A collection of Johnlock oneshots

Lestrade.

AN so I'm sorry for not really updating with actual updates in ages! 😁 but here's one! (Again, it's not exactly Johnlock)

So this is what I've started writing for my English controlled assessment, I'd love to know what you think!! Ps it's not finished yet sorry!

*Updated 11/01/2015 : now finished!!! *

He looked down at the cold lifeless body before him, his heart pounding in his chest. The silence was deafening, screaming with panic but all the man could do was stare. Stare at the pale face splattered with the same deep red liquid that surrounded the head and seeped into the jet black curls. He didn't know what to do. This was supposed to be his job, he was supposed to be a policeman. What had happened? When did this start becoming so... personal? Greg stood there for about five minutes, the body of the young(ish) man not moving, just laying there.

His inky black coat stood out against the pale grey paving slabs and he lay on. There was a tiny trickle of blood running from his head down the alleyway, just like there always was. It was early, only five thirty, but there was enough light for Greg to see his bleak surroundings. To his left, a pile of revolting rubbish bins, overflowing. To his right graffiti adorned the dreary walls stained with rivulets of rainwater and lichen. In the distance there were sirens reverberating off of buildings, getting closer by the second. On their way here, no doubt. Slowly he turned his head to look back at the body once more.

Something wasn't right, it hadn't been right for a while. Not that anybody knew that. Hopefully no one would find out, it wasn't good he would be fired from his job, his friends would look down on him and talk behind his back. He didn't have many friends. Ninety percent of his time was spent working.

"Greg?"

He had a voice, a woman's voice echoing through his brain. The sharp tones knocked him off balance, head spinning as he stumbled back.

"Sir? Are you okay?"

Greg blinked hard, over and over again as he tried to gain full consciousness once more. It didn't work. He felt himself toppled to the left and just managed to stop himself from falling completely. Don't look at him! He told himself. Don't. Look. At. Him.

Greg stumbled again, crashing into the woman. She half caught him and lowered him gently to the cold floor. "Sir, I think you should go home." Something was definitely not right. This had happened before in the past month, but never this bad. He'd kept it under control. Not now though. Now his head was spinning and he couldn't think straight. Now he felt physically sick. So much so that just then he doubled over on the floor and hurled up the contents of his stomach onto the concrete beneath him. Jesus. What was wrong with him? Why was this affecting him so badly? It was just one body. Just one body, once, and now he saw it at every crime scene.

Greg heard the woman quietly swear and her breath and vaguely he saw her run towards him. "Right. I don't care what you say I'm driving you home. Now."

Home. Home, where his cheating wife was. Greg didn't want to think about home right now. He felt the woman pull him to his feet with the aid of someone else and half drag him to her car. He closed eyes, instantly opening them again when he realised all he could think about was the body.

For a second, Greg caught a glimpse of the real body, an older man dressed in a dark red shirt and grey tweed blazer, but the image was soon replaced with the one from his memory. Haunted by the vile scene of his best friend, lying dead on the pavement. The picture permanently burnt into his mind. Every crime scene, every dream, every single one.

He was always there, tormenting Greg's guilt ridden self. He remembered the feeling of the heavy black gun in his hand, the immediate flash of light as he pulled the trigger and the noise of the shot ringing in his ears. A single tear rolled down his rough cheek dripping onto his coat.

What had he done?