Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Feb 14, 2012 21:30:56 GMT -5
He'd had cancer, once. Nobody really knows about it except his family and close friends, but he had. He was just a little boy back then; really, he can't remember it at all. Well, not mostly. He has a few memories: bad memories, ones full of pain. He wonders if that means something, that his first memories are of pain.
Lestrade didn't have an unpleasant childhood, far from it, but he'd never quite come to terms with the fact that, well, he might've died before anything had happened in his life at all. Now, what would that have been like, anyway? A child's death is always viewed so much more gravely than an elderly person's. His mam had told him that children who die become angels right away; that his sister he never knew was an angel now. He liked to believe that was true.
It was leukemia, his parents told him. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia, not too aggressive but he'd needed treatments and was hospitalized for ages. After that, he’d always been slightly fragile and took ill a bit more easily than most. But besides that, there had really been no lasting effects. Perhaps that's the cause of his pre-aged looks, Lestrade once thought with some lighthearted amusement. But - no, cancer's not amusing, not at all. It won't come back, the doctors had always been pretty sure of that fact, but the idea that it's pretty sure and not just sure still worries him at night sometimes. After all, he isn't a child anymore. He has his own child to think of. People who count on him.
Lestrade had been going to a cancer specialist once a year for as long as he could remember. Just for a checkup, to see how he was doing. Or rather, he had been, until a few years ago. Oh, those few years. Was it really such a short time in his life? It'd felt like ages; the years when everything had fallen so quickly apart. Being an optimist, it hadn't taken too long for him to build it back up, but… God, those had been the worst years of his life.
He'd stopped going to his yearly appointment then. But this year, something had sparked - maybe it was seeing Sherlock in the hospital, maybe not - but he decided he really ought to start going again. Not that anything would show up, but… Just to be on the safe side. And so, he quietly made himself arrangements to see an oncologist, and that was that.
So now he was standing in front of the hospital, an hour early because, well, he hadn't really known what to do when he woke up at five because of habit, despite having the day off, so he'd just come without thinking too much about it. He severely doubted the scans would find anything dangerous, he didn't feel ill or anything, but he was still nervous.
He stood still, staring blankly up at the tall building for what seemed like was at least ten minutes which, though maybe not all that much time in retrospect, is pretty freaking long to stare at a building all alone. Maybe he should've had more coffee this morning.
"Man up, Lestrade," he found himself saying aloud. Straightening his shirt and huffing a great sigh of determination/nervousness out, he blinked for a bit longer than was strictly necessary before forcing himself to walk forward. And then stopping.
What a coward he was, not being able to face something like this. It made him want to gag with disgust. So many people went in and out of that hospital each day, brave people: doctors, nurses, patients, grieving family members. They managed to walk forward, and yet for some reason, he couldn't. Words along the lines of pathetic and childish floated in his mind.
Sighing with self loathe, he walked over to a bench that was on the side of one of the sidewalks leading up to the hospital. It doesn't really matter all that much if you don't go in yet he told himself. You're so early, after all. He sat on the bench, twiddling his hands against each other in his lap and contemplating.. .Well, nothing really, and switching his gaze between his hands and the people walking about.
Lestrade didn't have an unpleasant childhood, far from it, but he'd never quite come to terms with the fact that, well, he might've died before anything had happened in his life at all. Now, what would that have been like, anyway? A child's death is always viewed so much more gravely than an elderly person's. His mam had told him that children who die become angels right away; that his sister he never knew was an angel now. He liked to believe that was true.
It was leukemia, his parents told him. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia, not too aggressive but he'd needed treatments and was hospitalized for ages. After that, he’d always been slightly fragile and took ill a bit more easily than most. But besides that, there had really been no lasting effects. Perhaps that's the cause of his pre-aged looks, Lestrade once thought with some lighthearted amusement. But - no, cancer's not amusing, not at all. It won't come back, the doctors had always been pretty sure of that fact, but the idea that it's pretty sure and not just sure still worries him at night sometimes. After all, he isn't a child anymore. He has his own child to think of. People who count on him.
Lestrade had been going to a cancer specialist once a year for as long as he could remember. Just for a checkup, to see how he was doing. Or rather, he had been, until a few years ago. Oh, those few years. Was it really such a short time in his life? It'd felt like ages; the years when everything had fallen so quickly apart. Being an optimist, it hadn't taken too long for him to build it back up, but… God, those had been the worst years of his life.
He'd stopped going to his yearly appointment then. But this year, something had sparked - maybe it was seeing Sherlock in the hospital, maybe not - but he decided he really ought to start going again. Not that anything would show up, but… Just to be on the safe side. And so, he quietly made himself arrangements to see an oncologist, and that was that.
So now he was standing in front of the hospital, an hour early because, well, he hadn't really known what to do when he woke up at five because of habit, despite having the day off, so he'd just come without thinking too much about it. He severely doubted the scans would find anything dangerous, he didn't feel ill or anything, but he was still nervous.
He stood still, staring blankly up at the tall building for what seemed like was at least ten minutes which, though maybe not all that much time in retrospect, is pretty freaking long to stare at a building all alone. Maybe he should've had more coffee this morning.
"Man up, Lestrade," he found himself saying aloud. Straightening his shirt and huffing a great sigh of determination/nervousness out, he blinked for a bit longer than was strictly necessary before forcing himself to walk forward. And then stopping.
What a coward he was, not being able to face something like this. It made him want to gag with disgust. So many people went in and out of that hospital each day, brave people: doctors, nurses, patients, grieving family members. They managed to walk forward, and yet for some reason, he couldn't. Words along the lines of pathetic and childish floated in his mind.
Sighing with self loathe, he walked over to a bench that was on the side of one of the sidewalks leading up to the hospital. It doesn't really matter all that much if you don't go in yet he told himself. You're so early, after all. He sat on the bench, twiddling his hands against each other in his lap and contemplating.. .Well, nothing really, and switching his gaze between his hands and the people walking about.
