The Test of a Man
[Chapter 1: The Test of a Man]
Written in response to a challenge set by feralandfree for the Sickfic Challenge in Mrs Hudson's Kitchen.
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade privately considered himself to be many kinds of a man. An intelligent man. The lad from the local comp who had gone on to reach the very top of his profession before the age of fifty. A compassionate man. Someone who had never been unnecessarily vengeful towards the criminals he apprehended. Hell, he even spoke nicely about his cheating ex-wife in public because he couldn't bear to see the woman he once loved disgraced. A brave man. One who would pursue his target no matter what the cost to himself. It was this last idea that the senior officer secretly prized most highly, a bright gem of personal truth to cling to when the rest of his life was on the brink of collapse. But if he was truly so brave, why couldn't he bring himself to open the letter from St. Thomas's that now sat like a lead weight inside his jacket pocket?
Lestrade tried to focus on the papers on his desk, but his mind continued to mull over the events of the past months. At first the pains had been easy to write off as simply the pangs of ageing, or the result of overwork. When the symptoms worsened and multiplied it became harder and harder to imagine them away, particularly given the Lestrade family history. Finally the niggling voices of doubt became too loud to ignore and he booked himself an appointment with the GP, just for a routine check-up mind. And that check-up, well that had eventually led to the production of the test results that he had received by the morning post; probably the most important results he would ever receive. The one blessing to be counted amidst all of this worry was the fact that one Mr Sherlock Holmes—ordinarily a master of deduction—hadn't unearthed his secret. Sherlock's cold-heartedness would, Lestrade told himself, be too much to stand. Besides, his ex had made it perfectly clear that he wasn't to burden her or the children with this when he had tried to talk, and if he couldn't rely on the support of his own family then what could he expect from a virtual stranger?
As if just thinking of the devil had done the trick, Sherlock chose that moment to burst into the office without so much as a cursory knock, followed by a red-faced John and an indignant Sergeant Donovan, who was shouting about calling security.
'I've got it' Sherlock announced to Lestrade, looking almost gleeful. 'They're test results from a medical examination. Stupid, stupid', he added more to himself. John looked puzzled, and Donovan simply turned on her heel and left, muttering something about Sherlock having 'finally cracked'. The consulting detective continued undeterred. 'Of course I've known there was something going onphysically for weeks, your gait alone gave it away. Then I simply put it down to you letting yourself go a bit. After all, you have been spending rather a lot of time propping up the bar at the Hare & Hound of late. But there were those mysterious appointments, which I foolishly attributed to another ill-advised attempt at re-kindling things with the former Mrs Lestrade. It was the envelope that you kept glancing at during your 'briefing' this morning that finally gave it away, though why it's taken me so long to put two and two together I don't understand', finished Sherlock, finally running out of breath.
John, having at last caught up with the flow of events, interjected. 'Stop Sherlock. Stop this now. This is not a matter for one of your deductions'. Turning to Lestrade, he asked more gently, 'Is it true? Is it—is it—serious?'.
Lestrade felt a lump rise in his throat as he recognised the genuine concern that was now written on the doctor's face. Yet even more striking was Sherlock's sudden look of undisguised anguish, something the inspector had never before seen from the younger man. In that moment Lestrade realised the true reasons for his deception. He hadn't been afraid of Sherlock's coldness. He had been unwilling to hurt or worry the consulting detective, a man who, despite his cocksure persona, sometimes seemed so alone, so detached.
Nobody spoke for what felt like several minutes. Then it was Sherlock's melodious tones that finally broke the silence.
'Just open it. Open it now.'
