"Mycroft?"
Mycroft sat straight up, panicked. Oh, God. Greg Lestrade was standing outside that door, in the hallway….just inches away from Mycroft.
What do I do?
"Look, mate…can you just open the door? I need to talk to you…your brother…well, I just…erm…"
Mycroft was intrigued. Greg was tongue-tied? Usually the inspector was so sure of himself.
Balancing himself by placing a hand on the edge of the bathtub, Mycroft stood up, joints creaking. He winced. He wasn't as young as he often thought. He reached out, but just before his hand connected with the handle, the door flew open.
Mycroft stepped back to see Greg standing in front of him, one hand holding a bent piece of wire, the other placed on the knob. He gaped. The inspector had picked the lock just to talk to Mycroft?
"Sherlock taught me a few tricks," Greg said apologetically, shrugging.
Mycroft tried desperately to regain his composure. "Ah. I see."
"Look, Mycroft…" Greg ran a hand through his short hair, trying to mask his awkward discomfort. "I…I feel really bad about what I said earlier. I just…"
Mycroft waved him away. "It's perfectly fine, Gregory. I understand completely."
Greg looked troubled. "No. No, I don't think you do, Mycroft."
Was it his imagination or was Greg a few steps closer than he had been before?
Mycroft peered into Greg's shining jade-coloured eyes. "Gregory…"
And Mycroft's world exploded into stars as the detective inspector leaned in and sealed the distance between them.
"Oi, freak."
Sherlock gritted his teeth and kept walking.
Anderson stood up from his place on the couch, dislodging Sally from his lap. "Freak! I said oi!"
"Yes, well done, Anderson, you've finally figured out how to use that marvelous thing in your head called your brain. Or rather, your lack of one," Sherlock said coldly, continuing across the living room. How were they down here already? Mycroft said he had just seen them up by the bedroom! They certainly moved fast, Sherlock would give them that.
"Ooooo, someone's crabby. Where's your boyfriend, freak?" Sally slurred, getting up clumsily to stumble over and stand by Anderson.
"Really, Sally. Given by your current level of intoxication, you don't even know where your boyfriend is."
"Naaaaah." Anderson said. "I'm right here."
Sherlock curled his lip. "Unfortunately."
"At least I have a boyfriend. At least I have friends. Unlike some psychopathic freaks I could mention." Sally smirked as Anderson slid his arm around her waist, kissing her neck like a demented vampire.
"I have friends. I even have a boyfriend, thank you," Sherlock said, stung.
"Pfft. Who, John?" said Anderson. "I saw him in the kitchen with that blonde nurse a few minutes ago. Snogging the life out of her, by the looks of it."
Sherlock almost staggered backwards, but got control of his emotions just in time. "Don't be more stupid than usual, Anderson. John would never do that."
"Really?" Sally asked in a fake-sincere voice. "Then who was that snogging in the kitchen?"
Sherlock hesitated. It couldn't be true…could it?
"Face it, freak; he doesn't like you like that." Anderson laughed coldly. "I mean, how could he? Who would want to be the boyfriend of a freak like you?"
Sherlock turned and fled, Sally and Anderson still laughing in his wake.
Sherlock burst through the front door, out into the cool night air, and turned to walk down the alley next to Greg's flat.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, silent tears sliding down his cheeks. It was true. It was all true. He should have known.
Why would John want him when he could have someone so much better?
He turned and slid down the wall to sit on the cold, wet ground. He stared at the opposite alley wall. Gray. How appropriate.
He felt a drop of water hit his forehead and blinked, looking up. Fat raindrops began to fall from the sky, down onto his crumpled figure.
Let it rain, he thought.
In a few minutes he was thoroughly soaked.
It wasn't so bad, he told himself. Nothing he wasn't used to. On the morning after danger nights long ago, he had often woken up in gutters under streetlights, soaking wet and freezing.
It was cold, though…so very cold. He could feel the chill deep in his bones. The rain seemed to pour even harder, making him shiver.
"Sherlock?"
He looked up to see Molly, standing at the entrance to the alleyway, wearing a raincoat over her party dress and carrying a shapeless bundle. He turned his head away and didn't respond.
Great. An audience, to witness the breakdown of Sherlock Holmes. Just what I need.
He heard quiet steps coming toward him. Brilliant. Now she was going to come over and try to sooth and mollycoddle him like a baby.
However, as the feet stopped beside him, no words were spoken. Instead, she laid a soft blanket from Greg's couch across his shoulders.
He looked up at Molly's face. There was no sympathy or pity there, just quiet concern and a gentleness Sherlock had never fully appreciated.
"Come inside soon," she said softly, and turned away, walking back down the alley and disappearing into the flat.
Sherlock pulled the blanket tight around his thin, chilled frame and watched the shadows as they danced around him in the bleak grays and blacks of the night.