Death of a Consulting Detective

Detective Inspector

October 21, 2013

~ Sherlock's body rested against the sidewalk of Bart's Hospital; blood dripping down his face. This time I didn't see him jump from the roof. I only saw a close up of his pale blue eyes staring up at me as I checked his pulse. Of course there was nothing, like in all my previous dreams, but I always have hope that his heart would start beating again. Is it bad that I know this is all a dream yet I hope for a different outcome every time as if it were real life?

Suddenly Sherlock's hands grasped my coat collar, catching me by surprise. My fingers still felt no pulse on his wrist, but he was breathing and mumbling words.

"J-John!" he shouted.

It wouldn't do me any good to answer him. But God it was so tempting. His face begged me; his eyes were filled with immense terror. He wanted to say something else too except the words wouldn't come to him like they always had. Finally he blurted out three last words before dropping to the ground once more.

"I miss you..."~

Thus ended my peaceful sleep.
I propped myself up using my elbows and attempted to slow down my breathing. As a distraction I glanced over at the digital clock sitting on the nightstand; I slept for four hours.
Footsteps approached the door to the room after a second or two and Lestrade burst through the door. His shirt was untucked and halfway unbuttoned, revealing the plain white shirt he wore underneath. His hair was a mess too and he almost fell onto the wooden floor because he was wearing socks as he ran through the flat. The first thing he said was some muttered obscenities over his near fall.

"What's wrong Greg?" I asked while taking in the unfamiliar "casual" Lestrade standing in the doorway.

"You..you were screaming." he responded tiredly. "Did you know you scream in your sleep? Christ Ms. Hudson could probably hear that."

This made me slightly embarrassed and Lestrade noticed the error in his statement.

"I'll just uh..leave..if you're okay then."

"No, wait!"

Greg turned his head to face me.

"I have gone through two mental breakdowns right in front of you and all you've done is remain patient with my childish behavior. You've never complained once. Why?" I blurted out.

I never really thought about it until now when I saw the tired expression on his face. Although it doesn't look like he really wants to talk about it, especially at around four in the morning.

He sighed, "Because I understand." then looked down at his feet to avoid seeing my reaction. This was not a satisfying answer. I need more detail.

"Why do you understand?"

Another sigh. "I know what it's like to want to stop breathing, for the pain to go away."

"Why though?"

"Jesus Watson you say that a lot don't you." He sat down in the chair across from the bed. "I don't really feel like telling you but I might as well while we're sharing our feelings. So you want to know about me?"

"Only if it doesn't bother you to explain."

"It bothers me a whole lot, but I know more about you than I ever wanted. You deserve to know something about me."

I guess it was a good reason. Either way he's keeping me from falling back asleep.

"Do you remember the Christmas Sherlock was working on a case for the Woman? Not long after your first encounter with Moriarty."

"Yes I remember." I remember very well.

"He told me my wife was having an affair. I didn't believe the bastard at first, although I really should have. I came home a little earlier than I planned. Caught her um...in the act with some random son of a bitch I've thankfully never met before. Guess how surprised she was to see me standing in the doorway to my bloody bedroom."

Well shit. "That's terrible." I said, watching him intently, waiting for him to go on.

"Things went downhill after that. I moved out of the house and got a rather shitty flat a few minutes away from the police station. I also began to buy more and more smokes." He hesitated to contemplate his next words carefully. "Then Sherlock...left. Work was terrible. All the hard cases were given to me because I knew Sherlock pretty well. Cases kept piling up, I had just lost a good friend, and I was still trying to make the divorce official. It got to the point where I woke up and went about my day like a damn robot. I was just like you except I had no one there to tell me things would be alright. So that is why I understand you so much. I'm just observing the same symptoms I have."

I closed my eyes for just a few seconds. The thought of the happy sarcastic Gregory Lestrade wanting to shoot himself sent chills up my spine. I hadn't realized just how much weight was on his shoulders. The sound of a long, shaky exhale made me look back up at him. He looked so tired, so pained, and it reminded me of how I feel.

"Did you ever pull a stunt like what I did yesterday afternoon?" I need to know.

Greg ran a hand through his messy hair which only worsened how it looked. This was obviously a touchy subject for him to talk about but I can't help it. I need to know I'm not alone. He stood up and made his way to the door.

"A few times, yes. Almost worked once." His voice was quiet and I almost didn't hear him.

He shut the door; the footsteps grew almost as faint as his voice until they disappeared altogether.

I noticed the journal from Sherlock sitting by the chair Lestrade sat in. Its dark leather cover was face down on the arm of the chair; its pages were open to a specific spot near the middle of the book. After throwing off the blanket that covered me and the bed, I walked towards the open book. The page was titled "Affairs" and Sherlock had written "Talk to Lestrade" in a different color then circled it, maybe as an afterthought. Greg must have been flipping through it while I thought of him and the burden he's carrying.

Now I felt terrible for even bringing the damned topic up anyway. I dropped the journal and ran to the living room. Lestrade was smoking near the window. His hand shook every time he raised the cigarette up to his lips; his breathing was broken up every time he exhaled. I stood behind him for a moment until he noticed my presence.
"I'm sorry Greg. I should've kept my mouth shut-.."

"Don't...don't apologize. Please John, don't."

He fell onto the couch and let the cigarette balance between his fingers.

"I shouldn't have brought it up though."

"No John." His voice cracked. "I would've told you soon anyway. It was just a matter of time...you had to know." Lestrade watched as the paper around the cigarette turned to ash.

"Know what exactly?" I asked.

He took a long pull from the cigarette before putting it out in a nearby ashtray.

"That you weren't the only one hurt by Sherlock Holmes."