Fic: In the Valley of the Shadow
Title: In the Valley of the Shadow
Characters: DI Lestrade, John Watson
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: None intended, but could easily be read as Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: c. 2,800
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Warnings: Language; Temporary Character Death
Spoilers: for ACD canon
Beta: canonisrelative
Summary: Lestrade and John, half a year after Reichenbach, find themselves adrift.
Notes: Directly follows “The Land of the Perpetual Sunrise.” Title comes from Carl Sagan’s Billions and Billions.
Lestrade threw his keys into the bowl on the table by the door, where they landed with a less-than-satisfying clink. He stared gloomily at them for a moment, and then shrugged off his coat and dropped it onto a nearby chair before moving into the kitchen. He bypassed the fridge and went straight for the liquor cabinet. It had been a particularly awful day, more so than usual, and he supposed that after two decades of this work that was almost a good thing to be able to say. It meant that he had retained some of his humanity; that not all of it had been washed away by the job until he was nothing more than a de-sensitized shell of his former self.
But Christ, she had been young.
And she needn’t have died. None of them needed to, but this one especially could have been prevented if they had only seen -
Sherlock would have seen. He would have known.
The girl might have lived if the detective hadn’t gone and gotten himself killed, and that was perhaps the part that left the bitter taste in Lestrade’s mouth which couldn’t be washed away by the sharp liquor. His team alone still couldn’t do what Sherlock did, and Sherlock, were he still around, might have saved an innocent life.
How many had died because Sherlock wasn’t there to catch their killers in time?
How many died because Lestrade wasn’t quick enough? Wasn’t smart enough?
He padded out into the living room and stood, brooding and nursing his drink. His gaze fell on the skull on the mantel, and he glared at it for several long minutes.
“I saw your brother the other day,” Lestrade said finally, and then muttered, “Christ, I’m talking to a skull.”
And whose skull had always been the question. Even John hadn’t known, and all Sherlock had ever volunteered was that it was an ‘old friend.’ He’d had the damned thing for as long as Lestrade had known him, so the DI didn’t even have suddenly-missing acquaintances of the detective to go on. Not that it really mattered, of course. It was just another curiosity in the pile of curiosities that made up Sherlock Holmes.
“Who are you?” he muttered aloud, and poked the small mastoid process. The skull did nothing but stare eerily back, its unnaturally-wide grin broken by the fact that it lacked a mandible. Lestrade finished off the rest of his drink in one go. “Well. Doesn’t really matter. You’re Sherlock tonight, how’s that sound?”
He walked into the kitchen to make himself another drink and, after, stood for a moment considering the skull.
“You always had the worst timing,” he said eventually. “Or best, I suppose, depending on how you looked at it. Always broke into my flat just as I was considering crawling into that liquor cabinet and never coming out again. ‘Course, I always got you back - always came to your flat just as you were about to shoot up again. Christ, what a pair we made.”
He took a lengthy swallow.
“It’s been six months now, you know,” he said. “Mycroft was ever so kind to kidnap me - from a crime scene - and remind me of that fact. Said there were loose ends to tie up; your will to discuss. All proper and business-like, cool as you please, as though he hadn’t lost his only brother. Always did wonder what the rivalry was about between the two of you - I suppose it’s possible it was nothing more than the fact that he’s a right bastard.”
He didn’t mention the fact that seeing Mycroft at his crime scene sent him into a state of momentary panic, because he’d come to associate the elder Holmes with bad news. After all, the man had shown up on his doorstep in the middle of the night six months ago and brought word of Sherlock’s death. It’d been raining that night, Lestrade mused - but of course it’d been raining; Sherlock wouldn’t have gone and died on a night that was clear and beautiful. If he was going out, he was going to do it in the most clichéd manner that he could manage. No sense in dying if he couldn’t at least be dramatic about it.
And Lestrade thought, upon seeing Mycroft today, that John might have gone and done something stupid. Harmed himself, perhaps, or more likely, gone and mounted his own campaign against Moriarty and his men.
But no - the British Government had only wanted a friendly chat.
Lestrade pushed himself off the door he’d been leaning against and wandered back out into the living area, where he promptly slumped into an overstuffed chair. “s’how I ended up with this skull of yours, Sherlock, you know. John was entirely too eager to be rid it. Should’ve seen his face. I suppose having it around reminds him of you too much…I dunno. Though if that were the case you think he’d’ve moved out of Baker Street by now.”
He sucked an ice cube between his teeth; cracked it in thought. No, John would never leave Baker Street. However much it pained him to stay, Lestrade knew that it would be worse if he moved out. John wasn’t John without Baker Street - though he wasn’t really John without Sherlock either, but he had to hold on to what he could. Lestrade didn’t blame him one bit.
“Anyway. Dunno why it took six months for Mycroft to finally go about heeding your will, but there you are. Got a skull out of it. Never thought - never dreamed for a second you would want to leave anything to me, and now I’m wondering whether it was some kind of message. Or maybe the skull is just a skull and this is just some great big practical joke I’m too thick to understand.”
The last part came out excessively bitter, and Lestrade found that he’d tightened his hand into a fist. He forced himself to relax it, and continued in a much softer voice.
“I need you here to make me understand. But you’re an idiot who had to go and get himself killed, so fat lot of good you are.”
There was a beat of silence, and then Lestrade muttered, “Yeah, I know, I was expecting this. I’ve always been expecting this. I never thought you’d outlive me. Look - I was right for once.” He snorted; took a drink. “How about that.”
He set the drink aside long enough to remove his watch and work his ring off his finger. He unbuttoned his shirt down to his sternum while at the same time pushing his socks off his feet with his toes. He relaxed slightly as the combined effect of the liquor in his belly and the removal of the day’s little confinements hit him at once. He curled his freed toes into the carpet, picked up his drink again, and resumed his musings.
“We’ve been getting on all right, at the Yard. Murders solved rate’s not quite the same as when you were around, but it’s still pretty damned good. They do good work, that team. My team. They’re good people, even if you never thought so. Think they miss you, though.” Lestrade snorted. “I never thought I’d be saying those words. But they do, a little bit. They don’t miss the insults, not by a long shot, but you got better after John entered the picture. He made you better. You were almost bearable.”
He swirled the remainder of the contents in his glass for a moment, and then said, “John’s well; well as can be expected, at least. He’s taken it hard, of course, but I think there was a little part of him, too, that expected this. I think he’d have spent the rest of his life with you, though, if you’d had the sense to stay put for one moment.
“Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. See? Doesn’t sound right ‘less you say them both.”
He curled his hand into a fist; bounced it on the arm of the chair.
“Git,” he added, as an afterthought. “He needs you.”
And then, after a moment of thought: “I fucking need you.”
----
It was morning. Again.
John blinked and scrubbed at his eyes, glancing blearily around the living room.
Hadn’t it just been night?
He glanced at his watch, as though the sunlight streaming through the curtains was an elaborate trick, but no - it was morning again; start of a brand new day.
Wonderful.
John hauled himself up out of the chair where he had accidentally fallen asleep - though that happened more often than it should have, really - and stumbled into the kitchen. He put on the kettle and started rummaging through the cabinets for tea - ah, Earl Grey, Sherlock’s favorite - and sighed when he pulled out the box and realized that he would need to run to the shops after work if he wanted tea tomorrow.
Also, if he wanted to eat.
Sherlock hated eating.
Well, that wasn’t strictly true. He hated eating when working on a case - avoided it as much as he could, until he was near-fainting with lack of energy (usually about five days in) and John was all but shoving biscuits in his mouth whenever he stopped for breath. But between cases, Sherlock had a furious appetite and a wicked metabolism. John had once seen him eat the equivalent of three meals in one sitting. It was unbelievable.
He eventually decided on toast for breakfast - Sherlock liked toast - and weighed the possibility of adding eggs to that as well - Sherlock preferred his scrambled - but when he couldn’t recall how long they’d been in the fridge, he threw them in the bin instead.
He’d definitely need to go to the shops now.
Sherlock hated going to the shops.
But he’d do it for John.
Done it, John corrected himself automatically. He’d have done it for John.
John filled a mug with tea and leaned against the fridge, cradling his drink and staring blankly into nothing. He could hear Mrs. Hudson rattling about in the kitchen downstairs, and the noise from the street below rose from a steady hum to a low roar as the hour grew later and morning commuters increased. He kept a window cracked, even though it was November - Sherlock always said that he liked November the best; found the autumn morbidly appealing and the cold kept him sharp - because the heating in the flat was faulty. It spewed out too much some days, and other days not quite enough, and it didn’t matter the season because it had a mind of its own, going on and shutting off as it ruddy well pleased.
They’d meant to have it looked at. Instead, they sort of adapted themselves to it, keeping layers of clothes scattered around the living area and cracking windows and shedding jumpers when the heat became too much.
Sherlock wasn’t fond of the heat. He reveled in the cold. There’d been that one time when Lestrade had called them to a crime scene in the middle of January - in an unheated warehouse. Christ, it’d been awful, and John had huddled with the rest of the Yarders in a tight cluster while Sherlock examined the body without a bloody coat on. Oh, John had been furious, and then doubly so when Sherlock hadn’t even caught so much as a cold for his stupidity. Would have served him right.
John shifted slightly so that more of his back was against the fridge, easing the pressure on his shoulder. It acted up in sudden shifts of weather, and stiffened in the cold, so this morning hadn’t been particularly kind to it.
He’d been standing here back in March, too, just like this - holding his mug, leaning against the fridge, and looking bemused as Lestrade tried to engage him in a Serious Discussion. It’d been just after the latest attempt on Sherlock’s life - the final one before Switzerland. The detective had recovered sufficiently enough by that point to move around on his own, though it was more of a pained shuffle than his usual confident gait, but he still spent most of his time drugged and asleep. And that’s where he’d been, passed out on his bed and under a pile of blankets, while his two closest friends stood in the kitchen, discussing the finer points of his heart.
“You’ve been through a lot together,” Lestrade had commented mildly, changing the topic of conversation from whatever mundane thing they’d been discussing, and John had hummed in agreement. “He - trusts you. He’s trusted you from the start, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before.”
“He trusts you, too,” John had pointed out, but Lestrade waved him away.
“Now, perhaps, but he was wary from the start. But with you -” Lestrade had paused, dropping his gaze to the contents of his mug. “John, I hope that trust isn’t misplaced.”
“What do you mean?” John had said, bristling.
“I mean - now, don’t take this the wrong way, because I like you. You’re a good fellow. But after all this - after all you’ve been through - well, are you going to leave?”
John had stared at him in disbelief for a moment.
“Are you - are we seriously having this talk? The hurt-him-and-regret-it talk?”
Lestrade had raised an eyebrow, amused, and took a swallow from his mug, relaxing visibly as John caught on quickly to the nature of the conversation. Lestrade was a straightforward man, John had learned, and hated dancing around a subject.
“If you like. Call it what you want; I just want to make sure he - well, he’s not good on his own.”
John had snorted and shook his head. “I assure you, Lestrade, I’m pretty sure I’m stuck with him until we’re old and grey and he’s back to shooting holes in the walls for a laugh.”
“You sound very sure of that.”
“Look,” John had said, sobering, “you seem to think that I helped him - that I made him better. The fact is, he saved me. It was hard, being invalided home; having to adjust so abruptly back to civilian life. And - we fit. We work well together. I don’t know what this is - don’t spend a lot of time trying to label it - but it’s the closest I’ve ever been to another person in my life. And I’m not ever going to give that up. All right?”
“That’s - well, that’s sweet, John, but -”
“Greg,” John had interrupted. “I mean this. When I say I’m going to stay - it doesn’t mean that I’m only here because nothing better has come along yet and I’m biding my time. I’ve dated, yes, and I may one day even marry, though to be perfectly honest that doesn’t hold much of an appeal for me anymore. Whatever happens, though, I’m not leaving Baker Street. I’m not leaving him.”
“You’ve known him only a year,” Lestrade had pointed out quietly.
“And I knew within a week that I wouldn’t be leaving.”
“Huh,” Lestrade had said before taking a thoughtful sip from his mug. “I think you actually knew within a day.”
That had been the first - and only - time Lestrade had referenced the night the cabbie died. And that was also perhaps the first time that John had realized that while Lestrade was a good man - a great one, even - there were some things he was willing to push under the rug; there were certain people for whom he could look the other way.
Sherlock was one of those people - always had been, and always would be, even in death. And John - John fell under the category of “Sherlock” the moment he killed for the man, and as such earned the same sort of not-quite-legal immunity from the sometimes-too-kind Detective Inspector.
They’d treated John like chief mourner at the funeral less than two months later, even though Lestrade had known Sherlock longer; even though he’d suffered just as much from the detective’s unexplained and unexpected disappearance. John couldn’t help but feel bitter on the Lestrade’s behalf.
He’d deserved more; still did, in fact.
John glanced at the clock, realizing that he’d once again let time get away from him, and dumped the remainder of his tea in the sink. His eye caught the calendar on the way out of the kitchen, and he sighed - six months to the day.
It felt like an eternity.
And then again, it felt like no time at all.
----
Concluded in "Next Year in Jerusalem"
Characters: DI Lestrade, John Watson
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: None intended, but could easily be read as Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: c. 2,800
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Warnings: Language; Temporary Character Death
Spoilers: for ACD canon
Beta: canonisrelative
Summary: Lestrade and John, half a year after Reichenbach, find themselves adrift.
Notes: Directly follows “The Land of the Perpetual Sunrise.” Title comes from Carl Sagan’s Billions and Billions.
Lestrade threw his keys into the bowl on the table by the door, where they landed with a less-than-satisfying clink. He stared gloomily at them for a moment, and then shrugged off his coat and dropped it onto a nearby chair before moving into the kitchen. He bypassed the fridge and went straight for the liquor cabinet. It had been a particularly awful day, more so than usual, and he supposed that after two decades of this work that was almost a good thing to be able to say. It meant that he had retained some of his humanity; that not all of it had been washed away by the job until he was nothing more than a de-sensitized shell of his former self.
But Christ, she had been young.
And she needn’t have died. None of them needed to, but this one especially could have been prevented if they had only seen -
Sherlock would have seen. He would have known.
The girl might have lived if the detective hadn’t gone and gotten himself killed, and that was perhaps the part that left the bitter taste in Lestrade’s mouth which couldn’t be washed away by the sharp liquor. His team alone still couldn’t do what Sherlock did, and Sherlock, were he still around, might have saved an innocent life.
How many had died because Sherlock wasn’t there to catch their killers in time?
How many died because Lestrade wasn’t quick enough? Wasn’t smart enough?
He padded out into the living room and stood, brooding and nursing his drink. His gaze fell on the skull on the mantel, and he glared at it for several long minutes.
“I saw your brother the other day,” Lestrade said finally, and then muttered, “Christ, I’m talking to a skull.”
And whose skull had always been the question. Even John hadn’t known, and all Sherlock had ever volunteered was that it was an ‘old friend.’ He’d had the damned thing for as long as Lestrade had known him, so the DI didn’t even have suddenly-missing acquaintances of the detective to go on. Not that it really mattered, of course. It was just another curiosity in the pile of curiosities that made up Sherlock Holmes.
“Who are you?” he muttered aloud, and poked the small mastoid process. The skull did nothing but stare eerily back, its unnaturally-wide grin broken by the fact that it lacked a mandible. Lestrade finished off the rest of his drink in one go. “Well. Doesn’t really matter. You’re Sherlock tonight, how’s that sound?”
He walked into the kitchen to make himself another drink and, after, stood for a moment considering the skull.
“You always had the worst timing,” he said eventually. “Or best, I suppose, depending on how you looked at it. Always broke into my flat just as I was considering crawling into that liquor cabinet and never coming out again. ‘Course, I always got you back - always came to your flat just as you were about to shoot up again. Christ, what a pair we made.”
He took a lengthy swallow.
“It’s been six months now, you know,” he said. “Mycroft was ever so kind to kidnap me - from a crime scene - and remind me of that fact. Said there were loose ends to tie up; your will to discuss. All proper and business-like, cool as you please, as though he hadn’t lost his only brother. Always did wonder what the rivalry was about between the two of you - I suppose it’s possible it was nothing more than the fact that he’s a right bastard.”
He didn’t mention the fact that seeing Mycroft at his crime scene sent him into a state of momentary panic, because he’d come to associate the elder Holmes with bad news. After all, the man had shown up on his doorstep in the middle of the night six months ago and brought word of Sherlock’s death. It’d been raining that night, Lestrade mused - but of course it’d been raining; Sherlock wouldn’t have gone and died on a night that was clear and beautiful. If he was going out, he was going to do it in the most clichéd manner that he could manage. No sense in dying if he couldn’t at least be dramatic about it.
And Lestrade thought, upon seeing Mycroft today, that John might have gone and done something stupid. Harmed himself, perhaps, or more likely, gone and mounted his own campaign against Moriarty and his men.
But no - the British Government had only wanted a friendly chat.
Lestrade pushed himself off the door he’d been leaning against and wandered back out into the living area, where he promptly slumped into an overstuffed chair. “s’how I ended up with this skull of yours, Sherlock, you know. John was entirely too eager to be rid it. Should’ve seen his face. I suppose having it around reminds him of you too much…I dunno. Though if that were the case you think he’d’ve moved out of Baker Street by now.”
He sucked an ice cube between his teeth; cracked it in thought. No, John would never leave Baker Street. However much it pained him to stay, Lestrade knew that it would be worse if he moved out. John wasn’t John without Baker Street - though he wasn’t really John without Sherlock either, but he had to hold on to what he could. Lestrade didn’t blame him one bit.
“Anyway. Dunno why it took six months for Mycroft to finally go about heeding your will, but there you are. Got a skull out of it. Never thought - never dreamed for a second you would want to leave anything to me, and now I’m wondering whether it was some kind of message. Or maybe the skull is just a skull and this is just some great big practical joke I’m too thick to understand.”
The last part came out excessively bitter, and Lestrade found that he’d tightened his hand into a fist. He forced himself to relax it, and continued in a much softer voice.
“I need you here to make me understand. But you’re an idiot who had to go and get himself killed, so fat lot of good you are.”
There was a beat of silence, and then Lestrade muttered, “Yeah, I know, I was expecting this. I’ve always been expecting this. I never thought you’d outlive me. Look - I was right for once.” He snorted; took a drink. “How about that.”
He set the drink aside long enough to remove his watch and work his ring off his finger. He unbuttoned his shirt down to his sternum while at the same time pushing his socks off his feet with his toes. He relaxed slightly as the combined effect of the liquor in his belly and the removal of the day’s little confinements hit him at once. He curled his freed toes into the carpet, picked up his drink again, and resumed his musings.
“We’ve been getting on all right, at the Yard. Murders solved rate’s not quite the same as when you were around, but it’s still pretty damned good. They do good work, that team. My team. They’re good people, even if you never thought so. Think they miss you, though.” Lestrade snorted. “I never thought I’d be saying those words. But they do, a little bit. They don’t miss the insults, not by a long shot, but you got better after John entered the picture. He made you better. You were almost bearable.”
He swirled the remainder of the contents in his glass for a moment, and then said, “John’s well; well as can be expected, at least. He’s taken it hard, of course, but I think there was a little part of him, too, that expected this. I think he’d have spent the rest of his life with you, though, if you’d had the sense to stay put for one moment.
“Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. See? Doesn’t sound right ‘less you say them both.”
He curled his hand into a fist; bounced it on the arm of the chair.
“Git,” he added, as an afterthought. “He needs you.”
And then, after a moment of thought: “I fucking need you.”
----
It was morning. Again.
John blinked and scrubbed at his eyes, glancing blearily around the living room.
Hadn’t it just been night?
He glanced at his watch, as though the sunlight streaming through the curtains was an elaborate trick, but no - it was morning again; start of a brand new day.
Wonderful.
John hauled himself up out of the chair where he had accidentally fallen asleep - though that happened more often than it should have, really - and stumbled into the kitchen. He put on the kettle and started rummaging through the cabinets for tea - ah, Earl Grey, Sherlock’s favorite - and sighed when he pulled out the box and realized that he would need to run to the shops after work if he wanted tea tomorrow.
Also, if he wanted to eat.
Sherlock hated eating.
Well, that wasn’t strictly true. He hated eating when working on a case - avoided it as much as he could, until he was near-fainting with lack of energy (usually about five days in) and John was all but shoving biscuits in his mouth whenever he stopped for breath. But between cases, Sherlock had a furious appetite and a wicked metabolism. John had once seen him eat the equivalent of three meals in one sitting. It was unbelievable.
He eventually decided on toast for breakfast - Sherlock liked toast - and weighed the possibility of adding eggs to that as well - Sherlock preferred his scrambled - but when he couldn’t recall how long they’d been in the fridge, he threw them in the bin instead.
He’d definitely need to go to the shops now.
Sherlock hated going to the shops.
But he’d do it for John.
Done it, John corrected himself automatically. He’d have done it for John.
John filled a mug with tea and leaned against the fridge, cradling his drink and staring blankly into nothing. He could hear Mrs. Hudson rattling about in the kitchen downstairs, and the noise from the street below rose from a steady hum to a low roar as the hour grew later and morning commuters increased. He kept a window cracked, even though it was November - Sherlock always said that he liked November the best; found the autumn morbidly appealing and the cold kept him sharp - because the heating in the flat was faulty. It spewed out too much some days, and other days not quite enough, and it didn’t matter the season because it had a mind of its own, going on and shutting off as it ruddy well pleased.
They’d meant to have it looked at. Instead, they sort of adapted themselves to it, keeping layers of clothes scattered around the living area and cracking windows and shedding jumpers when the heat became too much.
Sherlock wasn’t fond of the heat. He reveled in the cold. There’d been that one time when Lestrade had called them to a crime scene in the middle of January - in an unheated warehouse. Christ, it’d been awful, and John had huddled with the rest of the Yarders in a tight cluster while Sherlock examined the body without a bloody coat on. Oh, John had been furious, and then doubly so when Sherlock hadn’t even caught so much as a cold for his stupidity. Would have served him right.
John shifted slightly so that more of his back was against the fridge, easing the pressure on his shoulder. It acted up in sudden shifts of weather, and stiffened in the cold, so this morning hadn’t been particularly kind to it.
He’d been standing here back in March, too, just like this - holding his mug, leaning against the fridge, and looking bemused as Lestrade tried to engage him in a Serious Discussion. It’d been just after the latest attempt on Sherlock’s life - the final one before Switzerland. The detective had recovered sufficiently enough by that point to move around on his own, though it was more of a pained shuffle than his usual confident gait, but he still spent most of his time drugged and asleep. And that’s where he’d been, passed out on his bed and under a pile of blankets, while his two closest friends stood in the kitchen, discussing the finer points of his heart.
“You’ve been through a lot together,” Lestrade had commented mildly, changing the topic of conversation from whatever mundane thing they’d been discussing, and John had hummed in agreement. “He - trusts you. He’s trusted you from the start, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before.”
“He trusts you, too,” John had pointed out, but Lestrade waved him away.
“Now, perhaps, but he was wary from the start. But with you -” Lestrade had paused, dropping his gaze to the contents of his mug. “John, I hope that trust isn’t misplaced.”
“What do you mean?” John had said, bristling.
“I mean - now, don’t take this the wrong way, because I like you. You’re a good fellow. But after all this - after all you’ve been through - well, are you going to leave?”
John had stared at him in disbelief for a moment.
“Are you - are we seriously having this talk? The hurt-him-and-regret-it talk?”
Lestrade had raised an eyebrow, amused, and took a swallow from his mug, relaxing visibly as John caught on quickly to the nature of the conversation. Lestrade was a straightforward man, John had learned, and hated dancing around a subject.
“If you like. Call it what you want; I just want to make sure he - well, he’s not good on his own.”
John had snorted and shook his head. “I assure you, Lestrade, I’m pretty sure I’m stuck with him until we’re old and grey and he’s back to shooting holes in the walls for a laugh.”
“You sound very sure of that.”
“Look,” John had said, sobering, “you seem to think that I helped him - that I made him better. The fact is, he saved me. It was hard, being invalided home; having to adjust so abruptly back to civilian life. And - we fit. We work well together. I don’t know what this is - don’t spend a lot of time trying to label it - but it’s the closest I’ve ever been to another person in my life. And I’m not ever going to give that up. All right?”
“That’s - well, that’s sweet, John, but -”
“Greg,” John had interrupted. “I mean this. When I say I’m going to stay - it doesn’t mean that I’m only here because nothing better has come along yet and I’m biding my time. I’ve dated, yes, and I may one day even marry, though to be perfectly honest that doesn’t hold much of an appeal for me anymore. Whatever happens, though, I’m not leaving Baker Street. I’m not leaving him.”
“You’ve known him only a year,” Lestrade had pointed out quietly.
“And I knew within a week that I wouldn’t be leaving.”
“Huh,” Lestrade had said before taking a thoughtful sip from his mug. “I think you actually knew within a day.”
That had been the first - and only - time Lestrade had referenced the night the cabbie died. And that was also perhaps the first time that John had realized that while Lestrade was a good man - a great one, even - there were some things he was willing to push under the rug; there were certain people for whom he could look the other way.
Sherlock was one of those people - always had been, and always would be, even in death. And John - John fell under the category of “Sherlock” the moment he killed for the man, and as such earned the same sort of not-quite-legal immunity from the sometimes-too-kind Detective Inspector.
They’d treated John like chief mourner at the funeral less than two months later, even though Lestrade had known Sherlock longer; even though he’d suffered just as much from the detective’s unexplained and unexpected disappearance. John couldn’t help but feel bitter on the Lestrade’s behalf.
He’d deserved more; still did, in fact.
John glanced at the clock, realizing that he’d once again let time get away from him, and dumped the remainder of his tea in the sink. His eye caught the calendar on the way out of the kitchen, and he sighed - six months to the day.
It felt like an eternity.
And then again, it felt like no time at all.
----
Concluded in "Next Year in Jerusalem"