Sherlock did not, as Mycroft had predicted, destroy the upholstery in the second study (which the household now referred to as "headquarters"). He did, however, create his own precious corner of meticulously organized chaos. Mycroft's fastidious decoration and organization had been eschewed in favor of a more eclectic arrangement. It involved a lot of things (newspaper clippings, pictures, surveillance photos, maps, seemingly insignificant advertisements and notes) being pinned to the walls, a system of intricately mapped diagrams, and the accumulation of stacks of papers, books, and files piled on any available surface (including, and especially) the floor. It was rather difficult to navigate your way through the room without doing an elaborate dance to avoid tripping and landing on your face.
Sherlock certainly put the red string and thumb tacks that Greg had procured to good use. Though the filing system didn't make much sense to Greg, he nevertheless understood that it was part of Sherlock's process and could be expounded upon at length by the consulting detective if requested. The room was, additionally, densely populated with smoke. Sherlock had unabashedly fallen off of the "smoke free" bandwagon and the smell of nicotine lingered cloyingly in the air. It never had the opportunity to dissipate as Sherlock steadily and constantly worked his way through carton after carton as he contemplated the next phase of his operation. The scent made Greg itch and his fingers twitched compulsively with a craving of his own.
The DI was sorely tempted. He provided cigarettes in exchange for the consumption of food. Apparently, Mycroft and Sherlock had agreed upon a trade system (since Sherlock was currently on a sort of lockdown). There were very specific food to cigarette ratios. Greg surmised that the nutritional value and amount of the food eaten were the largest earning factors: vegetables, fruits, and protein seemed to have the most value attributed to them. Greg was just happy to see that they had downgraded from morphine to nicotine and that Sherlock was actually living up to his end of the bargain. The younger Holmes absentmindedly ate the food that Greg laid out for him. He often had to remind Sherlock to eat and interrupt him from a very deep and thoughtful stupor to do so. The consulting detective spent a great deal of his recuperation time in his mind palace.
Greg had rather expected Mycroft to be upset (if not outraged0 at the state of the second study. This was, after all, the man who had once had what could only be referred to as a "complete bloody breakdown" (though Mycroft contested this categorization as an "unfounded and highly exaggerated accusation") when Greg had accidentally spilled coffee all over the new cream colored arm chair in the sitting room. They had thereafter never purchased another light colored chair, sofa, loveseat, or carpet, which Greg felt was a disproportionate response to the situation, but he supported the decision if it meant that Mycroft would not fall into a fit of histrionics again. However, to his everlasting incredulity and delight (if not a bit of confusion), Mycroft seemed to be so happy and relieved to have Sherlock well within observational distance (practically under his thumb) that he had reacted most calmly and even beneficently to the wanton destruction of their home and furniture.
"As long as the damage remains isolated," he had affirmed magnanimously when Greg had questioned his ungrudging acceptance of Sherlock's newly instated aesthetic choices. Yeah, yeah, Greg knew that he ought to not look a gift horse (or an unfailingly generous and understanding Holmes) in the mouth, but he wanted to make absolutely sure that there was not some sort of strange passive aggressive retaliation or plan for vengeance in the offing. If Mycroft was in that sort of mood or frame of mind, Greg wanted to diffuse it immediately. An escalating sibling war was not a good idea. Ever. Greg had survived only two of what he would classify as genuine all-out wars between the brothers and it was a near thing both times. He was sure that he bore psychic scars from those events and was by no means eager to repeat the experience.
"After all," Mycroft continued, "I will have the room set to rights and perhaps fumigated when Sherlock leaves us again." He paused and evaluated Greg through narrowed eyes, "And do not even think about picking up a cigarette, Gregory," he additionally warned in response to what he apparently perceived as a hopeful gleam in his partner's eyes," you know what your doctor said…" he cautioned, "besides which, I've carefully counted the number of cigarettes in this house."
Greg sighed; apparently allowances were not to be made for everyone in this family.
Greg was due to meet John at the pub in an hour. Mycroft was using Greg's outing as an opportunity to catch up on some "work." Greg was under the impression that it had something to do with the upcoming election, but he wasn't clear on the details, and he really didn't want or need enlightenment (sometimes he slept better at night not knowing exactly what it was that Mycroft was working on).
"Are you leaving then?" Mycroft intoned from the winged arm chair, which Greg suspected that his partner secretly thought of as his "throne." He was intently reading a large stack of papers in what appeared to be French.
"Yeah," Greg said, "You going to be all right?"
"Of course," Mycroft soothed, "Sherlock and I will be perfectly fine for a few hours."
"I'll just pop my head in in before I meet, John," Greg leaned over and kissed Mycroft after pulling on his coat and scarf.
Mycroft disengaged from the materials he was working with long enough to return the gesture, resting a gentle hand on Greg's face and tapping his cheek lightly, "Do give John my kindest regards."
"Will do," Greg replied.
He climbed the stairs and knocked softly on the door to Sherlock's base of operations.
"Sherlock," Greg called, "I'm coming in, all right?"
He pushed the door open to find Sherlock perched on the back of leather arm chair, staring at the web of information that he had carefully plotted on the wall. His fingers were steepled (it looked exceedingly peculiar given that one of his hands was in a cast), and he didn't acknowledge Greg's presence as the DI stepped into the room.
"Hello," Greg said tentatively, "You busy?"
"I am thinking," Sherlock responded.
Of course you are, Greg thought, though, aloud, he replied with, "Yeah, well, I'm heading out…Mycroft's going to be here, if you need anything. He's in his study working on something, but I, er, just wanted to make sure you were all set before I leave."
Sherlock didn't respond, so Greg continued somewhat uncertainly, "So are you, er all set? You don't need anything do you?" Greg did recognize that Sherlock was a grown man who didn't need to be cosseted like a toddler. Still, he couldn't help but worry about him; the concern he felt was a habit fully and inextricably ingrained on his personality. At the same time, as he hesitated in the in the second study among Sherlock's eccentric filing system and a consulting detective who was deep in thought and clearly did not wish to be disturbed, Greg could not necessarily determine how much of his desire for acknowledgement was a part of that innate parental feeling and how much was guilt. Greg did feel guilty, you see. He was about to go and spend time with John, who Sherlock missed dearly and who was just beyond his reach. He was about to spend time with John to whose face he would be forced to lie about the fact that he had seen Sherlock mere minutes previously. He knew there were good reasons for these things, but it didn't necessarily make it any easier.
"You are being ridiculous," Sherlock accused with a trace of exasperated annoyance, "you are also distracting me whist I am trying to concentrate."
So much for checking in, Greg thought ruefully, quickly followed by a feeling akin to happiness because Sherlock had just sounded so very much like his normal self: all focus, testiness, superiority, and arrogance. Totally, fixated on a case and unwilling to be distracted in any way. It was a heartening sign of progress.
"All right, I'll just leave you to it then…just, ah, try to not poison Mycroft before I get back," he said through a grin. He was only half joking.
"Don't be absurd," Sherlock muttered, as he contemplated the wall before him, "I would not conspire to murder Mycroft with poison. It's far too predictable.
Greg waited a beat, tapping his foot, before Sherlock sighed heavily, "I shall, however, endeavor to restrain myself and keep Mycroft alive while you are out."
"Thanks, mate," Greg said drily, "I appreciate that."
Sherlock nodded. Greg felt relieved for a solid second. He was satisfied in the knowledge that Sherlock was a finally, at the very least, beginning to seem like the obstinate, ornery, arrogant, consumed young man that Greg knew and loved. That sense of relief, the slight alleviation of guilt was very brief because, just as Greg had reached the door knob and was about to step over the threshold, Sherlock emerged from his contemplations long enough to speak again.
"A moment before you leave, inspector," Sherlock continued staring at the elaborate chart/diagram/configuration on the wall before him, but his tone was sharp. Greg felt as if this revelation, interruption, question was not something that had just occurred to the consulting detective, but had been planned since before Greg entered the room.
"Course," Greg replied without hesitation. Trepidation came after the word left his mouth, and he began to wonder exactly where Sherlock was going to go with this.
"There is a discrepancy in my filing," Sherlock said, as Greg canned the room, wide eyed and slightly incredulous that anyone could possibly notice anything going amiss in such a complete and utter mess.
"Er," he offered honestly, "how can you tell?"
That comment earned him an eye roll and a look of annoyance. It said, clear as day, of course I can tell when something goes missing. You are the unobservant one. Try to keep up, won't you?
"I am concerned that several of my notebooks have gone missing," Sherlock gestured towards the bookcase where several volumes were conspicuously absent from the third shelf.
"Oh," Greg said flatly.
"Oh?" Sherlock inquired, as if the DI's response was, in and of itself, inadequate and incriminating. He turned to face Greg, and the two men stared at one another, clearly at cross purposes. Greg was not, and he really meant it, absolutely not, under any inducement, going to reveal to Sherlock the entire story of how those books had gone missing.
"I, ah," Greg's mind jumped, spinning wilding, trying to formulate the correct response, the innocent phrasing he needed, "I gave them to John."
Sherlock looked briefly taken aback, as if this explanation had honestly not occurred to him. Greg could tell by the look in his eyes that the consulting detective was attempting to discern the conditions under which such an exchange had taken place. Greg did not want Sherlock to go there because, quite honestly, Greg did not know, could not begin to comprehend, the repercussions of Sherlock discovering that John had contemplated, let alone attempted, suicide.
When Greg and Mycroft had discussed this, My had said rather fervently that the results of such information becoming known to his younger brother would be "unpleasant." Greg interpreted that word, accompanied by Mycroft's somewhat haunted look, as an extremely understated way of saying "cataclysmic." Sherlock was dangerous when the people he loved were imperiled. There were not limits on what he would do to protect or avenge them. Say what you would about the frosty exterior, Greg knew that somewhere under all the protective layers of ice and ennui there was a heart that loved fiercely and a sense of loyalty that boded ill for anyone who threatened those few people about whom Sherlock genuinely cared. The question was: what would happen to that wrath and that destructive energy in a situation where John had essentially threatened his own life and Sherlock's absence had been the cause? Greg would prefer it if he never found the answer, especially in light of recent events.
Greg knew that to avoid such a catastrophe he would have to manipulate the truth. The key, he recognized, to any good lie was to wrap it in some semblance of truth. Despite Greg's honestly policy (doing a ruddy brilliant job with that one, mate), this situation required a careful construction of facts and misinformation.
"Why would you have given them to John?" Sherlock's tone was puzzled and accusatory, and his eyes were narrowed with suspicion, searching for the barest hint of a lie in Greg's expression or words.
"Well, he, ah, came by a few weeks ago," Greg attempted to maintain calm, to stay steady and earnest, and not give away any hint of the understatement of that sentence or the things that he was intentionally excluding. He was here a few weeks ago, Greg told himself, it's not a lie. God damn it, I sound like Mycroft.
"Why would he have come here?" Sherlock's face was pinched with something akin to disbelief.
"For tea?" Greg tried.
Sherlock harrumphed as if Greg had missed the point entirely. I probably have.
"No, here, this room, why would John have visited my room? There are quite a large quantity of other rooms in this house. It's not as if you and Mycroft were hosting a garden party in a bedroom. Why was John Watson in here, Lestrade?" Sherlock was impatient and critical, as if he could smell the misdirection in the air. Whether by tell or pure ability to read people, Sherlock knew something was off with Greg's narrative. The DI had one option: the truth, or at least a variation of it.
"He misses you," Greg stated clearly.
"What?" Sherlock was briefly sidetracked. Whatever response he had been expecting, this was not it.
Greg snorted, "Don't know if you've missed it, but John's still under the impression that you're dead."
Sherlock's mouth thinned to a harsh line, "Yes, thank you, I am aware of that," he gritted from between his teeth as if this fact, above all others, was painfully seared onto his brain.
"Well," Greg continued remorselessly, no time for hesitation now, "he came by for tea and he wandered in here while I was on the phone." This explanation was plausible enough for Sherlock to accept, "I found him a few minutes later and, er," Greg remembered all too well the very real conversation that had ensued, "he said something about, ah, missing you and he asked about the notes and I said he could take them."
Sherlock was silent. His left hand clenched convulsively at the back of the sofa, but his face was mostly closed off.
"Did you?" he asked.
"Look," Greg continued, "he needed something"—you've no idea how much—"he's a mess"—understatement of the decade that—"he's, you know, mourning you…he deserved something and that's the best I could do."
Sherlock nodded tightly, his mouth a thing line.
"I suppose that's reasonable," Sherlock allowed, turning back towards easier things, like taking down an international crime organization, pinning two newsprints to the wall, and connecting them with other points in the vast Moriarty collage that he had created.
"Better than Mycroft giving him some of those baby pictures he keeps locked away…" Greg said, trying for humor and falling horribly flat. Sherlock ignored the comment and seemed to have effectively ended the conversation.
Greg frowned, "Well I'm off then, good luck with all this."
Greg had almost left the room (he already had one foot in the corridor) when Sherlock stopped him again.
"Lestrade," he said without turning away from his present task, "Do tell John that…" his fingers stilled for a moment, "Do look after him, won't you."
"Of course, Sherlock," Greg said, reassuringly.
"Thank you," the consulting detective replied, and Greg could tell that he meant it sincerely.
"Anytime," Greg said as he closed the door behind him and headed out into the night.
AN:
Welcome to Chapter 21! I'm so sorry for the delay, I have been sick for the past week. I got all your lovey reviews, which I maintain helped my recuperation process, so thank you!
I would love to hear what you thought of this installment, so please, leave a review if you can. More to come so! Much love.