(no subject)
“Holmes!”
Lestrade gapes at Holmes, alive somehow, and he’s fortunate there are other constables with him, holding back the man they’d been sent to arrest. He’d gotten the telegram, had hesitated only a moment about actually showing up tonight; he'd started to wrap his mind around the idea that Holmes had orchestrated his death somehow, had lied to them all for years, had thought he'd reached some kind of conclusive feeling about that -- but it’s another thing entirely to see Holmes set before him now, thin as a rail and impossibly tall and hook-nosed and alive.
“Lestrade,” Holmes says, with a hesitation, because if the love of his life greeted him with a punch to the mouth, he isn’t sure how his closest friend is going to take the matter. It’s a pleasure, and maybe even a surprise, to see the relief, the happiness slowly fill Lestrade’s frame. Holmes has an… unusual relationship with friendship; he rarely succeeds at it, and he’d been prepared for Lestrade to think no more of him now than he did when they first met. But here is Lestrade with an uncomfortable amount of emotion in his eyes, and Holmes finds himself mirroring it back at him.
“I had hoped you would come.”
“I wouldn’t have let them send anyone else,” Lestrade returns, and it’s so plaintive, so honest, that something in Holmes twists again. He’d missed Lestrade, God, he had.
Lestrade has to shake himself, has to remember what he’s here for, though the men with him understand. They’d met Holmes, looked up to Holmes, and they were eager to be a part of this too. It’s a nasty business, what Moran got himself tangled up in, and it’s a good thing Lestrade’s more of a straight-and-narrow copper when it comes to unnecessary violence because he would like to give him swift kick in the arse once it all comes to light. The ferocity of the man is plain, underneath so respectable a guise; Lestrade can see the violence quivering just beneath the surface. He could well believe that this man could have what it takes to send Holmes out of London. He sends the boys with him down to the cab, and he stops Holmes and Watson before they make to follow.
Holmes has shrugged off all involvement in the crime, has given Moran over to Lestrade like a present wrapped up in a neat little bow, and he’s grateful-he is-but he had forgotten how annoying that is. It’s actually a damper in his good spirits, and it isn’t what he’s grateful for at all when he catches Holmes’s eye.
“It’s good to see you back in London, Mr. Holmes. The place really hasn’t been the same without you.” He extends his hand, and he watches Holmes look at it like Lestrade’s just offered to marry him, before Holmes takes it.
“Yes, you’ll be glad to know that I’m back and willing to help you clean up the messes you can’t quite manage. But you have been-you’ve done well enough on your own, Lestrade.”
He isn’t Sherlock Holmes, but he hears the waver in his voice, and he reaches out to give Holmes’s shoulder a light clap. That’s what it starts out as, anyway, but he rolls his eyes and grabs Holmes’s shoulder instead, and he pulls him in for a brief hug.
“I expect you over to dinner,” he says as he draws away, in his I-will-take-no-argument voice. “Mary will want to see you, and you’ve been woefully neglectful in your godfather duties.”
The hug is the last thing he’d expected-the absolute last-and he’s still as an awkward statue through it, though it’s thankfully brief. Uncomfortably stunned, he nods and presses his lips together, trying to press his composure together along with them.
“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of delaying.” His eyes are shining; it’s an embarrassing fact that he’s glad neither Lestrade or Watson will comment on.
Lestrade turns to leave, but he stops in the doorframe, and his hand hesitates over his pocket. Holmes waits for him to produce whatever it is, as he so clearly wants to, and Lestrade does turn around again. From his pocket, he takes a penknife, and Holmes lifts an eyebrow.
“You, ah. I took this,” Lestrade says, and he holds it out to Holmes. “Watson let me have it, I mean to say, but you-you’ll be needing this again. For your post.”
He hadn’t recognized it at first, but it is the penknife from the mantle. He reaches for it, and looks up to find Lestrade staring studiously at their feet.
“Yes, I will. Thank you for returning it to me.” He ought to say something more, considering Lestrade’s apparently been carrying around a keepsake of Holmes in his pocket for what might have been three years, but neither he nor Lestrade is that kind of person. Their friendship is comprised of teasing barbs and gruff comments; they’ve already met their quota of touching moments of connection for the entire year, perhaps.
Lestrade doesn’t seem to take issue with Holmes’s inadequate response. He nods and sets his face into something suitably ferret-like, and he adjusts his hat as he looks up again.
“Best be off. Good evening, Watson, Holmes.”
Abruptly, he turns and leaves, his footsteps carrying down the staircase.
Holmes closes his hand around the knife and slips it into his pocket.
Lestrade gapes at Holmes, alive somehow, and he’s fortunate there are other constables with him, holding back the man they’d been sent to arrest. He’d gotten the telegram, had hesitated only a moment about actually showing up tonight; he'd started to wrap his mind around the idea that Holmes had orchestrated his death somehow, had lied to them all for years, had thought he'd reached some kind of conclusive feeling about that -- but it’s another thing entirely to see Holmes set before him now, thin as a rail and impossibly tall and hook-nosed and alive.
“Lestrade,” Holmes says, with a hesitation, because if the love of his life greeted him with a punch to the mouth, he isn’t sure how his closest friend is going to take the matter. It’s a pleasure, and maybe even a surprise, to see the relief, the happiness slowly fill Lestrade’s frame. Holmes has an… unusual relationship with friendship; he rarely succeeds at it, and he’d been prepared for Lestrade to think no more of him now than he did when they first met. But here is Lestrade with an uncomfortable amount of emotion in his eyes, and Holmes finds himself mirroring it back at him.
“I had hoped you would come.”
“I wouldn’t have let them send anyone else,” Lestrade returns, and it’s so plaintive, so honest, that something in Holmes twists again. He’d missed Lestrade, God, he had.
Lestrade has to shake himself, has to remember what he’s here for, though the men with him understand. They’d met Holmes, looked up to Holmes, and they were eager to be a part of this too. It’s a nasty business, what Moran got himself tangled up in, and it’s a good thing Lestrade’s more of a straight-and-narrow copper when it comes to unnecessary violence because he would like to give him swift kick in the arse once it all comes to light. The ferocity of the man is plain, underneath so respectable a guise; Lestrade can see the violence quivering just beneath the surface. He could well believe that this man could have what it takes to send Holmes out of London. He sends the boys with him down to the cab, and he stops Holmes and Watson before they make to follow.
Holmes has shrugged off all involvement in the crime, has given Moran over to Lestrade like a present wrapped up in a neat little bow, and he’s grateful-he is-but he had forgotten how annoying that is. It’s actually a damper in his good spirits, and it isn’t what he’s grateful for at all when he catches Holmes’s eye.
“It’s good to see you back in London, Mr. Holmes. The place really hasn’t been the same without you.” He extends his hand, and he watches Holmes look at it like Lestrade’s just offered to marry him, before Holmes takes it.
“Yes, you’ll be glad to know that I’m back and willing to help you clean up the messes you can’t quite manage. But you have been-you’ve done well enough on your own, Lestrade.”
He isn’t Sherlock Holmes, but he hears the waver in his voice, and he reaches out to give Holmes’s shoulder a light clap. That’s what it starts out as, anyway, but he rolls his eyes and grabs Holmes’s shoulder instead, and he pulls him in for a brief hug.
“I expect you over to dinner,” he says as he draws away, in his I-will-take-no-argument voice. “Mary will want to see you, and you’ve been woefully neglectful in your godfather duties.”
The hug is the last thing he’d expected-the absolute last-and he’s still as an awkward statue through it, though it’s thankfully brief. Uncomfortably stunned, he nods and presses his lips together, trying to press his composure together along with them.
“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of delaying.” His eyes are shining; it’s an embarrassing fact that he’s glad neither Lestrade or Watson will comment on.
Lestrade turns to leave, but he stops in the doorframe, and his hand hesitates over his pocket. Holmes waits for him to produce whatever it is, as he so clearly wants to, and Lestrade does turn around again. From his pocket, he takes a penknife, and Holmes lifts an eyebrow.
“You, ah. I took this,” Lestrade says, and he holds it out to Holmes. “Watson let me have it, I mean to say, but you-you’ll be needing this again. For your post.”
He hadn’t recognized it at first, but it is the penknife from the mantle. He reaches for it, and looks up to find Lestrade staring studiously at their feet.
“Yes, I will. Thank you for returning it to me.” He ought to say something more, considering Lestrade’s apparently been carrying around a keepsake of Holmes in his pocket for what might have been three years, but neither he nor Lestrade is that kind of person. Their friendship is comprised of teasing barbs and gruff comments; they’ve already met their quota of touching moments of connection for the entire year, perhaps.
Lestrade doesn’t seem to take issue with Holmes’s inadequate response. He nods and sets his face into something suitably ferret-like, and he adjusts his hat as he looks up again.
“Best be off. Good evening, Watson, Holmes.”
Abruptly, he turns and leaves, his footsteps carrying down the staircase.
Holmes closes his hand around the knife and slips it into his pocket.