Chapter 3
Lestrade.
Lestrade.
How could he forget the DI? Sherlock held the older man's gaze, whilst coming to several conclusions. The DI had clearly not slept. The DI was here to see his body, therefore John would not be too far behind him. The DI would probably think he was hallucinating, due to Sherlock's large and rather blatantly obvious wings, and the fact that Sherlock was assumed - no - declared officially dead. He would have a 'funeral' later this month. Sherlock's mouth quirked upwards fractionally, wondering if it was acceptable to attend one's own funeral if he took necessary measures to disguise himself.
Ah, sentiment.
However, his thoughts soon snapped back to Lestrade, when the wide-eyed man whispered a hoarse and bewildered "Sherlock?" again.
"Yes?" snapped Sherlock, irritated, more at his own ignorance than anything.
"Oh, God, it really is you."
"Well, who else would I be?"
"Your evil ghost come back to haunt me?"
The younger man snorted at the other's theatrics. "Even if I were a ghost, there are better people to be 'haunting' than you."
Sherlock, after a pause, noticed Lestrade staring at his wings.
"They are real, you know."
Lestrade turned away, but Sherlock could sense the growing anger and confusion of the man.
"Do you have any idea what John has been through already?" Lestrade kept his voice quiet, but the consulting detective could hear it shaking with suppressed rage and fear.
Sherlock remained silent. Not the best thing to do.
"WELL?" Lestrade whipped around and stared hard at Sherlock. "He needed you, and you left him. You 'died'. But now here you are, in the damned mortuary, very much not 'dead', and with dirty great black wings! It's, it's ... impossible, yet your right in front of me! You have a lot of explaining to do. Holmes."
Use of his surname. Very not good. Sherlock took a deep breath, then opened his mouth, preparing to explain, but the DI cut him off.
"No. You know what Sherlock? You can come with me right now, and apologize to John. Wings or no wings."
"I can't."
"Give me one good reason why."
Sherlock slid off of the table, then coolly walked over to Lestrade, fake blood and everything. He towered over the older man, then extended his wings as far as they would go, so the inspector could see the full extent of the damage, wincing as he did so.
"I did it to protect him."
Taking an unconscious step back, clearly intimidated, Lestrade took in another shaky breath at the sight of the mangled mess of feathers and bone protruding from the youngers back.
He knew that Sherlock wouldn't do this damage to himself on purpose, so was what he saying true?