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Sherlock and Lestrade sat in silence in the inspector's office. About a week had passed since Sherlock had announced his return, and he was still unsettled about John's reaction to the news. John should be happy to see him, not like the two bloody years were any easier for Sherlock. At least John hadn't had to endure what Sherlock had to - though Sherlock would have willingly been tortured in place of John. In a way he had done that, hadn't he? How would John have felt knowing Sherlock could be an inch way from death for two years? Or even worse, have to experience Sherlock being dead twice, the second time for absolute certainty? He had saved John two years of worrying so he could let him get on with his life. He just never assumed John actually would have.
"It's just not fair!" Sherlock barked, tossing the stress ball he had picked up off of Lestrade's desk against a wall, leaving it lying on the floor. Lestrade, who had been busying himself with paperwork until Sherlock's next outburst, the outbursts seeming to come in 10 to 20-minute intervals. The detective had arrived at the office about an hour and a half earlier, where he sat in silence for a few minutes before beginning to vocalize his distaste of John's recent actions.
"Y'know, Sherlock, John has a good reason to be upset," Lestrade said, tapping a pen against his desk, nearing his wit's end. He wanted to help Sherlock, and he cared about his well-being, which is why there were things Sherlock shouldn't know that Lestrade's tongue was threatening to let slip.
"But why? He should have been happy! You were happy! Why wasn't he happy to see me?" Sherlock repeated what he had already said earlier. He pushed his chair away from Lestrade's desk with his feet before getting up and pacing around the small room.
"Because," Lestrade stood up, "you weren't here for two years, Sherlock!" Lestrade pointed the pen at him. "You were gone, and John thought you were dead!"
"As did you! Wasn't any cause for fuss when I found you smoking in an underground car park," Sherlock huffed before flopping back into the chair.
"No, Sherlock, you don't understand," Lestrade let out a shaky breath, sitting back down as well. "He thought you had died and it ruined him, Sherlock. It destroyed him! You were his entire life! And suddenly you were gone. You weren't there for him, Sherlock. You didn't see him suffering without you!"
--
Lestrade had decided to call John in for input on a case. Sherlock had only been dead a couple months, and already Lestrade was missing the cocky bastard. The case wasn't necessarily hard, the main reason he had called John in was to see how he was doing. John arrived at Lestrade's office and looked, admittedly, horrible. It was obvious he had gotten little sleep, and had more than likely only changed his clothes, showered, and did his hair so he didn't look like an absolute mess. Lestrade was almost surprised he cared that much.
"Greg," John said, shaking hands with him, mustering as much of a smile as he was capable of.
"John, you're looking well," Greg lied rather easily, knowing John wouldn't buy it anyways.
John snorted. "Sure."
"I just mean for your current..." he trailed off. John closed his eyes, took a deep breath and nodded.
"Yeah, suppose you're right," he forced a chuckle. They sat down, examining what evidence Lestrade had managed to gather from the crime scene. John was able to come up with a few ideas, each one Lestrade had already thought of . The discussion about the crime turned into a discussion about life. John refused to see a therapist and said he could handle it himself. Lestrade knew that was a lie, either that or John actually believed he could, but he didn't speak up against it. He only said, "If that's what you think is best."
A couple hours later John left, the conversation having drifted to forced small talk as neither wanted to bring up Sherlock. John looked considerably better, but the inspector doubted it would last.
--
"You weren't there when he was drunk in the early hours of the morning crying about you!"
--
The loud ringing of Lestrade's phone woke him up.
"Bloody hell," he grunted, sitting up and checking his bedside clock. The red digital numbers read "3:07." "Who in the hell?" After checking caller ID, he saw it was John Watson. Sherlock's death was about three months ago. A call from Sherlock's best friend at 3 a.m. couldn't be good.
"John? What's wrong?" Lestrade muttered, trying to sound as awake as possible.
"I-I jus'," John was obviously drunk, slurring and stumbling over his words. "I can' do it, Greg, he-he's... I see him everywhere," John whispered out. Lestrade could hear John quietly crying.
"Where are you?" He asked, hoping with little hope John was conscious enough to know where he was. Lestrade got out of bed and began to get dressed as he awaited John's reply.
"At-at our," John stopped as another sob broke through his lips. "M-my flat, B-Baker Street."
Lestrade stopped getting ready. That was better than an alleyway next to some sleazy pub. "I'll call Mrs. Hudson." Lestrade sighed. He had gotten the landlady's number at Sherlock's funeral, in case something like this were to happen. Both of them knew how hard it had hit John, and this wasn't a complete shock. "Try not to let it happen again, John. Please."
"B-but-" John tried to start a rebuttal, but Lestrade interrupted him.
"Drinking isn't going to make things better. Just please, John, try..." he trailed off, unsure of what John could try instead. He sighed again and hung up on John. He called Mrs. Hudson, in turn waking her up as well and alerting her of the problem a floor above her. She seemed to wake up at that and said she'd take care of him. Lestrade thanked her and hung up. He set his phone down and sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees and his face in his hands. He hoped this would be the first and only time John called him drunk and crying. It wasn't.
--
"You weren't there for him when he was sitting in front of your grave with his loaded gun in his mouth!"
--
Lestrade had gotten the call from Mrs. Hudson at around 10 o'clock, just as he was going to get ready for bed. John had left to visit Sherlock's grave about three hours ago and hadn't returned. John tended to stay there for a while, but it had been about six months, and he never stayed that long. Mrs. Hudson figured he should be checked on, so she called Lestrade. Worried, he abandoned his just-started routine to go to the cemetery. He could see John's figure in front of Sherlock's grave. As the inspector got closer, he saw something he never wanted to see, something worse than any other drunken and tearful state he had seen John in in the past few months. John was on his knees in front of Sherlock's grave, shaking from crying. In his mouth was his gun. Lestrade bolted towards John. He didn't know how long John had been that way, or how long he was going to stay that way.
"John!" Lestrade called out. John jerked the gun out of his mouth before looking over at Lestrade. He dropped the gun as Lestrade neared him, and began crying harder.
"I-I-I can't do it, Greg, I just can't do it." Lestrade didn't know if John was referring to living without Sherlock or killing himself. Either way, he needed to make sure John couldn't grab his gun. Lestrade got down on his knees next to John. He picked up the gun - it was loaded - and moved it out of John's reach before wrapping an arm around John.
"Look, John, it's hard for all of us, but you can't do this!" Lestrade tried to reason.
"Easy for you to say!" John yelled, before seeming to lose all energy. His head dropped, his body still shaking.
"I know, no one was as close to Sherlock as you, but you have to keep going. There's a world outside of Sherlock and his death. And you can find it."
John let out a shaking sigh. "I-I don't... I don't know what to do."
It was Lestrade's turn to let out a sigh. "None of us do either."
--
"You left him, Sherlock, you broke him! You can't just waltz back into his life as if nothing changed."
Sherlock sat, eyes having strayed to the stress ball that had been forgotten on the floor. He blinked before looking up at Lestrade again.
"Y-you mean, John nearly..." Sherlock couldn't say the rest.
Lestrade closed his eyes and massaged his head with a hand. "Look, Sherlock, I'm not saying it was all your fault."
"But it could have been!" Sherlock's voice had started as a yell and ended at something just above a whisper. They sat in silence for a few minutes, Lestrade processing the fact that he had told Sherlock what John had made him promise not to tell him, and Sherlock processing everything that John hadn't and clearly wouldn't have told him.
"Don't tell him I told you," Lestrade finally spoke.
Sherlock stood up. "I won't." He waited a moment before saying, "Thank you. Have a good evening, Lestrade."
Sherlock was unsure of what to do. What could he do? John was engaged, and busy, and didn't know he knew. He would just have to continue doing what he did best. Remaining lonely, unattached, and unloved.