Author's note: My mind wouldn't let Sherlock alone, no matter how much I tried. Isn't it awful?

I began to think about how we don't know anything about the end of Greg Lestrade's marriage, except for the fact that he's still wearing his ring in Scandal in Belgravia and not wearing it in Hounds of Baskerville... So, I started thinking about it and decided, based on the way he reacts to Sherlock's deduction, that he ended most likely immediately.

I'm rambling again, ain't I?

I don't own anything, and please review.

Christmas is probably the worst day in the year to end a marriage of seven years. Not that there are any good days for that, he muses, but Christmas must be the worst. Exactly the time of year you want to spend with your family, enjoying their presence, laughing with them, celebrating. The time of year you feel the most alone when there's no family left to celebrate with.

Well, that might be a bit unfair. He did go to Sherlock's and John's (though why he calls it "Sherlock's and John's" when it's obviously "Mrs. Hudson and quite possibly John's party" – no way the consulting detective wanted to acknowledge the day, he probably deleted the significance of the date long ago – he's not sure) Christmas party, after all, and for a few minutes, he was actually enjoying himself. Maybe Mrs. Hudson forced him to behave – a threat not to clean their flat anymore (though she never does that, naturally, not being their housekeeper)? Vowing there would be no tea and biscuits for a year?

But behave he did – for those few minutes Greg actually managed to enjoy himself, at least.

Things were looking up, after all. With Sherlock's help, he had once again solved more cases than any other DI, he was slowly building up the consulting detective's reputation (although he'd never admit he even tries to do that, and Sherlock would most likely not even appreciate it), and things between him and his wife were... good. For the first time in a rather long time, to tell the truth.

They had been married for seven years, and been together for almost a decade, and things had started to go downhill when it became clear that they'd never have children. They'd found their own ways of coping. She took class after class: bakery, pottery, painting, you name it, she tried it, and he worked. They spent less time together than before, but all in all, their marriage still worked.

Until she began to complain that he worked "too much", even though she wasn't much at home either. He tried to be understanding, to return home sooner, but he couldn't very well tell the criminal classes to commit less crimes for a while because his wife was angry with him.

Maybe – just maybe, he isn't sure – they drifted further apart when he met Sherlock, two years after their marriage. When he had first told her that he'd started consulting the man he'd first met because he'd stumbled upon a crime scene while high, she'd thought he'd gone mad. And maybe he had. Maybe he is mad. But the truth is, he doesn't care, because he and Sherlock clicked, in a sort of way, and they may not be friends, but he knows Sherlock's usually right, knows he's not a high-functioning sociopath, knows the consulting detective. Though, of course, not as well as Sherlock knows him.

So that had been their life: she took classes, he worked, they saw each other less and less, and when they did, they mostly spent the evening in an awkward silence. He knew something was wrong, he just didn't know what.

And then he found out about her affair. They'd been married for six years and a few months.

It hadn't been anything serious – which was her excuse when he confronted her about it. The next ting to come out of her mouth was to accuse him of "sending his little detective-friend" after her. Which was a problem, because the next thing to come out of his mouth was a defence of Sherlock – he'd never liked the way she spoke about his kind of, sort of, friend, but she had disliked him from the start, when she'd met him a few months after her husband had arrested him, and let's just say she didn't appreciate it to be told about her parents messy divorce in front of Greg's entire team, so really, maybe he should understand her, but he never could – and then he told her that he'd simply automatically reached for her phone when the text alert started. He ignores the little voice in his head (that sounds annoyingly like a certain someone) that he'd been suspicious for a while because her wedding ring (well, both their rings actually, but he never cleaned his jewellery, because he had none to clean, except the ring) wasn't shining and polished at all, though her earrings and her necklace certainly were.

Which was why he'd seen the text her lover – she wouldn't tell him his name, but he wasn't particularly interested anyway, which should have been a warning, really, which loving husband wouldn't want to know that? – had sent her. Which was why they had started this conversation to begin with.

She locked herself in the bedroom, he slept on the couch, was called to a crime scene the next morning, and was immensely grateful that the murder offered Sherlock enough distraction not to make a comment about the uncomfortable way he'd spent the night.

He actually spent a few nights in a hotel after that – they had needed time to think things over. In the end, he'd decided he wanted to try and save his marriage, and was delighted to find out she wanted the same for the first time in God knows how long.

And ever since then, things had gotten better. She'd told him – and he'd believed her, still believes her, at least that – that she'd broken things off.

They had spent more time together. They had talked. They had started enjoying each other's company again. He was happy; it would all work out, and they'd still be married in twenty year's time.

And then Sherlock decided to open his mouth.

"That's first thing in the morning, my and the wife. We're back together, it's all sorted."

"No, she's sleeping with a P.E.-teacher."

It took a few moments to sink in, but once it did, he went to the kitchen to get another drink.

He knew then that his marriage was over. He could forgive one affair, but not two.

He didn't even think about whether Sherlock was right or not. He knew he was.

He said goodbye shortly after Sherlock had ruined his Christmas, trying not to notice the apologizing look John shot his way. He was thankful, in a way. He preferred knowing to being the husband who was too stupid to realize what was going on.

Needless to say, they never made it to Dorset.

She didn't even have the decency to admit it. She simply started screaming, hurling insults at "the freak" (Good it was over anyway, he never liked people calling Sherlock that) and locked herself, once again, in the bedroom. He was left with the sofa – though he had to admit he rather preferred its company to that of his wife.

This went on for three days – she denied everything, he told her he knew, and in the end, she simply said "You're right. And I don't want to end it."

And that was that.

To her credit, she wanted to be the one to leave, but he wouldn't allow it. He was a gentleman, after all.

And, because she only decided to own up on the evening of this third day, he ended up where he currently is, suitcase in hand, under the glare of a streetlamp, somewhere between Christmas and New Year, the hope of finding a hotel room at this hour, or rather, find a cheap hotel at this hour without using a cab, which is highly unlikely, extremely low, and –

But he knows exactly where to go.

Or, probably, he doesn't know where he needs to go, but where he wants to go. He could easily spend a night at the Yard and get a room in the morning, but he wants to be where he's among friends.

Or something like that.

The walk to Baker Street is quite long, but he doesn't mind. At least the cold keeps him from thinking too much about why he is currently walking to Baker Street.

There's a light on in the kitchen. Of course there is. Thank God Sherlock Holmes doesn't appear to sleep. Ever.

He didn't expect to be heard at the first ring – in fact, he thought he'd have to call Sherlock, and eventual John, to be let in – but the door opens almost immediately. Sherlock's standing there, in his dressing gown, looks at him, deduces everything in seconds and steps aside.

They enter the flat without uttering a word, then Sherlock jerks his head into the direction of the sofa.

"You can sleep there, it's more comfortable than yours, don't worry, unless you prefer my bed, which I wouldn't recommend – I did an experiment last week, and –"

"All right, all right, I'll take the couch" Greg interrupts, really not wanting to know what Sherlock did to the bed. "But, where will you –" Sherlock shoots him a look. "Right. Stupid question."

"I'm certain there's something edible in the fridge, Mrs. Hudson and John keep it stocked, though I don't know why, because after all everything except the brain is – "

"Just brainwork, Sherlock, I know. And, thank you, I don't want anything. I just came here for a bit of – peace – " The idiocy of his own statement hits him and he lets out a short, bitter laugh. "Dear God, I'm going mad, am I not?"

"I am informed" Sherlock replies, dead serious, while looking at Greg in a strange way "that I am mad on a regular basis, and it is not as bad as it is made out to be. If that helps."

Greg's lips twitch at that. "It does. In a weird way, though."

Sherlock chuckles. "By the way, no need to keep your voice down – John's latest girlfriend –"

"Jeannette?"

"The boring teacher, yes, broke up with him on Christmas Eve after you had all left, and he tends to sleep more soundly after a breakup – I don't know why yet, I need more data – so you can..."

He trails off, most likely because he saw Greg flinch at the word "breakup".

He clears his throat. "Well, I suppose I should give you my condolences – John said that –"

Greg shakes his head. "It's all right, Sherlock, it really is. End's been coming for a long time, I just didn't want to see it. Just out of curiosity – how did you know?"

Sherlock looks actually ashamed at this, and before he can stop it, Greg bursts out, "Dear God, what did you do?"

Sherlock's expression changes. His face is, once again, a blank mask, and Greg isn't sure if that's better. "I realized you were preoccupied." Well, that's fair enough, he's been rather preoccupied with saving his marriage – though he thought it was working. "I know you haven't been stressed on the job more than usually – in fact, I help you almost all the time", typical, comforting in a way after the day Greg had, really, "so how could you be stressed? The most plausible reason was your marriage. And since you already were separated from your wife last year, though only for a few days, it seemed likely that she had had an affair – you're not the cheating type" – so, really, who is? He doesn't ask the question, though – "and it was easy to deduce you were trying to save the marriage, and thought it was working, but you got more and more nervous as time progressed, so something was, perhaps unconsciously, troubling you. So she had most likely started a new affair, and you were on some level aware of it."

"Maybe, but – how did you know the job of her lover just by looking at me?"

Now, Sherlock actually looks – timid? Slightly afraid? It's an interesting expression, Greg has to admit that. Then he shakes his head and this seems to swipe all the emotions off his face.

"I had to know if I was right. I needed more data. I followed her. Didn't take long."

Greg should probably tell Sherlock not to follow people who are definitely not criminals or potential victims that need protection. Instead, he asks "So you did all this because you were... worried about me?"

Sherlock looks taken aback. "Well, you are of more use to me when you're not preoccupied with saving your marriage. So I decided to find out and tell you. Though, maybe" – and this is a moment Greg will always remember because it's the closest he has ever heard to Sherlock apologizing to him "I could have chosen a better moment to let you know."

"Of course." Then, spontaneously, he adds "Thank you."

Sherlock just shrugs his shoulders, and the moment is gone. "Good. Fine. You can stay the night. I'm going to go back to my experiment. You look done for – get some rest." He says it like an order, but it's close enough to a caring Sherlock to make Greg doubt what little of his sanity remains.

So he simply lies down on the sofa and stares at the ceiling, while hearing Sherlock make strange noises in the kitchen. So this is what his life has become. Well, he will say that: It's not boring or monotonous, like the last years of his marriage.

He's tired, exhausted even, from the fights and the packing and the leaving and the walking and the talking seriously with Sherlock, but he knows he won't sleep. He's too much on edge, there are too much thoughts, regrets, memories swirling through his mind, but at least it's warm, and the sofa is really far more comfortable than the last one he spent a night on.

And then the music starts.

He's known Sherlock can play, of course, well, actually he thought Sherlock could play, though he'd never heard him play real music. But this...

This is nice. He doesn't recognize it, but he isn't very interested in classical music, so that's hardly a surprise.

But it sounds nice and it's soothing and rather relaxing and he closes his eyes to hear better and he can feel the whirlwind in his mind slowing and finally standing still.

He must have drifted peacefully away on a wave of sound, because next thing he knows, he wakes up, it's daytime and he's tucked in. God knows when that happened.

John is there, makes him tea and informs him that Sherlock has gone to St Bart's. He offers his condolences for his marriage because that's what John does, and Greg accepts them, because that's what he does. Then they talk of something else.

Greg leaves before Sherlock returns, thanking John. He knows he'll tell Sherlock.

They never mention it, not even when he finds a flat soon after and the wedding ring on his finger disappears, but they both remember.

And when Sherlock jumps, half a year later, it becomes one of Greg's most cherished memories.

Because it tells him that despite everything –

Sherlock Holmes was a good man.

Author's note: I have been informed that my stories aren't ones to "enjoy" because they tend to be slightly sad. So, I hope you... liked reading it. I hope that fits better. And please review.