Chapter Three – The Process of Death and Grieving

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Eight years of service came and went for John and Sherlock in the proverbial blink of an eye. From 2005 to the middle of 2009, they took more and longer deployments in Afghanistan, set into the thick of the hot action as the violence picked up. They managed to stay out of trouble fairly effectively, and continued to call and write home whenever they had time and it was calm enough to put pen to paper or pick up a phone. But the uneasy routine was disrupted one afternoon while John and Sherlock were out on patrol with half of their squad.

Ten men out on patrol, two senior officers leading the way. They handed out water and food at a local village friendly to the Allied forces trying to drive out the insurgents and bring some sort of peace to the war-ravaged Middle East. On their way back to base, they came under attack as a group of insurgents launched an ambush. They were pinned down two miles from the village and six miles from base, calls went out for air-support and assistance, but by the time anyone reached them, from the village or the base, ten men were dead. At least, that's what the commanding officers thought, that's what the newspapers and families back home were told. For two of those ten unfortunates, that wasn't entirely true.

As the cries of the wounded and dying faded, and the insurgents patrolled the bodies looking for survivors, John Watson remained absolutely still. He knew exactly where Sherlock Holmes was, two feet to his right. He knew Sherlock was alive. The sand beneath John was soaked, turned red as he bled out. He had taken a bullet to the shoulder, Sherlock had tried to tend him before being knocked out by a close blow to the head. The bullet had grazed the side of his friend's neck, but Sherlock would survive. If help came, that was. He wouldn't, but what was so bad about dying for your country and friends? Footsteps came down the path and John closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against a groan. His head was spinning, but he was still aware enough to recognize not only the tread, but the voice. Overhead, not four feet away, the leader of the insurgents spoke to whoever had arrived just now. They spoke Kurdish. Not that surprising, but not a language he would have expected to hear out here in the Afghanistan desert.

(("Eighteen are dead already, sir. There are two still living.")) The ring-leader said, (("Shall we take prisoners?"))

(("No. Who's still alive?")) Oh yes, he recognized that voice. John forced his eyes open and looked over at Sherlock, who reached for him.

"It's Moran!" Sherlock whispered. John blinked to acknowledge, it was all he could do. "Don't move!"

(("Their commanders."))

(("Ah. Yes, of course.")) Sebastian Moran chuckled and circled the two of them, "John Hamish Watson and William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Two of our best and brightest." John clenched his teeth and wished he had enough strength to say something. "What a pity, you held so much promise."

(("What should we do with them, sir?"))

(("I think it's time to send a message.")) Moran stood over them, eyes alight with a fire that terrified John. He felt Sherlock's fingers twitch in his hand. (("Don't worry about Watson, he's as good as dead anyway. My compliments to your man for that shot, rivalled our best. Rivaled Watson, even."))

(("And his friend?"))

(("Won't be a problem.")) John winced as Moran kicked him in the side, judging his nearness to complete, permanent oblivion, (("If he survives this."))

(("What about us, sir? My men and I?"))

(("You can disappear. This will not come back to any of us. This is just another ambush."))

There was a shuffle as the insurgents disappeared into the desert much the same way they had appeared, leaving eighteen dead soldiers and two close enough. John realized that this whole thing had been set up by Moran, but...why? If they pulled through this somehow, he'd have to sit down with Sherlock and go back over the gruesome details of this day. Moran was so sure John was as good as dead, and now he was going to kill Sherlock. Oh god, no!

"You two are pathetically loyal to each other even at the end. It's almost sweet." Moran chuckled, and John heard the click as he cocked his weapon, "Give my regards to your brother, Captain Holmes. See you in the next life." John was half-laying on Sherlock's arm at this point and holding on for dear life. Not Sherlock, please god. The last thing John remembered was the sharp crack of Moran's weapon, the full-body jerk, as Sherlock was shot like a wounded dog in the street. He had failed, for once in his life, John Watson had failed. Ten people were dead, he was one of them, because he had followed orders against the niggling little voice of reason in the back of his head that screamed at him to go home another way that day, to take another path. But he'd gone home on the same route they had taken so many times before without any problems, believing that he and his men were safe. His best friend was dead because of him, and that just wasn't something he could handle.

Give me a second chance to bring Moran to justice. That's all I want. Let me get restitution for my men, let me avenge Sherlock. Please, just…don't let this be my last legacy. God, please give me another chance. Just one chance to make things right. Don't let this be in vain for my guys, they've fought too long and too hard for this to be forgotten.

John shouldn't have worried about second chances. He and Sherlock were about to get the mother of all second chances, they just didn't know it.

John Watson died in the deserts of Afghanistan with nine of his men, targeted by one of his own commanding officers, his family found out the next day. It was a Saturday, which Greg Lestrade would recall very clearly a few months later. It was about ten o'clock in the morning when an otherwise unremarkable, quiet morning was interrupted by a sharp, loud knock on the door.

"Were we expecting anyone?" Mycroft Holmes looked up from his reading at the sound. Greg shook his head.

"I don't think so. If it was work for either of us, they would have called." He shoved to his feet and padded to the front door. He checked the peep-hole first and frowned. A man in dress-uniform stood outside on the stoop. "Huh." Pulling open the door but not sliding off the chain, he peered out of the house, "Can I help you, sir?"

"Yes, is this the residence of Mycroft Holmes?"

"It is. What do you want with him?"

"My name is Sebastian Moran." The man pulled off his cap and tucked it under one arm, smoothing his hair with one hand, "I have news about John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Who are you?"

"I'm Greg Lestrade. His husband. What happened to the boys?"

"May I come in, sir?"

"Of course." He unlatched the door and held it open, "Are they alright?"

"I'm afraid not." Moran stepped into the house and Greg shut the door. Something had happened to John and Sherlock, something bad. Deep in his gut, he knew the boys were dead.

"When did it happen?" He blocked Moran's way, "How?"

"It was an ambush, they had no chance. No help could get there fast enough."

"Jesus Christ." He raked one hand through his hair, "Shit."

"I'm very sorry, Mr Lestrade." Moran touched his arm, "Were you very close?"

"Of course I was!" He felt a tightness in his chest and pressed a hand to his lips, "Oh my god." He returned to the sitting-room with Moran in tow, and as soon as he got to the couch, Mycroft was already on his feet. He knew something was wrong, and as soon as he spotted Moran, he knew exactly what.

"Gregory." Mycroft held out one hand to Greg, who went straight to his side. "It's alright."

"No! They're gone, Myc! Dead!"

"You were their commanding officer in Afghanistan." Mycroft held Greg while he broke down, addressing Moran, "The boys spoke of you often."

"Ours was not the smoothest relationship, but I appreciated their diligence and skills." Moran stood stiffly before them, "Major Watson and Captain Holmes were on patrol with eight of their men when they were pinned by enemy fire. There were no survivors. We're having the bodies shipped home on the next transport. There is no time for you to go out to escort them unless you'd like to meet the transport in Germany."

"They'll have to pass through Dusseldorf International Airport." Mycroft was calm, despite the tears, "We'll meet them there. It's the least I can do for the boys. When will they make landfall in Dusseldorf?"

"The transport will make landfall this afternoon."

"What time is it, My?" Greg raised his head, "I'm meeting that plane if it kills me!"

"It's noon. The flight should be landing at three pm." Mycroft looked at Moran, "Thank you, Colonel, for your efforts."

"I'm sorry we couldn't bring the boys home alive, they were damn heroes in their own rights. I'm so very sorry I had to give you this bad news, Mr Holmes, but I figured I owed you the news in person." Moran offered a stiff nod, "My deepest condolences to you and your families. Good day to you both." From a pocket, he pulled a cloth pouch that he set down on the coffee table. Greg got up, picked up the pouch, and saw Moran out. As soon as the door was locked, he sank against the door, slid to the floor, and sat there, holding onto the only pieces he had left of John and Sherlock.

Opening the pouch, he found their identification tags. Shaking so hard his teeth rattled, and glad it was a Saturday and he hadn't been called into work, he pulled off the secondary tags and switched them so that each set had one each of John's tags and Sherlock's tags on the same chain. Without wasting a minute more, he slid the chain of one set over his head and tucked them under his shirt, closing his hands around the cool metal discs under his clothes. He gave Mycroft the other set of tags, looping the chain over his husband's head without a word. Fetching a glass of water from the kitchen, he set the kettle on to fix tea. It reminded him of John, and he sat on the counter, wishing for another chance to see the boys together, to kiss John, to hold Sherlock, to tell the boys how much he loved them, and hating that the chances of the future had been taken away from him. When the tea was ready, he gave Mycroft one cup and they sat in silence.

"It was Moran, you know." He muttered, "Don't ask me how I know, I just…I know it was him."

"The boys never liked him, did they?"

"They never trusted him." He held the warm cup between his hands, "Oh, Christ, Mycroft, what are we going to do?!"

"Wait for the boys to come home." Mycroft hugged him. Greg sipped the tea carefully.

"You know, this is John's whole thing right here." He murmured.

"He always knew what blend, how much sugar or milk, based on your mood." Mycroft sighed, "Have you told the girls yet?"

"No, I'm not making a phone-call for something that important. This is going to break Sally's heart, you know?"

"And Doctor Hooper's." Mycroft took his hand, "Do you want company?"

"Are you kidding me?! I'm not walking in there alone!" He shook his head and gulped down the rest of his tea, "We've got a flight to catch in two hours, let's go." Setting their empty cups in the sink, Mycroft summoned a car and they drove down to New Scotland Yard. The division offices were quiet, most people were at home on the weekend, and those few who had come into work sat at their desks in silence. Had word reached them already? How? Greg didn't see Sally at her desk and staked out Jackie Billingsley's office. The television was on, a news-piece on the ambush was featured in a headline-scroll and in the broadcast itself.

"That's why it's so quiet here," Mycroft whispered. Greg nodded, wiped his hands on his denims, and knocked on the door. Sally, Jackie, and Susan were all gathered inside, watching the news. When he knocked, all three women reacted with acceptable violence.

"Greg! What are you doing here?!" Jackie was halfway to her feet, "Christ, you look like hell! Have you seen the news?"

"It's worse than that, Jackie." He pulled the tags over his head and held them out, "No survivors." As he had expected, Sally went to pieces. She had been hoping that John and Sherlock had once again outwitted the odds. No luck this time.

"I'm so sorry, my love." He gave the tags to Sally and pulled her into his arms.

"They were just kids!" Susan was absolutely beside herself, "What now?"

"Arrangements have been made and we're flying out to Dusseldorf to meet the plane." Mycroft swung his brolly, "We'll bring the boys home."

"Have you told Molly yet?"

"No, she's our next stop." Greg rubbed the heel of his hand against his jaw, his fingertips were wet from his own tears, "I need to ask her a hard favour."

"She'll do it for you, too." Susan rubbed his shoulder comfortingly, "You just let us know when the services are held, alright?"

"Will do, Sue." He hugged Susan and Jackie and left with Mycroft and Sally.

"Take the rest of the day off, Sal!" Jackie called as they left the bullpen, "You need to be at home right now!"

"Thank you, ma'am." Sally smiled bravely, despite her broken heart. It was quiet as they drove down to Saint Bart's to tell Molly Hooper. Molly reacted the same way Sally had, but when they asked her to identify the boys once they had them home, she agreed. No autopsies, of course, that wasn't necessary, and he and Mycroft would oversee the procedures.

"Of course! What happened?"

"Ambush." Mycroft twirled his brolly, shaking his head, "We think it might have been a set-up."

"On John and Sherlock?! But everyone loved them!" Molly was baffled, heartbroken. "I'll start getting things ready, then."

"Thanks, Molly. Christ, I'm sorry about this." Greg hugged Molly, who wiped away her own tears. Sally came with them when they flew out to Germany. They met the plane with an open-bed transport-truck and watched over the transfer of two sealed, flag-draped coffins. As the coffins were loaded into the truck-bed, Greg looked at Mycroft, who had remained so calm and so strong. He would be there for his husband when that last wall crumbled. They drove back across the tarmac to where their plane waited and watched as a gate-crew carefully loaded the coffins into the jet's cargo-space. There was enough room, and that's all that mattered. The flight back to London was quiet, and as soon as they had unloaded their precious cargo, it was straight back to Saint Bart's. Molly was prepared and waiting, meeting them with a Morgue-team. The hardest part of the entire affair was watching as the boys were laid on prep-tables and identified.

Once they had been identified, and Molly made note of various injuries sustained and the cause of death, they made arrangements to take the boys to Highgate Cemetery the next afternoon. Mycroft provided Molly with two clean Number 1 dress-uniforms, the gorgeous blue high-collared uniforms worn on special occasions adorned with the various medals the boys had collected during their service, including their Most Excellent Order of the British Empire and Distinguished Service Order medals, for which the boys held both a knighthood and a Companionship respectively. And John's Victoria Cross.

"They look like they're sleeping," Greg muttered, giving in to selfish want and touching the boys one last time. He leaned over the prep-table and pressed his lips to cool skin. At least he had a chance to do this in private, no one in this room would judge him at all. All he could think was that this wasn't how it happened, this wasn't supposed to happen. John and Sherlock had their whole lives ahead of them, a life together. And they still had to tell the rest of the family. How on earth were they ever going to explain this to John's siblings? How did you explain something as awful and permanent as death to children too young to understand? The twins would understand, they were old enough, but the rest...it broke his heart to think of it. He would do it, though. He and Mycroft would do it.

It went without saying that Greg didn't get any sleep that night, spending most of it pacing the house between bouts of crying. Around eight, he got so restless he grabbed a jacket and his keys and left the house. But instead of driving, he bundled up and walked the streets of London for a while. The world seemed grey, and seeing so many unsuspecting civilians who had no idea of the terrible loss the city had suffered made him angry. But it wasn't their fault, after all, they really didn't know. There had been no names released in the news, so no one knew that two city sons had been lost. About an hour later, he stopped to see where his aimless, grief-stricken wanderings had brought him and realized that he was standing outside of the Baker Street flat. Oh. He suspected that Mrs Hudson didn't know. He fumbled in his pockets for another cigarette and a lighter, hoping he had one left, he'd burned through almost an entire pack over this mess. He'd probably get sick with nicotine poisoning, he was already hoarse and coughing if he breathed too deep. But it didn't matter, the boys were beyond their reach, beyond help. That hurt. Finding one lonely cigarette, he crumpled the pack and shoved it back into his pocket as he lit it, sinking onto the stoop of 221 Baker Street, leaning back against the solid wooden door and thinking of all the times he had come here looking for the boys to help out on a case or just to visit. And how he would never get that chance again. He must have dozed off because it seemed like only a few minutes later he was being shaken awake by a very concerned Mrs Hudson. John and Sherlock's landlady stood in her doorway, looking down at him, with two full trash-bags in hand and a puzzled expression on her face.

"Greg, what are you doing here?"

"Oh, sorry, Mrs Hudson." he got to his feet and stood aside to let her out, "Didn't mean to bother you."

"You're not bothering me, but it's not every night I open my door and find a Scotland Yard detective asleep on my doorstep. Would you like to come in?"

"God, yes." He stepped into the house and instinct drove him upstairs to look at a flat that would never again see it's tenants.

"Oh, John and Sherlock aren't due home for a while, Greg!" Mrs Hudson called up after him. He choked and gripped the bannister so tightly he felt splinters in his fingers.

"I know, I just…I need to see if I left something here the last time I visited." He lied shakily and unlocked the door to 221B. The flat was dark and quiet, waiting for residents who would never come home. He turned on the work-table lamp and sat down, first on the couch, but finally in John's chair. He couldn't sit still, though, and wandered the flat for a while, digging up one of Sherlock's cigarette stashes. Without thinking, he stole one and settled in John's chair with a little clay ashtray one of the kids had made for Sherlock as a Christmas present one year. And how the boys had never indulged in their bad habit around the kids. Ever. Mrs Hudson came up fifteen minutes later with tea and found him reading one of John's diaries.

"Are you alright, Greg?" Intuitive woman, she had probably noticed right away that something wasn't on with him. He looked up as she set a cup of tea on the small table beside him.

"Oh, thank you, Mrs Hudson. No. I'm...well, no, I'm not fine. I'd be lying to all of us if I said that." He looked at the diary in his hands and stroked the pages full of familiar handwriting, "I'm...I guess it had better be me you hear this from, my dear."

"The boys?"

"Something's happened, Mrs Hudson. Yesterday, I think. Maybe the day before, I can't account for the difference in time-zones like that or when it happened." he folded his hands just so, pressing shaking fingertips to his lips, "I can't think straight, I haven't slept in eighteen hours."

"Oh, dear."

"John's unit, ten of them, came under attack from insurgents. His commanding officer came by the house to give us these." He showed her the tags he had rearranged, "I changed the configuration of the tags, each set has one from each of the boys."

"No!"

"Don't worry, we brought them home. They're here." He took the kind woman's hands in his, "Please, sit down, Mrs Hudson? I'm so sorry."

"No, no! It can't be! I just spoke to them!"

"Two days ago. Yes. We all did." He shook his head, "My god, I'm so sorry. I figured you'd better hear from me than someone else."

"Oh, Greg! Those poor boys!" Mrs Hudson covered her face with her apron, "What a terrible thing!"

"We're laying the boys to rest tomorrow at Highgate Cemetery. Would you like me to arrange for someone to drive you over?"

"Would you, please? Oh, I can't imagine…"

"Don't think too hard about it, you'll only make yourself sick." He hugged Mrs Hudson, "What do you think you'll do with the flat?"

"Oh, leave it alone! No, I won't rent it to anyone else!" She shook her head violently, "No, this place is John and Sherlock's! It's just that…simple. I'll leave things just as they are."

"God bless you, Mrs Hudson."

"Those boys saved me, they made this a safe place for me to live." She wiped her eyes, "Oh, all the people they saved! The brave things they did together! And those cases for you?"

"I know. I'm going to miss having them around." He sighed, rubbing his hands together, "I'm sorry I had to give you such bad news, Mrs Hudson."

"I'm glad you told me before I found out some other way." She smiled bravely and patted his hand, "You're a good soul, Greg Lestrade." After a quiet, contemplative cup of tea, Greg decided to go home and Mrs Hudson called him a cab so he wouldn't have to walk back to Kensington. Once he got home, to find Mycroft waiting for him and all necessary arrangements made, so all there was left to do was swallow new tears and sleep if he could.

The next morning dawned cloudy, grey, and foggy. Perfect weather for the mood. Getting out of bed was so much harder than it should have been and the hot shower couldn't get rid of the chill in his bones. Getting dressed in his nicest suit, he sent a car to Baker Street to fetch Mrs Hudson and set off for Highgate Cemetery with Mycroft when the time was right. Greg realized how quickly word had gotten around when several members of Sherlock's Homeless Network showed up to pay their respects. Sherlock's family and John's siblings were there, of course, and Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper came, Sally stood by between Greg and Mycroft, and he saw a number of Yarders among the mourners, mostly people from Homicide. He saw Rick Holliday standing with Susan Brealy and Jackie Billingsley.

"Jesus, the boys really did know everyone, didn't they?"He murmured as the priest gave a benediction. Melissa had come with Mark and the kids, devastated by the thought that two of the city's most promising sons had been taken from them far too soon. After the final benediction had been said, the gathered mourners departed, each one leaving a rose on the coffins. Violet and Siger departed with the children and soon, the only people left at the grave-side of New Scotland Yard's best crack-team of consultants were Greg, Mycroft, Sally, and Molly. The girls paid their final respects and left together, offering emotional and physical support to each other. As the girls left, Greg stopped Sally.

"Wait, Sally."

"Yes, sir?"

"You're alright? You've been involved in this from the start. If it's been hard for me, I can't imagine how you're handling things."

"I'm…managing. I'll make things work, sir, don't worry about me." She smiled bravely, "He wouldn't want me to worry about the what-ifs and maybes forever."

"Go on home, love, get some rest and give your heart a bit of peace."

"I was up all last night listening to some of Sherlock's recordings, it really helps."

"Not as good as the real thing, but good enough for the purpose." He sighed and looked at the side-by-side headstones, "All we can do is move on. Never forget them, but move on with them in our memories."

"Yes, sir." He knew it would be quiet around The Yard for the next week or so as co-workers came to grips with a harsh reality. It would probably take a while for him to stop calling or texting the boys' phone-numbers to ask for help on a case or stop by the flat. He would stop by for Mrs Hudson's sake, of course, but it would be so hard to know that there was no one in the upstairs rooms at Baker Street.

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Following the ambush that killed ten British soldiers, Mycroft Holmes put a flag on Sebastian Moran's records and started digging. If Moran was really involved in the attack that had killed John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, he wanted to know every gritty detail. He would save the information for future use, but he would be more than happy to see to the man's discharge from the Army if he toed the wrong line. It was said in the halls of Westminster Palace and MI6 that the worst thing you could do was put yourself on Mycroft's radar for doing something stupid, and threatening the lives of his loved ones was a first-class ticket to a world of hurting.