I was a bit disappointed by the reviews on the first chapter, but since I don't believe in holding updates for ransom I am posting the next chapter that was completed shortly after the first. I would really like to know what readers think about these oneshots. They are something a bit different for me. If nobody likes them and is just too polite to say so, I don't see continuing this (unless another chapter pops in head desperate to be written down.

Anyway, enough of that! I am excited about this chapter because I love Lestrade and I think he doesn't get nearly enough attention in post-Reichenbach stuff. Also, it is worth pointing out that these are not chronological. They are written in the order I think of them. On with the story!

*I do not own Sherlock and do no recieve any money for this.

Lestrade couldn't bring himself to see the body. Cold, eyes dull, laid out on a slab. Would they even do an autopsy, since the cause of death was so obvious? Boring, he would say. Lestrade couldn't bear the thought of Molly cutting in to him, cracking open his chest, and all the unpleasant things that happened to one's body after death. She wouldn't trust anyone else to do it, though. If Sherlock Holmes was to have an autopsy, Molly would be the one to perform it; as it should be. No, that was sick. Molly should not be forced to rifle through the body and brain she once loved, and possibly still did.

Donovan went with him to respond to the call—God, was it really only three hours ago? "Impossible," she had breathed, watching the A&E team pulling Sherlock's limp and bloodied form from the pavement and on to a stretcher in an exercise in futility. They did not rush for very long. He had rounded on the Sargent. He had never been tempted to strike a woman in his life, but now his fingers twitched.

"Impossible," he had shouted, "What is so impossible about this? Impossible that this is your fault? Are you proud that you brought a great man to this?"

"No," she stammered, "I… I mean… he's not… he wasn't the sort to give up and kill himself. He was to bloody proud for that."

"That shows you how well you really knew him. You were there for the call out for his last overdose. Answer me this, how does a genius whose specialty is human biochemistry manage to overdose himself by that much? If you haven't figured that out in all the years you knew him, you are more dim than even he thought. Please remove yourself from my sight, and more importantly leave before John sees you. Go process the scene on the rooftop if you want to be helpful."

She had nodded, shamefaced. She walked to the front doors of the hospital. She passed by Anderson, who grabbed her arm. Sally pushed him off with barely a pause. Lestrade sighed; he would deal with her later. Now the only thing he could possibly think to do was to follow the way Sherlock's body had gone. Irrationally, he wanted to follow to berate the hospital staff that had given up on him, to push them out of the way and start CPR. It had worked once before, why shouldn't it work once again?

That was why Lestrade didn't need to see Sherlock's body. He had seen him dead once before, and that was one too many times. He didn't know him very much at all then, even less than he did now. He was just some kid genius junkie then, drugged off his head every time he saw him, but still so very clever. The arrogant nineteen-year-old boy had been a nuisance at first, but Lestrade hated to see that kind of brain go to waste before his eyes and made a point to check in on him every so often. Thank God he did, because one day he found Sherlock passed out on the floor in his hovel of a dwelling. He was unresponsive, and Lestrade could not find a pulse. He dialed 999 as he searched frantically at his neck and wrist but could not even detect a flutter in his still-warm body.

Lestrade had bullied Sherlock's unwilling body back to life then and later bullied an only slightly more willing Sherlock into sobriety. He had made such progress in the years after that. His relationship with John—not romantic but still so much more than friendship—had been the final proof for Lestrade. Sherlock was well on his way to becoming both good and great. He no longer caught himself panicking when his texts went unanswered, fearing he would find the genius dead face-down in a gutter somewhere. He could practically feel Sherlock next to him saying, "How did you not see? It was so obvious!" The specter of the detective did not deign tell him what he had missed, and he could not even see the warning signs in hindsight himself. Going through the last twenty four hours was like picking through a fresh gash with a salty blade.

A sudden, horrible thought flashed in his brain, and it made him want to retch. Lestrade found himself wondering if it would have been better for the brilliant genius to have died then of an "accidental" overdose, a nobody junkie face-down in the gutter, than a proud man suffering a very publicized fall from grace and a suicide that was obviously intentional. Either way he will have died alone. He could have died a nobody, but Lestrade made sure he died a laughingstock.
At least then he wouldn't have dragged John down with him, had he died chasing highs instead of criminals. Lestrade had seen the usually stoic army doctor sitting on a gurney. He was covered in blood, Sherlock's blood. A paramedic came to wrap a fluorescent orange shock blanket about his shoulders, but it only made the man sob even louder.

"I'm in shock. Look, I've got a blanket."

Lestrade wanted to offer the man some comfort, but couldn't bring himself to face him. Sherlock's death was, after all, largely his fault. He could try to blame Donovan and Anderson. He could hate Moriarty with all his heart and soul. Hell, he could even try to get angry at Sherlock himself, but Lestrade would always be the one who went to the higher-ups with suspicions. He would always know that for a moment, he too began to wonder. Given the choice between the man he considered like a son to him and his career, he had made a horrible mistake.

The guilt bore down on him, threatening to crush him under its weight. Lestrade could do nothing to keep it at bay. Perhaps that was the crux of the matter. Had Sherlock died in a gutter, Lesteade would not have felt this guilt, this suffocating grief. There would have been a sadness and pity for a young life wasted, but Sherlock's ghost would have joined a host of others that only haunted him on particularly hard days when the job just became too much. Now, figment-Sherlock has not left him since he saw the A&E crew give up on the real Sherlock.

He was so lost in his grief he did not immediately notice Molly standing in front of him. In fact, he did not register her presence until she placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. His head snapped up, causing Molly to jump back in surprise. He suddenly realized he was crying and rubbed furiously at his tears. He did not have the right to cry in front of Molly. Not when she was suffering from grief he caused.

"I want to see him.. I mean, his body…" he found himself mumbling thickly.

No! No, His mind screamed, that is the exact opposite of what I want! But he knew he needed to. He needed to confirm that he could do no more for Sherlock. That the man who he had always mistaken for superhuman and invincible was truly dead. Irrationally, he was still holding on to the hope that the bloody genius had survived the fall and would be sitting in the swivel chair in Molly's lab when he entered. He needed to crush that hope if he ever hoped to come to terms with what he had done.

"I…" Molly stuttered, looking down at her toes, "Just… Let me clean him up a bit. He wouldn't want… I mean, wouldn't have wanted you to see him all… like that. It will just be a moment."

Lestrade nodded and Molly ran back into the morgue to attend to the body of the man she loved. She seemed to be holding it all together remarkably well. Lestrade had to admire her strength, but almost wished she would cry. Then he could comfort her and feel useful. Now he just felt like his very presence was forcing her to fight to postpone her own grief. He wondered who the pathologist had to help her through.

Just as Molly said, it took just a moment. She returned for Lestrade long before he was ready to dash any stubborn hopes he held for Sherlock's survival. Molly grasped his hand in encouragement to get him through the doors. All the morgue tables were empty except for one. A tall, lean figure was laid out on it, covered completely in a white sheet. A stainless steel bowl was sat on the trolley holding the surgical tools. The water was red with blood. Lestrade approached the table with his eyes clenched shut.

Please don't be Sherlock. Please don't be Sherlock, he chanted childishly in his mind.

He felt Molly release his hand to uncover the body, and opened his eyes hesitantly. Lestrade drew a sharp breath and exhaled a sob. Sherlock's head and shoulders were uncovered. He almost looked like he was sleeping, so much more peaceful than he had on the pavement, so much more than he had in life. His mop of dark curls obscured the surely substantial damage to his skull, and he had died before bruises had much of a chance to form. The barest hint of purple shaded his body on the left side. His lips and eyelids were blue. Lestrade bit his knuckles in an attempt to stem the coming of tears. Molly patted his arm in comfort, shaking with tears herself.

"I'll just… just give you a mo…moment, shall I?" Molly stuttered in between tears.

Lestrade nodded numbly. For a long while he simply stared at Sherlock's still face, tears flowing in earnest now that he was alone.

"Sh…Sherlock," he choked, "I…God, I'm… I'm so, just so sorry. You were… the greatest…greatest man I will ever know…and a damn good one, too…the very best…I'm…I'm sorry I didn't see…see it sooner. God!" He took a deep, steadying breath and reached out to touch Sherlock's hand. He followed the line of his thumb up to his wrist and rested his fingers there. No pulse. He buried his face in his hands, unable to look one more minute at the corpse before him, his vision blurred with tears. "Good…goodbye Sh…Sherlock. P…please forgive me if you c…can. S…see you on the other side, even…even if you didn't believe in that…that sort of thing. I hope…I hope there are people there who can…can appreciate you like you deserve. I'm just so…so…sorry. Good…goodbye." Lestrade grasped the cold hand one more time, then turned and left the morgue.

Perhaps it was for the best that his wife had won custody of the girls. After all, he had driven his son, a damn good son, to kill himself. Not exactly the stuff a father-of-the-year is made of.

Please review! In your review please pick who should go next: Sally or Mycroft!

P.S.: I try to respond to all reviews. Reviewers of my other stories, I am desperately behind right now, but I hope to catch up soon!