Fic: Figuring it out
Title: Figuring it out
Author: Cat_13145C
Rating: PG-13
Note: I should have being working on my disseration or my fics for queer_fest. Instead I wrote this. Like the previous one, no idea where to put it, so if you like it, let me know where. I'm aware a million people will have already done this much better than me, but it's wouldn't leave me alone, so here it is.
I own nothing, not even the title,
He’s reading the autopsy report when it hits him.
Summary:
He’s reading the autopsy report when it hits him.
The numbers, the description of the injuries, it seems familiar.
He’s pulled the file up before he’s even at the end of the first page. The results are identical, which is pretty much impossible as the cases are completely different and nearly ten years apart. The first case he and Sherlock worked on together.
He calls up the lab and asks Molly to check. Her voice sounds thick as she tells him she can’t, his brother already arranged for the body to be removed. Not Mycroft, a younger brother, Achilles according to the paperwork.
That confirms it more than anything else. He knows Sherlock didn’t have a younger brother.
He sits in his chair, staring at the paperwork that’s spread before him, before coming to the only conclusion that makes sense.
Sherlock Holmes is alive.
What the doctor saw and why Sherlock’s doing this is beyond him, but he has to have a good reason for it.
So Lestrade buries the report and doesn’t say a word to anyone. He keeps waiting for Sally, for Anderson to remark on how similar the autopsy results are to that first case, but Sally is too busy enjoying being right about “the Freak” and Anderson is working to save his marriage.
So no one notices and he doesn’t say anything. But he keeps looking.
Because once you know the secret, the clues are easy to find.
There’s a raid on a Mathematics professor in L.A. which steals all his work on binolar theory, but leaves his work on crime untouched and baffles several FBI agents.
Then there’s about two weeks of sensation about a Norwegian called Sigerson in the papers, and he thinks for a minute that Sally has figured it out. But she hasn’t and he’s forced to concede that Sherlock may have being right about her.
Then there’s the attempt on the life of the Dali Lama, using actual llamas, which is foiled by a dark haired man. His Excellency becomes very vague when asked for details, and it’s almost worth it to see Mycroft Holmes’ face go scarlet.
He reads with great interest about a new scientific test to detect blood stains that’s being developed in France.
He keeps all these clippings in a scrapbook hidden in a drawer and doesn’t mention it to the Doctor when they meet up for a pint, or Mrs Hudson when he goes around there for Sunday Lunch.
If he’s wrong...it would hurt them more.
So he talks about football to John and pulls him in on every case that he can, and lets his belt out by one notch, as Mrs Hudson’s food is designed to flatten up an ex-addict, not a police Inspector who’s already on the edge of being a bit large. And he waits.
Because one day Sherlock is going to come back.
And then Lestrade can tell him that he figured it out. And things will go back to the way they should be.