Greg felt numb. He knew he should be feeling something, but it just wasn't happening. Was it shock? He didn't have an answer. He had felt something at first - the icy water drenching over him, the sudden compulsion for his body to eject his insides outwards, the weakness in his muscles… but they had been physical reactions. The dread had rooted in his stomach as he came to terms with the news, tears had flowed down his cheeks… but he still had felt numb even then. It was more evident now. It was an empty numb, instead of a "too much feeling, register nothing" kind of numb.

It had only been yesterday that Sherlock had… Greg gulped, his body still not able to think about it without gagging. John had been a mess, but that was utterly expected. He'd seen it happen. Greg had rushed there as soon as he could, a faint glimmer of hope that Sherlock was alive still, but that had been crushed forcefully upon his arrival.

Mycroft had been there, taking care of the paperwork. John was there with him, sitting in a ball, a blanket over him. It was then he'd felt like his legs would give out, but he resisted. He was a DI, after all. His first instinct had been to cry, but instead he'd floated over to where John was and embraced him.

Greg let out a breath. He'd still had trouble remembering to breathe. He was just tense all the time. He was sitting on the couch, drink in hand, staring into the darkness. John was in the bedroom, no doubt lying and doing the same. Greg could hear him balling to himself through the thin walls for hours, but felt like he needed the time alone. He'd offered his place for John to stay to avoid going back to 221B alone right now… and in a small way, to have some company himself.

He'd been up all night; sleep had obviously been out of the question, and he wanted John to have the bedroom to himself for some space. He'd wanted to cry himself, but he didn't seem to be able to manage beyond the few tears that occasionally ran down his cheeks. It made him think that it was because he didn't care as much as John, and was angry at himself for it. However it was very likely that he honestly didn't. He wasn't sure exactly how close John had been with the detective, despite the objections the doctor made to their relationship. Greg had known Sherlock for some time, and had noticed how different Sherlock had been with John. To him, it really did seem like it wasn't just friendship… so John had a right to feel more distraught than him.

He honestly didn't know what to do now. His mind, much like his emotions, were blank. He faintly remembered Mycroft getting him out of work for a while, but he couldn't remember if it was approved or for how long. But he honestly didn't care. He couldn't go back to the office, not in this state. And he really couldn't leave John on his own. He wasn't even sure of his own mental state, let alone that of the doctor's.

Greg drank the last of the liquid in his glass, but still just held onto it. He wasn't aware of how much he'd drunk, but he failed to care. He didn't seem to care about anything anymore, which exacerbated his feeling numb.

He heard movement on the other side of the wall. John had gone silent a few hours ago, presumably falling asleep from exhaustion. He felt that the only thing he could do was try make himself useful and comfort John. Perhaps he'll start processing everything then.

He knocked on the door, and waited a moment for an answer, but entered anyway when none came.

"John?" His voice rasped, breaking. He'd not uttered a word since they got back to the small flat.

John was still curled up on the bed, his back to the door. Greg entered, and seated himself on the edge of the bed below John's feet. He looked at the form to his side, and could see John's red eyes from this angle. He didn't know what to say, or if he should try touch him in comfort - and so just sat there in silence, his head hung low.

"Why?" John whispered, barely audible.

"John?" Greg asked, hoping the man would repeat himself. He wasn't sure he'd heard him correctly.

"Why?"
"I... I don't know." Greg answered. There was silence, but he wanted to try keep talking.

"I didn't see it coming. I'd been there for him before, I don't know why he couldn't have come to me…"

"No. Why didn't you stop them?" John said, more forcefully. Greg was confused for a moment, but then understood to what John was referring. Donovan and Anderson.

"I…" Greg started, unable to think of words to say.

"You could have prevented this." John said, his words like daggers into the detective's chest.

Greg felt the stabbing pain, and suddenly all the other emotions came flooding in, washing over him. John's words broke the dam keeping it all at bay. Greg's heart hammered in his chest and he struggled to breathe. He didn't have a thing to say in response, because deep down he knew John was right. It was his fault this happened. He should have fought the Yard harder, should have threatened to quit, shouldn't have indulged Sally in the first place. His whole body began to shake, and he ran from the room.

Greg rushed to the toilet and vomited. There wasn't much other than alcohol and bile to be rid of, however. He sat on the cold tiles of the bathroom and panted for air, unable to escape the feeling gripping his chest. Sherlock had been his best friend, John too, and look what he'd done. He could feel his blood pulse throughout his body from his pounding heart, and he was feeling light headed.

Couch. Greg thought to himself, and tried to stand up to make it out to the living room. His body swayed and he gripped the basin for support. He knew he needed to lie down. He stumbled out and grabbed the edge of the couch, allowing his body to fall onto it. He curled up as tightly as he could, and tried to focus on breathing. It had been hard enough before, but now it was near impossible.

After a minute or so, Greg had managed to control his breathing back to a somewhat normal rate. His body still shook, and the reality of the situation descended on him.

"Oh god..." He uttered, and burst into tears.