Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Bridges Rebuilt
The sky was dull and grey. It was either dusk or dawn—Lestrade didn't know or care which. For the last few weeks, he had barely left his flat, but once again, there wasn't a drop left in his house. So, keeping his head down, he got to the store, grabbed the first few bottles he saw, and went to the cashier, handing over his card.
"It's no good."
"What?" Lestrade glanced up at the store worker, who was giving his card back.
"I ran it twice, it's not working."
"Oh. Here," he said, handing the man a different card.
"That one's not working either."
"What? That's ridiculous!" True, it had been a rough few weeks, but he hadn't missed paying any bills.
"Look, the machine's not taking them. You got another way of paying?"
The D.I. patted down his pockets but knew it was useless. Leaving the alcohol on the counter, he turned and strode out of the store.
The light was growing. Dawn then.
Lestrade walked aimlessly, taking the path of least resistance, turning whenever he hit a stoplight. Somehow, he found himself facing a vast green lawn dotted with somber markers. A short, sandy-haired figure stood stiffly before one of the gravestones.
Bracing himself, Lestrade went forward.
It was time to stop hiding.
Time to make things right.