A/N: Biscuits and chocolate and egg nog for kate221b and sevenpercent!
They hadn't planned this gathering, but it felt right. More than right, actually. It felt … good.
John sighed. Even though he knew that Sherlock was alive – had figured out that Sherlock's suicide was a fake, had had it confirmed by both Molly and Mycroft – even though heknew that Sherlock was alive somewhere, doing God knows what – feeling good was elusive. Sitting here, though, in Mrs. Hudson's flat with Greg and Molly and Mrs. H, on the anniversary of the fall … it was fantastic.
Molly was conflicted, he could tell. She was so very glad to be included in their group, but also nervous, given what she knew. And what she had done. And everything was becoming even more complicated for her given the relationship that was clearly growing between her and Greg Lestrade.
John appreciated how she felt. He hadn't always known that Sherlock's suicide was faked, but now that he did, he understood that the knowledge must be kept hidden. Sherlock had faked his death for a reason, and though Molly didn't know – and Mycroft would not reveal – what it might be, John knew that the reason must be important. He allowed his own actions to be guided by Sherlock's unknown plan, kept his knowledge of the man's survival to himself, and stretched his acting abilities to their limits.
John moved to where Molly sat on the sofa and reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him and smiled a grateful, wavering smile.
"Can he actually cook?" he asked, nodding slightly toward the kitchen.
Mrs. Hudson had put a roast in the slow cooker before she and John had gone to visit Sherlock's grave. It was to have been dinner for the two of them, but they'd met Molly and Greg there and had insisted that they come back to Baker street for tea. Mrs. Hudson had fretted a bit about not having quite enough food for everyone, and Greg had volunteered to help her throw together a few more side dishes for the meal.
"I'm sure I wouldn't know," Molly replied, ducking her head to hide a faint blush.
"Well, you've not called in sick with food poisoning yet, so that has to be a good sign," John said in a stage whisper.
"I heard that, you git," Greg said, coming out to the sitting room.
"You were supposed to," John laughed.
"Have you got any milk upstairs?"
"Yes, I think so. Help yourself."
He saw Greg catch Molly's eyes before he smiled and headed up to 221B to raid the refrigerator.
"Are you happy, Molly?" he asked quietly.
"Honestly, John, I'm too scared to be happy," she answered. "When he … when he finds out … "
"He will understand, Molly. We'll make him understand," John murmured, hoping he was right. "I will kill the arrogant twat for putting you in this position."
"Shins, John. Kick him in the shins," she said with a laugh, but sobered again quickly. "He couldn't have known, John. Not about, well, this. Not about Greg."
"I wouldn't put it past him," John countered with a smile.
"Is he still …?" she didn't finish the question.
"Mycroft promised to tell me if … well. No news is good news, yeah?"
"Good, then. That's. That's really good."
"John," Mrs. Hudson called, "would you mind opening the wine?"
"Of course, Mrs. Hudson," John nodded to Molly and moved to take the wine bottle from his landlady.
Greg returned with the milk and a few other bits he'd appropriated from the fridge upstairs and moved to the stove. Molly joined them in the kitchen, standing next to Greg, her hand resting lightly on his back. John watched them, smiling.
John poured the wine and handed glasses around.
"I've always liked cooking with wine," Greg said as he accepted his glass and took a drink.
"Greg," Molly remonstrated, laughing and moving away. "Shall I lay the table?"
"Oh, thank you, dear," Mrs Hudson replied, indicating the cupboard.
John handed down the dishes and Molly moved to the table. John followed with the silverware. By the time they'd finished setting the table, Greg and Mrs. Hudson were bringing out the food.
They ate, and laughed, and drank, and smiled. And they told stories, reminding each other of the mischief their lost friend had gotten into. It might have been maudlin, but it wasn't.
"A toast," Greg said, raising his glass. "To our beloved sociopath, Sherlock Holmes."
John caught Greg's eye across the table and mouthed 'Beloved?' at him, grinning.
Mrs. Hudson gave Greg a light smack on the arm. "He was no such thing," she chided.
"What, beloved?" Greg asked, joking.
"Oh, you!" Mrs. Hudson laughed. "You know very well that he was not a sociopath. That man felt as much and as deeply as everyone else does. He certainly loved you!"
"Oh, no, Mrs. Hudson," Greg replied, chuckling. "He tolerated me because I he found me useful. He was fond of Molly, and he adored you, that's certain. John, though ... John he loved, no doubt," he smirked at John, who threw him a mock scowl in reply.
"Don't take that tone when you speak of love," Mrs Hudson scolded. "It's beautiful, and not deserving of mockery."
"Not mocking, Mrs Hudson. Teasing, maybe. Jesting. It's expected of British blokes, isn't it?"
Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes and gave a dramatic, long suffering sigh.
"Idiots, all of you. Sniggering schoolboys who've never grown up, caught between trying to look tough in front of your mates, and wanting to ask that pretty girl for a date. Such bravado. Cowards. So afraid of the word. Did none of you ever learn that love doesn't mean sex?"
Greg choked on a mouthful of wine. John felt his face heating and tried not to squirm in his seat. A dinner conversation with Mrs Hudson that included sex was far to reminiscent of his mother sitting him down for 'the talk' when he'd been a teen.
"Ridiculous," Mrs Hudson continued, seeing their reactions. She turned to John, "That you two loved each other was so obvious, even the blind could see it. But you never said it, either of you. Such a waste. What would it have hurt for you two to have said the words?"
Her question was sincere, but her tone was merry. That was all that saved him from falling back on embarrassed protestations. Instead, he smiled and rolled his eyes.
"Too much sentiment, Mrs Hudson," he laughed. "Sherlock was more allergic to it than most blokes."
"John Hamish Watson," Mrs Hudson rebuked mock sternly.
John's jaw dropped in shock at the use of his full name in the tone of a disappointed parent. Across the table Greg was grinning broadly while Molly tried to stifle her giggles behind her hand.
"What? How?"
"It was on your rental paperwork, dear. Sherlock wasn't the only one able to 'observe'," she laughed.
"Of course," John agreed.
"Go on, then, John," Greg teased. "Admit it."
"Admit what, you berk?" his tone of weary resignation belied by his small smile.
"That you loved each other."
"He loved you, too, Greg," Mrs Hudson insisted
"Mrs. Hudson," Greg said, the amusement in his tone his layered with affection and patience "How much regard could the prat have had for me if he couldn't be bothered to learn my name?"
"Bollocks," Mrs Hudson declared.
John was so taken aback by her crude language that he knocked over the wineglass his hand had been seeking. He threw his napkin down quickly, trying to sop up the mess. Molly hurried to help him, while Greg sat gaping like a fish. Mrs Hudson laughed and told John not to mind the mess, handing him the wine bottle so he could refill his glass.
"Of course he knew your name, Gregory Eoin Lestrade," she continued when they'd recovered.
"Okay," Greg pronounced slowly, clearly perplexed. "You got John's name from his rental agreement. Where did you get mine?"
"The same place Sherlock did, dear. Your ID badges. Which reminds me, I think I've got another one or two around here somewhere. They keep popping up. He hid them everywhere."
"Cost me a small fortune in replacing the damned things," Greg growled. "But that's not proof that he knew my name. When I showed up in Baskerville, he accused me of being his 'handler', and calling myself Greg in order to be incognito. He didn't know it was my name."
"As I recall from reading John's blog, Greg, he wasn't pleased to see you," Mrs Hudson said. "Didn't you say, John, that Sherlock thought Mycroft had sent him?"
"Yes, he did think that."
"And he wasn't far wrong," Greg put in. "Mycroft did suggest that I drop by to look in on things. Arranged for my leave to be extended another couple days. Didn't 'send' me there or anything, though, actually, even Mycroft's suggestions tend to be orders."
"And you don't think that maybe he was winding you up, pretending not to know your name?"
"I don't know, Mrs. Hudson," Greg said, his tone laced with doubt.
"Oh, please. That man raised churlish behavior to an art form. He'd try to find some way to ruffle your feathers to punish you for the perceived crime of being Mycroft's proxy."
"That does sound like something he would have done," Molly agreed.
"It does, actually," Greg conceded. "All right, fine. He liked me. And I liked him, mad bastard that he was. He was my friend."
The atmosphere at the table had sobered with Greg's admission, and they sat in an uncomfortable silence. Then Greg cleared his throat and shot John a grin.
"Your turn, mate."
"You're not going to let this go, are you?" John asked heavily.
"Nope," Greg responded.
"You wrote it all over that blog of yours, John," Mrs Hudson commented. "Right from the first entry with the pink lady and the cabbie. Though perhaps," she said, trailing off lightly and shooting a worried glance toward Greg, "I ought not to have brought that up."
"Don't fret, Mrs Hudson," Greg said, catching her look and laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I know absolutely nothing about John's illegal gun or his remarkable aim. The mysteries of the cabbie's shooter, and the origin of the bullet holes in the wall upstairs, will forever remain unsolved, I'm afraid."
"Sherlock shot the wall," John protested.
"You should have hidden the gun better," Mrs Hudson admonished. "Though I'd happily hand it to him and hang a target, if he were only here to shoot it. Such a ridiculous man," she sighed. "I miss him. Barmy git."
John chuckled at the affectionate tone she used to curse Sherlock. He completely understood.
"I do, too," he agreed, reaching to take her hand and give it a sympathetic squeeze.
"You loved him," she said gently.
"I suppose I … did," John replied, finally.
Greg snickered, earning himself a glare from Mrs Hudson. John watched as Greg tried to school his face into an innocent expression and chuckled at the result. His eyes slid to Molly, expecting her to be similarly amused by Greg's efforts. Her expression made his heart ache.
Molly looked shattered. Hearing his admission, and knowing that Sherlock was alive, having left John behind, had obviously added to her feelings of guilt.
"Molly," he said softly, locking eyes with her and not letting her look away. "He was the most observant man on the planet. He knew."
John could feel the concerned look Greg was sending Molly, and the confusion Mrs Hudson was directing his way. He ignored them and gave Molly a puckish smile.
"Your shins might be in danger," he said.
She chuckled at that, managing a watery smile. Picking up her nearly empty wineglass, she held it up for a toast.
"To Sherlock," she said firmly. "Absent from our presence, but not from our hearts."