A/N: So sorry for the delay! Back to Lestrade's POV for this chapter
Every morning since the return was the same. Before his eyes fully opened but after consciousness hit, there was just one thought, repeating over and over.
Sherlock is alive.
Weeks had passed, and life went on. And every single moment he was crushed all over again.
Sherlock is alive.
Alive.
Not Dead.
His mind couldn't come to terms with it. There were some things that were impossible to fully grasp and he just couldn't wrap his brain around the fact. So he would wake up, shower and get dressed and go to work. The same routine he'd established for the past three years. The only difference was the constant buzzing in his mind that refused to settle down.
It didn't matter where he went. Whether it was at work, or at the shops, or at the dry cleaners. Sherlock's face was plastered on every paper and gossip rag, constantly staring him down. He couldn't escape him if he wanted to.
Work was torture because everyone seemed to think the news bore repeating. He was constantly assaulted with questions and theories and nonsense to the point that he considered taking a holiday just to be rid of everyone.
If anyone noticed his lack of communication regarding his former Consulting Detective, no one bothered to comment on it. Well, except for Sally of course.
Two weeks into the debacle she had to randomly chime in as they were going over some case notes.
"What kind of a nutter fakes their death?" She scoffed as she took a bite of her sandwich. He lost his appetite immediately. His lack of response didn't deter her. "I mean, who does that, really? And what about all the stuff that happened before he left? Won't there even be an investigation? He did pull a gun on half the squad."
No. There would not be an investigation. That was directly from Mycroft and he didn't even need to ask questions to realize everything had already been settled. He forced himself to take a bite.
"Can we focus, please?" he asked, irritation clear in his voice. She glanced up in question.
"I know he was your friend, sir. I get that, but he's clearly not right in the head."
Was your friend.
He clenched his teeth, but he forced some semblance of calm into his tone. "And the world was clearly wrong about him being a fraud. So none of what Sherlock does should come as a surprise." He took another bite of his lunch and picked up a document, plainly putting an end to the conversation. Sally frowned but said nothing further.
"Sorry I'm late, he said as he arrived at the pub, ten minutes after their set time. John waved him off. "No, it's fine, I ordered for you," he said, indicating the second glass on the table.
"Thanks, that's just what I need right now." He gulped half the pint down in ten seconds. John stared.
"Bad day, huh."
Every day, he wanted to say.
"Mmm. Not the best." He liked hanging out with John, something he'd never before imagined would be possible. But death had a certain way of bringing people together. He frowned into his glass.
This was the second time they'd gotten together since Sherlock's return. The first time he faked a migraine less than half an hour in when all John wanted to talk about was Sherlock. He couldn't handle the overload. He prayed tonight would be different. But he doubted it. John looked a million times better than he had in years. Even since finding Mary. Something had lifted from him and he looked younger, more energized. It didn't take a genius to figure out why.
They talked about random things for a while. How the wedding plans were going, which venues they've toured, and a potential honeymoon spot. Lestrade nodded at all the appropriate moments and chimed in with a joke or two when necessary. He offered some info about a new show he's been watching and a new restaurant he found that had excellent tapas. John smiled and nodded.
Three pints in, John dropped the bomb hanging over their heads.
"Greg, I need to ask you something. And you can tell me to piss off at any time and I'll understand," he warned with a crease in his brow. Lestrade thinned his lips and downed his beer, immediately calling for another.
"Ask away," he said, resigned. He sat back against the fake leather of the booth, slouched and subdued.
"Why are you avoiding Sherlock?"
Hmm. Where to begin answering that question.
"Why do you think I'm avoiding Sherlock?"
John gave him a look that could curdle milk. "Greg. I'm not blind, and I'm not an idiot. And I thought we were friends," he said quietly. Lestrade looked down at the dingy tabletop, licking his lips.
"What did Sherlock say?" he asked because he didn't know where to start. John's shoulders shrugged imperceptibly.
"Sherlock doesn't say anything. He won't mention you by name. And every time I bring you up he closes up and disappears. Figuratively, of course. He just- he won't let me in. He won't say a word. Either that or he changes the subject, constantly."
Lestrade swallowed, prickles of pain piercing his entire body. He didn't want to lie to John. John was his friend, and he'd been a good friend to him. But he didn't know how to articulate what he felt without revealing...more.
He shrugged and hoped for the best. "Sherlock jumped off a building and made the whole world believe he was dead for three years. I'm sorry if I can't exactly forgive him for that just yet." He smacked his lips and immediately got to work on his newly delivered pint.
John sat stoically for a while. "I get that. I do. And that's a fair answer."
Lestrade's eyes met his, narrowing with each word. "But?"
John looked at him steadily. "But I told you I wasn't an idiot, Greg."
Lestrade stilled, blinking. "I don't see what you're getting at." John sighed, looking away, jaw working. Lestrade knew that look all too well. He suddenly didn't care for the inquisition.
"Come on, John. You can't be okay with this. How are you not livid? You of all people- you watched him jump off a fucking building!" his raised voice was drawing a few looks but he was just too far gone to care.
"I saw his fucking cold body on a slab, John. Don't tell me you don't still see his face. The blood. This is not okay, John. I am not okay with any of this." He drank some more as John stayed silent, eyes closed off.
"You know why he had to do it," John finally said near whisper. Lestrade scoffed.
"Yeah, he saved our lives. I feel so grand now," he spat, bitterness dripping from every word.
"You asked me how I could forgive him?" John leaned forward, almost conspiratorially. "What Sherlock did was the most selfless thing I've ever seen. He threw his entire life away to protect ours. Yours. Mrs. Hudson's. I will never forget what he did. That hurt will never go away, not for a long time anyway. But I will remember why he did it. And that's why I've forgiven him. He lost everything too that day."
Lestrade's head hurt. He was shaking, anger brimming. John must have noticed because he was suddenly standing up, dropping some money on the table, and telling Lestrade it was time to go.
They stepped outside as they waited for a cab, his head pounding mercilessly.
"I'm sorry, Greg. I didn't mean for tonight to go like this. I won't bring it up again."
Lestrade sighed. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone off like that. I don't question why you forgave him. That's your business, and for what it's worth, I'm glad things are working out. You deserve it, John." And he meant it.
"What about you, Greg. What do you deserve?" Oh, John. Ever the protector. He sighed and stared up at the black sky, stars barely visible there in the city.
"Does anyone ever get what they deserve?"
The case was a particularly brutal one. Four family members shot dead execution-style. No murder weapon found. No motive. No suspects. They'd been at it for a week with no further developments. Discouraged and out of options, he positively itched to call Sherlock.
He knew what would happen. He'd call him, Sherlock would come, like nothing had happened, and he'd solve the case. Just like old times. And that thought stopped him from going through with his plan every time. Because it wasn't like old times. Those times were long gone. Everything was different now, no matter how many people around him pretended everything was dandy.
So he worked until all hours of the night, hardly ate and exhausted his brain until it hurt to think. And still they came up with nothing. Frustrating did not even begin to describe the mood at the Yard. And then one evening, as he hung his head in dismay in his office, his phone chimed.
Frowning, he automatically glanced down and his heart plummeted as he recognized the number.
I looked over a copy of the Rosewood file. Check the next door neighbor's statement again. The timeline doesn't add up. There is forty-five minutes that he can't account for. (Pg 8, paragraph 3). SH
He cursed out loud and scanned his contacts. Finding what he was looking for he dialed. Texting would take too long for this.
"Good evening, Inspector."
"Don't fucking try it, Mycroft. What were you thinking, giving Sherlock my files? And I don't even want to know how you acquired them so quickly. This is such bullshit," he seethed.
"Sherlock is currently between clients and I'm aware of your struggles at present. I'd have thought you wanted to find out who murdered that entire family."
Lestrade glared at nothing, knuckles bone-white around his mobile.
"You had no right. This doesn't concern you. Or him. He doesn't consult for us anymore. He might as well be a civilian in this matter. Now kindly tell Sherlock I will not be needing his assistance."
He hung up before he lost his nerve and his cool. And then, because there was no point debating it or considering it, he went to check on Sherlock's tip. Forty-eight hours later, they had their suspect in custody.
He chain-smoked outside the Yard, in an alleyway that he once shared with Sherlock. He tried not to dwell on that as he debated his next step. The arrest was all over the news. Not even Sherlock could have missed it. He knew he should at least acknowledge his participation. He knew it was the right thing to do.
He dropped his cigarette and stomped on it, fiddling with his mobile. He kept looking down at the name. He must have had over a thousand texts from Sherlock from years back. He saved every single one, for no particular reason. He used to look at the random texts sometimes after Sherlock's death. He would read the words and recall the snarky tone and try to visualize the man behind the words. When he felt alone at night, and couldn't sleep, he'd scan down the messages and read them all until it made him drowsy. It didn't make him feel better, but he was glad then he had saved them all. It was all he had left of Sherlock.
He went back to work without writing anything. Sherlock didn't do this for the praise. He did it to show off. As much as he knew that wasn't completely true, it made him feel justified not thanking him. He didn't even ask for his help. He felt a bit ugly inside for thinking it, but found he didn't care.
"So watch any good crap telly lately?"
John laughed, shaking his head. "Most everything is crap. Mary likes to watch a lot of TV. Oh well, as long as she doesn't make me watch one of her soaps I'm fine with whatever she wants to do." He took a swig of his beer and relaxed against the cushions.
They were at Lestrade's that evening, neither of them in the mood for a loud pub. It was nice. Between long hours at work and trying to get everything else done, he'd hardly had time for a private life. It was rare to get together with anyone, save for John. He actually couldn't remember the last time he went out with anyone else. He found he didn't mind. He wasn't usually the best company anyway.
John didn't demand a lot, conversation included. It was nice just to be able to relax in someone's company. Although looking at John now he couldn't avoid not seeing Sherlock. It's like they came as a pair and even if the other wasn't present you still knew it existed. He tried his best to relax and enjoy his evening off.
John's mobile went off. He glanced down at it and frowned, then shook his head in bemusement. He typed something and put his phone away.
"Sorry. That was Sherlock. He couldn't find his extra slides."
Lestrade kept his eyes on the telly. "I thought you didn't live there anymore."
John grinned sheepishly. "Yeah well I was helping Sherlock move all his stuff back into the flat from 221C and might have rearranged some things. I'm surprised he hasn't called earlier. I'm not sure what he does all day when he doesn't have a case or not experimenting on something."
Lestrade's heart lurched like it did every time he thought of Sherlock back at Baker Street. He took a swig of his beer, perfectly aware of John's gaze in his periphery.
"Greg."
"Don't." He didn't mean for it to sound so harsh. He was just so damned tired of it all. He heard John sigh. He didn't want this. Didn't want to take this out on John, who's been nothing but a supportive friend since everything went to shit. He heaved a sigh and set his beer down.
"Look, John, I get he's your friend and I'm glad things are fine between you two, but I'm just not there yet, sorry.
"Would you rather he be dead?"
His stomach plummeted at the thought. "No. I never wanted that. But it's what we all thought. He made us believe it. You can't just undo that." He looked at John and found him contemplative.
"What?"
John swallowed, his eyes shifting back and forth, as if going through an inner debate with himself. Then he pursed his lips and met Lestrade's eyes.
"I begged him to not be dead. I stood over his gravestone and asked for a miracle. I've never told anyone this. Not even Mary. Now I'm not a religious man, but this is one thing I'm not going to question. How many people do you know return from the dead?" He paused, licking his lips. "He's hurting, Greg. He'll never admit it and he tries his damn best to put up a front, but I see it. Something's off. He hasn't given me much detail about his time away, but I can tell that whatever happened was horrible. I've been to war, Greg, and that feeling of dread never goes away.
"And he's there by himself in that flat of his and I don't know what he's thinking. He won't open up to me and I won't press him but I do know as soon as your name comes up he becomes more withdrawn than I've ever seen him, Greg- and I've seen him not speak for two days straight...Whatever this is, it needs to be resolved. It may not be my business, but I know you two used to be close and as much as I don't want to interfere, I can't keep quiet. I want to help him but I don't know how. But I think you do."
His whole body was shaking. Shaking with suppressed anger, and grief and the unfairness of it all. His head killed and he was torn between wanting to punch something over and over to wanting to crawl into his bed and never come out again.
"Talk to me, Greg."
He shook his head over and over. He couldn't form words if he wanted to. He heard, rather than saw John stand up and take a seat directly next to him. Cautiously, John laid a hand on his shoulder.
He thought he was going to throw up but he managed to say, "I'll speak with him," and John had nodded and left it at that.
He sat in his office for an hour without doing a shred of work before he finally picked up his mobile. Before he could lose his nerve he sent off a text.
If you have a free minute, I could use your help with something. I can send you an email with the attached file.
Less than thirty seconds later:
Send away. SH
He frowned down at the two words, somehow hoping they would rearrange themselves into something more. When that didn't happen he opened his email and attached the file, clicking send. This would never have happened in the past. He couldn't remember ever emailing Sherlock anything. He would be here in person for the file or Lestrade would have delivered it to him himself. But nothing was questioned now and he wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed.
Two hours later, he got another text.
I need more data. Is the body still at Bart's? SH
He contemplated his answer. He didn't really want to open this door up again, did he? If he allowed Sherlock this, what else would follow? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It made no difference to him if Sherlock wanted to help out. He could take it or leave it.
Yes
As he got ready to head home for the day, his phone chimed. He glanced down at the message, mouth parting in surprise.
Not murder. Suicide. Self-administered poison found in bloodstream. Molly has details. SH
The lack of feeling behind the messages chilled his blood. He shouldn't be reading too much into a text message but he knew Sherlock. This was a man who relished the reveal. To defer to Molly reeked with disinterest and/or lack of enthusiasm. It was strangely disheartening.
Thank you, Sherlock
He didn't really expect a response and tried to not to feel dismayed when he received none.
He sipped on his bourbon, relishing the sweet burn down his throat. It was his second that night and he easily could've downed another if he allowed himself to. It was past ten and he didn't need to work early tomorrow anyway. He felt restless and perturbed, though he couldn't pinpoint the exact reason why.
He stared down at his phone again. Two days after Sherlock's cold texts and nothing further was communicated. It wasn't like he anticipated anything. It wasn't like he was actually hoping Sherlock would inundate his mobile with requests for assistance. Or pester him for more work. No, that time had long since passed. And it wasn't like Lestrade hadn't made it perfectly plain he wanted minimal contact with Sherlock.
His throat closed up and he sputtered on his liquor. He put it down, misery straining on his nerves. John was right. He couldn't go on like this. They couldn't get on like this. Things needed to be amended or it would only continue downhill from here.
He could do this. He could be cordial. He could be the bigger man. He could figure out a way for them to remain as associates without the need to be friends. He rubbed at his eyes as he argued with himself, his own brain not making sense.
Knowing sleep would not be happening that night, he left his flat. He told the cabbie Baker Street without even being conscious of making that decision. But now that it was said and done he refused to back down.
The cab pulled up to the familiar building and his heart hammered behind his ribcage, threatening to tear through. He paid the fare and stepped out to the kerb on shaky legs. He took a few steps away to smoke a cigarette and calm his nerves. It didn't help.
"Fuck it."
He stalked up to the building and rang the buzzer. It was Mrs. Hudson that answered. She looked surprised to see him.
"Oh my goodness, Greg, you startled me," she exclaimed with her hand pressed to her chest.
"I'm sorry to have disturbed you so late, Mrs. Hudson. I rang Sherlock's floor," he said with a frown. She giggled.
"Sherlock hardly ever answers the door. And I was up anyway. Would you like me to bring something up?"
"Oh, no, thank you though. I'm not staying long. Just something...case-related." He forced a smile. She waved him inside and told him if they needed anything, to let her know. "Sherlock doesn't have many visitors any more," she said morosely, but her smile was back again just as quick. "He'll be so glad you stopped by!" She went inside after he bade her a good night and with an impending sense of doom, climbed the stairs.
He knocked twice and waited. The door opened to reveal a very surprised Sherlock. His mouth parted in question and his eyes were for once unreserved and open. And in a flash, it was gone, shuttered and locked away.
"Lestrade." He actually glanced down at his watch.
"Yeah, sorry. I hope it's not too late." He couldn't keep his gaze, it was too much, all at once.
"No, I wasn't planning on sleeping tonight," the younger man said with a quirk of his lip, as he stepped to the side to let Lestrade in. The older man nervously walked through the threshold, hands stuffed into his pockets to hide the obvious tremors. He heard the door quietly click shut as he gazed around the familiar space. It looked nearly identical to what he remembered.
"Do you want some tea?" he heard Sherlock ask to his back. He shook his head no without turning around, fingers squeezing the fabric of his inner pockets.
"May I get you anything else?"
Lestrade shut his eyes against the formality in his tone. "No, thanks." He finally turned around because Sherlock didn't seem to be moving from his spot either.
His heart smashed into a million pieces as he stared at the figure in front of him, as he looked into the eyes that have haunted his nightmares for the past three years. The same swirling brilliance shown through, the indescribable colour magnified tenfold by the proximity to his presence. He turned away and headed to the sofa, sinking into it with relief.
After a moment, Sherlock followed suit and sat in his worn leather chair, smoothing the fabric of his trousers with his hands. His dressing gown hung loosely around his frame, a splash of dark navy dress shirt peeking through. He didn't say anything, clearly waiting for Lestrade to begin.
The sigh spilled from his lips unbidden, and the pleasant alcohol buzz he had earlier that gave him the courage to come here had all but dissolved.
"How have things been?" he found himself asking. Sherlock blinked.
"Fine. Busy. The cases are slowly starting to build again. Plus I've been busy helping John and Mary plan their wedding," he rambled, uncharacteristically, hands twining together. Lestrade held his breath as if every thought he owned would spill from his lips.
"And you?" Sherlock asked almost as an afterthought, as if he remembered it was the proper thing to do. Lestrade stared.
"Um, fine, good. I moved to a new place after the divorce was finalized. Still working." He caught Sherlock staring back. "But I'm sure you already knew all that. I can't imagine Mycroft doesn't keep you apprised of things." It was meant to sound casual but it tasted of accusation.
Sherlock looked away. "Only because I inquired," Sherlock softly replied. Lestrade didn't know what to do with that information.
Silence reigned, awkward and palpable. Sherlock suddenly stood, rising to full height.
"Why are you here, Greg?"
"I don't know," he finally said, savoring the feel of his name on Sherlock's lips. "Will you tell me where you were? For three years?"
Sherlock blinked down at him, an uncomfortable look passing over his entire face. But then he was sitting once more and the clinical, superior tone that used to be prevalent in every word of his broke through as he recounted briefly what transpired.
"I was in the Middle East for a while before heading to China. There I spent eight months before flying to India, then Russia, Latvia, Romania, and finally Serbia." He frowned as he finished, as if he never bothered to recall his movements in the past three years.
Lestrade's brows rose as he finished speaking. "Yes, go on." Sherlock looked at him in blank befuddlement. "That's pretty much the gist of it."
Lestrade narrowed his eyes as his lip quirked mirthlessly. "What did you do in all those places? Surely you were not merely on holiday," he said in a mocking tone that Sherlock did not miss.
"Do you really have to ask that, Lestrade? I was taking care of Moriarty's extensive network. Dismantling it bit by bit. And of course taking care of Mycroft's dirty work as well. There weren't many people he could trust to do the job to his liking." His eyes looked drained as he stared ahead, as if he couldn't keep his irritation in check.
Lestrade was perturbed. "I'm not gonna get any details from you?"
"You don't want details, trust me."
Lestrade stood, now looking down on Sherlock. "That's the thing, you see, Sherlock. I'm not entirely sure I do trust you right now. You haven't given me shit. Your answers were about as evasive as they get. I don't know what to think here."
Sherlock's eyes grew cold. "You don't have to think anything, I'm perfectly aware of why you've come this evening. You can sniff somewhere else, Lestrade, because I refuse to be a part of it."
Lestrade stared, indignant. "I came, because I wanted to see if I still recognized any part of you. Turns out I had nothing to fear," he shook his head. "Welcome back, Sherlock, he said, and stormed out.
He emailed Sherlock a bunch of cold case files from the last two years. Sherlock solved three of them in 4 days. They didn't speak in person since the night at Baker Street but his fingers were getting a workout all of a sudden. He grumbled as he sent off yet another text to Sherlock regarding the cases.
And then a few days later he got a call of homicide in Hyde Park and didn't even miss a beat as he texted Sherlock all about it. It wasn't until he saw him approach in all his coat-clad glory that he nearly had a heart attack. Donovan was practically a statue by his side as she stared, slack-jawed at the obvious intrusion. Sherlock ignored her as he came forward, gloves on, all business.
"Well?"
And just like that, Lestrade started to talk. "Female, mid-twenties, caucasian. No I.D. It appears that she was strangulated. No witnesses so sometime during last night is when we've pinned it." Sherlock was already moving around the body on the ground, crouching, standing, looking, sniffing. Then he stepped away to examine the various footprints surrounding the body.
"It appears random. No connection to the assailant."
"And how did you come by that, freak?"
"Sally, stop." That from Lestrade, who surprised himself even. Sherlock ignored them both as he pulled out a cigarette, huffing a sigh as he lit it up.
"The signs are all here, if you'd bothered to look. Take her to Bart's but don't waste your time interrogating her acquaintances." And then he was walking away, leaving Donovan sputtering and glaring between the retreating figure and Lestrade's still form.
Turned out the victim's family and friends didn't know a thing and were not held under suspicion. Unfortunately, the killer was never found.
"Probably some homeless guy, coked up and insane. Strangled her and took her money. Case closed," drawled Sherlock from the sofa as Lestrade stood over him four days later. He had decided to pop in in person since he was in the area anyway, and wanted to see if Sherlock had any further insight. He was rapidly regretting his decision.
"A girl is dead, Sherlock, and her killer is still out there." He couldn't believe the sense of déjà vu he was having as he stared down at a disinterested Sherlock while he continued to glare, hands on hips. He saw Sherlock shrug minutely and it nearly set him off.
"Well what is the point of your guys if they can't do their job. It isn't my problem."
"Right, forgive me for disturbing you, I can see how utterly busy you are," he seethed, and went to leave.
"Are you going out with John tonight?" Sherlock suddenly called out. He stopped and turned back.
"Yes as a matter of fact. Why?"
Another shrug. "Merely inquiring."
Lestrade loitered for a moment longer, an invitation on the tip of his tongue before he changed his mind. He didn't feel guilty. That wasn't why Sherlock was asking. It wasn't. But Sherlock never asked pointless questions, not without reason. So when John met him at their pub of choice, he didn't bring up Sherlock's inquiry because he really didn't want to see the look of disappointment on John's face all night.
He lamented his decision to down three cups of coffee in the span of an hour when he found himself marching briskly to the nearest loo. He hoped none of his crew noticed the constant toilet room trips and thought he had a UTI or something.
He rounded the corner and opened the door-and froze in his tracks. The first view he got as he entered was the reflection of Sherlock, bent over the sink, hands braced on either side, head hanging low. Immediately, Lestrade stepped forward, even as Sherlock stiffened and tried to straighten out.
"Sherlock? Are you okay?" The man's face was positively ashen and even if he weren't a detective you couldn't miss the tremors in the younger man's hands and lower lip. Instinctively he reached up, placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder-and watched as he automatically jerked away from his touch. Hoping his face didn't display how hurt he was by that, he lowered his hand but didn't back away.
He recognized the signs. Sherlock wasn't the first person he'd met with this issue. It's just that he'd never known Sherlock to exhibit it.
"Sherlock, were you having a panic attack?" he asked gently, but couldn't keep the surprise from his voice. Sherlock instantly turned away, valiantly attempting to gain control of his breathing, his eyes closed against everything.
He was not surprised to find Sherlock at the Met. He had actually invited him to look over a new case file. But he certainly didn't expect this. And he knew without a doubt Sherlock most definitely did not intend for Lestrade to find out about this.
"Sherlock?" he tried again. The younger man inhaled, craning his neck as his eyes finally fluttered open. He stared at Lestrade cooly.
"I'm fine. I'll meet you in your office after you've finished here," he announced and stalked away, perspiration dampening his forehead. Lestrade stared at the retreating figure, his heart clenching uncomfortably.
When he returned, Sherlock looked prim and collected as he sat in his customary chair, file already in hand. He didn't dare bring anything up as he sat down and brought Sherlock up to speed. Of course, as soon as the young detective left…
Hey John. Question...Does Sherlock suffer from panic attacks?
I assume you have a reason for asking, but I have seen him have a couple since he came back. Nothing major. It's not uncommon though.
Lestrade felt ill. Was Sherlock even seeing a doctor about this? Did anyone actually know how much stress he was under? He couldn't imagine Sherlock speaking to a therapist but he knew panic attacks were never a good sign, especially if left untreated.
Thanks John.
He should leave it alone, he knew. It wasn't his problem. Sherlock was no longer his concern. He was a grown man and would certainly balk at any inklings of concern thrown his way. Especially from Lestrade. Except that every long-forgotten feeling he ever had for Sherlock surged forward suddenly, and the very thought of Sherlock suffering through anything turned his insides to rot.
He texted Mycroft without thought.
Sherlock has panic attacks?!
His phone rang. He answered without even looking at his caller ID.
"Mycroft."
"Inspector." The voice sighed and Lestrade froze. "I had suspected, but he's never exhibited one in front of me since his return. I am assuming you have...seen it happen?"
"Yes," he said, his jaw clenching. "And because you just confirmed that you didn't really know, I assume he's not seeking help for any of this."
"He is refusing all medical treatment at the moment."
Lestrade was livid. "What does that mean? He hasn't seen a doctor of any kind since he's been back? He's been all over the world. What if he contracted something? And what about his psychological state?
"I cannot exactly force Sherlock into anything he doesn't wish, Inspector."
Lestrade gawked at his phone. "This is bullshit, Mycroft! You've always been on top of things and you're telling me you can't get a doctor to see him? What if he's hiding something? What if he's sick?" he squeaked in a sudden panic.
"Calm down. I saw Sherlock for myself right after we got him out. Physically, aside from the scarring and bruises, he appeared unaffected."
"Scarring?" He could barely see straight now.
"Inspector, how nice of you to start caring about my brother's welfare. So glad you could finally come around, given he's been back over three months now." The sarcasm could not have been missed even if you were deaf and blind.
Lestrade shut his eyes and tried not to mentally throttle Mycroft. "You know I've always cared for him," he breathed, and that came out way more honest and painful than he intended. "He never said a word about what happened to him, not to me anyway. He refused. I wasn't going to press him. But if he's in pain or suffering-"
"Of course he's suffering," the steely voice came down. "He's been undercover for three years! And if you think I haven't tried to speak with him-"
"Fuck. Jesus. I'm sorry, I get it. I know you'd never intentionally let him suffer through anything. But I know he hasn't even spoken of it to John, so I'm at a loss here." The line was silent for a while. He bit his lip.
"I'm afraid it is not up to me, Inspector."
He sighed in quiet despair. "Then we let him suffer? Just like that?"
"I'm afraid there's only one person that's ever been able to show him reason."
He closed his eyes against the world, and tried to ignore the pounding in his ears. "He won't listen to me. Not now. And I'm not even sure I'd want to take that responsibility on."
"If that is true, Greg, then you never loved my brother at all."
The line went silent then, for good that time. He sat, shell-shocked at the surreal conversation he just had. He wiped his brow and rubbed the weariness from his face, his stomach in knots.
Mycroft knows. Of course he knows. He's always known. The thought should have frightened him out of his wits, but he felt only resignation and tiredness. His mind was a jumble and he felt wrecked. He went home and crashed.
He didn't think it could happen, but every protective instinct he'd ever had towards Sherlock suddenly surfaced upon waking and he realized he was only fooling himself when he claimed he wanted nothing to do with Sherlock.
He ate his breakfast morosely as he pondered his life. There were good days and horrible days, off and on for the past three years. There were days when he didn't want to get out of bed, blaming himself for everything that happened, and there were times when he thought of Sherlock only in passing. But those times were rare. Sherlock was always there, floating around in his mind.
You can't just forget a life force like Sherlock. Dating was a problem. At first the interest was non-existent. He couldn't picture himself with another person so soon after Sherlock, even though they technically were not in a relationship. Still, it felt wrong. But then, as the months progressed, and loneliness eventually settled in, he realized that was not the way to live.
So he went out. He met some girls. The thought of another man who was not Sherlock drove him to depression, so he never went there again. He could even admit he was having fun after a while. But none of it was serious and none of it made him want to settle down. He had missed the sex, truth be told and found he didn't mind losing himself in the smile of a pretty woman who happened to be very interested in him.
It was fine. For a while. Work always seemed to get in the way. Getting called away to crime scenes while in the middle of a date did not sit well with some people. And pretty soon he just became tired of the whole scene. He changed his way of thinking. If there was someone for him, well, then he'd just wait for it, rather than chasing some imaginary phantom. And the months passed, and the girls diminished in number until they stopped altogether. Close to six months now, he thought with a depressed sigh as he crunched on his cereal.
And then Sherlock came back, and his world turned upside down. He was an absolute fool for thinking he didn't still feel anything for the young detective. His long-rooted anger obscured those feelings initially, but now…
He didn't know. He couldn't just go up to Sherlock and declare his feelings. He didn't even want to imagine how that scenario would play out. Plus, he wasn't exactly sure what Sherlock's thoughts were. Three years was a long time and people change. Not to mention Sherlock would probably balk at anything resembling an ardent emotion.
Additionally, he wasn't exactly sure he could completely reconcile his feelings when he was still so bitter about everything. Sherlock had deceived him. His blood boiled just thinking about it and it wasn't something he could just sweep under the rug.
He felt conflicted about everything, his brain protesting the sudden barrage of emotion. But one thing he was absolutely certain about was that Sherlock was not himself, and possibly in pain. He despised knowing that. Mycroft seemed to think he could help. But how? Sherlock was as closed off as he'd ever seen him. It felt impossible.
He reached for his mobile.
Working from home this morning. Want to come over and help out?
He gnawed on his fingernail, waiting for a response.
I can be there in twenty. SH
He breathed a sigh of relief only to go into panic mode a second later. He jumped up as he realized Sherlock had never been to his new flat before. He needed to tidy up. It wasn't a mess per se, but for some reason he wanted to impress Sherlock.
The new flat was all his, no trace of Deb in it. He was proud of it as he got a good deal on it when buying and had actually turned it into something respectable. He dashed to the bedroom to make up his bed, then back to the kitchen to stuff all the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. It would have to do. He was just straightening out some of his books in the living room when he heard the buzzer.
He hit the button to let Sherlock in and waited an excruciating two minutes for the lift to climb the six floors to his flat. He heard a knock. He smoothed his sweaty palms against his trousers and went to open the door.
Predictably, Sherlock's gaze went past him straight into the flat. He walked right in and proceeded to sweep the place with his eyes, missing nothing.
"Tea?" Lestrade offered. Sherlock nodded absentmindedly. Whilst Sherlock was inspecting the flat, Lestrade made the tea without asking how he wanted it. Two sugars, no milk. It was odd that he remembered after so long.
Sherlock sat himself down on the sofa, but not before removing his suit jacket. For some reason that made his heart speed up a fraction. He averted his eyes and set the steaming cups on the coffee table.
"Thank you," Sherlock said. Sherlock never used to thank him for making tea before.
"Welcome." He sat down in his chair, suddenly feeling warm, despite the cool temperature outside. He rolled his shirtsleeves up before making himself comfortable.
"So where are the files?" Sherlock asked, all business.
"Oh, right." He jumped back up and went to find his briefcase. He brought all the paperwork back to the living room. They shuffled through the papers for a while as their tea cooled off.
"This hardly looks worth the effort," Sherlock declared after absorbing every single page to memory. He threw the stack of papers back onto the coffee table and picked up his tea.
Lestrade frowned. "Well there are two bodies in the morgue that would beg to differ," he chided. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Truth be told, he didn't invite Sherlock over to discuss a new case. He just needed an excuse to get him over.
He wanted to get Sherlock talking but had no clue how to go about doing so. Plus, he didn't want to be too obvious.
"I'm sure anything you do now won't be as interesting as what you've been doing," he said, casually, taking a sip of his cooled-off tea. Sherlock arched a brow.
"I'm not sure interesting is the word you're looking for. Although I did nearly get blown up after returning home so I can't say things have been exactly uneventful so far.
Lestrade sighed, because that was exactly the answer that would come out of Sherlock's mouth. "Talking of eventful, I hear you're helping plan John's wedding."
A shrug. "Just sort of happened. Helps pass the time in between cases."
Lestrade chuckled. "Never thought I'd see the day when Sherlock Holmes participates in something romance-related." Sherlock's brown furrowed. "John is my friend, and besides, he's rubbish at planning. Mary does quite a bit, but someone has to assist her since John is incapable." There was a defensive note in his tone but it made Lestrade smile to think of Sherlock helping out like that.
"So has he asked you yet?"
Sherlock looked confused. "Asked me what?"
"To be his best man."
Sherlock blinked as if he didn't understand the question. "Why would John ask me to be his best man?" he asked in all seriousness.
"You're joking, right?" He looked incredulous as he stared at the befuddlement in Sherlock's face.
"Of course he's gonna ask you. And you better say yes," he finished, in a dead serious tone. Sherlock looked at him blankly.
"I don't know why you'd even care if he asks me or not."
Lestrade was suddenly fuming. "Because I was there for him when you weren't and if you refuse him this he'll never forget it. And I'll never forgive you for it."
"Add it to your list then," Sherlock spat with derision. He stood up, eyes cool as steel. "If you're so great a friend to him then it's only logical he'd ask you, so this entire conversation is pointless."
"When has anything been logical when it comes to you two?" Lestrade countered roughly. "John worships the ground you walk on, no matter apparently what you do to him. That's his business if he wants to go down that road again. But I actually care what happens to him so if I even hear that you're remotely entertaining the possibility of turning down his offer, so help me Sherlock, things will not be pretty." He was breathing so hard he was practically seeing spots.
Sherlock looked at Lestrade like he was a roach, about to be flattened. "John asking me to be his best man is about as stupid and pointless as your threats. John is my friend and I have no intention of harming that friendship in any way. If the highly improbable situation arises, I will not turn him down, but since the likelihood of that happening is even less than the likelihood of you settling down with anyone, your argument is moot." He was already throwing on his jacket, buttoning it deftly with one hand, when Lestrade realized he was being insulted.
"Why is it so unlikely that I would settle down? he asked automatically and immediately hated himself for falling into his trap.
"Oh please," Sherlock declared in his deepest, grittiest voice, inadvertently turning Lestrade's blood molten. "I don't need to have been present for me to see what you've been up to these past three years, Lestrade."
Lestrade spang up, eyes dark with anger. "Don't you dare, Sherlock. Don't you even think of trying to deduce me. You have no fucking right. You left, remember? If anything, I look at you and see exactly what you've been up to. Like I can't see the tremors in your hands you're so desperate to hide, or the signs of constant headaches. The lack of sleep and muddy eyes. The constant frustration underneath that false exterior. I'd give it another month until you shoot up, hoping for that quick fix again. Or perhaps you've indulged while you were playing soldier and can't seem to function now without. Either way, you're one step away from drowning your sorrows with all those other coke and meth heads down town."
Sherlock's composure had broken as soon as he mentioned the drugs, and Lestrade didn't know whether it was shock or because he had miscalculated. Either way the blood completely drained from the younger man's face as he backed away towards the kitchen, his cold eyes never leaving Lestrade's. He didn't utter a word as he wrapped his coat around himself and left the flat, not even bothering to slam the door.
As soon as he was gone Lestrade collapsed in his chair, breathing erratic. His mind was a mess and his hands shook uncontrollably, which he had to laugh at given he'd just blasted Sherlock over it.
That went terribly bad. It was as far opposite of good as you could get. He couldn't even move his limbs for close to half an hour because he was just so numb. He felt like the lowest form of shit there was and he hated that he still needed to go to work and actually attempt to work.
With a strange sense of detachment he headed in, counting down the hours until evening. He didn't dare try to contact Sherlock, despite the fact that he felt at fault. He just wasn't prepared for the fallout. Inevitably, it wasn't remotely up to him.
He ended up staying late, catching up with work. He was beyond tired by the time he got the phone call, but his skin prickled with unease the second he saw who the caller was. Inwardly cursing, he knew there was no point ignoring this call.
"Yea, Mycroft." His heart was palpitating threateningly.
"What have you done?" came the accusing, if not slightly hysterical tone.
There was no point playing stupid or denying anything. "Christ, what's happened?" He rubbed at his temple, breathing laboriously.
"He's sitting in my house as we speak. Do you have any idea the last time Sherlock willingly and of his own accord knocked on my door? What did you say to him?" he sniped with a sharp tone.
He mentally groaned. "He didn't tell you?" He was stalling.
"No. He never tells me anything. But it wasn't exactly difficult to surmise. I know he saw you this morning and now he's sitting in my home, not talking, just sitting. What in God's name did you say to him?"
Lestrade felt ill. "I might have...that is I- oh fuck." He took a deep, anguished breath. "I accused him of using."
Absolute silence. It was somehow worse than the alternative.
"How could you possibly be so callous?" came the inevitable harshly-whispered voice, tinged with incredulity and disbelief.
Lestrade, drained of all energy, lost it then. "I'm sorry! Fuck, I didn't mean for that to happen...I didn't ask him over to drive him away! I just, I wanted him to hurt- I wanted him to feel like what I felt and it just came out all wrong. I wasn't thinking straight. I wasn't thinking at all. I'm so sorry," he finished in a whisper, shame dripping from every syllable.
"I am not the one who requires an apology."
"I know."
"Fix this." Mycroft's line went dead and Lestrade released a shuttered breath, his chest constricting in protest. He felt ill, sweaty and shaky, his stomach in knots. He dropped his phone and drooped his head, fingers threading through his hair maniacally.
Dread swirled rampant in his mind, and even as Mycroft ordered him to make it better, he somehow knew it was too late. Sherlock wasn't a twenty-something, fresh-out-of-Uni kid anymore. There was no reasoning with him, not anymore. He had every right to tell him to fuck off for good.
He took a cab back to his flat, deflated and defeated.
He didn't bother shaving, even though it was his weekly shaving day. He had zero energy and he idly wondered how he even managed to get dressed that morning, He stood in front of his Keurig, dazed and sleepy, and waited for his subpar coffee to finish.
Just as he was pouring the milk, there was a knock on his door. He stilled. Someone needed to ring his buzzer before being allowed entrance and he certainly had not heard anything of the sort. And his neighbors had never called on him. Frowning, he went to see who it was.
His heart stopped as he saw Mycroft Holmes standing in the corridor, looking particularly gloomy today.
"How did you get upstairs?" he asked, earning him a raised brow. Ah, of course that was a stupid question. He stepped aside, sighing.
Mycroft came inside, a quick glance to survey the space. In his hand there was a large kraft envelope. He turned to face Lestrade.
"Sherlock fell asleep on my sofa and was gone early this morning," he provided as Lestrade nodded. "We don't talk, Inspector. It's not really our area," he explained as if it were the most obvious thing in the world to not converse with one's sibling. Lestrade waited.
"But I don't need him to talk to see what he's been through. It's plain as day. You only have to open your eyes to notice. And you need to wake up, Inspector, because you've been looking at him all wrong." He indicated to the envelope in his hands, reaching forward.
Lestrade took it reflexively. "What is this?"
"I had these taken shortly after we located Sherlock. As evidence. In case there was an inquiry, ever, as unlikely as that may be. Still. It's procedure. And highly classified. I am taking these back with me," he said, clasping his hands in front of him.
Lestrade pursed his lips and walked over to his dining table, lifting the clasp of the envelope. Curiosity overtook his dread as he slowly reached under the flap and pulled out whatever was inside. Turned out, it was photographs.
Of Sherlock.
He felt, more than heard the gasp as his mouth fell open and a giant knot lodged itself in the back of his throat. There were at least two dozen photos there and he couldn't even get past the first one. He sat down, vaguely aware Mycroft was slowly approaching. He flipped the first photo over and stared in horror at the one underneath. He felt bile rise and he shoved them out of the way, glaring up at Mycroft.
"Why?" he growled as Mycroft towered over him. The elder brother reached over in a flash and pushed the photos back in front of Lestrade.
"For your ignorance. You will look at these," he said in a lethal tone. Lestrade took a moment to compose himself, dearly praying he wouldn't throw up all over his table. He steeled himself and opened his eyes. Images were spread out in front of him- Sherlock, over and over, in all his chromatic glory.
Clad in just his boxers, he stood, a bored expression plastered on his face. From the front, the back, the side, neck up, arms wide open, a wild mop of heavily curled, damp hair obscuring half his face. But Lestrade's eyes were glued to what was all over his all too-thin body.
Scars, no matter where his gaze waivered. Bruising, mottled from neck to feet. Hardly an inch of skin was spared. Deep cuts, some still bleeding, welts and old scarring, faded but poorly stitched. Christ. Pure black bruises on his torso and sides. Sherlock was smoking in one photograph, eyes closed. Lestrade stopped breathing long ago.
"These were just from when I found him. There is a whole three year gap unaccounted for," Mycroft stated with zero emotion. Like he didn't know how to even wrap his brain around the imagery.
Lestrade had seen countless photos of victims before. Rape victims, stab wounds, heads blown to bits, decapitated limbs. Children even. It horrified him each and every time. But this. This felt entirely different. Personal. This wasn't some stranger. This was Sherlock. His stomach threatened to rebel. He reached over with trembling fingers and slowly pushed the photos away from his direct line of vision. It didn't matter. They were permanently engrained.
"Not quite, Inspector. Take a closer look, if you dare. In fact, I insist. Tell me," he said, voice dark and gravelly- so much so that it reminded him of Sherlock- "what it is you don't see?" He didn't bother to wait for an answer as he deftly reached over and picked through the photographs until finding one- a close-up of his injured arms- and dropped it back down in front of Lestrade.
"Tell me," he demanded.
With trepidation, Lestrade looked down. He scanned the photograph, Sherlock's wiry arms bright and pale from the flash, contrasted only by the terrible bruising. He forced himself to look closer, perfectly aware of Mycroft breathing down his neck.
He swallowed harshly. Not one puncture wound. Not a single track line. Nothing. Not a pin prick. On either arm. He sighed, closing his eyes in shame.
"Now you know. Though the fact that I had to resort to this is deplorable. Of all the things he did, or was forced to do to stay alive, his old habit was not one of them." He gathered the photos up, stuffing them back in the envelope.
"How do I fix this?" Lestrade asked miserably. He couldn't meet Mycroft's eyes.
"I'm afraid I can't help you there," he whispered, a hint of regret in his tone. "As I mentioned before, it's not really my area."
Lestrade scoffed. "What, compassion?"
Mycroft stared as if dumbfounded. "Sherlock."
He left shortly after, leaving Lestrade late for work.
Working was futile. With every blink of his eyes he saw only those photographs, as if they were right in front of him again. Mycroft could have just told him. He would have believed him. But no, the Holmes brothers never do anything halfway. He wanted Lestrade hurt. And really, who could blame him? He had falsely accused Sherlock of using drugs and despite what he said about Sherlock not being his area, Mycroft had come quickly to his defense. It would have been sweet if he wasn't still creeped out.
Donovan was giving him looks. He suddenly realized that he'd known her longer than Sherlock even, but that she would never be close to him. He trusted her with his life but he'd never trust her with his secrets. She'd probably have an aneurysm and quit if she only knew the history between him and Sherlock.
He thought about calling John but he was at a loss. What would he say? He wondered if John knew about the photographs. Highly doubtful. He could only imagine his reaction if that were the case. He had no one to talk to. He couldn't tell John about Sherlock. He just couldn't. It wasn't that he was ashamed of his past relationship with the Consulting Detective, it's just he wasn't sure if Sherlock would mind it, being super private.
He sighed for the umpteenth time that day. There was only one person he felt comfortable with talking of almost anything, but that person was probably avoiding him like the plague. He groaned into his hands. Very well. So he couldn't speak to Sherlock. But the least he could do was apologize to him.
That felt suddenly like a daunting task, because how could a simple apology ever be enough to justify his folly? He slammed the lid of his laptop shut, nerves shot to hell.
He was acting like a coward and he hated that feeling. Before he lost his nerve, he snatched up his phone and hit speed dial. It rang and rang. Swearing, he chucked his phone down. He refused to text him. It was beyond impersonal. A sudden burst of adrenaline shot through him and he was out of his chair before he even realized it. He left the Yard and hailed a cab.
"Baker Street," he told the cabbie.
Half an hour later (damn traffic) he was bounding up the stairs, his finger on the buzzer repeatedly. Mrs. Hudson was the one who opened the door, a slight hint of annoyance on her face. It died though when she saw who it was.
"Oh, thank goodness. Come on in, Greg. I didn't realize he was expecting you. Told me absolutely no clients or visitors. Something's got him all in a tizzy. Wouldn't even take my offer of tea. Don't think that's ever happened…" She smiled up at him though. "But he wouldn't be averse to a visit from you, Inspector. Got a new case for him?"
"Um, sort of. It's a bit classified," he lied, feeling even worse for it. She patted his arm. "Course, dear. He'll be delighted to see you. Off you get!"
He could almost feel the beads of sweat forming on his brow, and hear the incessant hammering inside his chest. Sherlock's door was shut- a rare sight during the daytime.
God, this was not a good idea. He knocked. And waited. Then he heard it, muffled but growing closer and louder.
"...told you Mrs. Hudson, no visitors!" He yanked the door open, mouth parted in further rebuke. It snapped closed as soon as he saw Lestrade standing there. His eyes closed off instantly, growing cold and narrowed.
"Inspector," he finally said, voice low and arrogant.
"Can I come in," he asked quietly. Sherlock's eyes were steel.
"No, you may not. I'm occupied at the moment. Goodbye!" He went to slam the door, but Lestrade was prepared for that. His arm came out automatically, connecting with the old wood with a harsh snap. Sherlock's lips thinned.
"I'll leave after I said what I need to say."
"You've said plenty," Sherlock countered, but his eyes flashed in surprise, as if he hadn't meant to speak. He pursed his lips and glared.
"Fine. I can do this here too." He licked his lips and looked down, taking a deep breath before straightening up and meeting Sherlock's eyes.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I said to you. You know me, Sherlock. You know I didn't mean a word of it," his voice low. "The truth is, I wanted to hurt you. It was spineless and stupid and I don't even know where it came from. I was angry. Truth is, I'm still angry. But that's no excuse for what I said. I haven't been myself since you came back, Sherlock. Nothing is right. But I should not have taken it out on you like that," he finished somberly and strangely, even more depressed.
Sherlock's expression never changed. "Well I hope your conscience is clear now, Inspector," he said in a mocking tone. "But you're right about one thing, Lestrade. I do know you, and some things never change. You told me once as I was sitting in a cell that you couldn't look at me and not think of me as an addict. Well, it's nice to see how true that statement is after all these years. I'm finally starting to feel like I'm back at home," he finished with a tight, mirthless smirk. "So thank you for reminding me and bringing me back to my senses. Ta!"
This time, Lestrade didn't bother with the door, just lazily stepped back to avoid getting his nose slammed painfully. He couldn't breathe. His hand pressed against his chest as his eyes glossed over. He clenched his teeth as he laboriously made his way down the stairs. He could hardly remember the cab ride back to his flat.
John, I think I fucked things up with Sherlock.
I doubt it. Sherlock doesn't stay mad at people long.
He groaned.
You don't know what I did.
A pause.
I'm coming over.
He was somehow too relieved to protest.
He gnawed on his knuckle as John stewed over the conversation they'd just had. He watched as shock radiated off of John like a furnace. He couldn't look him in the face.
"I know. I'm the lowest form of shit there is."
John shook his head. He blew out a puff of air, looked at him not quite critically, but enough to make him feel even worse. "But why? Why would you even go there, Greg? The drugs are not exactly something he's proud of."
"I know. I know. I was angry. I can't explain it and looking back it's bloody stupid but I can't take it back. I don't know what to do," he finished helplessly.
John inhaled, licked his lips in concentration. Lestrade felt bad. On one hand, he was his friend, but on the other, he was Sherlocks' first. He didn't want to put him in this position.
"Greg, I don't know what to tell you. You did right by trying to apologize. It didn't go amiss, trust me. But you know how he is. Give him some time. He knows you didn't mean it."
Greg wasn't so sure. John must have seen his expression.
"Do you want me to talk to him?"
"No! No, thanks John, but I think that would make things worse. You're right, he probably just needs more time." He sighed. John sighed.
"Just, don't give up on him," John quietly said, a slight pleading edge colouring his words. Lestrade shook his head.
"That'll be the day."
He sent off texts. Not too many; that would seem desperate and stalkerish. Just enough to be noticeable.
I'm sorry.
Talk to me, Sherlock.
I can meet you wherever you'd like.
Please. Sorry.
And finally, because it was his last card to play:
Got a cold case file that might have a lead. Interested?
When that received no bites, he stopped texting.
A week later he was at Bart's talking with Molly about a corpse at first, but soon turned into a full-blown conversation.
"Oh I love Brighton, when I get the chance to go. It's been forever."
"Well, you should go, Molly. Take a holiday. I don't think I've hardly seen you outside the morgue," Lestrade joked. She smiled back.
"I do have time saved. Maybe I can go with Tom. I don't think he's ever been," she frowned suddenly. "Actually, I don't think he likes the sun. Bit of an indoor person. I don't mind though," she rambled. "I like an evening in, watching telly…" she turned away, towards a microscope.
He looked at her fondly. Poor girl. She really was too pretty and too nice not to have snagged someone already. Didn't help, her occupation. But she was proud of it, and she did an extraordinary job of it. He was always impressed by it.
"Well, I hope you can make it out there some day soon," he said with a sincere smile. She looked up and smiled back, then her smile slipped away as she suddenly stared right past him. He swiveled his head to see the figure standing a few yards away, regarding stoically the scene before him.
"Hi, Sherlock," Molly beamed enthusiastically.
Sherlock, hands in his coat pockets didn't spare Lestrade a glance. "Molly. I need your assistance. When you've finished that is, doing whatever it is you were doing," he finished coolly, then spun on his heel and walked away.
Lestrade sighed. Molly, flustered, stepped away from her work with an apologetic look. "Got to go. Sherlock beckons." She said the last part in jest, but Lestrade knew only too well how close to the truth the fact was. He waved her away with an understanding smile, cringing as he thought what the scene must've looked like in Sherlock's eyes. As if things between them couldn't get worse…
He went in their direction. Sherlock was just starting to walk away from Molly when Lestrade decided to follow.
"Sherlock! Wait a second." Sherlock actually paused, his back to Lestrade, stiff and rigid. He didn't turn around so Lestrade got closer.
"What do you want, Lestrade?" Sherlock said, following an insufferable sigh.
"Just to talk. Please."
"Talking is boring."
Lestrade went around to face Sherlock, whose expression was both guarded and annoyed. Lestrade grazed his fingers through his hair, his nerves a bit frayed.
"I know. Just a few minutes is all I ask. Lunch?"
"I don't eat when I'm on a case, you know this," Sherlock responded with an edge.
Lestrade blinked. "I didn't know you had one on. Fine then, coffee, tea?" Sherlock regarded him stoically for a second, then he shuffled away. "I don't have time." He went on walking, leaving Lestrade's heart in shards.
"Please." It came out, unbidden. Sherlock stopped and swiftly turned around. Lestrade stood his ground.
"Why should I give you the time of day?" he asked roughly, eyes dark and vicious. "You have already explained your position quite clearly. Why do you persist in this pointless endeavor?" His hands were at his side, gesticulating with every word.
Lestrade swallowed roughly. "Because I was wrong, Sherlock." And because he didn't know of a way to explain to Sherlock without him questioning his motives, he gave up his source.
"Mycroft showed me the photos." And then Sherlock shut down. Pale as a sheet he turned his back to Lestrade and stormed away.
"Sherlock, stop! This isn't Mycroft's fault, it's mine. Just please listen." He quickened his pace as he tried to keep up with the younger man's stride. Sherlock didn't even turn his head.
"I should have realized, I should have known-"
Sherlock came to a halt and turned on his heels, face flushed with fury. "I don't want to hear what you feel like you need to say. I don't want your damned pity!"
"It's not pity, Sherlock! I'm trying to tell you I've been a complete prick, okay? I told myself I didn't care what happened to you, because I was still furious with you. But it's not true. I can't will it to be true. I know awful things happened to you and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I acted that way. I've never pitied you a day in my life, Sherlock. Nothing's changed." He was near out of breath.
Sherlock stared, jaw working. He shook his head, a look of disgust settling. "Everything's changed, Lestrade." He stuffed his hands inside his coat, a resigned, weary expression on his face.
"No," Lestrade said firmly. "Not what's important. You're here. You're alive. Everything else is irrelevant."
Sherlock scoffed. "God, you can't even say that with a straight face! I'm not blind. John thinks I don't understand people, not really. Not like a normal person. But I can see every nuance on your face, Lestrade. Every flicker of doubt and anger and reservation. No matter what you say I can still see it."
Lestrade swallowed but refused to avert his eyes. "I'm not gonna pretend I'm not angry, Sherlock, or sad. I don't know how to stop feeling like that. I'm not going to lie to you and tell you everything will be okay. But I do know I am indescribably glad you're back. You're actually here and it's not some fucked up dream. I'm just really conflicted right now, Sherlock, and I know I'm probably not making any sense. But I need you to not...go away. I know that's asking a lot after the way I've spoken to you, but I really need this from you." Please say yes. His voice had lost all steam, but he knew Sherlock heard him.
Sherlock rocked on his heels, head down for a beat. Then he met Lestrade's eyes and the fury was gone from his eyes, replaced by his habitual mask of indifference.
"You know where to find me. I don't intend to leave again." Then he nodded once, quickly, and walked calmly away. Lestrade released his breath. It wasn't the most ideal of situations, but it was the best outcome he could hope for. He'd take it.