A/N: Mentions death, suicide and alcoholism...
I own nothing and make no profits.
It is a cliché thing to do and Gregory knows it. He stands in the office; forehead pressed against the cool glass of the floor-length window, and traces the raindrops that fall outside.
When he was a child, Gregory would pretend that the raindrops were racing down a window. He would pick his winner and mentally egg it on and be thoroughly disappointed if his raindrop let him down.
He does not do that today. He tries. He chooses a raindrop and traces its progress with a finger, but it is not the same. It is no longer fun. It now just reminds him that he is no longer a child. He no longer has time for games.
"Gregory," John calls, "Are you in here?"
For a moment, Gregory cannot bring himself to reply. His face screws up against the glass and he imagines it shattering into a million pieces. He imagines falling forward through the air into nothingness.
"Greg?" John appears in the doorway. Gregory sees his reflection in the glass and moves away quickly, schooling his expression.
"Sorry, I was miles away," he apologises, turning and smiling wryly. John tilts his head a little.
"I don't blame you. It's been a long day," John nods, "Are you going to head out in a minute?" he adds.
Gregory looks about him. He takes in the large, empty white room with the dents in the carpet where the furniture once was.
"Yeah, you and Sherlock can go. I've got a few files to sort out anyway," Gregory replies, making sure he seems to be respectful. John nods again and grasps Gregory's shoulder for a minute.
"Thank you for being here. Sherlock needs all the friends he has right now," John tells him.
What about me?
Gregory smiles thinly.
"I'll always be here," he forces through his lips. John smiles sadly, releases Gregory's shoulder and leaves the room, calling out for Sherlock.
Gregory forces himself not to bellow after John. He forces himself not to confess everything- scream it out so even Sherlock can hear.
Instead he stumbles back until he hits the glass.
For a moment he expects it to shatter.
Let me fall. Let me go.
When nothing happens, Gregory slides down the glass and holds his head in his hands. Next to him, resting ever-elegantly against the wall is an umbrella. The only item left in the office.
"I love you, you bastard," Gregory tells it, "I love you and you've gone."
He knows that he is mad when he imagines Mycroft's footsteps padding into the room. He remembers the sound perfectly.
"All I have left is this fucking umbrella."
The umbrella sits. Silent and still. Gregory can almost imagine Mycroft sliding down the glass and sitting next to him- though in reality Mycroft would never have graced the floor.
"What use is an umbrella? I love you. I love you and you're fucking dead."
Then Gregory is wrapped in a hug by long arms. He can almost smell Mycroft, which is impossible.
"You loved him," Sherlock murmurs, "You loved him and you never told anyone."
"I told him," Gregory replies quietly, "I told him and he died."
There is a pause. Sherlock pulls away and steely eyes search Gregory's. Gregory redundantly looks back.
"He died happily. He died knowing," Sherlock promises.
"What do I do now?" he asks.
"You go home. You go to sleep. You carry on living," Sherlock drills, then his eyes soften slightly; "You make him proud."
Three weeks later, when Gregory Lestrade is found dead in his flat- more alcohol in his veins than blood- Sherlock finds the note.
I'm not the person that needs to make him proud. I need to be with him. Make your brother proud, Sherlock. Be a good man.