Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When you have been an officer long enough, you start to get this feeling about things. It's an unsightly mixture of experience, common sense, and sheer paranoia. The feeling sits in your gut, dense as a brick, and rears up like ulcer pain at the most inopportune moments. But the most maddening thing about it?

It is very often right.

When you have been an officer for as long as Lestrade, you learn to do one of two things: listen up or drown it in antacids. Lestrade has attempted the latter to no avail, so he has reluctantly accepted his fate and tries to pay attention. One such day, his attention was more diverted than usual—but he had a good reason.

His friend had just thrown himself off a roof.

Chapter Text

The inevitable shit-storm brewing at the Met required Greg to take some "much needed holiday time" while the inquest was sorted out. It was just as well; most of his coworkers couldn't even look him in the face.

As he packed a few of his essentials from his office, he spotted a memo to all NSY officers in his email, marked URGENT. The marketing firm next door had had a break in and now the letters "IOU" coated the windows of three, east facing offices—a message obviously intended for New Scotland Yard itself. The email was the typical spiel from HR about possible gang activity and counter terrorism, about staying safe and avoiding risks, and it was so chock-full of bureaucratic bullshit Greg closed it and logged out without a second thought.

The brick in his gut shifted and twisted but was dismissed as anxiety (or perhaps grief, if he thought about it, which he was trying very hard not to) and he went home.

Three weeks later he found a bulging manila envelope shoved unceremoniously into his letterbox. He recognized the familiar scrawl across the label: Thought you'd want to know.

Donovan, seeking redemption…but it wasn't her fault. She didn't make him jump.

He ripped open the folder and dumped the contents onto his coffee table. Reports, statements, photographs. They were copies of Sherlock's final case, evidence to be presented at Greg's inquest most likely.

He barely glanced at the reports. They were only cold facts of the hours leading up to that phone call about Bart's, most of which were in his own handwriting. It was the statements that gave him pause.

The inquest was delving into many of his past cases (read: Sherlock's cases) interviewing the parties involved for any evidence of fraudulent practice. Greg expected venomous twaddle about "good riddance" and "sociopaths," but instead he found things like "eccentric," "brilliant" and "zealous." But it was one phrase in particular that made his breath lodge in his throat and his hands weak:

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

By God, it was everywhere. It wasn't just the fans. Clients and allies of all sorts were coming out of the woodwork to decry the media and the claim of 'fraud.' It was the best thing he'd found in weeks.

He had thought Donovan meant to keep him informed. Instead he found a smile on his face for the first time in ages and a tiny spark of something that felt like hope.

Finally he shifted through the photographs, thankful that Sally opted for breadth as opposed to depth in her criteria for collecting the documents. He had no desire to see the broken body in an autopsy photo and so stuffed it and any others under the reports. As he did so he caught a glimpse of a picture of Baker Street, specifically the alley they ducked down after Sherlock claimed John as his "hostage."

Bold red letters, strapped to great wide wings: IOU.

His stomach jumped in recognition and he reached for his mobile. Maybe it was more paranoia than common sense. Two occurrences did not a pattern make, but he had been working with that eccentric/brilliant/zealous consultant for too long to ignore his experience. It was worth a phone call to organized crime. Siegerston owed him a favor anyways.

Chapter Text

It was days before Siegerston got back to him. Organized Crime had front row seats to a rather bloody turf war between rival gangs and it was only now that the DI had time to dispense favors.

What he had to say was this: no, there were no gangs or new upstarts that used "IOU" as their calling card. No, the stylistic design did not match any of NSY's open cases and it was unlike anything Organized Crime was currently working with.

Greg thanked him for the virtually useless information and hung up before Siegerston could ask what this was all about. He was meeting John Watson for a pint and he had lingered too long already.

Despite Greg's tardiness, he arrived at the pub the same time as the doctor. "Sorry," John said, sounding out of breath. He settled on the stool beside Greg. "Last patient took a bit longer than I wanted."

Greg waved him off. "I just got here myself."

Pints had always been a thing for them. But it was touch and go there, after the scandal. Greg had a hard time checking his remorse at the door, especially in the beginning.

The doctor had made quick work of that.

The first time Greg tried to apologize for the arrest and his part in the uproar, John didn't seem to hear him. The second time, John simply shook his head and told Greg he was only doing his job. The third time John punched him. In the face. Hard enough to send Greg sprawling.

"There," John said, shaking out his hand. "We're done with that now, all right?"

And just like that, they were.

They ordered a round and made a strong effort to avoid the extravagant elephant in the room. Some days it was simpler to ignore the consulting detective's existence…but neither of them were particularly good at ignoring things; it wasn't in their nature.

"Sod this," John huffed, halfway through a painfully dull story of his patient's brush with salmonella. "What's this I hear about an inquest?"

The knot of awkwardness inhabiting Greg's stomach abruptly loosened and he downed the last of his beer in one go. "The bastards have to cover their arses somehow," he mumbled, waving at the bartender for another. "I'm not involved unless they decide to sack me. The Yard wants to save face and right now I'm the best scapegoat. We'll see what turns up."

The bartender dropped a fresh glass in front of him and Greg stared into its depths for a long moment. "It was good evidence, John. He was impossible, unorthodox and half mad but in every case we closed we had good, solid evidence. They can sack me but not one of our cases will be thrown out. I made damn sure of that."

John was quiet but he nodded rigidly, his eyes far away. Greg swore internally. Exactly how much tact was he missing? "Jesus. I'm a tosser, John, I didn't mean to—"

John straightened. "No, don't… don't apologize. Thank you."

They grew quiet. Greg started watching the darts game in the corner as they slowly drained their pints. It was a long time before John finally broke the silence. "People think—" He blinked hard and stopped, and Greg couldn't help but think of the headlines in the days that had followed. Headlines filled with exactly what people thought.

John sucked in a breath. "Everyone is on tip toe around me. Probably think I want to follow him or some rubbish. They think I don't want to talk about it, but that's not true. I don't talk about it because they don't understand. They didn't know him."

"You did."

"I did." John nearly choked on it. "God help me I did. I knew him best… but I don't know why. Why did he do it?"

Greg nodded solemnly. "He loved it, didn't he? This game? He lived it, breathed it. He couldn't have faked all that. So what changed?"

"The game." John's face was hard. "The rules changed."

"Moriarty."

"He was in our flat, Greg. He sat in our furniture, drank our tea. Even left a present."

It was that tug in his gut that prompted the question. "What kind of present?" he asked.

"A carving. In an apple. Just three letters: IOU."

Greg dropped his glass and by some miracle it managed to miss his lap and fall straight between his knees to shatter on the floor.

"Ho! Greg, careful!" John turned to apologize to the staff, but Greg was already pulling money from his wallet, dropping God only knows how many bills onto the bar.

"Come on, John. There's something you've got to see."

Chapter Text

Huddled over his coffee table Greg, once again, dumped the files onto the table as he waited for his ancient laptop to sputter to life. John sat beside him, watching the proceedings with the calm acceptance of a man with vast experience in the erratic behavior of questionably stable individuals.

"Look!" Greg said. Fumbling with the blanket of papers, he snatched up the graffiti photograph.

His laptop pinged in awareness and he shoved the photo into John's hands. Greg pecked out his pass code on the database and started scrolling. It took him a few moments to find the bloody email but there it was, buried beneath the pileup that had accrued in his absence.

"Greg." John's voice was hoarse and dark. "What the hell…?"

Greg pushed the laptop in front of the doctor and waited. He watched John's eyes slide across the screen then double back a few times, rereading the material again and again.

"When was this taken?" he finally murmured.

"Soon after you fled the scene."

"And the windows?"

"Spotted later, the next morning."

"How the…" John cocked his head, brow furrowed, and stared again at the photograph. "He did this. Moriarty. He was leaving a message."

"A warning?" Greg tried. This was always the hard part, assembling the pieces to form the picture (especially when the pieces were covered in the blood of a friend).

"But to what end?" John demanded. "We knew he was coming, it was only a matter of time."

"Playing the game? Taunting, heckling. It's all part of it."

"So why leave a calling card at the flat? Paint up the Yard and Baker Street? It's got to be more than that. These are places Sherlock went all the time." John closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. "Moriarty is a bomber."

Greg considered that for a moment, recalling that awful case. "What, they're targets? Blow the Yard, your flat? But then why two warnings at Baker Street? Sherlock would never have stayed if he thought the place rigged, not with Mrs. Hudson in potential danger, you think?"

John chuckled without humor and ran a hand over his eyes. "No, Mrs. Hudson couldn't leave Baker Street. England would…" John suddenly went very still and all the color drained from his face.

"John, what is it? England would what?"

John's answer was faint as a breeze: "Fall." He stared at the photograph of the three-lettered graffiti. "Mrs. Hudson." He glanced at the email. "Greg." He nodded faintly and his eyes slid shut. "Me."

John leaned forward and laid the photo on the coffee table next to the soft glow of the laptop.

His voice was soft but flat when he next spoke. "Awhile back I suggested Mrs. Hudson take a holiday. Sherlock laughed and claimed that if Mrs. Hudson were to ever leave Baker Street "England would fall.'" He pointed to the winged graffiti. "That's for Mrs. Hudson."

He turned to the laptop. "Even HR was able to figure out the IOU was obviously for the Yard, not the marketing firm. But not for all of Scotland Yard. You, Greg. You're the only one who could work with him. The painted windows were for you."

And suddenly he understood. "It's you," Greg breathed. "The apple was your warning, your pip. It was a hit list."

John was ashen, his voice hollow. "And we're not dead."

But someone is.

It was a sucker punch to the gut, so violent Greg had to bolt to the kitchen and wretch into the sink.

Oh my God. "Moriarty made him do it." It wasn't a question.

John's reply was haunted. "What other answer is there?"