A/N: This story is set post Reichenbach, with flashbacks to earlier events that tie into the same universe as two of my other stories, "The Road to Hell," and "The Descent." Although this is part of that series, this also works as a stand alone.

To Serve and Protect

I was never one of those posh, intellectual sorts. A doer, not a thinker.

But I've been thinking a lot since Sherlock died.

I can't stop thinking—about him, his life, his death, and my part in it all.

Some days, when I'm out on a job, I'll remember one of the many moments where he was being a complete arse, and I can't help but smile to myself.

But most of the time, I just can't stop thinking about The Fall.

Because the guilt—it's been eating away at me.

I can't stop thinking, What if I hadn't turned my back on him? What if I stood up for him against Anderson and Donovan and the Chief? Even if it didn't stop him from getting arrested, maybe it would have been enough to keep him from jumping off a building.

I can try to tell myself, There was nothing I could do, or, I was only doing my job, or any of the other things people say about this kind of thing. But none of that really helps because I know it's all lies.

The truth is, I didn't just let Sherlock die. I practically put him in the grave myself.

With a job like this, you have to learn not to hold onto regrets. After all, if you do, they can eat you alive.

But some stains just never come off.

I used to love my job. I used to think there was nothing more important than it. But at the end of the day, I would sooner give up my job than have lost one of my closest friends.

I won't let you die on my watch

That's what I said to him that day in the hospital. It was a promise and a threat, and I meant every word. And I stuck to my word for all these years, until that one moment, when I had to make a choice—

Duty to my job or loyalty to my friend

The Oath and the Badge or Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

I chose my job.

I chose wrong.

The first time I met Sherlock Holmes he was high as a kite, trespassing on a crime scene, and trying to tell me how to do my job.

The worst part was that the bastard was right.

That didn't keep me from shaking him down and threatening to book him—after he solved the crime—for public intoxication and interfering with a criminal investigation. Of course, he was too smart to have any drugs on him, so I let him go with a stern warning—not that he listened.

It was only after he left that I noticed he had slipped his card into my pocket. Not a real, printed, business card, mind you. Just a piece of paper, with the words Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and his phone number.

Things never really changed much after that—except for the drugs business, thank god. To see a mind like that, wasting away—a man like Sherlock reduced to a mindless junkie. I've seen a lot of things in this line of work that I wish I could un-see, but that is pretty close to the top of the list.

Maybe I should have put my foot down sooner. Okay, I definitely should have, no doubt about that. To let a drug addict start leading the way on Scotland Yard investigations

But at the time, I told myself letting him work with us was the best thing I could do for him. It was clear that the cases were the only thing keeping him on just the right side of sanity. But maybe that's just rationalization. After all, we all have those little lies we tell ourselves to help us sleep at night.

I don't sleep too well these days, no matter what lies I try to tell myself. The only thing that helps is a few beers and sometimes—at my weakest moments—a good cry. Even then, I find myself tossing and turning, haunted by the face of my fallen friend. Sleep is for the innocent and carefree. I'm neither of those things, not since Sherlock died.

I'll never forget that moment when I got the call from Mycroft Holmes.

No greetings, no introductions, just—

"I need you to stop whatever you are currently doing, and divert all of your resources to finding Sherlock Holmes."

"Wait, who is this?"

"Mycroft Holmes, a government official in Her Majesty's service and Sherlock's brother."

"So is this an order? What kind of—"

"No, this is—I'm begging you, Detective Inspector. Help me find my brother. I have reason to suspect he is on the verge of doing something very, very stupid, and potentially life threatening."

There was something in his voice—I don't know what exactly—but it made my stomach turn cold.

"Can I count on your assistance, Detective Inspector?"

"Yeah, I'll do what I can. But just tell me one thing—is this about the drugs?"

There was a pause on the other end, and then Mycroft said, in a low voice, "Yes."

Before I could respond, he added, brusquely, "Call me on this number as soon as you have any news. I will do likewise."

And just like that, the call was over.

When you start spending time with Sherlock Holmes, you get used to your life being turned upside down at a moment's notice.

As soon as Mycroft hung up the phone, I went to work, putting my best officers out on the job.

Now, Sherlock always told me I'm an idiot, and compared to him I probably am, but still—I'm no rookie. I know a thing or two about human nature. And even back then, I knew more about Sherlock then he would ever give me credit for.

He had these blokes—his "homeless network" he called them—and I figured if anyone might know where he is, it would be them.

Problem is, you can't exactly go around flashing a badge to get a group of homeless junkies to start talking, so I stopped by my flat, threw on some casual clothes, grabbed an old pair of trainers, and tucked away my badge in the back pocket of my trousers.

And then I got to work, pounding the pavement.

I didn't get anywhere at first—must have talked to at least 15 people before I got a single lead. They probably thought I was some idiot—I'm looking for Sherlock, tall, obnoxious, talks really quickly, does a lot of drugs—but finally, just when I was starting to lose hope, this one guy—Walter was the name he gave me—said he knew Sherlock. He made me promise that I wasn't looking to get Sherlock in any trouble, and then he told me where I could track down some of his connections.

I talked to some more people—people who had seen him within the last 24 hours—and I could tell I was on the right track.

Finally, this one bloke told me he saw someone matching Sherlock's description walking along the bank of the Thames. It wasn't much, just a wave of his hand in a general direction, but it was the best lead I'd gotten, so without anything better to go on, I started making my way along the bank of the river, looking out in the distance, my heart in my throat the whole time.

For awhile I didn't see anything, and I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not, but then it happened.

I saw him.

On his side, curled up, almost in the fetal position, his coat spread out over him out like a blanket.

For a few heart stopping moments, I thought it was too late. I thought that the bloody bastard had done himself in.

That was the moment when I realized that I'd become fond of him—god knows why.

(Not that I would have admitted it to him. He already has enough dirt on me as it is.)

He was just lying there, so still. I couldn't move for a moment, but then I shook myself out of it, went over to him—he looked like a corpse—his pale skin whiter than I'd ever seen it.

I had to force myself to reach over—I was so afraid, terrified that I would touch him and feel the rigor mortis had already set in.

But I grabbed his wrist, and although his skin was freezing to the touch, there was still a little life left in him—a thready pulse, and when I looked closely, the barest hint of weak respirations.

He was alive, but only just.

I called an ambulance, and then I stripped off my coat and my scarf, and wrapped him up as good as I could, took his hands in my mine, and told him—Hang in there, help is on the way. You're safe now Sherlock, I've got you. Just a little longer.

If he'd been conscious, he never would have let me live it down, but I didn't care. I just wanted him to survive.

The paramedics arrived a few minutes later and took him away. As soon as they sped off, I hopped in my squad car, turned on the sirens, and followed.

Of course, the minute I got in the car, I called Mycroft Holmes.

He answered on the first ring.

He's a very stoic man, Mycroft, but I could hear the fear in his voice, as he asked—

"Did you find him?"

"Yeah, I got him. He's in rough shape, but he's alive. We're on the way to Emergency now."

"Thank you, Inspector."

And then, in the instant before Mycroft broke the connection, I swear I could hear him start to sob.

Not that I can blame him. They fight a lot, those two, but I can tell they care about each other. They're family after all.

Family and friends, that's all we really have in this world.

"I don't know what to do with him."

Those are the first words Mycroft Holmes said to me, when he walked into the waiting room at the hospital.

I bet it's the first time Mycroft ever said the words "I don't know" in his whole life. But he meant it. I could tell—he looked completely lost.

"You have to send him away somewhere. Get him off the streets. Get him somewhere safe. You must—I mean—there are places. If you need any help looking into it—"

"I appreciate the offer, Detective Inspector, but I'm familiar enough with all the options. It's not a matter of where, it's a matter of how to convince my brother to go."

Again.

He didn't say that word, but we both knew it was there.

"Don't you think, if you just talked to him—"

Mycroft cut me off right there. "He can't stand to be in the same room as me. He'd probably try to have me escorted off the premises if he knew my whereabouts."

I don't know what possessed me to do this, but I found myself offering—

"Maybe—you know, I could talk to him. I don't know if it would do any good, but I could try."

Mycroft looked at me, and I couldn't tell if he was grateful, defeated, or just half dead from exhaustion. Either way, he just nodded, and said, "Thank you."

After a strong cup of coffee, I took a deep breath, and walked into Sherlock's room. He was awake, staring at the window, and drumming his fingers absentmindedly on the side of the bed.

He didn't bother looking in my direction, but as soon as I sat down in the chair, he said, "My brother wants to send me away."

It wasn't a question, so I didn't bother denying anything. "Yeah."

"You think I should go."

"Yeah, I mean—what would have happened if I hadn't managed to track down your stupid arse?"

Sherlock looked down at the bed cover and shrugged almost imperceptibly.

"Rehab will be so boring. I don't think I can stand it."

"I think you can withstand a lot more than you want to give yourself credit for."

"But what will I do? You can't possibly understand with that simple little brain of yours what it's like for me. It's never-ending, the noise and the controlled chaos and the drive that needs an outlet. You don't know that feeling. That need."

"Now, see, that's where you're wrong. I may not be smart like you—but this, this I get."

Sherlock looked up at me, and I could tell he was skeptical. He had his mouth open ready for a fight, but for once in my life, I was faster than him.

"I lost my father and my brother to this disease. It was alcohol with them—not street drugs—but in the end, it doesn't matter."

That was enough to stop whatever comment he was about to fire at me.

"I've had some brushes with it myself. I've got be careful—with a family history like that. I've seen what it does to people. I've seen how hard it is for people—good people, strong people—to fight it."

I took a deep breath, waited to see if he had anything to say, but he was still just staring at the damn quilt. So, god help me, I kept talking.

"You're a smart bastard, but you can't think your way out of this. You don't have to do it alone. You've got me and your brother, and a whole team of doctors who will happily take your brother's money. But none of us can do this for you. I would if I could, but I can't."

"Look, I'll make you a deal. You go to whatever fancy rehab place your brother wants to ship you off to, and then once you get back—as long as you manage to stay clean and sober—I'll let you in on any case that you want. And you'll be able to get a different kind of fix and you can insult me and the rest of Scotland Yard all day long."

"But Sherlock, so help me god, if you ever do something like this again—get sober, Sherlock. Do whatever it takes, because if you don't, I'm going to lock you up and not even your brother will be able to get you out. I won't let you die on my watch."

Once I finished up my little speech, I waited, and I watched him as he stared at the blankets and absentmindedly pulled at a loose thread, but he didn't acknowledge me at all.

So, eventually, I got up and started to leave the room, but just as I was on the threshold, I heard him say, in a quiet, shaky tone, "Lestrade, thank you."

After I left the hospital, I went to his place—221B Baker Street. I'd been there before to do the first of many drugs busts after he showed up at a crime scene completely blasted. The landlady was out, and his door was unlocked, so I went ahead and let myself in.

I scanned the room.

A couple of mugs filled with stale tea, syringes, chemistry equipment—Christ, it was a mess.

But I wasn't there to judge—I was there to help.

So I searched it top to bottom and removed every piece of drug paraphernalia I could find. I tore the place apart, and I found more than I'd like to remember.

Then I put it all back together.

I've never been one for cleaning—just ask my ex—but it seemed like the right thing to do, to leave his flat in better condition that I found it.

Before I left, I grabbed some clothes for him and decided I would stop by the hospital later with a pack of cigarettes—you have to pick your battles, after all. Maybe I would bring over some cold case files as well.

But there was one last thing I had to see to first.

I got all the best men from the vice squad, and set them out, combing the neighborhood, not just Baker Street, but all his old haunts. I told them to haul in anyone they could find and bring them to me. I greased the wheels a bit by bribing a couple of Sherlock's homeless blokes.

And then I waited.

I like to think of myself as a nice guy. Friendly, approachable.

But when my blood starts to boil—well, it's fair to say I did everything I could to put the fear of god into those bastards. Some of them I charged, but there wasn't enough to go on for a lot of them, so we had to set them loose. I knew they would go right back to dealing the minute they left the station, but I could only hope that they would think twice before selling anything to Sherlock Holmes.

After it was all said and done, I felt like hell. It was one of the longest 24 hours of my life, but it was worth it. I would have done anything to keep Sherlock safe.

"I'm sorry, boss."

That's what Donovan said, when she stopped by my office.

I didn't have to ask what she was talking about. I already knew.

"I did what I felt I had to do—what this job told me to do—but even though I never liked the fr—Sherlock, I still never wanted it to be like this."

It would have felt so good to yell at her, to blame her, to take a break from the grief for a few moments, but when I looked at Donovan, she truly did look sorry—it was written all over her face—and in that moment the anger just left me, and all I felt was empty.

I could only manage a jerky nod. I didn't trust what would come out of my mouth if I tried to speak.

Donovan seemed to understand, because all she said was, "See you tomorrow, boss," and then she was gone.

Thankfully, she closed the door behind her, because once she was gone—it was like something inside of me just broke.

There are very few times in my life that I've cried that hard—really sobbed like a baby—but in that moment, the grief, the sadness—it overwhelmed me. I couldn't have stopped the tears from coming even if I wanted to.

God, I was going to miss that poor bastard.

As much as it hurt, it was still easy to forgive Donovan. I know her, and I trust her. She had her reasons for doing what she did. She believed she was doing what was right.

But Anderson—well, Anderson hated Sherlock because Sherlock made him feel small. Anderson felt threatened and humiliated every time Sherlock walked in the room. That's why he sided with Donovan.

And that's why I just couldn't stand to be around him.

After what happened—it changed Anderson, and not necessarily for the better.

He was dogging me with all these ridiculous theories about how Sherlock "faked" it, acting as if I was the one who lacked faith, as if it was me who started this whole mess—when it was Anderson and Donovan who pointed the finger, who pushed it to the next level.

And I just couldn't bear to hear it anymore. That's why, when the Chief came to me and asked my opinion about Anderson's erratic behavior, I told him that Anderson should be put on disciplinary leave.

A part of me, a small part, feels guilty for throwing him under the bus like that, but I'm already carrying so much guilt for what I did to Sherlock—well, what's a little bit more?

I don't care any more if Sherlock was a fraud, even though I know in my heart that he wasn't.

But even if it all had been a lie, I would still trade anything just to have that stupid bastard back.

I started smoking again.

I quit in the first place because of him—solidarity and all that. It was something that we suffered through together.

Now, every time I light a cigarette, I whisper, To Sherlock, and then I curse the bloody bastard for leaving us all behind.

No one wants Sherlock to be alive more than I do—except, of course, John Watson.

John—the one person whose faith in Sherlock never wavered. The person who had to watch his friend plummet from the top of the hospital where they first met.

It shattered him.

It's enough to make me want to bring Sherlock back from the dead so that I can kill him myself.

I try to visit John occasionally, but it's so hard to see him like this. Because, at the end of the day, when Sherlock died, he took a part of John with him.

How could Sherlock have done this to us? To me, to Molly, to Mycroft—but most of all, to John?

John, who put up with the body parts in the freezer, the crazy, impromptu chases, the interrupted meals, the nights without any sleep. He deserved more than this.

But I can't really find it in myself to blame Sherlock. After all, we were—

No, I was the one who deserted Sherlock when he really needed me.

I tried to tell myself I was just doing my job, that I had to go by the book. There was some truth to all of that, but at the end of the day, I acted like a coward.

He may have been a complete bastard, but he was still my friend, and ever since that day in the hospital, I swore I would protect the foolish son of a bitch.

And I kept to my word, for years, through it all, until that very final moment—when Sherlock needed me, he really needed me to stand up for him—

I failed.

And because of my failure, Sherlock fell.

And for that, I can never forgive himself.

A/N: This was kind of experiment, since I don't usually do first person POV, and I haven't written much about Lestrade, but I do really like Lestrade as a character. I wish we got to see more of him in the series.

Also, if you're interested in checking them out, the two other stories in this series are primarily focused on the Mycroft/Sherlock brotherly relationship, but they incorporate some of the events mentioned in this story.

Anyway thanks for reading, and if you have a moment, please let me know what you thought of this story!