Dimmock lay supine on the old, decrepit sofa, one forearm shielding his eyes from the cold, sharp rays of morning sun that cut through the broken blinds. He wasn't asleep. He wished he was. He wished he could fall asleep and never wake up.

The world, it seemed, had other plans for him.

He heard the sound of a key in the lock. This should have surprised him. Worried him, even. But right now he simply didn't care and thus made no move even when the door opened.

"Who the hell are you!?" a woman's voice shouted. Dimmock heard the sound of items dropping. The thought of helping her pick up whatever had fallen didn't even occur to him, especially since he recognised that voice.

"If you'd stayed with Greg, you'd know exactly who I am," he retorted testily. He could practically feel the woman bristle at his words.

"You're not that blasted Sherlock Holmes, are you?" the woman snarked, picking up her things. "Because I read in the papers that he died. Then again, considering he's such a fraud, I wouldn't be surprised if he were alive and admiring his handiwork."

If Dimmock weren't so tired, he'd be up and yelling at this piss-poor excuse for a human being. As it were, he glared from beneath the forearm that still covered his closed eyes.

"Sherlock was not a fake. Sherlock was brilliant, far more than someone like you would ever know."

"Someone like me!? Well I never!" The voice rapidly approached the sofa. Again, he could feel the irritation radiating from her. "Get out of my flat!"

Dimmock's jaw tightened, but he still made no move other than to speak.

"Your flat, Mrs Lestrade? Or should I say Mrs Parrington?" His tone was cold, biting. "I beg to differ. If you'd read the papers properly, you forfeited all rights to this place the moment you divorced Gregory Lestrade. No, Mrs Parrington, this flat is not yours."

"And you're saying it's yours?"

"Why else would I be here?"

"What makes you have more right to be here than me?" Mrs Parrington hissed.

Dimmock had had enough. He suddenly sat up and glared at the woman. She backed away instantly. The seething bitterness and fury at her, the world, everything, suddenly rose to the surface. She probably didn't deserve his wrath, but right now he didn't care.

"What makes me-" He was so incensed that for a few moments there were no words. His all-too-pale face suddenly became livid. "Maybe because I never betrayed him no matter what he did! Maybe because I didn't care that Sherlock Holmes was always, always, going to be more important than me no matter what I did! Maybe because I stuck with him through thick and thin! Maybe because I was the first one there after he- he-"

Dimmock's jaw worked furiously as he tried not to spontaneously combust. Then as suddenly as the rage came, it disappeared, leaving him more cold and empty than he had felt since Ryan had been killed.

"Out."

The woman formerly known as Mrs Lestrade quickly picked up her things and left the house, slamming the door behind her. No doubt she'd call the police as soon as she could properly dial. He didn't care. He didn't care about anything anymore because there was nothing left worth caring about.

People had called him crazy for staying with Lestrade after Sherlock fell- jumped. The man was just a shell of his former self, yet Dimmock had not once left his side. Not emotionally, anyway. Some days Lestrade wouldn't let Iain anywhere near him, and that was okay as long as the silver-haired man had at least known that the brunette was only a text away. They told had Dimmock that Lestrade wasn't worth it- after all, he barely paid attention to the so-called son that was still alive, instead mourning for the long-dead, undeserving 'son' that had stabbed him in the back and left him to clean up the mess.

Six months later, they didn't believe Dimmock when he had insisted it was a homicide, not a suicide, even if he was a Detective Inspector. They told him he was too "emotionally involved" and took him off the case. They had tried to comfort him, tried to get him to see the truth, but Iain wouldn't have it. His best friend, his father figure, his hero, would never do such a thing. Never.

When Gregson had said he'd seen it coming, it'd only been a matter of time, Dimmock had proceeded to bloody up the other man so badly that it'd taken four other officers to drag him away and several hundred pounds' worth to stitch him up and set all the broken bones. After that Iain had been suspended. If he was lucky, they said, they might demote him and let him back in. Dimmock had spit in the direction New Scotland Yard at the thought. He was never going back there. There was nothing left for him there. There was nothing anywhere for him anymore.

Two days later when Anderson had come up to check on Iain- despite everything, they were still friends, after all- he found Dimmock on the couch asleep with his forearm over his eyes and a note on the coffee table. Anderson picked it up and sighed.

This is a suicide, you bastards.

Subtext- Get it right next time.