Death of a Consulting Detective

Gareth, Gavin, George....

November 21, 2013

The parking garage where Gareth chooses to keep his vehicle is mediocre at best. Everyone who works at the police station parks here and the station still refuses to upgrade the structure so it won't fall on any of the cars. I'm planning on using the back entrance to the building to make my way to the detective inspector's office. Using the front door runs the risk of detection and I don't want to chat with the police when I could be catching up with Lestrade. After I see Lestrade I think I'll talk with Ms. Hudson or Molly then I'll finally reunite with my blogger.

I was halfway to the back door when I caught sight of a man with messy grey hair (in desperate need of a haircut) removing a box of smokes from his coat. I was quite surprised to see Gareth down here; his trembling hands attempting to make the lighter work. Every time the device failed to light up his cigarette that dangled from his lips he let out a sound of frustration. This was not part of my plan, but I guess this will do. Besides I've already thought of a clever greeting.

He successfully lit the end of the cigarette and he looked so relieved to inhale a large quantity of smoke. I wanted to wait for him to exhale but I just couldn't help myself any longer.

"You know those things will kill you."
As expected he choked on the smoke and coughed for a few minutes. I feared he might vomit at one point but all he did was spit on the ground and spin around quicker than I've ever seen before.

He looked shocked. Not shocked in a good way like "Oh my God you're back!" No he was bewildered...like he just couldn't believe Sherlock Holmes would fake his death. In fact he looked like he may cry. I hurt him in some way by surprising him. John will certainly react a lot better. He's used to all the stunts I pull. Lestrade shook his head back and forth now, running his hands through his aged hair.

"No...no...you bastard...you're dead......" he muttered as if to reassure himself I had died in the past.

"That's rather rude Gareth. Do you greet everyone by calling them a bastard now?"

He ignored me to keep shouting obscenities I haven't even heard John use. "You're dead! You're supposed to be stone cold in the bloody fucking ground right now!"

"Christ Lestrade. I didn't know you hated me this much. Next time tell me to piss off like everyone else does."

He managed to maintain a firm grip on his cigarette the whole time. I'm impressed he didn't drop it during that coughing fit a few minutes ago. His hands never stopped trembling (actually I think they were shaking even worse than before) and he had trouble raising the smoke to take a drag in order to compose himself.

Apparently everyone's hands developed a slight tremor during my absence. It's quite annoying when I think of it because it distracts me from gathering information about the person in front of me when their hands are shaking nonstop.

"Gareth-..."

"My name is Greg you fucking arse."
"Greg. Jesus when did you become so impolite?"

He ran at me and pushed me to the ground. He then threw away his cigarette, pinned me to the broken asphalt that is a poor excuse for a road, and started hitting my face. I fought to get him off me but he was stronger than I was and his knuckles repeatedly collided with my face. My mouth received most of the impact but he struck the bridge of my nose and a part of my left eye as well.

"You" Punch. "Were" Punch. "Dead!" Punch.

"Well" Punch. "I'm" Punch. "Not!" His fist halted in front of my face. The knuckles were split open and covered in blood most likely from my own injuries. My lip was cut, my eye was slowly swelling shut, and blood was flowing rapidly from my nose.

Lestrade had a knee on either side of my chest and he sat with his fist in the air instead of letting me up. I was able to see how broken he was now that he was hovering over me. His once bright eyes were so dark they were almost the color black. His face looks so pained and the aged look matched that of his hair perfectly. Greg, although much stronger, had lost so much weight and was on the verge of being as skinny as me. So whatever happened to Mycroft happened to him too? I've never in my whole life seen my brother and the detective inspector act this way. They were both affected so deeply by this event that I was the tiniest bit worried what effect it might have on me.

"You were dead." Lestrade repeated much calmer than the last time he said it.

"I faked my death Lestrade. Moriarty's network had to be dismantled."

"Why the hell didn't you tell us? Tell him?"

"Assuming you mean John, I refused to let him know of my secret mission because he would tell someone else and eventually word would spread I'm still alive, alerting everyone in Moriarty's network I was most likely hiding among their ranks. You know how much John loves to blog don't you?"

My words were obviously making matters worse. Greg got off of me then he broke down right beside me. He wasn't sobbing or anything of the sort. More like heavily breathing and extreme shaking that would lead to the aforementioned sobbing. I figured I better leave quickly to avoid Lestrade as an emotional wreck.

"Gavin, where's John? Does he still sit around 221B all day?"

After I said this he started sobbing (something I really did not want to see) and shouting at me to, and I quote, "Get the fuck away" from him. He didn't have to tell me twice.

I pulled out a handkerchief from my coat pocket, dabbed at my throbbing lip, and left the broken man behind. If I had John's heart I probably would have alerted some of his coworkers that he was in a very mentally unstable condition outside, but humanity was always such a foreign concept for my advanced mindset.

I can never be human like John Watson.