"He retired," John said, when Sherlock asked him about Lestrade. "After you, after Barts."
"He wasn't even fifty!"
"He'd had seven years of chasing after you. Guess it wore him out."
"He was pushed," Mycroft told him. "The Met found him an embarrassment, but they didn't want their dirty linen washed in public. So they made him an offer he couldn't refuse."
"There was nothing much to keep him in London," Molly told him sadly. "No job, his marriage over. And he'd lost a lot of his friends."
"You've got his address," Sherlock said, and it wasn't a question.
"I write every week."
"If I needed it, would you give it to me?" he asked, and she nodded, the way she had when he'd asked her for help three years ago.
Not Somerset, but Devon. Had it been the Baskerville case that had made him fall in love with the county? But it wasn't Dartmoor but the ocean that had drawn Lestrade.
"He'll be off at Woolacombe Sands," they told him in the village. Sherlock walked along the path, looking down at the quiet beach, till he finally spotted the men. Soon he'd go down and talk, maybe even apologise. But for now Sherlock was content to watch Lestrade – Greg. His own silver surfer, skimming a trifle shakily across the breakers.