Wounded With His Wounded Heart, Ch. 12
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Sherlock; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended.
Author’s Note: I was thrilled that my prediction of Greg’s reaction was quite accurate, even if it was a much quicker moment in the show - I really did write his entire section in this chapter before watching the first episode! (I also had a good bit of Molly’s reaction plotted out in my head already, so the new canon didn’t really change this chapter much, thankfully, aside from the bits about Anderson.) As always, thanks to the lovely WickedForGood13 and Nagaem_C, who have been my saviors on this story.
Wounded With His Wounded Heart - Chapter Twelve
Greg Lestrade was not a stupid man. Despite what some at the Yard had thought in the wake of Sherlock’s death, he had worked hard and long to gain the title of Detective Inspector. To his regret, his devotion to his work and the long hours that came with it was one of the things that had contributed to the demise of his marriage, but he never considered doing anything else. He was generally a highly observant officer and very good at his job.
So when he came into work one Monday morning, just over a week after the one-year anniversary of Sherlock’s death, and found a clear space on his desk, with a stack of files that hadn’t been there when he left the night before, his investigative senses immediately went on high alert. Nothing appeared to be missing from his desk; the original contents had merely been moved aside. The door to his office bore no signs of a forced break-in or lock-picking, and neither did any of his filing cabinets.
“McKenzie!” he called out the open office door.
The auburn-haired, hazel-eyed sergeant appeared almost instantly. Her cubicle was only a few meters away.
“Yes, sir?” she inquired.
“Did you see anyone bring in these files on my desk?” Greg asked.
“They were brought in this morning, sir,” McKenzie answered promptly. “They arrived by courier about forty-five minutes ago. I had to take him up to the Superintendent in order to get into your office; he was most insistent that the files be put in your office exactly that way, and the office locked up again until you got here. He had a letter for the Super that silenced his objections faster than anything I’ve ever seen,” she added with some humor, her eyes twinkling.
“What did the courier look like?” Greg asked intently, wondering if he could track the man down.
“He was a government courier, sir. I saw the seal on the letter. He was from India or came from an Indian family, and he was wearing a light gray suit. After he gave the letter to the Super, I was given the key to let him into your office. He placed everything exactly as you see it, and he waited until he was sure I had locked the office up again. He wasn’t threatening, sir, just firm - as if he was used to passing along orders, if you know what I mean,” McKenzie finished.
“I do,” Greg nodded slowly. This was one of many reasons he had liked Audra McKenzie from the moment he met her; she was intelligent and knew how to pay attention to details. “Thank you, McKenzie. Could you try to keep everyone away for a few minutes, please? I need to see what this is.”
“Will do, sir,” McKenzie said with a cheerful smile.
“Oh, and McKenzie,” Greg added sharply, before she could leave, “keep this to yourself, okay? At least until I know what we’re dealing with.”
“Yes, sir,” McKenzie replied, and she gave him a solemn nod before leaving and closing the door behind her.
Greg walked around his desk and settled himself in his chair, placing his coffee on its usual coaster and staring with narrowed eyes at the unfamiliar piles. There was one pile of ten or twelve Scotland Yard folders, and after hearing McKenzie’s story, he had his suspicions about how, exactly, those had come back to him via government courier. Next to that pile, there was a single large manila envelope that was sealed and clasped shut, with his name on it in large, clear printing. No address. It was clearly full of more paper; it looked as though it might burst at the seams.
Greg reached for the top folder on the tall stack first - and promptly froze as he caught sight of a post-it affixed to the front, with one sentence written in an elegant hand.
Really, Lestrade, did I teach you nothing?
Greg stared at the post-it and the folder for a full two minutes before recovering enough self-possession to get up and close the blinds. He went back to his seat and picked up the folder a second time with shaking hands, flipping it open to find the margins of the case file covered in notes, all in the same distinctive cursive. Folder after folder was the same - full of corrections, in the hand of a dead man.
Greg put his hands to his head, staring at the folders now strewn over his desk. “It’s not possible,” he breathed. In a moment of inspiration, he scrambled through the files again, looking at the dates. All of the cases were cold, with no leads - but most of them had happened after Sherlock’s death.
Wild hope warred with disbelief and simmering anger. A cruel practical joke was more likely - someone who was smart enough to pick cold cases with the right dates - but the writing. Greg didn’t know of anyone who could forge handwriting that well; he had looked at so many of Sherlock’s notes over the years that he would know the detective’s handwriting anywhere.
He reached for the folder nearest his hand and began to read through the notes.
Clearly a case of poisoning made to look like a suicide. The body was hanged afterward - the neck is bruised and the throat shows signs of strangulation, but the neck isn’t broken, nor is the trachea crushed. The blue lips were thought to be from lack of circulation and rigor mortis - but there were open windows in the room where she was hanging, which would have helped dissipate the smell, and blue lips can also be a sign of poisoning. Have Molly run the tox screen - probably cyanide. If sister has Pekinese, arrest sister.
And there, scrawled in the bottom corner of the page:
- SH
Just as Greg laid eyes on the familiar initials, his desk phone rang. The number was blocked, but that alone told Greg who it was. He took two deep breaths before picking up the handset.
“Mycroft,” he said shakily, “if this is your idea of a sick joke, or some strange scheme your brother came up with before he died so that he could have a little fun beyond the grave, I swear to God I don’t care who you are or how many governments you run, you will be sorry you ever drew breath.”
“You are letting your emotions interfere with what is before your eyes, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft replied, and it might have sounded condescending or smug, supercilious or bored - but it didn’t. Mycroft’s voice was soothing, reassuring, and the sound of it was so completely unfamiliar that it was all Greg needed to hear to realize that the British Government was being sincere. “You know that most of those cold cases appeared after Sherlock’s death. You know that it is undeniably his handwriting in the files. You know that it was one of my couriers who brought the files - yes, you do, don’t bother to deny it. I wanted you to know. When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, - ”
“- must be the truth. My God,” Greg said, his voice finally cracking with amazement and disbelief. “Are you telling me that Sherlock is - that Anderson was -”
“Yes,” Mycroft answered, his voice still warm and calm. “Or rather, this is the way Sherlock chose to tell you, by providing you with information, and I am simply confirming what you already know. I thought a timely phone call might be . . . helpful. Mr. Anderson was right about the various cases he spotted that seemed to have Sherlock’s signature - surprising, that. I never would have expected it of him. There is much more that you don’t know, however. The manila envelope on your desk contains a classified file, one which you will be handing to Anthea the minute you have read it. A car will be there for you in an hour.”
“The manila envelope - Jesus, Mycroft, have you bugged my office?” Greg said incredulously, glancing around for any signs of tampering he might have missed.
He could almost hear the eyeroll on the other end of the phone, and in a way it was a relief for Mycroft to go back to normal so quickly. “The courier was one of mine, Detective Inspector; of course I know what he brought you and where he was supposed to place it.”
“Right. Sorry,” Greg muttered, running a hand over his face. “I’m still trying to process this.”
“I know it is a shock. It certainly was for me,” Mycroft added under his breath. “Gregory - read the file. It will go a long way toward explaining the reasons behind all of this.”
Hearing emotion from Mycroft Holmes was surprising enough all on its own, but to be addressed by his first name was one for the record books. Greg swallowed, touched by the gesture and knowing that if he commented on it, Mycroft would retreat into completely detached professionalism. “All right. One hour. And Mycroft - thank you,” he finished tentatively, unsure how it would be received.
“You’re welcome.” By the tone, Greg was almost certain that Mycroft was smiling as they hung up.
Greg took a long swallow of his coffee, then set about straightening the Yard files and putting them back into a pile. Much as he might want to stare at them for confirmation of the man’s existence, Sherlock’s notes would keep; the classified file would not. He undid the seal on the envelope and slid out a thick folder, bulging with notes and photographs, that was ominously clear of any markings or identification. Greg wondered just how many rules Mycroft was breaking by allowing him to see such a file. The better question was: what was inside it that Mycroft felt was so important for him to know?
Greg stood up and crossed to the door. McKenzie looked up as he emerged, and he crooked a finger at her, prompting her to hurriedly follow him back inside. Greg shut the door again immediately.
“Any trouble so far?” he asked, his voice low.
“No, sir. No one’s come looking for you,” McKenzie replied, her brow wrinkling in concern as she took in the seriousness of Greg’s voice and posture.
“Right. McKenzie, I’m going to leave here in an hour. Until then, absolutely no one comes into this office. Only you, me, and the Superintendent know about these files, and I’m the only one at the Yard who knows what’s in them, and it has to stay that way. Do I make myself clear?”
“Absolutely, sir,” the officer promised. “What shall I say to anyone who asks where you are?”
“Just tell them that I’m out following a lead on the drugs ring,” Greg answered. “It won’t hold water for long, but it doesn’t need to; I’ll only be gone a couple of hours. If anything critically important happens, ring me, but I do mean critical, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Thank you for trusting me on this,” Greg said earnestly. He opened the door. “Off you go, then.”
McKenzie started to leave, but then hesitated and turned back, her hazel eyes clear and earnest as she looked at Greg. “You’re a good man, sir. I’m proud to be here.”
Greg blinked, taken aback, but then gave the sergeant a small smile. “Thank you. I appreciate that,” he answered. “Go on, now.”
McKenzie left, and Greg shut the door and locked it, taking another long drink of coffee before sitting down again and mustering enough willpower to open the strangely blank folder.
The next sixty minutes were the longest of Greg’s life, crawling by as if each minute were eons and flying at the speed of light at the same time, as he tried to absorb too much - far too much - earth-shattering information. The first item in the pile was a transcript of Sherlock’s conversation with Jim Moriarty, up on the roof of St. Bart’s - which meant that Sherlock had to have recorded it on his phone. The phone that John had insisted Sherlock had thrown on the roof. The phone Greg and his team had never found.
After reading through the transcript, Greg had to sit and breathe while tears gathered in the corners of his eyes and the reality of Sherlock’s apparent suicide came home to him. Sherlock had been forced to jump - but he had also been willing to jump, had planned for it, had anticipated that he might have to give up his life, or at least take a very large risk with it, in order to save the people he loved. Greg was on that incredibly short, momentous list of people who Sherlock Holmes was willing to die for.
Greg carefully set that thought aside, like the precious jewel that it was, and forced himself to focus on the next piece of paper.
It was Sherlock’s death certificate. Greg had never actually seen it, and even seeing the copy of it was enough to nauseate him. However, attached to the death certificate were notes and photographs that Greg knew would only ever be seen by a handful of people in the world. The photographs were documentation of Sherlock’s injuries and his methods of self-preservation. Greg cringed at how primitive they were; the odds that Sherlock would come out of that fall with so few injuries were frighteningly low. It was nothing short of a miracle that he had not broken a limb, fractured his skull, or broken his neck. He had a sprained wrist and ankle, several cuts, and nasty bruises, but otherwise appeared to be unharmed.
The notes were in Molly Hooper’s writing.
Greg sucked in a breath. Of course. Who else would Sherlock have gone to for help? Who else would he have trusted to take care of him, to process the fake paperwork, to take photographs for Mycroft? And Molly would never have said a word; she was the soul of honor when she had made a promise.
The notes were a more detailed explanation of Molly’s post-fall examination and Sherlock’s injuries, of the detective’s rapid descent into shock (real, physical shock brought on by mental and physical trauma), his remarkable lack of resistance while Molly took photographs, and finally notes on the treatment Molly had provided. Once he had regained physical and mental control, Sherlock had apparently donned a disguise and disappeared with nothing more than a large duffel bag.
“Christ, Molls,” Greg sighed, suddenly understanding why his girlfriend had been so painfully quiet and sad anytime anyone mentioned Sherlock. She had sworn to Greg when they started dating that she wasn’t in love with Sherlock when he ‘died’; she had confessed to having a crush on him and said that she had learned to care for him as a friend. Greg had believed her and seen her grief as a reflection of his own. They were both Sherlock’s friends who were grieving for the brilliant man they had helped and cared for.
Now, however, Greg saw a completely different picture. Molly had known that Sherlock faked his death and had been carrying that burden completely alone; she knew he was alive after the fall, but must not have known whether he stayed alive after he disappeared. She would have been the one who patched up Sherlock’s injuries, who treated him and got him through the shock, and then she would have had to watch him disappear.
He couldn’t talk to her yet. Greg didn’t know if Sherlock had told her he was living, if Mycroft was giving her the same kind of access to privileged information, or if she was still in the dark for some other reason. He would find out whether it was safe to bring her in as soon as possible, but he would have his own secret to keep for just a little while.
He turned over the death certificate, notes, and photographs, and moved on to the next item.
What unfolded in front of him, through piece after piece of paper and photograph after photograph, was Sherlock’s quest to take down Jim Moriarty’s web of power - a quest that was, quite frankly, terrifying in its scope and its level of risk. There were documents proving the existence of every kind of illegal operation imaginable: drug smuggling, human trafficking, murder-for-hire, arms dealing, money laundering, art forgery, government computer hacking. There was apparently no kind of work the consulting criminal would refuse, as long as it was interesting enough and the price was right. Sherlock had sought to take out the key players, to make the web fall apart through lack of support. He had become both a one-man intelligence agency and an assassin, in the kind of covert operation that Greg, as an officer of the law, would never be able to officially condone.
Unofficially, it made him glad with a vicious sort of dark vengeance that someone had finally taken down everything Moriarty had created - nothing would ever convince him the madman deserved any sort of mercy - but it hurt him beyond words that it had to have been Sherlock who did it.
If anyone had asked Greg to describe his relationship with Sherlock Holmes, the best he would have been able to come up with was “complicated,” unless he had several hours and possibly a drink over which to talk. Greg had first met Sherlock as a charismatic 29-year-old addict who looked years younger than he was and pestered Greg at crime scenes when he wasn’t getting high. Greg couldn’t say with certainty, even now, what it was that had made him want to befriend such an arrogant, irritating junkie. Sherlock insulted everyone, Greg included, even on his clean days - but every trail he ever put Greg on checked out. He remained cold and aloof ninety-nine percent of the time, but the occasional, fleeting look of shock when Greg was kind to him, or the rare, almost-silent “Thank you” at the end of a case gave Greg glimpses of a vulnerable, lonely genius who almost could not keep up with his own intellect and senses. Greg had begun keeping track of him, watching him for signs of using and withdrawal, demanding he stay clean if he wanted to help, and trying to make sure he went someplace safe at the end of the night. He had learned to care for Sherlock almost like a wayward younger brother, and he had, in rare instances, allied himself with Mycroft for exactly that reason. He knew why Mycroft worried so much because he did the same. Sherlock had taken to Greg better than he did to his brother, however, and the consulting detective repaid Greg for his help with an incredibly high close rate on his cases and, once in a blue moon, a compliment or a bit of a joke. Sherlock was many things, but he was not, by nature, a killer or a ruthless person. Greg only hoped that his year away had not damaged him irreparably.
Greg was almost relieved when a brisk knock at his door announced Anthea’s arrival. Mycroft’s enigmatic PA gave him a brief, almost sympathetic smile when he unlocked the door and opened it. “Ready to go?”
“Not like I have much of a choice, do I?” Greg groused, though his irritation was not really directed at Anthea at all, but at the high-handedness of certain government officials. Still, he was all too aware that the folder on his desk had to go back; its contents could implode national and international politics if anyone else saw them.
“Just let me get my coat,” he sighed, reaching over the back of his chair and picking up his blazer. He pulled it on, then pulled on his greatcoat after taking it from behind the door. He carefully assembled Mycroft’s file from the desk, checking to make sure that none of the paper remained on the desk’s surface, then turned and gave a nod to Anthea, who turned without a word and began walking briskly toward the elevator. Greg followed her, feeling his pulse pick up as he thought about what awaited him at Baker Street. He took out his phone and sent a text to Molly as he walked, desperately wanting to talk to her but knowing that it wasn’t going to happen for several hours.
I love you. Something’s come up. I’ll call you a bit later.
He slid the phone back into his pocket just as the elevator door dinged open.
McKenzie’s phone beeped with an incoming text as Greg entered the elevator, and the Sergeant quickly looked around to make sure no one was watching, then turned her phone face up in her palm.
Mr. Holmes sends his thanks. ~A
McKenzie smiled.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Greg settled into the leather cushions of a government car that positively made him twitch with how expensive it was, but he had more pressing things on his mind. He kept his hands tightly clasped around the folder as he held it out to Anthea.
“Look, um, I know you’re not supposed to talk about this,” Greg said awkwardly, “but I also know that you’ve seen the entire contents of this folder, and that there is probably plenty of it you didn’t have to see because you were there, helping Mycroft help Sherlock. If you could just tell me - was it as bad as it looks?”
Anthea really looked at him then, putting her Blackberry down and taking the folder from him, setting it on the seat beside her. Her eyes were sad.
“Yes,” she confirmed quietly. “It was.”
Greg swallowed hard and nodded, turning his face away.
He looked out the window for the remainder of the ride to Baker Street.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Molly walked into work that same Monday feeling drained. She hadn’t slept well, her sleep disturbed by dreams about Sherlock and John, the latter looking old and so very broken, the former a shadow always just out of sight. Not for the first time, she cursed the uncanny perception that made her so good - too good, sometimes - at reading others. It could be a gift, but in other moments it was a terrible burden.
She had burnt her toast, run one of her stockings, and misplaced her keys before she even left her flat, and those things combined meant that she didn’t have time to stop for her regular morning coffee. (There was only so much hospital coffee she could drink.) She had still managed to leave her usual morning message for Greg - because she slept later than he did and was on the late shift at the morgue, they usually spoke in person for the first time when one of them managed to take their lunch - but she knew he would be concerned by the anxiety and fatigue in her voice. Then, just as she had gotten off the tube, she had gotten Greg’s text, which only added to her worry. He was fine; he would have told her if something had happened to him, but he was clearly anxious and upset, which didn’t help her mood at all. He never texted her before their first talk unless something fairly serious had happened.
A brief smile crossed her face as she walked into the Bart’s lab; Greg was a good man. He was excellent at his job and funny and sweet, and she was on her way to being very much in love with him. He might be the one good thing that has come out of this whole terrible year, she decided as she began perusing her list for the day.
An object on one of the lab tables caught her eye in her peripheral vision and she frowned. She had made sure those tables were clean and clear last night. Going over, she saw that it was actually two objects: a large, steaming cup of her favorite coffee from the coffee shop three blocks away, and a basket full of scones and croissants that were -
Molly paused as she realized exactly where those scones were from. Raspberry and white chocolate, her favorite, and Dr. Watson had always brought them in for her when Mrs. Hudson made some. She picked up the piece of paper that sat on top of the baked goods with shaking fingers.
Come to Baker Street when you can, Molly. We’ve missed you. - SH
Molly read it twice before its meaning truly registered in her mind. Covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
No matter how well you thought you knew people, John reflected, they were always capable of surprising you. Greg and Molly’s reactions had been almost precisely the opposite of what John and Sherlock had predicted.
Greg had shown up first, mid-morning. Sherlock had been standing at the window with his violin, playing in front of John for the first time, and his playing had abruptly stopped as his shoulders stiffened. “Mycroft shouldn’t be here,” he murmured. Then, “Oh. It’s Lestrade.”
His shoulders had tensed up even more as he turned around, and he set his Stradivarius gently on the sofa. Both he and John faced the door as they heard Mrs. Hudson open the door below and the DI’s steps hurriedly ascend the stairs.
The flat door opened, and Greg’s eyes went straight to Sherlock as he stepped over the threshold. John felt a pang of sadness and sympathy as he looked at Greg; the DI looked terrible and had clearly been crying.
Greg crossed the room in three strides and flung his arms around Sherlock, who stilled in surprise before tentatively putting his arms around Greg in return.
“Sherlock. God,” Greg said into his shoulder. John could see Greg’s fingers gripping for all they were worth at the fabric of Sherlock’s suit jacket, and he permitted himself a small smile. Despite the disastrous end of the events with Moriarty, he had never doubted Greg’s affection for and protectiveness of Sherlock, and here was proof positive of how much Greg cared. Sherlock, for his part, was also hugging Greg rather tightly, and John’s smile widened as he noticed that.
Sherlock, not quite over his startlement at Greg’s reaction, cleared his throat without releasing his hold. “Lestrade. Greg,” he corrected himself quietly. “I . . .”
Sherlock didn’t finish, clearly not sure what he could say that would make anything better. Luckily, Greg saved Sherlock from having to find words. He loosened his grip and took a step back, still resting his hands on Sherlock’s biceps.
“You mad bugger,” Greg said vehemently. “Don’t you ever do anything like this again, do you hear me? If you are going to save my life, you tell me; you let me help and you let me protect you. You don’t dive off a building for me or go after international assassins and criminals for me, for Christ’s sake!”
Sherlock was watching Greg intently, taking in Greg’s voice and posture and (John was sure) a million more things besides, and he waited patiently for the end of Greg’s tirade before shaking his head.
“There wasn’t time,” he whispered. “If there had been any other way, if I had found any other way, Greg, don’t you think I would have used it? I was out-maneuvered, and once I realized that I could disappear and go after his network, secrecy was paramount. You’ve seen the file; you know I never could have done it if anyone had known I was alive.”
Greg finally released Sherlock’s arms, only to scrub his hands over his face. “I don’t even want to know how you know that,” he said tiredly. “And yes, I know. I also know I wasn’t your primary concern” - and here Greg exchanged his first real glance with John, giving the doctor a smile - “but it doesn’t work like this, Sherlock. It’s supposed to be the other way around.”
“Then how does it work?” Sherlock inquired, his voice a little firmer and surer now. “I was not going to stand by and let you be killed, Lestrade.” John noticed the shift back to Greg’s last name, and he could see the DI did, too. It was delivered in Sherlock’s best “don’t-be-an-idiot” voice, if less stridently than usual. “You saved my life years ago and now I have saved yours, which seems like a much more equitable arrangement. John is - John is everything,” he admitted, stumbling a little over the words, “but you are part of my family, too. We protect each other, do we not?”
Sherlock’s voice trailed off at the end, and the frail vulnerability that John had seen so often in the past week came over his face again. Greg’s expression softened as he looked at Sherlock, and he drew the detective into another hug.
“Yes. Yes, we do,” he agreed, his voice rough with emotion. “And I’m so thankful for what you did, but I’m even more thankful to have you back alive and in one piece. Don’t do it again; I mean it. None of us can take it.”
“I have every intention of staying here and staying alive for as long as possible,” Sherlock said, his mouth quirking upward as he threw a glance at John over Greg’s shoulder.
Greg released Sherlock and looked between him and John, grinning widely now. “I’ll just bet you do.” John blushed, and Greg winked at him before moving toward the door. “I have to get back to the office, but - have you told Molly?”
“She knows,” John nodded, speaking aloud for the first time. “She hasn’t been by yet, but she knows, especially since it’s . . .” John quickly checked his watch, “half ten. Whatever file you’ve seen, though, I would bet money that she hasn’t and won’t,” he added, arching a brow at Sherlock in a silent question. The detective nodded in confirmation.
“No, she hasn’t. Use your discretion, Greg. I would imagine there is quite a bit your girlfriend shouldn’t know and probably more that she won’t want to know,” Sherlock said solemnly, and he was quite serious, but Greg paused again and looked at him, raising his brows. Sherlock stared at him in puzzlement before realizing what he was silently asking, and he sighed in exasperation.
“Honestly, Lestrade. There are traces of her perfume on your coat, one of her hairs on your collar, and some of her cat’s hairs on your trouser cuff. And to answer your earlier question, you arrived in one of Mycroft’s cars. Hardly a difficult leap to conclude you’d seen the file.”
Another grin had bloomed on Greg’s face as Sherlock talked, and he simply shook his head as Sherlock finished. “God, it’s good to have you back. Anderson’s going to go off his nut; he’s been swearing to everyone that you were alive for the last ten months.”
John gaped. “Sorry, Anderson? Anderson’s been swearing that Sherlock’s alive?”
Greg nodded. “I know it sounds crazy,” the DI said. “He felt terrible about what happened; it never occurred to him that you would kill yourself over what everyone was saying,” he continued, addressing Sherlock in turn. “After you died - after you pretended to die, I mean,” Greg corrected himself, “Anderson got out every file from every case you’d ever worked and went back over all of the evidence himself. Every bit of it. He figured out that basically every deduction you’d ever made was backed up by the facts and the forensic evidence. It was because of him that we were able to clear your name, but - he spent all of his time doing that instead of attending to his regular workload, and he ended up getting fired for it,” Greg continued sadly. “I couldn’t do much about it, at the time. Since then he’s been hunting up every obscure case mentioned in the international news, and he insisted that he had found a series of cases that all conformed to your pattern, and that clearly showed you were coming back home from wherever you had been. I would imagine he’s right about at least some of them.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows were hitting his hairline. “Well, apparently there is some hope for him after all.”
Greg snorted, rolling his eyes. “Nice to know the git I actually missed is still in there somewhere,” he said. “You might give him some credit, you know, considering it was all his work that forced the Yard to clear you. And the bastards fired him for it, since they didn’t want to admit they actually needed your help in the first place.”
“I give him plenty of credit,” Sherlock retorted easily, far too innocently. “Of course, losing his job in order to make me into some kind of public martyr was probably not the wisest move, but I’m grateful for his efforts on my behalf.”
“Twat,” Greg said affectionately. “Go easy on him, yeah? Hard as it might be to believe, he actually did feel awful.”
Sherlock’s sarcastic demeanor softened into a quiet smile that clearly signaled he had only been winding Greg up. It made John want to kiss him. “I’ll find a way to thank him. I’ve learned not to take my allies for granted, no matter how . . . unconventional they may be.”
Greg gave him an approving nod before turning to the doctor. “John, mate, meet me at the pub tomorrow night?”
“Absolutely,” John agreed. “I’m sure we’ll be talking to you before then; Mycroft’s somehow handling the media circus this is going to create.”
“See you soon, then,” Greg said, and with a wave he was down the stairs, his steps jaunty and cheerful.
“Well, that went better than I hoped,” Sherlock said with another a small smile.
John gave into his impulses and strode over to Sherlock to kiss him deeply, eliciting a noise of surprise from Sherlock before he returned the kiss enthusiastically.
“I love you,” he murmured breathlessly when they pulled apart.
“I love you,” Sherlock replied, slightly dazed. “What was that for?”
“You let Greg know that he’s family,” John said. “You let him know he matters. Not that he wouldn’t know, after seeing Mycroft’s file, but you actually said it aloud. Do you have any idea how much that meant to him?”
“I think so,” Sherlock admitted. “I - these things do not come easily, after so long, but while I was away - there was a point after which I simply couldn’t - compartmentalize anymore. I had perfected keeping my emotions under lock and key, and then - they were everywhere, and I couldn’t - separate them,” Sherlock finished unsteadily.
The silence that fell was heavy after Sherlock’s confession, and John swallowed, waiting. He didn’t want to imagine what had happened to Sherlock that had caused him to lose control of his perfectly ordered Mind Palace. In a way, John was grateful - he had always thought that Sherlock keeping his emotions buried so deeply couldn’t possibly be healthy, though he himself had little ground to stand on in that regard - but to a mind as disciplined as Sherlock’s, such a breach of his normal control mechanisms could have left lasting damage.
“You haven’t asked about the file,” Sherlock ventured carefully, and John shook his head decisively.
“Nope. I won’t. Mycroft obviously felt Greg needed to know the whole picture, and maybe there are legal reasons for that and maybe not, maybe there are just familial ones because Mycroft and Greg have always looked out for you, but I only want to know as much as you want to tell me. I’m never going to press you for information, Sherlock. I know enough to know that it was terrible, and that’s all I need to know.”
Sherlock drew him close. “Thank you.”
Chapter Thirteen
Author’s Note: I was thrilled that my prediction of Greg’s reaction was quite accurate, even if it was a much quicker moment in the show - I really did write his entire section in this chapter before watching the first episode! (I also had a good bit of Molly’s reaction plotted out in my head already, so the new canon didn’t really change this chapter much, thankfully, aside from the bits about Anderson.) As always, thanks to the lovely WickedForGood13 and Nagaem_C, who have been my saviors on this story.
Wounded With His Wounded Heart - Chapter Twelve
Greg Lestrade was not a stupid man. Despite what some at the Yard had thought in the wake of Sherlock’s death, he had worked hard and long to gain the title of Detective Inspector. To his regret, his devotion to his work and the long hours that came with it was one of the things that had contributed to the demise of his marriage, but he never considered doing anything else. He was generally a highly observant officer and very good at his job.
So when he came into work one Monday morning, just over a week after the one-year anniversary of Sherlock’s death, and found a clear space on his desk, with a stack of files that hadn’t been there when he left the night before, his investigative senses immediately went on high alert. Nothing appeared to be missing from his desk; the original contents had merely been moved aside. The door to his office bore no signs of a forced break-in or lock-picking, and neither did any of his filing cabinets.
“McKenzie!” he called out the open office door.
The auburn-haired, hazel-eyed sergeant appeared almost instantly. Her cubicle was only a few meters away.
“Yes, sir?” she inquired.
“Did you see anyone bring in these files on my desk?” Greg asked.
“They were brought in this morning, sir,” McKenzie answered promptly. “They arrived by courier about forty-five minutes ago. I had to take him up to the Superintendent in order to get into your office; he was most insistent that the files be put in your office exactly that way, and the office locked up again until you got here. He had a letter for the Super that silenced his objections faster than anything I’ve ever seen,” she added with some humor, her eyes twinkling.
“What did the courier look like?” Greg asked intently, wondering if he could track the man down.
“He was a government courier, sir. I saw the seal on the letter. He was from India or came from an Indian family, and he was wearing a light gray suit. After he gave the letter to the Super, I was given the key to let him into your office. He placed everything exactly as you see it, and he waited until he was sure I had locked the office up again. He wasn’t threatening, sir, just firm - as if he was used to passing along orders, if you know what I mean,” McKenzie finished.
“I do,” Greg nodded slowly. This was one of many reasons he had liked Audra McKenzie from the moment he met her; she was intelligent and knew how to pay attention to details. “Thank you, McKenzie. Could you try to keep everyone away for a few minutes, please? I need to see what this is.”
“Will do, sir,” McKenzie said with a cheerful smile.
“Oh, and McKenzie,” Greg added sharply, before she could leave, “keep this to yourself, okay? At least until I know what we’re dealing with.”
“Yes, sir,” McKenzie replied, and she gave him a solemn nod before leaving and closing the door behind her.
Greg walked around his desk and settled himself in his chair, placing his coffee on its usual coaster and staring with narrowed eyes at the unfamiliar piles. There was one pile of ten or twelve Scotland Yard folders, and after hearing McKenzie’s story, he had his suspicions about how, exactly, those had come back to him via government courier. Next to that pile, there was a single large manila envelope that was sealed and clasped shut, with his name on it in large, clear printing. No address. It was clearly full of more paper; it looked as though it might burst at the seams.
Greg reached for the top folder on the tall stack first - and promptly froze as he caught sight of a post-it affixed to the front, with one sentence written in an elegant hand.
Really, Lestrade, did I teach you nothing?
Greg stared at the post-it and the folder for a full two minutes before recovering enough self-possession to get up and close the blinds. He went back to his seat and picked up the folder a second time with shaking hands, flipping it open to find the margins of the case file covered in notes, all in the same distinctive cursive. Folder after folder was the same - full of corrections, in the hand of a dead man.
Greg put his hands to his head, staring at the folders now strewn over his desk. “It’s not possible,” he breathed. In a moment of inspiration, he scrambled through the files again, looking at the dates. All of the cases were cold, with no leads - but most of them had happened after Sherlock’s death.
Wild hope warred with disbelief and simmering anger. A cruel practical joke was more likely - someone who was smart enough to pick cold cases with the right dates - but the writing. Greg didn’t know of anyone who could forge handwriting that well; he had looked at so many of Sherlock’s notes over the years that he would know the detective’s handwriting anywhere.
He reached for the folder nearest his hand and began to read through the notes.
Clearly a case of poisoning made to look like a suicide. The body was hanged afterward - the neck is bruised and the throat shows signs of strangulation, but the neck isn’t broken, nor is the trachea crushed. The blue lips were thought to be from lack of circulation and rigor mortis - but there were open windows in the room where she was hanging, which would have helped dissipate the smell, and blue lips can also be a sign of poisoning. Have Molly run the tox screen - probably cyanide. If sister has Pekinese, arrest sister.
And there, scrawled in the bottom corner of the page:
- SH
Just as Greg laid eyes on the familiar initials, his desk phone rang. The number was blocked, but that alone told Greg who it was. He took two deep breaths before picking up the handset.
“Mycroft,” he said shakily, “if this is your idea of a sick joke, or some strange scheme your brother came up with before he died so that he could have a little fun beyond the grave, I swear to God I don’t care who you are or how many governments you run, you will be sorry you ever drew breath.”
“You are letting your emotions interfere with what is before your eyes, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft replied, and it might have sounded condescending or smug, supercilious or bored - but it didn’t. Mycroft’s voice was soothing, reassuring, and the sound of it was so completely unfamiliar that it was all Greg needed to hear to realize that the British Government was being sincere. “You know that most of those cold cases appeared after Sherlock’s death. You know that it is undeniably his handwriting in the files. You know that it was one of my couriers who brought the files - yes, you do, don’t bother to deny it. I wanted you to know. When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, - ”
“- must be the truth. My God,” Greg said, his voice finally cracking with amazement and disbelief. “Are you telling me that Sherlock is - that Anderson was -”
“Yes,” Mycroft answered, his voice still warm and calm. “Or rather, this is the way Sherlock chose to tell you, by providing you with information, and I am simply confirming what you already know. I thought a timely phone call might be . . . helpful. Mr. Anderson was right about the various cases he spotted that seemed to have Sherlock’s signature - surprising, that. I never would have expected it of him. There is much more that you don’t know, however. The manila envelope on your desk contains a classified file, one which you will be handing to Anthea the minute you have read it. A car will be there for you in an hour.”
“The manila envelope - Jesus, Mycroft, have you bugged my office?” Greg said incredulously, glancing around for any signs of tampering he might have missed.
He could almost hear the eyeroll on the other end of the phone, and in a way it was a relief for Mycroft to go back to normal so quickly. “The courier was one of mine, Detective Inspector; of course I know what he brought you and where he was supposed to place it.”
“Right. Sorry,” Greg muttered, running a hand over his face. “I’m still trying to process this.”
“I know it is a shock. It certainly was for me,” Mycroft added under his breath. “Gregory - read the file. It will go a long way toward explaining the reasons behind all of this.”
Hearing emotion from Mycroft Holmes was surprising enough all on its own, but to be addressed by his first name was one for the record books. Greg swallowed, touched by the gesture and knowing that if he commented on it, Mycroft would retreat into completely detached professionalism. “All right. One hour. And Mycroft - thank you,” he finished tentatively, unsure how it would be received.
“You’re welcome.” By the tone, Greg was almost certain that Mycroft was smiling as they hung up.
Greg took a long swallow of his coffee, then set about straightening the Yard files and putting them back into a pile. Much as he might want to stare at them for confirmation of the man’s existence, Sherlock’s notes would keep; the classified file would not. He undid the seal on the envelope and slid out a thick folder, bulging with notes and photographs, that was ominously clear of any markings or identification. Greg wondered just how many rules Mycroft was breaking by allowing him to see such a file. The better question was: what was inside it that Mycroft felt was so important for him to know?
Greg stood up and crossed to the door. McKenzie looked up as he emerged, and he crooked a finger at her, prompting her to hurriedly follow him back inside. Greg shut the door again immediately.
“Any trouble so far?” he asked, his voice low.
“No, sir. No one’s come looking for you,” McKenzie replied, her brow wrinkling in concern as she took in the seriousness of Greg’s voice and posture.
“Right. McKenzie, I’m going to leave here in an hour. Until then, absolutely no one comes into this office. Only you, me, and the Superintendent know about these files, and I’m the only one at the Yard who knows what’s in them, and it has to stay that way. Do I make myself clear?”
“Absolutely, sir,” the officer promised. “What shall I say to anyone who asks where you are?”
“Just tell them that I’m out following a lead on the drugs ring,” Greg answered. “It won’t hold water for long, but it doesn’t need to; I’ll only be gone a couple of hours. If anything critically important happens, ring me, but I do mean critical, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Thank you for trusting me on this,” Greg said earnestly. He opened the door. “Off you go, then.”
McKenzie started to leave, but then hesitated and turned back, her hazel eyes clear and earnest as she looked at Greg. “You’re a good man, sir. I’m proud to be here.”
Greg blinked, taken aback, but then gave the sergeant a small smile. “Thank you. I appreciate that,” he answered. “Go on, now.”
McKenzie left, and Greg shut the door and locked it, taking another long drink of coffee before sitting down again and mustering enough willpower to open the strangely blank folder.
The next sixty minutes were the longest of Greg’s life, crawling by as if each minute were eons and flying at the speed of light at the same time, as he tried to absorb too much - far too much - earth-shattering information. The first item in the pile was a transcript of Sherlock’s conversation with Jim Moriarty, up on the roof of St. Bart’s - which meant that Sherlock had to have recorded it on his phone. The phone that John had insisted Sherlock had thrown on the roof. The phone Greg and his team had never found.
After reading through the transcript, Greg had to sit and breathe while tears gathered in the corners of his eyes and the reality of Sherlock’s apparent suicide came home to him. Sherlock had been forced to jump - but he had also been willing to jump, had planned for it, had anticipated that he might have to give up his life, or at least take a very large risk with it, in order to save the people he loved. Greg was on that incredibly short, momentous list of people who Sherlock Holmes was willing to die for.
Greg carefully set that thought aside, like the precious jewel that it was, and forced himself to focus on the next piece of paper.
It was Sherlock’s death certificate. Greg had never actually seen it, and even seeing the copy of it was enough to nauseate him. However, attached to the death certificate were notes and photographs that Greg knew would only ever be seen by a handful of people in the world. The photographs were documentation of Sherlock’s injuries and his methods of self-preservation. Greg cringed at how primitive they were; the odds that Sherlock would come out of that fall with so few injuries were frighteningly low. It was nothing short of a miracle that he had not broken a limb, fractured his skull, or broken his neck. He had a sprained wrist and ankle, several cuts, and nasty bruises, but otherwise appeared to be unharmed.
The notes were in Molly Hooper’s writing.
Greg sucked in a breath. Of course. Who else would Sherlock have gone to for help? Who else would he have trusted to take care of him, to process the fake paperwork, to take photographs for Mycroft? And Molly would never have said a word; she was the soul of honor when she had made a promise.
The notes were a more detailed explanation of Molly’s post-fall examination and Sherlock’s injuries, of the detective’s rapid descent into shock (real, physical shock brought on by mental and physical trauma), his remarkable lack of resistance while Molly took photographs, and finally notes on the treatment Molly had provided. Once he had regained physical and mental control, Sherlock had apparently donned a disguise and disappeared with nothing more than a large duffel bag.
“Christ, Molls,” Greg sighed, suddenly understanding why his girlfriend had been so painfully quiet and sad anytime anyone mentioned Sherlock. She had sworn to Greg when they started dating that she wasn’t in love with Sherlock when he ‘died’; she had confessed to having a crush on him and said that she had learned to care for him as a friend. Greg had believed her and seen her grief as a reflection of his own. They were both Sherlock’s friends who were grieving for the brilliant man they had helped and cared for.
Now, however, Greg saw a completely different picture. Molly had known that Sherlock faked his death and had been carrying that burden completely alone; she knew he was alive after the fall, but must not have known whether he stayed alive after he disappeared. She would have been the one who patched up Sherlock’s injuries, who treated him and got him through the shock, and then she would have had to watch him disappear.
He couldn’t talk to her yet. Greg didn’t know if Sherlock had told her he was living, if Mycroft was giving her the same kind of access to privileged information, or if she was still in the dark for some other reason. He would find out whether it was safe to bring her in as soon as possible, but he would have his own secret to keep for just a little while.
He turned over the death certificate, notes, and photographs, and moved on to the next item.
What unfolded in front of him, through piece after piece of paper and photograph after photograph, was Sherlock’s quest to take down Jim Moriarty’s web of power - a quest that was, quite frankly, terrifying in its scope and its level of risk. There were documents proving the existence of every kind of illegal operation imaginable: drug smuggling, human trafficking, murder-for-hire, arms dealing, money laundering, art forgery, government computer hacking. There was apparently no kind of work the consulting criminal would refuse, as long as it was interesting enough and the price was right. Sherlock had sought to take out the key players, to make the web fall apart through lack of support. He had become both a one-man intelligence agency and an assassin, in the kind of covert operation that Greg, as an officer of the law, would never be able to officially condone.
Unofficially, it made him glad with a vicious sort of dark vengeance that someone had finally taken down everything Moriarty had created - nothing would ever convince him the madman deserved any sort of mercy - but it hurt him beyond words that it had to have been Sherlock who did it.
If anyone had asked Greg to describe his relationship with Sherlock Holmes, the best he would have been able to come up with was “complicated,” unless he had several hours and possibly a drink over which to talk. Greg had first met Sherlock as a charismatic 29-year-old addict who looked years younger than he was and pestered Greg at crime scenes when he wasn’t getting high. Greg couldn’t say with certainty, even now, what it was that had made him want to befriend such an arrogant, irritating junkie. Sherlock insulted everyone, Greg included, even on his clean days - but every trail he ever put Greg on checked out. He remained cold and aloof ninety-nine percent of the time, but the occasional, fleeting look of shock when Greg was kind to him, or the rare, almost-silent “Thank you” at the end of a case gave Greg glimpses of a vulnerable, lonely genius who almost could not keep up with his own intellect and senses. Greg had begun keeping track of him, watching him for signs of using and withdrawal, demanding he stay clean if he wanted to help, and trying to make sure he went someplace safe at the end of the night. He had learned to care for Sherlock almost like a wayward younger brother, and he had, in rare instances, allied himself with Mycroft for exactly that reason. He knew why Mycroft worried so much because he did the same. Sherlock had taken to Greg better than he did to his brother, however, and the consulting detective repaid Greg for his help with an incredibly high close rate on his cases and, once in a blue moon, a compliment or a bit of a joke. Sherlock was many things, but he was not, by nature, a killer or a ruthless person. Greg only hoped that his year away had not damaged him irreparably.
Greg was almost relieved when a brisk knock at his door announced Anthea’s arrival. Mycroft’s enigmatic PA gave him a brief, almost sympathetic smile when he unlocked the door and opened it. “Ready to go?”
“Not like I have much of a choice, do I?” Greg groused, though his irritation was not really directed at Anthea at all, but at the high-handedness of certain government officials. Still, he was all too aware that the folder on his desk had to go back; its contents could implode national and international politics if anyone else saw them.
“Just let me get my coat,” he sighed, reaching over the back of his chair and picking up his blazer. He pulled it on, then pulled on his greatcoat after taking it from behind the door. He carefully assembled Mycroft’s file from the desk, checking to make sure that none of the paper remained on the desk’s surface, then turned and gave a nod to Anthea, who turned without a word and began walking briskly toward the elevator. Greg followed her, feeling his pulse pick up as he thought about what awaited him at Baker Street. He took out his phone and sent a text to Molly as he walked, desperately wanting to talk to her but knowing that it wasn’t going to happen for several hours.
I love you. Something’s come up. I’ll call you a bit later.
He slid the phone back into his pocket just as the elevator door dinged open.
McKenzie’s phone beeped with an incoming text as Greg entered the elevator, and the Sergeant quickly looked around to make sure no one was watching, then turned her phone face up in her palm.
Mr. Holmes sends his thanks. ~A
McKenzie smiled.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Greg settled into the leather cushions of a government car that positively made him twitch with how expensive it was, but he had more pressing things on his mind. He kept his hands tightly clasped around the folder as he held it out to Anthea.
“Look, um, I know you’re not supposed to talk about this,” Greg said awkwardly, “but I also know that you’ve seen the entire contents of this folder, and that there is probably plenty of it you didn’t have to see because you were there, helping Mycroft help Sherlock. If you could just tell me - was it as bad as it looks?”
Anthea really looked at him then, putting her Blackberry down and taking the folder from him, setting it on the seat beside her. Her eyes were sad.
“Yes,” she confirmed quietly. “It was.”
Greg swallowed hard and nodded, turning his face away.
He looked out the window for the remainder of the ride to Baker Street.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Molly walked into work that same Monday feeling drained. She hadn’t slept well, her sleep disturbed by dreams about Sherlock and John, the latter looking old and so very broken, the former a shadow always just out of sight. Not for the first time, she cursed the uncanny perception that made her so good - too good, sometimes - at reading others. It could be a gift, but in other moments it was a terrible burden.
She had burnt her toast, run one of her stockings, and misplaced her keys before she even left her flat, and those things combined meant that she didn’t have time to stop for her regular morning coffee. (There was only so much hospital coffee she could drink.) She had still managed to leave her usual morning message for Greg - because she slept later than he did and was on the late shift at the morgue, they usually spoke in person for the first time when one of them managed to take their lunch - but she knew he would be concerned by the anxiety and fatigue in her voice. Then, just as she had gotten off the tube, she had gotten Greg’s text, which only added to her worry. He was fine; he would have told her if something had happened to him, but he was clearly anxious and upset, which didn’t help her mood at all. He never texted her before their first talk unless something fairly serious had happened.
A brief smile crossed her face as she walked into the Bart’s lab; Greg was a good man. He was excellent at his job and funny and sweet, and she was on her way to being very much in love with him. He might be the one good thing that has come out of this whole terrible year, she decided as she began perusing her list for the day.
An object on one of the lab tables caught her eye in her peripheral vision and she frowned. She had made sure those tables were clean and clear last night. Going over, she saw that it was actually two objects: a large, steaming cup of her favorite coffee from the coffee shop three blocks away, and a basket full of scones and croissants that were -
Molly paused as she realized exactly where those scones were from. Raspberry and white chocolate, her favorite, and Dr. Watson had always brought them in for her when Mrs. Hudson made some. She picked up the piece of paper that sat on top of the baked goods with shaking fingers.
Come to Baker Street when you can, Molly. We’ve missed you. - SH
Molly read it twice before its meaning truly registered in her mind. Covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
No matter how well you thought you knew people, John reflected, they were always capable of surprising you. Greg and Molly’s reactions had been almost precisely the opposite of what John and Sherlock had predicted.
Greg had shown up first, mid-morning. Sherlock had been standing at the window with his violin, playing in front of John for the first time, and his playing had abruptly stopped as his shoulders stiffened. “Mycroft shouldn’t be here,” he murmured. Then, “Oh. It’s Lestrade.”
His shoulders had tensed up even more as he turned around, and he set his Stradivarius gently on the sofa. Both he and John faced the door as they heard Mrs. Hudson open the door below and the DI’s steps hurriedly ascend the stairs.
The flat door opened, and Greg’s eyes went straight to Sherlock as he stepped over the threshold. John felt a pang of sadness and sympathy as he looked at Greg; the DI looked terrible and had clearly been crying.
Greg crossed the room in three strides and flung his arms around Sherlock, who stilled in surprise before tentatively putting his arms around Greg in return.
“Sherlock. God,” Greg said into his shoulder. John could see Greg’s fingers gripping for all they were worth at the fabric of Sherlock’s suit jacket, and he permitted himself a small smile. Despite the disastrous end of the events with Moriarty, he had never doubted Greg’s affection for and protectiveness of Sherlock, and here was proof positive of how much Greg cared. Sherlock, for his part, was also hugging Greg rather tightly, and John’s smile widened as he noticed that.
Sherlock, not quite over his startlement at Greg’s reaction, cleared his throat without releasing his hold. “Lestrade. Greg,” he corrected himself quietly. “I . . .”
Sherlock didn’t finish, clearly not sure what he could say that would make anything better. Luckily, Greg saved Sherlock from having to find words. He loosened his grip and took a step back, still resting his hands on Sherlock’s biceps.
“You mad bugger,” Greg said vehemently. “Don’t you ever do anything like this again, do you hear me? If you are going to save my life, you tell me; you let me help and you let me protect you. You don’t dive off a building for me or go after international assassins and criminals for me, for Christ’s sake!”
Sherlock was watching Greg intently, taking in Greg’s voice and posture and (John was sure) a million more things besides, and he waited patiently for the end of Greg’s tirade before shaking his head.
“There wasn’t time,” he whispered. “If there had been any other way, if I had found any other way, Greg, don’t you think I would have used it? I was out-maneuvered, and once I realized that I could disappear and go after his network, secrecy was paramount. You’ve seen the file; you know I never could have done it if anyone had known I was alive.”
Greg finally released Sherlock’s arms, only to scrub his hands over his face. “I don’t even want to know how you know that,” he said tiredly. “And yes, I know. I also know I wasn’t your primary concern” - and here Greg exchanged his first real glance with John, giving the doctor a smile - “but it doesn’t work like this, Sherlock. It’s supposed to be the other way around.”
“Then how does it work?” Sherlock inquired, his voice a little firmer and surer now. “I was not going to stand by and let you be killed, Lestrade.” John noticed the shift back to Greg’s last name, and he could see the DI did, too. It was delivered in Sherlock’s best “don’t-be-an-idiot” voice, if less stridently than usual. “You saved my life years ago and now I have saved yours, which seems like a much more equitable arrangement. John is - John is everything,” he admitted, stumbling a little over the words, “but you are part of my family, too. We protect each other, do we not?”
Sherlock’s voice trailed off at the end, and the frail vulnerability that John had seen so often in the past week came over his face again. Greg’s expression softened as he looked at Sherlock, and he drew the detective into another hug.
“Yes. Yes, we do,” he agreed, his voice rough with emotion. “And I’m so thankful for what you did, but I’m even more thankful to have you back alive and in one piece. Don’t do it again; I mean it. None of us can take it.”
“I have every intention of staying here and staying alive for as long as possible,” Sherlock said, his mouth quirking upward as he threw a glance at John over Greg’s shoulder.
Greg released Sherlock and looked between him and John, grinning widely now. “I’ll just bet you do.” John blushed, and Greg winked at him before moving toward the door. “I have to get back to the office, but - have you told Molly?”
“She knows,” John nodded, speaking aloud for the first time. “She hasn’t been by yet, but she knows, especially since it’s . . .” John quickly checked his watch, “half ten. Whatever file you’ve seen, though, I would bet money that she hasn’t and won’t,” he added, arching a brow at Sherlock in a silent question. The detective nodded in confirmation.
“No, she hasn’t. Use your discretion, Greg. I would imagine there is quite a bit your girlfriend shouldn’t know and probably more that she won’t want to know,” Sherlock said solemnly, and he was quite serious, but Greg paused again and looked at him, raising his brows. Sherlock stared at him in puzzlement before realizing what he was silently asking, and he sighed in exasperation.
“Honestly, Lestrade. There are traces of her perfume on your coat, one of her hairs on your collar, and some of her cat’s hairs on your trouser cuff. And to answer your earlier question, you arrived in one of Mycroft’s cars. Hardly a difficult leap to conclude you’d seen the file.”
Another grin had bloomed on Greg’s face as Sherlock talked, and he simply shook his head as Sherlock finished. “God, it’s good to have you back. Anderson’s going to go off his nut; he’s been swearing to everyone that you were alive for the last ten months.”
John gaped. “Sorry, Anderson? Anderson’s been swearing that Sherlock’s alive?”
Greg nodded. “I know it sounds crazy,” the DI said. “He felt terrible about what happened; it never occurred to him that you would kill yourself over what everyone was saying,” he continued, addressing Sherlock in turn. “After you died - after you pretended to die, I mean,” Greg corrected himself, “Anderson got out every file from every case you’d ever worked and went back over all of the evidence himself. Every bit of it. He figured out that basically every deduction you’d ever made was backed up by the facts and the forensic evidence. It was because of him that we were able to clear your name, but - he spent all of his time doing that instead of attending to his regular workload, and he ended up getting fired for it,” Greg continued sadly. “I couldn’t do much about it, at the time. Since then he’s been hunting up every obscure case mentioned in the international news, and he insisted that he had found a series of cases that all conformed to your pattern, and that clearly showed you were coming back home from wherever you had been. I would imagine he’s right about at least some of them.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows were hitting his hairline. “Well, apparently there is some hope for him after all.”
Greg snorted, rolling his eyes. “Nice to know the git I actually missed is still in there somewhere,” he said. “You might give him some credit, you know, considering it was all his work that forced the Yard to clear you. And the bastards fired him for it, since they didn’t want to admit they actually needed your help in the first place.”
“I give him plenty of credit,” Sherlock retorted easily, far too innocently. “Of course, losing his job in order to make me into some kind of public martyr was probably not the wisest move, but I’m grateful for his efforts on my behalf.”
“Twat,” Greg said affectionately. “Go easy on him, yeah? Hard as it might be to believe, he actually did feel awful.”
Sherlock’s sarcastic demeanor softened into a quiet smile that clearly signaled he had only been winding Greg up. It made John want to kiss him. “I’ll find a way to thank him. I’ve learned not to take my allies for granted, no matter how . . . unconventional they may be.”
Greg gave him an approving nod before turning to the doctor. “John, mate, meet me at the pub tomorrow night?”
“Absolutely,” John agreed. “I’m sure we’ll be talking to you before then; Mycroft’s somehow handling the media circus this is going to create.”
“See you soon, then,” Greg said, and with a wave he was down the stairs, his steps jaunty and cheerful.
“Well, that went better than I hoped,” Sherlock said with another a small smile.
John gave into his impulses and strode over to Sherlock to kiss him deeply, eliciting a noise of surprise from Sherlock before he returned the kiss enthusiastically.
“I love you,” he murmured breathlessly when they pulled apart.
“I love you,” Sherlock replied, slightly dazed. “What was that for?”
“You let Greg know that he’s family,” John said. “You let him know he matters. Not that he wouldn’t know, after seeing Mycroft’s file, but you actually said it aloud. Do you have any idea how much that meant to him?”
“I think so,” Sherlock admitted. “I - these things do not come easily, after so long, but while I was away - there was a point after which I simply couldn’t - compartmentalize anymore. I had perfected keeping my emotions under lock and key, and then - they were everywhere, and I couldn’t - separate them,” Sherlock finished unsteadily.
The silence that fell was heavy after Sherlock’s confession, and John swallowed, waiting. He didn’t want to imagine what had happened to Sherlock that had caused him to lose control of his perfectly ordered Mind Palace. In a way, John was grateful - he had always thought that Sherlock keeping his emotions buried so deeply couldn’t possibly be healthy, though he himself had little ground to stand on in that regard - but to a mind as disciplined as Sherlock’s, such a breach of his normal control mechanisms could have left lasting damage.
“You haven’t asked about the file,” Sherlock ventured carefully, and John shook his head decisively.
“Nope. I won’t. Mycroft obviously felt Greg needed to know the whole picture, and maybe there are legal reasons for that and maybe not, maybe there are just familial ones because Mycroft and Greg have always looked out for you, but I only want to know as much as you want to tell me. I’m never going to press you for information, Sherlock. I know enough to know that it was terrible, and that’s all I need to know.”
Sherlock drew him close. “Thank you.”
Chapter Thirteen