Forgive Us Our Trespasses, Father and Son 2/4
anonymous
November 11 2011, 21:58:02 UTC
Doyle stared. It took him a very long time to blink.
"Samantha. Sammie. I told you about her. And that summer."
Nodding slowly, Doyle said, "You were, what, sixteen? Looked for her later, but you couldn't find her."
"Yeah, that's the one. Big brown eyes, like a doe's. Kindest person you ever met. Smart, too - 'course she was, she was with me, right?" The joke felt thin on his lips.
His gaze fell to his own forearm, braced against the countertop. Doyle's hand came to rest there, just above Bodie's wrist, a slight pressure. The warmth of it seeped through Bodie's sleeve.
"She's dead, Ray," Bodie said. "She's been dead most of my life. All this time, and I never thought, never even imagined…"
With a gentle squeeze, Doyle removed his hand. He turned and packed the vegetables away in the refrigerator. Then, gathering up the bottle of Scotch and a second tumbler, he shepherded Bodie over to their table.
"Why now?" Doyle asked when they were seated. "Why Holmes?"
This was a debriefing: familiar, grounding. "Despite all evidence to the contrary, he has a weakness: a younger brother. From what I gathered from everything he didn't say, the kid's mental. Brilliant, but mental. Apparently the man in question saved the brother's life, gave him direction, and now is working with him, consulting him. Looks to be a long-term professional relationship. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named began conducting the mother of all background searches…" He made a vague gesture, inviting Doyle to fill in the blanks.
"Because whoever could get to this man could get to Holmes's brother," Doyle supplied, "and whoever could get to his brother could get to Holmes himself."
"Got it in one." Bodie agreed. "While playing detective, he tracked me down." Arching an eyebrow, he added, "Not an easy feat these days, I needn't tell you."
"Would like to know how…" Doyle muttered, rubbing his chin absently.
"No, you wouldn't," Bodie said with conviction. "And neither would I."
Doyle took a healthy swallow of Scotch and shuddered. "How can you be sure the man's your son? Without a test?"
"Holmes offered to make one happen. God knows how. Doesn't matter. He's convinced, and…" Another shrug. "I don't need one, Ray. The timing's perfect. Everything fits." He opened the top file. "And there's this."
He withdrew a glossy picture, a candid shot too clear and precisely framed to be the work of security cameras.
Doyle accepted it with careful fingers. He availed himself of the reading glasses in his pocket and hunched forward, studying the photo.
A curly-headed, scarecrow-thin young man was striding away down the pavement as if he owned the street and everything on it. A second, older man stood nearby, arms crossed, watching the dramatic departure. A half-fond, half-exasperated smile twisted one corner of his lips.
Forgive Us Our Trespasses, Father and Son 3/4
anonymous
November 12 2011, 03:10:05 UTC
"He has Sammie's eyes," Bodie said.
"And your mouth," Doyle said. "That's your grin, you mad berk." With a low whistle, he added, "He's bloody gorgeous."
"You'll love this: he's a copper."
"Seriously?" A delighted expression transformed Doyle's face, casting off more years and responsibilities than Bodie cared to count. "Well, you shouldn't be surprised: all the best men are, or were, you know. 'Course if the blokes at the Met back in my day looked like him, I'd've never left." A wink punctuated the gentle teasing.
Bodie rolled his eyes.
Then, sobering, Doyle asked, "So what's his story, then?"
"Not an easy one." Bodie's voice went soft as it resettled into the cadence of a report. "There were complications with the birth. Sammie was very young. The doctors discovered she had a congenital heart condition, as well - too late. "
He stared at his fingers wrapped around the tumbler, not quite squeezing.
"Her parents grudgingly took Greg - that's his name, Gregory Lestrade - but after a few years the responsibility put too much strain on an already unhappy marriage. After the divorce, Greg lived with the grandmother. She remarried when Greg was twelve, and the new husband made it clear he had no use for a kid in the house. Greg spent increasingly more time on the streets, until he moved out completely.
"He was a bit of a scrapper. Got into some trouble. Could've gone very wrong, could've become a statistic, but he didn't. He fought to make himself into something, to make a difference. Without help from anyone."
"Not, as I understand it," Doyle said in a low hush, "unlike his father."
Bodie frowned at his Scotch. There were reasons he'd joined the mercs, gone to Africa. It seemed like several lifetimes ago. Irrelevant. If he could've spared this young man…
"It didn't have to be that way," Bodie said. "If I'd known-"
"You didn't. No point in asking 'what if.' It worked out all right in the end. He has a good life, yeah?"
"He's a detective inspector now, with commendations and his own team. He gets up the noses of some of the higher ups-"
"He's definitely yours, then," Doyle offered.
"-but the way Holmes talked about him… Well, he managed to do what Holmes couldn't do for his brother. Never thought Mr My-Extra-Brolly-Is-Shoved-Up-My-Arse might respect anyone but his own reflection in a mirror, but he seems to think highly of Greg. 'Dogged and tenacious,' he called him.
"Don't know that they've ever met in person, but Holmes has had Greg's life under a microscope for long enough to know him, regardless."
Doyle peered at the photo again.
"Can't decide what makes me feel older," Bodie continued, feeling hollow and spent at the end of his tale. "The fact I have white hair, the fact my son's is grey, or the fact you need reading glasses to see his picture properly."
An obscene gesture was his reply.
"He's wearing a ring here," Doyle noted. "Are you a grandfather, too?"
"Ah… Almost." Bodie took another swallow of Scotch and closed his eyes as it burned. "His wife was killed last year. Car accident." How strange: mere hours ago he didn't even know of Greg's existence. Now he ached for the man and all he had lost; it was a physical pain, a knife between his ribs. "She was five months pregnant."
Doyle let out a gust of breath. "God, I'm sorry."
"So am I."
Bodie's stomach chose that moment to rumble in hungry complaint, and they both started and then chuckled in awkward surprise. Minutes later Doyle had called for Bodie's favourite takeaway and alerted their security of its imminent arrival.
"Now then," Doyle said, gesturing toward the files with open hands, "why don't you introduce me to your son properly?"
Forgive Us Our Trespasses, Father and Son 4/4 (Mycroft, Lestrade, Sherlock)
anonymous
November 12 2011, 11:48:37 UTC
***
Hours later, as night threatened to became morning, Doyle said simply, "He's a good man, Bodie." He placed the last file on top of the others to form a neat stack sitting between the two of them, a guest at their table. "When are you going to meet him?"
"I'm not." With an effort Bodie kept his voice even. The admission felt like another loss, another unexpected blow, but he knew in his bones that he was right in this. "What would I say? 'Nice to meet you, son. I'd tell you my name, but it's classified. I'd tell you what I do, but I'd have to kill you.' Not going to happen."
"You could tell him what's written all over your face right now, and with good reason: you're proud of him."
A shake of the head. "I don't have that right."
"If you don't, who does? And if you don't, who else will? Not his mum. Not his wife. Not his child," Doyle said, sincerity etched into every line on his tired face. "He saved Holmes's brother: maybe Holmes is trying to give him something back in return. Something he needs."
Bodie, however, had thought this through; and more to the point, he knew his strengths and his weaknesses. "What he needs, with the job he has and the company he keeps, is looking after. I can do that best from the shadows, in secret. That's what I do, Ray.
"If Holmes can use his position to protect his baby brother, I can use mine to protect my son. Keep watch over him, and try to fight back the danger when it comes."
"It's not an either-or proposition," Doyle said.
"Isn't it?" With a jerk of his chin, Bodie indicated the files. "Tell me, if word gets out, that his connection to me won't make him a target. That someone couldn't use him to get to me, or to get to you through me. You can't. His work's dangerous enough already. You've seen his record."
Doyle opened his mouth, shut it again, and scowled.
"He's a good man, Bodie," Doyle said at last, each syllable thick and heavy in the air. "And so are you, you stubborn sod."
The weight of Bodie's many what-might-have-beens felt just this side of crushing, but even so, a tightness eased in his chest at those words. He bowed his head, blinking hard.
Thank you for this! I really appreciate your reading it, even without knowing The Professionals. I'm so glad you found it to poignant, and that the characters sounded right. Thanks so much.
BTW, the actor who played Bodie in The Professionals (Lewis Collins) was born in 1946, and Rupert Graves was born in 1963, so the math works. ;)
I'm really, really happy the parallel between Bodie and Lestrade -- how each lost his chance to be father to his biological child, and is playing a paternal role in a different way -- came through. I'm not sure if I'm going to polish this for posting in my LJ (I haven't decided yet), but I've been wondering if that point needed to be more overt/clear, if I do. It means a lot to know that you saw and liked that.
"Samantha. Sammie. I told you about her. And that summer."
Nodding slowly, Doyle said, "You were, what, sixteen? Looked for her later, but you couldn't find her."
"Yeah, that's the one. Big brown eyes, like a doe's. Kindest person you ever met. Smart, too - 'course she was, she was with me, right?" The joke felt thin on his lips.
His gaze fell to his own forearm, braced against the countertop. Doyle's hand came to rest there, just above Bodie's wrist, a slight pressure. The warmth of it seeped through Bodie's sleeve.
"She's dead, Ray," Bodie said. "She's been dead most of my life. All this time, and I never thought, never even imagined…"
With a gentle squeeze, Doyle removed his hand. He turned and packed the vegetables away in the refrigerator. Then, gathering up the bottle of Scotch and a second tumbler, he shepherded Bodie over to their table.
"Why now?" Doyle asked when they were seated. "Why Holmes?"
This was a debriefing: familiar, grounding. "Despite all evidence to the contrary, he has a weakness: a younger brother. From what I gathered from everything he didn't say, the kid's mental. Brilliant, but mental. Apparently the man in question saved the brother's life, gave him direction, and now is working with him, consulting him. Looks to be a long-term professional relationship. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named began conducting the mother of all background searches…" He made a vague gesture, inviting Doyle to fill in the blanks.
"Because whoever could get to this man could get to Holmes's brother," Doyle supplied, "and whoever could get to his brother could get to Holmes himself."
"Got it in one." Bodie agreed. "While playing detective, he tracked me down." Arching an eyebrow, he added, "Not an easy feat these days, I needn't tell you."
"Would like to know how…" Doyle muttered, rubbing his chin absently.
"No, you wouldn't," Bodie said with conviction. "And neither would I."
Doyle took a healthy swallow of Scotch and shuddered. "How can you be sure the man's your son? Without a test?"
"Holmes offered to make one happen. God knows how. Doesn't matter. He's convinced, and…" Another shrug. "I don't need one, Ray. The timing's perfect. Everything fits." He opened the top file. "And there's this."
He withdrew a glossy picture, a candid shot too clear and precisely framed to be the work of security cameras.
Doyle accepted it with careful fingers. He availed himself of the reading glasses in his pocket and hunched forward, studying the photo.
A curly-headed, scarecrow-thin young man was striding away down the pavement as if he owned the street and everything on it. A second, older man stood nearby, arms crossed, watching the dramatic departure. A half-fond, half-exasperated smile twisted one corner of his lips.
"Christ," Doyle said.
TBC
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"And your mouth," Doyle said. "That's your grin, you mad berk." With a low whistle, he added, "He's bloody gorgeous."
"You'll love this: he's a copper."
"Seriously?" A delighted expression transformed Doyle's face, casting off more years and responsibilities than Bodie cared to count. "Well, you shouldn't be surprised: all the best men are, or were, you know. 'Course if the blokes at the Met back in my day looked like him, I'd've never left." A wink punctuated the gentle teasing.
Bodie rolled his eyes.
Then, sobering, Doyle asked, "So what's his story, then?"
"Not an easy one." Bodie's voice went soft as it resettled into the cadence of a report. "There were complications with the birth. Sammie was very young. The doctors discovered she had a congenital heart condition, as well - too late. "
He stared at his fingers wrapped around the tumbler, not quite squeezing.
"Her parents grudgingly took Greg - that's his name, Gregory Lestrade - but after a few years the responsibility put too much strain on an already unhappy marriage. After the divorce, Greg lived with the grandmother. She remarried when Greg was twelve, and the new husband made it clear he had no use for a kid in the house. Greg spent increasingly more time on the streets, until he moved out completely.
"He was a bit of a scrapper. Got into some trouble. Could've gone very wrong, could've become a statistic, but he didn't. He fought to make himself into something, to make a difference. Without help from anyone."
"Not, as I understand it," Doyle said in a low hush, "unlike his father."
Bodie frowned at his Scotch. There were reasons he'd joined the mercs, gone to Africa. It seemed like several lifetimes ago. Irrelevant. If he could've spared this young man…
"It didn't have to be that way," Bodie said. "If I'd known-"
"You didn't. No point in asking 'what if.' It worked out all right in the end. He has a good life, yeah?"
"He's a detective inspector now, with commendations and his own team. He gets up the noses of some of the higher ups-"
"He's definitely yours, then," Doyle offered.
"-but the way Holmes talked about him… Well, he managed to do what Holmes couldn't do for his brother. Never thought Mr My-Extra-Brolly-Is-Shoved-Up-My-Arse might respect anyone but his own reflection in a mirror, but he seems to think highly of Greg. 'Dogged and tenacious,' he called him.
"Don't know that they've ever met in person, but Holmes has had Greg's life under a microscope for long enough to know him, regardless."
Doyle peered at the photo again.
"Can't decide what makes me feel older," Bodie continued, feeling hollow and spent at the end of his tale. "The fact I have white hair, the fact my son's is grey, or the fact you need reading glasses to see his picture properly."
An obscene gesture was his reply.
"He's wearing a ring here," Doyle noted. "Are you a grandfather, too?"
"Ah… Almost." Bodie took another swallow of Scotch and closed his eyes as it burned. "His wife was killed last year. Car accident." How strange: mere hours ago he didn't even know of Greg's existence. Now he ached for the man and all he had lost; it was a physical pain, a knife between his ribs. "She was five months pregnant."
Doyle let out a gust of breath. "God, I'm sorry."
"So am I."
Bodie's stomach chose that moment to rumble in hungry complaint, and they both started and then chuckled in awkward surprise. Minutes later Doyle had called for Bodie's favourite takeaway and alerted their security of its imminent arrival.
"Now then," Doyle said, gesturing toward the files with open hands, "why don't you introduce me to your son properly?"
TBC
Reply
Hours later, as night threatened to became morning, Doyle said simply, "He's a good man, Bodie." He placed the last file on top of the others to form a neat stack sitting between the two of them, a guest at their table. "When are you going to meet him?"
"I'm not." With an effort Bodie kept his voice even. The admission felt like another loss, another unexpected blow, but he knew in his bones that he was right in this. "What would I say? 'Nice to meet you, son. I'd tell you my name, but it's classified. I'd tell you what I do, but I'd have to kill you.' Not going to happen."
"You could tell him what's written all over your face right now, and with good reason: you're proud of him."
A shake of the head. "I don't have that right."
"If you don't, who does? And if you don't, who else will? Not his mum. Not his wife. Not his child," Doyle said, sincerity etched into every line on his tired face. "He saved Holmes's brother: maybe Holmes is trying to give him something back in return. Something he needs."
Bodie, however, had thought this through; and more to the point, he knew his strengths and his weaknesses. "What he needs, with the job he has and the company he keeps, is looking after. I can do that best from the shadows, in secret. That's what I do, Ray.
"If Holmes can use his position to protect his baby brother, I can use mine to protect my son. Keep watch over him, and try to fight back the danger when it comes."
"It's not an either-or proposition," Doyle said.
"Isn't it?" With a jerk of his chin, Bodie indicated the files. "Tell me, if word gets out, that his connection to me won't make him a target. That someone couldn't use him to get to me, or to get to you through me. You can't. His work's dangerous enough already. You've seen his record."
Doyle opened his mouth, shut it again, and scowled.
"He's a good man, Bodie," Doyle said at last, each syllable thick and heavy in the air. "And so are you, you stubborn sod."
The weight of Bodie's many what-might-have-beens felt just this side of crushing, but even so, a tightness eased in his chest at those words. He bowed his head, blinking hard.
"Say you'll sleep on it, at least," Doyle said.
Yeah, he could do that.
When Doyle reached out a hand, Bodie took it.
THE END
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OP is very, very happy. <3
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BTW, the actor who played Bodie in The Professionals (Lewis Collins) was born in 1946, and Rupert Graves was born in 1963, so the math works. ;)
There's a picture of Bodie doing one of his amused/tolerant/patient looks (which reminds me of Lestrade) when he was in his thirties here: http://media.photobucket.com/image/bodie%20professionals%20grin/bandy/A%20Hiding%20To%20Nothing/hiding4web.jpg
Thanks again!
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(The comment has been removed)
I'm really, really happy the parallel between Bodie and Lestrade -- how each lost his chance to be father to his biological child, and is playing a paternal role in a different way -- came through. I'm not sure if I'm going to polish this for posting in my LJ (I haven't decided yet), but I've been wondering if that point needed to be more overt/clear, if I do. It means a lot to know that you saw and liked that.
Thanks again for your kind words!
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Thanks again for your encouragement.
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