When John finally sobered up, he looked around. Where the bloody hell am I? he thought, slightly panicky. He couldn't recall getting out of the apartment.

The room was definitely an office, judging by the desk and the style. It was clean and tidy, there were only a few scattered papers on the desk. The only thing that revealed that it was Lestrade's desk was a half eaten doughnut, and the simple black frame with a picture of Molly.

It was a nice picture of her. She wore a labcoat and she still got her plasticgloves on. If you looked closely, you could see traces of blood and materia. Lovely. Her smile was awkward, but cute. She was clearly not used to being in front of the camera.

Same thing with Greg. If she's got a photo of him as well, it's probably at some crime scene, yelling at someone, or kicking something. Perfect match.

There was a single knock on the door before it was slammed open. "Oi. You're awake." John rolled his eyes. Obviously, he thought sourly. "It was about bloody time! It's not that easy to hide a body in an office," he chuckled. "I guess that's a good thing."

John let out a dry laugh. "What am I doing here, Greg?" He asked, clearly not amused.

Greg frowned. "You don't remember? John, your diet consists of tea, biscuits and alcohol. God knows what happened to the Chinese takeaway. It looked like you slept on it." he continued, pointing at John's clothes. John tried to say something clever, but it died out. Greg was obviously right. He looked down, awkwardly brushing something off his shoulder.

"We're all concerned about you. Mrs. Hudson, Molly and I - even Mycroft were asking for you." He sighed. "I had to get you out of there, John, it's not good for you to dwell on the past, you understand that? You need help." Greg looked uncomfortable, knowing how John would feel about this.

"You mean professional help." It wasn't a question. The detective inspector didn't meet his eyes. "It wouldn't hurt."

"And what would you know about that?" He sneered and rose up to his sore feet. What the...? "Where the fuck are my shoes!?" He yelled, looking down in horror at his feet. Purple slippers from hell. He kicked the slippers off and pointed angrily at the detective inspector.

"It will not seek help to some overpaid quackery who thinks all it takes is to talk about my bloody emotions!" he spat, getting angrier. Lestrade peeked behind the blinds; people were looking. "John let's talk about this somewhere else."

John was shaking with anger, trying to calm down. Greg is just being nice, he's just being considerate, calm down you git, calm down, "We're just trying to help you, John."

John knew he needed help, but he didn't want it like this. Therapy was something he was familiar with, and he knew that they were going to rip up his old wounds.

He wasn't sure if he was ready for that. "I -" he tried. "I'm, erm, not sure if I'm ready for it Greg." He looked down at his feet. Mostly because he was embarrassed to say it out loud, but also because he was wearing dotted socks. I give up. Where does he even get this footwear? John thought, almost impressed.

Greg patted his shoulder. "The sooner, the better."

*^*^*^*

Can you say that in English? Idek agha