Story: Loss
Fandom: Sherlock (TV)
Characters: Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, Everett Holmes-Lestrade (OC)
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade
Word Count: ~2,000
Notes: Major Character Death, I own zilch. One-shot, universe could be expanded, third-person omniscient
Summary: "Why him," Sherlock growled. "Why was it him that had to die? Why not that sodding excuse of a driver?"
Requested by impishtubist (which was a shocker and one of the best things that has happened since I've joined). She requested "sherlock and lestrade have a son but he dies. ANGST AHOY. GO!"
I tried! D: Took forever for me to finally settle on an idea.
Enjoy~!
The only light in the room glowed from the fireplace. The figure crouched on the floor in front of it, taking in the light and warmth. It gave him comfort, he supposed. Watching the fire burn away the logs was like feeling his grief burn away at his soul.
He had grieved once before in this life that he could remember. To him, it wasn’t really grieving; just a lingering sadness and mutual respect. Or at least, he wouldn’t admit to it being desolate if he was asked.
A photograph was being held loosely in his hand; the picture being of a small boy around twelve or thirteen years of age. He had short, black hair and deep brown eyes; his smile very wide and very familiar. He was dressed in a tan jumper, and had swiped his father’s plaid blue scarf for his own. Sherlock slightly smiled at the memory.
He had first grieved a woman. He was now grieving a child.
He could hear the door clink and open slowly, and he recognized who it was instantly. Greg had returned home from the Yard, and Sherlock realized he himself hadn’t moved all day. He could hear the footsteps of his husband creeping closer, and then felt a blanket drape over his shoulders.
Flickering lights at 2 AM wasn’t exactly the best way to start the day, but this wasn’t even starting the day. Greg let out a breath, not daring open his eyes. He had been having a wonderful dream about the possible coffee and eggs for breakfast, and maybe that spotted dick they had eaten for dessert, but it didn’t matter much now.
It was also one of the rare nights that Sherlock actually slept. “I think we forgot to lock the door,” he muttered. The flickering lights stopped.
“Sod it.” Greg rolled over and peeked over Sherlock’s bundled body to see big, brown eyes peering up at them from behind the edge of the bed. “What’s up, kiddo?”
“Nightmare,” said the small voice, and the word Greg had dreaded the most. He sighed, and rolled out of bed, quickly pulling on some shorts. He grabbed for a blanket from the top of the dresser, kept there for moments like these.
“What was it about?”
“Birds.”
Greg gently wrapped the blanket around Everett and bear-hugged him. “Do y’really think a little pigeon is going to get past your dad and me?”
“No…”
“Exactly. So always remember that you’re safe here.”
“How’re you doing?” Greg muttered. His day hadn’t gone particularly… well for himself. He hadn’t achieved anything of any importance; he just stared at the paperwork that was piled in front of him. Sally had come in to check on him, asking if everything was alright, and that… Greg couldn’t handle that. He broke down, shuddering sobs coursing through his body as placed his head on his desk. All Sally could do was watch, wondering what the hell was going on. He hadn’t told anyone. Not yet.
“As well as you are.”
Greg finished wrapping the blanket around Sherlock before trotting into the kitchen to brew some tea. Tea seemed to help both of them, even though Greg didn’t fancy tea as much as he did coffee. Coffee just wasn’t doing anything right now.
Greg knew Sherlock's favorite by heart.
“Dad? I made you tea!”
Sherlock’s eyes glanced up from his book. “Oh?”
Everett trotted into the sitting room, a cup in his hand, relentlessly staring at it to make sure it didn’t spill. “Papa taught me how to make it.” He held it out for Sherlock to take.
“Already?” Sherlock accepted the tea and sipped on it. Everett watched, eager to please. He had followed the instructions exactly, and was pretty proud of himself. Sherlock smacked his tongue across the roof of his mouth. Something had gone wrong.
“Was your father wearing his glasses when he taught you?”
“No.” Everett tilted his head. What did he do wrong? Did Dad like it? “Did I do alright?”
Sherlock chortled. “Yes. You got one thing wrong though. Don’t worry; it was mostly the fault of that idiot father of yours.”
Everett blinked, watching and waiting innocently. “What? Why?”
"You put in syrup instead of honey."
The blanket was actually doing its job for once. Sherlock curled it tighter around him, burying his face. Now was the time Sherlock wanted to go emotionless; to push all of it away and pretend it wasn't there.
But it was useless. Everett had been his.
"Why him?"
"Hmm?" Greg was just about done with the tea. He brought Sherlock his mug, and sat down next to him, taking a sip of his own.
"Why him," Sherlock growled. "Why was it him that had to die? Why not that sodding excuse of a driver?"
“It always seems to work out that way.” Greg let his gaze wander to the dying flames. Sherlock wondered if he was going through the same pain. His bond with Everett was different than Greg’s bond with the child, as Sherlock was Everett’s biological father.
“He didn’t deserve it. He never did, and we never did either.” Sherlock bit his bottom lip in an attempt to keep his cool. “He was too young.”
“They’re all too young, Sherlock.” The DI pulled his knees to his chest. Cases with children had always hit him hard, and everyone knew it. Even though this wasn’t a case, it was a child. His child, biological or not. It was all just piling up. Sherlock was afraid he’d crash.
The case had beaten Greg. He had his hand on the wall, leaning on his arm, breathing deeply to try to retain his composer. The girl had only been five. Five! No child should suffer like she had done.
“Papa’s home!”
Greg gritted his teeth. Everett… if that had been Everett… He locked his knees and shut his eyes.
“…Is something wrong?” Everett tugged at Greg’s coat. “Are you making pasta salad tonight?” Greg didn’t look at Everett, for fear of seeing him and breaking down, and that wouldn’t be good.
“Everett, go into your room. I need to talk to your father alone.”
The boy nodded, and quickly scampered away. Greg opened his eyes and glanced at Sherlock. “Case got to you again.”
Greg nodded. “Five. The girl was bloody five. She… she had beautiful brown eyes. Like Everett. It made me think about… what if she had been Everett, lying there in a pool of blood with lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling?”
Sherlock didn’t say anything. He just bobbed his head up and down.
“I had to close her eyes…” Greg shuddered and sighed before feeling little arms wrap around his waist. He looked down.
Sherlock wasn’t pleased. “Everett, what did I say about-“
“But… Papa’s crying. Please don’t cry.”
“There are other families out there, just like us. Grieving. Wishing their son or daughter was home in bed asleep. The crash took three more lives than necessary.”
Sherlock shut his eyes, the pain all-to-evident on his face. This wasn’t Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective. This was Sherlock Holmes: Devastated Father. “He suffered, Greg. Unlike them. For two months he lay in that coma. And I…” Sherlock’s voice cracked. “I couldn’t do anything about it...”
Greg wiped Sherlock’s cheek with his finger. “I’m sure he didn’t suffer, or feel anything.” He sighed. “I know how that feels; to not be able to fix something going on right in front of you.”
“I’m used to being able to solve everything. A simple deduction here, a cracked key there… But this. This was something I couldn’t solve. All I could do was watch him die. And it hurt, Greg. To know he couldn’t hear us, see us, or feel us in his last moments.” He laid his head on Greg’s shoulder, whose response was to stroke his hand through Sherlock’s hair. “I… feel like a bad father,” he choked out.
“Sweetheart, don’t say that.”
“Can I go to Isaiah’s house?”
Sherlock glanced up from the small experiment that he was conducting in the kitchen sink. “No. You haven’t finished your homework and your room looks like a tornado hit it.”
“But I promised him.”
Now Sherlock was getting slightly pissed. “You promised Isaiah that you’d go to his house when you knew your homework wasn’t finished and your room was a disaster? You know better.”
“I was going to do all that before he got here.”
Sherlock almost cursed. “You know the rules, Everett. You have to ask either me or Greg about it first. Before you plan any of… who’s picking up who.” He waved a hand around. “Well, you’re not going.”
Everett frowned.
“Don’t give me that look. You know the rules around this house perfectly.”
Everett huffed, and pulled out his still-unfinished homework to work on it. Sherlock smiled and went back to his experiment. Everett was a good kid. He’d listen.
That was, until there was a honk outside. Without thinking, Everett jumped up and ran to grab his coat. “Young man, where are you going?”
“Out.”
“No you are not. Get back here before I drag you.” Sherlock ignored the experiment and rushed into the sitting room. Everett turned to sneer at Sherlock.
“You won’t.”
“Oh, yes I will.” Sherlock grabbed the back of Everett’s coat before he could open the door. “You go straight to your room and stay there until your father gets home. We’ll deal with you after that. And while you’re at it, clean your room-“
Everett slapped Sherlock’s hand away. “I hate you. Why do you have to be so strict now?” He fled, leaving a stunned Sherlock behind to a slamming door.
“You weren’t there when it happened. The row.”
“I know I wasn’t.” Greg’s hands moved to stroke the back of Sherlock’s neck. His skin tingled in response. It made him feel a little bit better. “That doesn’t mean you should feel like a terrible father. We raised him for thirteen years. I think you did an excellent job.”
Sherlock remained quiet, enjoying the feel of Greg’s fingers brush against the base of his neck. They sat like this for a long time, watching the fire die down in the fireplace. Not one dared to move to relight it. The feeling they both had was a strange numbness; one that they sought out and grasped eagerly. Sherlock held up the photograph still in his hand.
“I miss him,” he muttered, his voice full of guilt.
They both broke.
And as the fire died, the two figures still sat in front of it. In mourning, yes, but with a hope. For now, their dreams danced intertwined within each other. Dreams of a little boy that would never grow up. An innocence lost.
The photograph slipped from Sherlock’s fingers.
“Here. This was Everett’s.”
Sherlock knew it was Everett’s. They had given him the iPod when he was three to keep him occupied. They’ve had to replace it a few times, of course, but it was worth it on long road trips.
Sherlock took the iPod. It was smashed, but still operational. Everett didn’t use a key-code, so Sherlock was able to instantly click it open.
It opened on the Notes app; a half-written note still plastered on the page.
‘Dad, I’m sorry I yelled. I don’t actually hate you. Do you hate me now? Because I still love you. And if you died tonight, I don’t know what I would do.’
But it hadn’t been Sherlock who had died.