Notes: Heaven and Hell, we go from that short little snippet of writing to this monstrous monster of a oneshot, which practically wrote itself, oddly enough. Lestrade decided to bitch at Holmes, and who am I to stop him?

Disclaimer: This story is mine, but the characters and settings are not.

Triangle

As soon as Watson stepped out to visit his club, giving Lestrade and Holmes a chance to speak privately after three years of silence, Lestrade spoke.

'You didn't have to watch him fall apart,' the little Inspector stated flatly as he stood before Holmes in the sitting room of 221B, now again in use since Holmes' miraculous return from the dead. He clutched his bowler in one black-gloved hand, but wasn't fidgeting with it as he normally did while speaking to the consulting detective.

'Lestrade-'

The man in question held up his hand. 'I don't want your excuses, Mr. Holmes. I'm simply stating facts. The good doctor fell apart without you, thinking you dead these three years. And you hadn't even the decency to write to him.'

'I-'

'Mr. Holmes, you know that after your "death" he lost his wife, as well? And yes, he mourned for her, but he mourned more for you. He became a shadow-didn't eat, worked odd hours, neglected himself utterly-all because of you.'

Holmes, seated in his armchair, began to protest. 'Inspector, you understand that for me to be truly believed dead, Watson had to believe that I was dead, or his account of the events would have been seen through in moments, an occurrence-' Once again Holmes was interrupted.

'So that is how you see your friend,' Lestrade scowled at Holmes, giving him the look he usually reserved for too-cocky young constables who didn't know their place. 'As a fool who cannot even make his grief believable, though he does know what grief feels like. For Heaven's sake, the man was in a war! He lost comrades, friends! And the doctor is no fool, I assure you. I've learned that in your absence, Mr. Holmes. I used to regard him with some distaste, thinking that he followed you around like a lapdog, but no longer. I've found a respect for him in these three years, but that seems to be something that you, even after many more years of friendship, still do not have for him.'

Holmes sprang up from his chair, eyes a furnace. 'Inspector Lestrade, I have all respect for Watson. However, I do not respect his acting abilities-'

'Though you should!' interjected Lestrade. 'Have you never seen him play at Charades? The man's a genius! His impression of Gregson-spot on! The lads at the Yard never laughed as much as that night.'

Some of Holmes' anger faded, replaced by something else, and he sat down again. 'When did Watson ever do Charades?'

The Inspector rolled his eyes. 'At the Yard's New Year's Eve party last year, as you would know if you had bothered to ask him about what he's been doing while you jaunted around Europe. We invited him down, partly because he has been working with us a police surgeon, and partly because we like him, Mr. Holmes.'

'Police surgeon?' Holmes' voice held a tone of puzzlement.

'Yes, and he does a bang-up job of it, too. Not to mention that he does a great job of patching up the lads after rough cases, and he cares, really and truly cares. The young constables respect him so much, and Hawking began considering entering medicine after he met the doctor.' Lestrade gave a small smile, a mere quirking of the lips, but Holmes noticed it, eyebrows furrowing over sunken grey eyes as he contemplated that smile.

'He's been working with you?' asked Holmes, still puzzling.

'Yes. I just said that.'

'So he's been at the Yard every day.'

'Most days, yes.'

'So, you say he had been falling apart, but then joined the Yard as a police surgeon and everything was fine and dandy.' Skepticism was highly evident in Holmes' remark.

Lestrade snorted, transferring his bowler hat from his right hand to his left. ;Of course not. It took ages to stop him from coming to work with a face like a tombstone, but working at the Yard doesn't allow for much time to mope, you know, and he soon improved. He began eating properly again, and we often went out to supper-'

'At Simpson's?'

'Yes. He wouldn't go near the Royale.'

'I see.'

'And so his health improved and so did his mood, and then you came back and frightened the living daylights out of him.'

Watson, of course, chose that moment to return home from his club, entering the sitting room with an easy smile first aimed at Lestrade, then Holmes.

'Are you two still catching up? Oh, my, I chose a bad time to come home,' the doctor chuckled, starting towards his room. Holmes jumped to his feet.

'No, the Inspector was just leaving, actually.' He turned towards Lestrade, offering his hand. 'You'll make sure to contact me, if a case of interest should arise?'

The Yarder shook the proffered hand and replied, 'Yes, of course. I'll be certain to drop by again. Don't forget, Doctor, that you've an autopsy scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.'

Watson regarded him with affectionate amusement. 'I've never forgotten an appointment, Inspector, you know that.'

'Indeed. Well, good evening Mr. Holmes, and good evening Doctor.' With a tip of his bowler hat and one last smile at Watson, the Inspector departed.

Watson yawned. 'I believe I'll turn in, Holmes; I find myself quite tired. Good night.' Watson turned and entered his bedroom.

Holmes sat awake, contemplating Lestrade's words and actions, particularly his odd smile when he spoke of Watson.

It took him a pipe of strong shag tobacco and nearly three hours, but he figured it out.