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GREG LESTRADE remembers watching Pet Sematary when he was in his early twenties. He also remembers not being able to sleep for a week, the images of zombies swarming him plagued his dreams.
Yet Greg Lestrade was now pushing forty, the police badge on top of his table was a reminder that he has better things to worry about than dead people coming to get him in the middle of the night.
Besides, the walking dead doesn't exist.
That was, until Sherlock Holmes rushed into his office on a late Thursday night, with his hand around the wrist of a woman that was shot on New Year's Eve. Her eyes were wide with confusion and curiosity. He didn't immediately recognize her as a victim of the shooting until Sherlock told him to pull out the file of a case from the thirty first of December.
He had watched her with wide eyes, the coffee cup in his hands trembling under the weight of his shock. He compared her to the picture of her corpse, the sickly blue color of her skin and the circles under her eyes doesn't exist on the woman before him.
She hesitantly approached him, and maybe if he was younger, he would've tried to get away. He would've told her to get out of his office and he would've suffered from another wave of sleepless nights.
Yet Greg Lestrade had seen a lot throughout his time with Sherlock Holmes, and even if this one was the most bizarre out of the rest, the way Sherlock's eyes cloud with uncertain emotions made him trust her.
He passed her the papers, and she spared Sherlock one last glance, before opening the cream-colored file.
He remembered, in the movie, once the zombies realized that they were dead, they turned murderous. They were blood hungry creatures of hell who want nothing more than to strangle the life out of people because they don't have one anymore.
They were soulless creatures, angry that they are alive when they should be dead.
Yet the woman before him was a whirlpool of emotions breaking down into tears, the tiny rivulets dripping onto the papers scattered across the wooden desk. She wobbled, stepping back, only fall into Sherlock's arms, his fingers steadying her against his chest as she wept.
She cried silently, burying her face into his coat as if she was a child shielding herself from a bad dream, maybe it's because she wanted it to be one. He recognized that look, as it was the one he had when he wished so desperately that the brutal killings around London were nothing more but a figment of his wicked imagination.
Greg had to look away because her reaction was full of raw grief and anger, yet so full of life; a vengeful corpse wouldn't react that way.
It's hard to accept that she's alive when just last week he had seen the way her body decayed within the metal cabinets of the morgue.
He ran a hand through his hair, watching as Sherlock gazed down at the woman in his arms, pity flashing across his cerulean eyes.
Yet a part of him wants to tell Sherlock to drop the case, to ignore the fact that she's gone back to life. Isn't it good enough that she's alright? It's for the best if they continue on with their own lives, but Sherlock Holmes would never pass on an opportunity to solve a mystery like this.
Despite all of this, he doesn't think it's a good idea.
GREG LESTRADE remembers watching PET SEMATARY, and he remembers the reason why the dead should stay dead.
