he'd missed. His head was in the next evening with the next client already. "What?"

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today."

John thought it over and made a gut choice. His life was unlikely to change any other way, he decided and asked, "Who was the first?"

Following a short ride up to St. Bart's, Mike introduced John to the most attractive man he'd ever seen. So much so that John had to wonder whether his old friend had him figured out, after all, because if Sherlock Holmes wasn't a high-roller's prize pet he was clearly dressed for the wrong line of work.

He already had John's phone in his possession by the time the main attraction truly got underway.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"I'm sorry?" He didn't sputter. John didn't sputter, not in his nature, but he did get terribly confused.

"Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?" the taller, younger man repeated, and it was absolutely no help.

He let his gaze slide to Mike, knowing he must have looked increasingly alarmed, in response to which Mike merely smirked like bleeding Eros or Cupid. It's not too late for me to kill you. I have the gun and everything, don't tempt me. Sherlock Holmes was about as much as John could stand and they had met all of forty-five seconds before.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you—" John's reply was drowned out by the sound of Holmes's 'Molly' arriving with his coffee. John didn't have to turn his head to know who he meant. In fact, John suddenly knew a bit too much about the inner-working of two people in the room. Molly Hooper, hopelessly smitten, and Sherlock Holmes, either dreadfully clueless or decidedly cruel. He hadn't known the man long enough to be sure where his money would lie best. In all honesty, he couldn't say he wanted to.

John took back his phone and thought of how he might make his current living situation a bit more liveable. His finances were such that he could probably swing things a bit longer if he had to, particularly if he took on a couple of additional clients.

All the same, he had his hands full here with Sherlock Holmes, who'd found Molly's makeup alterations lacking and had no compunction about saying as much. Though she hadn't so much as glanced at him, nor he at her, he pitied her a bit. She was scarcely the wilting violet she played for Holmes, but she wasn't made of sturdiest stuff outside her bedroom door. It made John shift on his feet, unsure whether he should say something, as though someone had spoken the safe word and gone unheeded. This is not going well, which was so incredibly apparent it bore thinking in detail only to the smallest degree.

Molly scarpered off with her tattered composure, leaving John to watch her go, somewhat certain he'd hear from her before the day was finished. She'd hardly noticed he was there, or Mike for that matter, he doubted she'd had eyes for anyone bar Holmes the entire time she'd been in the lab. May be able to stick the old flat a bit longer, then.

"How do you feel about the violin?" asked the man in the tailored suit with the wind-swept hair and an ease with the lab equipment which John envied, if only for the steadiness of his hands.

"I'm sorry, what?" This must be how a broken clock feels, telling the same time, no matter the hour. Bewildered was the word that came to mind. He was bewildered and bemused and agog—and he really needed to spend less time perusing his thesaurus, it was driving him round the twist.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes, I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worse about each other." Holmes capped it off with a smile so glaringly disingenuous that John was seized by the urge to bring him to heel. This is becoming my response to everything. Ought to mention that to Ella. Unlikely. Professional hazard of a part-time Dom. He'd be the world's mouthiest sub. Irene would love him.

Everything between that grin and Holmes's departure was beyond John to make any sense of. What he knew with unshakable certitude was that he'd like to strangle Mike Stamford with his bare hands. Holmes was imperious, arrogant, and more perceptive than any single man had the right to be. If he didn't know what John was up to, he'd figure it out quick and that was the last thing John needed. But more than that, right now, what he needed was another place to stay and it looked like Baker Street was down to be it.

Riding crop? He carries a riding crop. While looking like someone's kept boy moonlighting as a strict Dom, John had to note. Maybe their lines of work weren't so divergent after all.

He must have looked as dazed as he felt, because Mike grinned the same grin he had when suggesting they spend the week preceding finals in Paris in lieu of formal study. They just managed to hoof it home late on the night before. Like many things, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. This didn't even seem like a bright idea now.

Mike only smiled wider. "Yeah, he's always like that."