Sherlock Fic: An Empty Station (2/4)
Day 1
Lestrade doesn't believe it when the security guard out front of St. Bart's straightens at the snap of command in his tone, stammers it out. “There was-a man, he-no one saw, and there was this noise when he-just, there, right there-”
There is a smear of blood on the walk, about a foot away from the eaves of the building. Just exactly where it'd be if someone-
“Someone call it in?”
“Yessir. It only just-they've only just gotten the body inside.”
Lestrade spins to stare at him. “When did this happen?”
The man looks at his watch, blinks slowly. “I...about ten minutes, sir? I don't...”
Right. Suicide, outside a hospital. He's beaten the response team from the station. The timing of Mycroft's text message just minutes ago scares him outright now.
John will need you.
And someone just-
“Oh, God,” he says aloud. “Was there someone else with him?” It can't be.
“No sir, he was the only one-”
“Not on the roof, was there another man with him here! Who went inside with him?”
The man's face clears, relieved to have a solid answer. “Yessir. There was a shorter chap, came over to check the pulse, said he was a friend. He went in with them, but he was woozy, didn't look- ”
It wasn't Sherlock. Couldn't have been. Not with that much blood on the walk. No.
Lestrade slams inside the building and sprints down the corridor. Antiseptic and floor polish burn in his nostrils. He doesn't know where he's going, so he pivots around the next corner and makes for the nearest nurse station. He reaches into his coat for his warrant card, remembers he doesn't have it. He completes the motion anyway and slaps his palm down on the desk, hand spread. The nurse jumps in alarm. “Police,” he snaps. “Tell me where that man went.”
She quails back from him. “I'm sorry, sir, who did you come to-”
“For-the one that just fell off the bloody building!”
She points silently to the left.
The left is where Molly works.
The left is the morgue.
It's barely been ten minutes, and she's pointing him at the morgue.
Lestrade has no idea what's going on, exactly, but he's scared to death. He tells himself it's impossible (improbable), ridiculous (unlikely). Of course it's connected to Sherlock, but he's being paranoid, just because of one text, there's no reason to assume-
He turns the corner.
And he sees John Watson.
John is sitting on the floor at the end of the hallway. His knees are curled up to his chest. As he approaches, Lestrade can see that he's bleeding a bit from the side of his head.
He's staring at the doors to the morgue, eyes glassy. And his face is...
Oh, Greg thinks with a kind of perfect clarity. Oh, my God.
Day 9
The morning of Tuesday, May 29th , is bright and clear, the kind of early summer day that's only properly done in England. Seems like an insulting day for a funeral, honestly. Lestrade gets up at the crack of dawn and paces the flat for two hours until it's time to go. He has a necktie on until he reaches the door, but at the last second he tears it off and throws it to the floor.
He's always hated wearing them. Besides, he can't bear the thought of showing up looking like the kind of stuffed-up bureaucrat Sherlock despised. Respect today probably means a bit of insubordination, and the thought makes him lighter.
No church, of course. Sherlock wouldn't abide it, and Mycroft gives no signs of following propriety for propriety's sake in this. It's an apology, as much as the Holmes siblings were ever capable of them. Graveside turns out not to be an option either-Sherlock donated his body to science (which is totally unsurprising), and there's still too much media interest surrounding the whole thing. Anywhere in town would breed too many lookie-loos, journalists digging for photos and pointed questions. Too many opportunities for John or Greg or Mike Stamford to knock someone flat for making a smart-arse comment about the crackpot detective. Too many easy excuses for Mycroft to make someone disappear to Lebanon.
So the service actually gets held out in the country at the old Holmes estate, which Lestrade hadn't realized existed until now. Despite the fact that it's supposed to be a quiet affair with only a few dozen people, by the time Lestrade pulls up it's hard to find a parking spot in the huge ring of grass in the middle of the sweeping drive. He steps out of the car and just stands there a minute, hands on the bonnet. The sharp smell of grass and the heavy perfume of lilacs make his head heavy. He hasn't gotten this much fresh air in months. Sunlight slants bright across the shingles of the house, which is old and stately. It looks nothing like a place that he can imagine Sherlock growing up in; he wonders if they spent any time here, or whether it's just a place to own. Fat beams of mid-morning sunlight streak across the entrance into the garden around the back of the house. That's where the ceremony will be. It's crowded out to the yard already; Lestrade can see the backs of a few people queuing, waiting for an empty fold-out chair.
He recognizes some of them, enough to guess. Clients, the lot of them. The ones that Sherlock helped, the ones he saved, the ones he annoyed and belittled and ultimately won. The ones he supposedly tricked and betrayed and victimized, here to pay their respects. That speaks louder than anything else.
He's had to park in the very lee of the drive, which means he has an odd view along the line of the tall hedge that hems the garden toward the house. Which means he has the perfect angle to spot Mycroft Holmes, half-hidden in a small nook of shrubbery, immaculately suited, elbows tucked in to avoid snags. Smoking a cigarette.
For just a moment, Lestrade looks at him in profile, shadowed by the hedge, with the cigarette tipped lightly between two fingers, and he misses Sherlock so much that he can't breathe properly.
It's stunning to him.
He'd always half-expected to find Sherlock dead somewhere-initially because of the drugs, and later because of the mad chasing after criminals, and sometimes both at once. He's thought about it almost longingly at times, not seriously, imagining the day when the nuisance was off his hands.
Now, in the face of it, the reality is none of those things. He's lost a friend.
Lestrade closes his eyes for a moment. Breathes in the air. Taps his fingertips against the car just to feel something on his nerves. When he opens his eyes again, feeling more centered, Mycroft is standing directly in front of him, blocking the sun. He's still holding the cigarette in his left hand, though there's only a few good pulls left on it.
“Inspector,” Mycroft greets him, quietly. Like they're in a club somewhere instead of outside in the sunlight.
“Greg,” he corrects without thinking. He blinks at himself, finds that he means it. “Seriously,” he says. “We've earned that, haven't we?”
Mycroft gives him half a smile. It's entirely fake, and Lestrade can't bear to look at it. “Greg,” Mycroft says on a sigh. “Shall we?” He gestures at the garden.
Lestrade swallows, thickly. “Yeah. Alright.”
Neither of them move.
After a moment of silence, Lestrade reaches out, nabs the cigarette from Mycroft's fingers, and takes the last solid lungful out of the end. The smoke clears his head, settles his hands. He wants another one. He wants a thousand. He pinches the stub out on the roof of his car and flicks the remains into the gravel of the drive instead. Mycroft makes a huffing noise.
“Those things'll kill you,” Lestrade informs him seriously.
“Yes,” Mycroft agrees.
“John get here?”
“Yes. It's about to start.”
They go toward the garden together. Mycroft leaves him at the entrance with a nod. Lestrade finds a seat near the back and settles in, the smell of lilacs strong in his nose and the taste of smoke still lingering on his tongue.
Day 17
Despite all official policy, precedent, and common sense, Lestrade does in fact keep his job. In fact, he is reinstated to his former position with nothing more than a disciplinary note attached to his service file. The probationary period still stands on his record, which hardly matters, since he's never cared for the thought of being promoted up to a desk job anyway.
Before he quite knows what's going on, he's back at his desk on a Wednesday, staring at the files that have built up waiting for him. Outside in the bullpen, Anderson is quietly packing up his things and moving out. He's been reassigned to another unit, requested it as soon as he heard Lestrade was staying, and Greg can't blame him for it. For the best, probably, especially since it sounds like he and Sally have had another falling out. Donovan is staying, though she's on holiday this week, probably because of whatever break-up she just suffered through.
He stares out the window at the people, the place he knows so well. He feels a prickling in his skin that has a lot to do with being home, and a bit to do with being watched.
There's a plaque on his door now with his name on it. He's never had one of those before.
Lestrade knows the work of Mycroft Holmes when he sees it. He should probably call and say thank you, once he stops being grateful and angry in equal measures.
Day 11
Lestrade is minding his own business, trying to find ways to fill up his days while he waits for news from the probationary committee. Then one of Mycroft's black cars accosts him at the kerb outside of the bakery, two minutes past noon, and that's the end of lying low. He slides in, resigned. The leather of the seat is smooth and supple against his palms. The woman sitting across is vaguely familiar from one or two of the times this has happened before; brunette, petite, absorbed in her blackberry.
Lestrade stares her down, just to see if he'll get anything. Her eyes snap up from her blackberry and look him over, intense and concentrated. It's frightening. Something in her face softens at his reaction. She looks back down as she says, “Your presence is required at the reading of Sherlock Holmes' last will and testament, as per his written request.”
“What?” he asks, stupidly. “We've already done the funeral!” She doesn't reply, which he's immediately grateful for. He doesn't manage another word until they pull up outside of Mycroft's bloody pretentious silent club, where a footman leads him through the quiet halls and up into a meeting room.
John, Mrs Hudson, and Mycroft are already in attendance. Over in the corner, a straight-backed, grey-haired man who is presumably some kind of solicitor sits with a briefcase open in his lap. Mycroft clears his throat and entirely fails to sound unassuming and casual when he says, “In-Greg. Thank you for joining us.”
Lestrade and John exchange a speaking look. John actually rolls his eyes, which Greg admires him for. He brushes a hand over Mrs Hudson's shoulder, is surprised when she catches his fingers in a comforting squeeze before he manages to take it back. He ends up settled in the chair on her other side, in a row with Mrs Hudson and John Watson, in a position that does not by any rights belong to him.
Except that Sherlock asked him here, apparently, and Mycroft is gesturing to the stranger in the room and saying, “Mr Livins has been the solicitor of the Holmes family estate for many years, and as such he has assisted me in the executing of Sherlock's will, such as it is. If you'll all bear with us...”
Sherlock, it turns out, had a lot of money. Some kind of family inheritance that he apparently only ever spent on clothes, not to mention whatever he earned doing consulting. Lestrade's not sure why he's surprised by that. A lot of it goes to Bart's, along with the body, for things like research and scholarships. Nice of him, really. Lestrade wonders if they'll take it, now that Sherlock's name is a tabloid buzzword.
Mrs Hudson receives a substantial sum-enough to leave her silent with a hand over her mouth. The will specifies it as a retroactive payment for damages done to Baker Street. She also gets a large manilla folder that contains unspecified documents involving “a particular incident in Georgia.” No one asks.
John gets everything else. Literally everything. Bank accounts, objects of possession, ownership of stocks in six different countries. Passwords to his own electronic devices, which Sherlock delighted in changing continually. A hand-written list of where to find things in the flat, which Lestrade purposefully doesn't glance at. Sherlock specifically wills John the skull “for its exemplary conversational abilities”, which makes him bark out a laugh and put his head in his hands.
And finally they've reached the end, and Lestrade is feeling confused and a little irritated. He raises his eyebrows at Mycroft, who clears his throat again, quietly. “Yes,” he says. “Mr Livins--” The other man reaches into his briefcase and pulls out an envelope. He hands it to Mycroft, who twirls it between his fingers for a moment before he hands it over to Lestrade.
Lestrade takes it and looks it over. There's nothing written on it, not even his name. He looks over at John, who shrugs, then at Mycroft, who shakes his head. “I have no idea,” Mycroft admits. That must sting. “It was in amongst the other papers he'd left with me, and it is most certainly for you.”
Sherlock left him an envelope (a clue) without a single bit of explanation or concern (come on, Inspector, keep up!). That is bloody typical.
“Right,” he says. He looks at it for a moment longer before he tucks it into coat pocket.
“You're not going to open it?” Mrs Hudson asked the question, but it's clear that John and Mycroft and even Mr Livins are badly hiding their curiosity.
“Might explode on me,” Lestrade says wryly.
He can't bear the thought of opening it. Not with other people here. He's relieved when no one calls him on it, and they all leave the Diogenes Club in peace.
Greg puts the sealed letter in a drawer of his desk at home, and he leaves it there.
Day 19
The Friday after Lestrade's first day back at the Yard, Sally shows up at his flat around dinner time, dressed down and rocking on her heels, nervous.
“Hey,” she says.
Lestrade blinks at her. She's supposed to be out on leave until next week. “Hey,” he returns, and steps back to let her in. “Did I forget something?”
She turns abruptly to look at him, arms crossed over her chest. “Yeah, I think you did,” she tells him. Her tone is biting. “I think you forgot that Sherlock Holmes was accused of being a criminal, and you called Watson to tell them we were coming!”
Lestrade's brain screeches to change gears. As soon as it does, the air ices over between them. Apparently this has been building up without him noticing. “I'm not going to explain myself to you,” he says, and the anger in his gut makes his voice flat, level.
She lets out a harsh noise, something like a laugh. “No, you never do, do you. You learned that from the Freak--”
“Sergeant Donovan, watch your tone.” It's a mistake, he knows it as soon as he says it. Pulling rank on her here, in this conversation, is the worst thing he could have done. He opens his mouth to take it back, but she just shakes her head.
“That's so typical,” she says. “You may not care about the state of your job, but you could've given a little thought to ours. I could've been brought up for aiding and abetting, did you ever think of that?”
Lestrade takes a deep breath and leans back against the couch. He reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, trying to delay the building headache. “Look,” he says, more calmly. “Sally. I know you never quite got on with Sherlock--”
“Because he was a liar! He was a bloody criminal who was running around under our noses and I told you that from the very start--”
Something snaps, right in the middle of him. All the anger and frustration that he's been feeling, the dark uncertainty festering in his chest, blasts out of him at once. “Don't you dare,” he tells her, and his tone is so sharp and so serious that Sally's mouth actually snaps closed. “I won't take that from you. I'll take it from Kitty Riley and the tabloids, because they don't know any better, and I'll even take it from the rest of the Yard if I have to, because half of them never worked with him. But I did, and so did you, and you know as well as I do that Sherlock Holmes didn't engineer a single blasted one of--”
“No, I don't know that! He was a bloody psychopath, he could have set up every single one of them! I don't have your faith--”
“What kind of detective are you?” he shouts. “You're blind! If you honestly think that our case close record in the last five years is the result of some-some omniscient psychopath who was looking to get his rocks off, then you're an idiot, Donovan!”
Sally stares at him, and he stares back. He can feel the line that just got crossed, can't quite manage to take it back. “God,” she says at last. “He really got to you, didn't he. You sound just like him.”
He has no idea what to say. Sally gives him one last pitying look, and then she turns on her heel and leaves. Lestrade can't bring himself to move. Closes his eyes instead.
He understands, six years too late, why Sherlock said the things he did. It's easy to call someone an idiot when you see the truth so clearly that you can't fathom why the rest of the world insists on being blind.
Day 30
When John says that he's going with Mrs Hudson to the grave site tomorrow, Lestrade doesn't offer to go along. John isn't inviting him anyway. That's fine. They're tucked into a booth in the little bar off the lobby of John's hotel. Lestrade reaches across the space between them and rests a hand on his shoulder, understanding.
“Good luck,” he says, and he means it.
John nods, once. Lestrade takes his hand back and they both look down into their beers. “Have you gone?” John asks him.
Lestrade hasn't gone. Isn't sure he ever plans to. He's never been much for tombstones. Besides, Sherlock's letter, the one thing he got out of the will, is still sitting in his desk at home, unopened. John doesn't know that.
“No,” he says eventually. He's not sure how to say the rest, so he doesn't. “No, I haven't gone.”
-
Part III
Part I