I know Lestrade knew Mycroft and even worked for him before this. The mention later of him not knowing who Mycroft was was just something I wanted to put in. Please leave a review.

P.S. There will be four chapter in this fanfiction.

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He was a lonely figure, hunched over, sitting on the curb, mere inches from the pool of blood: the life force of his best friend.

"John?"

John turned toward the voice, willing his sight to clear enough to recognize the person. His vision was blurry from shock, every muscle in his body tense. He wasn't thinking properly, he knew. He could hardly speak. He hadn't cried.

"Greg," he acknowledged, but his voice was cold.

Lestrade moved closer to him, sitting down about a foot away beside him, watching him. John had resumed the hunched position, seemingly forgetting that a conversation regularly followed a greeting. It was understandable.

"I-I got the call at the office," Lestrade said quietly, deciding to start the conversation himself. "I didn't believe it. I think I still don't, even after seeing..." he cast a sideways glance at the ambulance and the black figure therein. It reminded him of another time he'd seen Sherlock Holmes in an ambulance, and John off to the side, but Sherlock had not been laying down, and John had not been sitting.

He remembered Sherlock's stagnant insisting that he was not in shock, shoving the vibrant orange blanket off again and again, even as the EMT returned to replace it with that condescending pat to the shoulder. Of course, just moments later, he had stated that he was in shock before racing over to speak to the doctor. He wasn't a deducing genius, but Lestrade had known that he had figured out around the same time as Sherlock that John had shot the man. It was touching to see him feign weakness to save the "colleague." It had been equally touching to hear him introduce John as a "friend" the next time he'd encountered them.

Sherlock? In shock? He didn't believe it for a moment. John, on the other hand...

John was still unmoved on the sidewalk as the ambulance drove away, lights and siren not on. There was no use. He was dead. He would never again race around London, ridiculous coat flowing out behind him. Never roll his eyes at the few photos the media managed to get of him in the deerstalker hat. Never refer to Anderson and Donovan as incompetent to hide the hurt in his eyes when they greeted him with the name: Freak.

They would never bully him again.

Why hadn't he stopped it?

It sounded like John was choking: drawing breath after breath, but no air entering his lungs. His face was growing pale, his mind clearly racing. How had they both missed the depression? Sherlock was a spectacular actor but how? Were they blind?

"John?" he questioned again before springing forward and kneeling down in front of the doctor, trying to capture his eyes. "You're going to pass out, Mate."

He glanced around for help, but only Donovan stood off to the side, seemingly in shock herself. The blood on the sidewalk glinted wickedly as it dried in the misty sunlight. He turned back to John and pulled him unsteadily to his feet, moving them both back toward against the wall. He braced one hand against the wall, grasping John's hand in the other and pressing it to his chest.

"Slow your breathing, John. Two dead friends in one day won't do."

He flinched the moment the words left his lips, but John started slightly, taking in air in a gasp. He doubled over, coughing, and then leaned back against the wall behind him so fast he hit his head.

"Greg, he's... dead..."

Lestrade took a moment to be grateful that he did not have to convince John of that, that John was not in denial.

"I know, John."

He closed his eyes, and then flinched and opened them again, terror flashing across them, and then tears. Tears that mourned the loss of a best friend. Lestrade moved his hand from the wall and John's shoulder and pulled him into an embrace. He turned around, leaning against the wall, the devastated doctor slumped against him. Donovan looked mortified, but she was no longer alone.

A man in a suit stood a little ways from her, an umbrella in his hand. He stared at the blood on the pavement, and then his eyes shifted to them and he walked closer, a bold move. Lestrade decided he must have known Sherlock.

"Doctor Watson?" His accent was refined, proper, and then it shifted to a more gentle tone. "John?"

John pulled away slightly, but Lestrade kept his hand on his arm as he turned around to face the other, his face still fallen.

"Mycroft..." he murmured. "He jumped. He's d-" he broke off and tried again. "He's d-"

"He's gone," the man, Mycroft, said calmly. He strolled closer and shifted his umbrella from his left hand to his right, extending the first to John which he took cautiously. "I'm sorry, John," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry, too," John whispered.

"He was your friend," Mycroft pointed out.

"But he was your family!"

A relation?

"Why?" John gasped after a moment. "Why'd he have to jump?

"I... don't know..." Mycroft admitted. "Sherlock..." he wiped his face, "Was good at hiding things."

John's eyes filled with tears again, and Mycroft stepped forward to awkwardly embrace him. It was clearly something he was not used to doing.

"I'm glad my brother had a friend like you, John," he murmured, just low enough for Lestrade to catch what he'd said.

"You're Sherlock's brother?" Lestrade couldn't help voicing.

Mycroft didn't reply, but he didn't need to. Lestrade now noted the bold, sharp cheekbones, the proud forehead, and piercing grey eyes. Of course he was Sherlock's brother. They even looked quite alike.

He stepped back, patting John slightly on the shoulder as he did so and moving his umbrella back to his dominant hand, leaning heavily on it. The three of them were silent. There was really nothing to say.

"There's been a suicide outside of Saint Bart's."

"That's... unfortunate... Any ID?"

"It's Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade had been stunned to silence, hanging up the phone without another word. His hand had trembled as it placed the phone on the desk and covered his face. Sherlock was dead. Didn't believe it.

He didn't believe it.