Filled: Best Laid Plans (4/14)
anonymous
May 12 2011, 04:11:48 UTC
Lestrade sat heavy and tired across the table, hand half covering his face as if he didn’t want to see. The harsh overhead light made him wane and yellow.
“Lestrade…” John’s mouth was dry enough that talking was hard. He swallowed and tried again. “What’s going on?”
Lestrade’s gaze settled somewhere to the right of John’s head. “We found his body, Jo - Doctor Watson.” He pulled a veneer of professionalism around himself like a shield. “Outside of your flat.”
The air punched out of John’s lungs; he grabbed the table to steady himself. “No. No, he can’t - ” He pinched his eyes together, forcing himself to re-center. Focus, like taking a shot. This wasn’t the time to break down. Not yet. “What happened?”
“Nothing good.” There was anger under that steady tone. “John, your prints were all over the scene.”
“Well, I do live there.” John was surprised at how calm he sounded. Was that bad? Should he sound more upset? “But I wasn’t home last night. Ask Sarah - ”
“Sarah told us you went out for over an hour.”
She - Oh, yes. Well, he did, that was true. “To grab a bite. To - Lestrade, to get some damn Indian food.”
“At eleven at night?”
“It was an odd day.”
“I noticed. Quite the fight you had with Sherlock.”
John couldn’t comprehend how he was having this conversation. That Lestrade would even consider the idea that he would - Over a stupid row about a stupid case - That he was even capable -
You’ve killed a man before a voice that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock reminded him. Yes, true. But that was different. That was a killer, that was to save Sherlock, and besides, Lestrade didn’t know about that, and besides, that wasn’t Sherlock, he wouldn’t hurt -
Sherlock. (We found his body.)
Sherlock who was dead.
He squeezed the table tighter. Focus. “I wasn’t there.”
“Then why were your fingerprints all over the petrol can?”
“Petrol?”
“The one used to burn the body. That raises some questions, unless you routinely carry around a petrol can for entertainment.” Disgust now. Oh god, Lestrade must have seen the body. (Sherlock’s body, oh god. No. Focus.)
“If it’s burnt, how do you know it’s him?”
“Dental records. Blood. We’re not him, as he so liked to remind me, but this case isn’t looking particularly complicated.” He still wouldn’t meet John’s gaze, but Lestrade's tone softened as he added, “This really isn’t looking good for you.”
Focus. “Look at me.” Lestrade glanced up and then down again. No, not good enough. “Lestrade, look me in the eye. Look me in the eye and tell me you think that I, John Watson, would kill Sherlock Holmes. My best friend.” (Oh god, he’s dead. Sherlock.) “Look me in the eye and tell me you think there’s any way I am capable of that.”
They locked stares. Waited for infinity, or maybe just a moment.
“No,” Lestrade finally admitted. “No, I don’t. But I’ve been wrong before.” He looked down again, cleared his throat, almost awkward. “I found him, John. I - you have no idea what that’s like.”
John didn’t have anything to say to that. The sharp pain of the table's edge digging into his palms made it hard to think.
Lestrade shook his head, gathering himself. He shoved his chair so hard it almost tipped as he stood. “I’m putting someone else on this case.”
“Lestrade…” John’s mouth was dry enough that talking was hard. He swallowed and tried again. “What’s going on?”
Lestrade’s gaze settled somewhere to the right of John’s head. “We found his body, Jo - Doctor Watson.” He pulled a veneer of professionalism around himself like a shield. “Outside of your flat.”
The air punched out of John’s lungs; he grabbed the table to steady himself. “No. No, he can’t - ” He pinched his eyes together, forcing himself to re-center. Focus, like taking a shot. This wasn’t the time to break down. Not yet. “What happened?”
“Nothing good.” There was anger under that steady tone. “John, your prints were all over the scene.”
“Well, I do live there.” John was surprised at how calm he sounded. Was that bad? Should he sound more upset? “But I wasn’t home last night. Ask Sarah - ”
“Sarah told us you went out for over an hour.”
She - Oh, yes. Well, he did, that was true. “To grab a bite. To - Lestrade, to get some damn Indian food.”
“At eleven at night?”
“It was an odd day.”
“I noticed. Quite the fight you had with Sherlock.”
John couldn’t comprehend how he was having this conversation. That Lestrade would even consider the idea that he would - Over a stupid row about a stupid case - That he was even capable -
You’ve killed a man before a voice that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock reminded him. Yes, true. But that was different. That was a killer, that was to save Sherlock, and besides, Lestrade didn’t know about that, and besides, that wasn’t Sherlock, he wouldn’t hurt -
Sherlock. (We found his body.)
Sherlock who was dead.
He squeezed the table tighter. Focus. “I wasn’t there.”
“Then why were your fingerprints all over the petrol can?”
“Petrol?”
“The one used to burn the body. That raises some questions, unless you routinely carry around a petrol can for entertainment.” Disgust now. Oh god, Lestrade must have seen the body. (Sherlock’s body, oh god. No. Focus.)
“If it’s burnt, how do you know it’s him?”
“Dental records. Blood. We’re not him, as he so liked to remind me, but this case isn’t looking particularly complicated.” He still wouldn’t meet John’s gaze, but Lestrade's tone softened as he added, “This really isn’t looking good for you.”
Focus. “Look at me.” Lestrade glanced up and then down again. No, not good enough. “Lestrade, look me in the eye. Look me in the eye and tell me you think that I, John Watson, would kill Sherlock Holmes. My best friend.” (Oh god, he’s dead. Sherlock.) “Look me in the eye and tell me you think there’s any way I am capable of that.”
They locked stares. Waited for infinity, or maybe just a moment.
“No,” Lestrade finally admitted. “No, I don’t. But I’ve been wrong before.” He looked down again, cleared his throat, almost awkward. “I found him, John. I - you have no idea what that’s like.”
John didn’t have anything to say to that. The sharp pain of the table's edge digging into his palms made it hard to think.
Lestrade shook his head, gathering himself. He shoved his chair so hard it almost tipped as he stood. “I’m putting someone else on this case.”
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“I found him, John. I - you have no idea what that’s like.”
We're really starting to get everyone's frustration and sadness here... Lestrade, Sherlock, and of course poor John. Good job!
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