theyarder | 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."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

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.

From:

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."

From:

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.

From:

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."

From:

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?"

From:

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?"

From:

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?"

From:

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.

From:

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."

From:

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."

From:

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.

From:

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.

From:

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.

From:

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.

From:

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."

From:

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."

From:

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."

From:

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."

From:

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.