Greg reached down to retrieve the ringing phone from his kitchen table. He glanced at the display screen and saw that John was calling. He tapped the 'answer' key with his thumb and held the phone to his ear.
"Lestrade," he answered, taking a bite of his dinner.
"Greg. Greg, I don't know what to do," John sputtered, stopping Lestrade with another forkful of food halfway to his mouth. He could hear the heavy breathing that followed sobbing.
"What is it? What's wrong?" Greg asked his friend, concern etched into his words.
"Everything is wrong. Sherlock is gone," came the reply on the other end. Greg took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Oh, John, he thought. Sherlock's death had been hard on a lot of people, but it had been the hardest on John. He was, after all, the one who knew Sherlock best.
"John, calm dow-," Greg began, but was cut off.
"Why did he leave me? How could he do that?" John almost screamed into the phone. The next line came out much softer, "I just don't understand."
"This probably isn't something to talk about over the phone. Want me to come over?" Lestrade drummed his fingers on the mahogany table, hoping John would agree.
"You won't make it here in time," the younger man replied. The words struck Lestrade with a clean dose of realization and horror.
"John, you're not- No. Just wait until I get there, yeah? Don't do anything stupid. Please," Greg quickly said, pushing out his chair to stand up. He grabbed his keys and jacket and hurried to the front door.
"It's too late. I'm sorry. Really, I am. You were a great friend," John said sincerely. No, no, no, this isn't happening, thought Lestrade as he fumbled with his keys to lock the door behind him.
"I'm coming now. What did you do, John?" Greg asked, attempting to keep an even voice. He bounded down the steps of his building and threw the car door open. "Tell me."
"Took some pills, is all. I'll be sleeping soon. I'll see Sherlock again," John's words became slightly slurred; no doubt an effect of the sleeping pills. Lestrade pushed the EMERGENCY button on his beeper to signal for an ambulance followed by one word. John. He knew that Donovan would understand.
"I called an ambulance and they're on their way. You idiot, why would you do that?" Lestrade said almost furiously as he navigated his way through London traffic. You're not backing out on me now. The world's already lost one great man, there's no need to rob it of another.
"Had to. He's Sherlock. Can't be on his own for too long, you know him," the sentences began to come out as fragments.
"I'm down the street and I'm coming in whether you want me to or not," Greg hit the gas when he caught sight of Baker Street. He could hear the sirens of the ambulance in the distance.
John continued to slur into the phone. "Not much longer now. So tired," Greg listened to his friend's rambling, beginning to panic as it became less and less coherent. "I love him. D'd you know?"
Greg absently replied, because of course he knew. "I had a thought, yes." He paused and then added, "He wouldn't want you to do this, you know."
"He wouldn't care. Never cared. That was him," John's voice grew faint.
Greg parallel parked outside of the flat. "He cared about you, John! He wouldn't want you dead because of him, you know that."
"No. I thought I knew him, I really did. I suppose not," there was a thud that implied John had either bumped into some furniture or fallen down.
"I'm here, and I'm prepared to break the door down," Greg parked outside the Baker Street flat and let himself in, taking the steps two at a time. When he reached the door with the familiar 221B sign, he found it locked. "John?" He said into the phone.
"Goodbye, Greg," John replied.
"Don't you fucking dare," Lestrade commanded, but he knew it was no use. It was times like these when his police training proved useful. He tossed the phone into his coat pocket and kicked the door in with all his strength. It fell off its hinges and crashed to the floor, allowing him entrance. He frantically scanned the flat for a sign of his friend. On the coffee table he saw that an empty orange pill bottle was tipped on its side, and the knick-knacks that usually sat on the mantle were sprawled on the floor. He finally found John on the floor of Sherlock's room.
Lestrade knelt down and pulled John into his arms. "John?" He said hopefully, but the man's eyes remained closed. He grasped the body more tightly and felt the tears form at the corners of his eyes. A moment later, the paramedics entered the apartment. One of the men pulled Greg away as the other two placed John's body onto a stretcher. Greg stood sobbing in the empty flat that had once belonged to his two best friends, the two greatest men he had ever known.