I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC.
If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome.
De-anon from kinkmeme prompt:
"Lestrade/Sherlock. When Lestrade's death comes, he meets it in Sherlock's arms."
For once, it's John who notices first.
It wouldn't normally be, of course, but Sherlock is still focused on the case, connections flashing across his neurons like wildfire, and after all, John's the one with medical training.
So he's the one who realizes that, even though they only ran a few city blocks, even though that was nearly ten minutes ago, Detective Inspector Lestrade is still short of breath.
He doesn't say anything right away. This is a crime scene, and he's already out of place, only here because Sherlock insists. There's no sense in his getting in the way. So he stands back and watches as the inspector cuffs their suspect in rapid, efficient movements and Sherlock weaves in and around them both, narrating a constant stream of derisive comments on the mistakes the killer made and how he could have avoided detection if he'd really wanted to.
By the time Lestrade straightens and admonishes, "Sherlock," he's got his breath back. Mostly, anyway. He doesn't continue his sentence, though, and John wonders about that. It's what makes him approach Lestrade after the suspect has been driven off in a patrol car, making sure that Sherlock is elsewhere before he places a hand on the inspector's shoulder and asks, "Are you all right?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Lestrade looks distracted.
John doesn't want to be a bother, so he lets the matter drop.
Lestrade drives them back to Baker Street in one of the panda cars, so Mrs. Hudson makes him come inside for a cup of tea. He protests weakly that there is paperwork to file and that he should be getting home, but Mrs. Hudson is a force to be reckoned with and it isn't as though he has anyone waiting for him when he leaves, so eventually, he agrees.
He and Mrs. Hudson have gotten on quite well ever since the first drugs bust. Nowadays, when he needs to coerce Sherlock into doing something, he just knocks. She lets him in, along with anyone he chooses to bring for the "investigation," and usually there are biscuits afterward.
There are biscuits now, too, and Mrs. Hudson presses a small wrapped packet of them upon him when he leaves, fussing over the bags under his eyes and his too-pale skin. He should get more sleep, she says, and Lestrade thinks that's a bit rich in front of Sherlock.
A week or so later, Sherlock's mobile buzzes and he makes John pick it up.
"Lestrade. Says he needs you at the Yard."
Sherlock puts away his most recent experiment (cases are much more interesting), wraps his coat around himself and pauses, one hand on the door, waiting for John to catch on, grab his jacket and follow. It's a foregone conclusion by now that when there's a case, they go together.
When they arrive, Lestrade closes his office door behind them and spreads papers and photographs out over the desk; here, a body with patterned cuts across the shoulders; here, a row of severed fingers, each with a different colour of nail polish (all applied after death, of course). A serial killer, leaving messages in code, and this is glorious, this is beautiful –
Lestrade smiles wearily, says he hopes Sherlock and the killer will be very happy together, and gathers everything into a file. "Come on," he says, "you'll want to take a look at the bodies."
Sherlock can't think of anything he wants more.
They go from bag to crinkling bag, sliding down the zippers, and John and Lestrade stand back while he makes his observations. All told, it's a rather impressive body count.
It makes him smile. John would have objected if he'd said so, would have told him that was awful or unacceptable or more than a bit Not Good, but so are most of the things that make Sherlock smile. And it's not the body count per se, it's that someone, some completely, utterly fascinating person, has gone to all the trouble of choosing these bodies, manipulating them, making everything just right…
He's starting to get slightly disapproving looks from John anyway, because it's not all right to look this happy about severed fingers (apparently), so he puts away his magnifying glass and tucks the plastic evidence envelopes into his coat pocket.
"Done here," he announces.
Lestrade follows them both out of the morgue, John and Sherlock arguing under their breath about whether or not it's important to care about people if they're already dead. They have very different opinions on the matter, and they're both quite sure in their convictions, which is why it takes them a moment to notice when the Detective Inspector is no longer with them.
John looks around just in time to see him crumple to the floor.
Then it's only seconds before John has him sitting against the wall, disoriented, and he's interrogating Lestrade – when did he last eat? sleep? how has he been feeling lately? And then John takes in, really takes in, his friend's pale face, the exhausted rings under his eyes, the way he was out of breath on their last case.
Lestrade waves him away, some hastily-muttered excuse about being busy and forgetting lunch and shouldn't John be accustomed to that by now, living with Sherlock? He promises to eat and John withdraws, although it's obvious from his face that he doesn't really believe Lestrade.
Only then does he realize that Sherlock is pacing back and forth, hands twitching and jumping as though he can't quite find a place for them, blinking rapidly and looking at John – the wall – the floor – his hands – John – everywhere but at Lestrade.
John's only ever seen him this agitated once before, and that time there was a pool and a bomb and a psychopath and John covered in Semtex, and Sherlock had a gun and his hands twitched just the way they're twitching now.
"Are you okay?"
John had to ask the same thing on the night with the psychopath and the gun, and it was just as ludicrous then as it is now, because last time it was John in the Semtex vest, and this time it's Lestrade against the wall and grey-faced.
Last time, Sherlock seemed surprised by the question. "Yeah – fine – I'm fine. Fine."
This time, he doesn't answer at all.
When the call comes, John is on shift at the clinic and Sherlock is in Lestrade's office, haranguing him about a missing finger. He raises his voice over the ringing of the phone, and only stops shouting when Lestrade says, softly, "I have to take this."
After answering, Lestrade is silent for a long time. Sherlock, distracted for once from the case files, watches the phone slip lower and lower in his hands, as if he wants to drop it, but can't. Finally, he nods, more for himself than for whomever is on the other end, and says, "Right. I see."
More silence.
Then, "Thank you. Yes. I will."
Sherlock leaves, then, before Lestrade can finish the call. He isn't stupid – he's seen the incoming number and he's seen his friend's face fall and he's heard the terrible, quiet voice the man has never used before.
Right. I see.
He doesn't want to know.
Lestrade sends a brown manila envelope in the mail, addressed to Sherlock. Inside, cold and impersonal, are brittle, carbon-copy pages, all with Lestrade's name at the top; lists of medical tests, neat little numbers printed beside each one. Results.
If John were home, Sherlock could ask about each one, but he's at the clinic again, so Sherlock flips open his laptop (password: obvious, and he's cracked it in twenty seconds) and looks them up individually.
Not good. Not good. Not good.
He looks up the acronym, four tiny letters stamped in the wide, white box at the bottom of the page.
Not good.
Before he closes the laptop, Sherlock clears the Internet history. He clears it again, and then a third time, as if erasing his searches could erase the reason for them, then lowers the lid and hides the empty screen from his view.
He was right the first time. He didn't want to know.
He thinks, that's irrational. Knowing changes nothing.
Still, he holds the envelope over the half-invisible flame of his Bunsen burner until the ash is fine and slippery on the table. When it's gone, when it's all gone, the remnants of the too-thin paper smeared over his fingertips, he curls up on the couch, facing away from everything, and pretends to be bored, because bored is better, anything is better, than the truth.