The Case of the Cuddle Chapter12

Okay, my darlings we are over the worst. Reynardetta, you can stop not crying now. Sit back and enjoy a little Mystradian interlude…

'Come on up!' John was standing at the top of the stairs. Mrs Hudson, who had let Lestrade in, stood out of the way.

'Go on, dear,' she said with a smile of encouragement.

He took the stairs two at a time, and met John on the landing.

'How is he?' It was a softly spoken question, pressed into John's ear as he reached the top, one hand resting lightly on the smaller man's bicep.

'I can hear, you know,' an imperious voice called from the sitting room.

John rolled his eyes. 'As you can tell, much better.'

Lestrade laughed, and followed the doctor into the flat.

Sherlock was sprawled on the couch with his nose in a book.

'Does the entire population of London know of my predicament?'

'Sherlock, be civil. Greg's a friend, remember?' He signalled to Lestrade to follow him into the kitchen. 'Besides it's a perfectly reasonable question when you've been incommunicado for a fortnight.'

Sherlock peeled himself up off the cushions and followed them. John leaned over the sink to fill the kettle.

'What happened to that cup of tea you offered me about three hours ago?' Sherlock demanded, scowling.

'It's on the coffee table and its stone cold because you didn't drink it,' John huffed, putting the kettle on the hob and lighting the gas. He had treated them to a new kettle, the old-fashioned kind that whistled, because it felt comforting and homely. 'Now be nice to Greg. He's come to see how you are.'

'Come to gloat at my misfortune?'

'Sherlock, he was Mycroft's liaison on the Lasky case.'

'Oh.' The detective looked crestfallen. Lestrade noticed how pale he was, how blue about the eyes, puffy. He must have been crying a great deal over the last two weeks to make that much of a mess of those beauties, Greg thought.

'Don't worry. Sherlock, I haven't breathed a word,' he reassured.

Sherlock looked embarrassed. He stepped forward and gave Greg an awkward hug, all elbows and ribs, held on to Greg's back and breathed into his neck quietly, like a dutiful child.

'Thank you,' he whispered.

Greg, wrong-footed by the unexpected gesture, patted Sherlock kindly over his shoulder blades with cupped hands.

''Sokay, mate. Anything for you, you know that.'

The kettle started to whistle.

'Tea,' John said, brightly, trying to diffuse the moment.

'Talking of which,' Greg said, stepping away and releasing the skinny body. 'How's Mycroft? He was pretty shaky when I saw him last.'

John was filling mugs with boiling water, soft bubbling noises from the tea bags as they were drenched. Sherlock hooked the milk out of the fridge, and John took it with raised eyebrows from his hands – he was clearly trying to make reparation.

'He's okay,' John shrugged, handing Greg a mug. 'Bit wobbly. I think he feels better for having done something concrete.'

The doctor lent back against the kitchen worktop, arms crossed, his tea in his fist, and Sherlock was suddenly beside him, hip to hip, his body fitting against the smaller man's as if it were a complimentary jigsaw piece. He put an arm loosely around his flatmate's waist, as if he was asserting his territory. Greg wasn't stupid, certainly not where Sherlock was concerned anyway. It was a message: We are together now.

'I'm sorry. I wish I could have been more help,' Greg said, giving Sherlock a sharp look that declared, ok, I get it already.

'You drove him home, that was more than enough,' Sherlock said.

'Well, I could hardly leave him in Reading, shaking like a leaf.'

'He's doing okay,' Sherlock repeated.

'So are you, by the looks of it,' Greg grinned.

'Excellent care from the good doctor, of course,' Sherlock replied, giving Greg a shrewd look, which John caught.

'Sherlock?'

'He's not seeing anybody,' Sherlock told Greg. 'Since you were obviously wondering.'

'Oh,' the inspector said, colouring just a little. 'Right.'

'Sherlock, stop fishing.'

'Well, it's so obvious even a blind man in a barrel could see it.'

'Why don't you take your lovely book on funguses and go and read in bed?' John smiled indulgently at him.

Sherlock pouted.

'Go on, grown ups need to talk.' This, with a little squeeze around Sherlock's waist. The detective sighed and gave John a peck on the cheek.

'If you talk about me, I shall know,' he said as he sloped off.

They watched him go like indulgent parents.

Greg slurped at his scalding tea. 'Seriously, how is he?'

John pulled a chair out and sat down, inviting Lestrade to join him with a wave of his hand. 'Well, put it this way, I've stopping coming home and finding him gibbering under the table.'

'Really?' Greg glanced into the living room, where the gateleg table that John used as a desk is pushed up against the wall, covered with papers and piled-up books. There were dark shadows underneath.

John shook his head, sadly. 'Took me two hours to coax him out the other night. Not good.'

'I can imagine,' Greg said, shaking his head too, in sympathy, although really he knew he couldn't. 'Is there anything you need? Can I be useful?'

'Nah, but thanks.' John put on his brave face. 'I think it's just a case of time. He seems to be coming out of the crisis phase. The flashbacks aren't so frequent now, or so long. He's more himself. But it's going to take a while.'

'Yes.'

'Come on, you can't resist it.'

Greg laughed. 'Is it that obvious?'

John grinned.

'So you two have finally got together?'

John shrugged. 'I love him. He loves me. What's there to say?'

Greg couldn't help shaking his head. 'It was clear you two had something from the off, but I never had you pegged for one of us.'

'One of us?'

'Yeah, gay.'

'I'm not.'

Greg gave him his best 'old-fashioned' look.

'I'm straight,' John told him firmly. 'And Sherlock, well, Sherlock doesn't know what the fuck he is right now, and even if he did, there's no way I would risk aggravating his current mental state by making demands for sex. It just isn't going to happen.'

'So it's platonic?'

'Yep.'

'Not being funny, John, but it doesn't look very platonic to me. Never has.'

'I'm not gay,' John repeated, sounding less patient this time.

'Okay,' Greg said, holding his palms up in supplication. 'Anyway, I'm happy for you both. You look really good together.'

'Thank you.' John took a long slug from his tea and looked at the table top for inspiration. 'Anyway, you and Mycroft.'

Now it was Greg's turn to squirm. 'Am I barking up the wrong tree?'

'Sherlock doesn't seem to think so.'

'Seriously?'

'Look, don't ask me, Mycroft could be into fucking little blue aliens for all I know. But I'll tell you this. Seeing him the other night-' John sighed. 'It was really sad. I mean, he spends his whole life watching over other people, but there's no one to watch over him. I don't know that he's lonely as such – I shouldn't think he has time to be – but there is definitely something missing. I suppose he must have friends, but not that I've ever heard him mention. He doesn't seem to have anybody to confide in, and he really needed someone that night.'

Greg was used to being impressed by John. He was so sensitive when it came to people. That was from being a doctor, Greg supposed. But there was something intuitive about the little blonde man in front of him, a gentleness. He seemed to be able to see the emotions going on under other people's skins in a way that Sherlock's clever deductions could never uncover.

'You should ask him out for a drink.' The voice came from the door. Sherlock was leaning casually against the sill, a gentle smile on his lips that actually extended for once to his eyes.

'I thought you were going to bed,' John said crisply.

'You may have thought that,' Sherlock replied. 'I certainly never said I would.'

'Would you mind if I did?' Greg asked him, trying to cut through the bromantic bickering. 'Ask him out, I mean.'

'I would be very happy if you did,' Sherlock told him. 'You're a good man, Greg. I think, frankly, you deserve better than my brother, but if he is what your heart desires then I wish you joy of it.'

'You think he'd even agree?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Buggered if I know, but if you don't ask, you'll never find out, will you?'

Outside on the street, Greg glanced at his mobile. He'd had Mycroft's number for several years, from the time when Sherlock's addiction was causing constant emergencies. It was only a quick text, he told himself. It wasn't as if he had to look the man in the eye and ask. He'd got his strategy. A sympathetic, friendly shoulder to cry on. What could be easier? Just a vague offer. And if it was just an offer of friendship, then he wouldn't have made a fool of himself if he was refused, would he?

M, just seen Sherlock. Seems to be doing well, but is worried about you. If you want to have a chat over a pint sometime, I'd be happy to help. Lestrade.

He pressed send and then tried to console himself that he hadn't just ruined his own life.

Second later, his phone beeped.

Is my brother setting me up on dates now? MH

Greg groaned, rubbed his hand over his suddenly glowing face, and trudged to his car, quivering with embarrassment. He had just slid his keys into the ignition when a second text came.

G, heartfelt apologies, I am getting churlish in my old age. Would be very grateful. Are you free tonight? MH

Greg groaned, and rested his head in his hands, elbows on the steering wheel. He wasn't sure which was worse, being blown off, or being successful.

Meet me at the Ram in Jameson Street in half an hour? G

His heart was racing.

Bleep.

Perfect. See you there. MH

Greg quickly twisted the rear view mirror and looked at himself. He looked like shit. But then he always did at the end of the working day. And this was half past eight at night. Mycroft would not be expecting anything different. But Mycroft always looked impeccably turned out whatever the time of day. Maybe it was something in the Holmes genes, he decided. Bastards, why wasn't I born with that, instead of the scruffy gene?

He twisted the mirror back to its proper angle and started the engine.

Tomorrow, Greg and Mycroft's first date…