A/N This is set just after Sherlock revealed to Lestrade he was alive.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, Lestrade or anything like that. :)

"Oh, you bastard!" Greg shook his head, wrapping his arms around the younger but taller man.

To his surprise, Sherlock only tensed for a minute before sinking into the hug. Had he actually missed him?

"I thought you were dead." Greg frowned, attempting to keep the tremble from his voice.

"Of course not. Suicide is a dreadfully boring way for me to go." Sherlock smirked.

Shaking his head in disbelief and happiness, Lestrade laughed. Truth be told he was devastated when Sherlock had died. He thought of him like a son. A pretty odd one, but his son all the same.

"Come up to my office. I want to know why you did it." Greg said, beginning to walk towards the door.

"Did what?" Sherlock asked, looking genuinely confused.

"Why you jumped off of St Barts, you bloody idiot." Greg replied, with a smile on his face.

He'd known Sherlock for years. First time they'd met each other, Sherlock just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He and his team had been looking for a suspected murderer in a drug den and Sherlock had quickly pointed him out, even during his dazed high. Lestrade had noticed that Sherlock was considerably younger than all of the other addicts, so he had decided to get him out and get him clean. Also, to his surprise, Sherlock had been right about the murderer and when asked about it, his deduction skills came to light. Then they had made a deal. If Sherlock got clean, the he could help Scotland Yard with their cases. Sherlock had agreed.

Greg and Sherlock made their way up the stairs, into the main building of Scotland Yard but Greg noticed that Sherlock's movements were stiff and his jaw clenched at every move. Almost as if it hurt him to move at all. Deciding he'd ask about that too, they entered the department that both of them were just so familiar to. Multiple desks were scattered around the room, each with a sergeant typing away at a computer. The coffee and water machines stood at the back of the room where most of the sergeants stood around to gossip. Finally there was Lestrade's office, where they had spent hundreds of hours theorising about a case and yelling at each other. As Sherlock followed Lestrade through the office, silence fell over the room.

This was Sherlock Holmes. A dead man, walking.

"Get back to work!" Lestrade shouted as he opened his office door.

Sherlock followed him inside, smirking.

"How polite." He teased.

"Are you okay?" Greg asked, shaking off Sherlock's comment.

"Of course I am." His face a void of any emotions.

"Sherlock, I'm not a complete idiot. The way you were walking here was all stiff, like you had stitches that you didn't want to rip." Greg deduced.

"I think I may've spent too much time with you." Sherlock replied with a frown.

A long silence fell over the room as Greg plucked up the courage to ask his next question.

"Sherlock. Why did you jump?" Greg asked, his voice small.

Sherlock looked at the floor and squeezed his hands into fists. Greg had noticed Sherlock did this when he was nervous or worried.

"I jumped so that you, John and Mrs Hudson wouldn't be killed." Sherlock replied in a whisper.

"Killed? We were fine, Sherlock." Greg answered.

"No. No you weren't. You all had snipers on you. If I didn't jump, you all would've died." Sherlock stated, trying to remove the emotions that were creeping onto his face.

"After you jumped...where did you go?" Greg inquired, daring to make eye contact with the genius detective.

"All over. America, Canada, Brazil, Peru, Russia, China, Mongolia...Serbia. Wherever Moriarty's people were, I went. Then I killed them." Sherlock explained, turning his head towards the window so he didn't have to look at Lestrade.

"You killed them all?" Greg asked in shock.

"...no." Sherlock sighed.

"No? There's more out there?" Greg questioned.

"I didn't manage to destroy the web here. The most I could do was send Mycroft's men after them, but it's not as efficient as doing it yourself. Of course I couldn't though; I'm sure that if I'd have bumped into you on the street you'd have had a heart attack." Sherlock explained, now looking him in the eyes.

Although Sherlock's face showed no emotion, his eyes showed them all. Pain, fear, guilt...things that Greg wished Sherlock wasn't feeling.

"Did you ever get hurt?" Greg asked, praying that the answer was no.

"Yes. All mild injuries that you'd expect until the last country. That proved to be more of a challenge." Sherlock replied, his blue-green eyes returning to the floor.

"What was your last country?" Greg inquired.

"Serbia." Sherlock spat, as if he wanted to rid all memories of being there.

"What did they do?" Greg asked in a whisper.

"Chained me up, whipped me, burnt me, starved me, injected me with drugs plus tortured me in some very creative ways." Sherlock listed, his voice cracking.

Although his voice cracked, not once did it shake. He had tears gently rolling down his porcelain skin but his face was slightly blurry. Greg couldn't figure out why until he realised that he also had tears running down his face. Gently, he pulled Sherlock into a hug and whispered soothing things into his mass of curls, like he'd done so many times when he had found Sherlock as high as a kite and terrified of the invisible demons. He rocked him back and forth and ran his hands through his dark hair, which seemed to comfort the young man as his body stooped trembling and his shoulders relaxed. Greg reached for the tissues and passed one to Sherlock.

"Let's pretend this didn't happen." Greg attempted to smile, wiping away his own tears.

"Indeed." Sherlock nodded.

A/N This was just a quick little oneshot so please R&R :D