A/N: Thank you to everyone that read and reviewed With Bated Breath, it means quite a lot to me!
There is a scene here than references the deleted hospital scene from His Last Vow. It's not necessary to watch it (though you really should anyway because it's so perfectly awkward and creepy) and can easily be found on Youtube if anyone is interested. Enjoy!
The train arrived at the Brighton station that evening without trouble or delay, and Lestrade was immediately able to get a cab. As the sun set they drove through the streets, still quite crowded, despite the cold. Not as stifling as in the summertime, however. The cabbie dropped him off right in front of the cottage and he paid, slowly getting out with his bag.
He always loved coming here, his old family holiday home. It'd been in the family forever and was surely worth a pretty penny but he didn't care about that. He'd never sell it. No matter how few times he'd been there the older he got, the days he spent there were worth everything to him.
Mere yards from the chalk cliff, the view was remarkable and priceless. As the cold breeze stirred his short hair, he thought the view might have to wait till morning. He took out his keys, walked up the path and unlocked the door. Dusty air greeted him, but again, he didn't mind.
As much as he loved London, the nostalgia he got when he came to Brighton was like a claw, threatening to pull him in, keep him there a while longer. He put his bag down and turned on the lights, looking around. Aside from the dust, not much had changed since his last visit. His aunt Beth also had a key, and free reign to come and go as she pleased, but it didn't look like she'd been there much either.
He sighed, and went to the kitchen. He'd have to go shopping in the morning for a few necessities, since his snacks wouldn't tide him over. He could call for takeaway, but he really didn't want to disturb the quiet. He turned on the tap to get some water and went to the living room, sinking into the well-worn sofa cushions. The light outside had completely disappeared, and even though it wasn't late, he was still very tired.
He sat very still, limbs aching. He took out his mobile but did nothing further with it. Since leaving London, he hadn't checked in with the news, or with his guys down at the Met. After the Moriarty shock, he went away, refusing to look back. He didn't want to deal with that, not on top of everything else. He was sticking to his plan.
Now he brooded, glass of water hardly touched. That awful self-pity was getting to him again, he thought, with a grotesque curl of his lip. The headache refused to go away, lingering menacingly for hours at a time. Sleep was the only time he could escape it. Suddenly, that sounded like a wonderful idea. He got up and went to the master bedroom, setting his glass on the nightstand.
He threw back all the blankets and covers and slowly undressed to his tee and pants. Then he got in, chilled and tired, and fell asleep.
He made tea. It was still chilly in the cottage but soon enough the radiators were doing their thing, after sitting idle for so long. His phone on the counter stayed silent. After he stirred the sugar in, he snatched a granola bar from his bag, grabbed his favourite navy jumper, and went outside.
He walked along the flat stones of the patio, sun bright, yet ineffective overhead. The sea was grey and uninviting, but so wonderful to gaze at. He set his meager breakfast down on the small patio table, and pulled the thick jumper over his head. It was cold, and desolate, but the damn sun kept shining. He sat, staring out over the horizon, at the bleak sky and the crashing waves, and found a strange sort of peace.
It was calming, in a way. He felt completely alone, bereft of life or happiness, but the sea calmed him down, the dark waters mesmerizing and mysterious. He took a sip of his Twinings, barely registering the burning of his tongue. The wind periodically whipped at his face, and his fingers were starting to freeze, but he didn't want to go inside. Not just yet.
Because of the crunching of his granola bar and the whirling wind around him, he hardly noticed the softer sounds of footsteps approaching. His eyes on the horizon he didn't see the solitary figure slowly approaching, not until the tell-tale footfalls got louder.
Lestrade turned his head and froze.
The vision in front of him must have been just that. A specter, or a figment of his depraved imagination. There'd be absolutely no logical way in hell he should find Sherlock Holmes standing in the garden of his family's home, clad in slate grey trousers, Belstaff buttoned tight, collar up to his cheekbones, raven hair whipping back and forth. Cheeks and nose flushed red from the winter chill. Eyes like the sea, dark and stormy. Hands perpetually stuffed inside that great coat of his, his armor, really.
The vision spoke.
"Hello, Greg."
He stood, eyes wide, startled. "Jesus."
Sherlock's lip curled at one corner. "No, sorry."
His heart nearly gave out, as the specter in front of him was very much real. He clenched his jaw, mostly to prevent it from falling, but he couldn't move from his spot. Sherlock must have seen something in his eyes, because he took a couple cautious steps closer.
Lestrade was now shaking, but it might have been from the cold. "I thought you'd left," he swallowed harshly.
Sherlock's head shifted slightly towards the sea, lips pursed. "I had. Left. I was in the air. And then I got a call from Mycroft. And the plane turned around."
Lestrade frowned, eyes narrowed. "Why?" But he suddenly knew, and all he had to do was watch the shift in Sherlock's eyes, pensive to malice.
"Moriarty," he answered himself. "They must have seen...the video played everywhere, didn't it?"
"Mmm," was Sherlock's dry reply. "I got the call telling me I had to return."
Lestrade crossed his arms. "Why? Because he's back, and you're the only one who can stop him?" He didn't mean for it to sound so caustic, but his blood was boiling. Sherlock shrugged minutely.
"I thought you said he was dead. You told me you watched him-"
"I know what I told you, and I know what I saw. I was there. I watched him take a gun and plunge it down his throat. I saw the blood covering the gravel on the roof, on his face," he turned back towards Lestrade, eyes dark and calculating.
Lestrade sighed. "So how'd he do it, then?" he asked, genuinely curious. Another shrug. "I suspect that's why I've been sent back."
"For how long?" he whispered. Sherlock searched his face, the fire going out of his eyes, dulled and placid once more. "Indefinitely."
His heart stuttered and he ducked his head, chin sliding under the collar of his jumper for warmth as he shifted his crossed arms higher. "So now what? How did you know where I was? I didn't even tell my boss where I was going."
Another quirk of his mouth, Sherlock's eyes turning sly and playful. "Mycroft checked in with your family. When it was quickly surmised you weren't where you claimed you would be, I knew you'd be here."
"How?" he demanded. Sherlock looked at him in bemusement. "Because you told me once this was your favourite place to escape to."
Lestrade blinked, glancing quickly away, uncomfortable. "Never thought you were actually listening. You were quite a mess back then."
"I'm always listening."
Lestrade turned back, a gust of wind chilling his body. He uncrossed his arms and stuffed his numb hands inside his denim pockets. "And what about Magnussen?"
Sherlock's disposition soured, eyes growing cool. "What about him?"
"So that's it then? He dies and no one is to blame and it's all swept under the rug? What if someone finds out?"
"Then Mycroft will deal with it, as it would be one of his men that snitches. John won't. Mary certainly won't. You're the only person that actually knows what happened that day," his eyes flashed in challenge.
Lestrade shook his head. "Don't look at me like that, Sherlock. Like you'd even have to ask that. Like I'd ever tell," he spat, fists clenching inside his pockets.
"I wasn't questioning, I was merely stating a fact. No one needs to know. I think we can all agree that we have bigger issues to deal with at present."
The chill that coursed through him had nothing to do with the winter breeze. "How do you plan to do that?"
"I shall wait. If it's true, Moriarty will come out of hiding soon enough. And then I'll deal with it," he simply said, eyes searching the expanse of sea. Lestrade sighed.
"I didn't come here to talk about Moriarty," Sherlock stated, eyes still casually on the water.
Lestrade's heart picked up speed, fingers pricking with unease. "Then why?"
Sherlock licked his lips, just a quick flash of tongue, there and gone. "To apologise."
He froze, unsure of where this was going to go. Uneasily, he pointed to an empty chair. "Sit."
Sherlock did, after a beat, debating whether to listen or not. So he sat, back straight, hands still stuffed inside his expensive coat. Lestrade sat back down as well, trying not to fidget.
"I know you think me incapable, but I do feel remorse for pulling you into this Magnussen debacle."
Debacle. Lestrade pursed his lips. Murder, to Sherlock, was a 'debacle'. He refrained his sigh.
"There was no intent that evening. I only meant to barter, or at the most, frame Magnussen for theft. Mycroft's laptop is quite possibly the most important piece of technology in all of the UK. I figured he'd salivate with glee if he saw I was serious."
"But your plan didn't work. Wouldn't be the first time, though I didn't really think you capable-"
"And that is your first mistake, Greg. You don't want to think of me as capable of murdering someone, but you'd be wrong. I wasn't exaggerating my MI6 activities. I killed people. Moriarty's men. And I was glad to do so, for what he put us through. I have no qualms. So what's one less pariah, leeching off of innocent victims simply for power? I don't expect you to understand," he said with a weary, snide sigh. "I simply wished to give something back to John, who stood by me, and never believed the rumours."
Lestrade glared. "That's right, I forgot, he's the only friend you've got," he threw back with a sneer, and Sherlock looked at him, expression lost.
"Well, he is," Sherlock declared with raised brows.
"You have some nerve, Holmes," he growled, and suddenly, realization dawned on Sherlock's face.
"Oh god, please don't tell me you're this idiotic?" Lestrade gaped, eyes filled with indignation. Sherlock's brows dipped. "Oh, honestly, Greg, you don't actually think-"
"Sherlock, I seriously hope you didn't come all this way, to my home, just to insult what we've had together," he said in a dark voice, all steel and venom.
"That's exactly my point!" Sherlock jumped out of his chair, briskly pacing back and forth. Lestrade watched, confused and irritated, and more than aggrieved.
"You think you feel betrayed by my omission but I assure you, it was consciously done, because while I consider John to be my greatest and closest friend, I do not believe I can place you near him."
Oh it stung. To have it spelled out after so long. Finally. An answer to his long-debated question. But the truth was he was near fifty one years old and felt like his heart had just been trampled on, mockingly and brutally, without fanfare.
Everything he wanted to shout right now never made it past his lips as an unsettling calm came over him, and his blood turned cool with loathing. He looked up at Sherlock, eyes boring a hole into that genius brain of his.
"I'm not sure how you even thought coming here was a good idea, Sherlock. But you've pretty much eradicated whatever sympathy I might have had for your situation. It appears that my willingness to forgive is infinite in its nature when it comes to you. But now you need to get the fuck out of my house and as far away from me as humanly possible." He clasped his hands on the small table in front of him, eyes staring calmly at the dark figure above him.
Sherlock's body seemingly buckled, throat working compulsively. He put his arms out. "Greg."
Lestrade very slowly closed his eyes, that last bit of restraint evaporating.
"Greg. You haven't been listening."
A tick was forming on his left temple, as his fingers squeezed together in prayer. Eyes opened wide.
"Are you serious? I think I've listened to quite enough. I'd really prefer if you shut up now and got out."
"Greg, you of all people have to see- I'd have thought you understood." He paced, arms flapping madly at his sides, fingers splaying wide. He stopped again over Greg, eyes stormy and determined. "I can't believe you don't see!"
"What the fuck, Sherlock!" He sprang to his feet, thoroughly done with the caustic, cryptic rambling. He faced the younger man, even now breathtakingly beautiful. God he was pathetic. "What don't I fucking see? What am I blind to now?"
Sherlock looked distressed, but more so flustered and nervous. His hands wiped across his mouth, a clear indication of falling apart. He licked his lips, taking a fast, laborious breath.
"You're not like John, Greg. He could never be like you."
Lestrade internally groaned. "Yes, got it! John's perfect and loyal and I'm shit. Are we done?"
Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. "God...you're still not listening. John's my friend, yes but you, you…"
"I'm not." he spat."
"Yes. No. No, you're not my friend," and his arms spread out, encompassing the space around him.
He tensed, fists clenched at his sides. "Then what, Sherlock? What am I if not you're friend?" He didn't realize he was shouting until he saw the startled anguish on Sherlock's face.
"Everything." Sherlock swallowed. "Everything. You are...everything." He suddenly ducked his head, dark billowy curls obscuring his pale face. "I'd have thought it obvious," he whispered, slipping his hands back inside his coat.
Lestrade stilled absolutely, so that he could actually hear the shuddering breath leave his lips. Sheer astonishment took over, rendering him speechless. Mouth agape, he brought his arm up, grabbing onto the back of the chair for steadiness, his heart threatening escape.
Sherlock was watching him now, face perfectly blank, serene. Waiting. Lestrade caught his eyes, his mouth working open, close, unable to form coherent words. His chest ached, but this time from too much elation, threatening to drown him, to break him.
"Sherlock," he managed finally, throat clogged uncomfortably. "Did you just...are you actually telling me that you…" he couldn't even say it, for that would make it real. And Sherlock would never be able to take it back.
Sherlock looked up towards the heavens, a deep sigh resonating. "Yes, and I'd rather we dispense with the sentiment, if you don't mind."
Lestrade smiled, and that rapidly turned into a grin, too wide for his face, so long since he'd last felt anything like this. He tried to rein it in when he saw Sherlock's face, dangerously bordering eye-roll stage. He looked down, biting his lip, taking a deep breath.
Finally he was calm enough to meet Sherlock's face again. He put on his most serious expression, but was pretty sure he failed miserably. He slowly crept over to Sherlock's still form. Swallowing around the large lump, he raised his arms, and brought his cool hands to Sherlock's face, fingertips barely touching.
He searched those fathomless eyes for anything off, anything that he might have misinterpreted. But there was nothing but serenity, and yes, even a touch of affection. He leaned in, thumbs grazing cheekbones as the rest of his fingers tenderly caressed his neck, gently, fondly. His lips met Sherlock's and it was perfect. It had always been perfect, but this was the first time that he felt utterly loved. And he had almost lost it all.
He withdrew, eyes softly closed as he breathed in Sherlock's scent. It was intoxicating and he never wanted to be without it again.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry I never realized, never thought-" He licked his lips, a deep frown creasing his brow. "I'm an idiot, I know. You were right. I should have known. I should have just trusted my instincts. There were times when I thought it might be true, and I was happy."
"It's probably my fault," said Sherlock. "I'm not very good at this...relationship business," he frowned, taking a deep huff. Lestrade pulled him in, arms wrapping possessively around his neck, fingers plunging through inky hair.
"We don't have to define this, Sherlock. I don't care about any of that. I just, I don't want anyone but you. I don't want to even think of that possibility. And I was fully prepared to be alone forever after you left. And I don't know why we make sense, but I can't stop thinking about you because you mean everything to me, too. I'm sorry, I'm rambling. You can stop me any time now," he quipped, leaning back.
Sherlock looked bemused. "I'm aware," he said, voice nearly swept away by the cool breeze. His cheeks and nose were pink with cold. "And that's why I needed to come here. I needed to apologise," he stated with all seriousness. "I know you're angry. I know you can't stand the thought of what I did to Magnussen. But after Mycroft called me back I barely spared him a glance before I dashed back to Scotland Yard. When they said you'd left, I went to Baker Street and called my brother to find you. Then I got on the train over here. I needed to see you."
Lestrade clenched his jaw. "Are you really staying?"
"Only if you'll still have me," he said, almost shyly, but his eyes were glued to Lestrade's. The older man took a breath and smiled in disbelief. "Now who's the idiot?"
Sherlock's eyes softened with mirth and he ducked his head before composing himself. Lestrade found himself chuckling at the sight. It was too surreal. He reached for Sherlock's hand. "Come on, it's bloody freezing out here."
"Wait." Sherlock's face took on a serious tone and Lestrade stilled, eyes questioning.
"What is it?"
Sherlock looked down at Lestrade's hand, a glacial expression overtaking his face. He licked his lips and looked up at Lestrade.
"Magnussen came to the hospital."
Lestrade froze, unsure of where this was going.
"He came during the day and all I could do was lie there, drugged and lethargic." Bitterness raged in his tone and his eyes were dark. "You don't know, Greg. You never saw. This wasn't a man. I was at my weakest then and he sat by my bed and he took my hand," he snarled, "and he brought my hand up to his mouth, like a promise, or a threat."
Lestrade's blood chilled as he stared at the younger man, watched as his face turned to revulsion, to hatred. It was deeply unsettling and frankly horrifying. He looked down at their hands again and he squeezed. Sherlock blinked, as if he were lost in his own raging thoughts.
"You don't know, Greg. The depravity that was within him. You don't know what he would have done. To John and Mary. To me. He would have seen. Sooner or later he would have seen it. Seen you. And I couldn't allow that to happen."
Lestrade felt ill. He rubbed a thumb across Sherlock's palm, attempting to erase the memory of Magnussen's touch. Just the thought of this man laying his hands on Sherlock so intimately. How he dared… Pure hatred coursed through him, and he pulled Sherlock in, enveloping him, wanting to feel him close and near. And Sherlock obliged.
Long fingers clawed at his back, his neck. Cool, dry lips smashed against his own, merciless and desperate. Lestrade returned in kind, hands fisting Sherlock's hair almost painfully. Out of breath he pulled back, staring at the flushed face in front of him.
"I'm sorry," he whispered raggedly. "I didn't realize…" He shook his head, attempting to rid his mind of the cringe-worthy images springing forth. "It doesn't matter. You don't have to explain, Sherlock." He stepped back slightly, to properly look at Sherlock. "John was right. I would have given anything to have you back," he said resolutely. "Anything else doesn't matter."
"You're going to tell me it doesn't bother you? What I did?"
Lestrade sighed. "You're a good person, Sherlock. This much I know. And I've known you for years. You can't convince me otherwise," he said with a soft smirk. "I told you that I trust you and that's still true today. And you're here, he emphasized.
"I am," Sherlock said, eyes placid and bright. The younger detective briefly looked away, composure wavering. "And I'd rather stay a while, if you don't mind."
Lestrade smiled. "I'd never mind."
Sherlock's face was warm with relief, eyes unbelievably open and content. "Shall we then?" he asked, his head inclining towards the house.
"What about Moriarty?" Lestrade suddenly asked, eyes dark with worry. A flash of unease crossed Sherlock's face before it melted into another smile. A slow-spreading, lascivious smirk that caused Lestrade's pulse to escalate.
Sherlock reached for Lestrade's hand, long, chilled fingers grasping firmly as he slowly led the older man towards the door.
"Moriarty can wait, I think."
Lestrade nodded automatically, following Sherlock indoors, away from the frost and the wind. Away from the outside world. Even now he was being led blindly. He stared down at their clasped hands, watched as Sherlock threw a sly smirk over his shoulder, and suddenly didn't care.
He already knew it was futile to fight it. He'd follow Sherlock anywhere.
End.