The roaring sirens alerted him to their arrival but he didn't budge. He stayed on the ground, coddling John's body, even when the police had formed a circle around him. They were shouting at him as they kept inching toward him. He couldn't understand what they were saying, though, because the universe was muffled to his ears. The officers were about to make a move until a grey-haired man pushed through to the center. He shouted at them and they moved back in response. Lestrade then kneeled on the opposite side of John, trying to talk to Sherlock but he still couldn't hear. That's when the D.I. reached over and touched his arm. That one gesture of human contact brought reality crashing down on him.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, can you hear me?" Lestrade asked, probably for the third time, with a concerned look on his face.
"Yes. I can," Sherlock responded, his voice hoarse as though he hadn't used it in days.
"Did you kill him, Sherlock? We need to know."
"What does it matter?" he said in a dead, monotone voice.
"It matters very much."
"I might as well have."
"But you physically didn't?"
"No."
"Was it Moriarty?"
Sherlock nodded. He couldn't say anything out of fear that he would break down.
Lestrade sighed. It was solemn with undertones of relief. "That I believe."
He stood up to address the officers. "He didn't do it but I know who did. We need to be on the lookout for a Jim Moriarty. We'll have more information tomorrow when Mr. Holmes is more prepared to talk about it."
"He tells you he didn't do it and you just believe him? Look at him, he's standing over the body covered in its blood," one of the officers pointed out.
"Yes, look at him," Lestrade snapped. "I know that look. He didn't kill him."
The ambulance arrived a few seconds later, the paramedics rushing out with a body bag in hand. Sherlock gripped John tighter. They couldn't have him, not while he was still alive. Lestrade strode around to Sherlock's side and rested a comforting hand on his back.
"You have to let him go."
"Why?" he whispered, voice wavering.
"Because he's gone."
"I know!" he snapped, defending his sanity.
"C'mon, Sherlock, I'll take you home."
"I don't want to go home."
"Would you rather come back to Scotland Yard?"
Sherlock paused and gazed down at the body in his arms. It looked so incredibly pale and lifeless that every second he kept his eyes on it was like a laceration to his flesh. He brushed a hand through the dirty blond hair that he loved so much, relishing and remembering the feel. He never wanted to forget anything about the man he held. He had to leave; the many pairs of eyes that were burning into him were warning him of that.
Just before he was about to leave he remembered something that was important, something he wouldn't let them take. Sherlock reached into the collar of John's shirt and wrapped his fingers around a metal chain. He pulled it carefully over John's head as if he would disturb him and slid the metal dog tags out from under the fabric. He piled the metal in his right hand, brushing over it with his thumb to wipe away the blood and feel the texture of the indented words on his skin. In a final goodbye, Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's and spoke his last words to him, even if he couldn't hear them.
"I love you," he whispered so no one else could hear. "And I hope you died knowing that."
He placed the body on the ground with care and pulled himself up to stand on two feet. His own body felt like lead and the scene around him seemed slow and fuzzy like he were in a constricting dream. Sherlock was able to untangle the mess of chain and, with one last, soul-tearing look at John's body, slip the tags around his own neck, stuffing the tags themselves beneath his once white shirt. Everything was weighing heavily down on him, his thoughts, his feelings, even the air around him.
Lestrade, standing awkwardly, wasn't sure how to console a man like Sherlock. He tried to by draping an arm around his shoulders as a comforting gesture but Sherlock shrugged him off. He didn't want to be touched, he barely wanted to live. He couldn't allow himself to look back again as the two walked toward Lestrade's police car. He knew he would see them loading John into a body bag like a sack of meat. Sherlock couldn't have that image carved into his mind, he wouldn't last a day.
The D.I. led him to the vehicle and motioned for him to climb into the back seat. Sherlock popped open the door and sat in the car without any resistance, he didn't see the point. He didn't see the point in anything in that moment. Lestrade hopped in the driver's seat and drove away from the dreadful crime scene. They rode in silence with a thick sadness suffocating the both of them. The drive wasn't long, but it felt like it had been. Every time Lestrade tried to open his mouth to say something he was cut short by a gaze from Sherlock that could cut through steel. It wasn't long before Lestrade was pulling up in front of 221b Baker Street, one tenant short.
"Okay," Lestrade began, realizing that any show of sympathy wasn't going to go over well. "I'm going to go talk to your landlady. You stay in the car."
Sherlock didn't bother to reply as he stared absently out of the window. Lestrade accepted that as meaning he would obey his orders. The D.I. left the car and walked up to the building, hesitating as he was about to knock on the door. He pushed through it and knocked, only waiting a minute before Mrs. Hudson answered the door with a cheery disposition. Lestrade started speaking and Sherlock watched with a small amount of satisfaction as her expression fell. He could see the tears collecting in her eyes and watching her suffer alleviated a miniscule fraction of his pain.
Lestrade continued to explain and the more he spoke the harder she cried. It was when she turned those glistening, hurt-filled, doe eyes on Sherlock that he had to look away. He didn't want to see her concern or her pity. It meant nothing. He was all alone again and no amount of sad glances or condolences was going to fix that. Sherlock curled himself up into a ball on the seat with his head resting against the cool glass of the window. He wanted to disappear, to die, to do something other than go up to that flat.
There was a loud pop as the door Sherlock had been leaning against opened. He righted himself quickly before gravity had the chance to pull him out of the car in a less-than-graceful manner. Lestrade gazed down at him, examining his mental and emotional state. Sherlock refused to look him in the eye. He figured if he ignored him he would leave him in peace. Unfortunately, his plan didn't work out that way.
"Let's go, Sherlock," the silver-haired D.I. said, forcing Sherlock out of the car with the tone of his words.
Sherlock considered staying in the car or running but he was more dignified than that. He stepped out of the vehicle, deadpan expression and head held high. His blood-soaked shirt was clinging to his chest so that the outline of John's dog tags was visible over his heart. Lestrade placed a hand on Sherlock's back, leading him over to front steps of his building. Mrs. Hudson was staring at him with those mournful eyes that made him cringe. He walked forward, meaning to go straight to his flat and avoid all of the unwanted human contact but his landlady had other ideas. As soon as he was in arms reach of her, she clung onto him for dear life. She had a strong vice grip for someone her age.
"Sherlock, I'm so sorry," Mrs. Hudson sobbed into his chest.
"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said flatly.
"I can't believe this happened."
"Mrs. Hudson, please," Sherlock continued monotonously.
"Oh, Sherlock, I-"
"STOP!" Sherlock shouted.
He lost control of his feelings in that moment. All of the rage, pain, and sadness he'd been hiding flooded into his expression. His emotions were gone as quickly as they had come, forced back behind a wall where he didn't have to feel them.
"Stop it, Mrs. Hudson," he tried again, calmly. "I am going to go up to my flat and I wish to be left alone."
"But, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson started but Lestrade stopped her before she could continue.
"Mrs. Hudson, let him go." He glanced at Sherlock sadly but with understanding.
Sherlock pried his landlady off of him and walked past the two to open the door to the building. He stepped inside quickly and shut the door behind him just so he could escape the eyes burning into him. He sighed and glanced up, freezing at the sight of two men standing outside of his door. They were two of the four men who were assigned to protect John.
The mere sight of them caused his anger to reignite. It was their fault, he thought, they should've been doing their job. That one thought sparked an explosion within him and the cool ration he usually maintained melted away. He launched himself at one of the officers, grabbing him and dragging him down the stairs. The other officer hesitated but, when he realized that Sherlock was actually a threat, he leapt into action. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso and attempted to pull him off.
The door burst open and Lestrade charged through, an immediate reaction to hearing the commotion on the other side. He examined the scene and it only took him a few seconds to figure out what had happened. The D.I. walked over and easily pulled Sherlock off of the defenseless officer, restraining his arms behind his back. Sherlock was struggling against him, his eyes wide and alive with rage.
"THIS IS THEIR FAULT! THEY SHOULD'VE BEEN PROTECTING HIM!"
"It's not their fault," Lestrade tried to reason.
"We didn't even know he'd left!" the attacked officer said.
"He didn't leave through the door," the other officer confirmed.
"THAT DOESN'T MATTER! IF IT WASN'T FOR YOU HE WOULD STILL BE ALIVE! IF IT WASN'T FOR YOU HE WOULD…" he trailed off, finishing the sentence in his head. He would still be with me.
Sherlock slumped forward in defeat. If Lestrade hadn't been holding him he would've collapsed on the floor.
"Are you okay?" Lestrade asked.
"Am I okay?" Sherlock laughed maddeningly. "What kind of a question is that?"
"Maybe I shouldn't leave you alone tonight," Lestrade said worriedly.
"I'll be fine," he said, returning to his detached state.