The corridor was quiet. Morose. Greg sat with the shock blanket still draped around his shoulders. He clung to it as if for support. He was completely alone – Anderson had left to calm things down at the office, although Greg hadn't really expected him to stay. The long white corridors glimmered faintly. The fluorescent lighting was making his head hurt, and he closed his eyes. God, it was no use. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see Sherlock hanging limply out of the car, broken and lifeless. And John – Jesus Christ, his face. When he had looked through the window, blood and tears and absolute fear blaring on his face- that haunted Greg even more than the broken body of the detective.
Well, no, it didn't. Nothing could possibly compare to that sight. Greg could still hear the screech of the saw cutting through the metal, see the splayed and twisted limps, hear the screams, God it was too much for him. No, no no no, this was not possible. This was all a mistake, that was it. A horrible, terrible mistake. He was dreaming. He was hallucinating. This wasn't physically possible, was it? Those two men, those two epitomes of action suddenly felled, no, it was all a horrible dream. Greg started to hyperventilate, and forced himself to breathe deeply. It couldn't really be possible, could it? No. It couldn't. This was all a dream.
But this was a pretence he couldn't keep up. The reality was glowing all around him – it had happened. The muffled voices in the room opposite, where John was being worked on. The memories in his head. Sherlock's scarf and coat, ripped and torn and cast aside outside the door. A little pool of blood was resting on the floor beneath it, where it had trickled from the sleeve. He stared at it. It was drying now, and left a brown stain on the linoleum.
He glowered at it. It infuriated him, that little pool of blood. All of his friend he could see at that moment in time, all that was close to him, a ruined coat and a pool of blood. How was it possible? That it had come to this? Him, alone in a corridor, with his two best friends in different rooms, both dying, both in such agonising pain, and all he could see was that bastard drop of blood, that bastard, sitting there, taunting him. It was taunting him, knowing how much it hurt him to sit here, on this hard plastic chair in this glowing sterile hall, with his friends dying and that stupid pool of fucking blood, it wanted him to scream – His thoughts were spinning in his head, a random jumble of emotions.
[The blood his blood no I hate it hate it this is too much no this isn't possible not possible I can't think no god it can't be not Sherlock not John no no no stupid spot of blood you want me to scream don't you I hate you I hate you I-]
Greg cracked. He couldn't hold it back any longer, he just wanted to scream and scream and yell at the walls, run in there and grab Sherlock and shake him awake, to force him to get better. He let a little sob out of his throat, and leapt to his feet, his heel coming down on the dried brown flakes. That stubborn stain stuck fast, and he ground his heel on it, tears streaking down his face. There was a little ring of deep brown still caked around the edge, and he fell to his knees, tearing at it with his nails, rubbing it furiously.
[Stupid blood it won't come off he's dead they're dying no no no no stupid blood it wants me to hurt I hate you you stupid STUPID STUPID STUPID-]
Greg started to shake, tearing at his own nails now, where the dried blood was caked. He sat against the wall, shaking and crying, picking out the tiny balls of blood and flinging them as far away from him as possible. He had always tried to be on top of the situation, in control. But he couldn't, not now, not while they were lying nearly dead. He was going crazy, he could feel it.
It was as if he was standing outside his own body now, watching an insane man shake and cry and whimper like a pathetic little child. God he hated himself, right at that moment in time he hated himself. Pathetic, that was what he looked. Pathetic.
Greg sat back, energy spent. The tears still dribbled down his face, but they were slow now. One of his fingernails was cracked, and a little drop of blood oozed out of it. He looked at it disconnectedly. He had done that. It hurt. Quite a lot actually. He wiped his eyes, trying to reinstate some normalcy.
A nurse jogged down the corridor holding some bags of blood, and Greg straightened. She turned to look at him, and he gave her a watery smile. The nurse instinctively paused in her flight and moved towards him, as if to bring comfort. The man looked so lost, that maternal side of her wanted to touch him – but then she remembered her duty, which was towards the dying. She gave him a small smile, trying to show how much comfort she wanted to bring him. He smiled sadly to her.
She drew herself back up, and scurried into the room that held John - leaving a broken, pathetic, tear-drunk man behind her.
A/N: well, Lestrade just went a little insane, poor man. Hope you don't mind. Hey, you should be happy. I took your advice and wrote this instead of studying. Pfft, Studying. This was far more fun. (well, it's true. It's horrible, but true)
-JC
