Author's Note: This is the first fanfiction I've ever written (though not my first attempt at writing in general), and I'd be very grateful for your comments/reviews.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything except my imagination.
It's only after everything has been dealt with – the funeral, the blood on the pavement of Bart's – and he has been informed that no disciplinary action will be taken, because despite how it all turned out, he had reasons to believe in Sherlock Holmes, the man was right about a lot after all (he's sure Mycroft "helped" them reach this decision) – and he has become quite good, maybe too good, in the art of pretending to himself, that it finally hits him.
It doesn't happen because he is standing in front of a body and reaching for his mobile phone to call Sherlock; that never happens, because - let's face it – the man was incapable of having a normal conversation anyway, even over the phone, and more often than not, Greg had to show up at his bloody flat and beg for help.
And if he suddenly realizes that he only ever calls people anymore instead of using a simple text message, that he in fact hasn't texted anyone since that day, he pretends to himself he just got tired of fiddling with stupid little buttons on stupid little phones.
It doesn't happen because he sees a graffiti that says "I Believe in Sherlock Holmes", though he does, quite a few times actually. He suspects Sherlock's homeless network; Lord knows they lost their best source of income the day he decided to tray if he could beat the bloody law of gravity (and in the end he might even have thought he could win; it sound quite a bit like Sherlock, not to believe he can't fly until he has tried).
Sally sneers every time she sees one of the messages (most of them turn up in the immediate vicinity of Scotland Yard, and he knows, he knows, he knows why, but he refuses to acknowledge it). He pretends he can't see it, pretends he can't see the graffitis. As a matter of fact, he would prefer to pretend he can't see Sally, or Anderson, either, but he can't very well try that now, can he?
It doesn't happen because he bumps into John in a pub one night, a pub he had chosen exactly because no one he knows will be there (turns out John had apparently thought the same) and John doesn't even ignore, but looks at him in a way one looks at a complete stranger, and he isn't in the least prepared for the way this hurts.
So he acts like he never met John, and spends the night telling himself that he definitely didn't see a cane next to John; it was just a trick of light, that is all.
It doesn't happen because he meets Mrs Hudson for a coffee (she called him; at first he'd been surprised, but then he'd realized it is her way of grieving, talking to anybody who ever met Sherlock, if only to hear that he mentioned her in passing once) and recognizes the look in her eyes from too many crime scenes, too many grieving mothers, and she informs him that John moved out, so she lost "her other boy" too. Then, of course (she is Mrs Hudson after all), she pats his hand and tells him it's not his fault and only seems disappointed in him when he immediately answers "I know". He pretends he only imagined the look of betrayal that momentarily replaces the grief.
It doesn't happen because Molly, who he'd actually considered asking out one day, should she ever get over a certain crush, runs past him in the corridors at Bart's, head down, a shadow of her former self. He pretends he never saw her in that dress.
It doesn't happen because Mycroft kidnaps him once again, in order to thank him for the "years of assistance", and he really has to use every ounce of pretending he is capable of convince himself he doesn't want to shake this man until he sees just one flicker of sadness in his eyes. If only for a moment.
It doesn't happen because he passes the Chief Superintendent in the hallway and he simply says "Lestrade" to acknowledge his presence and sweeps past him, and he wonders idly for a moment if he, too, like another man once, never bothered to learn his first name.
Then he realizes he doesn't know the first name of the Chief Superintendent either, so it doesn't bother him.
What bothers him is the fact that he suddenly remembers a bloody nose and catches himself smiling for the first time in weeks. Of course, he pretends that didn't happen.
Oh no, as it turns out, it hits him in the most random of all possible ways.
He returns to his flat (he lives alone, has done so since January; of course Sherlock had been right about his wife, he just hadn't wanted to see it) and wants to put away his id. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls it out.
Stares at it.
Realizes it's actually where it's supposed to be.
Sherlock hasn't taken it.
Sherlock can't take it.
Sherlock won't take it.
Never again.
And then he is sitting on his sofa and crying like a child and the grief he feels makes it hard to breathe, and suddenly he is just so tired of pretending and wants to scream out how guilty he feels and that he would lose his job in a heartbeat, throw away his career happily, if it only meant his id wasn't lying on the kitchen table, but used to gain information and access to crime scenes and other things he doesn't want to know about.
Sherlock was his friend, after all. Or he was Sherlock's. He's not sure. And yet – he betrayed him. In a way. Even if he had run away (as he'd desperately hoped he would, when he called John) he doesn't believe it would have made a difference, seeing as he ran away later anyway just to throw himself of a building.
He hates him for it. And he hates himself for hating him for it. But he can't keep crying on the sofa, because that's not what DIs who are almost fifty years do when a – a friend (yes, he has decided, he is going to miss him anyway, so why not call him a friend, even though Sherlock probably never knew he existed outside of Scotland Yard) commits suicide. So he does the reasonable thing.
He drives to the bar where he met – or didn't meet, it's hard to say – John and gets drunk. Not as in "I shouldn't drive and walk the few miles home because I gave all my cab money for booze" sort of way. No, in a "waking up on a park bench the next morning with no idea how he got there and a piece of paper in his pocket that informs him he is no longer welcome at the bar" sort of way. He calls in sick for the day and pays a visit to John, in the suit he woke up in, unshaven, smelling of alcohol and smoke and a night spend on a bench in a public park, not caring that he does. He just needs him to know that he never wanted this to happen.
He doesn't have to say it. For a moment, it looks as if John will slam the door in his face, and he couldn't blame him. Then he looks at Greg and somehow seems to ded- guess how he spent the last night. Lets him in. Makes him a cuppa. And finally, after an hour of staring silently at the violin, he says just one sentence. "You were his friend too, after all."
And finally Greg doesn't have to pretend anymore. Of course he is angry. Of course he feels guilty. And of course, and most of all, he grieves.
But in the end, he decides he is happy to. Because it means he knew Sherlock. And Sherlock knew him. Which means he knew Greg didn't want any of this to happen. He knew Greg believed in him and will continue to do so.
In the end, perhaps this is all that matters.