Title: An Unconventional Requiem
Title: An Unconventional Requiem
Author: ghislainem70
Word count: 750
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.
Summary: Sherlock has his own ideas about what constitues a proper Requiem.
Warnings: grave illness of major characters, reference to death of noncharacters.
Written for Cycle 4, Round 4 of Thegameison_sh: The theme: "Timeless Requiem," and very proud it tied for first place in a very competitive round, the last one until May 2012. Enjoy.
Westminster Cathedral was filled near to overflowing. But this occasion was not a royal wedding, nor a royal funeral.
The occasion was, sadly, more commonplace than either.
Today was the annual Solemn Requiem Mass of the Catholic Police Guild for police officers recently deceased. The Metropolitan Police’s Male Choir sang the liturgy, doleful and majestic. Row after row of dark-uniformed police bowed their heads and paid respect to their departed fellow officers.
One figure did not bow his head.
Instead, he was fuming, glancing distractedly between his watch and the great doors of Westminster. He refused several officers a place next to him. That place was being held for John.
But John did not come.
This year’s Requiem Mass was distinguished by following immediately upon the funeral of two officers, Renwick and Ellis, who had died in a bombing that very week. A third officer was gravely wounded. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, at the last minute, agreed to join them for a game of racquetball, protesting that his record as a marksman would likely not carry over onto the court.
He never got a chance to find out.
The official line was that the officers had been deliberately targeted. Drug lords, Islamic extremists, and disaffected youths were variously blamed.
Evidence was scant.
* * *
“How long does a man live?” Bishop Stack looked out over the throng of officers. “They live, we are taught, in our memories, and in our experiences, long after they have gone. It is our recollections that keep them alive. Remember your fallen brothers, and especially Officers Renwick and Ellis, who fell to a brutal and senseless bomb attack, just five days past.
“Let us pray.”
* * *
In the silence before the prayers for the dead, Sherlock sprang to his feet.
“Remember them! Remember your fallen brothers!” He shouted, striding between the pews, his voice echoing amongst the stone pillars. “Praying won’t bring them back. Don’t you see, the way to honor the dead -- is to avenge them. None of you should be here. On your knees. Waste of time. You should be out - solving crimes. That is the way to honor dead policemen.”
There was a general uproar as policemen protested: some leaped forward to restrain Sherlock, but he was too quick. He was in the front pews now, where the pallbearers from the funeral sat.
“Sit down, sir,” the Bishop ordered, scandalized.
“Willingly. After all of the pallbearers remove their gloves. Now.”
The pallbearers stared up at Sherlock, pale and furious, an avenging angel. The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police pulled at Sherlock’s shoulder. “Mr. Holmes. Stop this or I’ll have you arrested.”
“Arrest me: but make them take off their gloves.”
“What’s this about, Mr. Holmes?”
“You know my record: Do it, and I promise you will do more for your dead officers than a hundred Requiems.”
The Commissioner nodded at the pallbearers, who began removing their gloves. Gloves which had just lowered the dead officers into their graves.
The last pallbearer was shaking, shrinking in his seat.
The others stared at him, and then up to Sherlock, looking grimly triumphant. Before the man could flee, two pallbearers tackled him and forcibly removed his gloves. They handed them to Sherlock with awe.
Sherlock turned them out.
The insides of the gloves were stained with brilliant blue blotches.
* * *
“I arranged for gloves saturated with a reagent of my own invention to be substituted for their own gloves,” Sherlock announced. “The pallbearers were made to change their gloves for the final handling of the caskets. It reacts to the minutest of traces of very particular type of explosive. An explosive, I might add, stolen from police evidence. Renwick had caught our pallbearer - his best friend - stealing from the evidence room: drugs, money, guns. Renwick was going to turn him in.”
Sherlock handed the gloves to the Commissioner; at his signal, officers took the pallbearer swiftly away to general uproar.
“There’s a proper Requiem, Bishop,” Sherlock said, and strode out of Westminster Cathedral.
Row by row, officers rose to thank him.
He paid them no mind whatsoever.
* * *
Sherlock entered to the quiet hospital room where Lestrade was recovering. John was there, wan and exhausted. Lestrade was still unconscious.
Observing Sherlock’s formal suit, John smacked his forehead.
“The Requiem Mass. Sorry, Sherlock. I -“
“There were some departures from the traditional service,” Sherlock said.
He leaned down close to Lestrade’s ear and whispered. Lestrade’s eyes fluttered.
John could almost swear the ghost of a smile crossed his lips.
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