Author's note: Off to see DI Lestrade. I've always liked to imagine he and Mycroft have their own bromance, or are at least something like friends.

Also, more followers and reviews! Wuhu!

I don't own anything.

Thinking about the cases Sherlock had solved brought him back to thinking about DI Lestrade; not surprising, considering he was the closest thing Mycroft Holmes had ever had to a personal friend.

At least, the DI had been the only one – at least before John – to tell him that he thought he shouldn't "stalk" his brother. And he had been the one to make it clear that he thought Mycroft's inaction towards Sherlock's addiction inacceptable. He had offered Sherlock a job under the condition that he quit the drugs; he had kept Sherlock alive before the doctor came along; he had offered Mycroft his condolences after Sherlock's "Death", something not even John had been able to do.

He didn't know what to expect, standing in front of Scotland Yard, looking up at the window he knew to be the DI's; he only knew that he had to see what had become of Lestrade without Sherlock. He couldn't recall whether he had any other friends to speak of except his brother and the ex-army detective; then again, without Sherlock he might still be married (albeit to an unfaithful wife).

Of course, there was the problem of how to introduce himself; there was no reason to suppose the DI knew of his position as "the British Government", as his Sherlock had put it, and Mycroft didn't think he'd believe it, even if he told him. And casually walking up to him, like he had when he had encountered Mrs. Hudson, was unlikely to work – DI Lestrade had been a policeman for almost thirty years now; he would realize that Mycroft just wanted to talk to him, and would probably become suspicious.

He could have had him "kidnapped" (as John had always referred to their arranged meetings) but he doubted that he would be in the habit of doing so in this reality. There was no reason to kidnap Sherlock's friends – his brother seemed to tell him all about them, even encourage them meeting him. Therefore, his having them picked up could lead to some people asking questions. Aside from the fact that this reality's Sherlock would find it odd.

He sighed, looking down, tapping his umbrella against his leg, when he heard a well-known voice behind him ask, "Excuse me, can I help you?"

He turned around, surprised to hear the words he had used towards Mrs. Hudson less than an hour ago, and found a young policeman who looked familiar.

Ambitious, he deduced, ready to show everyone how good he is, but serious about his job, otherwise he wouldn't have asked him if he was alright...

And then he remembered. DI Dimmock.

He had never thought it necessary to have a talk with the young DI, although he had been rather thankful to him for defending Sherlock's good name after his fake suicide and for happily welcoming the consulting detective back on cases. At least he seemed to be doing fine, even if he looked a little more stressed than the last time Mycroft had seen in him on security footage; but seeing as Sherlock wasn't there to help him, that was hardly surprising.

The young DI, however, could probably help him.

"Yes" he replied. "I am looking for DI Lestrade – "

"I'll take you to him" Dimmock answered, smiling and guiding him into the building. On the way to Lestrade's office, Mycroft wondered what he would say; he wasn't used to acting on impulse. Normally he prepared conversations, meticulously acquiring all the information needed. But he supposed he could allow himself some spontaneity in a situation like this – especially since he was rather sure the situation didn't really exist to begin with.

At the door of the DI's office, the younger man turned around.

"Do you want me to introduce you, or – "

"No, thanks, I'll be fine" Mycroft answered, and Dimmock nodded and left, but not without shooting a concerned glance at the locked door. Mycroft frowned. Surely there could be no risk involved in his knocking on a policeman's door, especially if the policeman in question was a good and long-serving DI. And Dimmock, despite his ambition, was generally respectful towards people of authority; since their first case together, he was even respectful to Sherlock. So there was no reason for him to be distrustful because Mycroft wanted to speak to a colleague.

Unless the DI's life had changed just like Mrs. Hudson's had. There was only one way to find out.

He knocked, waited several seconds for an answer, knocked again. Finally a grumbled "What?" came through the door, and he decided to take this as an "enter".

He did so and found DI Lestrade sitting at his desk, eating a muffin, looking over some paperwork. It would have been easy for anyone to fool himself into thinking nothing had changed, but Mycroft had never allowed the luxury of deceiving himself, and he saw.

The DI's posture was stiff, uncomfortable; he sat in the chair not like someone who wanted to be there, but who had to. Mycroft knew that Lestrade had never been fond of paperwork, but he had accepted it as a necessary part of his job. Even when he had been exasperated because of Sherlock, he had never looked so miserable.

The DI looked up and Mycroft was startled by the dirty look he gave him. Lestrade normally didn't act this way, even if a stranger disturbed him.

"What? I didn't want to be disturbed – who let you in here in the first place?"

"A colleague of yours was kind enough to show me the way..." Mycroft answered.

"Bet it was Dimmock" Lestrade mumbled, finishing his muffin and throwing his serviette away.

Mycroft had just decided that he would pose as an employee of the Ministry of Inner Affairs when it turned out he didn't need a cover story after all.

Lestrade stood up and shot him another venomous look. "I guess Mrs. Cubbitt filed the complaint this time? It's hardly my fault if she fails to give vital information and her husband dies because of it..."

"Why don't you tell me your version?" Mycroft suggested, realizing that he had been right. The way Lestrade had asked about the complaint, his attitude – the man didn't care for his job anymore. This was almost worse than Mrs. Hudson's fear, for the simple reason that he could have foreseen (in fact, had foreseen, but not acknowledged the fact) that her husband had survived.

But seeing that a man he had come to know as polite, dependable and passionate about what he was doing for a living had simply stopped caring was not something he could have predicted.

While Lestrade was speaking, he quickly looked at his office and him again, wanting to know as much as possible.

He was still wearing a wedding ring, but it was obviously just out of habit; there was no photograph of his wife in the office, and the state of his suit made it clear he had spent last night at a hotel. Apparently he was only still married because he didn't have a reason to divorce his wife – at least not one he knew of. Mycroft was ready to bet (albeit not a betting man) that she was still cheating on him.

He was smoking again – and obviously a lot; there were three empty packages in the bin, and he counted no less than four lighters all over the desk.

The very untidy desk.

The desk of the DI he remembered had always been tidy. And his office had certainly not looked so – bleak. Lestrade loved having pictures of the people he cared for – his parents, once upon a time his wife; Mycroft was reasonably sure that he had a picture of Sherlock and John in his flat as well. There were no pictures in his office, no plants, nothing except the untidy desk and files and a definitely unhappy DI.

All the while, he was listening to him.

"So Mr. Cubbitt comes to me and tells me about this strange burglar who broke into his house every night just to leave a coded message. I told him this wasn't our division, but he was insistent, so I had a few uniforms watching the house. How could I know that they were too incompetent to see the burglar? Or that he would shoot Cubbitt? And then I had to listen to his wife rant, when really, the burglar was her ex-lover all along, so it was her fault for not telling her husband in the first place, and – "

"You told her so" Mycroft interrupted matter-of-factly, and Lestrade, not expecting to be interrupted, blinked surprised before nodding. "She was annoying" he added, and just like that, Mycroft knew what all of this reminded him of.

DI Lestrade was acting like Sherlock in one of his sulks. Only that he clearly didn't care about anything while Sherlock, despite his attempts to convince everyone of the contrary, cared about everything in his way.

"Are you truly that indifferent?" He hadn't meant to ask the question out loud, and Lestrade let himself fall into his chair, clearly surprised.

"You are a strange one" he said, shaking his head. "But, I suppose, since you are honest with me, why not be honest with you: Yes, I am. I am sick of tired of letting case after case go unsolved, or being too late to save the victims, or having the criminal flee the country."

Mycroft nodded. He understood. Sherlock had never been just a consultant for Lestrade; in a way, he had become a purpose in life for him, too. He had looked over him, made sure he stayed clean. Because of him he had met John and they had become friends – and ever since Sherlock had returned, the DI had spent a lot of time at 221B, even when there wasn't a case.

It was easy enough: Without Sherlock, Lestrade's life was empty.

And, furthermore, there was nothing Mycroft could do about it.

He said goodbye to Lestrade – who by this point must think he was dealing with a lunatic – and left, feeling that saving Sherlock all those years ago had come –

No, not had come. Would have come with a price. This wasn't real, he reminded himself.

He left Scotland Yard, deciding to take a walk to clear his head before returning to the house – it was barely twelve o' clock, and he had only promised to be back in the evening. The memories of Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade and John's death certificate kept playing in his mind.

He was so lost in his head that he didn't realize how far he'd walked – in fact, he had been walking for two hours. He, the man who abhorred legwork. Sherlock – his Sherlock – certainly would have been incredibly amused.

The he saw where his steps had led him.

The cemetery where Sherlock's empty grave had been. Automatically, he made his way through the gate, sure to find, in exactly the same place –

Yes. Where Sherlock's grave had been, there was now a neglected grave – flowers long withered, the grass not cut for a while. The headstone said John Watson.

For a moment, his practical side wondered why John had been buried here, in this cemetery, but then he realized it really didn't matter because the man who was lying under that simply grey headstone would have saved the world's only consulting detective and had never known it.

Mycroft didn't know how long he stood there, his head bent; but when it began to rain, he slowly turned around and left, leaving behind the grave of the best man his brother had never known.

Author's note: There is definitely more angst in this story than I planned, but when do my stories ever turn out the way I think they will?

I hope you liked it, please review.