Greg had no idea what time it was when he opened his eyes. Sunlight peeked through the blinds covering the windows in his bedroom, but his mind was foggy with the disorientation that comes the morning after one stays up half the night.
He yawned and reached for his phone on the bedside table. Nearly eleven. Jesus, getting back on a work schedule was going to be hell. He hadn't had to be awake, dressed, and functioning at half-eight in the morning in quite a while.
John was curled up on the sofa under a blanket, sound asleep. They had still been exchanging messages with Sherlock when Greg had dozed off for the third time and decided he'd prefer to sleep in a horizontal position. By the look of the notepad on the floor by John's head, quite a lot of communication had happened before John had finally fallen asleep.
Greg picked it up from the floor and turned a few pages. There were rows of numbers and letters on each page, interspersed with the occasional phrase of recognizable English.
are you all right
I am perfectly fine
Greg felt a twinge of relief yet again: they'd considered the possibility that Sherlock's survival had been by chance and that perhaps he was seriously injured and recovering in some secret location. A few more exchanged messages had focused on that subject until they'd been satisfied he was physically fine. Then the real fun had started.
did you really intend to die
no remember I told you it was a magic trick
you told me you were a fake
they were watching so I had to make them believe it
who was watching
That was the point at which they'd heard nothing for an hour and had ended up speculating what Sherlock could possibly have meant: MI5, Moriarty's people, or some as-yet-unidentified element. Greg had decided to call it a night at that point, and John had promised to wake him if anything important came through. Greg flipped through the next few pages to see what he'd missed.
I will explain but not now not here
we can help you
I am counting on it
where are you
London
are you safe
extremely
I want to help you
go to sleep
That was the end of the conversation, apparently. Greg set the notepad down and picked up John's laptop from the sofa table, and settled in a chair to check his email. There was nothing urgent, though he was starting to get "bringing you up to speed"-type emails from colleagues who were clearly anxious for him to return. He clicked on the tab where they'd exchanged messages with Sherlock the night before. The thread consisted of alternating posts between the two user names, each a string of seemingly random numbers. It was strange to think that something so ordinary in appearance could have shifted the gravity of their entire universe.
Further down the thread were a handful of comments from others, apparently added after the coded conversation had stopped:
FFS, get a room, you two.
Hey, RandomStupidAnon, I think you've finally met your match.
^^THIS. ;-) I haven't seen Temlar113 around much lately, but s/he is almost as fucking annoying as RandomStupidAnon.
Greg snorted at the irony: who would be a better match for Sherlock than Sherlock himself? It probably wasn't a good idea for the two of them to draw any more attention to themselves, though. In fact, they should probably keep an eye on the discussion forums just to be sure no one was getting suspicious. He clicked the link for the main page and scanned the titles of the newest threads. His own name caught his eye and he scrolled back up to read more carefully.
Greg Lestrade: Just John's flatmate or something more?
The post already had more than 100 comments. With more than a touch of trepidation, he clicked the link.
"Morning." He glanced up to see John pushing himself to sitting on the sofa. His hair stuck out comically and his shirt was wrinkled beyond belief.
Greg's gaze flicked back to the laptop screen. "Get any sleep?"
"Some. Tortured dreams, though." He paused and yawned. "Any more messages?"
"It looked like the last one from him was around four o'clock."
"Yeah. That one was Go to sleep."
"You two might want to be careful. Your conversation attracted some attention."
"Is anyone suspicious?"
"Not that I can tell. They're far more interested in arguing about whether you and I are shagging, and if we are, what that says about whether or not you and Sherlock were shagging."
John groaned and flopped back down on the sofa. "At least they're predictable."
Greg frowned at the screen. "What's a ship war?"
"I don't think I want to know." The reply was muffled by the blanket John had just pulled over his head.
Greg scrolled down the screen, skimming past most of the comments, but paused when he recognized one particular user name near the end of the thread. "Oh, God. Sherlock really can't leave well enough alone, can he?"
"No, he -- wait, what?"
Greg's eyes narrowed at the screen as he read.
DCqueen
Posts: 734
1 August 08:27 I want to know what the Fakers think: John/Sherlock AND John/Greg? Possible? Harrysgirl547
Posts: 602
1 August 08:34 I'm sorry, but NO. I'm not convinced Sherlock is alive, but if he is, I think he and John would get back together. No question. Jamie89
Posts: 591
1 August 08:37 I'm a Faker and ITA with Harrysgirl547. Obvsly John doesn't know the truth and when he finds out? Sucks for Greg Lestrade, but hey, that's what you get on the rebound. WorkaholicJane
Posts: 298
1 August 08:38 Did a fucking tin hat truck dump its load on this thread? JFC. RandomStupidAnon
Posts: 437
1 August 08:41 The futility of speculating about others' personal lives aside, your collective determination to cling to an outdated notion of monogamy is quite bizarre. Jamie89
Posts: 592
1 August 08:44 *eye roll* And here I was just thinking how lovely it was to have an entire thread without you butting in to be a troll. FTR, monogamy is NOT outdated. Some of us like it quite a lot. RandomStupidAnon
Posts: 445
1 August 08:46 Despite what cultural tyrants and religious leaders would have you believe, monogamy isn't necessarily a natural state for human beings. We vary from serial monogamists to pathologically promiscuous, and polyamorous relationships are far more common than you might think. Anjela8
Posts: 830
1 August 08:47 0_0 Hang on, RandomStupidAnon, are you actually wading into a ship war and taking a position on the fence? Who's speculating about people's personal lives now? RandomStupidAnon
Posts: 447
1 August 08:48 I fail to see how anything I've written above could be construed as speculation about who may or may not be shagging whom. There are several anthropological studies on the matter. I'd give references, but we both know I'd be wasting my time.
"Well, what did he say?"
Greg looked up to see John peering at him from under the blanket. "Nothing really. The usual bit of snark, you know. Want some toast? I'm hungry." He closed the laptop and set it aside, and forced himself to meet John's eyes.
"Sure." John studied his face for a moment, but he didn't say anything more.
Greg crossed to the kitchen and immediately chastised himself for not closing the tab on that discussion thread before closing the computer. All John had to do was open it again and he'd see exactly the snippet of conversation that Greg had just read.
It wasn't something he was ready to face yet: his feelings for John (and for Sherlock, for that matter) were complicated, and until last night, the possibility that Sherlock was still alive was little more than a fancy. A fancy that had sparked some intriguing dreams the last few nights, sure, but not a reality he'd truly expected to face.
He started the coffee and put slices of bread in the toaster, and then leaned back against the counter. He hadn't had time to think about the future, hadn't let himself just yet. In a couple of weeks he'd go back to work at Scotland Yard, and then he'd see far less of John, even though they were sharing a flat. His job required long, unpredictable hours; it was part of the reason he and Jodi hadn't been able to work it out. It was a lot to ask of a partner, he knew, but his job was important to him -- this time away from it had only reinforced that in his mind. He liked the idea of friends with benefits, but deep down he knew he wasn't wired to live that way for any length of time. Twenty years ago it may have been fine, but now he needed more than that, more than convenient sex with no commitment. It seemed unlikely at this point that he could ask John for a commitment of any sort.
Sherlock was going to come back into John's life -- there was no doubt about that -- and it was clearer than ever that John was desperately in love with him. Greg cared enough for John that he didn't want to get in the way, but the thought of stepping aside after these last few weeks that had been almost perfect in so many ways--
The toast popped up then; he pushed the thought away as he rummaged in the refrigerator for butter and jam. He took the lot to the table and peered around the doorway into the sitting room. To his relief, John was still on the sofa and the laptop was where Greg had left it. They could delay the awkward breaking-it-off conversation a bit longer, at least.
He poured two cups of coffee and splashed some on his thumb in the process. He hissed and raised his thumb to his mouth to suck lightly on the burnt spot.
"You all right?" John stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. Greg swallowed at the sight of him, rumpled and scruffy and tired, and somehow still completely adorable.
Shit, it was too late, wasn't it? Greg felt his heart sink. He was completely, utterly fucked.
"My thumb… coffee..." He shrugged.
John crossed to him and pulled the injured hand toward him. Greg tensed immediately and John raised his eyebrows. "I'm a doctor, remember? Eh, it's not bad at all. Run some cold water over it." He looked up and didn't let go of Greg's hand.
Greg took a step back and hit the counter, and John stepped forward again. "You're not all right, are you? This whole thing has you completely freaked out."
Greg laughed, inexplicably. "I don't understand how you can be so calm, to be honest."
John's arms wound around Greg's shoulders. "I've had a lot of time to get used to the idea. Kiss me."
Greg's jaw clenched and he looked away. "John--"
"What, you're a better kisser after a cup of coffee?"
Greg couldn't help but smile at that, and John took advantage of the moment to lean in and kiss him. Greg yielded to it, let himself melt against John, pull him close and feel wanted, just for a bit longer.
After a glorious minute, John pulled out of the kiss and nodded his head in the direction of the table. "We'd better get to that before it gets cold."
Greg watched as he plucked a mug of coffee from the counter and settled at the table. That kiss hadn't felt like a goodbye. In fact, it had felt quite the opposite.
He stirred sugar into his coffee and sat across from John. He had no idea what John wanted. It didn't quite feel like it was time to ask, either -- Sherlock wasn't actually here at the table, after all, and there was no way of knowing when that would happen.
Sherlock would have known they'd see his comments on that thread, which implied that he was telling them that it was fine, that he knew they were together, and he didn't mind -- at least, as long as there was still room for him, perhaps? The thought made Greg's head spin.
*****
The car rocked slightly on the tracks as the train began to slow. Greg's gaze dropped from an advert for an evening training course back down to John, who was staring resolutely ahead.
"Now approaching Paddington Station. Change here for District and Circle lines and National Rail service."
Greg put a hand on John's shoulder and squeezed it. John nodded.
They walked in silence for several minutes and finally ascended the escalators into Paddington Station. People bustled past on their way home from work or out for the evening. John turned in a circle, looking around the station.
"This way," he said after a moment. Neither of them had spoken since they'd left the flat.
Greg followed him to another set of escalators that led up to the second level. His heart was in his throat now. "I still don’t understand why he picked such a public place. If he's supposed to be dead, after all--"
"No one will be looking for him, will they? Or maybe he'll be in disguise."
Greg tried to swallow down his apprehension. His senses were on high alert now; he was prepared for this to be a trap of some sort, though he'd never say as much to John.
It had been two days since they'd started decoding Sherlock's messages. All of John's waking hours had been spent sitting by the computer, waiting for the next one to arrive. They were always terse and didn't say much more than they already knew, and as time wore on, John had grown more and more frustrated.
And then, three hours earlier, John had tossed the now-weathered notepad onto the sofa table and looked over at Greg.
"He wants us to meet him," he'd said. "Tonight."
"Shit," was all Greg had managed to say in response.
"He says he doesn't want to answer questions on the forum, that we need to talk about it in person."
Questions meant the information John and Greg were both dying to know: how and why Sherlock had faked his death, and what exactly he'd been doing since.
"Where are we going?" Greg had asked, and that was how he found himself here now, passing a Starbucks and walking through the doors of the Hilton into the warmly decorated lobby lounge.
John paused just inside the door and Greg only barely avoided walking right into him. They both scanned the low tables and burgundy leather chairs for a familiar silhouette.
"Fucking hell," John said at last, and Greg followed his gaze to a table tucked near the base of an ornate staircase. Sitting with legs crossed, a glass of brandy in his hand, and looking at the screen of his phone was Mycroft Holmes.
John crossed the lounge and stopped before the table. Mycroft looked up; his eyes widened in shock for a fraction of a second before his expression settled into something between annoyance and resignation. He set the glass of brandy on the table and sighed. He seemed to be steeling himself for something rather unpleasant.
"Mycroft--"
"Not here." Mycroft stood and straightened his jacket, and a man in a smart suit seated two tables away nodded before standing and walking towards the front doors of the hotel. "After you," Mycroft said and gestured in the direction the man had gone.
There was a sleek black car waiting at the kerb; the man who'd dashed out of the hotel ahead of them stepped forward to open the door and the three of them climbed inside.
Mycroft's phone was still raised to his ear as the car pulled away. "Yes, both of them. As soon as possible." He cut the call and pressed one hand over his mouth.
"Where is he?" John asked after a long moment.
Mycroft made a small sound and shook his head, still not quite looking at either of them. "I'm not at liberty to say."
"Don't fuck with me, Mycroft. Not now. I can find out in other, far more public ways."
"He's in an undisclosed location." Mycroft's eyes closed briefly; when he opened them again they were unusually cloudy. "That's the best I can do for the moment."
John stared back at him, unyielding. "Forgive me if I don't believe you. I've only been deceived and lied to for six fucking weeks."
It took all of Greg's training to remain silent and let the scene unfold. He'd learn more by observing than by getting in the middle, but he was desperate to learn what the hell was going on.
As if he'd read Greg's mind, Mycroft turned to look at him. "I've activated top-level security clearances for you both."
"Just like that?" Greg asked, eyebrows raised.
"The paperwork was put through months ago, just in case it was necessary." Mycroft paused and looked at John again. "How did you find out?"
"There were clues. Enough for me to piece it together, though I wasn't completely certain until a few days ago."
"And you've been communicating with him?"
John's expression bordered on smug. "Yes. He didn't tell you about that part, did he?"
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "He's always had a certain amount of disdain for proper procedures. I do hope you were cautious. All the standard communication channels were being watched."
"So not everyone is convinced Sherlock is actually dead?" Greg asked. It felt strange to say his name in the present tense to someone other than John.
Mycroft turned to look at him. "A healthy amount of skepticism is always recommended in this sort of business, isn't it?"
John's knee pressed into Greg's. "Since we've got the right clearances now, I suppose you can tell us what sort of business we're getting ourselves involved in."
"In good time," Mycroft replied. "First there is some work to be done. It's unclear to me what role you ought to play in what's to come, John."
"Oh, of course. I'm just the blogger, aren't I? Not clever enough to keep up with the two of you."
Mycroft looked intensely tired for a moment, an expression Greg had only seen before in the presence of Sherlock. "Don't be melodramatic, John. You've already managed to surprise me tonight. This wasn't supposed to happen for several more months."
John pursed his lips and turned his gaze to his hands for a moment. "Can I see him?"
Mycroft paused and swallowed audibly. "That would not be wise."
"That's not what I asked."
"Nearly six months of work went into this operation. We can't have it all ruined now, just when we're getting close."
Greg winced. Mycroft clenched his hand into a fist and looked away, apparently having realized his mistake.
"Six months?" John repeated. He looked stunned.
"Everything changed after the Bond Air incident, you must know." Mycroft's tone was one of utter resignation, and Greg realized he'd been given this onerous task intentionally. Sherlock hadn't been able to face John himself, so he'd sent Mycroft in his place. "He made a very big mistake, one with consequences beyond even what he could imagine. And I'd made a mistake as well, in underestimating his--" He seemed to search for the right words for a moment. "--particular vulnerability. We came to an understanding, you might say." Mycroft paused and glanced at John, whose face was very pale. "Moriarty was at the top of both our lists, and we decided that the only way we would be able to get him was if we worked together. Sherlock was prepared to do whatever it took, and so was I."
John was staring straight ahead now, his eyes unfocused and his lips pressed into a thin line.
Mycroft ran a hand over his face before continuing. "We realized early on that there was only one way to achieve our goal. We had to let him beat us, or at least to think he had done. Moriarty wanted to ruin Sherlock to the point that he would lose everything and everyone that mattered to him."
"And so you let him," Greg said. "All of it was intentional, then?"
Mycroft nodded. "I had Moriarty arrested and interrogated, and then I gave him precisely the information he needed to set up Sherlock for a fall from grace, as it were. And then we set him loose to do his worst. His worst, of course, turned out rather like we'd expected. There were a few surprises, moments when I feared the situation would spin out of our control, but Moriarty was, in the end, a rather predictable villain."
Greg turned to look at Mycroft at that, his eyes narrowed. What did he mean by in the end?
John made a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh, drawing Greg's attention back to him. He turned toward the window and Greg couldn't see his face at all.
Mycroft inhaled slowly and exhaled again, and Greg was struck by just how difficult this conversation seemed to be for him. "The suicide option was set up early on, but we didn't realize he'd have to follow through on it until fairly late in the game. Fortunately, we were prepared."
"Six months," John repeated, his voice tense. "And did no one think to tell me what was going on?"
"You know it isn't that simple, John."
Greg felt a twist of sympathy for John. He'd known MI6 operatives who'd had to keep horrible secrets from their families, secrets that would have torn their marriages apart, but they did it for Queen and Country. It wasn't fair and it wasn't much consolation for being lied to by the one person John cared about most -- the one person John had thought he could trust.
"It is that fucking simple. I was there, all that time that you were planning this behind my back. I can't believe the two of you would--" John broke off and stared at Mycroft for a long moment, something building behind his eyes.
"John--"
"I see. No, I get it. I had to play the grief-stricken friend left behind, because then the world would really believe it, wouldn't they? And I couldn't be trusted to pretend; no, I actually had to believe it as well. And that wasn't a problem because I'm just that fucking useless to you, to both of you. My feelings aren't important enough to consider, even after everything that's--"
He whirled and tugged at the handle of the car door; it swung open and nearly hit a parked car as they sped by it.
"John!" Greg grabbed his wrist and tugged him back from the doorway.
"Stop this fucking car, Mycroft. Stop it!"
Mycroft pounded on the barrier between the driver and the passenger area, and the car pulled to the kerb and stopped with a jolt, knocking Greg off the seat and John loose from his grasp. John bolted from the car and stalked down the pavement.
Greg turned back to Mycroft, torn between going after John and staying to clean up this mess.
Mycroft shook his head and waved a hand in a clear gesture of Go, we'll talk later. Greg nodded and climbed out of the car. He looked up and down the pavement, but John was nowhere in sight. Greg pulled his phone from his pocket and texted him, then started to walk in the direction of home.
The flat was dark and empty when he arrived, and he settled on the sofa with a cup of tea to wait. He sent three more texts, but John didn't answer any of them. Just as he was about to call in a few of his remaining favors with the Met, he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs.
John stopped in the doorway and seemed to collect himself for a moment before crossing to the desk and opening his laptop. He said nothing to Greg, didn't even acknowledge his presence as he searched for something on the screen and then typed furiously for a moment.
Greg crossed to stand behind him: he was posting something to the forum where he and Sherlock had been exchanging messages. "What are you--"
John closed the laptop and turned to face Greg. His expression was intense, almost dark. "I told him to fuck off and leave me alone."
"In plain English?"
"It was quicker." John exhaled and pressed his hands over his face.
Greg stepped closer and pulled him into an embrace. "I'm sorry, for what it's worth. I don't blame you for being angry with him."
"Please don't talk right now." John dropped his hands and pressed his forehead into Greg's shoulder. "I don't want to talk about it."
Greg pulled John more tightly against him and nodded into his hair. "Want some tea?"
"No." John looked up at him for a moment before stepping back to take Greg's hand. Without saying another word, he tugged Greg toward the bedroom. John didn't drop his hand until they were standing next to the bed. He stood there for a moment more, as if considering, and then began to strip off his clothes. He turned back to Greg when he was completely naked: twilight blazed a path across his chest, leaving his face in shadow, and Greg swallowed, understanding.
Greg pulled his own shirt over his head and stripped off his trousers and pants, all the while feeling John's gaze on his bare skin, sharp and heavy. He'd barely finished undressing before John pulled him to the bed and pushed him backwards onto it, pressing him into his own sheets.
But they weren't his sheets -- and that was the whole point, wasn't it? He winced at the thought, that this wasn't really about him and John at all. John was going to fuck Greg Lestrade in Sherlock's bed, just to get back at him. John's body moved against his and John's mouth was on his skin, but Greg found he could do little more than stare up at the ceiling.
"What?" John asked after nearly a minute of silence had passed between them. Greg wasn't anywhere near hard, and it must now be painfully clear that he wasn't interested.
There was no point prolonging the inevitable. "If Sherlock is coming back, where does that leave me?"
John sighed and tucked his body against Greg's side, his head on Greg's shoulder. "It leaves you here, Greg. Right here."
"I don't know what that means." He realized his fingers were in John's hair, as if they thought nothing was wrong. He dropped his hand to the bed. "You love him."
"Yes."
"So…"
"So do you."
"Not like that."
"Are you sure?"
Greg frowned at the ceiling. He was fond of Sherlock, more than fond, really. He couldn’t deny that he found the man attractive. He'd been as excited as John about the prospect of having Sherlock back in the world, back in his life. But.
He sighed. "I'm sure that I'm falling in love with you."
John pushed himself up on one elbow and smiled down at Greg. "Are you really?"
"Don't--"
"No, I didn't mean it like that, shhh." John leaned down to kiss him. "I feel the same, Greg. I do."
Greg stared back up at him. "I'm incredibly confused right now."
John looked thoughtful for a moment. "I love Sherlock, yes. But I'd be lying if I said he was a fantastic boyfriend. Great in bed, yes, and occasionally -- when it's convenient for him, mind -- very sweet and loving, but mostly he's an annoying twat."
Greg snickered at that and immediately felt guilty. He put a hand over his mouth.
John smiled at him. "With you, it's completely different. The sex is different, the way we are together is different. Better in some ways, but at the very least, different. Do you understand?"
Greg let his hand fall away. "Yes. Well, no, not really. Unless you're suggesting you want to have your cake and eat it as well?"
John shrugged. "We're all adults here. And it doesn't have to just be me. You can't tell me you've never thought about it. Sherlock's as good as said he's fine with it, hasn't he?"
Greg closed his eyes. So John had seen that discussion thread after all. "I'm used to relationships being about two people. Two normal people, at that." He opened his eyes and looked up at John. "I feel like we're just finding our way. Throwing Sherlock into the mix won't make things easier."
"No. More exciting, perhaps." John grinned, but Greg found he couldn't return it. "Look, I don't know what's going to happen. There aren't any rules about this sort of thing, but if we're all honest with each other… why not?"
Greg could think of a hundred reasons why not. On the other hand, John had a point. The fact that there were certain societal norms about how relationships were supposed to be didn't preclude other possibilities, other ways of loving and living and being happy. He'd always been fairly open-minded about that sort of thing, hadn't he? He'd accepted his own bisexuality decades ago and hadn’t really looked back. He'd been in a few free-flowing sexual relationships in his early twenties, ones that -- if he were honest as he peered back through the haze of time -- were probably not so far removed from what John was suggesting.
Through all of the drama of the last few weeks, though John had been moody and occasionally annoying, he'd never pushed Greg away. He'd opened his arms and his heart again and again.
John wasn't Jodi. That's what Greg was afraid of, really, wasn't it?
He pulled John down into a kiss. John's lips were tentative against his, as if John wasn't sure what Greg wanted. Hell, Greg wasn't entirely sure himself. But he was willing to consider the idea. That was something.
John moaned when Greg's tongue swept against his lips, and just like that Greg's cock was hard between their bodies. John slid against him, his fingers intertwined with Greg's and his cock sliding against Greg's belly, and it was intimate and hot and oddly perfect.
A few minutes later John came, his orgasm spilling out between them, and Greg marveled at how sex could be so simple as this. In the end, it was about making the other person feel good, and it hardly mattered which body part went where. John had said he and Sherlock didn't have penetrative sex -- was this what they did instead? He grinned at the thought that he might find out.
John slid down Greg's body and swallowed his cock, and Greg's hips arched up off the bed. A wet finger pressed into his arse and then another, with nothing but saliva for lubrication. It was an odd sensation, but not an unpleasant one. He forced himself to relax and pressed his hands against the headboard, and John's mouth was hot and wet and his fingers arched up slightly as they moved, and Jesus, were there three fingers now? He had no idea; he couldn't tell, but the sensation was a fascinating mix of pleasure and pain. It was the closest he'd ever come to being fucked, he realized.
John's tongue was amazing, applying pressure in all the right places and those fingers were pressing into him and Jesus fucking hell, this was why people did this, wasn't it? This was why they let others into their bodies to wring out cries and gasps and oh God, he was on the verge of coming already. John's nose pressed into his groin and he swallowed around Greg's cock in a way Greg hadn't known people who weren't in porn could actually do, and fuck there right there God yes.
John disappeared for a few moments after Greg came down again, still trembling from the aftershocks. He wasn't sure he'd ever felt so intense an orgasm as that. His ears buzzed a bit, but he thought he could hear the sound of water running. When John returned it was with a flannel in hand, which Greg accepted with more than a touch of embarrassment.
John snuggled against him and hummed into his shoulder.
"I can still feel your fingers in my arse," Greg said after a moment. "Is that normal?"
He felt John's grin against his skin. "Yes. You might feel it for a while, actually. Sorry about that. I should have gone to get the lube."
"I should start keeping some in here."
"We should stash it all over the flat, in every possible location."
"Mmm, good thinking." Greg pressed a kiss against John's forehead. "Will you stay?"
"There's nowhere else I want to be right now, trust me."
"Are you sure you don't want to go delete that post?"
John sighed. "I'm sure. And I don't want to know his response until I've had a decent night's sleep. I feel really fucking good right now and I don't want to do anything to ruin it."
Greg pulled the tangled covers up over them both. "We'll deal with it in the morning, then."
"In the morning." John yawned. "Greg?"
"Hmmm?"
"I meant it when I said I feel it as well. I do, you know."
Greg smiled. It was as close to a promise as he would get, and he found that it was fine. "I know."
*****
Sunlight striped the bed when he awoke the next morning. He reached out to brush a hand against the spot where John had been, but the sheets were cool. He'd been up for a while. Greg sat up and winced at the twinge in his arse -- John hadn't been kidding. He reached for his phone. It was half eight, early yet.
Coffee was definitely in order. Coffee, and then they'd talk, make a plan for what to do next. Maybe Sherlock had replied to John's fuck off message already.
Greg stood and stretched, and then crossed to the door. He opened it and smiled at the thought of surprising John naked first thing in the morning.
John was sitting in a chair, arms folded across his chest, and glaring. Sitting across from him, his posture equally tense, was Sherlock Holmes.
*****
Emma Grant's Fiction
Fiction, Fandom, and Naughty Stuff
