Chapter 9
Greg and John were kneeling over the body of a murdered man. His ID said his name was Daniel Kader. He died from head trauma caused by a blunt object hitting the back of his head. Said blunt object, a fire poker, was lying next to his body. It had no fingerprints on it. The man's credit cards were missing, as was a safe key he carried around in his wallet. They knew these were missing because the slots in his wallet labeled 'credit cards' and 'safe key' were missing.
Mr. Kader, it seemed, had a bit of a memory problem. His shoes were labeled 'right' and 'left', and he had an extensive address book in his coat pocket, next to his cell phone. The assumption so far was that he had something of value in a safe (duh. What else would you keep in a safe, gym socks?) and the criminal wanted it, and so had murdered him and stolen the key.
Greg was not entirely convinced. "That sort of makes sense, but why would the murderer steal his credit cards? How does that fit?"
John's forehead wrinkled. "I dunno. Um, to throw us of the track, maybe?"
"Isn't it obvious?" asked a deep, cold voice from behind them. "Whatever's in this safe is valuable enough to kill for. Why would it be protected by just one key? The answer: it wasn't. The safe was double-locked; you need both the key and a combination to open it. This man has notes everywhere, but not one of them is for his safe combination. He's obviously very forgetful, and forgetful people try to have as few things as possible to remember. So, he keeps all his combinations the same. He has to remember his credit card number anyway, so he sets his different accounts up so that's the only number he needs. Even you, Lestrade, could surely have figured that out. The murderer has all that he needs to open the safe. I hope you've got his address."
During this tirade of logic, both Greg and John had whirled around, and were staring, open-mouthed, at the intruder.
"Sherlock?" John whispered, the color draining from his face, "You're alive."
Sherlock Holmes, alive and well, arched one eyebrow. "So it seems."
John swayed a bit, and Greg gripped his shoulder, steadying him. "Do you need to sit down?"
John shook his head. "No. I'm alright."
"Okay..." Greg hesitated. "I'll go get you a cup of water. I could use one myself, actually."
"No, I'll get it." John smiled. "I'm sure you two want to be all detective-y." He turned and walked off.
The moment John was out of sight, Greg turned to Sherlock and punched him as hard as he could in the face. Sherlock stumbled backwards, rubbing his jaw. "What was that for?" he asked.
"Three years," Greg growled. "You were gone three years!John completely fell apart. How could you do something like that to him?" Greg bit back the words I thought you loved him as much as I do, though he wasn't sure why.
"I... I thought he'd be alright." Sherlock seemed entirely taken aback by this turn of events. "I thought he'd get over it."
"Get over it? He loved you, Sherlock!" Greg's eyes started to water, so he turned away, and mumbling "I'd better check that address," stormed off in the direction of the cars.
For the rest of the day, Greg managed to avoid talking to Sherlock. He tried talking to John, but the uncertainty was too great for either of them. The fact of the matter was, John would soon have to chose between his two detectives, a fact that was obvious to everyone present, with the possible exception of Sherlock himself. One never could know what Sherlock knew.
Bizarrely, the safe at Mr. Kader's residence had only one lock, and, when Sherlock picked it, still had all of its contents intact (they checked the objects they found in the safe against a list of Mr. Kader's, and everything checked out). Sherlock had some idea of what was going on, but refused to tell Greg. Instead, he ran off into the gathering darkness, dragging a not-unwilling John with him. As there was no point in remaining, Greg dismissed his team and went home.
He was about to turn in when he got the call. John's ring tone jangled from his coat pocket. Greg nearly let it go to his answering machine, but changed his mind at the last minute, and flicked the phone open. "Hello, John," he said, trying his best to remove all emotion from his voice, though his stomach had twisted itself in a knot.
"Hi Greg. Um... I guess you probably know what I'm about to say, but, um, I'd better say it anyway." When Greg said nothing, John took a deep breath and continued. "So, um, I guess this is kind of awful of me, but..."
"You choose him." Greg's voice shook, despite all his best efforts. "You choose Sherlock."
"Well, um, yes, actually. I'm sorr-"
"Don't be. I understand. Go, be happy with him. You never promised me anything. I..." Greg took a deep, shuddering breath. "I want you to do whatever makes you happy."
"Thank you, Greg! I knew you'd understand! And I am sorry." John hesitated a moment longer, and than said "See you later," and hung up.
Greg, who had been standing with his back to the wall, slid down it so his knees were tucked up to his chest. He did not cry. He did not yell, or throw things. He simply sat and stared at the far wall until night turned into day, and he had to get up and go to work.
A/N: Yes, I know I'm a terrible person. Don't hate me!
