Lestrade was too late.
He had arrived on scene in time to ward off the morbid spectators and send officers into the building, but they hadn't been in time to stop the two from falling - or jumping, it wasn't clear which.
He watched the body as it was loaded into the back of the waiting ambulance, numb with the knowledge that he had known the man. He saw death all the time, but it was harder – so much harder – to keep a professional face on when it was someone he had known and worked with. No amount of training could truly prepare a person, especially when they had witnessed the cause of death as well.
Especially when he had been warned it was coming.
The ambulance doors slammed shut, taking Sher-the body, away. An ashen faced and trembling John stood not far away, looking desperately lost. It had been a while since he'd seen death, but this wasn't a death that was supposed to have happened. In war, death is expected. Though, the Detective Inspector supposed this was a sort of war. Maybe, it was expected. But it could have been prevented.
He could have prevented it if he had only listened to the worried doctor.
John had approached him months back about Sherlock's growing obsession. Sherlock becoming obsessive really wasn't anything new, but Lestrade had promised to find something to distract the consulting detective, for a little while anyways.
The blonde haired man was being interviewed by Sergeant Donovan. Lestrade noted that while John looked sick, and grief stricken, he didn't look surprised.
He couldn't help but feel guilty.
He had meant to do it, he had. He had case files on his desk that he had been meaning to deliver straight to 221b Baker Street. However, something always came up whenever he meant to actually take it over. This whole event could have been avoided if he had just tried to talk some sense into Sherlock, or gotten him to work with the team.
But now, the brilliant mind was dead, and wouldn't ever work with his team again.
Lestrade was too late.