'Are you ill?' Greg asks when Sherlock staggers rather than strides up to the crime scene, 'You look awful.'
'I'm fine,' Sherlock's voice is rough and his usual curtness is missing, 'Show me the body.'
'Not until you tell me what's wrong with you,' Greg hisses, grabbing Sherlock's elbow and towing him into a nearby alley. 'The last time you look this rough was …' he swallows, meeting Sherlock's eyes fiercely, 'Please, tell me I'm wrong, Sherlock.'
Sherlock looks at him blankly for a second - something that frightens Greg more than his shadowed eyes and unsteady gait - and then his face clears.
'You think I'm high?'
'You're doing a damn good impression of it,' Greg snaps, face tight.
Sherlock inhales deeply and straightens, trying to pull himself together, 'I'm not on drugs, Lestrade. I'm exhausted.'
When Greg's face remains incredulous he sighs, a pink tinge appearing along his cheekbones, 'John's pregnancy has reached the point where his, uh, desire for certain activities has increased exponentially. I'm finding fulfilling his needs ... challenging.'
Greg stares at Sherlock for a moment and then starts to laugh, 'Sorry Sherlock, I just ... God, you poor sod, John's completely done you in!'
Sherlock slumps back against the wall, nodding.
'Here,' Greg pushes his keys into Sherlock's hand, 'forget the case, take my spare room. You need a break.'
