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The last few months hadn’t been easy by anyone’s standards. Just when they all thought they were recovering from the nasty business with Sherlock’s suicide, there he was at the door of 221B, giving John a near heart attack and showing Mrs Hudson’s true colours (Lestrade still refused to believe that she knew all along. It was all complicated enough, thanks).
John had been – well, Greg had been in the police force for a disgusting portion of his life and he’d seen his fair share of traumatised people, but he’d never seen anyone that completely destroyed. The man was like the walking dead in the weeks after the Fall. Though, that was actually Sherlock, apparently.
Still, Greg was not expecting him to barge through the doors of his office (nearly squashing Anderson as he threw them open) with a bruised and bloody Sherlock in tow. They all sort of stared at each other for a few seconds. John’s eyes were dark and livid, he should have been trembling in shock but he was still as a statue, cane in one hand, and he still hadn’t relinquished his grip on Sherlock’s coat.
God, he was still wearing the coat.
Sherlock looked quite the same as Lestrade remembered. A mass of black curls, cheekbones and a haughty expression. Probably reading Greg’s last couple of months in the way his desk was organised, he didn’t know.
Tea. They’d had tea. Then he and John had made Sherlock leave the room so they could talk. Sherlock was going to move back into the flat and start taking low-key cases again. Greg didn’t find this half as crazy as he should have done.
“I need someone to pay half the rent.”
Lestrade smiled.
“You need him.”
***
He was a lot more cautious this time when letting Sherlock help. They’d had to have group meetings and he’d taken everything Sally had screamed at him as well as he could. He knew it was stupid, irresponsible, he would definitely lose his job if anything went wrong. It had been near impossible to clear his name last time.
There had been a huge sulk following the news that even if he wanted to help he still wasn’t allowed on crime scenes anymore. That was until John shot Sherlock a look across the desk and the madman shut right up.
Lestrade couldn’t have said why she suddenly felt like an intruder.
***
John still wanted to meet at the pub on a Tuesday night. Greg was more useful than John’s therapist, he suspected, and John paid for a good listening ear with pints, which was fine.
However, he was surprised to see John strolling in that Tuesday, cane free and with a little smile on his face. The barmaid perked up considerably when he took a seat. Lucky bastard, she was good looking too. Only John Watson could go through months of emotional torture and still be attractive once he started smiling again.
“How’s he been then?” Greg asked once the neutral topics of football and whatever the hell was going on in Afghanistan had been exhausted. John’s smile turned a little grim.
“On his best behaviour.” He half mumbled into his drink, “No body parts in the fridge, no violin at three in the morning, he hasn’t exceeded the recommended number of nicotine patches – I’m almost scared.”
“Sounds like he’s trying to get back in someone’s good books. Although, where would he even get his body parts from now?”
“Oh, Molly would still trade her soul for him to look in her direction.” Lestrade couldn’t help but think that he sounded bitter, Molly seemed nice. But John was drunk.
“Your limp’s looking better.”
“Psychosomatic. My therapist is furious.”
Greg laughed.
***
Sally let out a noise of disgust. Greg tried not to sigh. It had been a long day, not made easier when he knew that Sherlock could have solved the case with two minutes, one minute, on the crime scene.
“What?” He snapped. It was OK, she was used to it.
“Freak and Freak’s Doctor on a date.”
Greg did sigh at that. Sometimes she acted like a twelve year old.
“They’re not on a date.” He looked up from the road and into the restaurant’s window. OK. Well anyone would have to concede that the scene inside didn’t look completely heterosexual. Greg had only had another man look at him like that once, and that was only when he was outside a gay bar in uniform.
Sally gave a derisive snort.
***
It was a new game he had to play when he was bored. Sherlock had been granted permission to return to the crime scenes (what’s the betting Mycroft hadn’t pulled a harp’s worth of strings?) Imaginably, he wasn’t welcomed like the prodigal son but after he wrapped up the past year’s cold cases and solved a particularly vexing double murder they stopped trying to lock him out of Scotland Yard.
The game, though childish and probably offensive, (But did he care when it was 11 o’clock at night, he was in East London and the heavens had opened? No he did not.) was: ‘How Platonic Was That Touch?’.
Greg had sorted himself out a nice little scale, 1-10. 1 was, The Most Manly, Heterosexual Touch In Existence and 10 was Snogging. If he ever told anyone, which he wouldn’t, they would likely label him ‘really sad’ – but screw them, it was fun and he was bored.
That. Ooh, he’d probably give that a 6. There was really no need for their hands to brush that much. John was only handing over an evidence bag. It looked like he’d been burned the way he yanked his hand away afterwards.
***
“Have you, erm, noticed anything different about those two?” Dimmock asked, dropping off the last two case files on Greg’s desk. He glanced up at Sherlock and John as they wound their way to the elevator.
There’d been a rather impressive 8 earlier when Sherlock grabbed John’s hand to lead him into Lestrade’s office and it was only when the DI coughed and nodded at their clasped palms they realised what they were doing and parted. John couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes properly afterwards and Sherlock gave Greg a curious look, the snooty ‘problem?’ no doubt on the tip of his tongue.
Lestrade considered his words for a second. ‘Yes, they’re both suffering from an onslaught of sexual tension,’ wouldn’t be professional, given that they’re both practically colleagues.
But it barely makes sense, Sherlock must realise what’s going on between them both. It’s Sherlock. And John’s dated enough women to know when he fancies someone.
Maybe it’s not even that. Maybe they’re both still wounded from Sherlock’s suicide and they’re just reminding each other that they’re both still there.
Nah, they wouldn’t look at each other that way if that were the case. For a time Greg wasn’t sure if Sherlock was a sexual being at all, but there’s no other way of seeing it, he undresses John with his eyes.
Eyesex. That’s what his niece calls it.
“Erm, no?” He shrugged and that was the end of that.
***
If he was honest, and he always tried to be honest, even when it was hard; Greg didn’t think he’d ever see a 10. Not that he wanted to. No, as far as he knew he didn’t have a deep, voyeuristic longing to see anything more platonic than a hug between Sherlock and John.
But it was Sherlock Holmes he was dealing with. Damn him.
Lestrade got his 10 on the ‘How Platonic Was That Touch?’ scale at about two in the morning on another drizzly Saturday. Sherlock had been brilliant, as John had remarked frequently, somehow noticing the coffee stain on the cover of the book wasn’t coffee but tea, and identical to the type found in her flat. And Sally’s face was priceless. Price. Less.
All that remained was the paperwork and he could maybe put that off for a day – no more than that though, he wasn’t fully out of the dog house. Greg decided the dynamic duo needed to be taken home before they killed everyone. Death by exposure to other people’s sexual tension. Well, at least the paperwork would be interesting for that one.
It really was getting ridiculous now. They were making people feel like intruders on their own crime scene.
There were the looks and the touches, the undecipherable exchanges. In short, they were acting like a couple newly in love and it was driving the team insane.
“Come on, I’ll give you a lift home. Saves you having to pay for a taxi.” Greg offered that Saturday morning. John accepted before Sherlock could protest and thanked him. Sherlock gave him a long look over. Just because Greg had his own reasons for wanting to stay out as long as possible it didn’t make it any of his business.
“The P.E teacher again.” He stated and Greg felt his cheeks heat, ignoring him in favour of switching the engine on. He fancied he heard John murmur something scolding but he wasn’t expecting a miracle.
The ride back was mostly OK, Greg drove and fiddled with the radio until he found something that wasn’t dubstep and his passengers sat in the back, talking between themselves.
Greg could hear snatches of their conversation, though it seemed to be John doing most of the talking, “You did remember to-?”, “For God’s-!”, “John, Mrs Hudson has seen worse.”, “You were really-”, “Yeah”, “Amazing.”.
“Sherlock?” Greg was watching the road but he caught a glimpse of movement in the back of the patrol car and his ears pricked up at the warning tone in John’s voice. “What are yo-? Mmph!”
In a way it was lucky that it was so early in the morning and the weather was so bad because if there had been more cars on the road or, God forbid, any pedestrians, they probably would have crashed when Lestrade looked in the rear view mirror.
Sherlock and John were kissing. Right in the back of his police car. This was a number 10 on his scale. Lord.
Sherlock had unclipped his seatbelt (that made Greg wince the most, he took his job too seriously sometimes) and had John pinned against the seat, attacking his mouth in a frenzied but almost clinical manner, like he was collecting evidence. He probably was, Greg supposed.
The detective’s hands were lost in the folds of John’s jumper but Greg could see John had a nice handful of Sherlock’s curls and despite his earlier not-quite-protest . . . Well, John certainly wasn’t protesting now.
He turned his attention back to driving, narrowly avoiding two dustbins and a cat, and cringed as a wet smack and a deep, wanton moan broke the silence. He felt cruelly relieved when he realised Baker Street was only a few minutes away. He could kick them out now if he wanted.
There was another moan and Greg found himself uncomfortably thinking that the porn industry would pay a fair price for a video of this.
God, was that-?! No. Thank goodness.
“This is your stop.” He called, far louder than necessary. They sprang apart like teenagers and Greg would have laughed, had it been funny at all. Guiltily, he decided he would really love to see Sherlock’s hair after sex if it was that wild after some snogging. John grinned sheepishly and thanked him again.
“What was that then?” Sherlock asked once John was out of the car, straightening his scarf. God knows what Mrs Hudson was going to say. Greg froze.
“Sorry?”
“On your sexual tension scale?”
“Good night, Sherlock.” (you bastard.) “Tell John I’ll see him on Tuesday.”
Greg decided, as he waved at Mrs Hudson through the window and drove off, that was the last time he would be offering those two a lift anywhere.