Hi all! This installment of the Chair series falls minutes after the end of And London is My Game Board. Enjoy!

Friendly Advice

October 18, 2014

John stepped out of the shower and toweled off. He'd hoped that standing under the hot water for twenty minutes would boost his courage (it had not), but at least he was clean. He pulled on his pajamas and bathrobe and went back upstairs, after checking if Sherlock was still out cold on the sofa.

Steeling his nerve, John picked up his mobile and dialed Greg's number from the privacy of his bedroom. As the D.I.'s phone rang, John closed his door to avoid waking his flatmate.

"Lestrade."

"Hi Greg, it's John."

"Oh, hiya. How are you and Sherlock doing?"

"Fine, actually. Remember the ring-bearer at my wedding?"

"Bright little kid, trying to out-Sherlock Sherlock with the guardsman case? Yeah, sure."

"Sherlock offered to watch him. He's been babysitting the kid all day while I was out."

"Oh, bugger. That poor kid."

"No, he's actually really good at it. Maybe because he's like a kid himself, you know?"

Greg snorted. "Yeah, he hasn't grown up at all since I met him, except when he got clean."

"Anyway, listen, Greg," John said finally, getting to the point. "I know you're upset with Sherlock for not being honest about the shooting—"

"Upset? I'm bloody furious! After all of my efforts to clear his name, the git came back from the dead, only to get himself shot! What are you looking at, Hill? Back to work!"

John winced and pulled the phone away from his ear. He had not expected this much anger.

"Greg, it's not his fault," the doctor insisted. "The reason he's not telling you—"

"Oh, so you know too, and you're keeping me out of the loop. I thought we were friends, John!"

"It's Mary," John said finally, painfully. "Mary shot him."

"WHAT?"

"She's...not who she says she is," John added slowly. "False identity, CIA background, who knows. Magnussen knew it and was blackmailing her, so she tried to kill him on the same day that Sherlock and I went to his office. She shot Sherlock instead, so he wouldn't tell me what she was."

"Bloody hell, John. Are you serious?"

John fought to get the words out. "That's not even the worst part. Remember when he escaped from the hospital?"

"Of course I remember. The great stupid tosser, honestly!"

"He staged a meeting between him and Mary, and invited me so I could hear everything they said. She almost shot him again, Greg!"

John felt awful, but at the same time, it was a relief to have this out. Sherlock didn't understand; he was a nutter who forgave the woman who had shot him in minutes. Mary certainly didn't understand, the psychopath! At least Greg would react to this like a normal human being.

"I am so, so, sorry, John...I reckon that's why you're back at Backer Street, then."

"Yeah," John answered, sinking onto his bed. "I can't go home to her, I just can't."

"I understand," Greg answered. "Not that my ex-wife ever did anything like that, but I know what it's like to go home to a stranger, mate. And I'm sorry I gave you both such a hard time. I didn't get why he wasn't saying—thought he didn't trust me enough, or something like that. Now I understand; he kept it quiet for you, of course. Sorry I dragged it out of you, John. I really had no idea."

"It's fine," the ex-soldier replied, tired but feeling lighter. "I feel loads better, now that I've talked to someone who gets it, you know? Sherlock is pushing me to forgive her; he has since he woke up. Now that he's awake most of the day, it'll only get worse."

"Tell him to piss off," Greg suggested. "It's not his call to choose when you forgive your own wife for something like this. He may have been the target, but that bullet hurt more than just Sherlock. She hurt all of us."

The numbness in John's heart gave way to mild admiration. He knew Greg was fond of Sherlock, of course, but sometimes he sounded more like a father than a friend to both of them. Hurting Sherlock in any way would get you a top spot on Lestrade's shit list, and John began to think that maybe, he could count on Greg's protection as well. It was quite a privilege to have the D.I. on their side.

"Greg," John confided, "when Sherlock made me listen to her story, she gave me a USB drive. She says it's got files on what she was before she met me, who she killed and all that. Do you think I should read it?"

"Look, mate," the D.I. said slowly, "I won't say anything about your taste in women. I liked Mary, quite a bit. There aren't many women that would take you on, not with Sherlock around to poke his nose in. But if she's a secret assassin or whatever, I think you need to know, just to know what you're dealing with. If you don't know, you can't protect yourself, or Sherlock if it comes to that."

"She said that if I read it, I won't love her anymore," John recited, his throat tight with misery.

Greg sighed. "It's your choice, John, but you can't leave it like this forever. I'm guessing no one will press charges?"

"I think Mycroft would love to," John admitted, "but he won't unless Sherlock asks, and Sherlock won't unless I ask. I don't know if I can do that to my own wife, whatever she is. There's the baby to think about, as well."

"It's a rotten situation, mate. I don't know what to tell you, except to take your time. Listen to advice only if you ask for it, and then think through everything before making up your mind. Don't let Mary OR Sherlock bully you into anything. Remember that the baby won't be any better off if its parents are together but can't stand the sight of each other."

"Thanks, Greg."

"No problem. You can always call me if you need to get out for a bit, have a pint and the like," Lestrade offered, sincere as always. "Or even if you get sick of Sherlock and need a place to stay. My door is always open to you, John."

"I know. Cheers, mate," John answered.

"Listen, is Sherlock busy with the kid?" Greg paused. "Only I'm sure he's driving you mad already, with no cases."

"Archie went home a while ago, and Sherlock is out cold. I think babysitting wore him out," the doctor said, chuckling a bit. "Passed out almost as soon as we came upstairs."

"I'd give a month's pay to have been a fly on that wall," Lestrade confessed. "Imagine Sherlock with a kid all day. What did they even do?"

"I only caught the last hour or so, and we just had a takeaway and played Sherlock's version of a detective board game. Archie might've mentioned a field trip and a science experiment, though."

"Huh. Pretty tame for a man who shoots walls out of boredom and plays James Bond for two years. I'm almost proud of him. Anyway, I'd better get back to work, John. Take care of yourself, and him."

"You too. Thanks, Greg."

"You're welcome."

There was a short pause.

"John, when Sherlock wakes up, tell him to call me and I'll get him a case. Our unsolved pile keeps getting higher, and I think you've been punished enough."

"Thanks, Dad," John told him wryly.

Greg snorted. "Behave, you two, or I'll put you back in the drunk tank." He chuckled at the memory. "Lightweights!"

The doctor and the detective inspector said their goodbyes and hung up, each feeling better despite the topic of conversation. For a moment, John considered waking Sherlock to tell him he was forgiven, and to send him to bed. Then exhaustion overcame him, and he fell asleep.

The next morning, the first sound that reached John's ears was a joyous shout.

"John, we've got a case! It's got to be at least an eight or nine, too; it must be Christmas! A proper case at last, John!"