Long moments John sat in his chair after publishing on formspring and twitter, anywhere that had a readership, about what had happened on the rooftop at St. Barts before Sherlock and Moriarty’s deaths.

Lestrade would take care of the more legal avenues of information giving. By tonight, the whole city would be informed of the actual way that it fallen out. This would mean new information into the investigation, and Sherlock’s name cleared.

But for now, for John…

It isn’t as bad as immediately after Sherlock’s fall. Not by a long, long shot. But, as it stands, John can’t stop himself from thinking of the recording Lestrade made sure to get to him. He get the sound of Sherlock’s voice out of his head, not that unfamiliar tone of pain in his voice as he says John’s name, as he realises that John, Mrs Hudson, all of them, are in danger because of Moriarty.

And there’s nothing Sherlock could do to stop it.

He sounds so sure of himself as he realises that Moriarty is the key. That there is some sort of a code or word that Moriarty can use to pull off the gunmen, right up to the point when Moriarty shot himself. The gun shot is loud and shocking that first time on the recording. The sounds that come from Sherlock’s throat after that sound barely human. John closes his eyes, and tries not to imagine the fear and pain that would have flooded Sherlock in the moment (because he just can’t imagine Sherlock being unaffected even then), tries to close his ears to the memory of those sounds.

It’s the way that the scene at the pool could have played out. They’d escaped this end point then, but hadn’t been so lucky as to escape it a second time around.

There’s a knock at his door. Three slow knocks, like the someone at the door can’t quite get up the energy for a more lively indication of his presence. John can relate. His foot treads are heavy after he pushes himself up from the chair.

It is Lestrade at the door. Lestrade as John hasn’t seen him in a long time. The Inspector is haggard, shoulders slumped and about another dozen tell-tale signs Sherlock would have picked up that he’s utterly exhausted, both physically and emotionally.

John doesn’t invite him in, doesn’t have to. He just steps away from the door and starts back towards his chair. Lestrade follows after.

“I’ve passed everything onto the authorities. Everyone will know now. The media have a hold of it. We should get ready for a circus. This is going to be a media frenzy.”

John sits down in his chair. He knows that he should offer Lestrade tea, but doesn’t go about doing so. Lestrade stands in the middle of the living room for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out what’s missing.

“So, it’s over then,” he says heavily, before he finds the chair opposite John; Sherlock’s chair.

John barely looks up, but he does give the respect of a nod. “So it would seem.” He lifts a hand to wipe his brow.

It’s over. It’s over. Almost better when it wasn’t over. There was something of Sherlock to hold onto then. The recording of Sherlock’s voice on the roof of St. Barts isn’t exactly the kind of keepsake John wanted to have.

“Listen, John…” Lestrade starts. “If there’s anything…”

“Keep fighting the good fight, right?” John doesn’t know if he can handle listening to the inevitable end of Lestrade’s sentence. What he was about to offer is nothing that John hasn’t heard before. “You must be glad the case is closed, right? A closed chapter. Looks good on the reports on your way to the next big thing.”

His voice has a bitter edge to it that John hadn’t quite expected or intended to be in there. Lestrade had put a lot of work into this investigation. He felt guilty for the way his department had seized Sherlock before the fall, and John knew it.

“I’m sorry, Greg, I…”

“Not to worry.” Lestrade stands. “It was rude of me to just barge in here without warning. I should have known…”

“No, you’re always welcome here,” John says, standing up as well.

“All the same,” says Lestrade. “It’s been a long day for all of us. I am glad we’ve got this sorted. Have a good night, John.”

He lets himself out just the same as he let himself in. John just sinks back into the chair and lifts a hand up to his mouth. The emptiness and pit of despair start to edge their way in. None of it, any of this, will succeed in bringing Sherlock back.

“My god,” he whispers, his eyelids fluttering shut. “My god. Sherlock…”