Prompt: Things no one expects, from sirensbane

A/N: Angst ahead!

Detective Inspector Lestrade had learned not to expect anything in particular from Scotland Yard's resident consulting detective. In the few short years since Sherlock Holmes had begun assisting the inspectors on cases, Lestrade had arrived at Montague Street to find everything from evidence of chemical explosions (and on one memorable occasion, a chemical explosion in the process of happening), the floor carpeted in more paper than he had ever seen and he who had started in the Yard's archives, and several screaming lectures on the part of the landlady, who may have been the only person who disliked private consulting detectives more than the Yard. This consulting detective, anyway, and as he remarked on every possible occasion, he was the only one.

Not that Lestrade really disliked the fellow. Holmes was just so deucedly hard to work with, constantly assuming he was the most intelligent person in the general vicinity and taking great pains to let everyone know it. The fact that he usually ended up being right about that didn't do anything to endear him to the Yarders who had to work with him. There were times he seemed almost inhuman. Not that he was ever deliberately cruel; Lestrade could never accuse him of that and remain truthful. No, Holmes was a perfect gentleman, but he sometimes let the feelings he claimed he didn't have show. The occasional frustrated or snide remark when he was so sure he was miles ahead of everyone else, or else simply forgetting that the men didn't exactly appreciate being woken from their beds in the early hours of the morning for a stakeout or that they did need to pause an investigation to take care of such ordinary human activities such as eating. Lestrade was certain that Holmes was not trying to make himself the least popular man among the entirety of Scotland Yard; simply that he himself often forgot that such things were necessary. Once on a case he could not be taken off it until he had solved it, or else drove himself the edges of human endurance. Lestrade had also not expected to have to halt an investigation because Holmes had fainted and nearly fallen into the Thames. He often thought the fellow needed someone to look after him, but heaven help anyone who took on the job.

When Sherlock Holmes sent word to Lestrade that he had moved out of the Montague Street rooms and now was to be found at 221b Baker Street. Lestrade had to confess that was the last thing he expected to hear. He had thought there wasn't another landlord in London who would rent rooms to Holmes. He'd heard the stories from the landlady at Montague Street, midnight violin solos and the constant smell of chemicals. He could reasonably be called the worst tenant in London. Baker Street, too, was a very nice, central address. Far above what Lestrade thought Holmes could afford. The man looked as if he ate hardly a thing and certainly Scotland Yard was not paying him for his services - one thing Lestrade had expected when they began officially consulting Holmes was to be presented with a bill, and none had ever arrived. He had no idea what fee, if any, Holmes asked of his private clients, but if Lestrade had a guess, he didn't think anyone would want to go to those dreadful Montague Street rooms to call on him. They'd have to get past that landlady, for one.

When Lestrade first called at the new Baker Street rooms he was impressed; the place was clean and in a fashionable area, the landlady pleasant. Holmes was the same as ever, aloof and condescending. However, he had the surprise of his life when Holmes gestured lazily to somewhere behind Lestrade and said, "Allow me to introduce you to my fellow-lodger, Dr. Watson."

Lestrade whirled around to find himself faced with an ordinary-looking man with a mustache, who smiled politely and excused himself so Holmes might meet with Lestrade privately. Lestrade stared after him in amazement. It certainly explained how Holmes was paying for these rooms but how the devil had he managed to find someone who would consent to live with him? Perhaps Dr. Watson was equally eccentric, prone to keeping odd animals about or practicing sword-fighting indoors. But as the months went on, Dr. Watson revealed himself to be exactly what he seemed: a perfectly friendly, ordinary Englishman, albeit one who must have considerably more reserves of patience than anyone else. Especially since Holmes himself proved to be the one who practiced with weapons indoors, Lestrade noted, after visiting one day to find a series of holes in the wall that spelled out Her Majesty's initials.

Thereafter, things Lestrade did not expect happened with more frequency. Holmes's edges seemed to soften somewhat under his lodger's influence; he even remembered more than once to stop for a quick meal while on a case, though Lestrade thought this was more for Dr. Watson's benefit than anyone else's. He occasionally seemed to think better of the remarks he was accustomed to make about the Yard's collective intelligence and ability to solve crimes. Once, he even seemed to give Lestrade a compliment. Well, Lestrade was not sure that "best of the Yarders" could really be considered a compliment, considering what Holmes's opinions of the force were as a whole, but Lestrade had picked up a few things when it came to observation, and he could tell Holmes meant it. The most unexpected thing, of course, being that Dr. Watson was soon a frequent sight at Holmes's side as his assistant. They'd thought, at the Yard, that Dr. Watson would last all of six months before he was driven out of Holmes's company, unable to stand it any longer.

Six years later, Lestrade not only expected Dr. Watson's presence on an investigation, he all but asked for it. The man was a crack shot, an excellent doctor and most importantly, brought out the best in Holmes. It was around that time that A Study in Scarlet was published, and while Lestrade might have wished for a more flattering depiction of himself, he was not as put out as he might have been. It was not every man who gained literary fame, and the popularity of the novel suggested that Holmes's star was only rising. "Immortality awaits," Lestrade said to Gregson, glad that he and not his rival was the one immortalized in the book.

"Ha! No man is immortal, Lestrade," Gregson retorted. "Not even Holmes."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Lestrade said. It certainly seemed as if his career would elevate to such heights no man could touch him, and Lestrade was not about to turn down the benefits that came with such an association.

Perhaps he should not have been so optimistic, he thought, as he stared at the telegram in his hand.

IN SWIITZERLAND STOP HOLMES AND MORIARTY PERISHED STOP AT REICHENBACH FALLS STOP RETURNING TO ENGLAND AS SOON AS POSSIBLE

DR. J. WATSON

Holmes had always seemed to Lestrade to be more a force of nature than a man. It seemed as if he were nigh unstoppable. Every inspector on the force had fully expected Holmes to emerge from the Moriarty case as the triumphant victor, risen to heights any other detective would be incapable of.

None of them had expected news of his death. Why, he could not even be forty years of age! Lestrade had rather thought he'd be handed down to the next generation of Yarders, had entertained fancies that the young men coming up would be better than their forebears, because they would have the benefit of Holmes's tutelage.

Now it would never be. Sherlock Holmes was dead at the hands of a man twice his age, at the bottom of a waterfall so insignificant Lestrade had never heard of it before. That his death had also been Moriarty's downfall was no comfort; not when the Professor's right hand man had escaped. Only Holmes could have brought him down, and there would be all the cases after that, too. Whatever else Holmes had been, he had made the world a safer place for the innocent, and for that alone Lestrade mourned his loss.

That he had unexpectedly become something of a friend, someone who had recently been content to spend an evening in Lestrade's company with a good brandy, had been entirely unexpected and only made the loss harder to bear.

Well, Lestrade thought, swallowing his sherry and heading to the memorial service, there was nothing else to be done. He would offer Dr. Watson a position as substitute police surgeon, for he owed the fellow that at least. The poor man looked so diminished after the loss of his friend that Lestrade would have been worried for his sanity had he not. It would not be the same; it never could be, but then, nobody had expected Dr. Watson to be as much one of them as Holmes had become.

It was a funny way Holmes had, Lestrade thought, for someone as seemingly cold and unfeeling as he was to become so integral to so many people that the world seemed utterly changed now that he'd left it. Lestrade hadn't known many people who'd had that effect on those around them. He would never have pegged Holmes for one of them, but then, Holmes himself had never had a good opinion of Lestrade's judgment of character or perception. Perhaps he'd been right, for Lestrade had most assuredly been wrong about Holmes.

He'd only realized it too late.