The Distance Between Us

"Time is strange. It doesn't always help. Or heal. Sometimes it just passes."
- Ash Parsons-Still Waters

September

(3 weeks later)

Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, but the steady pressure in Lestrade's chest did not dissipate. It lay there, never changing, never leaving.

The Westforth case had been closed despite Greg's efforts to prove robbery had not been the motive. Sherlock's reaction had been a subdued one, simply because he cared more about solving the crime than bringing the criminals to justice. Greg, on the other hand, couldn't get the case out of his mind. It kept nagging at the edge of his consciousness, even as other cases occupied his desk.

There was a break-in in one of the old family homes which made up a good portion of the House of Lords, Greg was sure it had been appointed to him as punishment for his unwanted prying into the Westforth case. It was resolved rather quickly and with an astonishing lack of fuss, though. The owners of the estate, quite demanding and outraged upon Greg's first visit, had insisted nothing that had been stolen couldn't be replaced when he returned the morning after and refused any further investigations.

More often than not, Greg found himself unable to sleep at night, his mind too occupied to accept rest. In those moments he liked to close his eyes and imagine slender fingers caressing over his brow and into his hair. The fantasy offered comfort and lulled him into sleep, eventually turning into such a realistic dream, that when the sun rose, and he awoke he was left feeling restless and empty.

When even this didn't help soothe his worries one night, Greg drew back the covers and planted his feet on the cool floor. He blindly searched for the box of matches and in the dim candle light padded into the kitchen. There was a hidden compartment [in the space] between the small hearth and the workbench. With practised ease Greg opened it, having sought out what lay within regularly since it had first been placed there, and took out the non-descript leather bundle. The ring was comfortingly rough beneath his touch and Greg twirled it between his fingers a few times, watching the light reflect on its irregular surface, before threading it on a sturdy metal cord. He fastened it around his neck, double checking the knot just in case, and went back to bed. Sleep, when it finally came, was peaceful.

He did not take the ring off the following night, nor the days after. Instead it rested safe beneath the rough material of his shirt, hidden from prying eyes, and provided a comforting pressure against the soft skin of his chest. Not necessarily erasing, but taking the edge off the ache which had already made a home there. Here, close to his heart, it belonged.

People didn't notice, not that they'd have cared much anyway.

~oOo~

In the safety of his chambers, generously appointed to him by Mr. Holmes himself, Watson sat hunched over his writing desk. With quick, practised fingers he dipped his feather into the dark ink, opened his leather-bound diary, and began to write.

A month had passed since he'd entered Holmes' service and much had not come as he'd first expected. For instance, the Holmes manor wasn't the pompous, ostentatious housing he'd pictured when being informed about his future employment. It was huge, yes, and equipped with furniture and decoration common men could only dream of. But it held an air of oldness Watson had never felt before and every corner of the house spoke of ages long past. Holmes, he found, fit into that setting as perfectly as if he'd been born right into it. Which, Watson supposed, was true. Tradition and pride, to uphold at all costs.

Despite this, Holmes remained an enigma to him, just as unreadable as when they'd first exchanged words in a carriage to London. He was proud and fair, with a sharpness to his mind that was hidden well behind silence and a hardened face. It was his intellect which Watson was most fearful of, more than anything. His mind ruled his action, just as it overruled his temper and blocked out emotion. Watson wondered if Holmes had ever had any kind of feelings and if so, whether it had been fear or revulsion that had him lock them away.

His task as a personal guard was, compared to its importance, a rather simple one. Wherever Holmes went, Watson followed, silently and without question. He assessed their surroundings, mentally prepared flight and fight strategies and blended into the background if necessary. Only Holmes' private rooms were outside of his supervision and it remained the only part of the manor Watson had never seen and only knew the floorplan of. Holmes spent comparingly little time there, since most of his work was conducted in his office or outside of the estate altogether. Some nights, Watson wasn't even sure the man sought them out at all. When the old grandfather clock stroke one, Holmes tended to relieve him with a slight nod of his head, barely glancing up from his desk, and Watson thankfully retreated to his chambers as soon as the night guard had taken his place. Whether Holmes was still there when the sun rose or had returned early, he had no right to ask and therefore, stayed silent.

What Holmes' position exactly was remained unspoken, although Watson knew the general outlay of his responsibilities. The amount of work and secrecy which it was treated with spoke for itself, not to mention the people he met with. Hushed discussions behind closed doors. Encrypted messages sent through serious-looking, intimidating couriers. Watson was no fool, he recognised combat trained men when he saw them. Of three things, he was absolutely sure. Whatever it was Holmes did, it was essential and time-consuming. And it brought a loneliness no man should have endure.

Watson wondered whether Holmes had had any choice in the responsibilities he shouldered or if others had decided for him. Or perhaps, fate had shown its hand and not given anyone a say altogether. It was a fickle thing, fate. After all, it had brought Watson where he was now. Here, and not far away on the raging battlefield. Hurting and dying, or even already dead. Who knew but fate itself.

~oOo~

After their first introduction on the bridge, Lestrade and the strange man met every Thursday in that exact same spot. Eyes trained on the stream below, they talked about whatever light topics they fancied, without ever inquiring after the other's life. And should no subject come to mind, silence was just as appreciated.

Lestrade, who first thought little of those encounters, soon found himself looking forward to them, until Thursday had become his favourite day of the week. And eventually both sought out the bridge whenever they could, always at noon, hoping to find companionship. And Lestrade could not deny the surge of joy that gripped his heart every time he glimpsed that tall, slender figure, either waiting for him or ending his wait. He wondered what this man had changed; solitude had been comforting so far. Until he realised it was not company in general he'd craved, but understanding. An open ear, someone like-minded. With this realisation, Lestrade found himself trusting enough to open up about his life. Little by little, careful not to divulge too much, too soon. They were, after all, still strangers, he reminded himself.

"If you do that again, I might have to take you in." Lestrade grinned.

"You work with the police?"

"Yes," Lestrade confirmed, slightly surprised about the pride in his voice. He'd never really talked to anyone other than his colleagues about his work. To him, it was his duty, his tribute to the world in exchange for his life. But still, the spark of pride burned bright.

"Should I be careful what I divulge in front of you then?"

A laugh, a smile. "I'm a Sergeant with the criminal investigation department. Don't worry. As long as you don't plan on murdering someone, we're fine."

And received just in turn.

"Apologies for my delayed arrival, I got held up at work this morning."

"Someone's been busy lately," Lestrade noted. He'd spent more lunch breaks alone than not the last two weeks, but had decided not to investigate. His curiosity, however, could not be denied.

His companion sighed deeply. "London never sleeps, I'm afraid."

"You sound like the Queen."

Lestrade's teasing grin was met by pretended look of distaste. "Please, I'm merely a humble minor servant of her majesty. Barely qualified enough to make the tea."

Lestrade snorted. "That sounds like the biggest understatement of the century."

And so, a strange friendship was formed. Odd in both its origin and functioning, but working brilliantly nonetheless. Almost three months had passed and here they were still, sharing a moment of refugee on a small, little café terrace.

"You seem strangely quiet today."

Greg tore his eyes away from the smooth surface of the table and met Mycroft's gaze. He hesitated, wondering absently when he'd started mentally referring to him by his first name, then sighed.

"He turned up again, today. Racked havoc on the scene of crime."

"Who?"

"That young fellow with the ridiculous curls," Greg answered, earning himself an amused snort. "Even followed me home afterwards." They'd talked about him before, briefly.

"He seems rather persistent," Mycroft mused.

Greg smiled wryly. "He is going to cost me my employment, if he keeps doing that."

"How long has he tried now?"

"Roughly three months, I would say," Greg replied, absently worrying at his bottom lip. "In fact, if I remember correctly, he first turned up shortly before we first met."

"Have you considered giving him a chance?" Mycroft asked hesitantly, carefully settling his tea cup back on its saucer. His face was oddly controlled.

"Honestly? Yes," Greg admitted, quickly looking away at Mycroft's surprised face. "I am not sure, though." He shrugged, helpless. "Every single one of his deductions turned out to be truthful, but how could he possess such knowledge?"

"Brilliant minds often lurk in the strangest of people." There was a sad ring to his words, but Greg didn't notice.

"So he is either a genius or a pervert?" Greg asked sceptically, leaning back and crossing his arms.

"You've interacted with him quite a few times now. What do you think?"

Greg carefully pondered the question, aware he had already made up his mind. Hearing it confirmed by Mycroft, though, seemed essential. "I think he wants to help, but is not sure how to go about it. But his intentions are good, and that's all that's important."

Mycroft stared at him for a few seconds, blue eyes filled with an emotion Greg couldn't quite place. But before he could ask what was wrong, the moment was gone and Mycroft relaxed back into his chair. "Then you have your answer." He smirked. "I'll be here to console you should it go downhill though."