Stop All The Clocks

…

"SHERLOCK"

As pathetic as it sounded, Greg Lestrade would always say he felt the yell before he heard it. The pain and the clawing desperation. What made it worse was he recognised the voice it came from.

John Watson.

It wasn't the sort of sound one expected to hear from John Watson. Not that John was unemotional. John was often described as the heart of the duo, with Sherlock as the brains. Not that John was stupid; he was a doctor after all.

John with his cuddly jumpers and easy laugh, his quiet words that always seemed to be able to bring Sherlock (what had happened to Sherlock to make John yell like that?) to heel when Sherlock had done something particularly … Sherlock. His anger when his friends were hurt, or when injustice was wrought. That was John.

But John had been a soldier. He had learnt to cope with loss. Seen the horrific deaths of friends and had to push them aside to deal with and grieve later. To get on with the job at hand. He had fought a war and survived.

This, this was none of those things. This was a John Watson that was broken, and so Greg Lestrade ran like a man demented, flashing his warrant card as an excuse and apology when he barrelled into passersby, dreading what he would find.

There was a greedy crowd, eager for a story. A crowd all gathered around a body, pooling in thick, red blood. Even from the distance the matted, curly black hair was unmistakeable, and the coat … how Sherlock always loved to flounce.

But they were whispering 'suicide' in their excited little voices; those curious parasites (Lestrade resisted the urge to punch each and every one of them) and Lestrade knew that couldn't be right. Sherlock would never take his own life, would he? He was much too proud.

"Let me through, I'm his friend … I'm his friend!"

Rising at the end in despair the lost, confused, heartbroken voice of John broke through and Lestrade snapped out of his thoughts, and he remembered why he came in the first place. Give all that is due to Sherlock, to Sherlock, but it was John that needed him.

Greg watched John take Sherlock's pulse, ever the brilliant doctor, then collapse under the weight of his grief. What had once contained the most dazzling mind he had ever seen, that both of them had ever seen, was now just a lifeless vessel. Greg caught John as he collapsed and gently pulled him away from the crowd. John barely noticed. Greg recognised all the usual signs of shock. He was barely coping himself.

He definitely wouldn't be able to treat this as any other case.

John ended up staying in Greg's flat. Greg wanted to keep an eye on John, though he never mentioned this to John. The man still had some pride after all, but there could be no doubt that John was crumbling. John also refused to return to Baker Street just yet he kept saying, there're too many memories to go back just yet. Greg understood, he'd waited months before he'd managed to clear out his brother's things.

It was funny how things worked out. Almost six years ago he had rescued one drug addled kid, made a deal with him. If Lestrade gave him puzzles to play with, then the kid would give up the drugs. The kid was Sherlock Holmes.

The kid had grown up and kept his promise. Along the way Sherlock had met John Watson, a washed up army doctor. Both were in need of cheap accommodation. Purely without meaning to, Lestrade was sure, Sherlock had given John meaning in life once more, and John had given Sherlock a heart, and so had begun a friendship that would define them both.

And now this had happened, and it was once again up to Greg Lestrade to salvage what seemed unsalvageable. But John slowly improved. He would never again reach the manic energy he had when he raced around with Sherlock, but he could live. Greg supposed he would have to count that as a success.

…

Sherlock stood out of sight and watched, though he knew he wasn't supposed to. He had a job to do. A crime organisation to destroy. But he watched. He watched his best friend, his only real friend's heart break and felt the heart he once claimed he didn't have, burn, knowing John's pain was his fault.

He turned and walked away.

…

The title comes from the poem Stop All The Clocks by W.. I'd seriously recommend you check it out if you don't know it. It's one of my favourite poems ever.