A/N: All I wanted was drunk John and Greg. Instead, I got this. Oh well - you can't win every battle. Enjoy?

Word Count: 590+

Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, Lestrade and John have bromance, slight implied Lestrade/Sherlock bromance

Warning(s): references to suicide, sex, and alcohol. S3 spoilers.

Punchline

"God, just last Saturday, Greg. I swear, it was just last Saturday. Did I tell you about that?"

Greg smiled indulgently, sipped his beer, listened. John had knocked back a few – more than, as a cop, Greg probably should have been comfortable with. But it had been a while since they'd gone out to the pub and, smashed or not, it was nice to see John like this. The two men had little in common anymore, but Sherlock was always a topic that kept them going all night.

"I told him, Sherlock, I'm not in the mood for your games," John said, nodding seriously and taking a swig of his own drink. "I was tired, you know? Long case, no sleep, feeling absolutely nasty after running through London for hours, so yeah, I wasn't in the mood to do anything but peck away at that stupid blog."

"I like your blog," Greg said good-naturedly. He always had been good-natured. John grinned.

"Well, thank you. I can't imagine not, it's all about that idiot. But anyway we were sitting in the living room and he's all, 'Oh, John, I'm not playing any games, I'm just trying to help you relax!' even though he knows damn well that rubbing my feet isn't the path to helping me relax. That's how it is with Sherlock, Greg. He starts with your feet and you start feeling good and then the next thing you know there he is, all the way up your butt."

Greg choked on his beer, thrown into an unexpected fit of laughter. Drunk John was better than the other Johns. John-and-Sherlock was the best, but Greg wouldn't ever say so, because John-and-Sherlock wasn't John-and-Sherlock anymore, it was John-and-aftermath and that was going to be because Sherlock decided to throw himself off a hospital rooftop.

"What a dick," said Greg. He's still grinning.

John grunted his agreement, kicked his beer back, and Greg knows he's pondering the fact that, no, it wasn't just last Saturday, it wasn't last month, and it wasn't last year. They've been through this enough times – although, lately, those times have been less frequent – that Greg saw it coming when John slammed the cup back on the table. He also saw it coming when the good doctor crumbled and his face collapsed into his hands, shoulders shaking. John wouldn't cry, Greg knew that too – they both ran out of tears quite a while ago.

What was unexpected:

"I was going to kill myself, you know. I keep thinking I'm going to kill myself, but Sherlock would be so angry with me. I just know he'd be angry with me."

Greg flinched, recoiled. He never considered it, really, not like he should have, that John might kill himself. Before he could think to respond properly John grinned at him again, eyes dancing and haunted. "He never did get the milk, you know that, Greg? Not once did he go to the store and get the damn milk when I asked him; I shouldn't still love that asshole. Do you know why I still love him?"

What a question. Greg rubbed the back of his neck. After a moment of consideration, he sighed. "I don't know. Why?"

John's smile faltered. He'd forgotten the punch line to his own joke.

"I don't know," he answered.

At a loss for words, Greg kicks back another vodka shot. Then, smile creeping back onto his lips, he asked, "Do you remember the case with the goat?"

"No," John lied. "Remind me."

Greg did. Probably, that was why they didn't meet too often anymore.

Review?