Got My Eye on You

Summary: After the Wedding, and Sherlock's subsequent binge, Lestrade tries to keep an eye on Sherlock. It proves harder than ever. Follows on from Watching Brief, but can stand alone.

Tags: drug abuse, Janine Hawkins, Billy Wiggins, Greg Lestrade, The Georgian Case, Where the hell is Mycroft when you need him?, Watson Honeymoon, Lady Elizabeth Smallwood.

Chapter One: The Honeymoon's Over

"What do you mean, he's gone missing? Again?

Lestrade tries—but fails—to keep his impatience from boiling over into outrage.

Even so, Wiggins winces. Defensively, he snarks back, "Yeah, well, you try keeping up with him. The guy's a bloody Houdini. I thought 'e was bedded down for the night with that new bird 'e's been shagging."

There are so many things wrong with that statement that Greg takes a moment to parse out each element. "What bird?"

"You know, that one from the wedding photos in the paper. She's the one arm 'n arm with 'im in front of the church."

Greg doesn't have to cast his mind back to the wedding itself; some photos had somehow been nicked from the photographer's camera at some point while it was supposed to have been in police custody as evidence in the prosecution's case against Jonathan Small. Having it splashed all over a tabloid newspaper while John and Mary were still on honeymoon had not been ideal, but at least they hadn't been around to see it.

He reaches for a name and finds it, "Janine Hawkins?" He remembers it mostly because the guest list had become a vital piece of the evidence in the case that the prosecution is building about the attempted murder of Major Sholto.

"Yeah, 'er. She's been hanging around with 'im at Baker Street since last week. Thought you knew?"

Greg takes a sip of his coffee and tries to grasp the idea. No, he can't even begin to imagine it. "No way. He's not…well, he's not into women."

"Could 'ave fooled me. Doorstep kiss and all that. Dark hair, dark-eyed bint. They look good together. She can't keep 'er 'ands off 'im."

Greg frowns. "And it's mutual?" Disbelief makes his voice climb.

"Yeah, he does a good kiss. You'd 'have almost thought he was doing it for the cameras."

"What cameras?"

Billy laughs. "Baker Street's got four cameras on it, so someone's getting an eyeful. He's lucky no papps were there. Just me to see it in person, keeping meself in the shadows of the side alley by Number 224. Just saying, it looked like something from a film."

"So, you saw him go in…did she go with him?"

Billy rolls his eyes. "Yeah, 'course; that's why I figured they was tucked up for the night. Lights were on a bit upstairs and then they went out. I checked round the back and the bedroom light was on, so I called it a night."

"Then how do you know he went out again?"

"Got a call, din I? About midnight I was just starting to relax myself, and then the phone goes. His favourite dealer—the guy at Guy's, you know the bloke I mean; the one who sells the medical quality stuff. I been bribing him…"

Greg thinks it through. Not likely. Not on the kind of money that Billy's earning. "You mean, your're blackmailing him?"

He gets a pained look from Wiggins. "Well, it's not like I got a lot of dosh, is it? Anyway, he knows I'm onto him and will turn him in if he breathes a word to Holmes. They meet up at London Bridge. As cool a handoff as I've ever seen. Even if there were station cameras on it, nobody but me would have seen it, 'cause I know what to look for. And he's good. Disguised as a homeless, grubby hoodie, tack suit, you know."

Looking at Billy, Greg knows the image is easy enough to use as a disguise.

Shezza's a pro; knows all the camera angles. An 'he changes his posture; makes hisself look all small and young. It's weird."

Greg hears the admiration and respect in Billy's statement. "I tries me best to keep up with him but he pulled a fast one in the underground; too many damned exits; for all I know, he hopped on one of the trains."

"Did you get a photo?" Greg could use it to see if Mycroft's people can use it to track him on the TfL cameras.

"Nah. You said I was to keep him from identifying me. Can't 'ardly pull a phone out snapping photos like a tourist, can I? Just the sort of thing that would blow my cover."

Billy's use of the phrase makes Greg smile, despite his annoyance at being told that Sherlock has slipped out of his surveillance. It would appear that Wiggins is enjoying the challenge of keeping an eye on Sherlock, even if he isn't always successful.

It has been a wild ride, the past two weeks. Once he'd peeled Sherlock out of the Hunter Library and carted him home to Greg's flat, he had thought that he'd be able to keep him there. As soon as Sherlock had arrived, he'd crashed on the sofa and slept for twelve hours straight. When he'd woken him up before going to work, Greg had told him to stay put; he'd be home by five thirty and then he wanted chapter and verse about this weird case involving the Georgians and his brother.

Alas, he'd returned home to an empty flat. When he'd gone to Baker Street, he'd found Sherlock there, acting as if he'd not been absent on a binge for days. When Greg had tried to raise the case, Sherlock had shut him down. "No, not going there." He'd cast his eyes about the flat. "The walls here have ears, Lestrade, and I have no intention of giving them anything to hear except this." He'd put on his headphones and started playing violin, totally ignoring the DI. Eventually, Greg had given up and gone home. There was only so much baby-sitting he was willing to do. He did go back to the Hunter Library to discover that Sherlock had beaten him to it—been back to the basement storage room and removed every bit of material from the evidence wall, even to the extent of re-painting the wall where he'd marked out the timeline.

Frustrated, but not entirely surprised, Greg had called Billy and paid him to resume his watching brief. "Find his new bolt hole."

Wiggins had just laughed. "Yeah, like that's gonna be easy."

oOoOoOoOo

"Not interested." Sherlock doesn't even bother to look up from his microscope. The kitchen table is littered with slides, pipettes and an intricate network of distillation equipment. There is a strong, slightly fishy odour emerging from the bubbling oily-looking liquid.

"But, it's a seven, maybe even an eight."

"Boring."

"How on earth can a murder with a body whose brain is missing be boring?"

"Compared to what I am working on, anything is boring." Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. "Go away."

Greg can't resist. "What are you working on?"

"None of your business."

He doesn't bother to stifle a sigh.

On the one hand, Sherlock is dressed, clean-shaven and showing no signs of dilated pupils, agitation or the lethargy that had been the case when he's found him at the Hunter Library. On the other hand, there is something slightly off about the man that is bothering Greg at a deep level. He decides on a tangential manoeuvre. "Who's the girl?"

Sherlock makes a cryptic note on the pad beside the microscope and then replaces one slide with another, looking briefly down at the clock app on his phone. "What girl?" he says mildly as he returns his attention to the microscope.

"Janine, Mary's bridesmaid."

"What about her?"

"You and she have been seen together."

Sherlock looks up at the kitchen cupboards. "That's none of your business either. Why don't you go do what London pays you to do, which is investigate major crimes? Why are you cluttering up my kitchen? Go away."

"Sherlock…"

"Go away."

After a few more attempts provoke exactly the same response, Greg surrenders and decides to go away.

oOoOoOoOo

Wiggins reports a midnight flit of Sherlock twice over the past three days; both times managing to lose him. Greg can't really blame him. Sherlock's disappearing act must have been honed to an extraordinary degree during his two years away. One dispirited call to Mycroft's PA gets him a shared exasperation; no, she has no idea where Sherlock is going, and no there is no news about when her boss might be returning to the UK. "Be patient, Detective Inspector. It isn't the first time, and it's not going to be the last time; while big brother is away, little brother will play."

By the end of the week, Greg decides he's had enough and contacts someone who should care more about Sherlock's whereabouts. If Greg remembers correctly, the Watsons are supposed to have flown back from Agadir on Saturday; he's given them Sunday off before his patience snaps. His first two texts on Monday morning go unanswered, but at lunchtime, he gets the call.

"Hello, John."

"Hi Greg."

John's voice is relaxed and upbeat. "Sorry, I couldn't ring back until now. Busy first day back at work."

He is enough of a friend not to jump straight in, so Greg takes pity and goes for a bit of small talk first. "How was the honeymoon?"

"Fantastic, brilliant. I can't remember the last time I took two weeks of holiday. To be honest, I don't think I ever did; not at school or uni—couldn't afford it back then, and well, home leave while on tour was always a pain because I knew I was heading back into a war zone. So, two weeks without any worries hanging over me, in the company of the woman I just married? Pure bliss. Switched off, tuned out and just relaxed. You should try it some time."

Greg can imagine what the two newlyweds got up to; sun, sand and sex are the traditional three S's of a honeymoon. "Mary enjoy Morocco?"

"Yeah; turns out she's been to Marrakesh, Tangiers and Fez before, but never the beach at Agadir, so she just kicked back and chilled. Long walks on a deserted beach, weather was great. She's got a tan like you wouldn't believe; all the staff here at the surgery are green with envy."

"And no consulting detective lurking in the shadows or texting you every ten minutes?"

John laughs. "No. I know you thought I was going to extremes in my secret planning, but it worked. Anyway, Mary and I had a deal. She left her phone at home and mine went with Shelia, the practice manager, on her free weekend trip to Paris to help throw the human bloodhound off the scent. She said this morning that she'd not had a single message, so I guess that means he behaved himself." John chuckles, "Maybe solving the Mayfly Man Mystery at the wedding was good enough for him."

Greg is wondering how best to break into this post-honeymoon high, without sounding too much like a Jeremiah. Perhaps he lets the silence go on too long, because John asks, "How are things with you? I'm sorry I didn't get to thank you properly for making you work on what was supposed to be a fun evening. The one thing I did while we were away was check was how James Sholto was doing at the hospital. Put in a call from the hotel, to hear the good news that he'd recovered quickly from the surgery and was discharged and back home just two days later. I hope the case against Jonathan Small hasn't kept you too busy."

"No; pretty open and shut, if you want the truth. Small's going to plead guilty, according to his brief."

"Good; that's really good. James shouldn't have to suffer the indignity of going to a trial."

"Yeah….well, that's not the reason why I'm calling."

"Oh?" There is a wariness in John's question.

"Sherlock's been…elusive."

There is a snort. "So, what's new? At least this time he's not staged a funeral."

If that is meant to be a joke, it falls a bit flat with Greg. "He's not responding to my texts. Wen round to Baker Street the other day to bring him a juicy murder and he wouldn't even look at the file. Claims he's working on something else."

"Let sleeping consultant detectives lie, Greg. Maybe a case come through the blog; I haven't looked at it for weeks. As long as he's busy with something, it'll keep him out of trouble."

"You likely to touch base with him anytime soon?"

Another snort. "Give me a break, Greg. We've hardly unpacked. Once the laundry is done, there are thank you letters to write for wedding presents. Thanks, by the way, for the set of beer glasses. That's something I will definitely be putting to use. Despite Sherlock's careful attempts to sort a gift register to avoid duplications, I think we've got three toasters and a load of casserole dishes that we're going to have to return." He laughs. "I thought all the hoo-hah of the wedding would be over once we got back from the honeymoon, but it's sort of taken on an after-life. Mary's already got us booked into a bunch of dinners with people who couldn't make it to the wedding."

Greg doesn't know how to say what he needs to say, without betraying too much. He's always felt a bit awkward when it comes to understanding the relationship between Sherlock and John. All he knows is that for Sherlock, John is one of the very, very few people who matter to him. That fact gives him courage.

"On that to do list, make sure you include him. He needs you, John. And it wouldn't go amiss to remind him that you've not forgotten him. Don't leave it too long."

There is an awkward pause. Then John fills it. "Of course, I won't."

Greg decides to break one confidence. "Oh, and by the way, congratulations. Sherlock said you're going to be a father."

"Yeah. That's amazing." John can't hide his delight.

The way he said the word makes Greg a bit sad; there was a time when that kind of excited reaction was reserved for Sherlock making one of his extraordinary deductions at a crime scene.

Before he can say anything, the doctor continues, "And he's a berk for telling you, so keep it to yourself. It's not the wisest thing to do before the first trimester—a bit like tempting fate. Mary's what they call a 'mature' mother and anything can happen, so we are trying to be sensible about this and not tell people until things settle down."

Greg's trying not to laugh as he says, "Mum's the word. I promise."

He gets the expected chuckle.

"Whoops—intercom's just gone; next patient is on his way to me. Bye for now."

When the call is ended, Greg is left on the other end of the phone line, wondering what the hell he is supposed to do now.