Unrest

John moves back into Baker Street the same day. Everything is as he has left it behind, Mycroft having taken care of the rent of 221B as well as the shabby hotel John has used as a retreat. John hasn't felt overtly guilty for that before, and he certainly doesn't feel guilty about it now. Now that he knows that it is more than what Sherlock would have wanted, it is indeed what Sherlock wants, and that Mycroft has amends to make to Sherlock for giving away his secrets and to John for keeping him in the dark (never mind that this is another thing Sherlock would have wanted; John doesn't mind the hypocrisy too much in this case).

The moment he's back home, he makes himself some tea and opens his laptop. His visit with Mycroft has ended with John realising that he couldn't not do anything to help Sherlock, and Mycroft relenting and sending him home with files.

The laptop whirrs to life.

John may not have been able to help Sherlock directly, but he would be damned if he didn't do everything he could to ease his eventual return. Return... At that thought, John freezes, and his eyes lose their focus and stare through the screen of his laptop. Return. Sherlock would return. It's not a dream or suspicion, anymore. Not a... His vision blurs, and before he knows it, tears are streaming down his face, his mind's eye, unbidden, replaying the last moments of him watching his best friend falling falling falling...
John's throat constricts, and while before he has always soldiered on, he now lets himself feel all of the pain he buried. There is no room for thought, not between the grief and relief. There is no thought for the oddness of it all; the contradiction of only being able to feel grief when there is no reason for it, anymore. He just feels.

He cries for a long time – for the pain and the loss, both of which still hurt so much – and when he finally opens his eyes, a smile back on his face, his blog is waiting for him.

John shakes his head, makes a detour to the bathroom to wash his face and returns to sit down. He sniffs, once (and almost resolutely), clears his throat and pushes back his sleeves. To work then.

Before he begins writing a new entry, though, he rubs his traitorously stinging eyes at the sight of the last entry and huffs. 'I should punch you when you get back,' he thinks. "Bastard." But he smiles, as he murmurs it.

It only takes a day (or, actually, it only takes until two hours after John posts his latest entry) for Lestrade to barge into 221B's living room.

John has heard and ignored the knock, but apparently, Mrs Hudson took pity on the Inspector.

Lestrade stops at the door for a moment, taking in the sight of John with his laptop and a mountain of files he is taking pictures of. "What the hell are you doing?"

John doesn't even look up. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm clearing his name."

Lestrade does a shrugging/nodding motion that makes him look about as exasperated as he always looked with Sherlock. "I did see the blog, thanks."

"It's not like you're doing anything," John can't help but add.

That sparks anger. "Hey!" Lestrade points at John and steps closer. "We are working on it. All the cases Sherlock consulted are being reviewed. All of them."

John does briefly look up at that. It's not a very sympathetic look, and it doesn't last long, as John returns to his work.

"So far, not a single one had to be reopened."

John's jaw sets. "And that surprises you?"

Lestrade averts his eyes, looking faintly ill, and John doesn't even have to look at him to see it.

"I'm sorry," John says.

Lestrade swallows. "Of course it doesn't surprise me. It never did. Even before we found his phone."

John rubs his eyes and returns Lestrade's tortured look.

"I'm sorry, okay?" Lestrade adds. "I'm..." his voice breaks, "so sorry. He... was a good man."

John nods and manages a smile. Did Mycroft feel like this when he lied to John? John almost snorts. Of course he didn't. He's Mycroft.
"The best. The very best," his voice trails off at the end and he sighs. "That's what I'm doing."

Lestrade shifts and clears his throat, nodding. "Yeah. Figured. Listen... if you need help." He stops and huffs. "Though you seem to be doing alright with gathering evidence," he says pointedly.

John smirks, tiredly.

"Mycroft?" Lestrade asks, though he knows the answer.

"Who else?" Then John remembers something. "And about that phone... I just uploaded the audio recording to my blog."

Lestrade gapes for two seconds, wants to yell something indignant about how it was even possible for John to have that... and instead releases his breath and visibly slumps. "Mycroft," he says again.

John huffs, sounding tired. "He feels like he has amends to make," he says, noncommittally.

Lestrade straightens. "Damn right, he has."

Ah. So John wasn't the only one to make that connection. He looks up again.

Lestrade can't uphold the eye contact for long and stares at the carpet. "I knew it definitely wasn't you, as much as I knew he was for real." He clears his throat. "Now, I know I'm to blame, too." He licks his lips and waves his arms once. "I know that. But I never betrayed him." He rubs the bridge of his nose. "I keep thinking..." he has to stop for a second, "... if maybe we could have prevented... all of this from happening, had he just allowed us to take him in."

John begins to see the disadvantage of being 'in the know', so to speak.

"We could have cleared up that he didn't have anything to do with any of the crimes!" Lestrade continues, losing against his restraint. "It was easy enough during the reviews; it would have been even easier with his statement." He swallows. "When Donovan saw all the reviews trickle back, she lost it. Threw up for half an hour and everything. Anderson tries to shrug it off, saying how he did the only right thing, but he hasn't spoken to anyone unless it's work related." He huffs, almost sounding amused if it wasn't so obvious that it is tearing him apart. "Of course, Sherlock would say that that was an improvement..." He chokes on the last word and falls silent, his fist pressed to his lips and his eyes closed.

John remains silent and realises that he couldn't have held up pretence in the beginning, right after… the fall and the hospital. He was having a hard enough time of it, now. He hates to admit it, but Sherlock was right to keep him in the dark. Pain or no.

Lestrade clears his throat and swallows. "But you two..." He shakes his head. "Nobody loved that boy like you did."

John doesn't comment on the 'boy', either, though it makes him smile a bit. For Lestrade, Sherlock would forever be the brilliant boy that needed looking after.

"And nobody could have done for him what you did." Lestrade looks straight at John, awe in his eyes. "I didn't think it was even possible. For him to... come alive like he did with you... by his side." He takes a deep breath. "He was a great and a good man, and I want you to know that I knew that. And that..." he is grasping for words, "... and that he knew how important you were. To him."

John folds his hands and rests his chin on them. "I do know." What to say?

"If only..."

"No," John interrupts him and shakes his head. "You know there was nothing either you or I could have done. You know that, don't you?"

"Doesn't stop me from wishing for something." He closes his eyes for a moment again. "Even if it doesn't do any good anymore."

"You'll drive yourself mad looking for something, and madder if you find it."

Lestrade smiles, painfully.

"There was nothing we could have done," John repeats. He knows it's true, too. It was Sherlock's plan after all, and neither he nor Lestrade could have thwarted a Holmes plan. "And there was nothing he could have done." Again. He knows that's true, as well. Had there been anything, Sherlock would have found it. "At least not while being the man we both know he was."

Lestrade can't hold back a small laugh. It hurts, too, but... "He was, wasn't he?" He rubs his tired eyes. "God, I miss that stroppy bastard."

"Me too," John agrees softly. It's easy to agree. But, goodness, that whole not saying anything is difficult. Especially, not saying anything to someone who must have cared nearly as much for Sherlock as John does.

'Not a word. Not to anyone. Walls have mice, and mice have ears.' Mycroft's words still ring in John's ears. Not that he actually needed to hear them. He knows. John is still a soldier. A soldier who remembers that, not too long ago, there has been a hidden camera in this very room… He hopes that Lestrade will eventually be able to forgive him and Sherlock the deception. John isn't even quite sure he has that much forgiveness in him. Not for a while, yet. That does not keep him from doing what he has always done: stand by his friend (and miss him).

"John… listen…" Lestrade speaks up. "If you ever feel like coming 'round the pub…"

John huffs. "Not sure I can stomach Donovan or Anderson."

Lestrade waves him off before he can even finish the sentence. "Just you and me. The last bastion of trust." He smiles but swallows painfully. "Though that is going to change, again, isn't it." He nods towards the laptop. "It'll be all over the news again. How they all of course knew that Sherlock Holmes couldn't possibly have been a fake." He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. "Bastards," he murmurs, then shrugs. "Better late than never, I suppose."

John feels the last bit of anger towards Lestrade lift. "Text me about the pub, will you, Greg?" He hasn't called him Greg, not since…

Lestrade smiles and nods. "Will do. You text me if you need help?" There's an unvoiced 'please' added to that. 'Please. Please, let me help.'

John clears his throat. "I guess you'll have plenty of press phone calls to deal with, very soon…" He lifts an eyebrow.

Lestrade barks a laugh. "Funny. That part I don't miss at all." He sniffs and tilts his head, as if shrugging something off. "Then again, I owe someone for keeping me in my position…" He eyes the stack of files on the table, before returning John's look. "Meddling bastard."

John grins a bit. He almost says something about Mycroft not being the only meddling Holmes. Sheer habit, he knows. "Just… keep up your work," he says instead.

"Will do. You too."

They nod at each other and Lestrade leaves.

John remains unmoving for a long time. Again, he has to resist the urge to talk to his absent friend – walls, mice and ears – and walks to the mantelpiece to pick up the skull. He smiles at it and shakes his head.

Decisively, he returns to the table, puts the skull next to his laptop and sits back down.

"I find myself suddenly very appreciative of you, friend," he says to it.

The mice won't care about that.

TBC