Author's note- Thank you for the continued support!

Disclaimer- Nothing is mine.

Chapter 46

Greg Lestrade immediately ran over to John Watson, who was looking considerably pale and as though he was about to collapse. Without saying anything, the ex-army doctor just wrapped his arms around the detective inspector and sobbed a few times, trying to supress his tears.

"I'm sorry," Greg managed to choke out. His eyes wandered over to the pool of blood on the pavement, the scarlet liquid staining the grey, starting to dry into a merciless pattern of death.

"I don't know where Lucy is either," John pulled back, running a hand over his exhausted face. "She got out of the cab on our way to Baker Street, saying something about needing to go back and check on Sherlock." His face paled even more, "Oh God, what if she's dead?"

"Hey, hey, don't think like that," Lestrade said gently, although he was scared also, "We'll check the rooftop; she may still be up there." Greg, with an arm around John Watson's shoulder, led him into the hospital and along the way to the rooftop. Everything felt numb. Everything felt wrong. To Lestrade, he could hardly believe that Sherlock was a fake. And the fact that he and Sherlock hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms made things even worse. He ran a hand over his tired face, risking a glance at the broken man beside him. John looked awful, and that was to say the least. He had appeared to have recovered a great deal since they left the outside and the blood on the pavement for the safety of the hospital, but Lestrade guessed that this was just the soldier, a front, to disguise his emotions. Slowly, they made their way to the rooftop.

"This will make Lucy even worse." John managed to sigh. "Just when she was making just tiny steps of progress. God knows what this will do to her."

"We will just have to take each day as it comes," Greg said. Truthfully, he had no useful advice whatsoever. Optimism was his only asset now, although even that was fading. They opened the door to the rooftop and gasped as they saw the teenager lying on the ground, seemingly unconscious.

"Lucy!" John gasped, breaking into a run to kneel beside her. Launching into doctor mode, he checked her pulse. "Thank god she's alive. Just unconscious." He tapped her face lightly in an attempt to stir her. Greg knelt down too.

"Let's get you both back to Baker Street," The DI suggested carefully, knowing it would be hard to go back so soon, "You both need some rest and it will be better for Lucy to wake up in a safer environment." John looked up at Greg and nodded, his face was still pale and he seemed exhausted. With a heavy heart, Greg noted how John's eyes were tinged with red, undoubtedly holding back tears. But there was little he could do to say or help. The truth was, things may not be better for a while.

Lucy's eyes snapped open with pure panic. Jumping up, she felt her body thump to the floor of what appeared to be her room. Feeling dizzy and disorientated, she paused, letting herself adjust. With a worried gaze she noted that she was indeed alone in her bedroom, far from the rooftop of St Bart's hospital. Her heart was racing, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she felt an overwhelming sense of panic overtake her. She could barely breathe. Taking deep breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth, she had to wait. But luckily, it was only a minor panic attack. But that wasn't what was bothering her. She was worried about Sherlock. Getting steadily to her feet, she walked out of her room and into the living room. Greg Lestrade and John were sat talking, but immediately stopped when they noticed the teenager enter the room.

"Where's Sherlock, what happened?" Lucy cut to the chase, hoping for the best but expecting the worst. They looked at each other, both had paled a little, and both looked unsure as to what to say. "No." Lucy shook her head. "Don't." She breathed out a shaky breath, "Don't do this." She felt a tear snake its way down her cheek

"Lucy…" Greg started, looking worried.

"He can't be dead!" She yelled out. "I tried to stop him." She broke down sobbing, "It was Moriarty. No, he can't be dead. He isn't a fraud!"

"Lucy calm down." John walked over to her, looking shaken from the day's incident but extremely concerned for her.

"No, no, no," She started to raise her voice, becoming more and more worked up. "You want me to calm down? Sherlock is dead. He is, isn't he?" They said nothing, only looked down. "I knew it!" She started to cry. "And you want me to calm down when one of the few people who cared about me has been killed? No. Fuck that." She shook her head. Lucy felt guilty, she knew John and Greg were both upset about Sherlock's death. Before she said anything else that she may regret, she walked off into her room. Grabbing a blade and running into Sherlock's room to get one of his secret lighters, she shoved the items into her pocket and walked back out.

"I'm off out." She muttered.

"No Lucy," John reached out to her.

"Just, no, I need to get out for a bit." She looked at them both before leaving the apartment, feeling as though everything was a blur, as though it was all unreal. She felt numb.

Lucy took her usual path to the park, it was all too familiar. All too sickeningly familiar. She wasn't able to be there for Sherlock when he needed her. She wasn't able to stop Moriarty. And now everyone was paying the price. It was like a huge chunk had been mercilessly ripped out of her heart. She felt guilty. Not just for what happened to Sherlock, but she felt guilty for feeling suicidal again, for wanting to cut until her whole body was covered in deep gashes. The only thing stopping her from giving up on life was John Watson. He needed her; he didn't deserve to be left alone. She would just have to do a better job of hiding her cuts.

The troubled and inevitably devastated teenager sat down in a secluded area of the park, taking out the blade and the lighter. She rolled up her sleeves- feeling sickened at the familiar routine, and stared at her scars. Her arm was an array of colours, light purple of healing scars, dark purple of newer scars, white of old scars and skin, and red of the fresher cuts. She couldn't help but smirk at them. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger huh? Bullshit. What doesn't kill you eats you up inside and destroys your mind and soul. She picked up the blade and sliced through her skin. Again and again but it just wasn't enough. She cried in frustration. She cried in desperation. She cried in relentless sadness.

Lucy picked up the lighter, and flicked it, watching the flame flicker in the gentle breeze. It was a mesmerizing sight. The beauty of the flame, of the reds and oranges and yellows all merged together, captivated her. It entranced her. The light snaked around her, through her veins, wrapping around her heart, trapping her being in this endless cycle of self-destruction.

She put the flame to her arm.

Burning away the pain.

How ironic.