In the early weeks after Sherlock's death John had many restless nights. He'd often find himself falling asleep, just to be woken by nightmares of his flatmate on St. Bart's roof. On these nights, John would quietly sneak downstairs and creep into Sherlock's room. He thought that if he sat on Sherlock's bed staring at the periodic table for long enough, he might begin to understand his friend's motives for jumping.
Over time, John had fewer nightmares and spent fewer nights in Sherlock's room. Before his dinner with Irene Adler it had been several months since he had slept downstairs. Now, confused by the powerful potential of her words, John found himself sitting on Sherlock's bed, reviewing his options.
Even if Sherlock could fake his own death, it didn't mean that he did. Only Sherlock Holmes could make being dead so confusing.
John needed to investigate further, and that would require some assistance. There were few people he could approach with his new theory about Sherlock. Molly would be far too upset, given her affection for Sherlock; Mycroft too dismissive; Mrs. Hudson too emotional. He was left with one option: Lestrade. At least his friend wouldn't judge him too harshly. Having made up his mind, John finally drifted off to sleep on Sherlock's bed.
The following morning John woke early, dressed, and headed to Scotland Yard. Since Sherlock's death John and Lestrade had remained in touch. Now, their time spent together was more likely to be over a pint than a dead body. John had to admit that it was an improvement.
On his way to the Yard, John texted Sarah to say he was sick and unable to work at the clinic. It was his first time lying to Sarah since Sherlock jumped. He felt a pang of guilt, but not regret; he needed to talk to Lestrade.
John entered the building and made his way to Lestrade's office. Knocking twice he tried the handle, found the door unlocked, and pulled it open.
"Good morning, John," the DI greeted amicably, "how did the date go last night?" John rolled his eyes, and Lestrade raised his eyebrows in a questioning response. "That well, huh?"
John cleared his throat with an awkward cough and began speaking, "While I could tell you quite a story from last night, I'm really here to talk about—um—Sherlock." John looked down and shifted uncomfortably on his heels, waiting for Lestrade's reaction.
If it were possible, Lestrade's eyebrows reached even higher. It had been over a year and a half since Sherlock's death, yet the DI and John had never openly discussed his suicide.
"I know this is going to seem crazy, so I'm just going to say it. I think Sherlock may not be dead." Lestrade could not hide his look of confusion, but a knock on the door saved him from having to respond.
"Come in," the DI instructed, taking the opportunity to mask his shock.
"Morning, Detective Inspector," said a friendly voice. A man of about 35 stood in the doorway. From his stance and dress John guessed he had served in the military. In his mind John heard, Afghanistan or Iraq?
"Good morning, Sergeant Moran, how can I help you today?"
"It's the Brighton case, sir. We've picked up a suspect who will be arriving here shortly. He'll be ready for questioning when you are."
"Thank you, Moran. Nice work. Just give me a call when the suspect has arrived."
"Will do, sir, and sorry to interrupt," Moran said, his eyes moving between Lestrade and John, clearly speaking to both men.
"Not a problem. In fact, Sergeant Sebastian Moran, I'd like you to meet Captain John Watson. He's a good friend of mine who has helped with a number of cases over the years." John stepped forward to meet Moran's hand.
"A pleasure to meet you, Sergeant Moran."
"You as well, Dr. Watson."
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