Work Text:
There is no body to bury at the funeral. It is more of a memorial service anyway, even if no one has the heart to say it, not when they look at Watson, see the dark shadows beneath his eyes, the blank expression in them, the deepening lines around his mouth.
The church is filled with people of all ages, origins and classes; the expensive dresses of the ladies in stark contrast with the ragged, dirty clothing of Mr. Holmes’s Irregulars.
The coffin is, unsurprisingly, empty.
Lestrade barely hears it when Watson delivers the eulogy, all he hears are Mrs. Hudson’s barely stifled sobs, the little Street Arabs’ sniffling and Mrs. Watson’s coughing. Beside him Constable Clarke is blinking rapidly, clearing his throat compulsively.
He is somewhat startled to see Watson open the empty coffin and, taking Holmes’s violin from his wife’s hands and brushing his fingers over the neck of it with a sad smile on his face, carefully deposit it inside.
Mrs. Hudson is next to get up and it is only then that Lestrade notices the picnic basket she is holding – it is filled with Mr. Holmes’s favourite foods, she says with tear-filled eyes.
One of the Irregulars – Wiggins is his name, if Lestrade isn’t mistaken – puts a magnifying glass inside. It looks old and used, the glass dull and scratched, and Lestrade suspects it was the boy’s own.
The whole of Scotland Yard pointedly looks away when a poorly disguised Irene Adler places a photograph in the coffin, eyes wide and disbelieving, pale lips trembling. For a moment she almost seems to wait for Holmes to tackle and handcuff her, all of it part of his great plan to bring her behind bars.
When he doesn’t, she turns and leaves and does not come back.
Lestrade watches as person after person places an item inside – gold and silver, lost-and-found emerald bracelets, Holmes’s favourite tobacco, letters and notes and unspoken words.
And it all feels so staged, dishonest, imperfect, like a play that hasn’t been rehearsed often enough, the actors clumsy and inexperienced, missing their cues and butchering their lines, a cheap imitation of Shakespeare when Holmes would deserve the best. Like a child’s drawing when Holmes would deserve a masterpiece.
Mrs. Watson is last and with shaking hands she gently puts a brand new pipe into the coffin – Watson will later tell Lestrade that she had bought the pipe for Holmes but never gotten the chance to give it to him – a harsh coughing fit seizing her and shaking her slight frame as the coffin snaps shut.
Lestrade chooses to say nothing, squeezes Watson’s arm instead. He pulls Mary aside and asks her to keep an eye on the doctor and get him should anything happen. She smiles softly, her dry lips stretched too tightly, and whispers ‘I will’, her voice scraped raw.
She looks very tired in the cold light of the London sun.
There is a body to bury at the next funeral Lestrade attends.
Watson stares at the coffin for the duration of the ceremony and does not react when he is asked to deliver the eulogy. So Lestrade delivers it for him.
It is a terribly awkward affair and Lestrade feels very much like the child holding the pencil this time, scrawling onto a piece of paper and calling it art.
He stands beside Watson until the last shovelful of earth is covering the grave.
Lestrade accompanies him back to Cavendish Place, makes sure he arrives, if not whole, at least in one piece.
Watson moves out and back to Baker Street within a week.
Lestrade visits him more often.
Lestrade isn’t entirely sure how it happens, but somehow his visits turn into something else. At first he only means to make sure Watson is alright, but he quickly begins to find other excuses to call – he has two tickets for the opera and wouldn’t Watson like to come? The coroner has fallen ill and they need somebody to perform the autopsy and wouldn’t Watson be so kind? He always feels so terribly awkward going out for dinner all by himself and wouldn’t Watson like to join him?
Their friendship comes surprisingly quickly and easily. They spend evenings in the sitting room at 221b, smoking and drinking brandy, they go to the opera and when they work on a case together Watson takes Lestrade for a drink after work.
Sometimes Lestrade will stay the night, sleeping on the settee.
And when on one cold evening in December they walk back to Baker Street it seems only natural for them to walk more closely together, their shoulders bumping, snow crunching under the soles of their shoes. It only seems natural for them to sit close on the settee, their thighs pressed together as they share smiles over brandy and cigarettes.
It also seems only natural for their lips to meet, tongues tangling almost timidly, tasting of alcohol and smoke and late nights. And Lestrade sees colours flash behind his eyelids, painting pictures that are beautiful and perfect and right. Almost like the artist has evolved, has learned how to use a bit of amber here and a smidgeon of crimson there to create something breathtaking, no longer a child’s drawing, but a masterpiece instead.
Lestrade stays the night more often; he doesn’t sleep on the settee anymore.
And as suddenly as it started, it ends.
Lestrade hears the news, of course, but does not believe them until he walks into Baker Street to find Mrs. Hudson in tears of joy, frantically cooking Mr. Holmes’s favourite meal.
His heart is a heavy lump in his stomach when he climbs the stairs to the sitting room. He knows what he will see when he opens the door, but it still takes him a moment before he can force himself to smile. Holmes has the decency to blame it on shock.
Lestrade isn’t aware of what he is saying, but he excuses himself rather quickly, claiming to have somewhere to be. He feels awkward, like an intruder, like a second-rate artist, outshone by the master.
Watson’s eyes are fixed on Holmes’s face and he only averts them briefly to bid Lestrade good-bye with an impossibly happy smile on his face. The Inspector knows it isn’t meant for him, but pretends not to.
Lestrade doesn’t come to visit anymore.
When Lestrade sees them at a crime scene again it’s like nothing had happened. Holmes is still maddeningly brilliant and Watson is still awfully amazed by anything he does.
Holmes smiles more often, though, and Watson has to feign his annoyance most of the time. Lestrade notices the small things now – the give-away brushing of fingers, the tell-tale bumping of shoulders, the meaningful looks – the things he should have seen years ago, but chose not to.
As he watches Holmes do his work, looking for clues and making deductions with Watson taking his notes, Lestrade stores away every scrawled child’s drawing, all mismatched colours and unintelligible scribbles, every masterpiece, all deliberate brush strokes and glowing colours, putting them up on the walls in his mind.
And finally, Lestrade is able to see them for what they are; art, memories – beautiful, dead things.