Greg waited until his shift ended, not having done the paperwork. He'd been planning other things instead. It hadn't taken very long to go from just thinking about suicide, to deciding to act on it. He tidied up his desk a little. He couldn't be bothered cleaning it properly, but it didn't matter. He didn't have to care about the outcome of the desk after he was gone.

His phone buzzed.

- Gregory, John is in a new apartment. He has expressed desire to work again, and will start back at the clinic for half-shifts on Monday. There are still obstacles to address, but he is managing. MH

Greg read the text three times.

John is doing better off without me. Good…good. At least it won't hurt him when I'm gone like Sherlock did.

He wondered if he should respond to Mycroft. He did feel like he wanted to close things off nicely before the end, but he didn't want to tell Mycroft his plans. He probably would do something to stop it, but nothing to help him survive.

- Good. I'm glad. Take care of him, Mycroft. Goodbye. GL

He hoped that his text would read as only that 'their association is now over', not that Greg was going to end his life. It was a gamble to include 'goodbye', but Greg felt that he needed to say it. He put his badge right in the middle of his desk in a symbolic gesture, and walked out of the office, turning the lights off.

Most of the officers were gone, but there were still a couple roaming about. Donovan noticed him about to leave, catching his eye, but turned her head. Greg sighed to himself.

"Goodbye, Sally." Greg said, emphasising the 'bye' part to make it seem more normal. She looked back at him and nodded, mumbling 'night'.

Greg looked at the floor as he walked towards the door. He didn't notice Anderson walking at him, and almost bumped into him.

"Oi!" Interjected Anderson, annoyed that his boss wasn't watching where he was going. But the man's annoyance faded when he looked into Greg's eyes. He looked so... sad.

"Sorry." Greg grumbled, and then took a deep breath. His face became peaceful as he smiled.
"Goodbye, Phillip."
"Yeah… 'night, Lestrade." Anderson said, a little unsettled.

It was slightly strange that his boss had said 'goodbye' in full, called him by his first name, and looked sad while doing it. He watched as Greg left, entering the elevator slumped over. He tried to shake the feeling away, but he felt something wasn't quite right. He knew his DI had been struggling since Sherlock's suicide, and Anderson himself had felt so guilty for pushing things how he did. He never really got along with Sherlock, but to be a prominent cause in someone's death was unsettling. Especially when it had affected his boss the way it had.

Anderson concluded that he should talk to Lestrade, and express those feelings of remorse… and hopefully, the DI would accept it and be able to move on. Lestrade hadn't been into the work since snapping at him and Sally on the first day back. Maybe hearing them being 'sorry' would help.

Greg walked into his flat. He put his stuff on the couch as usual, and went and got himself a drink. He'd bought a nice scotch, and wanted to drink some while he could. He pulled his gun out, and left it on the counter. He couldn't help but trace his fingers over the cold metal. He swallowed his whole glass in one gulp, and poured himself another. He grabbed the gun and walked over to the couch.

He placed both items on the coffee table. He rubbed his face with his hands.

"I guess this is it, eh." Greg mumbled to the empty room. He could feel the alcohol taking effect, slowing his movements and calming his body.
"I… I should have written a note."

Greg looked about for a pen and paper, but gave up. What was the point? He didn't have anyone to write to. He'd said goodbye to everyone he knew, save for John, whom seemed to be better off without him. And he probably wouldn't be able to write well now that he'd had something to drink. At least, that's what he told himself.

He stood, and put on his favourite piece of music. He smiled as he sat down and listened, his eyes closed. He felt more peaceful than he had in over two months. There was no longer a battle raging inside himself, and no more thoughts to fight away. Compared to how he'd felt all week, he was feeling happy.

I wonder if this is what Sherlock felt.

He wished he could express in some way that what he was about to do wasn't just because of Sherlock. It was just everything in his life, which seemed to have been toppled over into an abyss when Sherlock jumped. He wouldn't be alone anymore. He wouldn't feel so strained and stressed. He wouldn't feel down, or embarrassed, or anxious. And he wouldn't feel guilty. Not for Sherlock, and not for this. It was so comforting to think that he wouldn't feel anything anymore. And he wouldn't care either. No more thinking, no more feeling. He knew that it was probably going to be difficult for his colleagues to have to clean up after him, but there as a dark satisfaction in thinking that he wasn't going to be around to care.

He didn't really want to shoot himself in the head, just because he knew what it looked like afterwards, but he knew that shooting elsewhere would be rather painful.

Possibly. Shock might take care of that until I pass out.

It was tempting to shoot himself in the chest instead, since that seemed to be where all the hurt was coming from. But he knew that if he missed, he'd possibly survive. Then he'd be stuck, and in physical pain as well as emotional. And it wasn't like there would be anyone around to help get through it.

He finished his second glass, and grabbed the gun. He stood and moved into the bedroom. He didn't want to be shot on the couch. The bed seemed much better for that. He sat on the edge, with his elbows on his knees, gun in hand.

Mycroft looked at his phone, and saw that the text hadn't been from Gregory, but instead his surveillance team. When he saw the first words appear on the screen, his stomach dropped.

- *PRIORITY ONE*…

The British Government panicked and opened the phone - he was going to call out for people immediately to go stop John, no time to waste. However, he read the rest of the message first (as it had popped up straight away), before he was able to dial.

- *PRIORITY ONE* GREG LESTRADE. HOME.

Mycroft stared at the message for a brief moment in utter bewilderment. Greg? Then he remembered the text message he'd gotten earlier… Take care of him, Mycroft. Goodbye. Mycroft kicked himself mentally as he responded to call 999. Mycroft's hands were shaking, but he managed to call Lestrade's number.

Greg could hear his phone ringing. He'd left it in his bag on the couch. He was tempted to go and see who it was, but resigned himself that it wouldn't matter. It would probably just be his boss ready to yell at him for not completing the day's paperwork. Still, it was tempting to answer it just to be able to tell the man what he thought of him.

Mycroft swallowed hard when there was no answer to his call. He was already on his way there, as he knew the emergency services were, but he wasn't sure either of them would get there in time. He couldn't breathe. How could he have missed this? If John hadn't stayed there, and Mycroft hadn't have installed the cameras that Greg probably had forgotten about, then in all likelihood Mycroft would have been made aware of Greg's suicide in the morning.

He tried calling again.

"Come on, Gregory, answer…please…"

Greg sighed when the phone rang again. His Super must be really pissed off. He lost the urge to answer it and speak to the man at all. He hated that he still felt uncomfortable not answering his phone, however. As a DI, he was used to answering all of his calls. He didn't like the idea that he would die not true to how he lived. He looked at the gun facing him. He could pull the trigger now, and then he wouldn't care about that as well anymore. But he couldn't help but feel a little… rude… killing himself while someone was trying to call him.

What if they want to talk to me, for me? What if they know and are trying to stop me?

Greg remained frozen as the call went to voicemail again. It wasn't possible. No one had noticed even when directly told 'goodbye'. He shook his head. No, no one was coming to save him.

Do I want that? No… I … I don't think so…

Greg questioned himself. If he did want someone to save him, then he couldn't want to die, right? He felt the panic rise up again inside himself.

"No." He spoke to the gun. "No one is there. It doesn't matter if I would want someone to care, because they don't. It'd only hurt me again like it has so far."

Mycroft cursed, and desperately tried to think of other options. John. Gregory's place was between John's work and his new flat. If he was lucky, John was still within the area. He dialled John and hoped to hell that the doctor would answer.