Chapter Text
“Sir, I’ve got a situation for you.”
Sally hesitated in the doorway, unsure as to whether or not she was welcome and whether or not this was a case that should be brought to Lestrade. She still felt guilty about going over his head on the Sherlock debacle. It made things awkward in their department, but he was willing to pretend that it didn’t. He didn’t agree with what she’d done, but he respected her decision professionally. There were times in his career that he’d had to make similar decisions. She’d done what she thought was right, and he was still proud to have her on the team.
But it was still going to be some time before things between them were friendly again.
“Okay,” Greg said, bracing himself for weird. Sherlock or no, they always brought him the weird ones.
“John Watson’s in lock-up for brawling. They’re probably going to keep him overnight while things are sorted out. And … his emergency contact is still listed as Sherlock. I thought you might want to get involved.”
As a friend, did she mean, or as his handler? He wasn’t Sherlock’s police liaison anymore—or ever again—but he understood why this would be brought to him either way. “Thank you, Sally. I’ll make my way down.”
Friend or handler? he wondered again. Maybe it didn’t matter. The officer in charge was a pleasant, round-cheeked man with a reputation for honesty. Greg shook his hand in greeting. “Constable Green. I heard you had a situation that might concern me.”
“That I do. Doctor John Watson. Started a row in a shop with a bloke twice his size—and won, for what it’s worth. The other guy’s not pressing charges, so Watson’s free to go whenever we feel like releasing him, but we can hold him for twenty-four hours. I know you’re somewhat a friend of his, so I thought I’d bring you in as a consult. We can give him an advisory to attend therapy sessions, or we can let him go with a warning. But we can’t do anything as long as he won’t talk to us.”
“He won’t talk to you?”
“Not a word. He’s been cooperative ever since we showed up on the scene, but he won’t talk to anyone.”
Greg sighed. Friend and handler, maybe. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll walk you down.”
John was sitting in the holding cell with his back straight and his gaze focused on the far wall. He didn’t look up when they entered.
“I’ll handle it from here,” Greg said, approaching the cell door and waiting for the guard on duty to open it for him. John still didn’t look up. Opting to disregard that, Greg took a seat on the bench next to him and folded his arms. “I hear you won a fight with a guy twice your size.”
John softened, leaning back a little. “They called you in on this?”
“No one’s pressing charges, but apparently you won’t talk to any of the officers. Mind telling me what happened?”
“Nothing, really. Just your standard harassment. I lost my temper.”
Just your standard harassment. He’d heard that enough to know what it meant. All the worse because it was standard. Some days Greg wished he lived in a world where hearing ’and then he backed me into a corner and put his hand up my skirt. You know, just your standard harassment.’ or ’oh, it was nothing, really. Doms will be doms. wasn’t an every day problem in whatever case he was handling.
Sexual harassment fell along two axes. There was gender discrimination, targeted at women, and orientation discrimination, targeted at subs. Ninety percent of the crimes Greg had to handle were perpetrated by male doms.
Dom though he was, Greg sympathised. If he’d been the target of any of the kind of harassment he heard reported to him like it was no big deal, he would have started a row in a shop, too. “I’m going to need more detail than that.”
“I was in the cereal aisle at Waitrose, when this guy recognized me from the news and started heckling me. A combination of accusing me of complicity in murders and suggesting that I needed a real man to sort me out. I lost my temper.”
Greg felt a protective tangle in his gut. Subs never stayed unattached for long, mostly because the constant hassling from interested doms was dangerous to their health. He couldn’t blame most of them for finding new partners so quickly—unbonded subs might as well have a target painted on them. And even though the problem was that someone needed to teach the doms that their behavior was wrong, more often than not he found himself recommending the party line on the subject—be careful, don’t go anywhere alone, carry a rape whistle.
They shouldn’t have to carry rape whistles. Greg personally advocated giving them all self-defense classes, so that any dom out of line could get a proper lesson.
“How bad has it been?”
John glanced over, surprised, and then dropped his gaze to his lap. “Bad.”
“How bad,” Greg repeated.
“I don’t dare leave my house after dark or go anywhere there aren’t crowds.”
Bad. “I’m sorry,” Greg said, even though he knew the words weren’t anywhere near enough.
John didn’t respond.
“I’ll clear up the paperwork. We’ll have you out of here in an hour.”
“Thanks,” John said. “I appreciate it.”
~
When he came back in an hour, John hadn’t moved.
“Come on,” Greg said, leaning in the doorway and waiting for him to get up. “I’m taking you home.”
John followed in silence as they collected his things and took the elevator down to Greg’s car.
“You doing okay?” Greg asked, even though he knew he wasn’t.
Latching his seatbelt, John stared out into the darkened parking garage. “Fine. Been seeing a therapist.”
“Is that helping?”
“Nope,” John said, but his mouth quirked slightly to the side. Facial expressions. That was a good sign.
“Didn’t help me either,” Greg sympathised.
At that, John looked interested. “You went to a therapist?”
“My wife insisted on it. She said it wasn’t healthy, working the hours I do, and then when I was home, I wasn’t … there.”
John fell quiet again. The state of Greg’s ex-marriage was widely known. John had probably known before most of Greg’s coworkers. Sherlock would have sussed it out somehow long before even Greg knew that the end was inevitable.
They drove through London in silence, nursing their shared and private wounds. Everything felt wrong with Sherlock gone. It had for a long time, even before Sherlock took his own life. Their lives had all gone wrong somehow. There was a time when everything made sense, when Sherlock was just this maddening genius who helped him save lives, and that was simple.
Greg didn’t know why he’d jumped. It didn’t make sense, and he didn’t think it ever would. Greg had been on those cases with him. He knew that Sherlock was real. Even if he couldn’t deal with the media backlash, he never thought that Sherlock would be one to take the coward’s way out. Especially when he left so much behind.
“Thanks,” John said, when he pulled into a parking spot in front of Baker Street.
Greg ignored the unspoken goodbye. “I’m coming up.”
John didn’t argue. He led the way upstairs, turning on only the two smallest lights in the living room.
The place was clean. Cleaner than Greg had ever seen it. Everything was folded and put away. All of Sherlock’s clutter was either straightened or missing. But it was still mostly Sherlock’s clutter. Greg had seen the place before and after John moved in, and he honestly hadn’t been able to tell the difference. He could now.
Sherlock’s presence was still here, in every single curio and book, but it felt more like a museum than a home. Everything felt untouched and unlived in except for the space within an arm’s reach of John’s chair.
“Tea?” John offered, already putting the kettle on.
“Thanks.”
Greg sank down on the couch, chin resting on his hands as he tried to figure out how he could help.
After a few minutes, John brought over two cups of tea and sat down on the far end of the couch.
“Don’t suppose you want a new flatmate,” Greg asked.
“Sorry?”
“The sale finally went through on the house. I have to be out within the week. I’m in need of a place to stay. I wouldn’t ask, but I can’t help wondering if you’d have less trouble with a dom around.”
“I can protect myself.”
Greg couldn’t help a grin at that. “I know you can. You won a fight with a guy twice your size and you haven’t got a mark on you. That’s not why I’m offering.”
“Why are you offering?”
“Because you’re my friend, I need a place to stay, and I miss him too.”
John thought about it, sipping quietly at his tea. His eyes strayed down the hall in the direction of Sherlock’s room. “Okay,” he said at last.
They drank their tea in silence. When his mug was empty, John set it aside and stood. “I’m going to bed. You’re welcome to sleep… wherever.”
Left alone in the darkened room, Greg put both mugs in the sink and debated the choice between the couch or the closed door to Sherlock’s room. He lived here now, sort of. Sherlock’s room was going to be his, based on what they’d carefully avoided talking about. But it still felt like sacrilege.
Resolved not to be squeamish, Greg turned the knob to Sherlock’s room and flipped on the light.
It hadn’t been touched. The sheets were a mess, Sherlock’s dressing gown was on the floor, and a scattering of books took up all but a tight corner of the bed. They’d have to tidy this up and put Sherlock’s things in storage. That wasn’t something he was dealing with tonight.
Shutting the door, Greg found an extra blanket and curled up to sleep on the couch.
~
Greg hadn’t realized how much space Sherlock took up in John’s life until he saw how much space there was to be filled.
John hadn’t held a job once he started helping Sherlock on cases full-time. And now that Sherlock was dead and his reputation ruined, the cases weren’t coming in. John’s laptop was gathering dust. Sherlock’s was even worse. Between coming back from the war and his time being monopolised by Sherlock, John seems to be very low on friends, and he long since gave up trying to find girlfriends.
Which had always made Greg wonder. It was common knowledge that John was a sub and Sherlock was a dom. At first, John had vehemently insisted—loudly and often—that he wasn’t gay and they weren’t a couple, and he had openly attempted to date half the women of London. As time passed, he stopped correcting people and stopped dating.
When John started wearing a sleek black leather collar, Greg just assumed that something had changed. It was their business, and Greg was glad for them for whatever sex they were or weren’t having, and whatever happiness they’d found.
Some days he’d worried, and had wanted to pull John aside and ask. Just tell me if he’s treating you okay. I know he’s Sherlock and he’s difficult at the best of times, but just tell me that he’s not a complete idiot of a dom.
He hadn’t.
If he was honest with himself, he knew exactly why he hadn’t. It was because some days he fancied John more than he should, and he knew that any friendly concern he might want to show was almost definitely colored with jealousy.
They were perfect together, in their odd way. John was an incredible calming and restraining influence on Sherlock, and their banter at crime scenes was both endearing and excluding. Greg got the perpetual feeling that he was intruding on the their crime scenes, rather than the other way around.
The collar had come off once Sherlock had died. That was standard procedure, even in mourning, but it was a complex topic.
Greg wanted to ask.
Greg didn’t want to ask.
He just took up as much space in John’s life as was offered.
At first, Greg went with him to fetch groceries. John wouldn’t leave the house if he didn’t have to, so Greg took charge of that, too. When he wasn’t off at work, Greg dragged him out to movies and restaurants. Anything to get his mind off his loss. It helped Greg, too. Marriage gone sour, house sold in the divorce, disgraced at work. The last thing he wanted to do was sit around in Baker Street and think about how much he missed Sherlock.
Maddening, infuriating, gorgeous Sherlock.
Definitely not a topic he wanted to think too much about.
He badgered John into volunteering at a local animal shelter. Anything to get him out and doing things while Greg was at work.
It helped, at first. John’s face got a spark of life to it again, as he talked about the dogs he was working with and the difficulties that the shelter faced. But then he started talking about assisting one of the vets, this cheeky domme who was clever enough to figure out where John’s skills would be best put to use.
When he brought her home, Greg liked her immediately—or knew that he would have liked her, under different circumstances. She was smart and classy, and took no nonsense. But there were so many little things about her that kept reminding him of Sherlock, it made him a little sick. Greg kept his head down and his mouth shut.
The relationship imploded within a week.
John went straight back to his depressed slump, and barely talked for days. Greg didn’t have the heart to suggest trying volunteer work again.
When there was an opening for an on-scene medical technician in another borough, Greg pushed him right into it. He didn’t have much in the way of formal forensics training, but his on-the-job experience made him more valuable than a fresh-faced and squeamish young kid fresh out of graduate school.
It worked. Suddenly John was busy again. When their schedules coincided, they talked animatedly about their current cases, bouncing ideas off each other and making off-colour jokes.
This time, when Greg worked out that there was a single domme in John’s department who was starting to show interest, he made sure to show up at one of John’s scenes while he was at work. He had no reason to be there, which made it all the more obvious when he stood a little too close to him, and touched him a little too often. Leaving John to it, Greg found an excuse to chat up the domme in question, making friendly, vague conversation with multiple mentions of living with John.
His message was received as it was intended. He wasn’t sure if John noticed what he’d done, but the stories about that particular coworker dropped to the same infrequency as the stories about any other coworker.
He told himself that he was just trying to protect John, and hoped that it was true.
Problem was, John attracted doms like a magnet. When they went out together, people made assumptions and steered clear. But when he was unattended, John had the ability to get the numbers of every dom in the area—and when they were female, he didn’t say no.
So when John came home with another woman, did his best to stay out of the way. He’d interfered when it threatened John’s job (and by extension, John’s progress out of depression), but John’s private life remained none of his business.
“You’re his flatmate?” she asked, after staying over for the second time in a week.
Greg was grateful he’d had the sense to invest in earplugs. Thin walls.
“That’s right.” He leaned back against the counter, nursing the cup of coffee he’d just made. He’d offered her a cup, but she declined, and John was sleeping late. Greg wished that she would either wake him up or leave, but she seemed to be resolved to have a conversation.
“You’re a dom,” she said.
He could see where this prompting was going now, and decided not to help. “Yep.”
“But you’re straight,” she continued.
“Bi,” he corrected.
She didn’t even try to hide her eyeroll. “Gay but in denial, you mean? That’s even worse.”
Bloody doms and their bloody prejudices. Greg didn’t even care that he was one of them. They were infuriating. “No. I mean bi.”
“This is around the time where you would reassure me that you’re not interested in my boyfriend, and that we’re not going to have a problem.” Her lips were a thin line. Greg took comfort in the fact that she was finding him just as infuriating. He knew what the social protocol was in this situation, and he was blatantly choosing to ignore it.
Savoring his sip of coffee, Greg let her stew. She wasn’t bad, as dommes went. All she wanted was to know where the boundaries fell. It was smart. Any good dom would do the same. Some small part of him itched that he’d love to see her in action. Gorgeous, powerful, graceful. But there was absolutely no way that was ever going to happen, for a whole mess of reasons. “I’m absolutely interested in your boyfriend,” he concluded, sliding his eyes over to stare her down. If she wanted to have a pissing contest to establish dominance, he was in. “But I have the sense to know that it’s a bad idea, because of how much he is not over his ex-boyfriend.”
Let that prickle her pride. Gay but in denial. Greg wasn’t forgiving her that anytime soon.
Her eyes narrowed at him, wanting more information but too proud to ask. Fine. Greg could give her more information.
“His name was Sherlock. He was John’s last flatmate. Used to have my room.” Now he was just being mean. He took another don’t-give-a-fuck sip of coffee and watched her twitch. “He committed suicide three months ago. I’m sorry, and I’m aware that your relationship is none of my business, but you may want to consider cutting your losses early. Everything in this room belonged to Sherlock. John hasn’t gotten rid of a single thing, and I don’t believe for a minute that John’s over him after just three months.”
Motion in the doorway caught his eye, and Greg looked up to see John frowning at him with arms crossed. Oops.
Careful not to let his expression change, Greg took another sip of coffee as he considered how to handle the situation. “How much did you hear?”
John’s expression had no forgiveness in it. “Just the last part. I don’t eavesdrop.”
“She was politely asking me to stand down,” Greg explained, honestly. “I was, less politely, refusing.”
“Give us a moment, will you, Greg?”
“Sure.” Pausing just briefly to refill his cup of coffee, Greg saluted them with it and walked downstairs and outside, leaning against the fence as he drank his coffee. Cloudy day but not rainy. Could be worse.
His coffee was cold but not empty when—what was her name? Mathilde?—walked past him without a word.
Greg finished his coffee before going inside to see how much trouble he was in.
John was sitting on the couch and staring at his hands, silent. Stopping in the doorway, Greg waited to see if he was going to be scolded. When John didn’t say anything, he moved through into the kitchen, poured a fresh mug of coffee and brought it over for his flatmate. John allowed it to be put into his hands, but didn’t drink it.
Leaning back against the table, Greg watched him. “What happened?”
“She asked if I was over Sherlock. I had to tell her the truth.”
“I’m sorry.”
John frowned and lifted his head. “Are we going to have a problem?”
“I don’t know. We haven’t yet.”
Studying him for a moment, John’s gaze slowly lowered again.
“For what it’s worth, if she told you that there’s no such thing as bi, she’s wrong.”
Bemused, John looked up. “What?”
“Sorry. Personal peeve. She asked whether I was straight and I told her I was bi, to which she said that was ‘gay but in denial’, and I got a bit touchy about it. If she gave you any trouble on that topic in particular, she’s full of shit.”
John’s lips quirked. “I didn’t know you were bi.”
“And proud.”
“I don’t know if …” John stopped himself from finishing that sentence.
“I made an assumption about you and Sherlock, and I shouldn’t have. Your orientation is your own business. I just wanted to know that if you are bi, and you’re having any kind of identity crisis about that, you’re not alone and the rest of the world is wrong. And if she in particular was giving you any trouble about it, she was definitely wrong.”
John laughed and shook his head. “This is the strangest pep talk I’ve ever received.”
Greg grinned sheepishly.
“You weren’t wrong,” John said, looking back into his coffee. “Sherlock and I were together. In every sense of the word. And I’m not over him. I don’t think I ever will be.”
“You shouldn’t have to be.”
Surprised, John’s brow furrowed. “That’s not what I expected you to say.”
“What did you expect me to say?”
“Most people tell me it’ll get better, I’ll move on, time heals all wounds.”
“Well, they’re wrong.” Greg smirked to himself. “I’m sorry, I guess I’m contrary towards the world today. They’re wrong. It doesn’t get better. You just get better at learning how to deal with it.”
John thought that over. “Who did you lose?”
“My brother.” Folding his arms at the stab of pain that always brought, Greg let himself grieve. “Some days I forget he’s gone, even after all these years. It doesn’t seem possible. Every time I call home, I still expect him to answer the phone, and he’ll still be twenty-two and incorrigible. I’ve never met anyone like him, and I’m never going to. And that Charlie-shaped hole in my heart isn’t ever going to be filled. Nothing compares with the sheer awfulness of that truth. My little brother has been dead now longer than he was alive, and I’m never going to get over it. It’s only been three months for you, and Sherlock… Sherlock’s irreplaceable. I don’t think you should ever have to get over that.”
Taking his time to think that over, John nodded slowly. “That helps, a little. Thank you.”
Wandering over, Greg took a seat across from him on the couch. “Tell me about him.”
“You know about him.”
“No, I don’t. I know about the brilliant, insufferable prick who insulted me at crime scenes. I never saw your Sherlock. A few times I wanted to ask if you were okay with him. If he treated you right.”
John looked shocked. “You thought—“
“Not often,” Greg amended, quickly. “He always seemed to be very … aware of you, even though he usually pretended he wasn’t. But I also knew that Sherlock had a real gift for emotionally shredding people without a thought. I wasn’t sure if he might be hurting you without even realizing it was damage.”
“No,” John said firmly. “Never. Sometimes he was irritating as hell, yes, and occasionally he crossed a line. But I’m not some wilting flower, Greg. If he crossed a line, I let him know about it.”
“I’ve seen you put him in his place,” Greg said, with a grin at the memory. Sherlock always looked so surprised to be scolded. It was one of his favorite things about John—he usually was such a tame and laid-back sub, but when he got his temper up, the doughtiest dom would quiver.
“He was good to me,” John said, relaxing back into his memories. “He pretended to be such a callous robot, but a lot of it was just his own personal safeguards to keep the world at a distance. Most people don’t react kindly towards what he is, so he built himself emotional defenses and told himself over and over that he didn’t care. I think Mycroft helped. Caring is not an advantage is the family motto or something. Even with me, he spent all his time acting like he didn’t care.
“He did, though. He’s a very physical person. Affectionate, even clingy. Constantly anticipating rejection. When we slept, he tangled around me like a creeper vine. I had to elbow him in the gut whenever I needed to piss. A couple times I accidentally left bruises because he wouldn’t wake up. When Sherlock actually falls asleep, he sleeps like a rock.”
Greg grinned at the mental images. “I’m glad for you. That you had that.”
“I don’t get why he did it,” John said, words laced with pain. “It wasn’t like him. It doesn’t make sense. Sometimes I think…”
“Don’t,” Greg said, very softly. “It won’t help.”
“I can’t help it.”
“I know. Me neither.”
~
John stopped trying to date after that, at least for the time being. Greg was grateful for that, for John’s sake and his own, but he didn’t ask.
Little at a time, John’s depression lessened. He worked hard when he was called in on cases, and started to relax and laugh around Greg. He was the best friend Greg had ever had, and it was a constant pleasure to be in his company, even when they were both tired and stressed. If John spaced out sometimes with a heartbroken expression, Greg just gave him the space.
He was falling hard for John, and he knew it, but he also knew that he was not long out of a messy divorce, and John might not ever be over Sherlock enough to want to date another man. So he ignored his feelings and enjoyed the company.
“Sit,” John ordered, setting Chinese takeaway on the table and giving Greg his no-nonsense face. “We need to talk.”
Greg sat.
“I found out today that every single one of my coworkers thought you and I were dating.”
Keeping his mouth shut seemed like the wisest course of action.
“Apparently Jo was going to ask me out, but then you showed up and staked your claim in clear enough terms that she didn’t.”
Definitely in trouble.
“I don’t know what testosterone-fueled system of communication you doms have to mark your territory, but I’d appreciate knowing whether or not you did this on purpose.”
“I did,” Greg confessed. There was no way he was going to respond to John with anything other than complete honesty, especially not in a case like this. “After the mess that ended your stint at the animal shelter, I was worried that it would happen again and drive you away from your new job. So I took it upon myself to discourage workplace romance. It was manipulative of me, and I’m sorry. I made the decision on your behalf that you weren’t emotionally stable enough for a relationship yet, especially not with someone from work.”
John frowned, thinking over how he felt about that. Greg dug into the takeaway bag, put the correct box in front of each of them, and helped himself.
“Is that it?” John asked.
Greg went still. “Sorry?”
“I appreciate your honesty and that you didn’t make it into an excuse. I want to know whether or not your intentions were pure.”
Poking at his food, Greg scowled and considered his answer. “I’m not sure. I’ve been asking myself that regarding you for over a year. So I guess the answer is no. Nothing I’ve ever done regarding you has been with completely pure intentions.”
Cheeks reddening, John raised his eyebrows at him.
“You want me to spell it out? Yes, I’m attracted to you. Yes, I was jealous of Sherlock and yes, I chased Jo off because I was jealous of her. You’re welcome to blame Mathilde on me, too. I’m doing my best to keep it from being a problem. If I messed up, I’m sorry.”
“Are you always this uncompromisingly honest with relationship questions?”
“Yep.” Greg grinned at him. “It’s annoying, I know. I’m sorry.”
“No,” John shook his head. “It’s refreshing.”
Picking up his fork, John started to eat.
Greg watched him, fond. “Are we okay?”
“Yeah. I think so. You’re not forgiven, but I get why you did it, and you might have been right. You were probably right. Jealous or no. Next time, talk to me about it.”
Greg gave a mock-salute with his fork. John laughed.
~
“How long have you been bisexual?”
Startled out of the book he was reading, Greg looked up from the couch. “What?”
“Sorry. I can’t help wondering.”
Closing the book, Greg sat up. “I’ve always been bisexual. I’m lucky, because I figured it out young. I went back and forth a dozen times between thinking I was gay or straight before I found out bisexual was an option. I even tried going switch a few times, but every dom I dated made my skin crawl.”
“You dated doms?” John’s face indicated he didn’t know whether he was disgusted or fascinated. Greg didn’t take it personally. He kept a pretty tight lid on that little confession for that exact reason. “I’ve never even heard the term switch.”
“I did some research into the scene when I was a kid. It’s pretty rare, and there are two options for someone with Dissociative Orientation Disorder. Support groups and therapy to try and cure you of it, or creepy underground sex clubs to indulge it. Fortunately for me, I didn’t stay curious for long. I identify as bi, and I’ll fight for that one, but I don’t think I’m really a switch.”
John came over and sat down by him. “I always thought I was straight, until… Sherlock.”
“I say don’t worry about it. Be bi, be straight, or just be you and don’t label it. You loved Sherlock. That’s what’s important.”
“Have you ever been with a guy?”
“Not really. Some drunken fumbling, when I was young. There are more straight women in the world than gay men. So I went with what was easier to get.”
“Do you want to?”
There was no way that wasn’t an offer. Greg looked over sharply, studying his face. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. You’ve been my supportive and slightly jealous boyfriend for almost three months. I figure either we should break up or make it official.”
“Okay.” Greg grinned, leaning over and taking a light kiss. “We’ll make it official, and take it slow. Sound good?”
John grinned back, the first un-dampened smile Greg had seen on him in months. “Sounds good.”
Shifting around, Greg laid back with his head in John’s lap, and opened his book again. When John smiled and immediately started toying with his hair, he considered the move a success.
He’d meant it about taking it slow. For the next two days, he gave John light, chaste kisses hello and goodbye, letting his hands brush over John’s back or arms every time he walked past him, but otherwise didn’t make a move, and John didn’t push for anything more.