An hour and a half later, the pile had been reduced to three. Of those, two needed information he would have to obtain tomorrow, and one required a chat with the boss. The rest had been signed off and filed. Greg put the rest away and grabbed his coat. As he did so, his mobile binged. He glanced at the sender to see that it was Mrs Hudson. He frowned. She never normally got in touch with him. He was in the habit of calling in once a week, making sure she was okay, getting an update on Joan.
After Sherlock had...well, exited dramatically, Joan had retreated into 221b and not come back out. Greg hadn't dared approach her. His part in the fiasco didn't sit well with him, even although he had risked his job to give them forewarning. The part he had played, the part his colleagues had played, none of it felt right. He had kept his job by the skin of his teeth, and he knew only the intervention of a certain Holmes brother had been the reason. There was an on-going investigation, which he was expected to give evidence to, reassessing all the cases that Sherlock had taken part in to see if they still held up. Greg had confidence that most would, but there were those people out there who actively disliked one or other or both of the brothers and so the mud might be made to stick.
Sorry to bother you, Detective Inspector, but Joan has been rather quiet. Could you call by? Mrs H
Greg frowned. That was unusual. Mrs H had reported a sighting here, a small conversation there, just enough to keep him posted and to reassure him Joan was, if not alright, at least still alive. She had taken Sherlock's death hard and Greg was concerned, but he really had no idea if he was welcome enough to call. However, a summons from Mrs Hudson was something not to be ignored. He got in the car and pointed it toward 221B, navigating the evening traffic and trying to ignore the trepidation in his heart.