Fic: And He Lives [a translation]
This is a follow-up piece for morganstuart 's A Study in Grey, written by jane_doe221 . Originally written in Chinese, translated by me, beta'd by the amazing elfbert , with additional help from snowlight .
Word Count: 988
WARNING: Major character death (not depicted but central to story).
"You must leave. Now." A voice broke up the vacuum in the room, accompanied by curtains being pushed apart, letting in daggers of sun light. "John is already there."
"Go away." The Consulting Detective did not move on the sofa, eyes shut tight.
From the back, the other man was his usual armored self. The suit, shoes, and umbrella, all perfectly in place.
"Don’t, Sherlock. He would want you to go." He said calmly, still facing the window, watching - unseeing - the mingling traffic, the hustling crowds.
"No, he wouldn't! He'd rather be - " the Detective jerked up, all black curly mess and furious glare; then stilled as abruptly as he'd moved, eyes snagged on the pale-knuckled fingers clutching the handle of the umbrella with unnecessary force.
"...Fine, I'll go. You coming?" The Detective asked, not looking up.
"No. Technically, I do not ... did not know him, remember?" The man smiled faintly into the world at large just beyond the slightly dusty glass panes. A few moments passed before he turned his head to look at his brother, and told him, "Go. And say Goodbye to him for me." Then he was gone, in his usual steadfast stride. Leaving Sherlock behind, motionless, expressionless.
In time, he slowly rose to don his most solemn black suit.
Mycroft returned to his office and resumed work. From time to time, he would glance at one of the monitor screens to the side - on it, the Detective Inspector was working in his office as well. As always. Mycroft would momentarily tighten his grip around the fountain pen before summoning every last scrap of his fast slipping self-control to keep from stabbing the paper under the ill-controlled pressure of the nib.
Anthea had come in a few times, seemingly having something to tell him. In the end she'd left it unsaid, just wordlessly put down enough food to last him for the rest of the day. It gradually grew stale and cold sitting in the same spot, untouched by its intended consumer; who stared at the monitor, watching the Inspector scoff down his meal - the same thing he always ate for lunch on the days he had the luxury of staying in. Fingers round the pen again clenched and unclenched.
When the veil of night nearly completed descending on the city, Mycroft arrived at Scotland Yard in his car and watched from a distance the clusters of officers and workers leaving. Same as he had done in each of the numerous evenings before. He gripped the handle of his umbrella tighter yet, knowing tonight he would not see the familiar silvery hue. Not tonight. Not ever.
Then he went home.
A disk which contained the footage of the service today was waiting for him; the one he could not find any excuses to attend. He reached for it with shaky hands, no longer bothering with the countenance he'd been struggling to hold up through the day. He stood with labored breath in front of the obscenely large flat screen for a long time while clamping the thin, glossy disk between stiff fingers.
At last, he pushed it into the player. The black tray shuddered and retracted with a soft hiss.
"...an outstanding member of the force. He was a good friend and devoted to his family. Not once did he cringe as he fought evil to protect the innocent. And when faced with imminent death his first thought was to save his friend and colleague. He was one of us, and always will be. May God comfort his family and friends, may He bring them peace, and may He bless forever the memory of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."
His hands were interlocked with bruising force, his eyes all but boring into the detestably clean crystal surface on which the Doctor was walking up to Jenny, ex-wife of the Inspector, and gave her a constrained yet earnest hug. Then he walked to the edge of the open void where Sherlock stood waiting, and cast a single long stem white rose. Mycroft jumped at the extraordinarily soft thud of it connecting with the solid wood; the noise hammering into his being the reality of what was down there in the hateful chasm, or what was absent - the warm, dark chocolate brown orbs, the boyish grin, the infectious laughter, the rise and fall of a stout chest.
Petals started snowing down, until they blanketed the dark lid of the wooden box. When the bulldozer began pushing down soil Mycroft wanted to scream, scream for it to stop because he was still in there and didn't they know? But not a single sound escaped him. He sat still, trembling.
In the end, only that of a small bumpy patch of grassy earth and an unadorned tombstone stayed behind. Mycroft knew what it said on the tombstone:
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard
Here lies an honest,
Noble,
And tenacious man.
He expected tears to roll out when he closed his eyes, and was surprised to discover them moistureless. As though all the salty liquid in his body had drained away together with Lestrade's blood on that horrific day.
The utter devastation and despair of Sherlock, John and the others had been brutally raw and in clear view. As for Mycroft, the man who did not have any declarable ties to the departed policeman, he now was the lone dweller in a frost-covered land where time and scenery stood still, where the only color was a phantasmagoria of silvery grey.
He clicked the video off, and went to bed on quivering legs. The ensuing darkness would witness no dreams, only grave stillness.
The next day, Mycroft lowered himself behind his desk in the office, all immaculate exterior and superior air as always.
On that screen in front of him, Gregory Lestrade was captured in the changeless, endless day. Alive.
- END -
Note: I'm sorry! TAT
Word Count: 988
WARNING: Major character death (not depicted but central to story).
"You must leave. Now." A voice broke up the vacuum in the room, accompanied by curtains being pushed apart, letting in daggers of sun light. "John is already there."
"Go away." The Consulting Detective did not move on the sofa, eyes shut tight.
From the back, the other man was his usual armored self. The suit, shoes, and umbrella, all perfectly in place.
"Don’t, Sherlock. He would want you to go." He said calmly, still facing the window, watching - unseeing - the mingling traffic, the hustling crowds.
"No, he wouldn't! He'd rather be - " the Detective jerked up, all black curly mess and furious glare; then stilled as abruptly as he'd moved, eyes snagged on the pale-knuckled fingers clutching the handle of the umbrella with unnecessary force.
"...Fine, I'll go. You coming?" The Detective asked, not looking up.
"No. Technically, I do not ... did not know him, remember?" The man smiled faintly into the world at large just beyond the slightly dusty glass panes. A few moments passed before he turned his head to look at his brother, and told him, "Go. And say Goodbye to him for me." Then he was gone, in his usual steadfast stride. Leaving Sherlock behind, motionless, expressionless.
In time, he slowly rose to don his most solemn black suit.
Mycroft returned to his office and resumed work. From time to time, he would glance at one of the monitor screens to the side - on it, the Detective Inspector was working in his office as well. As always. Mycroft would momentarily tighten his grip around the fountain pen before summoning every last scrap of his fast slipping self-control to keep from stabbing the paper under the ill-controlled pressure of the nib.
Anthea had come in a few times, seemingly having something to tell him. In the end she'd left it unsaid, just wordlessly put down enough food to last him for the rest of the day. It gradually grew stale and cold sitting in the same spot, untouched by its intended consumer; who stared at the monitor, watching the Inspector scoff down his meal - the same thing he always ate for lunch on the days he had the luxury of staying in. Fingers round the pen again clenched and unclenched.
When the veil of night nearly completed descending on the city, Mycroft arrived at Scotland Yard in his car and watched from a distance the clusters of officers and workers leaving. Same as he had done in each of the numerous evenings before. He gripped the handle of his umbrella tighter yet, knowing tonight he would not see the familiar silvery hue. Not tonight. Not ever.
Then he went home.
A disk which contained the footage of the service today was waiting for him; the one he could not find any excuses to attend. He reached for it with shaky hands, no longer bothering with the countenance he'd been struggling to hold up through the day. He stood with labored breath in front of the obscenely large flat screen for a long time while clamping the thin, glossy disk between stiff fingers.
At last, he pushed it into the player. The black tray shuddered and retracted with a soft hiss.
"...an outstanding member of the force. He was a good friend and devoted to his family. Not once did he cringe as he fought evil to protect the innocent. And when faced with imminent death his first thought was to save his friend and colleague. He was one of us, and always will be. May God comfort his family and friends, may He bring them peace, and may He bless forever the memory of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."
His hands were interlocked with bruising force, his eyes all but boring into the detestably clean crystal surface on which the Doctor was walking up to Jenny, ex-wife of the Inspector, and gave her a constrained yet earnest hug. Then he walked to the edge of the open void where Sherlock stood waiting, and cast a single long stem white rose. Mycroft jumped at the extraordinarily soft thud of it connecting with the solid wood; the noise hammering into his being the reality of what was down there in the hateful chasm, or what was absent - the warm, dark chocolate brown orbs, the boyish grin, the infectious laughter, the rise and fall of a stout chest.
Petals started snowing down, until they blanketed the dark lid of the wooden box. When the bulldozer began pushing down soil Mycroft wanted to scream, scream for it to stop because he was still in there and didn't they know? But not a single sound escaped him. He sat still, trembling.
In the end, only that of a small bumpy patch of grassy earth and an unadorned tombstone stayed behind. Mycroft knew what it said on the tombstone:
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard
Here lies an honest,
Noble,
And tenacious man.
He expected tears to roll out when he closed his eyes, and was surprised to discover them moistureless. As though all the salty liquid in his body had drained away together with Lestrade's blood on that horrific day.
The utter devastation and despair of Sherlock, John and the others had been brutally raw and in clear view. As for Mycroft, the man who did not have any declarable ties to the departed policeman, he now was the lone dweller in a frost-covered land where time and scenery stood still, where the only color was a phantasmagoria of silvery grey.
He clicked the video off, and went to bed on quivering legs. The ensuing darkness would witness no dreams, only grave stillness.
The next day, Mycroft lowered himself behind his desk in the office, all immaculate exterior and superior air as always.
On that screen in front of him, Gregory Lestrade was captured in the changeless, endless day. Alive.
- END -
Note: I'm sorry! TAT