Notes:

The action picks up immediately where the previous chapter left off.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Greg didn't have to run very far. Sherlock's strength, already fading in the encounter with Comstock, gave out in an alleyway a few hundred yards away. Greg tore around a corner and nearly tripped over him, huddled against the wall with his knees pulled to his chest. He was shaking, violently, and his eyes were closed, teeth clenched. The left side of his face looked like he'd been hit with a brick, and his left eye ridge was swelling badly.

Greg let out a gusty sigh and knelt on the grimy pavement—his trousers were past saving at this point anyway. He carefully put one hand on a bony shoulder. "All right then?" he said quietly.

Sherlock gave a shaky, bitter laugh. "Do I seem 'all right' to you?" His teeth chattered, and his swollen left eye wouldn't open now. The right, though, gave Lestrade an exhausted glare.

Greg hesitated, not sure where he should take this conversation. But—"Sherlock. While you were away. Did you—have you…," he took a deep breath. "Were you forced to kill people? Not in self-defense, I mean?"

Sherlock's one working eye closed again; the shaking intensified. "One is rarely forced to kill someone," he said in a bleak tone. "Hadn't you guessed what I did? John knows. I'm a killer, you know. Just like Donovan always said I would be."

Without hesitation, Greg moved the hand that rested on Sherlock's shoulder up to cup the back of his head. "No, you're not. You may have killed people, if you had to. That doesn't make you a killer. I've known you all of your adult life, Sherlock, and if anyone could have been a killer and gotten away with it, it would have been you. I've seen you want to hurt people, hell, I've seen you do it. But I've also seen you stop yourself, over and over again. Just like you stopped a few minutes ago."

A tear abruptly slid down Sherlock's cheek. He started to speak. Stopped. Swallowed hard, then tried again. "There are three people out there who would disagree with you. If they were still able to do so, that is."

His heart ached for Sherlock. If Greg could resurrect Jim Moriarty, he'd kill him all over again and never blink an eye. He offered Sherlock the only thing he could. "For what it's worth, I have a couple of those myself, you know." Sherlock suddenly went very quiet, aside from the tremors he couldn't control. He didn't speak, but that laser focus was suddenly on Greg's face.

"Yeah. Didn't tell you that before, did I?" Greg said, a bit shakily. "'s not something I noise about, and it was before your time. First one, I was just a kid, not much older than you were when we met. We'd been tracking this child killer—had a whole task force out looking. This little girl was grabbed right off the street—third one taken. But this time he was seen, so we were on his trail right from the start. My senior officer and I split up, and I went into this shed behind an old row house. He was there, with the little girl. Had his hand in her hair dragging her along—hadn't hurt her much yet, but I knew, I knew why he had her in the shed—the knife was right there on the bench beside him. And there was no other weapon, and I just… there was an axe."

Greg stopped, swallowed, breathed, while Sherlock continued to stare and shake. Greg thought about it a bit, and continued. All of it, then. "Second time was less… clear-cut. Kinda like your situation was, I expect. And this one you can't talk about, understand?" Sherlock didn't exactly nod, but clearly agreed.

"So this was not that long before I met you. Detective Sergeant by that time. Julian Lacy." Sherlock gave a start of recognition. "Yeah, you'd remember him, even if you were just at uni. Killed at least 11 people that we know of. Tried and acquitted twice, for two separate sets of victims—smartest bastard I ever ran across, before I met you. True psychopath. Sadist. Each time he was acquitted, he'd gone back to his usual activities, and we couldn't fucking stop him. He changed his M.O., changed his victim profiles, changed his appearance."

"We finally went after him with clear evidence—his last victim had managed to bite him, and we got usable DNA from her teeth post-mortem. A very long shot—we never expected to find anything, and clearly Lacy didn't expect that he'd left anything behind. We got a warrant and went to his house. He clubbed a constable and took off on a motorbike. There was a second bike there, and I hopped on and took off after, with my partner behind in the car."

"We ended up down by the docks near this deserted pier on the Thames, and his bike spun out and dumped him in the river. I'd jumped off to go get him when my partner pulls up. He'd gotten a call—tells me the DNA evidence was being thrown out, and Lacy was going to walk again. Eleven dead, and he was gonna be free to keep going."

"So I climbed down under the dock and he's there in the water. Apparently broke his arm when he went in—maybe got tangled with the bike. He's trying to grab one of the timbers for the dock, but it's slick and he's cold and he's only got the one hand. I walked over to the edge and leaned over to grab his arm, and he smiled at me. And I knew—he knew what had happened somehow. Knew he could start all over again. My partner was still up top. I grabbed a support and leaned out, and I took my foot, and I put in on top of his head, and I pushed. And I kept pushing, until he didn't come back up again. Then I went back up and told my partner he never surfaced, and I never lost a moment's sleep."

Greg stopped and just breathed for a long moment, while Sherlock blinked and shook. When he was sure he could speak normally, he looked Sherlock right in the eye. "So. I killed two people. One was clearly justified. But the other? Well. I killed people, Sherlock. So am I a killer?"

Sherlock seemed to be moving past rational thought at this point, but was still trying to stay conscious. Greg waited patiently for his answer. And finally, slowly… "No. You're not."

Greg was shocked by the amount of relief flooding through him. "No, I don't think I am. And I don't think you are either." He stood up, groaning a bit as his knees cracked. "Now. I'm gonna call the paramedics over, and we'll get you carted off to A+E, all right?"

Sherlock still had enough in him to object, though his teeth were chattering hard enough to make him difficult to understand. "Just… just put me in… a cab. I'll be…fine. John can…John can…" he stuttered to a frustrated stop.

Greg sighed. "No, John can't." Sherlock glared. "Sherlock. You're covered in blood. You're shaking so hard it's visible from fucking Mars. If you found me, or John, in this state, would you shove us in a cab?"

Sherlock gave a sulky look, skewed somewhat by the distortion from bruising and swelling on his face. "I'm f-f-f-fine."

Greg rolled his eyes. "All right then. If you can stand up and walk to the corner unassisted, I'll take you home."

Sherlock, damn him, actually tried. Twice. He never got further than a half-crouch before his knees gave and sent him back down. The second time Greg hauled him back to sit against the wall and picked up the phone to tell Donovan and the paramedics where they were.

Sherlock finally lost his battle to stay conscious shortly before the paramedics arrived, which actually made things easier. Greg simply gave them the information on his injury (violent blow to the head; no disorientation or confusion; extreme physical and emotional stress complicated by exertion and blood loss), and they loaded him in the ambulance. Greg told them to page Dr. John Watson when they arrived. He took a certain amount of satisfaction in sending Sherlock off first while making Comstock wait for a second ambulance.

Greg followed that ambulance as soon as Comstock had been loaded, leaving Donovan and Camden in charge of mopping things up. He phoned John, and they met in the lobby. John, for some reason, had changed into surgical scrubs. Greg was always surprised to see John in "doctor" mode. It was disconcerting. John looked simultaneously frustrated and relieved—not that unusual in dealing with Sherlock. "He's conscious now, or he was five minutes ago, and trying to convince me to make them release him." He raised his eyebrows at Greg, who grinned. "They think it's a combination of concussion and blood loss, mostly. But they want to check the eye. And he's got one of his migraines, poor sod."

Greg was mildly surprised. "Migraine? I've never seen him have that before."

John frowned. "No, it's from when he was Away. He had a couple of bad head injuries-fractured his skull eight or nine months ago. Guess he didn't tell you. Apparently he's had migraines ever since, bad ones. He's had one since he's been back, and spent the better part of two days in bed at our place."

Greg briefly tried to visualize pain bad enough to keep Sherlock down for two days. "Christ. Can't they give him anything?"

John grimaced. "Not yet. I've convinced them to do a CT scan—that way they can check his eye, and check for bleeding or swelling in the brain at the same time. If everything looks clear at that point, I'll ask the neurologist to give him sedation if she feels comfortable doing so. It might be enough to break the cycle before it really sets in, and it's a better option for him than straight pain meds, for obvious reasons."

"Right now they're prepping him for the scan but I had to make them stop long enough to give him something for nausea, which of course he didn't mention until he threw up on my trousers." He waved his hands at the scrubs—that explained the clothing change, then. "Once that kicks in it shouldn't take too long—twenty minutes or so."

By 2 AM, things had largely been sorted. Sherlock's scan was done, with encouraging results—no evidence of internal bleeding in either his head or his eye. His cheekbone was cracked, but the fracture wasn't displaced so no surgery was needed. Sherlock was now settled in a private room, bandaged up and blue-white pale except for the extensive areas of black and purple bruising. He held a large icepack to his face, when he remembered to do so. John's request for sedation had been approved and the drug was now running into Sherlock's drip, so the icepack was increasingly forgotten as Sherlock's thoughts started to slide away. He insisted, though, on regaling Lestrade and John with the full story of Albert Comstock, mainly to distract himself from the frankly appalling pain in his head.

"It's surprisingly banal," he slurred. The pauses between sentences were gradually extending, but, being Sherlock, he was still mostly making sense, and Greg was taking notes as he spoke. "I checked, before John took my phone away." Sherlock stopped to give John a slow-motion glare. John ignored it. "Before he was a butcher, Albert Comstock spent 2 years as a mortuary apprentice, studying funeral practices and preparations." Another long pause, and Sherlock's one working eye slowly closed. John moved forward to place the coldpack back against Sherlock's face and had started to cover him with the blanket when the eye slid back open. Sherlock picked up just where he'd left off, apparently unaware of his lapse.

"I think you'll find he was sacked abruptly, most likely because of his necrophiliac attentions to his subjects. That is the same reason…" his voice trailed off, the eye closing again. John and Greg waited, but that was the end. John tucked Sherlock's hands under the blanket and shut off the light over the cot.

Greg stood up and stretched mightily, then sighed. "Thank you Baby Jesus. I was afraid he wasn't going to go under, and we'd have to sit here and watch him hurt for the next 8 hours."

John nodded. "Yeah, he's pretty resistant. Pain levels that high make it more difficult to put him under without using heavy-duty stuff, and with his history with drugs I always ask them to play it safe. In this case I think the blood loss worked in our favor." He paused, then chuckled. "Yet another sentence you don't hear every day."

John stopped, a bit hesitant. "Greg, I need to ask a favor." Greg gave him an inquiring look. "I can take the other cot and stay the night—things don't go well if he wakes and he's alone in a hospital room." They both knew why—too many associations with forced stays and withdrawal. "But I have to leave in the morning, and I can't take him home if they release him—I've promised to give a talk on battlefield trauma after my shift so I won't be free until about 8 tomorrow evening. He'll likely sleep for 8-10 hours, and then they'll release him once they're sure he's stable and coherent. So—can you come pick him up and take him back to Baker Street in the afternoon? I can ask Mycroft if it's a problem, but I hate to do that to either one of them."

Greg chuckled. "Yeah, I hear that. 'Course I can. I expect he'll still be feeling too bad to be much trouble." He paused, trying to figure the best way to say this. "Look, you and I need to talk, but I need to leave right now—I've got tons of paperwork to deal with before I can go to bed." John gave him a troubled look, but Greg waved his hand. "No, not urgent, just something you need to know about. Tell you what—why don't you pick up takeaway when you're done tomorrow, and we'll have a movie night? Invite Mary. Your choice of movie."

He stopped, struck by a memory. "Probably not a musical, though." They both shuddered, remembering Sherlock's epic strop when they forced him to sit through Cabaret one memorable evening. (Sherlock lost a bet. All things considered, Greg wasn't entirely sure John had won anything worth having).

Greg strolled back into Sherlock's hospital room at 4 the next afternoon, a little dismayed at what he found. The entire left side of Sherlock's face was a deep purple, almost black. His left eye was swollen tightly shut, and bruising had spread out to encompass the right eye socket as well. An area of hair above his left temple had been shaved and was covered in thick bandages. Despite all that, though, Sherlock was completely dressed in a suit—either Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft had brought clothes by. He was sitting on the edge of the cot—not feeling well enough to pace, apparently—and twitching his fingers agitatedly. And he was also, clearly, in a Mood.

"Finally!" he snapped. "I could feel my brain starting to run out my ears. No one would tell me what happened with Comstock. Did you search his flat yet? I'm quite sure he has trophies. Perhaps photos or articles of clothing. I couldn't text you—John took my phone and the cretins in charge here wouldn't bring me another or call anyone to bring me one. Mycroft's minions came while I was still asleep so I couldn't make them do so either." He tried, and failed, to scowl at the injustice of it all. Nothing on his face would really move but his mouth, chin and one eyebrow.

"And good afternoon to you too," Greg said mildly. This was a Sherlock he'd seen many times, and was quite comfortable dealing with. Stroppiness aside, Sherlock didn't have the energy to do more than complain—no worries about him heading off on his own today.

"If you behave and don't cause any trouble while I get you checked out, I'll tell you the whole story on the way to Baker Street. Cause me any grief or insult anyone too badly, and you'll wait until John shows up this evening. Deal?"

Sherlock tried to scowl again but his face hurt too much. He gave a deflated sigh and slid carefully back down on the cot. "Deal," he said mournfully.

Checking out went smoothly without Sherlock interjecting himself into the process. Mycroft had clearly already greased the works (and perhaps a few palms) so no unpleasantness relating to billing or payment for the private room was mentioned. Greg picked up Sherlock's medication (pain pills—mild; antibiotics—strong). They didn't even have to take a cab—one of Mycroft's sleek black cars was idling by the patient drop-off when the nurses rolled a whinging Sherlock's wheelchair out front.

Greg lolled across the smooth leather seat and gave a pleased groan. "Well this is nice, innit? Have to thank Mycroft for this, Sherlock," he said with a grin, knowing the reaction that would provoke. Sherlock, sitting very carefully to avoid jarring his head, made a move with his mouth like he'd tasted something bad. "You can thank him. I, on the other hand, will be forced to do something boring and unpleasant for him to pay off the debt. I'd prefer the Tube."

Greg snorted. "You've never voluntarily taken the Tube in your life. And I know your brother—he doesn't give a damn if you use one of his cars. You just insist on treating it like an obligation so you have one more reason to complain about him."

Sherlock gave an insulted sniff. "As if I needed any additional reasons." He lapsed briefly into silence, wincing when the car bumped or turned sharply.

Greg felt a bit mean—wasn't fair to tease him when he was hurting. "Want your tablets?" he asked. Sherlock sighed. "Yes. But I can't have them yet." The fact that Sherlock admitted he needed them spoke volumes about his pain level. Distraction was definitely the next order of business, then.

"Right, then. Albert Comstock," Greg began, pulling his notebook from his pocket. "Tell me what you already know, and then I'll fill in the rest."

Sherlock gratefully accepted the diversion. "Comstock studied in the funerary business as a young adult. Mysteriously changed careers about ten years ago and took up meat cutting and food service. This fits with the motivation for the crimes—the girls were killed and then sexually assaulted, not the other way around. It required a fair knowledge of both human anatomy and meat handling," Sherlock paused briefly at Greg's involuntary grimace, "ah, well, they were skills he put to use. He cleaned the bodies expertly, drained all fluids to make them easier to transport. Less mess."

"But the killing wasn't the point with him—it was a means to an end. It all made sense once I realized that the women didn't need any particular appearance, age or race—they only became interesting once they were dead—so his only 'type' was 'deceased'. It's very likely these were not his only victims—he lived in Bristol for several years. You should check for similar killings in other cities."

"We did that, yes," said Greg, in a mildly offended tone. "We do know how this is done, you know." Sherlock couldn't effectively roll his eyes with one of them swollen shut, but he tried. Greg ignored him but picked up the story.

"We searched his flat—had a place in an old building not far from the restaurant. And yes, he had another secret room. Found a lot of truly horrible photos, plus several handbags and three scarves. So no, these weren't his only victims. We're hoping he'll tell us who the others were, and where the bodies are, in exchange for consideration at trial."

Sherlock scoffed. "No, he won't. He knows he'll never get out. I'll come see the evidence tomorrow—you can send me the files on the Bristol cases as well."

Greg was saved from telling Sherlock that he almost certainly wouldn't be going anywhere for a least a couple of days by their arrival at Baker Street. He'd let John fight that particular battle—Albert Comstock wasn't going anywhere in the next couple of days either.

Getting Sherlock settled inside wasn't difficult—he was capable of taking the stairs, but Greg could tell it took too much out of him. Greg steered him quickly to the sofa and Sherlock sat thankfully before carefully settling down on his back with a relieved sigh. Greg busied himself in the kitchen, made tea and set it on the coffee table, then went into Sherlock's bedroom and brought back a blanket and pillow.

He leant over, put his hands under Sherlock's shoulders and lifted. "Here, budge up. Just for a bit. You need to take some tea and your tablets before you sleep." Sherlock made an aggrieved noise but sat up. He reached for the tablets and started to swallow them dry before Greg grabbed his hand. "Nope. You need the liquid. Take them with tea, and a couple of these biscuits. John says they're your favorite so I know you like them."

Sherlock sniffed but complied, swallowing tea, tablets, and a biscuit. "Yes, Dad," he said sarcastically.

Greg refused to take the bait. "Well, you know, I feel a bit like your dad. Think you need it, now and again." Sherlock stiffened, not sure if he was being teased. "I have a father, thank you," he said, just this side of rude.

"Yeah, I know. I've met him. Sweet guy," Greg said mildly, while Sherlock radiated shock. "What? Didn't realize that, did you? Know when I met him?" Sherlock carefully shook his head.

Greg settled himself on the coffee table facing Sherlock, hands clasped between his knees. "Your last overdose. The one where we thought you'd die." He said it flatly, not trying to soften it. The portions of Sherlock's face and neck that weren't bruised flushed abruptly, and he dropped his gaze to his lap.

Greg relented quickly. "Sorry. It just still bothers me to think about it. And that wasn't what I was getting at anyway. Thing is, I sat with your dad for a long while one afternoon, waiting for you to wake up. He was just…lost. No idea how to help you." Sherlock, still looking at his lap, said nothing but was suddenly trembling a bit.

It really wasn't fair to have this kind of conversation right now, given the shape that Sherlock was in. But he might not get another opportunity.

"Look, I'm not trying to make you feel bad. I know how hard you fought it." The trembling was worse, now. Shit. "Hey, now. Stop that. I'm not picking at you. Hear me?" He reached over and carefully pushed under Sherlock's chin, forcing his gaze up. An old misery looked back at him, and his heart clenched.

"Oh, bugger. I knew I'd cock this up." He moved over onto the couch next to Sherlock, and patted his knee. "You're missing the point entirely, sunshine. What I'm trying to say is, I think your dad's a lovely fellow. But right then, you didn't need a lovely guy. You needed someone who understood, even just a little, what you struggled with—not just the addiction, but the reasons for it. I think your dad never got it, though he wanted to.

Sherlock nodded slightly. The misery was fading a bit, replaced by a wary interest.

Greg, encouraged by that, ploughed on. "See, I didn't get it either, at first. You were so bloody manic, you know? You'd show up, high as a satellite, and reel off shit about my crime scene that no one else had seen. And you had that accent, and you were so fucking young. So I assumed you were just the typical bored posh kid, into drugs because they were there. And it was such a waste—that mind, just baked all the time. First couple of times I ran you off—remember?" Sherlock made a non-committal noise; it was unclear how much he really remembered from those bad times.

"Then you showed up when one of my senior officers was there, and I had no choice—had to bring you in." That, Sherlock did remember, clearly—he flushed again, from remembered anger this time. "Yeah, I know. Clarke was a dick. Especially since you solved the case before we carted you off. Must confess, I didn't mind a bit when your brother showed up and got the charges dropped." Sherlock's one movable eyebrow lifted at that. Greg grinned. "Well, not much, anyway. But you do remember the conversation we had, the very next time? What I told you?"

Sherlock looked confused, but answered. "You told me that I could work with you on cases, on your terms, but only if I stayed clean."

"And you looked at me, and your face got all tight, and you said 'thank God'. Not 'oh, good', or 'be happy to', or even 'thank you'. That's when I realized. You needed it—needed something to hold onto, something you were good at, something that mattered. Because you were fighting, all the time, and you were losing."

Sherlock looked back down at his lap again. "I…yes. I was."

Greg nodded. "See, I figured that out by watching you work. You were a different person when you worked—a holy terror, yeah, but sane for the most part. But as soon as the work stopped, you were back to fighting again. And I think that's what your dad, and maybe your brother, never really got. That you just got tired. But being kind to you, or locking you up somewhere, wasn't ever really going to help, was it?"

Sherlock sighed. "No. I think my father believes to this day that he simply didn't love me hard enough." His voice wobbled, but Greg carefully ignored it.

"So, then. I think you needed, and need, someone who knows that. And someone who can tell you when you're being a prick and actually make youstop, so you don't lose everything you've worked so hard for because you can't shut your mouth for five minutes. So I guess that would be me." He thought about it a second, and went on. "And one more thing—you make me mental, but I'm really proud of you, you know that, right? That's a 'dad' thing too, I reckon." Greg stopped and waited for Sherlock to blast him, or order him out, or, worst of all, laugh.

Sherlock, amazingly, did none of those things. After a long pause, he carefully nodded again.

Greg reached over and put the pillow on end of the sofa, and Sherlock edged back down with a grateful sigh. Then Greg draped the blanket over him and started to pick up the tea things to rinse. As he walked back into the kitchen, though, he heard, very softly, "Thank you." A pause. And then, wryly, "Dad."

Sherlock slept for the next four hours, thankfully. Greg warned John when the latter called to check on what kind of takeaway sounded best, so Sherlock was still snoring softly when John came quietly up the stairs, laden with Thai food and a bag of DVDs. Greg waited while John set the food on the kitchen table, then pulled him into Sherlock's bedroom and told him everything that had happened in the confrontation with Comstock.

"Jesus," John breathed. "I mean, I knew… he told me about one of them, one that he killed, but it was accidental. And I knew he was trained in martial arts, but I've never seen him do anything like that."

"Nor me," said Greg. "But wherever he was, he had a lot of practice, and he's very good—I mean, Comstock had at least 6 or 7 stone on him and he took him down in a blink. The thinking part of him just wasn't there. Scary as fuck. But he did stop. All on his own. I just think what he did, it weighs on him. And he hates it."

John sighed. "Yeah. And he hates himself, sometimes."

Greg grimaced. "Got that, thanks. I've seen that before—he was like that much of the time, before he got clean. So what we need to do is, we need to get him back to where he was before he left, right? Well, before—" Greg ground to a halt, abruptly realizing that mentioning Moriarty to John was just not on.

John sighed. "You can say the name, you know. Moriarty. I won't break. And you're right, mostly. He blames himself, and the best thing we can do is find a way to make him stop that, or at least learn to live with it. Damned if I know how. But I think," and he dropped his hand on Greg's shoulder, "that we'll start with some good takeaway and some bad movies. And see where we go from there."

When they came back out, Sherlock was awake, barely—yawning (very gingerly) and poking fretfully at his mad hair where loose curls caught on the tape from his bandages. When John and Greg walked back into the lounge, however, he molded his face into as close as he could get to his normal haughty expression, hindered by the fact that only 10% of his facial muscles would actually move. John gave him points for trying, anyway.

"So," he said in icy tones. "Are you quite done discussing me?" Greg started to respond, but John beat him to it. "For the moment." There was absolutely no apology, in either his voice or his face. "We're your friends, and we're concerned about you."

Sherlock huffed, annoyed but not truly angry. "I am…" he began, but before he could finish the sentence, John and Greg immediately chorused "fine!"

Sherlock gave a bruised glower, but subsided. "Well, I am," he muttered. John snorted. "In the broadest sense of the word, I guess. How's the migraine?"

Sherlock shot a glance over at Lestrade, and John gave him a shoulder shrug, indicating that he had indeed told Greg. Sherlock sighed and clearly decided to give it up as a lost cause. "Largely gone. It has been replaced, however, by considerable pain in my face." He looked to John. "How long should that last?"

"Well, unfortunately one of those perfect cheekbones is cracked. Probably be mostly OK in 10 days or so, but the next two won't be pleasant." John reached out for the prescription bottles on the coffee table, and wandered into the kitchen to fix tea. "You can take these as soon as you have some tea and eat."

"I'll take the others, but I don't want the pain pills." Sherlock tried again to frown, unsuccessfully. "I've spent entirely too much time sleeping as it is. I want to look at the files on Comstock." Sherlock gestured imperiously at Greg, as if he were hiding the files somewhere about his person.

Greg snorted. "Not a chance. Last thing I need is Comstock's lawyer finding out I shared those files with you when you're drugged up. Tomorrow, maybe."

Sherlock drew himself up in an offended fashion. "No one would know. And I'm better at this drugged than you lot are sober."

Greg knew much better than to get drawn into that kind of argument. "Nope, sorry. Not playing. Tomorrow, or not at all." He crossed him arms and stared Sherlock down. After a full minute Sherlock gave a resigned sigh. "All right, fine. Find something else to keep my brain from fermenting."

It was a good evening, really. They settled in at the kitchen table and sorted out mismatched plates and silverware for their Thai feast. John put small amounts of everything on Sherlock's plate, ignoring his "not hungry—I had tea and biscuits!" after Greg chimed in with "one biscuit—five hours ago". They made desultory conversation while they ate, and Greg noticed that Sherlock unconsciously put forkfuls of food in his mouth so long as he was distracted enough.

Mary showed up while they were finishing, carrying a large chocolate cake from the bakery up the street. She set the cake on the counter, dropped a kiss on John's forehead and a quick hug around Greg's shoulders before she turned to get a good look at Sherlock. "Oh dear," she said in a faint voice. Sherlock immediately chimed in with "I am fine!", but that didn't deter Mary from picking up Sherlock's pain tablet bottle from the counter, shaking two out and holding them imperiously under Sherlock's nose. John was startled when Sherlock took one of the pills without protest, while refusing the second—it never ceased to amaze him how good Mary was at reading the detective, better than John was, in fact.

It turned into quite the rollicking night. John passed out good beer to Greg and Mary, and a glass of cider to Sherlock (a taste he'd acquired on his travels), and they sliced up the cake and dug in. No one seemed in a hurry to leave the table afterward, and Sherlock's half-dose of pain medication had made him mellow and a bit giggly. So they stayed, telling stories and laughing, far too late to actually watch any of the movies. Greg trotted out some of his milder "early Sherlock" stories ("… and yeah, it never occurred to him to tell me he was allergic to gin until after he'd drunk the gin and tonic that the suspect bought him. And then he leaned over and threw up in my lap…"), John explained how he got the tattoo on his bum ("My mates didn't tell me they'd spiked the punch with a bottle of vodka after we'd already added the rum…"), and Sherlock told the story of stealing the family car in an attempt to move to London when he was eight ("I miscalculated how difficult it would be to simultaneously reach down to touch the pedals and still direct the car. Mummy completed overreacted, of course. It was only a small tree, after all, and my nose wasn't actually broken…"). Mary didn't really share any anecdotes, but provided a ready audience.

Greg, warm with good food and good company, looked over at Sherlock, chuckling and holding his head up with one hand, curls flying everywhere, and was struck all over again by something he'd noticed from the very first time he'd met him. "Christ, Sherlock, you must have a portrait hid up in the attic somewhere. You look twenty, you know? 's not fair."

Sherlock didn't understand the Dorian Gray reference, but sniffed anyway. "Oh please. I'm noticeably younger than any of you—of course I look it, though I'm sure I look my age." Mary reached over and punched his arm, drawing a perplexed look. "Ow."

John laughed. "No you don't—at least not all the time. Don't you remember what I wrote in my blog about the first time I met you? I said you looked twelve. Bit of exaggeration, yeah, but I really expected to find you were twenty-three or so. Would have believed you if you'd told me you were twenty, actually."

Sherlock wasn't having it. "You've never been especially good at guessing ages. I can look younger if I wish, but it's much like any other disguise. Misdirection, posture and attire. No one who knows me would be fooled for a second." He gave a lopsided smirk, the bruising pulling his facial muscles awry. "Not even you, Lestrade."

Greg gave a snort. "All right, that tears it." He gave them all a significant look to get their attention. "Now Sherlock, your brother swore me to silence about this, since he knew how you'd react. But I figure you've grown up a bit since, so…."

John chimed in. "Not that much!" and everyone but Sherlock laughed.

Greg continued, "So, how old were you when we met?" Sherlock, not sure where this was going, answered slowly. "Twenty-four."

"Right, then," said Greg. "So you know how I had to run you in from the crime scene because you were, well, never mind…? And your brother came and picked you up in less than an hour?" Sherlock gave a wary nod. "How do you suppose your brother knew where you were?"

"The way he usually does, I presume," Sherlock said sourly. "He's always had the police booking system flagged."

Greg grinned. "Well, almost. Yeah, later on, that's how he would always know. But that time…I didn't exactly put you in the booking system, though I did put your name in a system." By this time John and Mary were waiting expectantly—this sounded like something Sherlock wasn't going to like.

"Oh, get on with it," Sherlock barked.

"Yeah, yeah." Greg grinned. "You know, when I first met you, I really couldn't get a read on how old you were, just young. And because you were so skinny, I wasn't sure just how young, but my first thought was 'very'. So when we took you to the station, I put you in a room by yourself, and I went and entered your name," and he took a long, dramatic pause, "in the database of missing or runaway kids!"

And just like that, Greg whipped up the phone he'd carefully moved to his lap while setting his punchline up, and snapped a picture of Sherlock's outraged expression. And before Sherlock realized what he was doing and grabbed for the phone, he sent the shot along to John, and Mrs. Hudson—and, after John made Sherlock take his medicine and trundled him off to bed, to Mycroft, along with a note explaining the context. And was tickled to receive a quick, sardonic note in return: "I shall treasure it. And so will our mother."

Notes:

I freely acknowledge that some of the medicine here may be a little "iffy". I do have a medical background (and so know better), but I've stretched a point or two when it comes to concussion protocol-can't have poor Sherlock hurt for 12 hours, can we?