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The pub was more or less empty. The three men sat huddled at a table in the corner, nursing their lager and trying to keep the mood up.
“So you’re married then, Greg?” John ventured, hoping to foster some conversation.
“Separated from his wife for eight months now, John,” Sherlock reminded him in a monotone.
John looked up, defensive. “Oh, I’m so sorry mate. I didn’t know you were-“
“No, it’s fine,” came the hurried response from the grey-haired DI across the table, forcing a smile, then continuing in an almost defensive tone. “We’ve been going through counselling. Things are getting better.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Hardly,” he scoffed.
“Sherlock,” John glared.
“She’s sleeping with her personal trainer,” Sherlock replied matter of factly.
“No she’s…” Lestrade’s voice trailed off.
He clenched his jaw, staring into his empty glass and feeling a sudden, dull ache. He signaled to the bartender and tipped back his glass, looking for the alcohol that he knew wasn’t there.
He looked up and smiled weakly, knowing neither of the men believed his charade.
“I just…I…”
God, he was tired of making excuses and defending his marriage. He wished no one cared. That way, maybe he wouldn’t have to try and explain what he truly couldn’t. He didn’t know why he even made the effort.
The three of them sat in silence for a bit, Greg downing another pint quicker than he knew he should. More than once, John tried to start some pleasant conversation, but Greg just couldn’t be arsed carry it along, and Sherlock certainly wasn’t having any of it. Finally, he couldn’t take the silence anymore. Contrived small talk was better than being stuck with his thoughts.
“How’s the surgery, John? I know it’s flu season and all. Hope it hasn’t been too bad,” Greg offered, noticing the instant relief on John’s face as soon as he spoke.
“Yeah, well it’s busy. We’ve been a bit understaffed lately too, so that’s been tough. But it’s fine,” John smiled.
From there, the conversation managed to flow with relative ease. John was a bit wary of saying the wrong thing again, but the conversation turned predictably to football and they all managed to relax a bit.
***
Greg was slumped at the table by the time John returned from the bar holding two glasses of water. Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Greg lifted his head a bit as he heard John approach, mumbling something about tall skinny bastards with funny names.
“Here you go, mate,” John said as he placed the glass next to Greg.
Greg let out a displeased noise and eyed the glass with suspicion.
“Don’t suppose you’ve seen Sherlock, then?” John offered, surveying the empty pub.
“Said something about alcohol poisoning and fucked off over there,” Greg flung his arm in the general direction of the toilet, other fist curled tightly around the glass of water, as if holding on for dear life.
“Right, thanks. Hey, we should get you home. You’ve definitely had enough to drink,” John gently patted the other man’s back, all the while looking around in vain for Sherlock.
Greg managed to stumble out of the pub with only occasional support from John. As they surveyed the nearly empty road for cabs, Sherlock emerged from an unmarked door behind them, a slight frown on his face. As if possessing some inhuman ability, Sherlock hailed a cab, and Greg walked toward it shakily. Sherlock followed the DI into the taxi.
“I can’t expect him to get back on his own,” he said before John could react.
John stood on the pavement, more than a bit confused. It was rare, by all accounts, for Sherlock to take an interest in the welfare of other humans, but Greg was pretty far gone. Poor bloke.
In the cab, Greg slumped somewhat comfortably on Sherlock’s shoulder, head tucked into the crook of his neck. From his coat, Sherlock took a bottle of water, offering it to Greg, who downed it greedily, pushing stray hair from his face with his other hand.
“Fuck. Don’t let me do that again, Sh’lock,” he groaned, clutching his stomach.
The other man turned to look at him, chuckling.
“You seemed to be pretty committed to the task. Didn’t want to interrupt,” Sherlock’s look of amusement quickly transformed into a frown. “Why do you do it?”
“Do what?” Greg looked up, puzzled.
“Stay with her.”
“Sherlock, you know it’s not that simple. I...” he sighed, grasping for words...reasons. “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know, okay!”
If Sherlock was taken aback by the sudden outburst, he didn’t show it.
“All she’s doing is causing you pain. Causing you to drink, to end up like this,” Sherlock pointed to Greg’s pained expression and the puddle of drool that was forming on his coat. “There’s no logical reason for you to stay married to her, you know. There’s no logic to any of it.”
“For fuck’s sake, Sherl--” Greg took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. “Why do you even care what I do with my bloody marriage? It’s my goddamn terrible decision, not yours! My bloody mistake...”
He brought his hands up to his face, massaging his temples lightly for lack of something better to do.
“It’s what friends do, isn’t it?” Sherlock offered. “They...care.”
He slumped back into his seat, face taking on a blank expression once again.
“Oh,” Greg breathed. He wasn’t sure his mind was clear enough to assess the situation at hand. Shit.
The rest of the cab ride was rather quiet, Sherlock pointedly staring out the window and Greg trying his best not to puke.
When the cab finally pulled up to the DI’s flat, Sherlock was quick to pull out Greg’s wallet and pay, Greg swearing internally and planning to nick Sherlock’s wallet sometime in the future. Trailing after the consulting detective, Greg fumbled in his pocket for his keys for a minute before giving up, only to look at Sherlock holding them out to him and smirking.
“I’m being taken advantage of,” he complained, frowning at the smug look on Sherlock’s face. Oh what he’d do to wipe that look off the handsome bastard’s face.
By the time Greg sorted his thoughts out and turned his attention back to Sherlock, the other man had waltzed into the flat and was poking around the kitchen. The DI shuffled inside and slammed the door, collapsing on the sofa.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“For what?” came a voice from the kitchen.
“Asking why you cared. You’re allowed to, it’s just...” he paused, considering his words carefully. “Usually seems as though you...don’t.”
“Of course I do. Look at you. You’re miserable. You’re deluding yourself into thinking your marriage isn’t a complete failure,” the other man replied, emerging from kitchen holding a packet of biscuits and proceeding to settle on the sofa next to Greg.
“It’s not that simple,” Greg scowled for a moment. “Can I...biscuits?”
He made a pass for the biscuits, knocking them to the ground before sinking back into the sofa, a defeated look on his face. Sherlock bent down to pick them up and unwrap the package. He offered one to Greg, who stuck out his tongue. Sherlock seemed to take that as a cue to shove the biscuit into Greg’s open mouth.
“Mmmph,” Greg mumbled, crumbs dribbling from the corners of his mouth.
He chewed slowly, concentrating on keeping everything down. Before he had finished, Sherlock was holding out another one. Greg leaned forward, nibbling gingerly at it. If he were sober, he might think it strange that Sherlock Holmes was sitting on his sofa feeding him biscuits. But in his current state of intoxication, he couldn’t give a damn.
Three biscuits later and Greg had slumped on Sherlock’s shoulder again.
“God, Sherlock. Where the fuck did I go wrong?” he groaned.
Sherlock brought his hand to Greg’s chin and tilted it up so the other man was looking at him. Before Greg could question him, Sherlock was pressing his lips to Greg’s, tongue pushing in, exploring Greg’s mouth. They groaned in unison, Sherlock’s one of pleasure and Greg’s one of surprise. But...it was a good kind of surprise. God, he hadn’t known how much he’d wanted this, Sherlock’s mouth against his, tongue exploring needily, hand threaded through Greg’s hair, gripping tightly. Yes. Wait. No, he shouldn’t be enjoying this. Oh, fuck logic. None of this made any sense, but he didn’t really care at this point. What was much more pressing was that Sherlock’s hands were now migrating downwards. He shuddered and Sherlock seemed to pick up that, smiling against his mouth.
Now that he’d gotten this far, there seemed no reason to stop. He was enjoying this. At least, that was what his body was telling him -- he was starting to get hard and Sherlock’s hand undoing his trousers and brushing lightly over his groin wasn’t doing anything to stop that from happening.
Sherlock’s mouth suddenly disconnected from his and he let out a heavy breath.
“No...I...” he muttered, tasting the remnants of biscuit in his mouth as he spoke. “Not now. Not yet.”
Sherlock leaned back, face blank, if slightly flushed.
Greg looked at him apologetically.
“Not tonight,” he explained. “Want to make sure this isn’t just the booze...y’know...”
Sherlock nodded. Greg’s breathing had managed to find normality once again and he was hit suddenly by how fucking tired he was.
“You should rest,” Sherlock remarked, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him from the sofa through the nearby door.
Greg sat down on the bed and looked up at Sherlock, who only glanced at him for a moment before turning on his heels and walking out the door. He laid down slowly, closing his eyes and smiling as he heard the vague sound of a door slamming shut outside.