Disclaimer: Sherlock, along with its characters, locations, etc. are the property of BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn't mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch.
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Detective Inspector
Chapter 2
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Lestrade slowly made his way into the car park under New Scotland Yard, wearily reaching into his pocket for a cigarette and a lighter. He had tried to stop smoking before, but the events of the last couple of years had stopped his progress in its tracks.
Two years. It had been two years since he had listened to Donovan and Anderson, allowing doubts about his friend to snake its way into his mind. Two years since he had allowed his mind to overrule his heart, and gone to the Chief Superintendent and told him about Sherlock.
Two years since Sherlock jumped of St. Bart's, and Lestrade had to pick up the pieces of John's shattered life and help him heal.
Some days it was too much, and the Detective Inspector couldn't help but reminisce about all the times Sherlock had helped him on a case, cursing the idiocy of Scotland Yard but assisting nonetheless.
Today was a bad day. Lestrade had worked a suicide, and that made all of his horrible memories of the past two years come flooding back. Memories of John sobbing in his arms as EMTs whisked Sherlock's body away. Memories of all of the phone calls and texts he received from his friend, whenever he was having a bad day and needed a friend.
Lestrade and John had become a lot closer over the past two years, but that didn't make things any easier. Because Sherlock was still dead. And he wasn't coming back.
Lestrade sighed and lifted the cigarette to his lips, flicking his lighter open with a click.
"Those things will kill you, you know."
That voice…Lestrade had thought he would never hear it again. Bloody Sherlock Holmes.
"Oh, you bastard." Lestrade turned around, pulling the cigarette from where it was hanging from his mouth and shoving it in his pocket.
And there he was. The great consulting detective, with his dark curly hair and his Belstaff with the collar turned up.
Lestrade wanted to punch him. How dare he put his friends and family through that pain. How dare he allow his friend, especially John, to go though the agony of his loss. He would never know the extent Lestrade went to in order to make sure that John wouldn't follow in Sherlock's footsteps.
Yes, he wanted to punch Sherlock Holmes right in his smug face. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. All he could do was hug his friend, barely allowing himself to believe that it was real.
And then, he did punch him. Right across the face.
When Sherlock straightened, holding his jaw where Lestrade's fist had connected with his face, he gave the Detective Inspector a reproachful look.
"Was there a point to that?" he muttered, sounding mildly annoyed.
"You absolute, God awful, fucking asshole." Lestrade yelled, though with less heat than what he intended. "How could you do that?"
"I assure you, there was a perfectly relevant reason that I had to leave…" Sherlock started to explain.
"That's not what I mean, dammit! How could you leave your friends thinking that you were dead? Do you have any idea what John went through? He almost jumped off St. Bart's!" Lestrade yelled, his anger finally pushing its way from where he'd hidden it.
"I didn't have a choice!" Sherlock retorted.
"Of course you had a bloody choice, Sherlock! You didn't have to jump off St. Bart's!"
"Yes I did! I literally had no other option!"
"Then you could have told us you were alive!" Lestrade's chest was heaving. How could Sherlock have done that to his friends?
"Listen…"
"No, Sherlock, you listen." Lestrade walked forward until he was practically nose-to-nose with the consulting detective. "You have no idea what John went through. None. When I showed up to the scene, he was having a panic attack. After I calmed him down, he literally spent almost an hour sobbing into my chest. I had three or four calls from him every week, and every time I had to talk him out of suicide. Every. Single. Time. You have no idea the stress you have caused for me, thinking that another one of my, very few, friends was going to die too. You broke John's heart. You literally destroyed him. He only just recovered enough to start living his life again, and now you're going to fuck it up. So, you listen to me…" Lestrade paused for breath. "If you ever hurt him like that again, Sherlock, you won't only have to deal with whatever criminals you have been fighting with for the past two years. You're my friend, and I love you, but I will not have you causing John to want to die again. Understood?"
"Lestrade, I had to leave, and I couldn't tell anyone…" Sherlock started to argue.
"Don't bullshit me, Sherlock. I'm sure your all-powerful dick of a brother knew. I'm sure your parents knew. I'm sure there were other people that you told so you could fake your suicide properly. You just couldn't be bothered to tell your fucking friends. The people that care about you. How could you…"
"There were snipers, Lestrade! If I hadn't jumped, you, John, and Mrs. Hudson would have been shot and killed!" Sherlock yelled.
"That's not the bloody point!"
"You could have told someone, blown my cover…"
"Do you really think that little of your friends? You couldn't tell John that you were alive because he might tell your secret? I'm starting to understand why people don't think you feel anything, Sherlock." Lestrade muttered, backing up so he was a few feet away from his friend. "I don't care why or how you did it. I don't care why you thought it was okay to destroy John's life like that. But don't hurt him again, Sherlock, I don't think he could take it."
"I will heed your advice, Lestrade."
The Detective Inspector nodded, patting Sherlock on the shoulder. "I'm glad you're back, mate. I'm glad you're not dead."
Sherlock nodded, then walked out of the car park in silence.
