Gregory Lestrade didn't react when he heard the news. He ended the phone call to John, and made his way to the chair behind his desk. Anyone looking through the half-frosted glass would have seen a broken man, head in hands, shoulders bowed. He snapped at Sergeant Donovan when she tried to tell him about some development in some case. Dimly, he was aware of the light fading from the window behind him, of the fluorescent bulbs flickering on automatically. Then even they went out, and he was alone in the office.

He sent a quick text to his wife to his wife to tell her he wouldn't be home that night, before wondering idly where he would be. If Sherlock had been ill, he could have gone to the hospital. If he was missing, he could have gone to Baker Street to check up on John and Mrs Hudson, and probably laugh at Sherlock while they had the opportunity. But Sherlock was dead.

Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one.

He remembered the words as if he'd only just spoken them. He'd always thought there was something unearthly about Sherlock's deductions, but he'd always dismissed the mutterings of his colleagues that there might be a simple explanation. But that girl's scream…

He didn't want to believe that he'd been taken in, that he'd fed the habit of a psychopath every time he asked Sherlock for help with a case. The newspapers would be full of it tomorrow, he knew. He only had tonight to formulate his own opinion before the opinion of 'the people' would scream at him from every newsstand.

Could one man really have designed that many crimes? Without leaving any evidence? If he had to resort to trickery to solve them, you'd think he'd have slipped up at some point. But no-one had ever been able to figure out what was behind that mask. Because it was a mask, he was sure of it. Hell, Sherlock had thrown a man out of a window just because he'd threatened Mrs Hudson. He got impatient when no-one could keep up with his deductions. Surely a fake would have gloated every single time? But he seemed to genuinely bemoan the emptiness of everyone else's lives.

He had seemed. Greg rested his head in his hands again in an attempt to deny the tears that were gathering. He hadn't cried in years, not even when his wife had cheated on him. But this time the tears slid down his cheeks unchecked.

Is that why you're calling yourself 'Greg'?

That's his name.

Is it?

He was under no illusions as to how much Sherlock actually cared about him. They'd never even met if he hadn't been a detective, and Sherlock hadn't been going out of his mind for lack of a mental challenge for all of three hours. John had been the only one to ever pierce that exterior, and he'd never even seen it.

A picture on the corner of his desk caught his eye as he wiped away the tear tracks. It was of Sherlock, the first time he'd worn a deerstalker and he was trying to hide from the press. A smaller picture was lying at an angle on top; the picture of Sherlock wearing the deerstalker they'd given him, the picture that had made the office circuit any number of times. Greg smiled softly at the memory of Sherlock's face when he'd unwrapped it.

He was still holding his mobile in his left hand. He brought up the contacts list and found John's number, but he didn't call it. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow. He knew John would be going through hell right now, and when John got angry even Greg got out of the way, because John tended to do stuff like punch important police officers and destroy things. Besides, Greg wasn't sure he could deal with someone else's grief on top of his own. He felt hollowed out. Tomorrow he'd call. For now, he needed to find somewhere to sleep that wouldn't ask questions he couldn't handle.

He looked around him and for the first time properly registered how alone he was. Or maybe he could just stay here until dawn. No-one would know. And it wasn't like he was going to sleep. Yeah, I'll just stay here, he decided, another tear tracking its way unheeded down his cheek.