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A shadow passed, a shadow passed
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."
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."
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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."
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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."
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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."
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"Good evening, Guy," he said. "I'm glad to know you."
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