A/N - This is very heavily (read: entirely) influenced by the brilliant, the wonderful Lana del Ray. Seriously, go listen to her music. At the very least, you should listen to Heroin, as it will help give the atmosphere I was going for.

There may also be the tiniest of influences from a certain photo of a certain person for a certain article in a certain November issue of Interview Magazine. No, I'm not obsessed with it, why would you say that?

Trigger warnings and angst alerts all over the place; if you continue, you may want to have a box of tissues handy...

I'm flyin' to the moon again, dreamin' about heroin

And how it gave you everything and took your life away

I put you on the aeroplane, destined for a foreign land

I thought that you'd come back again

To tell me everything's okay, baby

"Heroin", Lust for Life, Lana Del Ray (co-written by Rick Nowels)

It wasn't a surprise when Scotland Yard finally decided they'd had enough of him and told him not to come back. The only surprise was that it had taken them so long. It had been six months – six long, terrible months – since his world had fallen apart.

Not that Greg cared about that. He didn't really care about a lot of things, these days. The only thing worth his time was when his next fix would be, when he'd feel that glorious rush that warmed the chill that had settled into his body and which would allow him to ignore – not forget; never forget – what had happened.

It was only as the heat spread through his veins that the agony of memory dulled slightly. After that . . .

Well, he was flying.

Greg cackled at the thought. Flying . . . he could fly to the moon if he wanted to! Imagine that . . . Tipping his head back over the arm of the settee, he gazed through the window up into the sky. No moon visible yet, but he knew it was there. Unlike some people, he hadn't deleted the solar system.

The room began whirling around him, and he closed his eyes, wishing he could just slip out of his body and go . . . somewhere. Anywhere. Wherever was better than here and now. Because somewhere had to be. Anything would be better than this.

And there went the rush again. It never seemed to last that long anymore; perhaps he'd been given a defective batch? Shrugging – he didn't care about that, either – he reached out and scrabbled at the coffee table. He didn't need to look, but did so anyway. Seeing it plunge into his vein was almost as big a rush as the actual rush itself. It meant he was one more step away from here, one step closer to—

Well.

He dreamed of the drug now, of how it took his thoughts away. It wasn't something he would have thought himself capable of a year ago, but then there had been that whole Magnussen fiasco, and the exile. Off to somewhere like Serbia for six months, Greg'd been told. A little hush-hush job for MI5 or MI6 or whatever MI number it was nowadays, and then back home again, and they could pick up where they left off.

He is allowed to see Sherlock for just five minutes after his 'sentencing', before he is taken back to solitary confinement.

"Sherlock," he says, which combines 'What happened?', 'Are you okay?', and 'What the BLOODY HELL happened?!'

"A quick job in Serbia," Sherlock answers. "Six months, maximum."

"When do you leave?" Greg asks, really meaning 'How soon do you get back?'

"Tomorrow." Sherlock suddenly grips his wrists. "Don't come to see me off," he says, urgently. "I won't be able to go through with it if I know you're there. Promise me!"

Knowing he won't be able to let Sherlock go through with it either (although it isn't until later that he realises they mean two different things), Greg agrees. Sherlock presses his forehead to Greg's, closing his eyes.

There are no "goodbye"s, no "I love you"s. There is just a kiss; a wild, desperate kiss, as if they are trying to imprint the other on themselves.

And then there are strange hands on them, and Greg is being pulled one way, and Sherlock is manhandled another. Greg strains against the hands holding him, frantic to get one last glimpse of Sherlock.

He doesn't get one.

Except the "mission" had not been planned as a survivable one. And, knowing that, Sherlock hadn't even made it off the plane.

"Mycroft."

Greg doesn't expect to find Mycroft Holmes outside his door. Of course, he never expects Mycroft, but certainly not two days after his younger brother has flown off to Serbia to work off a treason charge.

"May I come in?" Mycroft looks uncomfortable, but then, he usually does whenever he has to descend to the level, as Sherlock puts it, of goldfish.

Greg steps back, and watches Mycroft cross the room to stand awkwardly beside the fireplace. The first hint of unease shivers its way over Greg's skin.

"DI Lestrade . . . Greg," Mycroft begins. "I sincerely regret to inform you that—" A breath, as though gathering willpower "—that Sherlock Holmes is dead."

There is a pause then Greg barks out an incredulous laugh that holds very little humour. "No, he's not," he says. "He's on his way to Serbia."

Mycroft just holds out a plain brown envelope. Greg stares at it before gingerly taking it from him. It is just a simple envelope, but he doesn't want to touch it.

Opening it, he tilts it over his hand and neatly catches the item that slides out.

It is a ring.

Greg's fingers convulsively close over it as his breath hitches and his heart actually skips a beat, then begins to pound even harder as if to make up for it.

It is Sherlock's ring.

The ring he hasn't taken off since Greg had placed it on his finger.

Greg doesn't really hear anything else Mycroft says, as the sound of his own blood rushing surges in his ears. Just something about "found him when the plane landed" and "heroin" and "advised him to refuse it before". He can't concentrate on anything but the slim piece of metal that shouldn't be here.

The quiet click of the door closing behind Mycroft jolts Greg, and the heartbroken sobs begin.

Greg lifted the syringe to study it wistfully. It had seemed strange; cocaine had been Sherlock's drug of choice, but Greg felt closer to him using the last drug Sherlock had ever taken. A massive dose of heroin – God and Sherlock alone knew where he'd gotten it from.

Letting his eyes slide shut again, Greg imagined he could hear Sherlock playing, something special, just for him. The classical music slid into something that was slower, more blues-y.

He opened his eyes to find Sherlock standing in front of him, dressed in the casual clothes he'd preferred when it was just the two of them at home. Black trousers with a silver chain-belt loosely draped around his hips. Black shirt over a white T-shirt, only buttoned halfway up.

Smirking at him, Sherlock began to move to the music. His body wasn't the thinness that all the young men tried to cultivate, but rather the solid slenderness of a man in the prime of his life, and he moved like a cat, full of purposeful grace.

Greg felt his mouth dry up as Sherlock's hips began to slowly undulate in time to the music, as he had for Greg the previous summer, when they'd taken a rare weekend away. His own heart matched it beat for beat, too, sometimes slow, sometimes fast.

But always for Sherlock.

Sherlock's expression became a more natural smile, as his entire body writhed in slow motion. Dipping his head, his arms lifted to allow him to run fingers through his own hair, the ring that Greg had given him glinting through the strands.

Greg felt dizzy. He wanted . . . he wanted . . . he could beg, he would do that, if only Sherlock would just . . .

Would let him . . .

Would take him . . .

Would never leave him again . . .

The flood of heat and the closeness of Sherlock swept Greg away, and with a last blink of awareness, he knew he'd never be apart from Sherlock ever again.