"Flyers – all around London, have you seen these? Moriarty was real – Richard Brooks was the lie. I believe in Sherlock? I'm fighting John Watson's War. The Homeless network are putting them up faster than the council can take them down. They are on tags on walls, buildings, on cars, on windows, walk down the street and take a look, all of the quiet heart of London is breaking because your stupidity killed a great man. Forced him to doubt himself. And you know what? If this is what the Yard has become well maybe just maybe it's time for me to take the long damn walk to retirement. Because I believed in him and always will." Lestrade drew in a heavy breath and glared at Sally Donovan and her partner in crime, Anderson. "Go on, get out." He waved his hand dismissively and ran a hand across tired eyes.
Three months since the mess began. John Watson's eyes at the scene were enough to break his heart, but the silent tears that tracked down his face was the death blow. Dazed and with a dark purple bruise against his temple, he stepped back. Shoulders back, head up and he limped away. It was then that Lestrade thought he might cry himself. He didn't of course. Scotland Yard doesn't cry at crime scenes. Andersen was falling all over himself with glib and callous one liners as Sally glared him into silence.
Extra blood on the roof, not Sherlock's someone else was up there. Across the road kids found a spent cartridge in a stair well and handed it in.
The streets around Baker Street had been silent. Too silent, no crime, not even petty , as if the whole area was waiting to exhale. It was eerie and heartbreaking.
Four more cases and each time Lestrade had reached for the phone and wondered why Sherlock wasn't annoying the crap out of him.
Nothing made sense anymore, the kids Sherlock saved, the one's that screamed when he entered, after much therapy the family announced that the children had screamed because of what they were told. Told that the bad man showed them pictures of Sherlock who would kill them, would do terrible things to them, they were kids, they'd been afraid and then Sherlock walked in, all arrogance and like some blithe spirit ready to devour.
Anderson has been quiet when he heard the confession, Sally threw up and Lestrade penned a letter of resignation. He fingered it now, it was still in his top drawer waiting for a date and a signature. And on days like today when he had dead bodies and a possible terror threat he was hard pressed to ignore it and move up country and retire.
He looked up the walk was so similar, the arrogance even the height as Mycroft came into his little fishbowl office and closed the door, made his heart clench.
"None of my business of course but I would reconsider that if I were you." Mycroft sat down and tapped his shoes with his ever present umbrella. Why he needed it made even less sense than Sherlock taking a header off the top of Barts. Lestrade was pissed just enough to frown and scowl and huff.
"You're right it's none of your business." Lestrade scrubbed at his face.
"Don't, you will regret it. Being a police officer was always the dream Lestrade, even after your father left it was the dream you clung to. "
"Look Mycroft, I get it, don't dump the dream but the stupidity within my own department cost us the greatest assest we had and my friend, so unless there is some news from the other side I suggest you get to the bloody point."
Mycroft smiled. "Sherlock has always been your friend, even when he didn't know it or you for that matter."
"Your point?" Lestrade scowled he always felt as though he was missing out on half the conversation when confronted with a Holmes.
"Sherlock is alive." Mycroft said softly.
"I saw the body Mycroft. Don't fucking do this to me, you sick bastard."
"Calm yourself Lestrade. What you saw is what we wanted you to see. I ask nothing of you except a few moments, you can then decide if what I have to say is enough to help or not. The choice has always been yours, but it is time to bring my brother home. "
"Your serious." Lestrade began to pace.
"I am."
"And John?"
"Ah, yes well not doing too well of late, but I have kept the flat on and he has moved into the Manor whilst he is not working."
Lestrade opened the door and bellowed. "Donovan, coffee now, hold all my calls."
Sally put the cups and coffee pot down with shaking hands, scowled at Mycroft and took her leave.
"Alright Mycroft, give me." Lestrade sat back and sipped his coffee, parts of his jagged soul and mind began to fit back into place.
"As you know Midge was convinced that Moriarty was a group rather than an individual. And that said group had connections to the highest levels on several continents. We stopped a load of weapons grade plutonium from going into North Korea, WOMD's in the Middle East, the economic crisis in Europe, anthrax and biological agents in the US, all have the hallmark's of some outside influence. "
"He was right?"
"He's always right, unfortunately. Sebastian Moran was one of the most efficient and ruthless assassins in the world, and all of that deadly focus was turned to domestic targets. Targets Sherlock would die rather than compromise."
"John." Lestrade breathed. "But unless he can shoot from the grave I don't see why Sherlock had to commit suicide."
" Moran like Moriarty does not act alone and in this instance the targets were John, Mummy and I and you and Molly and Mrs Hudson to name a few, believe me when I say we did not take the threat of Moran's legacy lightly. There was too much media attention, too many lives at stake and too much distress."
"I'm still confused."
"I know, a little patience Lestrade if you will, this is not easy."
"Sorry, more coffee?" Lestrade poured from the pot and Mycroft twisted his lip.
"I think not. So as I have said a lot at stake, nevertheless, the real problem was not the danger we were in, but how high up did the connection go domestically. Tell me have you ever wondered why a Chief Superintendant was involved in Moriarty's game? Or at all? And why did he take a personal interest in a matter well below his pay grade?"
"Bloody hell."
"Well put, so now we know and have forced him to show his hand, it's amazing just how much a small slip can cost and can show, but I will deal with the Chief later."
"And the paparazzi?"
"Ah well, they were Sherlock's idea. It is rather inconvenient for a consulting detective to have a fan club."
"Hadn't thought of that." Lestrade nodded.
"So the game started, we had of course Jim under observation for a long time, when he was primed we let him loose."
"And Sherlock knew this?"
"Oh yes of course, after the unfortunate incident with Ms Adler, Sherlock agreed to work with me to bring about a change in the status quo of domestic criminal activity, and of course there were many other considerations."
"Do I even want to know?"
Mycroft studiously ignored the question and continued. " My brother was at odds with his notoriarty and played the game beautifully, until of course Moran was thrown into the mix. Even then he adapted and agreed that the work we needed him to do and he needed to do required him to be invisible."
"Am I right in assuming that his work is now complete?"
"Near enough."
"How did he fake his death?"
"Simple really, the mind sees only what it wants to see or in some cases doesn't want to see. Sherlock met with Jim on top of Barts and with the assistance of Molly staged an elaborate magic trick. He levitated."
"He what?"
"Levitated with the help of the cranes not far off, the body that hit the ground complete with Sherlock's coat and face was of course Jim Moriarty who had shot himself."
"So Moriarty is buried in Sherlock's grave?"
"Yes. "
"And Sherlock is where?"
"Currently with Mummy."
"So what do you need me for, it seems you have it completely covered."
"And we are back to John."
"No, no I will not tell John that you and Sherlock concocted a story that broke his heart, nor will I pick up the pieces for Queen and country, you are on your own with that."
Mycroft frowned as he tapped his umbrella against the Italian leather shoes. "As you wish."
"Really? That's it?" Lestrade couldn't hide the surprise.
"Quiet right too, Sherlock and I will have to address the matter personally."
"If I were you, might do well to remember John Watson is a combat trained veteran."
Mycroft's eyes widened for a moment as a thin smile bent his lips.
"Of course. As always Detective Inspector I am grateful for your counsel."