Chapter 9

Please R and R

The drive back into central London was a silent one. Lestrade stopped off at Baker Street proclaiming that I would need a suit for tomorrow morning and that I couldn't turn up looking like the wreck that sat in his car presently. We were both clearly having difficulty contemplating the hell that awaited us tomorrow.

Perhaps there was another option; it could after all be my only chance to get to Moriarty with Mycroft being absent for the funeral. There was a possibility that the elder Holmes was still holding the madman at his Surrey Estate. Although for what end purpose, I was still unsure. A unique brand of revenge I imagine. I don't believe I'll ever really trust another human being after Mycroft spilled his tales of his trade off with Moriarty.

It would mean that I didn't get to say goodbye.

This idea once firmly planted in my brain, festered and bubbled over until the burning need to destroy Moriarty inch by inch, on my own terms threatened to tear me apart. Something other than Sherlock to orbit around. I knew what I needed to do. I had to at least try.

I waited until the first show of sunlight and left a note on the folded-up blanket on Lestrade's sofa.

Greg. I'm sorry. Please don't make a fuss. I'm going to walk about London for the day. It's how he would prefer me to remember him. Tell Mycroft I'm sorry.

J

The lie was surprisingly easy to tell. Normally I abhor lies of any kind. Sherlock had once told me that it was my simplicity that had drawn him to me. It only occurred to me now what he had meant.

I glance out of Lestrade's third floor apartment to see the familiar Government-plated car across the street; keeping its silent surveillance over me. I don't stand a chance of getting where I need if I am caught, so I go the bathroom and climb out of the window onto the ledge below. I make it unnoticed to the waiting taxi at the end of the alley.

Sneaking out before his funeral feels like the biggest of betrayals, but only to myself. I had to believe that Sherlock would never care much for a send- off. I imagine he would say it was pointless and sentimental and that this was one of the biggest failings of all human contact. Anything to tell myself that getting a chance to punish the man that saw to his end was more important than getting to say the things I needed. The things that I will never get to say.

Thirty minutes later sees the taxi pull up to the edge of the dense wood in a leafy part of Surrey. A sprint of around another thirty minutes brings me to the back of Mycroft's looming Estate. I take out a small electronic devise that Sherlock had once produced as an 'antidote' to the cameras that his brother had inflicted upon our living quarters and attach it to the one scanning the fence. I look at my watch and quell the pain in my chest as I imagine Mrs Hudson and Lestrade standing outside the church; one less to attend the small funeral for a man that touched so many lives in a way that he would never wish to comprehend. It would be starting now, and apparent that I wouldn't be coming.

I concentrate on my reason for being here; revenge. A fire that wouldn't be put out until I knew why Sherlock had thrown himself to his death. After all, I had been a resourceful soldier. One that, during my time in Afghanistan had been task forced to a number of operations. All of which had resulted in 'extracting' information from some very nasty individuals. It was not something I was proud of, but the Utilitarian inside me justified my actions with the ease of a politician. This time, it would feel different and I would have to be sure I wanted to live with that part of myself.

It's strangely quiet as I dart through the corridors and make my way up to the second floor where I had heard the commotion when here last. It was still now, and the echoes of even my lightest footsteps on the creaky polished floors sounded like an earthquake beneath me. I crouch at the top of the steps and take out my gun; checking it ready for the task ahead.

Light spills out from under the door at the end of the dark corridor. I make towards it, but a hand comes out of nowhere and covers my mouth.

"John? Think about what you are about to do. This isn't you."

"Greg. How did you….? This is nothing to do with you now. You ignored my call for help you can go to hell."

"I'm telling you John, it will feel good for three seconds then you have to live with yourself. A misguided revenge won't bring him back. I know you."

"I can't…. This has to have some meaning. It's so…. Meaningless. Unless I get to stop him. The law can't punish this man. It is my job now."

"I don't pretend to know what happened John. I don't pretend to understand how all this lead to where we are now. But I know this is not what he wanted for you."

"You know nothing of what he wanted for me." I make towards the door.

"He came to see me. Do you know that?"- He calls after me.

I stop. "What?"

"He asked something of me John. Asked me to watch out for you."

"I don't understand. Why didn't you say anything before?"

"Why do you think? Guilt. I could have stopped him. I should have seen what was about to happen."

"It wasn't suicide for God sake Lestrade. I can't explain it but I know he didn't mean to leave me. When will you understand? It was HIM" – I shout pointing at the closed door just feet away from me now. So close.

"I know you John. Walk away. Grieve for Sherlock then never look back. You are heading in a direction that will only destroy you further. You have too much of a heart for this, it's why you left the Army. You will live with it; what Sherlock did. But not like this. You could spend the rest of your life tracking down all the men working with Moriarty and it would still never bring him back. You don't want to become this. Stop battling Mycroft. Stop battling yourself. Let us just go and say goodbye."

He sees the deflation in my eyes and takes a tentative step towards me. He gently takes the gun from my hand that now hangs loosely at my side.

"There's no time," I whisper through tears.

000

We burst through the doors to the church, soaking from the rain just in time to see a sleek black coffin raised by men I don't recognise. All the fight leaves me and I stand and watch as he is taken past and out into the cold rain. My fingers reach out and touch the smooth black marble as it glides through me.

Mycroft catches my eye and nods gently; thanking me for coming, eventually. Guilt claws at my consciousness for the stoic brother left behind. It was a beautiful country church and one I could tell was full of a family's memories; good and bad. Sherlock's father was buried here.

I had been so selfish.

How hard this must have been for Mycroft. The man had more reason than me to see to Moriarty to his end. The realisation of his part was strewn across his face whenever he looked at me. I slip into one of the pews and close my eyes as the small precession makes its way to the grave yard. He squeezes my shoulder as he passes behind the coffin.

"The stuff that you wanted to say, but didn't."

"Yes."

"Say it now."

"No. Sorry I cant."

"It's time that you did John. It's important."

I make my way to the young grave with Mrs Hudson gripping tightly to my arm. She holds bright flowers and says bright words. I say the things that bind me to him and tie me to grief. But when it comes to saying goodbye, the words fail to come and I know it is because I don't mean them. I still don't believe that this isn't all some magical trick with me at its centre; being played like a pawn in a game I still don't understand. I never really understood, I was always too slow for him. I'd know if he were alive. I'd feel it in every pore of my skin. In every breath that wracked my body. I'm sure of it.

Two weeks later my rucksack is packed on the hotel bed, along with the violin case. I stand in front of the mirror. The uniform feels like an old friend, but the reflection has changed a bit. There is a knock at the door.

"Mycroft. I'm about to leave actually, I'll be late for sign-in."

He steps past me anyway.

"You haven't been back to Baker Street since…."

"No. I can't. In fact there's nothing for me in London now. I presume you know all this already. Is that why you're here?"

I turn to face him. He's deathly pale with hands shaking.

"Do you think he would forgive me John?"

I regard him closely. "I can't answer that Mycroft. Only you can answer that."

"I don't believe that he would." He swallows hard. "I think John, that…..I've made a terrible error."

"Well. I'm not going to pretend that you didn't and that he paid for it with his life. But I know that it would have been a difficult decision, even for you. It was your job. Your life. He was mine, that's all I have to say on the matter now. I must be going."

He stops me at the door with a cracking voice. "You're right John. You were his life." He thinks carefully about his next words. "You are his life. It's why he did what he did."

"Mycroft?"

"It wasn't easy. It had to be done correctly, properly. You see John. It hasn't all gone strictly to plan and I had to step in."

Happiness soon, I promise. To be continued….