Greg was confused by Sherlock's taking a flatmate, but he said absolutely nothing to deter the man when he mentioned it around lunchtime when he called Sherlock into Scotland Yard to give a statement about the case with the woman who had been put on the ceiling using at least seven different adhesive devices by the younger brother who owned a green ladder. He was thrilled that his brother-in-law was branching out. The man had never been a particularly social creature, and in the five years that Greg had known him he had no recollection of Sherlock having any relationships outside of family and work. He had to work incredibly hard to get Sherlock to accept his presence in his life. Mycroft had told Greg what happened while Sherlock was at university after Greg met his parents but not his younger brother. The story had filled Greg with rage. He had looked up Victor Trevor and Sebastian Wilkes to see if there was any dirt that he could use against either one of them, but their records were – rather unfortunately – squeaky clean.
He couldn't get any information out of Sherlock other than the fact that the man was a doctor who had been discharged from the army because of an injury he sustained while he was in Afghanistan. Greg knew that Sherlock had deduced much more than that from the few minutes they had spent together, but he didn't press because he knew that would agitate Sherlock. Greg had made a point to ask the man's name, and though Sherlock suspected what he was going to do with that information and clearly didn't like the prospect of his brother-in-law looking the man up (which would inevitably lead to Mycroft looking the man up), he gave it to him anyways.
Greg found nothing on John Watson. He had lived a fairly vanilla life if you didn't count the fact that he enlisted in the Army and did three tours of duty in Afghanistan. He had no criminal record whatsoever. No drunken or disorderly conduct, no drug use, not even shoplifting as a kid. John Watson had one of the cleanest records that Greg had ever seen. Not totally fooled, he picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number.
"Gregory, love." Mycroft's voice was cooling and Greg felt considerably less stressed by just hearing the man's voice.
"I need a favor," Greg said without any prompting.
Mycroft chuckled. "Darling, you know that abusing our relationship could get both of us in trouble."
"Hush," Greg whispered playfully into the phone. "It isn't for me. Let's just say I'm giving you a head start on something that you'll be dealing with most likely within the next few hours. I need you to look up whatever you can on John Watson."
"A rather common name, Gregory. Do you have any other qualifiers for me?" Greg could hear the phone shift so it was being cradled between Mycroft's ear and shoulder, then the unmistakable sound of rapid typing followed.
"Army doctor, fresh out of Afghanistan," Greg said simply. "I'll let you figure out why you need this guy, but his criminal record over here is completely clean. If there was anything, I know you would have it."
"Indeed," Mycroft said thoughtfully. The typing paused and Greg knew that this was his cue to get off of the phone. If there was something classified in John Watson's file and Mycroft so much as hinted at something more there, both he and Greg could be in serious trouble – Greg for hearing whatever was so secret and Mycroft for betraying that there was a secret.
"I'll leave you to it, then," Greg sighed. "I'll see you tonight, love."
"Until later, Gregory." The line went dead, and Greg hung up with a sigh. He had a feeling that, with a record as clean as his was John Watson would not be a threat to Sherlock's safety. It was the way that the man had spoken about his potential flatmate that had worried Greg. He had sounded… Greg wished that there was another word for it, but enchanted was what came to mind. He shook his head. John Watson was nothing more than another puzzle for Sherlock to solve. Perhaps there was something about the fact that the man was a trained healer who made his living in a profession known mostly for protecting British citizens during times of violent conflict that intrigued his brother-in-law. He didn't have much time to reflect on what could have caused Sherlock to act this way because Sally Donovan shook him out of his reverie by knocking on the doorframe leading into his office.
"Another one of those suicides, sir," she sighed, exasperated. "Lauriston Gardens, this time."
The fourth of its kind, Greg shook his head. Serial suicides were almost worse than a serial killer because there were no clues left behind and no obvious motivator behind why these people were killing themselves. He headed to the crime scene, but it was soon obvious that he needed Sherlock's help. He was loathe to break up the meeting between the two men, but things were getting out of hand and his team was getting nowhere. He left a few officers in charge and then drove over to Baker Street, where Sherlock and John Watson were talking in the sitting area of the flat.
He hadn't expected John to go along with Sherlock. There was no doubt that the man had a bad case of PTSD, the way that he jumped at the slightest noises and the way that he paled a bit at seeing a dead body. Greg had to give him credit though – he clenched his jaw and gripped his cane a bit tighter, then he moved towards the body when Sherlock asked, his only hesitation being when he deferred to Greg to see if it was okay for him to take a look at the woman who was dressed completely in pink.
Greg felt a bit sorry for John when Sherlock took off after some revelation involving the color pink that no one else understood. He knew that Mycroft knew what was going on, but he fired off a quick text telling him just where John Watson would be headed in case he wanted to pick the man up for a quick chat about Sherlock.
The first thing that Mycroft noticed about John Watson was that he was small. Not just in height, but everything else about him seemed small. The man was so traumatized by being sent home from the war (not from the war, like everyone around him thought) that he had curled in upon himself and now the man's very presence was tiny. Mycroft was sure that it had been much larger when he was an active member of the military with a purpose in his life. That suspicion was confirmed the more that Mycroft spoke with the man. He wasn't backing down from Mycroft, which was a rather impressive feat. Between the setting of their meeting, the manner that Dr. Watson was brought there, and Mycroft's general demeanor, the man should have been terrified. Instead, he refused the offer of much needed funds that Mycroft had tried to make and he challenged almost everything that Mycroft had said to him.
As he reentered the car and drove away, Mycroft dialed his partner's number. "My dear," he drawled, concentrating on the umbrella in his hand. "I believe that Sherlock has struck gold."
Planning the drugs bust was simple. The part that made him cringe was the worry on Mrs. Hudson's face, the shock on John's, and (most of all) the shame on Sherlock's. Perhaps it was just because Sherlock hadn't had many acquaintances in his life, but he seemed to be cottoning on to John Watson very quickly as if he were afraid of losing the man. Greg was going to pull Sherlock to the side once everyone had cleared out, but he didn't get a chance to do that because the idiot darted off and got into a cab with a serial killer. That wasn't anything unusual. What was unusual was the way that Sherlock was shielding his eyes from the bright flashing lights of the sirens.
"That's the problem with being new to seeing color," he said casually, sitting down next to Sherlock at the back of the ambulance. "New stimuli can be a bit overwhelming."
"I'm not seeing color, Lestrade," Sherlock sighed, clearly put out that he had to wear the shock blanket when he definitely wasn't in shock.
"I've known you for five years, Sherlock Holmes. Don't think you can lie to me." Sherlock had nothing to say to that. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"He's color blind," Sherlock mumbled. "He doesn't know."
Greg's stomach clenched. Of all of the people to have unnecessary rotten luck with color blindness, Sherlock was the last person who needed it. What Victor had done to Sherlock made his blood boil. Greg was the oldest of seven and he was protective of anyone who needed a little bit of help around him. Ever since he had met Sherlock Greg had felt a sense of kinship towards him. Even before the man had woken up and told Greg his name, he was planning on making the offer of rehab or prison to the young junkie. Knowing that Sherlock had finally found his soul mate and the man wasn't able to tell that it was him made Greg want to hug the younger man and not let go for a long time.
Instead of grabbing him, Greg patted Sherlock's knee and stood up. "Well you'd better start proving it to him, hadn't you?"
Sherlock gaped up at him. "But I have to find your killer."
"Sod that." Greg pulled the shock blanket off of Sherlock's shoulders. "Whoever it was killed a serial killer. We can deal with that tomorrow. For now, go make sure he moves in with you and start working your charms on him."
Sherlock stood. "Thank you," he said quietly. Then he looked directly into Greg's eyes and said severely, "Don't tell Mycroft."
"He'll know by looking at you the next time you see him," Greg laughed. "Now go. Your exercise in convincing a color blind man that he's your soul mate begins now." He nodded over to the police line where John Watson was waiting just outside the barrier pretending not to look over at them.
Sherlock's face was uncharacteristically blank when he bounded off to the barrier to see John. Greg smiled at in their direction, then went back to work until he saw a generic black car pull up just outside the barrier and a little ways away from where Sherlock and John were standing.
John Watson was confused. Mycroft could see the concern etched in the man's face. He smiled very slightly at the man in a way that was meant to be somewhat frightening and off-putting for the smaller man. Sherlock obviously hadn't told John who Mycroft was so he was left to wonder why his new flatmate was so casually speaking with someone Sherlock named as his arch-enemy. It was worth it to see the surprise on John's face when Sherlock identified him as his brother.
There was something different about his brother though. A change had taken place that Mycroft knew about from experience. The first time he had stepped out into the sunlight after being able to see color he had to turn around and walk back into the building. As stupid as he would look, he had to holler for someone to bring him some sunglasses so his eyes didn't feel like they were going to burn out of his head. It took him some time to get used to the sun. Sherlock was lucky that the day had been so disgustingly overcast, but that luck ran out when he had to surround himself with emergency vehicles that all had their sirens flashing.
He gave Sherlock a small but significant smile. Well done, little brother, it said. Well done indeed.
Greg meandered over to when Sherlock and John were speaking with Mycroft. His partner spotted him as he ducked under the police tape and he offered a smile to the man.
"Hello," Greg said genially. "Everything alright over here? These two have a tendency to snipe endlessly at each other when they're left with someone who isn't experienced in supervising a Holmes brother. I swear, they act like they're six," he said to John with a sideways glance at Mycroft and a wink at him. "I see you've met my soul mate-" Sherlock shot him a glare when he emphasized those two words "-and Sherlock's older brother. Tell me, did he try to bribe you earlier? Get you to spy on Sherlock for some exorbitant sum of money?"
"Dr. Watson didn't even want to hear the offer, my dear," Mycroft drawled.
"Idiot. We could have split the fee," Sherlock growled, clearly frustrated with the lack of extra income that he would no doubt blow on items that would make their flat almost inhabitable.
"Oh brother dear," Mycroft said with a twirl of his umbrella. "You know that all you need to do is ask if you want more formaldehyde."
"I don't need your help!" Sherlock spat. "John and I are going to get dinner. Lestrade, I'll text you in the morning about the shooter. Mycroft, do try not to start any wars before I get home. You know what it does for traffic." With a flourish of that great, dramatic coat he so loved, Sherlock was off down the street at a fairly brisk pace.
When John made to move after him, Greg called out, "Dr. Watson, wait."
"John, please," the man said with a friendly smile.
"Of course." Greg reached into the breast pocket of Mycroft's jacket and pulled out a pen and a little notebook. Mycroft gave a dignified huff at the action. Greg scribbled his number down on a sheet of notebook paper and thrust it at the man. "In case you need a pint. He's my family and I love him, but you're going to need a breather every so often from that lanky git."
John pocketed the number with a smile. "I'll do that, thanks."
"Be prepared for me to call you when I need a respite from this one," he added as he replaced the items in Mycroft's pocket and patted him on his pectoral once they were snug in his jacket once again.
"I'll keep it in mind. It was a pleasure meeting you both. I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot more of each other." John then turned and jogged off to Sherlock, who was waiting anxiously a little ways down the sidewalk past the crowd of curious bystanders who had gathered around the scene.
"Do you often need a break from me?" Mycroft asked, wrapping his arm around Greg's waist.
"Nah, just when you're being a bit of a twat," Greg replied with a smile, leaning his head on Mycroft's shoulder and threading an arm through Mycroft's. "Think they'll be alright?"
"I shouldn't have any confidence in Sherlock when it comes to matters of the human heart, but I have a strange feeling that he'll manage to convince the good doctor that they're meant to be together."
"You soppy thing," Greg said as he pressed a kiss to Mycroft's neck. "Careful not to say that within earshot of him. He may actually think you care about him."
"I'll be certain to exercise caution in the future when dealing with such matters."
The stood like that for another minute before Greg pulled away with a reluctant sigh. "I've got to get back. It looks like this was our serial suicide guy, and we really have nothing to go on with whoever shot him. Between finding the shooter and the paperwork from the dead killer, I'm most likely not going to make it home tonight."
"I figured. I came over here with the intent of seeing you and not vexing my brother or scaring his other half. That was just an added perk." He kissed Greg quickly and as he climbed back into his car he called out, "Don't be home too late tomorrow. You're an absolute bear when you don't sleep and I would hate for you to take it out on your team."
"Dick," Greg said fondly. With that, he turned and returned to the crime scene thinking of how lucky he was and how much he hoped that Sherlock would be able to convince John that he saw color because that man walked into the room.