A/N: Another chapter that decided to ninja its way into the story, thanks to Lestrade's nagging.
Chapter Six
Holmes flew out the door into the chilly morning air. The city around him had the feeling of only just rousing from its slumber. For once, Holmes could care less. The burgeoning hope that filled his chest was all that mattered. His mental processes working faster than he could ever remember, he stood on the sidewalk only long enough to catch a passing Irregular. It was a matter of seconds to pass his message on to Jacob, their recently ascended leader. Wiggins had already long passed on the title as he had grown too old and Holmes had seen to his employment elsewhere. Since then two others had shared the title of Lieutenant, and now a third had carried on the legacy Holmes had started all those years ago.
The mental weariness that touched him at this thought lasted only a moment as his mind decided where it was he should head first. The idea of telling Lestrade never even crossed his mind as he caught a passing cab toward his destination. If he knew his Watson—and he did, and would never doubt it again—then the man had started where he left off.
As he approached the location where he knew Mrs. Watson's grave to be, he was startled almost to crying out by seeing a figure standing there. He should have known it was too much to hope for as he broke into a run. Even as he skidded unceremoniously to a halt, Holmes reigned in his disappointment. The chilly look Lestrade gave him almost froze him in his tracks.
Holmes eyes, ever taking in all the details of his surroundings, slid right past the inspector to a sight that froze him with the horror of understanding all over again.
Three headstones.
Lestrade could see the surprise for himself painted across the detective's features.
"You didn't know?"
More than half lost in the moment, he only dimly heard the Yarder's question as he shook his head.
Three headstones.
Three graves.
Three different dates.
Holmes' thoughts at this revelation chased themselves around his mind mercilessly. "Why didn't he tell me?" he asked distantly.
The look of disgust that crossed Lestrade's face as he turned to stalk away was enough to bring him back to why he was here in the first place. The rest would have to wait. And it could wait. He would find Watson...alive. He would accept nothing else. Tearing his eyes away from the graves, he chased after the inspector back toward the gates of the cemetery.
"He's been here," Lestrade stated, confirming what Holmes had already seen for himself.
"Recently, but not today, yes. You said nothing had been removed from Watson's bag."
"Yes," Lestrade clipped, never slowing his pace.
"There was one shot fired, and the empty casing was never removed."
"And his wallet was empty. He didn't take his own life with the gun and then put it into his bag and throw it into the river. I'm not that dense, Mr. Holmes."
"That is exactly my point," Holmes snapped back. "His most precious possessions, ones which could never be mistaken as belonging to anyone else, were all in that bag! But there was no journal."
For the first time, Lestrade stopped to face the detective as they reached the cemetery gates. The look of exhaustion and defeat was now tinged with something akin to hope.
"He's not...he didn't...What are you saying?"
"You know as well as I do that Watson never goes anywhere without one of those journals on his person. And they are as much of an identifier of who he is as everything else we saw in that bag."
Holmes waited a moment for Lestrade to absorb this information. The naked relief on the man's face finally sparked the connection his mind had failed to achieve in all these recent months. Heaving a sigh, Lestrade nodded as if to himself.
"You have theories?"
Filing away that last thought, Holmes replied with some resignation, "Several, but don't pull your men, just yet."
"Holmes..." the icy edge warned he would brook no games from the man, not in this.
"Please..."
The pleading in the detective's tone spoke more than even that simple word he had likely never thought he'd hear. Putting aside his feelings for the time, Lestrade asked, "What do you want me to do?"
"I don't know what happened, yet. But, at the very least, someone wants us to think he's dead. We need them to think we're still looking for a body."
Lestrade crossed his arms in irritation. "Why do I get the feeling it should be 'me' rather than 'we'?"
Holmes nodded in acknowledgement of this statement. "I will be overcome with grief and locked in my rooms."
As if anyone is going to believe that! Lestrade snorted as he unfolded his arms and turned away, only just managing not to violently wipe that dark smile off the detective's face. "Send word to my house through Mrs. Hudson if you're needing to keep things quiet. Otherwise, you know where I'll be."
"Thank you."
Lestrade's about face startled even Holmes into jumping backward a step. But the mask of cold fury on the inspector's face froze him in place.
"I will have you understand something right now, Mr. Holmes. I'm not doing this for you. After you let him think you were dead, you don't deserve such consideration. Whatever else you did to him, there will always be that. I'm doing this because I think you're the only one that can help him."
Taking a deep breath and forcing a measure of calm into his voice, though no less frosty, Lestrade continued, "And I'll have you know, he's one of us now. If you ever pull something like that again, you had better keep in mind that Scotland Yard takes care of their own."
Not even waiting for a response, Lestrade spun around and left Holmes standing alone in the cemetery. For the first time in his life, Holmes discovered a level of respect for the Yarder that he had not anticipated. He knew the diminutive man was right in that he didn't deserve Watson; especially now. He did not doubt for one minute that Lestrade would bend the letter of the law to prove the veracity of that statement where Watson was concerned. Instead of the spike of jealousy he expected, this thought comforted him.
