Greg and Molly join the story sharp on the heels of Anthea.
Greg struggles with the aftermath of Sherlock's fall. He turns to Molly in his hour of need.
I've always felt that Lestrade and Sherlock have an almost father son relationship. I thought, how would a man feel having just lost his son. Not only having lost him to suicide contrived by an arch criminal, but knowing that he'd contributed to that scheme, to that death. That's the premise I used for Lestrade in this chapter.
Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.
Makes reference to events in 'Watersheds' chapter 2, and ' Trefoil ' chapter 10. Set in August 2011, in the aftermath of BBC's TRF (AU timeline).
Italics with quotation marks indicate internal dialogue.
Trigger warnings: swearing, drunkenness, mention of suicide risk
The first time he came after it happened, Sherlock was still hiding in her flat.
He looked awful, several days stubble unshaven on his chin, his suit crumpled, his eyes red rimmed and bloodshot, not just from lack of sleep.
The incident on the roof of Bart's, and then on the pavement below, had taken place only three days before. When he had arrived on scene, a scant thirty minutes after the blood soaked body had been wheeled in, he'd dashed straight to the morgue only to find his way barred by a huge, black suited agent placed on the door by Mycroft Holmes.
He needed to get in, trying to dodge the man mountain blocking his way. When that failed he shouted for Molly, pleading to be allowed entry. Finally he pounded on the door shouting Sherlock's name and repeating over and over again "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
Molly's heart nearly broke, listening to the man falling apart in the corridor as she helped Sherlock prepare for the worse torment to come, laying immobile when John was escorted in. John who was currently sedated and restrained in a ward upstairs while he was treated for shock and mild concussion, but who would shortly revive and demand to see his friend.
Molly offered Sherlock a sedative, to make things easier. He declined. "Thank you Molly, but I need to bear this. If I'm going to survive the coming months I will need to survive the next hour."
Now, barely three days later, less than seventy two hours, he was back.
She didn't look up from the table where she was suturing a corpse whose post mortem she'd just completed: heart disease, natural causes. She wasn't angry at his appearance in her morgue, just surprised. "What're you doing here Greg?"
"Nowhere else to be."
"You've been drinking."
"Nothin' else to do."
"Aren't you supposed to be on duty?"
"Nope." He popped the P as he swayed slightly in his determined effort to reach the pathologist. "Suspended pending the outcome of a review of my cases and a disciplinary hearing for failing to follow proper procedure." He made quotes with his fingers in the air to highlight the last two words in the scorn filled sentence. Words he was obviously repeating from his suspension if his sarcastic intonation was any indication.
"Oh, I'm so sorry Greg. Is it all your cases?"
"Course not. Just the ones involving …you know." He waved his arm around as if the gesture would help him to say Sherlock's name. It didn't.
"I thought you'd followed procedure?" As she spoke Molly finished up, dumping her gloves and gown in the waste bin, and moving to the sink to wash up.
"Course I did. Listed him as an informant on the early cases then, once he was off the streets, cleared it with upstairs, who were falling over themselves at the chance to improve the clean-up rate. My mistake was not getting confirmation in writing. No proof you see. So, despite the Chief Super signing off expenses, an' makin' statements to the press with him stood right there by his shoulder, an' the CPS accepting his involvement without question, even wanting to use him as an expert witness, now he's suddenly a fraud who wormed his way into the investigations of a desperate, over the hill, incompetent DI who needed the results to keep his job."
"Oh god Greg. I'm so sorry."
"Not your fault is it. Not like you had anything to do with it. Gonna be questioned tomorrow about my involvement with Richard Brook. They're talking about the wanker like he's real. Fuckin' bastard Moriarty. You know he's real right Molly? You know Moriarty's real?"
"Of course I do Greg. I dated him, remember, when he was using me to get to Sherlock. When he was kidnapping people and threatening to blow them up." Twelve people. She'd dated someone who'd blown up twelve people simply because an elderly blind woman tried to be helpful.
"Shit yeah. Sorry Molls. Forgot he used you too. Bastard. And now he's killed … him, and damn near killed John too."
"No! What's the matter with John?" Her voice betrayed her panic. If anything had happened to John, how could she tell him? How could she tell Sherlock?
"Dunno. Won't see me. Won't see anyone, 'cept Mrs Hudson. She says he's barely moved since Mycroft's people took him home. Just sits in his chair and stares. Said she's managed to bully him into drinking some water and eating a few biscuits, but that's all. She's scared stiff he's going to do something drastic. She's been so worried she had Mycroft take his gun and any drugs he could find, even his med kit so he's not got his scalpel or syringes. Don't see it'll do any good though. If John wants out he'll find a way."
"Oh my god Greg, don't talk like that. He can't be that bad."
"Pretty much catatonic she says."
"Has he got anyone? You know, family or friends?"
"No family worth mentioning. His sister's a drunk bitch by all accounts. Just calls him up and shouts abuse when she can't cope with her life. And what time did he have to make friends when he spent all his time running after … you know? He had me, but what use am I? Bloody no use, that's what. I knew it was all lies. For fuck's sake, I've watched the bugger work for years, but I still let him down when it mattered. I still let that bastard's lies make me doubt. Bollocks. I wanted to say sorry. That day, when he was here. I wanted to come in and say how sorry I was that I'd not done more, that I'd let Donovan persuade me. No, it wasn't her fault. She followed the evidence. Sure it was fake, but she wasn't to know. No, I knew an' I still let that fuckin' bastard's lies in my head. Shit!" Greg had been pacing, throwing his arms around, running his fingers through his hair in frustration and distress. Now he grabbed Molly shoulders and stared pleadingly into her eyes. "Tell me Molly, would it have changed anything if I'd not doubted? Could I have saved him if I'd not listened to the lies?"
She took Greg's arms and slowly guided them away from her shoulders and the punishing grip his fingers had on her flesh. Tears in her eyes, she gently spoke what she knew to be the truth. "No Greg, it would have made absolutely no difference at all. Nothing you could have done could have changed the course of events. It was Moriarty's game and Sherlock had to play it out to the end. There was no other way."
Greg slumped his shoulders, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He took Molly's hands, holding them together cupped in his own, and kissing her loosely curled fingers. He looked up, his brown eyes meeting hers in genuine gratitude. "Thank you Molly. Thank you."
She gently wrapped her arm round the taller man's slouched shoulders and led him towards her office. "Come on Greg. You could do with a coffee. And I've got a packet of hobnobs in my desk."
She barely heard a whispered "thank you," over the rustle of fabric and the scrape of soles dragged by tired legs across the floor.
-0-0-0-
The second time he came it was three weeks after it happened, eight days after the funeral, and, had they known, the same day Mary met John at the Criterion after a decade apart. Sherlock had finally left her flat the day before. His wrist, injured in the fall, now fully healed. He'd left for she knew not where, on a mission to seek and destroy. She hadn't told him about John. She'd left that to Mycroft. She provided a roof, a bed, food and, of course, unlimited access to the internet. Anything else was between Sherlock, his brother, and the agents who came to her flat to 'fix the boiler and make good'.
He looked moderately better than when she'd last seen him, but only just.
He wore jeans and a polo shirt under a light bomber jacket. He'd obviously lost weight, his belt a notch tighter than usual and his shirt hanging loose over his toned frame. Despite the weight loss he'd have looked good, except for his eyes. Dark bags marred his beautiful brown eyes. His face bore an expression of tired resignation.
"Hi Molls. Thought I'd pop in and see if you were free for coffee or something."
"Hello Greg. I'd love to. Give me ten minutes to finish up and I'll be with you."
They went to a coffee shop, deciding on takeaways so they could enjoy the late August sunshine. Walking slowly, they made their way in mildly strained silence to a bench in Postman's Park. Both wanted to break the silence but neither knew quite what to say.
Finally, once they were both seated, Molly took the first step. "So, how's it going Greg?"
"Not great. I'm bored stupid. Spent the last fortnight giving witness statements, and being forced to justify my decision to 'bring in unauthorised individuals to consult on my cases'. Unauthorised my arse. Still, if you can't prove it, it doesn't matter what you know to be true. Been a copper long enough to know that. They've pulled together the review panel to investigate every case. It's going to cost a bloody fortune. Five DCIs, all from other forces, plus a couple of forensics experts. Hope they bore themselves shitless. There's nothing to find. I made sure of that. All the paperwork complete, every I dotted and ever T crossed. Every scrap of evidence properly documented and accounted for. The only loopholes'll be where Anderson missed something and that won't impact the cases. Bloody Donovan's having a field day telling anyone who'll listen how she just knew he was dodgy and how I overruled her concerns. I like Sally. She's a good copper and she's worked damn hard to get where she is, but she's got blinkers when it comes to, well you know, him. And she's gonna get herself in a load of trouble if she doesn't keep her mouth shut. When we come out of this smelling of bloody roses, she's gonna look a right idiot, or worse."
"Do you think you will? Smell of roses that is."
"Don't see how it can go any other way, unless they try for a cover-up to appease the gutter press, but Mycroft won't allow that. Anyway, think how many criminals they'll have to release and how many re-trials will be called for if this goes the wrong way. The CPS are already preparing themselves for a deluge of appeals for evidence tampering, harassment, and god knows what else. No, the cases are all water-tight. I wouldn't have signed off on them if they weren't. Yep, no problem there. Not so sure about me though."
"Oh, why? What do you think they'll do?"
"Probably put me out to pasture. Make this gardening leave permanent. Early retirement if the evidence is kosher, dismissal and maybe even prison time if it isn't."
"Oh my god, Greg! I didn't realise it was that bad. Can't Mycroft do something?"
"Dunno. Haven't asked. An' I'm not going to. Any problems with the cases was down to me. No-one else. My cases, my responsibility."
"But, if Jim was able to plant false evidence, maybe he was able to tamper with evidence that had already been processed. You know, get into old case files. Alter records, that sort of thing."
"It's possible, but why would he? It wasn't me he was after. I wasn't a part of his game."
"Weren't you?"
Greg suddenly stiffened, turning abruptly to face the woman sat beside him. "What do you mean Molly? What do you know?"
She couldn't tell him what she suspected. She didn't actually know. She'd only guessed when Sherlock had started tossing and turning one evening, whimpering "No, Lestrade, no, I'm sorry." Most nights, when Sherlock had a nightmare, it was John's name he cried out in the dark. The anguish in that one syllable was almost unbearable. It was just that one night, when she'd got home and he'd been dozing on the sofa. She'd covered him with a blanket and gone to make herself supper. When she returned his face bore a sheen of sweat and he held the edge of the blanket in a death grip as he whimpered his apologies to his old friend. From that she could only assume that Greg had been a target too, used by Moriarty to force Sherlock to comply, just as John must have been.
Some days she thanked her lucky stars that Sherlock had treated her with such disdain in front of Jim. It stopped her from being a pawn, a target for Jim's madness.
"I don't know anything Greg. Really I don't. It's just, Jim was so twisted. He'd use anyone or anything to get people to dance to his tune. Don't ignore the possibility that there isn't someone in the Met whose soul belongs to Moriarty. I know Sherlock's dead and the game should be over, but just watch your back. Don't take anything for granted. It may not be quite over yet, and I'd hate to lose another friend."
"Thanks Molly. It's good to know someone cares. You're a good friend, you know. I know you fancied his nibs, and he wasn't always kind, but I think he appreciated how you helped him, you know, with his experiments and what not."
"Yes, well. Maybe fancied a little bit. He was rather lovely to look at. Brightened up an otherwise dull day of corpses and specimens. He was a bit too selfish really, wanting me to give him samples and demanding my time. Not that I minded. I'd have helped him anyway. But he never had any interest in me, or any woman really, if he had an interest at all."
"That was certainly the way the betting at the Yard was going. But I don't know. Sherlock and sex never really made a connection in my head. Maybe a bit of a flutter when that Irene Adler was around. Never saw her in the flesh, but I've seen her website. Blimey. She'd certainly draw the eye. But no, the only person I've ever seen him have a genuine interest in is John. The way they looked out for each other. He only really laughed when John was around, and there was this smile. I'd never seen it before in all the time I'd known him. It seemed like it was just for John, when he wasn't looking."
"I know the one you mean. Like something John had done had made him happy, but he didn't want John to know."
"I often wondered if there was something more, between them I mean."
"I don't know. I know they cared for each other, but were they together, you know, sexually? No, I don't think so. Maybe if they'd had time, but no." Molly let out a heartfelt sigh. "It's a shame, how much time people lose because they're afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Of being hurt, of taking a chance, of being rejected. Even of being happy."
"Yeah. I know what you mean."
They both sat, Molly staring at the gravel at her feet, Greg at the dappling of sunlight in the trees that lined the tiny park.
"Do you fancy dinner? With me I mean. There's a great vegetarian restaurant off of Chancery Lane that I've heard good things about. I've kept meaning to try it, but it's kind of awkward always dining on your own. Not that I'm strong arming you or anything, but I'd love the company, if you're interested. And of course if you haven't got anything else planned, you know, with anyone."
Having spent three weeks sleeping on the sofa as Sherlock had commandeered her bedroom, Molly had been looking forward to her first night back in her own flat, on her own, in peace and quiet. She was tempted to say no. But then she had made that speech about fear, and she did enjoy vegetarian food, and Greg was rather gorgeous if a little older than she'd normally be interested in, but he was here, and he'd asked, and she trusted him, and he was alone, and … "Oh stop shilly-shallying woman. Just say yes. You know you want to. SAY YES!"
"YES! Err I mean yes, I'd love to."
And there it was. A beautiful smile, all teeth and sparkling brown eyes. Molly smiled right back, feeling a lightness of heart that she hadn't realised she was missing.
Greg stood and extended his hand. She reached for his warm, strong hand and allowed herself to be drawn from her seat. They began to walk, Greg depositing there now empty cups in the nearby bin. At no point did either of them feel the inclination to break their hold, and, as they strolled, and talked, and smiled, and drew closer together, their fingers slowly entwined.
Hobnobs are a brand of biscuits/cookies
shilly-shallying = to dither or be indecisive
gardening leave = a euphemism for suspension without loss of pay or benefits
