fic for mahmfic: Along the Lane, In a Pub, A Reunion

[holmesticemods]

Title:Along the Lane, In a Pub, A Reunion
Recipient: Mahmfic
Author: xfdryad
Characters/Pairings: Greg Lestrade/John Watson, implied Greg Lestrade/John Watson/Sherlock Holmes,
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Omegaverse
Summary: Another round of laughter had Greg raising an eyebrow. "I'm hardly fit company tonight."



Greg ordered a pint of bitter, the better to reflect his mood, before glancing over his shoulder to check out the other patrons of the East Neuk. Not his kind of pub, but this wasn't his district, seeing as he'd been seconded to Duthie Park for an indeterminate amount of time. By which he understood he was there for the duration, possibly until the twelfth of never. The bastards. He supposed he couldn't blame the higher-ups for doing their jobs...aw hell, who was he kidding? They were bastards, almost to the man. Even as the thought occurred he felt a twinge of guilt, for hadn't he too believed the 'evidence' against Sherlock, such as it was, for a minute or five?

Fuck!

The bartender slid Greg's pint in front of him and waited while Greg dug the change out of his pocket. Well, this one was all his fault. As satisfying as it had been to tell off the Chief Super in the men's toilet, it had indeed been unfortunate that Justin Kiss had been in a damned stall, microphone on his mobile well and truly activated. Next time he'd know better, and check the damned stalls first.

There was a burst of raucous laughter from the chavs in the corner by the fruit machine. Only one machine, too, and the decor, nicotine yellow walls that were probably once magnolia, and red trim the precise shade of dried blood were the colors of the room. The floor was old, well-scuffed maroon linoleum that had a definitely warp to it. The stench of cigarettes lingered, even though they had been outlawed since 2004. Late afternoon light slanted in through what few windows weren't postered over. The place was a dive and that suited Greg just fine. Shite bar for the end of a shite day, to use Donnie MacDonald's turn of phrase. Greg drank his pint in one long draught, nodded at the attentive bartender for another. While he waited he sighed, rubbing his forehead, because he'd been a cop for a long time, coming up on twenty years, and never in all his experience had he seen anything close to what he had witnessed this very day.

To call it horrific was an understatement. Prostitution, Human Trafficking, drugs...hardly a surprise to find it all in one place.

And yet.

The scale of it, the sight of those women chained together in that damp basement, sitting in their own filth. How they had turned away from the light of Greg's torch, from everyone's torches - Christ. That was enough to make a bad day worse. But the children...the children...

Greg drank half his second pint in one go, as if he could drown out the entirety of the day. Actually getting drunk wouldn't be of any help, though. He knew that from experience, too. Some things you just had to ride out and hope for the best, not let it affect you too much.

"Keep going like that and I'll have to pour you home."

He startled away from the voice, and was only kept from falling off of his stool by the hand clapped his shoulder. Greg shook his head ruefully and glared at John Watson, of all people. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

John ticked his head towards the men in the corner. "Bit of a reunion with some of the lads. Come join us."

Another round of laughter had Greg raising an eyebrow. "I'm hardly fit company tonight."

John smiled slightly. "You'll be fine."

Here was the thing about John Watson: only fools underestimated the man. Greg was proud to think he had never been one of them. Anyone who captured the attention of Sherlock Holmes was a person to keep an eye on, except in this case, Greg had been able to relax, for John Watson was a man of steel, grit, and determination. Sherlock hadn't stood a chance.

It was the glint in John's eye that Greg thought most people missed, because all they noticed was his height and those awful jumpers. Greg had suspected they were John's version of city camouflage, and so had once made a joke about them.

John had glanced down at his jumper of the day, plucked at it, and looked back at Greg quizzically. "What do you mean?"

"Ah…never mind."

Raucous laughter came from another room. So glad they were having a good time, Greg thought sourly.

"Another round," said John, leaning on the bar. He gave Greg a quick once over. "Rough day?"

Greg shook his head. "You don't know the half of it, mate. Oh actually, yeah, you will. I'm sure it'll be on the news tonight or tomorrow."

"Any of your lads in trouble?"

"That lot?" Greg sent a withering glance at John. "Pull the other one."

"Oh ho, that bad, eh."

"It's not that they're all...thick," he said, waved one hand in the air. Far from it, actually, which made working at Duthie Park all the more frustrating. "I don't know...no, you know what it's like, working with people who are technically competent, but who have no feel for the job?"

John nodded, grabbing one of the five pints the bartender brought and taking a sip.

"Course you do, y'work in a hospital. Used to be Sherlock never let that sort of this pass by. He's mellowed since he met you."

The moment of levity was brief. Greg couldn't help but think back to the nick, where Grambs and Levine were probably haranguing some poor sod in the interview room, finding reasons to fill their quota of arrests for the week. The very notion of which stuck in Greg's craw like a large bone. Sure, everyone wanted the bad guys off the street, but there actually had to be reasons to do so. Greg shook his head again. Such poor leadership at Duthie Park. If he ever got out of there, he was going to make a report about it. The worst part was that Duthie Park had the people, it just didn't have the will. Never before had it been so clear how much leadership mattered. Dimmock might be an ass, but he always encouraged his officers to do their best.

"Why don't you join us?" asked John, still giving Greg that assessing look.

"Don't tell me his nibs is here."

John chuckled. "No, he's at home, I suspect."

"Yeah?" Greg twisted on the stool, trying to see if he could spy who John was with around the corner of the door. He looked back at John. "Well, I don't want to interrupt your party."

"You won't. More the merrier and all that."

Greg wasn't exactly reassured, but John seemed confident. Besides, now that Greg had seen a familiar face, he found himself longing to -- besides, given that John was the first familiar face he had seen in weeks, he found himself longing for the company. "All right, then."

Through the oh-so-mysterious door they went, only for Greg to find himself in a much larger room than the first, painted much more pleasantly in British Racing Green, with glass shaded lights hanging from the ceiling. Apart from the open stairs leading to the first floor, and another door along the far wall with a 'toilet' sign posted on it, there was a snooker table and dark board in one corner. Along the alley-side of the room were a few tables, soaked in a resentment of dark light from the transom windows high in the brick wall. Along the near side were more tables, low stools covered in emerald velvet, and a bench along the wall which was dressed in red velvet. It was surprisingly swanky, considering the state of the other room.

Seated at one of the tables were four men of varying sizes. They all appraised Greg in a manner familiar to him from other cops; was he or was he not a potential threat?

"Boys, this is Greg Lestrade," announced John, putting the pints he was carrying on the table.

Greg nodded a hello, pulled a stool over from one of the other tables. "How's the day?"

"Greg's a detective with the Met, so don't tell him anything you don't want the law to know."

One of the men reared back, holding up both hands. "You can't get me, copper!"

"Yeah, I'll nick you first," said the bloke sitting next to him, putting him in a headlock.

Ah, old crappy jokes never stopped being old or crappy.

"Greg, that's Hemlock, Pine's the joker, next to you in Beech, and this here's Oakley. They're all part of my old unit," John said.

"Rightio," said Greg, wondering about the names, then wondering if he should ask. Either way, their being military explained a lot. "Are you all on leave, or have you been cashiered out?"

Hemlock spoke first. "Nah, me and Pine are out, Oakley and Beech are still in. Fucking Primrose signed back up, the fucking idiot."

"Crazy bastard," John said admiringly.

"Back to Afghanistan?" asked Greg.

Oakley nodded. "It's where all the excitement is."

"Better you than me, mate," said Hemlock, knocking back his pint.

"Steady on," said John, raising an eyebrow at Hemlock's glass. "We've a long night ahead of us."

Too long for Greg, and he said as much.

"We'll send you home to the missus early," Pine mocked, wide-eyed. "You'll still be able to give her a right seeing-to."

The others laughed, while Greg just shook his head, noting John watching him closely. He shrugged one shoulder, and John turned his attention back to his friends.

"Primrose ever marry that Omega girl?" asked John.

Beech grinned. "Not after I was done with her!"

More banter of the sexual sort until the litany of death began. Greg was familiar with this, too, though not for such an extended amount of names. Nonetheless, he sat quietly and offered his commiserations when he thought it appropriate.

"Kleon got his leg blown off - "

" - infected, they couldn't save him - "

" - Roberts said he could do it after Grady got the shits, turns out he was wrong - "

" - fucking Leishmaniasis, can you believe that?"

" - boyfriend glassed him, broke his damned neck falling off the curb - "

Finally, Oakley said to John, "Addison's finger finally came off for good, boss."

John shook his had. "Damned fool went rock climbing again, didn't he."

"That wasn't the problem. The problem was when his hand got crushed under a falling rock."

"That'll do it."

"You must see a lot," Pine said abruptly, nodding towards Greg. He drew circles on the side of his glass with one finger.

"Not like you," answered Greg.

"Nah," said Beech, shaking his head. "Different kettle of fish altogether. My grandda was a cop in Derry as well as in the Great War, said that for all the bad in the War, walking the streets was far worse."

"I find that hard to believe," said Greg.

Beech shrugged. "That's what I always said, but now I'm not so sure. I mean, sure, a bomb can blow you up and a sniper can put a bullet in your brain or close enough to it that you might as well stay as go."

"Yeah, we don't often get the bombs," said Greg, winking at John. "Not much, anyway."

John huffed a laugh.

A little silence fell, broken by Oakley, who after glancing at Greg, looked at John from under his lashes.

"So, boss," he began. "Any chance you could...y'know?"

The others shifted on their seats, looking everywhere but John, who sat up a little straighter, one corner of his mouth curled up in a smile that could only be called predatory. The atmosphere was suddenly charged - Greg noted the change in body language and frowned. What the hell was going on here?

Pine became deeply interested in the dregs of his beer, while Beech stared at his own clasped hands. Hemlock sat with his elbows on his knees, apparently engrossed in the linoleum. What the hell? Greg was uncomfortable. Time for a visit to the gents. "Excuse me."

"Greg, you in?" asked John.

"In?"

"Trust me, mate," said Oakley, winking. "you want to be in."

"Got to spend a penny, first," Greg muttered, wanting a bit of space, a bit of air.

In the hallway, out of view of John and his friends, Greg put his back against the wall and closed his eyes. Weird atmosphere back there. Or maybe that was just his own weirdity, given how out of place he felt at Duthie Park, the major crime they were investigating, his own desperate desire to get back to the Yard, proper. And he had divorce papers waiting for him when he got home. Wasn't that just the cherry on the icing for the day? He was going to sign them, he really was. It wasn't like he and Barbara were still pining over one another...far from it, actually. She was doing her thing, or things, as it were. He snorted, because he could feel the bitterness coming on. Bitterness, with a huge helping of guilt, because even though he had never cheated on her, he hadn't exactly gone out of his way to be more present in their lives, had he?

Greg shrugged a little, thinking on the matter more. Well, that was just part and parcel of being married to a cop, right? Surely a woman had to know that her spouse wasn't going to be around twenty-four slash seven, that just wasn't how the Job worked. She had been happy enough to be a housewife, and then once the kids were in school, taking on that part-time sales assistant job at BHS...they had been happy, he'd swear his life on it. Greg scuffed the toe of his shoe on a dark stain on the lino. He didn't want to admit it, but the truth was simple; she hadn't been happy. He had...he'd been complacent. They had grown up in two very different households, perhaps it was only natural they should each follow their own path into adulthood and marriage. She had come from a family who these days would be regularly seen by Social Services and given ASBOs for the merest infraction of the law, while his was solidly middle class, the kind that watched Songs of Praise on Sundays, followed by Gardener's World and Country Walks. Solidly C of E and everything that was right and good in England.

They had met in college. He had been on a cooking course, she was doing hairdressing, because they were both too young and too stupid to know any better.

The 80s, so her hair was multicolored and teased and she was still listening to Joy Division and Siouxsie and the Banshees, while he had moved on to Roxy Music and Elvis Costello and The Specials. Hair had been what they had in common - he shook his head, remembering the look she had given him from top to toe, equal parts disdain and attraction as only teenaged girls can do. They moved in the same circles back then, so it wasn't like they'd never met before. That had been it for him, though, and he'd kept an eye out for her ever since.

Funny how things had turned out.

He suspected, but didn't really want to know, that she was shacked up with Rolly Millar now. Rolly always had hung on to her skirts, and how proud Greg had been when she had chosen him over his better-looking counterpart. Rolly had had a car, too, a Mini, just as they were going out of fashion. Who had known what was to come? Ah well, lessons learned. Greg worked in a number of restaurants for a year or two after Michael had been born, sometimes working in the market besides, to make ends meet. When Barbara got pregnant with Gemma, then Greg had had to make choices. Get yet another job, work all the hours God gave man, or begin a career that wasn't like to be cut. Ironically, he hadn't wanted to be away from home too much, which left out the Military. He wasn't a fan of fire, so that left out the Fire Service, leaving only the Police or working becoming a Postie.

After Gemma had come Kate, after Kate, Louise, and then Archie. Just when Greg was looking forward to having only one stroppy teenager in the house, Lucas and Alice decided to make an appearance.

He'd gotten the snip soon after.

How the hell had he ended up with seven children? The kicker was that he was sure Lucas and Alice were actually his...even Sherlock, the little shit, had intimated as such, and God knew Sherlock wouldn't have held back on such information if he had knowledge otherwise.

Christ, what a fucking mess. Personal life, shit, professional life, shit. Recreational life...mostly shit. He laughed sourly at himself, because seriously, what a joke.

Beech, strolling down the hall, paused on his way into the bathroom, holding the door open with one hand. "You look like a man in need of another drink," he rumbled. Like his nickname, he was tall and thick with with muscle.

Greg pushed off the wall, not wanting to seem like a pervert who just relaxed outside of the mens bathroom. "Just reminiscing."

"Fuck, you definitely need another drink. That'll be the death of you, otherwise."

Greg half-smiled and nodded. One more drink wasn't a bad idea. Maybe it would even help him sleep.

The rest of the lads were just finishing their pints, putting on jackets, when Greg left the hallway. He felt a pang at the sight, coming to the abrupt realization that he hadn't wanted to go home after all. He was a man who wanted for company, end of. Ah well, as Billy Pilgrim always said, so it went. And so was he. He drank the rest of his pint, then buttoned his coat to leave with the others.

"Heading out so soon?" John asked, gazing at Greg steadily.

"Didn't see a reason to stay, now that you lot are heading out."

John frowned slightly. "Boys, we're going to Greg's. You're up for company, right?"

"Uh…" he was off the rota for the next twenty-four hours... the flat was tiny, just a one bedroom if anyone was going to stay the night...he could make this work. "Yeah, sure. We can pick up tinnies on the way if you want."

"You got any vodka?"

Greg snorted. "What kind of cop d'you take me for? Of course I've got vodka. Tequila, kahlua, whisky, the whole lot."

Beech slapped him on the back, nearly sending him to the floor in the process. "That's the spirit, man. No more of this fucking moping, you're with the unit now."

There was a not-so-subtle threat there, damned if Greg could figure out if it was directed at him in particular or the public at large.

They made a boisterous group on the way. Thankfully it was a Thursday night, shops were open late and the streets were crowded despite the weather, so while heads turned there was no outright dislike of their behavior. Greg found himself quite happy and ridiculously proud to be amongst them. There was just something about a group of men having a good time in public that made him...he didn't know what the words were to explain it. Look at us! He wanted to shout. We're having fun! Doing things! Bonding! It was the kind of activity Barbara would have sneered at, even as she joined her girlfriends for an evening out at the Bingo or at the WI, which she had once mocked incessantly as being for 'the oldies'. Served her right, if she were to see him now, especially with John next to him, walking with his don't-fuck-with-me strut.

Through some miracle, the flats above and below Greg's were both empty. The top was to let, while the occupant of the bottom on had moved out only that very morning. John and his unit could pretty much make all the noise they wanted, given that the house his flat was in was also the end terrace of the row, the house next to his in the middle of a long renovation. It had started before he had moved in, all those weeks ago, and either the owners had run out of money or there were more serious problems, for the house remained vacated and under construction. There were two skips in the front plot, both partially filled with old brick and rubble, which didn't bode well for the inside. Probably someone who watched too many Grand Designs, having their moment and crying into their Wheatabix as they desperately searched for more funds.

Opening the front door of the flat, Greg wished he had better accommodation. But that would mean caring, and effort, and he was in short supply of both. "Make yourselves at home," he said, hanging his coat up on the wall hooks.

Soon enough the tv was on, Ajax against Galatasaray, apparently. Judging by the comments, no one seemed to care overmuch, the piss being taken out on both teams while he gathered together a mis-matched set of glasses. He cracked a tray of ice into a bowl, ran cold water into a ceramic creamer he had found in the back of the airing cupboard. Mission accomplished, he brought everything out to the coffee table, soon added bottles of vodka, Glenmorangie, and gin, because what Londoner was without Mother's Ruin? A two liter bottle of Coke swiftly joined the other items, along with an ashtray because yeah, he still smoked on the really bad days.

Oh, he did have those leftover bottles of cider, too, which was embarrassing. He wasn't a wino, he didn't need special permission to get to a six-pack of cider every now and again, and not with the Rekorderlig shit, either...with this in mind, he returned to the kitchenette to retrieve the prize. He was halfway into the living room when his brain caught up to his eyes. Beech and Oakley were sitting next to each other on the couch, holding hands, while Pine and Hemlock were still concentrating on the game.

"John?" he asked, offering up one bottle.

John was eyeing him with that same smirk from before. "Thanks, I'll stick with the whisky. "

Greg leaned against this counter, one arm across his belly, the other holding his nearly-empty jelly jar of Glenmorangie. Didn't matter what anyone else said, whisky was the nectar of the goddamned gods. He sipped, closed his eyes to better feel the familiar burn, followed by the flavours of peat and….stuff. He could feel coolness beginning to drag over his brain, numbing it while setting it free at the same time.

Greg rolled his head on his neck, trying to ease the pain. Fighting crime was no job for the weak in either body or soul, yet at the same time the stress was a fucking killer. Most days he was fine, hell, he went whole weeks with nary a headache or a sore jaw...and then there were days like this one, and all the aches and pain both real and imagined came to play, in force. Take right here, right now, for instance. Not only was his entire back tight, but even turning his head from side to side was painful. Well, maybe a good night's sleep would cure it. Unfortunately he wasn't sleeping too well these days. Hopefully the booze would help, though that was a slippery slope in and of itself. Damned if you did, damned if you didn't.

"You want a massage?" asked Hemlock, peering at Greg. "I've been told I'm quite good."

John snorted and rolled his eyes, while Pine said, "That's what all the girls say!"

Hemlock didn't reply, merely grinned and cracked his knuckles.

Eh, fuck it, why the fuck not? Greg rounded the coffee table, much to Pine's as he momentarily blocked the tv, then managed to squeeze himself between the coffee table and the end of the sofa, Hemlock's knees on either side of this shoulders. He groaned as soon as Hemlock got to work, pressing strongly into his shoulders and working up the back of his neck.

Time went a little strange. Greg was aware of the game ending on the tv, the channel being changed to something with innocuous electronic music. He recognized one of the songs, it had been popular in the clubs early in the morning. And that was fine with him. He had enough drink in him at this stage to go with the flow, and it was better, having company. He was...happy? He was certainly relaxed, and that in itself was lovely. He didn't want it to end, but his bladder demanded otherwise.

Greg got to his feet and meandered to the toilet, spent a million pennies for what felt like forever. When he was done he washed his hands, and, looking down at the erection he hadn't even known he was sporting, decided to wash that too, because why not? Felt bloody good. Company, though, so he tucked himself away, gave his hands another wash because John fucking Watson was in the other room and Greg knew he would know if Greg didn't clean his hands thoroughly.

He was thirsty. Ignoring the boys for the moment, he headed straight into the kitchen to get a glass of water. That was definitely better. The two ciders on the counter were mocking him, though, so he opened them both and struck out for the living room. Halfway there, he stopped.

He blinked, because yeah, this was the last thing he expected to see.

"Problem?"

Greg looked at John, did a double take, for John was standing right next to him. Greg could've sworn he was sitting on the couch just a moment earlier. "Hunh?"

John chinned towards the couch. "Problem?" he repeated.

"Nah. Just been awhile since I've been in mixed company," Greg really wished he had left his shirt-tails hanging out. It had been a long time since he had sex with another man, hell, a long time since he had had sex, period. John was pretty nonchalant about the whole thing, which surprised Greg, who then felt surprise at his own surprise. John was a doctor, a surgeon no less, he would of course be used to the wide variety of human sexuality, from Omega to Alpha to Beta and everything in between. He apologized again, and then, feeling foolish, turned right around and returned to the kitchen.

Greg leaned against the counter, thinking maybe he had made a mistake inviting them all back. It was just, he was just so damned lonely. The new nick, the way he was treated, as if he was a fool for speaking out about his beliefs, instead of staying mum…he was being treated the way Anderson had been, and he didn't like it one little bit. Made him sympathise a bit, in all honesty. Jesus, he was a regular truth speaker these days, what was next, was he going to 'find' religion?

Someone came into the kitchen, there was the clink of a glass on the countertop, then there was a roar of disbelief from the living room and Greg lost the sound of whomever was in the room with him.

And there were hands on his hips, gentle like, and a warm body pressing up against him. Greg was so startled he neither pushed the fellow off, nor did he move away. "John?"

"Not the boss, no."

Without breaking contact, because damn, he was being touched, Greg looked over his shoulder. It was Pine, of all people. His eyes were very dark, and his smile kindly predatory.

"All right?"

All right? Greg didn't know what to say. He sort of had no opinion on the matter?

"Sergeant."

Pine squeezed Greg with both hands before stepping away. "Aye, Captain. Beggin' pardon, sir."

From the look on John's face, he was well aware of what Pine wanted, and was both amused and annoyed by it. Pine nonetheless looked back and winked at Greg.

"Sorry," said John, folding his arms and rocking back and forth on his toes, as Greg had noticed he was wont to do when he was approaching a delicate topic.

Greg shrugged. "Didn't take any offence.

"Yeah, about that. I meant to talk to you before we left the bar..."

Greg matched John's pose, except he leaned against the counter instead of the doorframe. "Nothing I haven't seen before, you know that."

"I know..." John shifted from foot to foot, scratched the back of his neck. "It's just, look. The fellas, they didn't invite me out for a drink out of the goodness of their hearts. They're a bunch of bastards, the lot of them."

"We heard that!" shouted Hemlock over a cheering crowd on the tv.

John shook his head. "And?"

"You'd be right!"

"Course I am," said John, returning his attention to Greg. "I thought we'd just hole up in a hotel for a couple of days, but now I'm thinking, if you don't mind..."

Curiouser and curiouser. "You realize I'm not a mind-reader, right? Because I don't know what you're on about."

John's eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

"I'm not Sherlock bloody Holmes, John. I'm just a regular copper."

"A damned good one," retorted John, now frowning ever so slightly.

Greg conceded the point with a nod. "Too bloody right I am. That still doesn't mean I know what you're talking about."

"Right. Okay, so, I rea - "

John was interrupted by Oakley, whose cheeks were reddened by beard burn and whose neck was bright with hickeys, leaning on the opposite side of the door jamb to John. "My god, are you still talking about this?"

"I don't know what we're talking about," said Greg, abruptly annoyed with the lot of them.

"Ah," Oakley glanced from Greg to John and back again. He did a little side nod towards John. "So he hasn't told he's Infinite."

Greg blinked. He blinked again. Looked at John. Looked back at Oakley. "Sorry, what?"

Oakley grinned, his smile not dissimilar to Pine's, all promisingly predatory. "I'll just leave you two to it," Oakley said gleefully.

"Are you fucking kidding me? How long have we know each other? No, wait," Greg held up one hand. "No, that's not right. Let me rephrase. I thought we knew each other well enough to have some sort personal conversation, I mean, you know all about Barbara and I know about Sherlock."

It was John's turn to blink and blush, which made Greg feel one hell of a lot better. "My point is that I thought you knew me well enough to know I wouldn't spread that kind of news around. You think I'm going to tell fucking Anderson? Shout it from the rooftops?"

"Sorry, Greg...I guess I'm just used to being private about it."

Lemniscate? For real? "Are you fucking kidding me?"

John grimaced. "Yeah...it's not just a myth."

"Hunh. Well...I guess I can see why you wouldn't want to tell anyone," Greg eyed the carpet. Disgusting, having a carpeted kitchen, but he wasn't going to live here forever, was he? "It's no business of mine, anyway."

"No, it isn't, but I think I should have told you before now."

The four reasons why were visible across the breakfast bar. Hemlock and Beech were now shirtless, a light sheen of sweat visible on Hemlock's rather gloriously muscled back. Which begged the next question or five. "Is that why they're here, then? So you can facilitate?"

"Makes for a markedly tight unit," John answered, waggling his eyebrows and grinning.

Greg chuckled, breaking the tension between the two of them. "All right...well, you're all welcome to spend the night, but I think I'm going to go to bed."

John nodded, let Greg pass. He said his g'nights, performed his nightly ablusions in the bathroom and crawled in to bed. He lay on his back, grateful he hadn't had so much to drink that the room was spinning. Yes, he was still drunk, but not in the same way as in the days of his youth. Thank god. Not for him the weekly pub crawl, club after club, or dancing, God, he missed dancing. Just wasn't the same when you were doing it in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for soup and bopping to whatever was on the radio. He yawned, scratched his chest over his tee shirt. Yeah, as much as he loved the idea of going to some club after a pub crawl, he had the horrid suspicion he'd just be one of those 'fucked up OAPs' the kids made fun of. Hell, he knew he'd be an OAP instead of the dashing and suave young police officer he once had been. The worst part part was that he knew he'd been hot back in the day, but had been too fucking wasted to do much about it. At least that was the way of it after Kate's arrival.

A sound came down the hallway - a bitten off masculine groan. With that, Greg remembered there were men in the living room doing things to one another, things he could have been a part of if John hadn't interfered, the bastard. A bastard he happened to like a lot, but still, that was cockblocking of the highest order. Speaking of which...Greg reached down and gave himself a fondle. Mm, there was promise, if he thought about what was happening in the next room.

He was half-hard, quite enjoying himself, when he became aware of someone standing in the doorway. "Yeah?"

"Just me," said John. "Listen, mate, I'm knackered and they're still going on out there. Mind if I kip with you?"

Greg considered his state - nothing that couldn't keep for his morning shower. "Sure, fine. We'll be snug as two bugs in rugs."

"Oh my god," said John, toeing off his shoes while unbuckling his belt at the same time. "Please stop."

Greg shifted over, leaving John the warm spot in the bed. He tucked himself back into his pants, grateful he'd decided to wear loose boxers

As soon as John laid down beside him, Greg knew he was in trouble. Even though John put his back to Greg and soon relaxed into a deep sleep, Greg was hyper aware of his warmth, the scent of his body, how muscular he really was underneath those jumpers.

Right.

Well, he certainly wasn't drunk any more, was he? He had made a terrible, terrible mistake, because of course now was when he just had to sport a stiffy that begged to be released. He awkwardly rolled on to his side, in the hopes that the lack of pressure from the duvet would ease things. Instead, it just made him more aware of what he might be able to get away with. He could drive himself more insane by simply squeezing his dick, that wouldn't move the duvet much, wouldn't give him away.

Alternatively, he could use the bathroom to relieve the problem, but it just wasn't very nice in there, not now, what with five blokes visiting. God only knew what hygeine standards were like abroad, but hell if he was going to be walked in on while in the midst of private...private times. No, he was just going to ignore his erection, yeah, that was it, ignore it and it would go away and in the morning everything would be better.

Nodding firmly to himself, Greg spent a few minutes taking deep breaths and thinking of horrible crime scenes. Eventually he drifted off, retaining just enough awareness to appreciate another body in the bed beside him.

~*~

"Fucking Stanway!" Greg raged, kicking the door shut with only the slightest thought to the new neighbors in the building next door. They could live with it, they hadn't moved to this street for its country charm. He brought his bags into the kitchen, managing to settle the one with the eggs gently on the counter instead of hurling them at the couch.

Dried egg was a bitch to remove from furniture.

How could Isaacson have done it? How could he and fucking Stanway cocked it up so badly?

"How do you not tag bloody evidence in the bloody case so we can put the bloody arsehole away!" he shouted, because good Christ, why not? A moment later he leaned against the counter and took a deep breath. It had happened, there was nothing he could do about it now. The evidence would either turn up, or not. The CPS would either have harsh words with him, or not. So far it had been his experience that they didn't seem to be too bothered what happened in this district regardless. Which was a shitty way to run the law. If he were in charge...well, things would change, that was for damned sure. Get rid of the dead weight with offers of early retirement and transfers to other departments, preferably to other stations entirely. Yeah, chance would be a fine thing.

Greg sighed. Thinking about it wasn't going to get the groceries put away.

A few minutes later the oven was on for his frozen pizza and the coffee maker was ready for the morning. He threw out a few bits of miscellaneous paper, grabbed a bottle of sriracha from the fridge and headed out of the kitchen.

Where he immediately stopped, trying to determine who the fuck was sitting in his living room chair. A moment later he relaxed; Sherlock bloody Holmes, in full kit, all broody and mysterious in the darkened room. "Christ, not tonight," said Greg, wishing like hell his heart would stop racing already. He forced himself forward, for though he knew Sherlock, he didn't know him in several very important ways. Despite what Donovan and quite a few others said, Greg had never believed Sherlock was capable of murder, not without good reason. With any luck that's the way things would remain.

"Lestrade," rumbled Sherlock, slowly removing his gloves. "John was here, last night."

Greg put the bottle of sriracha as well as the bottle of beer on the coffee table. Might as well have his hands free for tossing Sherlock out of his flat, seeing as there was a discussion that was going to happen. "All right, out with it."

"John was here, with his mates," answered Sherlock, slowing getting to his feet. He said mates as if it were the worst thing in the world to have them. 'He was here with his mates when he'd told me he had to go back to the office to do some work or something. I didn't think anything of it at the time.

Which seemed unlikely. "Busy with an experiment, were you?"

Sherlock didn't quite glare at him.

"So," said Greg, folding his arms. "Are you more upset that he didn't tell you, or that he was here with me? Because he's done that before, y'know."

"Pubs aren't flats," answered Sherlock, his nostrils flaring.

"I repeat, so? I mean, I don't get what you're on about. John's a big boy, he can handle himself."

The sound of the front door opening and closing caught Greg's attention, and yes, there was John, coming into his flat and meeting his eyes with the slightest smile. Greg looked back at Sherlock - there was something going on here, and he couldn't quite catch what it was. He wasn't often the focus of their attention, not like this. They felt dangerous, especially John, dressed all in black with that patchy leather jacket. Soldierly. No, not like a Soldier, more like...more like if James Bond had a slightly less tall, but far more deadly, companion.

Sherlock moved closer, looming even though he and Greg were of a height. "John was here, and you did nothing."

What the fuck was he on about? Greg frowned quizzically, shrugged. "I have no idea what you're on about and you know it, and if you don't know it, I have to ask if you've been taking any drugs."

"He doesn't get it," said John from behind Greg. "It was mentioned last night and there was no response."

"Know what?" asked Greg, throwing his hands in the air. "Will one of you tell me what's going on?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You...you really don't know."

"Oh for the sake of the gods, no, no, I don't know. I don't care, I've had a shite day and I just want to vegetate for awhile."

"Not true, not true at all," Sherlock stepped so close Greg could smell the faded scent of hair product, something woodsy and no doubt hideously expensive. "That was your original plan, a good one considering the horror of the case you're currently on. You didn't expect to be called in today, but one of your fellow officers of the law fell ill, at least that's what he said even though you suspect it's due to his addiction to prescription pain killers."

Greg looked away from the triumph in Sherlock's eyes. Smith was an ass, and yeah, he was keeping an eye on the bloke because they didn't need evidence going missing at inopportune times. Calling in today of all days, Christ.

"We can help you," said John, standing at Greg's side.

"Help me what?"

"Sherlock's an Alpha."

"Yeah, I know," Greg had always known. The man was too much of a wanker for him to be anything else.

"And John's Lemniscate," said Sherlock.

"I remember," said Greg, nodding at John. "Pine mentioned that last night."

"Do you know what it means?"

"Not particularly. Something to with with you lot. They don't really teach that sort of thing in school."

"Pity," murmured Sherlock. "If they had, you might be more excited."

Greg shook his head. "I know what it means, I just don't know what you want me to think about it. Because I don't. I see enough Omega slash Alpha bullshit as it is. You can both be Alphas, both be Betas, I don't give a shit."

"But you're curious," said Sherlock, brows drawn together as if he couldn't quite work out why Greg wasn't bothered, as most people were.

"Sure. As anyone is, who isn't. We all wonder these things, well, people who aren't Sherlock Holmes do, anyway," Greg turned to John. "I know Lemniscates are some sort of in-between peoples, right? Some kind of gender something?"

Leaving his hands in his trouser pockets, John shrugged. "It's rare, even among our kind. Omni, Lemniscate, Infinite, call it was you like - "

Sherlock scowled. "This is what happens when people who don't know Greek or Latin combine the two, utter hideousness."

"We can be either or," said John. "Alpha, Omega, neither. Whatever the situation calls for."

Greg eyed john up and down warily. "Handy."

"Don't think about it, Lestrade!" Sherlock said. "We have a proposition for you, one that will help your case."

"It's already been solved, but thanks."

At the look on his face - part disdain, part irritation that Greg was sure came from losing an opportunity to impress at all and sundry with his brilliance - Greg had to restrain a laugh.

"The point is that you're tired. Have been for a long while. "

Okay, this runaround was ridiculous, yet it seemed he was going to have to remain quiet so one of the two of them would explain. Patience was going to be his virtue for a little while longer before he lost his shit and kicked them both out. Oh... "Has Mrs. Hudson kicked you out?"

"The other night - " started John.

" - you didn't take advantage," Sherlock said.

Greg shrugged. "Yeah, well, everyone was pretty drunk."

"You didn't take advantage of John," Sherlock explained, with the air of a man long-suffering.

"John?" Incredulous, Greg glanced at John, who was dark eyed and doing that non-smile thing he did. It made Greg inexplicably more nervous. "Of course not, he's a mate! And I don't go around randomly accosting men I like, y'know. Not really my thing, being a copper and all. Strangely enough, I like staying on the right side of the law."

"So we thought we'd come to you, instead," Sherlock finished.

That strange light had come into his eyes, the one Greg had seen when Sherlock was younger, before he was better at hiding his glee at making people uncomfortable. Which was a crazy thing to think, given he very clearly still enjoyed doing the same. Either Greg had gotten used to it, or John had tempered Sherlock into manhood instead of a being a stroppy teen. Now he was just stroppy. And what exactly did he mean, anyway?

Greg abruptly realized John, too, had moved closer. He got the distinct impression of being boxed into a corner, even though there was plenty of room be- oh, no, no John stepped behind Greg and stood close. What the hell was going on here?"

"John," said Sherlock, one corner of his mouth curling up. "Explain to your dear detective what it is you want."

In the silence that fell like the proverbial ton of bricks, Greg decided he had had enough. He plucked at his shirt. "I'm tired. It's been a long day. I need a shower and a meal, not in that order, and then I'm going to go to bed and sleep for about a million years, so if you're done with your cryptic nonsense, I'd be obliged."

Sherlock was up and out of the chair in an instant, crowding Greg and forcing him to take a couple of steps back until he collided with something - John, of course. But John grabbed him by his upper arms, holding him lightly as Sherlock loomed. Okay, this was different. Yet it was them, so whatever they were doing, maybe it was for his protection?

Didn't much feel like it, though.

Sherlock tilted his head a bit, looking at Greg's neck.

"What, have I got something on me?" asked Greg, leaning away in order for Sherlock to get a better look. "Is it a spider? I hate spiders...it's a spider, isn't it, ugh, get it off me!"

Smirking, Sherlock brushed his fingers along Greg's shoulder. "No spider. Let us give webs our consideration, however. Say there is a web one creates, and conjoins, and discovers the small net can catch objects bigger than one had originally assumed. What if one should introduce a new insect, one that is not to be eaten, however, but savored. Invited to join."

Greg stared at Sherlock. "Mate, that is a terrible fucking metaphor."

"What Sherlock is trying to say," said John, and damned if he wasn't close, too. "What Sherlock is trying to say, is that he wants to experiment. With you."

"It works in everyone's favor," added Sherlock, reaching out to slip one of Greg's shirt-buttons free of its eye. "You get relief, I satisfy my curiosity."

"And John?" Because Greg refused to think that John would even go along with this without heavy duty consideration.

"I get to get off."

Well, that was as good a reason as any. He couldn't quite believe Sherlock Holmes - Sherlock bloody Holmes! - was offering himself on a plate. Not that Greg hadn't thought about it, Sherlock was hot stuff, no matter how much he liked to pretend he wasn't. No, that wasn't fair. Sherlock was aware of his looks, he even used them to his advantage rather ruthlessly. He simply never seemed to think about them otherwise, which honestly, was both a shame and part of the attraction.

"Do you want to get off, Greg?" murmured John, leaning so close Greg could feel his warm breath along his neck, slipping over his collarbone. "I can make it happen. Don't think I didn't notice, last night, you trying to make that stiffy go away after you'd seen the lads on the couch."

In all truth, until John mentioned it, Greg had completely forgotten about Beech and Oakley on the couch. John pulled him backwards, laving heat along Greg's spine, pressing a firm bulge against his backside once, twice.

Greg relaxed. It was John. And Sherlock.

Yeah, he was in. But he had to make a "All right."

"Is this going to make things awkward between us?" asked John, wrapping one arm around Greg's middle and groping his crotch with the other.

That peculiar switch happened in mid-thought, leaving Greg going from 'Of course not, probably' to 'Uh! in the space of a heartbeat. Greg blinked slow at the sight of Sherlock's face, softening ever so slightly as John mouthed Greg's shoulder hotly.

This had the potential to be the greatest sexual experience of Greg's life and goddamn why was he wasting a singly minute of it just standing here?

But he had to make a perfunctory nod towards respectability. Or something. "I'm not into casual sex."

"Liar," growled John, before bodily spinning him around and kissing him fiercely.

Greg lost track of things for a little while after that. There was a lot of groping and manhandling as they made their way into his bedroom, but it was the sparkle in John's eye that really did Greg in. If this was what Sherlock had seen from day one - no wonder the two of them were thick as thieves. Funny how he's always thought Sherlock was the magnetic one, because Jesus Christ John had the pull of a dark star.

"I get it, now," Greg said breathlessly, pulling John's black jumper over his head.

"Yeah?" John whipped Greg's belt off so fast it practically burned him through the waistband of his trousers.

"You - you -" he stuttered, watching John kneel and mouth the front of his charcoal grey pants.

"John has a reputation on three continents and several small islands," commented Sherlock, sweeping around them to fling himself on to the bed, still wearing his dramatic coat.

"You're fucking incendiary," whispered Greg, running one hand through John's hair, then gripping his skull. "Up on the bed with you."

Miracle of miracles, John actually obeyed, which was the last thing Greg expected. Maybe it was the wises thing for him to do; maybe he should stop thinking about it and join them on the bed. And speaking of 'them', was Sherlock going to join them or what?

John put himself in the middle of the bed next to Sherlock, patted the empty spot. Greg didn't foresee much rest for the weary with those two. He quickly followed John, a little hesitant about touching him with Sherlock there, too. Sherlock was so proprietary over John...yet John didn't hesitate to grab Greg by the hip, shuffling the two of them closer until he could give Greg a proper kiss.

Greg wasn't particularly in to kissing, not blokes, anyway. Women were different, tasted better, mostly, tended to be less aggressive. Not always, mind, but usually. John, for instance, was a typical bloke; not as wet-mouthed as some, not totally dry, either. John felt more than free to fondle whatever part of Greg he could find; the back of his neck, his chest, his arse and yeah, that was...probably not on, not tonight. He might be excited at the prospect of sex, however he wasn't prepared to go quite that far on a first date. Not even with John, who was a doctor, and therefore as likely as not to be conscientious about that sort of thing.

Presumably.

Soon enough, Greg found himself on his back, John on top of him, both of them with hips rolling, trying to get off without actually handling cock. Greg didn't mind, not yet, anyway, because it felt so damned good just to be doing this. He was reminded of making out with Tamsin during their group study for their O-Levels, staining the family couch in the process. Come to think of it, it was hella similar, given they had had an audience then, too. He turned his head slightly, tried to see what Sherlock was looking at without making it too obvious what he was doing. Surprisingly, Sherlock was seemingly engrossed in Greg's night time reading. Sahib, about the lives of British soldiers in India during the nineteenth century. It was a fascinating read - Greg was pretty sure that if he and Sherlock were to switch places, he wouldn't be reading a book. Hell no, he'd be watching his own private porn show!

Just as he thought of watching John and Sherlock together, Greg was lanced by a streak of pleasure so fierce his eye muscles ached from the strength with which he rolled them back. "Fuck!"

"Yeah, thought you'd like that," huffed John, grinning down at Greg.

"How the fuck did I not notice you putting a finger up my arse?" panted Greg, splaying wide the leg John wasn't lying on. John crooked his finger again and Greg nearly jacknifed off of the bed. "Fuck me!"

"He's rather good at that," said Sherlock, glancing over the top of the book. "Once, he made me come so hard I almost passed out from lack of oxygen."

John sat up without removing his finger, shifted down Greg's body until he was face to face with Greg's prick. He looked at Greg and winked, then swooped down without further warning. Greg was writhing, spitted between John's finger and his skilled tongue. He lost track of everything, the sweet agony building and building, a bubble that would pop in the most delicious way if he could only bear to wait long enough.

Greg eventually became aware of Sherlock's shiftiness, too, proving he wasn't unaffected by what was happening next to him. In fact - yes, yes, his trousers were tented, easily visible against the white wall next to the bed, even in the light cast by the low wattage lamp.

He attempted reaching out, but then John did a thing and his generous impulse was gone, subsumed by his own pleasure ramping up in time with the pulse of John's sucking - up -up - up

God yes -

-

-

Shivering, Greg slumped back down, covered his eyes with his arm. John said something; he didn't catch what. Jesus, if this was the kind of thing John did to Sherlock - no, if this was the kind of sex he did to anyone, good god, no wonder he was spoken about in glowing terms. Now, Greg would never admit to John that he had even heard rumours about his sex life, never mind his nickname. 'Three Continents' Watson. Put Greg's own 'Shaggadelic' to shame.

The bed moved as John got up. "I need some water, I'm parched."

Greg peeked under his arm to watch John leave the bedroom. Yeah, he had a fine arse. The rest of him wasn't too bad, either. He noted Sherlock was watching, too, watching John leave the room buck naked, erection bobbing enticingly in front of him.

Greg shook his head, rolled up onto one elbow to eye Sherlock. "It was never you, was it?"

Sherlock looked down at him, his entire person shouting surprise. "Very astute."

Shrugging one shoulder, Greg said, "Doesn't take a genius to figure it out."

"Nonetheless, you're not a genius."

"True enough, mate, true enough," Greg settled on his back, then stretched immediately thereafter. Thank God, John was a swallower. Dry sheets were the sort of thing that always made the After more pleasant.

"Are you going to say anything?" asked Sherlock, a queer hint of uncertainty in his voice.

"Yeah...no. I've no plan on getting involved in dramatics between you two," Greg ended in a yawn. "But I'll say this; if you ever want to stop by, just you - you're welcome."

Silence fell, and Greg started drifting off.

"Sherlock."

Oh shit, John - Greg opened his eyes, pushed up on his elbows. He opened his mouth to apologise, closed his mouth in confusion a moment later. John was almost completely dressed. Jeans, shirt, sweater, shoes.

John bent down to pick something up off the floor, tossed it onto the bed. "Sorry, um, we've got to go."

Greg felt the rejection keenly, but refused to show it. It was fine, it was all fine.

"Nothing personal, mate, honest."

Sherlock got out of the bed, smoothing out his clothing with one hand, adjusting himself with the other.

Right, sure. And yet, had he really expected anything more? They were friends, yet were not overly friendly. He supposed he felt rejected because John had gotten dressed before Greg had even had a chance of getting him off in turn. Admittedly, he had been on the verge of falling asleep when he remembered John, but still! At least nobody had declared their undying love, thank god.

A one-off.

"G'night," said John, stretching to close the door behind Sherlock.

"Night," answered Greg, in the middle of a giant yawn. He rolled on to his side and pulled up the duvet, hoped they didn't snoop too much.

Yeah, a one-off. That was good. Otherwise it would be like sleeping with Molly. He skittered away from the thought. He liked Molly, he did - but no. She was so...he liked a woman with a little more oomph. Not that Molly wouldn't grow in to that, he just didn't want to wait around for it. Sh was the type of girl everyone liked, yet found annoying as hell. He bet she was a beast in bed, though...women who dressed up like she had at that Christmas party...yeah. hidden depths, that's what Molly had. Nice girl, Molly.

Well, at least he was going to get a good night's sleep.

~*~

Greg sipped his pint, licked the foam off of his upper lip afterwards. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror behind the bottles - he looked like shit. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble, an unhealthy complexion from too many times being woken out of a sound sleep. He looked exactly how he felt; exhausted, unkempt, ready to snap for at least egregious error. God help Simpson if he made one more goddamned crack about Dhaliwal being gay. It was a new century, for god's sake, no one gave a shit any more!

Christ, he looked like he was on the way to becoming one of the other patrons of The King's Head. It was the kind of pub where the clientele was most old, mostly toothless, worn down by life practically from birth. It was the kind of pub that had small brass plaques at the front and rear doors that read 'No Women's Toilets', the walls yellowed from decades of cigarette smoke.

An old man bar, to wit. The kind of pub that men like him tended to end up in, if no one took them by the hand and showed them another way was possible.

Greg shuddered. No fucking way was he going to live the rest of his life in this company, fuck no.

He would just finish his pint and head off home.

Even the beer was somehow sub-par, or maybe the taps needed cleaning, there was a slightly sour, verging on musty, after taste. He swallowed the last of it with a grimace, shaking his head sharply at the flavour, which had only worsened as he drank. Hmm, he wasn't particularly hungry, but neither did he want to use the oven, which still stank of burned pizza. Fish and chips? Pie and chips? White pudding and chips? Curry and chips? Mm, best stick with the fish.

Greg checked his phone to see if there were any messages from Donovan - she might have been desperate to shaft Sherlock, but look where they all were now, eh? Hadn't exactly worked in her favour, had it? Certainly hadn't worked in his.

"Does your offer still stand?"

"Jesus!" Greg shied away from Sherlock, who, of course, had come silently up behind him. "Will you stop doing that?"

Sherlock's lips quirked, though he didn't fully smile. "Stop drinking here, it's beneath you."

The barkeep, who had been lingering in hopes of another order under the pretence of polishing glasses, promptly stepped away. Sherlock sidled up to Greg, standing close.

Greg sighed, barely able to look at the man, whom he hadn't been in contact with since That Night, two, almost three weeks ago. "Yeah? What? Or should I say, what now? If you two are in trouble with the law, you should contact your big brother. I'm pee eff fucking n.g. these days."

Sherlock was silent for so long Greg wondered if he should just head out the door and leave him to it.

"Yes," Sherlock finally said.

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Ye-e-es," Sherlock emphasized.

Greg blinked back at him, feeling incredibly stupid. Had he asked Sherlock something that night? Greg frowned. Um...oh right. "Yeah?" he repeated. "What prompted this change of heart?"

"I'm a curious man."

"I'm guessing John's at work."

At least Sherlock had the grace to glance away, though his faintly flushed cheeks were a dead giveaway. Interesting. Greg side-eyed him. He was going to agree, obviously, because who the hell wouldn't say yes to Sherlock Holmes propositioning them for sex?

"It's all right, mate," Greg stood, rolled his neck on his shoulders. "I'm not offended. I know just as well as you that John'll beat the crap out of anyone who touches you in a less than sympathetic way."

"Lucky for you he's open to the idea."

"Really? Huh."

"Surely that's not a surprise, not after..."

"Come on, I know you did it for him."

Sherlock frowned and looked at Greg quizzically.

It had been a flash of insight on Greg's part, that night. The way John had been so attentive to him, while Sherlock had been attentive to John…yes, John had said they were doing this because Sherlock was curious, yet Sherlock hadn't made a move towards Greg. Just because John was Lemniscate, that didn't mean he didn't have his own wants and desires, too. Even if he didn't realize it. He shrugged. "It was nice of you to do that for him."

As Sherlock's cheeks pinked, Greg forced himself to hide his smile. The man was utterly, deeply in love and it was kind of adorable. "So you two talked about it, then? And he's all right with it?"

"Yes. He said that seeing it was you, it was fine."

Huh. Greg wasn't sure if he was flattered or not.

"Yes, you should be. He wouldn't otherwise consider it," Sherlock said firmly.

All right. Greg nodded. "Okay. And you're…interested? Still?"

"You know I never hesitate to satisfy my curiosity."

Said in such a sultry manner that Greg suspected his life was about to get a hell of a lot more complicated. "Let's go."