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Sherlock Holmes exists because someone needs him, and that someone needs him so desperately that it's worth selling his soul for.
Sherlock isn't blinked into existence at the conclusion of the deal—doesn't spring fully-formed from Crowley's skull complete with cocaine addiction, God complex, and the British government for an older brother. That would be silly. But Mummy and Daddy Holmes were once on a Cupid's list, because Sherlock Holmes needed to be born.
Since the beginning of time it has been Gregory Lestrade's fate to need Sherlock Holmes.
Strictly speaking, it is the world that needs Sherlock Holmes.
It has been written that as the apocalypse nears, one demon will escape from the hell-gate Samuel Colt was charged with protecting and travel much further than his siblings: he will end in London, in the body of a mild man named Jim Moriarty, and so great is his intellect that no hunter will be able to touch him. It will take an ordinary man with extraordinary knowledge and strength of conviction to defeat him in the holy waters of the River Aar.
Yes, it is the world that needs Sherlock Holmes, and he will save them. But before he can do that, someone needs to save him. When a righteous man willingly forfeits his soul in the pursuit of justice, a great man will be snatched from damnation.
In the end, it is a young girl's murder that pushes Lestrade to the breaking point. When DI Gregson forces him to close the case—his first since making Detective Inspector—despite not catching the killer, Lestrade drives to his childhood home and digs up the skeleton of his old cat, puts one of its bones in a biscuit tin with some yarrow, and buries it the center of a crossroads in Birmingham.
When he turns around, a dark-haired man is standing there. "Hello, Gregory."
Lestrade nods. "Let's just get to business, shall we?"
"My, my," the man—demon—replies. "The righteous Greg Lestrade, so direct. A man after my own heart. The name's Crowley. What would you ask of me?"
"I need to solve more crimes," Lestrade answers. "Murders, specifically. These people deserve justice. There has to be a way to get it for them."
Crowley looks at him appraisingly. "You know the price for that. You were a hunter once, if I'm not mistaken?" He winks. "Don't look so surprised, darling, it doesn't become you in the least. You go all… slack-jawed. I've been around the block a time or two; hunters have this look to them."
"Well, I'm not anymore. Retired."
The demon raises an eyebrow. "And yet here you are, summoning a demon. Doesn't exactly scream retired to me."
Lestrade swallows. "I'm not good enough. I need to be better. Murderers can't go free because I screwed up. I need to solve every case—I don't care how."
"You want this so badly you're willing to sell your soul for it?"
"People have done the same in exchange for less," Lestrade answers, without a moment's thought. "It's worth it to me."
Crowley scrutinizes him in silence for what seems like forever. "Is it the prestige that you want?" he asks. "The kind that comes with having a perfect record closing cases? The promotions, respect of your peers, et cetera et cetera?"
"No."
Crowley eyes him speculatively. "I don't know that I believe you."
"You should," Lestrade tells him bluntly. "If that's what I wanted, I'd have asked for it. I want justice for people who have been wronged. I want their families to sleep better at night knowing the person who killed their loved ones isn't walking free. I don't ever want to have to close a case without the correct name on the culprit line."
"So passionate," Crowley murmurs. Then he frowns. "Now then, Gregory—" he comes close, smoothes the lapel of Lestrade's suit jacket—"I'll give you the tools to solve the murders, but it's not always going to come easy. I just want you to know that."
"I don't care. I've got nothing else."
"Then we've got ourselves a deal," Crowley says, spreading his hands wide.
"I believe ten years is the standard length of time before the contract comes due," Lestrade says.
"And ten years you shall have," Crowley replies. "Ten years, and I promise that every single case you are assigned will be solved."
"Right." Lestrade nods slightly. "I'll do it."
Crowley grins. It isn't snakelike or even particularly evil-looking, but it unsettles Lestrade just the same. "I believe you know the standard procedure for sealing the deal, handsome?"
"Of course." Before he can lose his nerve, Lestrade brings their faces together and kisses the demon on the lips. It's a very good kiss, more passionate than he was expecting—and when the demon runs his tongue across Lestrade's lower lip, Lestrade opens his mouth without hesitation.
When they break apart, Lestrade doesn't feel much different. He has that pleasant, slightly hazy feeling you get when you've been thoroughly kissed, but surely that's not what selling your soul feels like.
"Hadn't thought the kiss needed to last that long," he comments.
Again with the smile. "Just wanted to make it good for you, darling. Take care. I'll see you in ten years."
Sherlock will tell you that the idea of consulting detective came to him in a flash of genius one day while he was thinking of nothing (he will leave out the part about how he out of his mind on cocaine at the time). That the idea appeared in his mind, fully-formed and crystallized, like his subconscious had been working on it for days without his input.
(He is, of course, wrong. The idea came to him as Lestrade locked lips with a demon in the middle of a crossroads in Birmingham. It was always going to happen like that.)
At a crime scene in Kensington one evening, Lestrade overhears Sherlock explaining this to John Watson. Lestrade hides a smile and texts one word to Sherlock: Wrong! Sherlock assumes Lestrade is being petty, reminding him about the cocaine aspect of the story that he's omitted—though surely John must know the whole of that story by now?
Lestrade is brushing his teeth, getting ready to call it a night when someone knocks—hammers, really—on the door of his flat. He's mildly surprised, but supposes it might be someone with the wrong flat number. If there were another body, another case, NSY would have called him.
He peers through the peephole. Standing in front of his door is a young man he's never seen before, with a shock of dark hair and cheekbones that could cut glass. He doesn't look familiar at all. He does, however, look completely exhausted, paler than any living human being has any right to be. He might be ill, or in trouble, and that's what clinches it for Lestrade.
He opens the door; the man literally stumbles into the flat, and Lestrade catches him as he comes close to falling.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade," the man says, and Lestrade helps him upright.
"Yes, who are you?" he asks.
The man shoves off his hand, standing up straight. His eyes blink several times, as if he's trying to keep them open. "The name's Sherlock Holmes," he answers.
Lestrade looks at him closely. After his meeting with the crossroads demon two days ago, he's been on guard for the supernatural, and an unexpected nighttime intrusion by a man who looks like he's fighting with his own body is definitely grounds for suspicion. Lestrade's still not sure what he was thinking—after fifteen years trying to shut it out, ignore it, he's invited it back into his life? And for what? He still isn't any closer to finding Allison Grange's killer.
"I can help you," Holmes repeats, impatient.
"With what, mate?" Lestrade asks.
"Allison Grange. I know who murdered her. I know where he is, and how to catch him. But I can't get to him, not without help." He speaks quickly, and seems to be agitated.
"Hey, hey, easy," Lestrade tells him. "Why don't you come in and sit down?
Holmes rolls his eyes, but walks into the room and sits on the couch. "Now," he says, "if you'd shut up and listen, I have very important information to impart."
"About Allison Grange, yeah," Lestrade answers slowly, sitting down on the corner of the coffee table, facing Holmes. "You have information that can lead to her killer?"
"Not just lead to him," Holmes grits out. "I know exactly where he is."
"Where?" Lestrade breathes.
"He fled to Brighton. I—tracked him there." Holmes fixes Lestrade with a look. "He's at the Seaside Inn, under the name Robert Alan. His real name is Alex Brittingham. Thirty-three, average height and weight, light brown hair. He's a software designer. This isn't the first child he's killed. There's more." Holmes yawns and blinks his eyes sleepily, then shakes himself out of it. "Their bodies are buried in the woods behind his home in Leeds."
Lestrade eyes him, looking for tells. "How do I know that you're telling the truth?"
The man takes a breath and eyes Lestrade critically, then flicks his gaze around the flat as he speaks: "Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. You've been an officer for fourteen—no, fifteen—years. You weren't originally. You were…" Holmes trails off, surprised. "Vigilante justice. Your own brand. Your parents were murdered; you took the law into your own hands for several years. You had an accomplice. You were in love, he left you. You joined the force." The man is speaking spot-on about Lestrade's past, rattling off facts as if he's reading a sheet of information. No emotion whatsoever comes into his voice—like an automaton, or a demon. Lestrade takes a step back. "You haven't been in a serious relationship since, preferring to throw it all into your work. You were recently promoted, but botched your first case. Allison's, maybe?" His eyes flicker up to meet Lestrade's. "Yes, definitely."
"How do you know all that?" Lestrade asks him.
Holmes waves the question away, rolling his eyes. "It doesn't matter. If I know all that about you and we've only just met, imagine what I know about Brittingham—I've been on this case for days." He looks up again, this time imploring. "You must—" he yawns again, and settles himself more comfortably into Lestrade's couch, as if all he wants to do is fall asleep. "I don't know—how long—he's going to—stay," Holmes finishes, each word softer and softer as his eyelids flutter shut.
"Holmes?" Lestrade asks, shaking him gently on the arm. Holmes just makes a noise and shifts slightly—he's already sleeping deeply. Which, okay. This night just got weirder. But he's got a hunch about what could be happening, and a way to confirm it.
Lestrade grabs his service revolver off the side table and tucks it in the back of his trousers as he makes his way into the small kitchen area of his flat. Under the sink is a first aid kit, and Lestrade pulls that out. Beneath that is a box made of cypress, highly polished. Carved into the lid is a five-pointed star, ringed by ancient sigils. Inside the box—among other things—is a rosary, an unregistered shotgun, spare shells, rock salt, lighter fluid, and a handgun loaded with silver bullets and sheathed in a thigh holster.
Words long since pushed to the back of his mind come back with frightening ease as he blesses a bowl of water with the rosary. Hands braced against his kitchen counter, he bows his head and thinks. This is a problem. Fifteen years without supernatural interference in his life, and now it's back. He practically invited it into his life making this damn deal, and fuck if he hasn't regretted it every moment since.
This man… for him to know those things about Lestrade, he has to be a demon. Has to be. And if not a demon, something else that goes bump in the night; there's no way he's an ordinary human. But there's a tiny voice in the back of Lestrade's mind that doubts, even as he grabs a washcloth and wets it in the bowl of holy water. He brings the washcloth and the bowl of water over to the couch.
"Heads up," Lestrade says, crouching beside Holmes, who sleeps—or pretends to sleep—on. Taking a deep breath, he sponges the cloth against Holmes's forehead, and lets the breath out when nothing happens. No hissing, sizzling flesh. No terrible pain. The man's not a demon or a possessed human, he's just—exhausted. Possibly ill?
Holmes's eyes open slowly. "You can stop that."
"Are you sick?"
Holmes yawns, his eyes closing again. His exhaustion is has clearly made him lower his guard, words coming sleep-slow. "Cocaine. Withdrawal. I was too busy tracking this case, it was too fascinating… wasn't bored anymore. I didn't need it. I…" He makes a small, drowsy noise. "…Suppose I miscalculated."
Lestrade can't help but smile at the sheer audacity of this man. "Most people wouldn't admit that to a copper, you know."
"You're not going to do anything about it," Holmes murmurs. "I just solved this case for you. Now let me rest."
"Not on the couch." Lestrade answers, tugging Holmes up. "Come on, I'll let you sleep in my bed while I sort this out."
Moving slowly, they eventually make it down the hall and into Lestrade's bedroom, where Holmes all but collapses onto the bed, asleep as soon as his head hits the pillows. Lestrade leaves the room but doesn't shut the door, pulls his cell phone out of his back pocket and dials Scotland Yard.
"Yeah, I've got info on Allison Grange's murder. Anonymous tip slipped under my door about five minutes ago. Call the Seaside Inn, see if they have a Robert Alan staying there, find out the room. Description here says average height and weight, dirty blonde hair, green eyes. If that matches, bring him in. Be careful, he might be dangerous.—No, I can't come with you. Family emergency.—Sally."
Sally, on the other line, sighs. "Sir—"
"Donovan," Lestrade snaps. "That's an order. Call the hotel. If it's him, get Gregson down there. Do the raid."
"Yes, sir," Sally answers. She hangs up.
Lestrade returns to the bedroom, leaning against the doorframe and watching Holmes quietly. Lestrade frowns. Cocaine withdrawal. Grabbing a blanket from the hall closet, Lestrade settles himself on the couch, turns on some mindless telly, and tries to figure out what to do next.
Around three in the morning an unknown number calls Lestrade's mobile, which he has forgotten to silence. Too preoccupied with not waking Holmes, he grabs for it and answers without checking the number. "Lestrade," he murmurs sleepily.
"Inspector," drawls a pleasant, cultured voice. "Please look out your window, the one that views the street."
"Who's this?" Lestrade asks, but even as he does his feet are moving toward the window. "How did you get this number?" He hangs back a bit from the window, not wanting the man to see him, if he's out there.
"It's quite easy to obtain a great deal of things, including this number," the voice answers. "As for my name, it's not important. What is important is the man sleeping in your bed right now. Sherlock Holmes."
"How do you know about that?" Lestrade demands. He pulls back the window curtain and looks out on the street. It looks the same as any other night, except parked right in front of his building is a sleek black car, much too expensive to be in this part of town.
"Let's just say it's my business to know things about Sherlock," the voice says, and Lestrade would swear there's a hint of amusement in the tone. "Now then, Inspector. Get in the car, if you please."
"You're joking," Lestrade tells him. "I don't know who you are, I don't know Sherlock Holmes, but you seem to know each other, and I'm supposed to leave him alone in my flat and get in your car? You've got to be joking."
"I assure you, Inspector, I am not. Take a moment to think about this logically."
"Logically," Lestrade echoes, voice flat.
"Yes," the man answers. "Sherlock Holmes is currently incapacitated. He's hardly going to be making a nuisance of himself. As for myself, I mean you no harm. I just want to talk to you for a moment. You have my word that the car will not drive anywhere until you are back in your flat."
Lestrade sighs, glancing out the window. "You're not going away, are you." It isn't a question.
"I'm afraid not, Inspector. The matter I wish to discuss is of the utmost importance."
Lestrade runs a hand through his hair and walks toward the couch. "I'll be right out." Crouching beside the couch, he retrieves his service revolver from where he'd stashed it earlier in the night. He tucks it into the back of his trousers and takes one last look into the bedroom. Holmes is asleep again, still deathly pale and covered in sweat, but definitely breathing.
As Lestrade exits the front door of his building, the back door of the car opens and he catches the glimpse of a hand that quickly retreats back into the car. Lestrade slides in, sitting in the seat closest the door. Beside him is a young man dual-wielding a PDA and a cell phone, never taking his eyes off one or the other device; across from him is a middle-aged man in a perfectly tailored suit.
"Inspector," the suited man greets. "How nice to meet you. I make it a point to know all of my brother's associates, you see."
"Your brother, is he?" Lestrade asks. Now that he's been told, he can see the family resemblance, albeit slight. "Well, that's as may be, but he's not my associate. I've never seen him before tonight. He showed up on my doorstep and then collapsed."
Holmes's brother hmms. "Yes. That's the issue. My brother is, sadly… enamored of cocaine. He seems to have foregone it in exchange for investigating this case. An unusual choice, but then, he always was an unusual child."
"I don't see your point," Lestrade tells him, impatient.
"The point is that I've been searching for quite some time for a way to keep my brother off drugs. I believe I have finally hit upon a workable solution, but I need your help to implement it."
Lestrade crosses his arms across his chest. "Why my help?"
"Because, Inspector, he willingly came to you. Didn't you hear him? He stopped using drugs because he found something more interesting—a case that needed solving. If I can find a way to supply him with unsolved cases, he won't be bored, and won't resort to drug use."
"I don't know how you heard him say that," Lestrade interrupts. "Have you—bugged my flat?"
The man smiles slightly. "Merely a precaution."
"I want them removed."
The man raises an eyebrow. "That's certainly negotiable, provided you agree to my idea."
Lestrade sighs. "Fine. Let's hear the rest of it."
"I propose that you, Inspector, consult my brother when you've found a case that's proving too difficult for you to solve on your own, as Allison Grange's was. My brother will assist you—I will of course ensure that he follows all proper procedures—and he will, inevitably, solve the case for you."
"I can't just bring civilians to crime scenes, you know," Lestrade tells him, even though the offer is somewhat tempting. There has to be strings attached. He knows a bit about strings being attached—a bit too much about it, these days. "There are procedures to follow."
The man cocks his head to the side slightly. "Do you honestly think I can't take care of your superiors?"
Lestrade looks him dead in the eye. "I'm not sure I want to know what you mean by that."
The man smiles indulgently. "Inspector," he replies, "I occupy a minor position in the British government. Luckily it has a good deal to do with law enforcement. This will be a simple matter to arrange, provided you give your consent."
"What, you can't just order me to do it? You've been doing nothing but telling me what to do since you called."
"I would hope that you wouldn't think of what I've been doing as ordering you around," the man says, frowning. "I've simply made requests of you, and you have acquiesced to them."
Lestrade cracks his neck. "I have no idea why."
"Inspector," the man says, smiling once more. "I don't wish to take up too much of your time. I simply wish to ensure that my brother is... looked after."
"Can't you do it yourself? Bring him cases and things. If you're really who you say you are."
"I could," the man allows. "However, my brother has been holding a petty grudge since our childhood, and has refused each of my attempts to help him. Were I to bring him cases, he would simply ignore them out of spite."
"You need me," Lestrade realizes, a light slowly dawning. "You can't do this without me." He settles back into the seat and uncrosses his arms.
The man looks at him for several long seconds, making and maintaining eye contact. "You are correct," he says.
Lestrade thinks about the situation for a second. "What's your name, Mr. Holmes?"
"Mycroft," he answers. "I would prefer that you do not use it, however."
"That's fine," Lestrade answers. "I just like to know certain things about people before I go agreeing to their offers."
Mycroft eyes him. "So you agree to the deal," he says. His eyes narrow. "No. Not yet. You're just finally entertaining the offer."
Lestrade nods. "Give me a day to think about it," he says.
"I believe that can be arranged," Mycroft allows. "However, there is the matter of what to do with Sherlock in the meantime. Drug withdrawal is not a pleasant experience, but I am loath to admit him to the hospital or a rehabilitation center. In the first place, I don't expect he would do well at either location."
"I can look after him," Lestrade says before he even realizes he's opened his mouth. Now that he's said it, however, he can't quite regret it.
Mycroft smiles again, and it's just as fucking creepy as it was the first ten times. "I was hoping you would offer," he says to that. "I will, of course, provide you with all the necessary medical information for dealing with someone going through withdrawal. I will also arrange for you the necessary time off from work, and compensate you handsomely for your time and efforts."
"Right," Lestrade says, wincing. "See you—uh, tomorrow, I suppose."
"Looking forward to it, Inspector," Mycroft answers, extracting a case from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pulling out a business card. He holds it between his index and middle fingers, extending it toward Lestrade. "My card," he says needlessly. "Should you need to contact me in any way, call the second number. And, Inspector? I would advise you not let my brother see the card, nor inform him of our conversation. I fear he will be less cooperative toward you, and he's difficult enough to handle already."
Lestrade takes the card and shoves it in the pocket of his trousers. "Yeah, alright," he replies, opening the door to the car. "Evening, Mr. Holmes."
"Good evening, Detective Inspector."
The car drives off almost immediately after Lestrade leaves it, and as he trudges up the stairs toward his flat he wonders just exactly what he's gotten himself into.
No sooner does he unlock the door than his mobile rings again, shrill and insistent in the silence of the early morning. It's not the same number as before—it's Sally.
Lestrade shuts the front door behind him and can't help sagging against it. "Hello?"
The raid went well. Hopkins, a young sergeant who occasionally works with the team, got shot in the leg—just a graze; he'll be fine. Brittingham was caught; he didn't confess per se but said a lot of things that can be used against him.
"He's guilty, sir," Sally tells Lestrade. "I could see it just by looking at him. All I could do not to step on his face, just to hear it break."
Lestrade closes his eyes. "Donovan, that's—ah, that's just not something you tell your DI."
Lestrade can hear her shrug in the tone of her voice. "You'd have wanted the same," she says. "Besides, I didn't actually."
God, his eyes ache. He rubs at them, sliding down the front door to sit on the welcome mat there, and tries not to think about how he sold his soul to a demon and got a cocaine addict in return. He can't remember what he says for the rest of the conversation; can't remember Donovan's answers either. When he rings off, he spends a long time just listening to Holmes breathing in the bedroom, erratic and labored.
After what seems like—and, in all rights, could be—several hours, a car backfiring outside startles Lestrade into action. He pulls the business card Mycroft gave him out of his back pocket and dials.
"Inspector," Mycroft says warmly, picking up after three rings. Does the man never sleep?
"You've got yourself a deal," Lestrade tells him without preamble. "Make the arrangements."
Four days, two deals. Somehow, this is the one that feels more like selling his soul.
Sherlock Holmes is, of course, a terror. Despite lacking the energy even to walk, he tries to leave as soon as he regains consciousness. Lestrade has to pin him to the bed to keep him from getting up. "Stop it," Lestrade tells him, when he struggles. "You were right, do you hear me? You were right. About Brittingham. God help me, you were right."
"Of course I was right," Sherlock snaps, wriggling ineffectually against the hold Lestrade has him in. "I'm always right. Let me go."
"I don't think so," Lestrade tells him. "See, right now? You're a danger to yourself and I really can't have you wandering around London. I'm already breaking half a dozen laws not bringing you to the hospital or reporting you, but something tells me you don't want me to do either of those things."
Sherlock's struggles lessen, but do not cease entirely. "What do you mean to do, then?" he asks, eyes narrowing in an intense focus. Like he's trying to figure Lestrade out. "Keep me hostage?"
Lestrade rolls his eyes. "Oh will you give it a rest, you dramatic bastard. I have a deal for you."
"A deal." Sherlock's voice is studiously blank, and his body goes slack in Lestrade's grip. "What kind of deal?"
Lestrade releases him. "You're obviously incredibly intelligent. The things you knew about me, just by looking—well. That's extraordinary."
Sherlock preens under the compliment; just slightly, but Lestrade does spend an awful lot of time interrogating people, looking for their tells. It's practically his job to notice.
"So I was thinking," Lestrade continues. "Any case I come across that I can't solve, I let you help out on."
"Help out," Sherlock repeats, tone flat.
"You know…" he grasps around for the word. "Consult, like. I'll let you in on the case, let you see all the evidence, and in return you can use that mad great brain of yours for something useful."
"Everything I use my brain for is a perfectly useful endeavor," Sherlock replies, loftily. "I wouldn't expect a layman like you to understand, but—"
"Cut the crap," Lestrade interrupts. "You're using enough cocaine to put you through withdrawal if you don't get it for a few days, and that? That is not a useful endeavor. You've got to stop."
Sherlock looks at him, calculating. "That is, of course, the catch."
"Of course," Lestrade nods. "You've got to stay here and detox with me, and when you're clean I'll let you come to a crime scene. And if you start using again, at all, ever, the deal's off—never to be given again."
At least Sherlock looks like he's considering it. "How would you get me onto the crime scenes?" he asks. "There are—" he flicks his hand dismissively—"rules. Protocols. Civilians aren't exactly allowed." There's a slight hint of guilt in his voice, and Lestrade tries not to laugh.
"You've been kicked off before, haven't you?"
Sherlock glares at him, and Lestrade sees that he's correct. "Arrested and put in the drunk tank the first time. Second time I was given a citation for impeding justice and destroying evidence."
Lestrade presses his fist to his mouth, trying not to laugh. He can't say Sherlock didn't deserve it, if his behavior the previous night was any indication. "You went in and insulted everyone, calling them idiots and making guesses about their personal life, didn't you?" he asks, and Sherlock's eyes narrow.
"I don't guess," Sherlock tells him prissily. "I deduce. There's a difference. Look it up in the dictionary if you don't believe me; provided, of course, you know how to read."
Lestrade rolls his eyes. "So do we have a deal?"
Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, and doesn't say anything. Probably deducing, Lestrade figures. "Is this a deal you can make?" he asks finally. "You're just a DI. Not to mention, you can't exactly skip work to help me detox."
Lestrade waves his hand. "I've got some vacation time saved up. The Grange case just closed last night, thanks to you, so I'm at loose ends. As for the rest of it, well…" he shrugs. "Don't worry. I've got some favors coming to me; I'll find a way to make it work."
"The ends justify the means," Sherlock murmurs, as if he's just figured out something very important about Lestrade. "Of course."
Lestrade raises an eyebrow. "So. Deal?"
Sherlock sticks out his hand, fingers pressed tightly together. "Deal."
Lestrade shakes, thinking, Number three.
Lestrade forbids Sherlock to leave the flat for a week. Sherlock chafes under the order, but the promise of access to cases—a never-ending stream of puzzles to entertain him—combined with the cold case files Lestrade brings him home from work when Sherlock's well enough to stay by himself, is, in the end, enough to keep him put. That doesn't mean he doesn't go out of his way to make Lestrade's life miserable, however: cocaine withdrawal will turn even the sweetest of people rude and cranky, and Sherlock was never all that sweet to begin with.
Sherlock is restless and inquisitive, poking his nose into anything and everything he thinks Lestrade may want to keep private; he turns Lestrade's flat upside-down and one night Lestrade returns to find Sherlock rummaging through the boxes he keeps in the back of his closet, detritus of Lestrade's life spread out around him.
"Sherlock, what the—" he begins, but is cut short by Sherlock looking up at him. The man is beaming. He looks so pleased with himself.
"I was wrong," Sherlock says, waving a photo around. Lestrade lets his curiosity get the better of him—Sherlock, admitting an error?—and gets down on one knee, snagging the photograph gently from Sherlock's hand.
It's of him and Joshua, sitting together on a couch in a shitty motel room in Newcastle Upon Tyne, or Arnee maybe—somewhere up near the border of Scotland. He doesn't remember the town, but he remembers the hunt: your basic run-of-the-mill werewolf hunt, except Lestrade had nearly been bitten. Under the wash of relief when Josh saved him was nothing but embarrassment, but it was different for his partner. As soon as they had returned to the motel, Josh had thrown him against the door, touching him everywhere, looking for bruises, bites, cuts, injuries, yanking his clothing around but not taking any of it off, his eyes so dark with intent they could have been a demon's.
They took the weekend off. Ostensibly it was because they weren't sure they had gotten the pack leader, but Lestrade knew better. Josh hadn't let him out of his sight for the rest of the weekend, much to Porlock's amusement. The last day they were curled up together on the couch, Lestrade against Josh's chest, with Josh's hand curled possessively around Lestrade's torso, hand resting over Lestrade's heart. In the photo, Lestrade has a stupid expression on his face—Porlock had snapped it mid-laugh—but Josh is looking down at him like he hung the goddamn moon.
Then he remembers Sherlock's I was wrong, his assumption the day they met that Lestrade had been ‘some kind of vigilante'. In the photo, Lestrade's wearing his thigh holster, gun with silver bullets inside, and next to Josh on the couch is his favorite shotgun. "What were you wrong about?" he asks carefully.
"Your lover—"
"Josh."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Josh, then. He didn't leave you. He died, didn't he?"
Lestrade shrugs, dropping the picture and standing up. "It's all the same in the end, isn't it?"
Sherlock frowns, as if he's thinking about this very hard.
"An easy mistake to make," Lestrade tells him. "Now put all that crap away, it's not yours to play with."
Sherlock ignores him, but the next day the photo appears tucked into the frame of the bedroom mirror. It doesn't hurt to see it, not like it did when Lestrade had packed it away all those years ago.
Sherlock isn't all bad.
The first time Lestrade brings Sherlock to a crime scene, he refers to Sherlock as a forensic consultant. It's a difficult case—looks, on the surface, to be a straightforward murder-suicide, but Lestrade finds evidence that just doesn't add up.
So Sherlock swirls in, dark jacket and forest-green scarf. Anderson hates him on sight; Sally is somewhat in awe of his rapid-fire deduction. Even then, he disregards crime regulations, despite Lestrade lecturing him on the way over about what he is and is not to do.
They catch the guy, and Lestrade manages to salvage the evidence to be admissible in court, so he doesn't stay angry for long.
The second time Lestrade brings Sherlock to a crime scene, he keeps up the pretense of Sherlock as a forensic consultant, but nobody is fooled this time. Sherlock insults Sally a half-dozen times and runs off with a piece of evidence. This case gets solved too, but only after Lestrade threatens to do a drugs bust on Sherlock's flat in Montague Street.
The third time, Lestrade is struck dumb by evidence of the supernatural. He doesn't call Sherlock, instead making a phone call to Fred Porlock, giving him a quick run-down of the situation.
"Why can't you handle this yourself?" Porlock asks, genuinely curious—like he wasn't there when Lestrade forswore a life of hunting. Like he didn't already know he was the only hunter Lestrade even bothered to keep in touch with.
"This needs to be handled behind the scenes," Lestrade tells him.
This time the case gets solved and the murderer brought to justice, but the case is legally closed and filed as unsolved.
Sherlock is petulant, annoyed by Lestrade not allowing him on the case, but Lestrade tells him it's for violating crime scene procedure last time, and stands firm. Sherlock throws a spectacular tantrum until Lestrade arranges to have Sherlock look into a particularly bizarre cold case (which he, of course, solves).
By his fourth visit, Sally has recognized Sherlock for what he is: an intruder who honestly has no place there, taking what he wants and giving the barest minimum in return—and yet, getting without qualification what she has worked so hard for; namely, respect. She resents him quietly at first, but it doesn't take long for her to start calling him "Freak" to his face. (Sally will talk about you behind your back, this is true; but she'll repeat it all and more to your face.) Lestrade doesn't protest as much as perhaps he should, and so the nickname sticks. Sherlock doesn't seem to care, either.
Moriarty is a strange intrusion to the rhythm they've built up over the past five years—suddenly their semi-peaceful case-solving partnership is disrupted first by the arrival of Doctor Watson (a welcome interruption), followed soon by Moriarty (which is like turning the stakes up to eleven). Lestrade tries not to think about how Moriarty is playing with Sherlock, and if he hadn't made that deal, Moriarty wouldn't have a clue who Sherlock Holmes was. Wouldn't have anyone to play with, and yeah, as Lestrade tries to calm down a hysterical eight-year-old boy with a bomb strapped to his chest, he wishes for the first time in a long time that he hadn't made that fucking deal.
Something's coming, something big, and Lestrade doesn't have to be a genius to know Sherlock's going to be at the center of it. Lestrade assigns Hopkins to keep an eye on Sherlock, and barely two hours has passed before Hopkins calls Lestrade. There's a message on The Science of Deduction, addressed to no-one in particular.
Luckily, Lestrade's not actually the idiot Sherlock thinks he is, and it doesn't take him long to figure out which pool he and Moriarty are going to be meeting at. He leaves immediately, but tells Hopkins it's probably nothing, and doesn't call for back-up.
He does, however, call Sally, because she's smart and loyal and knows how to keep her mouth shut when necessary.
As soon as Sherlock is in the building Lestrade dashes around the perimeter, salting the windows and drawing Devil's traps outside the entrances. He doesn't even care to cover them up—he's not trying to trap Moriarty. He just wants to know if he's right in thinking someone this casually evil must be a demon, or if he's getting paranoid in his old age. Sally patrols the perimeter as he works, and aside from a small oh of surprise when Lestrade pulls out the bag of rock salt, she doesn't say anything until they're nearly finished.
"I smudged the trap by the back entrance by accident," she tells him. "With my foot. You'd better chalk it over again."
There's a story there, Lestrade knows, but she doesn't offer her life history and he doesn't ask.
He knows Sherlock will be okay, inside, with Moriarty, because he knows Moriarty would have no-one to play with if he killed Sherlock. What Lestrade doesn't know, couldn't know, is that John's in there, strapped into a bomb. But he hears Moriarty go to leave—"No you won't!"—the noise the door makes when it opens, and the hiss of surprise as Moriarty nearly strolls directly into the devil's trap outside the entrance. Moriarty looks up and around; he and Lestrade lock eyes for a minute. Lestrade gives him a silent nod. The demon turns around and goes back inside.
Not two minutes later, an explosion crumbles half of the building. Sally swears up a blue streak as they run in, picking their way through detritus and rubble. Lestrade spots Moriarty, crumpled against a wall, body broken; before Lestrade can do anything Moriarty opens his eyes, literally shakes off his injuries, and strolls out of the building.
Lestrade catches Sally's arm as she starts and moves to go after Moriarty. "Don't be an idiot, Sally," he says.
She coughs. "I thought… I didn't realize the traps weren't for the Fr—for Holmes."
Lestrade shakes his head. "Is that what you thought?" he asks, still breathless from running. "Is that why you warned Dr. Watson off?"
She shrugs, but has the decency to look embarrassed. "There's something not right about him, sir. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I've seen enough that it wasn't so much to assume he was something not human."
Lestrade chooses not to tell her he'd entertained the exact same suspicions, five years ago. They wade through the wreckage until they find Sherlock—and, oh God, Dr. Watson—floating unconscious in the mostly-empty pool.
Lestrade keeps vigil at Sherlock's bedside, watching the monitor beside his unconscious friend and wondering exactly what he's going to tell Sherlock when he wakes up. Because Sherlock will wake up, Lestrade's sure of it. For as long as he's alive, Sherlock will be too—because Lestrade needs him. He made this deal and shackled them together for ten years, whether either of them likes it or not.
But he's never told Sherlock that before and he doesn't intend to change that now. He knows Sherlock will kick up a fuss about the supernatural—Moriarty's a demon? Whatever poor bastard the demon possessed is dead now, died in the explosion. If they ever trap Moriarty and manage to exorcise him, the body will die. And who knows where the man's soul is now.
Lestrade's absorbed enough in his own mind that he doesn't notice Mycroft Holmes walk into the room, and is startled when he speaks.
"You can't tell him what really happened," Mycroft says, apropos of nothing.
Lestrade blinks. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Mycroft purses his lips and sets his umbrella against the doorframe. "Come now, Inspector… it's past the time to play coy." He folds his arms across his chest and gives Lestrade a look, one Lestrade's seen on Sherlock's face countless times before.
"I'm sorry," Lestrade maintains. "I don't understand what you're trying to tell me."
Mycroft pulls a piece of paper out of his suit jacket and unfolds it. "Detective Inspector Gregory Aaron Lestrade. Date of birth: April 4, 1952, in Reading, England to June and Gideon Lestrade. Let's see… ordinary childhood, but when you were twenty your parents were killed by a wendigo on a family camping trip. You were saved by a hunter named Joshua Davidson and the two of you hunted together for five years. He was killed by a shapeshifter and after that you swore off hunting, instead choosing to become a police officer."
Lestrade shakes his head. "I don't understand how you know all that."
"Unlike America," Mycroft smiles, "our government likes to keep track of our hunters—the more active of them, anyhow."
Lestrade sits back heavily in his chair. All those years he spent hiding what he did, and the government knew anyway? And he still got hired by NSY? "You're kidding me," he says.
"I'm afraid not, Inspector." Mycroft folds the paper neatly in half, twice, then looks over at Lestrade. "Didn't it ever occur to you to wonder why your flat was bugged before you met Sherlock?"
And, yeah, it had, but when he'd asked Sherlock about it, Sherlock had only rolled his eyes, muttered something about Mycroft always being a step ahead, and then sulked for hours. "But I was retired then."
"We kept tabs on you still," Mycroft replies. "Of course, you were a bit before my time, but you were one of the most active hunters in Britain. One does not simply retire from such a life; we were certain you were worth keeping track of."
Lestrade drops his head into his hands, pressing at his eyelids with his fingertips. "Well that's lovely."
"Try not to worry too much about it," Mycroft tells him in that mildly patronizing tone he has. "There are far more important things to discuss."
"Such as?" Lestrade asks, though he knows.
"Such as," Mycroft answers, "when I arrived at the pool an hour ago, I was mildly surprised to see devil's traps and salt everywhere. Sherlock, I know, puts no stock in such things. I spoke with your sergeant, Miss Donovan—it wasn't a mistake she was assigned to your squad, you know—and then came to find you directly."
"Donovan?" Lestrade shakes his head. "You didn't plant her there for information on me, you wouldn't have."
"Good heavens, no." Mycroft looks genuinely taken aback. "But she's had a few brushes with the supernatural—nothing like you, of course, she never hunted, but enough that she'd be able to keep a cool head in case of an emergency, and you would have someone you could trust. We like to put these kinds of people together, even if they never find out."
Lestrade feels vaguely ill. "I see."
Mycroft smiles, and it seems a bit condescending. "Now then, there's something we didn't know about you until I put it together a few hours ago."
"What's that?" Lestrade asks, and manfully restrains from passing comment on a Holmes not simply looking at him and reading his life's story in the way he buttons his shirts.
"You sold your soul… right around the time you met my brother, if I'm correct."
Lestrade meets Mycroft's eyes, challenging him. "I'd do it again."
"That won't be necessary," Mycroft answers, smiling as though it pains him. "Once was enough. There is a prophecy in my family, one that has been handed down for longer that anyone can remember. Translated, it reads as such: When a righteous man willingly forfeits his soul in the pursuit of justice, a great man will be snatched from damnation, and he will defeat an enemy in which he does not believe."
Lestrade doesn't say anything.
"For hundreds of years," Mycroft continues, "my family—those of us who put stock in such things—has assumed that a Holmes will be the righteous man, but it was you, Inspector. You sold your soul and saved my brother from a life of addiction and an early grave. I think we can reasonably suppose that the demon you and my brother met tonight is the enemy in this prophecy."
Lestrade clears his throat, considering. "Sherlock would say that's a guess, and never to guess," he points out.
"Ah," Mycroft smiles. "But my brother and I, we work a little differently. He can look at something and understand how it happened. I look at something and understand what will happen afterward. He deduces with accuracy; I extrapolate with accuracy."
"Must come in handy for work," Lestrade deadpans.
Mycroft blinks. "You have no idea."
"I don't see how you really expect me to believe that."
"I'm here, aren't I?" Mycroft asks, quirking an eyebrow. "I knew you were going to try to explain what really happened to my brother."
"Could be a coincidence," Lestrade points out. "Or just a lucky guess."
"It could," Mycroft allows. "But I will tell you this, Inspector. If you do try to explain last night's events to my brother, he won't believe you, and you have no way to prove any of it to him. You know how he loves hard evidence. All that you will accomplish is to drive him away from you. At best, he'll think you weak-minded for believing in such things. At worst, he'll doubt your sanity." Mycroft pauses for a minute, twirling the tip of his closed umbrella against the floor. "And you didn't sell your soul and save Sherlock's life just to have him abandon you halfway through your last ten years on earth, did you?"
Lestrade glares at him, and Mycroft's face softens.
"I'm sorry, Inspector. Believe me, I'd rather not let him do this uninformed. But the prophecy—"
"Forget about the prophecy," Lestrade grits out, frustrated beyond belief. "You don't know that it's about me and Sherlock. You don't know that it's actually a prophecy. And if it's true that it's been passed down in your family for however many years, who's to say that's what it's always said?"
"It is a written prophecy," Mycroft replies, "not a verbal one. Carved in stone, inscribed in ancient Latin. God knows where my ancestors got it from, but we've had every imaginable dating test done to it, and it's at least as old as 400 BC."
"Christ," Lestrade murmurs.
"Quite," Mycroft answers, wrinkling his nose. "As you can see, I'm quite concerned about tonight's incident. I am fully prepared to believe that you are the righteous man, which logically makes Sherlock the other man in the prophecy. Is this Moriarty in fact a demon?"
"You spoke with Donovan," Lestrade answers. "You already know: of course he is. He couldn't have survived that explosion and walked away like that. I saw his body. It had been completely destroyed."
Mycroft looks at him. "May I count on your continued protection of my brother?" he asks.
"Of course," Lestrade tells him.
Mycroft relaxes slightly, looking relieved. "Good. Now, there's one last thing—I don't suppose I could… hmm… coax you out of retirement?"
"No," Lestrade answers before he even stops to consider. Mycroft doesn't look happy about it, and Lestrade himself isn't too pleased with the answer. "Well—look. You're asking because Sherlock doesn't know about any of this, right?"
Mycroft nods, as if it should have been a rhetorical question.
"I can't—I won't—go back to that life. But I still have contacts. Friends. I'll ask around, see if I can figure out a way to help Sherlock without actually helping him." He looks Mycroft dead in the eye. "You're not the only one who cares about him, you know."
One day Sherlock comes into Scotland Yard. He doesn't argue with Sally, doesn't snap at Anderson or toy with Hopkins, just sits in the visitor's chair in Lestrade's office and watches him do paperwork.
"I told you, I don't have a case for you," Lestrade sighs, after about ten minutes of this. "I might be able to arrange for a cold case for you, but it not for a couple of hours."
"What?" Sherlock asks, innocent as the day he was born. "No, no, I don't want to trouble you." He levers himself out of the chair, then, and strolls around Lestrade's office, legs too long for the confined space. He starts talking, then, about the neurological reason for seasickness (the brain thinks the body is drunk, and induces vomiting to remove the poison), how women are 7-9 times more likely to suffer from Broken Heart Syndrome, how monkeys have been successfully taught the principles of currency, that honey does not spoil. He's beginning to explain the structure of a beehive when Lestrade sighs again, pulls off his glasses, and asks what this is all about.
"You might need to know," Sherlock answers casually. "John and I are going to Switzerland; we may not return for some time." After six years of knowing Sherlock, it isn't hard for Lestrade to parse this statement into what it really is.
"Business or pleasure?" Lestrade asks, as if they both don't already know.
Sherlock throws him a look. "Bit of both."
Lestrade nods. "I hear Reichenbach Falls is the most beautiful place in the country," he says, and then adds quietly: "Let him come to you, Sherlock."
Sherlock is silent for a moment, not looking at him. Then he raises his chin, mouth pressed in a thin, resolute line. "I don't think the falls would interest John, would they?"
"No," Lestrade answers, voice hoarse. "No, I suppose they wouldn't."
Sherlock stands abruptly, adjusts his scarf. This year's is a drab oatmeal-color. "Then I'll be off. See you soon, Le—Greg."
Lestrade nods, not really meeting Sherlock's eye. "Take care of yourself, Sherlock," he says, and shuffles some papers.
Sherlock smiles brightly, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "That's what I have my doctor for."
The River Aar in Switzerland flows with holy water from the source to the mouth; near the town of Meiringen it cuts a deep gorge through limestone cliffs, then tumbles over a series of waterfalls, called the Reichenbach Falls. Some legends say that the current before the gorge is the home of sea monsters; other legends say that angels are born of the waters, sculpted by the grace of God into holy warriors as the river rolls and crashes against the rocks. This is probably not true.
What is true is this: the Aar's properties were discovered in 1679 when a demon possessed a young fisherman and was subsequently cast overboard by a friend to protect the other passengers; the possessed man burned from within, killing the demon but keeping the fisherman's body and soul untouched.
What is true is this: the Reichenbach Falls are holier than the rest of the river put together, a concentrated area of goodness and spiritual light. No demon can touch these waters and live; no good man can die in them.
There is a feeling, a hunter's instinct, that tells Lestrade that Sherlock need only get Moriarty to Reichenbach, and fate will step in to help him finish the job. All Lestrade can do is hope that Sherlock is finally a good man; that over the past year John Watson has been the influence Lestrade had always hoped he himself would be.
Not more than a few days after Sherlock leaves for the continent, Lestrade gets a call in the very early morning. It's Mycroft, telling him that Sherlock died, but so did Moriarty.
"Not true," Lestrade says, not even thinking about the words before they leave his mouth. "Moriarty's dead, yeah, I believe that. But Sherlock—there's no way."
"I'm sorry, Inspector," Mycroft replies, curious catch to his voice. He doesn't sound upset, only…strange. "He's quite dead. They haven't found the body, but some things a brother just knows." He coughs slightly.
"Right," Lestrade answers, keeping his voice blank. "Right, well, it's early days yet."
"I've had Anthea send you an early copy of the approved newspaper article. It should be in your inbox by now."
"Thank you, Mycroft," he says. "I'm sorry for your loss. Your brother was a great man, and I'll miss him."
"Of course," Mycroft notes. "Thank you. Please, keep an eye on Doctor Watson in the coming months. Make sure he doesn't do anything—drastic. I know he's very upset by Sherlock's death." Like everything else in the conversation, this request has layers of meaning beneath it.
"Yeah," Lestrade answers. "Yeah, of course."
Private Detective Sacrifices Life to Defeat Crime Kingpin
Reuters. Meiringin, Switzerland.
Holidayers found the body of a young man washed up on the shore of the Aar River in Switzerland, just beyond the Reichenbach Falls, in the early morning of August the 4th. Further investigation revealed that the man was James Moriarty, one of Britain's most-wanted criminals, the head of a well-organized crime network that spanned not only the United Kingdom but much of continental Europe.
An anonymous eyewitness gave testimony that Moriarty had been dragged over the falls by private detective, Sherlock Holmes, in a stunning act of heroism. According to Holmes's brother, the detective had been tracking Moriarty for months in an investigation unrelated to Scotland Yard's. Holmes's body has not yet been found; authorities have made plans to drag the river.
Lestrade calls on John the day John returns, and is greeted by a man who's clearly too familiar with the idea that death stops for no-one. John begins to make tea three times, and each time stops abruptly to say something to Lestrade. After about ten minutes, Lestrade gets up from the couch and makes the tea himself.
"He… he left me a letter," John confesses, and laughs suddenly, covering his mouth with his hand in surprise. "That bastard. He tricked me into going back to the hotel, and—and then he left me a god-damn letter. Like he could ever write anything to make me forgive him for that."
Lestrade puts a saucer and cup in front of John. "I didn't know how you liked it, so…" he trails off.
John shrugs. "Doesn't matter." He doesn't touch his cup. "Look, there's something in the letter for you too." He pulls it out of his pocket, and Lestrade doesn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to notice how many times John has read it: the creases are very well-worn, as if it's been unfolded and re-folded over and over during the past few days. The oils from John's fingers have seeped into the paper, saturating it and giving it a new texture.
Lestrade scans the letter, coming to:
Indeed, if I may make a full confession to you, before we left I bribed the hotel manager to send you that text calling you back to Meiringen, a hoax deliberately executed to ensure your safety—a measure I had decided upon before we even left England.
Lestrade glances up at that. John is frowning, staring resolutely at nothing, and Lestrade feels a pang of regret. He could have told Sherlock to bring John along to the falls, and maybe Sherlock would've listened—maybe not, but he'll always wonder. John would have survived the falls too, Lestrade is sure of it. John is a good man. He bites his lip, unwilling to pursue this line of thought any further, and looks back down to the letter.
Tell DI Lestrade that the necessary papers to convict Moriarty's fellows have been sent to box 1037 of the London post office in an envelope addressed to Moriarty. This letter should be sufficient evidence to grant him access to it. Mycroft will oversee the execution of my will, from which you will receive everything I own, barring a few sentimental trinkets that are to go to my mother. Give Mrs. Hudson my love, and believe me to be, my dear John,
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
For a minute Lestrade thinks of telling John everything. Explaining how Sherlock must be alive, somewhere. But he thinks better of it—because what if he's wrong?
For three years, Sherlock stays away from England. Mycroft refuses to give up the pretense that Sherlock is dead, though he knows fully well that Lestrade thinks differently.
Lestrade wonders what will happen when he comes across a case he can't solve, but it doesn't happen. He knows it's because he sold his soul for it, but everyone around him just thinks it's seven years of being around Sherlock that has him noticing things he normally wouldn't. Like he was always holding this skill inside him, but never needed to bring it out until Sherlock was gone. It's hard. He has to sit back and think, "How would Sherlock look at this?" But in time, his brain begins to pick up patterns and automatically check for certain tells.
It takes him a hell of a lot longer than it would've taken Sherlock, and sometimes he needs help, but in the end, the job gets done and the killer brought to justice. It's still miles more than some of his peers manage. Sometimes the case gets solved through a series of lucky coincidences, like his life is now a procedural cop drama; Hopkins, who's been obsessed with learning Sherlock's methods since he read the Science of Deduction two years ago, has even proved himself somewhat useful. Lestrade calls John in, sometimes, to consult on medical aspects of the cases. He can't pay him, and John always eyes him suspiciously—as if he knows Lestrade is doing this just to give him something to do—but John never calls him out on it, and is generally rather helpful.
With each case Lestrade solves, doubt and guilt eat at him. If he can do this without Sherlock to speed along the process, is he right to assume that Sherlock's life is inextricably bound up in the deal Lestrade made with Crowley? Could Sherlock actually be dead—did Lestrade send him to his death by telling him about Reichenbach?
Two years after Sherlock didn't die, Lestrade finally stumbles against an impossible case. Nothing he tries works, and he's not sure what to do. Gregson approaches him, tells him he's got to either solve it or close it, and soon, and Lestrade writes it up like he's closing it, then adds as much detail as he possibly can, things he's observed (whether they seem relevant or not) and as many photos as he can take. On a sheet of paper, he writes I promised you a cold case, before you left. This is the best I could do, and slides it into the envelope, on top of a thick stack of evidence and written speculation. He sends the very full envelope to Sherlock Holmes, c/o Mycroft Holmes.
Two weeks pass, and Lestrade's already closed the case when he gets a letter in the mail. Postmarked France, everything is typed, including the envelope. Inside is a single sheet of paper, blank save for a name—the victim's sister—and, underneath it, "you idiot."
Stars don't shine as bright as Lestrade's smile that day.
Lestrade doesn't look up as a tall, dark figure enters his office. It's late; everyone else in the department has gone home. But he knows who is there, and the relief that washes over him is startling in its intensity.
"I was wondering when you were going to show your face around here," is all he says, and Sherlock smiles.
"I hadn't realized Mycroft told you."
"He didn't," Lestrade answers, taking his eyes off his paperwork. "But I knew you weren't dead."
Sherlock doesn't say anything, just looks at him. He's pleased to see Lestrade.
"It's good to see you again, Sherlock," Lestrade tells him.
"Likewise," Sherlock answers.
Lestrade motions for him to take a seat, but Sherlock surprises him by coming around the desk and pulling him out of his seat. Arms encircle Lestrade before he realizes what's happening; it takes him a few seconds to understand that this is a hug of greeting between old friends. Which they are, he supposes. He squeezes Sherlock's torso and Sherlock lets go, stepping back.
"Have you seen John yet?" Lestrade asks, and Sherlock frowns.
"No," he answers, going back around the desk to drop into Lestrade's visitor chair with a sigh. "I'm… waiting. I'm not sure he'll want to see me."
Which, Lestrade supposes, is fair. "So are you going to tell me what happened?"
Sherlock shrugs. "We wrestled and I saw an opportunity: drag both of us over the falls. It was the right thing to do. I didn't let go of him the whole way down, but he was screaming—so loud I could even hear it over the falls. Not scared, like; almost as if he was being tortured, or burned alive. He stopped near the bottom, just went limp in my arms. I think he was dead, and I was about to die. I knew it. There's no way a human being can survive that drop." Sherlock pauses.
"Everything," Lestrade coaxes gently. "Even if it doesn't make sense, even if you think you hallucinated it, or dreamt it."
Sherlock nods. "I must have hit the water at some point. I dreamt that my body smashed on the rocks at the bottom of the falls, but when I woke up, I was lying half on the shore, as if I had drifted there. I didn't hurt, there was nothing physically wrong with me. The chances of me surviving the drop, let alone completely unharmed… they're astronomical. I can still hardly believe it. I told Mycroft that I landed on a ledge and Moriarty kept falling, because I wouldn't have believed it unless I had been there; I can't expect anyone else to."
"I believe you," Lestrade tells him.
"You would," Sherlock replies; had he said it to anyone else, it would be a derisive comment, but to Lestrade it's almost fond.
"And Moriarty?" Lestrade prompts.
"I didn't change anything about that. What you read in the newspapers was true. They found his body the next morning, washed up on the shore. He must have hit the rocks, because his body was smashed and broken in almost every conceivable place."
There's another explanation, of course: the injuries sustained by Moriarty's body at the pool, no longer held back by the demon inside him. But Sherlock's found an explanation that makes sense enough, and Lestrade knows better than to try for the truth.
"So why did you fake your death?"
Sherlock glances at him, then looks down. "I was hunting down Moriarty's network. Mycroft helped, but I told him he couldn't let you or John know. Especially John. He'd be in a lot of danger if Moriarty's people knew I was alive." His mouth twists in a grimace.
"What's it like?" Lestrade asks, heart beating too fast. "Being dead."
Sherlock stares at him—blankly at first, then with growing thoughtfulness. "I suppose that's one question I'll never have an answer to. Why, Lestrade, planning on dying soon?"
One year. Lestrade forces a smile. "Not too soon, anyway." One year. One year. "After all, someone's got to look after you. Someone's got to be stupid enough to let you wreck their crime scenes."
Sherlock just rolls his eyes.
"You should see John," Lestrade tells him gently. "He misses you."
Sherlock looks away, not wanting to let Lestrade see what they both know is written all over his face. "No, there's—I still have Moran to deal with. One last case, then I'll go back to Baker Street."
Gregory Lestrade dies in a locked room on November 1, 2015, after three days of looking pale and shaky, jumping at everything—and, at one point, muttering about dogs. His body is ripped to shreds, but it's obvious he wasn't moved after death. There is no DNA evidence in the room or on the body that doesn't belong to Lestrade himself.
It was always going to end this way. From the beginning of time it has been Gregory Lestrade's fate to need Sherlock Holmes, to sell his soul for what Sherlock can do for him; it has been his fate to save and then protect a man charged a destiny to change the world. In Lestrade's death is a great irony, proof that the man upstairs has a sense of humor: the inspector known best for his near-perfect case closure rate, relegated to nothing but a typed file full of loose ends—the coldest of cases—and the man who aided him so many times in life unable to help him in death.
It was never Sherlock's fate to save him, or to understand what killed him. Lestrade's death is one of the few mysteries that Sherlock Holmes never solves, and the only one he never gives up on.