Rating: M (to be safe)
Summary: Sherlock has grown despondent since John's wedding and one night, he can't find it in him to keep going. But he'll do it properly this time. There'll be no chance of coming back after this. Character death. Angst.
Characters: Sherlock, Lestrade
Warnings: Character death, drug use, suicide, sads
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the recognisable characters and I got the idea for this from this post on tumblr by kingmycroft suggesting this situation. Also fuelled by my headcanon that Lestrade is a sort of foster father to Sherlock.
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MY NAME IS GREG
Sherlock's POV
I had felt it creeping up on me for months. Coming back from the dead, finding John had moved on with his life had changed everything. I'd had a plan for coming back and John hadn't co-operated at all. He wasn't "poor predictable John Watson" anymore.
With the news of his impending nuptials, I knew I had to face the concept of being alone again. I knew it wouldn't be the same as before I met him, I knew I'd still see him, but Mrs Hudson said that marriage changes things, that people forget their old friends. And John wouldn't be the first to forget me, no matter what we've shared in the past.
I'm not sure how no one else noticed – wait, of course I'm sure, it's because they're all idiots. I would have thought my hastily made Sydney Opera House napkins might have been a clue but I was falling into the background faster than I expected.
It wasn't until the wedding that I knew it was over. Watching John and Mary, so happy – I think it was happy, that's what most people are on their wedding day at least. Where was I? Right, John, Mary, happy, yes. He didn't need me anymore and now that I could see that, I knew I had to get out. No one noticed me leaving – they were all happily partnered up. Happy happy happy.
I don't regret this downward slip into turmoil. I don't regret any of it. I don't regret any of this. I don't regret the drugs coursing through my veins or the text waiting to be sent on my phone. Only Lestrade and Molly this time – no need to have Mycroft's crones or John descending on me. All of my open cases are now solved in files on my desk, nothing left unfinished.
Taking out my phone, I read the text one last time.
A real note this time. I'm sorry.
I hit "send" and toss my phone onto the floor, clinking against the syringes and empty beer bottles. The lights are buzzing overhead and I sigh as I stare at the ceiling before closing my eyes. It might have been too much for me but I hope it isn't for anyone else.
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Lestrade's POV
I groan when my phone goes off. Two murders in three days – I just want some peace and quiet. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I squint through the darkness at the bright screen telling me I have a message from Sherlock. Clicking through to it, a string of "fucks" spill from my lips as I get up and scramble for my shoes.
A real note this time. I'm sorry. What does that mean?!
As I'm running out to the car, my phone starts ringing. Molly.
"Molly, have you heard from Sherlock?" I bark into the phone as I start the engine.
She's crying. "I just got a text from him. Greg, it doesn't sound good. Please, can you check on him?"
"I'm going right now, I got a text too. Can you call John? Find out where he is and tell him to expect a call from me."
"What about Mycroft?"
"No, not yet. It could be one of Sherlock's stupid pranks. We'll wait for now. I'll call you as soon as I can."
"Please Greg, keep him safe."
"I always do. Take care, Molly." I hang up before speeding down the road. The streets are mostly empty but as I turn onto Marylebone Road, I turn on my siren and lights. The wailing makes my heart race faster and I drum my fingers against the steering wheel until I come to a screeching halt outside 221B. Grabbing my spare key from the glove box, I race to the door, unlock it and rush upstairs. I hear Mrs Hudson call out after me as I burst into Sherlock's living room.
Under my feet, plastic wrappings crunch and tear and as I spin around to find Sherlock lying on the couch, I hear glass bottles roll across the wooden floor. I feel myself slow down as I rush to Sherlock's side, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. His eyes are closed but his left sleeve is rolled up past his elbow. In the crease of the joint, I can make out two faint pinpricks and I can't supress the scream of rage that billows from me.
"Wake up you selfish bastard!" I scream as I shake Sherlock again. Holding him up, his head falls back and I feel something crumple inside of me as I let him go and he slumps back onto the sofa.
"What have you done? Why? What did we miss?" Tears are streaming down my face and I reach up to tug at my hair as I shake my head, still watching him. There it is. That faint rise and an even smaller fall. I whisper, "You're still breathing…"
Grappling for my phone, I call for an ambulance, barking orders into the phone as I keep trying to shake Sherlock awake. As soon as I hang up, as if on cue, his eyes flutter open and struggle to focus.
"Sherlock! Sherlock, look at me!"
Dazedly, his eyes move to meet mine. They're glazed over, the same way they were when I met him and I can't hold in the sob of fear as I hold his face in my hands.
"Don't fall asleep, Sherlock. Whatever you've done, we're going to fix it. The way we always do. This is not the end."
"Greg."
That croak, that breath of my name, and I realise that for the first time he's gotten it right.
"Yes, yes I'm here. It's me."
"I'm glad you're here." His eyes droop again and I tighten my hold, hearing the wailing of ambulance sirens getting louder as they draw closer.
"Come on, you can't go now. You've just remembered my name." He doesn't react and the ambulance isn't getting here fast enough. "Don't let go, Sherlock. You're not going anywhere. You're staying right here – with me."
I watch as he forces a smile before with a shudder, he goes limp and his eyes roll back into his head. I scream and I hear a gasp from the doorway – Mrs Hudson. I ignore her as I try to steady my shaking hands enough to find a pulse. There's nothing in his wrist and I know I have no hope of finding a pulse in his neck. My hands fall away and I sink to kneel beside him. I look at the bottle and syringes discarded on the floor before I turn back to the body in front of me.
The room fills with activity as the paramedics arrive, one of them pulling me to my feet and into the kitchen while the other takes my place next to Sherlock. I hear the young paramedic's voice but I can't make out what she's saying as I stare aimlessly at the floor.
"Can you tell me your name?"
I vaguely wonder how many times the girl has asked me that question before tears spring back to my eyes.
"Greg," I whisper. "My name's Greg."
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A/N: I'm sorry for any feels I've induced but I hope you like it. It's no "Alone on the Water" but it's my little contribution to our wonderful fandom :) Thank you for reading and I hope you have a wonderful day –Em :)