Lestrade's flat
Lestrade dragged his feet to his flat. Today he must have gotten up on the wrong side of bed. In the morning, his boss called in all of the DIs and growled "so-called" encouraging comments.
"Ever since the plain clothes Criminal Investigation Department (CID) came into existence, there have been many devoted and committed detectives who have made the street of London safer. I know and deeply appreciate your commitment and sacrifice. However, crimes are on the rise, cold cases are accumulating, and the future of the CID is now up to you."
At this moment, the Chief Detective Investigator glared at Lestrade.
"The public see you as the frontline of the judicial system. Your performance indicator is the number of cases that result in conviction. I'd expect a better performance from every one of you."
Lestrade felt his face burn; his team had been on the decline in terms of case closed. After Sherlock died, the number of cold cases have skyrocketed. Every detective missed the days when the young sleuth billowed his coat around the crime scene and pinpointed the murderer(s) based on his deduction. Three years ago he took his own life and everybody in the Yard was feeling responsible for his death.
At the moment Lestrade was working on the murder of Ronald Adair.
A week ago, his body was found in his sitting room, with a window open, working on his stock account using his laptop. The door was locked from the inside while only one window was open for ventilation. A slim person could've slipped out of the room, but Adair's flat was 6th floor- about 45-foot drop. He had an engagement ring for his fiancée and it wasn't stolen. Actually Adair's family confirmed that nothing had been stolen. A sniper shop could be possible but the only possible sniping position was the opposite building which was under construction. Workers were questioned but there were no eyewitnesses. Adair was very popular in his job and has a vast network of friends. Everybody close to him had an alibi.
He was on his way with Anderson to the opposite building; he got two coffees for himself and the forensic scientist. To his surprise, Anderson muttered out that he had been feeling guilty for Sherlock's death. Over the past year, Anderson often got depressed, spent more hours at the lab, overworked over cases, and broke up with Sally Donovan. Lestrade made a hollow laugh although he was rather moved at Anderson's change: it was Anderson's first acknolwedgement of his guilt.
"Isn't it too late to say an apology? Three years... He died and won't come back from his grave."
He regretted his words almost immediately. He was no better than Anderson: he should've stopped the two. In silence, the two rechecked the scene again; the owner of the building was threatening a civil action if the police delayed the construction as longer. The opposite building was not a crime scene. Today was Friday and the work was to resume next Monday. They didn't have that much time.
Lestrade had a few beers with Anderson and a few other detectives that night. Often detectives just carried on their job on the pride that they were doing something to ensure safer London. Sometimes their work couldn't end up in court just because of technicalities and it was disheartening enough on top of heavy workload and emotional toll dealing with victims and their families. Some of the cases that the dead sleuth had solved had to reinvestigated as "Sherlock" was not supposed to be involved in them although almost all of the cases had been validated. On a day like this, Lestrade really missed the detective.
He got out of a cab. His gait was rather unbalanced, but he had managed to get to his flat. There was a black sedan parked nearby that he had never seen in the neighborhood, but he didn't care that much.
He punched the numbers to open the door. Feeling dizzy and sleepy, he staggered into the kitchen and got a water bottle from the refrigerator. He was almost emptying half of the bottle when he heard, he could swear, footsteps. There was an intruder or was it a radio program? He thought he had turned off the radio this morning.
Then the light was turned on in his sitting room. Lestrade jumped, opened the kitchen drawer, and grabbed a knife. He usually didn't keep his gun at home.
"Who's there? Police!"
"Isn't it unsafe to carry the knife? I hope your swordmanship is not as bad as your marksmanship."
Lestrade doubted his ears. He dropped the knife. It wasn't possible. The voice was his. But he took his own life three years ago. Again Lestrade was hearing things. The same thing had happened for months since Sherlock died. He often caught himself answering Sherlock's questions or barking words out at the detective, who had died. Then who turned on the light? A poltergeist? He was thinking that he should make an appointment with the Yard therapist when a ghost materialized in front of him.
Sherlock Holmes. The ghost was visiting him after three years. His skin was almost translucent. He was thinner…and… he was wearing Hawaiian shirt and short pants? No, no. A spirit was supposed to wear the clothes that it had worn at the moment of death. He should be wearing the dark coat, the blue scarf and the black pants.
"Lestrade."
A realization fell upon the DI instantly. He rubbed his eyes a few times and opened them again. He didn't think he would be able to say something, but a word came out of his mouth somehow.
"Sher...lock?"
"Yes. I've just come back to London."
Lestrade couldn't stop his voice from trembling.
"You're not dead? You didn't commit a suicide? Oh, God. You are alive!"
The last bit of words was almost yelling. He walked closer and reached out his arm to touch Sherlock's face, shoulders, and hand. His body was warm. He pinched Sherlock's cheek as hard as he could. The detective winced and asked in annoyance.
"That's not the welcome that I was expecting. Stop it."
"You are not a ghost. Bloody hell."
Lestrade slumped on his sofa. Soon a practical question popped out.
"How did you get in?"
Sherlock almost looked offended.
"Your password is your birthday in reverse order. Easy enough to notice. Only four digit."
Lestrade felt dizzy, still trying to comprehend the fact that he was actually conversing with a dead man.
"Then whom did we bury in your grave three years ago?"
The sleuth answered,
"A few bags of sand. Mycroft dealt with it."
"How did you survive the fall? It's almost 40-foot fall."
Sherlock shrugged it off, and said,
"Isn't it enough that I'm back, alive and well?"
"Why?"
"Too complicated. To cut it short, my friends were to die unless I jumped."
"Yes, we managed to deduce why."
His eyes burned and he had to blink a few times not to cry. All of his guilt, gratitude, anger, and joy of reunion were swirling into a large lump in his throat. Swallowing it hard, the DI managed to ask in a chipped voice,
"Did you see John?"
"No, right from the airport."
The detective pointed at his luggage with an airline tag on.
"Three years, Sherlock. Bloody three years. What have you been doing? Where have you been?"
"Abroad. Had some job to do."
"In the pretense of death? You couldn't have contacted any of us? Who knew you were alive?"
"Molly and Mycroft. They helped me to fake my death. You, Mrs. Hudson, and John had to be kept in darkness for your own safety. Snipers trained on you…"
Lestrade shut his mouth up. He had been feeling guilty since he learnt that Sherlock died to save the three friends including him. His face always burned when he thought about the stupid attempt to arrest the sleuth the night before the suicide. It was the reason that he had shunned away Anderson and Donovan although he acknowledged that the two might well get suspicious of Sherlock's involvement in the kidnapping. He asked in a hurry,
"Where are you going to stay? You can stay here if you want. By the way, John doesn't live in the flat anymore."
"I'm going back to the flat after this."
"What about John?"
"In due time. Just don't call him right after I leave."
"John's almost engaged. Did you know?"
"That's one reason that I'm not seeing him today. The other is... that there is still one minion of Moriarty that I have to deal with. The name is Moran, I mean the code name for the sniper is Tiger the Moran. Don't tell anyone that I'm back. Here is my new mobile number."
Lestrade couldn't help but ask,
"Then why are you here?"
"You are a man of trust, and I may need your help to catch Moran."
His words made Greg's throat tighten. Sherlock checked on the incoming text.
"I need to go. Mycroft's car is waiting outside."
Sherlock put on a wig of blond hair, a straw hat with a wide brim, and glasses. He looked like a tourist who had just come back from Hawaii. Lestrade nodded, and held out his hand. The two shook their hands, and abruptly Lestrade gave Sherlock a rib-breaking hug. He just whispered; he didn't care that Sherlock was almost petrified on the spot; he muttered out the words that he had wished to say over the past three years.
"You're not dead. Thank God. Sherlock. Welcome back to London."
Sherlock cleared his throat, apparently taken aback at the sudden outburst of emotions. Sentiment had never been his area.
"See you later, Greg."
Lestrade awkwardly detached himself from the sleuth. He couldn't believe that Sherlock called his first name. Sherlock quickly pulled his bag along and headed outside before astonished DI could pull him into another hug.
Since I wrote "Punch the wrong bloke", I've wondering how Lestrade and Mrs. H would react to Sherlock's return. I hope you enjoyed reading. Thanks a lot:-)
