It started with a gunshot.

Mycroft's phone rang. His personal phone. The one only a handful of people knew the number to. It was Sherlock. Lestrade was dead.

He went to the morgue with his younger brother. He stood in silence as the mousy young woman pulled away the sterile white sheet. The man looked almost asleep; his body unscathed save for the congealed blood at his temple and the light bruise on his collarbone. The first mark caused him grief. The second broke his heart.

Lestrade had been shot in the head.

He had also been Mycroft's lover.

He heard a fond chuckle in his office a few days later from the leather coach across from his desk.

The room was empty.

Mycroft read about it in the papers. He couldn't bring himself to read much. The DI had been on an undercover mission that the paper wasn't allowed to talk about. Mycroft knew all about the mission. It was under his jurisdiction, but he hadn't known it was Lestrade. He hadn't been allowed to know until the mission was completed in case he was captured and interrogated. He would have never let it happen if he had.

The older Holmes sat at his long table, his hands steeple over his lips, a glass of whiskey to the side. Someone made a sharp but affectionate remark with flirtatious quirk of an eyebrow from across the table as he looked up.

Mycroft was dining alone.

He covered his face with his hands.

A careful smile.

A flash of teeth.

A twinkling eye.

Mycroft tried pushing them away.

It didn't work.

Sometimes, he'd think he'd hear something and reply without a second thought, making his usual witty comebacks. That always earned him a smile that wasn't there.

Sometimes he'd just walk away.

He'd walk into his bedroom, after a late day at work, and catch a glimpse of a pout, arms crossed, hands tucked under armpits for warmth. He never slept those nights.

He was invited to a Christmas party.

It all went downhill when he accidentally asked when Lestrade was getting there only to find himself hurting in an awkward silence. He hadn't been thinking. He promptly left after thinking he saw someone he recognized pull up out the window.

Months passed and Sherlock was beginning to worry. In his own way. John would look at the stone cold lack of emotion on his face and frown.

They both looked at him sharply when he said something out of the blue on one visit. It sounded like he was concluding a conversation.

That night, he entered his room to almost seeing the man he loved reading a book in bed. The bed was empty. Mycroft sat down on the bed and closed his eyes, breathing out slowly.

He opened his phone and dialed his brother's number, setting it up so it would go straight to voicemail. He gripped the device, letting a burning tear roll down his cheek.

"I'm sorry," was all he said.

The pistol Greg had left behind was still in the nightstand drawer.

It ended with a gunshot.


Sorry for the heartbreak. I do not own Sherlock and all related characters.

Based off the youtube video "Echo | Mycroft+Lestrade | Sherlock BBC [Mystrade]" by Duchesscloverly

Reviews are always welcome.