Anger Management

"Greg, there's been a... there's been a suicide."

Greg perked up instantly, setting his teacup down on the desk. "Give me the details."

"Greg, listen. I don't think you should work this case. I just called to tell you to back off of it."

"Why shouldn't I?" he questioned, frowning. "What's going on?"

"Well... It was that detective. Sherlock Holmes. He was the one who jumped."

The phone hit the desk with a resounding crack.

Three days had passed.

Greg had barely managed to get away from the office long enough to have a smoke, which, he might add, he only took up recently. He could leave his office simply enough, but trying to leave behind the reminders of Sherlock Holmes was something else entirely. Especially when most of, not only London, but, the whole world was questioning the man's entire life.

The funeral was today. Greg was not looking forward to it. It wasn't a matter of liking or not liking the detective, of being someone who actually believed in Sherlock Holmes or not, but rather...

It was John.

John, who had witnessed the whole thing. John, who had been Sherlock's best and only friend for those good many months now. John, who had moved out of 221B to seek relief from the constant reminds of Sherlock.

Greg sighed, flipping the collar of his jacket up against the wind. It was a cold day. It was suiting, in the end. A cold day, for the death of a cold man. And Sherlock was cold. That was one thing that he did know and one thing that he wouldn't take back, because it was absolutely true.

The walk was cold but silent, and even the service in itself didn't seem to hold much warmth. Greg hated the lot, the whole lot of people who had done this to Sherlock. Himself included.

He loitered around Sherlock's grave after they had finished everything that day. There hadn't been many people at the service and even fewer had followed to the cemetery. He didn't go up to the grave, because he didn't know what to say, and there was something that felt wrong about joining John in saying goodbye. John had been a good friend. Greg had been the one to sell Sherlock out. It didn't match up. Greg just supposed that he was lucky that John hadn't punched him yet. He would have said that he deserved it.

He had decided to wind his way back towards the street when two figures moving towards him caught his eye. He looked up, focusing his gaze on them, before realizing who it was.

Anderson and Donovan.

How could they have the audacity...?

"Look, your phone's been off and there's been a double homocide-"

"How dare you!" The words had slipped from his lips before he was conscious of them, and by that time, it was far too late. "You have the nerve, the actual nerve, to come here after all of it? After all of this?" He threw his hands up. "Hell, did you come to rub it in our faces or something? In his face? In John's?"

Donovan looked remotely uncomfortable as she looked over Greg's shoulder. He followed her gaze, to John, who was watching them all apprehensively. His face was a mixture of anger and pain as he stared stonily back at the three.

"Greg, I'm just saying, there's been-"

"Detective," he hissed, "Inspector Lestrade."

Donovan looked ready to say something, but Anderson cut her off. "Look, there's two bodies waiting on you."

"And there's a body in the ground because of you two! Do you see what you drove him to do?"

"Sherlock Holmes was a man of free will."

It was in his very best interest that he took a simple deep breath and let it out slowly. "Anderson, Donovan, go on ahead. Call for a few more detectives. I will not be joining you." He turned and trudged back to the grave, taking a spot next to John and staring down at the overturned dirt that now housed Sherlock's body. He didn't look up to watch his partners walk away.

They passed some time in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

The doctor broke it. "Thanks."

"Yeah? For what?"

"For sticking up for him. I know he was a right pain in the ass sometimes, but he cared for you."

"Hmm," Greg replied in a way of no thoughts. He wasn't sure if Sherlock had cared or not, but he had cared for Sherlock and that was all that mattered to him.

"I'm serious, Greg."

"Well, you did know him better than anyone else."

"Did I?" John muttered, almost quiet enough that Greg thought he wasn't supposed to hear it.

"You did," he replied in certainty. There was probably nothing, nothing, that would help John right now, but Greg was willing to try. John didn't reply.

Some time later, Greg left the grave in search of warmth and rest. It had been an awfully long day full of mixed emotions; most of those emotions had been anger, towards himself and towards the two others who had put Sherlock in the ground. He himself wasn't one to usually get angry- unless lives were at stake. Unless someone was dead. And then he was a force to be reckoned with and if it hadn't been for Sherlock's funeral, and the redeeming factor that Donovan was a woman, heartless at that, Greg probably would have had both of them on the ground with their arms behind their backs. He couldn't charge them with conspiracy to murder or slap handcuffs on them or anything, but he'd gone through rigorous police training and he could pack a hard punch.

He sighed heavily as he slid into the car, slamming the door behind him. The click of his seatbelt gave him little reassurance and the looming thought of going back to what he had always known, but without Sherlock, made everything seem a little more dull.

I've never dabbled with my favourite Inspector. I thought I'd try. I feel like he'd never stop believing, not really.

Reviews are encouraged, and thank you.