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John Watson was not the only one who fell apart after Sherlock Holmes took his fall.
Though, in retrospect, John Watson probably suffered more, with his many nights alone in the flat and having to witness it first hand, plus the romantic attachment didn't make it better, but, Greg Lestrade did his share of suffering too.
Greg knew Sherlock Holmes for nearly six years before John Watson showed up. He met him when he was still in his drug days, and if it weren't for that first encounter in the holding cell, Greg would have never had the pleasure of meeting him in the first place. Sherlock, coked out of his brains and sitting curled up in the corner of the bed with his head against the wall while he spouted out details about the case that had been keeping the young DI up for days that he could not have possibly known without being there, and Greg took immediate interest. Despite the advice of the other officers, Greg took Sherlock under his wing for the case, and was easily captivated by the young man's brilliance. He offered him a job, under one condition.
The drugs had to go.
Sherlock, of course, had rolled his eyes, but the idea of being a detective was enough to make him stop. He quit cold turkey and managed to stay clean for a few weeks, but very quickly relapsed, and wound up in the holding cell again. Greg, disappointed, kicked him off the case.
Meeting Mycroft Holmes was far more terrifying than anything Greg Lestrade had ever faced, but, when it became apparent that all the man wanted was to get his brother clean, Greg was willing to listen. He listened to Mycroft's story about his younger brother and when he was done, the elder Holmes asked him for a special favor. 'Give Sherlock another chance.' He had said, nearly breathless with desperation. 'He needs this. I can't lose him.' When Mycroft offered to pay him to keep him on the cases, Greg had walked away, 'I don't need an incentive' being the last thing he said to the elder Holmes. He didn't see him again for almost five years.
After that, through many weeks of withdrawal, and crying, and many nights on Greg's couch, the DI finally got Sherlock Holmes clean. He was the only one who never put Sherlock down for his rude behavior and never once tried to change that about him. As long as Sherlock stayed clean, Sherlock could have all the cases he wanted. They soon had this strange, but close, father-son sort of relationship, and Greg grew fond of him very quickly. He knew in the back of his head that Sherlock didn't think the same way, but, he didn't mind. Sherlock Holmes was clean. Sherlock was rude, anti-social, and often apathetic about things, but, he was better.
Then, John Watson came along.
That kindhearted, jumper wearing, ex-army Doctor who walked with a cane and complimented Sherlock's every deduction came strolling in out of the blue, just days after Sherlock moved into 221B Baker St. and from their very first encounter, Greg recognized the mutual attraction. Silently, and in the comfort of his office, he secretly counted the days until one of the idiots made a move. He and John actually became close after a while, sometimes they would meet up for drinks, or he would let John kip on his sofa when Sherlock was being a prick, but he and John were friends, and he was happy to know that Sherlock had somebody. When Mycroft demanded to know about John and Sherlock's relationship, Greg had only smiled. 'John'll do better with him than I have.' He had said.
The day they got together, he nearly threw a party.
Not because he had spent the last year trying to get them to admit it, but, because he had never seen Sherlock so happy.
The detective would show up at a crime scene with his doctor right beside him, and Sherlock would be smiling like he just won the lottery, and John would watch from afar as he fired off deductions at a rapid pace, then take his boyfriend's arm and drag him off somewhere. Sherlock looked happier than he ever had before, and that, to Greg, was the best feeling in the world. He would get in his car and drive home smiling, knowing that he had done his job, and Sherlock was happy.
Then, he jumped off of a fucking building.
Right down to the ground, his blood pooling out onto the pavement, and his eyes drained of color, all over John's shirt and hands... He had run out of the office to the crime scene when he heard, but by then, John had left, and Sherlock had been taken away. There was nothing left but a drying puddle of blood on the concrete where Sherlock's head had hit, and Greg had to stop himself from being violently sick.
He was found later that night by Sally Donovan at the pub, drunk and tearful, and he had gotten sick in her car when she tried to drive him home. She didn't mention it, bless her heart, and he, admittedly, forgot about it.
In the weeks after the incident, he didn't go to work, he just sat at home in the kitchen, drinking heavily and staring down at the stupid photo of Sherlock on the front of the newspaper. SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS it read, big and bold and taunting... At first, his wife would come home and wrap her arms around him, trying to comfort him, even though it was to no avail, but after three weeks, she just ignored him.
Then, just like that, one day, nearly six weeks after it happened, he showed up for work, looking like shit, but ready for the day, and he threw himself into his work. It was only after that that he found out that Anderson had quit. He had nothing to say on the matter. Two weeks after that, he helped John move out of Baker St. and to a small little flat far away from his old home. He and John smiled and drank beer when they were done, but, with one glance, it was easy to tell that neither man was moving on.
Greg and his wife started falling out a lot after that. She was angry that he was always working, or when he wasn't, he was out with Anderson or visiting Molly Hooper at the morgue, or he was at the pub. 'Stop mourning over that junkie. He's dead, get over it.' She spit in his face one night during a fight. Greg had said nothing.
He moved out himself a few days later.
He tried to move on, really, he did, he tried his damn hardest to get better, but, after the impending divorce and watching John Watson fall apart too, and losing the one he had spent so long trying to save the life of... He realized he was just getting by instead of living. He considered therapy for a while, to help him wrap his head around it, but, he convinced himself it wasn't place.
Sherlock had been John's boyfriend at the time of the fall. John was even considering marriage. He lost the love of his life. Mycroft Holmes lost his baby brother. Mrs. Hudson practically lost a son. He didn't even dare think about Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, losing their youngest son. Sherlock was none of those things to him. They were friends, sort of, in a weird, abstract soft of way, but nothing like the others. He had no right to mourn the way they did.
So, he tucked his feelings away, and allowed the world to crumble around him as he smiled and tried to hide behind the front. He smoked his cigarettes and buried himself in his work, and waited for the day that he could wake up and feel less numb.
Sometimes, he often mused, getting by is better than forgetting.