Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock. T for language.
"Are you happy now?"
Lestrade was not an angry man. He was usually very fair, very level-headed and saw things both ways. He was very keen, however, and also very firm. But the two had never seen him more furious in his entire life. It was beyond startling, beyond being scolded by a parent or school teacher. This was borderline frightening.
"Are you happy now?" he repeated, shoving a picture frame so hard in to the cardboard box that they could hear the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. Anderson, beside her, winced. "I'm sure you both were positively jumping, when you heard the news, eh?"
He cleaned the desk of his last remaining possessions and ran this hands through his graying hair.
Sergeant Donavan cleared her throat. "Sir––" she began, but the DI wasn't having it. He was fed up from dealing with higher ups, from the funeral and consequences and seeing so many broken faces.
He was done.
"You probably think he deserved it, didn't you?" He slammed a fist on the now-empty desk. "That he got what was coming to him? You're both children." Lestrade spun around, glaring out the window, a hand braced on the sill.
The two were too mortified to speak. They looked at each other with wide eyes, thoughts racing. Oh, god.
"I can't believe you had me swayed," the detective inspector muttered through clenched teeth. "I can't believe that you had me doubt him for one blasted second." He turned around, shaking his head. "I knew Sherlock Holmes for six bloody years. I picked him out of the gutter, and he alone has solved more cases in that time than either of you in your whole damned careers, combined." He passed a hand over his face.
Lestrade remembered going over to Bart's, after the fall, after the initial shock had worn off, and he had seen the pool of blood, with his own eyes. Just a few feet between the curb and building, he nearly had a fit, seeing paparazzi photographing it. Animals.
"Sherlock Holmes is dead. That sodding brilliant brain of his is all over the pavement, and it's not just about closing cases, hell, it's not even about catching criminals. He was one of the greatest men I have ever known, and I pray that one day, I'll be half the man he ever was." Tears threatened to spill. "I really hope you're both happy." He fell into the chair that was no longer his and stared in to his hands head shaking slightly.
The two left without another word, trembling, from shock, from the sheer magnitude of what they had done.
They had Sherlock Holmes' blood on their hands.
A/N: I know why Anderson and Donavan did what they did, but that doesn't mean I have to like them.
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