A little imagined conversation at the inn during the Hounds episode. Implied Lestrade/Mycroft, as well as the usual John/Sherlock.
Greg and John sit on one of the benches outside the inn, a couple of pints between them. Sherlock's stalked off to harass some local, giving them a few moments peace.
"So, Mycroft sent you up here, did he?" the implication is clear in John's voice, but he sounds amused by it, not judgemental.
"It's not like that. Can't two grown men with common interests just be mates?" Greg stares into his glass rather than looking John in the eye, avoiding the sarcastic and accusatory eyebrow.
"Considering all the barbs I get about Sherlock… even from you…"
"Fair enough. I'm not even going to ask why you two are sharing such close quarters upstairs."
John sighs. "If I said it was the only room available, would you believe me?"
"Probably not."
The two men sit in silence, both staring off into the distance when a familiar silhouette with an overly-expensive coat and unruly hair comes into view.
"What's wrong with us, Greg?" John wonders. "Why, of all the people in the world, are we drawn to two of the most dynamic, enigmatic, insufferable people out there?"
"Fucked if I know, but I think it's time we both faced the facts and owned up to it." He chugs the last of his drink and sets the glass back down with a bang.