Disclaimer: don't own.
Falling
Mycroft was the one to tell him, in a voice choked and broken beyond recognition.
He was the one to tell him that, no, his brother wouldn't come back from Switzerland and that, yes, John would and could he pick up John tomorrow and he was sorry. Very sorry.
It didn't matter.
Because it couldn't possibly be true, now could it?
Sherlock everyone-else-is-an-idiot impossible-git I-don't-care bloody Holmes could not not come home.
He vaguely heard the older Holmes brother trying to explain something to him. Lestrade eyed his phone wearily and shut the device off , lowering it slowly.
When he heard the sirens that night, he knew he wouldn't have to worry anymore.
When his phone chimed, he knew it wouldn't be Sherlock, demanding a case.
When he tripped over a stack of casefiles (don't touch those, they're in alphabetical order!), he knew he wouldn't have to keep them
But all the same, he worried at the sound of the sirens, he hoped at the beep of his phone and he kept the files. In alphabetical order. He wondered what kind of alphabet. Cyrillic, maybe. He would have to ask hi– he needed a drink.
He stood at the window, looking at the sunset without seeing it, idly wondering why the sun even bothered, why the traffic kept on buzzing below, why the world hadn't stopped at all.
He finished his drink, but couldn't find a reason to get another one. Instead, he kept staring off into space and wondering.
Of course, he decided, because it isn't true.
It couldn't be. There was a case that he needed him to solve, nicotine patches the man was supposed to steal, a lock to pick, there were things in his fridge he didn't dare touch, and there was John. Oh God, John.
He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cold window. He vaguely registered that it wasn't raining. It should bloody well be raining. Thunder and lightning. Anything but the calm summer breeze of evening, mixing with the sounds of laughter and life.
He sat on the couch, tired, weary. His numb fingers trailed over the table, lingering on the oddly shaped stain. Unexpected but very crucial development in the experiment on Mr. Igson's blood; can you hand me the scalp?
His stomach tied itself into a knot, there was something stuck in his throath, but he shook his head and poured himself another drink.
Tomorrow, tomorrow he would face the world.
Not just yet.
Thanks for reading!
I'm working on a second chapter but it's being a bit uncooperative, so it might take a few days... Comments and suggestions very much appreciated :)