"Ending 1"

The next time someone entered the restaurant, Sherlock looked up from his table, not expecting it to be anyone he knew. By this time, he expected very little at all to come of his notice in the paper. It was far from obscure; even the densest of his acquaintances could comprehend its meaning.

He was pleasantly surprised when he recognised Mrs. Hudson, in all her short, curly-haired, bustling glory. She hurried over to his table, her purple skirt fluttering around her legs as she moved, and he stood up to kiss her cheek.

"Oh, Sherlock dear," she said, and he ushered her into the opposite chair. "I had a phone call on the way out, or I would have been here sooner." She grabbed his hand, and squeezed. "How are you?"

"Much better for your presence, Mrs. Hudson," he said, and he smiled. "Thank you for coming."

"I wanted to make sure that you weren't alone," she said. "Have you ordered something yet?"

"A candle for you, Mr. Holmes?" Angelo said, choosing that moment to appear. "For you and your date, huh?"

"What a sweet boy," Mrs. Hudson said. She looked like she wanted to start mothering Angelo as well, and Sherlock felt the need to put a stop to this.

"She is my landlady, Angelo," he said. "Presuming that I may return to Baker Street?"

"Yes, of course," Mrs. Hudson said. "Angelo, is it? You must come around for tea sometime. Could we have a bottle of red? You like red, don't you, Sherlock?"

"It sounds perfectly satisfactory."

"One bottle of our best red wine, coming up," Angelo said, leaving the candle, and he swept away. Sherlock shook his head as he looked at Mrs. Hudson.

"Have you learnt nothing of stranger danger?" he asked.

"He's a friend of yours—"

"Acquaintance."

"So he must be all right."

"…Aside from the criminal record. Well, I suppose it was only robbery." Mrs. Hudson began to look alarmed. "I can be there for tea, should he choose to visit."

Angelo soon returned with the wine, and by the time they were halfway through their first glass each, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were gossiping like old times. Or, to be more accurate, Mrs. Hudson was updating Sherlock on Mrs. Turner and her 'married ones', and spilling secrets about the people Mycroft had had staying at 221B Baker Street while Sherlock was dismantling Moriarty's network. He made note of several points, intending to retain them for future use. Leverage with Mycroft, should the need arise.

"So where did you go, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she was pouring a second glass of wine. Sherlock shook his head, still going on his first.

"Predominantly Europe," he said, "with a few sojourns to the Middle East."

"Oh dear! I hope you steered clear of trouble as much as possible."

He smiled, and twisted his glass around. "I did my best."

"And you really did all of this, just for us?"

When Sherlock looked up, he saw the tears in Mrs. Hudson's eyes. The tremor in her voice was audible. It hurt something inside.

"Three people's lives against one," he said. "It was not a difficult decision to make, Mrs. Hudson. And I had the advantage of forward planning. Moriarty fell into the trap of my own devising, for which I will be eternally grateful to Molly Hooper."

"She's a nice young girl," Mrs. Hudson said.

"I hope she finds someone worthy of her devotion. I have not treated her well over the years, although it has taken me some time to recognise this. A shamefully long time. She has become a friend, however. Friendship is a far stronger relationship than that of a romantic attachment, in my experience."

Mrs. Hudson leaned closer, and patted Sherlock's arm.

"You're just like a son to me," she said. "You and John both. I wish you'd find someone nice to settle down with."

"You just wish to top Mrs. Turner's married ones."

"That's not true, Sherlock," she admonished, and she tapped his hand sharply, before taking a large sip of her wine. "Well, not entirely true."

"Ah-ha."

"`Tisn't." She looked off to the side as she drank some more, and Sherlock drained the rest of his glass. He was contemplating another when Mrs. Hudson stood up.

"You're leaving?" Sherlock asked, reaching for her arm.

"You won't be alone, Sherlock," she said. She stroked his hair. "Move back into Baker Street as soon as your brother calls off his last watchdog, won't you?"

"Of course," he said, nodding, and he watched as she headed to the door. His attention left her immediately when he noticed who had come in, and obviously caught her eye.

It was Greg. He was staring at Sherlock, until Mrs. Hudson reached him. Then he quickly opened the door for her. She gestured at Sherlock, and mouthed what appeared to be the words 'Don't forget to use protection', before disappearing. Mortified, and hoping that he was mistaken, or that the inspector hadn't heard, or didn't know how to read lips, Sherlock rubbed his eyes for a moment. Then he looked up, and saw Greg slowly moving around tables until he reached Sherlock.

"Hello, sunshine," Greg said. Sherlock stood with a clatter of his chair.

"Good evening, inspector," he said. He noticed many things, as usual; what stood out in that moment, however, was the way Greg's eyes lost some of their shine. He waved the man into the chair Mrs. Hudson had just vacated, and summoned Angelo to bring another wine flute.

"Thought there'd be more people than this," Greg said, no longer making eye contact as he cast his gaze around the restaurant. Sherlock had already made an inventory of the patrons – he had required some mental stimulus while he awaited any visitors – and so he was free to study the inspector further.

"You're divorced," he said. Greg's eyes met his. "Inevitable. But you left her, not the other way around, which leads me to believe that she wasn't enticed away by the PE teacher. The affair obviously contributed to your decision, but it is not one that you regret. This was at least a year ago, possible eighteen months. You are comfortable in your bachelorhood, and there is no longer a line from the wedding ring. Proceedings must have moved swiftly; you could not have kept an impending divorce from me, and there were no signs of it when last we met before… before I went away."

"Yeah," Greg said. "Before you abandoned us."

"Before I protected you," Sherlock snapped. He regretted it at once. "I apologise. It has been trying for me, not being able to see you except through the odd grainy photograph care of Mycroft's CCTV. I am glad you were able to retain your job."

Greg sighed. "Well, tell me your new number, and I'll call the next time we're out of our depths with a case."

"You can use the old number."

He stared at Sherlock. "Wait, wait, wait. We could've called you anytime, just using your old phone number?"

"Mycroft had my calls redirected until he was able to regain my SIM card. Before anyone could begin tracing our communications, I purchased a new phone. However, I have returned to using my old card. Greg, who would call a dead man?"

He turned pale. Then he paused, and stared at Sherlock. "You called me Greg."

"It is your name, I believe."

"All of my warrant cards you've stolen over the years, and you never noticed."

"Lestrade is a far less common name than Greg. You are, in fact, the only Lestrade of my acquaintance. By a strange circumstance, I have known several Watsons, but only one John."

"Right."

Sherlock poured wine for both of them, and they drank in silence, one always looking away as soon as the other noticed. Sherlock had rarely been in a more ridiculous and uncomfortable situation. Something was stirring inside him, however, and he waited for Greg to speak again. When it appeared that he was content to wait it out as well, Sherlock broke the silence.

"What did cause the divorce?" he asked. "Was it solely due to your ex-wife's affair? Or was there someone else? Did it not work out between you?"

"No. No, it'd never worked out before."

"Then you have hope for the future?" Sherlock said. Greg shrugged half-heartedly.

"Not really," he said. "I mean, it's all very well to say there's always hope, but…" He trailed off, looked at Sherlock, and then away again. "No, I don't hold out any hope."

"The woman's name?"

Greg winced. "Not a woman."

"…Oh?" Sherlock knew that he'd fallen for the inspector long ago, and bid that crush goodbye when the reality of the man's marriage had hit Sherlock in the face.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sure you could figure it out," Greg said, and he shifted in his seat, still refusing to make full-on eye contact.

"Of course," Sherlock said. He stood up, and began to walk around. Greg moved back in his chair.

"What're you doing?"

"I need to reassess your appearance if I am to deduce the identity of the one you desire. When did you last see him?"

"Uh, recently."

"Have you had much contact?"

"No. It all started a long time ago, and it never went anywhere. I… I never made a move."

"Hmm." Sherlock was attempting to pick something up from the inspector's clothes. Had it been a long time between meetings, that would justify a certain level of difficulty; this was ludicrous. He hated the idea of asking the inspector to stand up and turn around to give Sherlock a better look, as that would be admitting a problem. It would possibly be admitting more than one problem, and he had no desire to dwell on that.

"Well?" Greg asked. Sherlock glanced at his face, and saw that Greg was smirking, his eyebrows raised. One was slightly higher than the other, and his head was tilted. With his shirt undone at the top two buttons, his jacket open, and legs spread out in front, the detective inspector's entire appearance was more than pleasing, and did something to Sherlock's insides. And outside, forcing him to retreat behind the table once more.

"It cannot be someone from Scotland Yard, as you are far too professional to fall for someone related to your work—"

"Not that professional," Greg said. Sherlock hesitated, and considered his words. If Greg had fallen for someone at the Yard, that would explain why the divorce happened so long ago; it would have had plenty of time to build. Something obviously occurred after Sherlock's death to give Greg hope for a new future. Had he fallen for someone he met during the inquiry which had taken place after Sherlock's perceived suicide? Mycroft had refused to divulge details of the investigation, which was irritating at the time; even more so now. Then Sherlock could have gained a better idea of his riva— Greg's preferred lover.

"What is stopping you?" he asked. "Relationships within the police force are as common as relationships between doctors."

"It's a little matter of unrequited feelings. He wouldn't want me."

"How can you be sure? Have you asked?"

"No—"

"He would have to be an idiot to refuse your suit," Sherlock said, unthinkingly. He only had moments in which to deflect. "Although if you do have your eye on someone at work, process of elimination suggests that they must be an idiot."

"Process of elimination?" Greg appeared to be bemused.

"Unless you are a narcissist."

"…Right. Thank you, I think."

"You are welcome."

Sherlock dodged the proverbial bullet there. Greg hadn't noticed his blunder, thank God.

They drank some more, and eventually ordered plain bread rolls. Greg watched Sherlock freely now, while Sherlock grew frustrated. He maintained a careful façade of nonchalance, all the while wondering why it was proving so onerous to deduce this mystery person's identity.

"Oh, for God's sake," Greg said. "I came here to talk to you, but you're distracted again. I don't know why I bothered." He stood up, and Sherlock grabbed his wrist.

"You're not leaving?" he asked.

"If we're not going to talk—"

"We can," Sherlock said, and he pulled Greg closer. "You can tell me all about… whomever it is. I must confess to some difficulty in identifying him."

Greg's face fell. "Can't you tell?"

"No, I—"

Then his words were cut off as Greg bent down and kissed him. It was chaste and unhurried, but Sherlock was too shocked to lean into it. He was utterly lost. But he didn't relinquish his grip, not even when the kiss ended and Greg tried to pull away. Sherlock twisted his hand around until he could take Greg's pulse. It was racing, too fast even for him to calculate the inspector's blood pressure; but it was surely sky high. His pupils were no more dilated than before, and yet he was blushing. Sherlock stood as well.

"Say it," he said. "Say it, Greg."

"You, Sherlock. God, how could you not have known? That night we went to the pub, I was sure…"

"You were married."

"Past tense."

Their eyes met again.

"You thought I was dead," Sherlock said.

"I was sick of living a lie."

Sherlock glanced over at Angelo. At least there was no need to pay for food here. The restaurant's owner waved him away.

"Will you walk me home?" Sherlock asked.

"Baker Street isn't that far," Greg said.

"I am not currently lodging at Baker Street, although I hope to be soon."

"I brought my car."

"…I see."

Greg shifted his hand until their fingers were entwined. Sherlock felt his own heart-rate pick up the pace.

"I'll take you anywhere you want to go," Greg told him. "If you're lucky, you might even get a goodnight kiss."

"That sounds acceptable."

"Git."

"And yet you love me."

"I do, God help me."

In this chapter, we had platonic Sherlock/Mrs. Hudson, as requested by: Imogenfere, Syblime, .Elizabeth, Valkyrie of the Dead, and an anonymous.

We also had Sherstrade (a personal favourite of mine), as requested by: Slithytove, .Elizabeth, Valkyrie of the Dead, and Cleome.

There will be three more chapters, where I have tried to combine as many requests as possible. In other words, all of them, in some way or another. I do try to please. *Grins*