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“Sherlock, I’m going to need you to give me the gun.” Lestrade says, his voice remaining quiet as he edges nearer to the man on the floor. “Please.” He says, but his voice breaks slightly.
The gun in question is actually John’s gun, now feeling much lighter than it was when it had left Baker Street. The detective has his hands wrapped around it, knuckles white except for the spatters of blood painting them. He is crouching on the ground and leaning over something which Lestrade is trying his best to remain oblivious to but is failing to do so, and staring.
There is silence, a cold, sharp silence that tears into Lestrade like a knife reaching for his internal organs. There’s no returning from it. The damage is done and it becomes significantly clear when Sherlock eventually moves, his legs giving way as he collapses onto the floor.
The gun drops to the ground. Lestrade knows his training and he knows that he should grab the gun and call for backup. He knows he should. He knows what the consequences would be if he didn’t. But he can’t, because he also knows that if he were to do that, Sherlock would be taken away to a police cell, locked away for an indefinite amount of time and deprived of any last connections to John.
Sherlock’s not crying. It takes everything he has to not cry, but he manages not to. Instead he’s shaking, pent up anger releasing itself into his blood stream before suddenly he snaps and lunges at the discarded corpse laying no more than two metres away. The silence is interrupted, and all the noise that can be heard is the repeated crack, crack, crack of bones breaking. A jaw, a skull, a nose. His actions are futile, for the man sprawled out on the pavement is already dead. There is not a brain left in his head.
Lestrade manages to pry Sherlock off the body and they both fall back onto the concrete of the alleyway. Sherlock doesn’t protest. Lestrade doesn’t release his grip. They both just stare. They stare at the man who matters. The man who risked his life and lost.
John’s body is crumpled against the wall on the opposite side of the alley and, despite the darkness of the night, it’s hard to miss the blood. Lestrade doesn’t want to accept it, no more than Sherlock wants to accept it, but it’s hard to deny it.
There wouldn’t have been anyway to survive that, Lestrade thinks as his eyes remain locked on John. Up until that point the detective inspector tried to avoid eye contact with John’s face but there’s no use in denying what he will inevitably have to do. And as he looks, he gasps, and immediately turns his attention away to face Sherlock.
His face is paler than usual, and his eyes are startled and disturbed. Clumps of blood are matted into his curly hair and it takes a moment for Lestrade to notice, but there are small fragments of white bone stuck there also. Sherlock’s right arm is also dotted with lumps of flesh from where he tried to protect himself. There is no denying that it is John’s.
Lestrade can’t help but notice how black the blood looks in the moonlight, the way it is pooling around him, engulfing him.
They remain quiet for possibly only minutes but for Lestrade, it seems like a lifetime. Sherlock is the one who speaks up first.
“My-“ he tries to say his brother’s name but all that comes out is a shaky breath. Sherlock inhales and shakes his head, squinting his eyes and retreating into himself.
“Do you want me to call him?” Lestrade asks, gripping Sherlock’s arm tightly. He gets no response, but he decides to call Mycroft anyway. He stands up on legs that he feels won’t support him, and steps away from Sherlock. Behind him, he hears Sherlock shuffling back over to John.
Mycroft answers on the first ring. Lestrade doesn’t get the chance to say anything, for Mycroft has already begun speaking. “I’m well aware of what has happened, Detective Inspector.”
“Will you-“
“I’m on my way.”
Lestrade throws the phone against the wall before Mycroft has the chance to hang up. Of course he bloody knows. Why wouldn’t he? Lestrade clenches his fist and slams his knuckle against the side of the building. How could this happen? How in God’s name could a case go so horrendously wrong for them?
And that’s when he hears it. He hears the sobs, and the panic and the absolute despair that is coming from Sherlock’s throat. And he knows that Sherlock’s trying his best to not let his emotions show but it’s not working. The detective is in absolute, utter agony.
“No. No, no, no.” Lestrade turns and he sees Sherlock’s silhouette against the streetlight. He sees the way Sherlock has dragged John so that John’s back is pressed against Sherlock’s chest, and he sees the way Sherlock cradles John’s head in a way that is so tender, so gentle, that it seems almost like an intrusion to be watching the scene play out. He sits against the wall with his legs on either side of John’s body and holds him, hoping, trying to believe that this isn’t real.
All Lestrade can hear now is Sherlock’s heavy breathing, occasionally interrupted by a sharp intake of breath as he weeps.
“Sher-“His voice cuts out. He can’t find it in himself to speak.
“Lestrade.” At the sound of his name, the detective inspector turns around to see Mycroft standing at the top of the alleyway. Behind him is a car and two men who are holding on to a stretcher. He sees the body bag and wants to throw up. Mycroft begins walking down the alleyway until he is face to face with Lestrade. “He is going to need us.” Mycroft says, voice even more distant than Lestrade has ever heard before. He glances over Lestrade’s shoulder at his brother. “More than ever.”
No words will come to him, so he doesn’t say anything, and then Mycroft is moving away from him and towards Sherlock.
“Brother,” he says in a way that Lestrade has never heard from the elder Holmes: it’s sympathetic and subdued. “Little brother.” And when his little brother doesn’t look up, Mycroft says his name. “Sherlock.”
Sherlock shifts so Mycroft has space to crouch down beside him. A hand is on his shoulder and there’s a voice in his ear and he doesn’t want to hear what comes out of his brother’s mouth next because it means that everything is over, and John will be gone and he will have nothing. “Sherlock, you need to let him go.” He shakes his head. “Sherlock, John is gone.”
Mycroft stands and holds his hand out to his brother, in a way that is so unlike Mycroft Holmes that Lestrade cannot help but stare. He wants to cry. Sherlock looks up and his face is covered in blood from where he’s been holding John close to him, there’s still bone in his hair, his hands are bruising and skin is broken from where he attacked John’s murderer.
“It’s time to go.” And he does. He manages to manoeuvre himself out from under John and Mycroft pulls him up, and suddenly they’re together in an embrace that has Sherlock sobbing into Mycroft’s shoulder. They stand there, just the two of them and Sherlock cries. He screams. And Mycroft doesn’t say a word, just hugs him tighter.
Sherlock is the one who pulls away first and when he looks up to his brother Mycroft cannot help but feel broken at the sight of him. He was the picture of a defeated man.
He didn’t know if there was any coming back from that.