Author's Note:
Hello! Lestrade has always been my favourite Sherlock character so I was inspired to write this! I've only written Avengers fanfictions so I wanted to write something different! Here it is! I think I will write some Merlin next... what do you think? Please review!
Gregory Lestrade had never signed up for any of this.
He remembered so long ago, when he seemed so new to this important role thrown on to his back which he was expected to carry with such ease. He remembered spending night after night worried sick because of the pressure and even of what the next day might hold in store. He remembered the web of deciet all around him, suffocating him in each strand of lies. Then, in late October of '99, the mysterious consulting detective Sherlock Holmes turned up on Scotland Yard's radar. He remembered his face then, only 23 years old, so young and fresh. Sherlock's face never changed, really. It aged, of course, but it kept the familiar, youthful radiance. The same bounce in his walk stayed with him through the years and, of course, the same brilliant mind.
The moment Sherlock came into Greg's life, everything changed almost overnight. Things seemed to get drastically better for him, there were no more restless nights. He found a friend. An egotistical, sociopathic, incredibly yet adorably strange friend but a friend nonetheless. The kind of friend you know likes you but you're sure they'd never admit it even if their life depended on it. Along with Sherlock, new people began to appear. John Watson, a truly dear friend who Greg had huge respect for. Molly Hooper who Lestrade never really spoke to properly until Sherlock and, when he did, he discovered what a fine young woman she was. Greg was thankful for his introverted companion.
He remembered the phone call. The repeated, shrill ringing that eventually ceased as he picked up the phone.
"Hello?" Greg said, holding the phone to his ear.
"Detective Inspector? Mr Sherlock Holmes has comitted suicide by jumping off the roof of St. Bartholemew's, you might want to come," the voice said. He remembers how light-headed he'd got all of a sudden, how he could hear the blood rushing in his ears and his heart pounding in his chest. His vision blurred and began to sway as if he were on a boat. He swallowed quickly and felt the cold sweat develop on his hands,
"Where is he now?" he said, trying to sound as calm as possible but failing because of the extreme shakiness of the sentence. His breaths came out in short, quick puffs.
"He's being taken to the morgue, sir. We've sent a few officers to look around. Dr John Watson is here, he watched the whole thing," Lestrade sighed as this passed through the phone, oh god, John. "You'd better get down here fast, sir," And with that, the voice was replaced with a long beep. Greg buried his face in his hands and took several deep breaths. This was all one horrible nightmare.
This couldn't be real.
Soon, he approached crime scenes alone. No Sherlock to ask for help. None of the hyperactive jumping and shouting and rude comments. Even Anderson and Donovan hated it, them of all people. They attended the funeral and some say they even saw them crying. Of course, this may not be at all true.
The funeral was an awful time, for everyone. John especially. He would have liked it though, well, at least he would have tolerated it. It was simple, classy and didn't drag on. He didn't cry but he was very close to doing so. He remembers the ride home, Greg offered John a lift back to his new flat. The journey was silent, only a few gentle sniffs from both men broke the stillness. As he stopped the car and watched John slowly approach his door, he began to ponder over his and Sherlock's relationship. When Sherlock was alive he'd never quite appreciated it enough as he really should have. When he did think about it, he discovered the friendship they had.
A friendship he could never get, not even from his oldest friend.
But life isn't all bad for Gregory Lestrade. The pang of sorrow over Sherlock still hit him once in a while, but only in short bursts which he thought over and quickly recovered from. The crime scenes were lonely but the familiar faces of people he'd worked with for years and years provided small support. His nights sometimes became sleepless but he was happy when he thought of his friend in peace.
Finally, in the end, Greg Lestrade found love. Love in one of the smallest of acquaintances. Love in a woman he never thought he'd love. Love in a cat-loving, simple, friendly, socially awkward but nevertheless beautiful girl.
Gregory Lestrade found love in Molly Hooper.