Chapter Text
There was not a time that Gregory Lestrade could remember when he did not want to be a police officer. Not that he failed to consider the matter fully before he joined the force, rather, when he did think it through, he couldn’t think of anything he would prefer to be. When he had first entered the force as a newly minted constable, he had known what it would be like, he had known it would be hard. And it had been hard, but going into it knowing how bad it could be had given him something many of his fellow officers never achieved. Perspective.
Lestrade’s first interaction with the metropolitan police had not been positive. People rarely saw the police when a crime had not been committed, and whether they were the victim or the offender often made little difference to how the police were received. Nobody liked the police, not where he had grown up, at least. Either they were people who targeted teens and those living in lower income areas, or they were people who would ignore crimes against members of the ‘lower class’. He had grown up on a council estate in eastern London, where crime had been high and income low. A healthy distrust of the police had been ingrained in him from birth.
Lestrade had been nine years old when he met his first police officer. PC Pearson had responded to reports of shots fired in his neighbourhood and had the unfortunate responsibility of informing Lestrade, his sister, and his mother, that his father had been killed. He vividly remembered being confused and angry, not angry that someone had killed his father, not angry that they couldn’t catch the person that did it. No. He was angry that his father had died and left them without a source of income. Michael Lestrade had cared very little about his family, he wasn’t abusive but he was, for all intents and purposes, absent. If he wasn’t absent in body, he was absent in mind, drunk 90% of the time and silent the other 10. Elizabeth Lestrade had bad luck. She’d gotten pregnant while still in high school and had married a man who stopped caring after less than five years of marriage. She wasn’t a bad mother, but she wasn’t one of those mothers who would have done anything for her children. Greg had learned at a fairly early age that he had to take care of himself, and his sister.
PC Pearson took Lestrade aside after informing his mother of his father’s death. The young constable told him that he didn’t have to turn to crime to help his family, told him to apply for government aid. PC Pearson had given him another option and, as angry as he had been at the time, he had listened. No matter how many crimes he saw unsolved in his community, how many of his friends and peers had been arrested, Lestrade had never stopped believing in that other option.
His home life had been rather good, considering the circumstances. His mother had worked to support them and he had received all the love he required from his little sister, Alice. They helped each other, taught each other, and eventually they moved out of their mother’s house and rented a crappy little flat together while he trained to be a police officer and she worked nights as a bartender to pay her way through university. Even while they were dirt poor, living in a dump of a one-bedroom apartment, sleeping on the floor because they didn’t have enough money for furniture, he had never stopped wanting to be a police officer.
He had been through hard times, harder than the ones he was experiencing at that moment, and that made his reaction all the worse. Lestrade was beginning to wish that he had never become a police officer. He had been divorced for a year, his daughter was in a serious relationship, he was up to his neck in paperwork, in the middle of a baffling, disturbing and downright depressing case, and his ‘consulting detective’ was incommunicado.
An Iraq war veteran had gone missing and his entire family, including his 8-year-old daughter, had been savagely murdered, gutted, and left in a public park. He wanted so desperately for the man to be innocent, and alive, but he couldn’t ignore the evidence that all pointed directly at the missing man. Lestrade and his team had been looking for two days and they still had nothing on his whereabouts, no leads and no ideas. Except one. Donovan had found an entry in the man’s diary from the day before his disappearance; he was due for a physical therapy session at one of the local hospitals after an accident had exacerbated his old war injury. Usually, he would have sent Donovan or one of the PCs to interview the people at the hospital, but this case had affected him in such a personal way, and he was going insane stuck at his desk doing nothing, so he chose to go personally.
The entire physical therapy department at the hospital was full of patients, each one of them working hard to overcome whatever injury they had sustained. It was sort of beautiful, the best kind of beautiful, to watch the amputees walking, or the seriously injured working through the pain to achieve whatever mobility they could. It certainly gave him some perspective, something he had never been lacking previously but was in great need of at this point. He talked briefly with the therapist in charge and was directed to the far corner of the room where a fairly short, blonde man was wincing and doing exercises with his left arm.
“Excuse me?” he asked when he got close. “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade, would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions?”
The man twisted so he was facing Lestrade and looked him up and down twice before nodding. “What about?”
“Thomas Hall.”
“Why do you want to ask about Tommy? What’s happened?”
“He is missing, and possibly connected with a serious crime. We need to find him and talk to him.”
“Whatever crime you think he committed, he didn’t do it,” he said firmly, his voice strong and vaguely commanding.
“What’s your name, Captain?” Lestrade asked.
“John Watson, 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, RAMC,” he said automatically. “Wait, how did you know I was a captain?”
“You’re wearing ID tags and you used a command voice. With your approximate age, it was a fair assumption to make,” Lestrade replied. “I just want to find Tommy first, before anything else.”
“He didn’t do it.”
“What makes you so sure?” he asked gently.
“He was injured in Iraq almost five years ago, lost his foot to an IED. Ever since he was invalided home, he has visited the returned veterans living in London. Every. Single. One. He visited me the first day, only a few hours after I had come to London. He told me to get off my arse and get my PT done so I could regain mobility and start doing things. He gave us all hope. I didn’t know him well, but when he was hurt in that car accident, I trained with him. He is a good man, and whatever you think he did, he did not do it.”
“I can’t prove that without him,” Lestrade replied evenly. “Can you tell me anything, anything at all relevant? Where he might be, any enemies he, or his family, might have had?”
“I told you, I don’t know him well. All I know is that the guy who ran him over is going to prison because of his testimony. It was a hit and run, he was lucky to have survived. He got out on parole last week.”
“Do you know the name of this man?”
“I don’t know, but Tommy filed a police report, it should be in there.”
“Okay, thank you Captain Watson, you’ve been very helpful. I’m sorry to have interrupted your session.”
“I was done anyway,” he said, putting his towel into his backpack and grabbing a metal cane from the wall beside him. “I’ll walk out with you.”
They walked silently through the white corridors of the hospital and out into the cool autumn air. The silence wasn’t at all uncomfortable. In fact, it was rather calming for Lestrade, who was used to chaos and screaming and constant noise. They didn’t speak until they reached the street.
“I’m going this way,” Watson said, gesturing in the direction of the underground.
“Where are you going?”
“Home, why?”
“Come on, I’ll give you a lift. I’ve got my squad car.”
“While I appreciate the sentiment, Detective Inspector, I am perfectly capable of walking,” he snapped.
“I realise that,” Lestrade replied nonchalantly, “but I thought it might save you some time.”
“Don’t you have people to find?”
“I do, I’ve already texted my team the information you’ve given me. It’ll take at least half an hour to find the reports, and another hour or so to assess whether or not he is a threat. And paperwork, of course. So much paperwork. I’m not needed there, not just yet,” he replied, then decided to address the elephant in the room and get it out of the way. “You don’t need my pity and I don’t have any to spare. You are working hard to retain mobility and that makes you someone to be admired, not pitied. Never pitied. I wanted to talk to you, in the car, because I think I might be able to help you get back on your feet in London.”
Watson studied him with sharp blue eyes for a long moment before asking suspiciously, “how?”
Lestrade smiled. “My sister lives near a clinic, here in London, and she’s friends with one of the doctors who works there. She’s taking maternity leave in a couple of weeks and they haven’t been able to find a replacement for her. It’s temporary, and only part time, but it’s something and I thought it might help you supplement your income.”
“I…” Watson began, then, after taking a deep breath, looked Lestrade directly in the eyes. “You’re serious. They’d offer it to me? A broken old soldier with a psychosomatic limp and PTSD?”
“You’re a doctor,” Lestrade replied. “None of that stuff changes your training. It will be boring, and I wish I had contacts in a hospital or something interesting, but I don’t. Please, just think about it.”
“You’re being awfully nice for someone who met me less than an hour ago,” Watson said, still looking suspicious.
“I was having a bad day. You helped with my case and I like you. The clinic just popped into my head.”
“All right,” he said eventually. “Give me the address and I’ll go.”
Lestrade took out his notebook and a pen and jotted down the address and phone number from where he had stored them in his mobile, then ripped out the page. Watson took it, folded it, and put it into his pocket.
“Give me your phone for one second,” Lestrade said, holding out a hand. Watson took it out of his jacket pocket and handed it to him cautiously. Lestrade slid it open and added his work number into the phone. “If you have a problem, you call me. Okay?”
“Yes, okay,” Watson replied. “I’ll be going now.”
Lestrade handed him back the phone and took out his car keys. “Take care, Captain.”
“You too, Inspector.”
And they went their separate ways.
***
Lestrade looked up from his depressingly large pile of paperwork with tired eyes and smiled when he saw Mycroft Holmes leaning casually against the doorjamb, left hand gripping the ubiquitous umbrella. When Mycroft didn’t smile back, he straightened in his chair and put down his pen, preparing for bad news or an argument of some kind.
“Mycroft,” Lestrade said, gesturing for him to sit. “What is the problem?”
“I’m afraid I will be unable to meet with you for some time, there is a,” he paused for a moment before continuing delicately, “situation out of the country.”
“So you can’t make it for coffee tomorrow?” Lestrade asked. He was genuinely disappointed because, despite what Sherlock said of his brother, Mycroft was an entertaining friend.
“Not tomorrow, nor the week after, most likely. In fact, I expect to be out of London for at least a month.”
“Okay,” Lestrade replied. “And you want me to keep him busy?”
“I have left several matters for him to deal with, he is unlikely to get overly bored. However, if you do come across something he would be interested in…”
“Of course,” Lestrade replied. “I’ll give him a call right away if I get anything interesting while you’re gone.”
“Thank you, Lestrade,” Mycroft replied, but his posture did not relax and there was a tightness in his eyes that made Lestrade nervous.
Lestrade grabbed his post-it notes from his desk and quickly penned a short note in his messy, but legible, handwriting. Then he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a single chocolate, wrapped in a fancy black box and tied with a thin, dark purple ribbon. He tossed it gently to Mycroft, who caught it with a bemused look, then handed him the post it note. Mycroft blinked twice and looked back up at Lestrade.
“I’m not sure I quite understand,” he said carefully.
“Neither do I,” Lestrade replied easily. “I don’t know what has you so tense, but I do know that you work too hard and you don’t have enough friends.”
“I don’t have friends, Lestrade, I have allies and enemies,” he replied flatly. “Holmeses don’t have friends.”
Lestrade rolled his eyes. “We are friends, Mycroft. We’ve been friends for at least a year. We meet for coffee almost every week, you complain about your job, I complain about mine. You complain about your brother, I complain about my ex-wife. I tell you funny stories about work, you laugh. You got my daughter her first job out of university and I returned the favour by not arresting your arse of a brother when he stole my warrant card last week. We are friends.”
Mycroft blinked twice again. Analysing Mycroft’s eyes seemed to be the only visible way to gauge his reactions to anything. As far as Lestrade could tell from four years of acquaintance, two blinks meant confusion, a blink a fraction longer than usual meant anger or frustration, and Mycroft’s version of an eye roll was briefly looking up and to the right.
“I see,” Mycroft said after a moment’s pause. “So you have given me your private mobile number because we are friends?” The way he said ‘we are friends’, a little slower than the rest of the sentence, with his mouth very carefully forming the words, made Lestrade think that he had never before said those words together. And that was more than a little heartbreaking.
“Yes. I only use that phone for my daughter and my sister. If you have any problems, or if you want to talk while you’re gone, to ask about Sherlock or just to talk, I’ll answer.”
“You never let your other phone ring out, why is this number necessary?”
“It just is. That number is for personal things. It’s more likely to be free, because I get a lot of work related calls and sometimes Sherlock spams my work number when he’s bored.”
Mycroft looked down at the fluorescent yellow sticky note, then back at Lestrade and held up the chocolate. “And this?”
“It was my sister’s birthday yesterday. I bought her some fancy chocolates and a couple of books, and I saw a flavour that I thought you would like. When I was a kid, me and my sister used to buy each other little gifts, just small things, nothing at all expensive. Things that had reminded one of us of the other, we called them ‘random appreciation presents’.”
“I believe you mean, ‘my sister and I’,” Mycroft corrected automatically.
“Of course, sorry, grammar police,” Lestrade said with a smile. “Anyway, I thought you could do with a random appreciation present of your own. I can’t imagine Sherlock is big on gifts, and you seemed stressed last week.”
“I do not eat sweets,” Mycroft said, somewhat tersely.
Lestrade looked at him with a sad sort of half-smile. “You should know that you don’t need to diet, you never needed to diet. I wouldn’t lie to you. You can eat whatever you want, and if you want to diet, that’s your choice, but if you want to eat a chocolate for once, that would be a good one to eat.”
“What flavour is it?”
“Why don’t you give it a try?” Lestrade asked. When Mycroft opened his mouth to object, he added, “please?”
“No,” Mycroft said, placing the box back on Lestrade’s desk. “I’m afraid I cannot.”
“Okay,” Lestrade said, more than a little disappointed. “I guess you have to go, then. Be safe, whatever you’re doing.”
Mycroft stood up, collected his umbrella, and turned to the door. He paused for a moment and, without turning back, spoke.
“You may think we are friends, Lestrade, but I think it would be best for everyone if you ceased believing that.”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” Lestrade replied firmly. “I can’t turn it on and off, it doesn’t work that way, and besides, there is no harm in having friends, Mycroft.”
“Caring, Detective Inspector Lestrade, is not an advantage,” he said coldly, and opened the door and walked away before he could hear Lestrade’s reply.
“You’re wrong.”
Lestrade was seriously considering running after Mycroft, but his personal mobile rang before he could. He checked the caller ID and smiled when he saw it was Alice, his sister.
“Hey, Ally,” he said with a smile, turning to look out the window and trying to forget his confusing, and frankly upsetting, conversation with Mycroft.
“I’m at the clinic,” she began.
“Are you okay? Is everything alright?” he asked quickly, straightening in his chair as if to brace for bad news.
“Everything is fine, Greg. When you reach 40, they make you get all these annual tests. I was just doing them, and believe me, you do not want me to describe them. Anyway, Dr Carlson is off on maternity leave and I have a new Doctor. Doctor Watson, a lovely man. He said that he was recommended the job by a policeman and I thought, ‘no, it can’t have been Greg’, but was it?”
“Yeah, I met him a few days ago on a case. A bad one,” Lestrade said. “He helped out. Quite a bit, actually.”
And he had. Tommy Hall had not killed his family, he had been fished out of the Thames less than half a day after his conversation with Watson, and a security camera had caught the car that dropped the body off on tape. They had found the car abandoned a block away and eventually matched the fingerprints inside to the man that had run Tommy Hall over. He had confessed after less than an hour with Donovan – the woman was ruthless when children were involved. He had killed Tommy Hall and then his family to cover up the crime, hoping everyone would assume that Hall had committed suicide after the murder. If Watson had not told Lestrade about a possible motive, the police probably wouldn’t have bothered to look closer.
“He seems lovely, he just went to get the vaccination for my flu shot, he’ll be back any minute.”
“You shouldn’t be on your phone while in an appointment, Ally, that’s rude.”
“Always the older brother, Greg,” she scoffed. “He doesn’t mind. Oh, here he is now. You don’t mind, do you Doctor Watson?”
Greg could only just make out Watson’s muffled response of “who are you talking to, Mrs Graham?”
“My brother,” she replied.
“Is it very important?” he asked. “I do have to finish your check up.”
“Not very important, no. But you might know my brother.”
“It’s unlikely, Mrs Graham. I am new in London.”
“My brother is a policeman, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
“Lestrade?” Watson asked. “I do know him.”
“My brother wants to speak to you,” she said.
“Wait, Alice!”
“Hello?” Watson asked.
“Hello, Doctor Watson. Sorry for my sister.”
“I saw the news,” he said sadly. “About Tommy.”
“I’m so sorry, Doctor Watson. I had hoped that he would be alive.”
“I told you he didn’t do it.”
“I believed you,” Lestrade replied. “How’s the job going?”
“This is my first day, but everyone is very nice and it’s fairly easy work, comparatively speaking. I can’t thank you enough for telling me about it. I’m not sure I would have taken the initiative to find a position if you hadn’t made it so easy.”
“I’m glad I could be of assistance.”
“Would you like to head to the pub, watch a game or something? As a thank you,” Watson asked. “I haven’t any mates in London, and no family, apart from a sister I’m not close to.”
“I’d like that, it’s been a while since I’ve had a chance to have a night out with a mate who isn’t my brother-in-law. My sister, as you can see, is a little too close.”
Watson laughed and said, “I can see that. Are you free tomorrow night?”
“Should be, yeah,” Lestrade replied after thinking it over for a moment. “But the job can be a little unpredictable.”
“How about I give you my number and you call if you get held up?”
“Okay,” Lestrade replied, reaching for a pen and paper and writing down Watson’s mobile number as he read it out before farewelling him and getting back to work, resolving to have fun and forget about Mycroft’s odd behaviour for a while.
It wasn’t that Lestrade didn’t have friends, because he did, but most of them were workmates and it was sometimes difficult to keep the line between professional and personal relationships in tact. It wasn’t easy to follow someone’s orders at work if you’d had to carry them home, roaring drunk, the night before. Lestrade’s first DI had been a little too friendly, and that had an incredibly harmful impact on the professional capabilities of the team, not that any of them had actually liked the man. Lestrade was friendly with his team, but he maintained that professional distance as much as possible. He was also very friendly with Mark, Alice’s husband of almost 20 years, but he’d never quite gotten over the whole ‘he’s having sex with my sister’ thing, so the relationship wasn’t as close as it could be.
Most of the friends he’d made in high school had ended up in prison. One of them he’d had to arrest personally, and friends he’d made over the years had married off and started doing ‘couple activities’ which he’d been excluded from as soon as he’d divorced his ex-wife. His daughter was wonderful and incredibly intelligent, but he would always be her father first. It had never been his goal to become her friend. Erin was probably the best thing that had ever happened to him, but she had her own life, a new job that demanded most of her time, and no longer needed him in the same material way she had when she’d been a child. He missed the days when it had been so easy to be her hero, when she had needed him as much as he needed her. Lestrade wasn’t sure if he could count Sherlock as a friend, when in reality he felt more like the infuriating man’s father than his friend. With Mycroft out of the country, Lestrade could finally see how much time he had reserved to spend with him, and how empty his calendar would be without him. Perhaps his new friend, Dr Watson, would be able to fill those spaces, and not deny their friendship in the process.