This story is thankfully betaed by BelieveSherlock
Thank you! xo Hints of an established Greg/Mcroft relationship
Greg was disconcerted and confused because he still wasn't able to come to terms with what had happened. His head was throbbing as he pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets and took one deep breath. He did not know what he could do to make things right again – and then a short laugh escaped his mouth – there was no chance to fix this, everything was destroyed.
Two days ago things were badly screwed up, but not beyond repair. Two day ago Anderson and Donovan came to him voicing their suspicion that Sherlock Holmes himself had abducted these children. Two days ago he went, both members of his team in tow, to his supervisor. Two days ago he went to Baker Street to arrest Sherlock.
Greg let out a long shuddering breath, and yesterday Sherlock jumped from the roof of St Barts.
Greg wasn't sure if he would ever be able to forget what he saw as he arrived at the scene. The blood that pooled on the pavement and formed a puddle on the stone. John, who was leaning against the wall of the building staring at the blood - so pale that he too looked dead. It was more than obvious that he was in shock; he was lethargic and was not noticing the nurses that talked to him. He only stood there, leaning against the building for support and stared. But that changed suddenly after he registered Greg. John threw himself against Greg, placing a fist in his face, and then he started to yell. Yelled at him that this was his fault - the yards fault; that if they had shown a little more trust in Sherlock, he wouldn't have had killed himself. They were the people that ripped apart everything Sherlock had lived for.
Greg had to admit that he had not thought of that. He was too shocked as he heard the news and all he wanted was to get to the scene. But after John's outburst and the staring eyes of the bystanders, it clicked into place. John was right, this was his fault. He staggered back a few steps before fleeing.
Now, he sat alone in a pub, in the middle of the day, staring in his beer. Everything was his fault. He was the person who gave in to Anderson and Donovan, even though he was fully aware that both of them detested Sherlock. He knew that both of them would do anything to prevent the consulting detective from showing up at a crime scene ever again. Wasn't it his job to ensure that there was real evidence? Wasn't it his job to protect the innocent? He never doubted that Sherlock was not involved in that crime, or any crime. Yet, he ran to his supervisor because he was a coward who hadn't the strength to stand up against his own team. And so, he killed the most brilliant man he had ever known. Well, one of the two most brilliant men he had ever known. However, he had no doubt that he destroyed the second one too. Mycroft would crack over the death of his brother; Greg knew that Mycroft cared deeply about Sherlock, even if he would never say that aloud.
Yesterday was the day he lost everything, his reputation as a police officer, his pride, and his belief that he was a good man. He had made a mistake, and destroyed three lives. Sherlock's quite literally but he destroyed the lives of John Watson, and Mycroft Holmes as well. Well, he destroyed four lives; his life too was gone down the drain. His job was gone; he got suspended one an hour after John gave him a black eye, and his love. He never felt like this with another man before. Mycroft and him, that is – no, it was - something different. There was no chance to fix this. Although he tried to phone Mycroft several times, the last thing he heard was that Mycroft had bailed John out of prison after he got arrested for attacking an officer. After all of his calls went to voicemail, he gave up and tried texting things like: "please phone me or let me know when I can phone you", "will you come home?", and "My, please I am worried about you". Then he tried to reach Anthea but she also did not answer her phone.
Greg waited for Mycroft to come home in the evening, but he didn't show up. Although Greg wasn't as intelligent as Mycroft, he got the message. He left Mycroft's flat in the morning, took some of his stuff with him, and left a letter and the keys. He wrote everything down, how sorry he was that he knew that the chain was broken loose by him, and that he could understand if Mycroft never wanted talk to him again. He wrote that he loved Mycroft and because of that he would respect his wishes to be left alone. He hoped that his writing did not give away how much his hand had trembled and he made sure that there were no tearstains on the paper. He never thought of himself as teary, but after this event he could not hold them back as he wrote.
Yes, his life was destroyed too. After Greg realized that, he felt guilt for his self pity. He sighed and continued to wait. He had two hours left, and then he had to catch his train. He knew that this was a simple fight or flight impulse. And that he should be staying to fight. But he could not do that. He felt empty, defeated, and impossibly tired. The reason for the latter was partly because he hadn't slept all last night and was awake for over thirty hours. There was a part of him, looking at his shattered life, seeing the pained and horrified expression on Johns face, and feeling the rejection from Mycroft - that made him feel so helpless, so paralyzed. And underneath all of that, there was a little part of him, a tiny little part, which whispered that he should fight. Fight for his job, his friends, his life, and his love – but he was beaten, too tired to fight. It was simply too much to handle, he even didn't want to see or speak with his family.
He grabbed his duffle bag, shrugged out of his coat, and stuffed it into the bag, pulling out a hoodie. This was just another sign that he was a coward; he tried to prevent being easily tracked over CCTV. Before today, Greg had never understood the people that vanished and left everything behind without a word to friends and family. But now he understood, his life was in ruins and he had nothing left. He was abandoned by Mycroft, hated by John, without a job. He never thought that his life would ever be so dark and so hopeless. He pulled the hoddie on, stood up, and left. He would wait at the train station.
Two hours later, Greg Lestrade sat on his train and watched the sunset; it suited the emptiness and the hopelessness he felt. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, he would not cry in a public place – maybe later, when he was alone in some hotel room, but not now.