Fic: History, Lestrade gen
Jul. 2nd, 2011 10:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lady_ganeshMore for hc-bingo! Lestrade backstory. The prompt is 'death,' and please consider that your warning. Thanks to emungere and tiggymalvern for betaing.
He'd rehearsed the speech a thousand times in his mind. Emily, I'm sorry. I never meant to lie to you. But I did, and to myself--
He'd made his choice now. He'd given himself a plan, and a deadline. By the end of the week. By Saturday, he'd tell her the truth. Emily. I'm gay. And you deserve a better husband.
She'd cry. Christ, he'd probably cry. But she did deserve better. A husband who adored her. A life that wasn't a lie. Children (how often had he told her the time wasn't right, maybe later, when his career was in better shape?). She'd have a good life, in the end.
The light was blinking on the ansaphone when he got in. Emily must have been working late. "Lestrade," a familiar voice said. "It's Paulsen. Give me a call when you get in?"
Dammit. Paulsen only called when he was pissed off about something or he needed Geoff to work an off shift. He picked up the phone. Maybe he should get dinner round for Emily; it'd be nice for her, and he could tell her afterward. Less awkward and humiliating than a restaurant. Paulsen’s was the only message (it was unusual for Emily not to call, but not unheard of); he picked up the new cordless phone he'd bought Emily for her birthday (she'd keep that, of course, he wanted her to have almost everything, really) and walked over to the fridge, looking for something to cook. "It's Lestrade," he said, when Paulsen picked up. "What's going on?"
"Geoff," he said, and his voice was strange, measured. "Are you sitting down?"
"What are you on about?"
"Geoff, it's serious."
It was serious. There'd been an accident. Lestrade sat on the floor and stared at his wedding ring.
He had always known life without Emily would be difficult. What he hadn't anticipated was the shape life without Emily would take. Her parents were lovely and understanding and utterly heartbroken; he let them make most of the choices for the burial, and tried not to wince when they reminded him that he was the husband, the man she'd chosen for what really had been the rest of her life.
They thought he was burying their life together; what he ended up burying was his dreams for her life without him. It was months before he could bring himself to go through her clothes, throwing out the ratty underwear and giving most of the rest to charity. He saved a few pieces for her mother (she'd had the wedding dress preserved, oh Emily) and kept her wedding ring, out of guilt or loyalty, he wasn't sure. He continued to wear his own ring. She needed to be properly mourned.
He went for a day without it on the anniversary of her death, and it felt wrong. He tried again a month later, and it was easier, but he found suspects and witnesses acted differently toward him, when they didn't think of him as married; he would never have believed so many people looked for a ring, but apparently they did. After a while it was habit; he didn't kid himself that it was in her honor, though he still missed her.
When Sherlock 'deduced' he still kept it on out of guilt, he slapped the man backhanded, so hard his fingers stung.
"You didn't punch me," Sherlock said, sounding a bit taken aback.
"You're not worth punching," Lestrade had said, and kicked him off the crime scene.
Sherlock had never apologized, but he'd never brought up the ring again, which was good enough for Lestrade. What he'd had with Emily hadn't been the truth, but it certainly hadn't been a total lie. It'd taken him years to come to terms with it all. He wished he'd had the chance to come to terms with it with her. They might've been friends, in the end. He hoped as much.
Even his mistakes were part of who he was, after all. And in the end, he was content with that.
emungere and tiggymalvern for betaing.He'd rehearsed the speech a thousand times in his mind. Emily, I'm sorry. I never meant to lie to you. But I did, and to myself--
He'd made his choice now. He'd given himself a plan, and a deadline. By the end of the week. By Saturday, he'd tell her the truth. Emily. I'm gay. And you deserve a better husband.
She'd cry. Christ, he'd probably cry. But she did deserve better. A husband who adored her. A life that wasn't a lie. Children (how often had he told her the time wasn't right, maybe later, when his career was in better shape?). She'd have a good life, in the end.
The light was blinking on the ansaphone when he got in. Emily must have been working late. "Lestrade," a familiar voice said. "It's Paulsen. Give me a call when you get in?"
Dammit. Paulsen only called when he was pissed off about something or he needed Geoff to work an off shift. He picked up the phone. Maybe he should get dinner round for Emily; it'd be nice for her, and he could tell her afterward. Less awkward and humiliating than a restaurant. Paulsen’s was the only message (it was unusual for Emily not to call, but not unheard of); he picked up the new cordless phone he'd bought Emily for her birthday (she'd keep that, of course, he wanted her to have almost everything, really) and walked over to the fridge, looking for something to cook. "It's Lestrade," he said, when Paulsen picked up. "What's going on?"
"Geoff," he said, and his voice was strange, measured. "Are you sitting down?"
"What are you on about?"
"Geoff, it's serious."
It was serious. There'd been an accident. Lestrade sat on the floor and stared at his wedding ring.
He had always known life without Emily would be difficult. What he hadn't anticipated was the shape life without Emily would take. Her parents were lovely and understanding and utterly heartbroken; he let them make most of the choices for the burial, and tried not to wince when they reminded him that he was the husband, the man she'd chosen for what really had been the rest of her life.
They thought he was burying their life together; what he ended up burying was his dreams for her life without him. It was months before he could bring himself to go through her clothes, throwing out the ratty underwear and giving most of the rest to charity. He saved a few pieces for her mother (she'd had the wedding dress preserved, oh Emily) and kept her wedding ring, out of guilt or loyalty, he wasn't sure. He continued to wear his own ring. She needed to be properly mourned.
He went for a day without it on the anniversary of her death, and it felt wrong. He tried again a month later, and it was easier, but he found suspects and witnesses acted differently toward him, when they didn't think of him as married; he would never have believed so many people looked for a ring, but apparently they did. After a while it was habit; he didn't kid himself that it was in her honor, though he still missed her.
When Sherlock 'deduced' he still kept it on out of guilt, he slapped the man backhanded, so hard his fingers stung.
"You didn't punch me," Sherlock said, sounding a bit taken aback.
"You're not worth punching," Lestrade had said, and kicked him off the crime scene.
Sherlock had never apologized, but he'd never brought up the ring again, which was good enough for Lestrade. What he'd had with Emily hadn't been the truth, but it certainly hadn't been a total lie. It'd taken him years to come to terms with it all. He wished he'd had the chance to come to terms with it with her. They might've been friends, in the end. He hoped as much.
Even his mistakes were part of who he was, after all. And in the end, he was content with that.
