Greg Lestrade had not slept in weeks. Or well, he had, just around an hour or two each night and each of those hours haunted by nightmares. Nightmares, where Sherlock was standing on the roof. Nightmares, where Sherlock was laying on the pavement, dead. Nightmares, of those words John had told him Sherlock had said into the phone, in his "note".

He was sitting on his couch, smoking his fifth cigarette, though it was only 9 AM, not caring that he'd woved to stop and how he could get cancer. He would probably deserve it. He hadn't believed Sherlock, he had gone to arrest him. And Sherlock had killed himself. Because he'd felt that nobody believed in him. And now, Lestrade believed every word. He couldn't bring himself to even doubt that Sherlock had been telling the truth about Moriarty. But his belief was too little and way too late.

Twice, he had saved Sherlock Holmes and what for? To drive him to jump of a roof because he'd been following orders. Following idiotic orders, day to day in all of his ignorance, not caring about the outcome. About his friend. He buried his head in his hands. He had a pounding headache from not sleeping and staying inside all the time. He hadn't spoken to anyone for a week. Donovan had tried to get him to cheer up, by calling him and showing up at his door and at first Lestrade had let her in and talked to her, but now he'd stopped answering. Donovan meant well. To him. But she had called Sherlock a freak and been terrible to him all the time and Lestrade wanted to think that she was at least partly the reason to his fall. He just had to blame at least one person besides himself. He blamed Anderson too, for all the terrible things he'd done, but couldn't help feeling sorry for the man, who had gone completely nuts after Sherlock's death, theorizing how he could've faked it and where he was now. Each theory was worse than the other, but at least Anderson had found a way to cope, unlike Lestrade. Anderson was still working for the police, when Lestrade couldn't bear to go back to Scotland Yard, not now. He couldn't bear to do many things, like talk to John for example. He couldn't look John in the eyes and talk like he really had any right to be sad about Sherlock, when he had been one of those people who'd caused Sherlock, John's best friend to jump off a goddamn roof. John Watson had been a victim of this, just like Sherlock, even more so than the detective actually. Because now John had to live with the fact that Sherlock was dead. And Lestrade knew how difficult it was to come in terms with the fact that your best friend just wasn't there anymore. Especially if you'd had deeper feelings for that best friend. Lestrade had seen the love, the conflict in John's eyes so many times when he'd been looking at Sherlock while he thought nobody saw and he regonized it as his own. The same way, he had looked at so many people he knew, he thought he couldn't have. He wondered if he had looked at Mycroft Holmes that way. Mycroft Holmes. The person Lestrade thought he could talk to about all of this. The person he had thought would forgive him, the person he could grieve with. Now he wasn't even answering the texts Mycroft sent him. Because Mycroft was a cold, calculating person who didn't care about anything else than himself and his work. He hadn't been to Sherlock's funeral and that, Lestrade could understand, he had thought that it was hard for Mycroft, too hard to see his little brother being buried, but when he had texted Mycroft about it, the uninterested reply had been: "That was today? I was busy, so I couldn't make it."

Busy? Too busy to go to his little brother's funeral? Lestrade remembered how his hands had trembled when he read the text. But then he'd thought that maybe Mycroft just didn't want to show his feelings. He was never really good at that. So he'd called Mycroft and told him that he was there for him and that he didn't have to play a role in front of him. Mycroft hadn't sounded sad, or like he had really cried at all. His voice had been very normal, a hint annoyed when he'd said: "What I said was true. I was busy and I couldn't make it to the funeral. I will not let this distract me from my work."

Lestrade had hung up and stared at a wall for a few hours. Mycroft had texted him twice after that and asked how he was, but he had just blocked his number. It felt good to blame Mycroft for being cold and terrible. It distracted him from the painful self-hatred. He wished he could channel all of this anger into something productive. He wished he could believe in Anderson's crazy theories and join his weird club. He wished he could do something else than just sit at home. But he couldn't because he felt terrible. He sighed and lit his sixth cigarette.

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Mycroft was sitting in his office, trying to focus on his work. He really did try, but Greg Lestrade was bothering him. Not physically, he wasn't texting Mycroft or anything. Mycroft wished he were. But this was his own fault as he had purposely pushed Lestrade away from himself. Of course he couldn't expect Lestrade to reply to his messages after he had been so terribly cold. But he worried about Greg. He hadn't been to work after Sherlock's death and though he was alive, it was still worrying that he never left the house. Mycroft sighed deeply and leaned back on his chair. He wasn't used to feeling lonely. He had been alone mist of his life, so he should've been used to it, but for the past few years he had been talking to Lestrade more than he'd thought he would and not just about work. And now he didn't have that anymore and it felt strangely lonely. Especially now that he didn't have Sherlock here either and had no means of contacting him, obviously. Sherlock was the reason for this all of course. The reason Mycroft had pushed Lestrade away. The reason he worried constantly. He wanted to talk to somebody about his worries, though he had been the one to send his little brother to find the members of Moriarty's network, he still worried about him every single day and now he had to worry about Greg as well. He could've told Lestrade, he really could've and possibly he should've, but then Lestrade would tell John, John would tell Mrs Hudson and she would tell all of London and that was a chain reaction their plan could not take. If it was revealed, at this point, so soon after Sherlock's supposed death that he was in fact still alive and going after Moriarty's network, everyone involved and close to Sherlock would be in grave danger and that was a risk Mycroft was not prepared to take.

He closed his eyes and massaged his head, groaning. The headache would not go away. He hadn't been able to sleep very well. Though he had been a part of the plan and even seen Sherlock after he had jumped, but seeing him up on that roof and falling had been beyond traumatizing and scarily familiar. It had felt as if he hadn't been able to save his brother. And it was a painful thought because even as he called Sherlock an idiot, snarled at him, fought with him, he still cared about him so much. He had practically raised Sherlock as their parents had never really got to him the way he had and though he had pretended to be annoyed, but really, he had enjoyed the undivided attention and respect Sherlock had shown him, until they'd drifted apart. Mycroft sighed. He needed to focus and quit thinking about feelings. They had never meant anything to him and they shouldn't now. And they didn't.