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He had a sixth sense when it came to Sherlock. He could predict with near-perfect results when the man would round the corner of the Yard’s offices and appear at Greg’s door, a spectre in his black coat, collar up, hair dark against his pale features. So Greg was pretty sure today was the day, and he had the cases lined up on his desk ready.
Sherlock was like a homing pigeon, he’d always find the damned files anyway, so Greg had learnt to be ready for him. No point in trying to bury them under piles of useless paperwork, or in his drawers or under his desk. Nope, if Sherlock was bored, then Sherlock would get what he wanted, and Greg considered himself tremendously lucky that had not changed in all these years.
So when the man himself burst in, an hour or two later than Greg expected, he was ready. “Got you some cases,” he said, flicking to the first page in each of the files, like an estate agent laying out Sherlock’s property options. “Now, they’re probably not as tough as you’d like, but there should be one or two here to occupy you while you’re waiting for something bigger.”
Sherlock regarded him, grabbing a file and flicking through the crime scene pictures. He raised his brows. “Really? This is the best you can give me?”
“No, look, that’s probably the worst of the bunch. Here…” Greg slid another file towards him. “Give this one a go.”
“How old is it?”
“About 18 months. Dimmock said he was going round in circles, no doubt you’ll find something he didn’t and will end up going round in a triangle instead.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes and Greg huffed a laugh. “No mood for jokes today then?”
“I wasn’t aware you made one.”
Despite himself, Greg grinned. “Oh shut up. I’ve been doing paperwork all morning, you’re literally the first person I’ve seen today.”
“Oh for…” Sherlock dropped the file on the desk. “You are all exasperating.”
Greg blinked. “Er. What?”
“’Literally’. I am not ‘literally’ the first person you’ve seen today, you took the tube to work, you work in the centre of London, you walked through a crowded building, unless you’ve suddenly lost the ability to recognise faces, I am not ‘literally’ the first person you’ve seen...” Sherlock paused midflow. “Unless you really cannot remember who you’ve seen because you have prosopagnosia… do you? That would be fascinating, it would far more entertaining than these cases… no wait, you recognise me, you don’t have prosopagnosia.”
“No, I’m pretty sure if I had… posnosewhatever, I’d know about it.”
“You would, it’s the inability to recognise faces.”
Greg gaped at him. “What? Seriously, that’s a thing?”
Sherlock sighed and picked up another file. “What are you working on anyway?” he asked.
“Paperwork.”
“For what?”
“Drug-related death.”
Sherlock eyed him. “Why are you dealing with that?”
“It looked suspicious. He had a pillow over his face. But there’s nothing there, Sherlock, drug overdose, that’s all.”
Sherlock held his hand out. “Give.”
“Seriously, it’s clear-cut, there’s nothing to see here.” Sherlock made a grabbing motion with his hand. Greg sighed and passed the few papers over. “You’ll be back here in half an hour blaming me for giving you a shit case.”
“Hm. Maybe.” Sherlock scanned through the pages. “Maybe not.”
Greg studied him. “What, you think there’s something more to it?”
“Too soon to tell.”
Greg shrugged. “Alright. But the coroner’s expecting a report by first thing tomorrow, so you’ve got to give me some sort of direction by tonight, alright? Even if you don’t have a murderer or anything, I need to know where you’re going on this…” Sherlock spun on his heel and started to walk out. “I’m serious, Sherlock!” Greg called after him. “Don’t keep me in the dark like you always…” He sighed and sunk back in his chair. “Always do,” he finished. He surveyed the files. “And they looked so good too…”
He rolled his shoulders, took a bite of his chicken sandwich, and opened his drawer to find what else he had to do.
“You’ve got to do something about Sherlock,” Molly said down the phone an hour later.
Greg grimaced. “What’s he done now?”
“He has samples of every drug he could possibly get his hands on laid out across the lab, he’s blockaded the door, and we need to get in there to do our own work.”
“Shit. Sorry. Wait, why isn’t he working at Baker Street?”
“He said something about Rosie being there this week.”
Greg smiled to himself. “Aw, look at him being responsible.”
“He’s blockaded himself in a room with every drug he could get his hands on,” Molly repeated.
Greg ran a hand over his face. “It’s a case, Molls, drug-related death. He’s not… doing anything else, I’m sure.” He kept the scepticism out of his voice, but frowned nonetheless.
“Why is he interested in a drug-related death? Is this the Andrew Mortensen case?”
“Yeah.”
“Clear-cut overdose, I told you so this morning.”
“Yeah, I know that, but Sherlock took the case at lunchtime, so now he’s… I dunno. Looking into it.”
“Well… he does see things we miss sometimes,” Molly conceded. “I still think you need to supervise him, it’s been a difficult year, and he has had a few relapses recently, and… look, I do trust him, I do, but he doesn’t listen to me, and he does sometimes listen to you.”
“When?”
“When… well, when… I don’t know. Some time in the recent past, I’m sure he’s listened to you.”
Greg sighed. “Look, I’ve got loads to do. Best I can offer right now is you keep a watch through the door until I can get there in an hour or so.”
“He’s covered the window.”
“Shit, he’s what?”
“He covered the window, Greg. And barricaded the door.”
“Can you try John? Just for the moment?”
“Okay. Yes. I’ll try John.”
Greg paused. “Wait. You haven’t called John first?”
“No, I called you first.”
“Why?”
“Well, you know how to look after Sherlock when he gets like this… John can be… loud and sometimes he shouts, and I think your approach is better.”
Greg took a moment, weighing up his options. “Look. I’m giving Sherlock the benefit of the doubt then. That’s my call, it’s on me if it goes wrong. But it’s been four months since his sister, I really think he’s doing better.”
“He’s working on a cut and dry drug overdose case, Greg. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yeah,” Greg sighed. “Yeah, I know, but… maybe he’s seen something you and I missed. Just… maybe?”
It bothered him for the rest of the afternoon. He kept checking his watch, wondering when he could go to see Sherlock at Bart’s, while not making it look as if he mistrusted him. It niggled, though, the thought of Sherlock working in a lab with goodness knows what substances.
Sherlock had been put through the ringer in the past year. Mary’s death had shocked them all, then there was the stuff with John, drugs, his sister… Everything had unravelled in spectacular fashion, and he’d been quiet and distant ever since. John had commented on it just a few weeks ago, and Greg had shrugged and said Sherlock seemed fine to him. Only Greg hadn’t realised Sherlock spent more time with him then he did John, Molly and Mrs H these days, and all he had to explain it was he had more cases to offer than any of them combined.
He wasn’t sure when he had become the person Sherlock turned to, but hell, most of the time they discussed crimes and occasionally Sherlock brought him a cold coffee because he’d picked it up and then forgotten to pass it over… Greg smiled fondly to himself. The daft git.
Mycroft called next. “Sherlock is prowling around his former drug haunts, you must pick him up right away.”
“He’s working on a case.”
“Unassisted and unsupervised.”
“He doesn’t need a keeper for God’s sake, he’s a grown man.”
“He’s a drug addict who has been through a difficult time of late, and may require your help. I’m in Paraguay, otherwise I’d pick him up myself and drop him round to you.”
“You’d drop him round to me?” Greg rolled his eyes. “Why is this always my responsibility?”
“Because you know how to handle him, no-one else does, and quite frankly you’re the only person he has never pushed away.”
“Look, I gave him a case…”
“One to ten?”
“Well it… zero, to be honest, it’s a cut and dry drug overdose but…”
“Then why has he taken it?”
“Maybe he saw something there, how do I know? Look, I’ll put in one more hour at work, then I’ll go and see him, yeah? You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“I’d be prepared, nonetheless,” Mycroft murmured. “Perhaps buy some dark chocolate before you see him? Just as a precaution.”
“He’ll know, soon as I walk through the door, if I’ve bought him chocolate and he’ll know the only reason I’ve got it is because I don’t trust him to stay clean.”
“Do you trust him to stay clean?”
“Yeah. Actually. This time, yeah.”
“Buy him some chocolate, Greg.”
“Yeah, fine, maybe.”
He predicted the call from John. No doubt Mycroft had been in touch, and John had probably gone to find Sherlock himself. “Well, he’s not in the usual places or at home,” John said. “So he’s probably getting high somewhere new.”
“Or, you know, he’s solving a case?” Greg suggested.
“Molly said he’s been surrounded with drugs all day. We both know what this means.”
“Yeah, it’s a case and he’s…” Greg dropped his hand down on his desk. “For Christ’s sake, no-one’s cutting him any slack these days, do you realise that? All of you are on his back 24/7. Why does no-one trust him?”
“Greg. I do trust... No, I can’t even say it. Look, I trust him with Rosie, I trust him to solve cases, I trust him to put his life on the line for any one of us…” Greg heard John take a long breath, and knew how hard that admission was. “But I don’t trust him with drugs. Do you?”
Greg switched off his computer. “You know, I used to say no to that question. But look at everything he’s been through and look at how much better he’s doing. So, I trust him. I just trust him, and it’s that simple, and I’m going to go home and leave him to it, because I know it will be just fine.”
It was going to be just fine. It was. Which was why it was a kick in the face to get to his flat, and see Sherlock sitting on Greg’s sofa, a neat line of fine white powder spread on the case file.
Greg didn’t say anything though. He leaned against the wall, unzipped his coat and draped it over a chair. He glanced between the powder and Sherlock. Sherlock peered up at him. “You don’t look high…” Greg muttered.
“That’s because I’m not.” Sherlock held up a beaker with what looked like…
“Fuck, is that a urine sample?”
“I knew you’d all be doubting me so I thought I’d save you the trouble of dragging me to Bart’s.”
“And the coke?” Greg asked, gesturing. “Was that to do once I’d taken the sample to Molly?”
“It was a test.”
“A test for what?”
“Me. I bought it this morning, before I went to see you. I thought if a case didn’t come up, then I’d go home and take this, and at least I’d be able to get through one night without dreaming every single memory my brain and Mycroft stole from me. Anyway, I came by here instead, saw the light on, let myself in… Where’s the chocolate?”
“I… there’s no chocolate.”
Sherlock frowned. “Mycroft must have called you to warn you I was searching for drugs, of course you bought chocolate to give me.”
“No. I thought you wouldn’t need it… Told everyone I trusted you.”
Sherlock tapped his fingers on his knee. “You’re annoyingly unpredictable, do you know that? I was so sure you’d… it doesn’t matter anyway, I’m still clean, you’ll throw that away and then I’ll continue not being asleep and you can keep… doing whatever it is you do with your evenings these days.”
“Hang on.” Greg rubbed his forehead. “You’re bringing me in half-way through a story here. What happened to the case?”
“Drug overdose, like you said.”
“How do you know?”
“The medical evidence, his house, the witness statements, his family statement.”
“But that was all there when you took the paperwork, why’d you even bother?”
“I knew his name. I couldn’t remember how, at first, so I took it to find out. He was a banker, a good one, from a good family… intelligent. Not in my league, but smarter than John and Molly anyway. It made no sense that a man like that died in a derelict flat with a pillow over his face.”
“I’ll give you that,” Greg murmured.
“But that is exactly what happened. His spiral started a year ago, he got into debt, he broke from his family… The investigating officer spoke to his friend.”
“Yeah.”
“He said in the statement he gave up. He gave up on him.”
“Yeah.”
Sherlock rose from his chair, shrugging his coat off to leave it draped over the furniture. “You really don’t have chocolate?”
“I really don’t.”
“But you would have. If you thought I was in danger of…” He gestured to the powder. “Using.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’d have got the chocolate.”
“His friend didn’t do that for him. He walked away because it got too hard.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he took a step closer, crowding into Greg’s space. “You really do exasperate me, you barely know what I’m talking about some of the time, and the rest of the time you’re about five steps behind me making jokes about… triangles.”
“Cheers, Sherlock.”
Sherlock shrugged a shoulder. “Nonetheless, the past 12 months have been truly… dreadful. I bought drugs today because I was at the point where I couldn’t sleep through a single night, and it is… some nights are simply worse than other nights, but no nights are good. Everything I ever believed about my early years was a lie. I can’t tell anyone else this, do you understand? Mycroft and my family feel awful already, John is still mourning, Molly still loves me, and I will not put this on Mrs Hudson, and there is no-one else, do you understand that? And I am telling you this now, and I have tried not to, but there’s no-one…”
“Lay it on me,” Greg murmured. “That’s what I’m here for.”
“I’m from a good, wealthy family,” Sherlock continued as though he didn’t hear. “I’m intelligent… I could be Andrew Mortensen, Greg. As far as I can tell, the only reason I’m not is because you had the good sense to always be there, while not being overbearing. And I am confused about a lot of things about my life, and some of it is still a blank, and every time I lie there and remember, I think of all those times you sat with me and helped me sleep.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get any further than that.”
They regarded one another for a moment, before Greg nodded towards the cocaine. “So, I’ll just go flush that away, shall I?”
“I hate that it always comes down to this," Sherlock said. "You and I standing here, with that between us, and you clearly hoping I’ll be the one to take it to the bathroom and throw it away. But we both know I’m not quite… not quite able to.” Sherlock scrunched up his face, the admission clearly knocking him off guard.
“Maybe… maybe that’s why I’m always around, yeah? To do the things you can’t do? Because all of us need someone else sometimes.”
“Obviously, you wouldn’t have solved most of your cases without me.”
Greg pointed at him. “Oi. Some of my cases. I’d have solved most of them.”
“Weeeeell…” Sherlock started, but a small smile formed at the corner of his mouth. “Fine. You have more sense than you used to.”
“I was right about the overdose, wasn’t I?”
Sherlock’s face fell again, eyes drifting towards the drugs. “He did that, night after night, Andrew Mortensen. Went to a house that wasn’t home, and dragged some substance in his veins, and when he died, when he got it wrong, he was alone, and no one cared anymore. And until today I was this close…” Sherlock held up his thumb and forefinger centimetres apart, his hand closing to a fist. He turned over his arm, to those scars, so faint these days they were hardly noticeable.
Greg stayed silent, watching the flickers over his face as he regarded his arm, as though confronted with the truth of his addiction for the first time.
“I could do it for you,” Greg finally said, when the silence grew heavy and he wondered if Sherlock was about to get too lost in his thoughts. “But I don’t think I should, I think you should do it.”
Wordless, Sherlock reached for file, hands steady, holding the papers between them. “I haven’t used since the Culverton Smith case,” he said, eyes meeting Greg’s. “Not since then, I promise.”
“You don’t need you to explain to me.”
“But I need you to know. I don’t know why it matters to me that you understand, but you have to. I know I made mistakes, a lot of mistakes, John occasionally mentions them, and Molly still hates me a little bit…” Sherlock shook his head from side to side, rolling his eyes. “It’s awkward all-round really. But it doesn’t matter to me what they think, it matters to me what you know. And I need you to know, really know, that I stopped. And I tried to start again tonight, but I couldn’t, didn’t, because.” A wall came up over Sherlock’s face then, as though he’d said too much. “Toilet,” he said to himself, nodding, turning round carefully and carrying the papers towards the bathroom.
Against his every instinct, Greg did not follow. Molly would have followed, Mycroft would have followed, John would probably have tipped the stuff out of the window in a fit of rage by now. But Greg trusted him, trusted him that little bit more. That had become clear today. And he’d been burned by Sherlock just as much as they all had, thought his faith was misplaced so many times, but the relief of knowing Sherlock was still alive and breathing had overcome those doubts every time.
There was just something inside him that allowed him always to forgive and move on. Like he’d forgiven his ex-wife, like he’d forgiven Sherlock for dying and returning, like he’d always forgive him.
When it felt like too many minutes had passed, he took slow steps down the hallway, pausing in the doorway to watch Sherlock, who was perched on the side of the bath, the case still in his hands, powder mixing with the water in the toilet. Greg flushed it.
“That would never have been you, Sherlock,” Greg said after a moment, reaching out a hand towards the paperwork. “The case, Andrew Mortensen. You’d never have ended up there.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because his friend was a dick who left him. I was fielding calls all day today, Molly, John, your brother, and yeah, I thought they were being annoying, but they cared, and they’d have cared even if you’d done those drugs tonight, and they were never going to leave you in an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere with a pillow over your face. There might have been some sharp words, sure, but they weren’t going to leave you.”
“And you?” Sherlock whispered, gripping the case so hard the paper started to wrinkle.
Greg leaned forward and pried the papers from his grasp, taking a seat beside him on the edge of the bath so their shoulders pressed together. “Well, I’d have brought you chocolate, wouldn’t I?”
Sherlock lifted his head and looked at him. “I have an addiction.”
“Yeah.”
“But you believe people get better.”
“I know they do.” Greg dropped the papers down by his feet. “I’ve got a few cases for you, a few good ones. I know you thought that Dimmock one was a bit stupid, but honestly, there’s more to it than you realise.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he muttered, rising to his feet.
“What, we’re going now?” Greg checked his watch. “It’s 9 o’clock, Sherlock.”
“The game’s afoot.”
“No, it was afoot eighteen months ago when the murder was committed, now it’s just late and cold and… fuck it, let’s go solve a case.”
A slow smile spread over Sherlock’s face and Greg followed him to the living room, collecting his coat and checking his pockets and wondering where he’d dropped his keys down when Sherlock switched off the lamp. Greg stood still, trying to adjust to the sudden darkness and attempting to figure out how close he was to the table and the wall. “Oh,” Sherlock said, a surprised tone in his voice.
Greg frowned. “What?”
“Do you always leave this lamp on?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Habit.”
“It’s running up your electricity bill, that’s a weird habit. Normal, perhaps, if you were expecting someone, but who did you expect?”
“Sherlock, can you turn the light back on, please? I’m losing all sense of where I am, and I’m never going to find my keys in the dark.” Greg reached out with an arm, searching for the wall. A hand closed round his wrist instead. Greg let out a laugh, reaching out to grasp Sherlock’s shoulder, just about managing to make him out as his eyes adjusted. “You’re a daft sod. I thought you wanted to look at the case.”
“I do.”
“Okay…”
“The lamp, it’s for me.”
Greg shrugged. “I guess so, yeah.” He waited, let the seconds pass, and nothing. So he stepped forward and tugged Sherlock until they were chest to chest, arms wrapped round the daft bugger’s body. He knew within a second that it was the right thing to do, as Sherlock sunk against him, arms winding round to hold him back. It should have been awkward. Their chests rising and falling in the shared silence, embraced by darkness and each other.
But nothing was simpler.
And Greg had a sixth sense for Sherlock, he could predict with near-perfect results when he’d turn up… and when he’d run. But there was no running, not this time, just Sherlock keeping close to him, head on his shoulder. So Greg walked them backwards, a hand held out until he touched the back of the sofa. They sat down in the dark, leaning close, Greg’s fingers brushing against Sherlock’s shoulder.
Sherlock slept. Sherlock rested. When day broke, when they’d eaten some toast, drank some coffee and got dressed to head to the Yard, Sherlock flicked the lamp back on.
It was still on when they got back that night, laughing, sharing anecdotes from the case, even though they'd both been there throughout, both experienced the exhilaration of a chase, the thrill of success. They settled to eat Chinese food... and talked long into the night.