Nutrisco et exstinguo - Chapter XXXVII, Part 2

[zoffoli]

He was given his old job back all right, with different underlings, and he made it a point to regally ignore Anderson and Donovan. This was one of the promises he'd made with himself when he had moved back: act as if they did not exist. If he did otherwise, he knew he would snap. He did not allow himself one glance, one word towards them. He had the satisfaction to know they would go down once he'd proved Sherlock's innocence to the world - and he knew he could, for he had the dedication, and Big Brother's unofficial support, which granted him power and access to everything he needed.

He still had to do his official job, however, and so he was given the case no one managed to deal with then: a serial-killer using poisoned apples to kill young women. Another great media sensation. Greg suspected Mycroft to be behind the fact that he of all inspectors was given the case, just so he could get contacts in the journalistic world.

It wasn't easy. Most people at the Met hated him, and his underground protection from Mycroft did not help his case. Moreover, wasn't he nosing about in order to prove that they had all made a terrible, tragic mistake which had apparently cost a young man his life? He was bound to be disliked, to the least.

So he went through hell. It was his redemption. With this goal in mind, he could bear anything - the looks, the harsh words, the rumours, the nightmares, the guilt... Greg had become accepting. It hadn't been simple, nor very pleasant, and he'd had to go overcome a great deal of obstacles, but at last he'd done it. He had succeeded in clearing Sherlock's name. It took him months, and on the other hand he made no progress at all with what had become the 'Snow white' case. But it hardly mattered. What did matter was that now Sherlock was a victim of prejudices, an ill appreciated hero. There was even a whole movement to support him, called (and wasn't this fate? Lestrade sometimes thought bitterly) the "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" movement.

But it wasn't with them that Greg wanted to celebrate this. After all he'd done, he was exhausted, but happy like a good worker who has completed his task at the end of a hard day of labour. He could only think of one person to tell, one person to share the news with.

"Can I come in?"

John sighed. It wasn't exactly the welcome Greg had expected, but at least John spoke to him this time.

"I'll kill Mycroft some day..." he grumbled as he let Lestrade into his new flat. Greg could understand why he would want to move out of Baker Street, but it still felt weird to visit him here. And without Sherlock.

"Surprisingly enough, he seems more worried about you killing yourself," he retorted, trying to sound playful and failing.

"Him? Worried? Oh God, don't tell me this is some psychological inversion and that I'll have to deal with Big Brother from now on. Because I'm not putting up with his crap."

Lestrade laughed, and John stared. Greg shifted awkwardly under his nonplussed gaze. On second thought, it did look like John was a little disconnected from reality. He seemed so confused Greg dropped all pretence and stopped laughing at once.

"I've come to talk about Sherlock's death, John."

"What a surprise." The ex-soldier's tone was tired and bitter. Greg felt a pang in his chest but refused to acknowledge how jaded his former friend sounded.

"No, you don't understand. I mean with Rich Brook and Moriarty..."

"... who are the same person."

"Precisely."

"What do you mean?"

"We should be able to clear his name, John," he announced, unable to completely hide the joy in his voice. It wasn't out in the press yet, but he had all the elements now, soon...

"Moriarty's?"John asked innocently.

"Oh, don't be stupid. Sherlock's, of course!"

"Great. I'm sure he'll be overjoyed. Maybe he'll even throw a little party with his new friends."

The D.I.'s eyes widened. He stared, at a loss.

"Don't you think the worms will enjoy the news too?" the other went on, faking surprise.

"John..."

"Just drop it, Greg," John cut in icily, before Greg could even find the words. "It's great his name can be cleared. His reputation meant a lot to me when he was... alive, because no matter what he said, he wanted recognition. Any genius craves an audience. But he enjoyed being the only one to know, too: alone, but above everyone else."

"He was no longer alone, he was with y-"

Greg was interrupted by John raising his hand sternly.

"That's not the point. He is no longer here to crave or enjoy anything."

"But you are, John," Greg insisted firmly, fighting back the desperation bubbling within him and threatening to fill his voice. His heart sank when he saw the blatant sadness in John's smile.

"Yes," he said. "I am."

Greg had nothing to say to that. In less than a minute, John had managed to bring him back to the state he was in months ago. He felt hollow. This was the harsh reality.

Funnily enough, Mycroft must have known, for Greg saw him soon after that. The D.I. wasn't sure what the British government might want to discuss with him - congratulate him? that was unlikely - but he knew as soon as they were sitting in a coffee shop and Mycroft asked:

"So, how is Dr. Watson doing?"

"He's not a doctor now, is he," Greg grumbled. "You should really stop addressing people by their old titles, it's unnerving."

Mycroft furrowed his brow haughtily. "Not so good, then," he remarked, ignoring Lestrade's rebuke.

Greg sighed.

"Either way, you shouldn't meddle. He's on edge. Seems pretty angry with you, for some reason. And doesn't give a damn about Sherlock's name. He misses the man too much for that."

"He'll come round eventually," Mycroft assured.

Lestrade shook his head. "But he's right, you know. What good does it do now?"

"More than you think."

Greg wasn't so sure anymore.

You can't be the one to kill the pain anymore
You let me in but then you slam my fingers in the door
I've had enough but I keep asking you to give me more

After that, things progressed quickly. Soon the news - and definite proves - of Sherlock's innocence was out in the papers. Greg gave interviews, contacted the 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' movement, and invited former clients of Sherlock's to speak up.

He truly hoped it made a difference for John. That now, even if he didn't personally care about Sherlock's reputation, it would be easier for him to find a job and get back on track.

As for Lestrade, his hands were now full with the 'Evil Queen' case - yes, that was the latest name found by the media for it. Funny how they changed from a focus on the victim - Snow White - to a focus on the villain. Well, the fact that they hadn't caught the culprit (or culprits) yet, and that the number of victims was increasing, probably made the murderer more interesting than the many young women who had been poisoned.

"People always felt fascinated with the dark side of things," Molly stated once they were having coffee. Yes, he had invited Molly for coffee. So what? There was nothing to it. Greg simply wished to apologize for his terrible behaviour the last time he had seen her, and he enjoyed talking to people who had known Sherlock. Molly was also someone he could worry with about John.

"He was very thin last time I saw him. Not that I saw much of him, I must say."

Molly smiled sympathetically.

"He's having a hard time."

"Aren't we all?"

She nodded cautiously. "Yes. But not like that. You know..." She trailed off. Perhaps she couldn't find the words, or her voice failed her. He looked her in the eye.

"I know," he said quietly.

Turned out they didn't know, though. Not how bad it was.

A month later, John attempted suicide.

Greg heard from Mycroft, who told him to be discreet about it. As if he were going to go shouting that to the media.

"Nothing," Mycroft had said when Lestrade had asked him what he could possibly do. "You have to let him overcome this by himself."

"But still, I'd seen him, Molly had seen him... How could we have not seen this coming? We thought he was doing better..."

"It wasn't the rash act of a lost, desperate man, Inspector. John was doing better. Better enough to decide with as clear a mind as possible that it wasn't worth it going on."

Lestrade said nothing to that. There was nothing to say. But he promised to himself that he would do everything that was in his power to ensure that John would never do such a thing again.

He did, however, follow Mycroft's advice. The two brothers were very different in some ways, but their advice being sensible was definitely a common quality. Like that one time when Mycroft simply called to inform him that the policeman who had started working at the Met in April 2012 and who was of German descent was a hit-man. From anybody else, Greg would have laughed it off. But naturally, it turned out Big Brother had been right. And so expectedly, he had been right about Dr. Watson as well.

John got back on track by himself. Greg heard from Mycroft that he had found a job again, in a clinic, and from Mrs. Hudson that he had moved back into Baker Street. Shortly after, Greg received a phone call he no longer dared hope for.

"Hello, Greg. This is John. I was wondering if you'd like to go out drinking with me tonight."

What I say
That is no way

He met John in a pub they'd gone to once or twice before Sherlock's demise. It was difficult, because he didn't know where to begin, didn't know why John had called, why he wanted to see him, why now... He was so scared to make a false move, yet incredibly happy to see the doctor again.

"So, how's everything?" John began rather awkwardly. "The work, your wife... It's been a while."

Lestrade sighed. Oh yes, it has. You have no idea. He shrugged at John's questions.

"The work's crazy without Sherlock, and the yard is a mess since that scandal," he replied casually, deciding it would be better for both of them to mention Sherlock's name from the very beginning.

"You mean Detective Inspectors asking him for help?"

"No, I mean the police arresting an innocent who committed suicide the next day," Lestrade answered gravely. Seeing the topic made John uncomfortable, he moved on promptly:

"As for the wife, well... Technically she's not exactly my wife anymore." He tried to say it lightly, not wanting to dwell on the subject. Not wanting to even talk about it, really.

"Oh, so you finally concluded the divorce then? Of course, that was a while ago, but it wasn't with her you'd gone on holiday that time you joined us on the Baskerville case."

"Wait, did I tell you that?"

"Sherlock told me that."

"Oh. Right."

They looked at each other, and broke into giggles. A sense of relief washed over Greg. He was glad, so glad that John had called him.

"It's great to see you again, really," he said, still chuckling. John gave him an apologetic smile.

"Yeah. I'm sorry I was so rude the last time we met."

Greg shook his head and put down his glass.

"There's no need. You weren't rude, you were just... not interested."

"Well, I am now."

Greg arched an eyebrow.

"What?"

"About how you proved Sherlock wasn't a fake. Or rather, about what happened the day he... jumped."

Greg swallowed uneasily and ran a nervous hand in his hair. This wasn't what he had expected. He should probably stop expecting things anyway, seeing how wrong he always turned out to be.

"Well, that's not exactly the same thing," he finally said. "We don't know his motives, and that's why it took so long to convince the jury - and the press - that he was a true genius. Why would a true genius commit suicide if he wasn't a fake? Then, there's your testimony and that phone call you got..."

"Wait, did that make it into the report?"

"Of course not," Greg replied, slightly affronted. "You didn't say it to the D.I., but to the friend, right?" He'd spoken before thinking, as he so often did, and suddenly feared John's reaction to his words. The doctor looked away, and Greg's heart clenched.

"So? What have you got?" John asked.

"Nothing. As far as the reason he committed suicide is concerned anyway."

John clearly looked disappointed. And puzzled.

"I mean, you're more likely to know something than I am," Greg went on. "We're not talking about proves here, or facts, but his actual motivations."

"You'd known him for longer than I did."

"Yeah, but I didn't live with him. I think he was closer to you than he ever was to anyone, even me or his landlady. Well, he may have had friends before."

"That Victor Trevor guy."

"Who?"

"In the article. Riley's article. Victor Trevor was mentioned as the first friend of Sherlock Holmes, but they parted suddenly after university."

"I think Mycroft told me about him. Rather as Sherlock's first real case than as a friend, but..." Yeah, definitely as a case and not as a friend. You were his very first friend, John. For some reason the thought saddened Greg a little. He still responded to John's knowing smile.

"So... you know Mycroft," the doctor said.

"Oh yeah," Greg said, feeling exhausted just from mentioning the name.

"For a long time?"

The D.I. shrugged. Now that he thought about it, it was a pretty long time indeed.

"He kidnapped me when I first met his junkie brother. Or perhaps a week later. I suppose he did the same with you - I mean, you actually moved in with him. He must've thought he was getting a brother-in-law or something!" he said, not repressing his laughter.

"Actually, I think he did," John dead-panned. Greg stopped laughing at once.

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Asked me what my intentions were. And if by any chance I wouldn't be interested in spying on Sherlock for him."

"Exactly."

"What did you tell him?"

"Piss off," Greg said with an amused smile, trying not to show how much he regretted his harshness now. He owed so much to Mycroft these days, after all.

"That's something the Holmes must be used to hearing," John commented, shaking his head. Greg felt a bit ill at ease. John was talking about the brothers as if both were still alive.

"Speaking of Mycroft," he began tentatively, "if anyone knows something about Sherlock's motives, I thought it'd be you. But since you don't... He'd know, wouldn't he?" He just couldn't muster the courage to tell John himself. He couldn't. How could anyone tell a broken man that his best friend had given his life to save his? Mycroft Holmes could. Probably. Greg just couldn't.

John's face fell and the D.I. was astonished to see the fury light up in his eyes.

"I am absolutely not asking him anything. If I ever see him again, I think I'll kill him. I almost did."

Greg gaped. Kill him? Was it that bad? He really wanted to ask John about it, but dared not. What they had now was too fragile for that. Some day, maybe. Now he treasured their renewed bond too much to put it in jeopardy in any way.

"That was intended for the friend, too," John added with a smile.

Lestrade smirked back and held up his glass. "Of course. Cheers!"

From then onwards, they met regularly at what really became "their" pub. Every time John asked more and more about Sherlock. The poor man was obviously obsessed. Greg couldn't blame him. He answered his questions when he could, told him about Sherlock's past cases. It was painful to see how John drank his words, appeared to physically need to hear always more about Sherlock. He was going on a quest, trying to retrace the consulting detective's steps in London, as if following his trail... Greg sincerely wanted to help, but he was terrified of what would happen when John would realize this would never lead him to Sherlock. The trail led nowhere. Nowhere but to the abhorred gravestone.

Greg always encouraged John to see Mycroft, tempting him with much more knowledge about Sherlock. It had become a routine. At some point in the conversation, the D.I. would invariably drop in Mycroft's name, and before he could suggest anything, John would cut in:

"I'll never forgive him."

Greg still never dared ask him what exactly he wouldn't forgive, and always replied casually something like: "You should, though. He couldn't have done anything for Sherlock, you know. Or he would have done it. I'm sure he did his best. Come on, John, you know Sherlock was the one and only person he ever cared about. He bloody kidnapped us just because we'd spoken to him more often than average!" Since this only ever elicited a frown or a grimace from John, Greg always tried to defend the elder Holmes's case by talking about his own situation: "He helped me a lot you know. When I moved away from London, my financial and... moral state was very bad, and..." But nowadays John got tired of being reminded of the same thing each and every time, and interrupted again, curtly, but not harshly: "Good for you. But I still hate him."

Sometimes they talked about women, too. Lestrade didn't enjoy the topic much, but it was the only one he could find to try and distract John a bit from Sherlock, which was by far the topic that interested the doctor the most. No, Greg amended, it was the only topic he gave a damn about, really. Still, Greg always tried to drop in a hint about finding a new partner, hoping John wouldn't return the advice.

"Listen, John, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I really think you should start seeing someone again."

John sighed. "This again? Come on, Greg..."

"You're obsessed."

"Yes, I am."

"But... Don't you think you ought to try at least?"

"I have," John replied bluntly. "Don't want to renew the experience, though."

"Why?"

John must have drunk quite a lot that day, for he admitted shamelessly: "All I can think about is him. Even when I'm in bed with a lovely woman. I can't think of anything else but him."

Greg had panicked the first time John had admitted to his feelings for Sherlock so openly, fearing he would start to cry and the situation would become out of control. But John hadn't cried. He'd kept a sad smile on his face for the rest of the evening, and Greg hadn't dared mention girlfriends again.

Time passed. Weeks, months. John continued to explore everything he learned from Greg about Sherlock. Last time he'd spoken to Mrs. Hudson, he'd found out John had gone to the bakery he'd once mentioned as part of a case Sherlock had solved. Greg stopped worrying too much, because John seemed to be getting better. The D.I. never gave up on mentioning Mycroft or a potential girlfriend - one time, he even learned John had actually tried spending the night with a man. He'd laughed his head off at the recounting. He'd laughed even more his head off when John got married and said man was at his wedding party!

Because John did get married, eventually. Greg was dumbfounded when he'd heard the news. The idiot had met a woman in a gay bar that Greg had told him about, and where Sherlock had gone years ago to catch a murderer. He thought the whole thing pretty insane, but then again John wasn't the most sane man he knew, especially since Sherlock was no longer around. And Mary Morstan was a charming woman. Greg had to admit that it reassured him greatly to know that John was no longer alone. He deserved to find happiness.

It's all love, all love, oh
It's all love, all love, oh
It's all love, all love, oh

After John got married, they saw less of each other. Greg regretted their evenings at the pub again, but he was content with knowing John was at home with his wife, in the flat he had shared with Sherlock. He new this must not have been easy for either of the spouses. But it was the happiest ending he could've thought of for John. As long as they were happy together, it didn't matter how twisted their relationship was. Greg certainly wouldn't be the one to judge them.

The D.I. called John now and then to hear his voice and make sure he was all right. Everything was going well when one day John reported that he a Mary had found poisoned apples in a basket in front of their door. Lestrade received the news like a punch in the face. The 'Snow White' case hadn't been solved, but there hadn't been any victims in months now. This was a terrible turn of events: was it some kind of prank? Or had John's wife really been targeted? Either way, it preoccupied the D.I. to no end.

"Did you find anything at all?" John asked him once they were having a beer at the pub. Greg sighed.

"There must be a connection between the victims but we can't find it," he admitted grimly. The police actually considered there would be no more murders, which made it all the more difficult to investigate anything. "Surely there must be a connection," he said, frustrated with their incompetence. With his incompetence and inability to deal with something as crucial as this. It was his job's, for God's sake! Couldn't he do even that properly, when it was so important to John?

"Wrong."

"What?" Greg asked with bewilderment.

"Maybe there isn't."

"Maybe there isn't what?"

"A connection."

Greg blinked.

"Then why?"

"Maybe this is a game."

"John..." Greg began, not sure how to continue. He was filled with pity and concern, and tried not to make it evident to John; he knew the doctor would not appreciate it. "Sherlock is gone," he said as gently as he could.

He knew what John had in mind. Of course he'd thought about it too. This was oddly reminiscent of Moriarty's "games" with Sherlock. But Moriarty was dead. And Sherlock was no longer there to be played with.

Greg flinched. It would never stop to hurt, he thought. Some days the memory of Sherlock's death was unbearable, so crushing the D.I. had no idea how he had managed to muddle on all this time since the genius consulting detective had died. Every time he hit a wall, he always thought of Sherlock, of how he would have mocked him, how he would have explained everything as if it were obvious, insufferable and dazzling. Sometimes when he woke up he couldn't believe he had lost him forever.

There was nothing to be done. He had failed for Sherlock - oh, so pathetically failed. There was no going back. Not for him

But for John? For John, Lestrade was ready to do everything; everything Sherlock would have done.

Ha! Because you think Sherlock would've given John his blessing to get married and have a family? You think he would've been his best man and the godfather of his child and been happy to see his only friend part from him and settle down?

No. No, of course. Sherlock would have been his childish self. He would have been temperamental and possessive and jealous and... Well. No use thinking how Sherlock would have been. And who was Greg to assume he could imagine what would have gone through the genius's head? No, he couldn't; he never had.

But there was one thing, one thing Lestrade was absolutely certain of: Sherlock wanted John to live. And so all Greg could do was make sure John would, indeed, live; to the fullest, and along those he had decided to live. Lestrade would ensure it: he would protect John's life with all he had. John had to live.

After all, it was what Sherlock had died for.

It's all love

My stupid love

.

.

.

tbc

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