COUNTDOWN (Part II)
Part I here
PART II
(So, I know that I had said that this fic would be only in two parts, but Sherlock and Lestrade’s first meeting had to be a case-fic [Right!]. Now it is evolving to be a whole part. I don’t feel too bad about the extended split, as each part is complete in itself. But I really wanted to finish the whole fic before the end of this month. I hope you enjoy this part! Warning for an angst OD…)
“THREE!”
“It’s been three days.”
“He is showing major improvement on the Glasgow Coma Scale since the surgery. We are very hopeful that he should recover consciousness in the next couple of days. However, any cognitive dysfunction can be assessed only when he wakes up.”
Lestrade couldn’t bear to see the hopeful expression on Harriet Watson’s face at the neurosurgeon’s words. She had been pathetically grateful to him for informing her even though she hadn’t been the emergency medical contact listed by John.
It is not as though Lestrade had had a choice. John’s emergency contact had disappeared.
It was going to be the stuff of his nightmares, for as long as he lived. The puzzles… the bomber… the pool… the explosion…
Sherlock had been sopping wet and mildly concussed, but had miraculously escaped serious injury. He had accompanied John to Bart’s in the ambulance holding his bloodied hand, mute and unresponsive to Lestrade’s questions; his eyes fixed unblinking on his friend’s face.
At the Hospital, John had been immediately whisked off into emergency surgery to relieve the pressure on his brain due to blunt head trauma from falling debris. The doctors hadn’t been sure if he would survive the surgery.
Lestrade had been with Sherlock, as they had patched up his superficial burns and cuts, his eyes now unfocussed and glassy. He had been practically catatonic, obeying the medical personnel silently but volunteering nothing. Lestrade had resisted the urge to viciously shake him out of his stupor. The man was in shock after all. Against his better judgement, he had to leave Sherlock in the waiting room to deal with the press conference for the bombing that he was supposed to organise for the morning News.
Once John came out of surgery, Sherlock would be okay…he made it a litany in his head, concentrating on it so as to not drown in panic. The alternative was unthinkable.
When he found time to visit Bart’s the next day, Sherlock was gone.
The cameras in the lobby showed him walking out of the hospital entrance at 7 a.m. of his own volition. John had still been in surgery. His mobile phone, which had been switched off and discarded in the waiting room yielded no clues. There was no evidence to indicate a kidnapping. Sherlock had simply chosen to vanish.
Lestrade had been furious in turns… with himself, with Mycroft, with John even, but most of all with Sherlock for being a stupid selfish bastard!
He had left Lestrade with absolutely nothing to go on. With one of his key witnesses comatose, and the other missing; he had nothing but conjecture. The mad bomber was still at large. He was reasonably sure that John had been a hostage, but he hadn’t been wearing the jacket. A waterlogged Browning had been found in the pool and was determined to have triggered the bomb. There were no other bodies. The name Moriarty yielded nothing.
As he drove home for the first time in two days, he caved and placed the call though it was tantamount to breaking a personal rule and declaring the Met’s utter helplessness in the matter.
“Where is he, Mycroft? What is the use of all your surveillance if you cannot find one man?”
Mycroft’s voice was deliberately soothing. “This is my brother we are talking about. You know him better than I do. If he doesn’t want to be found, he can make it very difficult indeed.”
Lestrade let the simmering anger take over. “How do you know that he’s okay? What if Moriarty has got to him somehow? He was in shock, Mycroft! What if he OD’s again? I should never have left him alone!”
“Gregory… Greg! Get a grip on yourself. He will come back. He cares for John too much to leave him like this. He has to come back.”
So Mycroft had a litany too. Beneath the calm veneer, Lestrade could sense the frantic concern, the shame at his failure to locate his brother. Lestrade had not met him since the insane game had started. He had been the one to give Mycroft the news of the pool and Moriarty. That he had been unaware of the pool situation had been the biggest shock for Lestrade. It showed that the bomber was brilliant enough to take advantages of loopholes in the system, so as to not show up even on Mycroft’s radar.
One thing was certain. Right now, neither of them had the luxury of breaking down!
“I…I’m sorry Mycroft. It’s just… I’m fraying at the edges here. If anything happens to either one of them…”
“I know”, Mycroft’s voice echoed the dread he felt. “I’ll let you know as soon as something turns up. I have to go now.”
That night despite exhaustion, Lestrade was sleeping fitfully when he sensed a noise in his room. He sat up suddenly in the pitch dark, heart hammering, panicking at the thought of John and the hospital calling. He swung out his hand to put on the light switch which was near the bed. Harsh light flooded the room…to fall on a tall shaking figure standing at the bedroom door.
It was the sweeping relief he felt on seeing Sherlock, which told him how uncertain he had been of ever seeing him again. He looked like a wraith, gaunt with dark hollows under his eyes, wearing the same torn, blood-spattered suit that he had been wearing three days ago at the explosion site. He was shaking like a leaf, barely holding himself up on the bedroom door.
“Jesus!” Lestrade exclaimed, jumping to catch him, just as he swayed violently and crumpled to the floor.
It was fucking freezing outside but these tremors weren’t just due to the cold. Lestrade could recognise withdrawal when he saw it. He cradled the limp body as he sat on the floor balancing Sherlock’s weight. He hadn’t lost unconsciousness, but held on to Lestrade’s night-shirt with white shaking fingers muttering deliriously. Lestrade swore again as he bodily hauled him up to the bed, where he proceeded to pile all the covers over the shivering form. He quickly checked Sherlock over, to find that he had no fresh injuries; not even visible track marks. He looked dehydrated but had a strong pulse. He debated his options. If he called an ambulance, he would have to report the drug use. He decided to wait till morning.
It was going to be a very long night…
“John!” Sherlock’s voice croaked, suddenly loud, in the middle of his babble. The word made him want to release all the pent-up frustration Lestrade was feeling. But he viciously clamped down the anger, drawing on years of experience of dealing with Sherlock at crime-scenes. Later, he told himself. He sat all night by his bed, mopping Sherlock’s forehead, coaxing him up to take sips of water and orange juice at regular intervals. Thankfully, he kept the fluids down.
Throughout the night Sherlock was raving…apologising to him thinking he was John; begging his forgiveness for killing him. He didn’t seem to know that John was alive. At one point, he had made a pitiful gesture to attack him, calling him ‘Jim’.
By the time dawn lighted his curtains and Sherlock finally fell asleep, Lestrade had lost all desire to chastise the man. There was nothing he could say to make him suffer any more than he already was.
He called up at work to take a never before taken sick day off. He had already messaged Mycroft, but had asked him to stay away for the time-being.
When Sherlock finally woke up properly at around 10 a.m., it was to find Lestrade looming over him with a forbidding expression.
“Sherlock, if you know what’s good for you, you will shut up and listen. You are going to eat and drink whatever I give you, and then you are going to have a shower…no arguments!”
“John…”
“…is alive. And that is all I’m going to tell you for now.”
Maybe it was the way his voice sounded; like an ultimatum. But Sherlock meekly downed a huge glass of orange juice and cleared an even larger plate of scrambled eggs without protest. The tremors were intermittent now, and he could shower without Lestrade’s help, which proved his hunch right. The weakness had been mostly starvation induced.
When Sherlock finally looked halfway human dressed in some of his old things; Lestrade sat him down on the sofa.
“Talk… What happened at the pool?”
Sherlock’s answering voice was dry, mechanical. “It was Jim… Jim Moriarty. He had John, covered in Semtex.” His face gave an involuntary twitch. “He was there himself, with multiple snipers. We talked…he left. I got the jacket off John and threw it across the floor. They came back, threatened to shoot us. I shot the jacket. John tackled me into the pool. End of story!”
Lestrade was already reading between the lines. “You TALKED?”
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, avoiding his eyes, “Oh, the usual guff. I’m an evil mastermind…you will never catch me. Your run-of-the-mill megalomaniacal boasting.”
“Which prompted you to leave your best friend who was still in surgery; to go out and get high.”
Sherlock’s eyes flashed, “Were you even listening? I.SHOT.THE.BOMB. I brought the building down on his head. I am the reason why John nearly died.”
“It was obvious that it was Moriarty who made you pull the trigger. Since when do you accept undeserved guilt, Sherlock?” He had looked away again.
Lestrade decided that he had had enough. “Fine, I’ll take your official statement later. We are going to the hospital right now.”
“NO!”
Lestrade’s voice was low, dangerous, “What do you mean, no?”
Sherlock swallowed visibly. “I’m not going to the hospital.”
“Let me get this right… you have decided, and I don’t give a rat’s arse about your reasons: that it’s a good idea to abandon your best friend, when he’s comatose in a hospital?”
Sherlock blanched at Lestrade’s words, but his voice was steady. “I believe that it’s for the best if John isn’t my friend anymore.”
Lestrade studied him with disgust remembering John lying in his bed, with no one to guide him back from wherever he was lost inside his own head. John deserved better. He deserved better. All the fury that he had bottled up over the last four days lanced out in his tone, the only weapon he had against the impassive figure. He was literally shaking.
“FUCK YOU! Yeah… that’s right, Sherlock. I am TIRED of waiting for you to grow up… tired of making excuses for you, both to the world and to myself. I’m sick of seeing you prove people like Sally right, over and over again. I. AM. DONE. If you walk out of that door and go anywhere but the hospital, don’t bother coming back here ever again.”
Sherlock was trembling again. Lestrade stood seething, facing away from him determined to stick by his words. He could hear him get up and walk to the door, where he stopped to address him.
“What would you do, Lestrade, if someone were to hurt Mycroft just because you cared for him? If you were literally, the metaphorical target painted on his back? My feelings for John are going to get him killed; that is if he survives what has already happened. Is that what you want me to do? Risk his life for my happiness?”
“You wretched fool”, Lestrade gave a painful laugh. “This is not a game any longer. He’s made it personal. If you walk away from John for this, it won’t matter if either you or he dies tomorrow; or lives to be ninety…whether you get Moriarty or don’t… What is the point of fighting if there is nothing to fight for? Don’t you see? It will all be meaningless… If you do this, HE WILL HAVE ALREADY WON!”
Sherlock turned on his heel and left.
It was after the door had shut behind him that the full import of what he had said hit Lestrade. It was his turn to crumple bonelessly on the sofa, utterly wrung out. His phone buzzed-
FROM: MYCROFT
WON’T LOSE HIM THIS TIME.
GOT MY BEST WOMAN ON THE JOB.
He didn’t have the heart to tell him that it didn’t matter…he was through!
Hours later, he jerked awake on the sofa, only to realise that he had dozed off without meaning to. His watch showed 7 p.m. It was way past visiting hours, but thanks to a minor Government official, he had special visiting privileges. As he was leaving for the hospital, he checked his phone to find three missed calls from Mycroft, which was unprecedented. But he ignored the calls. He didn’t want to deal with him, pleading on his brother’s behalf.
What he was not expecting, was to see Mycroft’s Angel (his nickname for her) in the hospital corridor outside John’s room, head buried in her blackberry as usual. She gave him a tired smile.
“Mycroft’s here?”
The smile turned into a scowl. “I wish! Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes has me on baby-sitting detail”, she said, flicking her thumb to indicate the closed room. Something clicked in his mind, as he recalled Mycroft’s last message. He felt a strange tightening in his chest.
“HE’s here?”
“Yep… came straight here from your place in the morning…hasn’t moved since. Especially since Dr. Watson recovered consciousness in the evening.”
That propelled Lestrade right into the room without knocking. It was very surreal to find Sherlock standing at the head of the bed, urging John to take sips of water through a straw when he had been doing the same for Sherlock barely hours before.
John looked…well for a man whose skull had been cracked open, he looked positively radiant under all the bandaging. Lestrade could see why; they were both alive and together. John was a soldier first. As far as he was concerned, this was a victory.
He pulled his mouth off the straw to smile at him. “Hello there, Detective Inspector.” His voice was slightly slurred, but coherent. He gestured to Sherlock with his uninjured hand. “I can’t believe you got him to wear jeans.”
At these words, Sherlock froze looking at Lestrade, his expression uncertain.
Lestrade smiled at both of them, as he moved to clasp John’s un-bandaged hand. “Yes…well… I can’t be a clothes-horse on an honest cop’s salary. It was either this, or a full Monty.”
John’s answering smile was wicked. “Now that would have been even more worth waking up to!”
That set Lestrade off while Sherlock still looked stymied, not understanding the reference.
They chatted for a while, avoiding anything to do with the explosion. Sherlock hovered in the background, volunteering to answer when John asked him something. He smiled at John, laughed at his wry attempts at humour. But there was a haunted look in his eyes, which never went away entirely. Even John, half-drugged as he was, could sense something was wrong, as he sometimes broke off mid-sentence to stare at Sherlock worriedly.
When John started to pass out from the drugs again, Lestrade pulled him out for a word.
“Sherlock, for what I said today morning…”
He interrupted, impatient as usual, “You were right. Don’t apologise for that, when you rarely get the chance of being right in the first place.” He grinned wryly. “Besides, I hate losing.”
Lestrade surveyed him seriously, and decided that the drug-use interrogation could wait. “I will come tomorrow, to get both your official statements. Don’t worry, we’ll find this guy.”
Sherlock smirked condescendingly. “No offence, Lestrade; but I’m the only one who has even a prayer of finding Jim.” The haunted look became more pronounced, “I know, it will be dangerous. I know the stakes involved now. But even if I were to die in the attempt, as long as I take him down with me, it will be a price well worth paying.”
What do you know? Lestrade thought, as he watched him walk back to John’s side; maybe the boy had grown up after all!
“TWO!”
The memorial service had been held two months after Sherlock’s death.
Lestrade remembers the date they had decided it well, for the argument over it had been the tipping point for his break-up with Mycroft.
He was sitting in the second row of mourners, feeling more uncomfortable by the second, because his main purpose for insisting on the ceremony wasn’t being fulfilled in any noticeable manner.
“It’s all wrong. He’s going to hate this”, John whispered to him, with a dry chuckle.
He was sitting sandwiched between Lestrade on one side and Mrs. Hudson on the other. His voice was steady, the way it had been through the past two months, whenever Lestrade had enquired after his well being. Outwardly, it appeared as though John hadn’t been affected by Sherlock’s death at all. Only Lestrade knew the real reason why. And since John was aware that Lestrade knew, he continued on to say, “When he does die, we are going to have to get it exactly right, or will probably have him haunting us, pointing out the mistakes.”
It had been a month back, when Lestrade had dragged John out to a pub to get completely sloshed; that he had confessed to Lestrade, what he was actually thinking.
He isn’t dead, Greg. He’s far too clever for Moriarty. He was fine when he went over the falls. He’s got out somehow. I won’t believe he’s dead until I see a fucking body. I dunno why he isn’t coming back, but he will have some ridiculous reason, which would be absolutely right… it’s alright… I can wait!”
He was waiting, Lestrade realised. Waiting to see which knock on the door to 221B would turn out to be his friend…scanning faces in random crowds, wondering if he was there, in some impenetrable disguise…updating his blog daily, even when there was nothing to write, just to see if he would respond anonymously…looking up obscure codes, so that if Sherlock were to contact him using them, he would know!
He was chasing after a ghost. It was going to kill him slowly…
It was the same night that Lestrade had broached the subject of a Service for Sherlock. He had to be tentative, because talking to Mycroft about anything to do with his brother’s death, was like walking on fucking eggshells. Lestrade remembered how, at the start of their relationship, they had resolved that it would not be all about Sherlock. They had stuck to this rule fairly. Sherlock’s death should have brought them closer. Paradoxically, it turned out to be the first nail in the coffin of their relationship.
For the thousandth time Lestrade wondered, how the hell had everything gone so wrong?
***
Sherlock Holmes had done something impossible. After months of work, he had practically gift-wrapped Moriarty and Co. for the law enforcement agencies. The Interpol had been involved, because the organisation was found to extend through eight European countries (with operatives scattered through twenty others), with two main headquarters at London and Prague
It had been a massive operation, co-ordinated to the split second, when all the bastions of the organisation had been stormed simultaneously, with no regard to time zones. Lestrade himself had been a part of the team that had cracked down on the London headquarters.
As reports of the major arrests trickled in from all the teams, it was confirmed that the bird itself had flown the coop. Moriarty had escaped.
That afternoon, Sherlock was almost killed in a sniper attack, which took down an innocent bystander. The sniper got away.
Within an hour Lestrade reached 221B to offer Police protection, only to find both Sherlock and John gone, with a note addressed to him, under the skull.
ON THE RUN. SMS, E-MAILS NO LONGER SECURE. HAVE JOHN WITH ME. DON’T REQUIRE FURTHER PROTECTION.-SH
Mycroft assured him, that he had Sherlock in his sights at all times; that they would be safe. He had had no time to worry, running ragged as he was with the arrests and the trials. The crumbling major player had produced shock-waves, leading to subsequent arrests, as other rats were flushed out of their Jim-padded holes.
That was when Sherlock decided to finally jump for the last time.
Mycroft had not told him until two days later, after he had returned from Germany with John. He had watched in his apartment, frozen, holding Mycroft’s hand; the cleaned-up footage of the video-recording that Sherlock had left for them. It had been found on his blackberry, which had been strategically placed on a rock, at the rim of the observation deck of Reichenbach Falls.
In typical Sherlock-fashion, death had to be the biggest drama of them all. There was no sound to be discerned on the video, other than the background roaring of the falls. It was ridiculous to watch Sherlock calmly positioning the camera, and then systematically obliterate his footprints around the rock. Then he had waited for Moriarty with his back to the lens staring at the falls. Jim had strolled into view within the next three minutes, looking cocky as you please, with no outward signs of having been recently dethroned. He gave a tiny wave and a sarcastic wink to the hidden phone; and Lestrade had wanted to scream at Sherlock; scream at him to run and hide.
If Lestrade hadn’t known who the two men in the video were, he would have guessed they were old friends, having a pre-planned reunion. They were both smirking as they chatted, looking utterly relaxed in their respective ridiculous designer suits. To his credit, Sherlock had thrown the first punch (Jim should have known better than to insult John). They had struggled, the skirmish carrying them ever close to the edge. Moriarty had gained his footing first and with a lucky stroke, had Sherlock hanging over the edge of the falls. In a split-second manoeuvre, Sherlock had thrust himself forward, to wrap Jim almost lovingly in an embrace, and then let gravity carry them over the edge.
Sherlock’s last expression had been fiercely joyous, almost indecent in its giddiness…
It was an hour later, when Lestrade realised that Mycroft’s laptop was lying smashed on the floor… that his partner had him firmly held in a bear-hug and was rocking him back and forth, uttering some soothing nonsense in his ear, and that he had completely lost his voice…
To add insult to the injury, his tears just wouldn’t stop…
He hadn’t given himself any more time to grieve. He had pushed himself punishingly, into dismantling the carcass of Moriarty’s organisation. Once Interpol had released his London clients list, it had been a field week, for trying to solve cold cases dating fifteen-twenty years back. Most of the crimes had been undetected to date. He stayed at the office, with a spare change of clothes and avoided his apartment like the plague.
He tried telling himself, that he was over-reacting, when he started snapping at Mycroft for trivial things. But even he knew that the underlying cause for his desire to hurt him, was completely different. You had promised, you would keep them safe.
That had opened the rift. Mycroft wasn’t a fool, to be able to ignore the elephant that was always in the room with them. Conversations became more difficult, when Lestrade began to have an issue with how the hell could Mycroft take his brother’s death so calmly. He knew his partner too well to recognise that this wasn’t his usual stoicism. While he was truly affected by Lestrade’s distress and did everything to comfort him, he himself remained strangely unfeeling. Where was the man who had pleaded with him to ‘let him do his bit’?
In an effort to salvage their relationship, Mycroft had finally put a blanket ban on the subject of Sherlock.
He knew that Mycroft was meeting with John daily, especially to keep him apprised of the efforts of trying to locate Sherlock’s body.
He himself hadn’t had the nerve to face either John or 221B without another emotional breakdown, until he had finally worked up the courage to drag John out for a few pints. After dropping a not-too-steady John safely back at Baker Street, he had headed straight to Mycroft’s office. There was something that required to be done, and they had danced around the topic long enough. But he couldn’t help being nervous, as he faced him across the mahogany desk.
“Mycroft, we need to have some sort of a memorial service for Sherlock.”
He saw him take a deep breath, trying to summon some hidden reserve of energy. “Gregory, I thought we had decided that…”
“This is different”, he interrupted, struggling to keep his voice as emotionless as that of the man before him. He failed. “Everyone cannot move on as fast as you do. Some of us need help.”
Mycroft closed his eyes, ignoring the jibe. “My brother would have abhorred the idea. I have to respect his wishes.”
Lestrade gritted his teeth in frustration. “Your. Brother. Is. Dead. It doesn’t matter, what he would or wouldn’t have wanted. It’s John. He’s refusing to even believe that Sherlock’s dead. Did you know that?”
“I surmised as much, from the way he is wholly invested in the search for the body. But that is to be expected. Once the search is called off, he will understand.”
“Then you don’t know John Watson very well. He needs closure, Mycroft. He needs Sherlock’s death to be real.” He hesitated, knowing full well, what effect his next words would have, “Maybe you do too!”
At his words, Mycroft’s face twisted into an expression that was so hideously painful, that Lestrade had to suppress an involuntary gasp. He stood up abruptly, hands clasped to the edge of his desk, stopping himself; a picture of mute helplessness. He looked at Lestrade with unseeing eyes, as though he had suddenly turned see-through; as though he was addressing another presence in the room, “It’s not going to be alright, is it?” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “He was right”, he murmured almost to himself, “I cannot do this.”
He let go of the table and straightened up, opening his eyes. They were startlingly clear; the pain having already been accepted and buried, where Lestrade would never see it again.
“I’m sorry, Gregory”, he said loudly. “I can’t do this anymore.” His voice had a tone of finality.
Lestrade’s mind reeled under an attack of déjà-vu, as he remembered Julia’s voice.
“What?” his own voice sounded so strange to his ears.
Mycroft’s voice was molten steel. “As long as we remain together, you will never be able to let Sherlock go. I do not have the luxury of wallowing in grief. I need to forget him. John is holding on to the hope that he maybe alive. But you… you believe he’s dead, and are still unable to move on. You need to let go, if you wish to get on with your life; which is going to prove impossible with us together. It is for the best, Gregory.”
So this one was his fault too!
“You selfish sod!” Lestrade’s voice was quietly shaking. “Don’t make this about me. Sherlock died, and you neither feel guilt at your failure to protect him, nor pain at his loss. It is you, who is being inhuman. If this is who you really are, I’m glad we’re calling it quits.”
He whirled to barge out, praying that his legs would hold him till he was out of the door, when a soft voice which was almost a plea, froze him in his tracks.
“Greg, one day, I might ask you, if you remember the words I had said to you, the first time we had met, when standing below your flat. Necessary though this is, it will never change how I feel about you. For whatever it is worth, I’m sorry…”
***
Lestrade shuddered as he wrenched his mind to the present, to try and concentrate on what John was saying.
“…the violins are fine, but Sherlock hates Mendelssohn; Freesias under his photograph, when he’s allergic to them is just wrong. And was it so difficult for Mycroft, to get a picture of him smiling?”
Lestrade recognised the nervous rambling for what it was. The hall was slowly filling to capacity behind them. He had received an impersonal e-mail invite for the Service from Mycroft. He had complied with the last request, he had made of him as his partner. Lestrade felt strangely grateful for that.
The Service began with a short Sermon by a Minister, during which he saw John reach out and clutch Mrs. Hudson’s hand. That was followed by Mycroft’s eulogy, in which he reminisced about their childhood. By the time he had finished, John’s breathing had turned audibly harsh. After his speech, Mycroft had kept an ‘open stage’ for anyone who had wanted to say something about Sherlock. There were many. They didn’t have much to say, but in their own words, they tried to give a farewell to the man whose brilliance had briefly illuminated their lives.
Most of them seemed to know John; as the gazes and the words seemed to be directed towards him. Even the homeless guy, who seemed to have wandered in accidently, publicly offered condolences to Sherlock’s Doctor from ‘all of them’.
It was when Angelo started to speak, that Lestrade saw John’s free hand dart and grip his left thigh convulsively, as a dry sob escaped him.
When it seemed that no one else was left, Lestrade found himself getting up and walking up to the front. He had no idea what he was doing, knowing that he was probably going to melt in a puddle of tears in front of half the Yard, which included his team. All he knew was that he owed it to Sherlock. He started haltingly.
"I am Detective Inspector Lestrade with the Metropolitan Police Department. I have known Sherlock for seven years, and anyone who had even one conversation with him, will know that he was a know-it-all, arrogant sod. But, a very few people like me got the privilege to see the man; the human being beneath the shocking exterior. He had his flaws and made his mistakes.”
He took a deep breath, struggling to keep his voice even. “I have very few regrets in life. Now, one of the most important ones is that I never actually told him upfront, what he meant to me. Brilliant though he was, he could be a bit thick about such things, like feelings; and I find myself wishing that I had made mine clearer.”
“I don’t believe in the afterlife, no offence Father, but Sherlock, if you are listening, here goes… I just want to tell you, that I loved you and respected you. I loved you, like the son I never had and like the brother I would have wished to have. You have been a comrade in my battles for so long, that I hope I find the strength to fight without you by my side.”
He had eyes only for John, who had buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with the tears which he had finally allowed himself. He swallowed furiously, determined to not let the pressure behind his own eyes show.
“You shared the Science of deduction with me, and I pride myself on having taught you the meanings of dull things like friendship, love and sacrifice. The crazy, genius that you are, you couldn’t help but give a practical demonstration of what you had learned. Bravo! I couldn’t be more proud of you than I am now. I am honoured to have known you and earned your respect. And I think, every person sitting in this room will agree with me, when I say, that it will be impossible to forget you…Farewell Sherlock Holmes…”
(Next part after 10 days, as I have a miserable exam to prepare for, on the eleventh!)
Next part
PART II
(So, I know that I had said that this fic would be only in two parts, but Sherlock and Lestrade’s first meeting had to be a case-fic [Right!]. Now it is evolving to be a whole part. I don’t feel too bad about the extended split, as each part is complete in itself. But I really wanted to finish the whole fic before the end of this month. I hope you enjoy this part! Warning for an angst OD…)
“THREE!”
“It’s been three days.”
“He is showing major improvement on the Glasgow Coma Scale since the surgery. We are very hopeful that he should recover consciousness in the next couple of days. However, any cognitive dysfunction can be assessed only when he wakes up.”
Lestrade couldn’t bear to see the hopeful expression on Harriet Watson’s face at the neurosurgeon’s words. She had been pathetically grateful to him for informing her even though she hadn’t been the emergency medical contact listed by John.
It is not as though Lestrade had had a choice. John’s emergency contact had disappeared.
It was going to be the stuff of his nightmares, for as long as he lived. The puzzles… the bomber… the pool… the explosion…
Sherlock had been sopping wet and mildly concussed, but had miraculously escaped serious injury. He had accompanied John to Bart’s in the ambulance holding his bloodied hand, mute and unresponsive to Lestrade’s questions; his eyes fixed unblinking on his friend’s face.
At the Hospital, John had been immediately whisked off into emergency surgery to relieve the pressure on his brain due to blunt head trauma from falling debris. The doctors hadn’t been sure if he would survive the surgery.
Lestrade had been with Sherlock, as they had patched up his superficial burns and cuts, his eyes now unfocussed and glassy. He had been practically catatonic, obeying the medical personnel silently but volunteering nothing. Lestrade had resisted the urge to viciously shake him out of his stupor. The man was in shock after all. Against his better judgement, he had to leave Sherlock in the waiting room to deal with the press conference for the bombing that he was supposed to organise for the morning News.
Once John came out of surgery, Sherlock would be okay…he made it a litany in his head, concentrating on it so as to not drown in panic. The alternative was unthinkable.
When he found time to visit Bart’s the next day, Sherlock was gone.
The cameras in the lobby showed him walking out of the hospital entrance at 7 a.m. of his own volition. John had still been in surgery. His mobile phone, which had been switched off and discarded in the waiting room yielded no clues. There was no evidence to indicate a kidnapping. Sherlock had simply chosen to vanish.
Lestrade had been furious in turns… with himself, with Mycroft, with John even, but most of all with Sherlock for being a stupid selfish bastard!
He had left Lestrade with absolutely nothing to go on. With one of his key witnesses comatose, and the other missing; he had nothing but conjecture. The mad bomber was still at large. He was reasonably sure that John had been a hostage, but he hadn’t been wearing the jacket. A waterlogged Browning had been found in the pool and was determined to have triggered the bomb. There were no other bodies. The name Moriarty yielded nothing.
As he drove home for the first time in two days, he caved and placed the call though it was tantamount to breaking a personal rule and declaring the Met’s utter helplessness in the matter.
“Where is he, Mycroft? What is the use of all your surveillance if you cannot find one man?”
Mycroft’s voice was deliberately soothing. “This is my brother we are talking about. You know him better than I do. If he doesn’t want to be found, he can make it very difficult indeed.”
Lestrade let the simmering anger take over. “How do you know that he’s okay? What if Moriarty has got to him somehow? He was in shock, Mycroft! What if he OD’s again? I should never have left him alone!”
“Gregory… Greg! Get a grip on yourself. He will come back. He cares for John too much to leave him like this. He has to come back.”
So Mycroft had a litany too. Beneath the calm veneer, Lestrade could sense the frantic concern, the shame at his failure to locate his brother. Lestrade had not met him since the insane game had started. He had been the one to give Mycroft the news of the pool and Moriarty. That he had been unaware of the pool situation had been the biggest shock for Lestrade. It showed that the bomber was brilliant enough to take advantages of loopholes in the system, so as to not show up even on Mycroft’s radar.
One thing was certain. Right now, neither of them had the luxury of breaking down!
“I…I’m sorry Mycroft. It’s just… I’m fraying at the edges here. If anything happens to either one of them…”
“I know”, Mycroft’s voice echoed the dread he felt. “I’ll let you know as soon as something turns up. I have to go now.”
That night despite exhaustion, Lestrade was sleeping fitfully when he sensed a noise in his room. He sat up suddenly in the pitch dark, heart hammering, panicking at the thought of John and the hospital calling. He swung out his hand to put on the light switch which was near the bed. Harsh light flooded the room…to fall on a tall shaking figure standing at the bedroom door.
It was the sweeping relief he felt on seeing Sherlock, which told him how uncertain he had been of ever seeing him again. He looked like a wraith, gaunt with dark hollows under his eyes, wearing the same torn, blood-spattered suit that he had been wearing three days ago at the explosion site. He was shaking like a leaf, barely holding himself up on the bedroom door.
“Jesus!” Lestrade exclaimed, jumping to catch him, just as he swayed violently and crumpled to the floor.
It was fucking freezing outside but these tremors weren’t just due to the cold. Lestrade could recognise withdrawal when he saw it. He cradled the limp body as he sat on the floor balancing Sherlock’s weight. He hadn’t lost unconsciousness, but held on to Lestrade’s night-shirt with white shaking fingers muttering deliriously. Lestrade swore again as he bodily hauled him up to the bed, where he proceeded to pile all the covers over the shivering form. He quickly checked Sherlock over, to find that he had no fresh injuries; not even visible track marks. He looked dehydrated but had a strong pulse. He debated his options. If he called an ambulance, he would have to report the drug use. He decided to wait till morning.
It was going to be a very long night…
“John!” Sherlock’s voice croaked, suddenly loud, in the middle of his babble. The word made him want to release all the pent-up frustration Lestrade was feeling. But he viciously clamped down the anger, drawing on years of experience of dealing with Sherlock at crime-scenes. Later, he told himself. He sat all night by his bed, mopping Sherlock’s forehead, coaxing him up to take sips of water and orange juice at regular intervals. Thankfully, he kept the fluids down.
Throughout the night Sherlock was raving…apologising to him thinking he was John; begging his forgiveness for killing him. He didn’t seem to know that John was alive. At one point, he had made a pitiful gesture to attack him, calling him ‘Jim’.
By the time dawn lighted his curtains and Sherlock finally fell asleep, Lestrade had lost all desire to chastise the man. There was nothing he could say to make him suffer any more than he already was.
He called up at work to take a never before taken sick day off. He had already messaged Mycroft, but had asked him to stay away for the time-being.
When Sherlock finally woke up properly at around 10 a.m., it was to find Lestrade looming over him with a forbidding expression.
“Sherlock, if you know what’s good for you, you will shut up and listen. You are going to eat and drink whatever I give you, and then you are going to have a shower…no arguments!”
“John…”
“…is alive. And that is all I’m going to tell you for now.”
Maybe it was the way his voice sounded; like an ultimatum. But Sherlock meekly downed a huge glass of orange juice and cleared an even larger plate of scrambled eggs without protest. The tremors were intermittent now, and he could shower without Lestrade’s help, which proved his hunch right. The weakness had been mostly starvation induced.
When Sherlock finally looked halfway human dressed in some of his old things; Lestrade sat him down on the sofa.
“Talk… What happened at the pool?”
Sherlock’s answering voice was dry, mechanical. “It was Jim… Jim Moriarty. He had John, covered in Semtex.” His face gave an involuntary twitch. “He was there himself, with multiple snipers. We talked…he left. I got the jacket off John and threw it across the floor. They came back, threatened to shoot us. I shot the jacket. John tackled me into the pool. End of story!”
Lestrade was already reading between the lines. “You TALKED?”
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, avoiding his eyes, “Oh, the usual guff. I’m an evil mastermind…you will never catch me. Your run-of-the-mill megalomaniacal boasting.”
“Which prompted you to leave your best friend who was still in surgery; to go out and get high.”
Sherlock’s eyes flashed, “Were you even listening? I.SHOT.THE.BOMB. I brought the building down on his head. I am the reason why John nearly died.”
“It was obvious that it was Moriarty who made you pull the trigger. Since when do you accept undeserved guilt, Sherlock?” He had looked away again.
Lestrade decided that he had had enough. “Fine, I’ll take your official statement later. We are going to the hospital right now.”
“NO!”
Lestrade’s voice was low, dangerous, “What do you mean, no?”
Sherlock swallowed visibly. “I’m not going to the hospital.”
“Let me get this right… you have decided, and I don’t give a rat’s arse about your reasons: that it’s a good idea to abandon your best friend, when he’s comatose in a hospital?”
Sherlock blanched at Lestrade’s words, but his voice was steady. “I believe that it’s for the best if John isn’t my friend anymore.”
Lestrade studied him with disgust remembering John lying in his bed, with no one to guide him back from wherever he was lost inside his own head. John deserved better. He deserved better. All the fury that he had bottled up over the last four days lanced out in his tone, the only weapon he had against the impassive figure. He was literally shaking.
“FUCK YOU! Yeah… that’s right, Sherlock. I am TIRED of waiting for you to grow up… tired of making excuses for you, both to the world and to myself. I’m sick of seeing you prove people like Sally right, over and over again. I. AM. DONE. If you walk out of that door and go anywhere but the hospital, don’t bother coming back here ever again.”
Sherlock was trembling again. Lestrade stood seething, facing away from him determined to stick by his words. He could hear him get up and walk to the door, where he stopped to address him.
“What would you do, Lestrade, if someone were to hurt Mycroft just because you cared for him? If you were literally, the metaphorical target painted on his back? My feelings for John are going to get him killed; that is if he survives what has already happened. Is that what you want me to do? Risk his life for my happiness?”
“You wretched fool”, Lestrade gave a painful laugh. “This is not a game any longer. He’s made it personal. If you walk away from John for this, it won’t matter if either you or he dies tomorrow; or lives to be ninety…whether you get Moriarty or don’t… What is the point of fighting if there is nothing to fight for? Don’t you see? It will all be meaningless… If you do this, HE WILL HAVE ALREADY WON!”
Sherlock turned on his heel and left.
It was after the door had shut behind him that the full import of what he had said hit Lestrade. It was his turn to crumple bonelessly on the sofa, utterly wrung out. His phone buzzed-
FROM: MYCROFT
WON’T LOSE HIM THIS TIME.
GOT MY BEST WOMAN ON THE JOB.
He didn’t have the heart to tell him that it didn’t matter…he was through!
Hours later, he jerked awake on the sofa, only to realise that he had dozed off without meaning to. His watch showed 7 p.m. It was way past visiting hours, but thanks to a minor Government official, he had special visiting privileges. As he was leaving for the hospital, he checked his phone to find three missed calls from Mycroft, which was unprecedented. But he ignored the calls. He didn’t want to deal with him, pleading on his brother’s behalf.
What he was not expecting, was to see Mycroft’s Angel (his nickname for her) in the hospital corridor outside John’s room, head buried in her blackberry as usual. She gave him a tired smile.
“Mycroft’s here?”
The smile turned into a scowl. “I wish! Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes has me on baby-sitting detail”, she said, flicking her thumb to indicate the closed room. Something clicked in his mind, as he recalled Mycroft’s last message. He felt a strange tightening in his chest.
“HE’s here?”
“Yep… came straight here from your place in the morning…hasn’t moved since. Especially since Dr. Watson recovered consciousness in the evening.”
That propelled Lestrade right into the room without knocking. It was very surreal to find Sherlock standing at the head of the bed, urging John to take sips of water through a straw when he had been doing the same for Sherlock barely hours before.
John looked…well for a man whose skull had been cracked open, he looked positively radiant under all the bandaging. Lestrade could see why; they were both alive and together. John was a soldier first. As far as he was concerned, this was a victory.
He pulled his mouth off the straw to smile at him. “Hello there, Detective Inspector.” His voice was slightly slurred, but coherent. He gestured to Sherlock with his uninjured hand. “I can’t believe you got him to wear jeans.”
At these words, Sherlock froze looking at Lestrade, his expression uncertain.
Lestrade smiled at both of them, as he moved to clasp John’s un-bandaged hand. “Yes…well… I can’t be a clothes-horse on an honest cop’s salary. It was either this, or a full Monty.”
John’s answering smile was wicked. “Now that would have been even more worth waking up to!”
That set Lestrade off while Sherlock still looked stymied, not understanding the reference.
They chatted for a while, avoiding anything to do with the explosion. Sherlock hovered in the background, volunteering to answer when John asked him something. He smiled at John, laughed at his wry attempts at humour. But there was a haunted look in his eyes, which never went away entirely. Even John, half-drugged as he was, could sense something was wrong, as he sometimes broke off mid-sentence to stare at Sherlock worriedly.
When John started to pass out from the drugs again, Lestrade pulled him out for a word.
“Sherlock, for what I said today morning…”
He interrupted, impatient as usual, “You were right. Don’t apologise for that, when you rarely get the chance of being right in the first place.” He grinned wryly. “Besides, I hate losing.”
Lestrade surveyed him seriously, and decided that the drug-use interrogation could wait. “I will come tomorrow, to get both your official statements. Don’t worry, we’ll find this guy.”
Sherlock smirked condescendingly. “No offence, Lestrade; but I’m the only one who has even a prayer of finding Jim.” The haunted look became more pronounced, “I know, it will be dangerous. I know the stakes involved now. But even if I were to die in the attempt, as long as I take him down with me, it will be a price well worth paying.”
What do you know? Lestrade thought, as he watched him walk back to John’s side; maybe the boy had grown up after all!
“TWO!”
The memorial service had been held two months after Sherlock’s death.
Lestrade remembers the date they had decided it well, for the argument over it had been the tipping point for his break-up with Mycroft.
He was sitting in the second row of mourners, feeling more uncomfortable by the second, because his main purpose for insisting on the ceremony wasn’t being fulfilled in any noticeable manner.
“It’s all wrong. He’s going to hate this”, John whispered to him, with a dry chuckle.
He was sitting sandwiched between Lestrade on one side and Mrs. Hudson on the other. His voice was steady, the way it had been through the past two months, whenever Lestrade had enquired after his well being. Outwardly, it appeared as though John hadn’t been affected by Sherlock’s death at all. Only Lestrade knew the real reason why. And since John was aware that Lestrade knew, he continued on to say, “When he does die, we are going to have to get it exactly right, or will probably have him haunting us, pointing out the mistakes.”
It had been a month back, when Lestrade had dragged John out to a pub to get completely sloshed; that he had confessed to Lestrade, what he was actually thinking.
He isn’t dead, Greg. He’s far too clever for Moriarty. He was fine when he went over the falls. He’s got out somehow. I won’t believe he’s dead until I see a fucking body. I dunno why he isn’t coming back, but he will have some ridiculous reason, which would be absolutely right… it’s alright… I can wait!”
He was waiting, Lestrade realised. Waiting to see which knock on the door to 221B would turn out to be his friend…scanning faces in random crowds, wondering if he was there, in some impenetrable disguise…updating his blog daily, even when there was nothing to write, just to see if he would respond anonymously…looking up obscure codes, so that if Sherlock were to contact him using them, he would know!
He was chasing after a ghost. It was going to kill him slowly…
It was the same night that Lestrade had broached the subject of a Service for Sherlock. He had to be tentative, because talking to Mycroft about anything to do with his brother’s death, was like walking on fucking eggshells. Lestrade remembered how, at the start of their relationship, they had resolved that it would not be all about Sherlock. They had stuck to this rule fairly. Sherlock’s death should have brought them closer. Paradoxically, it turned out to be the first nail in the coffin of their relationship.
For the thousandth time Lestrade wondered, how the hell had everything gone so wrong?
***
Sherlock Holmes had done something impossible. After months of work, he had practically gift-wrapped Moriarty and Co. for the law enforcement agencies. The Interpol had been involved, because the organisation was found to extend through eight European countries (with operatives scattered through twenty others), with two main headquarters at London and Prague
It had been a massive operation, co-ordinated to the split second, when all the bastions of the organisation had been stormed simultaneously, with no regard to time zones. Lestrade himself had been a part of the team that had cracked down on the London headquarters.
As reports of the major arrests trickled in from all the teams, it was confirmed that the bird itself had flown the coop. Moriarty had escaped.
That afternoon, Sherlock was almost killed in a sniper attack, which took down an innocent bystander. The sniper got away.
Within an hour Lestrade reached 221B to offer Police protection, only to find both Sherlock and John gone, with a note addressed to him, under the skull.
ON THE RUN. SMS, E-MAILS NO LONGER SECURE. HAVE JOHN WITH ME. DON’T REQUIRE FURTHER PROTECTION.-SH
Mycroft assured him, that he had Sherlock in his sights at all times; that they would be safe. He had had no time to worry, running ragged as he was with the arrests and the trials. The crumbling major player had produced shock-waves, leading to subsequent arrests, as other rats were flushed out of their Jim-padded holes.
That was when Sherlock decided to finally jump for the last time.
Mycroft had not told him until two days later, after he had returned from Germany with John. He had watched in his apartment, frozen, holding Mycroft’s hand; the cleaned-up footage of the video-recording that Sherlock had left for them. It had been found on his blackberry, which had been strategically placed on a rock, at the rim of the observation deck of Reichenbach Falls.
In typical Sherlock-fashion, death had to be the biggest drama of them all. There was no sound to be discerned on the video, other than the background roaring of the falls. It was ridiculous to watch Sherlock calmly positioning the camera, and then systematically obliterate his footprints around the rock. Then he had waited for Moriarty with his back to the lens staring at the falls. Jim had strolled into view within the next three minutes, looking cocky as you please, with no outward signs of having been recently dethroned. He gave a tiny wave and a sarcastic wink to the hidden phone; and Lestrade had wanted to scream at Sherlock; scream at him to run and hide.
If Lestrade hadn’t known who the two men in the video were, he would have guessed they were old friends, having a pre-planned reunion. They were both smirking as they chatted, looking utterly relaxed in their respective ridiculous designer suits. To his credit, Sherlock had thrown the first punch (Jim should have known better than to insult John). They had struggled, the skirmish carrying them ever close to the edge. Moriarty had gained his footing first and with a lucky stroke, had Sherlock hanging over the edge of the falls. In a split-second manoeuvre, Sherlock had thrust himself forward, to wrap Jim almost lovingly in an embrace, and then let gravity carry them over the edge.
Sherlock’s last expression had been fiercely joyous, almost indecent in its giddiness…
It was an hour later, when Lestrade realised that Mycroft’s laptop was lying smashed on the floor… that his partner had him firmly held in a bear-hug and was rocking him back and forth, uttering some soothing nonsense in his ear, and that he had completely lost his voice…
To add insult to the injury, his tears just wouldn’t stop…
He hadn’t given himself any more time to grieve. He had pushed himself punishingly, into dismantling the carcass of Moriarty’s organisation. Once Interpol had released his London clients list, it had been a field week, for trying to solve cold cases dating fifteen-twenty years back. Most of the crimes had been undetected to date. He stayed at the office, with a spare change of clothes and avoided his apartment like the plague.
He tried telling himself, that he was over-reacting, when he started snapping at Mycroft for trivial things. But even he knew that the underlying cause for his desire to hurt him, was completely different. You had promised, you would keep them safe.
That had opened the rift. Mycroft wasn’t a fool, to be able to ignore the elephant that was always in the room with them. Conversations became more difficult, when Lestrade began to have an issue with how the hell could Mycroft take his brother’s death so calmly. He knew his partner too well to recognise that this wasn’t his usual stoicism. While he was truly affected by Lestrade’s distress and did everything to comfort him, he himself remained strangely unfeeling. Where was the man who had pleaded with him to ‘let him do his bit’?
In an effort to salvage their relationship, Mycroft had finally put a blanket ban on the subject of Sherlock.
He knew that Mycroft was meeting with John daily, especially to keep him apprised of the efforts of trying to locate Sherlock’s body.
He himself hadn’t had the nerve to face either John or 221B without another emotional breakdown, until he had finally worked up the courage to drag John out for a few pints. After dropping a not-too-steady John safely back at Baker Street, he had headed straight to Mycroft’s office. There was something that required to be done, and they had danced around the topic long enough. But he couldn’t help being nervous, as he faced him across the mahogany desk.
“Mycroft, we need to have some sort of a memorial service for Sherlock.”
He saw him take a deep breath, trying to summon some hidden reserve of energy. “Gregory, I thought we had decided that…”
“This is different”, he interrupted, struggling to keep his voice as emotionless as that of the man before him. He failed. “Everyone cannot move on as fast as you do. Some of us need help.”
Mycroft closed his eyes, ignoring the jibe. “My brother would have abhorred the idea. I have to respect his wishes.”
Lestrade gritted his teeth in frustration. “Your. Brother. Is. Dead. It doesn’t matter, what he would or wouldn’t have wanted. It’s John. He’s refusing to even believe that Sherlock’s dead. Did you know that?”
“I surmised as much, from the way he is wholly invested in the search for the body. But that is to be expected. Once the search is called off, he will understand.”
“Then you don’t know John Watson very well. He needs closure, Mycroft. He needs Sherlock’s death to be real.” He hesitated, knowing full well, what effect his next words would have, “Maybe you do too!”
At his words, Mycroft’s face twisted into an expression that was so hideously painful, that Lestrade had to suppress an involuntary gasp. He stood up abruptly, hands clasped to the edge of his desk, stopping himself; a picture of mute helplessness. He looked at Lestrade with unseeing eyes, as though he had suddenly turned see-through; as though he was addressing another presence in the room, “It’s not going to be alright, is it?” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “He was right”, he murmured almost to himself, “I cannot do this.”
He let go of the table and straightened up, opening his eyes. They were startlingly clear; the pain having already been accepted and buried, where Lestrade would never see it again.
“I’m sorry, Gregory”, he said loudly. “I can’t do this anymore.” His voice had a tone of finality.
Lestrade’s mind reeled under an attack of déjà-vu, as he remembered Julia’s voice.
“What?” his own voice sounded so strange to his ears.
Mycroft’s voice was molten steel. “As long as we remain together, you will never be able to let Sherlock go. I do not have the luxury of wallowing in grief. I need to forget him. John is holding on to the hope that he maybe alive. But you… you believe he’s dead, and are still unable to move on. You need to let go, if you wish to get on with your life; which is going to prove impossible with us together. It is for the best, Gregory.”
So this one was his fault too!
“You selfish sod!” Lestrade’s voice was quietly shaking. “Don’t make this about me. Sherlock died, and you neither feel guilt at your failure to protect him, nor pain at his loss. It is you, who is being inhuman. If this is who you really are, I’m glad we’re calling it quits.”
He whirled to barge out, praying that his legs would hold him till he was out of the door, when a soft voice which was almost a plea, froze him in his tracks.
“Greg, one day, I might ask you, if you remember the words I had said to you, the first time we had met, when standing below your flat. Necessary though this is, it will never change how I feel about you. For whatever it is worth, I’m sorry…”
***
Lestrade shuddered as he wrenched his mind to the present, to try and concentrate on what John was saying.
“…the violins are fine, but Sherlock hates Mendelssohn; Freesias under his photograph, when he’s allergic to them is just wrong. And was it so difficult for Mycroft, to get a picture of him smiling?”
Lestrade recognised the nervous rambling for what it was. The hall was slowly filling to capacity behind them. He had received an impersonal e-mail invite for the Service from Mycroft. He had complied with the last request, he had made of him as his partner. Lestrade felt strangely grateful for that.
The Service began with a short Sermon by a Minister, during which he saw John reach out and clutch Mrs. Hudson’s hand. That was followed by Mycroft’s eulogy, in which he reminisced about their childhood. By the time he had finished, John’s breathing had turned audibly harsh. After his speech, Mycroft had kept an ‘open stage’ for anyone who had wanted to say something about Sherlock. There were many. They didn’t have much to say, but in their own words, they tried to give a farewell to the man whose brilliance had briefly illuminated their lives.
Most of them seemed to know John; as the gazes and the words seemed to be directed towards him. Even the homeless guy, who seemed to have wandered in accidently, publicly offered condolences to Sherlock’s Doctor from ‘all of them’.
It was when Angelo started to speak, that Lestrade saw John’s free hand dart and grip his left thigh convulsively, as a dry sob escaped him.
When it seemed that no one else was left, Lestrade found himself getting up and walking up to the front. He had no idea what he was doing, knowing that he was probably going to melt in a puddle of tears in front of half the Yard, which included his team. All he knew was that he owed it to Sherlock. He started haltingly.
"I am Detective Inspector Lestrade with the Metropolitan Police Department. I have known Sherlock for seven years, and anyone who had even one conversation with him, will know that he was a know-it-all, arrogant sod. But, a very few people like me got the privilege to see the man; the human being beneath the shocking exterior. He had his flaws and made his mistakes.”
He took a deep breath, struggling to keep his voice even. “I have very few regrets in life. Now, one of the most important ones is that I never actually told him upfront, what he meant to me. Brilliant though he was, he could be a bit thick about such things, like feelings; and I find myself wishing that I had made mine clearer.”
“I don’t believe in the afterlife, no offence Father, but Sherlock, if you are listening, here goes… I just want to tell you, that I loved you and respected you. I loved you, like the son I never had and like the brother I would have wished to have. You have been a comrade in my battles for so long, that I hope I find the strength to fight without you by my side.”
He had eyes only for John, who had buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with the tears which he had finally allowed himself. He swallowed furiously, determined to not let the pressure behind his own eyes show.
“You shared the Science of deduction with me, and I pride myself on having taught you the meanings of dull things like friendship, love and sacrifice. The crazy, genius that you are, you couldn’t help but give a practical demonstration of what you had learned. Bravo! I couldn’t be more proud of you than I am now. I am honoured to have known you and earned your respect. And I think, every person sitting in this room will agree with me, when I say, that it will be impossible to forget you…Farewell Sherlock Holmes…”
(Next part after 10 days, as I have a miserable exam to prepare for, on the eleventh!)
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