Chapter Two: Greg Lestrade
He was the one who kept going.
The superintendent droned on, laying out in precise detail the nature of his apparent mistakes. Never mind that Sherlock solved every case they put in front of him; never mind that Richard Brooke—Moriarty—had been found dead by suicide on the roof. Lestrade had yet to meet anyone, even an actor, who would kill themselves for money… And yet Sherlock was still the fraud.
"Are you listening, Lestrade?"
"Yes," he lied. The large man behind the desk hmphed.
"I don't want to see anything like this happen again. Do you understand me?"
"Of course."
"Make sure you look over that Daly case—I need it back by tomorrow."
Lestrade closed the door behind him a bit harder than necessary and took a deep breath. He didn't know who he was supposed to be angry at—the superintendent, Donovan, Anderson, Moriarty, Sherlock—but he was bloody angry.
He understood why Donovan had reported him—watching an arrogant amateur waltz in and solve every impossible case with casual callousness chafed a bit. And, if he looked at it from a distance, he understood why the superintendent was being such an arse about it. But to have it end like this….
When he walked into his office, he was not entirely surprised to find John Watson waiting. Since the fall, the man had been… well, a bit lost.
"You're not cleared to be in here."
"Are you going to throw me out?" John met his eyes – they both knew that Lestrade could never bring himself to do that after what had happened.
Lestrade looked away and settled into his chair with a tired sigh.
"What do you want, then?"
"Maybe I just stopped by for a chat."
Lestrade laughed once, skeptically. "No, really."
"What have you been working on lately?" John asked, too casual.
"A few cases," Lestrade said, beginning to see where this was going. "Nothing tricky."
"Anything you need help on?"
"John." Lestrade forced himself to say it. "You're not Sherlock."
John looked away for a long moment.
"I know I'm not," he said at last. "But – God, Lestrade, I'm going mad without anything to do."
"You've got that job at the hospital—"
"You know what I mean."
This was going to be difficult. "I just got back from a meeting with the superintendent. It's my job on the line if anything like what happened with Sherlock ever happens again."
John nodded, slowly and obviously reluctantly, and stood.
"Right. Well, thanks, Lestrade."
"John—" The man paused for a moment, hand on the door. "If you ever want to go out for a pint—"
"Thanks. I'll let you know."
The door shut behind him and Lestrade sank back into his chair. Somehow, he didn't think further contact with John would be forthcoming. Shaking his head, he began to work his way through the pile of cases waiting for him and did his best to put consulting detectives and army doctors out of his mind. What was done was done, and he had a job to do.
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