I Have Erred, For I Am Human
Title: I Have Erred, For I Am Human
Author: Senket
Series: Sherlock
Rating: R
Genre: dark, angst
Summary: Based on the sherlockbbc_fic prompt: Sherlock/Lestrade: "I cried for you / Now it's your turn to cry over me."
Word Count: ~870
Characters: Lestrade, Sherlock, Moriarty
Pairings: Lestrade/Sherlock
Warnings: character death, Moriarty, burning the heart out of Sherlock. Horrific things
Spoilers: TGG, I guess.
Authors Notes: I'M SORRY. I CAN'T STOP HURTING LESTRADE. It's okay, Lestrade, darling. It means I love you. I always do that to my favorite characters. OH GOD, I'M SORRY. Also, excuse serious errors. It's copied straight over from the original posting, because I don't want to lose track of things I write, and I really will otherwise.
Disclaimer: usual
Lestrade:
Five years with Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade didn't know much about the inside of his head. It's cliche, maybe, but "all I know is that I know nothing." He'd once thought he'd known.
Back them Sherlock's strange quirks hadn't been just amusing. He'd cared. (Still cared.) Cared so much.
Ashed-faced Sherlock, small and breakable in a private hospital room, tubes coming out everywhere, an accidental crash after a bad cocktail of drugs. "You told me you were clean, you bastard," he'd muttered through gritted teeth, sobbing quietly, hands in fists against his temple. "You liar, you complete bastard."
He didn't show Sherlock, didn't think the man would care, but it turned out he had. He'd clung, maybe childishly, when a half-dazed, still-white Sherlock had kissed him the first time.
The month-long coma had been worse. 'Falling down the damn stairs, Sherlock, you complete-.' He'd been a wreck at work, a pile of hurt at home.
Sherlock woke up and they were over. Like that. As thought his interest in Lestrade had been the only thing that had been erased. He'd spent the night watching telly, working his way through a fifth of whiskey, face unapologetically wet.
If their relationship had to be the price for Sherlock's apparent lack of brain damage, then fine. Fine. Damnit it hurt.
Sometimes it seemed like Sherlock felt something- lingering looks, stilted pauses where Sherlock would suddenly shift tracks before returning to the previous conversation, seemingly-accidental touches. He never said anything, because he was terrified of hearing 'no'.
It was such a waste of time, he thought now, especially if it all came down to this.
On his knees, thick ropes cutting into his wrists, blood dribbling into his left eye. Shiny shoes just in view, a gloved hand keeping his head down.
"I do wish I could have more fun with you, Greggy," the tenor said, stroking a hand against his cheek, "but it just can't be done. You're more useful dead. Last words?"
He shrugged. As though the man would repeat them.
"I see. Too bad."
He was honestly expected to be shot, but then he caught sight of the camera sitting on the floor across from him.
Lestrade closed his eyes, restraining his body's desire to gag at the overwhelming smell of petrol as it slid, cold and wet, down his neck and face, pooling around his legs.
'Will you cry?' he thought, before he started screaming.
------------------------------
Sherlock:
Sherlock felt sick. Lestrade had been gone for three days.
Everything was in order. The man had put in his vacation notice a month ago. Sherlock had seen the files- the handwriting was definitely Lestrade's. His bags had been packed reasonably for a two-week trip to Lyon, but in the characteristic light fashion that Sherlock knew the other man had. He shouldn't be this tense, but since Moriarty-
Once, Sherlock had fallen down the stairs: a really stupid, minor incident. It had put him in a coma for a month. It embarrassed the life out of him; he wanted to forget about it. But he couldn't forget Lestrade, when he woke up.
Pale, emancipated, listless, burnt out, his cheeks had been spotty with stubble, his clothes laundered but not pressed. He'd lost a dangerous amount of weight, without even considering how fast he'd lost it.
Sherlock had been terrified of having this effect on Lestrade, so he'd broken it off. It barely helped.
"Mail for you, Sherlock." He barely moved when John dropped a small package of bills in front of him, before a single letter caught his attention. The paper, the nib, the blue ink, the handwriting- his breath stopped, fear rather than interest. It couldn't be. No. No.
He opened the square envelope to an unlabeled disk, shiny and absolutely clear of prints.
He moved to his bedroom with sharp movements, eyes empty, locking the door, flipping open his laptop and sliding the disk in with minimum motion. He sat across from it and watched with a carefully blank face, knuckles white where his hands locked together.
'Last words?'
No, no, no, no, no.
Fire. Fire and screaming and he couldn't breathe, couldn't see anything but flames and smoke, rising up and up and up, couldn't think, couldn't think, couldn't save, because it was too late. Too late. Too fucking late.
He barely heard John banging on the door, shouting out at him. He could only hear screaming.
He watched it over and over and over until he could see again, until his mind had quieted down enough to be blanketed with frozen fury.
He found the body before anyone else even started looking, days before Lestrade was even supposed to be back from vacation.
Lestrade was covered in open sores, one lid melted closed, the eye beneath it clearly no longer in existence. He was red and black flesh more than anything, barely recognizable- either way it was clear he'd lived several hours after the initial inferno, left to die there alone.
Sherlock sobbed like a child, cheek pressed to concrete. He'd wanted so badly to prevent this, to avoid inadvertently ruining the man. Wasted so much time, so much life. So much life.
He was going to kill Moriarty.
Break him.
Author: Senket
Series: Sherlock
Rating: R
Genre: dark, angst
Summary: Based on the sherlockbbc_fic prompt: Sherlock/Lestrade: "I cried for you / Now it's your turn to cry over me."
Word Count: ~870
Characters: Lestrade, Sherlock, Moriarty
Pairings: Lestrade/Sherlock
Warnings: character death, Moriarty, burning the heart out of Sherlock. Horrific things
Spoilers: TGG, I guess.
Authors Notes: I'M SORRY. I CAN'T STOP HURTING LESTRADE. It's okay, Lestrade, darling. It means I love you. I always do that to my favorite characters. OH GOD, I'M SORRY. Also, excuse serious errors. It's copied straight over from the original posting, because I don't want to lose track of things I write, and I really will otherwise.
Disclaimer: usual
Lestrade:
Five years with Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade didn't know much about the inside of his head. It's cliche, maybe, but "all I know is that I know nothing." He'd once thought he'd known.
Back them Sherlock's strange quirks hadn't been just amusing. He'd cared. (Still cared.) Cared so much.
Ashed-faced Sherlock, small and breakable in a private hospital room, tubes coming out everywhere, an accidental crash after a bad cocktail of drugs. "You told me you were clean, you bastard," he'd muttered through gritted teeth, sobbing quietly, hands in fists against his temple. "You liar, you complete bastard."
He didn't show Sherlock, didn't think the man would care, but it turned out he had. He'd clung, maybe childishly, when a half-dazed, still-white Sherlock had kissed him the first time.
The month-long coma had been worse. 'Falling down the damn stairs, Sherlock, you complete-.' He'd been a wreck at work, a pile of hurt at home.
Sherlock woke up and they were over. Like that. As thought his interest in Lestrade had been the only thing that had been erased. He'd spent the night watching telly, working his way through a fifth of whiskey, face unapologetically wet.
If their relationship had to be the price for Sherlock's apparent lack of brain damage, then fine. Fine. Damnit it hurt.
Sometimes it seemed like Sherlock felt something- lingering looks, stilted pauses where Sherlock would suddenly shift tracks before returning to the previous conversation, seemingly-accidental touches. He never said anything, because he was terrified of hearing 'no'.
It was such a waste of time, he thought now, especially if it all came down to this.
On his knees, thick ropes cutting into his wrists, blood dribbling into his left eye. Shiny shoes just in view, a gloved hand keeping his head down.
"I do wish I could have more fun with you, Greggy," the tenor said, stroking a hand against his cheek, "but it just can't be done. You're more useful dead. Last words?"
He shrugged. As though the man would repeat them.
"I see. Too bad."
He was honestly expected to be shot, but then he caught sight of the camera sitting on the floor across from him.
Lestrade closed his eyes, restraining his body's desire to gag at the overwhelming smell of petrol as it slid, cold and wet, down his neck and face, pooling around his legs.
'Will you cry?' he thought, before he started screaming.
------------------------------
Sherlock:
Sherlock felt sick. Lestrade had been gone for three days.
Everything was in order. The man had put in his vacation notice a month ago. Sherlock had seen the files- the handwriting was definitely Lestrade's. His bags had been packed reasonably for a two-week trip to Lyon, but in the characteristic light fashion that Sherlock knew the other man had. He shouldn't be this tense, but since Moriarty-
Once, Sherlock had fallen down the stairs: a really stupid, minor incident. It had put him in a coma for a month. It embarrassed the life out of him; he wanted to forget about it. But he couldn't forget Lestrade, when he woke up.
Pale, emancipated, listless, burnt out, his cheeks had been spotty with stubble, his clothes laundered but not pressed. He'd lost a dangerous amount of weight, without even considering how fast he'd lost it.
Sherlock had been terrified of having this effect on Lestrade, so he'd broken it off. It barely helped.
"Mail for you, Sherlock." He barely moved when John dropped a small package of bills in front of him, before a single letter caught his attention. The paper, the nib, the blue ink, the handwriting- his breath stopped, fear rather than interest. It couldn't be. No. No.
He opened the square envelope to an unlabeled disk, shiny and absolutely clear of prints.
He moved to his bedroom with sharp movements, eyes empty, locking the door, flipping open his laptop and sliding the disk in with minimum motion. He sat across from it and watched with a carefully blank face, knuckles white where his hands locked together.
'Last words?'
No, no, no, no, no.
Fire. Fire and screaming and he couldn't breathe, couldn't see anything but flames and smoke, rising up and up and up, couldn't think, couldn't think, couldn't save, because it was too late. Too late. Too fucking late.
He barely heard John banging on the door, shouting out at him. He could only hear screaming.
He watched it over and over and over until he could see again, until his mind had quieted down enough to be blanketed with frozen fury.
He found the body before anyone else even started looking, days before Lestrade was even supposed to be back from vacation.
Lestrade was covered in open sores, one lid melted closed, the eye beneath it clearly no longer in existence. He was red and black flesh more than anything, barely recognizable- either way it was clear he'd lived several hours after the initial inferno, left to die there alone.
Sherlock sobbed like a child, cheek pressed to concrete. He'd wanted so badly to prevent this, to avoid inadvertently ruining the man. Wasted so much time, so much life. So much life.
He was going to kill Moriarty.
Break him.