Gregory Lestrade was sitting on a sofa, staring at the mug of tea resting in his hand. He had made it over an hour ago and it had long since gone cold, but he had never taken a sip, not one. He had spent the better part of his time staring at the murky brown liquid without even realizing that it was there. Now he set the cup down on the table.

It was one of his old mugs blue, chipped, battered, and perfectly fitted to his hand after years of persistent use, meant to be comforting. It was not the expensive bone china cups and saucers that Mycroft preferred. No, this mug was made to soothe Greg with its familiarity and endurance. He always was afraid of breaking the cups Mycroft bought, but today, today Greg did not want to be allowed near anything breakable. He shuddered slightly and hunched his shoulders; he did not want to think about, let alone, see anything break.

He took in a shuddering breath and ran his hands over his face. He was scruffy, unkempt, needed a shave and a shower and a change of clothes. He also needed to sleep, badly. He desperately wanted to rid himself of the burning sensation that constantly stung the back of his eyes. Will it ever get easier? Ever? From where he was sitting right now, he sincerely doubted it. He clenched his jaw with enough force to damn near break a tooth, and barely succeeded in stifling a sob. It had been a week. A bloody week since…

Greg had to face what had happened. He understood that. He knew in his bones that he had to deal with the reality of the situation. But, somehow, he couldn't. He was the strong one, the responsible one, the one who was meant to sort it out. Mycroft could be imperious and commanding and direct the whole bloody nation. And Sherlock-he could be brilliant, but he is-was—always getting into trouble…Whenever the two were in a room together, Greg was the one to mediate, keep the peace, and interject with some common sense. Hell, Greg was the one to make sure they occasionally found themselves in the same room. He made sure that Sherlock was eating properly and had cases to keep his mind occupied. He reminded Mycroft that the nation did not only function on a macro level, it also existed right here in their home in their family. Greg did all of these things. He always did these things. He was the lone voice of sanity calling out in the wilderness of Holmes. Now he was faced with an impossible situation. He was lost and broken, but he had to keep going, he needed to conjure that rational person into being right now but…he couldn't.

When he had gotten the call, his first reaction was complete disbelief. Sherlock couldn't be dead. That's bloody ridiculous. It just wasn't possible. Greg had had some choice words to say about it, too. None of them would have been permitted in a room with children. The truth was that, despite the amount of invective and denial, he had felt the bottom drop out of his stomach; he was woozy, felt light headed. The DI had stormed past the officers and drove to the hospital in a complete haze. It was, frankly, a miracle that he didn't die on the way there. Not that Gregory Lestrade believed in miracles anymore.

Going to the hospital to see Sherlock was not out of the ordinary for Greg. In fact, it was a habitual occurrence every few months. Granted, it used to happen with far more frequency and there had been some genuinely frightening moments interspersed amongst the more benign chemical explosions, poison ingestions, and roof-top bumbles. Greg was old hat with it all; he was the customary first responder. He knew the routine well, by heart even. He would turn up, worry, and rescue the medical team from Sherlock, who was the worst patient imaginable. He would keep Mycroft calm and make sure that neither brother instigated too much, fussing over the kid while trying to be a bit covert about it. They all knew their parts in the ritual…a routine that did not typically begin with a reported death. There's been a mistake. A bloody stupid mistake, that's all, he reassured himself, but he couldn't quite stop the persistent tremor in his hands as they clutched the steering wheel in a death grip. Sherlock got himself knocked around a bit, nothing more. He'll be a bloody bastard about recouping. John will have his hands full, that's for sure. Don't envy that poor sod. Mycroft will have sorted out this Moriarty business before they even get Sherlock's x-rays the way the little idiot grouses. I'm going to give him hell for putting me through this. Greg continued this litany as he broke speed limits, ran red lights, and nearly hit a pedestrian. He's okay. He's okay. He's going to be okay. He's bloody Sherlock; of course he'll be okay.

He dashed into the hospital wildly, trying to find Mycroft, who had surely beaten him here. Greg sprinted past the nurses' station with complete indifference to their words. His dark eyes were zipping wildly around over the father sitting with a colicky child, the drunken teen with a gunshot wound, the pregnant woman who was clearly in labor, searching for a familiar face. John should be here. Where the bloody hell else would he be? You can't separate the two of them! Mycroft should be here too. Where the fuck are they? They're worrying me. They are taking years off of my life. This was unnerving. The uneasy feeling in the pit of Greg's stomach increased in intensity by several levels and the tremors had traveled from his hands to his torso.

That's when Mycroft came in with a face that was hard as ice, and just as cold. His eyes were completely vacant and his posture was rigid, as if his frame were being propped up by poles and nothing else. His characteristic swagger was gone and there was an air of defeat radiating from him that Greg had never seen before. When their eyes met across the room, Greg felt a jolt of confirmation shoot through his limbs, like a thunderbolt burning and then numbing him. He swore that his hair was standing on end with it. He opened his mouth and gripped the railing that some hospital bureaucrat had had the foresight to install in this hallway, probably for moments just like this one. It's not a moment, Greg, you stupid blighter everything is all bloody right. Yet, even as he told himself this, he knew that it wasn't. It couldn't be. Not with John missing and Mycroft looking like that, as if he dreaded coming even a step nearer to Greg, as if he were made of twigs and likely to snap. Mycroft had never in all the time they'd known each other, in all the time they'd been together, ever, looked at Greg the way that he did now. It was frightening. Greg was scared. And he decided conclusively that he did not want Mycroft to say anything. He did not want any of this to be true.

He took a deep breath and he knew, from the way that Mycroft stared at him, that his own eyes were zipping about in fearful anticipation, looking at the floor, the ceiling, the handle of his partner's umbrella, anything but his face. He was desperately trying to steady himself, but he couldn't quite manage it.

"My," he cleared his throat firmly, "My they, ah, um, called me and said that Sherlock was here. Is he, ah, all right? Is he injured? He was about due for it, eh? What's it been seven mon-?"

Mycroft came closer, and Greg noticed that he was leaning on his umbrella like a cane. It made him seem suddenly old, weighed down by a long life. But he's not, Greg thought, We're not. God damn it. Why does he look like that?

When he spoke, Mycroft's voice was as composed as ever, though Greg knew that it was forced. It sounded like it was an effort to maintain control. Why is it?

"That isn't what they told you, Gregory," he said, thinning his lips and closing his eyes, before meeting Greg's full on, "Sherlock is not injured."

Greg sighed with relief, "Then what the hell are we doing here? Where is he?"

"Gregory, he isn't here," Mycroft placed his hand on Greg's arm. The DI was shaking like a leaf. "What they told you was true," Mycroft's otherwise smooth voice caught and unexpectedly broke, "Sherlock is not here, Gregory, he is in the mortuary."

The words hit Greg like a blow to the chest. His mind refused to believe them, wanted desperately to reject them, but he knew that they were true. The DI's legs gave way beneath him, and Mycroft dropped his umbrella, catching Gregory as he collapsed to the floor.

"No," Greg said, "No, that, that, that can't be. Mycroft he can't be. Sherlock isn't—" he gripped Mycroft's arm and buried his face in his waistcoat.

"I am sorry, Gregory," Mycroft said and he rested his hand comfortingly in Greg's thick silver hair, "I am so very sorry."

Shock melded with sadness tinged with denial, quickly followed by an aching regret. The last words he had spoken to Sherlock, the last moments he had been with him, he had had him arrested. He had betrayed him, he had—Greg let out a strangled sob.

It was a mark of the extremity of loss and grief that these two men—one of whom hated being emotionally demonstrative and the other who was quite private about his relationship with the Holmes'—were sitting on the floor in the hallway of St. Bartholomew's Hospital paralyzed by grief. Greg couldn't even begin to deal with or analyze the way that he felt in this moment while tears fell unheeded from his eyes.

"I want to see him."

"Gregory are you sure that that's best?"

"Mycroft," he said pulling back and wiping his face, staring straight into Mycroft's eyes, "I need to see him."

Mycroft seemed to evaluate the relative merits of this in relation to the further emotional and psychological damage that it would accrue. Finally, after some particularly soulful contemplation, he nodded, "Of course, Gregory. You should, however, be aware that he is…he is in rather bad shape."

"I've seen bodies before, Mycroft," he tried to be gruff, but Mycroft saw straight through it. Well he would, wouldn't he? If there had ever been a period in which Greg been able to hide his thoughts or feelings from his partner; it had ended so long ago that he couldn't even remember it.

Mycroft considered him for a long moment and then responded delicately, "Never Sherlock's, Gregory."

The DI clenched his jaw, determined, "Still."

"Very well."

Mycroft helped Greg to stand, and together they walked, arm in arm, to the mortuary, supporting one another, though Greg leaned into Mycroft rather heavily. It felt like his knees were made of rubber, his stomach of lead; he had lost his head somewhere completely. Grief felt like an ache throughout his entire body. It consumed him. It was easier to worry after the other survivors than to think about their current destination and what waited for him there. He was concerned for Mycroft. He was downright frightened for—

"John," Greg was suddenly alert and panicked. He could feel his pulse speed up, couldn't catch his breath. He might have a heart attack (at least I'm in the right place for it), "Where's John? Sherlock would want us to look after John. He must be—"

Mycroft stopped walking and turned to face Greg holding his shoulder one hand and using the other to tilt the DI's chin until he was looking straight at Mycroft, "Gregory, look at me. Yes? Okay, now breathe, Gregory, you need to breathe. There you go. In and out. Yes, exactly. Slowly." Greg inhaled and exhaled as he was told, focusing on the familiar blue orbs before him, "There we are. John is in the mortuary. He is alive, though, I daresay that he is not well."

Greg nodded tightly and he rested his forehead on Mycroft's chest for a moment, gasping. He had to pull himself together before he saw John. Sherlock wouldn't want him to present a stroppy mess. Don't be dull, Lestrade, he would have said, Sentimentality gets you nowhere. Just look at yourself. Sherlock's voice in his head was so strong and clear that Greg almost looked around to find the boy. His boy. He squeezed his eyes as tightly as he could and tried not to cry. Christ, I'll never hear him again. In that moment, the DI would have traded anything in the world to have Sherlock standing there in the hallway calling him an idiot for caring. You call this an advantage? He would ask disdainfully. Greg would not have been able to mount any sort of defense.

He pulled back and looked at Mycroft, clutching at his suit jacket. Mycroft kissed his forehead gently, and placed his hands on either side of Greg's face, evaluating him closely before nodding, taking Greg by the hand, and leading him onward. It was honestly, without a doubt, the longest walk that Gregory Lestrade had ever taken in his life because he knew that, at the end of it, he would see something that he had never wanted to see, not even in his grisliest nightmares. Greg had always been afraid of this, always, but he had pushed it aside, buried it. He didn't want to ever even entertain the possibility. Sherlock was smart, he was bloody brilliant, and he was vibrant, alive, charged, stubborn all the ruddy time. There was no way that he could—that he could ever—die. It just wasn't on. It was too normal, too blasé, to ordinary. People died, Sherlock would go on living forever, just to prove a point. It just wasn't possible for him to be gone. "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbably, must be the truth," Sherlock had once said.

They had reached the mortuary, Mycroft held open the door, squeezed Greg's hand, and nodded that he should continue. Greg squared his shoulders as best he could and stepped through the door, knowing that, as he did so, he was crossing a giant divide in the universe between before and after, between a world with Sherlock Holmes and a world, however impossible, without him. It was a wonder that the earth kept on spinning, to Greg it felt like it had stopped because that was when he saw the body, lying on the table. He shut his eyes tightly and took a deep breath to keep from fainting. He wished it would all just disappear, everything, all of it. He opened his eyes again.

AN:

The angst is back. What did you think? I can't believe I did this to Greg. The second part will be posted tomorrow or the following day. We will see John. I would love to know what you think, please, leave a review if you get the chance. I would love you to hear your thoughts.