That morning, he had just settled down in his chair with a cup of steaming coffee when Donovan burst in.
"Islington, attempted homocide," she said.
He stood. "Suspect?"
"Ran off."
He dumped back his entire full cup in one gulp, then hurried past her into the hallway. She raised her eyebrows with frank admiration, then quickly followed after him.
Fifteen minutes later, their police cruiser wailed to a stop behind a row of other parked law enforcement vehicles. He stepped into the wide, empty road and scanned the neat shops and stores on either side. His team joined him.
"Donovan, come with me," he said. "The rest of you, go comb that alley."
They nodded and jogged in the direction he indicated. Donovan looked to him for instruction, her hair blowing in the thick wind.
"All right, we've got to make sure all the buildings are evacuated," he said. "This could get tricky. She could be hiding in one of the-"
"Sir!" yelled Donovan, pointing.
He whipped around. Across the street, the suspect had sprinted out of an Italian restaurant, gun in hand.
Their hands snapped to their weapons, and they ran after her. Donovan yelled into her transceiver, "We've spotted the suspect! Sergeant Hugh, she's coming into your vicinity. She's armed."
Lestrade shouted, "Ma'am, you are ordered to put down your weapon!"
She turned around once, then darted to a garbage bin. She hoisted herself up, and from there, jumped onto a roof-access ladder.
"You're surrounded on all sides," Lestrade called. "Make it easier for yourself, ma'am!"
The wide, empty street erupted into haze. His legs buckled. His knees and elbows slam against the sidewalk.
"Sir? Sir?"
Donovan's pounding footsteps had halted. He clawed at the cement for something to anchor onto, but his world keeled out of focus.
"Keep going!" he managed. "Leave me!"
He heard her footsteps resume and her dwindling voice yelling into her transceiver about an emergency. More footsteps approaching, and strong hands gripped his shoulders and arms. When everything tilted back into clarity, he was in the cool, air-conditioned interior of a cruiser, strapped into the passenger seat.
Donovan swung his door open. "Are you okay?"
He shook his head. "Yeah, fine, fine." The motion sent currents of pain crackling through his head. Ignoring it, he began to rise. "Where's the suspect?"
Both the seatbelt and Donovan's hand firmly pushed him back. "The suspect's in custody. Sir, what happened?"
He grimaced. "I tripped."
"I saw you. You were running, then you just stopped and fell down," said Donovan. "You don't stop before you trip."
"Really, I'm fine," he assured her.
Donovan planted her hands on her hips. "Sir, what's going on?"
He met her hard stare and nodded to himself. She would be a great Detective Inspector.
"This can't be spread around," he said in a low tone.
"Depends on what you tell me."
"Nothing illegal," he said. He barked a laugh. She remained silent. He looked away and inhaled deeply. He had heard and read the words so many times over the last two days, but he had never actually said them out loud. "Acute myeloid leukemia," he said. "Terminal. Three weeks."
In the silence, he could hear the far-off conversation of officers and the distant wail of sirens.
He saw his team approaching behind Sally. She noticed the flicker of his eyes and glanced back. Then, she turned back to Lestrade. Her mouth was tight. "Let me know if you need anything," she said before striding resolutely over to join the others.
As his officers chatted and the red and blue lights of sirens flashed over him, he carefully leaned his head back against the headrest.
So this was it.
During the drive on the way back, Lestrade debriefed the arrest with his officers. When he had finished, the officers turned to other conversation topics. Anderson launched into a humorous story about some in-laws. The officers all burst into laughter, then started telling stories about their own families. Sally, sitting at the steering wheel, met Lestrade's eyes. They both looked away.
He couldn't believe that he was going to live his last three weeks like this. In avoidance, in anger that had no words or reason, in wanting things he couldn't have.
The hospital offered high-quality end-of-life services. Amongst them was psychological care. Lestrade was a private man, but given his diagnosis, his lack of family, and the deep helplessness that swallowed him from the inside, he signed up for a session that evening. He had no time to waste, after all. But his last three weeks were just a wound he had to heal, a case he had to solve. He knew he could handle them. He just had to figure out how.
That evening, as Lestrade prepared to go to his appointment, he took a white T-shirt out of a drawer, preparing to change out of his work clothes into more comfortable, casual clothes. At that moment, his phone buzzed in his pants pocket. He reached in and took it out. Sherlock's name topped the screen.
I need three gallons of ice cream. -SH
Lestrade looked up at the ceiling and groaned. He flopped down at the edge of his bed, throwing down his T-shirt.
Then go buy some. Jesus, Sherlock. -GL
I can't. John's out. -SH
His phone buzzed with another text. Good evening, Inspector. If Sherlock is texting you about human organs, ignore him. If not, please disregard this message. -MH
"Speak of the devil," he muttered, his eyes traveling to the Resolutions resting on top of his dresser.
Oh, hey, Mr. Holmes. Please tell me this is a coincidence and there's no link between organs and ice cream. -GL
Ah. If you must know, my dear brother is conducting experiments on the effectiveness of various substances in preserving human kidneys. -MH
Never mind. -GL
He put down his phone, unbuttoned his day shirt, and slipped it off. He was pulling his pajama shirt over his head when the bed vibrated under him with a text message. His shirt still hanging from his shoulders, he picked his phone up. It buzzed two more times in his hand.
Lestrade. -SH
Lestrade? -SH
Fine. I refuse to solve your case if you refuse to help me with mine. -SH
Lestrade raised his eyebrows. We can handle it on our own. We're not as stupid as you think. -GL
Then why did you bring the case to me in the first place? -SH
Have you ever considered that I give you some cases to humor you, not because we're too incompetent to solve them ourselves? -GL
The silence was a fraction too long. Then I'll solve the case, but deliberately give you the wrong person as the killer. -SH
You'd be locking up an innocent man or woman. -SH
He sighed loudly. After a quick search online, he dialed the number of the nearest ice cream place to Baker Street and pressed the phone to his ear.
"Hello? Yeah, I'm sorry, this is a bit of a strange request. Could you go a few blocks down and deliver to Baker Street, 221B Baker Street? The recipient can pay you extra...No, no particular flavor. Just whatever you happen to have...three gallons of. Or enough to cover a kidney. A human kidney. Yeah. Thanks. Bye."
He hung up after the worker's quizzical, "...okay," then pulled his shirt down all the way. He folded his work shirt, checked his watch, and got up to head to his appointment when his phone chimed with a new text.
Whatever you do, don't listen to him. -MH
A few minutes later, just after he had gone out his door, he received two simultaneous texts.
What the hell, Greg?! -JW
I am deeply disappointed in you. -MH
His mouth tugged in a smile. Maybe it'd all be okay if he just pretended.
His therapist was a man with a bushy beard and a fondness for black leather furniture. As he talked, he leaned back into his plushy couch and rested his hands on his pot belly. Lestrade briefly fancied that this was his father, rather than the absent, controlling bastard who had occupied that position. That man was deep in the ground now. The thought made Lestrade shudder, and this time, not because of the memory of his father.
"How are you feeling?" his therapist asked in a warm, rumbling voice.
During the car ride back to the Yard, all he could think about is how much he'd like to just talk to somebody. Now that he was actually there, he found himself with nothing to say. Engulfed by his own sumptuous chair, Lestrade shrugged slightly. "Well, fine, I mean-" He broke off. It had been a long time since he talked with someone this openly about his feelings. "I guess it hasn't quite hit yet. Suddenly having only three weeks left is a lot to handle. I guess I'm processing it a bit at a time."
He nodded generously. "Of course. What are you doing to cope with it?"
"Work. It's everything to me. Wouldn't give it up for anything."
"Is that because you're passionate about what you do or because it helps you avoid things?"
Lestrade tilted his head backwards. Through the ridiculous petals of the flower-shaped pendant lamp, the light still shone too bright, and Lestrade suddenly wanted to turn it off. Perhaps he could speak more easily if he were in the dark. "Both," he said, interlacing his fingers the other way. "I mean, I love my work, but yeah, both."
"I see." The psychiatrist clasped his hands in his lap and leaned forward. "And what is it that you're avoiding?"
"Going home." Lestrade shook his head, but the therapist furrowed his brow and nodded, as if he had said something immensely interesting. They were trained to react that way to anything the patient said, probably. He scribbled something on a pad of paper.
"Is there anything going on at home?"
"No. Well, I mean, that's the thing. I've been divorced for a few years. I live alone. Nothing going on at all."
The therapist repeated the "immensely interesting" routine: frown, nod, write. "Do you have anyone close to you who is supporting you through this? Parents, siblings, a girlfriend or boyfriend, anyone?"
He smiled wryly. "If I did, I wouldn't be here." He quickly amended, "Not that I don't have great friends, though. Just nobody who's really, well, you know, what you were describing."
"Do you regret that?"
"Of course," said Lestrade immediately. "I guess I've been hoping. If I had more time, I guess I would have, uh, at least tried."
The psychiatrist's eyes gleamed behind his thick glasses. "There's someone you care about."
"No, no," he replied, straightening. "No, I just meant it hypothetically."
Raising his eyebrows, his therapist asked, "Are you sure?"
He sank back into his chair. "Yes."
"It's not too late," said the therapist.
"I don't know about that," sighed Lestrade.
"Make a list of things you want to accomplish in the time you have," advised the therapist. "At our next appointment, we can discuss them."
Lestrade nodded. "Sounds good."
After his appointment ended, he returned to his quiet, empty flat. A heavy disappointment weighed him down. Somehow, he had hoped that a talk with the therapist would heal everything. Then again, he'd only had one meeting.
He went into his bedroom and took out the New Year's Resolutions. He rose, found a marker and a roll of tape, and pasted the list to the door.
This would work as a bucket list, he supposed.
He began to turn away. However, his eyes were drawn again to the last item.
God damn Mycroft Holmes. He'd been spending the last few days trying not to think about him. Of course, it had begun with a kidnapping. It was after he found Sherlock pumped full of all sorts of illegal drugs and laying in the street. Lestrade had refused to lock him up and instead sat with the young man in his parked police cruiser and talked with him until morning. He had then driven him home and sent him off with a few cold cases to play with. Apparently, that had struck Mycroft as curious at best and suspicious at worst, which resulted in an abduction and a meeting in an empty parking lot. After that, as he worked with Sherlock more and more, he spoke to Mycroft on a regular basis: chance encounters at crime scenes, meetings at Mycroft's office about Sherlock's messes, lengthy texting sessions on danger nights. He had learned that Mycroft could be witty without being sarcastic, that he loved rainy weather, that he hated the entire Polish embassy with a passion, and that he sometimes came dangerously close to caring. And, of course, that he looked bloody gorgeous in a three-piece suit.
He gave all the points on the list a once-over, tossing the marker in his hands. Sleeping and eating well weren't exactly relevant anymore, so he eliminated those items with a thick black marker line. Now, he was left with:
"Solve a difficult case without Sherlock's help
Not kill Sherlock
Get a dog
Save up for new laptop
Donate money to victims of gun violence
Have dinner with Mycroft"
Five items, three weeks. It seemed doable enough.
His fingers tightened around the thick marker, then slackened again. He cursed out loud at the fact that he wasn't quite able to completely blot out the final item.
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