"There needs to be a better way."
"I don't see why you're suddenly so against the idea of using him, Lestrade. You were perfectly fine with him barging in on all of our cases for all those years."
Dimmock had backed Greg into his office, crowding what little space he had been assigned as Detective Constable. He had been late getting into work and was already saddled with a slew of paperwork to fill out; another one of Dimmock's power trips was the last thing he that he needed.
Instead of telling him off (as he so, so wanted to), Greg waved him away (like he knew he had to; Dimmock was a superior now, even though he was a friend, eight years his junior, and sort of a prat).
"No— definitely not. I can't even get involved anymore, remember? This is your case now. I'm too close to it. Sherlock's definitely too close to it. You really don't want to bring him day by day to a new scene of the death of John Watson, do you?"
The younger man shrugged, as Greg knew he would.
"Do you really think he cares that much? It'll get his mind off of things. It'll help us, at any rate— killer's not leaving anything at the scenes."
"You're not still looking for evidence in the victim's flats, are you? They're snipers, they won't be there. You should look for—"
"Ah— I think I know what I'm doing here, Lestrade. I've got people looking at both. I've got a few quite sound theories myself, but it would be nice to have Holmes here to... string them together, if you will."
Greg kept himself from rolling his eyes.
"Well, I won't. He shouldn't be included. Leave him be."
In response, Dimmock laughed.
"Oh, I'll give you a week."
"Sherlock, just— get out of the flat. Come with me. For a few hours."
The grey-haired detective stood a living room that was much too small for him— the ceiling and walls were, undoubtedly, up there, but exactly where they were hiding under the paper chaos was above him. It smelt strongly of sweat and cigarette smoke, and while both reminded him gently that Sherlock was human, human as the rest of them (as if he needed reminding), only one concerned him.
He was losing patience— at the strings that tangled in his hair, at the information that they tied together, at the man lying on the floor by his feet in his pyjamas.
Especially the man lying on the floor by his feet in his pyjamas.
"No, no, I don't think so. Much too busy."
"Busy? Doing what? Sherlock, it doesn't look like you've left the flat in months."
Sherlock sat up, glaring at Greg in disdain; as if sitting up made Greg's observation more wrong. He waved his arm around him, at the newspaper clippings and twine.
"Do you not see the state of this room? Busy, Lestrade. Very much so."
And he flopped back down onto the rug.
Greg scowled, stepping over the overgrown child to sit on the sofa— he had to push several newspapers off of it to make a space for himself.
"Sherlock. You can't just sit in here. You're needed."
"On what? The murders that Moriarty's had you running around over? Boring. There's nothing interesting in that case. Give me something difficult."
"We don't know the killer yet. We thought you might like to come and look at the newest crime scene? Not where the victim was killed, the place where the killer was."
The other man was silent. He had steepled his fingers— he was thinking. His eyes were closed, but Greg knew better than to assume that it meant that he could stare at him with impunity.
He stared all the same.
He looked more gaunt, more pale than normal; and that was, of course, saying something. The silk dressing gown obscured most of his gaze from the jagged angles and possible (probable? Unlikely? Inevitable?) track marks. He worried in a way that he felt unique to Sherlock: knowing that the younger man would deserve it fully if something finally got the better of him and killed him, but hoping that it wouldn't.
He didn't know if it was his imagination, but there was something minutely off about Sherlock's expression: the creases in his eyes were perhaps deeper, the furrow in his brow more scared. It could be a residue of the memory of sitting next to him on a woman's couch, not five months ago, watching him keep himself from emotion after Moriarty had got the best of him again.
It was about this time, wasn't it, that John Watson jumped? Lestrade couldn't remember the exact date, but he knew it was in the beginning of May. The weather was the same.
Now Sherlock was looking at him.
"Will you? Come with me, I mean. It won't take more than a few hours. A bit of time outside might be exactly what you need."
He rolled his eyes in response.
"Just tell me what you know. I'll tell you what's important."
It was Greg's turn to roll his eyes.
"That's the thing; everything we think is important isn't leading us anywhere. We know it has something to do with Moriarty, and with his... game, with you. But he's not— there aren't any postcards to you anymore. Really, other than the fact that he's obviously gearing the kills towards you But we can't find anything on the actual sniper."
"Have you tried looking through military files? British, American, or otherwise?"
"British and American. We've been looking through every file for a record of as impressive a shot as your sniper is."
Greg was hesitant; Sherlock's breathing had hitched, he'd sensed it, so he had to continue. Best not make a big deal out of everything.
"John was on the list. He was a pretty good shot, for a doctor."
An eyeroll. He should have known better than to try and incite Sherlock with the usual methods.
"Well then, that's one less person you have to monitor, isn't it?"
Greg sighed.
"That's the problem. There aren't enough people on the list without an alibi. Most of them are on duty. We have to factor in the chance that if he's working for Moriarty, his records have been destroyed."
"You seem to have thought of everything, Lestrade. Why did you come to me for?"
Such disdain in his voice. It was quite obvious that he wanted Greg to leave.
"Because I know that you're interested in this case. And we're not going to talk about why you're not taking it, but..."
He ran a hand through his hair. He wanted a cigarette: He had tried to keep himself from indulging too much, but he had started up again.
It was hard to keep one's self from the things that comfort you. He knew that.
"I think that you should at least try to leave the flat. It's not— It's not good. Not at all."
In response, Sherlock rolled onto his stomach, then leapt to his feet, head caught in the twine against the ceiling. He knocked a few printed news clippings from their hold as he untangled himself from his own web, careless to what it was that had fallen.
"I will applaud you on your improvement in tactic, Lestrade; you were infinitely more likely to engage me in one of your paternal nurturing sessions with a case than your previous attempts to 'take me out for a pint.' "
He looked even worse now that gravity had taken hold of him: hungry features, hungry eyes. He looked scarily familiar.
"I could still take you out for that pint. Or a bite to eat; you look like you could use one. Or twelve."
He earned himself the predicted Holmes Glare— he eased himself up from the couch as Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen, hearing the bones in his knees creak.
"Where's the furniture, Sherlock?"
The kitchen was bare: the table and chairs, the plates, the experiments and canned food were gone.
Sherlock shrugged.
"Irrelevant. Please, do go on wasting my time asking me to do your job for you, it was such a decent way to spend my time."
"Sherlock, I'm only trying to help."
The younger man wheeled around to face him, the tattered silk material billowing around him in ways that reminded Greg of a coat he hadn't seen in exactly a year.
When Sherlock spoke again, he was predictably sarcastic, and a little angry.
"Help whom?"
Tread lightly.
"You. Well, the case, too— it needs to be solved and Dimmock's being ridiculous as usual, doing one thing because you suggested the opposite, but even he wants your opinion. It's..."
He met Sherlock's eyes for a second: Sherlock was not the type to break eye contact, and today was no different. It was Greg that found the iced hue of Sherlock's eyes uncomfortable.
He was interrupted before he could say anything embarrassing.
"If you plan to say anything about the date, or checking on me, or visiting anything, I recommend that you reconsider, Lestrade. Quickly. My patience is tiring."
And again, before Lestrade could properly open his mouth to speak: a dangerous dawn on Sherlock's face. His eyes widened, his mouth made that 'O' that it formed when he was about to go running off without explanation.
"Of— of course. Of course!"
And he spun around, exiting the kitchen into his room with a slam of the door.
He yelled to Lestrade through the glass, though:
"I didn't think it necessary to engage in such traditional trifles such as visiting a gravesite on the day of death, but of course that's obvious— that's obvious of me. Moriarty would assume that I wouldn't go, and so that must be where we have to go! Do you have a gun on you? Could be dangerous..."
"What? Of course I don't, Sherlock. What are you on about now?"
"Oh, Don't be slow, Lestrade! Keep up! Weather's not too cold, is it? We'll have to do some walking."
"Sherlock— It's May, it's not cold—"
"Good, Good. I'll take that bite to eat, Lestrade, if you're still offering, and then we'll head out to the graveyard."
When he re-entered the kitchen, he was dressed in one of his standard tight-fitting suits (a little less tight-fitting than normal: his hair, not as perfectly styled, cheekbones more prominent), tucking a gun into the back of his trousers.
Greg knew better than to wonder where he'd gotten himself a handgun, and why he was planning to take it out to dinner with them. It would be a waste of breath to ask.
They went to a diner not far from Sherlock's flat— Lestrade ordered a coffee for himself and a full breakfast for Sherlock. He ate faster than some of the homeless would, whenever he brought them food; he was sopping up the egg yolks with bits of toast before Greg's coffee had even cooled.
He kept his worrying to himself; nothing good could come from treating Sherlock Holmes like a child. One only had to look at his relationship with his bother to confirm that.
Greg tried to enjoy the pleasure in a cooling cup of coffee in a diner in the morning, at Sherlock sitting in one place: the younger man seemed determined to ruin whatever pleasure that held, drumming his fingers at the table, his right leg bouncing rapidly up and down in— anticipation? Boredom? He hoped.
It didn't take long for Sherlock to convince him to just leave the damn coffee and leave (one could never be entirely sure how long one could get away without Sherlock making a scene; Greg decided not to chance it); they took a cab to the graveyard.
It was silent for a long time; it was Greg's turn to drum his fingers on the plastic interior.
"Why was John buried in London? Doesn't he come from— North, somewhere?"
He asked the question to the open air, really— it was only too late that he realised that Sherlock was there.
He received a shallow grunt in reply. That was all he expected to get.
Then—
"Alcoholism runs in the family."
As if it explained everything.
He supposed it had.
It took about twenty minutes before Greg found himself remembering the place: almost one year ago he and a few co-workers took this street to the funeral, he remembered that street name, or that house. It had been a nice day: warm for the month, cloudy. It hadn't rained while they stood around the empty hole that would soon house Dr. Watson, but it had about an hour beforehand and so the group of around twenty people stood on soft mud around the hole, the coffin, and the machine that slowly lowered the coffin into the hole.
It was a tiny cemetery, its face covered by a tall brick wall and a black gate, just wide enough for a car to fit through. The taxi did not enter: Sherlock had the cabbie drop them off on the streets.
Sherlock entered first, opening the pedestrian gate with the air he held when passing under police tape. He didn't know where to go, though— he waited until Greg was comfortably in front of him to continue walking.
Greg had vaguely remembered where the plot was: there was... a Left here, and it should be down the road some... Hm, maybe it was a right.
No, he was sure that tree was farther away than that.
Maybe they needn't have turned at all.
"For a detective, Lestrade, you are frighteningly inobservant."
"Oh, shut it, Sherlock. I haven't been here in a year, and then it was only the once."
It was starting to rain; that thin drizzle that barely even tried to make anything wet.
"You honestly have never been here? Not even once?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes before he shrugged.
He would have answered, it seemed, had it not been for something across Lestrade's shoulder that caught his attention:
"Come on. This way. Careful."
He sped past Greg, who spun around to follow him to what, as they neared, looked like a freshly-dug hole.
Directly in front of the stone that read John Watson's name.
"Christ— I need to call this in. Sherlock—"
He could sense what the other man was about to do.
"Sherlock—"
It was more of a warning than a comfort: one that he already knew would not be heeded. Greg wasn't surprised when the tall figure jumped into the fresh pit.
"Coffin's been broken open."
"Oh. Well, that's great. By all means, Sherlock, make sure your DNA is on everything in there."
"Body's still here, too. Well. The bones. But they're consistent with his height and stature."
"Why did someone want to— do this? Dig up the bones?"
"Obvious. DNA. They're sceptical that it's actually Watson. The real question is: why now? At one year even hair has decomposed off of a body. Something must have tipped them off."
"But it's not—"
Greg pointed into the hole, at the bones. Before he could restart the sentence, Sherlock spoke up.
"Ah, no, here. There's still some hair near the collar."
Sherlock had pulled a small plastic baggie out of one of his pockets, using that to store the single hair he pulled from the dead, decomposing skin of his former friend.
Greg helped him out of the hole. It was raining properly now: tiny drops of water fell on their shoulders and in their hair, greening the grass that stood all around the brown circle of dirt they stood in. Sherlock was breathing heavily; he hadn't done much physical activity in a while, it seemed.
He held the baggie up, squinting at the tiny line that was held in it.
"If someone else has doubts on the identity of the body buried here, it'd be optimal for ourselves to be sure also. I hope I still have my microscope—"
"Sherlock, I confirmed the body. I was there, with him, in the mortuary. It's John."
Sherlock frowned at the mention of the first name.
"Were you there the entire time? In the funeral home? At the service? There are several points in time where someone would have switched the body. It was open-casket, of course, so it must have been after the service; it would be so easy to swap the body..."
Greg frowned, but decided against stating the obvious.
"Come on, then. Let's get you back to your lab."