When John invited Sherlock home for Thanksgiving, he didn't expect Sherlock to be surprised. I mean, wasn't it obvious? They had to leave the dorms for the week. Sherlock had nowhere to go. He and John were pretty much inseparable at this point. Of course Sherlock would come home with him.

But Sherlock had stared at John for a long, long moment. In fact, he'd dropped an eyeball into a cup of tea and then proceeded to drink from said cup.

"Surprisingly okay," he'd called the brew.

Sherlock then started to ask what the exact point of Thanksgiving was, since celebrating the hostile takeover of someone else's land hardly seemed cause for celebration. John then explained that the holiday actually had nothing to do with that—that it was a time to slow down, get together with the people you loved, and appreciate all the good things in your life.

"It's got all the familial love of Christmas without the materialism," John summed up.

"Unless you count gluttony as a form of materialism," Sherlock noted.

John rolled his eyes. "You don't have to stuff your face."

"But that's customary, isn't it?"

"Well. Yes, but don't we always ruin the point of holidays? That's just what people do."

John really couldn't tell what Sherlock thought of going home with him. After he got over the original shock, he was as indifferent about the trip to John's hometown as he was every other thing that didn't involve a corpse.

In fact, the only thing he'd asked John about the place was what the crime rate was like. At which point Sherlock had to be sorely disappointed.

Greg wasn't sure he'd ever seen Sherlock genuinely sleep before. He was openly staring at Sherlock, who was in the passenger seat seemingly passed out. He didn't look comfortable though—his head didn't loll to the side and his mouth didn't hang open. He sat up straight and breathed quietly, but wasn't restless enough to be awake—hadn't complained of boredom for almost an hour. Had to be sleeping.

"What're you looking at, Greg?" asked John.

John was driving, but he was pretty bad about actually paying attention to the road. He noticed way too much about what was going on around him for Greg's taste.

But Greg didn't mention it at this moment. "Just Sherlock. Never seen him asleep before."

John's eyes met Greg's in the rearview. "Seriously? Never? Not in almost twenty years?"

"He just doesn't like to sleep," Greg muttered. "God if I know why. Let me know if you ever figure it out."

"You know him better than I do," John said. "I've known him four months."

"I've known him his whole life and no I don't."

This time John did look out the windshield, but it seemed to be more to ponder intensely than it was to drive.

"How is it that Sherlock is so stupid about some things?"

Greg looked back at him, since he'd been staring at Sherlock. "He has a knack for it. What thing are you referring to?"

"He still thinks you hate him when it's so clear that you care about him."

The corner of Greg's mouth quirked up. "I've told him myself that I like him. He just refuses to remember it."

"I'd understand if you did hate him. Sherlock's told me a thing or two about how he's treated you. I wouldn't blame you if you pretended you still hated him out of pride."

Greg snorted. "Pride isn't an issue of mine. I know when someone knows better than me, and usually Sherlock does. I'm not afraid to tell people what I really think, even if it's embarrassing."

"That's a good quality."

"Well. Sometimes." There was a long pause. "In fact, I really should thank Sherlock. If he hadn't have told me about my wife, I'd probably still be with her. I might still be trying to maintain long dead friendships, I might've kept trying to reconcile with my dad or kept calling my brother on holidays. What Sherlock said was cruel, but it was a wakeup call that I needed. And I don't regret the things that have happened that brought me here."

"It takes a strong man not to hold a grudge for something like that."

"Don't act like you wouldn't do the same," Greg said.

John smiled, glancing over at Sherlock. "Well. I'm better at handling this one than most, it seems."

Greg somehow kept from rolling his eyes. John was sitting there talking about how stupid Sherlock was about some things when he was the king of denial. Anyone could see—

Greg's mobile buzzed and he knew it was Mycroft. They had always corresponded a lot so he knew Sherlock was behaving, but they'd been talking more lately. Greg knew Mycroft didn't prefer to text, but when it came to hiding their communications from his nosey brother, he made an exception. They only dared talk on the phone during the infrequent times Greg was alone in his room and knew Sherlock was sleeping.

Off to celebrate Thanksgiving? – Mycroft Holmes

Seems so.

John's hometown, I presume. – Mycroft Holmes

Mycroft always talked about John like he knew him.

Then again, Greg shuddered to know the amount Mycroft had dug up about John. And the poor bastard didn't even know Mycroft existed.

Sometimes Greg wondered whether it was actually best to hide the truth from John. He obviously would never tell anyone their secret. But it was Sherlock's idea to keep hiding it from him, and since it was his royal secret, it was his decision. Greg had asked why on several occasions, but he refused to answer.

"You know he cares about you too, right?" John asked Greg. "He'd never admit it, but he does."

Greg chuckled. "Before we came here, I wasn't sure Sherlock was capable of caring about anything. So the fact that I almost believe you says a lot."

"Sherlock's always cared."

"No he hasn't," Greg assured John. "He wasn't secretly a softy that you pulled out of his shell. His insides weren't soft until you melted them." Greg almost mentioned the fact that Sherlock used to use men as sexual objects but that he hadn't even mentioned going to pick up a quick fuck since he and John became friends. But he thought that would be too obvious—if John wanted to be in denial, Greg would let him.

John looked thoughtful for a moment before he started to don a cheeky grin. "Wow, Greg, I never knew you were a poet."

Greg leaned back in his seat. "Oh, shut it, John. Why don't you look at the road for once?"

Greg and Mycroft continued to exchange small talk. Greg asked about the diet, Mycroft asked if Greg had finished that book he suggested. They even were a little flirty occasionally and sometimes Greg thought about how ridiculous it was—he was flirting with the Crown Prince of Denmark. He, just an ordinary bloke, was casually hitting on a future King. It was ludicrous and still didn't feel strange at all.

But then Mycroft changed the subject completely.

Gregory, I feel I should confess something to you, so you aren't caught completely by surprise. But you mustn't tell Sherlock. – Mycroft Holmes

Okay…

Greg looked up at John while he waited for the response. John was looking at Sherlock again and thought he was being sly.

And then his phone buzzed and he read the text.

And he looked back up at John. Sherlock, at that exact moment, opened his eyes and caught John staring. John turned beet red and turned to the road (finally) and Sherlock just looked at him with a warm smile. And kept looking at him. And kept smiling.

And Greg glanced back down at the text one more time and realised… this was not good.