Chapter Text
Greg rounded the corner and walked straight into them, four men that had been lurking earlier in the evening. “Look, it’s the poof,” one jeered, stubborn out a cigarette with the ball of his foot.
“Fucking faggot,” another agreed. The fourth, presumably the leader, stood to the side, watching with some sort of detached amusement.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble,” Greg said, visibly tired. Maybe, he reflected later, if he hadn’t been running on only six hours of sleep over the past three days, he would have seen the man that snuck up behind him, that knocked him down.
“Too bad,” the first man chuckled. “We’re going to give it to you anyway.”
The next thing Greg remembered, he was in a bed, lines attached, with the soft hum of hospital equipment in the background. There were disjointed flashes, some of Sherlock, of his coat, of a warm chest and feeling protected, interspersed with jolts of pain from whatever injuries he had sustained.
John was next to his bed, asleep in the chair. “What…” Greg managed, his voice hoarse. He had not drank anything lately, then. How long had he been asleep?
“Just about fourteen, sixteen hours,” John told him. “Sherlock brought you in, then...then disappeared.” He forced a reassuring smile onto his face.
“Where is he?” Greg asked immediately, trying to sit up in the bed, get out, go find his partner.
“You’re not going anywhere,” John told him firmly. “I don’t know if you remember what happened, but you got pretty banged up.”
“You don’t get it, John. I need to find him,” Greg hissed urgently. Sherlock could be relapsing as they spoke, and it was some bloody sissy fight that kept him from helping Sherlock. Sherlock, who knew Greg had been hurt, had left. They had been dating for just a few months, but Greg thought Sherlock had learned to trust him. Apparently not. Worry dualed with frustration and hurt, a mix of emotions that only served to increase the physical pain.
“Mycroft will let us know,” John insisted, carefully settling Greg back into bed. From the pallor on his face, he could guess that had crossed Greg’s mind. “All we can do is wait.”
It was not long before Greg slipped back into sleep, lulled by the medication.
~
It had taken him the better part of a week, but he had done it. He exhaled heavily as the body stumbled and then collapsed, allowing a smile to lift up the corner of his lips. Messy, but effective. Wiping the blood-stained knife off on his black trousers, he glanced around, ensuring no witnesses. That was the advantage to black clothing, even well-tailored trousers. They were so good at hiding blood.
One last thing, however. He went over to the last member, the leader, who was still twitching, slowly bleeding to death. Good. The smile was wicked now, positively deathly, and Sherlock pulled the knife out. He stabbed the one of the henchmen one last time, careful to avoid blood spatter, and then placed the knife in the leader’s hands.
Standing back, he surveyed the scene, confident that the Met would see only what he wanted them to and not what actually happened. It was time for him to get out of there before a witness stumbled across the gore. They would, soon, although Sherlock wasn't certain if one of the gang members would survive. At least he could honestly say that the last time he saw them, they had all been breathing. Slipping a banknote into the hand of the nearest member of his network, he waited for a nod before he gestured for a cabbie.
Greg. He needed to find Greg, make sure he was okay. It was disorienting, momentarily, for Sherlock realized he did not even know where Greg was. Had he left the hospital? Sherlock had been certain to ascertain that the DI was okay before he left, but he had got caught up in the chase, in the hunt, and had not contacted either John or his partner.
‘Where are you? SH’
‘Fuck off. GL’
Sherlock stopped, and stared at his phone, confused. The cab waited for a few moments before muttering and driving off. Sherlock did not chase him, did not move. What?
‘Where are you? SH’
‘I’m serious, Sherlock. Piss off. GL’
Sherlock stood in the middle of the street, as his world crumbled around him. Fine, he thought, snapping his mobile shut. Fine.