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He hadn't wanted it to come to this. It had never been his intention for it to happen. But it had, and he couldn't bring himself to feel guilty. It had to end this way; there was no other option - he had been broken and betrayed.
"Gregory...please..." The voice was hoarse from screaming and what might have been pity tried to rise in Lestrade but it was quickly crushed by anger.
"You deserve this Sherlock. we both know that." Lestrade watched dispassionately as Sherlock struggled in his bonds but the consulting detective was far too weak from blood loss to break free from the strong ropes holding him tight to the chair.
"You pushed me to this Sherlock. You broke your promise."
"I didn't...I swear...I didn't-"
"DON'T LIE TO ME!" Lestrade screamed. His head and his heart were both tearing at him, commanding him in voices he couldn't understand over the pounding of his rage.
"Did you really think I wouldn't notice?" he continued, softer, gentler. "I know you think me an idiot but I'm not blind, you know."
"I don't think you're an idiot, not really. You know that Gregory, please, stop this." But Lestrade just carried on talking as if he had never spoken.
"Everyone could see it. It hurt Sherlock, listening as everyone made bets on how long it'd last. I had hoped that we were all just imagining it but then even your brother commented on it."
"Mycroft was wrong. You aren't really going to listen to him are you? Please!" Sherlock was rocking back and forth now as he begged. He could feel his body slowly faltering but he knew that Gregory wouldn't let it just end; no, he'd make it personal. The younger man looked up into the once warm brown eyes and couldn't help the wince at how cold they now appeared.
"Please," he whispered one more time but Lestrade was ready to let out his anger again.
"No," the detective inspector said simply, and stabbed the knife back into his side.
The flow of blood slowed so that it oozed like honey down Sherlock's pale skin; sweet and richly coloured. Lestrade watched it, completely uncaring of the shallow, barely-there, breaths whispering against his neck. Sherlock's head had fallen there when he became too tired to hold it up any longer and it created a very familiar image - Sherlock leaning into Lestrade, exhausted and unable to move.
"This is your fault Sherlock, if you had only been more committed, this wouldn't have happened. But no, you had to find someone more interesting." The last word was laced with so much scorn and anger that Sherlock wasn't sure how he had the will to reply and not just give in.
"Gregory...please...I haven't betrayed you. I love you."
"THEN WHY CHEAT ON ME WITH JOHN!" Lestrade shouted, wrenching himself away from the bleeding man so fast that his neck creaked as his head dropped from its resting place.
"I didn't!" Sherlock protested weakly. "I'd never, I don't have any of those sorts of feelings for him, or anyone. Only you, only you."
"You're a liar!" Lestrade hissed, his anger rising the more his love spoke. "I love you Sherlock. Yet you betray me and expect me not to realise."
"Gregory, I didn't. I love you, only you, let me prove it," Sherlock pleaded. He couldn't die and leave Gregory like this - he loved the man. He'd never loved anyone before meeting him and a part of his mind was even now taking the time to berate himself for not noticing the signs of unease and illness in his lover.
"I can't trust you again Sherlock, not when you could so easily go sneaking back to him." Lestrade's voice was steady and calm once more as he walked over to the coffee table to pick something up. Sherlock forced his head to rise so he could see; a gun, Lestrade had picked up a gun and was bringing it back over to the chair where he was bound. Lestrade carefully untied Sherlock's right hand and wrapped the consulting detective's fingers around the handle before covering them with his own hand. Raising the gun in both their hands, he placed it to Sherlock's right temple and then bent to whisper in his ear.
"I love you, now and forever, so I'm going to make sure no one can ever separate us." He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Sherlock's head and pulled the trigger.
When the police later arrived to investigate the neighbours' complaints of gunshots, they were horrified by what they found. There was no sign of a forced entrance and the flat looked just as spotless as they expected of their detective inspector but when they reached the bedroom, Anderson hesitated for only a moment before hastily pulling Sally back into the hallway. Lying on the bed, side by side, was the bloody and beaten body of Sherlock Holmes and the unblemished one of Gregory Lestrade, their hands entwined and matching bullet holes in their temples.
The case was eventually marked as a joint suicide, for lack of better evidence but several of the deceased's close acquaintances couldn't believe that, not with the beating Sherlock had obviously taken before death. John and Mycroft worked tirelessly to try and find some clue but even the eventual trapping of Moriarty proved fruitless. Mycroft grew bitter in his failure to protect his brother and his lover while John fell into depression at the loss of his two closest friends. His only consolation was that they were together.