Author's note: I had an idea, and we all know what that means... Time for bromance! And Reichenbach feels! You have been warned.
I don't own anything, please review.
Greg Lestrade was convinced that not no one, except maybe Anthea, or whatever she happened to call herself that day, had offered Mycroft Holmes their condolences after his brother had died. He was convinced no one had even thought about it, and he knew why.
First of all, Mycroft Holmes wasn't exactly someone who had close friends, in fact, Greg was ready to bet that he didn't have any. There was no one the older Holmes could call, now, that his brother had committed suicide; no one he could talk to; no one he could confide in.
The other reason, the reason Greg even thought of Mycroft to begin with...
John had told him that it was Mycroft Moriarty had got his information from. That it was Mycroft who'd told the consulting criminal Sherlock's life story. That it was Mycroft who had betrayed him.
And, whether he'd imagined it or not, there had been a certain expression in John's eyes while he said this, that made Greg think that maybe, he and Mycroft weren't much different after all.
Because –
Because, when it came to blame someone for Sherlock's suicide –
Moriarty might have won his game, and Mycroft might have given him the information he needed...
But Greg had listened to Donavan and Anderson, of all people, and had gone to the Chief Superintendent, therefore causing Sherlock to be arrested, and to flee, and maybe, in the end –
All in all, maybe he was as much to blame as Mycroft. Because Greg was convinced that, without either of them, Moriarty wouldn't have won his game. Sherlock would still be alive.
John wasn't angry with him, he knew he wasn't. This had probably something to do with him calling the doctor to warn Sherlock, but had he really thought about the consulting detective? Or had he just wanted to appease his bad conscience? He hadn't talked about his doubts with John, though; the doctor had other things to deal with than the bad conscience (what a typically British understatement) of a freshly divorced DI.
John, at least (though he'd never tell the doctor, and was ashamed that the thought had even occurred to him, the man had just lost his best friend after all), didn't have to blame himself. Greg –
Greg couldn't look at St. Bart's without realizing that maybe without him, there would never have been a blood stain of the pavement in front of it. He should have realized something was wrong when Donavan had started to suspect – no, he should have realized it sooner, much sooner, when the little girl started screaming as Sherlock entered the room. He had known Moriarty was after Sherlock, how could he not after the trial, and yet...
He'd allowed himself to be fooled. He'd allowed himself to doubt the greatest man he'd ever known, and that had led to...
Sometimes, the guilt he felt made it hard to breathe. Strangely, the fact that John didn't blame him, hadn't tried to punch him or even shouted at him once, made everything worse.
Maybe because it meant that the doctor just thought him another one of those people who'd known Sherlock and yet allowed themselves to believe that he'd been a fraud, and therefore wasn't worth the anger. Somehow, this thought hurt especially, because – because it made Greg just another person on the edge of Sherlock's life, someone else the consulting detective had never spared a second thought (and that was actually a possibility, considering that he'd never bothered to learn his first name). Because it proved that neither Sherlock nor John had ever considered Greg a friend, really, and he suddenly realized that without them, his life seemed strangely empty.
For five years, there'd been a madman in his life, belittling him, annoying him, insulting him, at first detoxing and angry, then clean and unstable, and this madman had made his life so much more colourful, so much more exiting, without Greg even noticing, in fact, he hadn't been aware of it until, suddenly, Sherlock was gone and there was so much, too much time on his hands.
Time he had spent reading texts from Sherlock and answering (mostly they had been complaints about experiments or his brother, and while they had become less frequent since he'd met John, they never really stopped); time he had spent with John, either over a coffee or a pint, while the doctor ranted about Sherlock's habits and quirks (while loving every minute of living with their consulting detective); time he had been kidnapped by Mycroft –
Mycroft.
There had been one moment at the funeral where Greg had realized how alone the older Holmes must be in his grief – other people might suppose Mycroft didn't grieve, but Greg knew better. You didn't kidnap your brother's friends if you didn't care about him, you didn't make sure to watch his every move with security cameras if he didn't mean a lot to you. Mycroft had cared, so he must grieve. It was only logical (Sherlock would probably have drawled "Good deduction").
And then there'd been that awkward moment at the funeral, when Greg had seen Mycroft standing a few metres to his right, all alone, and suddenly, DI Dimmock had shown up and told Greg how sorry he was for his loss, and the older Holmes must have heard him, because the shoulders of the British Government had visibly tensed – not everyone would have noticed, but Greg was still a DI (most likely because of Mycroft, coming to think of it; considering that everyone believed Sherlock had been a fake, he should be suspended at least, but there had been absolutely no consequences whatsoever), and he therefore was trained to observe certain things (no matter what Sherlock had said), and notice it he did.
But by the time he'd decided that he should probably talk to Mycroft, he'd already disappeared – probably because of the Government crisis the DI had read about in the paper this morning (without taking anything in, except for the fact that there was a crisis).
John hadn't talked to him either, of that he was sure. The doctor hadn't even pronounced his name since Sherlock's death. Not in front of Greg and not in front of Mrs. Hudson, either, who, as she had told the DI one day when he came to tea, still tried to see "the poor boy" at least once a week and was determined that no one should live in the flat until John returned. Greg hadn't the heart to tell her that John returning seemed more and more unlikely as time went on, but he suspected she knew and simply liked to live with the hope.
So, knowing Mycroft as well as he did (which, he supposed, after almost seven years of kidnapping, was still better than almost everyone else) the older Holmes worked, drank brandy and –
Nothing.
He most likely hadn't even allowed himself to grieve or cry once.
He didn't leave flowers or anything at Sherlock's grave – Greg knew that because he, against his better judgement (you were supposed to move on after a death, not keep reliving the loss, but, looking at John, that seemed to be a recurring problem when you lost someone like Sherlock) visited the grave once a week, and the only times there were flowers where after Mrs. Hudson had gone (she came once a month, according to what she'd told Greg).
Of course he'd stopped kidnapping John and Greg. There was no reason to, now. Sherlock was gone, so there was no information to be gained.
But that didn't mean Greg didn't worry about the man that had somehow become a sort of friend.
Great, first Sherlock died and now he suffered from Stockholm's syndrome.
But he would go to the Diogenes Club – he'd been brought there several times over the years, too, and had almost been thrown out the first time, because he hadn't realized you were only allowed to talk in a certain room – and talk to Mycroft, if only because it would give him the feeling that he was still connected with Sherlock, somehow.
And, although he wouldn't admit it to himself, because he and Mycroft were both to blame for Sherlock's death, in a way, and he wouldn't feel so isolated anymore.
So on a Saturday, when he had nothing to do (once again; it had been different when Sherlock had been alive, with him having to run after the consulting detective and the doctor at all times), he went to the Club, thinking that Mycroft, when he wasn't in his office, spent far more time there than at home.
The footman recognized him and led him to the visitor's room before leaving it to fetch Mycroft.
He was standing at the window when he heard his voice. "Inspector".
He turned around. "Mycroft".
"What can I do for you?" Greg bit his lip; now that he was here, he didn't know what to say. So he said the first thing that came to mind.
"I wanted to – thank you for dealing with the Chief Superintendent". Mycroft raised an eyebrow, a refusal on his lips, when Greg shook his head. "We both know it was you."
Mycroft nodded, suddenly looking tired. "I appreciate what you've done for Sherlock over the years."
It was as close to a "Thank you" as he'd ever get from Mycroft Holmes. And his voice had quivered when he'd pronounced his brother's name. This gave Greg enough courage.
He took a deep breath and said, "I'm sorry. For everything".
"I suppose John has told you by now that, if anyone should feel sorry, it ought to be me".
Mycroft went over to the bar. "Brandy?"
It wasn't even five o' clock yet, but who cared. Greg answered. "Yes, please".
When Mycroft gave him the glass, he added, "It wasn't your fault, you know".
"That may be, Inspector, but neither was it yours".
"So let us just feel guilty together. Might help."
Mycroft almost smiled at that – almost, but Greg would take what he could get.
He then said, "I'm sorry for your loss".
Mycroft looked at him, apparently surprised, before thanking him in a quiet voice.
They sat down and drank their brandy in silence, but Greg felt nevertheless like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. At least he could still keep Sherlock's brother company.
And for the moment, that might just be enough.
Author's note: Mycroft and Lestrade – oh, what a fascinating relationship. Probably because we don't know anything about it, except that they know each other.
I hope you liked it, please review.