Speechless

Chapter 4.4: No Love Left To Rye

December 15, 2006

With Christmas only ten days away, things were quite hectic in the Lestrade household, particularly for Aster. After all, it was going to be Grace's first Christmas, and while she knew her infant daughter would most likely not remember the holiday, she wanted it to be special. Thus, she had decked the flat out so lavishly that it seemed to her husband as he slouched through the door that evening that he had stepped into a forest or the lair of a mad woodcutter.

While the large tree by the window of their sitting room was plastic, as were the garlands and boughs that covered nearly every surface with dark green, Aster had taken the time to diffuse evergreen scented oil throughout the room, so thick that Lestrade choked briefly as he tried to catch his breath. The tree itself was littered with tinsel and ornaments in crimson and burgundy and silver, so much so that it was hard to see the green.

Still, this was hardly unusual. Aster had always been rather fond of shiny things. It was one of the reasons it had taken Lestrade so long to propose to her - he had been too poor to afford a ring she would accept.

But as he turned to the other side of the room to put his soaked gloves by the fire to dry, he noticed something odd.

Four stockings hung over the large brick fireplace. He recognized his own, an embroidered monstrosity his mother had made many years ago featuring the Christ child riding on the back of a rather overweight reindeer. And next to it was Aster's, a simple emerald green satin with black lace. But the other two. . . Well, one was clearly for Grace. But the last. . .

"Hey, love?" he asked loudly, the curiosity evident in his voice.

"Hmm?" Aster replied from the bedroom. "Hang on, I've got to finish wrapping this package."

When she emerged, wearing a particularly ostentatious Christmas sweater, she smiled gently at him.

"Yes? What is it, dear?"

He gestured at the stockings. "Four?"

She nodded. "Yes. I forgot to tell you? I've invited Sherlock over for Christmas. Poor dear had nowhere to go, and I thought it would be nice to have him back."

He felt his heart sink in his chest. Of all the things she could have done, why on earth. . . He'd been avoiding Sherlock like the plague the past few months, trying to distance himself so he could think more clearly, and. . .

Aster's eyes brimmed with concern. "That's not a problem, is it, Greg?"

He gulped. "N-no," he managed. "Not at all. That was quite kind of you. I. . . I should have thought of it."

She beamed at him, satisfied that she'd done the right thing. She kissed him on the cheek.

"Why don't you go check on Grace while I finish my errands."

He smiled and nodded. Yes, playing with his tiny daughter would do him a world of good.

December 25, 2006

When they arrived back at the flat after Christmas Day mass, the family Lestrade was greeted by a note taped to the door. It was typed, on plain white paper.

Thank you for saving me from a dreadful afternoon. Best be on your guard. -MH

Lestrade rolled his eyes. He was getting more than a little tired of the Holmes brothers' penchant for drama.

Aster stared at him. "Should I be worried?"

He grimaced, pulling the door open. "Oh, no. I'm sure everything will be -"

Smoke wafted out of the door as he pulled it open. In panic, he threw himself into the room, only to see Sherlock sitting calmly at the kitchen table, feet on the seat next to him. The source of the smoke seemed to be coming from the toaster.

". . . fine." finished Lestrade, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Happy Christmas," muttered Sherlock, not even bothering to look up. "You need a better toaster."

"What in God's name did you do?"

Sherlock sighed, glaring at him. "I was merely trying to make toasted cheese. You took too long, and I got bored. Next time, if you're inviting me over at eleven, you should at least have the decency to be home by nine."

Aster wandered into the room and set the baby carrier on the counter, letting out a small cry of dismay as she saw the state of her kitchen. Lestrade looked at her apologetically before turning back to Sherlock.

"First of all, you can't make toasted cheese in a toaster, you barmpot. And more importantly, it's only ten. Why the hell are you here already?"

"Well fine," muttered Sherlock. "If you didn't want me here, you could have just said."

"That's not what I'm saying."

"You didn't have to." Sherlock stared at him, his eyes filled with curious light that made Lestrade feel more than a little uncomfortable. It was the same look Sherlock had given him in his dreams. "I know Aster invited me, which suggests that you did not either think it a wise idea or simply did not think of it yourself. Coupled with the fact that you've been dodging me, I think a half-dead lobster could take that hint. I'll just let myself out."

He stood to leave, turning his back on the detective inspector.

"Wait!" cried Aster. "At least open your presents!"

But he was gone.

Aster rounded on her husband, eyes flashing with ire. "Damn it, Gregory Sholto Lestrade, why must you ruin everything?"

Grace began to scream in echo to her mother, writhing against her baby carrier with tiny clenched fists.

He stared at Aster in shock. "What did I do?"

"You. . . You. . ." She slammed her fist into the table. "You ruined Christmas! I worked so hard, so very hard to make this work. I wanted it to be special. I wanted the whole family together, for Grace."

She looked over at the baby, still screaming and sobbing. "And now, you've gone and wrecked it."

"Wait. What? I didn't do anything. Sherlock's the one who. . . And Sherlock's not family."

She shook her head. "Yes, he is, Greg. You brought that boy into our home, and that made him family. And you know the worst part?" She looked at him, tears beginning to run down her face. "I thought having him back would be good for you. And maybe it is. But I can't do this any more."

"Look, if it's about the toaster. . ."

"It's not about the damned toaster! We can get a new toaster. But maybe it's time I get a new marriage."

He stared at her in shock. Where in the hell did that come from? "What?"

"I've been supportive, Greg. Don't you understand? I was trying to be understanding here, to hold out an olive branch. But I can't be my husband and Sherlock's boyfriend at the same time."

Time seemed to slow down as Lestrade desperately tried to process her words. "What are you talking about? I have no interest in -"

"Don't. Just don't, ok?" The pain bloomed from her eyes. "Please, don't lie to me. I'm not stupid."

"Listen to me," he cooed softly, trying to calm her down as he would a craze man with a gun. "I love you. You. My wife. I am not interested in men in general, nor Sherlock in particular." He chucked at the ludicrousness of it all. "I mean, God. Of all men, he'd be my last choice. I mean, really?"

"Stop lying to me. Your whole department knows. God, Greg! You're a joke among your own men!"

"What?"

She tossed a manila envelope at him. It was addressed to her. He opened it tentatively.

Inside were photographs of him and Sherlock at the park years ago. An incident report from Anderson about Sherlock tackling Lestrade in the office. Medical reports from the hospital citing Lestrade as Sherlock's husband. And surveillance photographs showing him leaving the ground-floor flat with a very naked Sherlock in the background staring at him.

He gulped. This could not be happening. This should not be happening. He had done nothing wrong, nothing at all. Why. . .

"Aster, I can explain. It's not at all what it looks like."

"I'm afraid it's too late for that." She picked up Grace's carrier, wiping the tears from her eyes. "I won't be your beard, Greg. And I'm certainly not sticking around here to be played the fool. I was going to tell you after Christmas, but there's no reason to salvage it now. I'm leaving before you drag your daughter into this scandal."

"But Aster -"

"I love you, Greg. I always will."

And she was gone.

December 31, 2006

Lestrade sat alone in his flat, surrounded by the tatters of his simple and honest life. His wife and daughter had left him. His career was smeared by scandal. And he was nearly out of reasons to fight any more.

The beer-bottle mosaic that covered the table in front of him was certainly impressive, though hardly complete. He reached groggily about himself, coming up empty. Groaning, he threw himself at the fridge. Inside was a bottle of champagne that Aster had bought before she left. He opened it sloppily, spraying himself and the kitchen wall with fizz.

"Happy fucking new year," he muttered, swigging out of the bottle.

He would not even remember toppling over onto the floor.