Nebulous Guilt (Gen) (PG)
Title: Nebulous Guilt
Author: Jenny Starseed
Rating: PG
Character(s): Sally, Lestrade
Summary: Sally did her job and she doesn’t regret a thing she did. That’s small comfort for the unexplained guilt she has. (Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall)
Warnings: Talk about Suicide
Word Count: 1934
Author's Notes: Written for a BBC Kink meme prompt. Unbeta-ed and none of the characters belong to me.
Numb disbelief is what Sally felt when Lestrade broke the news to the Yard that Sherlock Holmes was found dead outside of St. Barthes. Apparent suicide, he just leapt off the roof of the building. He had spoken the words as if it were someone else other than Sherlock Holmes who killed himself this afternoon. Lestrade was adamant about investigating the death, to make sure there was no foul play. Or to double check that this was not some sort of hoax. One never knows with Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade was business as usual; declaring that grief counsellors were on the premise if anyone needed to talk and no one would bat an eye if anyone took the rest of the day off. Despite the general animosity Sherlock inspired in a lot of the police, detectives and the forensics team, Sherlock was a regular fixture in their office and it was shocking for everyone. There were a few gasps of “Oh my God” and one murmured “may the bastard rest in peace.”
She glanced over at Anderson, whose mouth was set in a grim line. He would later tell her, “I have nothing to feel guilty over. I did what I thought was best. It’s really not my fault what happened to that bastard.”
Sally envied and despised Anderson’s cut and dry attitude. “And that makes you sleep better, doesn’t it?”
Anderson shrugged over his beer. “Makes no difference in the end, all that matters whether or not you can live with yourself. I went over what happened many times, there is honestly not one thing I would change. I would do it all over again. The man was a lunatic and absolutely irresponsible, playing with people’s lives like that for a bit of thrill. There is really no good way to feel about this Sally. I may not have liked the bastard, but he was unofficially part of our team whether I liked it or not.”
Sally couldn’t argue with that. She often wished that she could be so detached and rational about it. But Sally went into the police force to help people, and she felt that on some level, she failed to help Sherlock. Not that he needed her help, but this nebulous guilt was still there. It was ill-defined, hovering over her waking thoughts. There was technically nothing she could have done, but she didn’t like the idea that she played a part in Sherlock’s decision to kill himself. The what-ifs were ridiculous, she did her duty. But she hated the idea that she somehow pushed Sherlock into killing himself by doing her duty. It was an idea that wouldn’t leave her.
She sat alone in the bar. Anderson had long left, leaving money on the table for the bartender. She was still nursing her drink. It was particularly strong vodka and cranberry that she sipped slowly. She spotted Lestrade at a booth, nursing a pint. She didn’t know whether to approach him or not.
It was a week since he had broken the news to them and the funeral was just yesterday. Sally didn’t attend; it would have been very awkward. It was well known in the Yard that it was Sally and Anderson that brought Sherlock’s fraud to Lestrade’s attention. She really didn’t want to see the fallout of that. Not to mention, she couldn’t face Sherlock’s family. She didn’t know what sort of family he had. Sherlock seemed like the kind of mysterious man who appeared out of nowhere, she couldn’t imagine him having brothers, sisters or parents. She was afraid of any weary and accusing looks John would have thrown at her. Anyways, it was best that she didn’t attend. But she was fairly sure Lestrade did. Suddenly, the very image of Lestrade in a lonely corner of the bar was a bit too much to bear, she gathered her courage and her warm reassuring smiles that she gave to victims at crime scenes and approached him.
“Fancy seeing you here, sir,” she greeted warmly.
“Not fancy at all, Sally,” said Lestrade. “This is one of the favourite bars of the Met. I’ve seen a lot of colleagues drink their sorrows here, it was about time that I became one of those poor sods.”
There was quiet silence between them that hung in the air for a few uncomfortable moments.
“Any regrets?” Sally blurted.
She didn’t know why she asked that. It just hung in the air. Maybe she needed someone to answer, to reassure her that she wasn’t a complete bastard about Sherlock Holmes. Or just to tease out the odd feelings she was having. Or she was being selfish and insensitive, because Lestrade obviously had a closer connection, or even affection for Sherlock that she never did.
Lestrade laughed humourlessly. “Regrets? Do you honestly think that anything you or I could say or do that would prevent Sherlock Holmes from doing exactly what he wanted? I knew the man for four years and I always felt like I hardly knew him. Not even I could have predicted this.”
“But you were the closest to him at the Met.”
Lestrade smiled grimly. “That means very little in the world of Sherlock Holmes, the man is a force onto his own. Nothing would have talked him out of topping himself. Not even John suspected he would do such a thing. Not even when he saw him up there...”
Dear god. Did....?
“Did John see...?”
“He was one of the first on the scene, had to be treated for shock. I took down the statement myself. He was there alright. Saw the whole thing, heard his friend’s last words on a mobile phone.”
She could not imagine what that conversation would sound like. It would have been so much easier to vilify him if he killed himself with no witnesses, a gunshot or a bottle of pills in the middle of the night. But he did it so publically, with his friend hearing his last words, going over the top of a building. Sally had dealt with many suicides; the falls and jumps were always the hardest. She couldn’t explain why, but they always had an extra dose of despair to them. She had witnessed enough attempted suicides off buildings to know how frantic they were, the fear and despair of the one jumping, their face either a mask of stoic determination or filled barely contained quivering emotion.
To think John was a witness to that was unthinkable. She couldn’t imagine Sherlock being distraught, but he must have been. She hated that he was, that Sherlock felt the sort of intense despair that would drive someone to such a horrific end. She had seen the grief etched on John’s face, a sociopath would not inspire that sort of loyalty and grief from a man of gentle integrity like John Watson. No, she misjudged Sherlock in that regard, which made her feel even worse. She should have never been so quick to judge Sherlock. It made her think herself as an incredibly crude and unfeeling person.
“Are you alright, Sally?”
Sally found that her face was wet, she didn’t even know she was crying. Sally felt overtaken with feelings of horror and grief for a man she barely knew and hardly liked.
“I’m just being silly,” she said with a tearful smile. “Who would have thought I’d shed tears for the freak?”
Lestrade smiled with what looked like a hint of affectionate pride. “Nah, that’s just my Sally Donovan. You wouldn’t be you if it didn’t bother you.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
Lestrade handed Sally a napkin to dry her eyes. “I get why you hated Sherlock. You’re one of the most compassionate people I know at the Met, his flouncing and gleeful deductions at crime scenes went against your nature. It rankled your core belief that human life has value, that a loss of life should never be someone else’s amusement. So I’m not surprised that you’d feel awful for Sherlock Holmes, that you’d somehow feel responsible. It’s a heavy burden to carry to think that you could have been the reason that Sherlock killed himself. I’m not exactly sleeping easy either.”
She sniffled against her tissue, vaguely embarrassed at how choked up she sounded. “What was Sherlock like?”
Lestrade’s expression of bemused confusion told her exactly what he thought of the question.
Sally laughed. “No, really. What was he like? I felt like I hardly knew him since I have no clue as to how that man inspired such devotion from you and John.”
Lestrade considered the question, as if he didn’t know if his words could do justice in describing that special quality Sherlock had that inspired that sort of frustrated loyalty.
“He was a cheeky bastard,” he began simply. “Sometimes he would be taking the mickey out of you in his own very posh erudite way and you would think he was completely serious if he the corner of his mouth didn’t quirk upwards in that infuriating way.”
Sally watched Lestrade laugh at a private memory. He took a long sip of his beer, staring ahead thoughtfully, gathering up his words.
He smiled sadly. “It took me two years to figure out that he respected me and trusted me, the man kept himself apart from everyone else. In a daft way, it made me a bit protective of him. I can’t imagine how lonely it must be to be him, to not confide in anybody with even the smallest thing normal people would take for granted. The man could deduce everything about you in five minutes but he felt he had to keep himself a complete mystery to everyone else. It must not have been easy.”
“I wish I knew him like that,” she said quietly.
Lestrade laughed quietly. “Oh no, it takes a special kind of madness to be one of Sherlock’s people. You’re better off that he hated you or dismissed you. The endless texts, the surprise visits in the middle of the night, being called in all odd hours to come here or there to investigate something. It was exhausting to be a friend of his. Just ask John or Mrs. Hudson. They have loads of horror stories. Trust me Sally, you wouldn’t survive Sherlock’s unique brand of affection.”
She smiled. “I’ll take your word for it, sir. I propose a toast to Sherlock Holmes.”
Lestrade held out his glass. “To Sherlock Holmes, may he rest in peace. If he’s not already deducing God’s shoes right now.”
Lestrade took a long drink, finishing his beer. He pulled out his wallet and put some money down, paying for his and Sally’s drink. Sally protested but Lestrade would have none of it.
He got up, feeling a bit tipsy. “Stupid bastard, I miss him already.”
He patted Sally on the shoulder before he left. “Take care of yourself Sally. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Goodnight sir.”
Sally nursed her drink for another ten minutes before walking out into the warm London night. It would have been a perfect London night for Sherlock to be running around in, with his coat flapping and his faithful friend behind him. There was no point in calling a cab, she lived close enough. The walk gave her a bit of time to think. There was a bit of peace in knowing that whatever happened with Sherlock was completely out of the realm of her control. It won’t make her days feel any lighter, but the burden of guilt lifted enough to let her sleep a bit more comfortably tonight.
Author: Jenny Starseed
Rating: PG
Character(s): Sally, Lestrade
Summary: Sally did her job and she doesn’t regret a thing she did. That’s small comfort for the unexplained guilt she has. (Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall)
Warnings: Talk about Suicide
Word Count: 1934
Author's Notes: Written for a BBC Kink meme prompt. Unbeta-ed and none of the characters belong to me.
Numb disbelief is what Sally felt when Lestrade broke the news to the Yard that Sherlock Holmes was found dead outside of St. Barthes. Apparent suicide, he just leapt off the roof of the building. He had spoken the words as if it were someone else other than Sherlock Holmes who killed himself this afternoon. Lestrade was adamant about investigating the death, to make sure there was no foul play. Or to double check that this was not some sort of hoax. One never knows with Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade was business as usual; declaring that grief counsellors were on the premise if anyone needed to talk and no one would bat an eye if anyone took the rest of the day off. Despite the general animosity Sherlock inspired in a lot of the police, detectives and the forensics team, Sherlock was a regular fixture in their office and it was shocking for everyone. There were a few gasps of “Oh my God” and one murmured “may the bastard rest in peace.”
She glanced over at Anderson, whose mouth was set in a grim line. He would later tell her, “I have nothing to feel guilty over. I did what I thought was best. It’s really not my fault what happened to that bastard.”
Sally envied and despised Anderson’s cut and dry attitude. “And that makes you sleep better, doesn’t it?”
Anderson shrugged over his beer. “Makes no difference in the end, all that matters whether or not you can live with yourself. I went over what happened many times, there is honestly not one thing I would change. I would do it all over again. The man was a lunatic and absolutely irresponsible, playing with people’s lives like that for a bit of thrill. There is really no good way to feel about this Sally. I may not have liked the bastard, but he was unofficially part of our team whether I liked it or not.”
Sally couldn’t argue with that. She often wished that she could be so detached and rational about it. But Sally went into the police force to help people, and she felt that on some level, she failed to help Sherlock. Not that he needed her help, but this nebulous guilt was still there. It was ill-defined, hovering over her waking thoughts. There was technically nothing she could have done, but she didn’t like the idea that she played a part in Sherlock’s decision to kill himself. The what-ifs were ridiculous, she did her duty. But she hated the idea that she somehow pushed Sherlock into killing himself by doing her duty. It was an idea that wouldn’t leave her.
She sat alone in the bar. Anderson had long left, leaving money on the table for the bartender. She was still nursing her drink. It was particularly strong vodka and cranberry that she sipped slowly. She spotted Lestrade at a booth, nursing a pint. She didn’t know whether to approach him or not.
It was a week since he had broken the news to them and the funeral was just yesterday. Sally didn’t attend; it would have been very awkward. It was well known in the Yard that it was Sally and Anderson that brought Sherlock’s fraud to Lestrade’s attention. She really didn’t want to see the fallout of that. Not to mention, she couldn’t face Sherlock’s family. She didn’t know what sort of family he had. Sherlock seemed like the kind of mysterious man who appeared out of nowhere, she couldn’t imagine him having brothers, sisters or parents. She was afraid of any weary and accusing looks John would have thrown at her. Anyways, it was best that she didn’t attend. But she was fairly sure Lestrade did. Suddenly, the very image of Lestrade in a lonely corner of the bar was a bit too much to bear, she gathered her courage and her warm reassuring smiles that she gave to victims at crime scenes and approached him.
“Fancy seeing you here, sir,” she greeted warmly.
“Not fancy at all, Sally,” said Lestrade. “This is one of the favourite bars of the Met. I’ve seen a lot of colleagues drink their sorrows here, it was about time that I became one of those poor sods.”
There was quiet silence between them that hung in the air for a few uncomfortable moments.
“Any regrets?” Sally blurted.
She didn’t know why she asked that. It just hung in the air. Maybe she needed someone to answer, to reassure her that she wasn’t a complete bastard about Sherlock Holmes. Or just to tease out the odd feelings she was having. Or she was being selfish and insensitive, because Lestrade obviously had a closer connection, or even affection for Sherlock that she never did.
Lestrade laughed humourlessly. “Regrets? Do you honestly think that anything you or I could say or do that would prevent Sherlock Holmes from doing exactly what he wanted? I knew the man for four years and I always felt like I hardly knew him. Not even I could have predicted this.”
“But you were the closest to him at the Met.”
Lestrade smiled grimly. “That means very little in the world of Sherlock Holmes, the man is a force onto his own. Nothing would have talked him out of topping himself. Not even John suspected he would do such a thing. Not even when he saw him up there...”
Dear god. Did....?
“Did John see...?”
“He was one of the first on the scene, had to be treated for shock. I took down the statement myself. He was there alright. Saw the whole thing, heard his friend’s last words on a mobile phone.”
She could not imagine what that conversation would sound like. It would have been so much easier to vilify him if he killed himself with no witnesses, a gunshot or a bottle of pills in the middle of the night. But he did it so publically, with his friend hearing his last words, going over the top of a building. Sally had dealt with many suicides; the falls and jumps were always the hardest. She couldn’t explain why, but they always had an extra dose of despair to them. She had witnessed enough attempted suicides off buildings to know how frantic they were, the fear and despair of the one jumping, their face either a mask of stoic determination or filled barely contained quivering emotion.
To think John was a witness to that was unthinkable. She couldn’t imagine Sherlock being distraught, but he must have been. She hated that he was, that Sherlock felt the sort of intense despair that would drive someone to such a horrific end. She had seen the grief etched on John’s face, a sociopath would not inspire that sort of loyalty and grief from a man of gentle integrity like John Watson. No, she misjudged Sherlock in that regard, which made her feel even worse. She should have never been so quick to judge Sherlock. It made her think herself as an incredibly crude and unfeeling person.
“Are you alright, Sally?”
Sally found that her face was wet, she didn’t even know she was crying. Sally felt overtaken with feelings of horror and grief for a man she barely knew and hardly liked.
“I’m just being silly,” she said with a tearful smile. “Who would have thought I’d shed tears for the freak?”
Lestrade smiled with what looked like a hint of affectionate pride. “Nah, that’s just my Sally Donovan. You wouldn’t be you if it didn’t bother you.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
Lestrade handed Sally a napkin to dry her eyes. “I get why you hated Sherlock. You’re one of the most compassionate people I know at the Met, his flouncing and gleeful deductions at crime scenes went against your nature. It rankled your core belief that human life has value, that a loss of life should never be someone else’s amusement. So I’m not surprised that you’d feel awful for Sherlock Holmes, that you’d somehow feel responsible. It’s a heavy burden to carry to think that you could have been the reason that Sherlock killed himself. I’m not exactly sleeping easy either.”
She sniffled against her tissue, vaguely embarrassed at how choked up she sounded. “What was Sherlock like?”
Lestrade’s expression of bemused confusion told her exactly what he thought of the question.
Sally laughed. “No, really. What was he like? I felt like I hardly knew him since I have no clue as to how that man inspired such devotion from you and John.”
Lestrade considered the question, as if he didn’t know if his words could do justice in describing that special quality Sherlock had that inspired that sort of frustrated loyalty.
“He was a cheeky bastard,” he began simply. “Sometimes he would be taking the mickey out of you in his own very posh erudite way and you would think he was completely serious if he the corner of his mouth didn’t quirk upwards in that infuriating way.”
Sally watched Lestrade laugh at a private memory. He took a long sip of his beer, staring ahead thoughtfully, gathering up his words.
He smiled sadly. “It took me two years to figure out that he respected me and trusted me, the man kept himself apart from everyone else. In a daft way, it made me a bit protective of him. I can’t imagine how lonely it must be to be him, to not confide in anybody with even the smallest thing normal people would take for granted. The man could deduce everything about you in five minutes but he felt he had to keep himself a complete mystery to everyone else. It must not have been easy.”
“I wish I knew him like that,” she said quietly.
Lestrade laughed quietly. “Oh no, it takes a special kind of madness to be one of Sherlock’s people. You’re better off that he hated you or dismissed you. The endless texts, the surprise visits in the middle of the night, being called in all odd hours to come here or there to investigate something. It was exhausting to be a friend of his. Just ask John or Mrs. Hudson. They have loads of horror stories. Trust me Sally, you wouldn’t survive Sherlock’s unique brand of affection.”
She smiled. “I’ll take your word for it, sir. I propose a toast to Sherlock Holmes.”
Lestrade held out his glass. “To Sherlock Holmes, may he rest in peace. If he’s not already deducing God’s shoes right now.”
Lestrade took a long drink, finishing his beer. He pulled out his wallet and put some money down, paying for his and Sally’s drink. Sally protested but Lestrade would have none of it.
He got up, feeling a bit tipsy. “Stupid bastard, I miss him already.”
He patted Sally on the shoulder before he left. “Take care of yourself Sally. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Goodnight sir.”
Sally nursed her drink for another ten minutes before walking out into the warm London night. It would have been a perfect London night for Sherlock to be running around in, with his coat flapping and his faithful friend behind him. There was no point in calling a cab, she lived close enough. The walk gave her a bit of time to think. There was a bit of peace in knowing that whatever happened with Sherlock was completely out of the realm of her control. It won’t make her days feel any lighter, but the burden of guilt lifted enough to let her sleep a bit more comfortably tonight.