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The last time Lestrade had gotten a such a frantic call was the evening when Sherlock was shot in the chest in Charles August Magnussen’s office, shooter unknown. That day he drove like a maniac in the middle of the night to the St. Mary hospital and sat in silence next to a suffering John Watson for over five hours. When the doctor came out of the operation room to announce that the patient’s heart was no longer beating, his heart stopped for a few agonizing seconds too. Greg couldn’t even remember John’s reaction, he only heard a soft, whispered no‘. Then someone shouted for the doctor from the hall, and she ran back, looking shocked.
That’s when he knew that the bastard had done it again. Survived the non-survivable, first too many drugs, then that encounter with the cabby posing as a serial murderer, then the pool and then the roof of St. Bart’s. John had hidden is face in his hands, his shoulders shaking, swearing. When he had calmed down a bit, pale as a sheet, hand not shaking, he said to Lestrade that he would destroy the person who did this. He promised the soldier, who never looked more terrifying than at this moment, to not stop him.
For these hours in the waiting room the two men were as close as never before, in their shared waiting for good news. The night never seemed to end, but Sherlock survived. Another miracle. Greg drove home in the early morning, thinking that he understood John Watson now a little better.
That was nearly one year ago. A lot had happened since then. Sherlock had to go through months of rehab after his still unexplained run from the hospital, and it took him months to fully recover. He had heard from Mrs Hudson that John and Sherlock would celebrate Christmas at Sherlock’s parents in the countryside, together with the now heavily pregnant Mary. She and John apparently had a huge fight after Sherlock was shot, and the detective wanted to reconcile the two.
Lestrade never thought he would see that the day that he wished that Sherlock Holmes would be a bit more selfish and less considerate. The detective clearly loved John Watson, everyone, and he means everyone, could see it. Apart from the clueless doctor of course. Sherlock always looked at him with so much adoration in his eyes, he laughed so openly with him, his body language relaxed, his hands calm. Sherlock Holmes was hopelessly in love, had been for years, but the man was married. John would never go back to him anyway, now that his wife was expecting the baby. The whole thing was a complete mess, and Lestrade had no idea how to fix it.
Mycroft had tried to call him half an hour ago, but no message was delivered. That’s why Greg was now walking through his enormous mansion. It was the first time here, and he had some problems with the security at the door, but now he was finally here and searching for Mycroft’s office. God knows why the man needed his workplace at his home!
He had only met the politician twice before, the first time when he brought a twenty something Sherlock to a hospital to detox and the second time when at Sherlock’s fake funeral (that bastard). The older brother always seemed to creep him out and John’s horror stories about him certainly didn’t help. Nevertheless, they were all members of the Sherlock Holmes support group and so always connected.
The detective inspector was following a long corridor, hoping that the large, heavy-looking door would be his final destination. Of course the polite thing would have been to meet Greg at the house door, but after all the Holmes were never a polite family. He pushes the door open and
falls over a body.
At first, he thinks he has somehow hurt his hands when he fell down, because they were full of blood. Then he slowly realizes that it wasn’t his blood, and the body under him was not moving. He slowly crawls to his knees, not quite believing what his eyes see.
Mycroft Holmes was lying on the plush red carpet in his private office, eyes open, unseeing. A red line of blood was still flowing from a dark hole in his forehead. Lestrade stares at the wound. It was a clear head shot, like an execution where the murderer wanted to look in his victim’s eyes before they killed him.
How. How did this happen? Mycroft is untouchable, cold like ice, always in control. He couldn’t understand it.
Lestrade was standing up, his knees shaking. He was able to hear voices from the next room. One of them sounded like John’s. Was he confronting Mycroft’s murderer? Where was Sherlock? He had to help his friends. Fortunately he brought his gun with him. He cocked the trigger and moved the door, slowly pushing it open.
The first thing he sees is a no longer pregnant Mary, standing in the right corner of the small room, a gun in her hand, pointed at Sherlock. Mary. Blond, smiling, once pregnant Mary. The world was really starting to make him crazy today.
John was standing a few steps away from Sherlock, unarmed. He and Mary looked like they were in a heated discussion.
“Detective Inspector. How nice of you to join us.“ Mary was nodding him, while John only spared him a short glance, his expression troubled. Sherlock was staring at his feet, his face more pale than ever. Lestrade could see a few beads of sweat on his forehead.
“What is going on here?“ He tries to sound as confident as possible, but his voice betrays him. Shit, what the hell was going on, why is Mary suddenly a killer and why was John looking so weird?
“Lestrade, if you would be so kind to stop pointing your gun at me? Do it, or I will stop our favourite detective. Believe me, I will be faster than you.“
Greg swallowed, his eyes flickering over to John and Sherlock, who still haven’t moved. Mary cocked her gun.
“Drop your gun and kick it over to me.“
He does what she tells him, not wanting to anger her further. Mary nods satisfied at him and then turns back to her husband.
“Now, John, where were we before he interrupted us?“
John stared at her: “I believe you were telling me about your great escape plan and why I should join you.“ The doctor was speaking in a calm tone, like he was seriously contemplating this idea.
Mary smiled.
“I know I have hurt you in the past when I didn’t tell you about the pregnancy. But if you come with me, we can try again! I can become truly pregnant this time, and we can finally be a happy family without all the burden of our old lives!“
The room was silent for a moment, then Sherlock spoke up. Finally!
“John, please. She is lying to you, she has some plan, she won’t be faithful to you. We don’t know what she will force you to do.“
John interrupts the detective’s pleading: “Shut up Sherlock!“ He sounded so angry, even Mary looked impressed for a moment. His eyes were glaring at Sherlock, and he smirked in a terrifying way. Sherlock shrank a step back.
“When you jumped from that roof, you destroyed me. You did worse to me than Afghanistan ever could. I was more depressed than after I came back from the army, I was suicidal, I was done with London, with my life, with the world, and all because of you! Then I met the most beautiful and clever woman on this planet, and suddenly I was fine again, I was happy, more happy than ever before. You sabotaged my proposal, then you made our wedding about yourself and your bloody cases! You kept me away from my loving wife, so much that the stress caused her to lose my child! It’s your fault that our marriage is in shambles and that our child is DEAD!“
Sherlock was crying now, tears were running down his face. The once so proud man dropped to his knees and folded his hands into a prayer. Lestrade stood by, watching helplessly. What was John doing and why was no one coming to fix all of this!
“John. John, please. I am so, so sorry. I will always be sorry, for the rest of my life. I am sorry I ruined you, I am sorry I jumped, I am sorry for all the hurt that I have caused you.“
Sherlock was growing frantic. His fingers were wrinkled together. Mycroft should have barged in and fixed this massacre but Mycroft was dead. Mary had killed him, and she also apparently was the shooter who nearly killed Sherlock and John was some stranger, someone Lestrade doesn’t recognize.
“Just please, John. Don’t go with her. She was working with Moriarty, she has too many enemies who are hunting her. If you go with her you will die! I won’t ever contact you again, I will disappear from your life, but please, stay in London!“
John had moved closer to Sherlock during his speech and was directly in front of him.
“You won’t ever tell me again what to do. You have ruined enough. Meeting you was the worst thing that ever happened to me.“
John’s voice sounded dead now. He regarded Sherlock with so much hate in his eyes that it made Lestrade shiver.
“John, think about what you are doing!“
The doctor ignored him and turned back to his wife, who had tears of joy in his eyes. She looked like she couldn’t believe her luck. Sherlock meanwhile was sobbing, curled into himself on the carpet like he was trying to shield himself from the brutal blow that were John Watson’s words.
“Prove it.“ John and Lestrade stared at Mary, the sound of Sherlock’s tears like daggers in Lestrade’s heart. He thought back to that night in the hospital, when John was crying, sitting in that unforgiving cold hospital chair, believing his best friend had just died. Had it all been a show?
“Prove how much you love me. That you won’t leave me again. Prove your love to me and I will trust you again.“ John looked confused for a second, then regained the posture of the soldier.
It all happened very fast.
John grabbed Sherlock, who was still lying on the ground. He sat on top of the thin detective, who barely struggled. His hands moved to the neck, forced Sherlock’s head back — Lestrade could see the empty look in his eyes, like his whole world had just ended in front of him — and then John, with a fast move of his hands, snapped Sherlock’s neck.
The sound was loud and nauseating, worse than a gunshot, and Sherlock’s boneless body collapsed to the ground, like his brother did. Lestrade could only hear the roar in his ears, but his lips were moving, he was screaming.
“WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE?“
John didn’t even spare him a glance, just stood up. He looked at Sherlock’s corpse like he was just another job done. Lestrade couldn’t think of a more cruel act. It was impossible to control the anger that was bursting out of him.
“I will hunt you both. You won’t be safe, wherever you go. I will find you.“ Yes, he would. After all, he made a promise in that hospital waiting room. He would hurt the person who hurt Sherlock. Mycroft wasn't there anymore, so it was his job.
Oh god, Sherlock. The brawny kid he had met when the detective was just 22, high on drugs, living on the streets. Always thin, always pale, the ridiculous curls much shorter than but with the same hungry look in his eyes. He brought him to hospital, then visited him in rehab, then gave him the first case files. They had become acquaintances, then colleagues, then friends. He was one of the three people that Sherlock had sacrificed two years of his life for. The moment John limped into their life was the start of Sherlock progressing into a better person, a good man.
He did not even struggle. Sherlock had just accepted his death, like a sentence he pleaded guilty of. He had trusted his best friend not to hurt him till the bitter end. How dare John Watson destroy something so beautiful.
John and Mary were in a long embrace now. She was still holding her gun, but had the appearance of a small child that was celebrating Christmas and her birthday on the very same day.
"Oh John. I can't believe you really did that for me! After all the things that I have done for you, you finally paid me back."
John gave her a short kiss and smiled at her. Then his hand went inside his coat, found something and stabbed a needle into Mary's neck. Her sufficient grin was gone, replaced by pure shock.
"You have never done anything for me."
Holy shit.
The world was still for a moment, again. Lestrade stared at John, open-mouthed. The soldier was heavily breathing, then hurrying to the dead detective. He dropped down to his knees and rolled Sherlock’s body on his back. Greg was searching for his handcuffs when the detective began to cough and opened his eyes.
“What…“
Today was like being struck by lightening fifth times in a row.
John shushed at Sherlock, who started crying again, and rubbed his belly.
“John“
“I am so sorry.“
“I thought you would…“
Sherlock made a chocking sound and John hastily helped him sit, then pressed his body against his jumper.
“Sherlock. I am so sorry I had to say these things to you.“
Sherlock sniffed, still hidden in John’s embrace.
“It’s okay. I mean, I understand. You were right.“
John’s strong hand tightened on Sherlock’s back.
“Stop. I was lying through my teeth the whole time. You simply must know that. You must. Sherlock Holmes, you are the most important person in my life, and you saved me so many times, more times than I can count. You cured my limp, made me feel alive again, saved me from Moriarty, wrote the most beautiful speech in the history of speeches. Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me. Never doubt that.“
Sherlock raised his head a bit and John wiped the last tear from his white cheek.
“I love you.“
John beamed at him.
“I love you too. More than anything else.“
Then Sherlock’s fingers wandered to John’s biceps and John pressed his lips against the detectives, while still holding him as snugly as possible.
Christ, what a chaos. Mycroft’s corpse was laying in the next room, the unconscious Mary was a few feet away from the happy couple. Lestrade was reluctant to destroy the happy couple’s moment, but they really should call the security.
“I am really sorry for that, Greg.“
John had stopped kissing Sherlock, but was still holding him in a protective hug. Lestrade decided to talk with them about honest apologises later.
“How did you do it?“
John sighed.
“It was a huge risk. I had to hope that Mary would neither look to closely nor remember that it really isn’t that easy to just break someone’s head. That is why I tried to make her as emotional as possible. I also tried to capture the sound as gruesome and real as possible. Then I had to trust in Sherlock that he would act as dead as possible.“
“So it was all an act? He knew the whole time?“
“No, he didn’t. There was no time, Mary completely surprised us all. She killed Mycroft in front of our eyes, then told us to change the room to talk.“
Sherlock winced at the mention of his brother’s name, and John nuzzled his nose into the dark curls to console him.
"What really happened with the pregnancy?"
"I don't think there ever really was one. She was rather short-sighted in her plans, and she probably went along with it in the hope to guilt trip me."
This was lot of information to take in.
“Right then. I am going to find that bloody guard now, and then I will drive you both home.“
That woke Sherlock up.
“Home?“
John stroke his unruly curls.
“Yes, Sherlock. Let’s go home.“
The two idiots smiled at each other, and Lestrade was so very happy for them. When he had some time he would probably throw back a few drinks, call Sally and Anderson and look who won the Yard’s pool.
He needs a long holiday. Preferably a lonely beach. These two will be the death for him.