It was ridiculous. Beyond that, utterly ludicrous. Sherlock was not a child kidnapper, nor was he fake. Nor did he hire people to make himself seem smarter. He just was smarter. Greg knew Sherlock was real.

Knew the deductions at three in the morning as he crawled into bed after a long day of paper work were there, true and grounding. Sherlock's voice always emanating his inner most deep and private thoughts back to him. 

So when Donovan and Anderson reeled off their disgusting theories he couldn't help but let his face contort in revulsion. How could they even assume these things of someone? Let alone his Sherlock? 

Their argument was compelling. He realised this in a moment of fright, when he thought that Sherlock may really be doomed by a massive sway of evidence, or rather, idiocy all pointing their finger at him. But Greg's jaw stayed tight and faithful as he watched Sherlock, he knew the detective had something planned. Or rather, hoped. 

He felt John and Mycroft's eyes on him. Questioning him. His faith and his loyalty to Sherlock. Well, fuck you. He thought to both of them, kicking back and letting Sherlock do what he needed. He knew he would have something planned. That this was a part of the bigger picture, something he was too stupid to understand, he knew this. So he waited.

The day of the fall, Greg received a call. Short and simple, too quick for him to react. 

"Hello, DI Greg Lestrade speaking?"