Title: Lestrade's Guilt
Dislaimer: Characters belong to BBC and ACD
Setting: AU
Rating: K+
Warnings: Character death
Summary: What if Sherlock had never met John? This is a story of Lestrade's guilty feelings regarding the demise of the great detective.
Lestrade stood over the body. Another suicide. This time he couldn't find his professional detachment. This was someone he'd known. This was someone he'd worked with. This one hurt. And he felt guilty. This man wouldn't be dead now if Lestrade hadn't asked him to look into the case. Sherlock's still form lay on the floor of the classroom. What had he done?
He watched listlessly as Anderson and his crew finished with their findings and lifted the limp body onto the stretcher.
He'd have to tell Mycroft. He wouldn't collect a payment for this information though. Information he'd hoped he'd never have to give. When Mycroft had first asked him to spy on Sherlock, he'd been wary. What kind of man would want that kind of mundane information? But Lestrade had checked him out. If the British government trusted this man, Lestrade could do no less. And then there was the fact that he was the man's brother. Mycroft had seemed truly concerned about his brother's welfare and only needed to be reassured that he was behaving himself. As promised, he'd never had to give Mycroft information he'd felt uncomfortable about passing along. He'd liked the extra income, and it only needled him slightly about the underhandedness of the whole affair.
The funeral was large. Sherlock had touched the lives of a great number of people from all walks of life. The attendees spanned from royalty to the homeless. Lestrade sat with Donovan and Anderson on one side and Mike, a man he'd met at Bart's, on the other.
"I guess I can stop looking," Mike said.
"Looking for what?" Lestrade asked at length putting away his own thoughts for now. Mike obviously felt the need to talk.
"Sherlock asked me to help him find a flat mate. I guess he won't be needing one now." Mike looked at his hands as he held them tightly in his lap. "You know what's so weird though? The day after he died I ran into an old school buddy who was also looking for a flat share. I think they would have got on. You know? Sherlock could be such a bugger sometimes, but John could have handled it. He'd been in the army, he could put up with anything. Pity we'll never know now."
"Yeah," Lestrade said quietly. The guilt was still there. He tried to convince himself it wasn't his fault, but they were just words. He knew the truth. Sherlock Holmes would still be alive if he hadn't gone to him for help. If he hadn't needed his help. If he'd been a better inspector. But that kind of talk got him nowhere. Besides, he consoled himself, no one could control what Sherlock did. He had always been a step (or two, or three) ahead of everyone else. So how had the killer gotten the drop on him? And how was he going to be able to stop these killings now?
Two days later Donovan knocked on Lestrade's office door. "We've got problems downtown."
Lestrade dropped the newspaper he'd been reading onto his desk and, grabbing his jacket, headed out the door. The paper lay on his desk folded back to the article he'd been reading: Cabbie dies of aneurism, hits light pole.