(A/N The completed story is also on wattpad, and I will try and upload as much as I possibly can at once but you'll have to be a little patient. This is my first posted fic on this site, so enjoy! Oh and leave a review if you wish.)

Chapter 1- Broken

Molly hadn't seen Sherlock since that day.

That day, which had been a nasty blow to Molly, but had completely snapped Sherlock.

She'd seen him break.

Then she'd seen him stand up.

And walk away.

That day.

The day that John died.

Knock knock.

Silence.

Knock knock knock.

"Sherlock! For Christs sake let me in or I'll break down the door!"

Silence.

Lestrade, who had called Sherlock an hour ago to no avail, prepared to run at the door. He'd just taken the first step when the door was opened, and Sherlock stood, leaning against the door frame.

The once tall man had shrunk in on himself. He wore his suit, but he didn't seem to fill it out at all. His posture had become slumped, but what really made him seem small was that there was no light in his eyes; the knowledge that had once made him as high as the clouds had flickered, and died.

Lestrade wondered how long it had been since Sherlock had eaten something. Or slept.

"Go away. I'm not in the mood."

"I'm not leaving Sherlock, until you show me that you are ok." Lestrade had no idea if Sherlock was safe from himself, whether he was on the verge of... In fact, he didn't want to think about it.

"I'm ok."

"No, you're not. I'm coming in." He pushes past him, and surprisingly, Sherlock didn't protest. Whether it was because he really did need a friend, or because he simply didn't have the energy, Lestrade doesn't know. It was most likely the latter.

He stands in the middle of the room. Sherlock doesn't move from the door.

The room was unkept, with papers and rubbish everywhere. Ashes were falling out of the fireplace, and the fridge door was wide open, with little if any edible food in it. Lestrade, sighs, looks up at Sherlock, and takes off his coat.

"Mrs Hudson home?"

"No."

"When will she be back?"

He shrugs his shoulders.

"Are you going to sit down?"

"I'm fine here, thanks."

"Sit down."

Sherlock obeys.

"How have you been keeping up?" Lestrade hangs his coat up and sits on the chair across from him. Almost as soon as he sits down, Sherlock gives him a pained look.

"Please... could you not sit there." Lestrade is confused. "It's Johns."

"Oh! I'm sorry." He springs up and brings the desk chair over.

"I'm fine." Sherlock says, answering Lestrade's previous question. "Absolutely fine."

"Right." He says, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock doesn't meet his gaze.

"When was the last time you ate?" Sherlock turns his head away, staring straight at the fireplace.

"Fine. You're coming with me." Lestrade gets up, grabs his coat, and chucks the other one at Sherlock. "Come on."

It wasn't Lestrade's idea to come to Sherlock. It was Mycrofts. His brother had felt that if he were to comfort Sherlock, it wouldn't end well. So he recruited the Inspector.

Molly had offered, but then had thought better of it. She wouldn't know what to say.

"Where are we going?" He still sat on the sofa. Staring at the ashes in the fireplace.

"Lunch. You need to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't care. And if you don't come, I will handcuff you to me and drag you down to the diner."

Lestrade sits back in his chair, having finished his omelette, and eyes Sherlock's untouched sandwich.

"Eat."

"I don't like pickles."

"Why did you order a cheese and pickle sandwich then?" He clenches his teeth.

"I don't know."

Lestrade softens his gaze. "Look. I know you're going through a hard time. But it will get better. Eventually." He waves over the waitress. "Why don't we order you something you do like and you can eat it back in your apartment?"

"Ok." He picks another sandwich, and they both get up to leave. Lestrade pays, and they wander back over to Bakers Street. He walks slowly, looking down at his feet. Not only had he lost John, but the skip in his step.

His coat barely moved as he walked, and his coat collar was turned down. He now longer walked with a purpose, and it hurt Lestrade to look at him.

"I have some new cases down at the station. Interested?"

"No. I'm sorry but, it's too soon." He smiles. "Anyway. None of your people work with me." Lestrade sees something in his eyes as he thinks about old times, but it dies as Sherlock remembers the one person who did work with him.

He didn't want to remember. He wanted to delete the memories. But he just couldn't.