Fic: Voice Of Reason (oneshot)
Title: Voice Of Reason (Part 2 of Series, Reichenbach to Return)
Author: missilemuse.
Part: 1/1
Wordcount: 1100
Rating: G
Warnings: major character death.
Spoilers: for episodes 2.03
Disclaimer: Sherlock and John belong to ACD's grey cells, and each other in that order... Although the B.B.C. version receives full credit for inspiring me to put a pen to paper.
Summary: Sherlock has always been his voice of reason.
Author's notes:This is me, finally giving up and getting on the band-wagon; writing a post-Reichenbach fic. Sherlock made me cry and John wouldn't let me stop. This is the result. Dedicated to all the writers who will write a post-hiatus fic, as I need them, but can't bring myself to write one at the moment...
Series Master-post Here
Part 1 (Realizations) here
He had been in his office when he had got the call. “Detective Inspector Lestrade?”
He recognised the slightly trembling, slightly breathless voice instantly, but he answered neutrally.
“Yes it is. What can I do for you?”
“This is Dr. Molly Hooper from Bart’s. I had to… I think you should know that…” Her voice broke.
***
He drove to Bart’s with the siren on.
Fat lot of good that would do, Lestrade.
Shut up! He told him. He could never say that to him in real life, but this was inside his head.
Once he had reached the hospital however, he found himself dragging his feet, as he made his way to the mortuary; like wading through molasses, six feet deep.
Get a move on, Lestrade. I haven’t got all day!
As far back as he could remember, he had always had this voice of reason. It had been his common sense, his compass, his centre of gravity and his anchor. The inner commentary was what enabled him to keep a cool head when others lost it so quickly. When he was a kid, it used to sound like his father. As he grew older, it lost its distinctiveness and sounded different at different times. But since he had met a flighty, know-it-all Consultant Detective, it had always sounded like Sherlock; exactly like Sherlock, in fact. It was the only thing keeping him steady right now. He wondered if and when it would change again.
He saw John first. He had assumed that John Watson frequently appeared smaller than he really was because of Sherlock and the way he towered over the Army Doctor.
He had thought wrong. The Doctor looked even smaller now, shrunken somehow. He sat folded over in his chair, eyes wide open, fixed on the closed doors to the mortuary.
He didn’t see Lestrade, didn’t hear him, even as Lestrade walked right up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “John…”
That was when he turned his head, and his gaze followed the hand up to Lestrade’s face. He blinked once.
Lestrade was prepared for anger, rage even. He expected to be pummelled to the ground. He deserved it.
John smiled…
“No back-up, Lestrade? I hope you didn’t go to the bother of carrying two handcuffs. Only one would be quite sufficient now.”
In the line of duty, Lestrade had been shot once, stabbed twice; once rather badly. Then there was the one time, an extortionist had gotten hold of him and broken a couple of bones in his leg, to get information. Nothing compared to how he was feeling in this moment; what John was doing to him without laying a finger on him.
He just saw me jump off a building. What did you expect?
SHUT THE HELL UP! Lestrade wanted to scream, at both of them. But he held John’s eyes, letting him see all the things he simply couldn’t say. John looked away first.
“Oh God, Lestrade”, he shivered, hiding his face behind his hands. All Lestrade could think was- You were a bloody genius, and if you couldn’t see what this would do to him, that’s the biggest argument in Sally’s favour.
“I’m sorry, Greg. I have no right to... I am the first to be blamed. I should have… I should have seen this coming. I should have known.”
Lestrade took a seat next to the broken man. He’s been a career cop, and knows all the standard platitudes, but found his throat paralysed and the voice in his head utterly silent for now. No one could have seen this coming. No one, who knew the man, could have predicted that the most selfish, self-loving bastard on earth, would off himself. His train of thought derailed, as he caught two muffled words through the hands, “…my fault.”
An image flashed before his eyes. It was the living room in 221B, with the Christmas decorations still hung up for some reason. Lying on the floor was John Watson; unmoving, eyes wide open, unseeing, with the gun that they don’t talk about, still warm in his splayed out hands.
Just like that, he found his voice. “John, the only person to blame here, is Moriarty.”
John sniggered through the tears. “A man, who doesn’t exist, can’t commit murder, Greg. They found his body on the roof too, with a gunshot wound through the roof of his mouth. Except, he’s not Moriarty any longer. He’s Richard Brook, an actor hired by Sherlock to play Moriarty…which makes Sherlock Holmes, the fraud of the century.” He was looking at Lestrade as he said the last words, which was more like looking through him.
Lestrade didn’t have to think before answering. “We both know that’s not true. They don’t know what they’re talking about. Those kidnappings, and bombings; Sherlock could never do that.”
John’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And what if I told you that it was Sherlock who confessed all that to me. He called me and talked to me, while standing at the edge of the sodding roof, and told me it was all true; that he was pretending all along, that the Sherlock I … wasn’t real, nothing was real.”
Lestrade swallowed as he mentally cursed Sherlock to the innermost pits of hell.
That doesn’t make sense, Lestrade. Why would I do that?
“I don’t believe it either.” John echoed Lestrade’s expression. I’ll never believe it as long as I live. Sherlock was for real. I don’t know why he said the things he did, but if he thinks a two minute conversation can make me turn on the last two years of my life…”
John shuddered. “…We’re all responsible. If he could simply go ahead and kill himself like that, whatever the reason, we failed…all of us. It may have been Moriarty’s firing order, but we were the firing squad- Mycroft, you and me. His…brother passed information to Moriarty. You…after all he’s done for the Met; you arrested him…”
To prove my innocence once and for all. I know it, Lestrade.
“And ME; I left him alone...” The voice had turned feral. There was no mercy in it. “…his best friend. Do you know what I called him to his face, the last time I saw him? I called him a machine…a sodding machine! Jesus!” He broke down completely, body wracked with sobs. Before he realised what he was doing Lestrade had pulled the slack form towards himself, and hugged John, who continued to sob on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sherlock”, he begged as he cried. “I’m so sorry…”
I'm sorry too, John.
This time, Lestrade couldn’t be certain, whose voice it had been…
THE END...(for now)