A Good Man
Prologue
"Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day if we are very, very lucky, he might even be a good one"
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade remembers his words to John Watson, that cold dry February night nearly two years go, as he turned to leave the flat at 221B Baker Street, almost in despair.
It was after the failed drug bust stunt, when he had tried to get Sherlock to co-operate properly on the case of the fake suicide serial murders, when he had thought he was at last getting somewhere and finally reaching him because John Watson was now added to the dynamic, and then Sherlock had abandoned them all to satisfy his egotistical need to prove how bloody clever he was and sat docile and smug in the back of that damned taxi driven off by the actual serial killer.
It is a cold but bright day and the sunlight streams through the stained glass window providing the only colours in the dim building with its dark suited sombre inhabitants.
Mostly it's quiet, soft murmuring, soft breathing and a tangible air of disbelief.
He's standing at the back of the church listening to Dr Watson stumbling his way through an eulogy the ex-soldier is still in too much shock to deliver properly.
He's standing at the back of the church watching Mrs Hudson's frail shoulders shudder with sobs.
He's standing at the back of the church watching Henry Knight shake his head with disbelief and anger.
He's standing at the back of the church watching a group of homeless young people sitting uncomfortably in the pews, but determined to be there despite any disapproving stares.
He's standing at the back of the church watching a woman cry, the same woman from Devon who was released from the bomb jacket once Sherlock had solved the mystery of Carl Powers death.
He's standing at the back of the church watching tears pour down the face of the owner of that Italian restaurant, Angelo, the one he put away for burglary five years ago, because Sherlock had got him off a nasty murder charge by providing evidence of the burglary, which had earned Sherlock, Angelo's undying gratitude and unending free meals
He's standing at the back of the church watching Dr Molly Hooper shrink in on herself and refuse to look at anyone else.
He's standing at the back of the church watching DI Dimmock sing the hymns solemnly and make the responses clearly as if he is a regular church goer
He's standing at the back of the church watching the pale but composed face of Mycroft Holmes, his back rigid and his knuckles white on the mahogany handle of his black umbrella, which perfectly matches the impeccable black suit.
He's standing at the back of the church watching that beautiful personal assistant to Mycroft Holmes focus on her boss with the same expression she normally reserved for her blackberry which was nowhere in sight.
He's standing at the back of the church giving Sgt Sally Donovan the evil eye as she slips into the building, head down, refusing to look at him and seating herself away from everyone else.
He's standing at the back of the church looking at pews full of people that had come to pay their respects to the consulting detective. So many more than he had expected after the media's frenzied blood letting.
He's standing at the back of the church cracking his knuckles waiting and (truth be told) wishing for any of the media to attempt to gate crash this ritual. But it looked like Mycroft Holmes had at least protected Sherlock's final public appearance if he hadn't been able to protect him before.
He's standing at the back of the church because he can't bear to look at that long wooden box with the brass handles which holds the physical remains of that great, vibrant, infuriating, amusing man-child who would now never get to be that "good man" and it hurts his heart to know that he had played his own integral part in that lost potential.
He's standing at the back of the church, remembering the graffiti on the cemetery wall by the entrance gates in bright bold yellow letters and he makes a silent heartfelt vow to himself and his onetime colleague and maybe friend.
"I believe in Sherlock Holmes, Moriarty was real".
AN
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, no infringement intended. Only
This is going to be Lestrade's reaction to the fall and its coming aftermath. I could just see him standing there watching everything , taking it all in "seeing" whats in front of him because he doesn't want to look at that coffin.
There is more angst and mystery coming
I was being so good, nearly finished the next chapter for "And then there was three", when Lestrade began to nag me to write this... who in their right mind could resist that man, sigh.
Please review, I need to know what you think and how I can improve it...