Disclaimer: Sherlock, along with its characters, locations, etc. are the property of BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn't mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch.

Summary: Just a little fic that focuses on Lestrade. Starts with him showing up at the scene of The Fall and comforting John, followed by him reprimanding Sherlock for leaving John. Third chapter will take place after TFP. Hurt/comfort, friendship, angst. Rated T for mentions of suicide, faked or otherwise, and language.

A/N: I absolutely love Lestrade. I think he is a fantastic character who is very underappreciated. I also think Rupert Graves is the spot-on actor to play him, so it's a perfect storm. This is basically a Lestrade appreciation fic.

….

Detective Inspector

Chapter 1

….

John was sitting on the sidewalk, in utter shock from what had happened. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. John's best friend.

Dead.

He kept replaying Sherlock's "note" over and over inside his head, wondering if there was anything that he could have done. He thought about everything that had happened in the last few days, questioning if there were signs that he hadn't seen, things that Sherlock had said or done that could have hinted at a death wish.

John sat next to the pool of blood on the pavement, staring at the spot where Sherlock had fallen as the EMTs loaded his body onto a gurney. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes as he thought about how this might be the last time that he would ever see his best friend.

He would never again walk into the flat to obnoxious smells and sounds from Sherlock's absurd science experiments. Never again hear the consulting detective playing his violin at three in the morning, because God forbid he ever sleep. Never again yell at him for shooting the wall or smoking in the house because he was so bloody bored. Never again reprimand that ridiculous man for never eating or drinking any water, saying that he would wither away into nothing unless he ate something, Goddamn it!

John would never again chase after Sherlock as he ran through the streets of London, flushed and out of breath but feeling so alive. Never hear him rattle off deductions at the speed of light, flustering every client and detective but sounding so brilliant. Never again see him smile, or hear his deep laugh after someone said something stupid, or John said something funny. Never see those dark curls fly as Sherlock ran to swing his ridiculous coat around his shoulders and tie his scarf around his neck, the excitement of a new case or new evidence apparent in every inch of his face. Never again see him "with your cheekbones, and turning up your coat collar so you look cool."

A tear rolled down John's face as he thought of that memory from the Baskerville case, realizing that his best friend truly was gone forever.

….

Just then, Lestrade walked up to the scene, his eyes darting from John to the blood to Sherlock's body being whisked away into an ambulance. Realizing what had happened, and what they had just lost.

What John had just lost.

"Oh my God, no." Lestrade muttered. "No, no, no, no, this can't be happening. Sherlock can't be…" he walked over to John, noticing how he hadn't moved, despite the pool of blood coming closer to soaking into his jeans. "John, bloody hell, what happened?"

John didn't answer the Detective Inspector, still staring at the pool of blood on the sidewalk.

Lestrade crouched down next to him and touched his shoulder lightly. "Look at me." He didn't. "John, please."

So, John turned, and Lestrade had to fight every urge in his body not to reach out and hug his friend, because the doctor had tears in his eyes, and a few that had fallen and left tracks on his face. However, he realized that John's eyes were wide with shock, and all color had drained from his face, making Lestrade realize that his friend was about to have a panic attack.

"Alright, you need to get up." Lestrade stood from where he had been crouching, grabbing John's hand and hoisting him up alongside him. He dragged the doctor roughly away from the scene and the pooled blood, pushing him up against the wall of St. Bart's.

"Okay, mate, you need to breathe." He ordered. He put both of his hands John's shoulders, forcing the shorter man to look into his eyes. When that didn't work, Lestrade forcibly grabbed one of his hands and pressed it against his chest, right over his heart, and started to breath slowly and evenly. "Copy me, John. Follow my breathing pattern." He kept breathing steadily, and eventually John calmed down enough to breathe normally.

But that also meant that he was thinking, more or less, rationally.

"Greg, oh my God, oh my…" John gasped and slumped back against the wall, tears falling freely from his eyes. "Greg, he's…he's…" John let out a sob, making Lestrade use the hand that he still had on the doctor's shoulder to pull him forward into his chest. He used his body to shield John from the pedestrians that were giving them odd looks as they walked by. Everything seemed to have already been forgotten. Everything was back to normal, except for the friends of the Great Sherlock Holmes.

Right now, John needed to grieve without people staring at him. And Lestrade felt obligated to be there for him and protect him from the gossip that was bound to arise from this tragedy.

Lestrade wrapped both of his arms firmly around John's shoulders, hiding the doctor's face, which was pressed into his chest, with the crook of his arm.

He felt John's shaking arms snake around his back, and he briefly tightened his grip to let the doctor know that he needn't worry about being judged. Not by him.

Lestrade refused to even think about Sherlock. Not when John needed him. He didn't want to think about the first time that the consulting detective had brought his new friend to a crime scene. How he had prattled on about how the dead woman had recently travelled from out of town, had a job in the media, was serial adulterer, how she had a missing overnight suitcase, and how "of course she was writing 'Rachel!'" How his eyes lit up just a bit when John said he was brilliant.

He refused to think about how many times Sherlock had saved his ass, and how many times he should have saved his. How many times had Donovan or Anderson insulted and belittled the detective? How many times could Lestrade have stopped the bullying, and given Sherlock just a small moment of reprieve? Sherlock wasn't an easy man to get along with, but he certainly deserved better that the shit that those two idiots dished out on him every day, despite how hard he worked to help them.

No, he wasn't a fraud. No one could fake being Sherlock Holmes all the time. If he was a fake, he wouldn't have been able to take the bullying he had to endure, or solve as many bloody homicides as he had.

And so, Lestrade had failed his friend.

The Detective Inspector felt tears swimming in his eyes as he held onto John, who was weeping into his chest.

If only he hadn't listened to Donovan and Anderson. If only he had believed in his friend, who he had never doubted before. If only he had listened, and been there to try to talk Sherlock down from the ledge, instead of sifting through all of the case files that the brilliant man had worked on because of the bloody Chief Superintendent.

He had failed Sherlock.

He wasn't going to fail John.

He continued to hold onto John until he calmed down and pushed away from the detective, wiping at his face and muttering a strong of apologies.

"Please, John. Don't apologize to me. After what just…don't apologize. And if you need anything, anything, I want you to call me. No matter what. I don't care if I'm in the middle of a meeting, or it's four in the morning and I'm trying to sleep. If you need to talk to someone, I'll be there. I mean it."

John nodded, though Lestrade could tell that he didn't intend to call.

"John, look at me." Lestrade commanded. "I know we aren't close friends, but I want to be. Sh- he was my friend too, John. I want to be there for you like I couldn't be for him. I don't have many friends, and I want to help the few that I have. So, please, call me if you need me."

And this time, when John nodded, Lestrade could tell that he'd gotten through. Yes, Sherlock Holmes may have died, but maybe the Detective Inspector could ensure that the best friend he left behind would be alright after all.