gayalondiel_bak | Fic post: TGIO: Salutis Auctor Optime (Reply)

thegameison_sh Cycle Three, Challenge One

Title: Salutis Auctor Optime
Character/Pairing: Ensemble
Genre: Angst
Rating: G
Warnings: n/a

Disclaimer: The Holmes characters fall in the public domain: This version falls under the creative control of Messers Moffatt and Gatiss, and the BBC. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.

Prompt:Spring
Beta:

rabidsamfan

Three years after the explosion that took Sherlock and Moriarty. Two years after the chase for Moriarty’s associates was wrapped up and the last taken over by Europol. Almost a year after the trials. Lestrade barely realised it was April until he found his P60 on his desk, accompanied by a letter. Ripping it open he found he was being awarded the Queen's Police Medal.

He knew who was to blame for this, although even John had been vague about the man’s actual job. Rather than feel proud it just made him tired. Sherlock and John should be being feted, but one had been blown to bits and the other was eking out a quiet existence that no longer quite qualified as living.

He wondered if they’d give him early retirement instead.

Sarah strode through the field, wishing for a moment that John had accepted her invitation to visit her friends’ farm as she did every year. He had sensibly demurred.

They had been on-again, off-again for three years, the trauma of losing Sherlock and John's own injuries parting them, the echoes of grief bringing them together again. They had split on professional grounds when John became an associate, but had fallen back into bed several times since, even after the last remnants of the trials and their excuses had been swept away. Enough was enough.

There was a commotion from the lambing shed and she hurried across the dewy field, not wanting to miss the big moment. Things always seemed simpler when life was being brought into the world.

Sally entered the consulting room, the positive result hammering in her brain. Her GP was away, so she had been offered an associate and surprised herself with her choice.

The doctor was very kind as he arranged her referral to the women’s centre at the hospital. She had expected judgement, possibly even condemnation and maybe that was why she had come to him, but he was thoroughly professional.

But at the last minute he caught her hand and murmured that she was worth so much more than Anderson.

Three weeks later she was at the Easter Vigil, clutching a rosary she hadn't used in years. As the light spread through the cathedral she wondered if she would ever be forgiven, and remembered the shadows in her doctor's eyes.

Anderson wrapped his arms around his wife against the chill of dawn as the Hymnus Eucharisticus flowed from the tower. They hadn't done May Morning for years but Susan wanted to come back to Oxford, where they courted. She had been talking about moving back out here.

He couldn't deny that it was a nice idea. London was fine but Oxford - the gown side - was beautiful. Things had been difficult recently, a lingering pall hanging over the team. Lestrade was talking about taking a desk job; Sally had been fractious for weeks before telling him where to shove it. It was time for a fresh start.

Mycroft had insisted on having Sherlock's remains spirited away and cremated, family only. John had not been allowed to say goodbye and it nettled him to the point of refusing Mycroft at every turn since then. He and Mrs Hudson had made a space in a local community garden and buried Sherlock's skull and a couple of other possessions, planted some flowers. Sherlock would have called it needlessly sentimental, but it was there to give John somewhere to go to grieve when he moved out of Baker Street.

But he had not moved. The flat was on the market but everyone who came to look was mysteriously put off. He was certain Mycroft was behind it but could not work out why. Mycroft had been trying to contact him again but he no longer cared for the hassle.

It had been a cold winter and he hadn't been out to the garden much, but now spring was here and he came to tend the flowers as they grew. New life. It left a bitter taste in the back of his throat.

The third spring since Sherlock died, the second he had been tending the flowers. He wondered how long it would be before returning life meant something to him again.