Little Things

"Mr. Lestrade-"

"D.I."

"D.I. Lestrade. Since this is your first appointment, I'd like to talk about what brought you here."

"Well…that'd be a cab, I suppose." The weary-looking man tried to chuckle and failed. He didn't continue, just shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa, avoiding the other's intent gaze.

"Greg, what happened? What made you so desperate?"

He looked at the psychiatrist, then down at his hands, spreading them in a helpless gesture.

"Little things."

Like Dimmock showing up in his office, stiffly informing him that he'd be taking over all Lestrade's pending cases.

Minor things.

Like Sally running into him and not being able to find words. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, but she couldn't say anything. Greg wasn't sure what he wanted her to say. I'm sorry. I'm sorry but I thought I was doing the right thing. I'm sorry, I couldn't pass up the chance to knock the twat off his pedestal. I'm sorry I ruined a lifetime of dedicated work. Anderson made himself scarce.

Tiny things.

Like John Watson's new wrinkles. But they creased his forehead in a way that made him look ten years older. Greg knew he had some himself that hadn't been there before. Before the fall that fractured their shared world into a million shivered pieces.

Diminutive things.

Like hearing voices hush when he walked in. Nobody offered to fetch him coffee any more. The brass called him up several times a week, poking and prying into his every move. The young officers still looked at him, but with pitying curiosity.

Trivial things.

The smile on the defense attorney's face when Greg caught a glimpse of the slimy bastard in the hall. He'd been counsel for a murderer two years ago, who'd only just missed getting off life in prison. And now with Lestrade's testimony in question, he had a good reason to try again. Greg wasn't surprised when the subpoena came through.

Trifling things.

A woman's laugh. It came pealing happily on the cold wind from a blonde woman walking with a chuckling bearded man who wrapped his arm round her shoulder. She leaned into him and Lestrade tried to remember the last time he'd made a woman laugh like that.

Small things.

Like signatures. Rubbing his forehead, Greg stared at his signatures at the bottom of case file closures. He could remember each one, whether triumphantly flourished, tiredly scratched out, or angrily scribbled. This one had meant a rapist no longer walked the streets. Another signaled the end of a serial killer's career. That one included pictures too horrible to review, but he remembered the images anyway. And now it might be all for nothing. Sherlock had been there or had dug up key pieces of evidence, and it was all suspect. HE was under review.

Infinitesimal things.

The thud as he set a beer bottle down. It echoed dismally in his dusty flat that seemed at once too cluttered and too empty. Lifting it to his lips, he tasted it again, grimaced. Went for the dark, burning whisky hidden away in the top cupboard. When the bottle was empty, it didn't thud on the tabletop. It smashed. A sliver of glass pierced deep. The drops of blood falling to the floor were such little things.