Later that night, Lestrade sat on the barstool at his usual pub, a beer in front of him, a football match going in the background. He held his scratched silver lighter in his hands, turning it over and over in his fingers. Fuck, he wanted a cigarette. He had quit, again. It had been a long and tumultuous day, but he didn't want to go home, not yet.
His phone was on the counter in front of him. It was chiming regularly with incoming texts from Sally. He looked at them as they came in and none seemed critical.
Molly and her stupid cat are at the safe house.
At flat with CSI, almost done, they said I could stick around
Just so you know, I'm doing this as a favor to you, not our division
No, no, don't bother to thank me
Locksmith fixed door with three deadbolts instead of just one
Who's supposed to pay the locksmith for this door?
Everything done here at the flat we are closing up for night
Are you there?
If you are reading these texts and ignoring them I will kill you
That last one forced a little smile out of him. But he still didn't answer.
He thought about what had happened that day. He'd been more than a bit of an asshole when he saw Molly Hooper. He just hadn't beenā¦prepared. No time to process. How could he go so quickly from being so relieved to see her safe, sitting so rigidly with those big scared eyes under her blanket, to a hot searing anger. Not anger, initially. Hurt. The blinding, white-hot hurt of rejection, leading to anger. He had laid it all on the line, and he had got backā¦nothing.
He had thought a lot about it over the months, but his feelings had simmered, just under the surface. He was a practical guy. Horrible crimes went on, people depended on him. He could not let it affect the job. He just had to get on with things. But seeing her today, unexpectedly, without her letting him know she was coming back, was like a knife twisting in the gut. Fuck. Rationally, he knew he'd probably overreacted. After all, he was the one who told her not to say anything. Emotionally, though, he had hoped that she would have.
He had taken a look around the flat, just to see it all for himself before the Crime Scene Investigation unit arrived. He had looked around closely at everything. He was of course professionally interested, but his attention wandered as he looked at all the details of her life. He had been inside only one time before, the last night he'd seen her. Now, as he had then, he thought of how Sherlock had spent more time at Molly's flat than he ever had. Sherlock knew about the cat. The tea. The paintings. Knew all about the bed linens. Had been on the bed linens, with Molly. He himself had never even made it that far. He thought about that last time he saw her, when he probably could have, and mentally kicked himself. Something dark and heavy filled his chest, the worst of things to feel. Betrayal. Jealousy. Still, even after all this time, after he knew nothing was going on between them, he was jealous of the things they shared that he was not part of.
In the spare bedroom, he had seen a large easel set up in the middle of the room with a white canvas draped half over it. Curious, he had taken a pen from his shirt pocket and lifted up the cloth. He stopped and stared for a good full minute, completely surprised. He recognized it immediately. It was an abstract rendering of his own tattoo. In the lower right corner was her own name, and in the lower left corner was a title: Fenrir. She had done her homework.
The painting was not completely finished. She had not been able to study the tattoo long enough to learn every last detail, but it was clear enough. A giant black wolf, snarling with ferocious teeth and a sword holding open the mouth, bent forward into a nearly perfect circle with front paws and back paws touching, bound together with a cord. And right in the middle of the circle made by the wolf, there was a little blue bird with its head tucked under its wing, without a care in the world, sleeping trustfully.
As he looked at it, he remembered the feel of her fingertips running across his back, how she had slowly traced his ink like an artist with a brush. He shut his eyes. The cloth dropped back down over the painting. At some point, months ago, Molly Hooper must have thought enough about him to paint this. It must have taken days. Days of thinking about what she had seen and felt in order to recreate it. Moved enough to express her feelings on canvas. Why would she take days to paint this and never say a word to him after she left? He could make no sense of it.
Frustration had welled in him. Why were they wasting all this time. Standing in front of that easel, he had been suddenly so flooded with an angry, erotic desire for her, images in his mind of pushing her down on that couch and fucking her with the whole police force looking on for all he cared, that he had to take a few minutes for control to return before he came back out. That's when he went back to the living room, but did not mention the painting to her, could not. He was done there. He was compromised and he knew it. He had to leave the scene and left it to the unit actually responsible for it to get on with their job.
Fuck. He had not handled that well. He wanted to go back in time and do that all differently. Even now, he was surprised by his own thoughts, by the primal, visceral impact of the desire he had felt for her in that moment. In a perfect world, in which he was not the law and she was not the vic and he was under control, he would have taken her gently in his arms to calm her fears. She must have been terrified. He should have been able to put all his emotions aside and take the high road, like a fucking professional. Asshole, he berated himself, again.
His phone chimed.
Sorry to bother you, you must be busy, but are we still on for tomorrow?
Liz
Oh, shit. He'd completely forgot to answer when she texted this morning. He rubbed his hand across his forehead.
He made a rash decision. He was going to answer. He wanted to know what it would feel like to be with someone new with whom he had no history, no complications. To see what he might be like through someone else's eyes. To feel fully desired, wanted. One last chance to save himself.
I'll meet you at 6
Definitely the right thing to do. But he frowned, anyway. He paid for his beer and finally went home.
Late that night, after he'd gone to bed and had been asleep for a few hours, his phone chimed again. He woke up with a start, reached out to the nightstand and fumbled for the phone, tried to focus with bleary eyes. He was mentally preparing to get up and deal with something, like he had done so many times before.
I'm sorry
Molly Hooper
He sank back down into bed. His lips quirked a little. She signed it "Molly Hooper." As if he didn't know her number. Despite his resolve to remain pissed, his anger was mellowing.
He thought for a while before he decided to answer. He texted back.
That's a good start
Greg Lestrade
For the seven hundred and fifty-fifth time in his career, he hoped the Yard would never investigate the personal use of his work phone.
