"Who's this?"
"He's with me.
"But who is he?"
"I said, he's with me."
It all seemed to happen rather suddenly. One day Sherlock was making an off-handed comment about taking a flat on Baker Street, saying he'd need a flatmate if he was going to afford a place like that, even with Mrs. Hudson's generosity. Greg had laughed at first. Sherlock Holmes, with a roommate? He hadn't had a roommate since uni, Lestrade knew that for a fact - and even then it had only lasted a month before the complaints caused the school to quietly give the young Holmes private housing, gratis, on the condition that he would not perform any more experiments on fellow students for the remainder of his academic career.
And then, quick as you like, John Watson materialised at a crime scene.
Greg was distrustful, at first - rightfully so. People didn't normally gravitate toward Sherlock without some sort of ulterior motive. Then, when he started to realise that Dr. Watson was a fairly decent bloke, he started to wonder if he'd been placed there by Mycroft, a handler to keep his younger brother in line.
It took him a full month to reach the conclusion that things were just different now. Greg was married, head of his division, thinking about kids. Sherlock was clean, he had his website, his business was beginning to take off. This was just the way things were. A new normal. And John Watson was going to be part of it.
"Fishing," Watson said out of the blue one day, as he and Greg were standing at the perimeter of a crime scene, watching Sherlock do… whatever he did.
Lestrade glanced over. "Eh?"
"Fishing," the doctor repeated. He nodded toward Sally Donovan, who was standing to one side with her glare fixed on Sherlock's back and her arms crossed over her chest. "Keeps telling me to take up fishing. Get away from him." He frowned.
Greg stuck his hands in his pockets. "What do you think?"
Watson scoffed. "Sherlock is… rude, aloof, arrogant, and an extremely poor housekeeper. He's nonverbal for days at a time when he's thinking, he keeps body parts in the fridge, and he plays the violin at all hours. He's too direct, and sometimes downright mean. He uses people unapologetically as a means to an end, on a weekly basis." Scowling, he crossed his arms over his chest.
Lestrade bristled. He could feel himself begin to flush hotly, a tersely-worded defence already coming together in his head. And the very second he had a chance, he'd be having a stern talk with Sherlock about this John Watson character.
"But," the doctor continued, "he's also brilliant. And… thoughtful, in his own way. He's an unwavering supporter of the innocent. When he does actually get close enough to caring about someone, he can be ridiculously, fearlessly devoted to their best interests. And…" Here, he paused, drew a deep breath, and lowered his voice: "...He might have saved my life."
The grin that spread across Greg's face then was automatic.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Sherlock's fingers flew over the keyboard of his laptop.
Greg shuffled his feet, waiting for Sherlock to finish. He let his eyes wander over the clutter of the Baker Street flat - breakfast chilling on the sideboard, Belstaff flung over a chair, microscope perched on top of a book. His gaze landed on what looked to be a pile of John's things on the breakfast table, neat and ordinary compared with the ridiculous assortment of scientific implements that made up fully half of Sherlock's possessions. Curious, he inched closer, trying to be subtle despite the fact John was away. There were two medical journals, a copy of The Guardian, and an empty coffee cup sitting on the table. The chair was draped with a dressing gown. John's laptop sat, lid closed, on the edge of the table.
"He's visiting his sister in Dorset," Sherlock said without looking up. "Won't be back for a couple of days."
"No, I know. I was just…" He shrugged. Sherlock wasn't listening anyway. "How's it working out then?"
"Mm?"
"The whole flatmate thing." He knew it would be pointless to ask if Sherlock liked him - the detective would likely go on for a quarter of an hour about the nuances of a functional co-habitation.
"John is an acceptable housemate. Clean, tidy. Doesn't complain. Makes tea without being asked." Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
"No - I meant - you know. Are you, well, getting along?"
The tapping stopped. Sherlock turned. "Yes." His eyes narrowed, clearly trying to deduce Lestrade's motives for this line of questioning.
"Good." Greg nodded. "Yeah, good. Just… checking."
The detective lifted his chin. "If you're trying to ask if we're friends - "
"I just want to know if he's a decent bloke, Sherlock, that's all." Lestrade put up his hands in surrender.
Sherlock returned to his computer. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. "John Watson is possibly the most decent and moral man I have ever met."
And that was the highest compliment of which Sherlock Holmes was capable.
"Is that why you're calling yourself Greg?"
"That's his name!"
"Is it?"
"Yes… if you'd ever bothered to find out."
Greg pressed himself back against the cold brick, making a valiant effort to ignore the searing pain in his chest as he gulped down breaths of chilly autumn air. John joined him half a second later, slammed into his shoulder as he finally reached the shelter of the back of the building.
"All right?" John panted, leaning away to peek round the corner. They stood there, hips and shoulders pressed together, their breath crystallising before their faces in synchronised bursts.
"Yeah, fine. Sherlock?"
John pointed to the roof. "Went up." He rubbed his shoulder and looked to Greg. "How do you want to do this?"
Sniffling, the DI craned his neck to see to the rooftop. "He'll be trying to head him off at the main road."
"Right. Let's go."
The pair of them took off at a breakneck pace, skirting the buildings til they got close to the main road. Before they had emerged from the alleyway, Greg could hear voices - one of them low and calm, definitely Sherlock's; the other gravelly and agitated, certainly the suspect's.
John held up a hand as they approached the mouth of the alley. Careful. They pressed themselves close to the wall, and Greg watched as John inched to the corner and peered around. All of a sudden, he was stepping out, waving Greg out behind him. There was barely enough time for Lestrade to register what was happening - suspect, gun drawn; Sherlock, unarmed with hands up a few feet away. He would have had more time, except that John sprang into action. Before their suspect had even registered the two new presences, John had stepped up behind him, kicked the backs of his legs in, and thrown him to the ground. The weapon skittered across the concrete and John pressed a knee into the gunman's chest.
"He's unconscious," Sherlock pointed out, smirking at the way John sheepishly stood and backed away.
Greg sighed. "Maybe next time don't give my suspect a concussion." Secretly, though, he was pleased.
221B was filled with the sweet, slow notes of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing as flame roared cheerfully in the fireplace. It was Christmas Eve. John, Sherlock, and Greg were holed up in the flat while an exceptionally strong blizzard howled outside. John was relaxing in his chair with his laptop perched across his knees and a drink in his hand; Sherlock was playing the violin as he paced the sitting room in a crisp shirt and trousers, dressing gown over top; Greg was settled comfortably in Sherlock's chair with a glass of scotch, the fire chasing away the winter chill in his bones.
It was a rare moment of calm, even rarer that they all three were sharing it. It wasn't often that the events of their lives ebbed and flowed in time with one another - oh, sure, they crossed paths for work, they collaborated on cases, and occasionally John and Greg went out for drinks, but for the three of them to be relaxed, calm, present in one another's company just for the joy of it… this was singular.
"Superb!" John declared, as the final notes of music petered out and Sherlock released the violin from its perch.
Greg roused himself from his thoughts and dragged his eyes up to the detective, who was giving a small bow in response to John's compliment. "Brilliant," Lestrade agreed, grinning. "Marvellous."
Sherlock gave a humble nod and tucked the bow under his arm as he lifted his own glass of red wine from the mantel and took a drink. "Requests?" he asked as he set the glass back down and lifted the violin once more.
John looked up from his computer screen. "The aria you wrote last week?" he suggested. He shifted in his chair and sipped from his glass, crossing his legs at the ankles. His computer wobbled precariously.
The detective hummed, his eyes alighting on Greg, twinkling with the light of the fire, as he set the bow to the strings. "The aria, then," he agreed.
Music once again filled the flat.
"I believe in Sherlock Holmes."
"Yeah, well, that won't bring him back."
END.