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localfreakTitle: Going Home
Fandom: BBC!Sherlock
Ship: Gen
Summary: How Lestrade heard the news of Sherlock's death (spoilers for S2 E3- RBF) - a reaction fic
Disclaimer: Don't make any money on them, totally not mine just stealing them to try and wake my brain up by scribbling ficlets.
Lestrade was in his office when the call came.
He was sulking; he almost didn’t answer it.
His team were giving him a wide berth as they milled around waiting for the call to come in that Sherlock and John had been found, sighted, and brought in for questioning. Lestrade couldn’t fault John for punching his superior; Lord knows he’d wanted to do it before to the man-although an official complaint would’ve been more satisfying in the long run, when they’d cleared John and Sherlock.
Lestrade knew they would, of course- he’d known Sherlock for years all this fraud stuff with Richard Brook- well, it was weird. It smelt wrong and the papers were never that believable to start with.
He locked himself away from the team lest he say something he regrets. It’s procedure, that’s all and he knows it- knows that Donovan is protecting herself and Anderson and everyone else by going over his head to make sure it is followed.
She’s clever, ambitious and isn’t going to let Lestrade’s feelings get in the way when she feels she’s in the right about something. She’d never liked Sherlock anyway. When this is all over, he knew, they’d go to the pub have a few drinks and, whilst he won’t forget, or fully forgive, he will put it aside. It would all be over and they’d be a team again, because that’s what happens when you work with people- sometimes they fuck you over or betray you to the bosses for whatever reason and then you still have to keep going into work and facing them day after day, so it’s easier to just push things to a corner of your mind and get on with them.
Then he answered the call and someone on the other line, somewhere, told him that Sherlock was dead.
“No,” he’d replied. It was impossible; Sherlock couldn’t be dead because he was arsing around with John playing the fugitive, thumbing his nose at Lestrade, wasting police time and resources because the procedures were so tedious and boring and wrong-headed; because they were made for mortals not Holmes’.
He put the phone down and looked at his desk, the array of paperwork, the twelve biros half hidden under a different pile because he was always putting one down and then burying it under something. He had a half cup of coffee, still relatively lukewarm, but his stomach hurt.
“Fuck.” Lestrade’s own voice sounded distant to his ears. He needed to go. To Barts. Home. Anywhere not here.
Something must have shown in his face as he gathered up his coat and opened the door. Every move felt like he was watching it on a tv screen-some sort of art film where every gesture is slow and ultra-precise.
“Sir?” Anderson looked up at him questioningly.
He turned his back and began to walk off but then Donovan came running after him.
“Sir! I’ve just had this note through- wiping the arrest warrant on John Watson, but not on Holmes. They’ve caught him then?”
Lestrade turned back to her, it was like he couldn’t even see her; she was nothing, just a blur of a face he can’t look at, can’t forgive.
“They know where he is.”
“Should we bring him in?” she’s unsure how to ask him about this, hiding it behind blunt professionalism.
Lestrade closed his eyes. Breathed. “Not much point. He topped himself about half an hour ago.”
“What?”
“He’s fucking-“ (Losing it, Lestrade, he told himself- Not here.) “He’s dead. Okay. He’s dead. Killed himself. I’m-“
“Sir-“ she didn’t know what to say. Any other time he’d want to record the moment for posterity- gobby, sarcastic, Donovan- speechless- it’d be a great joke. Instead he turned his back.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m taking back some lieu time, Sally. I’ll log it later. I’m not needed here.”
“Lestrade…”
She put a hand on his arm and it was the biggest mistake he’d ever known her to make. He couldn’t help but turn on her, shake off her touch like it was poison.
“Look. I know you hated him. That’s fine. Whatever. But he’s fucking killed himself and-I cannot be civil right now. So I’m going home. When I’m back in work everything will be fine but I’ve known that kid for years and he’s done something incredibly stupid and- and- fuck! Forget it. I’m just going home.”
He cut himself off marched out of the building and to the tube station without looking back. Between Donovan making a fool of him over the investigation (and yes, his rational mind knows it’s not her fault, understandable, doing what she thought was best- but it doesn’t help when all he can think of is that Sherlock is Dead and he can’t be dead, because Sherlock and Suicide are just incompatible thoughts- except when they’re not because drugs, overdose, self-destructive behaviours) he doesn’t need to make any more of a fool of himself at the Yard.
He flashes his oyster card at the terminal and holds his poker face until he can let himself into his flat and then- only then- can he allow himself to crumple.
Fandom: BBC!Sherlock
Ship: Gen
Summary: How Lestrade heard the news of Sherlock's death (spoilers for S2 E3- RBF) - a reaction fic
Disclaimer: Don't make any money on them, totally not mine just stealing them to try and wake my brain up by scribbling ficlets.
Lestrade was in his office when the call came.
He was sulking; he almost didn’t answer it.
His team were giving him a wide berth as they milled around waiting for the call to come in that Sherlock and John had been found, sighted, and brought in for questioning. Lestrade couldn’t fault John for punching his superior; Lord knows he’d wanted to do it before to the man-although an official complaint would’ve been more satisfying in the long run, when they’d cleared John and Sherlock.
Lestrade knew they would, of course- he’d known Sherlock for years all this fraud stuff with Richard Brook- well, it was weird. It smelt wrong and the papers were never that believable to start with.
He locked himself away from the team lest he say something he regrets. It’s procedure, that’s all and he knows it- knows that Donovan is protecting herself and Anderson and everyone else by going over his head to make sure it is followed.
She’s clever, ambitious and isn’t going to let Lestrade’s feelings get in the way when she feels she’s in the right about something. She’d never liked Sherlock anyway. When this is all over, he knew, they’d go to the pub have a few drinks and, whilst he won’t forget, or fully forgive, he will put it aside. It would all be over and they’d be a team again, because that’s what happens when you work with people- sometimes they fuck you over or betray you to the bosses for whatever reason and then you still have to keep going into work and facing them day after day, so it’s easier to just push things to a corner of your mind and get on with them.
Then he answered the call and someone on the other line, somewhere, told him that Sherlock was dead.
“No,” he’d replied. It was impossible; Sherlock couldn’t be dead because he was arsing around with John playing the fugitive, thumbing his nose at Lestrade, wasting police time and resources because the procedures were so tedious and boring and wrong-headed; because they were made for mortals not Holmes’.
He put the phone down and looked at his desk, the array of paperwork, the twelve biros half hidden under a different pile because he was always putting one down and then burying it under something. He had a half cup of coffee, still relatively lukewarm, but his stomach hurt.
“Fuck.” Lestrade’s own voice sounded distant to his ears. He needed to go. To Barts. Home. Anywhere not here.
Something must have shown in his face as he gathered up his coat and opened the door. Every move felt like he was watching it on a tv screen-some sort of art film where every gesture is slow and ultra-precise.
“Sir?” Anderson looked up at him questioningly.
He turned his back and began to walk off but then Donovan came running after him.
“Sir! I’ve just had this note through- wiping the arrest warrant on John Watson, but not on Holmes. They’ve caught him then?”
Lestrade turned back to her, it was like he couldn’t even see her; she was nothing, just a blur of a face he can’t look at, can’t forgive.
“They know where he is.”
“Should we bring him in?” she’s unsure how to ask him about this, hiding it behind blunt professionalism.
Lestrade closed his eyes. Breathed. “Not much point. He topped himself about half an hour ago.”
“What?”
“He’s fucking-“ (Losing it, Lestrade, he told himself- Not here.) “He’s dead. Okay. He’s dead. Killed himself. I’m-“
“Sir-“ she didn’t know what to say. Any other time he’d want to record the moment for posterity- gobby, sarcastic, Donovan- speechless- it’d be a great joke. Instead he turned his back.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m taking back some lieu time, Sally. I’ll log it later. I’m not needed here.”
“Lestrade…”
She put a hand on his arm and it was the biggest mistake he’d ever known her to make. He couldn’t help but turn on her, shake off her touch like it was poison.
“Look. I know you hated him. That’s fine. Whatever. But he’s fucking killed himself and-I cannot be civil right now. So I’m going home. When I’m back in work everything will be fine but I’ve known that kid for years and he’s done something incredibly stupid and- and- fuck! Forget it. I’m just going home.”
He cut himself off marched out of the building and to the tube station without looking back. Between Donovan making a fool of him over the investigation (and yes, his rational mind knows it’s not her fault, understandable, doing what she thought was best- but it doesn’t help when all he can think of is that Sherlock is Dead and he can’t be dead, because Sherlock and Suicide are just incompatible thoughts- except when they’re not because drugs, overdose, self-destructive behaviours) he doesn’t need to make any more of a fool of himself at the Yard.
He flashes his oyster card at the terminal and holds his poker face until he can let himself into his flat and then- only then- can he allow himself to crumple.
