Resigned
Ever since Sherlock's fall, Lestrade had flatly refused to do anything but work. At home, he threw himself into chores with a fervor that at first enthralled his wife, but soon frightened her at how unlike him it was. It finally culminated in a plea to stop, that he couldn't keep up at this pace.
Sherlock had been wrong about his wife's wavering affections. That only made him more determined to prove the man right on all other points.
Lestrade was midway through a case file, angrily assaulting the wording and crime scene photographs as if he were mentally trying to batter a hole through their frustratingly complex nature, when he heard someone nervously clear his throat from the doorway. He glanced up irritably to identify his caller. The man he saw there only doubled his frustration. Anderson.
"What do you have this time?" he growled. It wasn't as if this case wasn't already confusing him at every turn, which was the reason he'd called Sherlock in the first place, but Lestrade's unwelcome visitor had to be one of the only other people who shared his guilt.
Anderson mumbled something inaudible under his breath.
Lestrade looked at him and sighed wearily, a sense of resignation flooding over him, "What is it, Anderson?"
The forensics expert shifted slightly in an almost nervous gesture. "I wanted to say sorry."
Lestrade's mind went blank. "What?"
"For this," Anderson clarified, gesturing toward the room full of Sherlock's casefiles. Sherlock's legacy. "I just – well. Tell John for me."
Lestrade might have nodded, though in his shock he couldn't really say. Anderson retreated swiftly through the door, vanishing and leaving him to his paperwork.
Blowing out a disbelieving breath, Lestrade turned slowly back to his work and deductions.
Somehow, it seemed to be much easier now.