He was tired, the kind of tired sleep cannot fix anymore.
He has given it his everything, in everything he did.
Being a good kid
A good cop,
A good husband
A good friend
A good lover
In the end he failed all.
He was an average cop, a lesser idiot than the rest if Sherlock was to believed. Then again he is never wrong when it comes to facts.
Just good enough to bring him cases, but not good enough to be more.
"Hell, he doesn't even know my name!"
"Sir, are you alright? " Greg looked up at the bartender. He nodded once.
"I'm fine, just contemplating." The man looked sceptical, but years in the business taught him when to listen, when to talk and when to keep his mouth shut. Looking at the man in front of him he saw a man, broken down by the weight of his emotions, being suffocated by the grief and pain of an unknown source.
"Well I'm here if you want to talk"
"Can I have another whisky? "
With a nod he refilled the glass. The golden liquid hardly had time to be affected by the cold of the ice cubes in the glass before Greg poured it down his throat.
"Cheers mate. "
Tried. He did, he went out of his way to help.
Succeeded? No. Apparently he, and by looking at the evidence and facts, no succeeded was the last thing he did.
Wasn't good enough, unlike John Watson.
Being a husband?
He tried even harder, he was faithful. When thinking back he was actually a bit old school in that regard. Viewed honesty and his vows as one of the most serious promises he ever made.
Didn't do him much good in the end either.
She still cheated. Twice.
Granted he was hardly home, but when he was home, he gave it everything he never had to remind him to take out the trash, or replace light bulb. She would ask, he would jump.
"Trying to make up for being at work so much. "
The bartender looked at Greg again, not commenting but instead just refilled his glass like he asked.
"Thanks. "
This time the liquid had a little more time to get aqaunted with the slowly disappearing ice cubes before making it's way down Greg's throat.
He tried to be a good friend.
To his colleagues, his wife's friends.
To Sherlock, John hell even Mycroft.
Mycroft
Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft.
"No. You don't have enough alcohol in your system to go down that route. "
He looked up at the bartender.
"Another. "
This is the his fourth glass. Dutifully he poured the liquid into the glass. By now only small remnants of the ice remains. It would be gone by the time he drinks it.
"Ta."
Greg swirled the liquid and watched as the ice cubes finally disappears.
He was there before John, he was able to plant the seeds of being clean to Sherlock.
He laid the foundation for the Consulting Detective. But it wasn't enough. He still wasn't good enough.
Years of hard work and dedication disappearing like his ice cubes in the whisky glass.
Back before the hiatus or death of Sherlock he put his job on the line and called John to warn them.
It wasn't good enough.
John and Sherlock became wanted.
Sherlock jumped.
John was the one to fall into depression and resentment.
He practically blamed Greg, but Mycroft first. Him second.
For months there was no contact, not beers down the pub.
It wasn't needed.
Greg wasn't good enough anymore to listen to the rambles of Baker street.
There was no rambles.
Even now things are different.
They will probably never be as close as they used to.
Besides he's with Mycroft, so it is us against them.
If only he knew that it was actually them all against Greg.
Because he wasn't good enough to be trusted, he was a cop.
He wasn't good enough to know about Mary.
He wasn't good enough to know about Magnussen.
He wasn't good enough to say goodbye as Sherlock went on his mission.
He did try to talk to the man, but yet again his opinion, his caring and emotions were thrown back into his face.
"Last one. "
He looked towards the bartender and pushed his glass a little way.
The bartender walked over and poured another glass of whisky.
"More ice?"
"Nah."
Pushing the glass back to Greg he walked away to help someone else.
Greg took the glass in his hand and with one gulp swallowed the whole lot down.
He stood up, a little unsteady but still able to walk straight. Putting some money on the counter he walked out.
The cold weather was welcome on his face and the light rain, very welcome considering he feels like crying any moment.
He started walking home and his eyes caught the edge of the camera.
Mycroft.
Bloody hell, did he loved that man.
That beautiful, extravagant, stylish and mysterious man. How they ever got together is still a mystery and unsolved case to him.
A cold case now.
Like the weather.
Like his heart.
He tried, heaven know he tried. He sacrificed, he stood back. He accepted that he wasn't smart enough, wasn't cleared to know the things he did. With all of this he stil tried to support whenever he could.
Until the fight.
Let no man said that the Holmes men know how to hit exactly where it would hurt the most.
Without physically attacking but with a few tongue lashing words he was brought down to nothing but a failure.
He took out his phone, looking at his messages.
One from John.
"Listen. I'm sorry about you and Mycroft, but i have to think about my marriage and the baby on the way. I can't get involved.
See you around. JW"
One from Sherlock
"Sentiment.
Even though not as smart or as brilliant as me or my brother even you should have had more common sense to know it would never have lasted. Did you really thought you could change my brother? He lives by his beliefs. Caring is not an advantage. SH"
One from Mycroft
"I've made arrangements for your things to be delivered back at your flat, anything related to me me to be taken. No further contact will be made.
My apologies. MH"
Everything he ever did, is falling apart and in all honesty he is tired.
Tired of fighting.
Tired of trying
Tired of not being good enough.
He made up his mind.
The moment he got home he made arrangements, he contacted his landlord to end his contract, as re compensation he could keep all the furniture. He loaded all of his clothes and shoes, as well as the food in his kitchen and dropped it off at a homeless centre. He might not be good enough, for the people he loved, but may be for a stranger.
After calling in for two weeks emergency leave he is officially prepared.
The bottle of pills is lying next to him on his bed. The cupboards and flat stripped bare of anything personal. Clothes and shoes all gone, except those his wearing. Fridge and kitchen empty of food. Just the furniture. No photos, no collector items, no books, dvds, all gone.
Besides the man lying on the bed with his gun and badge on the bedside the place is cold and barren.
He took the bottle of whisky and swallowed a couple pills.
He picked up his phone.
Opened his messages he went to the third one, the one from John. He hit reply;
"I've known. You shot the cabbie. You lied back at the pool about Moriaty, you purposefully decked the chief to get arrested. I know Mary was the one to shot Sherlock. Your loyalty to Sherlock is astounding. I've tried John. Even Mycroft. To get him clean, to be there, but I wasn't you. I've tried to make good, to be there, to help him. To be a friend. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough. GL"
Wiping a few tears he swallowed a few more pills.
Moving on to the next message, the one from Sherlock.
"From the first time I met you and your brother my life has changed so much. You're one of the most brilliant and amazing man I've ever met, and owe you so much.
I've tried to be good enough to be there for you, to help you and I wasn't. I'm sorry.
You come so far from the junkie I picked up on the street. So many times I've put my job and name on the line cause I believed in you.
I love your brother, so much. I didn't think I was good enough for someone like him, you only confirmed that, I did thought that I might have been good enough to try.
I'm sorry I wasn't good enough, but don't worry, you won't have to put up with this idiot any longer. Take care. GL"
Not even trying to stop the tears he swallowed the last few pills. He put the empty holder next to his badge and gun.
Drinking a few more of the whisky he laid back against the headboard. One more to go. He could already feel the effects of the pills.
He opened the last message.
"Not sure if you're going to read this or even find this.
I just wanted to let you know that I love you. Always will. And I'm sorry I wasn't good enough for someone like you. Love always.
PS. I won't bother you again, and please keep an eye on Sherlock. I wish I could hear your voice one last time, we'll won't matter soon. GL"
All done, he drank the last few drops of the whisky, without a care he dropped the bottle on the floor. He put his phone next to him on the pillow, he was to weak to stretch out to table.
He could feel himself becoming ligher.
He cried.
From a distant he could hear his phone alert to a message.
Another beep.
Another beep.
Last thing he heard was his phone ringing.
It went to voice mail.
