Sherlock (BBC) Fanfiction: #believeinsherlock [1/4]
#believeinsherlock
Summary: (Follows The Reichenbach Fall.) John fights the media and police for Sherlock’s sake. Ensemble-cast. GEN. One shot.
A/N: Obviously Season 2 spoilers everywhere. As well as the ANGST. I tried my best to write something that could slip into BBC canon without too much difficulty.
Also, I’m making the assumption that Moriarty’s body and his blood are not found afterwards - either Moriarty survived the shot or one of his henchmen were ordered to quickly clean up his dead body, I’ll let you choose - so it looks like a clean suicide from shame, rather than a suicide-homicide to avoid the law.
Crossposted at Ao3.
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John gets the first email within two hours of his last journal post, but that is the only notification in his inbox. It has been nearly two days since he has posted it. He is not surprised at the lack of comment traffic or his near empty inbox because, really, what is there to say? Meaningless platitudes, pixelated text on a screen, cold and distant, something Sherlock would laugh at, question over its worth in a social context. Anyway, John has said everything he wants to say on the matter, He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him, and it was hard enough to type those words out, twenty blank minutes with a shaking tremor in his hand and a ringing in his ears and he just can’t breathe.
As a doctor and a soldier, John has seen death, but none quite so heart-stopping as Sherlock’s; white alabaster skin, porcelain like a doll’s face, glassy unseeing eyes and a chest unnaturally still, a non-existent pulse beneath his fingertips and so much blood, watery arterial red against the sidewalk, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to walk near Bart’s ever again. The flat is too quiet, only the faintest whir of his laptop discernable to his ears, the drip of a leaking tap, and somehow that fills him with an echoed sensation of claustrophobia. Everything is too small to hold in what left of Sherlock, his spirit and presence a forbidding force that could only be contained by that lanky stretch of a human being; just a broken corpse, now.
He has to plan a eulogy, but John has no words, scrabbling at the air for purchase but finding none, slipping and falling, and it just hurts, in a hollow way that aches like a slow burning fire. Eleven words and he presses post, the best he can manage for now, and he has to leave the flat, too full of memories. Except outside, fresh air tainted with smog and warm car exhaust fumes, the streets of London crowded, cars racing and people chattering, bustling along, cheerful, and everything is the same and entirely different than it was a few hours ago. A fractured lens has fixed itself over John’s eyes and the world is washed out in shades of grey.
The headlines have come off the print, stark black and red ink against white and John’s knees buckle underneath him, but he does not fall. He runs, instead, as fast as he can but not as fast as he ran when he was with Sherlock. Papers seem to line the corners, televisions blaring reports of the suicide and the groundbreaking revelation. Reports churn out a tale of a victim and a madman, but they don’t know how wrong they are, positions switched in this game of chess, trail of breadcrumbs and a worthless paper trail to lead them all astray.
Once, twice, all the times John thought he was going to die, he thought, dear God, let me live, but when Sherlock, Sherlock, was standing at the precipice of a building’s edge, the building they met and the place they would last see each other, talk to each other, in person and then over the phone. Their eyes met, not quite able to make out anything but edges, except that was enough for John to see Sherlock take that last step. John has nearly died several times, but with Sherlock falling, John could only think, Sherlock, don’t die, not quite praying unless Sherlock counted, and perhaps he did, if only to John. Only to John. In the end, it might well have not counted at all.
FRAUD, a headline declares, aggressive all-caps, a picture of Sherlock hiding underneath a deerstalker, annoyed expression captured perfectly, cold eyes just hidden from sight in the shadow of the cap. He feels almost as though he’s being watched by them, an eerie feeling that sets the hairs on the back of his neck on end. It is almost as if Sherlock is following him, body barely cold on the slab and already following him like some haunting spectre, worse than a ghost or a ghoul because all of the headlines taunt John-a sham, a con, the greatest detective of our age proven false. The taste of bile is at the back of his throat, and John wants to find these people and scream at them, scream how wrong they are.
Like vultures, vicious and heartless, the media swarm to cover the suicide, ripping feathers from the wings of an angel in an ever growing attempt to smear his name, bring him down to the broken pillars of man and laugh over the fact that a man so odd, so abnormal, could ever possibly be better, be so much more than brilliant, overcome the limitations of the word genius and bypass that entirely. They think they have found the truth but they only perpetrate the lie, the falsehood they would all so readily swallow because the truth leaves them inadequate.
John goes home and comforts Mrs Hudson, feisty in her agony, turning from anger to melancholy so quickly it gives him flashbacks to some of Sherlock’s mood swings. John speaks where appropriate, ranting alongside her anger and quietly musing alongside her pain, the pot of tea never emptying, never running cold. However, the anger only can last so long because both of them have always been terrible at holding grudges at a man whose many flaws were so often outshined by his brilliance, by the glimpse of a heart beneath the indifferent veneer, and both of them seek rest, battle weary and shoulders heavy with loss.
He cannot find sleep though, and in an effort to distract his mind, John opens his laptop whilst in bed, not quite able to muster true curiosity at the new email notification. Far off, he can hear the faint sound of sobbing, Mrs Hudson most likely, and he tries his best to ignore it, allow her a moment of private mourning. It breaks his heart, and he needs a moment to find his breath again.
The email has the subject line, Sherlock didn’t lie to me. John has a moment where he thinks Mycroft, then Lestrade, but the email address is not one he recognises. He considers the sender being Moriarty, but with Sherlock dead that man has all he wants, and what is John worth without Sherlock? That question is uncomfortably close to the truth of the fear that John has sometimes entertained at his doorstep even when Sherlock was alive, so sure in the early days that he would one day be forgotten, an old toy in a skip forgotten in a rush of brighter and better things, and he had gotten complacent, considered that they might have a couple more years together after all, friends who didn’t make sense but worked.
Opening the email reveals a short narrative describing an old case of Sherlock’s, before John, before the cab driver and the bullet wound and the beginning of a new chapter. Even before he is finished, John knows why this case has never been mentioned to him before; it is boring, relatively simple, and nearly all of the deductions were performed over emails. No point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. It is almost anti-climatic, except he has used all his adrenalin many hours before, and he wonders, why am I reading this?
Sherlock had solved the crime, the jewels stolen by the cheating husband’s mistress, evidence recounted with his usual brand of cutting words, direct quotes harsh and not bothering to muffle his idea on the wife’s idiocy. The proof is undeniable, yet impossible, and a familiar type of unbelievable. The wife quotes parts of her return emails back, clearly not happy with his implications. John is beginning to think she is happy that his best friend is dead-it is not so hard to think that anymore, but the words are still near impossible to force past his throat, closed tight with denial, like the man would come in through that door any moment now, coat flapping and collar turned high-and he does not feel anything for this woman until the end of the email:
Sherlock Holmes solved this for me, without asking for payment or ever, to my knowledge, publishing the details of the case or our correspondence. I approached him for his help. He did not seem pleased to have solved it, merely annoyed that I had taken up his time. I do not see what he could possibly have to gain from organising my case, which leads me to believe he did not do so, despite what those journalists report. I have been brought up to respect the dearly departed, and nothing disgusts me more than this feeding frenzy on a man who has not yet been dead two days.
So, to the dear doctor he left behind, this may seem insubstantial, but you have my full support. If you are compiling a counter-argument to the media’s horrendous accusations, I would be more than willing to speak for you.
The words ‘counter-argument’ strikes a chord in John and for a moment a spark of life forces him to sit up in his bed, look closer at the screen, a team of cogs and gears twisting and turning in his mind. This is beyond tempting, the idea of waging war with society, with the media, with everyone who has ever dared utter a cruel word against Sherlock. All the more cowardly to speak against a man no longer here-dead, dead, dead-to twist their words against them, to build up a case and pledge his innocence. It is tempting, but it is madness, and not the insanity of an adrenalin fuelled chase, but the desperate pursuit of closure where there will be none.
Money, John thinks. Fame. This correspondence is nothing but a disgusting attempt to include themselves in the flurry of publicity and John grabs on tightly to the anger that flares, weakly but steadily, in the hollow under his sternum, holds it and thinks of nothing else. This is not the time to fight, anyway, a funeral on the horizon and he still needs to talk to the police, to Lestrade, leave a statement about Sherlock, about punching the chief superintendant, about running, about everything that night the world went to hell. Without replying to the email, John closes his laptop and turns out the lights. He lays on top of his sheets, palms flat down, limbs feeling heavy, everything feeling dark with the hint of a creeping chill in the air.
He misses the light.
-
A week has passed and the mud is soft underfoot, earth freshly turned and the tombstone gleaming with fresh rain. It is a black pillar commanding attention, encircled with wreaths and elaborate flower arrangements, a stray beaker filled with scented oil, and even a deerstalker. John is standing away from most of the crowd, far larger than he’d expected, most of whom still paying their respects, taking hats off to bow and say their goodbyes, their thanks, and some final murmurs of admiration.
Looking at them, if only so his eyes do not obsessively trace the fine lettering of Sherlock Holmes once again, John realises he does not know almost all the guests, and it’s a strange feeling, a punch in the gut with only half the force, both a sadness and a strangeness and a happiness that more than a handful of people cared for Sherlock, care for him even now; dozens upon dozens, ranging from those dressed in clean rags-the least paranoid of his old homeless network-to those dressed in the utmost finery, professors and others who had earned the hard-won respect of Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps extended family, John wouldn’t know, but none of them offer introductions and he isn’t inclined to approach them.
There are a few familiar faces. Mrs Hudson, obviously, came up with John and would not miss this even if her hip flared up again. Molly hovers in the background, dressed in black, skin too pale white to be healthy, eyes constantly wide as if she isn’t a mortician, as if this death is her first. Stamford is there, genial face unusually sombre, and John remembers that Mike knew Sherlock longer than John did; after all, he introduced the pair of them. No one from New Scotland Yard has appeared, not entirely surprising, but John did expect more from Lestrade, at the very least.
Mycroft stands with his umbrella open above his head, directly across from John, the coffin equidistant between them, and they make the briefest of eye contacts, broken quickly by Mycroft’s polite nod. He looks sombre, dressed in clothes finer than anything John has seen in the years gone by, tie coloured midnight blue. By all accounts, Mycroft could have read the eulogy, blood thicker than water, a lifetime trumping the year and a bit John had, but Mycroft only paid for the funeral and organised his own special brand of security to keep the ceremony private, lockdown free from journalists. He never asked for the role and John didn’t offer.
John thinks he should perhaps say something, to the brother who cared too much sometimes, to accuse or to console he still isn’t sure, but his voice is still fragile from the eulogy, and he wants to get out of the suit feeling two sizes too tight, and everything is happening too quickly or not quickly enough at turns. Time has lost all feeling, broken from its chains and racing at its own leisure, paying no mind to John Watson, who once more needs a cane and has a tremor in his hand. The limp comes and goes, but he is getting used to walking with an angle to his torso, once again used to eyes darting to the cane before his face.
It takes him a moment to realise that the faint drizzle has ceased from falling onto his head, into his eyes-because those really aren’t tears, he is unashamed to admit that he has cried himself dry days ago, nothing left for him to give to Sherlock but words, and even those broke when the time came to deliver them-and John feels sluggish as he looks to see Angelo look back at him, the faintest of smiles on his lips, though his eyes are quietly mourning.
“I liked Sherlock. He was a good man,” Angelo says in an undertone, as though divulging a great secret when it was anything but. When Sherlock visited, he was served with a vibrancy that bespoke happiness, not a debt owed and repaid. “I should have fed him more, he was so thin.” A wry smile, and then a pause of hesitation. “John, I just want you to know, my offer still stands for you. Free meals whenever you want. I don’t care what people think; if they truly believe that Sherlock made his cases up, then they are too stupid to be listened to.”
Somehow, the funeral grows quieter, as if everyone was holding their breath to hear John’s response. John can only slowly nod, once, and says, “Thank you. I appreciate it. Sherlock would, too.”
“That first night we met,” Angelo says, shifting his grip on the umbrella. “Sherlock told you that he proved me innocent by proving my alibi was across town, breaking and entering.”
“Yes, I remember.” John could never forget that night if he tried, stark details burnt against the retinas of his eyes. That first case with Sherlock was like Alice and the rabbit hole, John falling head first into a world of madness. He went gladly, the rush of urban warfare and the wonder of pure genius an allure impossible to turn away from until it was taken from him.
When Angelo continues, his voice is soft, but enough to break through John’s ever growing melancholy. “Well, what worth could Sherlock bring from a poor man like me? He never asked for pay and I could not have offered it. Without him, I would be in prison, not owning a restaurant.”
“Some would say he tricked you for free food,” John replies, voice mechanical in its delivery, unfeeling.
Angelo chuckles softly. “Sherlock never told you then. He only came into my restaurant to sit and think at the seat by the window. ‘The view,’ he told me, ‘was amiable to his thought processes.’ You were the first time he took up an offer of food.”
There is a moment where John does not know what to say, but Angelo spares him by clapping a warm hand on his shoulder and handing him the umbrella handle in the hand not occupied by the cane. John swallows his words down and tries to smile. It feels wrong on his face, but Angelo nods, grave, and wishes John all the best. “Sherlock deserved better,” he says, less to John and directed more towards the tombstone. Angelo leaves without saying anything else, without taking his umbrella, walking calmly away as his back soaks up the rain.
Somehow, in the haze of drizzle, under an umbrella that isn’t his by the body of his dead best friend, John has become a receptor for stories, Angelo providing a successful precedence for everyone to work on, a queue forming of people, strangers, all connected by the light of one man who thought he could take on the world. John hears stories that are too mad not to be true, some stories John remembers being vaguely referenced by Sherlock in the midst of another case; then there are the lists of deductions and terrible impressions of Sherlock’s quick wit alongside accurate impressions of his rapid-fire recall that makes something in John’s heart clench tightly. Soon enough, all the stories begin to end the same way:
“We believe in Sherlock, too.”
Thirty stories later, John still can’t find the words to react to that, to describe how much it means to him to hear that. So he says nothing and most take it as their due to leave.
It is late afternoon by the time the crowd has nearly dispersed in its entirety, the last being a small, wizened old German man, wide eyed with a soft chin, who had finally finished detailing the recounts of Sherlock running around Amsterdam looking for a thief who turned out to be a killer, and John cheeks are hurting from smiling (Sherlock being ridiculous, even on cases, seems like a trait he was born with, not one acquired for John’s torment) and John feels as though he is almost about to start crying again.
The sensation is overwhelming, almost crushing, because Sherlock is dead; buried underground despite the fact he probably would have preferred to be dissected like a laboratory experience, donated for the sake of science, an idea that Mycroft gently refused, insisting he had to be cremated and buried near the rest of the family for tradition’s sake. John did not argue, not his place to, not for this. His best friend is barely six feet away from him, but he might as well be stationed on Pluto for all that it matters. The rains have stopped completely, but now the winds are bitter cold.
Small hands are tugging at the crook of his elbow, and John finally lets the umbrella drop down closed. Mrs Hudson is looking up at him, looking years older dressed in black satin and fine lace with an expression of a parent who has lost a child, and she asks gently, “Would you mind terribly if I told you about how I met Sherlock? I know you must be so tired-”
“I would not mind in the slightest, Mrs Hudson. Please, go on.”
They are the final two standing in the graveyard, and the sun is setting, the air growing ever colder, ripping through layers of clothes to press icy fingers toward skin, but Mrs Hudson’s voice stays firm, wavering only once before tears started to fall. John still could not cry, but he listens, carefully, in awe at the story from one of the few people Sherlock would die for.
As they walk home, towards 221B Baker Street, still nowhere else capable of inciting that emotion of home just yet, and possibly never will, the idea of vacating the premises both a possible relief but more likely a horrible nightmare, to remove himself from the last concrete tie to Sherlock; John is thinking, stewing about the injustice of it all, that a man who has clearly done so, so much (John’s inbox has over a hundred unread emails now, all of which for Sherlock) being treated like someone forgettable, disgraceful. John knows Sherlock’s cruelty better than anyone else, which has given him the right to say he knows Sherlock’s kindness exists in equal measure, if only slightly more subdued.
The knowledge that all of Sherlock’s accomplishments have been swept away, filed as the egotistical madness of an ordinary maniac, a digital record being swept clean-wait.
That gives John an idea.
-
The small flicker of warmth John feels, despite of the end of the funeral and the rains, splutters and fades to something closer to resentment when John sees Lestrade standing in the middle of his flat.
“Why weren’t you at the funeral?”
Lestrade jumps, shoulders twitching in surprise, close to a flinch but not quite. It is unlikely that he would have missed the slow drag of John’s footsteps up the stairs, or the sound of the opening door, but the weight of memories hang heavy in the room, echoes of a Christmas serenaded by violin and the hustle of drug busts gone by. Perhaps it is not that, but the fact that John’s voice is completely stripped raw, parts anger, parts scathing, part accusation.
“Where were you?” John asks, less a question and more an order to answer promptly and the line of his spine straightens as the tension in the air winds up, his grip on his cane tightening until his knuckles stand out white skin against tan.
“I couldn’t go, John,” Lestrade says, softly. He looks as though he has aged ten years in the space of a week, haggard eyes and deeper wrinkles. “Sherlock’s still listed as a possible terrorist, I-I might lose my job as it is, seeing you here. I couldn’t go to his funeral. I couldn’t.”
“Bullshit,” John says, but without heat. They are two tired men standing knee-deep in misery and it is too much right now to call upon anger, not when neither of them is to blame, not really. “Do you want something to drink?” he asks instead of beginning a fight, because he could do the latter, it would be too easy to shout something that would hurt them both, but John decides that isn’t the path to take.
Lestrade’s frame slumps with something like relief. “No, thank you, I don’t feel like any tea right now.”
“I wasn’t offering tea,” John corrects mildly, walking into the kitchen to grab a dusty bottle of fine wine-a gift of appreciation from a successful case, John is ashamed to admit he can’t remember the details of-and two glasses.
In the living room, Lestrade is still standing, not so much a shining silver as a worn, dull grey, and John motions for him to sit. The inspector sits without the slouch he wore from that first drugs bust, a defiant sprawl as he argued for Sherlock’s compliance; without the friendly casualness from the Christmas get together; Lestrade sits with his head bowed and hands clasped underneath his forehead. John sits in his usual chair and pours them both a generous amount of alcohol.
Wordlessly, they begin to drink-the wine too tart for John’s usual tastes, but he can’t be arsed to go out and buy something else-and it is a long moment before Lestrade starts speaking again. His voice is calm and steady, no hint of a slur or a rasp. He sounds strong, but his eyes are averted, not quite meeting John’s.
“The last time I saw Sherlock, I was arresting him.”
“I know.” John was there.
“I keep thinking, what if? What happens if he jumped because of that, because I-getting a warrant and-” and Lestrade stops himself and drains all that’s left in his glass, breathing heavier, runs a calloused hand across his face, rubs his temples as if warding away an encroaching headache.
“Just don’t commit suicide,” Lestrade murmurs, almost in an undertone to himself. “I can’t believe Sherlock would...”
John raises an eyebrow. “You can’t believe Sherlock jumped off a building, but you believed that Sherlock was possibly a terrorist or a fraud?”
“No, that’s not what I meant!” Lestrade finally meets John’s eyes, frantic with desperation and asking for redemption, forgiveness, things John cannot give. “Sherlock was my friend, he really was, but I’m detective inspector. I had no choice but to investigate Donovan’s accusations, it was-is-my duty, and I couldn’t show preference, not when leniency due to friendship is as good as corruption.” The line of Lestrade’s neck bobs as he swallows heavily, a deep frown etched onto his face. “I don’t believe Sherlock would orchestrate crimes for his own amusement, I really don’t, but I had to try prove it.”
The thing is, John understands. He understands being honour-bound, he understands duty, he understands loyalty, comprehends the sheer importance and magnitude and strength of all these things and knows why Lestrade feels so torn, questioning whether he did the right thing or the wrong thing. After taking the Hippocratic Oath, after wielding a gun and pulling a trigger, John knows there are things you must do, no matter how else you may personally feel.
Refilling both their glasses, John says quietly, “I’m sorry. You’ve let Sherlock into crime scenes for years and you’ve known him longer than I have.”
“You lived with the man for over a year,” Lestrade almost laughs, sounding a little choked up. “I may have known him longer, but you certainly knew him better.”
“Sometimes I wonder how well I knew him at all,” John replies, remembering glassy eyes, frozen and unseeing; a story of a hound loose on the moors and a cup of fresh coffee; the plucked notes of an in-progress violin song composed for a woman, the woman, never recorded, never to be played again, never to be played to completion.
It hits John, then and there, that he really never will hear Sherlock again, not his voice, cutting remarks and scathing words; not his music, the frustrated clash of tormented strings or the elegant sounds of the classics; not even the dramatic swish of his heavy coat or the heavy pads of racing feet belonging to a longer stride. Enjoy the little things in life, such a very true statement, one that John thought he could understand when he nearly died, when he passed out from blood loss and there was a bullet embedded in his shoulder, but somehow, now, it seems so much more relevant than then. When someone dies, they really do leave an empty space behind them, a cut-out in the shape of their silhouette, but Sherlock’s absence feels like a missing country, the entire map of the world left wrong.
“I met Sherlock before he went into rehab,” Lestrade mentions absently, lost in thought. “He seemed half mad on drugs, deduced my life story, informed me that my wife was happily cheating on me, and I locked him up for the night until his brother bailed him out.”
“Didn’t Sherlock tell you she was still cheating on you at Christmas?”
“Yes, and it was true enough, but I love her. What can you do? She promises to change, turn over a new leaf, but I’m starting to get that she won’t, not really, just as I can’t really leave her,” Lestrade says. “It’s almost sick, how we use each other.”
“People use each other all the time,” John says, and tries to shake the cobwebs from his mind. The tremor in his hand makes the wine wobble in its glass. “How long did it take before Sherlock wheedled his way onto crime scenes?”
“Not long,” Lestrade admits, almost smiling but not quite managing it. “Questionable method, but impeccable results. Also, he has the single minded determination of a charging bull sometimes.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” John snorts.
“You know, I still sometimes reach for my phone when a particularly interesting case makes its way to my department.” Lestrade is looking into his drink and shadows cling to him like ghosts. “He’s trained me like Pavlov’s dog, almost.”
“I don’t think he ever thought of you that way.”
“It was hard to tell, with him.”
Sherlock wore shields as if they were sown into the very skin of his being, cool blue eyes, expressionless, blank, deadpan voice, all so easily switched and erased and rebuilt into an artistry of human mimicry, leaking tears and shaky voice, the bark of an order, the smirk of flirtation, an actor on a world’s stage, all lies performed in order to seek the truth. Truly, he was one in a billion, extraordinary, unique, irreplaceable, yet gone, faded into the patchwork of history.
“Are you in deep trouble at work?” John asks suddenly, trying to force his mind away from such maudlin thoughts. “Sherlock wouldn’t want you to lose your job for him, certainly less so for something he didn’t even do.”
“The chief superintendant has me bringing up every single case that Sherlock’s ever worked on, even the cold cases he looked over when he was bored. He’s making me go through the evidence again, putting aside any that even hint at the possibility of being rigged by an outsider. A lot of people are going to be trialled again, some might walk free,” Lestrade confesses, and John is suddenly struck by the fact that every moment at work is one of conflict for Lestrade. There is three-day old stubble on his face, stains on the collar of his shirt and heavy bags under his eyes. He looks like a mess.
“How many cases did Sherlock work on, before me?” John asks, curious.
“Hundreds,” Lestrade answers grimly. “If not reaching a thousand. We had worked together for quite a few years, and he occasionally multi-tasked cases.”
“Damn.” The number is overwhelming and the repercussions near unimaginable.
“My thoughts exactly,” Lestrade says. “New Scotland Yard is getting hit in the media shitstorm. Before, it was questions of why we never used Sherlock enough. Now, they’re demanding answers for why we used him at all, even on a purely consulting level.”
“You can’t exactly tell any of those journalists to go fuck themselves, can you?”
“Unfortunately, no. Otherwise my life would be a lot easier.”
“I suppose Anderson and Donovan are beyond pleased that Sherlock is forever out of their lives,” John says bitterly, snorting when Lestrade does not say anything in response. “They were both so quick to call him a freak; it makes me wonder how long they were hoping for this to happen.”
“If it makes you feel better, there were those in the force who’ve come up to me and asked to pass on their condolences to you. Dimmock was particularly vocal against the accusations, believe it or not.”
“Thank you. It does help, a bit.”
“I also wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”
“For what?” John asks, surprised.
“For everything regarding that arrest,” Lestrade says. “That was a complete nightmare.”
“Because we escaped?” John asks wryly, sipping at his wine. “Or because I gave your boss a bloody nose?”
“No, it was handled poorly. I’m sorry I made you and Sherlock go through that.”
“I can’t forgive you because I never blamed you for that,” John admits, leaning back in his chair and feeling exhausted, wrung completely dry. “I thought I did, in the beginning, but that was just shock. You did what you had to, and I get that. Whatever resentment I had left for you disappeared when I saw you standing in the middle of my flat.”
“Between you and me, and for what it’s worth, I think my boss has deserved a decent right hook to the face for a few years now.”
John chuckles faintly at the recollection. “Thanks, Greg.” He picks up the bottle and is surprised to find it nearly half empty already.
“It’s alright, John,” Lestrade says, holding up a hand. “I’ve imposed on your hospitality long enough, and I’ve said what I wanted to say.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“So am I.”
“If you get into any trouble for this, or for visiting Sherlock’s grave, if you so wish, I strongly recommend you get into contact with his brother,” John advises. Mycroft owes Sherlock this, if not more, for his monumental screw-up. “He’ll be more than willing to help you, I should think.”
“I’ll think about it,” Lestrade says with a shadow of a smile.
They both stand up and shake hands briskly, before John mutters “hell with it” and pulls Lestrade into a brief one-armed hug. Stepping back after a moment, Lestrade looks suspiciously watery-eyed, but John doesn’t mention it.
Instead, John asks, “By the way, how did you get in the flat? Mrs Hudson came home the same time as I did.”
“Sherlock-he gave me a spare key a few months ago. Actually, do you want that back?” Fishing in his inner coat pocket, Lestrade pulls out a keychain, unhooking a small brass key. “I think Sherlock only gave it to me just in case of emergencies, but I’ll understand if you feel differently.”
He holds the bronze-coloured key between them, an offer and a silent promise to leave John alone if he so wishes. But John shakes his head, pushes the key back towards Lestrade.
“Keep it,” John says, and Lestrade nods, sombre, slipping the key back into his pocket.
As Lestrade walks towards the door, he pauses to add quietly and earnestly, “John, whatever people tell you, whatever they think, I know that Sherlock was a good man. With you, he became a great one.”
Finally, John is alone in his flat, 221B Baker Street silent but for the leaking tap, drip drip drip, red wine in his hand and the heavy weight of loneliness encroaching into the edges of his vision once more. The idea still bounces in the back of his mind, but he decides to sleep instead, and come morning, he forgets it entirely.
-
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