A shadow passed, a shadow passed

[theyarder]

OT4 'verse.
Verse note: Lestrade and Mary are married and have a one-year-old-ish son named Robert, who is Holmes's godchild.

The armband is a little too tight; it doesn't cut off his circulation, but he can always feel it, a tight grip around his bicep. He could adjust it; he could ask Mary to fix it, make it so it sits more comfortably, but that seems wrong. Holmes's death shouldn't be comfortable. It sits on him the way this arm band does, it chokes something in his chest the way this chokes his arm, and loosening the band won't make anything any better. So he picks at it in the cab on the way to Baker street.

He and Mary have spoken to Watson of course, have visited, but he wants to go on his own, too. They're all friends, Lord knows by now maybe a little more than that, more like a family, but he feels he ought to pay his respects on his own; that's how this all started, anyway. Drinks after a case, not-so-serious conversations over a crime scene. He and Mary and Watson and Holmes, the four of them are a family, were a family, but Lestrade needs to do something that's just for him and Watson.

He exits the cab, and it's impossible, but Baker street looks emptier from the sidewalk than it did months, weeks prior. He closes his eyes and steels himself, thankfully not something too difficult for a copper, and then he presses forward. His steps on the stair are automatically loud, forced habit, and he pauses halfway when he realizes he's been stomping needlessly. His grip tightens around the rail, and he takes a breath before he forges on.

Come on, Lestrade. You can't be in pieces when you see him.

At the landing, he knocks, all too painfully aware that this time it's genuinely politeness. It's been a while since he felt the undercurrent of the embarrassment from how he discovered Holmes and Watson just this way the first time around; it had become just amusement, just a small joke that he'd make his presence so well-known on the stair. He clenches his jaw.

"Watson?" he calls out. "Mrs. Hudson said you were in."

Comments

[lightconductor]

Watson had been endeavouring to pack up a few of Holmes's things to send to his brother, though at just that moment he had been lost in thought, remembering. He hated being in this position, hated having to clear up after a dead man, hated that he hadn't any idea of what to do with himself. The funeral -- more a memorial, without a body, really -- had been unbearable. But then, he supposed most widowed spouses felt like that. He wasn't far off.

Always. If he had belonged to Holmes, then perhaps Holmes had taken that part of him with him to the grave.

And it was strange, now, to be in Baker Street. He hadn't yet worked out if he ought to leave, even if he could afford to stay.

Hearing Lestrade's voice, Watson wiped hastily at his face to hide any hint of tears. Replacing what he held in the box in front of him, he rose from where he was kneeling on the ground. "Yes, come in," he said, clearing his throat.

[theyarder]

He opens the door and shuts it behind him, and his eyes sweep over the room, unable to settle on the good doctor in his grief. Not when Holmes's things are laid out, clearly in the process of being shipped away, and something unexpected tears open inside him. He takes a breath and lets it out, stepping into the room, and he gives Watson a smile that doesn't seem forced. He is a copper. Tragedy isn't new to him. It just generally isn't so personal.

"Thought I'd drop by to say hello. Hope I'm not interrupting," he says, and he gestures to the boxes, only belatedly realizing he probably shouldn't.

Oh God, but Watson looks miserable. Small and broken and miserable.

[lightconductor]

"Oh, no. No, not at all." He wanted to be interrupted, in this task if any. He was glad to see Lestrade, ridiculously glad, because it was at least one person in the world who knew at least something of the depth of Watson's grief, and the reason why. "Come in, please. Sit down."

He couldn't seem to look at Lestrade, but he cleared a few things away and then moved to the sideboard to fetch some brandy. "Can I get you a drink?" Watson offered. "I could... well, frankly, I could use one myself."

[theyarder]

"I was hoping you'd ask so I wouldn't have to be the impolite one and suggest it." He makes his way over and sits, and he really oughtn't pry, but he finds himself peering into the boxes. It's a jumble, and Watson's done an admirable job of making it look sensible. He has a sudden, horrible thought that when Holmes's things are gone -- when the stacks of newspapers and piles of notes and chemical equipment are all gone -- this place will hardly be lived in at all. He sweeps his eyes over Baker street, but it's all majority Holmes; like everything he touches, he sweeps over everything, overwhelms everything, and there's hardly any room for anyone else, besides.

He clears his throat and runs his hand over his hair, and down over his face. It's been a long day. He just needs some brandy, and he'll be better at handling this.

"Do you need any help with this?" he asks, bringing back some of that brisk police tone to his voice.

[lightconductor]

Watson looked from the brandy to the mess in the room. Help would have been appreciated, but he didn't trust himself not to completely break down during the process. He already had, several times. He wasn't sure he wanted a witness to that.

"You needn't," he said, uncertainly. He brought the glasses over, handing one to Lestrade before sitting down opposite. "It's mostly... it must be sorted through, what will stay here, what I shall give to his brother."

He took a sip of his brandy. On the face of it, Mycroft Holmes had every right to demand all of it, as he was the only one with any legal connection to Sherlock Holmes. Bless the man, even if he was far too busy to take care of this part of it.

[theyarder]

He nods and sips his brandy and tries not to think about what this place will look like when Holmes has been scrubbed out of it. Conversation like this isn't his forte, not really, and he glances at Watson, taking him in.

"How are you doing?" he asks, cutting right down to the quick of it. Sure, they could dance around, act like they're fine, but he isn't, and if he isn't, then Watson sure as hell isn't. And if there's anyone he can be honest with... Well, Lestrade likes to think that person is him, now. He hopes he's right.

[lightconductor]

His initial inclination was to claim to feel just fine, but that was a lie, and Lestrade was a friend, and he deserved better. Watson swirled the brandy in his glass, looking at it, and pointedly not at Lestrade.

"I've done better," he admitted at last, with a long sigh. "I think one of the hardest things is that I'm not allowed to grieve as... as I would were I... well, a recognised spouse, I suppose." He sighed, shook his head. "I'm... not sure what I'm to do with myself, now."

[theyarder]

Oh, but it grieves him to see Watson hurting. It's hitting him rather unexpectedly how much he misses Holmes, yes, but how much he grieves for Watson, too. That he cannot grieve as he'd like to. That the world as he knew it has been torn out from under him. He swallows these thoughts down with a sip of brandy and tries to stay practical.

"Well, this is a good start," he points out, after a long sigh of his own. He nods around at Holmes's things. "Keeping busy. Being productive. Have you considered a job? I could see what I could do for you, if you'd like to work at a hospital, or at the Yard." He stops himself from babbling with another sip of brandy.

[lightconductor]

"I've thought about buying myself a practice, actually." Watson sighed a little, shutting his eyes. He was trying desperately to ignore the small voice in his head that was pointing out that it would seem very boring, after the army and after Holmes. "Holmes left me... well, he left me some money. What would seem appropriate, I suppose. It's enough to set myself up with something fairly decent, if I wish."

He glanced around, saw Holmes everywhere, wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse. "Not until I'm done here, I suppose."

[theyarder]

"Will you be moving out?" he asks, more gently. Watson doesn't seem very excited about the prospect of his own practice, though Lestrade can't help but think he'd be good at it. He's got a way with people, and maybe talking to people would be good for him, keep him away from the inevitable silence that will dominate wherever he chooses to live. He can't imagine him getting another flatmate.

[lightconductor]

"I... I haven't decided yet." Watson looked faintly ashamed at this. "This is my home, and has been almost since I came back to London, but... well, honestly, if I don't manage at least a decently successful practice, I don't see how I should manage to afford the rent alone, at least not indefinitely. Mrs. Hudson has expressed a desire to see me stay, at least, even alone."

He rubbed his forehead. "I don't want to leave," he said, surprising himself a little that that was the truth. Even with all the memories, that was still true."

[theyarder]

"Perhaps something can be arranged," he offers, trying to infuse some hope into this situation. "If she doesn't want you to leave, and you don't want to leave, surely something could be worked out." He laughs softly and raises his brandy to his lips, taking a quick drink.

"You could take a couple meals out of the week with us. Knock a little off the rent that way, maybe. Sometimes the Yard keeps me late, you know, and Mary could use the company. The help too, probably. Robert adores you." He smiles, for every word of what he just said is true, except the part where he would like to see more of Watson, too, where he could use his company too because he works more late nights without Sherlock Holmes.

[lightconductor]

"I... I would appreciate that," Watson said, more touched than he would have thought possible. He even smiled a little. "I would enjoy it. As long as I'm not putting you out by that."

For the first time since returning to England, he felt a little less alone. He hoped -- suspected, really -- that the offer was genuine, but he had dearly needed the reminder that he did still have friends in the world, and Holmes's godchild, too. It had been a good thing he hadn't thrown himself over the cliff, after all. He just had to find new things to live for.

Bloody hell, he hoped he wasn't supposed to interpret this as divine judgement.

[theyarder]

"Not in the least," he says earnestly, and he means it too. "It would be our pleasure to have you over. It always is a pleasure, already." It cheers him to see that this has gotten through to Watson, and he very much hopes that he will take the offer. It isn't good for him to be alone, and he's right about not many other people understanding his grief, so it seems natural, logical that he spend recovery time over where he will be understood.

"Hey, how is -- ah -- Mycroft Holmes doing?" Admittedly, he stumbles over referring to Holmes aloud, even as a 'his.' And calling him 'Mr. Holmes' would only make the words choke in his throat. He lifts his drink to his lips and finishes it off. "Do you see much of him?"

[lightconductor]

Watson's smile faded, as he tried to think how to answer that question. "I see him little," he admitted. "He... he did know of Holmes and I, and he seemed to approve and accept it, miraculously, but... well, he is not an effusive or demonstrative person. I find him difficult to read at any time. I can only presume he grieves."

He turned his glass in his hands, rather thoughtfully. "He has been sympathetic," he said. "I don't ask more of him than that."

[theyarder]

"Well, that's something at least. Good, too, that he understands." He drags back his memories of the memorial service, which had been lovely and rather well attended in his opinion, and this Holmes brother that seemed so at odds with the brother he knew. After a conversation with him, though, it became clear they were relatives.

"Bit of an odd one, that fellow. We spoke a bit the other day. Told me I'd find a better breakfast at a place down the street than the one Mary and I had gone to that day, and asked after Robert." Actually, it had been a bit painful to see someone so similar to Holmes throwing information like that in his face. He rubs his hand over his beard and shakes his head. "Didn't even bother to ask how he'd known it. I'd gotten so used to that kind of thing."

[lightconductor]

"Holmes maintained his brother was smarter than him, actually. As astonishing a thing that is to believe."

Watson took a long sip of brandy, trying to center himself, trying to straighten his thoughts out into something coherent. "Did you realise Holmes's parents were at the service? I never spoke to them, not properly. I gather they and Holmes did not part on good terms, and Mycroft never let them near me for any length of time. I suspect I should be thankful for that."

It was almost a relief to speak of this aloud, to his surprise. Watson was glad of it.

[theyarder]

Lestrade looks up, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. There had been a lot of people there, and he tries now to sort out who might've been likely parents. It shouldn't be as difficult as it is, which only confirms the idea that they weren't very close to their son, at the end.

"Really? Huh. Of course he must have some, but I never really thought about Holmes having parents. It almost seems more likely that he just sprang into being, fully-formed." He smiles at the thought, and he hopes he isn't starting to step into unwelcome territory here. But God, he misses Holmes. This is why he's here; to reminisce about the friend he and Watson lost, the evenings they spent sitting here drinking and smoking and talking.

[lightconductor]

Watson gave a small laugh - a very small one, but a laugh all the same. "I used to think the same thing, to be honest. I think it took meeting his brother to convince me otherwise."

Talking like this... well, it was painful, it made him positively ache in a physical way, but it was also almost a relief, too. Bless Guy Lestrade for it, for thinking of him.

"I think sometimes I still wasn't convinced."

[theyarder]

"Talking with Mycroft does a good deal to convince me. Holmes actually said he was smarter?" He lets out a puff of air and stands, a little restless in this frank discussion. It's good to talk about Holmes, it is, and he has done with Mary, but it's not easy, not yet.

"I'm glad he didn't decide to go into the consulting detective business," he comments wryly, and he drifts over to the mantlepiece where the penknife still rests. Reaching out, he traces his fingers over the handle.

"Though we could use a Holmes," he adds a little more subdued, and he purses his lips. "He... Well, he can't be replaced, can he? Oddest fellow I've ever met." He stops before his voice wavers.

[lightconductor]

"Smarter," Watson said, leaning back, "but without the will to extend energy running about needlessly."

He watched Lestrade toy with the penknife, not sure what he thought of seeing him handle something that was so quintessentially Holmes. It wasn't anger, it wasn't jealousy, it was just... odd. He'd considered leaving the knife there, as a sort of monument, a memorial, but at the same time wasn't sure he could stand to see it on a regular basis.

"He was... entirely unique." His voice was haggard, small. "I don't always know what I'm going to do without him."

[theyarder]

Lestrade is lucky, of course. He has Mary, he has Robert; he's tried to imagine losing Mary, how he might be able to manage. He would, of course. He'd pull himself up by his bootstraps and get through the day. But it wouldn't be much more than skin-deep, and just the thought leaves him aching.

But he does miss Holmes. He'd counted himself blessed, once or twice, to have known him, and he'd enjoyed this friendship, the fact that neither Holmes nor Watson had to lie about anything. Everything had been frank, had been on the table, and that's the way Lestrade likes to live his life. Somehow, Holmes had become one of his best friends.

He traces his fingers around the penknife, unwilling to dislodge it, but unable to stop touching it; he can't sit idly and talk about these things.

"I miss him, Watson. There's been a case or two on my desk, and I think... 'What would Holmes say about this?' But I can't ask him anymore, can I?" He has to stop to clear his throat, and he shakes his head, lets his hand drop. "Forgive me. I'm rambling on..." He clears his throat again, but doesn't quiet manage to even out his voice.

[lightconductor]

Watson tried to think of some way to tell Lestrade that it was fine for him to ramble, it was fine, if they could not ramble at each other then what was there for them to do.

"I've had the same thought every time I read the morning paper," he confessed. "I think, look at this one, he would have loved it." He shook his head. More than once he had caught himself about to read the article aloud for Holmes's benefit.

"Would you... like to keep that knife?" he found himself offering. "As... as some sort of keepsake. If you'd like."

[theyarder]

He looks up, surprised, and then at the knife again. It's so Holmes, the way it sits there, and he can see the indentations from where he's stabbed it into the mantle before. It's silly, sentimental; he isn't a sentimental man, not really, and he isn't silly either, but there are things that can make a man into something he's not, if only for a little while. Grief's one of them.

"I... yes, yes I would," he says thickly, and he curls his hand around the handle, holding it for a moment, before he dislodges it. He closes it gently and runs his thumb over it again before he slips it into his pocket. "Thank you." He offers a thin smile and composes himself a bit as he makes his way to his seat again.

"Did he, ah... That is, do you have anything -- ? He left a letter, right?"

[lightconductor]

There was something almost liberating in making that small gift. It was a little thing, nothing at all to give Lestrade a knife, but it seemed to mean something to him, and that... that was a valuable thing.

"He did." Watson touched his breast pocket, his face clouding a little. "I really must stop carrying it about with me, I suppose. I will ruin it that way..."

He removed the letter, unfolded it, glanced over it. "It isn't much," Watson admitted. "He couldn't exactly have been... well, sentimental, or private. But it's something. Did you... did you want to see it?"

[theyarder]

He's a little startled by the offer, and he almost considers saying no because that seems so private, even if Holmes really couldn't be very private in it at all. But then if Watson's offering, he really shouldn't turn it down, and it's better if they share this, if they can. So he leans forward and takes it in hand, holding it carefully.

The last thing Holmes ever wrote down.

Fatherhood must be making him this ridiculously sentimental.

He skims the letter and then reads it again, a little more slowly. What ridiculous nonsense is his first thought. No ending could be more congenial than this? Walking to his death? About to be tipped over a cliff? He would say such a thing, but then he reminds himself that it isn't as if Holmes could pour himself wholeheartedly into this thing. He hands it back to Watson and leans back in his seat, pensive.

"I don't envy having to write that letter," he says finally. "How do you even begin to -- to say goodbye if you can't do it plainly?"

[lightconductor]

Watson laid the letter on a nearby table. "It was the best he could have done, in the circumstances," he said. "I'm thankful for what there is. There was a... conversation we had, the night before. He made reference to it."

Always. Watson ran his fingers over the words on the paper, sighing. "I'm not sure what I would have managed to write, were our positions reversed."

In retrospect, he wondered if the 'conversation' they had had the night before had been a goodbye, if Holmes had somehow knew... if that were true, Watson would likely never know the answer.

[theyarder]

He pursues that thought briefly, entertains what it might be like to sit in front of Sherlock Holmes after John Watson disappeared over the edge of a cliff. The man seems cold on the outside, but there's an emotional depth hidden underneath that one doesn't really expect to find there. ...Seemed. He seemed cold.

Lestrade runs his hand over his face and sits forward, leaning on his knees.

"Do you remember that time when I asked if Holmes would be the right sort of chap for you? Because it didn't seem like he could be?" He waits for Watson's nod before he presses on, his eyes fixed on the toe of Watson's shoe. "Well, I take it all back. Holmes loved you more than I've seen a person love someone. You, and me, and Mary excepting."

[lightconductor]

Watson's expression softened a little. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I appreciate that. I realise he wasn't... he wasn't exactly the most open book, but..." He shook his head. "I wouldn't have had him any other way."

It was too easy to fall into regret, to wish he had not been so reluctant about their affair in the first place, to wish he hadn't abandoned him like he did, to wish he had never had all those secret fears and condemnations that Holmes was somehow corrupting him. It was better not to think of that, far better.

"I'm not sorry," he said, smiling a little, "for the trick we played on you and Mary."

[theyarder]

"Nor am I," he says with a laugh. "Lord, if you two hadn't played that trick, where would I be now, eh?" He smiles at Watson, warm and playful, and points an accusing finger. "My wife might just have carried on being infatuated with you, you heartbreaker, and I would've kept stumbling along, telling myself a wife'll drop out of the sky when the time comes for it."

He doesn't hold any real jealousy, and he and Mary tease each other about it occasionally.

[lightconductor]

"It was our pleasure," Watson said, his smile a little broader. It was far better to focus on the good memories.

He rose suddenly. "Did you want more brandy?" he asked, going to pour himself another glass. "We should have... we should have a toast," he said, rather desperately. "To Holmes, and what he was, and who he was, and what he accomplished."

His voice broke a little, but his smile was stubborn, if somewhat strained.

[theyarder]

He stands with his glass and brings it over to Watson. Watson could ask anything of him, probably, and Lestrade would give it to him if he sounded so lost when he asked for it.

"An excellent idea." He lays a hand on Watson's arm and squeezes, and he offers him a smile that's not quite so strained, like a life raft. "Even if it pains me a little to contribute to his ego." He smiles faintly, teasing, even if that was more of a joke he had with Holmes himself.

He holds up his refilled glass and braces himself.

"To Sherlock Holmes. The only friend I've ever had who insulted me to say hello." His smile that starts out well-contained cracks in the middle.

[lightconductor]

Watson laughed, a bittersweet sort of sound. "To Sherlock Holmes," he said. "Friend, and ally, and... and... and husband." It felt strange to say so aloud, to say so in front of anyone, in front of Lestrade. He flushed a little. "For lack of a better term. A genuinely unique and unexpected man."

He took a long swig of brandy, looking around the room, seeing Holmes everywhere. It seemed a little less crushing, now.

"I don't suppose," Watson said quietly, and without a lot of hope, "that you might ever have need of a police surgeon at the Yard? When I'm not working this practice I plan on getting, of course." It would be good to still be involved in detective work, even in such a small way.

[theyarder]

He looks around at calling Holmes husband, but then is there a better term, as Watson says? He has no scruples about them calling each other that if that's what they want; they lived like it enough, loved enough, so why not? Maybe that's blasphemous of him, but he's got his thoughts about God and justice, and he'll just have to take it up with St. Peter when he gets there.

He takes a long drink as well, letting it warm him, and he looks up from studying the drink in his glass at Watson's soft tone. His smile grows slowly, and he squeezes Watson's arm again.

"You'll be the first one I call," he promises, and it's true, too. "I can get the paperwork set up."

[lightconductor]

"Thank you," Watson said, his voice soft again. "I would appreciate that, a good deal. A practice takes some time to build, at any rate, so if I can stay busy in the meantime... I suspect it would be good for me."

There was a relief in that, in being accepted, in being welcomed, in having some sort of purpose to his life besides packing up the odds and ends of someone else's death.

"Thank you, also, for coming to see me today. I think I needed it."

[theyarder]

"Honestly? So did I." He smiles thinly and takes another swallow before he sets his glass down and sighs. "If you don't mind, I'd better be headed back, though. You are invited over, you know. Whenever you'd like."

He considers Watson a moment, and then pulls him into a hug before Watson can protest or make Lestrade doubt himself. It's a firm hug, and he pats Watson's back as he draws away again; he has to clear his throat before he speaks.

"I'll let you know about the Yard, first thing. Good evening."

[lightconductor]

Surprised by the hug, to say the least, Watson smiled, warmly and genuinely, relieved to be able to count Lestrade among his friends that day. He hadn't expected the hug, didn't think Lestrade had expected it either, but he was very grateful for it.

"Good evening, Guy," he said. "I'm glad to know you."

[theyarder]

"And I you, John," he says, and he gives a brusque nod, rallying himself together again. "It is an honor." He starts for the door and heads out again, and though he's emotional, he does feel a tiny bit lighter for having visited him. He'll be glad to go home, at any rate, and hold Mary and his son and be grateful to have known Sherlock Holmes.

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