Chapter Eleven.

.

It was past midnight by the time John made it back to the hotel. He cleaned the blood from his knuckles in the bathroom off the lobby, hoping to avoid telling Mary about his little adventure for the time being. She'd skin him alive.

Their room was dark when he slipped inside, though a bar of pale moonlight filtered through the curtains and laid a long stripe across the floor. He paused for a heartbeat beside Billie's travel cot, where she lay with her face turned sideways, arms crooked and hands in loose fists on the pillow beside her head. He reached down and touched the tawny hair, flaxen-pale in the moonlight.

The bed dipped beneath his weight as he lay down, and Mary stirred, but did not turn to face him. John's knee nudged against the back of hers and she stiffened.

"Oh, so you are still alive then."

John reached out across the intervening space and laid a hand against her shoulder blade. Her back was rigid beneath his palm.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"Got your little tanty out of the way?" Mary sneered. Her muscles tensed aggressively. John closed his eyes, pressing his thumb and fingertips against their lids.

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

Mary said nothing, but the tension of her shoulders relaxed infinitesimally. John raised his hand to the nape of her neck and threaded his fingers gently through her hair.

Mary exhaled, her hand slipping back to touch his hip bone.

"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry too."

Capitulating, she rolled over to face him. John's hand slid with her as she turned, until it was laying against the side of her neck, the pad of his thumb brushing her ear.

John chuckled quietly.

"Can we just agree that jetlag's a bitch and leave it at that?"

"It'll do till morning," Mary agreed. She leaned over and kissed him; softly at first, but then, when he didn't draw back, with a little more intent.

"Not exactly going to help with regaining a normal sleeping pattern," John mumbled.

"I really don't care."

It seemed like ages since they'd done this. Gently, John slid his hands down to Mary's waist and braced his forearms. With an easy twist, he rolled them, coming to rest with his knees either side of her hips. He lowered his head to kiss her and Mary arched up towards him, a soft noise of contentment escaping her.

People who knew them might have been surprised to learn that, where sex was concerned, John usually took the more dominant role; Mary, competent and commanding, was by mutual consent the decision maker and managing director in their external life. By and large, John was used to the harassment this provoked from friends and acquaintances – suggestions of being under the thumb, held by the balls, or (his personal least-favourite) 'pussy-whipped'. It was worse by far than it had ever been when he was tailing around after Sherlock, and he couldn't help but see it as a double-standard.

For whatever reason though, John usually took charge in the bedroom. Mary liked allowing him to set the pace, enjoyed the freedom that came with not having to call the shots. He didn't know why it worked that way – it just did. He knew that that minor detail would be a topic for fascinated scrutiny by many of his friends, and it annoyed him. It was what it was. People could over-analyse things.

Tonight, his chosen approach was slow and sweet. He was ashamed to think of how little attention he'd paid his wife recently. She was so sharp, so bold, so much more clever than he was that it was easy to forget, sometimes, that she could be fragile too. Like Sherlock, the thought flitted across his mind, and he winced internally. He did not want to think about Sherlock, right at this moment.

Mary was warm and pliant beneath him, her earlier tension melted away. She leaned up on her elbows to kiss him, a teasing light in her eyes.

With ineffable timing, their daughter began to cry.

John stilled, his forehead resting gently against Mary's. For a moment, they lay quiet, weighing the intensity of the interruption, attempting to judge whether Billie might cry herself out or snuffle back to sleep. When no such downturn appeared likely, John sighed and rolled himself upright.

"I'll go," he said.

Billie, it transpired, was in full-on tantrum mode. Despite the fact that it was nearing one in the morning, John couldn't find it in himself to blame her. The last few days had been hectic and John didn't feel he'd set much of an example given his own less-than-stellar behaviour. He hadn't even had the excuse of teething.

After shuffling back into his jeans, John had walked up and down the corridor for awhile with Billie clinging, monkey-like, to his torso and lashing her sharp heels into his groin. After the first five minutes the screams had decreased a little in volume, but not in frequency. In the interest of other guests, he'd opted for the hotel bar.

Late though it was, there were half a dozen people sitting at scattered tables, eating and talking quietly, and a few more propping up the bar. Many of them were foreigners of some description, John was pleased to note; it meant that he and Billie didn't stick out too obviously.

Luck appeared to be on his side, as the bar was staffed by a pretty, round-faced woman somewhere in her mid-twenties. Some shameless flirting and a little tactical manoeuvring to allow her to catch sight of Billie's flushed and tear-streaked face was sufficient to charm the woman into providing a mug of warmed milk ('Not exactly on the menu, but there's usually some in the staff fridge…'). Foreseeing a long and arduous night ahead, John ordered a pint of lager for himself and then, on the realisation that he'd missed dinner, a hamburger and chips. He made sure to tip the bartender heavily, earning himself a warm smile and a promise to see about Billie's milk with all speed.

John turned away to find himself a table, and was more than a little surprised to notice the back of a familiar grey head leaning against the far wall.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, plonking himself down opposite. Greg looked up with a start of surprise, the beer in his glass sloshing dangerously.

"Drowning my sorrows in wine and women, obviously. What're you doing?"

John hefted Billie in his arms and she gave a pitiful snuffle. John raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

"Ah, of course. Say no more." Greg cocked his head to one side and held out his arms. "Want to cuddle with Uncle Greg, sweetheart?"

Displaying a stubborn perversity of character that was rather reminiscent of Sherlock, Billie screamed fiercely and buried her face in John's shoulder.

John gave an awkward half-shrug with his unencumbered arm. "Guess even you can't win 'em all."

At that moment, mercifully, the bartender reappeared, armed with a resilient-looking plastic mug and a handful of miniature foil-wrapped biscuits.

"You're an angel," John told her fervently. Placing the mug strategically out of reach of Billie's flailing arms, he tore open a packet with his teeth and relinquished the biscuit into her small, sticky hand. The biscuit was satisfyingly hard, and Billie gummed it viciously, half undecided whether to chew or cry. Watching her, the bartender's face broke into an expression of delight, and she favoured John with a flirty smile.

"I'll have your dinner out in a moment."

"An angel," John repeated ardently. "An archangel, a cherubim, a seraph…"

The bartender giggled as she walked away. Greg shook his head in disgust.

"You, John Watson, are a shameless hussy."

John grinned.

"Not gonna deny it," he said. "Seriously though, what are you doing down here?"

Greg turned his face down towards his pint glass, looking suddenly shifty.

"What?"

Greg huffed out an embarrassed-sounding breath. "Honestly? Waiting down here till I can be reasonably sure that Molly's asleep. Would you believe that that sod of a Mycroft only booked us a double room?"

John snorted into his beer.

"I'm sorry, are you trying to tell me that there's a pretty girl alone in a double bed upstairs – who incidentally is practically begging you to ask her out – and you're sitting in the bar like a muppet playing the parfit gentil knight?"

"Shuddup." Greg balled up a paper napkin and tossed it at him. It bounced off John's head and fell back onto the table.

"Seriously, what's the deal with you two?" John asked. Greg winced and took a short pull of his beer.

"Would you sleep with Molly, John?"

The bluntness of the question took John aback. Frankly, the honest answer was no. He loved Molly and felt more than a little protective of her, but he'd seen too many of her infatuations flicker and die to seriously think it was a good idea. He hesitated, sensing that it would be impolitic to tell Greg as much. Greg seemed to have read his answer in the hesitation, however.

"Exactly. You wouldn't. And you wouldn't because she's still a bloody kid."

"She's grown up a bit recently," John said, fairly. He ducked inattentively in order to avoid a small fist full of semi-masticated biscuit. He liberated the remnants from Billie's grasp with the aid of a napkin and offered her the milk instead.

"I know," Greg sighed. "And she's cute and smart and funny and all the rest of it. It's not like I don't like her, 'cause I do. But the bottom line is I'm too old for her. And I don't have the faintest idea in hell how I'm supposed to tell her that."

"Um..." John said meditatively. "You sure it's not worth a go? You're not that much older than her."

"It's a bloody decade, John. That's too old."

John shrugged. "Hey, if she's more than half-your-age plus seven..."

Greg threw another napkin at him. "Pervert."

"How can I possibly be a pervert? I'm a doctor. Look, I've got a kid and everything."

Greg threw John a dirty look, but by then their friendly bartender had reappeared; by tacit understanding the discussion was suspended until she had off-loaded John's dinner, brought Greg another pint and pinched Billie's cheeks dotingly. When the woman was safely back behind the bar, John started up again:

"Seriously, what harm can it do to try? So what if she's a bit younger? She's cute. She likes you. You like her." He paused to douse a handful of chips in tomato sauce. "Also, you haven't had any in forever."

Greg choked on his beer.

"What? You haven't. Unless of course there's something you haven't been telling me…?"

Greg frowned, reaching across the table to steal a couple of John's chips.

"No," he said. "You're right, obviously. But it's not –"

"What?"

"It's not – Jesus, I can't believe I'm telling you this –" He drew a deep breath. "Look, there hasn't been anyone, ok? Not since Annie."

John gaped at him. Greg ducked his head uncomfortably and ran a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, you heard me. And I – Hell, it's been so long that I don't even know how to go about changing it."

John stared.

"Yeah, might want to close your mouth now John."

"Sorry." John coughed awkwardly. "Didn't you, um… didn't you get together when you were about eighteen?"

"Nineteen, but yeah."

"And you have honest-to-god never slept with another person since?"

Greg scowled at him. "You did get married didn't you? What did you think the bit about 'forsaking all others' meant?"

"Well yeah… But I wasn't nineteen at the time!"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. 'Real blokes don't give up sleeping round'. Well, too bad. I did." It didn't take a genius to hear the defensiveness in his tone.

"Wow. That's… wow."

Greg glowered.

"No, I don't mean it like that. It's commendable. Really. I'm not going to take the piss out of you for being a decent human being. But I mean… Why not after? You've been divorced four years!"

Greg dropped his eyes, the defensiveness fading into a sort of sheepish awkwardness.

"Didn't know where to start, did I?" He drew another deep breath.

"Thing is... Christ, it seems stupid to say it… But I was in love with her." He took a pull of his beer and continued quietly:

"I just never thought there'd be a time when I didn't have that any more."

John couldn't think what to say.

"Took me bloody ages to get over it."

John looked up at him awkwardly. "I didn't know."

"Yeah, well... You didn't exactly have it easy at the time, didja?"

John frowned. "I still should have noticed."

Greg waved a hand, dismissing it. John wasn't happy, but he let it drop. For something to do, he took a bite of his hamburger and was surprised to find that it was excellent. Billie whinged and he bounced her awkwardly, one-handed.

"I still think you need to get some," he said, half-apoologetically. Greg snorted.

"Yeah, you're probably right."

"So why not Molly?" John persisted. As far as he could tell, they'd be good for one another. Greg had the stability Molly needed, and her gentle kindness would be good for his bruised ego. Added to that, Molly was plainly smitten with him, and John had noticed Greg checking her out on more than one occasion.

Greg hesitated, swirling his beer idly with one hand.

"I can't shake the feeling that she sees me as a bit of a father-figure."

John's eyebrows shot upwards into his hairline. "What, really?"

"Maybe. I dunno." Greg shrugged. "And then, she probably wants kids and I really don't know if I can go through all that again."

"Make up your mind. Either she sees you as a father stand-in or a potential baby-daddy. Which is it?"

Greg flicked beer at him. "You're not taking this seriously."

"What's to take seriously? You don't have to end up married. Just try it for awhile and see if it works out."

Greg looked unconvinced.

"Unless there's someone else…?"

"What? No. There's no one else."

They lapsed into silence for awhile. It wasn't all that uncomfortable. They'd been friends too long for that. Awkward conversations were par for the course, just something that had to be got through. It helped that neither of them had ever been particularly macho.

It had been Greg who had picked John up again, after Sherlock had jumped. It had been Greg who'd listened and watched, picked him up and kept him on his feet. John owed him a debt of gratitude for that, one he hadn't forgotten.

"Donovan's got her Inspector's exam tomorrow," Greg said, apropos of nothing.

John frowned. "So…?"

"So nothing. I just feel a bit shit about not being there, that's all. I said I'd help her practise. Now I can't even send a text."

"Yeah, that is a bit shit," John agreed, because it seemed to demand some sort of response.

.

He'd been so jealous of Lestrade and Donovan, after Sherlock had jumped.

It had crept upon him slowly, over that first horrific year. In the beginning, everyone had been too shell-shocked, too raw to think much of anything. There had been enquiries and suspensions and venomous tabloid exposés, glassware shattered and fists driven through walls. Lestrade had made no secret of his fury at Donovan, and John had been only too happy to join him in blaming her.

Over time though, somehow, things had changed. Donovan had apologised, genuinely, and Lestrade, although he'd rebuffed her initial overtures, had softened. John, listless and purposeless, sleeping on Greg's couch every other night, had found himself occasionally in their company. To begin with, Lestrade had been hurt and cold, wary and standoffish in his anger. But one day, Donovan had brought him a cup of coffee, and Lestrade had taken it without thought, without even glancing at it, an easy and familiar gesture. And John had been sickened by the force of his own grief, half-terrified by the weight of his jealousy.

He'd started noticing it after that: little things, the things they shared. Whenever they drove anywhere, Donovan would head automatically for the passenger side door. Lestrade would drive and Donovan would navigate, and they would shout at one another and bicker over her directions. Whenever they left the yard, Lestrade would shrug on his coat while retrieving Donovan's from its hook, and she would grab it at a run as she went past. When Lestrade made damning, smartarse comments to the press, Donovan would rein him in. When Donovan threw spiteful remarks that cut too close to the bone, Lestrade would lay a hand on her shoulder in warning. When they entered a pub together, Lestrade would order two pints without needing to ask. When Donovan slipped out of the office for her lunch break she always returned with an extra sandwich or a pastry in the pocket of her coat; a symbiosis as natural and as easy as breathing.

And John had watched them, so envious that he felt like he could choke.

Sherlock Holmes loosened the tourniquet about his bicep and lowered his forearm, wriggling his fingers to get the circulation going. There was a tiny bead of blood welling from the injection site, and he pressed two fingers into the crook of his arm to quell it. He stood smoothly, his characteristic grace unimpeded, and went about gathering his paraphernalia. With precision, he snapped the needle in half and wrapped the pieces carefully in toilet paper. The disposable syringe he slipped back into its waxed paper sheath, and the bag of powder he sealed and slipped into an interior pocket of his backpack. Everything else went into the bin. Unhurriedly, he walked back across the room and perched himself on the headrest of the armchair, his large, bare feet on the seat cushion and his elbows on his knees. Then he steepled his hands against his mouth, and waited for clarity.

.

.

A/N: I blame the last paragraph on Analena, who wanted to know when Sherlock was going to make an appearance. My grateful thanks to her and to aficionada-de-libros for their kind reviews. Next up: in which Molly doesn't entirely agree with Greg's analysis of their situation, and the author finally manages to get most of her heroes into the same room. Hurrah!