Title: And Say My Glory Was
Characters: (Brett!) Holmes, (Hardwicke!) Watson, (Jeavons!) Lestrade
Rating: K
Wordcount: 2670
Warnings/Spoilers: Basic SH spoilers and speculation; teeth-rotting fluff.
Summary: The friendship of Holmes and Watson in Sussex is nearly a perfect thing; only, now and again there is room enough for a third voice. Retirement fic.
A/N: This was written for the SH kink meme ages and ages ago (5+ years). It never got put up here, partially because I never finished working on my Lestrade novel series, so I thought I'd do it now. The prompt was this: "Holmes and Lestrade have a pretty prickly relationship in the early stories, but by the time "The Six Napoleons" rolls around they are clearly friends, to the point where Lestrade visits Holmes and Watson even when he doesn't have a case.
I want to see retirement-era Holmes and Watson hanging out with Lestrade in Sussex. When did Lestrade retire from the Yard? Does he have a bunch of ferret-y, stubborn, persistently curious grandchildren? Does he poke fun at Holmes' bees (because let's face it, Holmes and Lestrade are always going to snark mercilessly at each other)? Does he miss (of course not, how could you even suggest such a thing) working with Inspector Gregson?
Go absolutely anywhere you like with this, as long as there's retired Holmes, Watson, and Lestrade."
(This remains unbeta-ed and barely edited. I welcome any and all feedback.)
You that would judge me, do not judge alone
This book or that, come to this hallowed place
Where my friends' portraits hang and look thereon;
Ireland's history in their lineaments trace;
Think where man's glory most begins and ends,
And say my glory was I had such friends.
-William Butler Yeats 'The Municipal Gallery Revisited'
And Say My Glory Was
It is the third Saturday in the month, and that means Holmes has been busy scouring the newspapers, smoking his pipe ferociously, and generally acting as though he were three decades of age instead of more than twice that. Watson does not mind, but sits with a good book in his cozy armchair and waits out the storm, until half past eleven, when he looks up through a flurry of paper, and gives a small smile.
Despite his energy, the den of the cottage is soon immaculate and Holmes is perched on the window seat, perfectly dressed in his tails, looking like a small child, ready to go off on an adventure. The sight never fails to gladden Watson, for retirement has given more than leisure and crow's feet to the striking grey eyes. Indeed, there is serenity to Holmes' angular face which is hidden but not unseen.
"We shall be late, Watson." Holmes frets, pulling on his hat with a flourish. He brandishes his stick in Watson's direction, visibly bouncing on the balls of his feet. Despite the silver to his hair, and the faint thinking lines in his forehead, Holmes is more like to a child than a man retired to the Downs for rest and peace.
"Nonsense, Holmes. Go see to your bees while I bring round the car." Holmes suppresses a mock frown with a smile in his eyes, and goes to his hives, for the day is fine and growing finer. The days had been where Watson had not thought to see Holmes live past his fifth decade, and so every bit of time together has become precious, where friendship is a thing to be savored rather than quaffed and where love is a thing to be cherished rather than abused.
They arrive at the station before their time and are content to wait, where they fill up the sunny air with a little game of silence and deduction, complement and reminiscence. In the manner of their generation, they are sitting calmly when they see the dapper little man depart the train, still agile and nimble, though Watson raises one arm in a silent greeting.
It is a striking thing to see Lestrade, for even though Watson knows that Lestrade is the older by a decade but for the platinum in his sable hair and the deep lines around his mouth, he might have looked the same as he did in 1881, when they had met.
In fact, Watson once had the singularly disconcerting experience of meeting the three Lestrade sons, all of whom could have passed for their father at any date between 1881 and 1901. Perhaps it is because age has not had a chance to settle on Lestrade, but for the slight hollows under his cheekbones and the knowing wisdom in that impossibly dark gaze.
"Good day, Lestrade!" Holmes calls above the bustle of the crowd, and Lestrade nips through to them with his still relentless energy, carrying nothing more than a folded copy of the Times. The justification for Lestrade's monthly visit on every third Saturday is always that he has a petty problem to bring to Holmes' attention, but neither man needs to admit the real reason, which has ceased to be a case many years ago.
"Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson." He says, pulling off his glove to shake hands with Watson. He settles for a nod to Holmes, and clambers into the backseat of the car. Holmes gives him a knowing glance, and visibly restrains himself, much like a fine horse pulling at the bit.
They agree to tea in the back garden, for the day is sunny and the faint drone of bees drifts along with the slight breeze, between the trees. Holmes waits until Watson has poured, and Lestrade has put his usual two lumps in before he can no longer constrain himself.
"Tell me, Lestrade – how the Commissioner is taking your plans for retirement."
"Not well," Lestrade admits, taking a sip of his tea as the dark eyes widen a fraction. "I should ask if you've been spying on me, Mr. Holmes, but I daresay I wouldn't get a straight answer out of you." Watson stifles a chuckle beneath his graying moustache, as Lestrade continues "Not that I ever got a straight answer out of you, mind. I always suspected you in that Milverton case." He grumbles, and Watson passes him the plate of sandwiches.
"Did you? Watson and I shall be thankful that you hadn't the means to prove it." Holmes says drily, fingers keeping time gently on the edge of the table.
"You are retiring, Lestrade?" Watson asks.
"I intend to." He replies evenly, looking at his tea. "Mrs. Lestrade and the grandchildren want to see more of me, and London is not what it used to be. I have to worry as much about my own men as I do about the streets, and I don't like the winds I feel coming over from the continent."
"You are not alone in that matter, Lestrade."
"No?" Lestrade wonders, and laces his fingers in his lap over his napkin. "Well, the Commissioner feels that he cannot do without me, and perhaps it is true, but the days are catching up to me, I fear. There is too much to do, and so little time to do it in."
The knowing in his round, large brown eyes is matched by the pair of men sitting with him at the table, the knowledge that they have become old and tired, wise with the passing of life.
"And you will let Gregson take over your department?"
"Good Lord, no Mr. Holmes. No – Hopkins will finally get a promotion to Superintendent. He deserves it, and he's more energy to deal with it than I do. Gregson – ha!" Lestrade chuckles darkly, and Watson refills his teacup.
"How is the Chief Inspector?" Watson enquires politely
"Passing well, though he's still pushing for promotion. Don't know if he'll get it – he's always had a rather impolitic tongue."
"But apparently the Commissioner thought that your many decorations and stellar reputation were an indication of intelligence and decorum, and promoted you instead." Holmes crows, lounging back in his chair. Lestrade barely blinked, but retorts back easily
"News to me, Mr. Holmes. I rather thought it was because I could say 'Yes sir' and 'No sir' out of both sides of my mouth and file paperwork at the same time."
"I shouldn't like to think that the Yard is becoming competent in my absence." Holmes' tone implied horror but there was a smirk hiding somewhere below the fluttering fingers.
"No one has ever accused us of that, Mr. Holmes, particularly when Gregson was involved." Lestrade groaned softly under his breath, accepting the plate of biscuits.
"Does he still cringe over the Strand?" Watson grins rather slowly over his teacup, for while he may have respected Inspector Gregson, that did not mean he liked the man.
"Oh yes, but that doesn't stop him from calling me 'ferret,' for no doubt he thinks the price worth the gain. Mind you, I think he gets rather confused between my many and flattering descriptions."
"It was not meant to be literal, you know, Lestrade." Watson says, and there is a long felt apology in his voice as his blue eyes seek Lestrade's face.
"I should look a strange sort of creature if it was." The little man replied, and there is a tacit acceptance in the warm upturning of his lips as he looks at Watson.
As the day was heavy with the sun and clear, a walk along the bluff was cordially agreed upon. Watson and Lestrade observed with a conspiratorial silence as Holmes darted ahead with a twirl of tweed to espy something that had caught his interest. Lestrade kept step easily with the taller Watson, whose stride was shortened by age and his limp.
"Mr. Holmes looks like one of my grandchildren when he does that." Lestrade laughs, and shared a sly grin with Watson.
"How is your family, Geoffrey? You've a dozen and a half grandchildren by now, surely." Watson inquired.
"A score, actually." Lestrade fairly beamed with pride. "Mrs. Lestrade claims they tire her out with their curiosity, but I daresay that being called 'grandfather' is one thing that I shall never tire of hearing."
Lestrade chuckled suddenly with mirth and nudges Watson in the ribs. "But neither do I tire of telling them stories about my cases with you and Mr. Holmes, though I should deny it fervently if you ever repeated it."
Watson is heartily touched by this, though he does not say a word. It is one thing to be honored by those who have only read his work, but it is another thing again for Lestrade to say so, who had been involved in so many cases and who'd received the rough sides of Holmes' tongue frequently. But that was the way of good men, who forgave much and forgot little, remembering the small acts of kindness and dismissing as unimportant the petty grievances of youth.
"Do you ever miss your work, John?" Lestrade asked curiously as they approached Holmes, who regarded the sky with all-encompassing diversion.
"Sometimes." Watson admits, but carried on, saying "But I have my books and I have Holmes, and when I regret retirement, I remember that I have had life enough for three men, and my memories and pen suffice." Lestrade sighed beside him as Holmes fell into step with the pair. "But what of you, Geoffrey, shall you miss your work?"
"With a score of strong-willed grandchildren, I doubt I shall ever be idle enough to miss it." Lestrade and Watson laughed together, and Holmes looked on with glinting grey eyes. "But no, doctor, I don't think so. To miss what is a pale shadow of what I've already had would be an injustice of the gravest sort." And his dark eyes looked at Holmes and Watson knowingly. "The best years of my life's work are already done."
There was room enough for three on the dirt path, and Lestrade fit between Holmes and Watson neatly, the way a smaller cog completes a greater whole. They walked some way along the bluff, for the sight of the Prussian blue sea sparkling into gold under the sun was a remarkable sight. It was Lestrade who finally halted, leaning much of his weight on his right foot as he braced one hand on his lower back. Holmes looked at the man with a not unfamiliar fondness, and waited before suggesting casually
"Have I told you of the most recent developments of my hive, Lestrade?" But the smaller man didn't seem to hear him, head down as he kneaded the muscles of his lower back as best he could. Watson knew that the twisting of Lestrade's left foot caused an imbalance in his posture that fatigued the muscles of his lower back into spasms, but the look of pain on the older man's face was unexpected.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, what were you saying?" And while the façade of normalness recast his face into its usual lines, Watson placed a gentle hand on the littler man's shoulder as he turned around to return to the cottage. Holmes made no answer, but with a delicate movement linked his arm through Lestrade's and his voice was impossibly quiet as he said
"Never fear, friend Lestrade. We all of us are growing old."
Over supper, Watson managed to prevent a battle over a visit to the bee-hives ('An idle occupation,' Lestrade insisted 'which is why it is suitable for you, Mr. Holmes'), a potential fisticuffs over reputations ('I always held that Gregson was the more intelligent of the pair of you' Holmes sniffed), as well as to prevent a diplomatic incident ('That Superintendent said what?' Holmes' voice strangled. 'Oh, I put him right, Mr. Holmes.' Lestrade murmured darkly. 'Having a chest full of medals is good for some things, you know.')
They had retired to the fireplace with brandy and Watson was offering his tobacco to Lestrade for his pipe, when Holmes drew up his violin. It was, in fact, an unheard of thing for Holmes to play before strangers, but Lestrade had not been a stranger for many years, for it was neither without reason nor with a casual air that both Watson and Holmes called him friend.
Bach, Vivaldi and Mendelssohn later, Holmes was content to set down his bow with a flourish, and take a mock bow.
"Now that I have concluded, Lestrade, I believe it is your turn."
"What me, Mr. Holmes? Never." The little detective shook his head.
"Come Lestrade, poor Watson may have a voice that imitates a drowned cat being stepped on, but you most certainly do not." Holmes sniffed, leaning against the windows casually.
"Wasn't it your wife who always said that your voice was the reason she married you?" Watson chided, puffing at his cigar. It was with something of grace that Lestrade conceded, and drew himself up in his chair, carefully setting down his pipe and brandy.
"You bring this on yourselves, gentleman" He warned, "As I've not done much but sing lullabies of late."
Lestrade had the sort of clear tenor that had not faded with age, smooth even into the highest notes of his range, and with a darkness and depth of feeling that was surprising in such a little man. He had a propensity for traditional music, and a memory for melody that was astounding.
His rendition of 'Barbara Allen' was superb, and when he progressed to 'The Unquiet Grave' his silvery voice was quiet and eerily haunting in the small, dark den of the cottage. Watson was hard-pressed to retain his melancholia as the last notes died beneath the snapping of the fire and gentle wind pressed against the windowpanes as even Holmes held still under the spell of the music. Lestrade shut his eyes, and drew a deep breath as silence held for a moment.
"Now, I think one more song before I go, otherwise I shall miss my train." He stifled a small smile, and as he began to sing 'The Lost Chord,' Watson met Holmes' grey eyes, which glinted even through the shadows and the darkness.
"It seemed a harmonious echo, from our discordant life…"
The sound of the lines haunted the mind, even though their farewell at the train station was short and reserved, for the deep-seated emotion that rested between them was only to be glimpsed in the way Lestrade thumbed his pocket watch.
"Good-bye, Dr. Watson." Lestrade said, shaking Watson's hand with his usual firmness.
"Take care, Lestrade." Watson returned, clasping Lestrade's hand in two of his large ones for a moment. "Holmes and I shall expect you, a month hence."
"If the good Lord wills it, John." Lestrade vowed, and Watson bowed his head. It was a peculiarity of life, that death had brought them together in friendship and that the grim specter of death was the only thing that could separate them now.
"Mr. Holmes." The little man said simply, his earnest dark eyes shining the color of walnuts under the lamplight. The sound of whistles made Lestrade turn and take two paces toward the train, but he darted a glance back at Holmes as he went, touching his fingers to his hat brim.
"Au revoir." Holmes said with his voice barely a whisper above the empty platform. As the train pulled from the station, he and Watson left the train station, arm in arm.
At home in the cottage again, Watson settled into his armchair as Holmes, hands clutched behind him, stared pensively out the windowpanes into the surrounding darkness. There was a small smile playing around his mouth as he looked back at Watson, contented with his pipe and book.
For if here was home, by the fire with Watson and his pipe, it could not be denied that there was always room for a third.