AN: Sorry about the lack of updates guys! And also sorry in advanced about the end of this chp – Just when you though John was getting better. Grief is a fickle thing...

Disclaimer: I own nothing

His trip to Scotland Yard is a blur. How long had it taken? Fifteen minutes? Thirty? He couldn't say. Time blended into a meaningless fog as he wrangled with his suddenly vibrant emotions. For the past seven months it's as though every sensation within him was muffled. As though someone fastened a silencer on his brain and all his input and output was deadened because of it. The only things that ever pierced him where grief and anger, but even that dulled after the first three months.

Not now though. It seems as though suddenly, miraculously, all his afflictions have fled. Finally. The oppressive weight of his despair. The bizarre fog that entrapped his mind, filtering out all light and joy that attempted to seep in from the outside world. He can see in colour again. He face doesn't feel cast in stone, he can move it freely now. He can laugh, without a wry, shadowed undertone. He can smile, without a touch of grimness lingering in the corner. He can breathe again. Like my first day with Sherlock. The unbidden thought shadows his enthusiasm, sobering him up.

It's just as well that it does though. In his brief moments of hysteria and elation he envisioned himself strolling into Greg's office as he'd done dozens of times before. He would like nothing more than to march in, head held high, knowing that his mission will turn the Yard's world upside down again. Ignore the sudden wave of whispers and protests at his appearance. Head straight to Lestrade's office, greet him with a smile and swing the door shut with a satisfying click.

But now as he's confronted with the door he remembers that he can't just stroll in like this. Not after everything that's happened. He nearly got himself locked up for socking the Chief when they tried to take Sherlock away. The only thing that kept him from being drug into a cell after Sherlock's death was Mycroft. At least the disloyal sod was good for something.

Once Scotland Yard was like a second home. Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration as Sherlock didn't like hanging about the Yard more than necessary; but they were still there at least three times a month to give statements or work on cases. Now it seems that the cool glass doors are giving off a distinctly unwelcoming vibe.

He hesitates for a few moments, debating how to proceed.

He knows that Lestrade was just released from probation last week and he's finally allowed to go out on calls again instead of pushing paper and handling briefings from his desk. John's appearance will just ruffle feathers unnecessarily. So instead he loiters about the front for a few moments before flipping out his phone and shoots him a quick text.

3:25

Outside the Yard. Can you meet me? Important.

JW

He paces anxiously, awaiting a response. Energy is rolling off him in waves, adrenaline coursing through his blood. He's got to do something. He feels as though he's lost precious time, distracted with his depression. Now he's got to make up for it. I've been such an idiot. Christ Sherlock, I'm sorry it took so long.

Lestrade, courteous as always, doesn't keep him waiting long.

3:31

Sure. I'll take a smoking break.

GL

John furrows his brow at the response. He didn't realize Greg had taken up smoking again. Course, he'd noted the sooty aroma that seemed to cling to him whenever they met up, but he simply hadn't connected the dots. It didn't seem important. How could I have missed that?

Things must be really bad for Greg to go back to cigarettes. He'd always seemed so determined to stay clean. When John worked with him he knew that a pack of nicotine patches stayed in his patrol car and he even kept a spare in his wallet. Greg always said that was his "emergency stash" to be used in case he was working with Sherlock and didn't have access to his patrol car for some reason. Even when he found out his wife was cheating and planning on leaving him, he didn't touch one. Had one too many beers, but that was the end of it.

A slow tendril of guilt burns its way through John's conscience as he realizes just how out of touch he's been. He knows they have all suffered in the wake of Sherlock's death but he never gave much thought to their conditions. The weight and fog of his own suffering kept him so preoccupied that it eclipsed everything else. Some friend I've been. We're supposed to support each other. Instead they've had to spend all their time bearing my weight.

Greg comes through the door and John practically pounces on him. His revelation of his ignorance has triggered his "Sherlock training" and now he's fervently scanning Greg's face, trying to read him. How is he feeling? Has he slept? Nightmares? Guilt?

"You alright?" Greg inquires, laying a gentle hand on John's shoulder, unnerved by his uncharacteristic action.

John calms himself and steps back. "Yeah, sorry – you – uh – you just don't look well." He says, his brows furrowing in concern.

Greg finds himself biting back a smile at John's tone. This is a side of him that's been lacking ever since Sherlock's death. It's starting to feel like he's getting the old John back.

"What's so important that you had to drag me away from my filing?" he asks, pulling a cigarette pack from his pocket.

John's eyes flick to the package in his hand and back up to his face and Greg can read the sadness. He considers slipping them back into his jacket, for John's sake, but doesn't. He needs his coping methods.

"Its – uh – it's about Sherlock." John starts off, struggling for control as the acrid scent of smoke swirls towards him, far too familiar. It harkens back memories of Sherlock's blackest days. Times when cases were scarce and John would return home from the clinic to find air like fog, bitter and earthy. Sherlock had usually done in at least a pack and would be sulking on the sofa, wrapped in his cobalt dressing gown.

"Sherlock?" his gentle inquiry was always answered with a muffled grumble. He'd leave the door open and attempt to stifle his cough as he removed and hung his coat. Oftentimes Sherlock would scrunch even tighter into a ball at the sound of his movements as if they grated on his nerves. "You want some tea or something?" John would ask and Sherlock would refuse. Either through cold silence or a derisive snort. John would go into the kitchen and set the kettle up before calling into the sitting room "You really should eat something. I know the tobacco deadens your appetite but your body needs food." And Sherlock would roll of the couch and stand in a sudden fit of vitriol and shoot back something along the lines of "I'm not a child John! I can care for myself." Before stomping off to his room. John hated those days. The time when even he couldn't pierce Sherlock's armor and he was forced to sit, useless, while Sherlock's great mind tore him to pieces.

"What about him?" Greg asks, jerking John into the present. John clenches his jaw at the tendrils of smoke escaping Greg's mouth as he speaks. Yellowed teeth. Tired eyes. Hunched shoulders. Depression. Exhaustion. The doctor in John catalogues the symptoms, but is unable to assist him. Useless a voice seems to hiss from within his head and before he can think he's knocking the offending cigarette from Greg's hand.

"What the hell, John?!" Greg barks his tone a mingling of surprise, reprimand and confusion.

"You shouldn't be smoking Greg. It's not doing you any good." John explains his voice firm and unapologetic. You're better than that. I need you at your best for this

Incensed Greg snaps back "Yeah, and you shouldn't be working nearly 50 hours a week. You shouldn't avoid meals and skimp out on therapy sessions. You shouldn't spend all your free time holed up in 221B or at his grave, acting as though your presence makes on ounce of difference! But I'm not giving you a damn lecture about it!"

John clenches his jaw, trying to stem the flow of angry words that threaten to spill forth. Don't say something you'll regret. Just breathe. After a few moments His militant control over his emotions is reestablished and he blows out a steady breath.

"Maybe you should just go back inside" he suggests, his enthusiasm and determination gone entirely. Who am I kidding? I can hardly handle myself, let alone Sherlock's shade. When Greg makes no move to he continues "I'm sure you're busy. We can just talk later. Sorry for bothering you." There is no warmth in voice though. The words are delivered in a cold monotone that detract from their intended meaning.

Greg draws a sharp breath and runs a hand over his face. "Right. Fine then." And tosses his hands in the air, partial exasperation, partial surrender; headed for the door. When his slate grey from disappears through the door John turns sharply on his heel, noting a slight painful twinge in his leg.

He swears under his breath and hails a cab so he can retrieve his cane

If convenient please review; if inconvenient review anyway

KP