Mycroft stood in the dank hallway of the basement of NSY. The clerk was piling bags onto the counter, as he scanned the numbers and entered them into the computer. The sound of the keyboard echoed through the silence. Mycroft stared off into space, interested in the dull ache he felt, and he realized that it still hurt, just as much as that first day. Not so much the iceman after all.

Behind him were foot falls, creating a sharp noise that bounced off the walls.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft said flatly, without turning around to see the smirk on the detective's face.

"Mr. Holmes. Collecting your brother's things?" Lestrade said, to make conversation.

"Must you state the obvious?" Mycroft responded smugly.

"I asked them to tell me when you arrived," Lestrade said, "Since you won't accept my calls,"

"And why would I want to talk with you?"

"That day, I never had the chance to say...I just wanted to express my condolences, on your loss," Lestrade said softly.

"Well, now you've done so. Good day Detective Inspector," Mycroft turned towards the counter and picked up the bags, pausing a moment to gaze at largest one with his brother's Belfast coat in it, and then walked a few steps away.

"I have one more thing," Lestrade said as he reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small evidence bag holding a phone. "It's a bit scratched up, but seems to work fine," he said as he handed it over. Mycroft reached his palm out, and Lestrade slowly placed it in his hand.

"Someone's been calling it, well, not just someone," Lestrade said quietly.

"John" Mycroft concluded.

"A few hours after, you know...I was processing the phone when it rang, and I saw it was John," Lestrade said. "He left a message,"

"And did you listen to it?"

"The first one, yes, I did," Lestrade replied quickly "I left the rest,"

Mycroft slipped the phone out of the bag, and turned it on, surprised to see it still had power.

"I kept it charged, just so it would ring like normal," Lestrade muttered.

Mycroft glanced down at the screen, which showed there were 43 new voicemail messages. John had called 43 times in 3 weeks.

"One of those is mine. You can listen to it, just me saying goodbye. I assumed that's what John's been doing. Sounded like a good idea. I told him I was sorry too...for doubting him," Lestrade said, his voice breaking a bit with emotion.

"You don't believe my brother was a fraud?" Mycroft questioned,

"I did, briefly, but it didn't stick, didn't make sense. I was there, I saw him work. I know he was real, and I'll do what ever I can to make sure everyone knows that," Lestrade said emphatically.

"You and I share the same objective then," Mycroft said slowly, "Thank you, Detective Inspector" Mycroft gave him a thin smile and turned.

"If you speak to John, please tell him I am sorry. He won't take my calls either," Lestrade said regretfully.

"That's something else we share then, he refuses to speak to me as well," Mycroft said softly, and gave Lestrade a short nod, and walked down the hallway, and out the door.

His black sedan was idling at the curb, the driver stepped out and opened the boot, taking the bags and placing them in. He hurried to open the rear door for his employer.

Mycroft folded himself into the back of the car as he flipped through his brother's phone, gazing at the dates and times John had called.

"I do believe that belongs to me," a deep voice rumbled from the front passenger seat.

The colour ran from Mycroft's face as he tried to compose himself, hearing Sherlock's voice was quite a shock.

"Please, don't try to pretend you didn't know," Sherlock said shortly, as he gazed at his brother through the visor mirror.

"Sherlock...I...no, no, I didn't know. Sherlock, how can you be alive? I saw you, I claimed your body for Christ's sake!" Mycroft exclaimed, as he stared towards the front, into the mirror, as Sherlock's smug grin reached his eyes.

Sherlock turned around and leaned back. "Well, you never were as clever as me. I thought I left you obvious clues. Seeing as you never came looking for me, I had to come to you,"

Mycroft fell back into his seat and sank down. Sherlock's alive. Stunning.

"What's so interesting about my phone," Sherlock said as he reached for it. Mycroft handed it to him.

"Lestrade's been manhandling this, quite a lot," Sherlock said thoughtfully as he looked it over, "Who are all these messages from?"

You called me, so you know who I am. You clearly own a phone, so you know what to do. Don't be boring, otherwise you can just call John, BEEP

"Sherlock! I don't understand! Why, why did you do that! You can't do that, not you, please, this can't be happening, this isn't happening..." John's shouts decayed into sobs, as the voicemail cut off, he stopped pacing across the interrogation room and pressed his forehead against the wall.

A small part of him thought that Sherlock might have answered the phone and had a brilliant explanation for everything John saw. That this was all just an elaborate ruse to draw Moriarty out. Part of him just wanted to hear his voice. He took a deep breathe in and tried to collect himself.

Donovan gazed in at John, through the window. Even though she despised Sherlock, she had always liked John, just thought he was crazy for hanging around that psychopath. And now he had gone and offed himself right in front of John, that bastard.

John had been absolutely silent to her since she had picked him up at Bart's. Perhaps now that he's had a few hours to cool off...she turned the knob on the door and took a small step in. John immediately spun around and stared, his eyes filled with rage.

"NO, no, not you. I am not talking to you, you heartless bitch. You pushed him and pushed him, and now...You can just go fuck off!" John shouted. "I'll wait for Lestrade,"

"You may be waiting a very long time. He's still at the crime scene, and after that he's gonna have some questions of his own to answer, he'll be lucky if they only fire him," Donovan said smugly.

"Crime scene? How is a suicide a crime scene?"

"You hadn't heard? That Richard Brook fellow was up there, on that roof. Been shot in the head. Most likely Sherlock killed him to try and cover up his lies, and then couldn't live with himself,". Donovan spat out.

John quickly covered the space between him and Donovan, reaching out for her scrawny throat, when Dimmock stepped in from the hall to get between them.

"Step back John, and sit down," Dimmock ordered, "They want you upstairs Sergent,". Donovan stared John down, gave Dimmock a nod, and stormed off.

John slowly sat down, and sunk his head low.

"She's wrong, you know. Sherlock didn't kill him, although by now that's probably what the papers will be printing tomorrow," Dimmock said.

John slowly raised his head, "How do you know that?"

"The pattern of the gun powder of Sherlock's hands and Brook's, looks like he killed himself," Dimmock said quietly. Dimmock probably shouldn't have told John that, but the man deserved to know.

"Detective, let's get one thing straight. That man was James Moriarty, not Richard Brook. That man tried to blow me up after he killed innocent people, just to play a game with Sherlock" John said emphatically, "There is no Richard Brook,"

"That remains to be seen, John. Look, we've got a long night ahead of us. We have to get your involvement with Sherlock, and the kidnapping all straightened out. No one thinks you've done anything wrong, but it needs sorted. And you fled from the police after breaking the chief's nose," Dimmock said softly, trying to get John to calm down. "Although I'm sure he deserved it, he can be a bastard," Dimmock gave John a cautious smile.

John relaxed a bit, "Right, so, I'm going to be here a while then. Am I under arrest?"

"Yes, didn't Donovan explain that to you?"

John thought for a moment. He had been standing in the hallway of the emergency room, waiting for confirmation of what he already knew, that his best friend was dead. There were sounds all around him, but his ears were ringing, and it made it all sound muffled. And then, Donovan was standing there, he hadn't notice for how long. He heard her voice but didn't understand the words. She clearly wanted him to go with her, so he followed.

"Yes, I suppose she did. How long then?"

"At least tonight, you can post bail in the morning, most likely" Dimmock replied, "Shall we get started?"

John rubbed his face with his hands, and stared back at the ceiling of the holding cell. He tried, desperately, to stop seeing Sherlock falling through the air, to fix his memory so that Sherlock simply had turned round and walked off, instead of standing on the ledge and...

The door at the end of the room opened, Lestrade walked in followed by Mycroft. They strode towards John's cell, as he sat up, looked at them, and let out a laugh.

"You know, this is funny. I've done nothing wrong, and yet I am the one in here. You have Sherlock arrested and humiliated, and you betray him, by telling that mad man all about Sherlock. Both of you might as well have pushed him off of that building!" John shouted and laid back down, turned over. "Get the hell away from me!"

"Look, John, I know you're upset, just listen to me, I..." Lestrade stuttered, but stopped when Mycroft gave him a hard stare.

"You're free to go John," Mycroft said plainly.

"I don't need your charity Mycroft, my sister will bail me out in the morning" John replied shortly

"You've been cleared John. Mycroft showed the chief enough CCTV footage of you that shows you didn't have anything to do with the kidnapping. That, and apparently, Mycroft can be very persuasive," Lestrade said. He wasn't sure what Sherlock's brother had said to the chief, but he came out of his office white as a sheet and ordered Lestrade to release John immediately.

John rolled over and stared at Mycroft, "And what about Sherlock? Did you clear him as well?"

"I am working on it, it was more urgent to get you released, we can deal with Sherlock later," Mycroft replied.

"Right, because he's dead. He's got all the time in the world to wait," John said curtly, and Mycroft bowed his head down.

"He's my brother John. I lost my little brother today, I will find out what has happened," Mycroft said sternly.

And John looked at Mycroft and melted a bit, yes, he had lost his brother. Clearly, that was hitting Mycroft harder than he expected.

John cleared his throat, "So, I am free to go then?"

"Just a bit of paperwork, then, yes, you can go," Lestrade said as he opened the door.

"I'll give you a ride home John," Mycroft said quickly.

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but no, I can get myself home," John said as he walked out of the cell and towards the door. Lestrade followed leaving Mycroft behind.

Mycroft kept his face neutral as he watched Lestrade open the door for John, and the two of them walk away. He took a step forward towards the bars of the cell, and grasped them with both hands. He leaned his forehead against the cool metal, and began to shake and cry, letting the anguish wash over him for a moment of release. He whispered to himself "Oh Sherlock, what have you done?"

He quickly stood up straight and rubbed his face, getting himself back under control, and left.

As they silently rode in the lift, Lestrade looked John over, trying to think of what to say, how to explain, something that could comfort his friend.

"John, look, I..."

"Really, Lestrade, don't, please. I don't want to hear you try to explain. Just leave it," John forced the words out, and then the lift doors opened.

Lestrade said quickly, "I am sorry John, about Sherlock,"

John walked out of the lift silently and Lestrade slowly followed.