Sherlock fic: The Third One (Lestrade, G)
Title: The Third One
Fandom & Pairing: Sherlock BBC series 2
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Genre: drama
Word Count: Around 1700
Summary: Post "The Reichenbach Fall" - Lestrade has no idea what he meant to Sherlock.
Partly inspired by a discussion with morganstuart in the comments of Gardening Leave
Lestrade looked up in surprise on hearing the knock on the door of his flat. Nobody visited him at 4pm on a Sunday afternoon. To be honest, nobody visited him at all, not since he'd signed the legal separation. Not since he'd become the pariah of the Met. Not since...
Shaking his head as if he could physically dislodge the gloom that kept his life shrouded in perpetual cloud, he crossed the small space to pull open the door.
"You." He blinked in surprise at the figure that stood on the doorstep, rocking nervously back on his heels, hands sunk in the pockets of a shapeless beige jacket that looked a little too big on him.
"This is a surprise," Lestrade commented laconically as John Watson stepped over the threshold. John shrugged. They'd not seen each other since Sherlock's funeral and even then John had been so entombed in his own misery that Lestrade was not sure John had known he was there.
John had know he was there the second-to-last time though. That had been the supremely awkward meeting in the kitchen of Mrs Hudson's flat where John had fulfilled his last promise to Sherlock and told Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and Molly. Told them in a flat monotone all the details of Sherlock's final message to the world, his confession of his fakery with all its awful implications of the way he had played his friends for fools. Except that Sherlock didn't have friends, Lestrade reminded himself fiercely. He had acolytes, audiences, minions.
"I don't believe it! Any of it!" John had exclaimed then, eyes fixed fiercely on Lestrade, the accusation as clear as if he'd hired a plane to tow a banner across the City of London. Lestrade hadn't answered. There'd been nothing to say. The day before Lestrade had stood at the press conference and read out the statement he'd been handed by the Met's legal department. The statement announcing that all cases where Sherlock had been engaged in any capacity would be reviewed. The statement where between every line was another line saying: he was a fake, he was a fraud, we reject him, we deny him.
Lestrade had smiled a tight smile for the sake of Mrs Hudson and her fluttering hands, for the sake of Molly and her refusal to meet any of their eyes, and had quietly hated John at that moment. John had served. John of all of them should know the pressures of being just one link in a chain of command, a chain down which the crap dripped from on high. John might be able to engage in a dramatic withdrawal from the world, but Lestrade had legal fees to contend with, alimony and child support in his future. He had to hold on to his job until he was finally forced out.
Lestrade had gone back to his cubicle and watched in angry isolation as the case against Sherlock slowly fell apart, right along with his own career. With every case that proved water-tight in its evidence the case against Sherlock weakened and the resentment against Lestrade heightened. It depressed Lestrade that his colleagues had thought him such a crap copper that they'd actually believed his cases would collapse. Sherlock may have provided the insights that told Lestrade what to look for but the painstakingly details of evidence - evidence that would persuade a judge rather than just seduce the admiring public - that work had been all Lestrade. Lestrade and a team that seemed to have lost their heads in their resentment of Sherlock.
Donovan's smirk of righteousness had become a tight grimace as she'd slowly realised that not only was she wrong but there was no way to reverse the damage done to the reputation of their entire department. The department so inept they'd had to outsource their detective work to an amateur magician, whether fake or otherwise. She wasn't going to be getting Lestrade's job any time soon. She was going to be moved sideways and downwards, forgotten in some dusty archive of cold cases, while Lestrade suspected the embarrassment of his presence would be solved by forced early retirement.
All these thoughts tumbled through his head as he went through the motions of making John a cup of tea, grateful to the trappings of hospitality that let him gather his facade of indifference. He could offer John his cuppa without letting any sign of his seething resentment show through. At least John had been secure in Sherlock's regard. He might have been a side-kick, an admiring foil for the consulting detective's brilliance, but Lestrade had seen the way Sherlock looked at him, seen the way Sherlock protected him. Sherlock had had one friend in the world, even if he hadn't known it.
Lestrade didn't know how Sherlock had died or why, but he knew Sherlock had not been a fake and he knew of nothing that would persuade Sherlock to give up both his life and his reputation unless it was to protect John. Taking in the circles under John's eyes, the hunched shoulders, the frame at least a stone lighter than it should have been, Lestrade had to wonder if Sherlock had realised the price of that protection. But at least John was more than just collateral damage of the likes of Lestrade and his career.
"I've been collecting evidence," John said abruptly. Lestrade sighed. Of course he had. The infection that was Sherlock and his methods was not likely to heal any time soon.
"Moriarty forced Sherlock into jumping, he set something in process that was irreversible once he was dead, something that could only be solved by Sherlock's death."
"And?" prompted Lestrade irritably. He'd worked that much out himself weeks ago but he was under such tight scrutiny at work that he dared not undertake even a loo break without express permission.
"Those contract killers he had living in Baker Street, each one was instructed to kill one of Sherlock's friends unless Sherlock took his own life."
Lestrade thought for a moment. "So... you. Of course. Mrs Hudson I assume?"
John nodded.
"And Mycroft."
"Mycroft." John's voice was dripping with scorn. That was interesting. Lestrade had thought those two had reached a detente. "Sherlock and Mycroft were hardly close. Anyway, you seriously think a killer could get anywhere near Mycroft?"
Well, no. But then. "I wouldn't have thought anyone could get at the crown jewels while opening the vault at the Bank of England and Pentonville prison simultaneously. So who's the third?"
John gave him a look of pure impatience, a look so clearly straight off the face of Sherlock that Lestrade felt the pang of loss all over again. "You. You're the third. I doubt a sniper could have targeted your office. The man was probably infiltrated into your squad."
John's ongoing speculation was lost as the first words echoed time and again in Lestrade's head. You. You're the third.
Moriarty, with all his twisted, detailed knowledge of Sherlock's vulnerabilities had thought that Lestrade mattered that much. Lestrade couldn't get his head around it.
You. You're the third.
"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" John sounded tired but amused. When Lestrade focused on him, he saw an echo of the fond exasperation with which John had so often regarded Sherlock.
Lestrade knew he shouldn't do this. More than ever, he was in no position to conduct an unofficial investigation. Being sucked into Sherlock's orbit had never done him any good. He really, truly shouldn't do this. He-- "Oh bollocks, tell me everything. Tell me what you know and how, tell me what you've done." He found himself leaning forward, elbows on his knees, regard intent on John, feeling alive and engaged in a way he hadn't since he'd received that phone call.
St Bart's. He jumped. Oh God, Greg, he jumped....
"Best done over a beer, don't you think?" offered John. "Let's find a pub."
"You're prepared to be seen drinking with me?" said Lestrade dryly, the hurt of John's anger not yet dissipated. He got a half smile and an awkward shrug in reply, as close to an apology as he was likely to get, he suspected.
"You know he's not a fake, right?" said John as they put on their jackets at the door.
"Of course I know. I did all the bloody legwork on those cases, collected every piece of sodding evidence myself. No thanks to his royal highness with his dramatic pronouncements and then fucking off again, coat flapping like a bat from Savile Row.
John laughed, an awkward sound as if it wasn't something he was used to doing any more. "He was a piece of work, wasn't he?"
"A piece of work and a master manipulator," mused Lestrade as they walked down the road, to all appearances two old friends headed out for a drink. He found a thought spilling out of his mouth that he'd shared with no one else, had barely let himself think about in daylight hours. "You know, now and then at three a.m. I've found myself wondering about that whole past tense thing..."
"Really?" John's voice was cracking in his eagerness. "Because I've got some ideas about that."
"Tell me. Tell me all about it. Two heads are better than one on these things, especially when Sherlock isn't poking his nose in."
You. You're the third.
The voice echoed in Lestrade's head, bringing with it a warmth that only now made him realise how very cold he'd been.
- THE END -
Fandom & Pairing: Sherlock BBC series 2
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Genre: drama
Word Count: Around 1700
Summary: Post "The Reichenbach Fall" - Lestrade has no idea what he meant to Sherlock.
Partly inspired by a discussion with morganstuart in the comments of Gardening Leave
Lestrade looked up in surprise on hearing the knock on the door of his flat. Nobody visited him at 4pm on a Sunday afternoon. To be honest, nobody visited him at all, not since he'd signed the legal separation. Not since he'd become the pariah of the Met. Not since...
Shaking his head as if he could physically dislodge the gloom that kept his life shrouded in perpetual cloud, he crossed the small space to pull open the door.
"You." He blinked in surprise at the figure that stood on the doorstep, rocking nervously back on his heels, hands sunk in the pockets of a shapeless beige jacket that looked a little too big on him.
"This is a surprise," Lestrade commented laconically as John Watson stepped over the threshold. John shrugged. They'd not seen each other since Sherlock's funeral and even then John had been so entombed in his own misery that Lestrade was not sure John had known he was there.
John had know he was there the second-to-last time though. That had been the supremely awkward meeting in the kitchen of Mrs Hudson's flat where John had fulfilled his last promise to Sherlock and told Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and Molly. Told them in a flat monotone all the details of Sherlock's final message to the world, his confession of his fakery with all its awful implications of the way he had played his friends for fools. Except that Sherlock didn't have friends, Lestrade reminded himself fiercely. He had acolytes, audiences, minions.
"I don't believe it! Any of it!" John had exclaimed then, eyes fixed fiercely on Lestrade, the accusation as clear as if he'd hired a plane to tow a banner across the City of London. Lestrade hadn't answered. There'd been nothing to say. The day before Lestrade had stood at the press conference and read out the statement he'd been handed by the Met's legal department. The statement announcing that all cases where Sherlock had been engaged in any capacity would be reviewed. The statement where between every line was another line saying: he was a fake, he was a fraud, we reject him, we deny him.
Lestrade had smiled a tight smile for the sake of Mrs Hudson and her fluttering hands, for the sake of Molly and her refusal to meet any of their eyes, and had quietly hated John at that moment. John had served. John of all of them should know the pressures of being just one link in a chain of command, a chain down which the crap dripped from on high. John might be able to engage in a dramatic withdrawal from the world, but Lestrade had legal fees to contend with, alimony and child support in his future. He had to hold on to his job until he was finally forced out.
Lestrade had gone back to his cubicle and watched in angry isolation as the case against Sherlock slowly fell apart, right along with his own career. With every case that proved water-tight in its evidence the case against Sherlock weakened and the resentment against Lestrade heightened. It depressed Lestrade that his colleagues had thought him such a crap copper that they'd actually believed his cases would collapse. Sherlock may have provided the insights that told Lestrade what to look for but the painstakingly details of evidence - evidence that would persuade a judge rather than just seduce the admiring public - that work had been all Lestrade. Lestrade and a team that seemed to have lost their heads in their resentment of Sherlock.
Donovan's smirk of righteousness had become a tight grimace as she'd slowly realised that not only was she wrong but there was no way to reverse the damage done to the reputation of their entire department. The department so inept they'd had to outsource their detective work to an amateur magician, whether fake or otherwise. She wasn't going to be getting Lestrade's job any time soon. She was going to be moved sideways and downwards, forgotten in some dusty archive of cold cases, while Lestrade suspected the embarrassment of his presence would be solved by forced early retirement.
All these thoughts tumbled through his head as he went through the motions of making John a cup of tea, grateful to the trappings of hospitality that let him gather his facade of indifference. He could offer John his cuppa without letting any sign of his seething resentment show through. At least John had been secure in Sherlock's regard. He might have been a side-kick, an admiring foil for the consulting detective's brilliance, but Lestrade had seen the way Sherlock looked at him, seen the way Sherlock protected him. Sherlock had had one friend in the world, even if he hadn't known it.
Lestrade didn't know how Sherlock had died or why, but he knew Sherlock had not been a fake and he knew of nothing that would persuade Sherlock to give up both his life and his reputation unless it was to protect John. Taking in the circles under John's eyes, the hunched shoulders, the frame at least a stone lighter than it should have been, Lestrade had to wonder if Sherlock had realised the price of that protection. But at least John was more than just collateral damage of the likes of Lestrade and his career.
"I've been collecting evidence," John said abruptly. Lestrade sighed. Of course he had. The infection that was Sherlock and his methods was not likely to heal any time soon.
"Moriarty forced Sherlock into jumping, he set something in process that was irreversible once he was dead, something that could only be solved by Sherlock's death."
"And?" prompted Lestrade irritably. He'd worked that much out himself weeks ago but he was under such tight scrutiny at work that he dared not undertake even a loo break without express permission.
"Those contract killers he had living in Baker Street, each one was instructed to kill one of Sherlock's friends unless Sherlock took his own life."
Lestrade thought for a moment. "So... you. Of course. Mrs Hudson I assume?"
John nodded.
"And Mycroft."
"Mycroft." John's voice was dripping with scorn. That was interesting. Lestrade had thought those two had reached a detente. "Sherlock and Mycroft were hardly close. Anyway, you seriously think a killer could get anywhere near Mycroft?"
Well, no. But then. "I wouldn't have thought anyone could get at the crown jewels while opening the vault at the Bank of England and Pentonville prison simultaneously. So who's the third?"
John gave him a look of pure impatience, a look so clearly straight off the face of Sherlock that Lestrade felt the pang of loss all over again. "You. You're the third. I doubt a sniper could have targeted your office. The man was probably infiltrated into your squad."
John's ongoing speculation was lost as the first words echoed time and again in Lestrade's head. You. You're the third.
Moriarty, with all his twisted, detailed knowledge of Sherlock's vulnerabilities had thought that Lestrade mattered that much. Lestrade couldn't get his head around it.
You. You're the third.
"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" John sounded tired but amused. When Lestrade focused on him, he saw an echo of the fond exasperation with which John had so often regarded Sherlock.
Lestrade knew he shouldn't do this. More than ever, he was in no position to conduct an unofficial investigation. Being sucked into Sherlock's orbit had never done him any good. He really, truly shouldn't do this. He-- "Oh bollocks, tell me everything. Tell me what you know and how, tell me what you've done." He found himself leaning forward, elbows on his knees, regard intent on John, feeling alive and engaged in a way he hadn't since he'd received that phone call.
St Bart's. He jumped. Oh God, Greg, he jumped....
"Best done over a beer, don't you think?" offered John. "Let's find a pub."
"You're prepared to be seen drinking with me?" said Lestrade dryly, the hurt of John's anger not yet dissipated. He got a half smile and an awkward shrug in reply, as close to an apology as he was likely to get, he suspected.
"You know he's not a fake, right?" said John as they put on their jackets at the door.
"Of course I know. I did all the bloody legwork on those cases, collected every piece of sodding evidence myself. No thanks to his royal highness with his dramatic pronouncements and then fucking off again, coat flapping like a bat from Savile Row.
John laughed, an awkward sound as if it wasn't something he was used to doing any more. "He was a piece of work, wasn't he?"
"A piece of work and a master manipulator," mused Lestrade as they walked down the road, to all appearances two old friends headed out for a drink. He found a thought spilling out of his mouth that he'd shared with no one else, had barely let himself think about in daylight hours. "You know, now and then at three a.m. I've found myself wondering about that whole past tense thing..."
"Really?" John's voice was cracking in his eagerness. "Because I've got some ideas about that."
"Tell me. Tell me all about it. Two heads are better than one on these things, especially when Sherlock isn't poking his nose in."
You. You're the third.
The voice echoed in Lestrade's head, bringing with it a warmth that only now made him realise how very cold he'd been.
- THE END -