How Could You? (A Johnlock Fanfic)

Greg?

John's POV

I woke up to the sound of rain hitting the roof. Glancing around at he bare flat I now call 'home', I wondered what it'd be like to just end it all, to join Sherlock in the sweet embrace of death. But I now, deep down, that I'm just being silly. As if to tear me from my daydreams, the phone began to ring. "Incoming call - D.I. Greg Lestrade". I sigh as  pick the phone up.

"Greg?" 

"Hey John. How are you feeling?"

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose, "not too well Greg, to be honest."

"Now John," Lestrade took a deep breath "I know that it's been a while, obviously since Sherlock, but I'm here at a crime scene and we're all completely stumped. Do you mind coming down, to see if you can shed some light?"

"I'm not sure what  could do really, but I'll come down and have a look for you. Where are you?" 

"John, you're a saint! We're at Laurinston gardens again, I'll send a cab to your address."

I frowned, thinking for a moment, "How on Earth-"

"Mycroft."

"Right, well, be down in a tick. Bye Greg."

I shut the phone off with a sigh and trudged down the stairs to the awaiting cab. The ride was only a short one, but as I stared out the window I could hear little snippets of conversations Sherlock and I had had in the past. The first deductions I ever heard, how he stole the ashtray fom Buckingham palace for me. As Laurinston gardens loomed overhead, I reminiced on the very first case me and Sherlock ever went on; "A study in pink". Hopping out of the taxi, I walked briskly over to Lestrade, where he was talking to Donovan. With faces dripping with sympathy, they both walked me over to the crime scene and filled me in with all the details.

"42 year old male, last seen alive at the docks at 2:28 AM this morning. No defence wounds, the only marks on the body are the huge dent on the left side of his skull and a few knife marks around the neck. We haven't had the toxicology report back yet and the forensic pathologist is on her way."

"Yes, thank you Greg." 

I circled the body a couple of times first, trying to think like Sherlock. I could see that Rigor Mortis had set in, and would wear off in a few days.  The knife wounds on the neck were not done by the victim himself, for they struck in a pattern to straight to be done by the mans own hands. No wedding ring, yet the creases in his trouser show that he had someone; a desperate attempt was made to iron them, however it hadn't been taught from an early age as the man has a boyfriend, not a girlfriend, and stereotyoically, men aren't taught this kind of thing. He didn't try to do it himself, he had to leave the house in a rush this morning, hence the large number of creases. And finally, he died of a blunt force trauma to the left side of the skull.

I relayed all this back the Lestrade with a small smile on my face; I'm becoming too much like Sherlock was. And as if on cue, I hear a deep, baritone voice say quite clearly "wrong."

Sherlock's POV

"Wrong."

Slowly John turns around, a look of pure disbelief on his beautiful face, and he stares at me, openmouthed, as Greg silently watches.

"I'm sorry, John." 

When John finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper, and yet I hear the anger threatening to explode.

"Two years. Two bloody years you let me think you were dead, how could you do that to me, hm?" his voice rose slowly, to the point he was yelling, "HOW could you let me bury you, let me tear myself apart in my grief, let me cry myself to sleep, LET ME TALK TO YOUR GRAVE, THINKING YOU WERE DEAD? HOW COULD YOU?"

Before I knew what was going on, John had rushed over and swung a strong right hook right onto my face. Blood poured from my nose as John gave me a fierce hug, voice shaking, and with tears pouring down his face.

"Don't ever do that again, Sherlock Holmes."