A/U: Hey there, everyone! Here's a one-shot for you based on a dream I had last night. As mentioned, there is a warning for suicide, so be prepared if you intend on reading. Enjoy, and cry many tears!

Sherlock Holmes stared at the flowers on the table darkly. Rue. Rue stood for regret. Regret, which always followed a morally wrong action. The flowers. Sending coded messages by flowers was a decidedly feminine practice. The sister. The sister had done it. He jumped up from his seat and grabbed a hat from the stand by the door, deftly donning it with a twirl.

"I'm going out, Mrs. Hudson!" he bellowed as he leapt down the stairs, not unlike a rabbit. "The game is afoot!"

He slammed the door behind him, leaving Mrs. Hudson flinching as she heard a piece of china breaking somewhere in the house.

"Scotland Yard, and hurry, man!" called Holmes, flipping a sovereign into the hands of the cabbie and climbing inside. There was no time to waste. The sister had said that she was departing for France today. If they could not catch her before she boarded the train, all would be lost.

He lost himself in thought on the way to the police headquarters, watching the streets pass by with indifference. His only interest now was catching the sister before she escaped to the continent. They couldn't let her get away. Lestrade would be just as keen to see that justice was done.

The cab pulled up in front of the Yard and Holmes jumped out, sprinting through the doors and flagging down a young constable he knew worked under Lestrade. "Where's Lestrade?" he asked breathlessly.

"Not here, sir," replied the constable in a vaguely Scottish accent. He must have been from Edinburgh, Holmes decided. "The Inspector hasn't been here all day."

Holmes cursed. Lestrade wasn't here. He would now have to go to his house. So much time that could have been spent in catching their killer. Blast it all, why was Lestrade not here? Their entire case could be ruined.

Without so much as another word to the constable, Holmes turned and raced back out of the building. He could not call another cab. Waiting for one to pass by would take too long, and he didn't have authority to commandeer one that belonged to the Yard. So instead he ran. Lestrade's house was only a few streets over. He could get there in only a few minutes. He pulled his watch out of his pocket as he ran, glancing at the time. Three quarters past noon. The next train to the coast was leaving at half past one, from Euston Station. They could make it. They had to make it.

He knocked three times on the door once he reached Lestrade's house. It was small and plain, very much like Baker Street on the outside. When there was no reply to his knocks after a few seconds, he rang the bell twice in rapid succession. There was still no answer.

There was an inkling in the back of Holmes' mind. Something was not right. Lestrade was not at the Yard. As long as Holmes had known him, which was over ten years now, he had never missed a day of work without sending word. And now he wasn't answering his door. What if he wasn't even at home? No. He had to be. They'd have no chance if he had to go searching for Lestrade all over the city.

Holmes reached out and tried the door. It was unlocked, so he slowly opened it and stepped inside. Everything was silent.

"Lestrade?" he called, keeping a hand on his revolver inside his pocket should he need it. "It's Holmes. Are you here?"

A soft kind of choking noise came from upstairs. Holmes looked at the ceiling in alarm, preparing to draw his weapon. But after a moment, a reply came down. "Holmes?" the voice sounded slightly shaky. What Holmes could not tell from downstairs was that the owner of the voice had just heaved an enormous sigh, although whether it was a sigh of relief or of disappointment, one could not be sure.

However, although Lestrade had replied, there were no sounds of movement from upstairs. Holmes cursed under his breath. He would have to go to Lestrade. They needed to go. Now. Their moments were precious and few. Holmes took the stairs two by two, and he pushed his way through a slightly open door at the top. It was Lestrade's bedroom. He froze at the sight before him.

Lestrade was sitting slumped on the floor, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, shirt collar undone, and a knife in his hand. A piece of paper and a pencil were on the floor in front of him. He looked up at Holmes with an empty and lifeless expression.

"Lestrade…" Holmes spoke slowly and cautiously, letting go of his revolver handle and dropping his arm to his side. He looked with a growing sense of dread from the knife to the piece of paper on the ground. He did not need any time to manufacture a scenario that would fit the information at hand. He knew exactly what Lestrade was doing. He knew too well.

"I don't know what to write, Holmes," said Lestrade, gesturing loosely at the paper with the hand that held the knife.

"Lestrade, give me the knife," said Holmes softly, slowly advancing on the slumped and dejected form of the inspector.

"If I give you the knife, then you give me that gun in your pocket." Lestrade slid the knife closer against his person, protecting it. Protecting himself.

Holmes swallowed hard, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. "The 18th of September, 1878," he said, placing his slightly shaking hands on his lap in front of them.

Lestrade let out something of a chuckle. "We've come full circle since then, haven't we?"

"Lestrade, you can't."

He brushed his finger lightly along the blade of the knife as he stared into the corner, shaking his head. "Yes, I can, Holmes."

"But why?"

"Holmes, I've seen a lot of things in my career. A lot of bodies. And I'm tired, Holmes. I'm tired of the blood. I'm tired of the death. The things I've seen, they haunt me. Can't ever get a decent night's rest anymore." His voice broke. "I've seen suicides before, Holmes, and the bodies…they make it all look so easy."

Fear and memories were rising up inside of Holmes. He couldn't remember. No, no, it was in the past. There was a pit in his stomach. Icy tendrils that crept over his heart, chilling him to the bone. His voice shook when he opened his mouth to speak again. "Lestrade, I'm alive. They're not. Let me tell you – it isn't easy. Did it look easy when you found me?"

Lestrade looked further into the corner.

Images were flooding Holmes' mind now. He had been on the floor in much the same situation, hesitating with the knife just over his skin, wavering between whether or not to do it for what had seemed like an eternity but had in reality been over an hour. He swallowed again, trying to compose himself. No, that was the past. He was fine now. He was fine. "Lestrade, forget about what you're going to write. There's nothing to write. There's nothing you could say that would make people understand why you died."

"Well, it's a good thing you like mysteries, then, Holmes," said Lestrade. He raised the knife.

Quick as lightning, Holmes reached out and grabbed Lestrade's wrist. The knife fell from his grasp and clattered to the ground. Lestrade bowed his head and choked out what could have been words, but it was obscured by sobs. His entire body was rigid and quaking. Holmes kicked the knife out of the way with his foot and kept both of his hands on Lestrade, supporting the man who had saved his life and come to be his mentor and somehow his friend over the years. The roles were reversed now. It was Lestrade on the floor this time, body shaken with grief, and it was Holmes who held him, murmuring reassurances. "You're all right. You're safe."

Holmes knew that there was no chance of them catching the sister before she departed for France now. But it was no matter. They could telegraph the French police and have them arrest her. What mattered was that Lestrade was alive. If Holmes had been too late to help him, he would never have forgiven himself.

"It's all right, Lestrade, you're safe," whispered Holmes again as he held the sobbing inspector in his arms. "You're safe."