Numb
The next few days passed in a blur of reports, condolences, a reprimand from the superintendant for acting without back-up, and a few days off to collect himself. Lestrade could do little more than nod or shake his head.
And then there was the funeral.
It was a small, private ceremony with only Lestrade, Donovan, Dimmock, and a select few attending from the police force in plain clothes. Meadows was never one for much extravagance and fanfare. Meadows had also never married and had no remaining family left. The party of mourners attenting the funeral consisted of police officers, two close friends of Meadows, and a bartender he had become increasingly friendly with.
The ceremony was quiet and reverent for their lonesome superior, but somehow, this was the sort of thing Meadows would have appreciated. Lestrade had been asked to give a euology but had refused, he would never be able to make it up there in front of his colleagues and speak about how honourable and kind his second police father-figure was. He'd never even be able to speak for the grief constricting his throat.
It was decided unanimously that no euology would be given. Dimmock had valiently joked that Meadows would come back to kick their arses for all the sap that would be floating around if they did. They all wrote whatever they wanted to say on a piece of white paper in the privacy of their homes and sealed it in an envelope. And when the time came, they placed all the envelopes on the casket before it was lowered. Meadows could take all their apologies and the words they would never be able to say to him in life with him to his grave.
Nobody moved for a long time after the ceremony ended. The first to go were Meadows's friends from long ago, followed slowly by the bartender accompanied by Donovan to give the rest more privacy. Ten minutes later, Dimmock stirred and took Eva gently by the arm and steered her away from the site with a worried but understanding look at the last man standing before the grave.
"Come along when you're ready, hey, Lestrade?" he said quietly. "I'm sure we could all use a drink... or several."
And then Lestrade was alone.
"You bastard." Lestrade rasped brokenly after a few minutes of silence. "You're not supposed to die on my watch. On my case." He raised a trembling hand and covered his eyes, face angled downwards as he hid his tears. "How am I supposed to live with that?"
And there he stood for a long time after.
Three days later, he returned to work where he found that Dimmock had taken the liberty of emptying Meadows's office. Lestrade felt as though a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He didn't feel up to cleaning Meadows's office out himself or having it being done by a stranger.
He grew a newfound appreciation for Dimmock that day.
There were mountains of paperwork on his desk wating for him, and for once, he was glad. He didn't have the strength to run around questioning witnesses, interrogating suspects, or chasing down criminals quite yet. He was just too tired for that right now. He sat down and tried to distract himself from his grief.
He felt like he was living in a dream, working on autopilot. He needed coffee but he didn't get up. He didn't care.
He was drowning in paperwork and his handwriting was growing more and more sloppy with every page. He didn't care.
Eva had desperately needed his support in helping her grieve Meadows's death but he wasn't there for her. Again. She slipped out sometime last night to see the P.E teacher. He didn't care.
Molly Hooper had been texting him once every three hours, worrying about Sherlock who was busy mutilating a corpse without any real scientific objective. He didn't care.
Mycroft called him on his phone to convey his condolences. Lestrade had hung up on him the moment he heard what the call was about. He heard that speech so many times that didn't care for it anymore.
He rubbed his eyes tiredly. He just wanted to go to bed and not wake up for, say ten years, or so? Maybe he'd be able to bring himself to care then.
"Sir." He looked up to see Donovan hovering over his desk worriedly. "It's late, you should go home."
Lestrade looked at his watch. Donovan was right, it was late. The office was empty and the sky was dark out. A whole day had passed without his noticing. Curiouser and curiouser.
He nodded at her. "Right. Thanks." Donovan nodded back and left.
Five minutes later, Lestrade finally stretched and got up. His eyes, head, and arm muscles ached and his arse was as numb as the rest of him. He shrugged his jacket on and made his way outside...
...Only to find Mycroft Holmes waiting for him.
"Mycroft? What are you doing here?" Lestrade asked, curious despite his mental insistance that he didn't care about what Mycroft was up to now.
Mycroft just walked up to him and touched his upper arm lightly. "Come, you haven't eaten." he said authoritively.
"Sorry, Mycroft. I know you've got good intentions, but I don't think I can keep anything down right now." Lestrade sighed tiredly.
"Then, how about I take you somewhere where nobody would hate you for a moment's weakness." Mycroft slowly, gently, solidified his grip on Lestrade's arm and led him into his car.
Lestrade didn't know where they were going, even when the car had stopped and let them out. He only realized when feminine arms were wrapping around him warmly, soothing, at times almost protectively. He pulled back a little. "Sandy." The waitress self-consciously wiped a tear from her eye.
"We heard about what happened from Mister Holmes." Jonah told him, squeezing his shoulder comfortingly. "We closed up shop early, feel free to stay as long as necessary." Then they led their two patrons inside.
Inside sat a withery old man with white hair and a bent posture that would've immediately struck up a strong friendship with the Hunchback of Notre Dame. "Hey Matthews." Lestrade greeted the restaurant's owner weakly.
"It's been a while since I've visited." Matthews smiled back softly. "I hear you haven't been doing too good." He turned with great difficulty to his adoptive children. "Jonah, Sandy, go cook something up quick! Before Gregory here falls over from starvation!" he admonished, waving them away.
"Seriously, Matthews, it's like near midnight..." Lestrade tried to protest.
"Gregory Lestrade, you sit your arse right down and be quiet!" The old man snapped. "And you'd do well to think again if you think there will ever be a time when we turn you out of here. You are going to eat something and get some liquids in you and then you're going to find someplace to rest, understand?"
"Yeah..." Lestrade sent Mycroft an unreadable look that might've been exasperated, or a desperate plea for help... or, it might be suspicious of Mycroft's motives for all this. Then, Lestrade shrugged a bit to himself. "About that 'someplace to rest'..."
"You shouldn't go home. Your wife is not there at the moment." Mycroft told him bluntly.
"Yeah, I know." Lestrade sighed tiredly and crossed his arms on the table, resting his chin on them.
Matthews looked from Lestrade to Mycroft. "Well, as you said, it's getting late. I'm getting my old bones to bed." He pushed himself to his feet and tottered slightly. Jonah saw him standing and rushed to assist the ancient old man.
Sandy arrived with a few pancakes and a mug of warmed milk before following Jonah and Matthews out of the room.
Lestrade stared blankly at the stack of pancakes before him before looking at Mycroft. "Want some?"
Mycroft seemed to think about this for a moment before finally reaching over and sliding one of the pancakes off Lestrade's plate and onto a clean one for himself. They ate in silence for a while.
"How much do you know?" Lestrade asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
"Pardon, how much do I know about what?" Mycroft asked, taking a delicate bite of a neatly cut square of pancake.
"The... case." Lestrade, suddenly realizing he was hungry, shoved another mouthful of food into his mouth.
"I know just as much as Sherlock does, which is little more than pure speculation." Mycroft told him.
"Bullshit." Lestrade grumbled through a mouthful consisting of more syrup than anything. It made Mycroft cringe a little, but the detective needed his sugar, he argued. "This is you we're talking about."
"Yes, it is." Mycroft shrugged. "I'm sure Anthea has kept a backup file on the case, but I haven't read the one she offered me."
Lestrade sipped at his milk tentatively. "Why not?" He was genuinely curious.
Mycroft shrugged. "We all have our secrets, do we not? If it is not necessary to know about it, I will not pry."
Lestrade took a thoughtful bite out of his pancake. "You know, that is probably the most decent thing a Holmes has ever done for me." he mused. "Um, thanks for that, I guess."
They continued to eat in silence.
"So, do I have to worry about you giving me the 'It wasn't your fault' speech?" Lestrade asked slowly, not looking at Mycroft.
"No, you have no need to worry." Mycroft smiled back. "I believe you've heard it enough times from many respectable, experienced people to know that there's some truth to the statement."
Lestrade snorted into his mug. "Right."
"It's true." Mycroft continued. "And I know that, you know it too. You just don't feel like you can believe it."
Lestrade raised his eyebrow silently.
"I work for the British Government, Gregory. I've made plenty of mistakes and decisions that resulted in blood that did not need to be shed." Mycroft frowned at his empty plate as though it had done him wrong. "And I don't think a guilt like that can be assuaged simply by people telling us that there was nothing we could've done. Because it's our job to make situations better, we believe that there is always something that we could've done better."
Lestrade noticed Mycroft's empty plate and kindly slid another pancake onto it. "Please, Mycroft, I don't need you to psychoanalyze me." he grumbled, not unkindly, just a little annoyed.
"All I mean to say is that, it's alright for you to feel guilty. I would be more worried if you didn't. And in knowing just how bad a situation is gives you an advantage in making it better. And I know you will make it better because I know how tenacious and stubborn you are against opposing natures. You don't do a bad thing halfway, and I feel sorry for Pupshaw and York."
Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "And, I suppose you're going to say that the first step in getting Pupshaw and York is to pull myself together and get some rest?" he deduced perceptively.
Mycroft smiled back in satisfaction. "Precisely."
Lestrade glanced around at the empty restaurant. "Speaking about rest, I feel a little bad about keeping the others awake." he chuckled sheepishly.
"I'm sure they understand." Mycroft shrugged. "You looked like you could use a friend."
Lestrade looked around again a second time, then back at Mycroft. Perhaps the government agent wasn't aware of their solitude? "You're the only one here, Mycroft." he pointed out at length.
Mycroft startled and swiveled his head a little, embarrassed. Lestrade just shook his head and chucked.
"Thanks, Mycroft."