DI Lestrade heard the news in the lift.

"Sir!" Sergeant Donovan jumped in as the doors shut. "He's dead."

"Not now, Donovan." He hadn't slept at all, his mind racing as he tried to figure out what to do about John and Sherlock and how he could try to shorten their inevitable time in jail. It didn't help that his superior was on his arse all morning about the matter.

"He's dead," Donovan repeated. "The freak's dead."

Lestrade felt his stomach drop as the doors opened on the ground floor. Sherlock Holmes couldn't be dead. That just wasn't possible.

"He committed suicide," Donovan said as they walked.

"No, he didn't."

"Yes," Donovan said, putting her hands on his shoulders to stop him. "He did. There are witnesses."

Lestrade felt his breathing shallow, and the room began to spin around him. He shut his eyes, hoping it was all a dream, that maybe he did fall asleep last night. He pinched his arm. It hurt.

He was awake, and Sherlock was dead.

"He jumped off of St. Bart's hospital. Sir, if you don't want to come out there with us-"

"No, I'll go," he interrupted. "When did this happen?"

"A few minutes ago," Donovan answered as they walked to the car. "We just got the call. Sir, you don't look so well."

"What do you expect?" Lestrade yelled. "Donovan, I'm sorry-"

"Don't be. I'll drive."

His hands shook during the entirety of the trip as his mind raced. No matter what Donovan had said, he couldn't grasp the idea that Sherlock Holmes wasn't alive. He'd gotten out of scrapes before. Sherlock was brilliant; he couldn't give up that easily.

The hospital director met them as they arrived.

"I'm sorry to bring you out like this," the man said. Lestrade nodded in his direction before directing his gaze to the roof. Never before had a building looked so tall.

"Where was the body found?" Donovan asked.

"In the front," the director answered. "We moved the body immediately to the morgue."

"Witnesses?"

"There were very few witnesses of the fall itself," the man said gravely. "One is in the hospital now being treated for shock and minor injuries."

Lestrade clenched his fists, wanting the shaking to stop. "Has anyone checked the roof?"

"Not yet. We've got the area where Holmes fell blocked off, so you can check that after you're done up there. I'll show you the stairs."

Donovan gave him what seemed to be a sympathetic smile. "C'mon," she said nudging him to follow the director.

Each step that they took reminded Lestrade about the height of the building, the height that Sherlock fell from. He put on gloves as he thought of any possible chance of survival.

Donovan opened the door. Another body was waiting for them.

"Bloody hell," he whispered, stopping in the door frame. It was Moriarty.

"Oh my god, who is that?" the director asked, clutching his heart.

"It's Moriarty," said Donovan as they walked to the corpse. "Or Richard Brook, whatever his name is."

"Moriarty," Lestrade said, kneeling down next to the criminal. Blood seeped out of the skull and a pistol lay near the body. "Send a crew from the morgue, Doctor. He's dead."

The director hurried back down the stairs. Lestrade stood and walked around the roof. The sunshine mocked the scene. "Why would you do this, Sherlock? Why?"

"I always knew that there was something funny about him-"

"Donovan, shut up!" Lestrade felt his control slipping away from him. Nothing made sense anymore.

"Sir?" He turned to Donovan. She held a very familiar phone. "Is this-"

"Yeah, that's his phone," he said. "Check the recent calls, texts, anything that we can use to try to piece this together."

Lestrade glanced over the roof to the scene below. Nothing there could have blocked his fall. He would have been dead on impact.

"Maybe Moriarty threatened Sherlock," he muttered. "Pointed the gun, forced him to jump, and then pulled the trigger on himself?"

His own phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown source.

He opened it.

"Wrong."