Stop This Train
John Watson, 3 years after the death of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective
January 4
It's a few days after New Years'. Everyone at the station is bustling about, some discussing the information they hold in messily labeled manila file folders, some comparing resolutions. You'd think they'd grow tired of hearing impossible plans for change after the first day or so, but they're all seemingly engrossed with each others' stories and goals, and no one seems to mind the repetition.
I'm sick of it. It seems so… ordinary. So plain. So superficial.
Although maybe I shouldn't be one to talk. I haven't been interested in these kinds of things in years, the traditions and cultural must-do's. My ability to put up a front and pretend to care was greatly diminished when I was discharged, and even more so after my friend's death. Not that I would ever admit it – but it seems to be common knowledge around here. Every time a holiday rolls around and everyone else is working to meet the expectations of others, I find myself the recipient of those looks, the ones somewhere between pity, understanding, and hesitation. Everyone knows, not many are sure if they care, and no one wants to say anything to the sad little man who's best friend jumped off the deep end.
About 330 days of the year, it easy for people to go on as normal. But it's as if someone declared December as Month to Pity the Living, and didn't tell me until it was too late. And unfortunately, December sometimes runs into January, as I've found to be the case. Something about parties and socializing being good for the soul, for the healing process. I've found it does the opposite, makes me nauseous and gives me a headache. I once made the mistake of expressing this to my therapist and she diagnosed me with mild agoraphobia and tried to put me on medication. I quickly renounced my issues and had to force myself to go to every shitty office party for a month until she finally let it go.
I nudge the door to Lestrade's office open with my cane, the creaking of the door making me cringe, even against the noise behind me. The detective inspector is in the middle of a rather aggressive phone call, but he nods to invite me in anyway, holding up a finger, he'll be with me in a moment.
I walk in slowly, looking around. I've probably been in here hundreds of times but I take it all in as if it's my first time. I vaguely remember my first time in here, but back then I hadn't had the mindset to observe every little detail. No one had been there to tell me to. Now, though, I do. I take in all the details everywhere, because he trained me to. Unlike then, however, there's no one here to ask me what I see, what it all means. There's no one here to tell me I need to look harder, that I'm missing something. Or to give me that little crooked grin I'd come to know as mine when I catch something he didn't. That pride.
If I close my eyes, I can still see it.
Lestrade's voice brings me back to the present, and as much as I hate to even think it, it's a welcome distraction from my train of thought. Thinking about him always brings an ache to my gut. The man wants to know what I've found on our case, and I tell him. It's a run of the mill murder with an angry ex wife and a cheating ex husband. I don't even know why they called me in on this, but I let them. It's better than sitting alone in 221B with Mrs. Hudson offering me tea every five minutes.
Lestrade's still talking to me, and I realize I haven't been listening to a word he's said. Suddenly feeling bad, I try to catch up with him but missing half of the monologue is making it difficult. So I shake my head, wave for him to pause, and ask him to repeat the introduction to whatever he's telling me now. He nods and starts again, unphased by my incompetence. Most people would've been offended, would've sighed, irritated, cast me a disapproving look and wondered why I even tried. But no, not Lestrade. I thought I understood it at first, Sherlock was his friend, too, despite how I know Sherlock would deny it if he heard me say it aloud. "I don't have friends, John," he would say. Actually, he did say it, and I remember his apology as if it were yesterday. I took it for granted at the time.
I don't take things for granted anymore. I can't.
Anyway, later, when everyone else's mourning turned into pity for me, the broken sidekick, Lestrade seemed to still be in the same boat as I. Except there was something different. Where I missed my friend, where I miss my friend, Lestrade mourns his death. His suicide. I fully believe he blames himself, and to be honest, for a while I blamed him, too. But I stopped when I realized I, we, had no one to blame but Sherlock himself. And even that faded as time passed. But I never told Lestrade these things. He knows I don't find him at fault, and I know that this knowledge does nothing to appease him.
He's explaining their part of murder to me. It's easy, I know before he's halfway through that the ex wife did it. He's pretty sure of it, too, I can tell. This is happening a lot lately, they don't always need me, but they call me in anyway. I think I'm less irritating than Sherlock was, I can come into the office without making it known to everyone who's sleeping with who just for the fun of it, so they're more willing to invite me to assist with cases. It's also probably to make me feel useful, but I don't mind. It helps.
I start what could be a simple response, "the wife", with some evidence, explaining an airtight conclusion he can easily paraphrase for the paperwork, and I give him some excuses I expect her to use, explain why she was definitely not drugged and definitely not in an altered state of mental well-being. Simple. Standard. Mechanical.
I stand up, leaning heavily on the wooden stick by my side, preparing to leave. Lestrade stands, too, moving around the desk to guide me to the door. He pulls it open, and as I cross the threshold, he grabs my shoulder, turning me slightly towards him.
"Take care of yourself, John."
I sigh. "I know."
