whitmans_kiss (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whitmans_kiss) wrote2012-01-11 09:54 pm
whitmans_kiss) wrote2012-01-11 09:54 pm
Fic: BBC Sherlock, (john/sherlock), fic, "A Good Man"
Title: A Good Man
Word Count: 3,260
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
whitmans_kiss
Rating: R
Warnings: major character death, suicide ideation, angst, drinking, some crude language [S1 compliant; no spoilers for S2 except the concept of Reichenbach]
Characters; Pairings: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes; D. I. Lestrade
Summary: “Sherlock Holmes is a great man - and I think one day - if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.” Lestrade calls on a grieving John.
Author's Notes: For the infinitely lovely and talentedlotherington. Thanks go to ceredwensirius for the beta-work. You ladies are marvellous, and I honestly couldn’t have done it without you.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and its related characters belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and is/are not mine. The BBC incarnation of Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I make no profit from this piece of fiction. All characters are depicted are of legal age in their country, the author’s, and the reader’s.
linked/cross-posted: here at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
watsons_woes, here at johnsherlock, and here at sherlockbbc
----
Throughout the years that Lestrade had been at his job, he had seen enough sadness to last him the rest of his life – certainly longer than the lives of most of the poor souls he came across on a weekly basis. Bereaved sons, sisters, spouses – all having to be questioned, consoled. He had seen enough to know that ‘The Five Stages of Grieving’ was an utter load of shit. Grief didn’t just pass through five carefully dissected stages before it vanished; it stayed with a person forever, changing them in countless, indefinable ways, until their own death caught up with them and finally put them out of their misery. This intimacy with the effects of death and loss was encountered through Lestrade’s interactions with strangers, just faces and victims and those left behind, which was exactly why seeing it on the face of John Watson disturbed him so much.
They’d never been friends, exactly – ‘colleagues’ is about the closest Lestrade would come to putting a label on their relationship, though he suspected that the mere fact they both tolerated Sherlock’s behaviour for extended periods of time put them on a somewhat more casual level than not, if only a sort of friendship by association. They’d see each other at crime scenes, John coming along uninvited, yet still more welcome than the consulting detective he’d chosen as his companion, and Lestrade was grateful for any amount of control that John had been able to exert over the exasperating Sherlock.
But it’d been over a week since Sherlock had waltzed off to unpronounceable-where Switzerland and continued waltzing right off the edge of some bloody waterfall, leaving John empty, and Lestrade’s crime scenes just as. It felt – wrong, somehow, not having them there, and even if Lestrade knew that the likelihood of Sherlock ever coming back was zero, that still left – John.
That evening, after an afternoon of waffling and the memorial service the next day, Lestrade decides that now is as good a time as any to call on 221B and offer – what? A shoulder? As if John needed a shoulder to cry on. Perhaps an ear, instead.
Maybe just a friend.
----
Lestrade arrives at Baker Street at a quarter to nine, wondering vaguely if he should have rung John up first rather than simply showed up at his door without warning. John might not even be in, Lestrade reasons as he knocks loudly on the door, and wouldn’t that be a waste of a Tube fare.
As it turns out, Mrs. Hudson explains, the good doctor indeed isn’t home, having just stepped out to pick something up from the Tesco ‘round the corner; be back any minute. Ushering Lestrade into the hallway, Mrs. Hudson gropes for the keys to 221B.
‘I’ll let you in and wait with you in the kitchen, if you like – oh! Doctor Watson! The Inspector is here to see you. I was about to let him in and fix you both up something for when you got back.’
‘How very kind of you, Mrs. Hudson,’ John says, stepping into the tiny hall. ‘But I think I’ll take him from here.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Mrs. Hudson flashes a concerned smile at the two of them before heading back into her rooms. ‘Just call if you need anything, dears.’
‘Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.’ The door closes behind her, and it’s left to Lestrade to fumble with an explanation for his presence.
‘I have a firearm in the flat,’ John says without preamble, before Lestrade can say anything, looking him in the eye. ‘I haven’t a permit, so it’s highly illegal.’ He is perfectly calm. ‘You should probably arrest me and confiscate it.’
‘Right,’ Lestrade says, not nearly as surprised at the information that John had a gun as he should be – several things suddenly click and make absolute sense; later, they might have a quick chat about a crackshot and a cabbie – but shocked at the non sequitur nonetheless. ‘Technically, I’m off duty, but you know that doesn’t matter. Should you have just told me that?’
John wets his lips, shifts his gaze to a spot somewhere over Lestrade’s right shoulder before answering. ‘No.’ A beat. Re-established eye contact. ‘Maybe,’ John says.
‘Right, well,’ says Lestrade, pushing past him up the remaining steps to open the door, ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t hear a word you just said, what with the noise still coming up from the street, you know.’ John looks back at him. The street is quiet; the hall door behind them closed. ‘You aren’t busy tonight, are you?’
‘I have plans.’
Fuck your plans, Lestrade wants to say. ‘What plans?’ he asks instead.
‘I,’ No hesitation, just an exhale; defeat crawling in around the corners of John’s eyes, along the very set of his spine, ‘plan on getting very drunk tonight, Lestrade.’
‘There’s some luck. So was I.’
The door to the flat shuts behind them as John shows them in, and they end up in the kitchen as he puts the few items away.
‘Tea?’
‘John.’ One button, then another. Lestrade hangs his overcoat up on the back of a kitchen chair, draping it over the large, folded piece of plastic tarp already there before shrugging off his jacket and laying it across the seat. Christ. The man thought to get a bloody tarp. ‘A scotch, if you would, please. A large one; there’s a good man.’
He ignores the ammunitions clip on the table. Doesn’t even see the gun.
----
Drink in hand, Lestrade moves instinctively towards the sofa, but something in John’s face causes him to change direction mid-step and settle instead in one of the armchairs. The sofa was Sherlock’s territory, he remembers. Of course; how many times had he seen the insufferable man sprawled across the leather cushions, nothing but blue silk and soft cotton and strung out, spidery limbs?
Sitting across from him in the other chair, John leans forward to rest his arms on his thighs, cradling his small tumbler of scotch in his hands. Sherlock’s violin case rests on the low table in front of them, closed, the latches done up securely.
‘It’s been, ah, put away, then?’ asks Lestrade, gesturing to the case, desperate for something, anything to say.
‘If you mean it’s in its case and not just flung about the flat like it usually is, then yeah,’ John says, frowning. ‘Went to go get it tuned the other day at that music shop over on York Street. Violins need maintenance when no one’s playing them; sensitive to the weather, or something.’ John pauses, takes a drink, his frown deepening. ‘Bloke working there took one look at it and asked if I’d had it insured, to which I said I wasn’t sure. He sent me to Beare’s on Queen Anne Street, and that he wasn’t going to touch it without confirming I’d insured it. Couldn’t think why there’d be such a fuss over a tuning, but then one of the appraisers at Beare’s proceeded to tell me it was a bloody Stradivarius. I might not know too much about music, but I do know that name.’ Another drink. ‘I’d no idea. If Sherlock weren’t already dead, I’d kill him.’ His voice is steady, but Lestrade can hear an undercurrent of something bleak beneath the words.
‘That’s a – a what? You’re joking; how would he even get his hands on one?’
‘Don’t ask me. Same way he ever got anything else, I suppose – vaguely illegal and marginally suspect. And apparently, as I’ve been recently informed, this one in particular is worth about a million pounds. I could retire, right now, at least three times over, if I sold it.’
Lestrade actually chokes on his scotch. ‘Bloody Christ, John.’
‘I know.’
They both know it’s not about the money.
----
The silence grows oppressive. They drink a third of the bottle before John leans back in his chair and turns the telly on to a repeat of the comedy special that aired last week, the sound turned soft enough to provide a low, comforting buzz, but not loud enough for John to seriously claim he was watching it.
Once the bottle’s worked down to a half, Lestrade decides he’ll chance vocalisation.
‘I know what it’s like,’ he says, ‘to lose a brother in the line of duty.’
John looks up, at this. ‘Lestrade, it’s not – ’
‘...tell the barman... even so, because people these... when I said...’
‘His name was David,’ Lestrade continues. ‘He was my brother and the best friend I ever had. Died when he was still just a kid; twenty and a fresh face on the force.’
‘Greg,’ John tries to interrupt, and somewhere in the buzz Lestrade realizes John’s just used his first name, ‘it’s not like that; it’s nothing like that – ’
‘He always wanted to be with the police, ever since he was a boy. First time out in the uniform, he gets stabbed by some cunt just trying to break up a mugging; pulled a knife and stabbed him right in the chest – ’
‘Greg, it’s – ’
‘...and then if you think... push in my barstool... because...’
‘ – pierced a lung, punctured it. Nicked some other organs in there too; he kept – David kept a tough front in surgery, and our mum got the call first – ’
‘...now, Irish whiskey is the stuff... but if... stops your heart two drinks in...’
‘We were to be married,’ John says, the words bursting out of him in a rush, crowding out the words babbled like a failed balm from Lestrade’s mouth and the excited drone emanating from the telly. ‘Me – and Sherlock, we – were in love, and – he wasn’t my brother, and it was supposed to be tomorrow; we were going to sign the papers for a – you know, a CP. At the register’s office. Tomorrow.’
‘...always looks better after... when you stop for... she told me... – – ’
There’s a soft click as the telly shuts off. Lestrade sets the remote control down.
‘Fuck,’ he says softly.
John’s mouth twists into a contorted smile. ‘Well. Only a few times.’
At the look on Lestrade’s face, John coughs; the smile vanishes. ‘Sorry.’ He drains the rest of the scotch from the tumbler. The ice makes a brittle noise against the glass. ‘I’m sorry about your brother.’
‘It’s... it’s fine, John.’
Neither look at the other; both of their gazes land on the bottle of scotch on the table, next to the violin case.
‘I probably shouldn’t have another, should I,’ says John. It’s a statement, not a question.
‘Likely not, no.’
‘Right.’ John reaches forward, takes the bottle; leans back. Tips two fingers more of the scotch into his glass.
‘You’ll wake with a monster of a hangover.’
‘Between you and me,’ says John, almost conspiratorially, bringing the measure of scotch up to a generous three fingers, ‘I really hadn’t started drinking tonight with a plan to waking up tomorrow, so you’ll have to forgive the fact that,’ his face changes, eyes widening and mouth curving upwards, ‘I don’t really give a damn how my head feels.’
Letting out a breath on a long exhale, Lestrade takes the bottle from John when he’s finished and refreshes his own drink.
----
There’s a while before either of them speak again. It’s John who does.
‘We were going to invite you,’ he says, slowly, deliberately, clearly. Trying not to be drunk.
‘To the – thing?’ replies Lestrade, blinking, tilting his head a little more to the side to see John straightwise.
‘Just you, Mycroft, me, and him. Two witnesses, that was all we needed. But he wanted you there.’
‘Oh, John.’
‘Don’t look like that, Lestrade.’ John closes his eyes, resting. ‘It was just – you know. Supposed to be for the taxes, at first. In case something went terribly wrong on a chase, or something, then we’d be able to know if the other – in hospital – I’m sorry,’ he stops, opens his eyes, catches a wet breath in his throat.
‘It’s fine,’ Lestrade says. He wants to reach a hand out to John, to touch his shoulder, but can’t seem to find the strength to move his leaded arms.
‘It was just – going to be on paper. And then,’ John looks up, away, out the window, past the half-drawn curtains, ‘coming back here, home, after we’d given notice of our intention at the register’s, he – makes some crack about not having a bloody ring, and it’s – like it all suddenly was real in a way it hadn’t been, and that’s when I saw, and I knew – ’ he stops again, screwing his eyes shut against a shudder that runs through his chest.
‘John – ’
‘Poked around the finances and even bought myself a new suit; I said, Sherlock, you can’t expect me to wear my fatigues, and he said he didn’t care if I went naked; he much preferred me that way as it was.’ A laugh bubbles its way from John’s lips that verges on the hysterical, contained. Another shudder strikes through him. Lestrade isn’t sure if the man is about to laugh again or cry.
‘I’ll still wear the suit, but it won’t be to – ’ he continues, and there it is, a proper sob, coloured with alcohol and cheeks turned ruddy, but no tears, just clenched air forced unwillingly from his chest, like John’s fist around the glass. ‘It was supposed to be tomorrow,’ he says, fingers tighter and tighter around the tumbler, tongue looser and looser around the words, ‘We were – going to invite you, and it was supposed to be tomorrow.’
John swallows a harsh drink, and Lestrade finds that for all the times he had found himself in this situation, playing comfort to the bereaved spouse, this was his job, he had never expected to be here, sitting by John Watson with a half-empty scotch bottle and a million-pound violin between them. He always knows what to say, how to handle distress and distil information, but now, the only thing distilled is the alcohol in his system, and the only information the fact that he’s so very, very sorry for it all.
He states as much. It’s all he can do.
‘I’m sorry.’
John clenches and unclenches his left hand, the tendons flashing as tightly as the grimace splayed across his face. It’s killing him to talk like this, Lestrade knows, can see it in every line of his body, but he’s not so far gone as to recognize that it’ll kill him if he doesn’t, and he might still kill himself tonight, anyway. Lestrade doesn’t know.
‘I still wake up,’ John says, softer, though not quite so low as a whisper, ‘at half past fuck-it o' clock expecting to hear some tortured racket coming from his violin. But it's always quiet. I think that's worse.’ He blinks, his lips trembling. ‘And I still make coffee in the morning. I put the sugar out. I make the coffee, but I don’t drink it. Greg,’ and at this, John’s hand stills, and his mouth slackens, and his joints fall a single degree out of line, ‘I make it, and it just sits there in the pot all day, and I throw it out at night, and I think, what a waste it all was, what an awful, bloody, waste.‘
And he’s right, Lestrade thinks, as the use of past tense hurts more than an accidental present, it is a waste – a waste of a mind, of genius, of a man, of a lifetime spent solving mysteries of the people and of the heart.
And here, Lestrade knows, is Sherlock’s heart, in front of him and broken so badly it was like looking into the detective’s chest gaping open, sternum cut out with a saw and set in a dish to the side, leaving nothing but the dead space where John should have been but now sits in his armchair, drunk and yellow and bloodless.
You’re the doctor, Lestrade suddenly wants to scream, not me - you’re the bloody doctor.
----
The telly eventually finds itself turned back on, the bottle of scotch subtly nudged out of John’s reach. They talk about football, about Lestrade’s nieces coming into London for an Easter visit, about the worst lager they’d ever had, and the best, because of that one time John got stuck in Germany thanks to a misdirected plane. They don't talk about the memorial scheduled for the next afternoon.
It’s crossed over from night into morning when Lestrade’s yawning becomes a little too frequent, and John’s coherency takes a dip for the worse. John stands carefully, stretching, underestimating his balance and frowning as he staggers a step and presses a hand against the wall.
‘What’s the time?’ he asks, turning his back to Lestrade and making his way into the kitchen. The tarp crunches under Lestrade’s overcoat as John grips the back of a near chair to steady himself.
‘Getting on two,’ says Lestrade, watching John stop by the table, pick up the ammunitions clip in one hand, the gun in the other.
John makes a small sound of acknowledgement. There’s a sturdy click as he pops the clip back into the firearm.
‘You can, uh, kip on the sofa, if you like. Bit late to be going out, all the way out to, ah...’
‘Clapham,’ Lestrade supplies.
‘Yeah; right.’
Lestrade glances up, tries for a smile but ends up with something resembling pained, if sincere, gratitude. ‘Cheers. Thanks. I appreciate it, really.’
‘Yeah,’ says John. There’s an endless second of silence, then a soft, solid noise as he sets the gun back down on the table. ‘I’ll, um. I’ll just be upstairs, then.’
‘Right; yeah.’
‘Night, Greg.’
‘Goodnight, John.’
Lestrade doesn’t say anything like ‘sleep well’ or ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ The first would be pointless, and as for the second, he just hopes the sofa is as comfortable as Sherlock’s old habits have made it out to be.
Tomorrow, he thinks, he'll quietly take the gun with him when he leaves.
When he does wake, the gun is no longer there, but John Watson is, and Lestrade supposes that’s enough, for now.
----
‘Sherlock Holmes,’ John says, ‘was a good man.’
He stops. The podium threatens to tremble under his grip.
‘He was,’ John continues a moment later, voice finally cracking, torquing into a wretched sort of whisper – the kind that Lestrade has only ever heard on broken women with broken limbs from broken homes, and tries not to think about the implications – ‘a very good man.’
John’s eyes flicker down, and his white knuckles go loose. No one moves. After the first minute of uncomposed silence, someone towards the back muffles a cough into their handkerchief.
After the third minute, John’s friend – Stanley, isn’t it? Stamford? – stands, approaches him, touches his shoulder without a word. John does not move, clearly deeply uncomfortable in his crisp white shirt, black tie, new black suit. Stamford speaks for John, dismisses the lot.
No one else speaks as the few black coats and umbrellas who had bothered to attend quietly file out much like they had filed in.
It was fitting, Lestrade supposes, stepping outside and turning up his collar at the hard wind, that the funeral for the late, great Sherlock Holmes should take only five minutes. Usually the only length of time Sherlock ever got at a crime scene, five minutes. No casket – no recovered body – no framed pictures, no flowers. Just a dozen-odd people who didn’t want to be there, in a conference room rented by the hour in the Abbey Centre, for five minutes, whilst John Watson stood silent at a podium.
Good, he could almost hear. Funerals are boring.
Word Count: 3,260
Author:
whitmans_kissRating: R
Warnings: major character death, suicide ideation, angst, drinking, some crude language [S1 compliant; no spoilers for S2 except the concept of Reichenbach]
Characters; Pairings: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes; D. I. Lestrade
Summary: “Sherlock Holmes is a great man - and I think one day - if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.” Lestrade calls on a grieving John.
Author's Notes: For the infinitely lovely and talented
lotherington. Thanks go to ceredwensirius for the beta-work. You ladies are marvellous, and I honestly couldn’t have done it without you.Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and its related characters belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and is/are not mine. The BBC incarnation of Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I make no profit from this piece of fiction. All characters are depicted are of legal age in their country, the author’s, and the reader’s.
linked/cross-posted: here at
watsons_woes, here at johnsherlock, and here at sherlockbbc----
Throughout the years that Lestrade had been at his job, he had seen enough sadness to last him the rest of his life – certainly longer than the lives of most of the poor souls he came across on a weekly basis. Bereaved sons, sisters, spouses – all having to be questioned, consoled. He had seen enough to know that ‘The Five Stages of Grieving’ was an utter load of shit. Grief didn’t just pass through five carefully dissected stages before it vanished; it stayed with a person forever, changing them in countless, indefinable ways, until their own death caught up with them and finally put them out of their misery. This intimacy with the effects of death and loss was encountered through Lestrade’s interactions with strangers, just faces and victims and those left behind, which was exactly why seeing it on the face of John Watson disturbed him so much.
They’d never been friends, exactly – ‘colleagues’ is about the closest Lestrade would come to putting a label on their relationship, though he suspected that the mere fact they both tolerated Sherlock’s behaviour for extended periods of time put them on a somewhat more casual level than not, if only a sort of friendship by association. They’d see each other at crime scenes, John coming along uninvited, yet still more welcome than the consulting detective he’d chosen as his companion, and Lestrade was grateful for any amount of control that John had been able to exert over the exasperating Sherlock.
But it’d been over a week since Sherlock had waltzed off to unpronounceable-where Switzerland and continued waltzing right off the edge of some bloody waterfall, leaving John empty, and Lestrade’s crime scenes just as. It felt – wrong, somehow, not having them there, and even if Lestrade knew that the likelihood of Sherlock ever coming back was zero, that still left – John.
That evening, after an afternoon of waffling and the memorial service the next day, Lestrade decides that now is as good a time as any to call on 221B and offer – what? A shoulder? As if John needed a shoulder to cry on. Perhaps an ear, instead.
Maybe just a friend.
----
Lestrade arrives at Baker Street at a quarter to nine, wondering vaguely if he should have rung John up first rather than simply showed up at his door without warning. John might not even be in, Lestrade reasons as he knocks loudly on the door, and wouldn’t that be a waste of a Tube fare.
As it turns out, Mrs. Hudson explains, the good doctor indeed isn’t home, having just stepped out to pick something up from the Tesco ‘round the corner; be back any minute. Ushering Lestrade into the hallway, Mrs. Hudson gropes for the keys to 221B.
‘I’ll let you in and wait with you in the kitchen, if you like – oh! Doctor Watson! The Inspector is here to see you. I was about to let him in and fix you both up something for when you got back.’
‘How very kind of you, Mrs. Hudson,’ John says, stepping into the tiny hall. ‘But I think I’ll take him from here.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Mrs. Hudson flashes a concerned smile at the two of them before heading back into her rooms. ‘Just call if you need anything, dears.’
‘Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.’ The door closes behind her, and it’s left to Lestrade to fumble with an explanation for his presence.
‘I have a firearm in the flat,’ John says without preamble, before Lestrade can say anything, looking him in the eye. ‘I haven’t a permit, so it’s highly illegal.’ He is perfectly calm. ‘You should probably arrest me and confiscate it.’
‘Right,’ Lestrade says, not nearly as surprised at the information that John had a gun as he should be – several things suddenly click and make absolute sense; later, they might have a quick chat about a crackshot and a cabbie – but shocked at the non sequitur nonetheless. ‘Technically, I’m off duty, but you know that doesn’t matter. Should you have just told me that?’
John wets his lips, shifts his gaze to a spot somewhere over Lestrade’s right shoulder before answering. ‘No.’ A beat. Re-established eye contact. ‘Maybe,’ John says.
‘Right, well,’ says Lestrade, pushing past him up the remaining steps to open the door, ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t hear a word you just said, what with the noise still coming up from the street, you know.’ John looks back at him. The street is quiet; the hall door behind them closed. ‘You aren’t busy tonight, are you?’
‘I have plans.’
Fuck your plans, Lestrade wants to say. ‘What plans?’ he asks instead.
‘I,’ No hesitation, just an exhale; defeat crawling in around the corners of John’s eyes, along the very set of his spine, ‘plan on getting very drunk tonight, Lestrade.’
‘There’s some luck. So was I.’
The door to the flat shuts behind them as John shows them in, and they end up in the kitchen as he puts the few items away.
‘Tea?’
‘John.’ One button, then another. Lestrade hangs his overcoat up on the back of a kitchen chair, draping it over the large, folded piece of plastic tarp already there before shrugging off his jacket and laying it across the seat. Christ. The man thought to get a bloody tarp. ‘A scotch, if you would, please. A large one; there’s a good man.’
He ignores the ammunitions clip on the table. Doesn’t even see the gun.
----
Drink in hand, Lestrade moves instinctively towards the sofa, but something in John’s face causes him to change direction mid-step and settle instead in one of the armchairs. The sofa was Sherlock’s territory, he remembers. Of course; how many times had he seen the insufferable man sprawled across the leather cushions, nothing but blue silk and soft cotton and strung out, spidery limbs?
Sitting across from him in the other chair, John leans forward to rest his arms on his thighs, cradling his small tumbler of scotch in his hands. Sherlock’s violin case rests on the low table in front of them, closed, the latches done up securely.
‘It’s been, ah, put away, then?’ asks Lestrade, gesturing to the case, desperate for something, anything to say.
‘If you mean it’s in its case and not just flung about the flat like it usually is, then yeah,’ John says, frowning. ‘Went to go get it tuned the other day at that music shop over on York Street. Violins need maintenance when no one’s playing them; sensitive to the weather, or something.’ John pauses, takes a drink, his frown deepening. ‘Bloke working there took one look at it and asked if I’d had it insured, to which I said I wasn’t sure. He sent me to Beare’s on Queen Anne Street, and that he wasn’t going to touch it without confirming I’d insured it. Couldn’t think why there’d be such a fuss over a tuning, but then one of the appraisers at Beare’s proceeded to tell me it was a bloody Stradivarius. I might not know too much about music, but I do know that name.’ Another drink. ‘I’d no idea. If Sherlock weren’t already dead, I’d kill him.’ His voice is steady, but Lestrade can hear an undercurrent of something bleak beneath the words.
‘That’s a – a what? You’re joking; how would he even get his hands on one?’
‘Don’t ask me. Same way he ever got anything else, I suppose – vaguely illegal and marginally suspect. And apparently, as I’ve been recently informed, this one in particular is worth about a million pounds. I could retire, right now, at least three times over, if I sold it.’
Lestrade actually chokes on his scotch. ‘Bloody Christ, John.’
‘I know.’
They both know it’s not about the money.
----
The silence grows oppressive. They drink a third of the bottle before John leans back in his chair and turns the telly on to a repeat of the comedy special that aired last week, the sound turned soft enough to provide a low, comforting buzz, but not loud enough for John to seriously claim he was watching it.
Once the bottle’s worked down to a half, Lestrade decides he’ll chance vocalisation.
‘I know what it’s like,’ he says, ‘to lose a brother in the line of duty.’
John looks up, at this. ‘Lestrade, it’s not – ’
‘...tell the barman... even so, because people these... when I said...’
‘His name was David,’ Lestrade continues. ‘He was my brother and the best friend I ever had. Died when he was still just a kid; twenty and a fresh face on the force.’
‘Greg,’ John tries to interrupt, and somewhere in the buzz Lestrade realizes John’s just used his first name, ‘it’s not like that; it’s nothing like that – ’
‘He always wanted to be with the police, ever since he was a boy. First time out in the uniform, he gets stabbed by some cunt just trying to break up a mugging; pulled a knife and stabbed him right in the chest – ’
‘Greg, it’s – ’
‘...and then if you think... push in my barstool... because...’
‘ – pierced a lung, punctured it. Nicked some other organs in there too; he kept – David kept a tough front in surgery, and our mum got the call first – ’
‘...now, Irish whiskey is the stuff... but if... stops your heart two drinks in...’
‘We were to be married,’ John says, the words bursting out of him in a rush, crowding out the words babbled like a failed balm from Lestrade’s mouth and the excited drone emanating from the telly. ‘Me – and Sherlock, we – were in love, and – he wasn’t my brother, and it was supposed to be tomorrow; we were going to sign the papers for a – you know, a CP. At the register’s office. Tomorrow.’
‘...always looks better after... when you stop for... she told me... – – ’
There’s a soft click as the telly shuts off. Lestrade sets the remote control down.
‘Fuck,’ he says softly.
John’s mouth twists into a contorted smile. ‘Well. Only a few times.’
At the look on Lestrade’s face, John coughs; the smile vanishes. ‘Sorry.’ He drains the rest of the scotch from the tumbler. The ice makes a brittle noise against the glass. ‘I’m sorry about your brother.’
‘It’s... it’s fine, John.’
Neither look at the other; both of their gazes land on the bottle of scotch on the table, next to the violin case.
‘I probably shouldn’t have another, should I,’ says John. It’s a statement, not a question.
‘Likely not, no.’
‘Right.’ John reaches forward, takes the bottle; leans back. Tips two fingers more of the scotch into his glass.
‘You’ll wake with a monster of a hangover.’
‘Between you and me,’ says John, almost conspiratorially, bringing the measure of scotch up to a generous three fingers, ‘I really hadn’t started drinking tonight with a plan to waking up tomorrow, so you’ll have to forgive the fact that,’ his face changes, eyes widening and mouth curving upwards, ‘I don’t really give a damn how my head feels.’
Letting out a breath on a long exhale, Lestrade takes the bottle from John when he’s finished and refreshes his own drink.
----
There’s a while before either of them speak again. It’s John who does.
‘We were going to invite you,’ he says, slowly, deliberately, clearly. Trying not to be drunk.
‘To the – thing?’ replies Lestrade, blinking, tilting his head a little more to the side to see John straightwise.
‘Just you, Mycroft, me, and him. Two witnesses, that was all we needed. But he wanted you there.’
‘Oh, John.’
‘Don’t look like that, Lestrade.’ John closes his eyes, resting. ‘It was just – you know. Supposed to be for the taxes, at first. In case something went terribly wrong on a chase, or something, then we’d be able to know if the other – in hospital – I’m sorry,’ he stops, opens his eyes, catches a wet breath in his throat.
‘It’s fine,’ Lestrade says. He wants to reach a hand out to John, to touch his shoulder, but can’t seem to find the strength to move his leaded arms.
‘It was just – going to be on paper. And then,’ John looks up, away, out the window, past the half-drawn curtains, ‘coming back here, home, after we’d given notice of our intention at the register’s, he – makes some crack about not having a bloody ring, and it’s – like it all suddenly was real in a way it hadn’t been, and that’s when I saw, and I knew – ’ he stops again, screwing his eyes shut against a shudder that runs through his chest.
‘John – ’
‘Poked around the finances and even bought myself a new suit; I said, Sherlock, you can’t expect me to wear my fatigues, and he said he didn’t care if I went naked; he much preferred me that way as it was.’ A laugh bubbles its way from John’s lips that verges on the hysterical, contained. Another shudder strikes through him. Lestrade isn’t sure if the man is about to laugh again or cry.
‘I’ll still wear the suit, but it won’t be to – ’ he continues, and there it is, a proper sob, coloured with alcohol and cheeks turned ruddy, but no tears, just clenched air forced unwillingly from his chest, like John’s fist around the glass. ‘It was supposed to be tomorrow,’ he says, fingers tighter and tighter around the tumbler, tongue looser and looser around the words, ‘We were – going to invite you, and it was supposed to be tomorrow.’
John swallows a harsh drink, and Lestrade finds that for all the times he had found himself in this situation, playing comfort to the bereaved spouse, this was his job, he had never expected to be here, sitting by John Watson with a half-empty scotch bottle and a million-pound violin between them. He always knows what to say, how to handle distress and distil information, but now, the only thing distilled is the alcohol in his system, and the only information the fact that he’s so very, very sorry for it all.
He states as much. It’s all he can do.
‘I’m sorry.’
John clenches and unclenches his left hand, the tendons flashing as tightly as the grimace splayed across his face. It’s killing him to talk like this, Lestrade knows, can see it in every line of his body, but he’s not so far gone as to recognize that it’ll kill him if he doesn’t, and he might still kill himself tonight, anyway. Lestrade doesn’t know.
‘I still wake up,’ John says, softer, though not quite so low as a whisper, ‘at half past fuck-it o' clock expecting to hear some tortured racket coming from his violin. But it's always quiet. I think that's worse.’ He blinks, his lips trembling. ‘And I still make coffee in the morning. I put the sugar out. I make the coffee, but I don’t drink it. Greg,’ and at this, John’s hand stills, and his mouth slackens, and his joints fall a single degree out of line, ‘I make it, and it just sits there in the pot all day, and I throw it out at night, and I think, what a waste it all was, what an awful, bloody, waste.‘
And he’s right, Lestrade thinks, as the use of past tense hurts more than an accidental present, it is a waste – a waste of a mind, of genius, of a man, of a lifetime spent solving mysteries of the people and of the heart.
And here, Lestrade knows, is Sherlock’s heart, in front of him and broken so badly it was like looking into the detective’s chest gaping open, sternum cut out with a saw and set in a dish to the side, leaving nothing but the dead space where John should have been but now sits in his armchair, drunk and yellow and bloodless.
You’re the doctor, Lestrade suddenly wants to scream, not me - you’re the bloody doctor.
----
The telly eventually finds itself turned back on, the bottle of scotch subtly nudged out of John’s reach. They talk about football, about Lestrade’s nieces coming into London for an Easter visit, about the worst lager they’d ever had, and the best, because of that one time John got stuck in Germany thanks to a misdirected plane. They don't talk about the memorial scheduled for the next afternoon.
It’s crossed over from night into morning when Lestrade’s yawning becomes a little too frequent, and John’s coherency takes a dip for the worse. John stands carefully, stretching, underestimating his balance and frowning as he staggers a step and presses a hand against the wall.
‘What’s the time?’ he asks, turning his back to Lestrade and making his way into the kitchen. The tarp crunches under Lestrade’s overcoat as John grips the back of a near chair to steady himself.
‘Getting on two,’ says Lestrade, watching John stop by the table, pick up the ammunitions clip in one hand, the gun in the other.
John makes a small sound of acknowledgement. There’s a sturdy click as he pops the clip back into the firearm.
‘You can, uh, kip on the sofa, if you like. Bit late to be going out, all the way out to, ah...’
‘Clapham,’ Lestrade supplies.
‘Yeah; right.’
Lestrade glances up, tries for a smile but ends up with something resembling pained, if sincere, gratitude. ‘Cheers. Thanks. I appreciate it, really.’
‘Yeah,’ says John. There’s an endless second of silence, then a soft, solid noise as he sets the gun back down on the table. ‘I’ll, um. I’ll just be upstairs, then.’
‘Right; yeah.’
‘Night, Greg.’
‘Goodnight, John.’
Lestrade doesn’t say anything like ‘sleep well’ or ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ The first would be pointless, and as for the second, he just hopes the sofa is as comfortable as Sherlock’s old habits have made it out to be.
Tomorrow, he thinks, he'll quietly take the gun with him when he leaves.
When he does wake, the gun is no longer there, but John Watson is, and Lestrade supposes that’s enough, for now.
----
‘Sherlock Holmes,’ John says, ‘was a good man.’
He stops. The podium threatens to tremble under his grip.
‘He was,’ John continues a moment later, voice finally cracking, torquing into a wretched sort of whisper – the kind that Lestrade has only ever heard on broken women with broken limbs from broken homes, and tries not to think about the implications – ‘a very good man.’
John’s eyes flicker down, and his white knuckles go loose. No one moves. After the first minute of uncomposed silence, someone towards the back muffles a cough into their handkerchief.
After the third minute, John’s friend – Stanley, isn’t it? Stamford? – stands, approaches him, touches his shoulder without a word. John does not move, clearly deeply uncomfortable in his crisp white shirt, black tie, new black suit. Stamford speaks for John, dismisses the lot.
No one else speaks as the few black coats and umbrellas who had bothered to attend quietly file out much like they had filed in.
It was fitting, Lestrade supposes, stepping outside and turning up his collar at the hard wind, that the funeral for the late, great Sherlock Holmes should take only five minutes. Usually the only length of time Sherlock ever got at a crime scene, five minutes. No casket – no recovered body – no framed pictures, no flowers. Just a dozen-odd people who didn’t want to be there, in a conference room rented by the hour in the Abbey Centre, for five minutes, whilst John Watson stood silent at a podium.
Good, he could almost hear. Funerals are boring.
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