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.
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Date: 2012-01-24 12:32 am (UTC)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.