Title is the name of the book in which Kübler-Ross originally introduced her model of grief in five stages.

denial

"John is dead," is the first thing Lestrade hears when he answers the phone. And – maybe he ought to know better, but Sherlock sounds so calm, voice cool and unhurried, that it's obvious it's a joke. Or rather a threat, technically, but half-hearted at best. Usually John is the one calling him to vent about Sherlock, but he supposes turnabout is fair play, even if Sherlock's domestic complaints are more likely to involve too many homecooked meals or some such awful trial, rather than John's sort (most recently: gallbladder in the shower, which he'd stepped on; Sherlock then scolding him for compromising the experiment).

"Right," Greg replies, lightly. He doesn't vary from the script, either, despite his sympathy in all probability not being justified. "What did he do this time?"

"I just told you, he died, do keep up," Sherlock spits. "I am standing over the corpse of one Doctor John Hamish Watson. He was murdered by a mugger, whom, incidentally, he killed in return. The fellow on the fourth floor balcony has already called it in through official channels, but I understand the untimely death of a colleague is the sort of thing it's considered polite to keep others abreast of."

"Wait," Greg says, a sudden awful pit in his gut, his mind jolting unevenly to a halt. That can't be – this isn't, surely, "Wait, wait, Sherlock, are you-"

"If you bring Anderson to this crime scene I will not be held responsible for what follows," Sherlock warns darkly, and then hangs up.

anger

Sherlock laughs during his witness statement.

"John," he says fondly, exasperatedly, smiling, and if Sally were in this room she would be leaping across the table to throttle him but Greg knows better. Knows this doesn't mean Sherlock doesn't care, it just –

"Only John would be idiot enough to survive multiple war zones, professional kidnappings, my brother, Moriarty even… only to let himself be killed by a twenty-year-old addict during his first time using a gun." Sherlock bares his teeth. It's closer to a grin than anything else, for all there's a gleam of madness in his eyes. "John," he repeats, with an explanatory sort of shrug.

"And – you said, John." Greg clears his throat. Pushes through – "John was the one who killed –"

"Oh, yes," Sherlock agrees, fingers tapping rapidly on the table. "Oh yes, yes he did."

Greg swallows. Thinks about the odds of that, the bullet through his throat, the shock – there's no official autopsy yet, but it couldn't have taken more than a few minutes, the way he was ripped open. It's extremely unlikely that John managed to wrest the gun from the mugger and deliver the clean head-shot that put him down in that length of time. After a moment, Greg starts to write it down in his report anyway.

"He did it," Sherlock says, his voice gone very low. Greg looks up. Sherlock is leaning forward across the desk, staring hard at him, pronouncing every word with great deliberation: "Lestrade. I would have murdered him. He would have been my first true murder, and I would have gotten away with it. But if I killed him, it would be messier, much messier. I would have enjoyed myself more."

Greg stares, frozen like a rabbit before a python. There's a dark, awful shine in Sherlock's eyes. His palms are flat on the desk, his entire body perfectly still; there's a promise of deadly movement in that somehow. He is smiling, and he looks every inch the monster he'd never quite become.

And then the smile shifts.

"Our mugger was panicked; he'd have shot me next. Either that or I'd have murdered him. John–" Sherlock shrugs again, limbs loose of a sudden, eyes soft and lost in memory.

"He didn't let it happen," Greg realizes, because suddenly it is not so difficult to picture John killing the mugger at all. Lunging forward and tugging the gun out of shaking hands, spinning it expertly around in a second, and doubly saving Sherlock – his last act. Smiling, even with blood bubbling out his neck, choosing to die that way, to not let Sherlock go mad with revenge for his sake, to not let Sherlock die too. It is the definition of easy to picture that scene; in an instant Greg is convinced of its truth.

"John," Sherlock sums up, and laughs proudly.

bargaining

John's funeral is a dignified, somber affair. It is surprisingly well-attended: overflows the tiny cemetery Sherlock has chosen. There's a good crowd of military, active or retired, reminiscing about Watson the bold, the brave, the kind, the… apparently widely known as 'Three Continents'.

There's certainly enough women to support the claim. Something of a shock, to anyone from the Yard who's grown used to seeing John only at Sherlock's beck and call, but they're present all right. And while they've all certainly got glares for Sherlock, he doesn't denounce more than two for shedding false tears; apparently, John was rather good at break-ups too.

Mrs. Hudson is there of course, very pale and clutching Sherlock's arm. There's a slew of doctor friends too, neighbors, associates among the police force. There's a number of fans from his blog – apparently Sherlock emailed invites to certain frequent commenters, which frankly should seem odder than it does. Really, the most surprising fact is that he paid enough attention to the blog in the first place to know which commenters to invite, not that he acquired their contact information or trusted complete strangers to his best friend's funeral.

Mycroft makes an appearance halfway through. He stands over the grave, leaning on his umbrella, for a solid ten minutes, with a slight frown on his face. Finally, he straightens, murmurs, "pity," and pats Sherlock on the shoulder before returning to the sleek black car from whence he came.

John's parents do not attend. From what Greg has gathered, one of them is dead and the other completely estranged. His sister does show up, very late, and blind drunk. She stumbles through the crowd, shouting first at Sherlock then, blearily, at the casket.

"Don't you know I'd do anything to get you back, you idiot," she threatens, and Sherlock snorts loudly.

"You couldn't manage to quit drinking when he was alive to support the effort, Harriet, don't indulge the folly of pretending you believe that could change now," he says scathingly. "There are far more productive ways to spend the money he's left you, such as throwing it at random passersby in the street, or perhaps funding Anderson's lobotomy."

"I don't know why the hell he died for an asshole like you," Harry spits.

"I do," Sherlock says, flatly. "Now please, do toss some dirt and get lost."

Greg lingers long after he's dropped his own handful of dirt. He waits, until everyone's taken their turn and the professional grave-diggers step in. Waits for people to leave: blog fans first, police, doctors. Some old dates head out with the army buddies, looking for a pub. The sister leaves with them, not exactly part of the group but clearly headed for the alcohol. Mrs. Hudson wraps Sherlock up in a long, long hug, which he returns just slightly (very telling, that – he wouldn't for anyone else), before slipping away with another old lady into a cab for home. Slowly, the graveyard empties until it's just Greg and Sherlock… and the workers, burying John Watson deeper and deeper.

Greg isn't sure what he's expecting. Some sort of breakdown? Sherlock, falling to his knees and pleading with John's coffin? Perhaps not, but – something. Some kind of farewell, at least, some reaction that he could use some support during. A private eulogy, to make up for the one Sherlock refused to give to the crowd.

It doesn't come.

Sherlock watches silently until the grave is completely filled. The headstone is still being carved; it'll be put up in a week or so. For now, the fresh grave is marked only by a small plastic flag stuck into the ground, and a neat rectangle of overturned earth.

Sherlock nods once at the final display, as if satisfied. Then he spins on a heel and marches off towards the street, flinging an arm up to catch a cab as soon as he hits the sidewalk. He leaves Greg behind, shivering alone by the fresh grave, without acknowledging him even slightly.

John had done almost exactly the same, after Sherlock's funeral.

Greg sniffs, scrubs an arm across his face, and heads home. He feels weary enough to sleep a decade away.

depression

For nearly a week after the funeral, Sherlock does not attempt to contact Greg at all. This is no surprise, of course – the man's best mate just died violently, for Christ's sake. Maybe more than his best mate. The teasing on that point never quite went away, and for all John's protests, for all his sincere attempts at dating women, Greg has always been uncertain if there really wasn't something going on there. At the very least on Sherlock's part – he's seen the man's face when John compliments him, he's heard the drunken rants at the pub on the subject of yet another date interrupted, he's burst into their flat with news of a murder only to halt at them too-close and comfortable on the sofa, Sherlock sideways with knees bent up over John's legs as if to keep him there, John's arm resting along the back of the sofa with fingers dangling to graze Sherlock's hair. Empty chairs around them, sofa space unused. They ways they reacted to his arrival seemed telling to him, John jolting a bit, hand scraping Sherlock's neck as he pulled it back, straightened as if to get up. Sherlock pouting, digging his feet down into the edge of the couch to hold John still, the sulk evident in his voice as he told Greg to go away, that case was barely a 3.6.

At the least, when Sherlock died John grieved like a widow. It's – whatever was or wasn't didn't really matter, not then and certainly not now. There was love there. The specific breed isn't important, Greg just knows that Sherlock will be needing time. He's offered his companionship as a friend too, of course, but Sherlock didn't answer the text and it wasn't a surprise. Maybe later he'll take up the offer, but for now Greg expects at least a fortnight of complete silence from the man.

Which is why it comes as something of a shock when Sherlock bursts onto the scene of an open-and-shut domestic murder just six days after John was buried.

He's all vim and vigor, brutally dismissing Anderson and going off on a twelve-minute rant about how obviously the husband was not at fault seeing as he was clearly out with his mistress during the murder window, instead there is a plain link to underground dogfighting, yes dogfighting, but, oh! look at those thumb-prints, the wife's murderer was also her lover, and the husband knew all about it so why did he – interesting, interesting!

"This is a solid eight, how dare you not call me!" Sherlock snaps, voice muffled from where he is half-buried under the divan, and Greg's too stunned to filter his thoughts.

"I – John's dead, I thought you needed time!" he protests.

Sherlock stills for barely a second. Just long enough for guilt to rise up, choking in Greg's throat.

Then he says, cryptically: "It's at a delicate stage, I can't do anything about it for now," and emerges in a puff of dust, clutching an old sock in a gloved hand and beckoning for an evidence bag.

Briefly Greg thinks – hopes – that perhaps John's death wasn't, just like Sherlock's had been – but that hope extinguishes itself later that evening when he visits the grave. The headstone's been finished and it proclaims John foolishly brave, not as imbecilic as most, friend. Terms that only Sherlock would have ever chosen. The insults, the missing 'beloved', the distinct lack of mention that he was also a brother and son lining up neatly with Sherlock's scoff at the funeral. Sherlock wouldn't have done this as a sham. Well – he might have, he could have, but John would never have let him, John wouldn't have 'died' and even if he had he'd have made sure to treat the entire matter with more compassion. Besides, there's no Moriarty here. There's no reason, there's no justification besides pure wishful thinking, Greg needs to set all those thoughts aside for good.

It's more likely that Sherlock's words were just another sign of him being unable to process things like normal people. He's still trying to master his emotions, to be in charge – of course, that's it. A 'delicate stage' is his own depression, he can't do anything because he's lost the only person he ever bloody loved, and Greg nearly chokes up. He's full of sympathy for that brilliant, idiotic madman, truly mourning for probably the first time in his life, and he promises himself not to question Sherlock's methods anymore. If he thinks a case will distract him – if it does, however briefly – he won't stand in the way. Won't even gape as he had done that afternoon.

Sherlock might not be the type to cry on shoulders, but this is a support only Greg can give. He vows to himself he will, promises it to John as well, and leaves the graveyard full of determination.

His resolve doesn't ever quite waver, but it's certainly muddied over the next few weeks. Sherlock will vanish for hours or days, sometimes right in the middle of an investigation – but each time he reappears it is more cheerfully. He seems almost eager, of late, impatiently bouncing on his toes, checking his watch, smiling absentmindedly into the middle distance.

John is dead, Greg reminds himself firmly, you saw the body, touched it, there's no way. Sherlock is just – trying to cope. It's different from normal people, seems a bit monstrous from the outside, but if you know him then it's clear lack of heart is not the problem here. He just doesn't know what to do with all the heart he's got, so if clinging to cases and counting down the time till the end of some self-imposed mourning period is what he thinks will help, best to let him do it. He'll find out the grief still lingers on his own, and maybe he'll finally need more traditional comforts when he does.

Until then, Greg suffers the display, shouts Sally and Anderson down to mute glares, and quietly pities Sherlock Holmes.

acceptance

Greg's new policy of not questioning Sherlock's grieving process comes to a distinct end the day he shows up with a skull in his hands. Not the moment he arrives with the skull, granted – Greg's a little ashamed to admit that the sight of Sherlock talking animatedly to a real human skull barely even blips on his radar at this point.

But then Sherlock spins around from the corpse, grinning wide at the skull he'd shoved into Greg's hands upon his usual bombastic arrival ("Hold," he ordered curtly, and then immediately got his nose almost inside the victim's mouth, sniffing for poison or something).

And then Sherlock, still beaming, breathes out, "John, it's marvelous."

There's a moment where almost no one gets it. Where they jerk to look at Sherlock, confused and unsettled, everyone but Gregory Lestrade because in only a second he understands, and he yelps, and he drops the skull.

Sherlock makes a sound that is a mix between a snarl and a yowl, literally diving forward to catch it before it hits the ground; he manages, but barely, and the way he crashes into Greg's legs nearly knocks him down as well.

"Be careful!" Sherlock hisses, glaring up at him with his prize clutched carefully between his hands, clean white bone, and one of his fingers is curved into the left eye socket, just a bit, just a little bit.

"Sherlock," Greg says, feeling physically ill, "is that the skull of John Watson?"

There's a ripple of sound across the crime scene; a rush of gasps. Out of the corner of his eye Greg can see Sally jolt back so hard that she knocks into a wall. He's – to be honest, he doesn't know what he feels about this, other than like he might be sick, that bit of bone used to be one of his friends and he has been holding it for the past twenty minutes and he can't –

"Of course it is," Sherlock replies matter-of-factly, standing up and brushing the skull off. He upturns it to peer inside, make certain it survived the landing; blows a puff of air into it to clear away any dust. Another jolt of pure nausea rushes through Greg's body at the sight, but the detective doesn't seem to notice, merely righting the skull with a satisfied huff. "So I'll thank you to be a little more careful in the fut-"

There's no bloody way that Greg is ever touching that skull again, but before he can voice this opinion, Sherlock is cut short by a horrified voice.

"Freak," Sally Donovan intones. There's something arresting about the word – if before it was always laced with dislike, discomfort, anger – this time is dripping pure horror. Her eyes are wide. She's – she's shaking, and strangely enough something about that helps Greg feel a little more settled. She's looking at Sherlock like he's not even human. "You – he was your friend, he died because of you, and now you just rob his grave?"

Sherlock blinks.

"Of course not, Sally," he says. "Do you honestly believe he'd be decomposed down to his bones already? What kind of police officer are you? -No, I didn't steal anything. He left me himself. In his will."

The madman looks proud. It is, Greg notes a little distantly, a very young sort of look, disconcertingly innocent.

"'To do with as you please, I suppose, though I'd rather no acid be involved. Frankly, I'd prefer at least my skeleton remaining intact if you're inclined to keep it at all, no detrimental experiments please. If I'm to stay with you after death, I'd like to do it as whole as possible. And a grave regardless would be nice, thanks… This is all a bit mad, certainly, but I think you'll like it. To be honest, I like the sound of it myself, somehow.'" Sherlock quotes from memory, voice softening immeasurably at the last sentence. He draws the skull against his chest and lifts his chin. "So, you see. Nothing untoward."

"N-nothing – what kind of monster are you?" Sally asks, but her voice has lost most of its energy. There's a strange sort of weary disbelief to it now, some of the fear disappearing in the wake of her complete confusion.

That's always been the crux of it, Greg thinks: she just doesn't understand Sherlock. Not in the least, and that unnerves her, scares her, because he's just completely unquantifiable, nothing he does makes sense at all and so she can't rule anything out with him.

Greg has always liked to think he knows Sherlock a little better than that. Enough to bring him on in the first place, and then again after his treatment and withdrawal had run its course. Enough to believe in him, at least to a certain extent – he'll lie and steal and mock so freely as to be thoroughly cruel, but he does have a heart. It's buried deep, but perhaps burns all the brighter for that. At least, it always seemed to around John Watson. Sherlock is capable of love, and more than just that: he's an excellent example, if you know how to look. Not a healthy example, not ever, but strong.

"If I'm a monster for carrying out John's last wishes, then what are you for pawning your dead grandmother's pearls?" Sherlock snips back.

"You-"

"Is that what you've been doing all this time?" Greg asks. His voice is quiet, but they all stop to listen. "Making – is his skeleton sitting in your kitchen right now, Sherlock?"

"No." Sherlock is quiet for a long, sulky moment. "He's in his armchair."

Sally lets out a shout of disgust. She's not the only one in the room to do so.

"Jesus," Greg says. "Jesus."

Sherlock, finally, is looking a little defensive. He glares around the room.

"Shut up," he suggests firmly. "Just – shut up, the lot of you. I can do that. I can put John's skeleton on his armchair if I want – leave him propped with a cup of tea and his laptop, even, put an ugly jumper on him for better accuracy. I can do that. He gave me permission, he wanted it, and if, yes, I've spent weeks boiling the meat off his bones, degreasing the marrow out, drilling, connecting, cataloguing, measuring, building a fully articulated John skeleton to lounge about in our living room, then that's fine. Legally, an-and morally, and what-have-you so just shut up."

His shoulders are hunched up around his shoulders by the end, and for all his deliberately provocative descriptions, he looks persecuted, somehow. He looks very small, clutching John's skull to his chest like a child's safety blanket. He nearly stuttered for a moment there.

"I think better with John," Sherlock says next. He's turned, and is looking directly at Greg, mulish resentment in his words but something approaching pleading in his eyes. "I'm not going to stop bringing him along. I- I need his assistance."

"Jesus," Greg says very faintly, one more time. Then: "Okay."

There's that familiar chorus of gasps around them, again, but this time Greg ignores his coworkers. He looks firmly at Sherlock and nods, decisively.

"He can stay," he decides, because when he looks at Sherlock's face so desperate, that skull cradled carefully in his hands, he just feels sad. No more disgust, no anger, just a deep, deep, melancholy. "I'm not holding him again, Sherlock, but – all right."

There's a complicated range of emotions running across Sherlock's face. They go by very, very quickly, before his expressions smooths out to become blank, businesslike.

"Squeamish of you," he sneers (gratefully, Greg thinks with a sort of defeated mental laugh, this is what grateful looks like on Sherlock). "Now, if anyone remembers the corpse we're actually here for?"

They're off, then, on a whirlwind of deductions and rapid-fire insults and Sherlock, asking John Watson's skull a question, pausing before lighting up with another deductive leap, and the rest of Greg's team standing back an extra five paces in disgust, and Greg has to swallow down the visceral need to pull Sherlock into a very long hug.

Poor kid, he finds himself thinking, though by all rights Sherlock is a fully grown man, deserving of respect or derision but never condescension. But he looks at him with his dead friend's skull clutched in his hands, eagerly explaining how the locked-room murder has been carried out, and all Greg can think is you poor lad.

This is as close to coping as you're ever going to get, isn't it?

"Yes," says Sherlock to the skull, moments later (days, weeks, a month, three years, neverending and never moving on at all). "Yes, yes, John, that'sbrilliant, why didn't I think of that? Really, I'd be lost without you."