Remember how I said I might add a second part to the last chapter? Well, I'm not gonna. But wait!! I'm planning on writing a chapter fic (if I ever get over this disease called Writer's Block!) about Holmes not wanting Watson to leave and how that whole deal was fixed by the end of the movie, 'cause we all know there were NOT enough clues to indicate that Holmes was, indeed, over being so hurt and lonely at Watson's leaving. *sniff* So yeah, that's the reason, and expect a chapter fic from me...someday... *blushes*
In the meantime, please enjoy this drabble (actually, more like 500-word ficlet) from me. This one is different from the others, in that it does not focus on Holmes and Watson's comradeship, but on an entirely different (half) friendship with entirely different meaning and consequence. I think the relationship between these two friends is just as endearing as Holmes/Watson, although it is in a more...reserved...way. *biggrin*
Oh, and I know it may sound this way at first, but it is NOT a romance or a slash between ANYONE. As most of you have heard, I CANNOT write romances. At all. *rolls eyes at self* It's just a friendship fic from lil ol' me. *wink*
Enough
The door closed silently behind him, an unheard echo resounding in his head, and it sounded so very final.
They had passed the point of no return. Whatever happened next, there was no going back.
He had expressed to Holmes on the ride over in so many words that he did not approve of this plan, especially in light of the slaughterhouse explosion that had left the doctor in desperate need of immediate hospitalization and could have easily killed them had all they not been on the outside. Surely there must be another way other than taking such a risk with the right hand man of England's — and possibly the world's — most dangerous and merciless killer.
He hoped with every fibre of his being that Sherlock Holmes knew what he was doing.
Holmes had melodramatically replied to his urgently voiced reasoning against his dicey scheme with a curt, mildly bothered, "Lestrade, if my plan succeeds, Blackwood will be hanged — properly this time, all the world will be salvaged, London will be rid of a few more of its worst scoundrels, and you will get the credit for the capture, as always. Everyone returns home in high spirits, I'd wager, so if you do not mind, please do bestow upon me the key. Thank you, Inspector. Now, do you remember what you are to tell him when we arrive?"
He had completed the rehearsed performance with self-gratifying precision (and, though he still was not entirely convinced, he did rather enjoy now having the honest ability to say he socked Sherlock Holmes one in the gut and walked away without a scratch, from either the man himself or his hot-tempered Army veteran friend).
He only hoped that his small role in this sordid madness would be enough.
If he did not know himself better, the man would have said the feeling had had as he turned away from the door was almost actual concern for the unshaven man who was now facing Coward alone in his luxurious chambers. The doctor, after all, had made no appearance as of yet, possibly because he had indeed decided enough was enough and left Holmes to his own fate. Or perhaps, knowing Holmes' manner of thinking, he was waiting somewhere on the sidelines, tensed and ready to assist when word was given.
Strangely, he found himself hoping it was indeed the latter. Perhaps he didn't altogether loathe the vain detective — despise, yes, naturally, but loathe…? Their relationship was awkward, one of petty rivalry and unvoiced yet obvious exasperations, but if the facts truly were to be enlightened, he felt that somewhere beyond all of that, buried so deeply neither of them would ever outwardly acknowledge it, there was a distinct friendship and fondness; however bizarre or improbable it may seem at times, it was, undeniably, there.
Suddenly, respectable Scotland Yard Inspector Geoffrey Lestrade found himself sending up a silent, brief prayer of request for the first time since he was a lad.
Just to make it clear, I do not know for sure that Geoffrey is Lestrade's first name; all we know from the stories is that it does start with a G (he sent Holmes a telegram once with only his first initial). But this was the most fitting name I could find in the list at the website "Behind the Name: The Etymology and History of First Names." And yes, this is yet another pointless mystery Sherlockians/Holmesians like to guess at. *wink wink*