Nutrisco et exstinguo - Chapter XXXVII, Part 1

[zoffoli]

Table of contents

A/N: I had never intended to make this chapter so long. But considering this is the only chapter Lestrade gets for himself, I thought I shouldn't force myself to make it shorter just to fit the average chapter length. I hope you will enjoy reading it! Reviews are very appreciated ;)

...

Nutrisco et exstinguo: "I feed from it and extinguish it"

Caput mortuum: literally "dead head" or "worthless remain" ; used to design a dark brown pigment and in alchemy.

Warnings: Rating for this chapter is T.

You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link.

.

Chapter XXXVII: Caput mortuum

All love, by Ingrid Michaelson

oOo

When I push the sheets away from your face
And watch you sleep all day here
And when I push you away
And say you simply cannot stay here

Upon waking in the morning, some people don't get up right away. Greg Lestrade was one of those. He always took a little while to move and get going. First he remained lying in bed, always wondering whether he was awake, half-awake, or not awake at all. His eyes fixed on the ceiling above him in the semi-darkness, his head resting on the pillow, the rough linen gradually feeling more present against his skin - it was all part of a routine. His routine.

Greg wasn't sure when the weariness had become part of the routine as well. It wasn't really as bad as lassitude, and he didn't feel like he'd rather not get up at all, of course. But still, there it was. The lack. A lack of energy, of faith, of something. The D.I. wasn't sure what exactly. He woke up, saw the ceiling, and watched it without any particular will to get up. It was too hazy so early in the morning for his brain to formulate anything that might've help him understand, such as "Why am I getting up?" or "Why am I in this bed?" or "Does me getting up really make any difference in the world, for anyone?" So he simply stared, lay there for a while, and got up.

It was on Christmas 2011 that for the first time, Greg Lestrade had an inkling of what might be lacking. Quite concretely then, what he lacked was a presence by his side. There was the roughness of the linen and the semi-darkness of the room and the ceiling, as there had always been. And Greg realized that whether his wife was in bed with him or not, he woke up, got up, in the very same way. He was always alone upon waking.

It seemed to him that it hadn't always been like that. At the beginning of their marriage, surely... Yes, there had been lovely mornings together. Greg closed his eyes. On that particular Christmas morning, 2011, he very much wished he had not remembered those happy times. It only made the absence all the more striking.

It was a few days later that another not-so-customary morning occurred. His wife had come back from her sister's. Lestrade had gone back to work. Everything was as it ever was; everything was as it should be. One morning Greg woke up and as his eyes met the ceiling, as the feel of the sheets against his skin sent a shiver down his spine, he tried to sense the presence of his wife's body sleeping beside him. He could not. When he looked, the bed was empty. She had already gone.

Gone to the kitchen or to take a shower, he amended mentally. He looked back at the ceiling. He didn't know why it was now of all times that he should feel like it was all crushing down on him, the ceiling and the sheets and the empty space beside him.

Almost a week. Had it really taken so long for Sherlock's words to sink in? Greg took a deep breath, and got up.

She was indeed in the kitchen, reading a magazine while drinking her tea.

"Hello darling," she said with her easy, perfunctory smile.

"Good morning. You're up early today."

"My niece is coming to London. She asked me to go around a few galleries with her."

"Art galleries?"

She arched an eyebrow, not bothering to look up. "Well, what other kinds of galleries could it be, Greg?"

"Were you with her on Christmas?"

"What?"

"Your niece."

"No, she wasn't home this year. Got plans of her own, I'm afraid." She smiled absent-mindedly.

"So she wasn't there."

"That's what I just said."

"And were you?"

"Was I what?"

"There."

This time she put down her magazine and fixed her gaze on her husband.

"Are you really awake?"

"Of course I am. More than ever I'm afraid."

She blinked.

"I don't understand."

"Yes you do."

"Do I, now?"

She stood up and went to pour herself some more tea. She didn't seem agitated, just annoyed. Clearly she thought he was not making sense and being stupid. Again.

"Caroline, I'm asking you whether you were at your sister's for Christmas."

"For goodness' sake Greg didn't I already tell you that? I told you before I went and we talked about it when I got back, what do you-"

"Caro, please..."

"What are you saying?"

"Just answer my question. It's a simple one, really. Were you truly at your sister's for Christmas?"

Their eyes locked. Slowly, he saw the tide rising within her pupils, waves of disgust and anger and... scorn. Her face broke into a rictus.

"What makes you think I wasn't?"

"Please, Caro. Won't you just tell me?"

"No."

Greg's heart missed a beat. Was she refusing to answer still, or was she...?

"No, I wasn't at my sister's," she went on ruthlessly. Her tone was rather sharp, but strangely indifferent. "Did you deduce that alone?" Now it was laced with sarcasm.

Greg swallowed.

"Why?"

"Why?" She burst out laughing. "God, Greg, can you hear yourself? Can you? What are we talking about here exactly? You're not venturing very far, or you? Not asking what I was doing? With whom? Are you just repeating his very words?"

"Caro, stop this."

"No, you stop this! You're not capable of doing your job alone, but can't you even handle your private life by yourself? God, you're pathetic."

"Why did you lie to me?"

She snorted, taking a sip of tea and pushing back a lock of hair behind her ear. "Are you sure that I did? Are you really?" The contempt and the acrimony in her voice, skilfully tempered by her biting, darkly amused tone, almost made Greg wince. "You can't even think for yourself," she spat. "You just listen to others, believe what others say, or don't. You're like a kid learning sciences, not actually understanding how it works, just learning it all and taking what he's told for the Gospel's truth! So you tell me. What do you think, Greg? If I tell you I did not cheat on you, that I just needed a night out and certainly did not want to meet your genius friend to get my whole life read on my face and shoes and handbag and spilled in front of strangers, will you believe me?"

She was walking towards him now, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Will you believe me, dear? Or will you believe him?"

Lestrade wanted to say something but his throat was dry and his teeth, clenched. He met her eyes. His were burning.

"I see," she finally said, moving back. She sat where she had been sitting when he had entered the room and stared at him. "Let's get a divorce, Greg."

He swallowed.

"We don't have to-"

"No you don't understand. I've had it."

Lestrade froze.

"You've had it?"

"Oh don't look at me like that! What do you think? If a woman needs to look somewhere else, there's bound to be something wrong with the man she's with!"

"Something wrong with me?" He was dumbfounded. She sneered.

"Yes, love. A lot's wrong with you, actually. You're useless. Completely useless, Greg. You're useless as a D.I., you're useless as a husband, you're useless as-"

"Don't," he cut in, his voice trembling.

"-you're useless as a man," she finished, with full intent. He fell silent. His voice was stuck in his throat. Hers wasn't, apparently.

"I was waiting for this, really. Waiting for the day when you'd come and reproach me with something you could've never have thought of yourself. It's pathetic enough to see you struggle with your own job and more often than not run like a lost puppy to beg for an amateur's help and get kicked in the process, but this? This is too much, Greg."

"Don't put the bloody blame on him, Caro! He's got nothing to do with this."

"Dear God, are you standing up for him?"

"I'm not standing up for anyone! I don't have to!"

"You're right," she said acerbically. "You're not standing up for anyone. Not even for yourself."

She got up from her chair and walked right past him, but Greg caught her arm before she could leave the kitchen and pressed it lightly.

"Caro, let's talk this over. I... What can we do to make this work?"

She stared at him blankly. For a second she looked very tired. There was like a veil on her dark blue eyes, and a tension in her face Greg hadn't noticed. Like so many other things... Then her expression became jaded. Something like disappointment flickered in her pupils, and her lips, tightened, quivered. Suddenly her mouth was pouting and all there was left on her traits was distaste and derision.

"Why don't you go ask him? Since he's got all the answers."

Greg let go of her arm. They stood there, looking each other in the eye.

"So this is it, then," he said.

She nodded curtly. Lestrade stepped back and she resumed walking away.

"Caroline?"

She stopped in the corridor and turned. She was still holding her cup of tea in one hand, and had the magazine in the other. Her hair was done in a messy French twist and a lock of hair was hanging over her left eye, making it twitch. Greg noticed her ring, still there on her left hand, incongruous.

"Do you love him?" he asked.

She smiled abrasively.

"No, Greg. Don't get this wrong. I'm not leaving you because of him. I'm leaving you because of... you."

And with those words she walked out of his life.

And it's all love, all love
It's all love, my stupid love

Lestrade had thought then that he'd hit bottom. This wasn't just the person he had loved and married leaving him, it was his whole life put into question, everything he had tried to put up with and to accept rubbed in his face all over again. Greg knew he was no genius; but he tried to do his job well. He was conscientious and upright. Even if he was nothing extraordinary, he thought he deserved some esteem. True, he was nothing great, but he was a good man, and, he believed, a good detective inspector. He thought he'd been a good husband, too. Apparently, he'd been wrong there as well.

One of the things that helped him make do and even be satisfied with his situation and with himself was that he was as good as any next D.I. Well, there was Gregson, of course. But he wasn't better. He was just annoying.

It is therefore understandable that Greg's world was rather abruptly upended when, for the first time in his life, he met in person a great man.

Don't judge a book by its cover, they say. In Sherlock Holmes's case, the saying was never so true. At least when Lestrade had met him. The man he'd met then had been barely a man in his eyes: what Greg had seen was a child, lost and confused and angry, terribly lucid and terribly blind at the same time. He was a kid and a junkie, but the revolt in his eyes and that mouth of his Sherlock didn't even bother to watch had told Greg that this man wasn't just any kind of drug addict. That strange, childlike man was both a genius and an irresponsible brat. He was arrogant, caustic in everything he said, scornful and overconfident - and yet, self-destructive. Where people had only seen a freak and a detestable man with a compulsive personality, Greg saw a peculiar but brilliant mind, who only needed an extended hand from someone and something to occupy himself. But God was he insufferable.

It hadn't been easy, but Greg had been fascinated with him and, at the time, quite at a loss with a case he had. From day one the D.I. had seen Sherlock Holmes as a child, and dealt with him as such. Since the stick wouldn't work, he went for the carrot: tempting the man with cases, in exchange for him giving up drugs, had been the only trick Greg had come up with. Jealousy had never even crossed his mind in those early days of their acquaintance. He'd been genuinely dazzled by Sherlock's ability to observe and deduce things he knew he would never think of. It was strange and unnerving most of the time, but still so impressive he always wanted to see more. That, and also get the satisfaction of seeing Sherlock getting better thanks to him letting him meddle with his cases.

He'd thought Sherlock was mad until he'd met - been kidnapped by - Mycroft Holmes. Then he just shrugged it off as a family trait. From his humble point of view, both brothers were completely nuts and megalomaniac and aloof. And frighteningly clever. In fact, clever didn't even start to cover it. The Holmes brother were just so much that Greg had seriously considered backing off and letting them be in their own world. But since Sherlock's world was pretty much a mess then, and Greg was getting used to receiving his help, he gave up what would have been a prudent strategic retreat.

It was only when Sherlock had definitely got better and completely recovered from his addiction that Lestrade had realize just what he was doing. He who had always been serious and righteous was breaking an increasing amount of rules every time he let Sherlock interfere with the police's investigations. And he was taking all the credit, because that was the only way they could keep doing it. "Consulting detective" was a very useful job, Greg had to concede, but his superiors definitely wouldn't approve - all the more so as it wasn't an actual job, since Sherlock wasn't paid. All in all, it rather seemed like Greg was exploiting the kid, and when he realized it he felt awful about it. Naturally, Mycroft Holmes had then thought necessary to "invite" him again in some God damn forsaken place to assure him it was quite all right. Greg had understood he no longer had much choice in the matter.

Except he did. He had some pride, and a sense of honour. If he hadn't been certain that this was contributing to making Sherlock become a better man, occupying him and preventing him from turning to something more harmful, then his conscience wouldn't have been at rest. But as things were, he admired Sherlock, and thought it would be a waste to let him destroy himself out of boredom. And there was something to what Sergeant Donovan had said when she had met Sherlock, or a bit after that: she'd said that one day, Sherlock would be the one to have committed the crime they were investigating. Greg did not believe her. He refused to believe her. But he wouldn't take the risk either: for Sherlock's sake, it was better if he was forced to be on the side of the law. Greg didn't dare imagine what the man was capable of to dispel his boredom.

He'd thought a lot about it, of course. He couldn't ignore this lingering unease at the idea that Sherlock, if not managed well, could well be a threat to society. Not to mention his brother, who seemed to be holding all the strings in Britain and even much farther, would probably cover him. Mycroft Holmes was obviously more careful and, Lestrade feared, even smarter and actually more dangerous than Sherlock himself; but above all he was ridiculously protective of his little brother. If Sherlock started a mess, Greg was quite sure Mycroft would be there to clean it and leave no trace of it whatsoever. The thought was rather chilling.

But the fact was, Sherlock hadn't. Started any mess. Or killed anyone. At least, Greg hoped so, and even came to be certain of it. It was perhaps a risk, but as the years went by, it became less and less likely to happen. Then John Watson had entered Sherlock's life, and Greg was pretty sure then that unless something happened to John, Sherlock would never become a criminal.

What Caro had said was true. Greg would trust Sherlock's word against hers. He would believe what Sherlock said, even if he himself didn't deduce anything, and, in this case, could not verify his claims. Sherlock wasn't exactly a friend, but... He was the closest to a friend that Greg had had in a long time. As a D.I. he had colleagues, whom he appreciated more or less. Then there were his wife's friends, or old friends they had in common, but he didn't see them very often. His job occupied most of his time. And Sherlock... Greg didn't know what Sherlock was to him. He was a bit too old and a bit too out of control to be a son to him, and Greg did not feel responsible for him to such an extent; he did want to protect him, help him change for the better and adapt to society, but beside providing him with cases, there wasn't much he could do, surely. He couldn't possibly ask him out to the pub and invite him to watch football. As for lunch or dinner? That was just preposterous. And Greg had sworn he would never let Sherlock see his flat: imagining what he might deduce from the simplest elements there was enough to make Greg's head spin.

So yes, when he'd spoken those fated words on Christmas Eve, he hadn't even questioned the truth. He had hoped, had tried to ignore it, to forget, but eventually he had to ask Caro, hoping she would deny it all. He was ready to believe her over him. He really was. But then her reaction had been all too telling. When she'd gone, Greg had realized with a shudder that maybe she'd been right. Maybe he'd believed Sherlock from the start, and deep down, would've never believed her.

When he thought back on this now, almost three years after the event, Greg couldn't help but see how bitterly ironic it had been. He'd lost Caro for believing in Sherlock. And just a few months later he'd lost Sherlock for not believing in him.

It isn't rare, with hindsight, to pinpoint exactly the moment when, thanks to our own action, our life was turned upside-down. But that's with hindsight; when, unmistakably, it's already too late.

"The footprint. It's all he has. A footprint."

"Yeah, well, you know what he's like: CSI Baker Street."

"Well our boys couldn't have done it."

"Well, that's why we need him. He's better."

"That's one explanation."

"...And what's the other?"

"Just think about it! Just from a footprint he deduces where the kids are? Who could do that? Nobody could, except the one who's put them there!"

"Now you're going too fa-"

"And then the girl screams her head off when she sees him - a man she has never seen before ... unless she had seen him before."

"What's your point?"

"You know what my point is. You just don't want to think about it."

She was right. He didn't want to think about it. This was insane.

"Why don't you talk to Anderson about it, then? If you don't believe me."

If you don't believe me. Something like anger started to build in Greg's chest. Why was it always about believing or not believing in the end? What was it with those people asking for his trust? ...What was it with him only being able to believe, and never to know?

"Fine. Go get him."

He was furious with his subordinates, but even more furious with himself for not having any proper argument to defend Sherlock. Greg did not believe Sherlock could have done it. Never. But he had no proof. He had nothing to go on, nothing to defend his belief. He was trying, really trying to think of something that would shut them up, while Anderson was talking. He didn't need to listen. He knew already: everything Anderson was saying, he knew. He knew all these elements could point to Sherlock, but it didn't make sense, because... Well, because it was Sherlock. Because Greg cared about him and didn't want it to be him and... He swallowed. The gravity of the situation was slowly dawning on him.

"You're not seriously suggesting he's involved, are you?"

"I think we have to entertain the possibility."

Greg remained silent. He'd never hated Anderson and Donovan so much than when they told their superior everything. Couldn't they just shut up? But nooo, they were too glad to be finally right about something, anything, and to bring down the man who'd never ceased to humiliate them.

Right? Were they right? Hell no. They couldn't be right.

"With all due respect, sir ..." he began.
"You're a bloody idiot, Lestrade!" the chief superintendent interrupted. Now go and fetch him in right now!"
Greg didn't move.
"Do it."
There it was. The order. Now he had no choice.

"Are you proud of yourselves?" he asked Anderson and Donovan, not wanting to ask himself whether he was proud of himself now.

"Well, what if it's not just this case? What if he's done this to us every single time?"

"Don't be stupid!" Greg barked. Sherlock's words were still echoing in his mind. "That little nagging sensation... You're going to have to be strong to resist. You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home there."

As always, he'd been right. He couldn't kill it, even though he fought against it with all his might. He tried, he really tried: but this was proof that he doubted already. If not, why would he have to fight anything? Greg did not want to think Sherlock could have kidnapped those kids, or been a criminal in any way. He did not want to believe it. But that already meant he didn't believe strongly enough that Sherlock was innocent.

"He wants to destroy me inch by inch."

"It's a game, Lestrade. And not one I'm willing to play."

A game, was it? Had it been a game? If so, Greg had lost it. With hindsight, he now knew, with unbearable clarity: that day, he'd lost everything.

When I say you take away
The most important parts of me with you
When I've had the greyest day
You add more grey, it's just your way
It's true

It was funny how easily, just in a few months, just because of a few words, and a stupid, hateful, little nagging doubt, Greg had succeeded in destroying what mattered the most in his life: his marriage, his career, and the man he admired the most among all the people he knew. You can't kill an idea, he'd said. He'd been correct. Greg hadn't been able to kill it. But he had managed to kill him.

He'd been stupid, so stupid. The chief superintendent had been right. He was an idiot. The type you can't forgive. His lack of discernment had cost him his wife, and now, the very reason for which he'd given up on his marriage had been killed because Greg was too stupid to find the bloody proves of his innocence. Caro had been right, too: because he was so stupid, Lestrade could do nothing but believe, or not believe. That was the only choice he really had, in the end. When he could verify the hypotheses that were presented to him, all went smoothly; but when he had to make a choice, his stupid brain didn't allow him to know the truth. Yes, all he could do was to believe: and even in that, he had failed Sherlock. He'd failed the only person who had always given him the truth.

The last time he'd seen Sherlock, pretending to take John of all people as a hostage, Greg had even been stupid enough to feel relief. It hadn't crossed his mind that what was out there could do more damage to Sherlock than his being arrested. He could never have known...

But he'd doubted him. He'd been too stupid to prove his innocence, and too weak to actively believe in him. He'd failed as a D.I., and he'd failed as a friend.

At first, guess what, he hadn't wanted to believe it. That Sherlock was dead. It just wasn't an option. It didn't make sense and it was unfair and... Then he'd seen Molly. She'd shaken her head. Greg had felt his legs give out. He'd sat there in the mortuary, dumbstruck. He'd asked to see him. She'd said he was gone already. His brother had taken him to be buried. Lestrade had thought he would throw up then and there.

He hadn't. Nor had he at Sherlock's funerals. Until then he'd been in shock, so numb with pain and disbelief that for some unfathomable, insane reason, he'd hoped something would happen. Sherlock would show up or Mycroft would come and say he was just resting and would be back soon. But all he'd seen were John and Mrs. Hudson and Molly. Suddenly it had become real. They were burying Sherlock. He was dead. Really dead.

In this instant Greg had hated himself so much he could have walked out of the cemetery and under a bus without the slightest hesitation. It had risen in his chest, choking him, and no words could describe it - not guilt, not self-loathing, nothing. This was unlike anything he'd ever felt. He couldn't think, couldn't move, even less speak. He felt crushed. Physically, concretely, crushed.

The first thoughts that crossed his mind as his eyes were fixed on the unthinkable gravestone were questions. Why was he still there? He had as good as killed Sherlock. Why hadn't John come to shoot him dead yet? Hell, why hadn't Mycroft come to get him and bring him to some torture room to make him regret he'd ever been born?

"Are you all right, Detective Inspector?"

He started as he felt Mrs. Hudson's hand on his arm. His eyes shifted to her, but he barely registered her presence. All he could read on her face was concern. Why was she concerned? There was nothing to be concerned about now. It was too late.

"I'm fine," he heard his own voice answer. She seemed even more worried and gave him a pained look. Pain. That was more like it. Greg could relate to that.

"It's not your fault, Inspector Lestrade. You mustn't let yourself think it's your fault."

He stared at her blankly. This wasn't right. She didn't understand. No, he had to talk to someone else. Someone who would understand.

"John."

When the ex-soldier turned to him and their eyes locked, Greg knew he'd found the right person. The hollowness in John's gaze was mirroring his own. Before he knew it, he was asking - no, begging - not to be forgiven, but to be blamed, punished maybe, by someone, anyone who'd understand just how responsible he was for what had happen, and who wouldn't ignore it. Who wouldn't let him get away with it.

"I'm sorry. John, I'm so sorry. I don't know how this happened. I honestly don't. I wish I did, I... I wish I wasn't so bloody daft and... This..." he gestured towards the grave desperately, "this should have never happened. I should never have doubted him, I don't even know how I could. I'm sorry. So sorry." Then he seemed horrified at his own words. "Of course it means nothing! What good can it do now? This... I just need you to know I never wanted this. I don't know how it turned out like this, but I would have done anything, really anything, to avoid it. I... I doubted him, I did, and now... God, even if he did kidnap the kids, he didn't deserve this! No, I'm not saying he kidnapped them. He didn't. He couldn't have. Hell, it doesn't matter, who cares? It doesn't matter now. But he was innocent. He was bloody innocent and I didn't do anything to prove it, I didn't know how to prove it, and I... Why did he kill himself, John? How did that maniac manage to do it? Sherlock couldn't have cared for his reputation to that extent, right? Not when you were here. He cared about you so much, he couldn't have... God, I'm sorry I don't know what I'm saying. Forgive me. I just don't know what I'm saying anymore. I'm so sorry. I am so terribly sorry, John. This is my fault. I should never have doubted him, even for an instant. I should never have let you go, I should have brought you to the police station and everything would have been solved because of course he was innocent, they couldn't create false proves could they, and..."

Greg wasn't sure how long he babbled. The words never seemed to stop. It was a never-ending flow, drowning him, not making him feel better in the slightest. John wasn't reacting. He was just standing there, silent; Greg wasn't even sure he was listening. He was closed off to the world, radiating only emptiness. Greg wished he'd say something, anything. Punch him. Shoot him. But John barely acknowledged his presence, and when the words died out, when nothing came out of him anymore, he simply turned and walked away. Greg stared at his back, frozen on the spot. Molly and Mrs. Hudson were talking to him, it seemed, but he couldn't hear them. They didn't understand. Only John could. John could, but he hadn't done anything. He'd left Greg there with his guilt and his despair and his stupidity, he'd left him to rot in his own solitude, tormented by his own thoughts. He hadn't punched him. He hadn't shot him. The only thing John had given him was the knowledge that it wasn't one man Greg had destroyed; it was two.

The pain and hopelessness he'd been trapped in during the following weeks had somewhat protected Greg from the chaos that ensued, making him numb and indifferent to everything that happened to him. Everything was getting out of control. They said he was in shock and tried to put him away, and next they were calling him back to interrogate him and ask him about Sherlock's involvement in the affairs of the police, and Greg would go mad and shout and scream Sherlock's innocence as if it mattered now. Then they'd put him away again. And call him back. It was a mess. The Met was a mess and the newspapers were spouting nonsense and Greg was craving justice so bad it was painful: why couldn't anyone see the only murderer around was him? He'd wondered why he hadn't heard of Mycroft. The elder Holmes was his last hope. Surely he wouldn't allow this.

But days passed and weeks, and when they no longer needed him he was sent away. Transferred, they said. Demoted, clearly. Greg didn't understand. What they were doing didn't make sense. Naturally they'd taken the case of the kidnapping of the ambassador's children from him, but it seemed they didn't intend to look any further for a culprit: Sherlock Holmes had killed himself, wasn't this telling enough? It was unbelievable. More unbelievable still, Mycroft was doing nothing. Greg hadn't heard from him and he was never mentioned in the papers. It was as if he had never existed. Lestrade had screamed his names during some of his outbursts, telling them to go get him, that he would know, because he knew everything, was everywhere, and he would never let his little brother's name be dragged through the mud. But they'd always looked at him as if he were crazy. Mycroft hadn't showed up. And Greg had been sent away.

The weight of the scandal had been enormous, but the guilt overpowered it. There had been his superiors and various police officers and journalists and many people, but never those who mattered. Greg was shattered. He couldn't find the strength in himself to go see John. He had no way to reach Mycroft. And all the people he could talk to were stupid, ignorant, self-satisfied, blind. Just being in the Met was making him sick. One day when he was called for questioning or whatever it was they were trying to do with him, he'd lost it. He had completely snapped and insulted each and every police officer he'd met on his path, bellowing in front of all of them how worthless they were, how useless, selfish, petty, insulting all of them along with Anderson and Donovan and himself. That was the last time he'd been called in.

It was only when he got to his new "job" and living place that Greg realized how absurd it all was. So he did what he should have done from the beginning. He quit.

But it's all love, all love, oh
It's all love, all love, oh

Shut up! An amateur detective given access to all sorts of classified information, and now he's a suspect in a case!

Shut up. I didn't say anything. You were thinking. It's annoying.

You're a bloody idiot, Lestrade!

Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains, it must be so boring.

You can't just break into my flat! I'm not your sniffer dog.

What if it's not just this case? What if he's done this to us every single time?

Actually, you know what? Ignore me. Ignore all of that, it's just the shock talking.

You know what my point is. You just don't want to think about it.

You see, you just don't observe!
That little nagging sensation... You can't kill an idea, can you? It's a game, Lestrade. He wants to destroy me inch by inch.

Destroy me

Destroy me

Destroy...

Inch by inch

by inch

by inch

by...

Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping.
He's not resisting. It's all right, John. He's not resisting! No, it's not all right. This is ridiculous.
Get him downstairs now. You know you don't have to do--Don't try to interfere, or I shall arrest you too.

They won't work with me! You need me.

...Yes, I do. God help me.

Help me

Help...

Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees? Now would be good!

Do as he says!

Get after him, Lestrade!

Why are you here? One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my handler to spy on me incognito. Is that why you're calling yourself "Greg"?

It's a game, Lestrade. A game.

Go get him. DO IT!

Greg woke up with a gasp. Clenching the sheets with trembling fists, he stared at the darkness above him. The ceiling. Then his eyes fell on his alarm clock; the red digits burned him and he blinked. 4:06. He closed his eyes again and let himself drift away into nightmares once more.

When he woke up again the ceiling was grey. Daylight fell on the sheet and scattered the shadows like spilt milk. Greg felt the roughness of the sheets against his skin and tried to feel a presence by his side. He looked and remembered Caroline had left years ago. Sometimes he was reminded of what her presence had felt like; but he no longer felt her absence. Another one, more mercilessly potent still, had overridden Caro's.

Every morning when Greg woke up naturally, that is, not from a nightmare, he enjoyed a few seconds of blissful oblivion; then the day and the world came crushing down on him. He stared at the ceiling as the memories flowed, an unrestrained stream flooding his wrecked body; and then he got up.

They hadn't accepted his resignation, so he still had to get up in the morning. Shower. Shave. Dress up. And go.

Greg hadn't heard from Caro ever since they'd signed the divorce papers. He hadn't heard from anyone since he'd left London. To be fair, he hadn't told anyone he was moving; not Mrs. Hudson, not Molly, not one of his old friends... not John. He hadn't even thought of it. It didn't matter. He knew someone would come to settle the score one day. He was waiting.

For a few weeks he'd been getting on just fine. People who knew him might've said he was just a shadow of himself; but precisely nobody knew him here, and since he did not speak, they only assumed he was the broody, quiet type not to be bothered. There were rumours, of course. People read the papers. Most of them knew who he was. But it didn't matter. They didn't bother with him, and he didn't bother with them. Once they had asked him about Sherlock. It was inevitable, of course. But Greg had simply stared until they excused themselves awkwardly. They'd never asked again.

That was the last time he had heard Sherlock's name. When he woke up one Saturday and began to recall the events of the past months, as he unwillingly did every time he came to consciousness, he had no idea he'd hear that name again the very same day, from not-so-unexpected lips.

When Greg opened the door to whoever had just rung the bell and saw Mycroft Holmes, he blinked.

"Hello, Inspector."

An overwhelming wave of relief washed over him. At last. He'd come.

"You can't really call me that anymore," he said in stance of greetings. "Please do come in."

He was surprised to see that Holmes the elder... well, the only Holmes now, had come unaccompanied. Then again, Greg couldn't be sure. You never could, with Mycroft.

"Would you like something to drink?" he asked, feeling silly as he did. Obviously his visitor hadn't come to chat over a drink. Mycroft surprised him again by answering politely: "I'll have some tea, thank you."

Feeling rather lost at this strange turn of events, Greg went into the kitchen and put the water to boil. Mycroft was pacing in the living-room. It was funny, Greg mused. He'd sworn he would never let a Holmes in his flat, and there he was. But things had changed. Sherlock was dead.

"How have you been doing, Inspector?"

"Don't call me that. And I'm sure you can answer that question yourself," Greg replied from the kitchen. He would've been more careful if he'd known what Mycroft had come for. But in his mind it was all so clear. This was the end. The end of his turmoil, the end of his pathetic attempt to keep going; the end of him. Finally, Justice had come.

"I was just trying to make conversation," Mycroft retorted with a frown as he entered the kitchen, his gaze scanning it idly. Greg smiled.

"What do you think of the flat?"

"Dreary?"

Greg's broken smirk broadened.

"Are you surprised?"

"Not really."

He brought the kettle in the living-room, along with two mugs, and indicated a chair for Mycroft to sit in. "I suppose it is a bit dreary. But it doesn't matter. I knew I wouldn't be staying long."

At this, Mycroft arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Are you going somewhere?" he asked. Greg stared.

"Well," he began, shifting a bit in his seat, "that's why you're here, right?"

They looked each other in the eye.

"Yes," Mycroft finally said, eyeing him carefully. "But I'm not sure we have the same thing in mind."

This time, Greg burst out laughing.

"I don't have anything particular in mind, Mr. Holmes. Actually, I'm sure you well know I have nothing in mind. Nothing at all in there," he said as he knocked twice on his scalp. For the first time since he had arrived, something like shock flickered across Mycroft's features. Suddenly Greg felt terrible.

"Look... I'm sorry. It's just that... I've been waiting so long..."

Mycroft remained quiet, his gaze heavy on Lestrade; Greg could feel the weight of his scrutiny. But he stared right back.

"Why didn't you come before?"

"I have been quite busy, Inspector, as I'm sure you know."

"Yeah. Right. No but seriously, Mycroft? Why now? What are you doing here now?"

Greg was feeling it rise within him again, this horrible mix of anger and despair. He looked away and stood up, drinking from his mug. If the use of his first name bothered him, Mycroft said nothing about it. In fact, he said nothing at all. After a while Greg couldn't stand it and spoke again.

"I'm sorry. You trusted me with him, but I couldn't look after him properly. I'm sorry I believed those bastards over him even for one second, I'm sorry I arrested him, I'm sorry I let him go, I'm sorry I could do nothing to prove his innocence, I'm sorry I was too stupid to see what was going on, I'm sorry..." His voice broke. He took a deep breath. "...I'm sorry I fell completely for Moriarty's trick and left him alone to die."

His right hand was clenched on the mug, trembling.

"Why didn't you come sooner?" he asked again, the pain and the fury in his chest becoming unbearable. "Why didn't I hear from you before? Why did you do nothing, nothing to clear his name?!" He was shouting now. What was happening to him? He was supposed to apologize, beg for forgiveness and mercy. Not that he wanted any. But this? What in the world was he doing?

"He was your brother, for goodness' sake! Don't you miss him? Even I miss him! God, I miss him so much..."

Breaking down at last he fell back in his chair, head down, his shoulders stiff, trying hard not to sob.

"How did it come to this? How did I become like this? There are so many idiots out there, and their wives don't leave them and they're not responsible for geniuses' death!"

"Inspector-"

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!" Lestrade bellowed. "Don't you bloody dare call me that!"

"Please calm down."

"I'm calm. I'm very calm. Let's get on with it."

"With what?"

"Whatever you came here to do!"

"You think I came to judge you."

At these words, Greg's irritation deflated at once. He gaped.

"Why did you come, then?"

Mycroft sighed.

"Won't you sit down? I came to talk to you. Just to talk."

Dumbstruck, Greg mechanically complied.

"Now," Mycroft went on, leaning slightly towards him. "You seem to be under the impression that you are responsible for my brother's death."

"Oh, not you too! Don't tell me this wasn't my fault. Not you."

"I am ready to concede that it is regrettable that you doubted him, but it would have changed nothing if you hadn't."

Greg noticed his right hand was still shaking. He was tired. So tired. He just wanted this to end.

"What do you mean?"

"Listen to me Lestrade, you are a wreck. Clearly you're suffering from depression, you're missing your wife, whom you loved even though she cheated on you and you knew, you're missing Sherlock, and you feel like you should have been the one to die in his stance - for goodness' sake get a hold of yourself! This is absurd. You don't know what you're thinking. Maybe you should begin a therapy. In any case you cannot trust yourself in this situation, because you have been traumatized."

"Who are you?" Greg asked in a failed attempt at turning this into a joke. This wasn't what he'd expected. This wasn't what he had wanted.

"Who are you?" Mycroft countered.

They fell silent, neither wanting to lose their staring contest.

"What happened to Sherlock?" Greg asked.

"He was forced to commit suicide. Moriarty manipulated him."

"How?"

"By targeting what he cared about. Or rather, whom he cared about."

Greg's eyes widened.

"John? They targeted John? Oh God..." He took his head in his hands, another wave of guilt hitting him. Then if he really hadn't let them go that day...

"No. It would have changed nothing. John wasn't the only target."

"But who?"

"Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh God."

"Even if you had arrested both Sherlock and Dr. Watson, it would have changed nothing. Moriarty would have got to him in any case."

Greg didn't know what to say, so he remained quiet. His thoughts were swirling in his head and he had no idea how to put them in order.

"I came here today because I wanted to see how you were doing."

Lestrade let out a mirthless chuckle.

"Well now you've seen."

"And I wanted to apologize to you."

At this, Greg's eyes widened. Mycroft coughed a little and continued:

"When I asked you to keep an eye on Sherlock and be attentive to his well-being, I did not think it could bring such harm to you. It was never my intention."

"What are you-"

"Let me finish. I also apologize for not having come to see you earlier. I had to prioritize some personal matters, as you must imagine. I hope you understand."

"No. No, I don't. What is this? What are you doing here, if it's not to recognize the obvious!"

"Enough. You are not responsible for Sherlock's death. You feel like a traitor because you doubted him, as anyone would have, for one fateful moment. This is guilt talking, not you. Just think, Lestrade. Moriarty was stronger than me. How could you have done anything?"

Greg stared, speechless. Only now was he realizing how hard it must have been for the elder Holmes. Greg had thought that Mycroft's first reaction would be to punish him, but now it seemed ridiculous. Why would Mycroft care. It wouldn't bring Sherlock back.

"I just can't believe he's never coming back. I didn't want to believe it," Greg murmured. His voice faltered and he served himself more tea, which he drank in one go as if it were vodka.

"So you did not put everything behind you."

"How could I? Mycroft, I know you think I'm mad and pathetic and suffering from PTSD, but there is one thing neither you nor I can deny, whatever our states: I let Sherlock down. I let him down, and it contributed to the process that led him to take his own life. I will never forgive myself. I cannot."

"As I said, anyone would have doubted him. You weren't the only one."

"John didn't."

"You're wrong."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What do you mean? John would have never doubted Sherlock. Not for one second."

"You're right. He would have never been fooled by anything anyone else said about Sherlock. But Sherlock could fool him."

Greg looked at his mug absent-mindedly. "That's stupid," he said. "John would have done anything for Sherlock. He would've gone through fire for him. Why would Sherlock want to fool him?"

"Well, we'll never know now, will we?"

"I'm sorry."

Mycroft put down the mug from which he had barely drunk, and rested his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers.

"Now, Lestrade, tell me. What are your plans for the future?"

"The future?" Greg repeated dumbly.

Mycroft nodded. "Do you intend to move on? Get a new life, maybe?"

"You know that's impossible."

Mycroft smiled thinly. "Nothing is impossible for me."

"Are you offering me a new identity?"

"If you want."

"Why?"

A small, genuine smile lit up Mycroft's face. But it was sad, and it pained Greg more than it pleased him.

"Because you looked after my brother, Inspector. You did."

"I don't want a new life. I can't... No. I don't want to forget."

"Why?"

"I loved Caro, you know."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, apparently not following. Greg ignored him and went on.

"I loved her, and I hated her sometimes. I wanted to be with her, but when I was, I felt miserable. Sherlock was similar in some ways."

Mycroft smirked almost fondly. "A pet to which you keep extending a hand and who bites back," he confirmed.

"Well, I wouldn't say a pet. But yeah. He definitely bit."

They exchanged a look. Before they knew it, they were both laughing. Quietly, but still laughing. Greg was exhausted. He felt like crying and giggling all at once. He swallowed with difficulty.

"What I'm saying is that... I loved him, too." Seeing Mycroft's look, he corrected promptly: "Not like that! I just.. cared. I have no right to say it now, but I did. I do." His voice was soft now. The tide was receding. With calm the pain settled in him, weighing him down. It was his burden. "I miss him."

"And I am glad to hear you say it."

Greg shook his head, wordless. This wasn't what he had wanted from Mycroft. But now he saw he had no right to expect anything from him, really. "I'm glad you came."

"Well, so am I. In fact, now that you have answered all my questions, I have a request. If you'll hear it."

"Of course."

"I want you to come back to London and to take up your job again."

"No."

"In order to clear Sherlock's name."

"What?" Greg stammered.

"You heard me. For certain reasons, this is not something I can take care of myself, not openly. I need a defender. Someone who will spend the necessary time and fight for it with tenacity."

"But John..."

Mycroft shook his head. "I'm afraid Dr. Watson is nowhere near capable of such a task at the present."

"That bad?"

"I'm sorry to say it is, yes."

Lestrade fell quiet again, his eyes on his mug of tea. "But they won't take me back. I've been 'transferred', you know."

"Well," Mycroft said with one of his Holmesian (read superior and slightly teasing) smile, "this is just the kind of things I can help with."

And so Lestrade had come back to London, with a defined mission: undo the damage he had so regrettably done to Sherlock Holmes's reputation.

.

.

Go to Part 2 of this chapter

Back to Previous chapter