AN: This is just a quick piece of fic that I wrote after rewatching Reichenbach. Hope you enjoy.
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The clink of ice in his glass brought Greg's thoughts back to the noisy pub he'd crawled into after a hellishly long night. They'd been on the street until well after dark with the Holmes suicide, and then he'd spent several hours writing reports, consoling Molly, and trying to decide how he was going to deal with the night.
He hadn't wanted to go home, there wasn't anyone there to talk to - not that Greg felt like talking. He'd done enough talking over the past week. Hell, he'd done enough in the past six hours to last an entire week.
The story would be in the papers tomorrow he supposed, motioning for the bartender to refill his drink. Sherlock Holmes, brilliant fraud. He rubbed his hands over his face and took a long drink of his scotch.
There'd be an internal investigation on him. Internal affairs would want to know if he'd ever suspected. They'd want to know if he had known. Truthfully, he hadn't and he'd never suspected. He'd left the skepticism up to Donovan and Anderson. Donovan had always said Sherlock would be the one to put a body some place eventually. Lestrade could almost see the poetic irony even now.
What if he'd listened to her? What if he'd looked harder into Sherlock's past? What if he'd... He stopped. There would be hundreds of what ifs. John Watson would have hundreds more. Lestrade had seen the grief and anguish in the doctor's face.
He finished the scotch in his glass and left money on the bar to pay for it. He would deal with the what ifs and the press tomorrow. For now, he needed to figure out how he was going to stop feeling so guilty about the whole thing.
