A/N: Sorry for the delay! I was away on vacation. SPOILERS for The Reichenbach Fall
In hindsight, he should have known. Should have realized that no matter what he did, or how much he tried to help him, he was always going to lose Sherlock. The thought was bitter and useless and did nothing to appease his mind of the inevitability. But he needed to think that. He needed the assurance that what happened, could not have been changed. He was almost-almost foolish enough to believe that…
Three months earlier:
Everyone knew the trial was a farce. A ploy to divert attention from the psychopath on trial to the unsuspecting and brilliant Consulting Detective. Though only a few people were actually aware of the fact. Still, the day Moriarty walked out of the courtroom, a free man, not much was said, aside from the initial outrage and confusion.
Lestrade stared at the television screen in disbelief, as did half the Yard, and watched him go free, a smug, carefree expression plastered for all to see. And then he disappeared.
He tried to get Sherlock to talk about him, but any time he brought up Moriarty, Sherlock would look away, change the subject. He left it alone for a while. There was nothing for it.
When the call came in about the missing US Ambassador's kids two months after, he naturally went to Sherlock. Time was of the essence and it didn't take much convincing. Donovan was not pleased, going so far as to mock Sherlock's sudden rise to celebrity status.
There was a restlessness about Sherlock that had nothing to do with Donovan or the case. He gave it his full attention and yet there persisted this constant underlying disquiet that sent Lestrade's nerves into overdrive. Sherlock wouldn't discuss anything with him and any effort at inquiring after his state of mind was met with a cutting remark.
After uncovering the smallest bit of evidence-a footprint, Sherlock and John went to Bart's to seek out Molly's help. They were gone for hours while Lestrade and his team worked diligently back at the Yard. Before Sherlock and John arrived, they received a threatening fax regarding the state of the children. Sherlock merely pursed his lips, took out his mobile, and got to work.
He never stopped to think, not even for a moment about how exactly Sherlock does what he does. He'd always accepted it. Sherlock saw the world differently. He could do things, and see things that most people could not. It was both amazing and a curse. And in the end, his gift for quick thinking led them to the whereabouts of the missing children.
Blood pumping in his ears, Lestrade and his team stormed the abandoned factory, streams of light from their torches the only way to navigate the maze of rusted machinery and cobwebbed hallways.
Donovan eventually located the brother and sister, their condition weakening with each passing moment. Mercury, Sherlock had said. The candy wrappers were laced with the poison and who knew how long the kids had been snacking on the stuff. Luckily, they were both coherent enough to be taken back to the Yard, a medical personnel on staff taking their vitals on the way back.
Lestrade tried to make light of it afterwards. A little girl screaming in Sherlock's face didn't seem that out of the realm of possibility. But Sherlock was in his own world, stoic, wandering the endless hallways of his mind. Donovan just gave him a look, while Lestrade shrugged in response.
After John and Sherlock had left, Lestrade found Donovan pouring over the evidence. He quietly stepped inside the room.
"Problem?" he ventured. He shouldn't have checked. He should have left it alone. He should have dismissed her right away, ignored her doubts and accusations. It was ludacris. Preposterous. Almost laughable. And when Anderson came into the picture, throwing around accusations and theories, he almost pitched a fit.
"Just talk to him. Confront him if you must. If he's nothing to hide, it won't hurt any."
Lestrade nearly glared at Donovan. He was about to tell her exactly what he thought of her idea, when another sprouted in his mind. They wanted so badly to see Sherlock fail. For years they've been on him. Very well then. He had nothing on at the Yard. Case was closed (aside from capturing the suspect). If they wanted him to talk to Sherlock, then he'd go talk to Sherlock.
He threw his arms up in the air.
"Fine. I wouldn't mind the fresh air. Come on then." He grabbed his jacket, inwardly smirking at the looks of surprise on their faces.
The ride down was tense with hardly a word spoken aside from the one time he muttered how ridiculous this whole thing was. Donovan stared at him but said nothing.
Mrs. Hudson opened the door, clearly surprised to see them all there.
"Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Hudson, but I need to have a word with Sherlock." He turned to Sally and Anderson. "You two, stay here." He didn't give them a chance to argue as he sprinted up the stairs to the flat. There he found Sherlock and John climbing all over furniture, clearly searching for something.
Sherlock barely looked at him as he toyed with a wire he found.
"The answer's no."
Lestrade blinked. "But you haven't even heard the question."
But it was all too easy for Sherlock to deduce why he'd come. He was steps ahead of everyone, as usual. He looked down at his feet, chagrined.
"Will you come?" he finally said, after Sherlock had basically started accusing him of doubting him. Doubting who he was. He was being irrational, blaming Moriarty for everything. It was all too much to take in suddenly and he refused to make a scene in front of John and Mrs. Hudson.
"It is a game, Lestrade, and one I'm not willing to play," he said with finality. Lestrade sighed.
"Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock quipped, fingers tapping away on his laptop. Lestrade pursed his lips and walked out. He passed Donovan in the entryway downstairs, and one look was all she needed, to know that Sherlock would not be accompanying them. They all piled into the car, Sally slamming her door.
When they got back to the Yard, Donovan whirled around to face Lestrade.
"This isn't over, sir. We can't just let Holmes dictate what can and can't happen." She indicated with her head the door at the end of the corridor. "Will you come, sir?"
Somehow he found himself in front of the Chief Superintendent, Donovan and Anderson flanking him on either side. It was not pleasant, but neither were the words spewing from his colleagues' mouths. He wasn't about to let Sally and Anderson go off by themselves and defile Sherlock's reputation to their boss. As much as he didn't want to, he had followed them in.
It didn't go well, and for one sickeningly frightening moment he was sure he was out of a job. He was beyond relieved to get the hell out of there. His orders were to bring Sherlock in, at once. Anderson and Donovan were only too happy to lead the way.
He slowed his walk, letting them get ahead, and took out his phone. Sighing, he called John.
"I'm sorry, John," he whispered. "We gotta take him in. Prepare him."
He hung up and caught up with Donovan and Anderson. The drive over was different from the first time. There was a predatory gleam in Donovan's eyes and a smugness to Anderson that Lestrade wanted to slap away. His fingers clenched onto the steering wheel as he made his way to Sherlock's, for the second time that night, two police cars right behind him.
He threw Mrs. Hudson an apologetic look as he and the rest of the officers barged up the stairs. John blocked their way, his expression murderous.
"Have you got a warrant? Have you?"
"Leave it, John," Lestrade said sternly. He swallowed and walked past him. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, dressed in his coat and scarf. He stared at Lestrade indifferently. Not surprised to see him there then. He inwardly sighed, stepping aside as another officer walked over to Sherlock, cuffs in hand.
"Sherlock Holmes. I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping."
Bile rose in his throat as he kept his face blank. John's expression was thunderous as he shook his head disbelievingly.
"Get him downstairs now," Lestrade growled to the officer holding onto Sherlock. He didn't dare look at him as they walk past him, a decision he would regret for all time. He vaguely remembered threatening John with arrest as well if he didn't quit interfering. The small headache he started his day with had now exploded to a full blown, debilitating migraine, threatening to shove him off the edge. Disgusted with the turn of events, he walked away.
He vaguely noticed Chief Superintendent Davis making his way inside. He frowned, wondering why he was even there. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was being searched, his body up against the police car. He swallowed and looked away, giving direction to the officer standing next to him.
He was about to reach inside his pocket to retrieve his migraine pills when he saw the Chief Superintendent walk out of the building, head held back and a wad of tissues pressed to his nose, already smeared with red.
"What the…" he started forward but stilled when two officers suddenly dragged John outdoors, hands clasped behind his back. They harshly pinned him to the same car where Sherlock stood and awkwardly cuffed one of John's wrists to one of Sherlock's cuffs.
The Chief was muttering muffled moans into the tissues and pointing angrily at the two cuffed men. Lestrade cringed at the scene. From where he stood and all the people milling about, he didn't see what Sherlock had got in to. It was only when a loud, piercing screech sounded, sending grown men into squeals of pain, did he realize how utterly fucked they all were.
Distracted by the shrill sound in his earpiece from the radio Sherlock had toyed with, the officer didn't notice when Sherlock reached around and grabbed his gun, and aimed it at John's temple.
"Christ," Lestrade said, arms in the air.
Sherlock screamed at everyone to get on their knees, and proceeded to fire two rounds into the air.
"Do what he says!" bellowed Lestrade, his heart ready to burst through his ribcage. Everyone dropped, lowering their weapons. Everything happened in a blur, as Sherlock backed away, dragging John along with him.
He groaned and put his face in his hands. Sherlock and John had rounded the corner and went out of sight. The Chief Superintendent glared at Lestrade, screeching at him, blood spurting from his nose.
"Get after him, Lestrade!"
Donovan threw Lestrade a dark look as she and the rest of the cops ran after the now fugitives. Lestrade's stomach did something rather unpleasant and he slowed his movements, still not quite believing or understanding what had happened. He was shaking so much he didn't bother to retrieve his gun. He knew there'd be no point. Sherlock was gone.
By the time he was back in his car the tremors hadn't abated. His head killed, his heartrate was spiked and his legs could barely move.
What was Sherlock thinking?
He groaned as Sally and Anderson joined him, faces mottled with anger.
"I told you this would happen! You always want to believe the best of him, Greg! Always. He's been playing you! Playing everyone. Good god, he could be anywhere now!"
"Shut it, Sally!" Lestrade roared. He'd had enough. "Enough out of you til we reach the Yard. Out of both of you!" He stared ahead and drove, too angry to relish in the wonderful silence.
When they reached the Yard, the place was a chaotic pit, a bustle of activity. He headed straight to his office, slamming the door behind him. He pulled open his desk drawer, hastily retrieving the migraine meds. He downed two capsules, foregoing the water and hissed as they scratchily made their way down his throat. Then he collapsed at his desk.
It was a nightmare. There was no coming back from this. Not for Sherlock. No matter what happened after this day, no matter even if he somehow managed to catch Moriarty, Sherlock would not be the same individual he was just yesterday. The thought pained him. His reputation aside, he was fearful for his life.
He knew the Consulting Detective was going after Jim Moriarty. This whole mess was because of him, because he had some weird personal vendetta against Sherlock. He wanted him destroyed, bit by bit, and he was getting his wish. Sherlock would pay dearly. Lestrade couldn't even think of the possibilities.
For years Sherlock had gone off, solving crimes, solving murders. Running after dangerous men, confronting peril full on. Lestrade realized a while ago talking to Sherlock about that was pointless. That was who he was. Danger meant nothing; the possibility of death only spurred him on. He lived his life precariously.
But this was entirely different. This time, Moriarty was the real deal. He had people who knew people who killed people. The web was infinite and there was no point guessing how far it stretched. Sherlock was now playing his game. And he had everything to lose.
He didn't go home. He couldn't even if he were allowed to leave. The Chief was beyond livid, ordering everyone to find Sherlock. It was quite tense and he kept glaring at Lestrade whenever they were in the same room, as if it were his fault they were all in this mess.
The thing was, no one knew where to start looking. Hardly anyone knew Sherlock on a personal level so they had no ideas. Even Lestrade shrugged when asked.
"It's Sherlock. He could be anywhere, and he certainly won't be where people expect him to be. We won't find him," he said with certainty. He actually did have a couple spots where he could check, but he kept his mouth shut. No good would come of it if he was right.
"His brother," Sally provided. "That might be a good place to start looking."
Lestrade scoffed. "Sherlock wouldn't go to Mycroft. Not even now. They don't exactly have the best of relationships." Then he thought it over. "But I suppose it can't hurt to try. I'll go."
"No." That was the Chief, practically blocking his way.
"Not by yourself you're not. Donovan, Bradley, go with him. You and I are gonna have a nice long chat after this is all over with, Lestrade," he threatened.
Lestrade scowled, shaking his head. "Fine, sir." He nodded towards Donovan and the other officer, Bradley. Sidestepping the Chief, he led the way out of the Yard. When they got to the car, he checked the clock. Three a.m. He silently groaned.
"Sir, where does his brother live?"
"Near Pall Mall, I think. But that's not where we're going."
"Why not, sir?"
"Because he won't be at home. You don't think he's aware of what's happened?" He sighed, hitting the gas hard. "Mycroft Holmes knows everything. But I'm pretty sure he's not gonna be able to help us out."
"Why not, sir?"
Lestrade kept his eyes on the road as he sped off, his hands tight on the wheel.
"Because if Sherlock Holmes wants to avoid being seen, not even Mycroft will be able to find him. That's why this whole thing is pointless! He slammed the wheel, hard. Silence reigned.
"You don't want him caught." That was Donovan, stating the obvious as usual.
"This whole mess is cause of you and Anderson. Sherlock is no more guilty than I am. You've never liked him, from day one. You never gave him a chance."
"He's the one who looked down at us! He's impossible, Greg! How can you not see that? Why do you like him, sir? What do you see in him?" She was all but screaming now, and Lestrade's head was about to implode.
"Sherlock can be impossible and he can be a jerk. But you give him zero respect for his line of work. He has solved more cases for us in the six years I've known him than our entire team could working round the clock for the next twenty years. Believe me, he's not looking for praise. He's not even getting paid by us as you well know. So I just have to assume it's jealousy that's been driving you all these years, Sally. Because he's better than you. He's better than everyone."
Sally stared, mouth agape. "You're being ridiculous, sir. You're defending him when he would no more lift a finger if you were in trouble or come to your aide if your life depended on it. He's not right in the head, how can you not see that? People like that can't live normal lives like the rest of us. Not forever. And look what's happened! He pulled a gun on the police! A normal, sane person wouldn't do that."
Lestrade stared ahead, teeth grinding. "You don't get it, Sally. You just don't."
Sally huffed. "Oh I get it, sir. I get that you're basically choosing him over me. That's what you're saying, isn't it? He's better than I am. You're willing to risk your job and reputation over him?"
Lestrade sighed. "That's outta my hands now. And don't be obtuse, Sally. No one is choosing anything. All I'm saying is, you've never given him a chance. Nobody has. Bit unfair if you ask me. Especially after everything he's done for us."
"You mean all the times he's played us?"
He hit the brakes, not even aware he was doing it until the screech resonated throughout the car. He rounded on Donovan, relishing the look of sudden panic on her face.
"While you're in my presence, I don't ever want to hear that bullshit come out of your mouth. If you believe for one second that Sherlock isn't genuine then I have nothing further to talk to you about."
He slammed on the gas and rounded the corner, pulling up to the Diogenes Club. He jumped out, banging the door behind him. The other two sergeants followed quietly behind.
He walked straight inside, flashing his badge. He stopped the nearest man he saw.
"DI Lestrade. I want to see Mycroft Holmes. Now."
The man looked at him indifferently, but indicated with a nod to follow. He led them down a few corridors before pointing to the dark mahogany door. Then he turned around and left them.
Lestrade knocked, loudly. After a few seconds, the door opened, revealing a very awake and impeccably dressed Mycroft.
"Inspector."
"A word, Mr. Holmes." He pushed past the other man, into what appeared to be a spacious office. It was dark and sombre, fitting for Mycroft.
"What can I do for you, Inspector?" Mycroft patiently asked, his eyes dull and stoney.
"Oh I think you know. No doubt you're aware of what happened earlier this evening? With Sherlock?"
"I am aware," he said slowly, his eyes never leaving Lestrade's.
"Do you know where he is or where he might be?"
"I do not. I have already tried, unsuccessfully to contact him. And before you ask, no, I do not know the whereabouts of John Watson either."
"Did you know he ran off handcuffed, while toting a stolen gun?" This from Sally.
"My brother did always have a flair for the dramatic."
Lestrade sighed. "This isn't funny, Mycroft. Not only is Sherlock in trouble, he's also potentially in danger. Moriarty-"
"I know who Moriarty is. And I know what he is capable of. And if you don't think I've been working all night on this, then you are very much misinformed."
Lestrade recognized that tone all too well. He was about to take his leave when Bradley spoke up.
"Mr. Holmes, do you know of any acquaintances or friends that Sherlock might try to contact?"
Mycroft cocked his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Friends? Sargeant, have you actually met my brother? How many friends do you think he has? How many people do you think he trusts?" He looked away from the younger sargeant, back to Lestrade. "No. Whatever Sherlock is up to, there is only one person he can trust at a time like this. And that is himself."
They scrambled into the car, their mood dark and weary. Lestrade started up the car and they drove back to the Yard in silence. After a while, Sally said, "He's lying. He has to know something."
Lestrade sighed, rolling his tired eyes. "Mycroft Holmes essentially runs the British Government. Whatever he knows, we're never going to find out." And left it at that.
When they got back, the activity had died down a bit. Still no word on Sherlock or John. He didn't know whether to be troubled or relieved. He went back to his office, his stomach in knots.
The hours ticked by. Dawn peaked through the clouds just as Chief Superintendent Davis finished briefing everyone. So far their searched had proved fruitless. No one had any idea where Sherlock was, what he was up to, or where this would all lead.
Lestrade toyed with his phone. Sitting alone in his office, empty stomach, no sleep and nerves frayed, his finger rubbed across the name on screen. He could call him. He could try. But every time he thought that he chickened out. In truth, he was afraid. What if Sherlock didn't pick up? What if he did? What would either of them say? Either way the conversation wouldn't end well.
Plus, what if Sherlock was captured, and they got his phone. It certainly wouldn't look good to see the DI's number in Sherlock's recent contacts. So with a heavy sigh he tucked his phone away and sat, staring at nothing.
It wasn't until Donovan came into his office with a steaming mug of coffee did he realize how much time had passed. She pursed her lips as she set it down on his desk.
"Won't do us any good if you fall asleep."
It was a peace offering he knew, but he was still bitter about things. He nodded his thanks, barely looking at her. She left him to his thoughts. He checked his clock. Barely seven in the morning. He slowly reached for his mug, just as his phone chimed.
He nearly burned his hand as he started, reaching into his pocket to extract the insistent iPhone.
John. John was texting him?
What's happened to Mrs. Hudson?
He stared down in confusion, his fingers automatically moving.
What do you mean? Where's Sherlock?
No answer. No answer. No answer…
"Fuck."
I heard Mrs. Hudson got shot?! Almost at Baker st.
Lestrade frowned, his face turning ashen. He scrolled through his contacts before finding the one for Mrs. Hudson. She gave him her number one time in case Sherlock couldn't be reached or didn't want to be reached. It rang. And rang. Finally, when he was about to hang up…
"Hello?"
He sucked in a breath. "Mrs. Hudson. It's Greg, Lestrade. Is everything alright?"
She sighed, exasperated. "Oh I have been in a state! Worrying about poor Sherlock. Has everything been sorted with that? Oh! The kettle's going off. Call you back in a bit, dear?"
Shaking his head in disbelief he said, "Uh, course."
They hung up, Lestrade more puzzled than ever. He was just about to text John when he was called away. Mentally cursing rotten timing he stormed out of his office to join the rest of his team on the main floor. Phones were going off like crazy.
"What's going on?" he asked.
"Not sure, sir. Phones just started ringing. Lots of tips suddenly. About Holmes. All in the last ten, fifteen minutes."
Eyes narrowing in confusion, he sat down at the closest empty desk and picked up a ringing phone."
"DI Lestrade."
"Yea, good mornin'. I know you're all looking for that strange fella'. The detective? Think I saw him just half an hour ago, entering the library. Wearing that big coat a' his. Pretty sure it was him."
Lestrade frowned, mentally sighing. Something was not adding up.
"Yes, thank you, sir. Bye." He hung up, his eyes roaming the room as other calls were being answered, more useless information given. His eyes found Sally's, who was apparently having an equally strange conversation. She gave him a look and shrugged. He returned it.
He stood up, just as the phone started to ring again. Licking his lips, he picked it up.
"Yea, DI Lestrade here."
"Hello, DI Lestrade. I just saw Sherlock Holmes sneaking into Buckingham Palace. Had a dangerous glint in his eye."
"Who is this? Calling in fake tips is a crime. Now, who the fuck is this?"
"Jim sends his love."
The line went dead. Heart banging erratically he looked up and around, his mouth going dry. Then, of a sudden, the phones stopped ringing. Every single one, silent as the grave. The officers mid-call stared down at their now-dead receivers.
"What the hell is going on?" Sally boomed.
"Someone find out if these calls can be traced back! Now, dammit!" Now he was fuming, his skin flushed with anger. He stormed back into his office, slamming the door shut.
He fell into his chair, then took out some more pills for his never-ending headache. He sat in silence for a few minutes, trying to calm his breathing and his nerves.
He heard a commotion outside his door. He lifted his head just as Donovan pulled it open with such force as to nearly tear it from its hinges. He frowned at her expression. Her face, void of blood, her eyes…
He stood. "Sally?"
She shook her head, her mouth opening and closing but nothing coming out. She swallowed tightly, her throat bobbing with the forced action.
"Sally?" he tried again, his voice barely more than a strained whisper.
She jerked her head, like she couldn't even trust her own words. "I'm sorry, sir," she managed, her brow creasing with strain. "He… he's dead."
Lestrade stared at her like seeing her for the first time. He cocked his head, as if he didn't actually hear what she said.
"What?" he nearly squeaked, his fingers pressing onto his desk top for support he didn't realize he needed.
"Holmes, sir. He...jumped off the roof of Bart's." Her eyes went round, and her fingers clenched the doorknob, knuckles turning white.
He looked away from her, the breath leaving his lungs. He tried to steady his voice, but it was useless.
"When?"
"Not ten minutes ago. Numerous witnesses reported it."
The background bustle had turned to static, and a wave of dizziness coursed through his body. There was a constant throbbing in his head, turning him numb to feeling.
"Are you okay, sir?"
He said nothing. He did nothing. He couldn't even move from the spot. He looked down at his desk, at his phone lying there. He looked back up at Sally, at the concern on her face, a mix of pity and disbelief. He looked past her to the activity in the other room, the shock mirrored on everyone's face.
His head was about to split open. He felt himself nod, as his vision swam, and everything turned to slow motion. He saw her mouth moving but he heard nothing. Just a swarming buzz in his ears, drowning everything out. He swallowed and the sound was like a car crash screeching past his ear drums. He watched her turn and leave, her body crawling through time at the speed of a snail.
She closed the door before she left. To give him what? Privacy? A moment alone before the finality him him like a ton of bricks?
Sherlock was dead.
Fuck nononononononoo.
He barrelled out of his office, stride long but never giving into a full blown run. Faces whirled past him, his name being called. He didn't dare take a breath. His destination lay ahead, the door with the little silhouette of a man. The loo. A place he'd been to a thousand times. And right then and there the only place in all of Scotland Yard where he could find refuge.
He banged open the door and immediately locked it. All three stalls were empty, and he thanked every deity for it. He braced his arms on the sink counter and stared into the mirror. His face had gone ashen, the grey of his hair standing out in high contrast. He looked into his own eyes. They bore the truth of it. The gaze stared back, disbelieving and broken.
His throat seized up and he took large gulpfulls of air but it only made everything worse. He made a fist, pressing it to his mouth. His hand shook, and shook. His eyes burned as every breath was like a pinprick through his heart, poking tiny holes until all the blood seeped out, killing him slowly, painfully. He bit down on his fist to stifle the sound threatening to make its way past his throat.
After that, his body couldn't support his weight anymore and he slid to the floor, shaking and cold. He stayed like that for what seemed like hours, not moving, not caring. The pressure bearing down on his chest had not evaporated, nor had his head decided to suddenly stop splitting in two. Nor did it change the fact that Sherlock was dead.
He closed his eyes, the tremors churning his stomach. He was suddenly glad he had nothing to eat in almost a day. The floor was cold beneath him and someone was knocking on the door. He lazily looked up, too exhausted to move his lips.
"Sir? Sir, it's me. It's Sally. Please open the door."
God, how long had he been in there? He couldn't move. He was numb. Everything was just numb.
He took a deep, steady breath.
"Be right out." It sounded dead to his ears. But the knocking stopped. He slowly rolled over onto his stomach, not caring about the fact that this was the men's room and god only knew what was on those floors. Still unaffected, he pressed his forehead to the cool tile, eyes closed.
He told himself to get up. This was unbecoming of a DI. He was needed. He needed to get back to work.
Somehow, with the strength he didn't know he still had, he got himself standing. He ran a hand through his hair, patted some cold water on his face, and went back out there.
Sally was there, against the wall, waiting for him. She didn't say anything at first. Not until he looked at her and nodded.
"His body is at Bart's morgue. John is there too. Apparently, he saw the whole thing. They want someone to go down there to-"
"I'll do it," he said, his voice hoarse. She looked at him for a beat, then said, "I'll drive."
He nodded, suddenly grateful for her. There was no way he would have been able to operate any type of vehicle in his state. He stopped by his office to gather his phone and followed Sally to the car. No one spoke on the drive to Bart's. Again, Lestrade was grateful for Sally's presence and her tact.
When they arrived, there were scores of people and cars in the area. Police cruisers and ambulances, yellow tape going up. He got out, a dizzy spell seizing him before he heard Sally yelling for people to get back. They made their way to the cordoned off area. The site of the body. He saw the yellow tape, then he saw the dark red splatters all over the pristine pavement, all leading to the larger pool of blood a few feet from the building. He turned away, his vision going white.
They pushed past people towards the entrance, Donovan leading the way. Reporters were everywhere. How the hell did they get there so fast? It was a mob scene. When they finally made it inside, it was almost a relief. Until he remembered where he was headed.
He'd taken these steps before. Countless times. He knew the way to the morgue blindfolded. How many times had he walked these corridors, and talked over a corpse with Molly or one of the other techs, indifferent to the fact that there was a dead human on the slab beneath them. It was just another part of his job. Something he did every day.
His feet carried him forward even as his heart wrenched him away. Almost there now. His breath hitched as he saw John, seated on one of the hallway benches by the morgue, where loved ones waited to identify the bodies. Seeing John there, staring ahead at nothing, looking small and lost in the otherwise empty hall was nearly unbearable. It was proof somehow, that this was all happening.
"John."
He turned at the sound of his voice, a look of bewilderment settling on his face. Lestrade noticed his hands were covered in blood and he looked no better than Lestrade felt.
"Greg," he said, his voice small and shuttered. He took a sharp breath but the energy seeped out of him and he said nothing further.
"What happened?" Lestrade asked with a harsh whisper, his voice gone raw.
John stared ahead, just shaking his head back and forth. He was slouched over, hands folded together, uncaring for the stains on his clothing or the acrid smell of drying blood.
His shoulders hitched up, before falling back down. "He just jumped. He called me and said some things that didn't make sense. And then he. Just. Jumped." He swallowed hard, his head still moving back and forth. He scrunched his lips together, not looking at either Lestrade or Sally.
Lestrade looked up, at the door next to the bench. He indicated to Sally that he was going inside. She nodded solemnly, just as her phone rang. As she walked down the hall to answer it, he turned the doorknob.
He found Molly inside, a weepy mess. Or she was moments ago at least. Now her eyes were dry but red, and so very tired looking. Her hair was a mess and her hands shook.
"Molly," he said quietly and she licked her lips as a grimace crossed her face. She continued to gnaw on her lips as she tried to get herself in control. He looked down at his feet to give her a moment.
"Greg," she finally said, her voice a quivering mess. "I assume you're here to see...the body?"
He sighed, his pulse rate increasing. "Yeah. Please. And Molly? I'm-"
He couldn't even say it. I'm sorry was too fucking cliché and too damn real. He couldn't do it. No one would say it back to him. No one would say, 'I'm so sorry for your loss, Greg.' He'd never hear those words spoken to him because no one ever knew how much Sherlock actually meant to him. After all these years and no one ever knew or guessed. It was too difficult to think on that now so he silently indicated to the body lying under the white cloth.
She nodded, her eyes watering. They walked over to the slab, Lestrade's whole body shaking. Molly drew a breath and slowly, reverently, she picked up the sheet, and pulled it back.
Words failed him. He stared down with a grim expression, at the body that was Sherlock and now was no more than an empty shell. Face white as the sheet that covered it, ugly bruising marring what was once flawless, fair skin, and blood. Blood everywhere he looked. Smeared in the dark, wavy hair, trailing downwards to the closed eyes and further still, pooling in the crevice of his mouth.
The expression was serene and if not for the blood, almost dream-like. He could imagine Sherlock was simply sleeping, peaceful and content. And as soon as he thought that, the smell filled his nostrils, coppery and unmistakable. He stepped back and gagged. Without saying a word he rushed past Molly, jetting towards the toilet just in the next room.
He retched as soon as he was over the basin, bile rising unrelentlessly, emptying his stomach of acid and the few remaining bits of food from the day before. His stomach contracted painfully as tears sprang unbidden to his eyes, clenched tight against the sudden assault. His mouth tasted foul and yet his stomach persisted, painful spasms leaving him near keeling on the floor.
Moaning, head hung low, he waited for the pain to pass. Finally, when nothing further could be expelled he blindly reached for the tap and wiped his mouth with cool water, splashing some on his cheeks and forehead to ward off the dizziness. He gathered some in his palm and swished it in his mouth, spitting out the rotten taste.
Eyes still firmly closed he shut off the tap and tried to steady his breathing. He could not fall apart. Not here. But his vision would be forever stained with the image of a broken Sherlock, lying cold and lifeless on that metal slab. No amount of water could wash that away.
Taking a deep breath he opened his eyes, not even bothering to check his reflection. He grabbed a paper towel and slowly dabbed his face dry. Exhausted beyond belief he went back to Molly.
"Sorry," he said the moment he saw her, still standing by Sherlock's body, now firmly covered up. He could still see the red staining the white sheet. He looked away.
She shook her head, dismissing his apology.
"Please don't," she whispered, her lip quirking awkwardly. "Lucky you weren't here to see me when they brought him in." Her attempt at levity was not unappreciated, but he had no energy to even muster up a pretend smile.
"Did John…" he started, his voice scratchy and pained.
She shook her head. "No. No, I think once was enough for him."
He nodded morosely. "Thank you, Molly. He's in good hands."
Her eyes glossed over and she instantly started to sob, her hands covering her mouth. Lestrade lowered his head and quietly left, leaving her to mourn.
Back in the corridor, Sally was nowhere to be seen. Just John, still sitting there on the bench. Still covered in Sherlock's blood.
"Why did he do it, John?"
John sniffed, his jaw clenching. "Because Sherlock always has to have the last word in."
He was surprised by the bitterness he heard. John was livid, it didn't take a genius to see it. Beneath the sad, shocked eyes and the pained expression, and the permanent crease between his eyes, he was angry. And Lestrade couldn't blame him.
He looked up at the ceiling, at the awful fluorescent lights spanning the length of the hall. He sighed, raking a hand through his head.
"I was sent here to find out everything I could. But I'm not gonna ask you right now, John. Go home. Go somewhere else. This is not a good place."
John nodded, not really looking at him. Lestrade hung his head and cautiously lifted his arm, setting it on John's shoulder. He gave it a light squeeze with his quivering hand, then removed it, strangely feeling bereft.
Lestrade turned around and walked away. He needed fresh air.
Back outside, it seemed like more people had arrived. Crews were everywhere, people yelling all sorts of things. He felt overwhelmed suddenly and nearly went back inside if not for Donovan's sudden presence by his side. She lightly grabbed his arm and meandered them both towards the car, her sporadically yelling at people to get out of the way.
She sped off as soon as they closed the doors. Lestrade gazed out the window, a whirl of colours passing by. It was a lovely morning, bright and promising. He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them back up again, he realized they weren't headed back to the Yard.
"Sally? Where are we going?"
"Taking you home, sir."
He didn't question it. They were probably expecting him back at work, to debrief. The Chief most likely wanted a statement. There would be an inquiry…
He closed his eyes again and realized he didn't care. About anything. And when Sally pulled up to his flat, he was barely able to lift his hand to open the door. His whole body ached.
"Sir, do you need anything?"
Just Sherlock not to be dead.
He shook his head. "Thanks, Sally."
Every step towards the building hurt, the pressure sending bolts of pain straight to his heart. He vaguely wondering if he was having a heart attack. It wasn't out of the question. Not at his age…
The ride up was grueling, as if his muscles didn't want to cooperate in keeping him upright. Every inch of him ached. When he finally reached his door he retrieved his keys and slowly unlocked his door, his hands shaking the entire time.
He stood in his entryway for the longest time before wandering into the kitchen. Reaching into his medicine cabinet, he found some long-forgotten sleeping pills he needed once upon a time. They were expired. He took out four, swallowing them whole.
Then he removed his jacket and shoes and went to his bedroom. He sat on his bed, boneless and achy.
He wasn't sure if it was the meds, or the exhaustion finally catching up to him, or simply the grief, but he soon passed out, welcoming the blissful silence.
He didn't leave his flat for two days. He ignored every phone call and text, ignored the rumbling in his stomach and the all-consuming hammering in his head. He picked apart his liquor cabinet, guzzling down whatever he could lay his hands on. It wasn't much as he hadn't restocked it properly in months, maybe years. Sherlock's influence, he realized.
He drank himself into a stupor, then passed out either on the sofa or the bed, and then did it all over again once he woke up. No one came to see him which was both a blessing and an annoyance.
Surely someone at the Yard would have checked up on him? Unless Sally was fielding people. Giving him room to breathe.
There were pieces of Sherlock throughout his flat. Little things. A random pen, a microscope slide, a finger preserved in the icebox. A matchbox with nearly all the matches missing. None of it was important or useful or even special. But it was all Sherlock's. He touched those things once. His DNA was all over each item.
He found a small shoebox and carefully put all the items inside, save for the finger. He didn't want to throw anything away, but he didn't want to look at it either. When he was finished he drank some more.
On the third day he heard a knocking at his door. He lazily looked over from where he was curled up on the sofa, debating whether he had the energy to get up and open it. The knocking grew louder. Sighing, he slowly sat up and dragged himself to the door.
It was Sally. She looked him up and down before pursing her lips.
"Chief's asking for you. He wants you in the office today. Sorry, I've run out of excuses."
He waved her off. "T's fine. I was expecting it anyway."
She stood there, awkward and unsure, fingering a groove in the door frame. She cleared her throat.
"Funeral's tomorrow. At nine."
He looked away, swallowing.
"I tried to text you but-"
"Yea, sorry. Thanks for...letting me know."
"Will you go?"
Fuck no.
"We'll see."
She nodded. "Do you want me to drive you to work?"
He thought about it then shook his head. "I'll take a cab."
Another nod. "See you there, boss." Then she left, leaving him alone once more. He looked back at the inviting warmth of the sofa, debating. In the end he showered and got dressed, going through the steps on autopilot. Stepping outside for the first time in days he breathed in the crisp air, but it didn't make him feel any more alive. He hailed a cab.
When he got to work he received a few odd stares but most of his crew was happy to see him. He walked straight, nodding a greeting as he passed, not stopping. He paused at someone's desk however, when a newspaper headline caught his eye. It was from The Sun, dated yesterday.
"Suicide of Fake Genius"
He tore his eyes away, bile rising. Oh god...People were actually reading this. People were buying into this drivel. It was shameful, and horribly wrong.
He sat in the Chief's office, waiting morosely. He had no idea what to expect and found he actually didn't care. His job was on the line, he knew, but he couldn't muster enough energy to give a damn, not when Sherlock's name was being slandered throughout the world.
Finally arriving, the Chief sat across from Lestrade, folding his hands in front of him. He didn't look entirely angry, nor was he pleased. He looked more tired than anything.
"Well, we've got a bit of a mess on our hands." he started. Lestrade leaned back in his chair, his head throbbing. He licked his lips.
"Yeah."
The Chief looked reproachful. "There's going to be an investigation." He paused as if for effect. Then he sighed and said, "And I'm putting you on paid leave."
Lestrade didn't even bat an eye. It wasn't terribly surprising, really. Actually, he was more shocked that he was getting paid for it. Or that he wasn't being sacked on the spot. He merely nodded.
"I don't know what to think, Lestrade. You're one of my best men. One of the best detectives in this division. So how could someone as smart as you be….hoodwinked into believing someone like Holmes?"
Lestrade ground his teeth, his eyes going dark. He opened his mouth but the Chief suddenly raised his hand.
"You'll get your chance to talk, Lestrade. Like I said, there will be a proper investigation, and you'll get to say your piece. And I hope it's good. For your sake."
Lestrade took that as a dismissal. He stood and unclasped his gun from its holster, and removed his badge, dropping it on the desk. Then without a word he turned around and left. No one stopped him.
The funeral was extremely small and generalized. The pastor gave a speech. Sherlock would have hated every minute of it. Mrs. Hudson cried nonstop, while John sat stoically, eyes blankly staring ahead. He recognized Stamford, from Bart's and a large, gruff-looking man that he later found out was Angelo, an owner of a restaurant Sherlock frequently visited.
Lestrade sat through the service silently seething. He wasn't going to go at all. He didn't think he could possibly survive it, but Mrs. Hudson had called him, all weepy and desperate, and he couldn't say no. But now his grief had turned to anger.
Mycroft never showed up. To his own brother's funeral. Neither did his parents, though to be honest, Sherlock hardly spoke of them so Lestrade had no idea whether they were even around. The biggest surprise by far was the no-show of Molly Hooper. Molly who crushed on Sherlock for years and possibly even loved him in her own way, and put up with his rebukes and dismissals, and who wept over his lifeless, cold body...She never showed up.
So while the pastor nattered on pointlessly, Lestrade fumed in silence. He was startled to feel a presence by his side. Turning his head he saw that a couple of men from his unit had arrived. There was Gregson, another Senior Detective at the Yard, and a few sergeants. None of them knew Sherlock closely, though Gregson had used Sherlock on a few of his cases. Still, it was surprising and admirable to see them there, by his side. Even if they didn't know Sherlock well, they were well aware of how long Lestrade knew the young detective. It was a small comfort, to know that not everyone believed the rubbish being spewed by the press.
Still, it was not enough. The damage had been done. In a matter of days, Sherlock Holmes' reputation went from celebrated and lauded to being called a fraud. He was almost glad Sherlock wasn't around to witness it. Then again, he'd probably just roll his eyes and accuse them all of idiocy.
When the service ended, he shook hands with his fellow officers and turned to leave. John stopped him though, a hand on his shoulder.
"John," he said with a small nod.
"Hey, Greg. I ah, heard you were put on leave." His brow creased. "A load of nonsense. This whole thing is preposterous." He huffed a sigh, looking away momentarily. "Sorry, I didn't mean to get carried away. Just so angry at everything right now, ya know?"
He did. He nodded in sympathy.
"Listen, you want to grab a pint or something?" He didn't even know what possessed him to ask but surprisingly, John agreed.
"Yeah, I would."
They sat opposite each other at a pub a short walking distance from the cemetery. It was quiet, being early still. They each nursed a beer, not really saying much of anything.
It was getting uncomfortable and since Lestrade was the one to invite John, he felt it only fair that he should start up some sort of conversation.
"So, will you be going back to Baker Street?"
John sighed. "I don't think so. I can't...imagine myself living there anymore. Alone."
He nodded in understanding.
"I can't believe Mycroft never showed."
"Mycroft is a dick," John simply said with the smallest of sneers. "Sherlock wouldn't have wanted him sullying up his funeral anyway."
Lestrade didn't know if that was supposed to be a joke or not. Would they ever be able to make jokes again? Would they ever laugh?
He cracked a smile anyway, but it died as quickly as it came.
He toyed with the rim of his glass. "John. Will you tell me what he said to you? On the rooftop?"
A pained expression crossed John's face before he locked up all emotion, save for the bitterness in his tone.
"You know, Greg. It's not even worth repeating. It was all bullshit. All of it. That wasn't Sherlock there up on that roof. That was a stranger. The Sherlock I knew would never have committed suicide. He would have thought it boring. The Sherlock I knew wouldn't phone his friend, essentially dismissing their entire relationship as a farce of some kind. The Sherlock I knew wasn't a coward but his voice shook with fear, Greg. Genuine fear. Not of dying either. Sherlock didn't fear death."
Lestrade couldn't breathe. His face fell, the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
"Then why?" he croaked, tried again. "Why did he do it?"
John looked away, an angry shrug his only answer. Beers forgotten, they sat sullenly, their mutual anguish binding them closer than ever before. After a while John picked his glass up again, taking a large gulp.
"Can I ask you something?" he said quietly, his voice carrying a lilt of curiosity.
"Sure," Lestrade replied.
The pause was so long Lestrade thought John had lost his nerve or forgotten his question altogether. He tilted his glass back for another sip.
"What was Sherlock to you?"
He froze, midway to the tabletop. After a beat he set his glass down and licked his lips.
"How do you mean?" He kept his face blank, but couldn't stop the perspiration from forming on his skin, nor his heart from hammering.
"I mean, you and Sherlock. I know you knew him years before I came along. I guess I've always wondered. I'm sorry, I don't mean to get personal. It's just I know Sherlock respected you. He thought highly of you, even if he never said it in so many words. It's nice, I guess. Knowing he had someone to keep an eye on him before I came in and became his babysitter."
John quirked his lip in fond remembrance. He looked at Lestrade for clarification.
It was on the tip of his tongue.
Sherlock and I were lovers.
But no. He couldn't ever say that. Not with surety. Just a fancy, really. A glint of hope he held onto for years. And while the times they shared a bed was few in between, it was also glorious and etched into his memory for all time. But lovers wasn't the right word for what they were.
So he took the cowardly way out, because deep down, he wanted this secret to stay hidden. Not because he was ashamed or embarrassed. But because Sherlock never told anyone. Not even John. It was something only they shared, something only they had. And he wanted to keep that close to him.
"He was my friend. Maybe the closest I've ever had, as funny as that may sound. He was also a good man. And I'm not gonna sit quietly while his good name gets slandered. That's what really gets me, you know? The audacity of some people. The lies they create and the web they weave."
John nodded. "It's horrible. I don't even turn the telly on anymore. I don't want people's last impression of him to be some lie."
Lestrade nodded, a determined glint in his eye. He raised his glass.
"To Sherlock Holmes, the best man I've ever known."
John followed suit, his eyes glassy and pained.
"To Sherlock Holmes."