A shadow passed, a shadow passed

[theyarder]

OT4 'verse.
Verse note: Lestrade and Mary are married and have a one-year-old-ish son named Robert, who is Holmes's godchild.The armband is a little too tight; it doesn't cut off his circulation, but he can always feel it, a tight grip around his bicep. He could adjust it; he could ask Mary to fix it, make it so it sits more comfortably, but that

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[armydoctor]

Watson had been endeavouring to pack up a few of Holmes's things to send to his brother, though at just that moment he had been lost in thought, remembering. He hated being in this position, hated having to clear up after a dead man, hated that he hadn't any idea of what to do with himself. The funeral -- more a memorial, without a body, really -- had been unbearable. But then, he supposed most widowed spouses felt like that. He wasn't far off.

Always. If he had belonged to Holmes, then perhaps Holmes had taken that part of him with him to the grave.

And it was strange, now, to be in Baker Street. He hadn't yet worked out if he ought to leave, even if he could afford to stay.

Hearing Lestrade's voice, Watson wiped hastily at his face to hide any hint of tears. Replacing what he held in the box in front of him, he rose from where he was kneeling on the ground. "Yes, come in," he said, clearing his throat.

[theyarder]

He opens the door and shuts it behind him, and his eyes sweep over the room, unable to settle on the good doctor in his grief. Not when Holmes's things are laid out, clearly in the process of being shipped away, and something unexpected tears open inside him. He takes a breath and lets it out, stepping into the room, and he gives Watson a smile that doesn't seem forced. He is a copper. Tragedy isn't new to him. It just generally isn't so personal.

"Thought I'd drop by to say hello. Hope I'm not interrupting," he says, and he gestures to the boxes, only belatedly realizing he probably shouldn't.

Oh God, but Watson looks miserable. Small and broken and miserable.

[armydoctor]

"Oh, no. No, not at all." He wanted to be interrupted, in this task if any. He was glad to see Lestrade, ridiculously glad, because it was at least one person in the world who knew at least something of the depth of Watson's grief, and the reason why. "Come in, please. Sit down."

He couldn't seem to look at Lestrade, but he cleared a few things away and then moved to the sideboard to fetch some brandy. "Can I get you a drink?" Watson offered. "I could... well, frankly, I could use one myself."

[theyarder]

"I was hoping you'd ask so I wouldn't have to be the impolite one and suggest it." He makes his way over and sits, and he really oughtn't pry, but he finds himself peering into the boxes. It's a jumble, and Watson's done an admirable job of making it look sensible. He has a sudden, horrible thought that when Holmes's things are gone -- when the stacks of newspapers and piles of notes and chemical equipment are all gone -- this place will hardly be lived in at all. He sweeps his eyes over Baker street, but it's all majority Holmes; like everything he touches, he sweeps over everything, overwhelms everything, and there's hardly any room for anyone else, besides.

He clears his throat and runs his hand over his hair, and down over his face. It's been a long day. He just needs some brandy, and he'll be better at handling this.

"Do you need any help with this?" he asks, bringing back some of that brisk police tone to his voice.