Greg is sitting at his desk in Scotland Yard when it happens. It's the same desk he's had for the past seven years, in the same office he's had for just as long. The fallout from the scandal had dissipated when the higher-ups realized they couldn't fire the guilty party if the guilty party was most of the force, but he was under no illusion that he would be offered a promotion anytime soon. Or ever.

So Greg's life has been pretty static. Same work, same murders fueled by love, money, or drugs. Same late nights, same arguments with the wife over what he gets and what she gets in the divorce. He doesn't even call her by her name when he thinks of her. Just "the wife", like a secondary character in some shit play. Greg is pretty sure he's a secondary character in a shit play.

Whatever— there's waiting to do, and staring at his teacup won't do a damned thing, but it's all there is. He needs those files he requested from the archives, the reports back from the lab, and for Donovan to stop chatting up the new officer, because he's less of a tit than Anderson but she is supposed to be earning her paycheck still. He sighs, running his hands over his face and reclining back to put his feet on his desk. He picks up his cup to finish off the last few sips of his tea.

"Lestrade." The voice is slightly familiar, and distinct; he looks up to identify the speaker.

Bloody fucking hell. The cup falls out of his hand and smatters on the floor, the relatively quiet crash covered up by the relatively larger crash of his chair falling forwards and his feet slipping off the desk. All at once, he's standing up and out from behind his desk. It takes a bit for his mind and body to sync up again so he can react.

"You bloody fuck!" he roars, slamming Sherlock against the wall by the lapels; his forearm comes up to pin him there. Greg is unsure why he's done it, but it seems like the right thing to do. The hold lasts just a few seconds, Sherlock remaining surprisingly passive and Lestrade shakes as he looks into his eyes. The DI backs away, letting the other man down.

"Get out." Greg's words are low and quiet, a tactic he rarely uses. He hopes it will get Sherlock to leave, because Greg's eyes are stinging and he can't cry in front of this man.

Sherlock nods and says, "of course," in an equally low and quiet voice.

He waits until he hears the door latch click before his head falls forward into his hands and he starts gasping for breath. Sherlock. Is. Alive. That's really the easiest bit to deal with. Honestly, of all the people Greg has ever met, Sherlock would be the one to fake his own death. Drama queen. Didn't that man stop to think about how it would screw up other peoples' lives? How it would destroy John? How it would hit Greg?

It was far too long before he could collect himself, and as he shook his head to clear it, his cheeks felt cool with drying tears.

He'd dragged the man's ass back from the very pits of Hell and through rehab because fuck if the police force hadn't desperately needed someone with his skills. They still do.

It didn't take very long after Sherlock jumped for everyone to realize there was no possible way he was a fake. There were obviously idiots blowing steam and trying to say he wouldn't have killed himself if he'd been genuine, but the phrase "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" had become something of an Internet phenomenon, and public opinion of the man had quickly bounced back.

Things at the Yard were shit, though. Sherlock may have been real, but Greg had still allowed a civilian access to evidence and crime scenes without permission from higher up. He was put on probation, but more importantly, every case Sherlock had ever worked on was now in question. Dozens of cases were called for appeal, and two convictions were overturned. One of them killed her ex-husband just days after her release.

Everything went a bit mad. The month after Sherlock killed himself, there were fifteen murders—well over a 50 percent increase over the average. No one could prove that the spike was because of the detective's death, but it was quietly accepted as the truth.

Even worse than the general trends were the single cases where Sherlock could have obviously saved a person, or brought in a criminal that escaped the rest of them.

Four months after Sherlock's death, Greg needed to look two sets of parents in the eyes and tell them their sons were dead because his team failed to find them quickly enough. The kids had gotten mixed up with drugs and the sorts of people that come with them. A third boy had already been killed, which was how Lestrade's team got involved. Sherlock definitely would have found them in time; they were held for at least thirty-six hours before they were shot.

Greg wipes off his face and picks up a stack of files on his way out to the hall. Sherlock and Sally are having a truly impressive row—rather, Sally is taking an impressive piss out of a worryingly passive Sherlock.

God, he's changed, Lestrade thinks. The world must've beat one hell of a lesson into him. Don't even want to know where he's been and why he did it if that's what happened to him.

"Oy, Donovan," he yells over the din. "He deserves it, but not this minute. Go check on the status of those files I wanted from the archives."

Sally turns to him, and he sees that her eyes are red. After a moment, she nods and walks away slowly.

Lestrade is closer to Sherlock, now, and he can see that the man's eyes are red as well, which shocks the hell out of Greg. But then, Sherlock calls after Sally, "You're right. You are right about all of it. I know it won't do much, but I am truly sorry."

Sally stops for a second, before keeping on like she hadn't heard him at all.

Jesus fucking Christ, Greg thinks. The world broke him like a horse.

"Come with me," he says. "And close the door behind you." He lets Sherlock follow through before shoving the files he still holds at the younger man's chest. "Double homicide in Kensington. Just your type."

Sherlock looks shocked, and Greg thinks shock might just be the theme of the day. "This is exactly what I was hoping for. Thank y—"

"Don't you dare thank me, Holmes. Don't you dare. Thanks are for people that do good things by choice, out of the goodness of their hearts. I wasn't given a choice, Sherlock. I was handed your mess out of the blue and all but forced to deal with it. All of it: the public response, the overturned cases, the uptick in crime after all the… everything that happened when you… Whatever words you use can't even scratch the surface of what I've done for you or the pain you've caused others. Don't even try. "

Sherlock rubbed his hands over his hair, breathing in and out slowly, once, before saying, "Sally was just explaining the impact my death had on this city, including the spikes in crime, the overturned court rulings, and the chaos within Scotland Yard, particularly. I must admit, these are consequences I did not foresee…"

"Yeah, well, you wouldn't, would you?" Greg put his hands on his desk, leaning over it and toward the consulting detective. "IF you want to try to even begin to make up for the suffering you've caused, start working on that case. " Greg hits the files Sherlock has clutched to his chest, causing him to stumble. Greg doesn't apologize because he isn't sorry.

Sherlock nods and turns to leave, saying, "Perhaps John would be amenable to assisting me."

"Have you been to see him, then?" Greg hears himself asking.

Sherlock stops and turns around. "I… Yes, I have. He took it as well as could be expected. He asked me to give him time. I can hardly deny him that."

"He's made a good life while you were gone, Sherlock." Greg hates to say it, because this new, worn Sherlock is a person he's capable of feeling sorry for. "Not saying stay away from him or anything, but—"

"I will be part of John's life in accordance with his wishes and no more. He wants to propose to his girlfriend and start a family, and I am well aware of that. I have no grounds for endangering his comfort." The younger man seems angry, but it's a tired anger, with no fight left in it.

"You know what endangered his comfort? Watching you dive off the bloody roof of Bart's!" Greg hadn't planned to say it until he'd already done. Seeing Sherlock act this way is throwing him off-kilter; he doesn't like it because it makes his temper short and his remarks cruel.

"John's comfort was not my primary concern at the time; I was—"

"Not your primary concern? What exactly WAS your primary concern, then? Going out with a bang? No, you know what? I don't want to know."

"I'm going to tell you anyway! You need to know. You all need to know, Lestrade. Because apparently you all think I faked my death because I felt like it. That I somehow enjoyed spending the last three years hiding, cut off from almost everyone. I realize that I tend to operate outside of social norms, but even your deductive skills must ascertain that I am a human being. I can't be anything more; this is something I've come to terms with over the past few years. What sort of person must you think I am to believe I faked my death for personal gain? I did it to save your life," he spat. "Yours, and John's, and Mrs. Hudson's. Moriarty had a sniper targeting each of you, instructed to fire if I failed to jump to my death, which could not be allowed."

Greg drops into his chair, rubbing his face. After a few seconds, he trusts himself to speak. "Kensington. I'll get you access to the crime scene. Do you have a place to stay?"

"Yes."

"Not with John, though." It's not a question.

"No. Molly's."

"MOLLY'S?" Greg asks incredulously. "And how long has she known?"

"She's known all along, Lestrade. How do you think the autopsy worked?"

"Leave," Greg orders quietly. He isn't even really angry with Sherlock anymore. But the barrage of emotions fucking around with his mind is just a little too much and the DI needs some quiet to pick through it all.

Sherlock Holmes is alive.