Sherlock's mind was slowly turning more and more into a frozen abyss, and as the feeling in his body went away and the world faded into black, he used the last of his breath to whisper one last thought: "John..."
Minutes later, the slide of a large lock could be heard and half of Scotland Yard came bursting through the double freezer door. Ironically, Anderson was the first to spot a frozen black-blue mass in one dark corner. "I've found him! Over here!" The team raced over to where Sherlock's body lay, curled up, lifeless verdigris eyes staring at nothing.
"Oh, no..." Lestrade whispered in horror.
Anderson seemed a little less perturbed, and got straight to the point. "What are we going to say to John?"
Two minutes later, in Mycroft's office where John and the British Government embodied sat reviewing CCTV footage, Anthea knocked on the door.
"Is it to do with Sherlock?" Mycroft called.
"Yes, sir, Lestrade for you."
"Oh, fantastic," John sighed, "I hope they've got new information on where he is." Anthea walked in, gave a sympathetic glance at John, with his tear-stained face and slightly trembling hands, and left the DI to break the news.
Anthea didn't know how exactly Sherlock had died, or how Lestrade had told them, but the office was silent for a long time. About an hour later, after hearing only soft murmurs and a single, heartbreaking sob, the three walked out. Mycroft went straight to Anthea and asked for some tea with no sign of emotion on his face. John looked like a train wreck, trembles, hyperventilation, crying, and all. It seemed as if Lestrade had already spent some time to cope with the situation earlier, as his only focus was comforting the ex-army doctor.
While Mycroft was dealing with Mummy Holmes' tears, Lestrade was accompanying John back to 221B in a cab. John had regained his composure about twenty minutes ago and had since been deathly silent. It was only when John got up to the sitting room, the DI insistent on following, that the violent, shaking sobs began once more. Lestrade guided John over to the couch and then put the kettle on. He returned with tea, hobnobs, and a reassuring presense. Looking back, he didn't know how long it took for those cries of pure anguish to die down, but that wasn't important, anyway. What really stuck in Greg's mind was what John said once they had.
"I didn't get to say goodbye," John said in a quiet, raspy voice.
"No one does in situations like this. I'm sorry, mate."
"No, it's not even that, it's just...we had a row right before he left. He'd left the stove on which ended up burning my arm rather badly." At a pause, Lestrade looked down at the bandage on the doctor's arm. "One thing led to another, the conversation turned into an argument. We had totally forgotten what we were talking about in the first place. It seemed like both of us were just aiming to cause as much damage as possible. I suppose in the end, I won the argument when I told him that Sally and Anderson were right: with all I'd seen and put up with, he really was a freak. The last I saw of him was his back out the door."
Lestrade didn't know what to say to that. From pub nights with he and his mates, he gathered that fights between the two flatmates were fairly common and not usually a big deal, but this one showed up at the wrong time. It sounded a good bit worse than the normal, as well. With no options, Lestrade settled for patting John on the back and saying there was nothing he could have done.
"But if I hadn't said that, he wouldn't have left or been kidnapped, and he wouldn't have-" John's voice faltered at the words he couldn't yet bring himself to say.
Seven months later, and the nightmares hadn't stopped. The condolence calls and pub nights with the Yard had ceased long ago, about a month or so after Sherlock's death. The residence at 221B had ended two months after that. The psychosomatic limp returned five months after the incident, and now life was a blur. John couldn't remember the last time he had asked a girl out for a date, laughed, or even smiled. Exactly seven months after, he decided it was time. He took the gun out of the drawer of the bedside table in his tiny, boring flat. And for the first time in a while, Captain John H. Watson, M.D. felt quite content as he brought the cold metal to his skull and pulled the trigger.
AN: I got halfway through the fic without a satisfying ending and basically phmerfed (the only verb sufficient) my way through the rest. Constructive criticism, pleeeeeease. Reviews make me feel warm and fuzzy on the inside. Lots of love. XD Once again, this is based on a beautiful picture be DonPerico on deviantART. The link is on my profile page!
DonPerico, thank you so much for getting me started! Bitter Kitten, constructive criticism from your brilliant mind?