Greg Lestrade had to run in order to get to Sherlock, who was hurrying to leave the graveyard before anyone else will apologize to him, like they were the ones to kill him. He wasn't made at John anymore. He knew it was the right thing to do. He just wished there was a different solution to that situation. "Sherlock, wait." he called. The detective stopped and turned to him. The doctor stopped as well. "We found this on his body." he said, and pulled a note out of his coat. "It's addressed to you." Sherlock took the note from his hands. His name was written on it, in Mycroft's organized handwriting. Without saying another word, he opened it. Dear Sherlock, If you're reading this note, it means I'm already dead. I've written this a long time ago, when I realized Moriarty's behind it all. Don't be mad at Lestrade, nor at John. You have friends, and you must not give up on them. Having friends was always the thing that made you different than me. I never apologize, you know that. But as I'll never get apologize again, I assume this would be the suitable time to do so. I'm sorry. I'm sorry you have to go through all of this. Just because I despise sentiment, doesn't mean I'm heartless. It hurts me to write this note, but it's necessary. If anything happened the way I've planned it, the last thing I did was to ask John to take care of you. Please inform him that even as a dead man I can make him pay if he doesn't. I wish I could tell you I love you, that you're my beloved brother, that I'll miss you, but you know that's not like me. That's also not like you. But I will miss you. Mycroft Holmes Sherlock refolded the note and put it in his coat. "Thank you." he mumbled and hurried away, before anyone will notice he's crying. Crying like a little boy who missed his brother. Only that's exactly what he was.