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John
I visit John later that week, and he gives me a cup of tea as we sit down for a chat.
I avoid the subject of Sherlock for nearly an hour before John brings it up himself, mentioning briefly how he has nothing to do now that Sherlock’s gone. I advise him quickly to get a full-time Job instead of a part-time one, and invite him out for a drink sometime.
“Greg, that’s really kind of you, but I don’t think I can.”
“Why not?” I can’t help feeling a little slandered, but he grins ruefully.
“I don’t want to turn out like Harry.”
We laugh awkwardly, and I reassure him that he’s nothing like his sister. He looks like he wants to disagree, but silences himself by taking a sip of tea.
There’s an elongated pause, and I can’t avoid the question any longer.
“John, I know you must get asked a lot, but answer me truthfully. Are you getting on alright?”
“Truthfully? No. But I’m getting over it.”
“Really?” He’s shocked me with him calmness. I expected him to be an emotional wreck.
“Yes, really. You’re forgetting who I am. It’s happened before.”
“What? You’ve seen your best friend die more than once?” Now he’s really stunned me. I don’t have it in me to be sympathetic, the information is too much. I’ve never been much good at sympathy anyway. There’s only so much you can do after years of working for Scotland Yard.
“I’m an ex-army doctor. You don’t think I’ve seen people killed?” He shakes his head, mournfully. “It happens. Life goes on,” He thinks for a minute “although not for them, obviously.” It’s a poor joke, a cover for my complete dumbfounded silence.
“I....I’m sorry.” I manage finally.
“Don’t be.” He stands and leaves his empty cup on the table. “All things have to come to an end. It’s just the way it is.”
It sounds so cold, so harsh. I know it’s not, and it’s just John’s way of coping, but it’s still disturbing. He’s done his mourning and his grief, and he’s moved on. For him, Sherlock is the past.
“I think,” He says, staring out of the window, “That it would be a good idea for me to take on something again. I’ll have a look in the papers, find another job. It’ll be good fun.”
Mrs Hudson
“Oh, don’t be silly dear, it wasn’t your fault.” She says, bustling round her little kitchen, digging out the teapot and some biscuits. It’s nice to hear it from her, however much it’s a sort of repeated monologue I get far too often. I’ve told her that I still blame myself, at least in part, for Sherlock’s death. I shouldn’t have listened to what Sally and Anderson were saying, shouldn’t have given them a chance. Whoever I tell, except John, says that I did the right thing. John is refreshing, if not comforting, but it doesn’t really help because he’s blaming everyone except Sherlock, even himself.
Well, talking to Mrs Hudson has been a godsend. She was one of the only people I think that put up with Sherlock out of choice, apart from John. Hearing her tell me that I shouldn’t blame myself is weirdly reassuring.
“He was always a little bit on the wild side, wasn’t he?” he says, setting a cup of tea in front of me. It’s the second I’ve had this morning, but I’m not complaining. The scalding hot drink does actually help relieve stress, and god knows we’ve all had enough of that lately.
I suddenly realise how little I’ve thought of this unassuming, elderly woman since Sherlock died. I can’t help feeling guilty about that now too. She was almost a mother to him. I think none of us will ever forget the incident with that American. It makes me wonder what he did to her to warrant that sort of treatment from Sherlock. Nothing good, that much is certain.
I smile at her over my cup, trying and failing, I think, to offer reassurance. She just smiles back, sadly, her lax skin softening and crinkling around her eyes. She does look very old now, much, much older than she did before all of this.
I think that Sherlock’s death affected her a lot more than she lets on, but she’s being strong for John. I’ve seen the way they talk to each other now. It’s changed completely.
It’s nice of her to be strong for him, but sometimes she needs someone to be strong for her too. And so we chat idly about this and that, how Mrs Turner next door is doing, about the stray dog that’s taken to sitting outside the front door of Speedy’s that nobody seems to be able to budge. She seems to have taken a shine to the wretched thing. After I thank her and take my leave, I look back and see her feeding it a cold scrap of chicken.
It looks wild and mangy, but she seems to adore it. Maybe she’s missing Sherlock, looking for something mad to take his place. Her life does seem to be rather dull since he left.
Mycroft (his thoughts are in italics, Lestrade's are in normal)
I take baths regularly. It’s one of my only pleasures, nowadays.
You can't fail at taking a bath.
Deep, steaming hot, the only thing that can make me relax, forget the things that plague my everyday life. I despair at my weakness sometimes. I won’t anymore though, not after this.
I can sit back and let the warmth wash over me, letting it cleanse my mind, taking away all the thoughts that I don’t want to think. I can let my mind fall blank, a blissful silence. It’s the only way I can even begin to escape the pain I feel almost constantly now.
I wish I could stay this way forever.
I can slip away... slip beneath the surface of the water...
“Mycroft?”
I try knocking with the brass ring, but I get no answer. I try the doorknob... and the door swings open at barely a touch. That’s not normal. Mycroft’s flats are normally the most secure places I know. He changes them regularly too, and never stays in the same place for long. I've never been to this one before, but he gave me the address last week. I needed to be able to work out how to contact him if Sherlock was in trouble, and it became routine. We still do it now, even though it's not technically necessary. We still do the weekly meetings, talking over a cup of tea in a little cafe somewhere where you wouldn't expect to see someone like Mycroft. Another security measure, I suppose.
“Mycroft?” I call again, taking a few hesitant steps forwards into the warm, dry hallway. It’s a relief after the torrent of rain outside. Still no reply, but I can hear movement. I move towards the noise, making my way to a door at the side of the hallway. I’ve got my hand on the smooth, white paint of the wood before I feel the change. The consistency of the carpet is oddly thick, almost gummy.
Looking down, I see it. The water.
I’m standing in a steadily growing puddle of water seeping underneath the door. What is going on?
I push the door open, and a horrifying sight meets my eyes.
The bath tap is still running on full, overspilling the sides onto the laminate floor. My feet splash as I turn...and Mycroft is there. Eyes closed, slipping, his head is about to go under the rising water.
Before I can even think about what I’m doing, I grab him under the arms, pulling him upwards towards me.
“MYCROFT!” I scream, trying to wake him. Though my mouth is right by his ear, he doesn’t even stir. I shake him, but his head lolls on his shoulder, uselessly.
A horrible thought strikes me... what if he’s dead already?
“Mycroft! Mycroft, can you hear me?” I’ve pulled him out the water, laid him on the floor, face upwards. His eyes are still closed. He lies deathly still. I grasp his neck desperately, trying for a pulse. I must wait for an eternity before I feel it.
There is a heartbeat! Weak, but there! He’s still alive! I try again, shuffling round to face him. He’s breathing shallowly, and I hope desperately that he’s not taken water in. What do I do?
Under pressure, I stupidly forget all my police training. I don’t put him in the recovery position, I don’t check his breathing, I just freeze.
He needs more air. Can I give him that? How are you supposed to revive someone who’s stopped breathing? Oh yes, give them some of your own air.
I don’t even stop to think before filling my lungs. I bend down, and force the air into his mouth. I can feel his lungs inflate underneath me, and he gasps, spluttering.
I sit back and watch, relieved, as he takes huge breaths of air. His eyelids flicker open... and he looks at me. Barely a second of confusion, and he understands what’s happened. It shows in his eyes.
“Why...?” He manages before he gets interrupted by a coughing fit. I help him sit up, and he leans against me.
“I couldn’t let you die!” I say, but he gives me a look.
“You should have done.”
His eyes fill with tears. This isn’t the Mycroft I know. I want to hold him like a child, but I don’t know if he’ll let me. This is the Ice-man. He always acts like he has no feelings, yet here he is in front of me, confessing a wish to die, crying his heart out. What else can I do?
How odd. Lestrade seems to be hugging me. And I’m crying.
His embrace is strangely comforting, if awkward. I don’t think I’ve been held since I was a small child. It’s a pleasant sensation. It occurs to me that I should hug him back. So I do.
He’s not pushed me off at all. It’s very strange. I never thought Mycroft would ever do this. I don’t think I’ll ever get over the weirdness of this situation. Usually it’s Mycroft comforting me. I’m not saying it’s unpleasant, because it’s not. It’s actually... very satisfying. Although the fact that I can feel his tears on my shoulder makes it a little less of an enjoyable experience, and the warm water is seeping through my already sodden suit. Still, warm bath water is better than cold rain.
When do I let go? I’m not used to this sort of social protocol. Who lets go first? Oh...Lestrade, apparently. It’s cold where he’s gone, where his skin was touching mine.
Wait.
I’m naked.
Why didn’t I notice before?
I pull my legs up to my chest, covering my dignity. Lestrade’s noticed too; he’s blushing, but grinning too. I must look a mess. What must he think of me?
“I ought to go. If you get dressed, I’ll make you a cup of tea, but then I really must be going.” Oh god, I can feel the heat in my face. Why am I so embarrassed? I just saved his life!
Just nod. Just nod, and wait for him to leave.
I’ve got to go. Stand up, get to the Kitchen, and make him some tea. But where’s the kitchen? I literally only arrived for the first time less than two minutes ago.
Why isn’t he leaving? Oh, he probably doesn’t know where to go. Will he ask? No, I’d better tell him.
“The tea’s in the cabinet above the Aga.”
He has an Aga? I thought Mycroft’s house would be modern, not the kind of place to have an old-fashioned kitchen ovens and heaters in it!
“If you go left down the hallway take the green door, then the white door on the other side of the living room you’ll find leads into the kitchen. Wait for me in there, I’ll be with you very shortly.”
So brisk, back to his business-like manner. All trace of the emotional break-down is gone, if you can imagine the British government sitting naked, curled up on the bathroom floor.