Lestrade
They brought him in. They really brought John Watson in.
Just as Lestrade had thought his day couldn't get worse, he was informed that the coppers had arrested John Watson. Of course, Lestrade knew technically John Watson was a fugitive, but to arrest him on the site where his best friend just committed suicide was just plainly wrong. Couldn't they see it? When had they all become so stupid?
Funny enough, it was the moment when he watched John Watson being taken to the cells that he understood. Understood how Sherlock must have felt all the time waiting for them to catch up with the genius' mind. Understood that Sherlock wasn't a fraud, had nothing to do with the abduction of the children. Understood that the last 24 hours had all been a lie. Well, except for the body in the morgue and the broken man in the cells.
Lestrade might not always been able to understand Sherlock Holmes, well, almost never, but he knew the John Watsons of this world. And during the past 18 months he got to know this John Watson a great deal. John Watson was a doctor and a soldier. It takes a lot to impress someone who has seen the real battlefield, who had operated under conditions almost impossible to imagine.
After the cabbie-incident the Detective Inspector had called in some favours and got his hands on John Watson's military record. Interestingly enough he had heard the record's description of Captain John Watson before: Crack shot, high moral principles. It confirmed his initial suspicion who might be responsible for the death of the cabbie. He had not pursuit this investigation any further and he was glad that the bullet taken out of the cabbie was no use for evidence. Shooting through glass had changed any patterns which might have come from the original weapon. There was no way to prove that the bullet came from a certain Browning in the doctor's possession.
During the following months, Lestrade and John had become friends. They shared some pints at the pub, they shared their life stories. Sometimes the doctor would just listen after a particular bad day, remained silent if needed or offered an opinion. Other times it was Lestrade's turn to listen, when John complained about Sherlock or his love life. Personally the Policeman thought, the greatest love in John's life was Sherlock and that there was a reason why all the other relationships got messed up, but he never mentioned it.
Lestrade now also remembered when he had met Sherlock for the first time, long before John Watson. He had found the man lying nearly unconscious on the street when he was on his way back from a murder scene. Although high on cocaine, Sherlock had done his deducing thing, telling Lestrade's life story up to the latest quarrel with his wife and solved the murder. There was no way this could have been staged. And Lestrade had seen Sherlock doing it all the time, deducing things about total strangers and being almost always right.
To the grief in his stomach came the remorse. Regrets for doubting the man. And even more for the fact that he couldn't apologise to Sherlock in person. But he could set some other things right. There was no way John Watson would stay in the cell tonight. Although he knew it wouldn't matter to John, because there was nothing that mattered in the personal hell John was in right now. Lestrade had seen grief in many forms during his years at the force, but the emptiness in John's eyes was nauseating.
It took all of Lestrade's training not to give in, not to sob, but to walk to his Chief Superintendent and convince him to drop the charges. The man must have sensed Lestrade's determination, because it was only 15 minutes later that the Detective Inspector led the small figure of John Watson to his car and drove him home. Mrs Hudson, their landlady took over from here and it finally broke Lestrade's heart when he saw the shell of John Watson climbing slowly up the stairs and realised that there was no one waiting at the other side of the door.
The DI didn't know why but he took the detour over Barts back to the yard. It seemed almost unreal, nothing indicated that a great man had died there today. All Lestrade could see was an already torn edition of the morning paper.
Suicide of Fake Genius