(A/N: This piece serves as a sequel of sorts to the previous drabble, "Technician's Holiday".)
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It was starting to fall apart. It hadn't all come crashing down yet, no dramatic pronouncements or huge reveals to be heard, but the whole situation was starting to show its cracks. Stories weren't holding up to scrutiny like they had first seemed to; contradictions and inconsistencies started to pop up; easy answers became harder and harder to defend. The condemnation of Sherlock Holmes was starting to raise questions.
He couldn't have faked all of those crimes, not really. There were places he just could not have been, people he could not possibly have known. What records he had left ran consistent with the doctor's stories, and no evidence left over in the labs could be found to be a fake. Suspicious alibis started to crumble around other people, though, and no one seemed to remember working on any shows with Richard Brooke. An innocent little girl and little boy were still in therapy, but different events and memories were breaking through the fear and the hysteria. Not to mention the strange things that came up in their blood tests, only to have the results whisked away by men in black suits.
The case against Sherlock Holmes had not completely fallen, and his final act did read as a statement of guilt. But even the most ardent of his accusers felt the doubt creep into their minds.
Which was why Darren Anderson found himself avoiding the eyes of Detective Inspector Lestrade in the break room that day. He had meant to just grab a cup of coffee before he headed back to the labs, perhaps say hello to Sally on his way. But the sight of the DI bent over a copy of the paper, picking at a muffin, slowed him to a crawl as he bounced back and forth between wanting to say something and wanting to get out as fast as possible. The newsprint title screamed out "Boffin's Fans Take Their Message to the Streets", and the pictures showed walls covered in graffiti.
"They really cared about him."
Damn. Lestrade just had to go and start a conversation.
"Yes, well, people do enjoy hero worship."
It came out sharper than he had intended, a barb of a comment. Lestrade didn't look up from his paper, and let out a dry sort of chuckle.
"True enough. If they had known him, who knows how many could have stood him at all…he was an incredibly unpleasant man."
But not a guilty one. They both knew it, though it had taken Anderson the extra months to get there. The two of them had helped drive an unpleasant, petty, childish, greedy, cruel, mean, nasty innocent man to his death. Lestrade's jaw was clenched as he read the stories of the anonymous artists, proclaiming their support on the walls of London. Anderson took a sip of his coffee, and tried to be gentle (something that didn't come too naturally).
"The labs certainly feel like they're missing something. Everything stays where it's supposed to."
Lestrade looked like he was going to crack a tooth with his jaw clenched that tight. Anderson took it as his cue to exit. He wasn't going to be the one to wear his emotions on his sleeve. Of course Lestrade was more broken up about it; he had lost his golden detective, and his friend. He had to be torn apart with all sorts of guilt. But not Anderson. He stood by his previous decision, stood by his process, and stood by his work.
And he hadn't even liked the man.
No, Darren Anderson's feelings were not for the Yard. They were saved for at night, the dark hours when he lay awake next to a peacefully sleeping Sally, and wondered what it said about him that he didn't feel that guilty.