A/N: Nearing the finish line! Just one more part to go. I'm assuming everyone reading has watched His Last Vow as there are SPOILERS here. Enjoy!
Lestrade had planned to stay until the twenty-seventh. He would have visited with family, shared stories, opened gifts on Christmas, and walked around the town some the next morning. A short, but relaxing holiday.
And yet there he was on Boxing Day, anxiously staring out the window as the train neared Paddington, his fingers drumming against his thigh since the moment he left Somerset. He'd made up an excuse. New case that demanded his attention. Must get back to London urgently. They were all very understanding, even as guilt crawled around in his belly.
He stared down at his mobile for the umpteenth time, mentally cursing, willing it to do something. Once again, thanks to Sherlock, his plans had changed.
He had texted him on Christmas day, wishing him a happy holiday again, though he heard nothing back. Thinking nothing of it, he got distracted at his aunt's, and it wasn't until dark when he checked his phone and found nothing from Sherlock.
Heart skipping a beat-though why he couldn't say- he texted again. He paced around for a few moments and finally dialed. His call went straight to voicemail, which made his insides freeze. He immediately called John and received the same lack of response.
His hands were shaking as he took a seat and tried to calm his nerves. He knew it was probably nothing, but every time he thought that in regards to Sherlock, it was always something. He glanced at the clock in dismay. It was probably too late to catch the train back to London and he didn't want to run out on his family on Christmas.
He told his Aunt Beth he'd had a call from work, and he was planning on leaving in the morning. He went to the guest room and gathered everything together, then sat on the bed, a headache blooming. He knew he'd be getting no rest that night, but surprisingly enough, after watching a few hours of telly, he dozed off and woke at six.
Now he was standing, his bag clenched in his hands, waiting for the train to come to a stop. The crowds were surprisingly strong as he stepped onto the platform, pushing his way through. Not a minute later, he received a text.
Nearly dropping the phone in alarm he glanced down, hoping it was Sherlock. It wasn't. In fact, this was the last person he hoped it would be.
Do not go to Baker Street and do not attempt to contact Sherlock. MH
His breath left him as his terrible suspicions were confirmed. He stood, dumbfounded as travelers milled around him, though he heard nor saw any of it.
He swallowed thickly and made his way over to a less crowded area, dropping his bag.
What happened? Where is he?
Every single second of silence was agony and he grabbed his bag and marched out of the station, queuing up to grab a cab. He called John when he got inside. No answer. He rubbed his face in frustration, his skin prickling with tension.
When he got to his flat he tried again, and again. Helpless, he dropped on his sofa, a sigh of raw frustration leaving his lips. He was still shaking all over, his bottom lip raw from gnawing on it for the last two hours.
He needed a shower and he needed answers. The shower was the easier of the two to accomplish. He stood under the boiling spray, unable to get properly warm. His mobile lay on the tile just outside the tub, just in case. He dried off quickly, wrapping the towel around his waist and storming into his bedroom for clean clothes.
When he felt presentable enough, he left the flat. Screw Mycroft.
The cab pulled up to Baker Street and he got out, looking around, slightly paranoid. Seeing nothing amiss, he took out the key-never did get to return it to John-and unlocked the door. He took a deep breath and slowly walked upstairs.
The flat was silent, and empty. Clean too, thanks to Mrs. Hudson. No sign that anyone at all had been there since after Sherlock left it. Just to be sure he checked the other rooms, finding nothing incriminating. His phone vibrated.
I told you not to go there. He won't be there. MH
His blood boiled and he saw red.
Where the fuck is he? I want to talk to him NOW. Where is Sherlock?
Go home, Inspector. You will be contacted shortly. Don't bother getting a hold of John, either. MH
He read the text in despair, energy seeping out of his pores. He sucked in a breath, realizing it was futile to argue or reason with Mycroft.
He went home.
As the day dragged and the light faded, and his feet ached from the constant pacing, he got a phone call. His heart nearly imploded in his chest as he went to answer it, seeing Mycroft's name on the caller ID.
"Mycroft." His voice was haggard and anxious, his hands shaking anew.
"Good evening, Inspector. I must make this brief, as I have some...things to attend to. But I wished to explain what has transpired, and the serious situation Sherlock has found himself in."
Lestrade swallowed. "What's he done?" The list was infinite.
There was a long pause on the other end, which only escalated Lestrade's unease, and he had to sit down.
"We're keeping it out of the media for now, but I can't imagine by tomorrow it won't have circulated."
"Mycroft," he pleaded, barely recognizing his own voice. Another pause followed, and then a sigh, defeated and tired.
"Sherlock shot Magnussen."
Lestrade lost all sense of time in that moment, fingers perilously close to losing their grip on his mobile. He shook and shook, jaw aching from how hard he was clenching it. With his free hand he placed it against his mouth, afraid of what would follow next.
Mycroft, insightful as ever, went on, taking his silence for the shock that it was.
"He's dead," came the clipped tone. "Sherlock shot Magnussen at his own home, with John's gun and now he's in custody. This occurred yesterday, after he had finished dosing his family with a sleeping draught and lifting my laptop to essentially attempt to sell off to Magnussen. Of course, being Sherlock, who always thinks he's cleverer than most, well his ruse didn't exactly go as planned." His tone grew dark and bitter, and Lestrade's heart shattered for what Sherlock's brother must be going through right now.
His breath left him, pained and laborious and his lips curled down, quivering against his palm.
"He's in custody right now, and shall remain so, until I can figure out how to handle this. John's still being interrogated and I-" An uncharacteristic hesitation, a deep intake of breath. "I now have to explain to our parents that their son's life is over as he knows it."
His eyes filled, anger and anguish and denial all in one. "Mycroft…" he pleaded, not knowing what he was even asking for. He had no right, he knew, none, to ask the older Holmes for anything. Not at a time like this. But he couldn't help the overwhelming sadness, and the shock still reverberating through him.
"I want to see him," he finally managed, his face damp and mouth tasting of salt.
"That's impossible, Inspector. Where he is now-"
"Don't fucking tell me it's impossible, Mycroft! You of all people can manage it, I know you can. Don't you dare tell me I can't see him," he choked, furious and broken. "Don't you try it…"
He angrily wiped at his face, taking a shaky breath to center himself, too exhausted to feel self-conscious of his composure.
"Don't for a moment believe I don't sympathize with you, Greg," Mycroft said softly. "I am more sorry than I can say. But this is not up to me. If the circumstances change, you will of course be notified," he finished wearily, as if he knew his own words were meaningless.
"John will most likely be released in the morning. You may speak with him then, and get the whole story. I am not currently in the disposition to tell it, you'll have to forgive me. I'm afraid that's all the time I currently have...I have to meet with some people now to discuss the next course of action. I will be in touch."
The line went dead, and Lestrade dropped the phone. His head felt like it might split in two, piercing and throbbing, matching the pain in his chest. He dropped his head into his hands, unable to stop the shaking, the flow of tears.
This was not happening. It was not actually possible that he could feel this way and that he was living this nightmare. His whole frame shook, from grief, from fright, from anger. He couldn't escape the skin-crawling feeling of dread, of what would happen tomorrow, and the day after that.
Sherlock had killed a man. He killed Magnussen. For months that name had been hanging mutely over their heads and now it concludes-with a body and a man holding the gun. He scrubbed at his face, wanting to tear the flesh to divert the pain from his chest. He shut his eyes against the onslaught of emotion, rolling in waves.
There was nothing he could currently do. Sherlock couldn't talk. Mycroft was busy and John wouldn't be free until tomorrow. He was left with nothing but his painful, tormented thoughts, and Mycroft's harsh words, so obviously pained beneath all the dry and cold exterior.
He was having difficulties breathing and nearly went for his inhaler though he knew he really just needed to calm down. Clearly an impossible task but there was nothing else to be done. He needed to pull himself together and clear his mind.
He was actually extremely tired and knew sleep would help even though that was the last thing he wanted at the moment. So he went to his medicine cabinet and found his sleeping pills that he took once in a great while and popped them in his mouth, swallowing them dry. He trudged over to his bed and sat down.
His whole body ached, flu-like chills rolling through him with every breath he took. His lids felt heavy, obscuring his vision almost pleasantly. In the dark, he heard the pounding in his ears as his pulse refused to settle down. Meanwhile his head was being hammered and a tiny moan passed his lips before his face scrunched up in pain.
He put his face in his pillow and willed himself to sleep. But even with the meds, sleep was a long time coming. And when it did, he welcomed the relief, thanking God for the lack of dreams.
The instant that he woke it all crashed upon him and he froze against the mattress, alert and distressed. He took his time getting out of bed, as his head was still killing him and he had no energy left.
He glanced over at the clock and noticed it was past nine. He idly wondered if John had been released yet and if he could speak with him. He thought about Sherlock, sitting in an isolated cell, probably bored out of his mind. Was he being interrogated? He had a feeling whoever had that honor would be very sorry, very quickly. He sighed. The truth was he was blind. He had no idea what was happening to Sherlock, or what would become of him.
Sherlock murdered a man. His mind-and stomach- rebelled at the thought. An invisible hand squeezed his heart like a vise when he envisioned Sherlock shooting a man in cold blood. He rubbed his forehead and sat up, bleary-eyed and still tired.
Like a slug, he slithered out of bed and went to take care of business in the bathroom. Afterwards he went to the living room and turned on the telly. As if compelled, he turned to the news. His mouth parted as he stared at the screen, at the massive headline, and the dour-looking reporters all expressing their shock and dismay at the death of a wealthy, powerful individual. Only snippets passed through his mental barriers, but not once did he hear of or see an image of Sherlock. They were speculating with 'an unidentified suspect in custody', and a possible 'accomplice' and he supposed he had Mycroft to thank for keeping Sherlock and John's names out of the press. For now.
He reached for the remote to turn off the telly when he heard his phone go off. He jumped off the sofa and ran back into his bedroom to retrieve his mobile.
John.
"Yeah, John," he rasped, hand unable to hold the phone steady.
"I'm coming over." He hung up and Lestrade went to put the kettle on.
John looked ashen and torn as he opened the door. He took one look at Lestrade and shut down, practically heaving with tension in the doorway. Lestrade ushered him in, and sat him down in the living room. Without a word he went to the kitchen and brought back two steaming mugs of strong coffee.
John had visibly calmed down when he sat opposite to him, mugs on the coffee table. The shorter man was wringing his hands, his clothing rumpled and deep lines around his mouth and eyes. It's like he aged a decade overnight.
"John," he began, voice thick. "I- did you just get out? I mean, don't you want to go home first? Tell Mary you're okay?"
John blinked slowly at the steaming mugs on the table, not budging an inch. "I phoned her to tell her I was out and would be home in a bit. I...couldn't let her see me like this." Finally his eyes moved over in increments, landing on Lestrade's own tortured ones. He could only nod in understanding.
"Mycroft called me."
John nodded slowly. "I know. He said. That's another reason I came here first. I knew he didn't tell you everything. Probably not even close. I'm sure when you heard…" He looked down again, nose twitching, lip straining.
"God, Greg, I am so sorry." The voice was steady but his eyes betrayed his tone, bright and glittering. "I didn't know. I didn't know he was going to-" his hand came up to his mouth, effectively stopping the tirade.
"I know, John. I know you wouldn't have let him."
John looked at him, guilt hiding behind those stoney eyes. "It's my fault. I took the gun. I took the gun because he asked, even though it was Christmas and there was no fucking need for the damned gun. Why did I take it, Greg?" he snarled. "Why did I listen to him?"
Lestrade looked away. "When have we ever not listened to Sherlock?"
John shook his head. "Good God...it's absolutely true. We've been conditioned to obey him even when it doesn't make sense." He looked down in dismay.
Lestrade leaned forward, taking a deep breath. "Tell me, John. Tell me everything."
John looked tormented and unsure, unable to meet his eyes. And of course he knew why. He sighed, and steeled himself.
"I know about Mary, John. I've known for months." Wide, startled eyes drifted over to his, silently questioning. "Believe it or not I sort of surmised it. Sherlock filled in the gaps after he realized I knew, and didn't want me going off and doing anything...drastic." he shook his head, bitter. "I've let it go, for Sherlock, because he asked me to. "But now I wanna know, John. I wanna know what the hell happened at Magnussen's. I want to know everything."
John looked pained and Lestrade felt the tiniest twinge of guilt. First Mary, now Sherlock. He felt for John, really he did. But he wouldn't sit by in the dark, not this time.
John sighed, his whole body shuddering. "Fine," he whispered, licking his bottom lip. "I'll tell you what happened…"
He felt cold all over, like someone had dropped a bucket of ice water over him, and he'd never be warm again. Sometime, during the last few moments of John's speech, his eyes drifted off towards his window, taking in the muted shapes of buildings outside, grey and somber.
He took in John's words with detachment, hearing them perfectly but not understanding a word that was said. It seemed impossible, what John was saying. Pure fiction. And when the voice faded he glanced back and found the other man despondent and drained, and that's when it hit him.
This actually happened. Sherlock was most likely going to be locked up for the rest of his life. Lestrade's own life would be over as well. He had fought so hard for this. For them. Whatever they were to each other. Every day Lestrade fought, and hoped and yearned. And now…
He swallowed thickly, realizing he hadn't said a word since John started to speak. "I don't know what to say. I want to say that Sherlock wouldn't do a thing like this but I'd be lying. I want to wake up now but this isn't a fucking dream. Whatever I say would be meaningless anyway. I mean, it's over, right? Everything is done. Sherlock is done. His family is scarred for life. And me... " he shut his eyes. "I'm probably finished too. Forget the promotion, my job is probably lost after this."
"Greg-"
"No, John. It's true. You know it is." John looked away, folding his hands, shoulders dropping.
"Did you get to see him, before you left?"
John shook his head. "They wouldn't let me. I'm actually surprised they released me so quickly but I figure that was Mycroft's doing. It's true that I didn't know a thing." He huffed a mirthless laugh. "And to think I actually thought I'd have a nice Christmas this year. Meeting Sherlock's parents, talking to Mary and telling her that it doesn't matter…" He looked exhausted and small sitting there, energy seeping out of him bit by bit.
"Go to Mary, John," he said. "Go. I'm sure Mycroft will get it touch soon and you look like you need some proper rest. Thank you, though. For coming here and telling me everything."
John slowly nodded, eyes downcast. He placed his hands on his knees and stood, wrecked and torn. Lestrade followed suit.
"Greg, I really am sorry. For everything." For not protecting Sherlock. For Mary. The unspoken thoughts were hidden behind his guilt-ridden expression. Lestrade's heart clenched. He stepped forward, barely hesitating. He grabbed hold of John and pulled him forward.
"Don't, John. None of this is your fault. None of it." His fingers curled around John's back as he felt warm hands fisting the back of his shirt. John pulled away first, eyes bloodshot and torn.
"Let me know if Mycroft contacts you. For whatever reason. I'd like to know what's going on." John's voice was thick and shallow. Lestrade nodded. "Course."
John left, and the feeling of desolation surged once again.
He took a walk. He needed to get the hell out of his flat before claustrophobia set in. Staring at the same walls for hours was really starting to get to him. He threw on some comfortable clothes and his coat and set out.
It was brisk and grey, ideal for his current mood. He stuffed his hands inside his pockets and set a pace, his trainers smacking the pavement with each hard step. He had no destination nor a goal. He just needed to keep moving. He thought about heading into work, even though he was officially still on holiday, but he really didn't want to deal with any questions.
An hour later he was cold but refreshed, cheeks red and fingertips numb. Still, he felt like he had accomplished something, rather than weeping into his pillow all day. He took a brief rest at the park and went back to his flat.
He didn't think it possible but his stomach cramped with hunger when he got in so he microwaved a frozen dinner and slowly ate it, not tasting much. On the telly the news was the same so he changed it to an animal program just to have some background noise. He took a warm shower and threw on some clean clothes. And then he continued his wait.
It was nearly impossible not to think of Sherlock. He thought of him in a cell, comatose with boredom. He thought of him holding a gun, pulling the trigger. He thought of his face, and what it might have looked like at that moment. It came in flashes, the imagery, pricking his heart every time. And the worst thought of all, the one he refused to believe, was that he might never get to see him again.
Disbelief and depression soon turned to resentment, having nothing better to do than to dwell on the situation. Despite John's good intentions, he'd almost rather have heard the entire story from Sherlock. He wanted to look him in the eye and watch him squirm with every damning word. There would be no worming his way out of this situation, not this time. Frustration coiled itself through his blood, and defeat, for there was nothing he could do but wait.
When his alarm went off at six, he cringed into his pillow. Work was the very last thing on his mind. But as he glanced at his nightstand, and squinted at the clock, he also took note of his iPhone. He slowly reached forward, like he did every morning, warm fingers grasping the thin piece of technology.
He sat up straighter, breath hitching. One new message.
Go to work, Inspector. And stand by. MH
He closed his eyes, indignant and annoyed. He tossed his phone aside and went to get ready. He didn't bother with the news or the paper. He was too nervous they'd elaborate further and name names.
By the time he got to the Met he was a fidgety wreck, though no one exactly noticed. Everyone welcomed him back, inquiring about his Christmas. He mumbled something and ducked into his office. He shut the door and prayed no one would notice he was there.
Sally came in ten minutes later. "Hey, boss."
"Sally." He was typing something on his computer, hoping she'd get the hint.
"Nice holiday?"
"Yea, thanks. You?"
"Alright, I suppose," she said with a small shrug. "Heard the news about Magnussen? It's all over the place."
He clenched his jaw, eyes on his screen. "Yeah, I heard."
"No suspects, either," she stated with a frown. He looked up, face blank.
"None? They have no idea who it was?"
Another shrug. "Magnussen's estate is in the middle of nowhere. Would be easy for someone to slip away. There's rumours though, of course. Helicopter sightings near Magnussen's estate around the time of his murder. Just odd stuff."
He looked back down. "Hmm. Thanks, Sally." Fingers on his keyboard. She left after a nod, closing the door behind her. His breath dashed passed his lungs in a painful spike, and his body deflated, drooping into his chair. He hadn't even realized how tightly wound he was. He took a couple of deep breaths, then went to find some coffee.
His day consisted of meetings, phone calls, cigarette breaks, more meetings and a quick visit to a crime scene from a week ago for further clues. At eight in the evening, as he was slouched in his chair, staring at nothing, his phone rang. He nearly jumped out of his skin attempting to answer it.
"Mycroft," he breathed as quietly as possible. He got up and shut his door before resuming his seat.
"I can get you in tonight, but we won't have much time and it has to be at two. There will be less...people to deal with."
"Yes, fine. I'll do whatever time you want. Just, please get me in," he pleaded, fingers curled painfully around the phone.
"Very well. A car will pick you up at your flat at exactly two. Wait outside." He hung up then, and the only sound Lestrade heard was the painful pounding of his heart.
He stood outside, hands stuffed inside his pockets, trying not to look like he was waiting for someone at two in the morning. He snuffed out his third cigarette and tried not to pace around. At precisely two, a sleek, black Audi pulled up. He was already moving towards the back when the front passenger door swung open and Mycroft leaned across, barely visible in the dark.
"Get in."
He got in, rapidly blinking. The door was barely shut before Mycroft hit the gas. The situation was so odd he didn't say a word for the first five minutes. After a while he couldn't stay silent.
"Didn't know you drove."
Mycroft apparently thought that didn't warrant a response, his gloved fingers curled around the leather steering wheel. He navigated through London expertly, and Lestrade was reminded of Sherlock and his insane knowledge of every street and alleyway in the city, every shortcut and bridge.
After a while he sighed, knees jittery. "How is he?"
Mycroft didn't react. "You'll see for yourself."
For some reason that didn't reassure him. "Damn it, Mycroft. You said I won't have much time with him so I'd rather be prepared. Just tell me he's physically fine so I can stop having a heart attack."
He turned and glared at Mycroft's harsh profile, willing him to speak. After a beat, Mycroft eased up, eyes fluttering briefly before resuming his fixed glare at the road.
"Sherlock is fine. I do not mean to placate you, Inspector, when I say this. I've spoken to him a number of times now and he does not seem to be bothered by the fact that he killed a man and will possibly be incarcerated for the rest of his life." The voice was steady but laced with bitterness and unease, and Lestrade wilted.
"What's really going to happen to him?" he asked with dread. He watched Mycroft's jaw, his mouth, his hands tensing around the wheel. His heart sank. He never got an answer. He turned around, eyes unfocused as London sped by, dark and radiant.
When they arrived, there was the expected security. At one gate, then another. Each time Mycroft stated his name, showed some form of ID. Lestrade, never having been to the MI6 building, was strangely not overly curious, just anxious. His stomach was in knots as they got closer to their destination.
When they parked in the underground garage, his feet nearly didn't wish to cooperate. Mycroft briskly led the way, again having to stop at a secure door before being allowed to pass. The guards barely glanced at Lestrade. Apparently Mycroft was extremely high on the totem pole and was allowed to do whatever he needed to do.
The building was huge and he wasn't sure where he was, especially in the dark. He stayed close to Mycroft as their heels clacked down corridor after endless corridor. The only lift they entered went down, so he assumed wherever they held anybody it was in the underground levels.
After they exited the lift, they entered another corridor, empty and silent save for their shoes, and security cameras hanging discreetly from the ceiling. He tried not to look at them too often. They rounded a corner and sighted another door, this one wide and heavy, made of thick steel and featuring more security as well as an entry code.
Mycroft's badge was scanned and he removed a glove to enter the elaborate code on the keypad. The door clicked open. They walked through and were immediately surrounded by cell doors. The space wasn't large and there weren't too many but they were all grey, steel enclosures, and Sherlock was behind one of them.
He felt nauseated and hot as he glanced at the doors and the multitude of cameras surrounding the space. Mycroft was already walking towards the last cell. Past that there was another man standing guard, looking bored. Mycroft took no notice of him as he typed in the code to unlock the cell door. It swung open ominously.
Mycroft whirled around to face him. "Two minutes, Inspector."
"What? Two?" he sputtered.
Mycroft leveled a look. "Two. I suggest you not waste them." He walked away, towards the timid-looking guard. Lestrade swallowed and turned towards the slightly ajar door. Shaking, he reached out to pull it open.
When he walked in, Sherlock was standing, hands clased at his back. He looked perfectly at ease, save for the smallest of ticks near his jawline, and the stubble covering his face.
"Sherlock…"
"I'm sure Mycroft warned you our time is limited." He worried his lip for a second. "I'm sorry you had to come here. This wasn't my intended goal, I assure you. I know you have questions but I assume John apprised you of everything. Whatever he told you is true, save for the last minute decision to shoot Magnussen. He would have...destroyed Mary and John. I couldn't let him. He was a parasite and I'm not sorry he's dead," his eyes flashed and Lestrade nearly suffocated from the vehemence of it all. "I'm only sorry you had to come here. This wasn't how I pictured our"-he looked down, swallowing-"goodbye."
Lestrade gawked. "Goodbye?" He shook his head, over and over, and just before he was about to erupt, he deflated. Probably less than a minute now… He looked at Sherlock, anguish filling him. "You really don't care that you killed him? That you've killed yourself?"
Sherlock blinked, clearly not expecting this line of thinking. He unhooked his hands, dropping them to his sides. "I've killed people, Greg," he said matter of factly. What do you think I was doing for three years? Magnussen was my gift for John," he said, eyes cold and lethal.
Lestrade's heart froze, the impossible cold crawling through every vessel in his body. His mouth twisted. "I know what you're doing, Sherlock. You don't think I know what you're trying to do?" He stepped closer, inches from Sherlock's pale, tired face. "You're going to seriously waste our last moments by lying to my face?"
"Greg-"
"No. Shut up, Sherlock. Mycroft's gonna come in here any minute now and drag me away and I don't know what's gonna happen next. You consciously did this," he seethed. "You knew what you were doing and you claim it was for John? John would despise you if he heard you just now. And even though he knows you, he doesn't know you like I do. You can't lie to me, Sherlock. You're not some sociopath, no matter how many times you sing that tune. Maybe Magnussen deserved to die, and maybe he didn't, but don't stand there and tell me you're fine with this situation because you did this for John."
Sherlock's eyes bored into his, swirling and dark, a controlled breath passing his lips. "I did what I had to," he rasped. "John is my friend and about the only one I have"-Lestrade recoiled as if struck, taking a step back. Sherlock's brows dipped in confusion. "What-"
He held up a hand, stalling whatever nonsense Sherlock would spout next. He turned his head, and found Mycroft at the door, an expectant look on his face. His heart sank and the fight died out of him. He pressed his eyes closed, mouth pursed. "I'm not leaving like this, Sherlock," he whispered, darkness surrounding him. If he saw Sherlock, if he opened his eyes, he didn't know how he'd be able to leave.
"It was a pleasure working with you, Greg."
His face fell, pressure building behind his lids, burning him, stinging him. He turned on his heel, fists clenched. "I'm not saying goodbye, Sher. I'm not."
A soft sigh filled the room. "Then, until we meet again, Greg."
His lips pinched shut, throat clogged. A nod, firm and resolute. And then he opened his eyes, and walked out. He vaguely heard Mycroft shut the cell door and turn to him.
"I'm sorry, Greg, for everything."
"Just take me home," he said in a dead tone, twin tracks racing down his face.
The ride back was uncomfortable and silent, despite the fact that none of this was Mycroft's fault. Still, he needed an outlet for his wrath and it was always easy with Mycroft. When the Audi pulled up to the kerb, Lestrade's hand was on the handle.
"Greg."
He sucked in a deep breath, anticipating this moment since they left. He waited.
"Not even Sherlock knows this yet but I'm working on saving him from a life in prison. He would be sent back to Europe, to do undercover work for MI6. I'm waiting on final approval."
Lestrade turned to face him, weary and detached. "And I'm assuming this undercover work is not a temporary solution. He won't be allowed to return home." Mycroft glanced away and Lestrade nodded to himself, already aware of the fact. "He would never last in prison anyway," he said solemnly. "He'd rather die doing something useful. He'll be glad for this arrangement."
He opened the door. "Thanks for taking me, Mycroft." Not waiting nor wanting a response he closed the door, his body aching with every movement, and walked away.
He was going to call John as he promised he'd keep in touch, but he was physically ill. Flu-like chills coursed through his body and even the tips of his fingers hurt. Every step was torture, the pressure behind his sternum building and threatening to pull him over the edge. He laid down in bed, lights off, drunk with grief.
Hours passed, the night fading to dawn, evil glittering light slowly enveloping the room, the bed, crawling over Lestrade. He turned away from the warmth. He hadn't slept. Always just on the cusp, where thoughts may or may not have been dreams. He shuddered. This was possibly the worst day of his life, and that was saying something.
He slowly sat up, giving in to the inevitable. He rubbed at his tired face and stifled a yawn. His stomach grumbled loudly and he couldn't remember the last proper meal he'd had. Probably not since Christmas. It would be stupid to deny his body what it clearly needed but his mind argued that point vehemently. Even if he weren't tired, or hungry, he still wouldn't have Sherlock. Nothing would change. He'd still be a miserable wreck.
Self-pity was not something he liked to associate with himself. He'd be lying if he said he never experienced it, though. It was always there under the surface, just waiting to spring. When he found out his wife was cheating on him, he thought he couldn't feel worse. But then he fell for Sherlock and he's been falling since. Falling, careening to a stuttered halt. This awful limbo was worse than anything. The not knowing.
He groaned and stretched his achy limbs, feeling chilled and exhausted. He glanced at his mobile, rubbing at his face. He reached for it, and dialed John.
He was going to tell him everything. His visit with Sherlock, and Mycroft's intentions regarding his future. But for some reason, he didn't want to burden John with the unknown. Get his hopes up for nothing. So he kept it short and light, omitting Sherlock's vehement confession that he murdered for John.
"I still can't believe Mycroft was able to get you in to see him. Or that he drove a car all by himself."
He quirked his lip, the brief second of caprice fading as quickly as it bloomed. "Yeah, I hardly believed it myself. And I imagine Mycroft can do whatever he wants. He seems to have all sorts of power."
"Except to save Sherlock," John said morosely.
He stilled. "Do you think Sherlock deserves to be saved?"
"What kind of question is that, Greg?"
He swallowed painfully. "Don't get me wrong. I want Sherlock out more than anything, but John, he murdered a man in cold blood. Why should he be above the law? What differentiates him from other killers?"
"Are you serious, Greg? Sherlock's not a killer. You weren't there, Greg. You didn't...see Magnussen or listen to him. He was cold, and void of everything. Compassion. Understanding. His whole adult life he spent ruining and destroying the lives of others. And for what? Money? Power? Status?"
"I get that, John, but that didn't give Sherlock the right to murder him."
"You know what, Greg? I don't even have the energy to discuss this. Magnussen's dead, and all his secrets died with him. And Sherlock will be sent away to prison. Right now I can't find it in myself to be okay with anything that's happened. I know why he did it. I wish he didn't, God I do. The thought of Sherlock rotting away in a prison somewhere is horrifying. I'm angry and sad and nothing can right this. I'm ranting, I know, but Sherlock didn't do this out of some sick, twisted urge. He did this for me, and for Mary," John finished in a shallow whisper.
"You don't believe that, John! Sherlock practically told me he enjoyed it. He wanted him dead, and he always gets what he wants."
"What the hell is wrong with you, Greg? Do you even hear yourself? This is Sherlock we're talking about here. The man you supposedly love. Don't tell me you buy this sociopath bullshit. Not after all this time. I know you're angry- I'm angry too. I'm livid. This was not what I wanted to happen. But what is the point of hashing it all out now? Sherlock's in prison, and we may never see him again."
He clenched his eyes shut, body shutting down. "I don't think I can do this, John," he said tiredly. "Not again. I have nothing further to give. Once again Sherlock does as he pleases and I get to live with the consequences. I just don't want to feel like that again."
He heard a deep sigh, tense and harried. "I know, Greg. I want to scream, and tear apart everything around me, and crawl away somewhere and pretend none of this ever happened. But I can't do that. And neither can you. This is our life, and Sherlock happens to be in it. We chose this and there's no going back, or hiding from it. And you can say Sherlock deserves this or that, but you'd wish him next to you in a heartbeat, and so would I. And I'm going to support him from afar if I have to."
Lestrade shuddered, his head splitting in two. "I couldn't escape Sherlock if I wanted to. And I don't. I just don't want to feel this way."
"You mean in love? Join the club because this is how I've been feeling for months now. It hurts this much because you're heart is breaking. If you didn't care for Sherlock so, you wouldn't be feeling like your insides are being ripped from you. It fucking hurts but in the end, it all boils down to…"
"Love?" he ventured softly.
"Yes."
Four days later he was at work, in the midst of a presentation, when his mobile rang. Heedless, without missing a beat he glanced down at the screen, and stuttered to a halt.
Sherlock.
Vaguely he was aware of the awkward silence as his team glanced around the room at each other, eyebrows raised. He stalked away.
"Gimme ten!" he screamed back to the room. He was barely out the door when he hit Talk.
"Sherlock," his voice gave out, hoarse and panicked. He ran into the first doorway he saw, which just happened to be the loo. He bolted the door after a very quick pass to make sure all stalls were empty, his heart threatening to burst through his ribcage.
"Hello, Greg."
His hands shook uncontrollably as he attempted to get his breathing regulated. "Why are you calling me from your mobile? Please tell me you haven't escaped."
Sherlock huffed a soft laugh, but Lestrade actually wasn't joking. "It was given back to me."
"Why? How?"
"I've been given a reprieve. I am no longer a prisoner, so to speak."
He couldn't believe what he was hearing, and the pulsating in his ears was not helping. "What do you mean, Sherlock? What's happened?"
A pause. "I've been given an assignment, for MI6, in exchange for a prison sentence. I'm leaving for Europe tomorrow."
The pressure in his chest built, threatening to crush him. He crouched down on the tile, back against the far wall. "What does that mean?" he asked dumbly, wanting Sherlock to explain it to him simply, for fear of miscommunication.
"I've been recruited, Greg. It's a highly classified, probably dangerous assignment. I don't even know all the details, though Mycroft...briefly went over things. I'm to leave tomorrow as they don't want word leaking out regarding this or the Magnussen affair to the press."
His jaw trembled with the effort of clenching it so much. He sat on his haunches, in the Met toilet and shook with cold, with terror. "So you're leaving tomorrow for...how long?"
Another pause, this one infinitely more pronounced and ominous. "Sher?"
"Most likely, six months." Sherlock's voice was flat, void of...anything telling, and Lestrade would have given anything to see his face. He closed his eyes.
"And after?"
"Greg, please lis-"
"What happens after?" he demanded, his voice ringing loud and desperate in the empty loo. He was sitting now, on the damp and suspect ties, back flush painfully against the cold wall.
"Then I don't know. Nothing's been planned for after," Sherlock revealed in a tense, pinched tone, pretty much confirming what Lestrade's gut had been telling him.
"So it's true. I'm never going to see you again," he breathed, as the nausea built and built. He heard Sherlock's strained sigh, throat working, swallowing around his guilt, so painfully loud he might as well have been in the same room. His head fell back, smacking against the wall, eyes clenched tight.
"I know there's nothing I can say, no apology big enough, to fix this, Greg. And I can't explain to you the depth of my remorse, for pulling you into all this. I never intended-"
"Stop, oh god stop. Sherlock. Stop talking. There's no point. None. You're leaving. It's done. And I don't feel like listening to whatever it was you were attempting to say to make me feel better, or whatever your goal was. Just tell me one thing. Did you readily agree to this? To go with MI6 to avoid prison?"
"Yes," came the automatic response. "I couldn't have borne it, Greg. I would have killed myself in a month from tedium."
Lestrade nodded, though there was no one to see him. "Then I'm glad, Sher. I couldn't have pictured you in a prison, even though there was the chance that I might have seen you again." His eyes drooped, resigned and despondent, dead. "I just want you to be careful out there, Sherlock. I know that's not you, but you've been given a rare opportunity. Please, please be careful," he croaked, eyes filling against his will.
He heard nothing for a while, as his head pounded mercilessly and his body shivered from the cold tiles. But it was nice, just knowing Sherlock was there on the other end, phone pressed to his ear.
"Greg?"
"Mmmhmm? He swallowed around a lump, choking him.
"Please watch over John? Keep him out of trouble."
"Course. You know I will. Will you be calling him next?"
"No...Mycroft told me John will meet me at the aeroport, before I take off. And before you say anything I've already asked to have you there as well but Mycroft insisted you stay away. He said it would be best if you were not seen there...with me. Especially in the interest of your potential promotion."
Bitterness raged. He swallowed it down. "He's probably right. Too many questions raised."
"Well. I don't quite know what else to say," Sherlock uttered, and Lestrade huffed a pained sigh, wiping at his face.
"Nothing, Sher. You don't have to say a word. Just tell me- tell me you'll miss me," he joked with a light tone, because he didn't want their last minutes to be torture, or awkward.
Sherlock softly chuckled, and he knew he'd said the right thing. "I'll miss the scones, of course."
"Bastard," but a soft wisp of a smile found its way to the corner of his mouth, even as he licked away trails of salt.
"I'm not very good at this sort of thing, Greg. Saying goodbye," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, crushing Lestrade's heart to bits.
"No one is, Sher. But let's just stick to, until we meet again."
A whisper. "Until we meet again."
He knew he was now all alone. Not even the reassuring breath on the other end. He dropped the phone to his lap, and broke down, completely.
Bone-crushingly tired, he went to the Chief.
"I got a call. Family emergency...there's a funeral. I'm the next of kin so…" he looked down, not even having to affect a forlorn attitude. The Chief sighed, sympathetic.
"Who died?"
Me.
"A close cousin on my mother's side." He cleared his throat. "Sally is more than qualified to take over for the next couple of days."
The Chief nodded, rubbing at his jaw. "Of course. You have the time, Greg, I know you do. You hardly ever go anywhere. Take whatever time you need." He paused and gave him a good look-over. "You look like hell. Go, do whatever you need to do."
Lestrade nodded solemnly and quietly thanked his superior. Then he turned around and left, scanning the place for Donovan. After he found her and explained the bogus situation, she nodded, eyes downcast.
"Sorry to hear, sir. I've got everything here, so don't worry."
"Thanks, Sally. Glad to hear. I'll call to check in." He went back to his office to collect his keys, and then he walked out of the Met. Back home, he lounged on his sofa, depressed and brittle, wishing for this horrible day to end. He shut off his mobile and went to his bedroom, dropping on the bed, suit and all. He didn't think it possible, but he slept.
When he woke, it was dark in the flat. The time already nine p.m. He'd slept for hours, blissfully dream-free. And he wasn't quite ready to relinquish that feeling. Closing his eyes, he was soon asleep once more.
He had a massive headache upon waking up. It was different from his typical migraines, though. This was the sort you got after you've rendered yourself a weeping, slobbering mess and had nothing left to give. Worse than a hangover headache. Not so easily curable.
He lay twisted in his blankets, jacket wrinkled and dress shirt choking him. The light from the windows hurt his bleary eyes, and did nothing positive for his head. He sat up, legs thrown over the side. He drooped, boneless, shoulders, back, neck, all aching.
The clock read ten and he suddenly, painfully, had no idea when Sherlock was leaving. He knew it was this morning. Had he already taken off, plane taking him farther away? Or was he waiting on the runway, a solitary figure dressed in black, hands clasped behind his back in silent contemplation?
The overwhelming urge to call him surged forth, his stomach convulsing from the need of it. But somehow, he stayed put, revolting against the desire. He knew it would be a mistake. They had already said their goodbyes. He closed his eyes.
He didn't tell Sherlock he loved him. He placed his head in his hands, his jaw trembling. He was going to say it. It was what people did, right? Tell someone you loved them if you were never going to see them again? But he hadn't said it. Deep down he'd been afraid. Afraid to breathe those words. Because he had no idea what he'd get in return. He refused to let their last moments between them be uncomfortable or sentimental. Sherlock would have hated it.
Or would he?
He groaned, but he wouldn't take it back. Sherlock had never openly expressed whatever it was he felt for Lestrade. And of course he never asked. Again, too cowardly to hear whatever controlled response passed those lips. He couldn't bear it. He envisioned many times how that conversation would go and each and every time it ended with a lack of 'I love you' from Sherlock. It was just as well. He couldn't dwell on it.
He stood up, legs wobbly. Making a sudden decision, he tore into his wardrobe. He found his overnight bag, throwing in trousers, and tees, thermals, jumpers, socks, pants. He strode to the bathroom, gathering his toiletries. He found some snacks in his pantry, stuffing them inside. He zipped it up, and went to shower.
He locked up his flat, hailed a cab, and went to his favourite pub. It was hardly noon but he didn't care. He sat at the bar, placing his bag on the floor next to his feet, and ordered a pint. The game was on the numerous televisions around him. A few patrons were already in their booths, nursing a drink of their own, or yelling at the screen.
His drink arrived and he thanked the bartender, laid down some bills, and took a deep swig of his Guinness. It was bliss. It was exactly what he needed, just a bit of normalcy before he got the hell out of London.
He was actually eyeing the game, finishing up his second pint, slightly buzzed, when something happened. Something impossible. Inconceivable.
As the tellys seemingly simultaneously malfunctioned, a face appeared, blurry and jagged at first, then more clear and improbable. He'd never forget that face.
Moriarty.
And he was repeating the same phrase over, and over and over.
'Did you miss me?'
And as Lestrade's jaw dropped, his heart malfunctioning, eyes clearly playing tricks on him, he had just one thought.
"Oh, Christ."