Chapter Sixty Nine

The Great Man- Epilogue


Lestrade met Dimmock coming down the stairs to the mortuary as he went up them. The younger DI explained. "I've sent Hanson off to the Snow Hill Station with Watson; he'll process him on charges."

Lestrade shook his head in exasperation. "He's in no state to talk; he needs a doctor. Didn't you hear that nurse?"

"The station will get him seen to- just like any other arrested suspect."

Before Lestrade could respond to the idea that Watson should be considered a suspect, Dimmock continued. "Was she right? Was it Holmes?"

There must have been something in his expression that confirmed it for Dimmock, who drew in a deep breath. "I can't say that I'm surprised. I found this on the seat next to John. Have you seen it?"

Greg looked down at the morning's Metro newspaper, folded open to an inside page, the headline in bold type: FAKE DETECTIVE FOOLED THE YARD FOR YEARS, with that stupid photo of Sherlock in the deerstalker hat, in front of the Met press conference when the Mafioso's arrest was announced.

Lestrade just snapped, "Stuff that paper where it belongs- in a rubbish bin. We've got a crime scene to investigate on the roof of this building."

The DI's aggressive tone brought Dimmock up sharp, but he followed Lestrade up the stairs as he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

By the time Lestrade reached the final flight of stairs, he was puffing. But he stopped to put a pair of latex gloves on- the same pair he'd taken with him to Baker Street what seemed half a lifetime ago. As he came to the metal door to the roof, he saw it was unlocked and ajar. He stepped out onto the roof, with Dimmock close behind. The shower had passed, and the roof was now bathed in bright sunshine. But all that was noticed in a moment, as both men's eyes came to rest on a body and the blood pool behind his head.

Dimmock was on the phone a second later, calling it in. Lestrade walked over and looked down at the shocked wide brown eyes, the navy wool coat, expensive suit. Then he saw the silver of the gun lying a few feet away where it must have fallen.

"Another body- do you think Holmes killed him?"

Lestrade did not trust himself to answer his colleague, because if he had, it could be held against him. So, he just answered, "This is James Moriarty." He pulled his own phone out and took a picture, and then found the most recent phone number he'd rung, sending the photo with a text.

11.04 Tell Mycroft, he's too late. They're both dead.

Then he bent down to look at the weapon. His head was already processing the possibilities and discarding some along the way, but he kept coming back to it. The logical conclusion was that this was the gun from the assassin who was shot last night, and that Sherlock had used it to kill Moriarty. He said he wouldn't. I heard him say it to me not more than two hours ago. What changed his mind? Is that why he decided to …to jump? Lestrade knew that Sherlock was not a killer. Yet, he also knew that Sherlock had no particular regard for his own life. Too willing to risk everything, to not care about the consequences until later.

He took a shaky breath. There would be no later for the man he had come to know, to respect, to …Greg couldn't find the right word. Nothing fit. Nothing covered their unique relationship. He realised his vision was blurring, so he stood up and walked away. Get a grip. He knew that he had only moments left before the Met team arrived and the case would be taken from him. Without an arrest, without exoneration, Sherlock's death meant that his time left as a Detective Inspector with the Met was coming to an end. And it didn't matter, not one bit. What mattered was that Sherlock was dead. And he knew that the Met would have Sherlock in their sights for this murder, and that of the Frenchman last night. It was all too easy. The Chief would be delighted. Wrapped up and solved, the Met got their man, and didn't even have to put him or Moriarty on trial. Saved the public purse the cost, and Sherlock would never get the chance to argue his case.

Greg's train of thought was getting more fraught by the second, so he took a few steps further away from Dimmock and the body. That's when his glance fell on the small black object off to the right, not far from the edge. He walked over, and recognised it as Sherlock's phone. Greg had only seconds to decide, but he made his choice even faster, picking it up and putting it in his pocket. He glanced back at Dimmock who was still examining Moriarty's body. Greg knew that he'd just stolen evidence from a crime scene. Enough to get him fired, not just suspended. He didn't care. Sherlock's phone would tell him something of what had happened, he was sure of it, somehow. If it ended up in the hands of the police, who knows what would happen to the truth, if it was inconvenient to their views.

He took the next few steps to the roof edge and the low parapet. A deep breath, and then he looked over the side. Even from this distance he could see a splash of colour on the pavement. He and Dimmock had run into the ground floor entrance, right by it, without realising it was there. The rain that had been falling when they first arrived would have disturbed the pattern. He needed to tell Dimmock that the team should take photos before another shower disturbed it more. His vision blurred again, and he stepped back from the edge and the sight, pinching his nose and trying to get himself back under control.

Whatever thoughts he was wrestling to control were shattered when the metal roof door was thrown wide open with enough force to bang against the brick wall, and out poured men. Not the uniformed police that Lestrade was expecting- these men were in suits, with the lean and vigilant look that Greg had come to recognise as the hallmark of Mycroft's minions. Too late. He looked away from them, back over the rooftops that surround St Bartholomew's hospital. He wondered if Mycroft would even bother to make an appearance.

"Please step away from the parapet, sir." The clipped tones betrayed the speaker's public school education. Greg just complied and turned to face the man.

The DI's tone of voice betrayed his resignation. "I won't even bother to ask you who you are- probably an alias anyway." Greg looked at the innocuous face- the sort you'd see and instantly forget. Where does Mycroft find them?

"You and DI Dimmock need to follow my colleague back down the stairs. We need to clear the roof, so our people can process the scene."

Dimmock looked annoyed, even from five yards away. He'd been herded away from the body by two operatives. He snapped, "And what about the Met team that's on its way?"

"They've been stood down. This person was a wanted criminal in thirty two countries, so his death is a matter for my service to investigate. The Police Commissioner has handed over jurisdiction. You may leave now." The last word was given just enough stress to ensure that neither DI could mistake it for anything other than an order.

That's when the penny dropped. Greg experienced an "OH" moment, as he used to call Sherlock's intuitive leaps that made his deductive processes unique. Mycroft knew all along. He was simply watching and waiting for this to happen. For Moriarty to turn up dead, killed by someone who could not be traced back to any legal service. Someone whose reputation was already so damaged that it wouldn't matter if he took the blame for this one, too.

Greg realised now that Mycroft Holmes had sat by and watched the confrontation unfold, because he knew it would end with Moriarty's death. And that was more important than the risk to Sherlock. He tried to swallow the taste of bile that was now in his throat. What was it that Sherlock had said last night about his brother? They'd had a difference of opinion. He can't lift a finger to intervene or it will cost him his life's work. And then Sherlock said he didn't need his brother's help.

He felt the agent's hand grip his elbow. "You need to leave now."

He looked at the man. "I want you to give a message to Mycroft Holmes. Will you do that for me?"

As the man nodded curtly, the DI's fist connected with the side of the agent's temple, and he dropped like a stone. Lestrade walked past the startled look of the other agents and nodded a goodbye to Dimmock, who looked equally stunned.

As he left the roof, Greg couldn't help but think that Sherlock would have approved.