Author's note: I actually wanted to write this for a while, but somehow I never did. So I figured why not now? I'm also experimenting with my style a bit.

I don' own anything, please review.

As he stood before the corpse of a great man, Greg knew that the answer wasn't simply "He killed himself".

Nothing in Sherlock Holmes' life had ever been this simple. Nothing in Sherlock Holmes' life could be this simple. He had been a walking contradiction – a sociopath with a heart, a realist with an idealist's mind, a genius who was an idiot when it came to emotions – and Greg would never believe that he would have jumped because his reputation had been destroyed. Sherlock had never given much about what other people thought about him. He hadn't even given much about his career. What he'd cared about had been the puzzle.

And he wouldn't have killed himself before this one, this greatest puzzle of all had been solved.

He looked at the corpse again, the almost unrecognizable corpse, and wondered if he was simply deceiving himself, like so many relatives and friends of victims he had encountered during his years as a detective.

He was surprised and a little ashamed that he didn't feel nauseous, standing before the body of his friend. A moment later he realized that he was most likely in shock. This didn't help much, since the words Sherlock had uttered the day he met John Watson – "I'm in shock, look, I've got a blanket" – came immediately to his mind.

He swallowed and looked once more down at the body of his – of his – no, Sherlock had been his friend. Even if he hadn't been Sherlock's.

He was standing before the corpse of his friend, and no one could tell him otherwise.

He took a deep breath, taking one last look at the shell the greatest detective of the century had left behind and turned around. He hastily bid Molly Goodbye and returned to his office to deal with the paperwork.

He should have known, really. He should have realized what was going on the moment Moriarty had broken into the Tower of London. He had been the only police man Sherlock Holmes had trusted; therefore he had obviously thought Greg was better than the others, cleverer than the others. And he had let him down in the end. Just like everyone else, except John.

And yet, it all had seemed so clear in the beginning. When Moriarty had stolen, or rather played with, the Crown Jewels.

Greg had meant what he'd told Donavan; break-ins certainly weren't their division. And there were other, far more experienced and longer-serving police officers to take care of it. That their division had even been told was strange. He still suspected Mycroft had something to do with it.

Still, he and Donavan drove to the Tower of London followed by several police cars. He hadn't thought of Moriarty, to his everlasting shame, even when she'd told him about the Bank of England and Pentonville Prison.

He knew all about Moriarty by this time, he had been there after the bomb opposite 221B exploded, when the bodies turned up, when Sherlock solved a riddle just in time to save a child's life.

He should have made the connection; he didn't. And yet he was supposed to be a police officer, for God's sake. He should have seen it.

But he hadn't, and now Sherlock was dead because of it.

Oh, he had jumped; John's testimony was proof enough. Greg didn't interview him himself – it would have been highly unprofessional – but in the aftermath, he read the doctor's statement again and again.

Sherlock had jumped.

But Moriarty had driven him to the edge.

And now he was dead, and nothing, nothing mattered anymore.

What did he care about his career? Mycroft would probably take care of it anyway.

The only thing that mattered was that Sherlock was dead.

He should have realized what was going on when he'd arrested Moriarty.

"No rush" the consulting criminal said when they arrived.

Greg didn't answer, simply nodded to Donavan to handcuff him, all the while studying the man because he couldn't help but wonder whether this was what Sherlock could have become. Heartless, ruthless, the most dangerous criminal the city had ever seen. He knew Donavan still saw him that way; he knew her and Anderson didn't trust Sherlock in the least. He knew better.

He knew that this – Moriarty – was what Sherlock could have been, if he'd chosen the other road. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

Moriarty grinned at him and he realized he probably knew what he was thinking. He ordered Donavan to bring him to the car. He knew what Moriarty was thinking; he knew Moriarty knew. There was no need to exchange words.

He tried to talk to Sherlock about him once, before the trial. The consulting detective, however, was preoccupied with an experiment, simply waved his hands in the air and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Leave me alone".

He did.

Not even John told him much about Moriarty that he didn't already know from personal experience or the blog. And of course he wasn't allowed to handle the investigation – of course someone the Chief Superintendent "trusted" (whatever this meant) did it and in the end Moriarty walked free.

He wasn't surprised when it happened, although he'd hoped against hope that it wouldn't. Sherlock might think him an idiot, but he wasn't, and a man who could break into the Tower London, the Bank of England and the Pentonville Prison could surely somehow manage to threaten the jury into setting him free.

He was concerned. This guy obviously was obsessed with Sherlock, if his message at the Tower was anything to go by. He had to watch out for the younger man.

He failed.

Somehow, standing in the morgue, he wished he could say he had stood by him no matter what. That he had always done the right thing, that he had done what he believed in.

But it would be a lie.

Why did he ever believe Donavan?

The answer was easy enough: He didn't.

Of course he called Sherlock immediately as soon as the father of the missing children had expressed a desire that the "Reichenbach hero" should be involved.

He was even proud of himself, at the time. Because he believed that somehow he had finally managed to make people see the man Sherlock truly was, the hero he denied he was.

And Sherlock saved the children, of course he did. And Greg helped because he listened like he always had, like he always would.

Or so he thought.

He couldn't say that he really believed Donavan had a point. Not at first, no; he couldn't. He actually had to ask what the other possibility was because he simply thought it ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. He had known Sherlock for over six years; he had seen him solve more cases than any other detective he had ever met.

But to any other man it must seem like Donavan was right and he was wrong and he had been duped all along and Sherlock was a fraud and just like that his world came crashing down around him.

He knew it was his duty to go to the Chief Superintendent, but it still felt like a betrayal. No. He was betraying Sherlock. And that he called and told John they were coming didn't change a thing. He still arrested Sherlock. He still allowed an officer to put handcuffs on him. He still told John to be silent.

And then –

He had known, in the back of his mind he had, that Sherlock was going to try something. Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not resourceful, and he certainly wouldn't go to jail for something he didn't do.

Furthermore, he made no attempt to prevent their escape. He went and stood on the street, waiting for something – he didn't know what – to happen.

When it happened, he was more annoyed that anything else, and that should really have told him the truth, but it didn't, and he only discovered it in the morgue when everything was too late.

He told the officers to do what Sherlock said – secretly hoping without admitting it to himself that they would manage to escape – and only realized that he had a problem when the Chief Superintendent ordered him to find them.

He struggled with himself for the briefest of moments. In truth it wasn't really a struggle at all. He had already jeopardized his career when he called John and he wouldn't stop helping them now. He didn't care what happened to them. He had to make sure Sherlock was safe, that Sherlock was cleared. And if he was arrested now –

Suddenly it occurred to him that he might call Mycroft, and he shook his head. He should have done so as soon as Sherlock was accused of inventing the crimes. Really, maybe he was an idiot after all.

Or not.

Because Mycroft told him that there was nothing he could do; because Mycroft was ready to see his younger brother hang; because Mycroft, when he started to get angry simply hung up; because Mycroft turned out to be the arch-enemy Sherlock had always insisted he was.

All Greg could do was try and hinder the search as much as possible. He came to realize that he knew Sherlock better than he'd thought; he knew where he was likely to look for shelter. Therefore no abandoned buildings were stacked out and neither were any friends of Sherlock's – which really wasn't a long list – interviewed.

Dimmock was the only colleague who brought a lead, and he was careful enough only to explain to Greg when they were alone that someone had seen two men who resembled Sherlock and John in the vicinity of Kitty Riley's house. Then the younger DI ripped the piece of paper into pieces and left his office. At least Sherlock had another friend at Scotland Yard. Gregson had immediately offered to help look for him to save his own skin when he'd heard about the accusations against the consulting detective.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. His phone rang constantly, both Anderson and Donavan tried to give him advice at how to find Sherlock, the Chief Superintendent demanded hourly reports and he was trying not to appear like he wanted the two partners in crime to stay off the grid.

During this chase that really wasn't a chase at all he only bestowed the most cursory of glances on a DC he was sure he had never seen around before; he didn't have the time to wonder about his presence and decided that the Chief Superintendent had most likely drafted additional men into the task force.

When he got the call he didn't think; he just reacted. He grabbed his coat and stormed out of his office, not even Donavan daring to ask him where he was going.

He took a look at the blood on the pavement – not more than a look – and immediately went to the morgue. John was nowhere to be seen; it was more than likely that Mycroft had had him brought home (Mycroft, who had betrayed his brother; Mycroft who had left him – no – no maybe it wasn't him, maybe -)

And this was why he was standing here now.

And it was Sherlock. There could be no doubt about that.

He was sure it was Molly who had let him in, but she was nowhere to be seen. She was probably crying somewhere.

He hated himself for the fact that he wasn't.

He took one last look at the body of his – his – friend and slowly said, "Goodbye, Sherlock" before turning around and leaving.

He had things to do.

He was going to clean Sherlock Holmes' name if it was the last thing he did.

Author's note: Just Greg reflecting before Sherlock's body – I love DI Lestrade.

I hope you liked it, please review.