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He had been in his office when he heard.

The Yard was buzzing with a flurry of activity. Officers were running every which way, mounds of paperwork were piling up, and everyone had somewhere to be. Despite the traumatic event with Sherlock the night before, it was a normal day – unbelievably busy, but normal. It was like this every day. The fact that they were trying to track down both the genius detective and his blogger with whom they so often worked with made no difference.

Well, except to Lestrade.

But Lestrade didn't really count, in the grand scheme of it all.

The Chief Superintendent had let him keep his job. Barely. Lestrade was pretty sure that the man just didn't want to have to deal with him at the moment. That was alright with him. But he had left Lestrade with a warning:

Don't you dare bloody mess up, Lestrade. I hear that you push the boundaries at all, and I will personally ensure that you never you step one foot inside the Yard again. Understood?

Understood.

So, basically his position was hanging by a thread. He was grateful, but he wasn't sure how long he'd be able to keep himself in check. As soon as he found those two idiots, he was going to let them have it – and then collapse to his knees and beg their forgiveness.

He had been a fool, and he knew it. There was no way he'd ever bring them in. He'd just hold out and pray that they gave him another chance.

If he had ever regretted anything, it was doubting Sherlock even for a second. After everything Sherlock had done for him and his career – albeit rather rudely and snappishly – Lestrade owed him his trust, at the very least. Besides, a part of him loved the kid – not that he'd ever admit that to anyone else.

He doubted he'd ever forget the day he met Sherlock. He hadn't been Detective Inspector yet; he probably never would have gotten to that point in his job if not for Sherlock, really. He was just another officer. He'd taken the kid in from the streets – he still wasn't sure why he had. He'd just seen a lanky young man, barely out of his teenage years, on the side of the road in the rain, looking like a drowned cat. He was just small and miserable and clearly high as a kite, and Lestrade was lonely. So why not give the kid a place to sleep?

The decision, although he didn't know it at the time, would completely change his life. They had stumbled into Lestrade's empty flat – the missus had been out for the weekend doing God knows what – and five minutes in, with only glancing at the files on a particularly gruesome and tricky case spread haphazardly across the table, Sherlock had given Lestrade the information he needed to catch the culprit. While standing dead on his feet. With his body pumping with drugs. Without having been at the crime-scene.

Lestrade had never been more amazed in his life.

Soon after that, he started pulling Sherlock in on all kinds of cases, letting him have a looser leash each time he came to help. Every time Sherlock came to work at the Yard, he'd end up going home with Lestrade and spending the night on the sofa, either sleeping or typing away on Lestrade's laptop. Slowly, Lestrade started getting the kid off the drugs. It didn't seem that Sherlock needed them, anyway – not when he had something challenging and exhilarating to focus on.

As time wore on, Sherlock came over to his home less and to the station more, but Lestrade still had a soft place in his heart for him, blunt and insulting as he was. He'd never forget the one night, six months into their acquaintanceship, when he heard those two words pass from Sherlock's lips as he drifted off to sleep on the couch.

Thank you.

It was the only time Lestrade had ever heard Sherlock say the phrase with sincerity. It struck him somehow, and after that, he was fairly certain that he'd follow Sherlock anywhere. He started to care about him, almost in a fatherly-like way, and no matter how biting the idiot became, he dealt with him. Partly because he was brilliant and he needed him, but mostly because he never lost sight of those two words.

Thank you.

He wondered why those two words had fled his mind when Anderson and Donovan had brought their concerns to him about the detective. He doubted that he'd ever forgive himself for that one lapse in memory; he only hoped that Sherlock could.

That was why, the morning after the almost-arrest, Lestrade was sitting in his desk, directing traffic as it passed him, all officers rushing about to find Sherlock and John. They were doing it to catch alleged criminals; Lestrade was doing it in the hopes that, if he found them, he could apologize.

That was all he had to keep him going – that hope that, once found, they would not condemn him.

Because this situation was all his fault. He had to fix it.

So yeah, he'd been in his office when he heard. He was sending people out right and left, all to search for Sherlock.

He led them to believe it was to get back on the Chief's good side.

He knew that no one really bought that.

So, when a twitchy young officer came into his office, he hardly noticed. The room was already full. What was one more person?

He also barely noticed when said man tapped his shoulder. He had a lot of other things to focus on, and one more person vying for his attention was of no concern.

"U-um…D.I. Lestrade? S-sir?"

Lestrade looked up sharply, annoyed with the distraction. He didn't even really care that the guy was shaking and a little too pale to be considered healthy. Not his issue. Not right now. "What?" he demanded.

"Um…I think you should c-come with me, s-sir."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "And why should I do that?" he asked. "If you haven't noticed, I'm rather busy at the moment."

"Please, sir."

Lestrade huffed. "Fine then," he said. "But make it fast, alright?" He heaved himself out of his chair and maneuvered around the others in the room, following the young man out of the room and trailing him to a cluster of desks.

"Alright, what is it, officer? I really don't have time with this."

The kid nodded. "Yes sir," he said earnestly. He kind of reminded Lestrade of a younger, nicer Sherlock – sort of a more timid version of the genius that had slept on his sofa years ago. "It's just that…well, we got a call, and…sir, I thought it best to alert you immediately."

Lestrade leaned onto the nearest desk and ran a hand through his hair. "What did this call say, then?"

The younger man gulped. "Um, we've found him, s-sir," he said faintly. "We've found Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade straightened, as though shot with a jolt of electricity. "What?" he demanded. "Why did you take so long to say so? Where the hell is he?"

The smaller man was shaking. He really didn't look well, Lestrade noticed absently. When this whole thing was worked out, he's make sure the kid got a holiday or something.

"W-well, sir…" he started, "We haven't exactly found him in the condition we were, um, hoping for. I really don't know how to say this…um…"

"Spit it out!" Lestrade snapped. He had to find them as soon as possible. He didn't have time to stand here and listen to this simpleton stutter, no matter how run-down he looked.

"He was reported to be seen outside St. Bart's…" The kid trailed off.

"Alright, great! Thank you, but I've got to get there now." Lestrade turned and prepared to sprint to the car.

"Sir!"

Lestrade turned. He did not have time for this. "What is it?"

The kid fidgeted, his head down. "I…" When he looked up, his eyes had tears in them.

What the hell?

"Sir, Mr. Holmes…" He gulped. "Mr. Holmes jumped off the roof of the hospital ten minutes ago. He…he didn't survive."

No.

"What kind of sick joke – " Lestrade's voice caught. He swallowed. " – What kind of disgusting, twisted person would make a joke about something like that?"

"S-sir, it's, um…it's not a jo – "

"How dare you?" Lestrade shouted. He had gotten much closer to the young man's face and could see each pockmark there, which, for some odd reason, only made him angrier. "How dare you waste my time like this? Now, have you found him, or have you not?"

The kid seemed to get smaller under Lestrade's eye. "W-we have f-found him, sir," he said weakly. "He c-committed suicide off of St. Bart's r-rooft-top."

"No he didn't!" Lestrade roared.

He was sure that they had attracted the attention of several people by now. He didn't care.

"Tell – me – where – Sherlock – is," he gritted out.

"At St. Bart's!" the officer insisted. "Sir, I'm sorry, I really am, but – "

"No," Lestrade interrupted. "No." He paused, breathing deeply. "I'm – I'm going to go to the hospital. You – you will not do anything. Don't tell anyone anything, understand?"

The timid man had the decency to look frightened. "Y-yes sir."

"Good." And with that, Lestrade swept out of the room.

He refused to believe that Sherlock was dead.

It just wasn't possible.

When he strode into the morgue, it was empty of any living body, save for Molly Hooper. She jumped when the doors banged into the walls and looked up at Lestrade. Her nose was red and her eyes were watering.

"Oh!" she said shakily. "Hello, Detective In – "

"Is he here?" he asked, cutting her off. "Is it true?" He could hardly finish the sentence without his voice quavering. The next time he spoke, his words shook and he had to choke it out. "Please – please God, don't let it be true."

"Oh, Greg…" she said. Her face said everything that she wouldn't.

And he couldn't take it.

"Oh…Oh, God…"

His legs couldn't support him anymore, and he wasn't sure why. All he knew was that Sherlock was gone and it was sudden and unexpected and…

And he hadn't gotten to apologize for having a hand in ruining the detective's career and reputation.

He hadn't gotten to apologize for forgetting that thank you.

He hadn't gotten to apologize for abandoning him…his friend…

And now he was gone.

A sob ripped out of his throat, and if he wasn't so completely devastated, he would have been ashamed. Molly quickly pushed a chair under him to stop him from sinking to the floor. "What have I done?" he whispered.

Sherlock was dead. He had committed suicide…

Because he was going to be convicted of kidnapping and of being a fraud.

Oh. Oh God.

What had he bloody done?

They were silent for a long while. After several minutes of staring blankly at the sterile white walls, he looked up at Molly. "Can I…" Did he really want this?

Yes. Yes, he did. He needed to see.

"Can I see the body, Molly?"

She gave him a look. He wasn't really sure what it was – some kind of mix of regret and sadness and guilt. "Oh…Oh, no, I'm so sorry. It's…We're not allowing anyone to see the body."

"But – but I'm with the law!"

She smiled a watery, tight-lipped smile. "I'm sorry, Greg. It's – it's Mycroft's rules."

Mycroft. Well, he very well couldn't override that.

Speaking of Mycroft, there was someone else who should have been there.

"Oh," he breathed. "Where's John? Has anyone told him?"

At that, Molly heaved a breathy little sob. "N-no n-need," she squeaked. "He s-saw th-the who-ole th-thing." Tears poured from her eyes, making little wet trails down her face.

Lestrade felt like the breath had been knocked out of him. "He what?" he gasped.

She nodded, the tears flowing even more quickly. "Y-yes. Sh-sherlock called h-him before he j-jumped to say g-good-b-bye and J-john watched the wh-whole thing."

"Oh my – where is he?"

"I-I sent him home," she replied. "He w-wasn't really fit-t t-to be here."

"Right," Lestrade said, nodding.

He didn't say much else for a long time.

He got back to the Yard two hours later. Molly had let him stay in the morgue. He hadn't spoken the rest of the time he had stayed there, and she didn't ask him to. They just sat there silently until she quietly told him that she had to get back to work.

He was beyond the point of being grief-stricken to the point of muteness. He wanted to scream and cry and rip out his hair and curse and just let out everything. Anything to make himself forget that he was the reason Sherlock was dead. He had been the one to arrest him. He had been the one to doubt him. He had been the one to join the rest of the world against again.

And he wanted to forget it.

But he couldn't. And he didn't think he ever would.

Sherlock had once said thank you to him. Sherlock would never thank him again. Not just because he was dead – but because Lestrade had done nothing to earn his thanks. He deserved to be beaten to a pulp, at the very least. Forget kind, grateful words whispered from a moth-eaten sofa.

Lestrade was one of the reasons Sherlock was dead.

Thank you.

For what, Sherlock?

For what?

So yes, he wanted to shout and yell and shriek and make so much sound that he could drown out his own conscience. He couldn't stand this guilt and this sorrow much longer.

He knew exactly where he could do that. He hadn't been the only one involved in Sherlock's death.

He walked into the station after making sure his face was decent for public viewing. He had cried a bit more than he cared to admit today and didn't want it to show.

He found the young officer who had told him about Sherlock's death relatively quickly. He pulled him aside.

"Have you mentioned this to anyone?" he asked.

"No, sir," the kid replied. "I kept silent, just like you asked."

"Good," Lestrade replied. "Good." He left the trembling man and headed toward his office.

"Donovan, Anderson!" he called as he walked. "My office – now!" He heard them scrambling behind him.

When he walked into the room, he cleared it out immediately. There really wasn't any need – the doors in the Yard didn't really muffle much sound. He knew everyone was going to hear this.

And he was glad.

He instructed Anderson to shut the door behind them. He forced the bile in his throat down at the sight of them. They turned to him, their faces a bit confused, a bit neutral – they didn't know.

Well, he was going to make sure they knew. He was going to make bloody certain of it.

"What's wrong, sir?" Sally asked. "Have you not found the freak yet?"

It was that word that did it. Freak. Lestrade had reached his boiling point.

He slammed his hand down on the desk, which made an extremely satisfying loud sound. They both jumped. "No," he hissed, glaring at them. "I found the freak."

"…Then what's this about, sir?" Sally asked hesitantly. He was nearly ready to rip that smug voice out. How could she possibly speak that way? The world had stopped spinning – why had she not stopped with it?

Lestrade chuckled. It was definitely not a happy laugh; there was no mirth to be found in it. The two dimwits in front of him shifted uncomfortably.

"Do you know where I found him, Sally? Keith?" He didn't wait for them to shake their heads. "I found him in the bloody morgue!"

A still silence fell. Lestrade didn't think it had registered to them yet.

"Excuse me, sir?" Anderson asked. His voice was hoarse. "Do you mean he was with Miss Hooper?"

"Oh, no, Anderson," Lestrade said. "No, no, no. Molly only recently acquired him, you see." Their faces were still blank. Those disgusting bastards.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes is dead."

And for once, in his long career at the Yard, it was completely silent.

"Oh, you weren't expecting that, were you?" Lestrade said. "Yes. Sherlock Holmes woke up this morning and decided to take a tumble off the roof of St. Bart's hospital. Now, why do you think he would do that?" His voice had turned acidic – it dripped and hissed and boiled.

Sally opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She tried again, but her voice was very small. "I – I don't know, sir."

"Oh, no?" he said. "Can you think of any incident in the past twenty-four hours that might have triggered this?"

"N-no – " Anderson stuttered.

"Really?" he all but shouted. "Are you sure? Because I'm pretty certain that a couple of idiots marched into the Chief Superintendent's office last night and claimed that Sherlock had been the kidnapper and that he may have been a fraud as well!" He knew that he had let them coerce him into it as well, but at the moment, he didn't care. He was furious, and there were two people here to take it out on. That was good enough for him. Right now, he needed to raise his voice at someone, or he may just turn in on himself.

"S-sir!" Anderson protested. "We didn't know that – "

"Oh, you didn't?!" Lestrade shouted. "You didn't think that making such serious claims would have any effect on him at all? You didn't think that perhaps you shouldn't upset someone who claimed he was a sociopath? You didn't think that ruining his career would ruin his life?"

Sally looked like she was getting choked up. Good. "I swear sir," she whispered hoarsely, "we had no idea that – "

"I don't want to hear it!" he roared. Sally began blinking back tears. "You two are unbelievable! You two can't stand that someone is truly brilliant, and so you try to rip him to shreds at every chance you get! You were one of the things that drove him to do this!" Lestrade was tearing up now as well. Damn it. "You helped kill a great man. A great man. The greatest man I know is dead, all because you decided that he was too good at what he did and ruined him. You ruined him." He glared at both of them, and they shrunk back. He could see a small crowd forming outside his door through the clear glass walls.

Sally was crying, and Keith had his arm around her. Lestrade felt no sympathy for them at all. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had a vague notion that he would regret saying all of this to them so harshly later. That didn't stop him though.

"John Watson saw the whole thing, too," he choked out. Sally let out a small, strangled cry. He knew that she had liked John a little, although she'd never admit it. "Sherlock jumped right in front of him. Said good-bye to him on the phone and then…jumped…" God, he was going to cry again. He wouldn't let himself. If Keith Anderson hadn't cried yet, then neither would Greg Lestrade.

"You disgusting fools threw away the professionalism and intellect that I believed you to be in possession of to tear down a man who had done no harm to anyone, ever. You acted like children, and in doing so, you killed him. You bloody helped kill him."

He let out a deep breath that spat between his teeth. "I…I don't even know what to say to you two. You unbelievably selfish bastards." He looked at them for a moment. They were pathetic.

So was he, but at least he had the authority to make the others feel bad about it.

"Go on," he said. "Get out of my sight. One of you, tell the Chief that I'm going home for the day. And stay away from me for a while."

He strode past them to his office door. "In fact," he said, turning, "stay away from the Yard from a while as well. You two are on leave until I say otherwise. You are dismissed." He ignored Sally's broken sobs as he left.

By the time Lestrade got home, he was exhausted. It wasn't just the kind of exhaustion that made him want to curl up and sleep; it was bone-deep, and it made him ache. He hurt all over, and his eyes were rubbed raw, and he just wanted to stop thinking.

Sherlock was dead.

Sherlock was dead, and he hadn't gotten to apologize. Or make things right between them. Or tell him that he had always kind of thought of him as a son, in an odd way.

Sherlock was dead, and nothing would ever bring him back.

Sherlock was dead, and it was Lestrade's fault.

Of course, others had had a hand in it. Donovan. Anderson. The Chief. That nasty reporter, Kitty Riley. But Lestrade had been a part of it. He could have taken measures to defend Sherlock, to sort everything out. He could have professed his faith in Sherlock and his abilities. He could have done a lot of things that he didn't do, and what was worse, he actively did things to speed up the process. He had entertained Sally's and Keith's proposition. He had gone to the Chief for a warrant. He had arrested him.

And now Sherlock was dead, and he could do nothing about it.

Maybe he even died thinking that no one cared about him at all.

With that thought, Lestrade's breath hitched and he sank onto his sofa. The same sofa where Sherlock had said thank you.

Thank you for what, Sherlock?

He had played a role in Sherlock's suicide. He had driven him to think that the world would be better without him. He had not defended him, nor had he fought for him. He had not apologized. His actions were despicable, and there was no one to forgive him. No one would clear his conscience or take the blame off his shoulders. He was alone in this, and he was completely to blame.

Turns out I didn't do much for the kid after all. What does it matter that you help start a man's life if you help end it as well?

Not much, he was sure.

Sherlock had died thinking that no one in the world had thought that he was a good man. But I did, Sherlock. I thought you were incredible.

Lestrade knew that he hadn't been a fake.

Lestrade knew that he had been treated unjustly.

And what had he done?

Absolutely nothing.

A sob tickled the back of his throat. It was going to be a long night.

It turned out to be a long few days, rather than just a long night.

Then those days turned to weeks.

Those weeks turned to months.

And it didn't get any easier for Lestrade.

The weight of Sherlock's suicide didn't leave him. Nothing really helped. He still blamed himself. He was pretty sure he always would.

He wasn't sure if he'd ever even be able to begin to forgive himself. He really didn't. It certainly didn't help when that small, young voice played constantly in the back of his mind.

Thank you.

For what, Sherlock?

He knew the answer.

For nothing.