Work Text:
Rain fell steadily over the congregation of black umbrellas. The vicar was droning on but most of the people present were too focused on their own thoughts to pay much attention to the words. They were all staring down at the coffin, tears either falling freely or being held in by strong wills. The mahogany coffin lid was covered with a small mountain of pink carnations; each one had been placed there by all but one member of the mourners. The one who hadn’t placed a flower down was standing at the foot of the coffin, staring down, seemingly impassive. In truth, he was falling apart but very few people could see it. One that could was standing a few feet away, hidden from view but still able to hear the service. This silent spectator never took his eyes off the broken man and the small sprig of green leaves and red berries he had clutched in his hand. He watched as the vicar finished their piece and asked for the people around the coffin to speak. He smiled as each person said something, whether it was short or long didn’t matter; he was just happy to realise he had touched so many people. Eventually, all had spoken but the broken man who pulled himself up and prepared to speak. No words came forth though. The man beside him placed a hand on his arm and he deflated again. He merely whispered “Goodbye,” and threw the sprig onto the coffin with the other flowers. It settled on the top of the mound of pink, the darkness of the leaves looking out of place.
The observer sighed and turned to walk away, unable to watch the rest of the service. He was surprised to find someone standing behind him but he graced them with a small smile.
“You came,” he said.
“Of course,” the other man nodded. “It is one’s duty to go to their friend’s funeral, even if that friend isn’t actually dead.”
“You didn’t have to come.”
“I wanted to.”
“Thank you,” Lestrade said quietly and turned to watch the last minutes of his funeral, Spock standing tall and reverent by his side. They didn’t say a word as everyone slowly left, but Spock watched as Lestrade’s eyes followed the tall, dark haired man to a taxi with his fair headed companion.
“An interesting offering of flowers,” Spock declared when they were alone in the cemetery.
“Was it?” Lestrade asked, his voice still quiet and sad. “I didn’t realise. I quite liked them. They were bright.”
“The pink carnations are customary for funerals, given their meaning,” Spock said knowledgably. “I was noting more the contribution of your consulting detective.”
“He’s not mine. He never was.” Lestrade’s voice was filled with regret and Spock felt a twinge of sadness as he finally understood his friend’s situation.
“He’s the one you love but cannot tell. The one you referred to when helping me with Leonard.” Spock’s words were a statement, not a question.
“Yeah,” Lestrade said. “Congratulations on that, by the way.”
“Thank you. I grieve with thee for this.”
“There was no other outcome. I have to move on.” They stood together in silence for a while until Lestrade realised what Spock had been saying and decided to ask him about it.
“What did you mean about Sherlock’s contribution? What did his plant mean?”
Spock looked at his friend’s face, observing the tears glittering at the edges of his eyes and knew that he had to be completely truthful. No matter how much it was going to hurt.
“Pink carnations are often given at funerals as they are a symbol of remembrance. Leonard gave me a book on flowers and their meanings on our third assignment together. It defined pink carnations as meaning ‘I’ll never forget you’. They show just how much you meant to these people.”
“But what about Sherlock’s?” Lestrade asked, his voice beginning to sound panicked.
“He gave you a sprig of arbutus.”
“And?” Lestrade was becoming impatient but Spock was unsure how to explain without causing him heartache.
“Arbutus means…’Thee only do I love’.”
“…Oh.” Lestrade’s voice was the smallest Spock had ever heard it and he placed a hand consolingly on the ex-inspector’s shoulder.
“I'm sorry,” Spock said sincerely but Lestrade only nodded. Realising that his friend needed time, he said “I’ll wait for you at the exit point,” and left.
Lestrade walked right up to his newly made grave and crouched in front of the gravestone. It was a simple headstone of dark grey marble. He ran his fingers over the engraving, tears sliding silently down his cheeks as he committed the words to memory. After what felt like an hour, but had only been mere minutes, he stood and left the cemetery. At the gate, he took one last look back at where his headstone stood before making his way to his car and driving away.
The rain didn’t let up, darkening the fresh pile of earth to a rich chocolate brown. Water caught in the words on the headstone, their effortless slide curbed by
Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector
The Best of Scotland Yard
Saviour of the Lost