Little Things:

Chapter 2

TRIGGER WARNING. For self-harm. Please please, if you are hurting or have hurt yourself, get help. Don't leave it, don't think you can conquer the addiction on your own and let it go on. Anonymous, free help is available, text REMEDY to 494949. They will ask for a few basic details but it's anonymous.

There is help, and you can feel better. It will be hard and take time. But you can do it, I promise. You are loved. 3

Little things: eyelashes.

But they could cause a lot of pain when they touched a sensitive place. Or so Molly mumbled when Lestrade caught her with wet cheeks. Surely she couldn't have got eyelashes in both soft brown eyes. 5 months to the day and she still cried. He knew she'd gone with Mrs. Hudson to the grave today. The loss Sherlock left in her heart must have been deep. There weren't words, so Greg just put a hand on her shoulder.

Such a little question from her big heart. "Are you okay?" she asked while looking up worriedly into his weary face. Surely it was an inconsequential fact that he didn't want to answer.

A miniscule thing: the red mark.

Only an eighth of an inch, but it meant something.

He hadn't meant to do it again. The first time had been in a sort of cold rage, after getting yet another notice of one of his cases being reopened. Even the second time could have been called an accident. He was cleaning up glass after all, not surprising that a piece should cut him. But the third time, Greg had no excuse. He meant to do it. And he was afraid. Afraid of himself for the first time in his life.

A small thing: a purple bandage.

It had been left by his nephew on his last visit. It had been a long time ago, when he was in his doctor phase; now Greg wasn't sure what Tommy wanted to be when he grew up. He stuck the bandage on. It looked silly but he didn't care. Nobody at work asked him what he'd done to earn that stupid strip.

Trivial things: sleeve buttons and boxes.

Leaving his sleeves buttoned all the time, even though he liked them rolled up. A box of bandages. But it was the second one in a month, and he avoided eye contact with the cashier.

A tiny thing: the prickle of shame.

It used to be bigger.

Supposed to be better than this. These bandages, they shouldn't be on his arms. This problem was for junkies, dramatic upper class whiners and depressive emo kids in skinny jeans. He was near fifty, for Pete's sake. But the pain drowned out the anguish in his brain. It focused him. Greg didn't try to make excuses any more, he just knew it worked. The pinch of the scissors, the slide of a blade, the slow red ooze, any of it was better than the constant, unvarying thoughts in his head. Pounding through his brain in circular, trudging parade. Sherlock. The roof. Moriarty. Why. Why did he jump. Why. Why didn't you save him? Why. Why.

Just a minor annoyance: the dull pounding headache.

More days than not, it followed him through his day, wearing down his body. The recurring thoughts that maybe he should have done something different. If he had, maybe Sherlock would still be texting him at all hours, instead of leaving him to another endless lonely night.

The slight shimmer of light on his scissors. His slow pulse beating in his slack arms. They came together in a nip of pain. Only a little one.

Small things: teeth.

Apparently he could still feel something. Anger. He thought about how Anderson's would rattle in his head, if he were to whirl and grab him, shake him apart. Just a little more… Push me a little further, Philip….

"Lestrade, please. Shout, do whatever you want, but please just speak to me."

The teeth might clink, red and slimy against the cold white tile. But he couldn't do that. And the worst he could do was turn into the bathroom stall and leave Anderson without a word. He stood seething for a while. No relief at hand. He scratched, frustrated, at the itching trails on his arm, not stopping when the pain, then staining red, seeped and spread.

Too little: the body.

Unfairly small under the white sheet. The person on the morgue table had lived too few years before a car ended him. The tiny face was still and white, as Molly gently brushed fair hair into place. How she managed to infuse some humanity and dignity into her job always amazed Lestrade. She talked professionally of stark details, but her soft hands tucked the little boy in as if putting him to bed. The icy lights gave her a glow like an angel… Greg thought death might not be so bad with such a kind being nearby.

"Good of you to cover the body so carefully. Last thing the parents need is to see ugly black stitches on their kid."

"I like to do what I can…to make it easier. Though I'm not sure if they notice. I suppose there's no way to make something like that less painful."

"I notice."

When the drawer finally shut, the dull click was so small.

Almost without realizing he spoke, he asked quietly, "7 months ago…. When he was here, did you do that for him? Sherlock, I mean. Was he… Did he look peaceful too?"

The angel broke. Molly stood there, her short, slight frame looking even more frail in the baggy lab coat. She stared at him, a look of shock and pain on her face. She turned quickly away, grabbing the morgue counter for support. Greg hated himself for hurting her. Bloody moron, look what you've done. He reached for her, hoping to take it back, hoping a hug would stop the pain in both of their chests. She tensed at his touch but didn't turn. Her voice was cold and hard. "Greg, I can't… I think you should go. Please just go." It felt like she'd kicked him in the stomach. He couldn't even apologize around the lump in his throat as he walked away into the dark.

One tiny thing: the red light on the answering machine.

Lestrade's apartment felt too small. And empty. The little light blinked on and off, there was one message.

The caller rambled for a long minute, but the important part was one tiny word: "…leave." He played it again. Blah blah… bullshit… here it is…"We're putting you on leave. The brass is suspicious now, and you've been distracted and sloppy since the incident. We just need some time for it all to blow over." More bullshit. "Sorry, Lestrade."

Sorry.

Sorry. Ha. Fuck off.

I'm sorry.

All the little things, they weren't little any more. They fused into a vast, writhing, hissing monster that lashed out with vile, viscous tentacles. It flailed and struck, destroying anything breakable. Tables overturned, glass shattered, and Greg's fingers hurt as the last picture of his ex-wife went up in flames.

He screamed against it, but black tentacles reached through his mind, down into his throat. They tightened on his organs. Greg choked on the last breath from his compressed lungs. Water and mucus streamed when he sank to the floor, too tired to fight it any more. The beast slithered away into the night. It left a throbbing void in his chest, and all he wanted was to stop the ache. The familiar bright metal blade. Slashes deeper than ever before. They felt fittingly agonizing as dark red puddles spread quietly away across the kitchen floor.

Greg closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and wandered toward peace.