Okay . . . this is a really, really long chapter. While there is a natural break for another chapter, I decided against it for reasons known only to sleep deprivation.
Please bear with me.
I found that I wanted to take a few people down a peg or two more than I wanted pure legal accuracy, so please take that into consideration!
***Warning: Major, unavoidable spoilers ahead for 2.3, including some dialogue from the show. I didn't write those lines, I just borrowed it in humble homage.***
Lestrade straightened his jacket, squared his shoulders, and entered the press room.
He was aware of the sidewise glances and whispers—some scornful, some sympathetic—as he passed, but ignored them all. It was the first time he'd set foot in the Yard in almost a month, and he would be damned if he'd show anyone how much he missed it.
Donovan and Anderson, looking at anything but him, were standing near the end of a row of seats, listening to a disgruntled-looking Pitts, who shot him a hostile look.
The Commissioner was seated one row back, along with several important-looking men and women. Lestrade thought he recognized at least one justice of the High Court and two MPs—not surprising, considering the person behind this conference.
There majority of the remaining seats were taken up by the press, with cameras and recorders set up around the perimeter. Front and center was Kitty Riley, wearing a chic pink suit that reminded him of the first case John had written up for his blog—the start of it all.
Lestrade wondered if she was bitchy enough to dress that way on purpose and decided she was.
He took a seat on the other side near the back and wondered why he was there. If his invitation—though summons was closer to the mark—to this conference hadn't come from Mycroft Holmes, he would have assumed that he was about to be very publically sacked.
It was still a very real possibility.
God, he wished Molly was here—she'd left early, before the call requesting his presence. He'd called her, but she hadn't answered and he hadn't left a message. He brought out his phone, looked at it, then put it away. She couldn't get here from St. Bart's in time, anyway.
If she'd come at all. She'd been distant over the past week, as if she was holding a part of herself back, even though she clung to him every night. Maybe she was regretting—or imagining— no. No more speculation or jealousy. Once this was over, he'd talk with her, let her know exactly how he felt and that he could accept being second best to a ghost as long as she gave him a chance . . .
Someone sat next to him, and his heart leapt—but it was John Watson, who hooked his cane on the back on the seat in front of him.
"Hello," said John, with a tired smile. "You look like I feel."
"Thanks," said Lestrade, disturbed by the cane. John had told him about his leg troubles one night over a pint, and it couldn't be a good sign that they'd returned. "I dropped by last week to see you, but you weren't at home."
"No. I'm not . . . I'm not staying at Baker Street at the moment. It's . . . " John's mouth tightened and he looked at his hands. "It's a bit, um, a bit difficult right now."
"It must be. I'm sorry, John."
"Thank you." The other man's voice was gruff. "Thanks, Greg."
Lestrade waited a bit so the other man could collect himself. "Any clue what all this is about?"
"Ah, no." John cleared his throat. "No, Mycroft told me to be here—said it was by way of an apology." His chuckle was forced. " I couldn't miss that, could I?"
"Suppose you couldn't." An apology sounded better than a lynching, but perhaps Lestrade losing his job was the apology?
"How are things with you?" said John. "I heard about the suspension. I'm sorry."
"So am I," said Lestrade, grimacing. "I fully expect to be on the dole by the end of the week, if not today. Maybe I should quit, but I'm not fit for anything else."
John was quiet a moment. "You could always go private. I've, um, I've even got some experience if you need an assistant and general dogsbody."
Lestrade stared at him. "Are you serious?"
"Sherlock thought you were the only policeman he'd ever met with a working brain," said John. "He respected you."
"He had a funny way of showing it."
"Always," said John, with a hint of eye-roll. "But that doesn't mean he didn't."
"Even at the end?"
"Listen, Greg," said John before glancing at the front. "We'll talk later."
Lestrade looked up. As expected, one of the people coming through the side door was Mycroft Holmes.
The other was Molly.
Mycroft took the podium first. "Good morning," he said, in his reserved manner. "My name is Mycroft Holmes. I'm sure all of you all know, or know of, my brother Sherlock."
"You said you have new evidence concerning Holmes? Evidence of what?" someone called. Other voices joined him.
Mycroft's smile quieted the room. "To answer that question, Mr. Perkins," he said, "I will defer to Doctor Molly Hooper, a senior pathologist at St. Bartholomew's."
Molly stepped up to the podium. She was dressed in a smart dark suit, her skirt just skimming her knees, and her hair was swept up in an elegant pleat—she looked like a successful woman who had earned two doctorates and excelled in a demanding career, and it wasn't until she swallowed hard that he could see how nervous she was.
"Good morning," she said, her voice a bit too high. "I'm here to present evidence that proves Sherlock Holmes was being systematically stalked by James Moriarty."
"Don't you mean Richard Brooks?" said Kitty Riley, with a malevolent sneer.
Molly looked at her for an unblinking moment, and Lestrade saw her expression change. "No, Miss Riley, I don't. Any more than I mean Raoul Rodrieguez of Madrid, Father Sean O'Briein of Dublin, or Jim Culver, who worked at St. Bart's for three months last year. "
She moved her hand to the console and the lights dimmed. Four identification cards appeared on the screens behind her, each showing a version of the man Sherlock Holmes had insisted was James Moriarty.
"The first of these is his Richard Brooks alias," said Molly, her voice growing stronger and more confident as she continued. "The next two were supplied by Interpol—Mr. Rodriguez disappeared after the oil tanker spill near Monaco four years ago and authorities assumed Father O'Briein died in the bombing of St. Rudolphus Cathedral in 2006.
"This last one is from the staff records of St. Bartholomew's; James Moriarty placed himself on staff in the IT department under an assumed name for three months last year, presumably in order to meet Sherlock Holmes, who was already aware of his, um, professional name." Molly swallowed again, and Lestrade thought she was waiting for someone to ask her how she knew.
"Why would he do that?" asked Kitty Riley, instead, sounding half bewildered, half belligerent.
"That's what he did," said Molly, as if the journalist was a particularly dim student having a difficult time with the fact that water was wet. "James Moriarty made a career out of manipulating people into believing what he wanted and doing what he wanted them to do. He was very, very good at it." She aimed a look towards Sally and Anderson. "Of course, he was a very charming psychopath."
Lestrade saw them both shift uncomfortably in their seats, like students who had been called out by the teacher.
"She's fantastic," whispered John.
"She's angry," replied Lestrade, unable to suppress a proud smile.
"Is that all you have?" said Kitty Riley. "Sherlock Holmes could have hired Richard to be this other person as well. All these other people."
"Why would he do that?" asked Molly. "Experiments? A dry run? Ego?"
"Careful, there," murmured John.
Molly shook her head. "Even if his only motivation was fame," she said, wrinkling her nose, "Sherlock Holmes didn't have to invent crimes to solve." She picked up a sheaf of paper.
"Chief Inspector Pitts, according to these records, the Yard's success rate rose almost seven percent since Sherlock Holmes was brought in as a consultant and nearly half of your department's cold cases were resolved to the court's satisfaction—including crimes committed decades before he established his working relationship with Scotland Yard.
"Tell me, sir," she continued. "Do you really believe that Sherlock Holmes invented those crimes? And how far has your department's success rate dropped in the weeks since Mr. Holmes' funeral and the suspension of the Detective Inspector who employed him? An employment that your predecessor officially approved and that you didn't appear to question until a month ago."
As one—except for Kitty Riley—the press turned to the Chief Inspector, who frowned and glanced quickly back at the Commissioner. "Sherlock Holmes as much as admitted he was a fraud by the end," he said with a polite grimace. "I'm afraid the burden of proof on this matter isn't the Yard's responsibility."
"Then perhaps you should have taken the responsibility before he jumped," said Molly, tossing the papers down with a thump. "Instead of leaving it to the imagination of the gutter press."
Pitts reddened and stood. "Unless you can provide solid evidence, young lady, I'm sure we all have far better things to do with our time than listen to a member of the Sherlock Holmes fan club gush on about his supposed brilliance."
Lestrade tensed, his hands curling into fists.
"Easy," murmured John. "its fun, but not worth it."
"It might be," growled Lestrade, but subsided as Mycroft cleared his throat.
"If you do not sit down and listen to what Doctor Hooper has to say, Mr. Pitts," he said in his silky, genteel way, "you may have cause to regret it."
Pitts turned purple. "Is that a threat?"
"Merely a suggestion," said Mycroft, pleasantly.
Behind Pitts, the Commissioner leaned forward and said something Lestrade couldn't catch. Pitts sat.
John and Lestrade exchanged glances and had to look away. John coughed into his fist.
Mycroft smiled. "Continue, Doctor Hooper."
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I do have tangible, verified evidence," she said, her eyes flicking to Lestrade for the first time. "Two recordings were made of Sherlock Holmes' last moments on the roof of the hospital. They were discovered and recovered a few days after the . . . the incident by the pathology department and the maintenance staff at St. Bartholomew's respectively."
She waited until the muttering died down. "One is from a battery-powered digital camcorder that was placed over the exit to the roof of St. Bart's. The other is from a small camera that had been attached to Mr. Holmes' coat." She waited again. "Both recordings have been authenticated as genuine by experts from two disinterested, reputable agencies."
"Which agencies?" asked the High Court Judge, echoed by several reporters.
Mycroft smiled. "MI-5 and the FBI."
"In the interests of time, I'm going to play the recordings simultaneously," said Molly. "Only Sherlock Holmes' camera had sound."
Both screens lit up, the left showing a man in an impeccable suit sitting on the ledge at the edge of the roof some distance away, the second showing a closed door, which opened to the sudden sound of music.
A tall figure in an unmistakable coat stalked onto the left screen, while on the right, the image of the smaller man enlarged, eventually showing a close up of Moriarty, whose face was far less benign than in his recent newspaper photos and worse as he started to speak.
. . . You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you.
Lestrade heard John's breath hitch, but kept his attention on the screens, where Moriarty was explaining exactly how he'd committed his last simultaneous crime spree and how he managed to escape conviction for it. How he'd led everyone around and around in a merry, deadly chase until there would be only one thing left for Sherlock to do.
Of course . . . My suicide.
It was dead quiet in the room, until Sherlock finally lost his temper and grabbed Moriarty by the throat.
"Do it," he thought he heard John whisper. "Do it."
But—
Your friends will die if you don't.
John? The fear in Sherlock's voice was heartbreakingly plain.
Not just John. Everyone.
Mrs. Hudson?
Everyone.
Lestrade, too?
Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There's no stopping them now. . .
Lestrade flinched. "Christ," he whispered. He'd had it all wrong, so wrong. He flinched again as he watched his friend—his friend—step onto the ledge . . .
. . . and then Sherlock had laughed.
What? What is it? What did I miss?
Lestrade looked at Molly, who was staring at the screens, her face tense. Not what, he knew. Who. The criminal mastermind had forgotten all about little Molly Hooper, who was systematically ruining his triumph.
And even knowing what he knew, Lestrade hoped for one of Sherlock's eleventh-hour miracles.
But then came that last, strange exchange, when Moriarty seemed to concede . . . and then stretched his mouth wide and raised a gun. . .
Lestrade heard Kitty Riley's cry above all the others as the body dropped and Sherlock reeled back in shock and horror on the screen. He forced himself to keep watching as he finally stepped up to the ledge again.
A lone figure on the left screen and a cab pulling up on the right, its passenger leaping out, phone to an ear as he hurried across the street—
John. Turn around and go back the way you came . . . Just do as I ask . . . Please. Tell Lestrade, tell Mrs. Hudson, Molly . . . Tell everyone.
Lestrade reached over to grip John's shoulder. It was like iron under his touch and he was careful not to look at the other man's face.
Sherlock tossed his phone aside, took one last deep breath, spread his arms . . . and disappeared from the roof on the left, while the right showed the pavement rushing up—
The screens went blank and the lights went up.
"As you just saw," said Molly, her voice wavering for a moment, then growing stronger. "Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud. His reputation—his life—was deliberately destroyed by James Moriarty. And the sole reason he threw himself off that roof was to save his . . . his friends." For the first time, her voice started to crack.
Mycroft stepped forward. "Might I assume, ladies and gentlemen" he said smoothly, looking past the press, "that this evidence will be taken under consideration if and when the courts are asked to reopen any case on which my brother or DI Gregory Lestrade worked?
"You may safely assume so, Mr. Holmes," said one of the women.
"Thank you. And I assume that there will be no trouble reinstating DI Lestrade?" It was not a question.
"Pitts," said the Commissioner.
Pitts shook his head. "No," he said. "I mean, no trouble at all. In light of the—of course." But he turned to glare at Donovan and Anderson. Anderson looked sick, and Sally had gone ashen.
The reporters raised their hands. "Doctor Hooper! Doctor Hooper!"
Molly shook her head. "I have no further comment. There are copies of these recordings and a transcript of my statement for the press."
"With the exception of Ms. Riley and any news service unfortunate enough to have employed her," said Mycroft, a hint of steel entering his tone. His eyes seemed to burn and Lestrade had never seen or heard the resemblance between the Holmes brothers as clearly as he did now.
His gaze rested on Kitty Riley, who froze like a rabbit facing a hungry snake. "Ms. Riley, you will write a retraction and a sincere apology for every single fallacious word you wrote about my brother and James Moriarty and distribute it to each and every newspaper in the United Kingdom including the Hereford Coupon Advertiser. If you do not complete this condition within one week, the estate of Sherlock Holmes will sue you for libel and slander and it will win. Is that understood?"
Kitty Riley squirmed as all her colleagues—former colleagues, Lestrade hoped—and their cameras focused on her. Her face was a study, but Mycroft waited her out.
She nodded.
"Then, ladies and gentlemen—and members of the esteemed press—that will be all. Thank you."
There was nothing Lestrade wanted to do more than go to Molly, who had been ushered through a side door by Mycroft, but he turned to John first. "Are you—?"
John stood up, grabbed his cane, and marched to the front. Lestrade followed close behind—he couldn't blame John for anything he might do, but he wasn't about to let the man get in trouble for it.
oooooOOOOOooooo
They went through the side door into the conference room, where Mycroft was holding court in one corner with several of the important people from the back row, including the Commissioner.
Molly, her hands twisted together but her face composed, was talking to two others. She ended her conversation with a hand shake and a solemn nod, then turned and saw John bearing down on her. She bit her lip and put out a hand to grip the edge of the table.
"You knew," said John. "You knew about the camera and the confrontation beforehand. Sherlock confided in you."
Lestrade moved closer, just in case, though part of him was shocked. She'd known? And she hadn't told him?
"John," she said, her eyes filling, "I'm sorry—I couldn't tell you. I didn't know—" Her eyes darted to Lestrade and skittered away. "And then the chain of evidence—"
John held up a hand and leaned his cane against the table. "I'm very, very angry with that arrogant, know-it-all git," he said, in a voice that came straight out of Afghanistan. "But if he . . . if he wouldn't let me . . . I'm glad he had you, Molly Hooper. So very glad." And he reached out and hugged her. "Thank you," he said, his voice cracking. "Thank you so much. You've given him back to us. To me."
Over John's shoulder, Molly's face contracted, as if she'd been struck. Tears rolled down her face, but she hugged him back. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
With that, Lestrade realized the sheer weight of responsibility and guilt she'd obviously been carrying since Sherlock's death—a burden she couldn't possibly have shared with anyone, until now.
John released her and turned to hold out a hand to Lestrade, who took it. "A great man," he said. "And a good one."
John pulled him into a half-hug. "Take care of her," he said in a low voice.
"If she'll let me," said Lestrade at the same volume.
"Ask—don't wait. Never wait." John pulled back, his face wet, but composed. "Both of you are coming to tea this Sunday," he said. "No excuses."
Molly brushed her eyes and nodded, though she didn't smile, or look at Lestrade.
At that moment, Anderson slunk up, followed by Sally.
"Doctor Watson," said Sally, but shut up when John turned his back on her. "If you'll excuse me," he said to Lestrade and Molly, "it's time I went home." he turned with military precision and strode out of the room.
"He's left his cane," whispered Molly.
"He doesn't need it," said Lestrade, waiting until she finally—finally—looked at him. "You did that for him. You, Molly Hooper."
She searched his face. "Greg, I—"
"Sir," interrupted Sally. "I want to . . . I didn't mean for any of this—"
Molly narrowed her eyes. "Yes, you did," she said, stepping between Lestrade and the startled sergeant. "You wanted Sherlock gone and you didn't care how it happened or who else it hurt. You two and that . . .that bitch of a reporter are the real sociopaths. How can you live with yourselves?"
Sally shook her head. "If he hadn't been such a—"
"Don't. You. Dare," said Molly, jabbing the other woman with a finger. "Sherlock Holmes wasn't an easy man, but he was on the side of the angels, every step of the way. And if you'd given him half a chance before deciding you hated him because his mind worked differently from yours and he didn't understand all the social cues and didn't suffer your relentless insults gladly, he might still be with us. Next time you two want to forget you're police officers and play at being spiteful children, I hope you remember that."
Anderson sniffed and stuck his nose in the air. "I don't know why we're supposed to believe a word you say about Sherlock Holmes—you've always followed him around like a lovesick puppy. You would do anything for him, say anything for him. You're still in love with the man, for God's sake."
Lestrade took a step forward, intending to make good use of the time left on his suspension.
Molly grasped his arm, stopping him in his tracks. "Wrong again, Anderson," said Molly. "I'm in love with this man."
He blinked, then took her by the shoulders and spun her around. "Say that again," he said.
She went still, but her eyes were shining. "Anderson is wrong. Again. I never loved Sherlock the way that I love you. I didn't do any of this for him, or even for John, not really. I did it for you."
He bent his head and she surged up and met him halfway. She smelled of lemon and vanilla and tasted of his Molly and he knew that whatever happened, they would take care of each other.
Dimly, he heard Pitts say, "Donovan, Anderson, my office." And the Commissioner say, "No, Pitts. My office. Lestrade-oh. Never mind. Someone tell him to report to my office first thing tomorrow morning."
Lestrade rested his forehead against Molly's. "I've loved you since Baskerville," he said, when he had his breath back, not knowing or caring if they still had an audience.
"I fell in love with you before Majorca." She put on a stern face. "And don't tell me I don't know my own mind."
"I wouldn't dare," he said. "Do you have any idea how strong and brave and beautiful you are?"
She blew out a breath. "Maybe. A little." A small smile appeared on her face. "I might need reminders every once in a while."
"I think I can—"
"If I might interrupt?" asked Mycroft in a pleasant voice that didn't care about the answer. "I do have a few things to go over with Dr. Hooper. In private."
"Of course," said Molly, stepping back from Lestrade. "Wait for me?"
"As long as it takes," he said, and was rewarded with a smile from Molly and a cough from Mycroft, who reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter.
"This should keep you sufficiently occupied," he said, handing it to Lestrade.
It was an envelope stamped with St. Bart's address . His name was written on the front in Sherlock's peculiar, spidery hand.
Inside was a sheet of notepaper with Molly's initials at the top under a drawing of a kitten in a basket. The words on it had been written in obvious haste.
Dear (Lestrade was crossed out) Greg,
Forgive Molly—she did what she had to do. She hated the idea of keeping secrets from you—I had to persuade her that it was the only way to keep you and the others safe. If you're reading this, it worked.
You've made her almost as happy as she deserves. Take care to keep her that way.
And please, take care of John. (The next lines were crossed out with a bold line, but Lestrade could still read most of them: He's as special to me as . . . I wouldn't have left him if . . . I wouldn't have hurt him for . . .) He's been a true friend.
As have you.
—SH
(If that idiot Pitt gives you the sack, go private—with John's help, you'll do very well)
Lestrade read it over again then looked over at Molly, who was talking earnestly with Mycroft in the corner. He seemed to ask her a question and she shook her head, threatening her hairstyle. Mycroft visibly sighed, produced another envelope, and gave it to her.
She opened it, pulled out a scrap of paper, read it, and put her hand to her mouth.
Mycroft offered an immaculate handkerchief, which she used to dry her eyes. She said something and he replied, an almost gentle look on his face. Then he picked up her hand, said something else, and kissed it.
She blushed.
Mycroft glanced at Lestrade, gave him a nod, and left, accepting his umbrella from the young woman waiting at the door.
Greg watched her tuck the note back in its envelope and stuff it in her bag along with the handkerchief. "Letting a strange man kiss your hand?" he said, lightly. "That puts me in my place."
She smacked him on the arm. "He isn't a strange man. Well . . .he's not a stranger. I wonder if John would mind if we brought him along for tea?"
"I'd mind," he said, tucking her arm through his. "Lunch?"
"Yes, please."
She didn't ask about his note from Sherlock . . . and he found that he didn't mind that she didn't tell him about hers.
He was sure it was just a personal note between good friends.
