Hello everybody! I want to apologize for any mistakes in the following story. English is not my main languge and it hasn't been beta'd. The idea belongs to my good friend Liz, the characters and everything belongs to BBC and the writers there. The writing and most of the story is mine though. Please leave a review!
Afterwards
Playing Police and thief as a little kid was the first thing he came to think of. Not all the things that had happened afterwards. Not the various victims, still penetrated by murder weapons. Not chasing a criminal. Life and death. As he sunk to his knees, because that was all he could do really, he remembered running. Running while everything had yet to matter, brown fringe dancing before his eyes. The fringe had been too long really, he had almost looked like a girl. He had waved with the stick they used as a weapon extra hard to compensate. The other children had respected him. He had always been the cop when they played. Always the one who was a bit older than the rest, always the one who knew the best. He had known what was right and what wasn't. He had never played the role of the criminal. That just wasn't him.
Greg bared his teeth in a grimace as his knees hit the asphalt. Just about ten meters in front of him busy people in uniforms put the body on stretcher. When John Watson took a grip of his shoulder and forced him to stand he obeyed. When the screaming blond raised his hand and shaped it as a fist he didn't move. He didn't feel the hand hitting his face. All he heard was John Watson's scream, and he knew that the brown-haired boy running around with a stick would be ashamed of what he had become. This wasn't him. It just wasn't.
The ex-soldier had hit him right above the eye he realized later, as he sat at the bar. Sally had given him some kind of plaster. He fiddled with it for a moment. His hands felt numb but his head hurt like hell and for a moment his vision was blurred. He drank another glass of whiskey and it felt better. Sally had offered to drive him home but he had said no. It wasn't like anyone would be there anyway. The bartender started to give him funny looks and he rose, while swallowing his last drink. While he slowly walked out of the bar he realized that his mouth still felt like sand paper, and the throbbing in his head returned. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to care.
Greg Lestrade didn't often visit the mortuary, even with his kind of job. He was used to being in the middle of it, right where the action was. When he had been playing as a kid catching the criminal and rescuing the victim had been the grand finale. The epilogue. As he had grown he had learned that that wasn't quite true, but still. The mortuary was where it all ended. What happened afterwards. Post mortem. And it was quiet.
The corridor was well lit, even if this was the more desert part of the hospital. One of the lamps in the ceiling blinked for a second and he looked at it. His footsteps sounded loud and slow. Hesitating, even. It was hard to walk with a head that still felt dizzy and numb from the alcohol, but throbbed as if he was already hangover. This was his final destination, where he had wanted to go all night, and if it had taken a very vague number of whiskeys and vodkas to get him there that was okay, he told himself. Nobody was perfect. He certainly wasn't, anyway.
As he approached the mortuary the quietness was interrupted by other steps, from behind the door. Careful ones, but hasty. Greg stopped for a moment and leaned against the wall. He had thought that he would be alone. That most of the people working would have gone home by now. The only reason he had gotten access to the hospital was his police badge and some kind of impersonation of soberness. But why should he stop now? It wasn't like he had anything more to lose. He took the final steps and swung the door open. As he went into the room he tried to straighten up, tried to remember how to look like a police.
"Greg?" a small, female voice exclaimed from his side.
He turned his head and felt a wave of relief as he saw Molly's familiar, brown eyes. It would be okay. Molly would help him. He took a deep breath and looked around the room. It was practically empty. All the tables clean; all the spaces where the bodies were held closed. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting. His body, lying in the open? Wrapped in a white sheet with burning candles all around it? Greg snorted and suppressed a laugh. Then he suddenly felt as if he was going to be sick.
"You look… tired", Molly said and he looked at her again, processing what she had said.
Polite Molly, always trying to be tactful. He wasn't sure how he looked but he was certain tired didn't even begin to cover it. As he eyed Molly more carefully he realized that she didn't look especially spirited either. She was dressed in a simple red blouse and blue jeans, with her hair in an untidy ponytail. No lab coat. She looked almost the opposite from what she had looked like at the Christmas party, such a long time ago, but she was still gleaming. Greg shook his head quickly and made a grimace. What was he doing?
"Can I help you with anything?" Molly said, her eyes flickering a bit. She moved so that she stood by a table in front of him, but didn't come any closer, as if she was afraid of coming to near.
Greg looked down at the floor, then quickly looked up. This. he only needed to do this, then it would be okay. He had to forget the picture of Sherlock getting arrested by him. He had to forget seeing only a limp body far away in a puddle of blood. All that had been too surreal. He needed to see it for real.
"I'm here…", he began, his voice hoarser than he had expected it to be. He cleared his throat and started again. "I want to see the body." It had been easy to say the words in the end. The only thing different was the growing nauseating feeling that filled him.
Molly looked away, looking a bit taken aback. Her lips were moving slightly, as if she were formulating the reply in her head before uttering it.
"I'm sorry. You… you can't."
The answer surprised Greg. He shifted on the spot, biting his lip, not sure what to say next. What did she mean he couldn't? He was a detective inspector, for goodness sake! Sure he was a failure when it came to his profession, but facts were still facts. Molly was moving a hand through her hair, still not looking at him.
"Please", he tried again. "I need to see it. Just once."
Molly was taking a step away, her eyes inspecting the floor, which was shining more than usual, as if it recently had been cleaned. Her voice was shaking a bit when she answered.
"I'm afraid it's not poss…"
"How the hell is it not possible?" Greg asked, frustration filling him, hardly aware that he was raising his voice. His head was pounding, and the nausea grew stronger. He reached out a hand to the nearest wall to support himself, his eyes dancing over the walls; the walls that he knew hid all the hollow spaces. One of them contained Sherlock's body. If he could see it, just once, he could do the deducing thing that Sherlock was, had been, so very fond of. He could figure it out. He was sure of it. Looking at the body, seeing the arrogant face once more. Then he would know if he had been lied to. He looked at Molly again, taking a deep breath, but when he continued to talk it was still with the same loud voice, shaking with anger, anger that he wasn't sure where it came from. "I want to see it!"
"There is no p-point. His face is all broken. You don't want to…"
"You have no idea what I want", Greg said, raising a shaking finger pointed at her. He blinked, hard. An electrical feeling was moving through his body, and suddenly he forgot about the nausea. He no longer felt the headache. He clenched his jaw and searched for Molly's gaze, but she refused to look at him. Why wouldn't she look at him? This wasn't his fault. He couldn't have known.
"Show me the body! Just show it to me!" he said with as a calm voice he could muster, not caring about how childish the demand sounded when he repeated it.
The room was suddenly very warm. His neck felt itchy, and when he raised a hand to rub it he couldn't feel any difference. He took a step further into the room; he just couldn't stand still anymore. The room whirled for a moment but he kept his eyes fixated on Molly. She blamed him. That was the only explanation. Her eyes still looked everywhere but on him. Her cheeks were red and she covered one of them with her hand as if she was trying to rub the blush away. The other hand was in her hair. Twirling and pulling the wisps, ruining the already messy hairdo. She blamed him. In a way her avoidance was worse than John's punch had been.
"It's late", she said after a few seconds, her voice careful. "You s-shouldn't…"
"I just want to see it!" Greg said, forgetting how to breathe for a moment, having to gulp for air. But the air was too stuffy, his breaths to quick. He clenched his fists and bit his lip, hard, in a vain attempt to stop the room from spinning. "It's your bloody job to show it to me!"
"It isn't though. I don't think it's a good idea for you to…"
"What the hell is so hard about showing it to me?"
"You should go home…"
"First I want to see the body!"
"I can't show it to you…"
"It is my right! I am a detective inspector! I am the fucking police! I am…"
"Stop screaming at me!"
In a way Molly's unexpected, loud words were just like being slapped in the face. Greg paused, with his mouth half-opened and he realized at the same time that he had run out of air. With his face still burning after Molly's yelling it was suddenly a lot easier to breathe. He took a deep breath, wanting to close his eyes, but he found himself incapable of doing even such a simple thing. Molly looked at him for a split second. Her whole body tense, her eyes glistening in a way that reminded him of fire. Then she turned her back to him and he stared at it, unable to move. As he breathed he was able to see the room more clearly again. The nausea came back, and so did the throbbing in his head, but it was more in the background then before. He slowly relaxed and let his hands fall down at his sides. His palms hurt where his nails had been digging in, but all he could think about was Molly that was trembling in front of him. She too was taking deep breaths. And he realized what an idiot he had been. Now he remembered.
"I'm sorry", he whispered. Molly made no movement that could tell him whether she had heard him or not. He raised his voice a bit, just blurting out the words that came to his mind, not regretting them until afterwards. "Jesus, Molly. I'm so sorry. I had forgotten. You liked the guy, didn't you?"
He bit his lip. The only reaction he got from Molly now was a soft snort followed by an equally quiet, uncharacteristically dry laughter, before she turned around. She straightened up, her eyes dry but tired. She released her hair from the tassel that had been holding it up. It fell down at her sides like veil. She looked towards him, her gaze set somewhere above his right shoulder, on the door.
"I would like you to leave", she stated in a clear but monotone voice.
Greg swallowed, both to give himself time to think and to get rid of the embarrassing lump what was taking place in his throat. "Molly, I…"
"I have had an awful day and I know…", she said, her voice trembling just slightly",… that you are upset, but I want you to leave. Now."
"I'm sorry."
"You said."
Greg cleared his throat and swallowed again. Then he nodded. "Of course. Sorry. Of course I'll go."
Molly nodded too. Greg took a final look at the room. He tried not to register the storage spaces, not allowing himself to imagine Sherlock's broken body, but doing it anyway.
"See you at the funeral I suppose", he said slowly and just then Molly finally met his gaze, as if she was daring to look at him again. She let out a gasp and then she quickly covered her mouth with her hand and swallowed before saying anything.
"You're… bleeding", she said.
For once Greg didn't see her slight hesitation as a sign of nervousness or stupidity. It was more like she could imagine such a wide range of ways of saying the same thing and she had to pause to decide which way to go. Molly observed him, and it took Greg a few seconds to realize that an answer was required from him.
"Yeah."
"Just above your left eye. You have a plaster…", Molly stopped herself, the corners of her lips were twitching a bit, and she closed her eyes for a moment as if she was mentally blaming herself for giving too much information",… but it has bled through."
"Oh."
Molly started moving so quickly she almost startled him. For a moment it seemed like she was going towards him, but then she flinched and went to the other side of the room.
"I am going to take a look at it", she said, talking fast. "Then you have to leave. I have to go home. There is a thing, er… My cats. I mean that I have cats at home, and I have to take care of them. But you look pale, and you're bleeding so I should take a look at that. I already said, didn't I?" She took a deep breath as she stopped, already back with a small box, blushing slightly. Greg nodded, and had to stop himself from smiling. Her talking made him forget, just for a moment, even if she didn't make much sense.
"You can sit down", she said. Greg sat down on the floor and put his arms around his knees. Molly's eyes grew big.
"I meant on a chair!" she looked around in the chair-free room. "I was going to get you a chair", she blurted out.
"This is fine."
"Yes. Okay. Good", she kneeled before him and removed his plaster with a quick movement. Greg jerked involuntarily. Molly clasped a hand around her mouth.
"Sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't think. I am a doctor, I really am. Sort of."
"It's okay", Greg said, leaning against the wall. Sitting down so quickly had made him a bit dizzy; a reminder of the alcohol that he had drunk. He wasn't looking forward to the morning. "I think I kind of deserved it actually."
Molly smiled for a moment, and then began examining his cut.
"You shouldn't have been drinking with this", she said softly. "I… what I mean is, what if you had gotten a real head injury?"
"Yeah", Greg said. He didn't know if it was the alcohol or her gentle fingers on his forehead, but it was getting hard to think.
She opened the box and then Greg supposed she used the tools in there to clean the cut or something. The truth was that he wasn't really aware of what was happening. He felt numb. Not in the cold, chocked way that he had experienced earlier that day, but in a way that was almost comforting. Molly's eyes were totally focused on her task, and without the insecure flickering they always did they looked almost warm. They made Greg once more think of the last Christmas before anything of this had happened. He didn't say anything until Molly closed the box again; a signal that she was done.
"Thank you."
She smiled a quick smile in his direction and rose.
"I got you a new plaster."
"Thanks. Really. I mean it. And sorry again."
She nodded and went to the other side of the room to leave the box where it belonged. On her way back she turned off all the lamps and the room turned considerably darker. Greg rose too. He knew he had to go. God knew that he had embarrassed himself enough already. But he had to ask.
"Do you blame me? Is that why you won't show me his body?"
Molly froze in the middle of the room. He could only see the outline of her face, but again it was obvious that she wouldn't look at him.
"Please…", she said quietly, and after a deep breath she continued, "…let it go."
"You do, don't you?"
Molly took a few steps closer to him, and her face got caught in the light from the corridor outside, that was seeping through the gaps by the door. She was looking at him now, no, she was almost studying him. Her eyes were narrowed.
"Why would I?"
Greg let out a slow breath and said the only thing he could. "I tried to arrest him."
"I didn't know that", she answered, but it was an obvious lie. Her eyes were flickering again for a moment, but then her eyes met his again and her face was open and honest. "It doesn't matter."
"How can you say that?" he asked. When she just continued looking at him, without answering, he sighed. "I don't know what to think of him anymore."
His eyes stung at he was grateful that he wasn't standing in the direction of the light, and that the room was so dark. Molly nodded.
"I've known him since he was practically a teenager and now…", he continued in a whisper, because that was all the voice he could muster really",… I just can't believe this. I don't know what to think." A dark, heavy feeling was replacing the numbness that he had felt earlier, and again, the feeling that he was going to be sick returned. And Molly just continued looking at him, her gaze intense, almost as if she wanted to say something without using words. Greg swallowed hard, and looked up at the ceiling for a couple of seconds. He was usually a man that appreciated silence but now he couldn't bare it.
"What do you think? Do you believe it? What they say about him?"
Molly breathed slowly. "I think", she said after a while, "that your… I mean I think that, my impression, and your impression of someone… It's just as good as anyone's impression. We did know him."
"Yeah", Greg said and rubbed his cheek. "I wish that you had been there to tell me that yesterday."
Molly smiled, but it wasn't a smile that reached her eyes. "It wouldn't have made a difference."
"Because I would still have been an idiot?"
Molly quickly shook her head. "No. I meant that it wouldn't have made a difference for him in the end. What happened w-would still have happened."
Greg swallowed again, suddenly unable to answer. Molly took another step towards him, so that they almost touched but didn't, and she looked up at him.
"Would you please believe that?" she whispered.
Greg nodded, because he couldn't think of anything else to do. Molly smiled again, the same sad, twitchy movement with her lips that didn't affect her eyes.
"I really ought to go now", she said in the same whispering voice. "You can find the way out yourself, right?"
And then she was gone, and the door slammed shut behind him. Greg stayed in the same position for a couple of moments, just breathing. Then he left the mortuary too.
When he had been a kid he had always known the best. He had known what was right and what wasn't. Now he knew nothing. The world he knew with ethics and moral had turned upside down and he had to muster up all the strength he had to stop himself from going after, from falling too. He had always seen himself as a leader, as someone trustable, stable. But maybe it all wasn't just about cops and criminals. Maybe he wasn't automatically a bad guy, just because of a false step.
Maybe if he let someone else take the lead this time, it would all be alright.
The end