“I needed you to believe that I was. I did it for you, and John and Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock sighed. He really didn’t want to explain this all again, but knew he would probably have to. “I’m obviously not dead.”
“I…” Greg knew Sherlock was an impatient man. Greg just knew him well enough to know the difference between him being extremely impatient or slightly. The sigh and the short reply was enough to tell Greg that. Greg didn’t care. He wanted to know why the hell he was there, how the hell it was possible to live from that fall. “No. I know. Why, Sherlock? What the hell did you do?”
Sherlock clasped his mouth shut and stood completely still as he watched the Inspector closing the distance between them and for a moment he mused the possibility of having to leave the encounter with a broken nose, but soon he found firm arms wrapped around his slim figure and that made him wide his eyes a bit in both surprise and hesitance. Yes, the detective wasn’t very prone to practice human contact, but he understood the necessity of it to some, therefore he calmly forced himself to pat Lestrade’s shoulder in somehow of a comfort manner - or at least as much comfort he could provide - before the man finally stepped away.
He then offered the older man a smile and shrugged a bit. “It’s alright”, he murmured as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his heavy coat and adjusted his shoulders, straightening them up. ”I trust you’re aware of the circumstances that forced me upon such -“, he paused a bit as he searched the proper word. “To perform such dramatics”, he decided with a slight tip of his head to the side.
“I do.. I understand now. I just..” Greg paused for a moment, searching for his words. “I wish things had gone differently, Sherlock. I wish we somehow knew or… or it never happened in the first place.” He shook his head. Sherlock didn’t want ‘if’s ‘and’s or ‘but’s.
The return of his brother was not heralded by fanfare, not introduced through the usual dramatics that Sherlock was so often prone to. Not even shreds of whispers were paved before him; discretion, was for once, exercised by both of the Holmes brothers, something he knew must have been so painfully out of character for the other. But it was a necessity, and as soon as CCTV cameras had alerted him to the very first footprint his brother had tread upon London soil, Mycroft had immediately taken precautionary measures to ensure the other’s silence: he’d called.
Needless to say, it was a very trying conversation that was decorated with the usual snide comments and sneering banter, courtesy of a somewhat harangued Sherlock, though in the end, even he had grudgingly relinquished hold of his innate stubbornness.
Now the politician found himself smoothing along Baker Street in his usual all-black limousine, eyes distracted from the commonplace sights zooming past the window. His scrutiny was currently directed at his mobile, as he scanned a mass block of information Anthea had sent him. They were details of a minor terrorist crisis down south, and while the group had been secretive enough in their operations, they were not nearly covert enough. He skimmed past the letters apathetically, and with nothing more than a passing blink, stowed it all away in the corner of his mind. For now, as the car slowed to a halt in front of the weathered flat, he had to shift his attention back to the task at hand. He’d need it.
After all, confrontation with his brother never had yielded the most civil of results, and he saw no foreseeable reason for that to change even after three arduous years.
Greg wasn’t having a terribly great time after finding Sherlock had died. He didn’t take seeing the body of his friend— The man who had grown to him like a son— very well. He sat in his office, doing the work he had to, a slightly depressed air hanging about him. His cases were slowed. His alcoholism increased. It wasn’t due to the lack of the consulting detective’s assistance, it was due to Greg’s state of mind. As Greg got older, he was starting to doubt his own detective skills, watching the young man seek evidence like it were a children’s iSpy book. Still, regardless of the constant bickering and the insults on his intelligence, Greg missed Sherlock terribly.
One day, Greg received a call on his mobile. He languidly slid the device from his pocket, scanning the screen with tired eyes. Unknown number. He answered anyway. What he didn’t expect was the familiar voice ringing in his ears, his mouth hanging open, trying to talk. Before he knew it, Sherlock’s voice had given him instructions to be at his flat, and that he would explain everything. Come ASAP. Greg wasted no time.
He was there now, sitting on a couch at the flat, listening to Sherlock rant and give his whole speech about how he did it, why he did it. Greg was just staring, mixed with bewilderment, anger, delight at seeing the man alive. He wanted badly to scold Sherlock and hug the man at the same time, warning him to never do it again and making sure of it.
This account has been really inactive and I like.. Just started it.
I’ve been spending my time trying my hand at RPing Greg on Omegle. I’m going to try to be more active on here soon. Promise. Sorry guys<3
Greg stared at the other man. There was quite the long pause before he decided to speak. The last he’d seen of Sherlock, the man was dead on the sidewalk. “Sherlock?” He asked quietly. “You’re dead.”
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“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft turns, giving a thin, insincere smile. “How may I be of service to you?”
“Thought I’d inform you that your brother is practically stealing all of my cases. I only need help on occasion. It’s getting a tad out of hand,” he responds, glancing at the man’s smile with a slight frown. Same as Sherlock. Of course.
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“My goodness, where are you all coming from? Well, hello.”
“Well then, it’s nice to meet’cha, Greg Lestrade.” She grinned. “Call me Giselle, or the Agent if you like. Are those two names simple enough for you, or would you like me to continue?”
He blinked at the silly, slightly strange, woman. “Um— Well, whatever you prefer. If you like Giselle best, then that’s fine. What are you an agent of, exactly?”
“I am glad the increase in people’s interest in you is pleasing, really, Lestrade, but I am more interested in this most recent case of yours.”
“Of course,” he sighed at the other female’s words. “I’ve got none,” he lied in an attempt to save the cases he had now. He wanted to prove he was a decent enough Detective, keeping a few he knew he could solve.