Greg was sitting slouched on a couch in front of a TV, the movie he had intended to watch (or at least had pretended interest in while he had idly thumbed through a TV program this afternoon) nearing to its end. A blond woman was shot into the chest, swaying for at least three minutes in slow motion before theatrically and absolutely unbelievably falling to the lap of the main hero.
Greg didn´t care. If he was honest, he couldn´t remember their names, and his absolute distractedness throughout the two hour story prevented him from making any kind of bond to any of the characters. All he was able to recollect of the plot was that there was a lot of shouting and action, but general lack of realness in both hand-to-hand combat and gun shooting. He would know. He´s a cop.
For how long, however. This whole mess with Sherlock had caused DI Gregory Lestrade to be summoned to his boss´ office only several hours after the fall. In fact it had been the Superintendant informing him of „the Freaks demise". Greg had been shocked. Dumb-struck. As soon as the first wave of non-belief had given up to the dozen of photos on the Superintendant´s desk, guilt had come.
The guilt, which had driven him out of the New Scotland Yard running towards the place near St Bart´s, where a bloodied spot on the pavement still told a story of the last second of a life of the most brilliant, clever, intelligent, arrogant, ruthless and selfish man in the world. „You bastard," he had been thinking, kneeling near the brownish spot. "You coward! You had to do this, didn´t you? To me... to Mycroft... to John..."
After a moment he had realized that what he had thought were flashes before his eyes caused by shock were in truth cameras and had managed to retreat before making a statement to the press which would have mainly consisted of first and last letters of words with stars in between, were it ever printed. His internal wistfulness had been, however, somewhat satisfied by the knowledge that the Superintendant must have intended to get him out of sight of the press– he had let him go too quickly, Lestrade would have expected far more sadistic yelling until he would practically beg for the forced leave he got – and this plan had been now shattered by several snapshots of a silver haired cop kneeling at the place where the so-called fraud ended his life.
But this happened almost a fortnight ago. And now, Greg sat slouched in front of a telly he wasn´t watching, surrounded by a surreal idea that any second now a siluette will appear in the dark corner and a coated, smug-looking and most importantly alive detective will knock down a few of the empty beer bottles. But it wasn´t gonna happen.
A mobile phone started ringing. Greg jumped. Yes! That was it! There must have been a mistake! Sherlock is alive! After all, he had talked to Mycroft few days after the fall and he had said: "I don´t believe it. I can´t believe it! There must be something else about this!" Of course there was. Anyone else who would said such thing and Greg would have pitied them – there is nothing worse for those left behind than a false hope. But this was Mycroft Holmes not believing in his brother´s suicide!
Finally, he freed himself of the knotted blanked he didn´t remember putting over himself and reached the kitchen counter where his phone constantly ringed through all his thoughts. Unknown number.
"Sherlock?" he breathed out into the gadget before his rational mind could have stopped him. Silence for a few seconds... Yes, it has to be him. Soon, there would be that mocking baritone chastising him for such a pathetic display of emotions in front of the Daily Mirror´s photographer. Come on...
"Detective Inspector?" A female voice. Not Sherlock. Mycroft´s assistant. "Detective inspector, I am so sorry to disturb you." Hesitant pause. She wasn´t trying to hide it. Something was wrong. "Mycroft needs you. "
And so it happened that Gregory Lestrade was sitting in a sleek black car not a half an hour later, somewhat refreshed by a hasty shower, shave and a change to cleaner clothes. Mycroft´s assistant, who´s name surely wasn´t Anthea, looking thoughtful next to him and for once her hands were blackberry - free.
She smiled strangely and as in reply to his thoughts announced: "The blackberry has a tracking device. Of course he will realize it was me who called you, but we don´t have to give him a proof, do we?" She shifted in her seat and than started to speak, never once changing her tone and generally not betraying anything of her own momentary feelings despite what she was saying: "He is going to cause himself a heart attack. He barely eats. Speaks even less then usual. He thinks he can survive on tea and paperwork, so to speak. He is working. Too much. He was working for nine days in a row, without sleeping, before his own body betrayed him and he finally fell unconscious. And now, after only a one day leave, he´s back and working even more."
I don´t know what to do. He won´t listen. And trying to get him to talk about what happened... let´s say that even if I were fond of Siberia and tried it, he wouldn´t cooperate." The rest of the ride was silent. There was nothing more to be said.
When the car finally pulled of at one of the Whitehall back doors, Greg followed Anthea to Mycroft´s office waiting room, where she sat behind her desk, put out some baby wipes of a drawer and cleaned her high heeled shoes of any possible residues of soil (you can never be too careful trying to keep a secret from Holmeses – from a Holmes realised Greg again and the knowledge dawned on him for a brief a moment before he was able to concentrate again- he might be able to pull a geological map of London out of his sleeve and prove that this particular mesh of gravel, mud and shit could be found only in front of his block of flats).
Removing the used wipes into her handbag (would Mycroft really look into the bins?) Anthea knocked on the door and opening it slightly she announced him: "Detective Inspector Lestrade is here to see you. Shall I let him in?"
Whatever Mycroft grumbled Lestrade took as: "I would love to see him" and pressed himself inside the dim room.
A not very happy memory flashed in front of Greg´s sight as soon as he saw him. He was going to kill anyone and everyone who would dare to suggest that Mycroft didn´t feel, didn´t care. Mycroft Holmes, proud government official known for his cat-like cleanliness, was a wreck.
Though still far better shaven than Greg and clothed in his three piece suit, there were those things. Those little thing which created the story, as would Sherlock said (no, he would have said "betrayed the truth"). A wave was apparent in his light blue hair – under normal circumstances, Mycroft would have never allowed for his hair to do what they were genetically programmed to do – "I would look like a Rastafarian, not a civil servant."). There were little creases on his shirt and jacket. There was a breadcrumb! on the right lapel (Oh, good. He´s eaten.).
But the most alarming thing was his face. His skin, by the looks of it, decided to outdo the word pale – in fact, it looked almost translucent. Dark circles – more like bruises – formed underneath is eyes and those eyes, although still sharp and intelligent looking, had also another quality to them – hollowness. Like you could see inside Mycroft – and there was nothing there.
"Hello, Mycroft." Said Greg and helped himself to a seat. Mycroft put away some folders he was reading the moment Greg entered and rested his hands palms down on the desk. He´s trying to hide his weakness, Greg realized. He couldn´t say Mycroft´s hands were trembling, but something about the grip he used for moving the folder before told the cop that they weren´t exactly steady either.
"Anthea summoned you. She´s been meddling again. You were sitting in front of a TV, but not watching. You´ve got some of your couches ghastly orange fibres on the back of your hair. Your eyes are red – you weren´t blinking properly – didn´t pay attention. Shaved this night and it was the first time in five of six days. You hurried with that – there´s still shaving foam along with few hairs near your ear. So basically my PA assumed that I needed nursing from a soon-to-be ex-cop who cries on the pavements, vegetates through his guilt on a couch drinking beer and is unable to maintain personal hygiene. I really should fire her."
"No, you shouldn´t," opposed Greg deciding to not show Mycroft just how much he has reminded him of Sherlock. "She was right. You should – you must- rest."