A/N: Sitcom Sherlock continued. Where a "friendly" neighbourhood inspector benefits from a distracted consulting detective and an overworked doctor, while a looming big brother is ready to profit from a prank gone out of hand.

Still in pre-Lockdown mode, because Lockdown doesn't fit so well in this story.

And, for the record, I really like suspenders. -csf


6.

DI Lestrade rubs his stubble as he ponders the blinking cursor on his home laptop. He sits home alone, on a barely comfortable sofa, a couple of empty beer bottles on the coffee table next to him, a distant expression on his haggard face.

In for a penny, in for a pound. He knows he's in way too deep now to come clean to Sherlock and John now. Mycroft budging into the game changed the balance. John is not easily trusting – Greg suspects living a war from an insider's perspective scars even an easy going man like John, to have him become a bit touchy like that – and Sherlock will always be the protégé Greg took under his wing – even though Sherlock is quite capable of spending an evening at the pub detailing 53 ways of efficiently disposing of a body without leaving trace, and that never stopped freaking Greg out.

No, the only way the inspector is going to be able to submit Mycroft's bidding is by means of distraction, pure and simple. Any good old plan will do to keep Sherlock from thinking too hard about how Greg got his hands on national security matters.

And there is only one way to get Sherlock's attention so layered focused on the item at hand that he doesn't stop to question the premise. And that way – Greg has learnt from an impressive array of criminals trying to get Sherlock's undivided attention – is to gun for John.

No threats, that's below the belt even for a desperate detective inspector. No, what he needs is to ratchet up the competition between John Watson, doctor of medicine and honourably discharged captain from Her Majesty's army, known companion of the maddest genius in London, and the fictional suspenders wearing Frenchman Jean, medical examiner.

Greg lowers his fingertips to the laptop's keyboard, and starts to type. He will be careful to disguise the origin of the document once done. As further precaution, this time, he writes in simple terms French, for he fears Sherlock might start collecting enough linguistic evidence to start suspecting Lestrade as the author. And lastly, in a mad stroke of genius of his own, he writes as Jean himself, to doctor John Watson, faithful companion to Monsieur Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, London.

.

John scrunches his face around the piece of toast he is munching on at breakfast, as Greg pops in for a quick visit. He has taken one look at the letter and did not give it nearly enough attention to satisfy the messenger DI.

'French lessons were a while ago. Can you translate that gibberish for me, Greg? You know French, right?'

'Sherlock can do that for you. I just came to drop the letter', says the inspector, rubbing the back of his head.

John shrugs.

'Yeah, fine, just put it somewhere, I need to head off to the hospital.'

'But, aren't you curious, John?'

The sensible doctor shakes his head. 'Not overly curious, no. If the guy wants to tell me something, he can tell it to my face. Seems only polite.' John's body language is one of no nonsense, but the easy going blond soon releases it as if he walked without a care in the world.

'Oh. Didn't think of that.'

John pockets and apple with a mildly curious expression, the sunlight glinting off his blond strands, eclipsing the more worn grey and light brown tones. 'Didn't think of what?'

'Nothing, nothing. Where's Sherlock?'

'Still sleeping off the toxic fumes from the toaster, I think. Hasn't come out if his bed yet.'

Greg doesn't bother with a savvy look on how John knows Sherlock is in bed, because these two only seem relaxed when they know where the other one is. Like an old married couple, they read each other promptly, they walk into a room and locate each other, they finish incomplete sentences, prepare double cuppas and use each other's phones as if there was no last shred of privacy between them.

The inspector makes a conscious effort to return to what brought him over.

'But the letter— Want me to translate it to you now?'

'If you don't mind me brushing my teeth while you're at it, sure!' John assents, carelessly.

'Go right ahead', the inspector waves his hand, feeling a bit miffed after all the secret effort put into remembering correct French grammar. If John's not even looking at the letter, Greg might as well have written it in English!

Still, there's a definite chance that Sherlock will fingerprint the paper, run the ink through the spectrometer, and flame test the envelope, when he comes round. Better be safe than sorry. This lie is quickly becoming out of control.

There's Mycroft to blame for that.

Lestrade clears his throat and swiftly translates:

John, my friend.

I hope you do not object me addressing you as a friend. I feel that although we don't yet know each other, we are very much one of a kind. We are both medical men, we both dedicate a fair bit of attention to geniuses who do not always give us the time of day. How we both still hang around them, my friend Lupin and your friend Sherlock, is beyond me.

'Wait', says John through a mouth full of toothpaste. 'Give me that.'

Greg perks up. John seems keen to have the letter, finally. Greg only understands his mistake when John tears the paper apart into pieces and drops them in the toilet bowl, flushing.

'John!'

'The guy's a pompous idiot and he absolutely does not get Sherlock and I. His trousers suspenders might be fastened too tight. Why would I waste my time with him?'

'But I didn't read you the rest of the letter!'

John shrugs. 'It's psychological warfare, contact the enemy, breech their defences. I'm surprised he stooped so low... I guess they are both more scared of Sherlock than I thought', he adds thoughtfully, flashing a toothpaste grin.

'No, John, it's—'

The doctor finishes off his morning routine hurriedly.

'Sorry, Greg, I'm really running late now. Make yourself some tea, but don't touch the toaster if you want to live. Bye!'

Lestrade stands alone in the kitchen, feeling drained, as John gallops down the stairs, avoiding that creaky step with practiced ease.

.

'John?' a croaky, deep voice rumbles through the green wallpapered corridor. If Greg were a man who had a secret crush on another man, he might find this bedroom voice alluring. Greg makes a mental note to revisit that are-they/aren't-they pool that is currently running high odds but going a bit stale.

Greg turns swiftly to see Sherlock pad along the corridor, looking still a bit sleep groggy. Dishevelled curls to the point of artistic disarray. Face wrinkles softened youthfully by hours of deep, content sleep. Even his ridiculously posh satin dressing gown is rumpled, Sherlock must have slept in it.

So it seems that Sherlock Holmes actually sleeps from time to time. And wakes up calling for John Watson.

Definitely upping the stakes again, Greg moves to the kitchen to occupy his hands with something useful.

'John just left, mate', he says, closing the fridge. Greg did not see the butter dish with the eyeballs, it's much easier if he saw nothing.

Cloud grey eyes stare down the inspector in 221B's kitchen, holding a milk bottle.

'Moving in?' the consulting detective asks nonchalantly, wrapping his lanky body deeper inside the flimsy dressing gown and knotting the belt. The cotton pyjama creases are amplified by the shimmery angles creasing the flimsy silken expanse. Greg briefly wonders if it isn't all just a comedy of coincidences that John is always glancing towards Sherlock. Morning light seems to be in love with John's blond streaks and Sherlock's angles. And that is only the lighting in the kitchen.

Greg looks down on the milk bottle and sniffs it carefully. It smells of curdled cheese, and something that belongs in a biohazard bag. The wise inspector returns the bottle to the fridge quickly.

'Came to... ugh... see how John is doing. Tea?'

Sherlock's eyes narrow. 'Your tell is to rub the back of your neck, when you deceive.'

Lestrade pulls a chair. Not because he thinks it's useful, but because he's feeling particularly exhausted. But then he realises someone would have shown far more interest in that French letter.

'Came to give John a letter from Jean, Lupin's assistant.'

'A letter?'

The morning raspy tones to Sherlock's voice befit the angry protectiveness in the man's scanty tone. 'John is out of bounds', Sherlock assures darkly.

Greg heart is torn between squeezing the last remnants of cold, sluggish blood, and beating frantically out of his chest. Greg is busted, he pushed this too far, he's about to lose two of his most important friendships and it wasn't even worth it, so cobbles together some hasty words:

'Well, I thought—'

The experienced inspector may be about to cave in, expound on his crime and beg for forgiveness, but the unknowing consulting detective derails the shaky confession with a growled: 'Where's the letter?'

Greg blinks. Wait. The Baker Street genius hasn't deduced it yet. Luckily for the inspector, Sherlock Holmes is blind to most human emotions as motivations for interaction. With a bit of luck, Sherlock might never find out. This thought gives the inspector hope and renewed nerve.

'John destroyed the letter.'

Sherlock raises gangly arms in agitated moves. 'Why would John do that?'

'Said Jean can say whatever to his face instead.'

Sherlock's agitation subsides visibly. A hint of a proud and amused smirk fleets across the mad man's face.

'No, he can say it to my face instead. John is to be left alone, or I'll have my way with the assistant and it will take the Royal Navy, the French Gendarmes and NATO pulling together to find his remains.'

Greg shivers before he can help himself.

'Aren't you overreacting? The man wears suspenders after all.'

Sherlock looks smug, as he states: 'Oh, the suspenders are essential to my plan, Lestrade... What did the letter say?'

'Ugh... Nothing', Greg quickly decides. 'Nothing special. I think the French side is starting to crack, if you ask me.'

Sherlock smugly winks and walks off to the living room.

.

Water runs smoothly down the planes of John's back, spilling in small streams attached by electrostatic forces, propelled by external force and gravity. The warm, appeasing water, rivulets around his faded bullet entry scar, creating a tiny maelstrom before swirling away. Of all of this John is innocently unaware, just focusing on the warm flow on battered muscles and relaxing at last.

The tired doctor showers in a small cubicle at the end of another long, gruelling shift, fighting an insidious virus that overstays its welcome. Perhaps, as is often implied, John should accept this "new normal", but he can't constantly fight with the strengths of three men and still put out the same performance, its slowly draining him of vital energy.

He even notices Sherlock can tell he's close to crack. Sherlock sombrely follows John around – since when is Sherlock a follower? – ready to pick up his pieces or catch him if he collapses. With an attention to detail that spares John from having to express his feelings in close detail, John's best friend is a constancy in a frighteningly new world.

It's their friendship that powers John through these tough times; and John silently vows to give back to Sherlock from the amazing gift of keeping him whole.

.

Another evening falls quickly in the short days of early January in Baker Street. John is humming under his breath, as he busies himself clearing out the dishwasher. Sherlock frowns at his inconsiderate flatmate's back, just before raising the violin to his chin, bow in hand, and sawing discordantly at the musical instrument.

John stops, his hands full of cutlery, straightens up, and jerks his shoulders in silent questioning.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but softens his music down to an elaborate and swirly version of John's earlier hums. John flashes him a brief smile, before starting to sort the cutlery onto the drawer.

Finally Sherlock cuts the music abruptly, lowers the violin to his armchair, and starts furiously pacing the living room's rug.

John sighs, closes the kitchen unit drawer, and asks:

'Lupin, again?'

'Yess', Sherlock hisses angrily.

'But you just solved Lestrade's two cold cases. That's one case ahead on the friendly competition, right?'

'I just used the second case. Lupin has immediately posted a case he solved from the hands of his medical examiner sidekick.' Sherlock glances suspiciously at the landline phone. 'Molly could get me a few corpses. You're done with the bathtub, aren't you, John?'

'No', John stutters, warningly. 'No, Sherlock, no corpses in the bathtub. Last time the maggots clogged up the drains, remember?'

Sherlock exhales dramatically. 'That was ages ago!'

John puts down the tea towel and comes closer to Sherlock. He takes a comfortable, homely seat in the battered red armchair. Sherlock, as if hypnotised by the familiarity of the gesture, takes a seat in his own Bauhaus chair.

'Sherlock, you can't let Lupin get to you. A little competition is alright, so long as you don't stop enjoying solving those cases, righting wrongs, saving lives.'

'Hmpf', the detective admits reluctantly.

'You're obsessing, something you're very good at, I'll admit, and whilst I'm just happy Lupin is not an evil criminal mastermind as usual, I'm worried about you all the same, Sherlock.'

'Oh, don't be a mother hen, John! I've been a consulting detective a long time, in fact I started when you were still being shot at.'

John chuckles. 'Not like that has changed all that much!' he comments. Sherlock pales and his mood thunders metaphorically over his head. He's sprung up from his chair but now stands as if he doesn't know why he's up. John quickly regains sobriety and control.

'You know, mate, I reckon the trouble here is there are only the two of you, so you're just constantly spurring each other on.'

'What do you mean?' Sherlock gently sits down, not quite having his back contacting the back of the chair. Unconsciously, he leans forward from his seat. John seconds his posture as an immediate reflex.

The doctor smiles mischievously. 'Well, I don't know! What about if we got a third detective to join you both? Just to mess with this Frenchman a bit? Let him know he's not some big shot just because he's imitating you now, you get more fan versions than Elvis, and none quite reaches your level.'

'You want to reduce Lupin's sense of self-importance by introducing another successful consulting detective?'

John nods. He looks around to find his laptop edged precariously on the sofa's arm. His loyal blue eyes contract. 'I can give form to this new kid detective on the block, but for genius I'll need you to play him, Sherlock.'

The taller man leans back on the chair, his dark curls getting a bit long and most useful now to partially throw a shadow across his face. A duality of light and shadow John seems to study with intensity.

'You're just trying to overwork me, John, to have me busy while you doctor sick people.'

'Is there any point in doctoring healthy people at a hospital?' John smirks.

'Fine', Sherlock caves in. 'Get your laptop and the deerstalker hat. Molly will provide the cases.'

'I don't need a hat', John frowns.

'No, you don't. But then what is there in it for me?' Sherlock asks, genially.

.

TBC