“That’s Greg. That’s Greg Lestrade.” Mary doesn’t know who I mean. I point him out to her; he’s right in the middle. He’s the one who’s going to speak; he’s the one hovering nearest the microphone. It’s obvious. “There.”
“Which one?”
“There, the–” Pointing really doesn’t help; the telly isn’t that big. “The one with the blue jacket, reaching for the– yeah. That’s him. That’s Lestrade, DI Lestrade.”
She nods. “Ah, right. I see.”
But she doesn’t. She doesn’t see at all. She takes a sip of her tea and curls her toes against my thigh. She’d rather we were watching something else, I know. But she won’t say so. She knows this is important. It’s about Sherlock. My friend. It’s important to me. She understands that. She’s listened to me go on about it since dinner and hasn’t complained, she hasn’t tried to stop me or change the subject. She even asked me some questions. She wanted to know about “this Moriarty character.”
She asked if I’d ever met him.
How is it that I’m living with someone who doesn’t know that Moriarty strapped a bomb to my chest? How does that even happen?
Maybe I’ve been sleepwalking through the last three years, and I’m only waking up now that Moriarty is dead.
Greg looks out at the press and stares out at us, and it’s like I’ve caught his eye, sitting here on Mary’s sofa, watching Mary’s telly. But I know I haven’t; it’s just the evening news. But I feel like he’s about to recognise me even through the screen and call me over, John, where’s Sherlock? Give us a hand, would you?
“That’s Greg, yeah. I know him.”
I feel compelled to say it out loud; he’s on the telly, right there, in front of a sea of cameras, and I know him. This isn’t live footage, obviously: there’s some weak sunlight through the window behind him, but the sun went down hours ago. It’s dark outside, it’s raining. Of course it’s not live: they don’t save press conferences for the evening news hour. It’s probably some video from far too early this morning, just after the papers came out, the crack of dawn. Where was I about then? I was in the kitchen thinking nothing strange had gone on in the night other than a weird phone call.
It must have been an exciting night: swarms of special forces, watching monitors and tracking every move and every bit of heat in the night. Waiting for the critical moment, pulling the trigger. I remember that feeling: holding your breath, waiting. Ready to strike. And last night I was dead to the world, sleeping next to Mary. Probably snoring. Probably dribbling. It didn’t used to be this way.
There was a time I would have known everything Lestrade would say before they had even called a press conference. Footage on the news at night would never have surprised me; we rarely even bothered to watch unless it was to mock them for it. By the evening it was all old news; we’d be on to the next thing by the evening, if we were lucky. The press conference is how stories end, generally; not how they begin. There’s rarely a press conference in the thick of it. I’d get a beer from the fridge, sit down on a different sofa, and watch them stumble through the details on the telly. And Sherlock would scan the website for anything new, scratching at the patch on his arm, pin things to the walls, mumble to himself.That’s another lifetime. It feels like it might have been someone else’s life. I’ve turned it all into fiction.
Well, not all of it. Not quite all of it.
This press conference has probably been on repeat all day with newsreaders talking over it. Greg looks a little dazed, frankly. He’d probably been up all night. When did it happen? How? They won’t go into the details, not the interesting ones. Not in front of the press. They won’t say who pulled the trigger. They won’t show photographs of the body. I already know that. Still: I’m waiting to see it, like an idiot. What’s he going to say? He’s squinting down at some paper, the camera is panning all over the place. Stay still, stop mucking around, for God’s sake. Let me watch. Let me see his face. Christ: the incessant yapping of that woman in the pink suit is layered over the whole thing. Her stiff-looking blonde hair is cluttering up the screen. Can we mute her? Is there a button for that? Shut it, lady: let me hear what’s going on.
Greg’s talking to someone behind him. What’s he doing? Who’s that? It’s some man I don’t recognise, he’s is leaning down to whisper something. The Met’s got new PR? Did Sally move on? Get sacked? Give up? Who knows. I’ve never seen this one before. Well, it’s been three years now. Nearly three years. Things change. People move on. New hires, growing departments, that sort of thing. Expansion. He’s wearing a nicer suit than Greg wears. Is that a faux pas? What can we deduce from the state of their suits? I don’t know. Nothing. Maybe he’s gay. Maybe he’s rich. Maybe he’s got a girlfriend with a good eye and an interest in men’s fashion. Or a boyfriend who picks out his ties. Who knows. No rings on his fingers. That doesn’t mean anything. That’s a lot of paper he’s got, he’s handing it to Greg. That’s notes, isn’t it. It’s a script, or something. They’re referring to it. Why have they got a script? Greg doesn’t usually need that much guidance. He’s reading over it now. They’re being careful. Why?
“Do you?” Do I what? Oh. Know Greg? Of course I do. Mary shifts on the sofa beside me. She rests her hand on my knee for a minute. “I’ve never seen him before.”
That’s meant to be a cutting remark, but it’s wrapped in the most innocent silk.
She does that. And you can’t accuse her of anything, because there’s nothing there to point at. She didn’t mean anything by it, that’s what she’ll say. She was just noticing something, she was just remarking. She was only saying something objectively true: she’s never seen Greg before. He’s never dropped by, he’s never invited me out for a pint, he’s never called. We’ve never had dinner with him and his lovely wife. That’s all true, therefore, I’m probably lying about knowing him. Or: I’ve met him once or twice, and I’m making myself seem more important than I actually am. I’m just a writer, I watched an old flatmate do his job for a few months, I got inspired, and now I fancy myself some kind of bodyguard or junior detective. The police don’t consult amateurs, and I am definitely that. Maybe I met the DI once, at a crime scene. But he wouldn’t remember me, would he, Mary. That’s what you mean, isn’t it. That’s what you imagine.
Sherlock was a fraud, and so am I. Even now: even now when they’re holding a press conference to announce the truth, that Sherlock was not a fraud, as I’ve been saying all along, you still don’t really believe it. Believe me. He’ll always be a fraud to you, because you’ve only ever seen him as fictional. Because I present him that way. It’s my fault, really. Not hers. She’s just asking. That’s what she’ll say if I tell her she’s upsetting me. “I was only asking.”
That time, once, near the beginning, after she’s skimmed over my blog and read my manuscript: she had a glass of wine in her hand, she looked so beautiful. I thought, looking at her, I thought I might marry her. She was wearing my t-shirt, and it was tucked over her knees. I could marry her. The polish on her toenails was chipped off, and I thought it was charming. And then she said, you had a crush on him, didn’t you. She smiled. She sipped her wine.
I felt stripped naked, humiliated. I don’t know why. She was joking, she was teasing me. What does it matter? I could have admitted it then, but I didn’t. I just laughed, I said something stupid. I’m not gay, We’re not a couple, no no, he was my flatmate, it wasn’t like that. Things I used to say when people made assumptions. They were rusty, those words, I hadn’t used them in ages. I don’t think they were very convincing, but she seemed convinced. She was only asking. I could marry her, I could. But I would never tell her about that. Because she wouldn’t understand.
There is an incredible loneliness in keeping secrets. I always thought loneliness was being alone too much, but it’s not. It’s really not. It’s knowing there’s no one left in the world who will understand, even as you share a bed with someone you love. Love isn’t understanding, in the end.
There’s no point in saying anything.
I’m probably making too much of this. She doesn’t think these things about me, she doesn’t. She doesn’t mean it the way it sounds. She doesn’t mean anything by it at all.
It’s just that sometimes it feels like she doesn’t believe me. That’s annoying: I write about true crimes, things that actually happened, only fictionalised enough to protect the innocent. To protect him, and me. Does she think I make things up out of nothing? She knows I don’t. I don’t. I know a bit about how Scotland Yard works only from first hand experience. I’ve been there. I’ve worked with them, I’ve been invited to crime scenes no one else can get near. I’ve sat in Greg’s office, I’ve been there when the new evidence comes in. They know me. I know them.
Well. I knew them.
I used to have a pint with Greg once in a while. He’s a good bloke, really. He is. His personal life is a bit of a mess, but what can you do. I guess I can’t talk. Maybe he’s divorced, finally. Maybe he’s remarried by now, christ. It’s been long enough, that could be. Who knows. I haven’t spoken to him in all this time.
That’s terrible, actually. That’s awful. Why didn’t I call him? Well, I know why. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to. I was in a bad way, I couldn’t manage to. Sherlock’s body would have been in the room with us the whole time if we talked, I wouldn’t have been able to bear it. Probably he wouldn’t have, either. Greg saved him, really. More than I ever did. Saved him from himself. I wonder how that happened, the first time: how did Greg manage to break all the rules and bring Sherlock along to a crime scene? The looks on everyone’s faces: it must have been priceless. I never heard that story. Neither of them ever told me.
I should have asked.
I thought they were going to sack him, frankly. Apparently not. He’s still there: he’s running the press conference, from the looks of it. Well, maybe that PR guy is. But Greg’s going to do all the talking. It’s his case. The death of James Moriarty: Lestrade’s case. that seems fitting.
I should have called him. We could have met at the pub, maybe had lunch once in a while. I could have complained about Mary not understanding me. No: that’s not fair. I need to stop that. She’s doing her best. Crime fiction isn’t her thing, let alone crime scenes. Let alone detectives, consulting or otherwise. I’m not a detective. I’m just a writer.
We could have dinner with him and his wife. Or his new wife, whatever.
“Was he a friend of Sherlock’s?”
That’s how Mary sees the world; as if Sherlock were a normal man with friends. Everything becomes simplified when I explain it to her: simplified in ways it never was. Was Greg a friend of Sherlock’s? Yes, I suppose he was. In a manner of speaking. But that’s not the point, that’s not the important part of this. Greg trusted Sherlock’s instincts, and therefore he trusted me. We both saw Sherlock for what he was, he and I. A human being underneath it all, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary. We were united in supporting him, that’s what it was. We were comrades in arms above all else. Was he a friend of Sherlock’s, therefore merely a proxy acquaintance for me? It still feels like a slight. But it’s true. That’s the danger of true things. Their truth obscures the fact that they don’t tell you even half the story.
But I’m the one who called him by his name, after all. I’m the one who knew his name. I’m the one who went out for pints with him, not Sherlock.
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
Greg looks up, and the woman with the blonde hair is back on the screen again. She’s talking again, instead of letting me hear him.
“I’m going to take a shower,” Mary says. She leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “You all right?”
“I’m fine.” I still want to learn how to mute newsreaders. If they haven’t got a button for it, they should invent one.
She gets up; she walks into the loo. I wonder if I’ve still got Greg’s number in my phone. I’ve had to get a new one in the last three years, I might not still have it. He might have changed it, who knows.
Well, there it is. I didn’t use his first name, just his last name. LESTRADE, in caps.
Mary switches on the shower. Press the button: it’s not that late, is it? It’s barely ten. Not too late. I wonder if he remarried. Someone nice, I hope. He should be with someone nice.
“Hello?” That’s him. That’s definitely him. Wow: a rush of memories. A million phone calls, questions, the sound of his concern as he peers down into the cab at us. At Sherlock. His head in my lap, that one time. My hand resting on his thin shoulder, and Greg looking down at him, perplexed. I wonder if he guessed, then. If he knew. He never made assumptions, he never suggested it. But I bet he thought it. Everyone did, at one point or another. Everyone did.
“Greg, hi, it’s. Uh. It’s John. John Watson.”
“...John! how are you? I was wondering if I might hear from you today. Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” Am I? All right? I keep saying I am. I don’t know. If I say it enough times, I’m sure it will be true. “You?”
“Well,” he exhales. “It’s been quite a day, as you can imagine.”
“Yes. I’m just watching you on the news. So he’s dead.” I want to make that a question, but that seems rude. Yes: he’s dead. I want to see it. I want to see his blood. I want proof.
“That’s what they say.”
That’s an odd thing for him to say. Isn’t it? “You weren’t there?” Greg didn’t kill him then, presumably. You didn’t pull the trigger, Greg? I would have wanted it to be you, not anyone else. If not me, then you.
“To be honest, no. I didn’t see a thing, I didn’t even know it was coming. I’ve been trying to track him down and having no luck at all. Every bit of a lead was a dead end for years, John. Then I got this phone call in the middle of the night, and they brought me all the details. MI5, I think, but you didn’t hear that from me. Reams of paper, I don’t even have clearance to see the body. A bullet to the head, that’s what the paperwork says. It wasn’t me, John, it’s not really my case, but they brought it to me to present as though it is. They don’t want credit for this one, for whatever reason.”
Oh. So it wasn’t him? Is this a lie, all of it? MI5. Must be Mycroft, then. Must be. Is he actually dead? Or is this all a giant ruse, part of some large game of human chess. That’s what Mycroft does, isn’t it? Move the human pieces around, check someone. Maybe Moriarty. Maybe someone else.
“That’s...”
“Yeah,” he says. He sounds exhausted. “Yeah, I know. Seems unbelievable, doesn’t it, three years later. I’m pretty confident that it’s true, though, John, you should know that. He’s dead. He is. Molly got to see the body very early this morning, she confirmed the time of death. I believe her. He was shot in the head, John. He’s gone. It’s over.”
Molly? Molly has clearance to see something DI Lestrade doesn’t?
“She’s pretty shaken up,” Greg says. “She went out with him for a while, you know.”
Yeah. I know that. They went out twice, that’s hardly a while. Sherlock thought he was gay. And now they’re both gone.
“You all right?” People keep asking me that.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Yeah. How are you, Greg? I’m sorry I haven’t called.”
“I was tempted to call you myself a few times,” he says. See? I really do know him, Mary. “I wasn’t sure if you’d appreciate that, though. The reminder. I read the stories in The Strand, though, they’re great. Everyone at the Yard loves them.”
That’s kind. Do they remember us fondly, then?
“I hear you’ve got a book coming out, is that right?”
“Yeah, next week.”
“Perfect timing.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
He huffs into the phone. We’re both thinking the same thing, I know we are. And we both know enough not to say it. The timing is a bit too perfect. No body, just a stack of paper. What’s going on? Who killed Moriarty? What does this have to do with me?
“You up for a pint some time?” That’s the right answer: we can’t talk about it on the phone. Who knows who’s listening. Good thinking, Greg.
“Sure, yeah.” The shower switches off. The newsreader is talking again. “Yeah, that sounds great.”