it's greg.

             “That’s because he isn’t a good drunk.”

Or an embarrassingly hilarious one. Not that John was ever entirely sure, actually.

            “We only have coffee. He drinks, but never to excess, like, er, me.             But I think we have pinpointed the problem now; you and Sherlock             just need to spend some quality time outside work. He and I are             fans of board games.”

Though it was only Cluedo and Operations that ever played, considering both had to do with their respective jobs. Maybe Greg could convince the detective to play something else in this case—–like Jenga.

Greg gave a slight snort, looking to the other man. Not a good drunk. He’d never seen Sherlock DRUNK, so he supposed he couldn’t really comment. But he’d seen him high and that was something entirely different. That had been years ago, back before he’d really gotten to know Sherlock.

                    “He’s no’ too great SOBER either.”

❛ – WELL, I tried that didn’t I ?   ❜  A wry smile, if she wrings her hands anymore, she might whittle them down to nothing but bone. Her mouth is dry, she’s all to aware of the deafening silence in the room. This isn’t easy for her; but it’s something that she’s been wanting so badly to get off her chest. It was silly really, to bring up something that had been nothing more than a drunken peck. when it happened, yes, she spent a few restless nights thinking about it, wondering why it was Greg’s rough, chapped lips that tasted of cigarette smoke and champagne, that kept running through her mind, rather than Sherlock’s chaste kiss on the cheek. There was no way she could have come clean to Greg at the time, not when he had just expressed a desire to patch things up with his wife, and was practically on the verge of divorce. Besides, he knew about her feelings for Sherlock– so Molly nipped that in the bud early on, and threw herself into becoming just that, her little crush for Sherlock. 

❛  D i d n ‘t work out so well for me. ❜  Tom had been lovely, Molly had genuinely pictured living out a life with him, if not she wouldn’t have said yes. True, he could be silly and a little dim at times, but he was lovely, warm where Sherlock was cold, sympathetic where sherlock was brusque. He had been kind and wonderful and funny, and he’d like her, she was sure of that. Sure, there had been the matter of his dog, and her cat, but she had considered a life with him, living together and having children of their own, being Mrs Sawyer. Even now, thinking of it, she was sure they would have been a good match, and she would have led a comfortable, contended life. Maybe not a happy one, but they’d certainly make it to old age together. But it was people, people who kept pointing out she had a type, her mates who sniggered and whispered. When she caught herself recognising a shadow of Sherlock in his face, she had broken it off, unable to STOP seeing it once she had . It wasn’t fair to him, this constant comparison she would make for the rest of their lives. Poor, sweet Tom. He’d deserved none of that. 

For awhile, she had actively avoided crossing paths with Greg, though Molly herself couldn’t figure out why. Part of her might have still been guilty for lying to him back then, when Sherlock died. She knew he had been going through a rough time, what with the divorce and all, and as a friend, she should’ve helped, should’ve invited him out to tea more often, yet she could never bring herself to. When Greg came around, she made herself scarce, when he rounded the corner she turned and walked in the other direction. Yet when the phone call happened, he had been the first one she had turned to; she’d known he would understand. 

❛ – I thought so too. When he called– when he asked why I couldn’t say it–  ❜ I love you, the words had died on her lips, ❛ I told him I couldn’t, because it was the truth. But– it wasn’t. That wasn’t the real reason why I couldn’t say it. It was like having something lodged in my throat, choking me, when I should have been thrilled he even said them back. Because deep down, I guess I knew that it WASN’T the truth. Not anymore. I don’t  l o v e Sherlock. And I don’t think I’ve loved him for, for years.  ❜

He’s not had much luck in the way of love. He was married for a good long while, of course, but that had just degraded over the years and turned into something awful. But Greg couldn’t say that he’d take it back. He WOULDN’T. He had his girls and they were the most important thing in his life. Still, he wished he hadn’t been so willfully blind to Anne’s indiscretions and the fact of the matter: she didn’t love him anymore. It might’ve saved them YEARS of heartache and struggle. It might’ve saved his girls some trouble as well. They’d had to watch, after all. And maybe he could’ve found himself in a happier place at an earlier time. He’s not quite there yet but he’s working on it. Trying to.

Since the divorce his love life has been somewhat lacking. Between work and keeping up with his girls, dates don’t really fit into the mix. That hasn’t stopped some of his co-workers and his mother from trying to set him up though. They’re always NICE enough people but nothing has ever gone past a first date. He’s not particularly good at dates. It was only after he and Anne separated that he realized he had absolutely no experience with dating. He and Anne hadn’t so much DATED as they’d started holding hands and shagging all over campus and eventually moved in together. And that had left him really nowhere. Flirting wasn’t a forte and he really didn’t know what he was doing if he tried to mingle at the pub so he’d more or less given up on it and decided to let things happen naturally. Of course, that method hadn’t quite worked either. So, it was dates his mother continued trying to set him up on and hopelessly hoping that maybe he wasn’t going to wind up alone the rest of his life.

As Molly speaks, Greg can’t help thinking that maybe his patience is going to pay off. Because christ, he’s found himself pining for her as much as she used to pine for Sherlock sometimes. It’s never been the right time, their lives just haven’t lined up PROPERLY. Until now, he supposes. And she’s being rather blunt with him so he really can’t mistake this for anything else other than the opportunity that it is. “I...Molly...” A breath is released, shaking and deflating him somewhat as he brings a hand up to run through his hair. He’s not sure what to do with this, not sure what she WANTS him to do. Does she want him to do something? He wants to do something but he’s not quite sure what. But he does know that it’s been years and he’s been quiet because she’s been with other people or loved other people and it’s never been him until now and this is it.

Greg watches her for a moment, mouth slightly agape like a blood fool as he processes exactly what she’s saying. But the next moment he’s stepping towards her, bringing his hands up to the back of her head and leaning down to KISS her. It’s a gentle thing, light and sweet and not too long, and when he pulls away he’s gazing into her eyes. They’re a lovely honey brown when the light catches them. He’s a bit breathless, both from kissing her and just the sight of her and the feel of her skin under his fingers.

OH .   he’s referred to sherlock in present tense again   ,   hasn’t he?     dammit.     he’s found himself doing that often   ,   lately   ,   acting like sherlock’s going to walk in with his collar upturned and that air of his   ,   cool and nonchalant.     like he isn’t six feet under   ,   like he didn’t watch sherlock plunge from the roof of st. bart’s two years ago.      ❝     yeah , i s’pose it does .       ❞       no   ,   it hasn’t.     quite the opposite   ,   really.     his entire world had revolved around sherlock bloody holmes   ,   and it had taken him until now to realize it.     that there was an empty sherlock-sized hole in his heart   ,   one that nothing could heal over.     he remembers almost every detail of sherlock in clarity   ,   from the dark mass of curls to his cupid-bow lips.     but lestrade certainly isn’t his therapist.     (   hell knows he’s already been down that road.   )       ❝     he was arrogant . stubborn . an absolute tit , at times . but , god … why won’t it stop , greg ? why won’t his memory get the hell out of my life already ?     ❞      

❛  – NO doubt about that.  ❜ Molly laughed, as she moved to drink, echoing his cheers after knocking her glass against his. It would be good to forget this night under the haze of drunken influence, the thought seemed rather appealing at the moment, and they had everything ready after all. would be a shame to let all this alcohol go to waste. God knew Sherlock upstairs preferred to talk the night away rather than drink, and was probably keeping everyone else from doing the same. Suddenly Molly glad she had made it out when she did. 

    But the  KISS on the cheek; the way he had looked at her. Surely it had been just sympathy, he felt sorry for her,  for being foolish enough to fall for someone like him, who could never possibly reciprocate, and already had someone who’s phone he had to x-ray out of jealousy– OR had it really just been sympathy ? If only she had a fine tooth comb, to go over the moment again and again. No, she would do that later, when she was alone. She could not entertain those thoughts now, how his gaze had penetrated her, speckled green eyes ignited by the dim light of the fire, so clear he might’ve even seen through her, unwavering and fierce. Tonight had been the night he had finally understood, all these years of feigning ignorance about her FEELINGS, playing the sociopath– 

  God, she groaned internally, the alcohol must already be doing a number on her, to effect such a sudden change of mood. quickly, she quashed down the spark of hope, instead shaking her head at Greg, ❛ Nah it’s alright. I’ll be warmed up soon enough.  ❜ Molly gestures meaningfully at the drink, grabbing the bottle now. ❛ Can i p o u r you another ?  ❜ True to their promise, they drank, far more than they should have. Hours later found Molly now sitting on a heap at the stoop, her heels kicked off a distance away onto the road. A frown on her face as she turned the bottle upside down.  

                ❛  – we’re all outta wine. ❜ she nudged Greg none too gently, as if alerting him to something                  that was not already apparent. 

It was probably sad, really. The two of them sitting there drinking and trying to forget about the fact that their relationships and love lives were in some state of limbo and Sherlock, in his infinite obliviousness had chosen to point out BOTH in front of all their friends. But if you couldn’t mope about and drink during the holidays, when could you do it? Well, maybe on his birthday. But that was about the only times of year he could do both simultaneously without feeling bad about it. BEST to get it out of the way before Christmas day, before he was with his family and the girls and had to face his wife. He couldn’t really afford to get drunk tomorrow when there was a lot to discuss.

Greg isn’t really sure how long they sit there. Someone’s left. Maybe a couple someones. He’s not sure who’s even still upstairs at the so-called Christmas party. It’s getting colder and his lack of a coat doesn’t HELP, but the wine certainly does. His fingers are cold but it doesn’t much matter when there’s a warmth spreading out from his chest to everything else and his face is hot. He’s undone a couple buttons on his shirt and his jacket is considerably more RUMPLED than when the night started, slumped over nearly laying out on the stoop with Molly at his side. 

“Yes, well, I have contacts that owe me favours. With a brother like Sherlock, it’s been very important to gather such things during my life for when I need them.”

SOME MEME SOMEWHERE

He’s stunned. Properly stopped in his tracks. Standing there staring, mouth open like a bloody fool and he can’t quite PROCESS what she’s said. Well, he is. Processing. It’s just taking him a few moments to comprehend it. Because it’s been years. They’ve known each other for a proper decade now and that just weird to think about isn’t it? Because she’s been there through all and his troubles with his wife and the DIVORCE and Sherlock’s ‘death’ and everything, really. Everything really interesting that’s gone on anyway. And there had been the kiss. Before he and Anne had separated. He and Molly had gotten hopelessly tipsy at the Christmas party and they’d kissed. Short as it had been, they had kissed. Of course, they’d both agreed to put it behind them because he’d still been married and she’d still been pining after Sherlock. It had seemed best at the time.

It was really when he was going through it with Anne that he started realizing that Molly was more than just a friend to him. Or he probably wanted her to be. But he’d been kicked out of the house and trying to find his own place and filing the divorce paperwork and seeing a lawyer and it had all been a proper MESS for too long. By the time it had all settled down and he was in a better place and he mustered up the courage to just ask her to tea, she’d given him the news- bright and smiling and happy -that she was seeing someone. So, he’d plastered on a smile and been happy for her. Because he was happy to see her happy, even if the news had dropped a stone in his gut that had sat there for months.

Then the wedding, Magnussen, Mary and all that awfulness. Things had passed by in a whirlwind and between work and Sherlock and his girls, Greg couldn’t even pinpoint when Molly and Tom had broken up. He’d not even heard about it until long after from what he could tell. And then one evening she’d come by his flat OBVIOUSLY upset and told her about the phone call from Sherlock. It was a bloody awful thing, even for Sherlock. And they’d talked and he’d tried to REASSURE her, tried to comfort her, give her what she needed. By the end of it though, Greg had felt fairly certain that Molly still had feelings for the consulting detective. And that had left them absolutely nowhere. So he’d just kept on.

           “ Of course - I don’t suppose there is any need for unnecessary closeness in a property of dimensions that you so aptly described as huge. ” Mycroft hardly wishes to scare the man off, after all. “ In my experience, nothing helps further a friendly cohabitation like distance. Through here, please – ” He unlocks the door to a wide, high-ceilinged room kept in subtle pastel colours save for the oakwood panelling on the walls and the large four-poster bed, gleaming with the richness of mahogany and slumbering peacefully by the window. Yes, he must admit that he is somewhat proud of his efforts to prepare the room, which has been liberated of any inconveniently guest-unfriendly oil paintings and suits of armour and instead left with a look of homely, adaptable impersonality. 

            “ I estimated that you would find the colour scheme more appealing that anything else this house has to offer. However, there are three other bedrooms available, should you desire a change. My own quarters are located in the northern wing of the house, which I advise you only to enter when need be. ” For a moment, the silence hovers a little uncertainly between them - he is not quite positive what to make of the appearance of open-mouthed disbelief that has been a steady companion of the inspector’s features since he first set foot on the premises, but he decides that he rather likes it. The thought brightens him up to the point of a half-obligatory, half-tentative smile, which is a rare enough occurrence, particularly when he finds himself sharing. 

            “ Would you like a brief tour of the gardens? I am certain that my butterfly conservatory would make an impression. ”

It’s sound enough logic, he supposes. If the man has the space and doesn’t use it, Greg’s not going to say no to the hospitality but it all seems a bit much still. He’s not accustomed to wealth, not in the sense that Mycroft is, which becomes more and more apparent as they move further into the home. He’s staring. GAPING, really. He’s never been in a proper estate before and this is dangerously close to bordering on a palace at least in his mind. He remembers touring a few castles as a child on field trips in class and those were the only places he could remember being quite so large. But then, pretty much EVERYTHING had seemed gigantic back then. Smallest boy in his class until he’d sprouted up as a teener. He still didn’t stand particularly tall at his full height.

“I’s lovely...thank you...” And it is. Lovely. The room is nicer than any place he’s stayed before, even the five star hotel he and his wife- ex-wife -had been put up in on their honeymoon. It’s easily twice as big as their first FLAT had been and certainly much much nicer as a whole. He wonders, with a place this size, if the man employs staff. He must. Greg can’t imagine Mycroft having the time nor energy to care for it all himself. He’s dragged out of his study of the room and the sheer lavishness of it when Mycroft speaks again and, if POSSIBLE, his jaw drops a bit further. “You’ve go’ a butterfly conservatory?” His voice raises, unintentionally, and he almost winces at how loud his voice sounds in the echo of the room. Greg gives the other man a sheepish look, brows knitting together. “Christ. Sorry...this is jus’...I didn’ grow up with much. This is incredible.”

❛  – WELL you almost didn’t make it either. ❜ Molly points out, though her tone does soften, running her fingers along the edge of his blanket with an almost tender look on her face. It was not an easy decision to make, to jump in front of a bullet for someone, a friend, and even though she was still CROSS with him for doing so, anger was dampened by relief, that he was okay, and gratitude. Part of her knew he was right, that if he had not intervened they would not be at the hospital but the morgue, and it would be Molly, not on a bed, but on a table. Funnily enough, she never really thought about who’d be the one to do it; her autopsy. With the pathologist out of commission.. she shook her head, trying to dispel these rather morbid thoughts. ❛ Well I’m starting to think you do go out looking for trouble. ❜

                ❛   The nurse called your daughters, they’ll be here after school, and uni. ❜ Molly continued on, ❛  They’ll probably give you a good scolding too, for doing something silly like that.  ❜ Because at the heart of it, she didn’t think she deserved Greg’s noble act, his sacrifice. Though she liked to think she had nerves of steel, and a stomach to match, the incident had still left her rather SHAKEN, or was it the coffee that made her so nervous?  She allows her voice to fill the room, once more chasing away any unwanted thoughts. ❛   They caught the bastard, too. After you got shot– ❜

                               – blood trickling through the spaces between her fingers, the body beneath                                 her convulsing, salt and pepper mixed with red, his face contorted with                                  pain, seizing up on the ground, doing her best to remain professional, but                                   the rising panic was CHOKING her, all she could do was apply pressure, apply                                pressure, whilst she heard his SCREAMS– 

working with the dead was one thing, it was another to feel the weight of a HUMAN life on your hands.  Abruptly she stood, pushing her chair back. 

                                                             ❛  – I’d better go fetch the doctor and let him know you’re awake.❜

“I don’...just ‘appen t’ run into it on the job sometimes.” Generally only when he was out investigating, not picking up reports from the morgue. That had been a first. Hopefully also a last. Greg would have to check what kind of SECURITY they had on that floor. Obviously not good enough if the man had gotten through armed. It wasn’t his job but the fact that Molly had been in that kind of danger because some stupid sod hadn’t been watching the cameras or something was unacceptable.

Greg was about ready to just let himself slip back to sleep when Molly spoke again and the mention of his daughters perked him right up. Well, maybe not perked. He certainly didn’t feel perky. But he did come to ATTENTION again, eyes opened full where they’d been drooping down at half mast. They were probably worried sick. He hadn’t been in the hospital since they were kids and that hadn’t been quite as serious as this. But he was ALIVE. He was alright, or he was getting there. “Well, you can tell ‘em ya already gave me a talkin’ to.” He smiled wearily at her and brought a hand up to scratch at his eyebrow, wincing as the movement tugged at his injuries.

        “Maybe he just has trouble remembering it because he’s used to         calling you Lestrade?”

Though it did sound far-fetched that the great Sherlock Holmes who could remember even the placement of stars in the sky would not remember Greg’s name despite John mentioning it to him on occasions. …Which simply didn’t make sense. Nevertheless, John let out a laugh at a thought he just had.

         “Perhaps because he’s never had a drink with you, like we have.           You’ve always seen him in professional settings more.”

“Once or twice I could buy tha’ bu’ he’s bloody Sherlock Holmes!”

If the man who could fit a slew of encyclopedic knowledge inside his ruddy mind castle or whatever it was legitimately couldn’t remember his first name, only one syllable and four letters, he would’ve been FLOORED. Maybe he should’ve just taken it as finally something that Sherlock wasn’t good at.

“Whatever Sherlock has said, I can assure you that I am not ‘basically the British government’. I have a minor role - that is all. It is really nothing worth taking note of.”