Waking You Up

Wake You Up VI

When he stops talking, he realizes Lestrade is standing at the door to the ambulance, listening to him. Sherlock hadn't noticed.

Stupid.

There's a long moment of silence.

Then Lestrade asks, "What did he say?"

Sherlock doesn't know why, but he doesn't even consider not responding. "He'd been stabbed. I said it was my fault. He said probably."

Lestrade looks at John. "It's not your fault, Sherlock."

It is. Sherlock knows it. Lestrade likely knows it as well; he's just not the kind of person to say it.

"I want to take him home," Sherlock says.

"You can't," Lestrade tells him gently. "He has to go to the morgue. We have to notify his family."

Sherlock scowls. "He doesn't have family. He has a sister who was too drunk to pick him up from the hospital the day he was discharged and thinks a phone and a few messages on his blog will fix things. I am his family."

Lestrade reaches for him. "Sherlock-"

Sherlock pulls away. "It's in his will. I'm to arrange everything."

Lestrade nods. "Do you want help?"

"I can do it myself," Sherlock snaps.

Lestrade flinches, just around the eyes, barely noticeable, but still there. He's holding his hands in front of him, right hand gripping the wrist of his left, and the grip tightens briefly. Then he asks carefully, "Will you let me help?"

Sherlock sees him differently, then. He doesn't see a man heaping pity on someone who doesn't want it, who doesn't think Sherlock can handle taking care of everything. He sees a man who wants to grieve but can't right then, who wants to do what he can for a fallen comrade, who lost a friend and wants to help another.

He'd forgotten, that John was friends with most of the Yarders. He hadn't known, that Lestrade considered Sherlock a friend as well.

"You and John were friends," Sherlock says.

It's not a question, but Lestrade responds immediately anyway. "Yes."

Sherlock is silent for a moment. "Are we friends?"

It's definitely a question this time, but Lestrade takes a minute to answer. "I like to think so."

"Then yes. You can help." Sherlock climbs out of the ambulance. "Do you need a statement?"

"I will eventually, yes," Lestrade says.

Sherlock looks around, on either side of the street and down the alleyway. Donovan and Anderson are standing next to the killer's body, watching the coroner work. Donovan's eyes are red and puffy. She'd been crying. Anderson's are, too. Not enough that anyone else would notice, but Sherlock does.

John calls them both by their first names, because they've asked him to. Sally. Dave. He goes to the pub with them sometimes, them and some of the other officers.

There are four more officers there. Two, a man and a woman, are standing close to each other, holding back tears. He recognizes them. John flirts with them. They call him doctor, soldier-boy, never his real name. It's not serious, none of them mean anything by it. They all think it's funny. The other woman is standing away from them, staring at nothing. She and John are nice to each other. John patched up her daughter when she fell in front of Scotland Yard, and is now her daughter's doctor. When she flirts, it's subtle, and she means it.

The last officer looks uncomfortable. He doesn't know John, not beyond a vague knowledge of what he does. It's likely just another body for this officer.

No. Wrong.

Called. Went. Flirted. Called. Wasn't. Meant. Thought. Was. Were. Was. Flirted. Was. Meant. Didn't. Did.

Past tense. John will never do anything of those things again.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade prompts gently.

"I want to go with him to the mortuary first," Sherlock says.

Lestrade nods. "I'll meet you there."

Sherlock climbs back into the ambulance.