"Go easy on him, Detective Inspector. He's in shock."
Well, hell, thought Lestrade. So am I.
Technically, he should have gone to the scene of the crime before he went to the morgue. Bugger technicalities. Technically, Greg should have been out of a job ours ago. After all, he'd let a private detective, a sociopath, a fraud onto his cases, hadn't he?
No. He hadn't. He hadn't because Sherlock wasn't any of those. He was misunderstood, brilliant, and the best consulting detective in the world. Greg couldn't look at him without seeing the ghost of a shaking creature shivering his way through withdrawal on Greg's couch. Sherlock Holmes was a great man—a good man, after he got off the drugs and moved into 221B with John. A man who cared, despite outward appearances.
In the morgue, things went a bit hazy for Greg. He couldn't look at the dark curls slicked with blood or the sightless pale eyes. Sherlock couldn't have jumped. He couldn't be dead. Greg remembered bringing him home for the first time—not the way he'd brought Maria or Joey home, in their little baby carriers, but slung over his back in a fireman's lift. He'd watched Sherlock grow just as surely as he'd seen his own kids grow.
Christ, his kids. How would Greg tell them? Joey wouldn't understand at all, but Maria was thirteen. She remembered and loved the madman who used to sleep on her da's couch. How was Greg supposed to explain that Sherlock had thrown himself off of—?
"Greg?"
"Molly." Greg remembered her as the pretty girl from 221B's rubbish Christmas party. He knew she'd loved Sherlock, too. They'd all loved Sherlock in their own strange way. Greg wrapped his arms around Molly, feeling her trembling through her lab coat. "Are you okay?"
The girl took a deep breath. "I'm the one who…they brought him in to me." She squeezed her eyes shut, then whispered, "Do you want his things? I have them in a bag. They're…here, take them."
"Evidence," Anderson reminded Greg. The DI's jaw clenched. Evidence of what? That you called him a freak and a fraud one too many times and I never stopped you? "What are you doing? You can't take that out of the bag. We need to run tests—"
Anderson flinched when Lestrade whirled on him. "Don't. Just don't, all right? Shut up or leave. It's your choice."
"Greg." Molly tugged at Greg's sleeve. "Greg, John…John was watching. When he, um, he—John saw it."
"Well, we'll have to question him, then—"
"Shut up, Anderson!" This time, Anderson stepped backward quickly. The DI brushed past him to the door.
"Where are you going?"
"You stay here. I'll question John. I will. Nobody else."
Now, the paramedic tried to warn Lestrade away. "Dr. Watson's condition is fragile. After all, he just saw—"
"I know what he saw!" Greg swallowed hard to control his cracking voice. "I know what I'm doing."
Reluctantly, the paramedic nodded. Silently, he pointed to the pavement on the other side of the ambulance.
The miserable figure huddled beneath a shock blanket looked nothing like the John Watson Greg knew. Blank gaze, trembling hands…vaguely, Greg remembered that John had PTSD. How many flashbacks had seeing Sherlock jump triggered?
Hell, how many had the damn orange blanket triggered? Greg cursed the paramedic's stupidity. In the back of his mind, Sherlock of two years ago protested, "I'm in shock. See? I have a blanket!" That was the first night he'd gone on a case with John, wasn't it? Bleeding Christ.
The evidence bag felt heavy in Lestrade's hand. Damned coat. How did Sherlock managed to wear it all the time?
Then inspiration struck Greg. Quietly, he pulled Sherlock's trench coat from the bag. He crouched by John, wincing when his knees popped. "John."
At first, John didn't respond. Ah, what the hell, Lestrade thought. Gingerly, he pulled the shock blanket from John's shoulders.
Immediately, the doctor stiffened. Greg held up his hands defensively, just in case John decided to take a swing at him. When John didn't move, Greg said quietly, "I brought something for you. Look."
Reluctantly, John looked the trench coat over. Though his gaze remained blank, he relaxed slightly. Greg sighed. "Do you want to hold it?" John didn't respond. Greg inhaled deeply and took his chances. "Do you want to wear it?"
Fractionally, John nodded.
Greg wasn't sure how well John's trembling hands could handle a coat. After a moment's thought, he pulled John's left arm toward him and carefully guided it through one sleeve of Sherlock's massive coat. When John didn't hit him for it, Lestrade tucked the coat around John's shoulders. It felt like getting the kids ready for school back while Sherlock watched from the couch, drawling, "Don't let him take you to school, Maria. You won't learn anything there. It's dull!"
Once he pulled John's right arm through the coat's right sleeve, Greg sat back on the kerb cautiously. John glanced down at his arms and blinked, as if only noticing the coat for the first time. He traced the edge of the red-threaded buttonhole reverently. Then, slowly, he flipped the coat's collar up.
Greg put his head in his hands. He had no right to cry. This was John's grief, no-one else's. Greg lost the right to cry when he stopped chastising Sally for calling Sherlock a freak, when he called a fake drugs bust to bully Sherlock into submission, when he let the Chief Superintendent's officers handcuff Sherlock and John together for a crime they hadn't committed. Seeing John in that coat, though—knowing the splotches marring it were drops of Sherlock's blood—
The DI tugged at his hair. The pain in his scalp gave him an excuse for his burning eyes. He winced when John spoke hoarsely. "He wasn't a fake. Sherlock was for real. I saw him, Greg, I know what he did! Moriarty wrapped me in Goddamn Semtex. You saw it! You know it was real! You—you let them ruin Sherlock, and he—Jesus, Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock."
"I know." Greg swallowed hard, remembering the strung-out junkie lecturing the Yard on a murder—and being right, for God's sake!—on that cold night all those years ago. It didn't matter how he'd done it. Greg had just been grateful for the brilliant mind, churning out all those answers to solve his crimes. He'd never thought to be grateful for the man.
A police car pulled away from Barts. Greg closed his eyes to avoid glimpsing the dark red puddle at the foot of the building. Beside him, John gagged. Greg's eyes flew open when, within the embrace of Sherlock's coat, John began to shudder. Greg reached out to him and then stopped. He had no right to comfort John. Greg was the one who'd abandoned Sherlock. It was his fault.
"I'm sorry," Greg said. Though he knew John wasn't the one who needed the apology, he was wearing Sherlock's coat. It was the closest he would ever get to speaking to Sherlock again. "Sherlock was a good man. I know he didn't lie. I know Moriarty was real." He shivered. "God help me, I know."
This is based on a drawing I once saw of John wrapped in Sherlock's coat after the Fall. Above the drawing, Lestrade was saying something to the effect of, "Let him wear it. He needs it." I've forgotten where I saw it and who drew it. If you know this drawing (or if you're the artist), please tell me!
It's almost finals week where I am. I'm about as stressed as I can get before I snap. Writing fanfic keeps me sane. I guess the flavor of the week is "fans'/John's/Lestrade's tears."
Unbetaed, unBritpicked, written in between English assignments. My mistakes are my own. I'll be happy to correct them if you point them out to me.