As Greg re-entered the living room at 221b, Sherlock was laid flat on the sofa, his hands crossed loosely in his lap and his eyes staring at the ceiling above him.
Greg closed his eyes briefly at the scene that looked so reminiscent of the scene he had walked in on seemingly moments before. The usually gangly, long-limbed detective looked small and frail, like a lost child.
"Sherlock?" he spoke, quietly, pulling himself together. He wouldn't be much use to Sherlock if he couldn't keep himself calm. At Sherlock's lack of response, Greg slowly approached the sofa. His eyes were drawn to the items on the coffee table. They had been slightly disturbed when the coffee table was moved (medics had pushed the table aside when they moved Sherlock on to the floor to treat him). The red velvet cloth was ruffled up, the candle, which Greg had blown out soon after finding Sherlock, was sat askew in the silver holder and the box lid was closed.
Greg did notice that the hypodermic needle itself was now absent, he assumed taken by the medical staff.
He turned to Sherlock, giving him a long, sad questioning look. Sherlock shrugged and sat forward, collecting the items from the coffee table and carefully placing them back into the black and ivory box. Closing the lid silently, he stroked the top of the box, looking at it longingly, like it pained him to do so.
He lifted the box and passed it to Greg.
Greg swallowed round a lump in his throat. Twice.
"Why, Sherlock?"
Sherlock sat back on the sofa, moving to one side, allowing Greg to sit next to him. As Greg sat, Sherlock let out a long sigh and his breathing began to quicken and shallow.
"You okay?" Greg asked, his worried face scanning Sherlock for any returning signs of drug effects. His eyes looked glazed slightly but his pupils seemed normal. His breathing didn't seem laboured, it was more as though he was...
Was Sherlock Holmes crying?
"Sherlock?" Greg asked again, placing a hand softly on the taller man's arm. "What is it?"
Sherlock closed his eyes and took another deep breath. This one more controlled, calming. He could talk to Greg, couldn't he? Greg was his friend. Greg had known him since the early days of his addiction. Greg knew everything about Sherlock. The best and the worst. Greg was one person in the world he could trust absolutely.
Yes, he decided, he could talk to Greg. But what did he say? How could he possibly broach the subject? Did Gregory Lestrade know anything about how it feels to be in love with a man? He was married - albeit not happily. But what help could he be? How on earth did he even begin to talk about it?
"I'm in love with John." he blurted out.
Oh. Well, that'd do it.
Sherlock slumped back on the sofa, curling his knees to his chest and resting his head on them.
"You're what?" Greg blinked. Sherlock just gave him an "I know you heard me" look and huffed.
"I mean, I know what you said," Greg began to justify his shocked reaction; "it's just... really? You and John? It's... well, I had no idea! I mean, guys talk, you know. He's never said anything to me. I know people make jokes and comments and stuff but... I had no idea you two were... "
"No, Greg. Not John and me." Sherlock cut him off, taking another breath before finishing. "Just me."
His voice sounded timid; gravelly; sad.
He buried his head in his knees as Greg's hand dropped from Sherlock's arm.
"Ah." The penny dropped. "Oh." Greg was clearly quite lost for words. "I see."
"So all this?" he motioned at the box, which was sat in his own lap, "This is what?"
Sherlock looked up at Greg. "Me trying to forget." he answered as if it was the most natural and obvious answer in the world, and he dropped his head down again.
"Forget?" Greg wasn't getting it. "Why would you want to forget?" He stopped, pausing as if something had just dawned on him.
"Wait." he began. "Have you even said anything to John?"
Sherlock sighed and lifted his head again.
He raised an eyebrow at Greg's ridiculous suggestion. Say anything to John?
"Tell me, Greg. How would you tell your straight, out-on-a-date-with-a-woman, definitely not gay friend that you are in love with him?"
"Oh God, Sherlock." Greg shook his head. He had no idea. He had just shared a 'moment' himself with one Mycroft Holmes and had no idea what to make of that. Mycroft was... whatever Holmeses are, and Greg was married but still, there'd been something. Some sort of a connection there. He found himself thinking about it as he sat there on the sofa with a desolate Sherlock Holmes. What a completely messed up situation this all was.
"Don't tell him." Sherlock muttered, quietly. "Please." he begged.
"Tell him? Of course not, Sherlock. It's not my place to tell him. You need to speak to him. Clear the air..."
"No." Sherlock stopped him. "I mean... don't tell him about the cocaine." He uncurled his legs, stretching them out in front of the sofa as he turned to look at Greg and then lowered his eyes to the box that the DI was still cradling in his lap. "He can't know about this." He laid his hand on the box lid, his eyes closing as if those actions alone calmed him.
Greg placed his hand on top of Sherlock's.
"Ah, right. No. Ok, I won't, of course. I suspect Mycroft doesn't wish John to know either." He wondered, not really sure of that but knowing how Holmes men are for keeping family issues under wraps.
"But Sherlock, you have to talk to him about... the other thing." Greg tipped his head to Sherlock's face, meeting him eye to eye. "You need to talk about this."
Sherlock nodded, laying his head against Greg's shoulder.
He was tired. So very tired.