Chapter Text
John called Lestrade as he had every Friday afternoon since Sherlock’s death, more out of habit now than any real expectation.
“No word,” Lestrade said for what could well have been the hundredth time. “He’s dead or fled the country or just… gone to ground somewhere.”
Not the first one, or not yet, though Lestrade always offered it as a possibility. John was sure he’d know, somehow. Moriarty or Moran, he didn’t particularly care which, he just wanted to be there when it finally ended.
This was where Lestrade had ended the conversation for the last four months, but this time he seemed to be waiting for something. John thought he could hear him shuffling papers on his desk, opening drawers.
Finally, in a rush like he’d been working up to the words, Lestrade said: “Look, John you don’t have to—“ he stopped, cleared his throat, tried again. “It’s not on you to fix this.”
“No,” John answered, mildly.
On him, no; in him, yes, and John understood the difference.
“We’ll take care of it,” Lestrade was saying, still speaking quickly. “And it’s not— you know it wasn’t your fault. You do know that.”
“Yeah.” It both was and wasn’t true, because he still remembered the dizzy rush as the detonator had slipped from his hands, and that thing had been broadcasting a signal somewhere, even if they hadn’t been able to prove where.
It was just devious enough to feel inevitable, and John knew with that absolute certainty born of grief.
Two long, slow breaths before he trusted himself to speak. “Thank you, Greg,” he said, as he did every week, “let me know if you find anything,” and hung up the phone.