Title: An Officer, A Sociopath and A Soldier Walk Into A Bar

Summary: ...And the punch line is for their ears only. / When Greg started yet another drugs bust, he expected the decomposing ears and infuriating detective, but not the war hero husband leaning against the kitchen counter. Short Johnlock AU.

Notes: I would really, really say I'm sorry, but I'm not. I love this idea, but whether or not I've done it justice is for you to decide. It's been a long work in progress, and is only my third Sherlock fic and probably my third actually non-angsty fic for any fandom. I sincerely hope you enjoy, and I'd love it if you could drop a review. Thank you!

Greg Lestrade would usually count himself as a calm, collected man. Yes, he had his moments - like when his wife decided to cheat on him with a p.e teacher, for God's sake - but overall, he dealt with pressure well. It's one of the reasons why he went into the police force.

But nothing could have prepared him for the next moment in his life, lovingly referred to as The Beginning of the End, Volume 1; Pocket Edition.

"Hello," the man said. Greg stared.

This man - military, just returned from service - had literally waltzed onto the not-quite-disclosed crime scene that was Sherlock's flat. How did Greg know he was from the military, you ask?

Well, he was still in uniform. That was the first hint. The second was the dog tags around his neck, the third was the army-regulation haircut, the fourth was the cane the man was currently leaning against, and the fifth was the thick wad of bandages on his shoulder, visible even under his camouflage uniform.

He was short - a lot shorter than Greg, even shorter than Anderson, and he possibly reached the knee height of Sherlock - but he had a kind face and his hand trembled next to him.

"Hello?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," the man explained, running a hand through the cropped blonde hair and looking flustered. "I'm looking for Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes? How did you know he'd be here?" Actually, he hadn't yet arrived. Greg had sent a text, but heaven forbid that Sherlock reply at a decent time.

"I have a few contacts," he said with a secretive smile. He laughed. "His brother, mainly. And common sense. This is ou- his flat, after all. I've just got back from service you see, and I really... really wanted to see him as soon as possible. I would've gone to the Chinese, or Bart's, but the chances that he'd be there were unlikely at best..."

"I'm sorry," Greg interrupted him, holding up his hand and just controlling a roll of his eyes as Anderson and Donavan peered out at them from the kitchen, Anderson holding what looked like a severed toe. "Who are you?"

"I'm John Watson."

There was a silence that not even Sherlock would have had the heart to break. Greg cleared his throat.

"Do we know you? I'm afraid Sherlock isn't here at the moment, but we could leave him a message, maybe..."

"He hasn't mentioned me?" John asked, frown lines creeping between his eyebrows. He rubbed his left wrist and shuffled on his leg slightly. "Same old Sherlock, I suppose." But John still looked sad at the thought of being forgotten.

For however-many years.

"I'm sure he's mentioned you in passing," Greg attempted to reassure him. "I mean, you know what Sherlock's like, loses track of things... Know him at Oxford, did you? Admittedly, he didn't spend much time there, but..."

"I know what you mean. Um, I don't mean to be rude, but what are you doing here exactly?"

"This is a private investigation, but honestly, there's not much to lose... It might be a, um, drug's bust. But you really don't need to know that." John looked completely appalled, so Greg was marginally grateful when two members of his team interrupted ungraciously.

"Sir? Is someone looking for the freak?" Donavan called. Her heels clattered against the wooden floors as she made her way towards them, Anderson following like a puppy.

"The freak?" John repeated somewhat dangerously. Greg mentally groaned. They would not take the hint.

"Yeah. Sherlock. Tall, kind of bat-like, freakish. Know him?" Anderson asked, flicking a speck of imaginary dust from his shoulder.

"Does he know you call him a freak?" He asked in confusion. Donavan and Anderson looked at each other, and Greg actually did groan this time. This John was obviously an old friend of Sherlock's, probably from school, and they were just bad-mouthing him in front of him?

Idiots. The lot of them. Sometimes, in moments like these, Greg understood Sherlock a whole lot better.

"Of course. It's a, uh, pet name of sorts," Donavan snorted.

"Is that right?"

Sherlock, of course, being Sherlock, chose that moment to walk in. Well, it was his flat after all. He stormed right past Greg, Donavan, Anderson and John, who still stood near the coffee table.

"Do try and control your stupidity, Donavan, if you don't put a leash on it, it may start to attack the rest of us. Anderson." Sherlock nodded at him. "Blue really isn't your colour. Lestrade, updates. Now."

"You have a visitor."

"A visitor? How exciting. I hardly ever get visitors. Is it Mrs Hudson again?" Sherlock fiddled around with that damned skull of his, obviously inspecting it for damage. He grunted in approval, and placed it back on the mantelpiece next to his riding crop and a Korean phone book.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock turned around immediately this time. His eyes latched onto John's, and the world froze, almost literally. Even Anderson stopped talking.

"John." He ran forward, paying no mind as his coattails hit Donavan in the face. With an unidentified, choked sob, Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around the soldier, burying his dark head in his good shoulder. John stroked his hair softly, murmuring something into his ear.

Greg coughed pointedly.

Sherlock shot up and stepped back; his eyes roamed over John's uniform, taking in the injuries and the dog tags and the muddy boots. "You weren't supposed to be back for months. Months. Which means you were injured in combat. Not bad enough to keep you in hospital, but bad enough to keep you from service. Possibly a life-long defect from your injury, most likely psychosomatic. And a therapist, of course. Infuriating woman, I'd imagine. Not a patch on me in giving advice."

"Aren't you going to introduce us, freak?" Donavan interrupted.

"Don't call him that," John muttered, his fingers twitching rhythmically. He leant more on his cane. "Don't you dare call him that."

"Why not?"Anderson asked, stepping in to defend his - what? Partner, lover, girlfriend, mistress, co-worker, friend with benefits? God knew with those two. "It's what he is, after all."

"Only to idiots like yourself," he replied, and his kind face was twisted in disgust. He turned back to Sherlock. "Shot in the shoulder. Psychosomatic leg injury. And yes, Ella is an infuriating therapist. You got one thing wrong this time, though, Sherlock."

"Damn!" Sherlock exclaimed, rushing forward and taking John's face in his hands. "What was it?"

"My infuriating therapist is much better at the advice lark than you are."

"I'm sorry, but who are you?" Greg asked, bewildered and gaze flying from Sherlock to the man in the doorway. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes flitted from person to person, assessing them, observing them, creating them, all inside his restless mind. He gave an arrogant sigh, and removed his hands from John's flushed cheeks. He raised an eyebrow at Greg.

"You've watched, Lestrade, but have you observed?"

"Observed? Sherlock, what the hell are you going on about?"

John's lips quirked into a smile, before he scowled, once more, at the gaping Donavan and Anderson. Sherlock let out yet another impatient huff.

"Do keep up, Lestrade," he drawled, and he circled Greg, mouth twitching and eyes alight with more excitement than he had seen in years. "You're not a complete idiot. You should be able to figure it out. What do you see?"

There was silence. Greg looked between them, and he thought about his first presumption: friend from university.

Friend.

"You don't have friends," he muttered hesitantly, and Sherlock applauded slowly, jumping and perching on the high-backed armchair that sat opposite a smaller one that Greg had never questioned the existence of.

"Very good, Lestrade! I don't have friends." He shared a look with John, who chuckled deeply.

"If you don't have friends... then John isn't a friend. He isn't a colleague because I've never seen him around the crime scenes, even back when-" He cut off sharply, his brow furrowing in frustration. "You don't act like enemies. Or even like Sherlock does around that irritating government brother of his. So you're not family."

"You've taught him well, Sherlock," John said secretively with a grin, walking over and sitting on the (normally) free chair. He crossed his legs and drummed his fingers on the armrest.

Sherlock scoffed, but his smile was pleased.

"And if you're not any of the above..." Greg's eyes widened, and he sucked in a breath. "Oh."

John laughed again, but stopped abruptly, clutching his leg, his face twisted in pain. Sherlock immediately flew to his from his seat to kneel in front of John, his coat still billowing behind him - in some twisted version of a hero's cape.

His brow furrowed.

"John," he murmured, rubbing the combat trousers in frantic jerks.

"It's fine, Sherlock," he replied, a little out of breath. "Not even a flesh wound, or so you tell me. Now, why don't we let Detective Lestrade here continue his investigation?"

"Which one?" Anderson asked loudly, tapping his foot against the hardwood floors as Greg sighed again, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Our actual drugs investigation from a known, psychopathic addict with little to no self control, or your bloody cryptic mumblings?"

"Dear god, Anderson," Sherlock muttered, gracefully rising from the floor as if he had never been there, "Do be careful. That almost sounded like a structured sentence."

"He's not a psychopath," John said, standing up from his chair, leaning on his cane to do so.

"John-"

"No, Sherlock. You're not. Is this what you've been putting up with?" He scowled at Anderson, who looked only slightly offended. Greg wondered if he was ever actually capable of caring enough to give an actual reaction to anything that wasn't Sherlock insulting him.

"Idiots. Yes. I did tell you, John," Sherlock told him, looking in confusion at his - what?

Greg could only guess.

"In letters, vague letters full of the most ridiculous cases and your musings about Mrs Hudson and 'Mrs Turner's lot,' whoever they are. You never actually told me that they insulted you. Or that they had cause to launch drug investigations."

Sherlock bowed his head, and Greg stepped forward to intervene.

"Actually," he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, and offering an apologetic smile, "I'm afraid that's kind of my fault. The investigation, that is. Sherlock's withholding evidence. We needed an excuse."

"Again, Sherlock? Especially after last time, with the fingernails..."

"But they were vital to the case, John!" Sherlock protested, his hands flying about wildly and errant curls bouncing on his head. Greg smirked to himself. "I couldn't prove that the suspect's alibi was false without them. And it wasn't my fault it took the morgue two days to realise they were missing."

There was a silence, until Greg looked between the two of them. It may have been obvious from the start; but Greg had never been an obvious man.

Calm, collected, yes, but not obvious.

"You're together!" He said loudly, pointing between the two of them. "You're together and Sherlock's not - not a - he's had - oh, god."

John opened his mouth a few times, closed it, then rounded on Sherlock.

"You! You bloody infuriating bastard! In your letters, just how many times have you promised to at least tell Greg?" He paused at Sherlock's obvious confusion, and ran one of his tanned hands through his hair. He sat back down with a sigh. "Lestrade, you idiot."

Sherlock looked mildly affronted. "I'm not an idiot."

"Yes, you are."

John lifted his hand again and Greg caught the odd shimmer of something gold on his ring finger.

"Oh, you've got to be joking me. You're actually married?" He asked, throwing his hands up in the air and biting down hard on his lip in order not to say anything that would hopefully mutilate Sherlock, but possibly humiliate John, who was glaring a fierce soldier's glare at his husband.

Sherlock, much to Greg's amusement, couldn't meet his eyes.

"Someone married the freak?" Donavan laughed; as soon as John's glare turned on her, she stopped.

There was a crash in the hallway and a flutter of movement near the door.

"Oh, heavens!" Mrs Hudson cried, rushing into the room, clutching a tea towel to her heart. "That's not John Watson, is it? John, my dear! Stop being a stranger!" With heroic effort, John rose to his feet with a big grin, and embraced the older woman.

"Would you like a cuppa, love? I was just thinking of putting the kettle on." She turned to point a finger at Greg. "You can rush your team of vandals out of here, because I haven't got enough mugs for you all and I do believe that Sherlock and John deserve some alone time, especially-"

"A cup of tea would be lovely, Mrs Hudson," John interrupted smoothly, leading her into the kitchen with a light hand on the small of her back.

"Not your housekeeper," she muttered with a smile, looking over her shoulder at Sherlock and Greg who stood side by side. Sherlock's look of shock was oddly fond.

Greg smiled back, and was just about to instruct Anderson to stop touching the damn skull when he noticed the cane leaning against the side of the armchair. He looked back at John, who was resting his hip against the kitchen counter but didn't seem to be in any pain.

He opened his mouth and turned to Sherlock, but he shook his head and raised a finger to his lips.

"So," Greg started, swallowing loudly and tapping a rhythm on his leg. "I always thought you were married to your job."

Without blinking, Sherlock replied, "Don't tell John. He tends to get quite jealous."

Greg gave a startled laugh and stopped his tapping; his friend looking at him blankly but he continued to laugh. "Did you just tell a joke, Sherlock?" He ran a hand through his hair and reluctantly stopped his chortles. "I never thought I'd see the day."

Sherlock looked completely puzzled. "Mycroft used to say that John brought out the best in me."

"Oh, yeah? And what did John say to that?"

"He said he didn't bring it out in me, he put in there in the first place."

Greg was still chuckling by the time John and Mrs Hudson arrived with the tea; John had sat down in the second armchair that Greg now realised was actually his, not just for Sherlock's odd guests. It made sense, in a way, that Sherlock could claim furniture as well as cases.

"Come on, now, shoo!" Mrs Hudson swatted Anderson with her tea towel, pointing him towards the door. "These boys need their flat free of you lot and your poking around - now, out!"

"Of course, Mrs Hudson," Greg told her charmingly, winking at John as he motioned for Donavan and the rest of the team to leave. "I'm afraid we might need to be back, Sherlock, you know... to discuss..." He motions surreptitiously at his husband. "Drugs busts. Pub. Crime scenes. Things like that."

John grinned up at him from the armchair and Sherlock readjusted his scarf.

"That goes for you too, Detective Inspector!" Their not-house keeper called from the doorway. "If you're good, I won't tell you about the decomposing ears in the fridge..."

Greg had already covered his ears and was muttering under his breath.

"Blood high-functioning sociopaths..." Just as he reached the door, he turned back curiously. "Still a bit offended that you didn't invite me to the wedding, Sherlock."

Sherlock sniffed and looked away. "It was a private thing, even if I forced John into a tux. Only had Mrs Hudson and John's sister present as witnesses, though from the flower arrangements, I'm sure Mycroft had dared to bug the place and was watching from his perch."

Greg nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, if you ever renew your vows..."

"You'll be the first to know, Lestrade," John smiled. "And next time you want to try and find some hidden evidence, perhaps trying knocking, rather than starting a drugs investigation in the middle of our flat?"

"But of course."

He bowed mockingly, and closed the door behind him, collapsing heavily and finding himself tucked on the floor.

"Sir?"

Greg Lestrade would usually count himself as a calm, collected man. But when faced with a consulting sociopathic detective who is a little less sociopathic than originally thought, and his witty, war hero husband, he found he was anything but.

So he stayed silent when Donavan nervously prodded him with the toe of her shoe.

"It's almost like a bad joke. An officer, a sociopath and a soldier walk into a bar-" Donavan joked nervously, until she was cut off by a crash inside the flat, and a muffled screech that was far too high-pitched to be Sherlock (as entertaining as it would be to hear Sherlock screech.)

"Sherlock, for God's sake, if you keep your catalogue of teeth away from my side of the bed, I promise to bribe Molly into letting you take one of the heads home from the morgue!"

Greg looked up at Donavan slowly.

"There's two of them."