John Watson was not suspicious by nature. He was fast friends with most folks, and he was loyal to a fault. Despite being in a warzone and being injured, and having PTSD and all the stress/mental ailments that came along with it, John was... solid. He was optimistic. He was not BORN suspicious. He had to grow in to it.
This happened mainly because of his association and the friendship- "bromance", he'd heard molly jokingly call it once- to one Sherlock Holmes. Even then, his newfound suspicious nature was reserved mainly for his best friend. Rightly so, since his poshness would sneak around for any high he could manage at one point, and it was like trying to keep tabs on a toddler that just found their footing in learning to walk. (John now had actual experience in this, and could say with some certainty that Sherlock Holmes=overgrown manchild in that regard.)
But then he discovered his wife was a bloody assassin. So the learned suspiciousness grew into a second nature.
Even so, no red flags were raised when one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade- a long time acquaintance and maybe even an actual friend- became his flatmate.
It was common knowledge that Lestrade had relationship troubles. It was also commonly known that he had tried to work things out time and time again with his wife. However, everyone has their limit. Greg's was coming home with a very cliched bouquet of roses, and finding his wife doing acrobatic type sex moves in the yoga swing she had requested for her birthday, with her lawyer AND his lawyer in the living room. At the same time. On her birthday, before he'd even given her the gift- which meant she had dug around in the hall closet to find where he had hidden it.
Standing in the doorway of his home, hand tightening around the wrapped thorny stems, watching the woman he had vowed to love and cherish perform an inverted 69 on two people at once, and neither of those people were HIM... Greg's attempts at "working it out" were truly done for, and finished. He cleared his throat, dropped the flowers, and left before the screeching even had a chance to start. He wiped his hand on his trousers- he'd clutched at the roses so tightly, some of the thorns had drawn blood- and stared blankly at his phone. Obviously, he wasn't going home. So, who could he stay with? After a brief internal risk/reward/annoyance analysis, his fingers selected the contact under WATSON, JOHN.
John had thought to himself that sharing a flat with an NSY D.I would be loads easier than sharing one with a self declared "high functioning sociopath" that smoked like a chimney, practically never slept, and used his violin as a psychological weapon. Yes, he had Rosie to think of now. Also yes, it was inevitable that Greg would occasionally keep extremely odd hours. Criminals didn't exactly follow a schedule. Even so, John was fairly sure that Lestrade's nighttime ventures were of the entirely legal sort, and at least he bought milk every once in a while, dammit. Pair that with the fact that his fridge was no longer in danger of needing a biohazard disposal team to clean it, and John was perfectly content with his new flatmate.
or he WAS, until lestrade began... sneaking.
Leaving the basement flat of 221C Baker st at odd hours was not exceptionally noteworthy. After all, an NSY detective inspector lived there, as did the blogger for renowned consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. It was entirely expected that from time to time, either or both of them would be roused from their beds at half past the middle of the damn night by a phone call or two. It was common courtesy to be as quiet as possible, to avoid waking the rest of the house.
Mostly to avoid waking Rosie, if truth be told. Mrs. Hudson was difficult to rouse after taking her "herbal soothers', and Sherlock- upstairs in 221B-rarely slept normal hours. Rosie was a toddler, which basically meant she was a dictator with irritating sleep habits and was sprouting teeth. Waking an adult member of the house could be forgiven. Waking queen Rosie meant you had to grovel to get back in John's good graces.
So, when John happened to be awakened by a demanding 18 month old nearly an hour earlier than usual, he wasn't overly surprised to see his flatmate's shoes and coat were missing from their usual spots by the door. When Lestrade came quietly inside moments later, however.... it was a tad bit odd.
As Rosie did her best impression of a hyena with a zebra femur by gnawing on a frozen teething ring, Greg quietly slipped inside the basement flat and toed off his shoes. He began to remove his coat, but balked when he saw the other two inhabitants of the basement abode were awake and attentive.
"mornin' Greg", John greeted sleepily from the kitchen where he was obediently scrambling eggs for his daughter. Lestrade nodded in response, ruffling Rosie's curls as he ambled past her to the hall.
"ah, morning John. Rosie's teeth giving her trouble then?" was the response.
"Yeah, I think she's got molars coming in." John turned from the pan to face his conversational partner, and his eyes narrowed. His suspicious nature, such as it was, niggled at him.
"You alright there, Greg? looks like you've got summat on your face? Is that... blood?" Medical instincts kicking in, John leaned forward to further investigate the streak of red at the corner of Lestrade's mouth. Greg's hand flashed to his face, dabbing to see what was there and if it transferred.
"ah, no. I grabbed some chips on the way home, must just be ketchup or something. I'm going to bed for a bit, see you later."
"Anything good at the scene?" John called as Lestrade hastened down the hallway to his room, coat hugged to his body.
"Naw, was quick and simple. 'night!"
It wasn't until later that John figured out that A) None of their NSY contacts knew anything about greg being called to a scene that night, and B) it wasn't ketchup... OR blood. It was, in fact, a very red, very BOLD, very expensive, lipstick.
also, greg never did hang his damn coat up.
So just what the hell was the detective inspector up to lately?