Chapter Text
It takes Sherlock almost exactly ten minutes to find Lestrade. The gunfire - coming, presumably, from Mycroft’s subordinates as they engaged Moriarty’s men - has quieted by then, and this is something for which Lestrade is eternally grateful. The terrific noise of the gunshots had pounded alongside the throbbing in his head, worsening it and setting his teeth on edge.
His eyes are fixed now on the clock set up next to the laptop, whose green numbers have clicked over to just this side of ten minutes. There’s a terrible silence ringing in his ears and he tries to convince himself that quiet is good; quiet means that Sherlock isn’t busy dying a horrific death.
He’s not able to convince himself of that for very long, and the silence quickly becomes oppressive.
A door swings open somewhere to his left, on the far side of the room, and for a moment after he hears nothing. And then, impossibly, Sherlock comes striding out of the dark, coat flung out behind him like a cape and an awful glint in his piercing eyes.
He pauses for the briefest of moments when he catches sight of Lestrade in the chair, and then he propels himself forward once more, mouth thinning to a grim line. But then he steps into the soft circle of light and sees what has happened. His eyes rove over the DI and Lestrade can see him cataloguing, because it’s not just that Sherlock notes the injuries - those would be plain to anyone. No, Sherlock sees beyond that. He sees everything, the whole period of captivity, laid out in his head like a storyboard.
Sherlock will know, given enough time (seconds, at the most), why each injury was inflicted. What each one means. He’ll know that there’s more, infinitely more, hidden beneath the suit. He’ll see, without ever having to lay eyes on them, the bite marks in Lestrade’s shoulders and the bruises on his hips.
He’ll know, soon enough, that it was all meant for him.
When Sherlock’s gaze next flicks back to Lestrade’s face, he looks as though he’s been slapped.
Ah. There it is.
“Lestrade -” Sherlock starts and then stops. He takes a hesitant step forward, hand outstretched and frozen in mid-air, as though he if he remained still then time would as well. Lestrade can tell that he recognizes the vest (how could he not?) – the same kind of vest that had been strapped onto five other victims.
The same kind of vest that had nearly spelled an end for John Watson.
“Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade tells him, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his lips, “has anyone ever told you that you have a terrible habit of arriving late?”
“More often than you would think,” Sherlock says briskly, recovering from his rare display of shock almost at once. “What’s he done?”
He starts forward again but Lestrade warns him off.
“No! Don’t come closer. He’s set this to go off in about – nine minutes, now, but if you try to remove it or me from this chair, it’ll go off sooner.”
“I assume it must be wired to this, then.” Sherlock spins on his heel and goes over to the laptop, which he had completely ignored just moments before. He taps a few keys and frowns. “It’s – there’s a series of puzzles. I have to solve them in order to halt the countdown.”
“Where are the others?”
“Mycroft and his people are currently occupied with Moriarty’s…employees,” Sherlock tells him sharply. “So no, my brother will not be coming in here and dragging me away, much as you may want that. He’ll be kept busy for some time yet. Time enough for me to finish this, at least.”
“And Moriarty?” Lestrade asks.
“Dead,” Sherlock says curtly.
“Did you –”
“It’s best not to probe too deeply into that statement, Inspector.”
Lestrade nods, swallowing hard. Moriarty did that on purpose, then. He knew he was going to his death. He knew it would be at Sherlock’s hand, and in that way, Sherlock would be the one responsible for Lestrade’s own demise.
Damn the man. God damn the man.
“Were you hurt?” he asks, and runs his eyes quickly over what he can see of the detective.
“No,” Sherlock says distantly, the encryptions holding most of his attention.
“Good.” Lestrade nods, brisk. “I can’t imagine how I’d feel if you had been.”
Sherlock gives him an unreadable look. “And I don’t have to imagine.”
He returns to the laptop, and for a moment there is nothing but the sound of clicking keys because Lestrade can’t think of a response that’s more original than I’m sorry and for what, he’s not entirely sure.
Anything. Everything.
“How long has it been?” he asks quietly.
“Twelve hours,” Sherlock answers.
“Only that?” Lestrade gives a disbelieving laugh. “Felt longer, to be honest.”
“For others as well,” Sherlock points out solemnly, and something catches in Lestrade’s throat.
“It’s good to see you,” he whispers because it’s true, even though he’s sick at this whole situation; even though he’s ill with the knowledge that Sherlock is willingly standing mere steps from a live bomb. Nonetheless, it feels as though he can breathe properly for the first time since this all started, and he can’t help but feel a warm flash of hope as he watches Sherlock peck away at the keyboard. He knows it’s foolish and tries to quell the thoughts with cold fear. There are limits, even, to Sherlock Holmes. This may very well be one of them.
“I’ll be willing to indulge your sentimentality, Lestrade, but only once this bomb is disarmed. I hope that’s not too much to ask.”
“Actually, yeah, it is. Get the hell out, Sherlock,” he orders, because the one thing he can do is try to spare the man’s life. Sherlock scoffs.
“You’re a fool, Lestrade, if you think I’m going to leave when there’s something interesting going on.”
And he says it coolly, in his usual clipped timbre, but Lestrade knows it’s a cover. His eyes are moving too quickly; his mouth is too tight. He’s scared.
No, it’s more than that – Sherlock is shattered. That’s the word. He’d been trying to place the look in Sherlock’s eyes, the taut lines around his mouth, the rumpled clothing. Shattered. He’s found Lestrade, but not the Lestrade he had been looking for; not the one who had been lost in the first place.
“I’m not going to be all right,” he insists as gently as he can. “You need to get out while you can.”
Sherlock straightens suddenly and lifts his chin – defiant. “I don’t think you get to be the judge of that. Now quiet, I’m trying to work.”
“No, you listen to me, Sherlock,” Lestrade snaps as he returns his attention to the laptop. “You get yourself out of here. It was good of you to come, but now you need to leave.”
“Give me five minutes.”
“Five –”And Lestrade can’t do it, he can’t ask Sherlock to leave again. He doesn’t want to face this alone – he’s not sure that he can.
Moriarty was right. When it came down to it, he would do anything just to keep clinging to this life. Right now, that means putting Sherlock in danger. And Sherlock in danger is a terrible thought; Sherlock dead, even more so.
He still can’t bring himself to say it again. Not just yet.
“Why’d you come?” he says instead, knowing full well that he’s interrupting the detective but unable to bear the silence.
Just him and the bomb.
Tick. Tick.
“You know full well why,” Sherlock says curtly.
“Humor a dead man, would you?”
Sherlock gives him an alarmed look before it melts away, replaced by a shadow of a smirk.
“Because you need me.”
Lestrade snorts. Cheeky bastard, using his own words against him.
“Yeah. God help me, I do.”
They share a private smile at the ritual-like exchange of those phrases and, for a moment, he’s able to forget he’s about to die.
Then the laptop beeps, and it all comes back.
“Not good?” Lestrade asks numbly, seeing Sherlock’s face fall a fraction as he returns his attention to the screen.
“Not great,” he answers. “I solved the first two. But there are more.”
And then Lestrade’s mind bubbles over with all that he wants to say – all that he needs to say, everything he would say if they had had a lifetime together. But they don’t have that; not anymore.
So he crams a lifetime into three minutes and hopes to God that it’s enough.
“D’you remember the night I got you those tickets to the opera? Been thinking about that all day. I dunno why, it just sort of popped into my head – your face and all. God, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you caught off-guard like that. It was brilliant.”
“Lestrade –”
“And that time you and John ended up in the bloody Thames in fucking February and I had to drag the two of you out myself? Seems I do that a lot, saving your ass,” and he says it playfully, because it’s true and they all know it – it’s become itself a running joke. “And that night after the pool –”
That night after the pool, when he’d held Sherlock tightly against his chest until the detective had fallen into a fitful doze. He hadn’t done that in years; he hasn’t done it since.
“Don’t –”
“Sometimes, when you stay at my place, I’ll wake before you in the morning and – and I’ll just watch you for a while.” He’s stumbling over his words now in his haste to get them out. “I think those are the only times I’ve – you look at peace. That’s what it is. I don’t see that often. I’ll miss it.”
“Lestrade,” Sherlock breaks in curtly. “Do shut up. I’m trying to save your life.”
“And I’m trying to keep my sanity,” Lestrade retorts. “This ticking is driving me bloody mad.”
The clock hits the four-minute mark as he says that; unbidden, Lestrade lets out a soft whimper. Sherlock is getting tense, he can see – the expression that he wears now is one of unending frustration.
He’s not going to be able to fix this.
“Sherlock, leave!”
Sherlock slams his hand onto the table. “I came this far!”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade says desperately. “Sherlock, it’ll take you at least a minute to get to the other end of the room and down the stairs and you need to do it; you need to be out. This blast will take the whole of this warehouse down with it and I can’t have you here!”
“And what then?” Sherlock says fiercely, hands gripping the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles begin to turn white. “What happens after that?”
Lestrade stares at him dumbly, unable to answer. Sherlock turns back to his work, glaring holes into the screen, keystrokes becoming more and more frenzied.
“Sherlock –”
“I’m not leaving,” he growls shortly.
“You’ve never been noble a day in your life. Don’t, for the love of God, start now,” Lestrade tells him. “He did this on purpose, you know: giving you everything and then taking it all back. Forcing – forcing you to say goodbye twice. Don’t let him make you a dead man as well. I won’t have it.”
“I can do this!”
“I never doubted that,” Lestrade says earnestly. “But there’s not enough time, and you know it. Don’t delude yourself, Sherlock; it isn’t like you.”
Sherlock backs away from the laptop and runs a hand frantically through his hair, eyes wide and brain buzzing. “It’s – I just need more time. There must be a way –“
He dives for the laptop again, pounding on the keys like the madman that he is, and Lestrade aches at the sight of his desperation.
“How long?”
“I can –”
“How long, Sherlock?” Lestrade says forcefully.
Sherlock balls a hand into a fist, visibly gritting his teeth. “Ten minutes. I’d need – just ten more minutes. That’s it.”
“Huh.” Lestrade cracks his neck, which has gone stiff with his lack of movement. “Well, how about that.”
The first goodbye had been a blessing; this second one, coming on the heels of such a spectacularly close almost-rescue, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He must have planned that, Lestrade thinks. Moriarty must have known all along that allowing them to speak on the phone would bring comfort to both. He planned that, and he planned this, all with the intent of leaving a permanent mark on Sherlock’s life.
He’ll have to live with this, Lestrade realizes as he gazes sadly at the detective, who has gone back to pecking at the keys but with none of his earlier drive. It’ll all be over for Lestrade in a manner of minutes, but Sherlock has come so close and so far for nothing. He played right into Moriarty’s hand, and from the grave the madman will go on torturing him.
And there isn’t a thing Lestrade can do about it.
Sherlock straightens finally and backs away from the machine, hands clenching into fists as he stares at the screen. His gaze is dulled; he looks defeated.
“I killed him,” he says abruptly, sentences clipped as his brain stutters, trying to get the information out. “I didn’t even think – but I wish I hadn’t. He died quickly and he – shouldn’t have. I should have made sure he – suffered, as you did. Are.”
“Don’t,” Lestrade breaks in. “You’re better than him; better than that. I wouldn’t’ve wanted you to shoulder that burden.”
“But I would have.”
Lestrade shakes his head vehemently.
“You’re a good man; always have been. I’m glad he didn’t get a chance to change that,” Lestrade says quietly. He glances at the clock and the numbers turn him to ice. “There’s less than three minutes. You need to leave, Sherlock. Please.”
“I can’t –”
“You can. Sherlock.” He adopts his best stern tone and, even though he’s sitting down, even though he’s bloody terrified, it works. Sherlock closes his eyes for a beat, breathes, and then looks over. “Come cut my hands free, if y’would.”
And, finally, that spurs something in the detective. Sherlock snatches the knife off the table and closes the distance between them in three quick strides. He grabs Lestrade and kisses him hard, cradling his chin in one hand while the other gently saws at the ropes binding his wrists until they fall away. Lestrade brings his hands around in front of him, careful not to jostle the vest too hard, and grabs two fistfuls of the detective’s shirt, keeping him close.
“I never needed to be a good man,” Sherlock says in a low voice, breath caressing Lestrade’s cheek, “because you were always there to be one for me.”
He pulls back further and Lestrade thinks, No. He’d been wrong earlier. The expression that crosses Sherlock’s face now, before it’s brushed aside and buried – this is Sherlock, shattered.
“Calm down,” he whispers. He brings a hand to Sherlock’s chest; feels the hammering of his heart. It mirrors Lestrade’s. “S’all right. It’s fine. You’re fine.”
“I don’t care –”
“But I do.” Sherlock is whole beneath his hand; warm and real. Lestrade takes what comfort from that he can, and draws a deep breath. There’s so much more he wants to say. He wants to be reassuring. He wants to tell Sherlock it isn’t his fault; it never could be his fault. But Sherlock wouldn’t have appreciated such trite phrases and Lestrade doesn’t want to waste their final words together on such banal sentiments.
“You have John,” Lestrade says instead, because it’s the only reassurance he can offer and he needs it as much as Sherlock.
“And having you both was asking too much?” Sherlock snaps bitterly.
“No. No, of course not. I’m sorry,” he whispers brokenly and now isn’t the time for what ifs and maybes so he bites back the words and pulls Sherlock in for a final time.
When they break apart he says, “You know what happens after? You keep living, Sherlock. Keep on being extraordinary. Do that for me. Go.”
Sherlock leans his forehead against Lestrade’s, breathing sharply through his nose, and on the exhale a hoarse, “Greg,” seeps through.
And then he’s gone, darting across the vast floor, swallowed up by shadows and out of sight long before the sound of his footsteps fades. The door clangs open and shuts behind him, and the sound reverberates through Lestrade’s head.
The last sound he’ll ever hear Sherlock make.
“Right, now, just you and me,” he tells the clock. This is going to happen, and he can’t stop it, but he can sure as hell make sure it happens on his own terms. Moriarty decided how he would die; he doesn’t get to dictate precisely when. “Let’s do this.”
His mind is oddly blank as the clock clicks over to the wrong side of thirty seconds. He doesn’t think of Sherlock apart from a nebulous feeling that the man is not here, and that’s good. That means he’s safe.
He would have liked to grow old alongside the detective. He’ll settle for having ensured that Sherlock lives to see another day.
There are sixteen seconds left when he rips the vest away and triggers the bomb.
He feels a fleeting satisfaction.
And then he feels nothing at all.