Fic: You Say Goodbye and I Say Hello

[rusty_armour]

Title: You Say Goodbye and I Say Hello
Author: Rusty Armour
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Lestrade, Sherlock, John
Category: General, humour, a smidgen of hurt/comfort
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,945
Summary: Lestrade doesn’t react well to the news of Sherlock’s resurrection.
Spoilers: A minor spoiler for “The Hounds of Baskerville” and a much bigger spoiler for “The Reichenbach Fall”.
Notes: This idea first popped up on Friday morning when I was fuming at my manager. It reared its ugly head again on Saturday, and I attempted to crush it. Then I found out on Sunday that impishtubist was sick in the hospital and canonisrelative was organizing a fandom offering campaign to cheer her up. I hope this silly fic will make impishtubist feel a bit better.

This was written quickly and hasn’t been beta’d, though I’ve now done some quick revision and grassle kindly came to the rescue with some Britpicking. However, even with the extra tinkering, this story is still completely insane and something that would never happen in the third series. In fact, unlike most of the post “Reichenbach Fall” fic floating around out there, I would say that this represents what didn’t happen after Sherlock returned from the dead. *g*

Disclaimer: With great power comes great responsibility. Thankfully, I have neither. Sherlock and its characters are owned by other people, though I feel fortunate to have been allowed to play in this wonderful sandbox.

Disclaimer: With great power comes great responsibility. Thankfully, I have neither. Sherlock and its characters are owned by other people, though I feel fortunate to have been allowed to play in this wonderful sandbox.

This story can also be found here at A03.

---

As the Chief Superintendant stepped inside Lestrade’s office, Lestrade prepared himself for the worst. Even when the suspension had been lifted, Lestrade had known he was still on shaky ground. No, his days at Scotland Yard had been numbered since Sherlock Holmes had been declared a fraud. Lestrade was relieved in a way. He had been able to handle the whispered rumours and sidelong glances. It was waiting for the inevitable that took the greatest toll.

Lestrade met his superior’s eyes calmly. He was determined to be completely stoic about the whole thing. He wouldn’t give those bastards the satisfaction of seeing him suffer. He steeled himself for the blow, but his boss didn’t utter the words Lestrade had been expecting.

“Um, yes. Lestrade. I think you’d better come out here. There’s something you should see.”

Lestrade stared openly at his boss for a moment before rising from his desk. He had only just stepped outside his office when he froze, his eyes widening in shock. Sherlock Holmes was perched on a desk, with John Watson, looking weary and uncomfortable, sitting beside him. Everyone had stopped what they were doing and stood gaping at this man who was supposed to be dead and buried. Sherlock ignored all of them.

“Ah, Lestrade. So nice of you to join us. It took some time and effort on my part, but I successfully cleared my name and proved that it was Moriarty who was the fraud, something that was obviously beyond your limited capabilities.” Sherlock cocked his head and smiled. “Miss me?”

Lestrade couldn’t move. He was rooted to the spot, numb and paralyzed. Then Sherlock winked, and Lestrade closed the distance between them, planting a fist in Sherlock’s face.

“Yes,” John said as Sherlock’s head snapped back and he swayed on the desk, “that was my reaction as well.”

“I’m not finished yet,” Lestrade growled, launching himself at Sherlock a second time, knocking him clean off the desk.

There were gasps and cries of amazement from the other personnel in the department, but Lestrade barely heard them. He was too busy trying to pummel Sherlock into a pulp, only Sherlock kept deflecting his blows by raising his arms over his face and wrenching his body away from Lestrade’s fists. “Fight back, you conceited little coward!” Lestrade shouted.

“No.” Sherlock blocked another punch and gazed up at John through his forearms. “A little help would be appreciated.”

“Why?” John asked. “Lestrade seems to be doing just fine on his own.”

“JOHN!”

“Lestrade, I order you to stop this nonsense at once!” The Chief Superintendant, who had remained a safe distance from the fight, had finally decided to speak up.

Lestrade’s head turned sharply, dark eyes blazing. “Oh, shut up, you great pillock!”

“Oh, God,” John said, putting his head in his hands. The Chief Superintendant opened and closed his mouth a few times, but had apparently been rendered speechless. He settled for crossing his arms and glaring at the two men wrestling on the floor instead. However, John had seen enough. He grabbed one of Lestrade’s arms and pinned it behind his back, sitting down on top of him. Lestrade winced then continued to clobber Sherlock with his free hand. Thankfully, John’s action seemed to jolt everyone out of their collective daze as Anderson and Dimmock rushed over to subdue Lestrade as well. Sherlock managed to crawl out from under the pile, but lay, panting, on the floor.

Lestrade struggled furiously beneath the three men on top of him. “Get off me, you stupid prats! I’m trying to do you a favour!”

“Sorry, Lestrade,” Dimmock said, “but this department is in enough trouble without you committing homicide.”

Lestrade howled in frustration. “Oh, come on! He already offed himself once! Who’s going to notice if he dies a second time?”

Sherlock still lay on the floor, staring at Lestrade in confusion. “Why are you trying to kill me?”

Lestrade practically bared his teeth at Sherlock. “Because you’re a liar and a thief!”

“Okay, I can understand ‘liar’,” John said, “but ‘thief’?”

Lestrade managed to twist his head enough to glance at John over one shoulder. “He’s a thief because he stole my integrity!”

Sherlock snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just told you that I cleared my name. Your reputation should be repaired in the process.”

John gritted his teeth as Lestrade bucked again, almost throwing him off. “Sherlock, this really isn’t the time or place to discuss this. I’ll admit that I was hoping we could go down the pub and talk about it over a few pints, but that’s not going to happen now that Lestrade has flown into a homicidal rage and has quite likely been suspended.”

“Oh, he’s definitely been suspended,” the Chief Superintendant said. “In fact, I’d fire him if I thought there was any chance that Mycroft bloody Holmes wouldn’t pull strings and have him reinstated.”

“A pint of bitter and a packet of crisps would go down a real treat,” Lestrade muttered to himself, but no one was really listening.

“Please go, Sherlock,” John said. “Just piss off, will you?”

Sherlock drew himself to his feet haughtily. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Lestrade’s eyes flew to Sherlock. “Go? Go where? Where is he going? Come back here, you wanker!”

Once John was sure that Sherlock had been given sufficient time to escape, he got off Lestrade, Anderson and Dimmock doing likewise. Lestrade had barely stood up when the Chief Superintendant began delivering a lecture on proper office etiquette, placing great emphasis on the importance of appropriate language and behaviour in the workplace. John lasted almost two minutes before he decked him. That was when he decided that going down the pub might not be such a bad idea after all. Lestrade went with him, so he could get his beer and crisps.

“Could you please stop punching my boss?” Lestrade said. “It’s hard enough working with the man as it is.”

John fixed Lestrade with a stony glare. “You tried to kill my best friend.”

“He was already dead! I was just attempting to restore the balance, to return him to his natural state!” Lestrade leaned across the table, ignoring the beer mat sticking to his elbow. “It’s not right, John. It’s not human. He’s not human. He couldn’t have survived a fall like that if he was.”

John laughed, torn between amusement and concern. “For God’s sake, Greg! Have you heard yourself? Have you actually been listening to what you’ve been saying?”

Lestrade clutched at John’s jumper, desperate to make him see reason. “He can’t be allowed to live, John. He has to die. He’s-he’s evil.”

“Right. Okay. Fine. Sherlock is the Antichrist, and you’re having a psychotic breakdown.” John glanced frantically at the bar and stood up, pulling away from Lestrade. “I’ll get the next round. I think you could use another pint...or maybe three.”





“Ah, John. I’d wondered where you’d got to. If you’ve finished picking fights with Scotland Yard officials and drinking away the afternoon, perhaps you could assist me.” Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the carpet of their flat among a sea of newspapers.

John eyed the mess critically, but refrained from commenting. “Before either of us do anything, you need to speak with Greg.”

Sherlock stared at John, his forehead creasing. “Greg?”

John sighed in resignation. “Sorry. Lestrade. You need to speak with Lestrade.”

Sherlock leapt to his feet. “You brought my would-be murderer to our flat?” He peered eagerly around John, unable to hide the boyish glee in his eyes. That was when John realized Lestrade was missing and swore under his breath.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Lestrade moaned as John hauled him off the stairs leading to their flat. He had only made it about halfway up when he’d been overtaken by dizziness and had needed to sit down.

“Well, I did warn you to stop after four pints,” John said as he dragged Lestrade up to the second floor. Then Lestrade was standing before Sherlock, tilting to his right to compensate for the alarming angle of the flat.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Six pints, Lestrade. I am impressed. However, I should warn you that if you plan to attack me again, I will defend myself.”

Lestrade squinted at the ridiculously tall man in front of him. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Brilliant deduction, Lestrade. Yes, it’s me. I thought we had established that a few hours ago.”

Lestrade’s bottom lip began to tremble. “You’re not dead.”

Sherlock’s expression softened a bit. “No, I’m not dead, Lestrade.”

Lestrade’s eyes welled up with tears and he threw his arms around a startled Sherlock.

“Well, that’s a relief,” John said. “I was afraid he might try to kill you again.”

“I think I would have preferred that.” Sherlock’s eyes had widened in panic and he couldn’t quite keep the squeak out of his voice. “He’s hugging me. Why is he hugging me? You’re a doctor. Can’t you make him stop? John, help me. What do I do?”

John grinned. “You could try patting him on the back and say, ‘There, there. There, there’.”

Sherlock was so desperate that he didn’t even question the advice. “Yes, all right.” He thumped Lestrade on the back a few times. “There, there, Lestrade. There, there.” He waited expectantly for several seconds then shot a look of pure horror at John. “It didn’t work. He hasn’t let go of me and he’s still sobbing drunkenly on my chest.”

“That’s because it was meant to make Lestrade feel better. It was never about you.”

“But I’m the one being smothered!”

“Well, perhaps you should have thought of that before you faked your death,” John said. Then his tone grew more sympathetic when he saw the stricken look on Sherlock’s face. “All actions have repercussions, Sherlock, and I’m afraid these are the repercussions of yours.”

Sherlock gazed at John beseechingly. “Okay, fine. I accept that. I take full responsibility for my actions. Now, will you please get him off me?”

“I’ll try.” John moved closer and attempted to pry Lestrade’s arms apart. Lestrade had stopped crying, but he had tightened his grip on Sherlock. “Greg, please. This is becoming rather awkward, don’t you think?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Don’t care. I’m not letting go. He might jump off another building and disappear again.”

“Oh,” John said. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He stood digesting this new piece of information for a moment before inspiration struck. “I have an idea. Just wait here a minute.”

“As if I have a choice!” Sherlock shouted after him as John bounded out of the room.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was seated on the sofa. He had been liberated from Lestrade, only to find himself being tied up with a length of rope: rope that had been leftover from one of his experiments.

Ignoring Sherlock’s furious glare, John was finishing off the last knot. “There. That should do it. He won’t escape from you now, Greg.”

“Good work, John,” Lestrade said before tipping over. Fortunately, Sherlock broke his fall.

“Ooopsy daisy!” John leaned over and arranged Lestrade in a more comfortable position. Then, he snapped a few pictures with his mobile.

“Shouldn’t you be fetching Lestrade a blanket?” Sherlock grumbled.

John gaped at Sherlock for an instant before managing to recover. “A blanket. Yeah. Great idea, Sherlock.” He headed out of the room again, this time heading down to 221A to see what he could borrow from Mrs. Hudson.

Lestrade nestled down in Sherlock’s lap, one cheek rubbing against the fabric of Sherlock’s trousers. “Did miss you,” he murmured.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Of course you did.”