Greg looked his coffee mug over. It was a sturdy mug, left over from his days at Hendon. It wasn’t too flashy, had the words “Total Policing” written across its pale surface in a dark blue font.
His trusty mug settled Greg somehow and he was glad for it.
“What do you mean I’m not to interfere? Interfere?” The nasally tone and unnecessarily forced inflection just begged an annoyed response.
“Anderson! Really!” Ah, and there it was. Sally at her kindest, mocking Anderson to within an inch of his life. Again.
The DI silently nudged at his office door. It shut smoothly behind him and he wiped at his mouth.
‘No pressing cases, no scheduled interruptions.' Relief took up residence in his chest as Greg realized, ‘for the first time in three straight weeks- no Sherlock. Blessed be this moment.’ Greg chuckled and settled comfortably in his chair.
Three hours and half a dozen refills later Greg was ready to head home. ‘Home. Right, because you’ve still one of those’ his mind offered up unbidden.
He snuffed that thought right down. Down to the little pit he liked to call, ‘STFU Greg,’ it was a nice quiet place where annoying prods at his conscience went to die.
He'd earned a restful night. In fact Greg would go so far as to say he deserved it. Two serial murder cases in three weeks; well even Sherlock was forced to admit it was "so very slightly odd." Sherlock had gleefully admitted. 'This DI is ready for some OTP action.'
Greg made to rinse out his mug. He shucked on his coat and within 20 minutes was walking toward his flat. Sure it wasn’t much, sure the neighbors practiced their operatic “skills” at times that had him wanting shove at their door and pull out his CID insignia but the little flat- it was his. All £1,200 pcm worth. Which really, considering it came furnished! his mind cheered, well it was certainly more than he’d expected. “Slight but efficient and homey” it’d been advertised. Though apparently his just desserts as far as his ex-wife was concerned; “Shitty and exactly more than you deserve.”
Greg shook off his maudlin mood, pulling off his coat and shoving off his shoes. He dropped his keys on the hook and locked the door. A few more minutes and Greg had a nice cuppa in hand.
Now, two days of peace. He knocked on his end table. Not quite wood but it would do. Greg choked a laugh out, settling his second luxury item softly over his thighs. His first was ensconced by the off-color lamp to his right, charging and adding to the dim glow that leveled the room a matte yellow hue.
Archive: Yes please!
A/N: Do not own! Sadly the numtastic YorkBrowne does not belong to me, never shall. I promise to put them back in their Harlequins, Connacht playpens, respectively, as soon as they’re done playing ;)
Greg giggled. Manly much, his testosterone bemoaned. He couldn't be sure but come on! My OTP! his brain sulked, what am I suppose to do?
He wriggled himself further into the couch. Head lolling to one side, resting on one palm and the finger of his other hand on the XPS’ touchpad Greg began to read.
16 stone. York was 16 stone tops thought Andrew. "Bullocks you fucking liar, 1.95 meters and 16 stone 10 pounds is shit and you know it." Browne pushed alongside York, snuffling at the short hairs just above his ear. "I've got a good 10 lbs of muscle on you. You feel that York? Bet you're loving this. Boasting about like you own the place when I could crush you so simple, yeah?"
Chris trembled slightly under Andrew's muscled grip. The stall door didn't budge, giving not so much as a tremble under their combined weight.
"Never thought this place'd be any more use that the last but Christ, Hunstman Inn knows it's sturdy building materials alright.
Chris grunted a response, Andrew didn't wait to hear if it was in the affirmative before rutting against Chris once more, one hand going underneath Chris' Hackett top, the other squirming it's way past his buckle and into his tailored suit pants.
A shrill beeping startled Greg from his reading. Then Tchaikovsky's 1812 blared life into Greg's flat.
"Somebody better be dead," he answered. 'Then again if John's calling it is like--’
John's bemused response cut into Greg's thoughts. "You've already started on the pint I was hoping to wrangle you into, huh Greg-oh?"
Greg rubbed a hand across his face. He could practically see John's twinkling blues as the doctor giggled at his own joke.
"John." Greg said in greeting, "Leave the joking to anyone else. Now what's this about a pint?" The detective inspector lowered his hand, bringing it to rest on the closed laptop.
"Ah. Right. I know Sherlock was... well, that is-"
"He's staring at you right this second isn't he?"
John emitted a soft sigh.
Greg couldn't manage much more than a shake of his head. "Well come on then. See you in 30?" Greg was already plugging his laptop to charge, grabbing at his shoes from the doorway.
"20 if it can be helped," John gruffed.
Greg ended the call with a flip of his phone. Securing the door behind him Greg turned up the collar of his coat. Be it 20 or 30 minutes the cold would do him no good.
John was seated in his usual place. Back to the wall, eyes on both exits, two pints already on the table. Greg unbuttoned his coat and returned John's welcome of a half handshake half embrace.
"Tell me there's more where those came from," Greg nodded at the nutmeg colored drinks. John nodded, "For as long as we can tip them back without tipping ourselves forward!"
Greg settled himself as John, a pinched look on his face, began talking.
"Honestly Greg, Sherlock's been vehemently, inexcusably irritating lately. Two cases in a row left him in too good a mood and he's itching for another already." Greg couldn't help the narrowing of his eyes as he regarded John, "No reason to be taking it out on you though, come on John."
"I know, but-" John shook his head as if to clear it, "I don't know Greg. I just. Well." The older man shoved at John's legs under the table, "Yeah, yeah. I hear you."
John looked up from his drink, "do you?" He seemed uncertain but hopeful.
"You have to admit, sometimes you miss..things. Things no men our age should have to consider missing". Greg raised his glass in salute. The mischievous glint in his eye and the quirk at the edge of his lips told John just how much he understood exactly what John was hinting at.
Greg waived down Sabrina requesting another Meantime. Looking at John for confirmation before holding up two fingers at their regular waitress. "You ever going to tell him?"
John outright laughed, "don't you remember what he told me? Straight off -no pun intended- when we first met?" Greg put his glass down, running a chilled finger around the pint's lip. "Sure, but come off it now. Sherlock, he's.. He's still human. As much as it pains me to admit it, he is still a man. A good man. Hints of a great one in there too; since you came along."
John's cheeks exploded in sudden color, rose reaching to his ears.
Greg bit back his laughter, but just barely. "Ah serves you right! Interrupting my night in like you did. Lucky I'm not trussing Sherlock up in leather and cream just to irk you, Doc."
A near empty glass clattered against the worn maple of the table. "Oh god, don't start with me. I let one little itty possible kink slip and all of a sudden you can't see the forest for the trees." John pulled at a thread on his sleeve. All at once it hit John, "You weren't- you could have said so Greg!"
"No, no. Shut it. I wasn't writing," a huff left Greg's wet lips. "As if I could manage anything sensible after these last weeks."
John spread his empty hand, palm out. "You never know. It really isn't his fault though. You know he means well." At Greg's pointed look, John added a rushed, "Sherlock generally doesn't mean permanent harm."
Greg smirked. "What had him in such a tizzy anyway? Seems he should be happy. Maybe even, coming down...so to say." Greg leveled John a look over the rim of his second pint.
For all that, John just ignored the curious look, his eyes ahead, a bit above Greg's right shoulder. "Mycroft." An ode of explanation in a single utterance.
Greg caught John's eyes, "His brother?" John gave a quick jerk of his head. Agreement communicated in the quick movement. No hesitance, just the knowing acceptance of a party that's been privy to rather spectacular meetings of wills.
"Fuck aren't they a pair," Greg let out a maniacal cackle. "Aren't we a pair? Oh, John Johny John."
"I'd say," John assented, looking into his nearly empty glass. His eyes foggy with wistful thoughts. John coughed suddenly, trying to edge away from that pointless train of thought. Mentally wiping at the translucent web of arousal that clung to his mind, John looked up. Glancing at Greg, John's sudden embarrassment disappeared instantly.
Their eyes met. In the blink of raven and blonde eyelashes, they came to the same immediate realization about the other.
"We're in love-"