Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Bottle
His first drink had been in remembrance.
The rest he drank to forget.
Forget the giddy amazement he had felt when he first saw the consulting detective in action and the feeling of almost fond frustration he grew to associate with the man over time.
Forget the hopefulness that John Watson had brought, that the great man was becoming good as well.
Forget the feeling of wrongness in his gut when he brought Donovan's suspicions to the Chief Superintendent and the look of sick disappointment on John's face at the resulting arrest.
Forget the panic he felt watching the handcuffed pair disappear into the night—fear for John, fear for the criminal himself, fear for the whole bloody city of London, and for his own sanity.
Forget the call from St. Bart's.
Forget the blood on the sidewalk and seeing John out of his mind with grief.
Forget the funeral, where he felt like an outsider in the surprisingly large crowd. It seemed that the dead man had a faithful following. Lestrade didn't think he deserved to be counted among them—not anymore. John wouldn't even meet his eyes.
Forget that he had helped drive the most brilliant man he'd ever known to suicide.
He stared at the empty glass, and all he could remember was what he wanted to forget.