It was hard to take the anger… not that Lestrade hadn't expected it. Still, it was tough watching the little doctor stalk like a bristling foxhound through the pub, avoiding Lestrade's eye, as if they were strangers.
He sighed, and ordered another pint, trying to ignore John out of common decency. It wasn't like he wasn't otherwise occupied. Anderson was crowing, practically lap-dancing his bar stool, glowing with victory…and Lestrade had an obligation—to Mycroft, to Sherlock. To England.
What point being an undercover resource if you couldn't maintain your damned cover, after all? That was, in the end, what made the difference between Lestrade and John. One of the differences, anyway. Lestrade could keep secrets, and when necessary lied with the vanilla calm of a financier who'd nicked his client's pension funds. John, conversely, was a blogger with all the talent for lying shown by a six-year-old who'd just learned the truth about Father Christmas. In John's world information might not want to be free, but he was still likely to liberate it, even if it would prefer to remain safely captive.
"See, I was right," Anderson said. "Brilliant. A total bastard. But brilliant!"
The "total bastard" comment was a new trope, achieved thanks to Anderson suffering ten minutes with his old bete noir. Five insults and a backhanded compliment later, and Anderson was looking for a new position that allowed him his victory while allowing him to recover at least a bit of his old acid attitude toward Sherlock.
"I dunno," Lestrade said, playing along. "Seems to me he was a bit of an idjit leaving a trail like that for you clever dicks to follow. I mean, you did beat the master at his own game, didn't you?"
Anderson smirked and puffed up. "Well. Not everyone has my training and resources, after all. Not to mention the network. We were right there, waiting. Watching. We knew what to look for."
"Amazing," Lestrade said. "Don't know how you all did it."
An hour later Lestrade had a pocket full of email addresses, URLs, access to specialized search engines, and a full narrative on how the Friends of Sherlock had homed in on Their Boy. He hoped Mycroft's people had picked up the story…some of the details were too complicated for him to memorize, and he'd pushed plausible behavior collecting the bar napkins full of addys from Anderson. Donovan would never have fallen for it: she'd have realized too soon that Lestrade knew damned well how to do a search of his own, and had no sane reason to contact a group of people who's very reason for existence had just become a non-issue. Sherlock lived. Case closed. End of issue for everyone but The British Government, who liked knowing about obscure geniuses who could filter an information stream as well as some of Anderson's chums had managed. But Anderson had never been the sharpest, and he was too drunk on five pints of bitters and a gallon of victory to catch the obvious.
Lestrade, who could nurse a pint for an evening when it suited him, called the man a taxi and waved him out when he started to repeat himself. He glanced at the mirror behind the bar. John was still there—indeed, John was staring at him, reflected eyes meeting Lestrade's with a hard, cold stillness. Lestrade gave a crooked grin, and raised his pint to the man in the mirror, before bending over the counter and pretending to play a game on his mobile phone.
He hadn't liked the game plan. Never had. At some point John deserved to have been told. Mycroft had known better… not that Sherlock had ever taken any of the elder Holmes' dry, acid hints. Lestrade, less invested in trying to make Sherlock pay attention on Mycroftian terms, had been blunt. "Tell him, you idjit."
Not that it had made a bit of difference to Sherlock… and Lestrade knew quite enough about the danger Sherlock faced not to willingly rock the boat.
Not much, anyway.
Damn, John, he thought, I did what I could. I gave you that DVD. I mean, really. Sherlock outright telling you that only lies have detail? What was that leap but detail piled on detail, compelling belief? And then the promise to come back. It should have at least set your damned spider-senses tingling.
But, no. You never were the one with the spider-senses, were you? Good old John Watson. Fierce soldier, skilled doctor and combat surgeon, breathlessly enthralled blogger, adorable cynic in a jumper… and not a spider-sense to be had, or you'd have found Sherlock so much less fascinating than you do. Still, I tried.
He pulled at the long glass of ale, and pondered, and watched the angry birds loop around over and over as he failed to play.
"You knew," John said, grimly, materializing in Anderson's vacated stool, making Lestrade wonder a bit about his own spidey-senses. "How long? How long did you know what was going on?"
"Not sure what you mean, John," Lestrade said. "Maybe if you unpack it a bit?" Damn, how was he supposed to manage this, anyway? Mycroft wanted him to stay deep cover. Sherlock, though, was leaking little details right left and center, and some things were just obvious points of uncertainty. "If you tell me what's up, maybe I can answer." Or come up with slippery excuses faster than you can ask slippery questions.
John shook his head, bitter-eyed. "No. Not going down this path. It's enough to know there was so much in play, so many of you leaving me out of the loop. Do you know what I went through?"
Lestrade took another pull, leaning low over the bar. He twisted his neck, giving himself a cock-eyed, sideward view of the little doctor. "Well, d'oh. Not a state secret what you went through, was it? Matter of bloody public record."
Which is the point, John, he thought. Every word you said, every blog post, every action watched, reported on, printed up in papers around the world. You suffered… but there was no secret, private place to easily spare you at least the start of the suffering. And after? I did what I could, you berk…
"You tried," Watson said, his voice and manner sharp, crisp, challenging, soldier-tough. Officer tough. Commanding Lestrade's attention. "That DVD. You weren't just handing off a handful of nothing, were you?"
Lestrade shrugged. "Like I said, mate. Stuff of Sherlock's in my office. Should have thrown it out, but it seemed a shame."
"You even made a point of making sure I knew it was in there. No chance I'd shove the box into the back of my closet and never see it, was there?"
"John…"
"No. Don't know what you knew. Don't know how deep in it you were. But I know damned well you gamed me, Greg. And what I want to know is why?"
Lestrade stayed as he was, cock-eyed view and all, studying John Watson. He let his fingers play with the pint as he thought. He risked a twisted grin. "I'm just a bloke, John. Copper, eh? No smarter than I need to be. Anderson will tell you Sherlock solved all my cases and I let him. Took all the credit without a word. You're overthinking it all."
Watson sat in poised silence, blue eyes meeting Lestrade's brown in quiet consideration. He shook his head. "No. Not buying it, Greg. I know you. Some of you. You're smarter than Anderson ever imagines. And you earned your place. But… you knew."
"Knew what, mate?"
"Knew… something. Knew Sherlock was out there."
Lestrade shrugged. "Go ask Donovan. Ask Anderson. They'll tell you different."
"If I have to pick between me and Anderson and Donovan, I pick me. Because I know what they don't. I know you forced that trick, Lestrade. You gave me that DVD, and made absolutely sure I'd watch it. What are you, Greg? What did you know? How much did you lie?"
Lestrade sighed and straightened, draining his pint. "Looking for secrets is a waste of time, John. The people who can't keep 'em leak 'em with every word. The ones who can bury 'em deep. Whichever you think I am, you're not idiot enough to think you're getting more. Either I'm what I say, and I'm just this bloke—a slightly bent copper willing to take credit if it advances his career—or I'm something else. And if I'm something else, then I'm someone who can't tell, won't tell, and never would. I guess it's your choice. Me, I'm for mine and a long, hot shower. Congratulations on your engagement, by the way. I wish you happy." He pushed back from the bar.
John grabbed his elbow. "It was never just me, was it? Trying to…humanize him. I thought about it, you know. You there, making him tape that message in the first place, not letting him hurt me, trying to teach him basic civility. Not just me taking care of him. And, damn it, taking care of me, too. Making sure he didn't hurt me as much as he could. And now I want to know: the DVD. Taking care of me again? Compensating for Sherlock… again?"
Lestrade risked a smile. A little one, hardly more than a warming of the eyes. "You're a good man, John Watson. I like you. But… some puzzles you're just not going to solve, eh?"
"Who are you, Greg?"
"Just a copper in the Met, John. A bloke." He shrugged into his worn coat, settling it on his shoulders, then grabbed the little doctor around the back of the neck in a bloke-ish grip, pulling close until forehead rested against forehead. "I'm your friend. Gonna have to be enough." He let go, and started away.
John laughed in exasperation behind him, then called, "Greg? Give my best to Mycroft when you see him, right?"
Lestrade spun back, then, grinning wide. "I'll do that, then, yeah! I'll just do that…"
And he was gone, humming "Secret Agent Man" under his breath. One thing about Holmeses—not matter what clueless berks they were, no matter how they messed up their personal lives and hurt their friends, life near them was never dull. Never, never dull….