Fic: Request (oneshot)
Title: Request (Part 3 of Series- Reichenbach to Return)
Author: missilemuse.
Part: 1/1
Wordcount: 1750
Rating: PG
Warnings: major character death.
Spoilers: for season 2
Disclaimer: Sherlock and John belong to ACD's grey cells, and each other in that order... Although the B.B.C. version receives full credit for inspiring me to put a pen to paper.
Summary: From the man who had only given orders...
Author's notes: This is me, finally giving up and getting on the band-wagon; writing a post-Reichenbach Series. Sherlock made me cry and John wouldn't let me stop. This is the result. Each story complete in itself.
Series Master-post here
It was a media circus.
The article had been published the same morning, and with Sherlock’s suicide, the vultures were out in full force. They had circled John like a carcass; the carcass, Sherlock Holmes had left behind.
Lestrade got them through it one step at a time, watching his own actions dispassionately from a distance, waiting for a breakdown that wouldn’t come; that the voice in his head kept safely away…
He stayed at John’s side, more for the sake of the people around them, than John himself.
He had been there, when they were leaving Bart’s morgue, threading through the frenzy of snapping cameras and hurled questions. He had been there when someone in the throng had yelled, “Was your relationship with Mr. Holmes purely platonic, Dr. Watson?” Lestrade had channelled all the rage he had felt into hanging on to John with all his strength (his inner voice screaming STOP HIM!), before he could fling himself on the offensive berk. The man hadn’t known what a lucky escape he had had.
John hadn’t said a word since the official identification of…of the body. Neither had he shed a tear since his breakdown outside the mortuary. He held himself erect, as he sat beside Lestrade in his car, the movement of the car not jostling him in the slightest, staring straight ahead, into nothingness…
Looking at him, Lestrade made a decision. He drove the car directly to his apartment. He had been alone there, since the separation and his wife moving to Dorset with the kids. John was in no shape to return to 221B. If he had sensed the change in the direction of the car, John didn’t comment.
But when he had finally parked the car, he saw John hesitate before getting out. His voice was desolate, “It’s really generous of you, but how long, Greg?”
“As long as is necessary,” Lestrade answered firmly. He meant it.
He directed John to the spare-room, and then left him alone to talk to Mrs. Hudson. This was not a conversation, he wished to intrude upon. He went to his room and sorted out some spare clothes for John. Going to Baker Street now was out of the question, if the number of reporters camped outside Bart’s, were any indication.
He had tried to reach Mycroft Holmes, but had been politely informed by his office that he was unreachable at the moment. Maybe he was grieving too, in his own fashion.
He changed and put the kettle on. He had called Dimmock to cover Sherlock’s suicide, before he would be too tempted and someone could order him off it. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Whatever the Met had owed; they had owed it to the living, breathing Sherlock Holmes. A body on the slab didn’t give a damn, about what would happen…
Steady! He still needs you…
With his hands full, he knocked on the door to John’s room with his foot, and entered. John was sitting exactly where he had left him, staring at his phone in his limp hands.
There was nothing Lestrade could do or say, to make it better. So he didn’t bother. He thrust the mug into John’s fingers.
“Thanks,” he murmured in a dull voice, raising the cup mechanically to his lips. “Greg, what I said before, I shouldn’t have unloaded everything on you like that.”
Lestrade knows what John is implying. They are not best mates. They don’t know anything about each other, apart from the cases, and the deductions publicly thrown out by Sherlock. So John had no right to impose on his kindness. A soldier like John must have hated displaying any kind of weakness; especially to a man who didn’t seem as affected.
Patience…
He wondered if John had friends, apart from Sherlock. Knowing Sherlock Holmes, he seriously doubted that.
“I’ll be out of your hair soon; as soon as I find a new place…should not take more than a few days.”
John would probably find more than a good place, if he enlisted the Big Brother’s help. But remembering what John had said before, mentioning Mycroft Holmes right now was probably a terrible idea.
John passed him the empty mug, and tried giving a weak smile. He failed miserably. “I think, I should rest now.” Not too difficult to decode that John wanted to be alone.
Lestrade simply nodded and got up to leave. “Greg,” John called, before he could leave the room. He took a deep breath, before he continued, “Don’t include Sherlock’s confession to me, in your official report. Please… He wasn’t a fake and you know it. He…he was under a lot of stress and… just don’t include it, for me…please.”
There would be an in-depth investigation into Sherlock’s death. Lestrade knew that most bets at the NSY would hedge on it being a murder-suicide. There will be a long line of people with shovels, waiting to bury Sherlock’s reputation. John didn’t want to add his handful of dirt.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, John. I think you should get some rest now.” He heard the sigh of relief, before the door closed behind him completely.
Later, Lestrade sat alone in the living-room and waited for the whole day to really hit him. He knew he was facing a breakdown too. It was only a matter of when. His phone rang. It was Sally.
“Yes Donovan.”
“Our team’s been suspended, Sir; pending complete internal investigation.”
Lestrade had expected it. But at the moment, he couldn’t summon the indignation at the injustice of it all. He simply felt overwhelmingly tired. “Fine, is that all?”
She hesitated. He found the pause, oddly satisfying. But all she managed was, “Yes, Sir.”
There was a distinct knock on the front door. For a moment, Lestrade felt he had imagined it, but then it was repeated. He answered, to find an envelope lying in front of his door. The solitary envelope lying on the floor brought back memories of a strong-box in a bombed out apartment. But as he knelt down to study the words written neatly on it, he got the shock of his life.
POSTHUMOUS INSTRUCTIONS
(DON’T BOTHER DUSTING THIS FOR FINGERPRINTS, YOU WILL ONLY FIND MINE.)
SH
Lestrade realized, he had stopped breathing, when his brain screamed for oxygen, and he found himself gasping for air.
His first instinct was to call John, but he found that he couldn’t. This was Sherlock’s last message; his note to Lestrade. He selfishly found himself wanting to read it alone, the first time. Yet, he just kept staring at the envelope for ten minutes, before he finally gathered the courage to open it.
Lestrade,
(I suspect it took you exactly ten minutes to open this.)
Lestrade couldn’t help it. He burst into hysterical giggles, with his fist stuffed into his mouth to muffle the noise. Bloody know-it-all!
If you are reading this email, it follows that I’m dead, probably by my own hand, and this letter was delivered to you by one of my homeless network. Needless to say, I anticipated it, and there are certain things you must do, in the wake of my suicide.
I won’t bother attempting to convince you that I was a fraud. John doesn’t believe it, and you have had five years on him. I find myself wishing that your intellect was genuinely as low as I had frequently implied. Things would have been much easier.
However, and this is important; you cannot be seen to defend me publicly, Lestrade. You will toe the official line in the investigation that will follow my death, without a fuss. This is where your pig-headedness over the years, to support my deductions with hard evidence, will finally pay off. Unfortunately, I won’t be around for the ‘I told you so’. The investigation is an exercise in futility, as the facts and the evidence will speak for themselves. You are one of the few one-eyed men at the NSY; I expect you to keep your job for a long time to come.
In any case, I’m dead. So it’s immaterial to me, if my name is cleared in the future. Also, I will not have died without taking Moriarty with me, so that’s that.
I do not blame anyone at the Met. I know that you must be beating yourself up, as you are a martyr by nature. But after working with me, if your team has finally learned to keep an open mind, and consider every possibility; I can hardly fault them for that, can I?
That said; their customary stupidity, and admirable consistency of always coming to the wrong conclusion, is a time-honoured tradition. This is just one more instance.
You were only instrumental. The world at large already had enough reasons to crucify me.
At this juncture, John would murder Mycroft, if he were to come in his presence. And though the idea is tempting, I have no desire to have my dear brother follow me to hell. So, you will simply happen across a new, ridiculously affordable place for John in the next couple of days. Act surprised.
That was everything of importance.
I have never understood sentiment, but it is expected of me to express some at the end of such a missive.
All I can say is that you are one of the few people, I have respected and admired (if not for your plodding intellect) for your tenacity, sense of justice and patience. And I have come to think of you as more than a colleague. You were a friend; a good friend, who never gave up on me.
I wish, things could have ended differently.
Goodbye.
SH.
P.S. Please look after John, for me.
The silence in the room beat against his eardrums, as if he had heard Sherlock say the words as opposed to simply reading them. ‘A good friend’…this from the man who hadn’t even known his first name until a few months back; whose most personal words to Lestrade had been, ‘You’re an idiot’.
But it was the last line that did it; the only plea he had ever heard, from the man who had never asked for help. More than anything else, it was those words that made him feel oddly humbled and proud at the same time; the feeling of being entrusted with something infinitely precious.
Of course, I will; he silently offered, as the tears finally came…
THE END...