SHERLOCK

I'LL FOLLOW YOU INTO THE DARK


Greg's shot while on a case. But it's okay, because Mycroft's there with him. Warning: Major Character Death!


Author's Note:

Main Pairing: Gregory Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes

About: This is what happens when I'm recommended songs by readers, stay up for 24 hours, and read Alex Rider fanfiction. Yes, my mind works in really weird ways. This is a really sad Mystrade story. If you really wanna cry, read this while listening to the song.

Warnings: Major character death, mentions of m/m slash

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. The original characters are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle. "I'll Follow You Into The Dark" belongs to Death Cab For Cutie. I own nothing but the plot and make no money from this story.


"Love of mine

Someday you will die

But I'll be close behind

I'll follow you into the dark

No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white

Just our hands clasped so tight

Waiting for the hint of the spark"


Greg heard it before he felt it. There was a twack that echoed all around, yet somehow managed to be a soft sound at the same time. Then there was a sharp piercing pain in his chest, followed by all the air being forced out of his lungs. He didn't remember falling, but suddenly the cold pavement was beneath his back, and he was staring up at the grey London sky.

It took him only seconds- felt like hours to him- to realise that he'd been shot in the chest.

The sounds of more gunfire echoed all around the DI, as well as shouting- from a woman and two men... Sally? Greg remembered her being with him and hoped she hadn't been hurt too. Sherlock had been there as well, and John.

There was a louder gunshot, this one from a different weapon, followed by a loud crash. Greg didn't much care, really. The searing pain in his chest was spreading rapidly and he still couldn't breath; his lips moved, his lungs absolutely strained to drag in oxygen, but it was like his body had forgotten how to breathe.

And then warm hands pressed to his chest; there was John and Sherlock, both looking terrified. John hid it better and Greg wondered if it was because he was a soldier and doctor. He'd probably seen worse crap than a single bullet wound.

Sherlock was trying his hardest to appear calm and collected, but his blue eyes were wide with fear, and he kept shouting at John. Greg couldn't tell exactly what was being said. It was all like white noise to him... and that reminded him of that Living End song and made him chuckle, which of course was a bad move considering how little air was getting into his body.

He choked and his body reacted, trying to curl into itself. Sherlock pushed him down by the shoulders- his hands were large and warm- while another set were digging into his chest hard.

John's? Greg thought. John's strong, probably his hands...

Oh God, the pain! It was turning into a burn, like a hot poker was being pushed into his skin... no, it was larger than that. A giant drum of fire... molten lava being poured all over his chest, the liquid slowly taking over his entire body until he wanted to scream.

But he couldn't- everything hurt, his lungs still weren't working, and Greg's lips moved but didn't make a sound.

He suddenly realised Sherlock- or was it John?- was talking to him. He only captured a few words, but they soothed him all the same;

'... shot the guy... he's dead... Sally calling... Mycroft... heading here now...'

It was the last words he really cared about. At this point in time- with all the pain and the goddamn need to breathe- Greg didn't care about the guy who'd shot him. What he did care about was that Mycroft, his partner, his lover, was coming.

Sally's voice joined the swell that had built up around Greg and soon she was shouting for an ambulance- Greg definitely heard that word- and asking John if Greg was gonna make it.

Greg didn't think he was, no matter what John said. The bullet had thudded into his chest, and when he managed to look down he saw that his once crisp white shirt was covered in an ever-growing red blotch. It was radiating out from just beside his heart, the torn hole in the cotton a deep dark red, while the rest of the fibres were a lighter red.

John's hands were there- they were definitely John's, tanned and calloused and strong- pushing hard against his chest, trying to stop the flow of blood. It was a lost cause, couldn't he see that? Greg could. And one glance at Sherlock said that the genius knew it too.

Sally was still shouting. John was murmuring encouragements to Greg. Sherlock was torn between staring at Greg, eyes wide, and telling John to do something.

What can he do? Greg mused. I'm dying.

Dying... huh. It had always been at the back of his mind, a very serious threat in his line of work. But for his mental health he'd never dwelt on it too much. Yeah, there had been close calls- knives stabbed into his gut, bullets to the arm or leg, even the odd blow to the head by a cricket bat or heavy vase- but Greg had never really thought about how he'd go.

Bullet wound... yeah, seemed fitting, Greg thought. He was a cop, after all. Why not go out with a bullet to the chest?

Greg felt like he should be panicking, or maybe taking this all a bit more seriously. But honestly everything was a bit fragmented, like he couldn't exactly comprehend just what was happening to him. Everything blurred around him, voices and touches and the London weather. It just... all seemed very odd, at the end. Like Greg had already accepted that yeah, he was gonna die. Why scream and freak out?

John's hands added more pressure and Greg choked, feeling liquid dribble down his chin. Blood, he thought idly. Yeah, definitely gonna die.

A soft piece of cloth was pressed to his lips and Greg blinked, hazy eyes finding startlingly clear blue ones. Sherlock was wiping away his blood with the sleeve of his very expensive shirt. Greg smiled- at least he thought he did- hoping Sherlock got what he was saying.

Sherlock nodded once before leaning close, lips pressed to the DI's ear. 'Thank you,' he whispered, the deep baritone travelling through Greg's body and for some reason easing the pain he was in. 'You saved my life, Gregory Lestrade,' Sherlock continued. 'I'll forever be greatful.'

Greg wanted to say he didn't do anything- he'd just opened the door, let Sherlock work cases. But when he opened his lips more blood bubbled from his throat and Sherlock was once more wiping it away.

'I can't... too much... blood...' Greg heard from somewhere to his right. The voice sounded... in-control, slightly detatched, but there was a hint of panic, of loss there.

John, Greg thought.

'Ambulance... coming... hang in there...' That would be Sally, Greg realised. Only Sally wouldn't give up, would absolutely refuse to believe that her boss- her friend- was going to die. He wasn't sure whether he admired or pitied her stubborness. Probably a little bit of both.

A new sound reached Greg's ears; the screech of tyres, a door being thrown open, footsteps hurrying- practically sprinting- to him.

And then warm hands, cupping his cheeks, and that, that, was what finally grounded Greg. Suddenly everything came back in stunning clarity. He could feel the concrete beneath him, John's hands pressing some type of cloth against the wound in his chest, Sally pacing back and forth to his right, Sherlock crouched at his legs.

And Mycroft- sweet Mycroft- now kneeling in a thousand-pound suit on the gritty London pavement, hands soft and so very warm on Greg's face.

'Hey,' Greg choked out.

'Gregory,' Mycroft half-gasped, half-whined. His blue eyes were wide and Greg knew that he knew; the DI wasn't surviving this. 'What have you done?' Mycroft whispered.

'Got... me-self... sh-shot,' Greg gurgled, and there was Sherlock again, purple cotton wiping blood away, smearing it over Greg's tanned skin but cleaning it away as best he could.

'I can see that,' Mycroft said softly. He leaned closer, not seeming to care about the blood, and pressed a kiss to Greg's lips.

The small gesture radiated through Greg, washing the pain away, and replacing it with... cold? Yeah, it was cold- fucking cold. Greg's entire body was so cold that his fingers and toes were going numb, the rest of his appendages quickly following.

'S-S-Sorry,' Greg murmured. 'D-Didn't... d-didn't-'

'Shh, shh,' Mycroft hummed. He stroked his thumbs along Greg's cheeks. 'You just rest, okay?'

'Can r-rest when... when I'm... d-dead,' Greg got out.

He saw it- the flash of absolute agony go through Mycroft's eyes.

'None of that, now,' Mycroft said.

'C-Can't... a-avoid it,' Greg stammered, shaking his head slightly. 'G-Gonna h-happen.'

'Yes, it is,' Mycroft breathed, closing his eyes briefly before wrenching them open. The warm blue pools settled on Greg's brown ones, and Greg felt himself beginning to lose it again- the world was blurring around the edges once more. Sally was disappearing, but Sherlock, John and Mycroft were still there.

'D-Don't go?' Greg asked. He tried to raise a hand but it simply twitched beside his body. Sherlock picked up his arm and placed his hand on Mycroft's thigh. Greg wanted to thank him, but really his lips felt... odd; numb, cold, just... not really there.

God, has the pavement always been this comfortable? Greg thought as his body began to... melt? Melt seemed like a good word.

'I'm going wherever you are, Gregory,' Mycroft promised.

'Nah...' Greg whispered. Mycroft had to lean closer to hear him. 'Can't follow... m-me... here...'

'I will, Gregory,' Mycroft vowed. 'Whever you go, I'll follow.'

Greg smiled at the absolute conviction in Mycroft's voice; really, who would fight Mycroft Holmes? Even Death would have a hard time saying no to the British Government.

John was gone now, Greg couldn't feel his hands or hear him. Only Mycroft and Sherlock remained, as well as the cold grey sky above Mycroft's auburn-coloured hair, and the cold ground beneath Greg.

'Hey, look at me,' Mycroft requested softly. Greg blinked rapidly, not realising his eyes had drifted towards the clouds and started to slide shut. 'Stay with me as long as you can, Greg, okay?' he asked, barely repressing a sob at the end. 'You gotta stay as long as you can.'

Greg nodded and Mycroft's hands moved from his face to clasp both of Greg's own. He squeezed tightly and Greg felt a surge of fear; he could see Mycroft's hands, but couldn't feel them.

'I'm here,' Mycroft said when he saw the terror. 'I'm here, Gregory.'

'P-Promise?' Greg whimpered, a small sliver of fear working through his achingly cold heart.

'Always,' Mycroft nodded. 'Always, Gregory Lestrade, always.'

Greg smiled softly. 'L-Love you,' he mumbled.

'I love you too,' Mycroft said. He kissed Greg's knuckles, and kissed his lips too when he deduced that Greg had lost most of the feeling in his body already. 'I'll love you forever and always, Gregory.'

'G-Good...' Greg drew out the word, the sound feeling funny on his lips.

Sherlock was gone.

Greg never thought that'd happen, but there it was. The hurricane known as Sherlock Edwin Holmes was finally gone... well, he was gone from Greg.

'Do you remember when we first met?' Mycroft asked. There was a definite choking on his words, and tears were shining in his blue eyes.

'Y-Yeah,' Greg grunted. He wanted to move- the ground was so cold- but he couldn't. 'You... you... tried to sh-shoot... me...'

Mycroft nodded slowly, a painful smile tugging at his thin lips. 'I thought you were trying to kill me.'

'Y-Yeah,' Greg chuckled, though it more came out as a pained gasp. Something was wiping at his lips but Greg couldn't focus. 'G-Guess... another... bullet was... m-meant for... me... eh?' God, that was exhausting. Why was talking so exhausting?

'Yeah,' Mycroft agreed softly. The tears finally fell, quickly staining Mycroft's pale cheeks. He sniffed, didn't try to hide them, just kept his eyes locked firmly on Greg's. 'I knew you were something special as soon as I saw you.'

'Nah... pain in... arse...' Greg mumbled. He felt his eyes drifting shut- he was suddenly so tired.

'Hey, Greg, stay with me!' Mycroft's voice wasn't soft any more. It was hard, desperate, trying to tug Greg away from the dark clutches of Death.

'Yeah... m'here,' Greg mumbled, peeling his eyes open slowly. It did little; his eyesight was blurring, going black around the edges. He could still see Mycroft, though; he'd recognise that gorgeous face anywhere. 'W-wanted you,' he drawled slowly, 'since first... met...'

'I wanted you too,' Mycroft admitted. 'But I was so stupid.' He sounded angry now. 'We could have had years.'

'Did... years...'

'We could have had more,' Mycroft said.

His voice was getting distant, and Greg could no longer feel the warmth of his lover's body. God, how many times had he fallen asleep and woken up with Mycroft pressed against him? Smooth, hot flesh against equally over-heated skin; gasps penetrating the dark night as they slid against and inside one another; murmurs of encouragement, begging for more, declerations of love.

Not enough... Not enough, Greg thought with great regret. He wanted years; so many more years.

But he knew it couldn't be.

'M-Myc,' Greg begged, his eyes falling shut.

'I'm here,' he heard Mycroft. Couldn't feel him; no, he was leaving. 'I'm not going anywhere.'

'Please,' Greg whispered. He felt warm lips press against his own cold ones.

'I love you, Gregory,' Mycroft whimpered. Greg felt warm tears splash against his face. 'Forever.'

'F-F'ever,' Greg echoed.

'Forever,' Mycroft repeated.

'S-Stay?' Greg mumbled. His eyes weren't gonna open again, Greg knew it. Sleep and darkness and cold... all of that, tugging him down, further and further away from Mycroft.

'Wherever you go,' Mycroft said, 'I'll go with you.'

Greg knew it was the truth; he knew Mycroft would never leave him. Not even Death would stop him. Greg had to believe it.

'Gregory?'

'Nn...'

'I love you,' Mycroft repeated yet again.

Greg tried to move his lips but they'd finally stopped responding.

'I've loved you since we first met,' came a soft, warm voice. Who was that? Such a lovely voice. 'I'll love you until the day I die and beyond.'

How... lovely... Greg thought as his entire body went numb. It wasn't cold any more. Love... person... Mycroft... his fracturing mind provided.

Greg felt like he should fight it; he should fight it, shouldn't he? But there was a whisper in his ear, the last one Greg would ever hear;

'Shh, I've got you. I've got you, Gregory. I'm here...'

There it was, the darkness. It finally had him and wrapped around him completely. There were no hands or words and it wasn't cold, Greg wasn't tired.

It didn't matter. 'Cause Greg knew, even as the darkness swallowed him whole, that Mycroft would be there.


"If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied

Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks

Then I'll follow you into the dark"

- Ben Gibbard [Death Cab For Cutie]


{THE END}


Author's Note: Yeah... I dunno why I decide to write these things. I mean, seriously, I've never read a story where any of the characters die, yet I feel the need to write them?! Makes no goddamn sense.

Anywho, I hope you... eh, enjoyed it? No, probably not. Well, I hope you had a good laugh/cry/screech, however you reacted to this story. I've written one Mystrade death story before this, so this makes number two. I promise I won't do it too often, honest!

Anyway, yes... thanks for reading :)

I live to entertain.

And, most importantly,

{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}