Death of a Consulting Detective

Strength To Go On

"Jesus Christ..." Greg muttered. I couldn't have said it any better myself.
My emotions took over, causing me to stand back up and turn around. I just couldn't look anymore. It looks just like him...

"John. I-I didn't know- Jesus Christ." he repeated.

The body was tall. Dark brown curls covered its head. It wore a black suit, long grey overcoat, and a white button down that was torn open to reveal the victim's bare chest. The words carved by the murderer were "Garden of Eden". It looks so much like him, dear God.

"Your men didn't find this important when they called you Lestrade?" I had to say it quickly to keep my voice from cracking.

"John. I swear-...I-I didn't know. Bloody hell; who would do this?"

My footsteps were quick and headed towards the murder weapon. The team working on it looked surprised when they caught sight of me.

"Do you have the test results yet?" You could hear the firmness in my voice. I need to know who it is. Who knows me well enough to pull a stunt like that?

They offered me some papers, which I snatched without any regards to my expected politeness. There were two words that grasped my attention. Just two words.

James Moran.

And they sound a lot like James Moriarty.

~

I took a taxi home right after I saw the name. It was a stupid idea really. All of his belongings littering the flat brought back the image of the dead body.

My head was pounding and it wouldn't stop or slow down. Everywhere I looked I saw his bleeding face staring blankly at me. Then, as usual, I came back to the violin. Oh how the tears ran down my cheeks when I thought of him playing it.

I wasn't thinking straight anymore. My palms pushed piles of papers off of tables, ripped photos off of the "evidence" wall, and threw his music stand across the room. I wanted them to throw the instrument too; throw it right out the damn window into the street. But they wouldn't and it angered me even more. Just destroy the bloody thing, please!

It hurts. It hurts so goddamn much. I just want it to stop; for the nightmares to leave, for the violin to disappear, and for the pain to quit torturing me. It hurts to lose someone you loved. It fucking hurts like hell.

I sobbed for twenty minutes as I watched the minutes tick by. Every second I stood there was another second without Sherlock. I want him to burst through the door telling me he faked his death a year ago and that I was being ridiculous. I want this to be some God awful prank he planned, or some clever scheme he devised to trick Moriarty. I want him to be alive instead of me.

Another minute went by. I remembered the desk. My gun. Instead of me...

I opened the wooden drawer. The mere sight of the silver metal made my body shake. My fingers slowly wrapped around the handle of the weapon; it felt cold resting in my hand. The tip of the gun was freezing against the side of my head. Is this what you wanted Sherlock? Is it?! You bloody bastard! I hope you're happy!

I was ready to end it: my finger was on the trigger and I was determined. But my d-damn hand w-won't c-cooperate! Bloody hell! P-please! I was shaking so much. I was afraid. What the f-fuck Sherlock?!

"John!"

I turned towards the doorway just in time to see Lestrade drop an unlit cigarette onto the floor. Why couldn't he leave me be? Does he want me to suffer too?

For some unknown reason I let him approach me, I let him take the gun away, I let him lead me to the couch, and I let him keep me in my life of pain.

He sat with me, like he did quite a few days ago, and he calmed me down. Finally it sunk in that I would've been dead if it weren't for him. I almost let myself give up.

"I almost shot myself..."

Lestrade simply nodded.

"G-Greg I-I almost shot m-myself."I stuttered.

"But you didn't." he replied.

"I'd be dead."

"But you aren't."

"J-Jesus C-Christ..."

After that, my body let all the pain out of its system. I must've cried for hours while Lestrade sat there with his hand on my shoulder. Every now and then I would manage to say a sentence such as "Why would he do this?", "He's killing me.", or "Greg, why won't he come back?" I was a huge mess and he never complained once.

Soon enough though my lungs refused to work properly and he had to calm me down. He told me to focus on the murderer. If it was Moriarty, I would not only bring him in for the murder of three people, but I would also get to punish the man causing me all this grief. When I was breathing normally, Lestrade got up to clean the flat. The papers were stacked neatly on the desk, the pictures were put back on the wall, and the music stand returned to its position by the window. His gaze turned to the violin sitting by the corner.

"This has to go." he said to himself.
He walked out of the room for a few seconds, carrying the instrument gently in his hands, and returned with a brand new pack of smokes.

"I'm going to lock that damned thing away at the station somewhere. It's not doing you much good."

Talking correctly was still beyond my capability so I nodded to let him know that I heard what he said. It brought some relief to my mind knowing that nightmare inducing machine would leave me be.

Greg disappeared again as I worked on finishing my second cigarette of the day. To my surprise he had gotten a cup of tea and a small amount of food for me. I never thought of him as someone who would be incredibly caring. Perhaps Sherlock has changed his life too.

Changes in Lestrade's Personality:
Sarcastic ->Quiet
Cheerful ->Serious
Joking ->Concerned
Inconsiderate ->Thoughtful
Side Note: Buys more smokes than nicotine patches.

~

The food remained untouched for the rest of the evening. In order to distract me from previous events, Greg started looking for "James Moran". Turns out he occupied a small flat a few blocks away from all the crime scenes. He's also a Catholic with a history of being arrested. I think I had to go question him for an older case one time because he was too boring for Sherlock to come. The man looks the part of a killer, but I don't remember him having a lust for blood. Still worth investigating though.
It was like the gun incident never happened. We chose not to speak of it that night if we didn't have to. Ms. Hudson would never know, nor would Mycroft. It wasn't necessary for them to know therefore they would never be told. If anyone were to ask what went on in 221B we agreed to tell them the selective truth: part of the whole story.
At 12:30 a.m. we called it a night.
This would become the very last time the gun was mentioned.

Lestrade insisted on staying rather than returning home. He didn't want to leave me alone after what he witnessed; I can't say I blame him. There was a long, awkward period of silence following his argument.

I wanted to say something to express my gratitude for his actions, but the words wouldn't come to me. How does one thank another for saving their life? "Hey thanks for preventing me from killing myself a few hours ago, I really appreciate it." doesn't really do any justice.

"I'll uh..take the couch. You go rest now John."

He was trying to rid the room of the awkward tension. I can't just leave though. I need to say something to him; he needs to know how much it meant to me. I was still thinking of the right words as I made my way to Sherlock's...no, my room.

"Greg." I began. Great now what do I say?

He looked up from a few documents we had printed out not too long ago.

"I...I just want to say..uh...." I clearly have a way with words.

Thankfully he interrupted me. "I understand. You don't have to say anything more. It never even happened, right?"

I took a breath, responded with "Right.", and entered the room, closing the door behind me.

~

I don't think I've slept that peacefully since Sherlock died.