Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Really, I don't even own the idea for this fic. It may have already been done. But I saw a post about this idea on tumblr, and was so inspired, that I just HAD to flesh it out, even if it was just a fanfic and not the real deal. So YAY LET'S DO THIS THING.


A Sherlock one-shot

Today was the day.

It always brought such sadness, to everybody. Even Donovan and Anderson felt something on this particular anniversary. They never elaborated on what they felt, but Lestrade knew there was a healthy amount of guilt, on both of their parts.

When Donovan had said that there would come a day when they would be standing over a body, and Sherlock Holmes had been the one to put it there, she had never meant this.

She had never meant it would be Sherlock's own body they were standing over, a result of the man's suicide.

Today was the third anniversary of Sherlock's death, the man having been driven to commit suicide in a world that no longer believed in him.

Of course, it had later come to light that Sherlock had been right all along. Moriarty had been real, had just twisted his way into the minds of the public to alter their views on the facts. He had made everyone believe that Sherlock was a fake, that he was the real one behind so many crimes. Sherlock had hardly even tried to convince them otherwise. He had just taken it, taken it all. Had dealt with Moriarty in some way, and then had dealt with himself.

For a year, there was a debate on whether Sherlock was the criminal in the situation or not.

The "We Believe in Sherlock Holmes" rallies were overwhelming.

But he wasn't the criminal.

Sherlock Holmes had died without any meaning behind it at all.

Lestrade had been the one to put together the gathering on the anniversary of the consulting detective's death (he refused to call it a suicide, because it wasn't a suicide. Sherlock didn't kill himself, Moriarty had. The world had). At first, it had been small. Him, John, Mrs. Hudson, Donovan, Anderson, Molly, a few others that he had helped, his homeless network, and Mycroft even. They had just gathered to speak to one another, to remember a good man who did good things.

Lestrade never referred to him as "great" anymore. Only "good." Always "good."

There was still denial that was thrown around during the first year. Denials that Sherlock wasn't really dead, that he would pop up and explain why he had been gone for so long. Would call them all morons for believing Moriarty for even a second.

He didn't.

The second year yielded a greater turnout. Avid readers of John's blog turned up, more of Lestrade's division, random people who lived near 221B, Sherlock's believers and fans, and more people that he had helped. Sherlock had helped a lot of people.

By the second year, everyone had stopped denying what had happened to Sherlock.

And now, it was the third year.

The turnout was larger this time, just as it had been a year before, but the swell in numbers was nowhere near as much as between years one and two. Like always, the gathering for the anniversary of what was simply referred to as "the Fall" was held in a small reception hall, with a microphone stand set up at what could be considered the front of the room. Those closest to Sherlock always stayed near the front, near the microphone, as if guarding it.

There were still those who would rather show up and insult the man for all to hear than to keep to their own business.

That was where Lestrade now stood, gazing out at the gathered crowd that stood around, drinks in hand as they discussed anything and everything. Most of the people avoided the topic of Sherlock, at least until later in the evening.

Lestrade tugged at the collar of his shirt, uncomfortable at how tight it felt. He would probably be more comfortable if he just sucked it up and drank some alcohol like the rest of the attendees, but he didn't want to. He wanted - no, needed - to be completely sober. It was an agreement of sorts he had made with John a while back, when the other man had nearly become an alcoholic in the months after the Fall. Lestrade would drink no alcohol so long as John didn't.

But, God, did he want to just down an entire bottle of wine right then and there.

He distracted himself picking people out of the crowd, sorting them into two groups. Those he knew, and those he didn't. At one point, he was almost positive he laid eyes on Irene Adler, who was supposed to be dead. But he didn't alert anybody to her presence. If she wanted to be here to remember Sherlock with friends, then who had any right to stop her?

When he spotted her, his heart leapt into his throat, hope that he knew was futile blossoming in his chest. Faking death twice would be difficult. Once mauled and the other decapitation would be quite a feat. If that was possible, then wouldn't faking a death from a long fall be possible?

But no. Lestrade had seen Sherlock's body, had confirmed that, without a doubt, the man before him had been the man he had asked for help so many times. And he had been dead.

But that one moment had allowed his hope to soar to such heights, it nearly broke his heart again when it, inevitably, came crashing back down. He was lucky he was so skilled at choking back sobs, otherwise he might have broken right then and there. Instead, he redirected the force into a chuckle. Sherlock wouldn't want him crying over him (even though he had already done that a fair amount already).

"Sentiment," Lestrade could just hear him saying. "So dull."

'I have the right to be sad, dammit,' Lestrade thought in reply to the phantom-words with a weak smile. Sherlock had been the closest thing to a son that Lestrade had had, even if the other man had never thought so. 'No father should have to bury his son.'

Oh, Sherlock was probably turning in his grave at that one.

Movement caught his eye, and he turned. It was John, waving his hand and flashing the man a pointed look. Lestrade nodded, understanding the signal. It was time to start speaking, the entire reason the gatherings had been put together in the first place.

Lestrade fished his mobile from his pocket and flipped it open. He scrolled through his contacts until he found the one that he had never been able to delete. The most recent text had been sent an hour prior, about how the remembrance gathering would be starting soon.

We're about to start talking about you, Lestrade texted as fast as he could. Which, compared to Sherlock or John, wasn't very fast at all. Sherlock had been a very proficient texter, and John had been forced to pick up the skill when he moved in with the maddening man. I get to go first this year. ~ GL

Over the years, even after he was sure Sherlock's phone had been canceled, Lestrade still texted Sherlock. Whenever there was new case, or when something notable happened, or even when he was just bored. He would text Sherlock everything and anything.

At the beginning, he had texted Sherlock more than once, angry, shouting about how the curly-haired consulting detective had been such an idiot. He would always apologize after that.

Lestrade nodded to John, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and even Irene, who only raised a slightly-surprised eyebrow at his acknowledgment as he took his place behind the microphone. He tapped at it once, twice, three times, listening to the hollow thumps echo through the room and bring attention to himself. He cleared his throat and offered a tentative smile.

"I'm Greg, Greg Lestrade," he spoke into the microphone hesitantly. Public speaking he was fine with; this, he was not. "I worked with Sherlock quite a bit back when...back three years ago. I work for Scotland Yard as a Detective Inspector."

Oh, well, wasn't this going swimmingly.

Clearing his throat again, he schooled his features and moved on with conviction.

"We all know why we're gathered here tonight. It's not brought about by a happy occasion, but we can make it happy." Yeah, like that was easy. "We've all lost someone, the same someone actually, and together we can remember him instead of mourn him. Because together, we can accept that he's gone."

Lestrade's phone buzzed, vibrating loudly in his hand. He frowned and clutched the device tighter. Anybody he cared to respond to was already in the reception hall, so, unless someone was being disrespectful, then he didn't care who was texting him. It could be the Queen of England herself, and he wouldn't care, because this was so very important.

John gave him a confused look that was partially mixed with a grimace. Lestrade gave a minuscule shrug, and continued on.

"This person was unjustly taken from us-" his phone buzzed again, "-and it was partially our faults." Lestrade breathed out slowly. His phone buzzed annoyingly right as he continued, saying: "It was three years ago that Sherlock Holmes died."

Three things happened at once in that moment; Lestrade checked to see what could be so important as to keep texting him, the rest of their crowd snapped open their mobile phones to see who had texted them the exact same message, and the doors at the end of the hall burst open, someone sweeping into the hall on long legs with a billowing dark long-coat and a gleam of silvery-blue eyes.

Just one word was blazed across the screen of Lestrade's phone, and John's phone, and Donovan's and Anderson's and Mycroft's and Irene's and everybody else's who was in the reception hall. Just one word.


A/N: ...ha. Yep

I'msotiredandwrotethisinabouttenminuteswithoutproo freadingsothereareprobablysomanyerrors-