Dear God, sometimes...
Dear God, sometimes...
... I wonder if you care at all, seven-year-old G. Lestrade thought as he watched the twin coffins, carved from dark, polished mahogany, lowered into the earth. A car crash, the policeman at the front door had told him just a few days ago.
"Look at him, poor thing." "I feel sorry for the child." "Both parents together..." "Hit and run accident..." "What will become of him?" Lestrade, no more need for a first name when he's the only one with the last, scrubbed his eyes dutifully. He promised himself he wouldn't cry today, not in front of everybody.
A frail, bony hand on his shoulder roused him from his misery. "Come on, child." Sweet Nanna cooed comfortingly in his ear. "Lets get you away from here."
Lestrade let himself be turned away from the fresh graves and he stumbled after Nanna. "Nanna..." he called out softly after her. Nanna turned to him inquisitively. "...who did this?"
A look of absolute agony crossed Nanna's face but it was gone before it could distress the confused child. "I don't know." She shook her silver head solemnly. "I don't know."
"Dear God," Lestrade prayed that night when he knelt by his bed and folded his small hands. "please make the streets safe."
Fourteen years later, Lestrade applied to become a police officer.
Dear God, sometimes...
... I think you're making life hard on purpose, DC Lestrade mused as he stood outside the crime scene perimeter, posture tense and firm, chilly rainwater dripping down the back of his collar. Three days straight of investigating the serial murder case and now a rainstorm...
"Constable!" He turned to watch the detective inspector in charge of the case waddle up to him, bundled up in his wonderfully thick overcoat, reminiscent of a fat duck.
"Can I help you, Sir?" Lestrade asked politely, tipping his police cap up an inch, causing another wave of water to run down his back.
"Yes! In fact, you can help me!" The pig of a man expelled, red-faced. "I had a casefile with me when I arrived, and now it's gone!"
Lestrade blinked for a moment, wondering 'And you think I know where it is?'. "Perhaps Sergeant Nils will know where to look, Sir?"
The inspector's face grew redder, if that was at all possible. "What are you implying, constable! That I've gone and lost it? Do you think I'm incompetent?" he shouted in Lestrade's face.
Yes Sir. Very much so, Sir. "No Sir, I merely did not know anything about the casefile and thought Sergeant Nils may be of better service."
"Well, your input is unwanted, constable! If I want your advice, I'll ask for it!" Lestrade pressed his lips together to bite back a retort. "Though I'd probably get better help from a worm!"
Well, I think you need all the help you can get, Sir. With all due respect. Lestrade merely straightened himself more and remained wordless as he stared at a point just above the hateful inspector's left shoulder.
Seeing he had gained no response from the constable, the incompetent inspector huffed and moved on to harass the next constable. Lestrade blew out a sigh of relief, shoulders sagging.
Sometimes, he thought, his efforts were useless. He glanced back at the crime scene and thought of all the grueling hours he spent gathering information on their killer and still he eluded them. But, with an arrogant, hotheaded, muscle-brained, prat of an inspector as the lead on the case, this much was to be expected.
Lestrade let out a resigned sigh. There goes another murder to the cold cases files...
"Constable... G. Lestrade, isn't it?" Lestrade braced himself for another unwarrented public humiliation.
"Sir?"
"Oh, no need to look so apprehensive, constable!" Sergeant Nils smiled kindly at him. Lestrade liked Sergeant Nils, almost everybody in the office did, he was his governor's polar opposite. It was quite hard not to like the elderly man. Sergeant Nils swiped at a wet, greying lock of hair that had stuck to his forehead.
"Sir." Lestrade smiled back politely.
"Don't be so discouraged by what the governor over there says. He rarely speaks the facts, even though they're written in front of him with bold lettering. A dispairing future for the New Scotland Yard, I suppose."
Lestrade chuckled a little. "Don't let him hear you say that. He's your superior officer."
Sergeant Nils pshawed at him and waved the 'missing' casefile aloft. "He's a man who can't find his casefile in the back of his very own car." And with a mild 'evening' he disappeared.
"Dear God," Lestrade heard the constable next to him gasp dramatically. "maybe there is hope for the future of the New Scotland Yard."
Dear God, sometimes...
... I'm very, very grateful. DS Lestrade smiled as he entered the office that morning. "Morning, Sir!"
Detective Inspector Nils looked up at him with a smile. "Good morning to you too, Sergeant." Lestrade slipped behind his desk, gathering the list of reports he had to write up on that day. "What's got you grinning like a Cheshire cat so early in the day?" He raised a white eyebrow. "Have you got a date?"
Lestrade laughed. "Nope. Just thinking about how grateful I am that, of all the detective inspectors I know, I work for you."
Nils just blinked at him blankly. "Well, son, if that's what it takes to get you up in the morning..."
"Hm, a nonjudgemental response..." Lestrade grinned at his superior officer. "... And you're still wondering why I think I'm fortunate." Their conversation was broken off by an angry shout down the hall and DS Chase dashed past the office in tears.
"Ah, I'm beginning to see what you mean." Nils shook his head with a sad sigh. "Some people just don't remember the days when they were still young, naive, and terribly idealistic. Fresh out of uniform..." A distant look sparked in Nils's eye.
Lestrade raised a playful eyebrow. "Do you remember? I mean, how long ago was that?" This earned him a dutiful slap upside the head.
"Oi! Enough wise-cracks from you!"
Lestrade grinned, ruefully rubbing his sore head. "Yes Sir!"
Dear God, sometimes...
... I do, honestly believe you work in mysterious ways. DS Lestrade pressed his lips together and bowed his head respectfully, more in apology to the victim before he had to poke around for evidence. "What do you think, Sergeant?" Nils asked him, peering over his shoulder for a better look at the corpse. "Suicide?"
"In a chapel?" Lestrade asked, just slightly horrified. "Right up at the altar? Do people do that?"
"Not the point." Nils grunted grimly at the large puddle of blood they were intruding on.
"Bullet hole in the right temple, suggests suicide, but no burns around the wound. So, shot from a distance?" Lestrade looked at Nils. "Not suicide."
"Good observation." Nils nodded sagely. "Suspects?"
"The priest, two college students, and a young man who I sent to the station for possession of narcotics." Nils nodded grimly again.
"Alright, divide and conquer, you take the two students, I'll talk to the priest."
Lestrade nodded and walked outside when his cellphone buzzed. He pulled it out to read the new text he had recieved. It's the female college student.
Lestrade paused and looked around. Then he texted back to the unknown number. Sorry, what?
The murderer is the female college student. Do I have to spell it out for you?
How do you know that? Who are you?
The bullet penetrated the crucifix behind the altar, a few inches above the victim's height, suggesting a vertically challenged murderer. Check with forensics, I'll be proven right.
Why don't you send this information to the DI in charge?
An unknown person, is texting you with information privy only to the police, the witnesses... and of course, the murderer. Arn't you scared? I don't want to risk giving him a heart attack.
You're the druggie.
Why do you say that?
All other personel with information on the case have been accounted for and none of them are fiddling with phones. Lestrade's mysterious texter didn't respond for a while.
I think we'll see much more of each other, DS Lestrade.
What do you mean, 'see'? Lestrade's head jumped up at the implication and he looked around, turning in circles for a moment.
Through all the hustle and bustle of the forensics running around gathering evidence, Lestrade caught sight of dark, curly hair and sharp quicksilver eyes.
The name is Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective.
"Sergeant!" Lestrade started, near jumping out of his skin when Nils called for him. "What's gotten into you? You're acting like a scared rabbit, or something!"
Lestrade blinked and looked back to where he saw the consulting detective, but he was long gone. "Uh, I'm alright." he stammered. "Say, don't you think it's strange that the bullet wound in the victim's head was angled upward, instead of straight through the brain?"
Nils hummed thoughtfully, stroking his chin. "You know what? You just might be onto something there!"
It isn't until he is urged to show a witness his credentials before he realizes it's missing, or more importantly, it's been pick-pocketed. And it's no more a mystery how this Sherlock Holmes character knew his name.
Dear God, sometimes...
... I think you secretly hate me.
Nils is lying on the ground, rain splashing in his face and he's so cold, motionless. DS Lestrade feels the urge to fall to his knees and beg the old DI to get up, to tell him that he'll catch his death of cold down there... Not much use telling him that, he's already dead. A small voice inside his head whispers snidely.
Nils's eyes are still open, staring listlessly into the dark, stormy heavens and raindrops fall into his eyes, but he never blinks. It makes Lestrade feel sick to his stomache. He feels bile gathering at the back of his throat and turns away.
"You okay?" one of the sergeants Lestrade went through academy with asks him concernedly.
Lestrade just presses his lips together and nods stiffly. Again, refusing to cry.
"Sorry, Sir, but you've got to move." Lestrade turns to find the owner of the voice addressing him and sees a forensics officer decked from head-to-toe in a starch-white protective suit. Another forensics officer is nearing Nils, taking samples... It's just like every other homicide investigation Lestrade has been involved in before it.
But it's not at all the same...
"Hey, I hope you're not just going to hang around here to contaminate the evidence." Lestrade spins around to find himself looking at a snotty-looking DI. The man upturns his nose haughtily at him. "This is my crime scene, sergeant."
Like it's something to fight over...
Lestrade barely registers his phone vibrate, and he's gripping it so hard that it might break. But he really couldn't care less. He finally brings it into view and finds a text message from Sherlock. If there's a bit of skin rubbed off the base of neck, then the killer is the retired boxer you interrogated the other day. -SH
Always, Sherlock, always just...
And suddenly it's all too much for the young DS and he throws his cell violently into a wall, watching, with some distinct pleasure, the shattered pieces fall to the wet ground. He knows that people are staring at him now, some gazes are sympathetic, some are merely curious, and others yet are indignant at his unprofessional behavioral at a crime scene.
He promised himself that he would remain calm and in control of himself but he quickly finds himself stalking out of the crime scene. Out of that Hell hole of a back alley where his surrogate father died.
He all but runs to the nearest ditch he finds before he's bent over double, retching.
He heaves until the meagre contents of his stomache have all been wringed out of him and he's left a weak, trembling mess. He squeezes his eyes closed and... damn it! He promised he wouldn't cry.
But he does.
He just sits there on the cement ground, hugging his knees to his chest like a little boy, he doesn't sniff or sob. The tears just fall silently, rolling down his cheeks, mixing in with the raindrops.
That is, until the funeral-black umbrella drifts almost lazily over his head. Lestrade looks up to see a slightly fleshy man dressed in a smart, tailor fitted suit. "Very clever," the man says casually to him. "to shed tears where nobody would see them." Lestrade blinks mutely and self-consciously smudges a grimy hand across his cheek. "Although, it doesn't work very well when one is presently curled up on a rainy and dismal street corner, portraying the very image of tragedy."
A raised eyebrow and Lestrade sniffs sarcastically. "Kind of you to care." Then he winces when the words battle their way out of his scratchy throat.
The man seems to nod understandingly at his present situation, listening to a story that nobody is telling him. "I am sorry for your loss."
"Well, you can be sorry somewhere else." Lestrade snaps back, and he regrets doing it, but he can't very well take it back now, can he?
"Mister Holmes, your meeting is in three minutes..." a pretty young lady informs the man quietly.
The man ignores her in favor of fishing around in his breastpocket. He pulls out a cellphone and, bending down, wraps both Lestrade's cold, limp hands around it. Then, he straightens himself and inclines his head a little in a charismatic half-nod and drifts away from Lestrade like a cloud.
"Dear God..." Lestrade gasps a moment or two later when full realization hits. "...there's two of them!"
The phone in his hands vibrates, startling him. He finds a new message just waiting to be read. Don't be ridiculous, Sergeant. -MH
Dear God, sometimes...
... You grace me with gratifyingly normal events in life. The first, and unsurprisingly only time this has happened was when he was promoted to detective inspector.
Really, though, God's sense of humor, perhaps? To involve him in a car accident resulting in a broken ankle on his first week of rank detective constable, or, having to deal with a piss drunk, naked man running through the streets on his first night of detective sergeant, and, mistakingly arresting a minor royal on his first major homicide case with Nils.
Compared to that, his evolution to detective inspector was really quite unextraordinary.
He was invited out for the traditional congratulatory drinks with his former fellow sergeants, recieved a personal visit from his chief superintendant with a word of encouragement, an unmarked, white envelope from Mycroft, extending his deepest congratulations, and...
...It was definitely too good to last. Lestrade let out a sigh and propped his cheek on his palm. "You going to make a habit of this, arn't you?"
Sherlock finished his examination of the DI's new office and approached the desk. "Not good?"
"Definitely not good, Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed, but, for all the vehemence in his voice, his body language was extremely relaxed, calm even. More resigned to his fate. "You can't keep barging in here! You're unauthorized personel!"
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Well, I'm sure you'll figure something out. I quite like it in here. It's..." he searched for the right adjective. "...innovative."
Lestrade let out an exasperated breath. "Well, that's because your flat is a complete pigsty." Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders carelessly. Because really, Lestrade calling Sherlock's flat a 'pigsty' was the equivalent of Sherlock calling Lestrade 'dull' and 'stupid' and 'ignorant', ect... Granted, Sherlock definitely insulted Lestrade more.
All water off the duck's back, yes?
Lestrade just sighed, dropping his head into his hands and wondered when his life had become such a circus. His concluded answer? The moment he laid eyes on a tall, gaunt, druggie.
At least he didn't have to run for half-an-hour to apprehend a running naked man who possessed the speed of an Olympic track racer.
DI Lestrade was extremely grateful for small miracles.
Dear God, sometimes...
...I think you favor the strangest of people, Sherlock, in particular. DI Lestrade thought this when he first met Doctor John H. Watson.
The first time he saw him, he simply assumed that Sherlock was up to another one of his private cases and that John was his current client. But, by the way the doctor seemed merely curious, rather than indignant that Lestrade had interrupted their conversation, Lestrade really didn't know what their relation could be, nor did he think it his business.
That is, until Sherlock arrived on the scene with the nervous man in tow. "Sherlock, who's this?" he had asked, eyeing the man's limp with a polite curiosity.
"He's with me." Now, biblical? Or literal sense of the word?
Lestrade had the important need to clarify. "Yeah, but who is he?"
"I told you, he's with me." A pointed look. Right, literal, then?
He found John to be amiable and easy-going at best, well, when Sherlock wasn't purposefully winding him up, or anything. Lestrade found him to be easily likable, given time, of course. Because, when John wasn't trudging after Sherlock on a case, Lestrade had his nose stuck in some innocuous a report.
But, he knew John Watson wasn't a bad person. In fact, he seemed to be a very good influence on Sherlock. So Lestrade was satisfied with that.
He only hoped that Sherlock wouldn't botch this up. Another potential flatmate would be hard to come by. Even Lestrade with his reluctant obligation to Sherlock really didn't want to share a flat with the eccentric genius.
He peered over Sally's shoulder to see Sherlock explain some trivial deduction to John and see the man's pleased flush when John complimented his skills.
He noticed Sally frowning at the 'freak'. "Sorry," he broke the woman's gaze. "I know this case's report isn't due for a few days but..."
Sally just nodded to him understandingly. "I'll get working on it."
He nodded his thanks and watched, out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock and John disappear down the street in comfortable silence.
Dear God, sometimes...
...I think you shouldn't take quotes like 'the good die young' so literally.
Lestrade moaned and jerked himself awake, half-sliding down into the plastic waiting room chair he was currently dozing in. He winced and threw a heavy arm over his eyes to block out the garish artificial light from penetrating his pupils.
"Poor dear, you'll get a sore neck and back if you sleep like that." Lestrade peered around his arm with one eye to see Sherlock's landlady speaking admonishingly to him.
He lifted his arm fully off his face and struggled into a sitting position, rubbing his bleary eyes. "Sorry, how long was I asleep for?" he choked out, voice gravely from sleep deprivation and smoke inhalation from the pool.
"I don't know, just about fifteen minutes, I should say." the little lady responded quietly.
Lestrade leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and covering his face with his hands, unwittingly baring a patch on skin on the base of his neck. "Officer, is that blood?" Lestrade slowly looked up at the concerned lady, taking a moment for her question to sink in.
"What? No, ...no." he assured her half-heartedly. "I mean, yes, but, it's not mine." I think. Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow at the exhausted inspector. "It probably got there when we hauled Sherlock and John out of the pool." He shook his head. "Stupid imbeciles, Sherlock, at least, don't know about John. Could've called for backup at least."
Mrs. Hudson moved over to the chair beside Lestrade with a comforting hand on his shoulder. "There, there." Lestrade was briefly reminded of the way his Nanna used to coo like that to him when he was a child. He smiled at Mrs. Hudson as reassuringly as he could.
"Officer...?" Lestrade jumped up like he had been fired from a gun.
"How's Sherlock, and John?" The male nurse looked a mix of apologetic and sheepish.
"They're still in surgery, Sir. If you would please sit down and let me patch up some of those injuries." Lestrade weakly stumbled back into his seat and slouched against the hard back.
"Quite honestly, you look terrible dear." Mrs. Hudson clucked like a mother hen as the nurse brought out a first aid kit. "When was the last time you slept?"
"The day before the case started." Lestrade responded wearily, too tired to protest when the nurse pushed up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal angry red burns on his hands and arms.
Mrs. Hudson gasped in horror, whether it was because of the burns, or because Lestrade hadn't had a decent sleep in a few days, he didn't know. "It's not good for your health, you know." she murmured, shaking her head grimly.
"It's a small price to pay, considering how many lives Sherlock helps me save." he winced when the nurse dabbed a bit too hard on a particulary raw burn. Then he looked Mrs. Hudson in the eye. "They're going to be alright. You know that, right?"
Mrs. Hudson let out a noise that sounded a bit like a sobby-laugh. "They'll get through it, won't they?"
"They're strong." Lestrade nodded as confidently as his lolling head would allow.
"They are." Mrs. Hudson agreed. "So, no need to stay up in silent vigil. You need rest."
"For someone with a kind heart, you're very devious." Lestrade chuckled, his eyes already drooping.
"It's alright, it's going to be okay." Mrs. Hudson squeezed his shoulder firmly as he finally closed his eyes.
Dear God, sometimes...
... I think you're kind enough to give me some slack.
When he woke up, he was in a hospital bed with Sherlock and John occupying two of the other otherwise empty beds. "Mrs. Hudson..." he rasped.
"Right here, dear." Mrs. Hudson called out softly from John's bedside.
"Sorry, I shouldn't have left you to wait on your own." Lestrade struggled to sit up.
His movements were stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder. "You needn't worry, she wasn't alone." Mycroft assured him politely.
Lestrade blinked, sluggish mind taking a moment to match a face with a name. "Mister Holmes."
"Mycroft, please." Mycroft smiled down at him kindly. "Mister Holmes was my father."
Lestrade nodded dumbly before... "Ugh! No, no, no!" He forced himself to a sitting position despite Mycroft's hand on his shoulder. "What happened to Moriarty? I need to get back down to the station and conduct damage control." He swung his feet over the side of the bed. "Where's Donovan?"
"Right, here, Sir." Donovan called out from the doorway, head poking through the opening, but no further into the room. "And, before you even get started, you bloody workaholic, Sir, the department has got the situation under as much control as it could, in your absence." She shook her head. "But no Moriarty. He's gone."
Lestrade blinked mutely. "'In my absence'? How long have I been out?"
"A full day and a half, Inspector." Mycroft filled in for him. "It seems a mix of sleep deprivation and shock from the explosion that landed you into that bed there." He pointed with his umbrella, Lestrade stared at his crisp sheets. "And, in answer to your still unasked question, Sherlock and John are expected to make full recoveries."
Lestrade opened his mouth, and closed it. Then he let out a sigh of relief. "That's... good. That's definitely good." He smiled.
"You need to rest yourself, dear." Mrs. Hudson sweetly reminded the slightly shell-shocked inspector, nudging him back down into the bed.
Lestrade complied and laid back down, closing his eyes. And, for the first time in years, he rested.
Dear God, sometimes...
...I think that I'm not the most religious man around, but I remember sending up a desperate prayer when I saw that pool explode. And... thank you for letting Sherlock and John live.
The End.