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Chapter Text

“Those things will kill you.”

Greg stopped dead in his tracks upon hearing those words. He had just stepped into the car park of the Yard, cigarette in his mouth and a lighter in his hand. He’s heard these exact words before. Many times, in fact. And he knew those things would kill him one day. But old habits die hard. Especially on stressful days like this one, where he couldn’t find the answers to a million questions everyone pestered him with. It wasn’t the fact that the spoken words were true that made him pause, though. It was the voice. A deep rumble, he hadn’t heard in a long time. A voice so recognisable it couldn’t have been anyone else’s. For a moment, he considered if his lack of sleep was slowly driving him insane, conjuring hallucinations. Did he finally become a nutter, like Anderson? No, he knew who that voice belonged to. Knew that person well enough to know he was the only human being able to pull this off. And if that was true, if that was really him… he’d have had to admit: Anderson was right.

“Oh, you bastard.”, Greg finally said and pulled the cigarette back out of his mouth. He turned towards the direction the voice came from. Out of the shadows, a figure slowly walked into the dim lights of the car park. It was him. The one and only. Sherlock bloody Holmes was staring right at him, live and in the flesh.

“It was time to come back.”, Sherlock replied smugly. “Thought London couldn’t go on without me any longer. You let things slide… Greg.”

Greg mustered him for a moment, a hint of surprise on his face, when Sherlock actually used his correct name. Then he couldn’t hold it any longer and pulled him into a tight hug. Tight tight. Anchoring him, like he was about to lose him again. Sherlock seemed a bit surprised at the sudden outburst of emotion but couldn’t stop a smile creeping up on his face.

He’d had to admit it felt rather good to be home again. Breathing in the air of his city earlier had almost made him sentimental. Just a few hours ago, he had finally been brought to Mycroft’s office after the latter had rescued him out of that dirty Serbian cell.

Three years. It had taken him three years to fully dismantle Moriarty’s widely spread network of criminals. It had covered large parts of Europe, mostly states prone to corruption… so most of them. Three years of pretending to be dead, pretending to be someone else, all while trying not to lose himself on the way. He had to take multiple breaks to ground himself again and spent his little free time thinking about the most important things. Most of all… John. He kept him grounded. But it was hard only thinking about him, not being able to actually see him or talk to him. The only person he could occasionally, but only very briefly, talk to was his brother. It had kept him sane enough to move forward, to not give up completely. Always one goal in mind: Coming home, seeing John, and getting his life back. But his dreams were a little shattered when Mycroft let him gently know that not everyone had waited for him. That yes, Mrs. Hudson’s, Lestrade’s and Molly’s lives hadn’t altered that much. Little things here and there. But John’s had, drastically so.

Earlier that day

“What do you mean he’s not at Baker Street anymore?”, Sherlock frowned at his brother.

“He’s moved on, I fear.”, Mycroft responded and handed him a folder with current photos of John. “He’s moved out rather quickly after you’ve been gone.”, he went on a bit harsher than intended. When he saw Sherlock’s features sadden, he immediately added: “He’s not been dealing well with your loss. Not at all.”

Sherlock handed back the file, turned towards the mirror and kept buttoning up his shirt. “Have you talked to him while I’ve been gone?”

“No.”, Mycroft replied and pressed his lips together into a small line.

A lie. Sherlock knew his brother well enough to see right through him. “When?”, he simply asked.

Mycroft inhaled, defeated. “Exactly once. On your first ‘anniversary of death’. It was very brief and only because it was a… danger night.”

Danger night. That’s what Mycroft usually called the nights Sherlock had been turning to drugs again. Only the worst nights. The nights he had to fight for his life so many times. Mycroft had been there for all of them. But John had never taken drugs, not even once. Alcohol, yes, but nothing aside from that. Well, that one involuntary time, Sherlock had drugged him for a case, or thought he had, back in Baskerville. John wouldn’t ever do that unsolicited. But something must’ve happened that Mycroft reacted that way.

“Elaborate?”, Sherlock finally asked and turned back to face his brother.

“That…”, Mycroft said, “… is not my story to tell.”

“What can you tell me then?”, Sherlock spat.

Mycroft seemingly hesitated a moment, knowing what came next would hurt Sherlock more than he would willingly admit. “He got married well over a year ago. Her name’s Mary Elizabeth Watson, née Morstan. They welcomed a daughter nine months ago. Rosamund Mary Watson.” Mycroft handed him another file with pictures of said woman, the wedding and the baby.

Sherlock inspected them closely. Seeing John should’ve made him happy. Seeing that John was happy should’ve made him happy. But it didn’t. Nothing of what he saw made him feel any positive emotion. All he felt was guilt and regret. And he felt stupid. He should’ve known things would be different when he came back. He should’ve known people moved on without him. It just never occurred to him that John would. Maybe it was too painful to think about, but in his mind, John was still at Baker Street, waiting for his return. Knowing deep down that he was still alive, knowing that he would come back. But John wasn’t at the flat, and John didn’t know. Of course he didn’t; Sherlock had given him no reason to. No hint, no note, nothing. That was the sole purpose of his plan. John couldn’t know, so he’d be safe. Like Mrs. Hudson. Like Lestrade.

“You might want to go easy on him with your… reveal.”, Mycroft said, an apologetic look forming on his face.

Sherlock handed him back the files. “Did you talk to the others then?”, he tried to change the topic.

“No.”, Mycroft replied once more.

The truth, Sherlock deduced. He frowned at his brother. “Not even Lestrade? I thought you were… friends?” He cringed inwardly and outwardly as the last word left his lips.

“I don’t do friends, Sherlock. If you seem slow to me, can you imagine what real people are like? I’m living in a world of goldfish.”

“Yeah, but I’ve been away for three years— “

“So?”

“Oh, I don’t know; I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a… goldfish.”

“No.”, Mycroft answered sternly. His face was stoic, but his eyes were so very telling.

Something wasn’t right with him, Sherlock saw as much, but he couldn’t figure out what it was that made him look so… sad. Hurt even. “Well then.”, he proceeded instead, “I might start with him then. Ease my way into my old life.”

“Good luck with that, brother mine.”, Mycroft replied earnestly.

“Now, where is it?”, Sherlock said and looked around the room, not finding the desired item.

“Where is what?”, Mycroft replied with a small grin.

“You know what.”

As soon as he had spoken, Anthea entered the room, holding the one thing in her hands, Sherlock was missing to feel complete again. Upon seeing her, he smiled brightly and let her help him put on his beloved Belstaff coat.

“Welcome back, Mr. Holmes.”, she said with a finishing touch.

He turned around to thank her with a genuine smile, then proceeded to face his brother again. He stared at him for a good moment, obviously thinking, obviously hesitating. Mycroft raised a questioning brow, but before he could say anything, Sherlock swung his arms around his brother’s neck and pulled him into an embrace. Mycroft and Anthea, equally surprised by the gesture, stared at each other, while Mycroft put his hands on his brother’s back. Then Anthea smiled at her boss with a smug expression, meaning to say ‘I told you so.’

Upon returning to Baker Street, his true home, Sherlock had anticipated he would be greeted with screams of joy. He was right about that; he had simply underestimated the level of volume and the durance of his welcome back by his landlady. Obviously, he had received his third hug for the day, which he not only endured but actually enjoyed for a change. When the first wave of shock had settled, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson sat down at her kitchen table.

“I can’t believe it.”, she squealed. “You really are alive. You’re really here. I’m not hallucinating?”

“No, you’re not, and yes, I am.”, Sherlock answered with a soft smile.

“You have to tell me everything. Where have you been? What were you up to? Why did you make us all believe you’re dead? Do you have the first idea what we all went through?”, she asked, getting more upset towards the end of her row of questions.

“I can only imagine.”, Sherlock answered. “I… am sorry.”

“Oh, Sherlock… How are you? Let’s start with that. Are you okay?”, she changed into a gentler voice and put her hand on his forearm.

Sherlock took a moment to think. How was he? Overwhelmed, confused, hurt, unsettled.

“I’m… okay.”, he opted for the easier explanation. “I can’t tell you much about what I did. It was sort of an undercover job, to keep the people close to me safe… including you. But you can tell me what happened here while I was gone?”, he asked and tried for a smile, but it came out a little wonky. Too much had happened, obviously — too much for him to bear, especially now when he had just arrived back home. But he had to start somewhere.

Mrs. Hudson let out a deep sigh and leaned back in her chair. “Well, everything has changed since you’ve been gone. After your… funeral… John tried to stay, but I knew it wouldn’t take long until he moved out. I could hear him pacing and screaming and crying all the time. He started drinking, you know… to cope. Thought I wouldn’t notice; thought he was being clever. But I was married to a drunk once. I know one when I see one. I tried to help him, but he’d always say he’s fine. We both knew he was lying, but there was nothing I could do other than listen, make sure he ate, keep the flat clean, you know?”

Something in Sherlock’s stomach twisted, imagining John all upset and distressed and… hurt? He wanted him safe; he didn’t think it came with the cost of pain.

“Where did he move to? Are you still… in contact?”, Sherlock almost didn’t dare asking the last question. Knowing John, it wouldn’t surprise him if he had just soldiered on, completely wiping his past.

“Oh, he first moved to a cheap one-room flat for a while. Started to work at a different practice. Then he met…”, Mrs. Hudson hesitated, struggling to find the right words, but Sherlock found them for her.

“His now wife. Mary, I heard.”

“Yes. Her. They moved west… Acton, I think. He still calls every now and then. Came by three times in total. To introduce her to me, to invite me to his wedding and to introduce his daughter. Hasn’t dared to go upstairs at any point.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. His head started to make him feel a little dizzy. “What do you think of her?”

“Mary? Oh, she seemed lovely at first. She’s nice, well-mannered, and always smiling.”

“Sounds dreadful.”

“Very much so. Don’t get me wrong, she’s likeable, but she’s just… too nice, too tidy, too forthcoming, too… immaculate. She’s no worthy replacement.”

“Replacement?”, Sherlock frowned at her.

“Well, for you, Sherlock. I know you both made such a big deal out of it, and I know you weren’t a couple. I know John’s not gay — he’s made that very clear — but you two simply… belonged together. You don’t have to label it, but there were only the two of you. John and Sherlock, Sherlock and John, like it was always supposed to be like that.”

“I… I don’t think it’ll be like that again. I don’t even know if he wants me back in his life, now that I think about it.”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and leaned forward again, making her next point very clear. “He’s changed. A lot. And it doesn’t suit him. He wears a moustache now, did you know that?”, she asked with a wrinkled nose.

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “I’ve seen pictures; it’s horrendous. He definitely needs a shave.”

“Well, you should tell him that then.”, she replied and patted his hand.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, pondering. “I, uhm… I don’t know what to do about him.”

“But you’re Sherlock Holmes. You always know what to do.”

“Not when it’s about John. I… miscalculated.”, he admitted quietly.

“You thought he’d still be here, didn’t you?”

Sherlock said nothing, but that was answer enough.

“Oh, come on, you’ll figure something out, and until then you’ll get settled back into your flat. You are staying, right?”

Sherlock smiled at the question. “If you’ll have me again, I’ll stay.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. Let’s get you upstairs then.”, she all but cheered.

Chapter Text

Mycroft had watched, of course, he had. Every step his brother had taken since he had left his office this afternoon. He had watched him climbing on roofs and breathing in London, had amusingly watched him creep up on Lestrade in the car park of the Yard, and then had followed his track to Baker Street. Since he hadn’t left there for over an hour now, he was sure, Mrs. Hudson had welcomed him back properly. At the thought of that, his heart got a little lighter.

Yet one thought didn’t leave his mind: His phone hadn’t rang once. He had expected it, dreaded it, but expected it after Sherlock had left Lestrade. Mycroft had even seen Greg pull out his phone. Still, he had hesitated and put it away again, instead walking back inside the building he had come out of earlier. Now he felt relieved and anxious all at the same time. Lestrade now knew, Mycroft knew, Sherlock was alive all that time. He must’ve been angry at him, or disappointed at least, and the number of times he had tried to reach out to Mycroft before would have indicated another attempt right after Sherlock’s appearance. But nothing came. Not a call, not a text, nothing. As much as he dreaded the interaction, as much did he want to get it over with. Yet he couldn’t find the courage to make the call himself. Frustrated with the situation, Mycroft turned off the CCTV and closed his laptop. He packed his things, wished Anthea a good night, and finally went home.

When his driver pulled up at the desired destination, Mycroft thanked him and got out of the car absentmindedly. He walked the few steps until he reached the stairs, that led to his front door and fumbled for his keys. Just as he got them out of his pocket and raised his head back up again, he froze on the spot. A shiver ran down his spine and for a split second he thought about returning to his car again, but his body wouldn’t move.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”, a ragged voice greeted him. “At least one thing we have in common today.”

Mycroft swallowed hard, but still couldn’t move.

“What? Don’t tell me you’re that surprised to see me? Didn’t think I still know where you live?”

“What are you doing here?”, Mycroft asked a little hoarse. It wasn’t what he intended to say, but it was all he got out.

The man at the other end of the stairs laughed softly. “What am I doing here? Well, I figured it’s the only way to get you to talk to me since your phone doesn’t seem to work. I called a few times, even texted.”

“Not today.”, Mycroft answered plainly.

Another laugh. “No, not today. But for three years, I did. Tried at least. Over and over and over again.”

Mycroft had expected it to be an exhausting day, even a shit one, but he had anticipated it would be because Sherlock would run loose, not because one Greg Lestrade would randomly turn up at his doorstep.

Greg took a few steps downwards. “So, since I never got a reply, I thought, this time I’m doing it old school.”

“What do you want then, exactly?”, Mycroft asked, his tone sharp, trying to sound as normal as possible.

“Funny that you ask, since you seem to always know everything. Tell me then, what do I want?”, Greg asked amused, and walked down further until he stopped on the last step, right before Mycroft.

They locked eyes and Mycroft suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe anymore. There was barely any space left between them. He tried to calm himself by clearing his throat and looking the man before him up and down. Then he sighed a little defeated. “You want answers regarding Sherlock’s supposed death. Answers he won’t give you, because he’s a smug arse and answers I can’t give you because— “

“They’re classified. I know, Mycroft. I know all that bullshit. I don’t care how he’s done it, or what he did for three years. He told me his reasons, why he did it and that was good enough. That’s not why I’m here. Try harder.”

Mycroft knew the obvious answer already, even before Greg had spoken his first words. The fact that he did know, didn’t make it easier to talk. He took a deep breath and turned his head to his left, averting every possible eye contact.

“You wanted to know why I didn’t tell you, but you already came up with the correct conclusion: It would have endangered the whole operation since you were one of the targets. Therefore the only question remaining unanswered is… why I refrained from any contact at all, outside of the obvious. It clearly bothers you, that I haven’t taken your calls or replied to your texts and even had you sent away from my office.”

“And It clearly bothers you, that I care.”, Greg spat.

Mycroft turned his head back slightly, his eyes still fixed on something in the distance. “Don’t make assumptions based on your own emotions, Detective Inspector.”

“I’m not.”

“Sentiment can be a dangerous companion, Lestrade.”

“You can’t even look me in the eye for longer than a second. I don’t need to be a genius to know… it bothers you.”

Mycroft’s head snapped back and his eyes were suddenly staring right into Greg’s, like daggers. “Why do you care?”, he asked without averting his gaze again. “Caring is not an-“

“Advantage, yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that one before. And yet, you care. About Sherlock, for example. Is it so hard to believe, that someone cares about you?”

“No one cares about me.”, Mycroft snarled.

“I do.”, Greg answered harshly.

“Why?”, Mycroft asked faster than he could think and left them both confused with that answer.

Greg lifted a brow and then shook his head. He finally took the last step and walked past the other. “Goodnight, Mycroft.”, he said without turning around and walked straight to his car.

Mycroft slowly turned around and his eyes followed Greg’s every move until his car finally turned around the corner. It hadn’t happened often, but tonight Mycroft Holmes was left speechless in front of his own home. On his way up the stairs, he fished his phone out of his pocket. Before he entered his home, he typed one single message in a chat he hadn’t typed in for three years:

Goodnight, Greg.

-MH

The next morning came unusually early for Sherlock, much to his dismay, but he had to give in to his racing mind. A battle was imminent and unavoidable. A battle he didn’t want to fight, a battle he didn’t know how to win. But a plan had to be made anyway. A plan on how to tell John he wasn’t dead.

A few days ago it had all seemed so easy, he had been even eager to get back as fast as possible, but now? Initially, he thought John would still be here, at Baker Street. That was the first issue: he couldn’t come back ‘home’ and surprise him like he did with Mrs. Hudson. No, he had to go to John’s new home and approach him. Unknown territory was never a good start. It wouldn’t also be as easy as with Lestrade. John wasn’t alone anymore, there was a wife and a daughter now. Well, the daughter was only a few months old and wouldn’t really be an obstacle, but the wife? A risk factor, an unknown variable in an unknown territory. Not off to a great start indeed.

Sherlock sat down in his chair and closed his eyes, recalling the pictures and information he had saved in his mind, from the files he had seen yesterday. A flat in East London, mid-priced, sheltered area. No yard or garden. A mid-priced car, leased not bought. Struggling with money then. Married for a year, in a relationship for a year and a half. Jumping into life-changing decisions, trying desperately to live that ‘perfect little family’ life. Forced smiles, dark circles under his eyes, a truly appalling moustache and constant stress lines on his forehead. That family life seemed to leave its marks. Working at a different clinic, part-time first, full-time for a little over a year. Marriage and a child did come with a price after all. Little to no information about the wife though. Just a name, a birth date and occupation. Started to work at the same clinic three weeks after John, worked in a hospital on the other end of the city prior to that.

“Who are you?”, Sherlock whispered out loud and opened his eyes again. He took a deep breath and jumped out of his chair. “Only one way to find out.”

It was oddly sunny for December, Sherlock thought, as he left the cab a street away from John’s flat. He paid the cabbie his share and buried his hands in his pockets, slowly walking in his determined direction. Coming to a halt right in front of the door that would either open to the gates of heaven or hell. Not nearly as confident as back in his flat, Sherlock forced himself to ring the doorbell. It took an awful long minute until the door was opened and then there he stood.

John Watson. With his hideous moustache.

John was about to open his mouth but froze the second he realised who stood before him. Neither man dared to move, they just kept staring at each other like deer in the headlights.

“John, darling? Who’s at the door?”, Mary’s voice echoed from another room. When no answer came, it didn’t take long until she joined the situation. “John?”, she asked again, first looking at her husband, then at their visitor.

“You can see him too, right?”, John croaked, barely audible.

Mary mustered the man in front of them and then something seemed to click. “Oh my god!”, she gasped. “Yes, I do see him. That’s your friend, innit? The one who’s… dead? Sherlock Holmes, wasn’t it?”, she asked and her first shocked features softened and a genuine smile formed on her face.

“He looks just like him.”, John said absentmindedly.

That sentence triggered Sherlock back to reality. “I don’t look like him. I am… him.”, he said and briefly shook his head. “I… don’t know how else to do this, but… short version: I’m not dead.”

“Liar.”, John immediately returned. “I’ve seen him die. I’ve buried him. I’ve mourned him. There’s no way…”, he pressed sharply, sudden anger rising within him.

Now something entirely different happened in Sherlock’s brain. He felt challenged. Challenged to prove it was really him.

“My first words to you were ‘Afghanistan or Iraq’. You thought you had a limp and a tremor after you got discharged, but it was only psychosomatic and I proved it to you a day later. I incorrectly deduced your sister to be a brother. I’m the strangest man you’ve ever met and yet you came to meet me for a possible flat share. You saved my life after only a few days of knowing me and I stole an ashtray from Buckingham Palace, just to make you laugh. You saw me fall, but you never saw me die. Do I need to go on?”

John’s eyes narrowed and a taunting smile crept up his lips. “No.”, he said. “Most of what you said is easily found on the internet. But it’s kind of an ironic identifying feature that there’s always one little detail wrong in your ‘deductions’.”

Sherlock frowned at him. He mentally repeated the words he had just said, but was cut short by John’s huff of a laugh.

“Your first words to me weren’t ‘Afghanistan or Iraq’. They were ‘Oh, thank you.’ when I handed you my phone. One of the rare times you actually had manners, therefore it doesn’t surprise me you don’t remember.”, he hissed.

To that, Sherlock didn’t have a reply. John was right and obviously, John was pissed. Two things that didn’t go well together.

“Why don’t you come in and we can have a little chat?”, Mary suddenly proposed into the hovering silence. John’s head snapped around and he shot her a questioning look.

“What?”, she asked. “I bet he’s got plenty to tell. You haven’t seen each other for three years, you must be curious?”

“I don’t think-“, Sherlock started but was promptly interrupted by John again: “Correct. You don’t think. That’s why you’re here. To gloat with that big brain of yours. Because that’s what you do best: Showing off, how you fooled everyone for three bloody years, without thinking about the effects it has on the people around you, without any kind of remorse.”, he all but shouted.

“Calm down, love.”, Mary said and laid her hand on his arm.

“I am calm.”, he snapped a little harsher than intended.

“You’re obviously not.”, Sherlock stated without bad intentions, but it was the last straw for John.

He turned around and grabbed his coat from the hanger and his keys from the cupboard. “You know, why don’t you have that chat with him. You seem to get along pretty well. I’m out of here.”, he sneered as he walked past both of them.

Sherlock and Mary knew better than to stop him and only watched him enter the car and drive away.

“He still has his bad days, I suppose.”, Sherlock tried to lighten the mood.

“Hasn’t had them in a good while, but I’ve seen worse.”, Mary replied with an apologetic smile. “He’ll come back around eventually. I do insist you come in, though.”

“Why?”, Sherlock laughed.

“You are one exceptionally mysterious human being, Sherlock Holmes. And I’m intrigued.”, she replied with a glistening in her eyes.

Sherlock mustered her for a moment, trying to deduce her, but with no relevant information coming up. “I can only return that sentiment, Mary Watson.”, he replied eventually and followed her inside.

Chapter Text

Since Anthea had entered their shared office that morning, she could feel something was off. Something about her boss, which wasn’t usually the case… ever. She had brought him his morning tea with an extra spoonful of sugar, which usually helped increase his mood. But by nine o’clock he had checked his phone 27 times, clearly not getting a response to an urgent matter. Anthea meticulously checked their schedule for the day, but couldn’t find any indicator of what was going on. So it’s personal, she thought. Not his parents. Mrs. Holmes had just called yesterday, relieved she didn’t have to pretend anymore, that one of her sons was dead. Not Sherlock either, he was still being monitored. So that only left…

“You know, you could ask instead of mindlessly staring at me.”, Mycroft pulled her out of her thoughts. Always observant, even if his eyes were practically glued to his phone.

“Did you talk to him?”, she followed his offer. “Or did you just write a text, hoping that would fix everything?”. Anthea was well aware of how important one Detective Inspector was to her boss, but she had never dared to say anything about it. It hadn’t been the right time back then. But now? Maybe there was a chance.

Mycroft locked his phone and placed it, display facing down, on his desk again. “What are you implying?”, he asked with a raised brow.

Anthea’s lips curled into a smile. She got up from her desk and sat down in the chair in front of Mycroft. “With all due respect, Sir, it’s been three years. Don’t you think that man deserves a little more than just a text?”, she asked and carefully folded her hands together in her lap.

Mycroft shifted in his seat. There were not many things that made him uncomfortable. Matters of the heart were one of them. Anthea was another. “He came to see me, last night.”, Mycroft eventually confessed. “He was… agitated, to say the least.”

“Rightfully so. I would have been furious in his place.”, Anthea answered truthfully. “Three years can be an awfully long time.”

“I know.”, Mycroft sighed. “He said…”, Mycroft started but fell silent again. It was still something, he hadn’t wrapped his head around yet.

“He said what?”, Anthea pushed.

Mycroft sighed again. “Well, he said… he cared… about me.”

“Of course, he does.”

“I asked him… why?”, Mycroft confessed quietly.

Anthea inhaled deeply and closed her eyes for a brief moment, reconsidering her life choices. “Of course, you did.”, she breathed. What did I expect?, she thought.

When she opened her eyes, Mycroft was checking his phone again. “With all due respect, again, but for a genius, who’s technically running the entire nation… you’re a bloody idiot.”

At that, Mycroft’s head snapped around and he looked at his assistant, utterly appalled. He knew Anthea could be direct, it was one of the features he valued most about her. But never had he expected her to swear at him.

“Don’t look at me like that. You know I’m right. He came to see you and you’re writing him a text. Something he tried for three bloody years. What do you expect? Honestly?”

“I…”, Mycroft was at a loss of words, “… don’t know.”

“You need to try harder.”, she said. Then she got up again and returned to her own desk.

Mycroft’s eyes followed her until she had sat down. Her last words were echoing in his head. The exact same words Greg had used last night. And since the universe was rarely so lazy, this could only mean one thing: He did, in fact, need to try harder.

And for the first time, Mycroft Holmes did feel like an idiot.

Greg was nose-deep in a huge pile of paperwork when suddenly the door of his office opened and closed again before he could even bring himself to look up. When he did so, he had to admit: He was surprised.

“So, that’s funny.”, he laughed.

“What is?”, the man before him replied, as he stepped closer.

Greg raised an eyebrow and pulled out his phone. He looked at the screen and opened the last text he had received. “You get to leave me hanging for ages and I don’t respond to one of your texts within a few hours and you’re standing here. Got a bad conscience? Or are you just afraid to lose control over me?”, he raised his head with that last sentence and his gaze pierced right through Mycroft’s soul. That’s what this animosity came down to: Greg had felt controlled by Mycroft. Not in a physical sense, but emotionally. Denying communication and then demanding it the second it is needed. Typical Holmes, he thought.

Mycroft swallowed hard but didn’t move otherwise. “I was told to try harder. Twice. Now I’m here.”

“Why?”, Greg asked almost amused.

Mycroft tried to answer as steadily as possible, but Greg could tell he wasn’t as collected as he used to be. “This…”, he said, “… is me trying.”

“Pray tell, what exactly are you trying to do?”, Greg all but snapped.

Mycroft lowered his head, paused a moment to think and then returned an icy look. “You want answers, I’m willing to give you… some.”

Greg considered the answer for a moment. He leaned back in his chair and took a sip from his coffee, which had almost gone cold. “Why the fuck now?”, he asked eventually. “Did I have to remind you, in person, that I still exist?”

“Oh, stop being an idiot.”, Mycroft replied instantly with an eye roll. “I didn’t forget your existence.”

“Bloody felt like it. And surely missed being called an idiot. Thanks for that.” Greg tipped an imaginary hat at that last part.

“Well, I… didn’t mean it like that.”, Mycroft tried.

“Then maybe you should fucking start saying what you mean because I’m fucking tired of pretending.”, Greg snarled and leaned forward again. He put his elbows on his desk and his face in his hands, slowly rubbing his temples, trying to erase the oncoming headache.

Mycroft on the other hand was slowly reconsidering, if coming to the Yard had really been the best idea. He couldn’t even manage to hold back his usual responses. Seeing Greg this angry at him made him feel uneasy. Normally, he didn’t care if people got angry at him, or had any kind of emotion towards him. Normally, he would have told them to draw a number and get back in line. But this wasn’t normal, this was Greg. And Greg was important because Greg was his… well, he was his… his… person. The person, he knew he could trust blindly, the person he actually enjoyed being around. Well, both things also applied to Anthea and maybe even Sherlock on a good day, but that just wasn’t the same.

“So am I.”, he eventually replied quietly.

Silence fell between the two men, both avoiding further eye contact. Defeated, Mycroft let himself fall into the chair right across from Greg. “Did it ever occur to you…”, he started, “… that it didn’t only put a strain on you?”

“Oh please!”, Greg sneered and rolled his eyes.

Mycroft cut him short. “You wanted the truth, so deal with it.”

Greg didn’t respond to that, other than a raised brow.

“I broke off contact between us, yes, and I’d do it again if it ensured the safety and survival of the few people close to me. Including you, by the way. But don’t think for one second, it wasn’t without cost.”

“Oh pshhh, what could it have possibly cost you?”, Greg asked, but wasn’t prepared for the answer that followed.

“You.”, Mycroft simply stated with emphasis.

Greg’s pissed expression changed into a frown. He wasn’t quite sure where this was going. Could also be one of Mycroft’s neat little tricks to lure him back into his net.

When Greg obviously didn’t respond, Mycroft went on: “I’ve isolated myself over the years. On purpose and with good cause. Moriarty didn’t even deem me worthy as a target, because my own brother ‘despises’ me. I’ve never complained about the isolation, because most of the time I enjoy being alone. I’ve never felt particularly lonely. And even if I did, there was plenty of work to distract my mind. But when our plan went into action and I had made the choice to cut you off, for your own safety… I didn’t think it would be… hard. I thought ignoring someone was the easiest thing in the world.”

“It’s not easy if you care about someone.”, Greg replied in a much softer voice than before.

“No, it is not. And you didn’t make it easy not to. Care, that is.”, Mycroft confessed.

“I tried so hard, Mycroft.” Greg jumped out of his chair and turned to the window. He ran his hands through his hair in desperation. “One text… just one text would’ve been enough.”

“No, it wouldn’t have. One is never enough. It always leads to more. Because once you breach that seal, there’s no way of stopping that wave of…”

When Mycroft didn’t continue, Greg turned around again and saw Mycroft for what he was, right now, right there: A broken man, trying to collect the shards of a once-trusted friendship.

“Sentiment?”, he offered eventually.

Mycroft turned his gaze from his hands into Greg’s direction and tried for a smile, which came out a little awry. “Perhaps.”

“So, what about dinner?”, Greg suddenly changed the topic.

Mycroft frowned, but then remembered, why he came here in the first place: His text, asking for dinner. An attempt at reconciliation. “Ah, well, yes. Would you be... available?”

“I get off by six tonight, have to run an errand after that and then I’m free.”

“Shall I have you picked up at your flat, say... seven-thirty?”

“That would work out, yes. What did you have in mind?”

“If you’re alright with it… dinner at my place? If you really want answers, they’re better kept away from the public ear.”

“Right. Okay. Seven thirty, then.”

“So, essentially, what you’re saying, is, you dismantled an entire criminal network on your own, in just three years?”, Mary asked astonished.

They were sitting in her and John’s kitchen, each a cuppa in front of them. Sherlock had just explained, in a very simplified way, how and why he spent his time away. Mary had taken it all in very sober and without doubt, clearly fascinated, rather than disturbed.

“Yep.”, Sherlock answered, while his lips curled into a smirk.

Mary leaned a bit forward and covered Sherlock’s hands with her own. “John will understand.”, she tried to give him some hope. “He didn’t deal very well with your loss. I think he just needs a little time to wrap his head around all of this.”

It was the second time someone had told Sherlock, that John hadn’t coped well after his supposed death. And it made Sherlock think about all the factors, he hadn’t considered before. Never had he expected that anyone would grieve for him. If it was his actual death, he’d expected his parents and maybe his brother — if he found his wrinkled piece of a heart somewhere — to be the only ones. Talking to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had it made clear, they missed him too, but he couldn’t tell how much of a role grieve played for them. But one thing was obvious. John must’ve had it the worst, which made this whole coming-back thing so much harder.

Sherlock shook his head once, trying to force his focus back to the conversation. “Now, enough of me. I want to know who you are.”, he said. Who John has been sharing his life with, while I was away, is what he didn’t say.

“Well, there’s not a lot to tell. Can’t you deduce everything about me anyway?”, Mary asked intrigued.

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “Well, not everything. But a fair amount, I suppose.”

“Go ahead.”, she encouraged him.

Sherlock took one look at her face, then looked her up and down very briefly. “You’re clever, but a little disillusioned. A part-time nurse, shortsighted and a cat lover. You’re a romantic, much like John and you bake your own bread.” He narrowed his eyes on her face and frowned for just a split second. “You’re an only child and a…”, he began and his thoughts revolved around two words he didn’t know how to interpret.

“A what?”, Mary asked, as Sherlock just hesitated one second too long.

“A linguist.”, he finished with a smile. Liar, secret, he thought. What are you hiding, Mary Watson?

“Impressive.”, Mary answered. “Not what I expected, but true nonetheless.”

“What did I miss?”

Mary inspected him for a moment. Seemingly preparing her answer deliberately well. “I’m not just an only child, I’m also an orphan. My family consist of John, Rosie and our friends. That’s all I got.”

“That’s plenty.”, Sherlock countered. “Blood relations are not always… what they’re made out to be.”

“Got a rocky relationship with you’re brother, Mycroft, was it?”

Sherlock stared at her in confusion. He wondered, just how much John had told her. Or how much research she had done.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. John mentioned him once or twice when he first told me about you. Don’t worry, he mostly talked about you, if ever.”

Impressive memory, Sherlock noted in his head. “Let’s just say… it’s complicated.”

“Family’s always complicated, isn’t it?”

As if on cue, a cry disturbed the otherwise silent flat.

“Ah, someone’s hungry, I guess.”, Mary laughed. “Or she’s eager to meet you.”, she added before she got up to fetch her daughter from her crib across the room.

Sherlock waited patiently in his chair and took a sip from his mug. He had seen John’s daughter in the pictures his brother had handed him before, but now he was eager to see what she really looked like.

A minute later, Mary returned to his side, bouncing Rosie on her hip, to calm her cries, but it had little to no effect. “Now look, darling. Look who’s here.”, she said and pointed towards Sherlock. “It’s Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, Daddy always tells you about.”

Sherlock’s gaze snapped from the baby to Mary at once. John had told her about him? John had told his baby daughter about him? Before he could wonder more about that fact, Mary turned to him.

“Would you mind holding her for a minute, while I get her bottle ready?”, she asked inconspicuously, as if it was the most obvious thing to ask. And it probably was, just not to one Sherlock Holmes. But Mary didn’t know how much this question equally surprised and overwhelmed him and just took his silence as a yes. And before he knew it, he held the baby in his arms and Mary had already turned around to prepare the said bottle.

Sherlock recollected his thoughts as quickly as possible and stored them away for later. Instead, focusing now on the task at hand: Holding a baby and maybe stopping her from crying. He didn’t know why, but on instinct, he started to gently bounce her on his leg and gave her a tiny smile. “Hi.”, he eventually said in a very soft and low voice. “Nice to meet you, little Watson.”, he said. Maybe it was the new situation or the soothing voice, but Rosie’s cries did slowly decrease. With her face still red, it was more wailing than crying now. On closer inspection, Sherlock could see the resemblance he had been searching for. Her eyes were a deep blue, and so very soft, just like her father’s. Definitely got his ears too, but her mother’s nose and lips. Sherlock’s smile brightened and then saddened at once.

He had never had a friend like John Watson before. He had never expected to see him as a father before, with their joined lifestyle and John’s general trust and father issues. But then again, he had been away for three years and John had clearly changed and moved on. And now he was sitting in a stranger’s kitchen, holding the very result of that change in his own arms and didn’t know how to feel about it.

Before he could delve into that any further, Mary gently plucked her daughter out of his arms and sat back down to start feeding her. “Thank you.”, she said as Rosie had finally stopped crying.

Sherlock just nodded and pressed his lips together at the sight. “I think, it’s time for me to go.”, he said eventually. “I’ve taken up enough of you’re time already and I don’t think your husband’s coming back, as long as I’m here.”

“Oh, don’t worry too much about it.”, she said, as Sherlock got up and put his coat back on. “It was lovely to meet you. And I’ll get John around.”

“You will?”, Sherlock asked with a frown.

“Of course, I will.”, Mary answered confidently. “I’ll always find a way.”

Chapter Text

If there was one word to describe his current situation it was most definitely fucked. Just an hour ago everything had been near perfect in John Watson’s life and now it was a mess all over again. Everything he had worked for, for the past years, was crushed by one man. Sherlock fucking Holmes. He had been through the five stages of grief once already. A second time hadn't really been on his schedule.

Denial had been the shortest stage. Back then, there was almost no chance of denying Sherlock’s death. He had seen him fall, after all. Now, he had seen him standing right in front of him with Mary as his witness. No other rational explanation, or they were both going insane. What were the odds?

Anger had hit him briefly the first time. He had tried to control himself as best as he could, for Sherlock’s sake. Mostly, he had been angry at himself. For not doing more, to prevent what had happened. John had blamed himself for not being a good enough friend. For calling Sherlock a machine, right before he had called him, clearly crying, saying his goodbye. Now, he was angry too. At Sherlock this time, for fooling him once more. And not just with a nice little trick, no. He had pretended to be dead for three years and had left him completely in the dark. No hint, that it could have been a larger scheme. Nothing. John felt utterly foolish. He was sure his anger would sustain a little longer this time because he was not inclined to hear one of Sherlock’s inane excuses. Sure, there must have been a clever way, on how it was done. John didn’t care. Sure, there probably had been a reason somewhere behind this, and he would have understood, eventually. What he couldn’t understand, though, was how. How could he have done this to him? After everything they had been through, in just that year and a half, they had lived together. Sherlock had become his best friend, against all odds. And John had thought, even if Sherlock wasn’t the emotional kind of guy, he must at least have known, how much John cared about him. Why on earth, would he have let him mourn like that? John wasn’t even sure anymore, Sherlock knew how big of an impact his death had.

Bargaining and Depression came hand in hand. John had lost count of how many times he had asked the universe for a miracle. How many times he had silently begged Sherlock to come back. How many times he had hoped for it to be a trick. How many nights he had spent crying alone in his bed. Trying to drown his sorrows in alcohol, trying to numb the pain. Nothing had worked. It was a pain, he had never felt before. Not even, when he was at war. The sadness and hurt he had felt, were a constant companion for the longest time, up until that one night. Exactly one year after Sherlock’s death had been the worst night in his life. He had never spoken to anyone about it, not even his own wife. There was only one other person, who knew what happened. The one person, who had saved him from the dumbest mistake he could have ever made.

“You’re not seriously contemplating digging that up for proof, are you?”, a sharp voice ripped John out of his own thoughts.

He cleared his throat and lifted his head, not looking yet to his right, where the voice had come from. “No.”, he answered. “Not giving him that satisfaction.”

“Satisfaction? You think this was a game for him?”, the other man asked, a hint of offence in his voice.

John finally turned around and balled his hands into fists. He didn’t know how long he had been standing here, at the now probably empty grave. He had been visiting this place many times before. He didn’t know what he had hoped to find here now. And he sure as hell didn’t expect to see Mycroft Holmes, out of all people, to seek him out here.

“Wasn’t everything a game to him?”, he asked annoyed.

“Isn’t.”, Mycroft corrected him.

“What?”

“The correct question would be ‘Isn’t everything a game to him?’, since he’s, you know, not dead.”

Inwardly John was fuming. Being tricked by Sherlock apparently wasn’t enough, no, now he had to be corrected by his bloody brother, too. On the outside, he just started clenching and unclenching his fists over and over again. Control it, Watson.

“And to answer your question: No, it isn’t. But you wouldn’t know, because you’re too preoccupied, holding a grudge over everything. Simply because you feel inferior. Tricked. Fooled. But we’re talking about Sherlock. Almost everyone would feel that way about him.”

“Don’t tell me what I feel, Mycroft.”, John spat. “You have no bloody idea what-“

“You’ve been through? Really? You seem to forget, I’ve been here. I’ve monitored you and I’ve intervened where necessary, so you’d be safe. I start to believe you have no bloody idea, what he’s been through. What he’s done, what he’s sacrificed… for you. The only reason you are alive is because he pretended not to be.”

John stopped moving for a moment. He had to admit, that Mycroft was right. He didn’t know what Sherlock had been up to. And he didn’t want to care. But he couldn’t believe, that this whole ordeal had really been necessary to keep him alive. There had to have been another way, back then.

“There wasn’t.”, Mycroft replied, obviously reading John’s thoughts again. “We had plans, lots of them. And we had to adjust to the circumstances on the go, as one would say. You must surely remember how big of a threat Moriarty was?”

John simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak just yet.

“He was an infinitely larger threat, once he had taken his own life. Your survival depended on Sherlock’s death.”

“Why…”, John croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again: “Why didn’t he say something afterwards? You saw me, why didn’t you?”

A brief smile rushed over Mycroft’s lips as if he’d just asked him the most obvious question. Then he stepped closer and leaned on his umbrella. “Because your behaviour would have subconsciously changed and that most probably would have derailed the entire plan. Everything Sherlock and I worked so hard for, would have been for nothing. And on top, it could have meant your certain death. And possibly two more.”

John thought a moment about it. Again, he had to admit: Mycroft was right. Of course, he was. His behaviour would have changed. Not just subconsciously, he knew that much. He just couldn’t comprehend, how that would have changed anything, too many details were still missing.

“What exactly did you both do then?”, he asked eventually.

“I can’t go into too much detail.”

“Of course not. You never can.”, John scoffed.

“Let’s just say, Sherlock did the legwork, while I did the monitoring, the paperwork and the like.”

“Who were the other two?”

“Pardon?”

“You said, beside me, there were possibly two more people who could have died. Who was it?”

“Mrs. Hudson and…” Mycroft took a deep breath. “Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

John frowned at him. Mrs. Hudson was obviously very dear to Sherlock and Lestrade had been somewhat of a good friend, even if Sherlock would have stated otherwise. But the way Mycroft said the last name, seemed just a little… odd.

“Sherlock won’t admit this to you…”, Mycroft clearly tried to change the topic, “…but he’s been through a lot of physical pain. Also, I’m not entirely certain about his mental state.”

John almost had to laugh. “You’re not seriously asking me to look after him, are you?”

Mycroft held his gaze fiercely. “No.”, he answered honestly. “I’m asking you to… go easy on him. Even if I find it superficial, you’re allowed to be angry. I’m merely asking you, to not let it out on him. Please, John.”

The softness in Mycroft’s words struck John out of nowhere. Mycroft never pled. And he rarely called him by his first name. Everything about this whole situation suddenly felt too big, too much, too overwhelming. John wanted to flee, but he didn’t know where to. He didn’t even know if Sherlock was still with Mary, and he sure as hell wasn’t ready for that conversation. But once again, Mycroft read him like an open book, said his farewell and left him to his own thoughts again.

Acceptance was the last stage of grief. John had never reached that stage before. He simply stopped after stage four and then pretended like nothing ever happened. He had talked to Mary about Sherlock, sure, but it was painful, still. He had told his daughter stories about him, but those were just that: stories. He knew they were real, but they didn’t feel like it anymore. It was easier to pretend it had never happened than to accept what he thought to be the truth. Maybe that was the reason, he was reliving all those emotions and more. There was never a real closure, as to why everything happened the way it did. Now there was and John didn’t know how to deal with that.

What are you hiding?, Sherlock thought to himself, still stuck on his previous deductions about John’s wife. He was currently on his way to the last person he needed to tell about his ‘resurrection’ before the news reached the press. Though, to that person, it wouldn’t be a surprise that he was alive. The timing would be the surprise. Molly had been in on the plan, once it had been settled on. Molly Hooper, insignificant enough for James Moriarty, invisible to most people and therefore the most valuable person in this scenario for Sherlock Holmes. She had provided them with a body, a forged death certificate and sealed lips. Molly had carried that secret with her the whole time, without slipping. Sherlock knew Molly was bad at keeping secrets, but Molly was also bad at socialising. Molly was awkward and weird and known to be utterly in love with Sherlock Holmes, who had no interest in her romantically, whatsoever. She was perfect for the task. Even if she had slipped, no one would’ve found it suspicious. No one would have believed her.

“Oh my god!”, she shrieked, once she saw his silhouette in the corner of her eye. “Sherlock!” She turned around and gave him the brightest smile.

He stepped forward and opened his arms to welcome her much-deserved hug. Molly didn’t hesitate and almost threw herself at him, holding on as tight as possible.

“Are you back for good?”, she mumbled into his neck.

“I believe I am, yes.”

“Oh thank god.”, she sighed relieved and slowly let go of him again. “How are you?”

Sherlock gave her a weak smile. “I’m… okay. Settling back in. Trying to, at least.”

“Must be hard, after all this time.”

“Some things felt like coming home… some… did not.”

Molly knew exactly what he was talking about. She could always tell from his look, his sad eyes. “Does he know? Have you talked to him?”

Sherlock nodded slightly.

“Didn’t go well?”

“Nope.”, he replied and tried to hide his disappointment, to no avail. “Couldn’t believe it at first, then got angry and left me with his wife.”

“Oh, ouch. Sorry, to hear that.”

“Had a little chat with her, though. Said she’ll talk him around.”

“Yeah, of course she will.”, Molly snorted.

Sherlock frowned at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Molly hesitated a moment and then returned to her locker, fumbling with the lock. “Nothing, I just…” She eventually unlocked the door and took off her coat. “She’s nice.”

“But?”, Sherlock asked as he watched her hang up the coat and close the locker again.

Molly turned around and took a deep breath. “I thought we could be friends. I’m still friends with John, don’t get me wrong. I’ve been made Rosie’s godmother after all. I’ve even babysat a few times. But Mary’s just not the kind of person who would be friends with someone like me. She’s perfect and I’m just… weird, we all know that.”

“Weird is not a bad thing.”, Sherlock countered, knowing the feeling of being an outcast, oh so well.

“No, but we don’t… vibe. She’s a little pushy sometimes and I don’t do that anymore. The getting pushed around thing, I mean.”

Sherlock crossed the short distance, gently grabbed Molly’s shoulder and gave her a genuine smile. “Good for you.”

“You did that too, you know? Pushing me around?”, she laughed.

Sherlock made an affirmative face and shrugged. “Yes, but… I’m weird too.”

“I’ve missed you.”, Molly confessed and pulled Sherlock into another embrace.

Chapter Text

Hours later, the sun had long set and the city had turned into an early nightlife. As Mycroft had promised, Greg had been picked up at his flat by one of the once familiar black cars. He had made an effort to look deliberately casual, not knowing what this whole dinner thing would lead to. Many options had crossed his mind. Mycroft could tell him little to nothing and he would have made a fool of himself again. There could also be an awkwardness between the both of them since they hadn’t talked for over three years now. What he hoped most for, though, wasn’t only to get answers, no. Greg simply longed for one thing: to get his friend back.

Before, everything had seemed easy between them. They had forged a bond between them through mutual care for Sherlock, but they had strengthened it by finding a certain interest in each other. Dinners had become more frequent, and spontaneous visits on lunch breaks weren’t unusual. But could it be the same now again? Greg was still pissed, but he had hoped for an opportunity like this. Waited for, what felt like an eternity. Even, if everyone had told him, he was an idiot for still trying, he had never lost hope. Even, if it had felt silly at times, writing texts into the void, there was still the thought, that Mycroft had read them.

When Greg had finally rung himself up to push the doorbell, he wasn’t prepared for how he was greeted. Mycroft had opened the door, almost shyly, inviting him in wordlessly. Once Greg had stepped in, he stopped and took in the sight before him: a casual Mycroft Holmes. No business attire, no three-piece suit, no tie. Just a pair of beige trousers and a burgundy cashmere pullover with the collar of a white shirt sticking out on top.

“Glad you came.”, Mycroft broke the silence eventually.

Greg had to clear his throat before he could find any words to reply. “Yeah, uhm… you look good.”

“Thank you.”, Mycroft answered. And if the faintest hint of a blush was about to rise on his cheeks, Greg wouldn’t tell him. “I thought, I might try something new. Didn’t want to make it seem like a business meeting.”

“Right.”, Greg laughed and took his coat off.

Dinner itself was rather quiet, each holding their thoughts to themselves. Greg casually complemented Mycroft for his secret cooking skills, while the other waved it off, effortlessly. After a while, they settled into some pleasant mundane conversation about Greg’s latest case and Mycroft’s atrocious meeting with the prime minister. It felt just the way it had been before, and yet it wasn’t the same at all.

“So…,” Mycroft said eventually, “You wanted answers. Ask away.”

It was time to address the elephant in the room. Greg held his gaze fixed on Mycroft and took a large sip of his wine. Where to start? Too much time had passed, too many things had happened and too many details, he didn’t know. His brief conversation with Sherlock had already given him some key points: Three targets, Moriarty’s sudden decision to end his life, and Sherlock’s plan to dismantle his network as a long-time undercover mission. After a few minutes of silence, Greg finally knew his most pressing question: “How have you been?”

Mycroft raised a brow, seemingly surprised by the choice Greg had made. “I’ve been… busy, mostly. Didn’t have a lot of time to feel anything, really.”

“What did you do, then? Aside from your usual work.”

Mycroft carefully swirled around his glass and took a sip before he answered. “Keeping my brother alive, while letting the world believe he’s not. Takes up a lot more time than you’d think. Also, monitoring the ones left behind and ensuring their survival.”

“So you’ve monitored me.”

It wasn’t a question and Mycroft could instantly sense the hurt in Greg’s voice. Of course, he had monitored him. Of course, it was unfair that he got to know what Greg was up to, while the other had been left in the dark.

“Anything interesting you saw, then, at least?”, Greg tried to lighten the mood a little.

“I’m sorry.”, Mycroft burst. “I truly am.”, he added. It had been burning inside him since he had first laid eyes on him, last night. “I wish things could have been different, but it would have been too big of a risk.” He emptied his glass and refilled it one more time. “I did see a lot of interesting things, though. Not many I can talk about… but I’ve seen… you. Running around London, chasing the ‘bad guys’.”

“Yeah, all while you chased the real bad guys, huh?”, Greg laughed.

“Don’t diminish your work, Greg. No one in that bloody institution of yours is working their arse off quite like you. I’ve looked at your division’s statistics. They’re at an all-time high, even without Sherlock’s help.”

“I’ve assembled a hell of a good team. I just try my best every day, but it always feels like…”

“It’s not enough?”

Greg nodded in agreement and took another sip. “It never is, is it?”

“I fear not, no.”

“Sherlock aside…”, Greg tried to dip his toes into the more interesting matter, “Why couldn’t you talk to me? Was it really just to protect me? You said something about sentiment earlier?”

Mycroft’s lips turned into a half smile. Of course, he wanted to know why. Of course, Greg deserved an answer. But Mycroft wasn’t even sure yet, he knew the answer himself.

“It seemed easier at the time. See, over the years, you’ve become somewhat of a friend to Sherlock and even… me. I couldn’t risk letting anything happen to you.”

Mycroft had never called him a friend before, which surprised them both equally, but Greg didn’t let it show. Instead, he focused on the more important matter.

“And talking to me would have been a risk how?”, he asked.

Mycroft sighed. “You would’ve wanted to talk about my brother at some point.” He remembered all the times he had imagined how things would have gone if he made a different decision back then. It always ended the same way.

“You could have lied to me.”, Greg offered.

“You wouldn’t have forgiven me.”

“You don’t know that”, Greg insisted. “We’re in the exact same position right now. I didn’t know Sherlock was alive, you didn’t tell me about it and I’m still sitting here.”

“It is most definitely not the same situation. Not telling you and lying to you are two very different things. And you would have never believed me anyway.”

“What makes you think that? If you can fool the whole world, you sure as hell can fool me?”

“That’s the point. You’re not the rest of the world. You know me, you know how I feel about my brother. You’ve seen me… before. Remember how we met?”

Of course, Greg did remember their first encounter, how could he ever forget that? It had been almost a decade now since a very young and obviously high Sherlock had entered one of his crime scenes.

It had been one of those cases that took weeks, without progress. Just murder after murder and the bad press wasn’t helping anyone. So one day, Greg and his team had been standing over another victim’s body in a run-down alley. It had been raining all day and hadn’t yet stopped on that late summer evening. It was still a mystery to him, how Sherlock had seemingly appeared out of nowhere right beside him and started rattling down his deductions, almost solving the entire thing in one monologue. No one had interrupted him, too baffled by the thin, worn out, yet posh-looking shadow of a man. Once he had finished with a conclusion on who the murderer was, Greg came back to his senses and his first instinct was to drag him out of his scene and put him in a drunk tank, not taking any of what he had just said seriously. On second thought, everything the intruder had just said, made perfect sense and every loose end they had desperately tried to tie together, to no avail, suddenly fell into place.

‘Who are you?’, Greg had asked instead.

‘Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective.’, was all the other could say before he collapsed right before Greg’s eyes.

Next thing he knew, he had sat in one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs right beside a freshly treated Sherlock. The other was lying on his bed, unconscious and several tubes coming in and out of his body. It was an awful sight, but Greg couldn’t not feel sorry for the young man. He had called an ambulance and insisted on coming with him. He had held his hand throughout the whole ride and was doing so now again. The doctors had confirmed his first instinct of a clear overdose. With every other junkie, Greg would have sent them away with the ambulance and wished them luck, but this time was different. Something about that young man, who had introduced himself as Sherlock Holmes, which was a ridiculous name in itself, seemed so utterly fragile and sad. And the way he had stood there, giving them every information they had looked for, for weeks? Like he actually just wanted to help them. ‘You’re a strange man, Sherlock Holmes.’, he had whispered as he still held onto his hand tightly. The longer he looked at him, the more he wanted to protect him, hear more about his brilliant theories, and learn more about who he actually was.

His thoughts had been abruptly interrupted, when the door of the tiny hospital room flew open and another strange man entered the room, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. He was tall, out of breath and looked so disturbingly sublime, Greg hadn’t been sure how to react. On further inspection, as the other stepped closer to the bed, Greg could see the deep lines of worry and sorrow on his face. His hair was slightly dishevelled and dark circles presented under his eyes. Must be a family member or a friend, Greg had thought.

‘Doctor’s said it was a close one, but he’ll make it.’, Greg had offered. The other man’s head turned around as if he only now noticed there was someone with him in the room. The other’s eyes had wandered down to Greg’s hand, which was still holding onto Sherlock’s and then back to the man in question.

‘Thank you, Detective Inspector.’, he had said.

‘And you are?’, Greg asked calmly.

The other turned around again and offered him a hand. ‘Mycroft Holmes. I’m his brother.’

Greg’s lips had curled into a small smile as he had let go of Sherlock’s hand to shake his brother’s. ‘No doubt, with that name.’, Greg had tried to lighten the mood.

Mycroft had looked him up and down and then retreated his hand. ‘Well, at least our parents were a little more creative than to give us mundane names like… Greg.’

Greg had raised a brow and asked: ‘How did you know —‘

‘It was only a matter of time until we’d meet.’, Mycroft had cut him short. ‘And I’m sure it won’t be the last time.’

Coming back down from memory lane, Greg couldn’t help but smile at the thought. “If it hadn’t been such a close call for Sherlock, I’d almost say it’s a very fond memory.”, he said and watched as the corners of Mycroft’s lips also tugged upwards ever so slightly.

“It was a brief moment of carelessness. When I got the info, that he had been hospitalised and they didn’t know if he’d make it… I rushed there without thinking. I always put a lot of emphasis on appearing as if I don’t care but in that moment… you saw me care. And that compromised everything. From that moment on, you had seen me in a way, almost no one ever gets to see me. You didn’t know back then, of course, but I thought it to be a mistake on my behalf.”

“Do you still think it was a mistake?”

“Sometimes. See, when I say caring is not an advantage, I mean it for what it is: a fact. Caring always complicates things, especially for someone like me, who relies on being efficient and not compromised by anything.”

“So you’d rather not care about anyone?”

“That’s not what I said. It often gets misunderstood. I merely said it’s a disadvantage. But essentially, everybody cares about someone or something, so everybody has some sort of disadvantage. There are times, though, when the people I care about… even bring me joy.”

“Even Sherlock?”, Greg said, not without a mischievous grin.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but also let a smile rush over his lips. “Don’t tell him. He’ll be insufferable.”

“As if he’s not insufferable enough. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked me for a case yet.”

“Oh, I’ve already given him one on his flight back. He’ll have enough to do for the upcoming days, I suppose.”

“Days, huh, you really think it’ll last that long?”

Mycroft gave his glass another swirl. A little triumphant grin spread on his lips. “Well, I’ve already solved it in theory, but the legwork will need some time.”

Greg raised an intrigued eyebrow at him. He knew Mycroft was often smarter than Sherlock, but this was news to him, still. “Do you always solve these cases before you hand them to him?”

“Mostly yes, but as I said, only theoretically, I have no solid proof to back my conclusions. And I wouldn’t have the time nor the energy or desire to gather it.”

Greg thought about that for a moment. That’s why Sherlock had oftentimes called him useless. Sherlock probably knew every time, that his brother had already solved the cases he was handed, he was just, in his eyes, too ‘lazy’ to gather evidence. Obviously, that would have pissed him off a little bit. That probably was also one of the ‘resentments’ Sherlock always spoke about.

“Also, it mostly helps him stay off the drugs.”, Mycroft added.

“Mostly, yes. That’s sometimes the only reason I hand him certain cases.”

Mycroft gave him a knowing smile. “Do you really think, I don’t know that? I am well aware you could solve most of your cases without Sherlock. You’ve proven it over the last three years, haven’t you?”

“Well, even if we solve it way faster with him, the paperwork and proper evidence care is rather piling up with him on board.”

That statement elicited a broader grin out of Mycroft. He knew the pain of paperwork regarding his brother far too well.

“I did miss him, though.”, Greg added a little softer.

“I’ll give you two days until you’ll regret saying that.”, Mycroft snorted.

Greg looked at him, a glimmer of hope shining through his eyes. “So, dinner again in two days, you say?”

“I counted on that.”, Mycroft simply replied.

Chapter Text

You can do this Watson, John thought to himself. Just pull yourself together and go up there. John was circling the pavement right outside Baker Street. A place he hadn’t been to in quite some time. Even though he felt sorry that he visited Mrs. Hudson so rarely, he couldn’t bring himself to ever go back to that flat again. Not after the pain he felt, sitting there day after day, waiting for him to return, yet he never came. Now he was back and John wasn’t ready to accept that fact so easily. He clenched his fist several times, cleared his throat and finally opened the door with his spare key he never returned. When he reached the top of the stairs he could hear some mumbling, but it wasn’t Sherlock’s voice. Maybe this was bad timing, but John knew if he didn’t do this now, he probably wouldn’t bring up the courage again. He took another deep breath, quickly knocked on the living room door and opened it without waiting for an answer.

The scene before him wasn’t at all what he was expecting. Sherlock stood in front of one of the windows, while an elderly pair was sitting on the sofa. On his first instinct, he assumed they were clients. Before he could think about the situation any longer, Sherlock pulled him back to the presence.

“John?”, he asked, honestly confused.

“Sorry.”, John answered and cleared his throat again. “Didn’t know you had visitors.”

“Oh, they were just leaving.”, Sherlock waved him off and rushed over to the sofa to pull the woman out of her seat.

The woman gave him a sharp look. “Were we?”, she asked.

“If you’ve got clients, I can come back la-“

“They’re not clients. And they were just about to leave anyway.”

“Sherlock!”, the woman protested.

Finally, her partner got up from the sofa and walked over to John. He stretched out his hand, which John took instinctively.

“You must be John Watson, I assume. Pleasure to meet you.”, the man said. “I’m Siger, this is Violet. We’re Sherlock’s… parents. I’m sure he hasn’t told you about us... ever.”

John furrowed his brows and had to do a double take. “No.”, he finally answered after he stopped shaking the stranger’s hand. “No, he hasn’t.”

“Of course, he hasn’t.”, the woman, apparently called Violet, jumped in on the conversation. “He barely calls, rarely visits, almost feels like we're already dead.”

“Thankfully, you’re not.”, another voice appeared behind John.

When he turned around to see, who it belonged to, Mycroft was smiling at him, almost pleasantly. John wanted to say something. Anything really. He had so many questions, one arising after the other, but the words didn’t come out. All he managed was an irritated “What?”.

“Never thought I’d say those words…”, Sherlock mumbled, “But glad you’re here, brother dear. They’re all yours.”, he finished a bit more enthusiastic.

Violet turned to face him and crossed her arms. “Sherlock, you can’t imagine how happy we are, you’re back. And how happy we are, we all don’t have to pretend anymore, or have people think the worst of you.”

“Mummy, please-”, Sherlock wanted to interrupt her, but she wasn’t having any of it.

“No, you listen to me now. We’re all very happy. But we’re here to see you, not to be babysat by you or your brother. We can do all the sightseeing on our own if it’s such a hassle for you to spend time with us.”

Sherlock’s eyes wandered to a still very confused John and suddenly his heart started racing. He feared the longer this took, the more likely it was, John would leave again. And he knew how hard it would be to get him to talk again. He needed all of them out. Now.

“I’m sorry mummy. I didn’t mean it that way. But I have a lot to sort out right now.”, he tried, giving his mother a very apologetic look.

John was utterly baffled. He couldn’t remember the last time he had heard Sherlock truly apologise to someone else. It seemed to do the trick, though, as his mother gently put her hand on his arm.

“Just give us a call every now and then, that’s all we’re asking for. And we’re here ‘til Saturday. We could have dinner at least? Just once would be nice, after all this time.”

“Fine.”, Sherlock sighed and endured his mother placing a kiss on his cheek.

“I don’t want to interrupt this happy ‘reunion’, but we have to leave now, or we’ll miss it.”, Mycroft chimed in from the other side of the room.

John had already stepped in a little further, just watching this spectacle unfold before him.

“You could still join us.”, Mycroft directed at his brother.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Les Mis? I’ll pass. I have better things to do.”

“Fine, whatever suits you.”, Mycroft replied with a sly smile. He walked over to their mother and helped her put on her coat.

Once accomplished, she turned to Sherlock again, with a stern look. “Remember, Saturday.”

Sherlock casually waved it off, while Mycroft led their mother to the stairs. Mr. Holmes once again turned to John and gave him an unimpressed smile.

“It was nice to meet you.”, he said casually and patted him on the shoulder on his way out.

John looked after him in confusion. “Yeah, right.”

Only when he heard the front door fall shut, he finally turned around to Sherlock, with a frown on his face. “So, that were… your parents?”

“I’m afraid so.”, Sherlock answered.

John took a look around the room, collecting his thoughts. “But they seemed so…”

“What?”, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, ready to defend them.

“Ordinary.”, John simply stated.

“Oh.”, Sherlock sighed. “It’s the cross, I have to bear.”

John stared at him for a long moment and then it hit him. “They knew you were alive, didn’t they?”

Sherlock avoided his gaze and turned to the window, just to see his brother’s car leave the curb.

“I always wondered, you know, if they were still alive since they weren’t at your funeral.”

Sherlock still didn’t turn, while John slowly walked across the room, towards his old chair.

“But then again, Mycroft wasn’t either. So, I thought, maybe it’s a family thing. Maybe they didn’t want people around them, they barely knew, if at all. But no, turns out they weren’t mourning because their son wasn’t fucking dead.”, John all but shouted the last sentence. He then let himself fall into the chair and closed his eyes to calm himself. Anger wasn’t his best companion, but a frequent one throughout his life.

Sherlock finally turned around to look at his former flatmate, sitting where he had always sat. Only now he noticed, that John had shaved off that ridiculous moustache. He frowned. He had only mentioned it to his brother, hadn’t he? Oh, and Mrs. Hudson. But they wouldn’t…

“Why did you shave it off?”, he blurted.

John’s eyes snapped open and he gave Sherlock a puzzled look. “What?”

“That hideous thing.”, he said and pointed towards his own upper lip area.

John continued to look puzzled at him. That was the thing he wanted to talk about now? John considered telling him the truth, but he didn’t think Sherlock deserved that right now, so he opted for what he told Mary this morning: “I was trying something and it didn’t work for me.”

So that was that. Silence fell between them and neither seemed particularly interested in being the first to talk. Sherlock decided then, that it was probably best to do what he usually did. He walked over and sat down in his own chair, across from John. He looked down at his hands and decided to do something he usually didn’t do.

“I’m sorry, John.”, he said and finally looked up at the other, who was still glaring at him. “Truly, I am. I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know what?”, John snapped but in a much quieter tone.

“That my death apparently affected you that much.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No.”

John was speechless. Once again, Sherlock had succeeded at making him believe he was living in a simulation. He knew, Sherlock always had had trouble with reading social situations correctly, but that?

“How could you not know? We lived together for almost two years. We solved crimes together. I wrote a bloody blog about you. If I didn’t care about you or liked you, why would you think I would have stuck with you? You even came to the conclusion I was your friend. Although, it did take you rather long.”

Sherlock gave him an apologetic look but felt an upcoming uneasiness. “I, uhm, didn’t have… a lot of friends before you.”, he answered very quietly. “There wasn’t… anything or anyone I could’ve compared this situation to.”

“You may not be very good with emotions, neither am I, by the way, but you know how they work. And from a logical point of view, you know how friendships work. Do you have the faintest idea, how much pain you’ve put me through? And now you come back, strolling in like nothing happened? And it turns out, my pain was all for nothing because it was a bloody trick and you lied to me?”

“I’m sorry.”, Sherlock tried again, but John cut him short.

“Stop apologising. It doesn’t help. I’m not ready to accept a lousy apology. Not for what you did to me.”

“What am I supposed to say then? What do you want to hear?”

“Why, Sherlock? Why did you do all this?”

“To protect you.”, Sherlock confessed honestly.

“Yeah, right.”, John snorted.

“My death was inevitable, whether I faked it or not. Moriarty knew my pressure points, one of which was you, by the way.”, Sherlock started to explain.

John tried to remember what had happened before the fall. They were battling Moriarty, John had called Sherlock a machine and regretted it, until the moment Sherlock turned up at his door yesterday. He had found Mrs. Hudson unharmed and returned to Bart’s where he got the one phone call that would haunt him for eternity. He could still recite every word they had spoken.

I can’t come down, so we’ll just have to do it like this.

I’m a fake.

Nobody could be that clever. ~ You could.

It was the first time John had heard Sherlock cry. And the last time he had heard him laugh.

Keep your eyes fixed on me.

This phone call… It’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.

Goodbye, John.

The rest was still too painful to think about.

“You tried to convince me, Moriarty was a lie, that you invented him.”, John said to snap himself out of his own thoughts.

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth slightly twitched into a brief smile. “It was my last shot to keep you out of the aftermath. I didn’t want you to be convicted of working with a fraud.”

“How considerate.”, John answered almost amused. “Shame, I didn’t believe you.”

“You didn’t?”, Sherlock frowned, genuinely surprised.

“As I’ve said, we’ve lived together. I may have never understood how that brain of yours works, or how you felt, but I knew you. You never wanted fame, you hated all the events and the press meetings. You were such a bloody menace about it all. Why on earth would you make up an enemy, that only convoluted in giving you more public presence?”

“You did know me.”, Sherlock finally concluded.

John inhaled sharply before continuing. “Look, I don’t know, what happened on that roof. I don’t know, how you did it and I don’t know, what you’ve been up to in the past three years. And honestly, right now… I’m not sure I want to know.”

Sherlock shot him another questioning look. “Is there anything you do want to know?”

“Who knew you were alive?”, John asked after a moment of consideration.

Sherlock hesitatingly took a deep breath and averted his eyes.

“Sherlock…”, John said in a more pressing manner.

“My parents. Mycroft.”

“Obviously. Who else?”

“Anthea.”

“Your brother’s assistant... makes sense. Who else?”

“John I don’t think— “

“Who else?”

“A few people from the homeless network. To help keep me undercover.”

“Great. Well, fair enough. That’s it?”

The dreadful silence and the fact Sherlock still wasn’t looking at him, told John there had to be more.

“Sherlock!”

“Molly.”

“Molly?”, John asked in surprise. “Molly Hooper? Our friend Molly? She knew and I didn’t?”

Eventually, Sherlock turned his head again to look at John. “She wasn’t a target, but she could help me with… with the fake body. She was a safe option.”

“And I wasn’t?”

“You were a target. You were under surveillance after I was gone. If anything would have changed about your behaviour, if anything gave anyone the tiniest hint, you weren’t fully convinced I’m dead, you would have been killed. Some of our friends would have been killed. Maybe I would have actually been killed and Moriarty’s network would still be operating. So yes, it was essential you were actually grieving and behaving like someone, who just lost their friend. And if you had the faintest idea, that I was still alive, you would have changed. Not on purpose but subconsciously. But with everything I deduce or plan or do… there’s always something, I’m missing. I knew it would affect you, I simply couldn’t imagine just how much. But by the way, you’ve behaved so far… I guess I’ve made an unforgivable mistake. Still, I would do it again, if it ensured your survival.”

Once again, John was left speechless. He got up without another word and picked up his coat. With one swift move, he had put it on and turned to Sherlock one more time. The other’s eyes practically pled for him to stay, but no words came out. All the guilt John had bottled up after Sherlock’s death was now convoluted in more and more anger with every second he looked at the other. With every word Sherlock spoke. Especially the apologies. Nothing he had said, had made John feel any better. Forgiveness seemed so far out of reach, that he couldn’t even imagine not being angry at him anytime soon.

John turned around and left.

Chapter Text

“Why was she here?”, Mycroft asked, casually leaning against the door frame. It was way too early for his taste to be standing at his brother's again. His head was still throbbing from all the noise the previous day with his parents had entailed.

“Why was she here?”, Mycroft asked again, with a lot more emphasis.

It was a question, that truly baffled Sherlock. Mycroft never had to ask, why his brother had clients. He never had to ask what his colleagues were doing. But he apparently had to ask, when one of his colleagues became one of his brother’s clients.

“What’s it to you? Don’t you have intel on everything your people do, anyway?”, Sherlock snorted.

Mycroft’s face got more annoyed, the longer he had to dig for an answer. Not knowing things, he clearly needed to know, was one of his more obvious trigger points.

“Lady Smallwood left her office at half past seven last night. Not twenty minutes later, her car pulls up here. She stays for 34 minutes and then leaves again. She’s your client now. My question is, what for? What’s her case and why did she come to you?”

“That’s three questions, brother mine.”, Sherlock just smiled at him and let himself fall into his chair, while Mycroft kept standing in the kitchen door frame. “And besides, why should I tell you? Isn’t there something called client confidentiality?”

“Yes, because you’ve been confidentially sharing your findings with the whole world so far, doesn’t seem like you’re taking confidentiality seriously. And besides… I only need to know, if it’s a matter of national or international security. Alicia… Lady Smallwood, is one of our better people, but she’s… let’s say there are things, she could be blackmailed with easily. And she knows too much for that to happen.”

“Then I guess it’s your lucky day.”, Sherlock replied, still with a grin on his lips.

“Why?”

“Because she’s being blackmailed.”

“Oh for god's sake, Sherlock!”, Mycroft exclaimed and had to close his eyes for a second. “If you knew that, why didn’t you come to me?” He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled dramatically, as he looked back at his brother.

“Why would I? She came to me as a client, not as your liaison.”

“Who is blackmailing her?”, Mycroft asked in a more pressing matter, ignoring his brother’s provocative remark.

Sherlock took a deep breath. Usually, he would have loved to drag this on for longer, seeing his brother in the unknown was far too entertaining, but he had more important things to handle today. Instead, he jumped out of his chair and went for his coat. “I’m getting myself a girlfriend today.”, he pronounced cheerily.

Mycroft stared at him unimpressed. Years of dealing with his brother’s shenanigans did that. He merely rolled his eyes and asked: “Girlfriend? Really? And who’s going to believe that?”

Sherlock turned around as he swung on his coat. “Oh, I’m sorry Magnussen doesn’t have a male PA.”

Mycroft froze upon hearing the name, Sherlock had purposefully thrown at him. “Charles Augustus Magnussen?”, he asked with a last shimmer of hope. For it not to be true.

“Yep.”, Sherlock answered and popped his lips at the end.

Mycroft’s eyes darkened as he stepped closer to his brother. “Magnussen is not your business.”, he pressed with gritted teeth.

“Oh, you mean he’s yours?”, Sherlock asked, matching his brother's stance.

“You may consider him under my protection.”, Mycroft replied with a sharp tone.

“I consider you under his thumb.”, Sherlock retorted and was about to turn around again.

But Mycroft’s reflexes were quick and he grabbed his brother’s wrist, to hold him in place.

“If you go against Magnussen, then you will find yourself going against me.”

It wasn’t in Sherlock’s interest to meddle with government business. It wasn’t in his interest to go against his brother and Mycroft knew that. But it was in his interest to help a client, once he had taken their case. And he had promised to solve this one. Mycroft was usually not particularly interested in any of his cases, except they were valuable to him. That he would be interested in his coworker’s business, was to be expected, but his hostility regarding Magnussen woke Sherlock’s curiosity.

“What’s he got on you then?”, he asked with narrowed eyes.

“Nothing.”, Mycroft said with emphasis. “He’s merely a necessary evil and certainly not a dragon for you to slay.”

“A Dragon Slayer? Is that how you see me?”, Sherlock asked almost amused.

“It’s how you see yourself, brother mine. Think of what you did last time. You may have defeated Moriarty, but it almost cost you your life… and in a way, it really did. Magnussen is going to cost you a lot more than that.”

“I’m not an idiot.”, Sherlock said and tried to free himself of his brother’s grip, with no success.

“Debatable, but go on.”

“I did my research, I know how he works. Buying secrets, finding pressure points, storing everything and when the right time comes… boom, blackmail. He’s almost untouchable, even by you, as it seems. Makes me wonder again… what’s he got on you?”

Mycroft let go of his brother’s arm and narrowed his eyes. “I warned you, brother mine.”

“So you do have a pressure point then.”, Sherlock deduced satisfied.

“Don’t be naive, Sherlock. Everyone’s got a pressure point. Some are just harder to find.”

“Even you?”

“Even you.”, Mycroft snapped. “And don’t think for one second, he’s not going to use it against you.”

Mycroft had warned him. That’s all he could do. He turned away from his brother and walked towards the door. Before he descended the stairs, though, he turned around once more, to leave one last message. One last cry for Sherlock to listen to him: “I’ve done everything to save your life, to keep you alive, to protect you… why are you so adamant about throwing it away over and over again? Why can’t you understand that… I… can’t… lose you.”

Both brothers held each other’s gaze for a moment. When Mycroft saw Sherlock’s brows furrow in confusion, he knew at least his message was received and made his way downstairs. Whether his message was also understood, he wouldn’t know. But he hoped… he always hoped.

It was havoc at the Yard when Greg turned up that morning. Everyone seemed to be in a rush about something. Too many cases, too many complaints, too little personnel and no bloody time for anything.

Greg took his time. He hung up his coat, put down his bag and went to the coffee machine, as he did every morning. Ever since he started this new trick of not caring about other people’s business — meaning not trying to help out everyone, while no one thanks him or gives a shit — he had the quietest mornings. He didn’t even hear the angry phone calls, or the colleagues shouting abuse at the copy machine around him anymore. It was almost blissful. Well, the crime never stopped and the bad people seemed to be on the rise, but he could only tackle one case at a time. Without Sherlock’s help in the past years, he still managed to solve almost every case with his team, he just wasn’t as quick as before. But a quick fix had never beaten good old detective work. At least that’s what he told himself.

When he returned to his desk, he pulled out his phone. And for the first time in ages, he opened a certain chat with a smile on his lips.

How was Les Mis?

Agonising, as expected.

Did your parents like it at least?

Thankfully, yes. Although, I’m not sure I should be thankful.

I suppose they’d want me to take them to more musicals.

You’re not one for musicals then?

I like concerts and I like theatre.

They didn’t need to combine two separate things, that were perfectly fine on their own.

Don’t tell me you like musicals.

Not particularly, but I guess I just never had an opinion on them.

Good to know though, I’ll never take you to a musical then.

God, please don’t.

Did you consider to?

No, don’t worry. I did consider inviting you for dinner, though.

I still owe you some, I remember.

Yes, you do. I never said you had to be the initiator, though.

I’d like you to come to my place this time. Seems only fair, don’t you think?

When?

Tonight, as promised? If you’re free?

I have a meeting at six thirty. Could be at your’s at eight, if that’s not too late.

Works fine for me.

Good, I’ll be there then.

Good. See you then.

“Who’s got you in that cheery mood today?”, Sally asked, not without a grin, as she entered Greg’s office.

“What?”, he replied, just as he put his phone away. “Oh, no one. Just… an old friend.”

Sally lifted her brows. “An old friend? You looked like you planned a date, which would be more than overdue, by the way.”

“Oh, fuck off Sal. You’re not the right person to give me dating advice, or do I need to remind you of the Anderson fiasco?”, Greg shot back.

“Oh come on, that was, what? Five years ago? I’m way past that. Also, I didn’t mean it as an insult. I’d be happy for you.”

“I don’t have a date. It’s just dinner with an old friend.”

“With ‘an old friend’ you don’t mean your ex, do you? Because I’m not here for that atrocity again.”

“Good god, no. If I ever start talking to her again, please get me admitted to the psych ward.”

“Gladly.”, she agreed with a grin. “Old friend… you’re not having dinner with Sherlock—“

“No, I don’t think he’s the dinner kind of friend. He barely eats anything, when he’s ‘working’. And no, not John either, he’s more the pub mate.”

“Jerry?”

“Who the hell is Jerry?”

“The guy from IT. You seemed like you knew each other, the other day.”

“He explained something technical, I didn’t understand and I just tried to make friendly conversation. I think his name’s Terry, by the way.”

“Well, you don’t have a whole lot of friends. Someone from uni? Or school?”

“This job comes with sacrifices, not having a lot of friends is one of them. Not that I’m the most social guy. But no, it’s not someone I know from before I started working here.”

“So it’s someone—“

“Why does it matter so much to you anyway?”

“Because I haven’t seen you smile like that in like… forever. I’m just curious. Comes with the job, I guess.”

“Well, stop guessing and start working. Where were we with the Jefferson case?”

Chapter Text

Two weeks. It had been two weeks since he had come back from the dead. Two weeks and little progress. Not with the Magnussen case, not with mending things, not with getting his life back. Sherlock was frustrated and that never led to anything good.

So far, he had gotten himself a ‘girlfriend’. Janine was her name and as he had already told his brother, she was Magnussen’s personal assistant. She was nice and apparently easily ‘wooed’ by his nonexistent charm. Sherlock did really not have a single clue, on why people were so crazy about him. John had tried to explain it to him once, but he had lost interest too quickly.

Magnussen had to know about their relationship, that much was clear. He hadn’t reacted so far, which was what made Sherlock a little impatient. Yes, he was the CEO of his own media firm ‘CAM Global’, which seemed very unimaginative, and yes, he had probably better things to do, than to care about his PA’s love life, but Sherlock knew he was the perfect bait for him. He assumed Magnussen couldn’t resist another potential blackmail victim. And especially not one with such value.

Janine, on the other hand, was completely clueless, she only served Sherlock’s purpose of luring Magnussen out. She was genuinely interested in Sherlock and acting like his actual girlfriend, which was exactly what he tried to achieve, yet he was still caught off guard sometimes when she randomly appeared in his flat. And he knew, he was slowly running out of time, because there were only so many excuses he could find for not having to sleep with her. Not that she wasn’t a generally attractive woman, and Sherlock was sure there were lots of men who would beg to be in his position, but nothing had changed here: Girlfriends were still not his area.

Also, relationships and mending them were exhausting. There was one relationship in particular, he had still not been able to repair, yet. John Watson was an impossible man. Sherlock had sacrificed himself, he had come back, he had apologised, over and over again, for two weeks now, and yet… he had not been forgiven. He had kept in contact, mostly with Mary, since she tried to give John a little push here and there, but only with little to no success. And Sherlock, slowly but surely, ran out of ideas. He had called, he had texted, he had even written John a letter. He still didn’t know, if he had read it and Mary couldn’t tell either. He had gone to their house again, announced and unannounced, but John wouldn’t speak to him either way.

It were only two weeks, but they felt longer than the past three years. Having John in close proximity, knowing he chose to not speak to him, was harder than being far away and not being able to talk to him. Sherlock was slowly running out of ideas and more importantly out of patience, especially since he had to be patient on two cases: Magnussen and John.

So, it was more than surprising that not a moment after he had finished the thought of going to visit John again, Mary was standing on his landing. Sherlock inspected her: Out of breath, scared, confused… looking for help?

“What’s wrong?”, Sherlock asked as he got out of his seat.

“Someone sent me this.” Mary frantically tried to catch her breath and pulled out her phone, to show him something. “At first, I thought it was a bible thing, you know, spam, but it’s not. It’s a skip code.”

While Mary pulled up the text, to show him the source of her worries, Sherlock eyed her very carefully. Not many people were able to spot a skip code, and from the time stamp of the message, she had done it relatively fast as well. Another thing, he added to his list of strange things about Mary Watson. He then lowered his eyes to read the text on the display.

Save souls Now!

John or James Watson?

Saint or Sinner?

James or John?

The more is Less?

Upon deciphering the code, panic rose in Sherlock as well. He instantly dropped everything and put on his coat.

“Where are we going?”, Mary asked on her way to follow him.

“St. James the Less, it’s a church.”, he shouted as he practically jumped down the stairs.

Coming to a halt on the pavement, Sherlock ordered Mary to hand over her car keys and not a minute later they were already speeding across the city.

“What are they doing to him? Why is he a target?”, Mary asked.

“I don’t know. Did something unusual or unexpected happen these days? Something at work maybe? Or did you meet new people?”

“No, not that I could think of anything. Not that he has mentioned anything. John’s not very… communicative right now.”

“He’s not talking to you either?”

“Well, he’s talking to me, just not… he’s different, ever since you…”

“Sorry. Again. If I had known-“

“Do you think that has anything to do with this? Maybe someone from your past? Your shared past?”

“Not that I could think of.”

Sherlock looked around and took every shortcut he could find. Not to mention that speed limits didn’t exist in this situation anymore. During the more than uncomfortable ride, a few other, more direct texts, arrived at Mary’s phone and she read them to Sherlock. It was some sort of a countdown, so time was clearly working against them. In hindsight, a motorcycle would have been way faster and more convenient. But there was no time to think about what-ifs.

A few minutes later, they finally arrived at the destination Sherlock had deduced earlier. A large group of people had gathered around a big pile of wood and rubbish, which seemed to be a bonfire. In the middle on top, there was some sort of scarecrow, Sherlock thought. He parked the car abruptly as Mary read out the last text: “What a shame Mr. Holmes. John is quite a Guy! What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock ripped open his door and started running. Mary followed suit and upon running closer to the group of people, she could finally see it, too. The big bonfire, the texts about running out of time and things getting warmer and hotter. And eventually: Bloody Guy Fawkes.

They both pushed people out of their way left and right, as they made their way to the centre and just as they arrived, they saw the bonfire being lit. Not a second later, distorted cries for help seemed to come from within the big pile of burning wood.

More panic rose in Sherlock, as well as Mary, but it was quickly converted to adrenaline. As fast as they could, they tried to pull away as much wooden stuff as possible and after what felt like an eternity, still hearing those awful cries, they finally saw a glimpse of John’s body. With a few more pushes Sherlock was finally able to grab John’s legs and quickly but carefully tried to pull him out of what was supposed to be his certain death. It was some hassle and Mary had to make some more space here and there, but eventually, they did it. They had saved John. Frantically they turned him on his back and tried to check for any injuries.

“He seems to be sort of paralysed.”, Mary realised. “A few scratches, here and there, but otherwise okay, I think.”

“We should get him out of here as fast as possible.”, Sherlock stated and nodded towards the direction they had come from. Mary helped Sherlock put John over his shoulder, which Sherlock estimated to be the best way to transport him back to the car.

When John woke, his whole body ached and his mouth was as dry as the desert. He opened his eyes and had to blink a few times to adjust his vision. Without moving any further, he tried to determine where he was and what had happened. He remembered being somewhere dark, and he couldn’t move and suddenly it had felt incredibly hot. Then he had been jostled and then everything went dark again. He quickly realised, he was now lying on a sofa, but not any sofa, no, it had to be Sherlock’s, of course. Slowly he turned his head and saw a strange scene before him. It was dark outside, the only light source in the room came from the fireplace and the headlights in the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting in his chair and Mary opposite him in what used to be John’s chair. They were talking, obviously trying to keep it quiet, for his sake. But that’s not what irritated him. What completely threw him off, was the woman sitting on Sherlock’s lap. Not ‘The Woman’, thank god, but it wasn’t a stranger as well. On closer inspection, he realised, it was one of Mary’s friends. She was at their wedding too, possibly a bridesmaid even. But what the bloody fucking hell, was she doing, sitting on Sherlock Holmes’ lap? Was this a dream? Or did he have a stroke? Or maybe he died and this was his eternal hell? Before he could drift off any further, his awakening was noticed and Mary rushed over to his side.

“Oh god John, is everything alright? Are you hurt?”, she cooed over him.

John tried to speak up, but no words came out. He slowly pulled himself into a sitting position and gesticulated that he needed something to drink. Mary had been prepared and handed him a glass of water and some painkillers from the coffee table. John thankfully took both and emptied the glass in one big gulp.

“Better?”, Mary asked and sat down beside him.

“Better.”, he answered with a still coarse voice. “What happened?”, he asked confused. “And what the hell is happening over there?”, he asked even more confused, pointing towards the other two people in the room, who seemed to be making out like there was no tomorrow.

“Well…”, Mary started and explained what had happened up until the point, they had laid John down on the sofa. “Then we decided it was best to let you rest. We sat down and talked for a bit and suddenly Janine entered. She was just coming from work and ‘wanted to see her boyfriend’. Can you imagine? Did you know they were together?”

John stared at his wife for a good thirty seconds, blinking like an idiot. “Sorry, I must’ve misheard. I thought you said, Sherlock Holmes was someone’s ‘boyfriend’.”

“No, honey, I’m afraid that’s exactly what I said.”

John turned his head again and watched Sherlock and Janine still kiss like some lovesick teenagers.

“Mary… I’m not sure what the hell is going on. And I’m not sure what’s worse: Being drugged, kidnapped and almost burned to death or watching this.”, he answered with a lot of disgust in his last words.

“I know. I was surprised, too.”, Mary answered truthfully. “You always said, he wasn’t the kind of guy for relationships. And then with someone we know? Isn’t that strange?”

“Did he pick her on purpose? Because we know her? Is this some sort of trick again? To get my attention? Because if it is, I swear— “

“It’s not, I promise. I checked and they both seemed very clueless. Sherlock didn’t know, we know Janine, she hadn’t told him yet. She knows you were friends with him, before… but since he didn’t talk about you, she thought you fell out of contact. She also told me, that she tried to ask him once or twice about you, but he seemed very sad and then she never tried again.”

John closed his eyes, took a deep breath and rubbed his temples. Mary laid her hand on his back and gently started stroking it up and down.

“I know this is a lot, but we’re still trying to figure out what happened to you and why. And especially who was behind this attack. Do you think you can manage that or would you rather go home?”, she asked as calmly as she could, knowing full well, that staying here, could go either way. John was easy to lose his temper these days.

John hesitated but made his point clear. “I need her gone.”

“I don’t know, if— “

“I don’t care, what they are. I like her, she’s your friend and she’s not the issue here, but I need her gone.”

“I don’t think she’ll leave on her own.”

“Then take her somewhere, make up an excuse, I don’t know, but I can’t do this with her here.”

“Okay. I’ll try.”, Mary agreed and walked over to the fireplace.

She had indeed made up an excuse, how she hadn’t spoken to Janine in so long, and how she wanted to catch up a bit and ‘leave the boys’ to catch up a bit on their own. It had worked instantly. Janine wasn’t an idiot, she knew there was more going on, John could tell. But she was an easygoing person, giving people their space when needed. She was also a very romantic person. Or at least that’s what John told himself when he had the urge to jump out the window, as Janine left with Mary with the words ‘See you later Sherly baby!’.

Now it was only the two of them. John and Sherlock. In their respective chairs. Staring at each other.

“So?”, John broke the silence eventually.

“So?”, Sherlock asked a little unsure, of where this was going.

“Fuck, Sherlock, don’t make this harder than it already is. Why the fuck was I abducted and almost killed and why the fuck do you have a girlfriend?”

“One: I don’t know… yet. Two: Possibly the same reason you have gotten yourself a wife.”

“Bullshit!”, John all but yelled, and instantly regretted his increased voice, as a piercing pain zipped through his head.

“I really don’t know why you were targeted and I really don’t know who is behind this. I wish I did, but I don’t. As for Janine… you’re right. Why do you think I keep her around?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, don’t tell me you’ve gotten yourself a girlfriend for a case?”

Sherlock’s missing reply told John all he needed to know.

“You can’t play with people’s feelings like that, Sherlock.”

“It’s for the greater good, trust me.”

“Oh, I’ve had enough of your bullshit. I don’t trust you and you know why? Because you’ve played with my feelings. And do you know how that feels? Fucking shitty.”

“I didn’t mean to— “

“You never mean to Sherlock! But you still do it! That’s the fucking point. You talk about seeing the greater picture, about seeing but not observing. Maybe it would help you and everyone around you if you started to try and fucking observe your own surroundings for once. You’re hurting people left and right and then you apologise and say you didn’t mean to hurt them. But did it ever occur to you that there are other ways to deal with situations than to hurt people and apologise afterwards? I’m fucking tired of hearing apology after apology, knowing it will always be the same over and over again. I’m fucking tired of getting hurt. I’ve made my peace, you know? And I’ve had a somewhat content life for a couple of years. You’ve been back for two weeks and I’m getting targeted again? And now you can’t tell me what’s going on and instead throw yourself in a fake relationship, knowing full well that it’s going nowhere and all she’ll hear is a lousy apology too? Is that really it? Because I’m not here for that. I’m done. I’m out. I just want some peace and quiet.”

John had talked himself in a rage so much, that he didn’t notice Sherlock had gone extremely quiet. Sherlock had lowered his head and only when John was finished with his monologue and Sherlock got up, to excuse himself, did he see his watery eyes. And the worst part was, John still couldn’t tell if those were real tears, or if he was being manipulated again.

Chapter Text

One week later

“You have got to be kidding me.”, Mycroft murmured to himself, as he read an incoming text.

Anthea popped her head up from her desk. “What’s wrong? Did the meeting with the PM get postponed again?”

“No.”, Mycroft answered with a sigh. “It’s my brother. He’s being… irrational, once again.”

“What did he do now? Do you need me to pull up CCTV?”

“I think it’s too late to do anything, really. Gears have been set in motion, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t tell me…”, Anthea replied. She closed her laptop and turned her attention towards her boss.

Mycroft simply nodded and got up from his seat. “Yes. He’s still pushing Magnussen. I was just informed, that my beloved brother bought a very expensive diamond ring.”

Two days ago they had joked about this. How far Sherlock would go with his ‘girlfriend’ just to lure out Magnussen. Anthea had mindlessly thrown in the idea of getting engaged. Neither of them thought it would actually come to that. Now Mycroft had gotten a notification about a purchase on his credit card, which told him exactly how far his brother would go.

“How do you want to approach this then?”, Anthea asked.

Mycroft pondered for a moment and then pulled out his phone again. “I’m going to warn him one last time and then the both of us are going to see the Prime Minister before he really changes his mind again.”, he said and started typing.

Anthea inhaled sharply and started packing her bag. She knew neither of those things were going to end well, yet dealing with the Prime Minister seemed a little easier than dealing with a professional blackmailer and an insufferable consulting detective.

Putting on her blazer, she once again asked herself, how exactly this ended up being her ‘dream job’. She could’ve done well within any other department. But it wasn’t for the paycheck. She had been particularly chosen by Mycroft Holmes, to be his personal assistant. How could’ve she had said no to that? At the time, she hadn’t known what she got herself into, but at least she couldn’t complain about boredom or repetitiveness. It was a new challenge each and every day.

Most people saw her as a regular assistant first: Getting her boss coffee, planning his schedule, and answering his mail. But it was so much more than that. Once you’ve gained the trust of one of the most powerful men in the country, you were not only treated with equal respect, but you became an irreplaceable resource yourself. Mycroft constantly made sure of that.

“You coming?”, he asked, eventually, waiting for her at the door. “We don’t have all day and I sure as hell won’t deal with the lot on my own. You’re going to be in there with me.”

“Don’t worry.” Anthea lifted her head and gave him a mischievous grin. “If we’ll go down, we’ll go down together.”

Sherlock had just arrived back home from his shopping trip and had just hung up his coat when he heard the front door fall shut. Mrs. Hudson had been out of town since yesterday and his brother had just sent him a text. He didn’t expect anyone and clients usually rang the doorbell. Curious, he opened the living room door and found an unexpected visitor running up his stairs.

“John?”, he greeted him in utter confusion. “What are you doing here?”

John had avoided each and all contact since the incident with the bonfire.

“I’m sorry.”, the other said a little out of breath. “I know our last meeting ended on an unfriendly note, but I might need your help.” He took the last steps and came to a halt in front of Sherlock. “Did you by any chance talk to Mary? Today or yesterday?”

Sherlock mustered him carefully. Genuine worry. Little to no sleep. In need of a shave. He shook his head lightly. “No. Why?”

“Fuck.”, John said and pulled some letters out of his jacket. He had been up and about for hours now, running around London, calling friends and colleagues. But his last hope resided within Baker Street. Like the good old days. But neither did he feel good, nor was there much left of a day. “Look, I know this is unprompted and I know we’ve not been-“

“John, I don’t care if you hate me right now, just tell me what’s going on, so I can help.”, Sherlock tried to focus on the main task.

John looked at him for a moment and then put his, more than chaotic, emotions back in the drawer, they came out of. “Okay. We’ve gone to bed as usual last night. When I woke up this morning, Mary had already left for work, like every Tuesday. I took care of Rosie, brought her to daycare and then made my way to work as well. So far, so normal. But when I arrived, Mary wasn’t there. Apparently, she had taken a day off. Not only did I look like an utter idiot to my colleagues, when they realised I didn’t know where my wife was, but I also genuinely don’t know where my wife is.”

The concern in John’s voice already told Sherlock the answer to his next question, but he asked anyway, just to make sure. “I assume you called her? Or looked if she had plans?”

John gave him an annoyed look but continued quickly. “I may be an idiot, but I’m not stupid. Of course, I called, but it went straight to voice mail. I checked her calendar and I checked her work schedule. Nothing. I’m also not the dramatic kind of guy, so I thought she might just not want me to know what she was up to. It’s not like her, but I didn’t want to panic.”

“But you did panic, eventually.”, Sherlock deduced.

“Of course I bloody did.”, John all but shouted. “I’ve been trying to work for a few hours, calling her between every appointment, but she still didn’t answer. And with me being kidnapped the other day, I just…”

“I see.”, Sherlock answered. As he started thinking, his eyes landed on the letters, still in John’s hand. “What’s this?”, he asked interested.

“It’s yesterday’s and today’s mail. I thought I’d check that too, just in case, but I can’t make anything of it. It’s mostly bills and spam, but one letter stuck out…”, John said and searched through the pile. “Here. I don’t know anyone by that name and I found it weird they were mentioning our daughter.” He handed Sherlock his findings.

Sherlock opened the envelope and took out a card. It was a ‘Wishing you well’ card, without any further occasion. He turned it around and read it’s content:

My dearest Mary,

I hope all is well with you and your happy little family.

We haven’t seen each other in so long. Time to change that, don’t you think?

Give my love to Rosamund.

xx CAM

“It’s odd, innit?”, John said.

Sherlock read it again and suddenly, his eyes focused on the last three letters. CAM. Charles Augustus Magnussen.

“The fish took the bait.”, he suddenly yelled in euphoria. “Just not the one I threw out.”, he added a little calmer.

“What?”, John answered even more confused than before.

Sherlock handed him back the card and took his coat back from the hanger. “I might know where your wife is. Or at least, who is trying to get her. And you might not want to hear this, but it also coincides with my case.”

“Sherlock— “

“John, listen. I know you don’t trust me, you have all reason not to. I know you hate me — again, all reason to. I have made a lot of mistakes, but if you know me, you know, I would never make the same mistake twice. Do you really think, I’d try to hurt you more by letting your wife get kidnapped for my case?”

John stared at him, mouth agape. “That’s… not even what I was thinking.” It genuinely wasn’t. He had expected a lot, but not this. John only now realised, how long he hadn’t seen Sherlock ‘in action’.

“Oh. What were you thinking?”, Sherlock asked, equally surprised by the answer.

John sighed heavily. “I hate what I’m about to say, but… tell me about this case of yours.”

“Are you here by car?”, Sherlock asked instead of answering and slung on his coat as he started descending the stairs.

“Yes, why?”

“I’ll tell you on the way.”

“The way to where?”, John asked as he followed him downstairs.

“CAM!”

“So the meeting ended in your favour then?”, Greg asked, as he let himself fall on Mycroft’s sofa.

It had been another dinner. After their first one, almost four weeks ago now, there had been quite a few of these. Always in the quiet solitude in one of their homes. Cosy, undisturbed, just the two of them, eating and talking. They hadn’t gone out, like they used to before, not once. It’s not that they particularly agreed on that, but after the first one, they just kept inviting each other over and over again. And with each dinner, a little bit of their fragile friendship had been rebuilt, piece by piece, bit by bit. And if they were quite honest with each other, it even began to grow stronger than before. They had started to talk about things outside of their comfort zone. No work, no cases, no Sherlock. Simply learning new things about each other, like their vastly different taste in music or their favourite travel destinations. Easy conversations, completely cut off from the rest of the world. And every time these dinners had lasted longer. Every time it became harder to end them and to leave the other again. Turning back to a world full of other people.

This time Mycroft had cooked again and was now just putting away the dishes. This time they were talking about work because Mycroft had seemed stressed about it and Greg had noticed.

“Surprisingly yes.”, Mycroft answered, when he returned from the kitchen. “Seems like there is still some hope left in that regard.” He walked over to the fireplace and put another log in. Then he went to his crystal decanter and poured two glasses.

“And what about your brother? Is there also still hope left?”, Greg asked amused and took the glass that was handed to him.

Mycroft sat down beside him and took a large sip. “Hope is the only thing stronger than fear. I worry about him, constantly. Hoping, that he’ll take care of himself, is the only thing keeping me from crumbling with the fear of losing him.”

Greg gently put his hand on Mycroft’s arm and gave it a light squeeze. “I know he can be a handful. I saved his arse about a dozen times, too. Got me into a lot of trouble actually.”

Mycroft had been surprised by the touch, but it was more than welcome.

“My apologies.”, he said with an apologetic grin, trying to keep the mood light.

But Greg knew him better, than not to see, he was deeply worried. He took a sip from his own drink and then put the glass down on the coffee table. He turned himself around a little, to better face Mycroft. “It’s not your fault, he’s like that. I know you keep telling yourself that, but it’s not true. And I know he likes danger and gets himself in all kinds of situations. But not even jumping off a roof killed him in the end, did it?”

Mycroft knew Greg was trying to cheer him up with the last bit, teasing him. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that this time, he couldn’t save his little brother. “I’ve warned him. Twice.”, he replied. “Usually once is enough. But this time, he found himself an opponent, not even I could bring down. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“Tell me again, what’s this guy's deal?”

“He’s a businessman, a very intelligent one. Remarkable at getting everything he wants, with little effort. He’s got an eidetic memory, exceeding even Sherlock’s or mine. Once he knows your weakness, he’ll never forget. So, you’ll stay out of his way or otherwise, you’ll be his next target.”

“And he knows Sherlock’s your weak spot?”

Mycroft wasn’t surprised Greg came to that conclusion. He was a smart detective after all. But, truth be told, Greg had known Mycroft’s biggest pressure point right from the start.

“Yes, but I don’t know if Sherlock has realised that. Because as of right now, he’s running towards misery, head first.”

“Is there anything I can do, to help?”, Greg asked and gave another squeeze to Mycroft’s arm.

Mycroft hesitated and bit his lip. “Can you make it stop?”, he eventually asked.

“Your brother? I don’t think-“, Greg began.

“No.”, Mycroft interrupted him. “The caring. Can you make it stop?”

Greg inhaled sharply as he watched Mycroft closely. His heart skipped a beat. He looked at those pleading eyes and instantly knew the feeling all too well.

“If I knew how to stop caring about someone… well, I wouldn’t sit here.”

Mycroft instantly averted his gaze. “Sorry.”, he said almost inaudible.

“Stop apologising.”, Greg countered. “I’m okay. I like sitting here, you know?”

“But you could’ve done so much better. Your life could be so much easier.”, Mycroft started rambling. “If you didn’t know Sherlock… or… me.”

“Easier, maybe. But better? You really think so?”

“Yes.”, Mycroft answered truthfully.

“Well, then let me paint you a picture. If it wasn’t for Sherlock, my job would just be the same over and over again. He actually taught me to think differently. I was always trying to think out of the box, but Sherlock’s perspectives were challenging, pushing me further every time. He’s made me a better detective, without knowing it. And I learned to be patient. Very patient. Also, if he hadn’t been so blunt with me, I’d probably still be trying to save my godforsaken marriage.”

He stopped for a moment, choosing his next word very carefully.

“And if it wasn’t for you, I probably wouldn’t know how to handle your brother half the time. I wouldn’t have someone to talk to every once in a while. Genuinely talk to. If it wasn’t for you, I probably wouldn’t have gotten over my divorce, or maybe I’d still be desperately trying to date. So, no. I don’t think my life would be better. Why do you think the last three years have been so goddamn hard for me?”

Mycroft had turned his head again, staring at him, obviously thinking hard. Then he narrowed his eyes in confusion. “How?”, he asked.

“What?“, Greg replied dumbfounded.

“I mean… how did I help you get over your divorce?”

Greg swallowed audibly. On second thought, maybe he wasn’t that great of a detective after all.

Chapter Text

“Sherlock, for the love of god…”, John yelled in between rapid breaths. “What exactly are we doing here again?”

Since they had exited his car, he was technically running behind Sherlock, who seemed to just take very large strides. Damn these short legs, and damn those long elegant legs of his, John thought.

“I already told you.”, Sherlock replied over his shoulder. “This is Magnussen’s business, and up top is his office. He’s in town tonight, and since he hasn’t been spotted outside yet, he’s most likely here.”

“And you want to just march in there? Have a little chat with someone, who’s blackmailing a government official and possibly kidnapped my wife?”

“Don’t be obtuse… No wait, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

John stopped momentarily, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Calm down, Watson. It’s not worth berating him, he’s not going to listen anyway. When he opened his eyes again, Sherlock was almost at the end of the hall, so he started running again. Sherlock had come to a halt in front of a lift.

“So, how exactly… are you going to…”, he started out of breath, but almost choked on his own words, when he saw the answer. He could do nothing but stare in shock as the scene before him unfolded, almost like in slow motion.

Sherlock had pulled out a tiny box from his coat pocket. Then Janine’s surprised voice rang from the intercom. Only pieces of the words spoken reached John’s consciousness, too loud was the sound of blood rushing through his head.

…I can’t let you in…

…Don’t make me do it out here…

Then he saw Sherlock do the unspeakable. He would have never imagined the day would come, when he’d witness Sherlock Holmes proposing, of all people. To a woman. Over intercom. To break into an office. Well, the last part checked out. That was actually the only part that seemed like Sherlock. And it was the only reason, he was able to come back to his senses.

When he was dragged into the lift, his words also resurfaced. “Did you really just do that? Propose to her just to get into that office?”

“Of course, I did.”, Sherlock answered, as if it was something, he would casually do every other day.

“But she loves you, you know that, right?”, John tried to desperately make Sherlock understand the upcoming consequences.

“That’s the point, though. Human error. It’s the only way we are able to use this lift. The key card I nicked yesterday only got us this far. This entrance can only be used by Magnussen himself, his PA or his personal security. Hence why I needed Janine.”

John stared at him. He came to the conclusion, that despite everything, Sherlock hadn’t changed at all.

“I get your logic, all right. I’ve always tried to understand why you do things, the way you do them. I still don’t understand how you could do that. What are you going to tell her?”

“The truth?”, Sherlock asked confused.

“She’ll be crushed.”

“That’s sort of the point. John, I’m not actually planning on marrying her, there’s only so far you can go.”

“Sherlock!”, John exclaimed in an oncoming storm of rage. “That’s exactly what I was so mad about the other night. How could you do that again?” He tried to calm himself before he continued. “And to her? She’s so sweet and kind and really not deserving any of your selfishness.”

“John, I-“

“No, just… shut it. Let’s get this over with. I just want to know if my wife’s here and then I’m out again.”

When silence fell between them, John came to another conclusion. Sherlock still wasn’t self-aware at all. Earlier, he had told him, that he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. And yet, he was standing in front of him, doing what he could do best: Hurt the people, who love him, completely oblivious of the consequences.

A few moments later, they finally reached the top floor. They stepped outside, Sherlock being ready to play the lovesick fiancé, but all they found was an empty entrance office. On further inspection, John found Janine unconscious behind her desk.

“Did she faint?”, Sherlock asked on his way to John’s side. “Do they really do that?”

John examined her briefly and found some traces of blood. “Probably a blow to the head.”

Sherlock immediately wandered around, looking for the possible intruder. “Here’s another one.”, he said, as he stumbled upon another unconscious person. “Security.”

“Do they need help?”, John asked, still tending to Janine.

Sherlock scanned the man’s body superficially and found some intriguing tattoos. “Ex-con. White supremacist, so who cares. Stick with Janine.”, he ordered John. Then he continued to search the office. Magnussen had to be somewhere after all. After checking the whole area, Sherlock declared the bottom floor as empty, so he had to be in his upstairs penthouse.

“Whoever did this, they must be here, still.”, John whispered from across the room.

Sherlock tried to focus his senses and caught a whiff of perfume. It was clearly not Janine’s, but why did he remember it from somewhere?

“Claire-de-la-lune.”, he offered in John’s direction.

The latter narrowed his eyes. “Mary wears it.”

“Could support the kidnapping theory.”

Without further hesitation, he started climbing the stairs, as quietly as possible, while John remained with Janine. Carefully, he sneaked around every corner, not to raise any attention, until he faintly heard a male voice, possibly Magnussen, coming from one of the rooms on the far end. Slowly he crept further, trying to catch glimpses of the conversation and abruptly came to a halt when he heard another voice. A female one. A familiar female one.

“Tell me one reason, not to end this right away.”, she said.

“Think about your husband.”, Magnussen whimpered. “What will he think? He’s an honourable man. You want to do this, to protect him from the truth. Your secret. But what if he will find out anyway? What if he will find out this was you?”

“He’s not going to. That’s why I’m here.”, she answered confidently.

Sherlock was thinking about interrupting but hesitated on another familiar sound. The sound of cocking a gun. Ah. A miscalculation on his part. Magnussen wasn’t the physical kind of threat, hence why Sherlock didn’t bring any weapon or armour himself. He didn’t think another party would be interested. And not that party in particular.

“What can I offer you, to not kill me? You know I can get you anything you want.”

“Funny, you’d say that.”, she almost laughed. “But as long as you live, you’ll always have me in your hands. I’ll always be your pawn, just because I know him.”

Sherlock knew, that whatever Magnussen had over her, it couldn’t be worth his death. And if she did kill him, and was convicted… he would have another problem altogether. John would never forgive him for letting her go through with it. It was time to act.

“Know who?”, he asked as he swiftly entered the room.

Both of the other’s heads snapped around and stared at him wild-eyed. After a second of realisation, Magnussen started to laugh hysterically, while the woman’s eyes widened in shock.

“Mary, whatever he has on you. It’s not worth shooting him.”, Sherlock tried to reason as calmly as possible. “John wouldn’t forgive you.”

“You absolute idiot.”, Mary whispered. Then she began to raise her voice. “What the hell, are you doing here?”

“On a case, involving him.”, he pointed towards Magnussen, who was still kneeling on the ground with Mary’s gun against his head. “Doesn’t really matter. I’m usually in places where I’m not supposed to be. The better question is, why are you here?”

Mary huffed out a laugh. “Because of you, you bloody idiot. Because I know you.”

Sherlock frowned at her.

Mary turned around to Magnussen. “Explain it to him.”, she ordered.

Magnussen made eye contact with her first to make sure, she was serious and then looked over to Sherlock. “Leverage Mr. Holmes. You know how it works, don’t you?”

“You search for people’s pressure points to exploit them via blackmail, I’m familiar.”

“Oh, but did you know, it is actual work sometimes, to find specific pressure points, of let’s say… very powerful people? What would you say is the pressure point of the most powerful man in this country? And we both know, I’m not talking about the Prime Minister, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock froze. This wasn’t going where he wanted this visit to go.

“You’re right. It’s his baby brother. But since he’s the most powerful man, his little brother is under the highest protection, even if not visible. So what to do?”

“Find the brother’s pressure point.”, Sherlock answered almost resigned.

“Exactly.”, Magnussen said with glee. “Now this is, where it gets tricky. The most prominent thing would be his drug addiction, but it’s not the weakest link. That was harder to find, because you’ve been away for so long and had a little falling out with the thing you care about most, isn’t that right?”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “So you’ve kidnapped John, to confirm he’s my pressure point.”

“And you’re right again.”

“Then you’ve contacted his wife in an attempt to blackmail her because you’ve clearly got something on her, that I haven’t figured out yet.”

“And you won’t.”, Mary chimed in.

Magnussen huffed out another laugh. “See, it’s quite simple. I own John Watson’s wife, I own Mycroft Holmes.”

“Ah. I think you forgot something in your equation.”, Mary said and pressed her gun further against Magnussen’s head.

“Mary.”, Sherlock tried again to diffuse the situation. “Whatever he’s got on you, let me help.”

Mary turned her head again to look at him in disgust. Her eyes were wild and her mouth was almost turning into an eerie grin. “Sherlock, I’m not interested in whatever you’re about to offer and I’m not interested in what he has to offer. All I want is for John not to know about my past. And while he’s alive, there will always be that risk.”

She slowly turned her head around again to face Magnussen. It was possibly the first time, he had pled to someone. It was probably also the first time he knew, he was defeated. It didn’t take another moment of hesitation. His end came swiftly and quietly. A clean, silenced shot through his head and the big dragon was slain. Only not by the dragon slayer.

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to stare at Mary with wide eyes. A cold shiver ran down his spine.

“Now to you.”, Mary announced and turned her weapon towards him. “Truth be told: I actually started to like you. But I fear, you’re a witness now.”

“Mary. Please. We can talk about this.”

“No, we can’t actually. You know, John is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. He’s actually too good for me, too innocent, too pure. But I got so lucky with him. And I was so careful, with everything. Hiding every last bit of my true identity, every aspect of my former life. And it worked out. It was all good… until a few weeks ago when you suddenly stood at our front door. I didn’t realise at first, how much it would ruin everything. Keeping John suddenly became a challenge and not only because of my secret. Because of you.”

“Me? You couldn’t have known, I would take a case about Magnussen. I couldn’t have known, you knew him.”

“Have you always been so slow, Sherlock? I’m talking about your ‘friendship’ with John.”

“Sorry, but I think we all know there’s not much of a friendship left.”

“Because he’s mad at you that you lied to him? That you kept a secret? Funny, isn’t it? How he’s always drawn to the same kind of people. The same kind of dangers.”

“How is any of this funny?”, Sherlock frowned at her.

“He’s borderline angry with you because he cares about you. You haven’t got the faintest idea how much. If he found out I lied to him too, kept a big fat secret too… he’d be the same with me. If that happens, we have a problem with only two possible outcomes. He’s not going to forgive any of us and will cut us off. But if he does forgive, he’s only got the capacity for one, because he’ll feel like a fool, if he has to do it twice.”

“So either way, I’m out of the picture.”, Sherlock concluded.

Mary gave him an ugly smile, her eyes long gone dark. “Wrong.”, she said. “If he has to choose, who to forgive, out of the two of us… It will be you.”

“You’re his wife.”

“That’s the point. I’m just his wife, not his…”

“I don’t understand.”

“You should put that on a shirt.”, she said with a laugh. “But on a second note…”, she continued while pointing her gun straight at his chest. “It might be too late for that.”

And without further warning, she simply pulled the trigger.

Sherlock flinched as the bullet entered his chest. He instantly looked down and saw the dark red liquid pour out of the tiny hole, that was just created. His vision got blurry as he tried to raise his head again. Before he collapsed completely, he saw the shadow of Mary’s body hush out of the door.

Then he fell on his back and everything got dark.

When Sherlock had run upstairs, John was left conflicted. On one side, he wanted to follow him. Keep an eye on him, maybe find his wife. On the other hand, he had a bleeding friend lying in front of him. He wouldn’t be John Watson if he wasn’t tending to people in need first. So, he took care of Janine’s wounds, while trying to wake her up. She eventually started to make some grunting sounds and then mumbled something inaudibly.

After a few minutes, she slowly gained consciousness again and John helped her sit up on one of the office chairs. He asked her a few simple questions to check for serious head injuries, but she seemed mentally fine.

“Did you see who it was?”, he eventually asked.

Janine closed her eyes, trying to remember what happened. “No, I don’t think so. It all happened so fast. I pressed the button to let Sherlock into the lift. I didn’t even get to fully turn around when something hit me on the head and then there’s… nothing. Blank. Now I’m here.”

“Fuck.”, John swore to himself.

“Hey, where’s Sherlock anyway?”, she asked.

John looked around, but since he had gone upstairs, he hadn’t heard or seen anything. “I don’t know. He went to investigate, I think.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Oh, believe me, I have long given up on trying to understand this man. It’s better for my blood pressure to just let him go and do his thing. It’s not my problem anymore.”

“But you’re… here? So, it seems like it kinda still is?”

John gave her an annoyed look. He hated the fact, that she was right. “You should get checked that head of yours.”

Before she could reply anything, they heard a strange sound. Some sort of muffled popping sound, almost like a distant bang. The gears started turning in John’s head and when not a minute later a second identical sound followed, he froze. He had heard similar sounds before, all sort of different, yet the same kind. He had been a soldier after all. Sort of. After his initial shock, his adrenaline kicked in. He jumped on his feet and sprinted towards the stairs, leaving behind an utterly confused Janine. Blood started rushing to his head and his ears started ringing. When he reached the top floor, he frantically started to look for the source of the — what he assumed to be a — gunshot. Turning around a corner, he saw light coming out from one of the doors. He took a deep breath and slowed down his pace, still wary of the whole situation. When he finally reached his destination, he carefully peaked around the door frame, only to see a man lying on the floor, face down. He didn’t know who that was, so he risked taking a step in. Then another. And when he could see behind the door, he stopped dead in his tracks.

There on the floor was the body of another man. A man he knew all too well. A scene he knew all too well. Sherlock was once again lying in front of his feet. He was once again about to bleed to his death. John’s heart skipped a beat and then started pounding faster than ever before.

“Not again.”, he murmured. “Not on my watch.”, he added. He instantly dropped to the floor beside Sherlock and pressed his hand against the still-bleeding wound on his chest. With his other hand, he tried to get his phone out of his pocket. After a few tries, he finally got hold of it and called two numbers.

The first one was obviously emergency services.

The second one was of a more familial nature.

Chapter Text

Greg was still floundering, trying to form a coherent thought. He had just been asked how Mycroft had helped him get over his divorce. By Mycroft. Which was more than inconvenient. What was convenient though, was a ringing phone drawing attention away from him.

“I think, that’s your’s.”, he told Mycroft, not without a grin.

Mycroft eyed him suspiciously but reached for his mobile anyway. Upon reading the caller’s name, he frowned. “That’s odd.”, he said before he picked up. “Dr. Watson, what can I-“

“Mycroft, listen. I don’t have much time. It’s Sherlock… he’s been…”

Mycroft could hear him take a deep breath. “He’s been what?”, he asked with some pressure.

“He’s been shot. I called an ambulance and I’m currently trying to stop the bleeding, but I don’t know… I-“

“Where are you?”, Mycroft all but screamed and jumped out of his seat. Greg watched him carefully, assuming the call was about Sherlock or Mycroft wouldn’t be so agitated.

“At some business’ office, Sherlock was investigating. Janine works here too. Sherlock’s fake girlfriend? Sorry, I forgot his name, something with M, I think?”

Mycroft stopped moving and breathing altogether. And if he didn’t know better, he thought his heart was giving out. He had warned his brother. He had technically, even if not with words, begged him to stay out of it. But did he listen? No. Of course not. And now he had paid the price.

“Mycroft? You still with me?”, John’s voice sounded against his ear again and pulled him out of the initial shock.

“Yes, sorry. Where’s Magnussen?”

“Right, that was his name. Well, if that’s the guy on the other end of the room, then I’d say he’s dead?”

“What?”, Mycroft snapped.

“Sherlock got shot in the chest. He’s still breathing, even if very flatly and he’s still got a faint pulse. The other guy got shot in the head. I don’t need to be a doctor to tell you, which one’s more lethal.”

If that really was Magnussen, and he really was dead… Mycroft couldn’t believe it until he got proof. “I’m on my way.”, he said.

“No!”, John tried to stop him. “It’s no use for you to come here. The ambulance will be here any minute and Sherlock will be transferred to the nearest hospital. You should come there instead.”

“I will, but I need to identify the body first.”

“Mycroft, look, I know that he’s kind of a big deal, even if I don’t understand the first thing about it. But he’s dead. He’ll still be dead in an hour, he’ll still be dead tomorrow. Sherlock’s alive now, but I’m not sure if he’ll…”

“Don’t say it.”

“All I’m saying is… whatever stands between you… he needs you.”

“You know I could say the same thing right back to you.”

“No, he really doesn’t need me. I’ve been-“

“Rightfully angry, but you still care. So does he. So do I. We all care, way too much.”

“Right.”, John sighed.

“I’ll send someone to confirm Magnussen. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

“I’ll text you the details.”

Only when Mycroft had hung up and put his phone back into his pocket, did he realise Greg had stepped right behind him, right into his personal space. Much to his surprise, he didn’t mind at all. Greg had laid a supporting hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently, much like he had done earlier on his arm. It felt calming, grounding in a way. Mycroft turned to face him.

“You all right?”, Greg asked carefully.

And that, was all it took, for Mycroft Holmes to finally break down.

His vision got blurrier every second and his lips started to quiver, ever so slightly. He felt gentle hands being laid down on his shoulders first and then being pulled forward. Strong arms wrapped around him, chest pressed against chest. He instinctively let his own head slide into the crook of Greg’s neck and his arms around his waist. Before he knew it, he was holding onto him, like his life depended on it. And when comforting words were murmured into his ears, the first tears started to fall.

An hour and a half later, they were waiting. John, Greg and Mycroft were all sitting in a small and a little more private area of the hospital Sherlock had been brought into and were… well… waiting. They all hated waiting.

John had updated the other two, upon their arrival, that Sherlock was in need of emergency surgery. Heart surgery. One of the riskiest areas one could have surgery on. After there had been nothing else they could do, they had sat down. John, defeated and numb, still half-drenched in Sherlock’s blood. Mycroft, completely broken, had slumped down beside him. Greg had followed suit and sat down on Mycroft’s other side. When he couldn’t resist and laid a hand on Mycroft’s back, slowly stroking up and down, John had turned his head slightly, to confirm, what he had seen out of the corner of his eye. On any other day, he would have wondered, he would have asked Greg, he would have been interested in that story. But in the end, he didn’t say anything.

“I can’t do this. I can’t lose him.”, Mycroft whispered absentmindedly after a while. He hadn’t intended to say those words out loud, but out they were.

Once they reached John’s ear, he turned around and gave him a weird look. “What?”

Mycroft only now realised what had happened and looked utterly frightened at John. “I…”, he tried, but no more words followed.

“You can’t do this?”, John snorted. “I know, I know… he’s your brother and you both care about each other, even if you’re very weird about it, but… why do I have to do this? Again? Wasn’t one time enough to torture me?”

Greg shot him a sharp look, signalling him to tone it down. Yes, he had every right to be angry and hurt, but it didn’t mean other people weren’t allowed to feel the same. John sighed resigned and leaned back in his chair.

“I’m sorry.”, Mycroft whispered and lowered his gaze.

“It’s not your fault.”, John dialled back. “Not all of it, at least. I’m not mad at you, I know why you’ve helped him, I probably would have done the same.” He nervously bit his lower lip. “I’m not even angry solely at him… I’m mostly angry… at myself.”

Upon hearing the last part, Mycroft raised his gaze again. “Why?", he asked. "You did nothing wrong.”

Usually, coming from Mycroft, this would have been one of the highest compliments. Not doing anything wrong, in his eyes, almost meant doing something right in normal people’s eyes. Hearing it now, it sounded taunting, even if he meant well.

“No?", John almost laughed. "It’s my fault, I moved in with him, the day I met him. It’s my fault, I followed him around everywhere, solving cases, and blogging about him. It’s my fault, I fell for his tricks… his trick. It’s my fault I fell for him…”

Mycroft eyed him carefully, not quite sure if the possible double meaning was intended or not.

“Either way, you’ve saved his life the very first night you met him… in more than one way… I’ll be forever grateful for that.”

“And where did it lead? I had to witness him dying anyway when I was way more… attached. And now? Even when I’m trying to be distant, trying not to give in… I’m sitting here. He can’t die. He doesn’t get to do this to me… not again.”

“He won’t.”, Greg finally jumped into the conversation. “Stop being so pessimistic, both of you. He won’t die, all right?”

John gave him a quick nod, while Mycroft tried for an apologetic smile.

And that was that.

Not a moment later, as if on cue, John’s phone started vibrating. He pulled it out from his pocket and stared at the caller ID. Mary. “Fuck.”, he whispered.

Mary. His wife. The reason, he had left work early. The reason, he had searched all day long and even resorted to Sherlock. The person he was supposed to care about most right now because she had supposedly been missing. Mary. The person he had forgotten about, because he had been too busy saving Sherlock’s life. Yet there had been an hour of waiting and he still hadn’t thought of her again. Resigned, he picked up.

“Mary, where are you? Are you alright?”, he asked quickly.

“I’m, uh, fine, yeah. On my way home now. Sorry, I saw your calls, you’ve probably been worried sick?”

“Of course I have.” Until an hour ago. “Where have you been?”

“I was just doing some shopping and then I ran into an old friend of mine, Sheila, you remember her?”

“Was she at our wedding? Wait, the photographer, right?”

“Yeah, exactly. I meant to call you, but my battery went out. We’ve been catching up… well, rather prolonged. She invited me over and I might have overstayed a bit. But hey, at least I could charge my phone.”

“Lucky you.”, John answered sarcastically. “Anyway, could you pick up Rosie? She’s with Beth and I was meant to pick her up, but I got a little busy.”

“Where are you?”

“Oh, uhm, the hospital.”

“What? What happened?”

“Nothing, I’m fine. I just got, uh, called in for an emergency at the clinic and then the patient got worse, rapidly, so I took him to A&E. Won’t be much longer, I promise.”

“Oh, okay. So, I’ll go pick up Rosie and meet you at home then?”

“Sure. See you there.”

Without waiting for another answer, he hung up and sighed heavily.

“What was that all about? Why did you lie?”, Greg asked out of curiosity.

“Well, apparently, my wife and I are keeping secrets from each other.”

“But why?”, Greg continued to ask.

John scratched his neck and then craned it left and right. “Because… she might be involved in all of this and I don’t want her to know, that I know.”

On that part, even Mycroft’s attention was caught again. His head snapped around instantly. “How so?”, he asked.

“Well, it’s a bit of a stretch really.”, John admitted and continued to explain how he had assumed his wife was kidnapped. Then he showed them the letter he had shown Sherlock and explained his thoughts. “And then there was this strange comment when we were in that office.”

“Which comment?”, Mycroft was eager to get to the point.

“Sherlock was sniffing around. Literally sniffing. And then he singled out a perfume. Claire-de-la-lune. It’s what Mary wears. Naturally, we thought, she really was kidnapped, but she wasn’t there. And then, Sherlock and Magnussen both get shot? With no gun and no other person in the room? And now Mary calls, making up some bullshit story about her whereabouts?”

“Why do you think it’s bullshit?”, Greg asked.

“She threw a name at me, a supposed friend of hers, Sheila.”

“The photographer?”, Mycroft remembered from the phone call, they had just overheard.

“That’s what I said. And she bought it because she thinks I’m an idiot. Like everyone thinks I’m an idiot.”

“So, you remembered that wasn’t your photographer’s name?”, Greg concluded.

“Well, I wouldn’t know the name either way, but I know for a fact… it wasn’t a 'her'. It was definitely a man. One hundred per cent.”

“So…”, Mycroft started, as he already pulled out his own mobile. “You suspect your wife could have had something to do with Sherlock’s injury?”

“All I know is, she’s acting sketchy, she possibly knew Magnussen and she lied to me. What I don’t have, is a motive. Why would she do that? Even if she had nothing to do with this, why would she go missing and then lie to me? And in such a weird way?”

“Either way…”, Mycroft proceeded, as he started typing away on his screen. “I’m initiating a full background check, right this minute.”

John stared at him blankly. He didn’t know what to think anymore. Did he even want to know the results? Did he want to know, if his wife was not, who he thought she was? But who was she then? Too many questions, and too few answers… like always. Having Mycroft on his side though, did help. Who would’ve thought?

Once Mycroft had locked his phone again and leaned back in his chair, it meant waiting again. Endlessly waiting for results. Results on Sherlock’s surgery, results on his condition, results on Mary’s background, waiting for something to happen.

And then something did happen. Something neither of them had anticipated, because neither of them had thought it to be possible.

One of the head nurses of the cardio floor was approaching them very quickly, which never meant something good. Prepared for the worst, all three of them got up from their seats immediately, worry and hope written on their faces simultaneously.

“Is either of you here for Sherlock Holmes?”, she asked, once she came to a halt in front of them.

“Yes!”, all three men answered in unison.

The nurse eyed them carefully. “Right. Is any of you a family member or emergency contact?”

Mycroft swiftly pulled out his ID as if he had been prepared for this the whole time. He most probably was. “I’m his brother.”

The nurse checked the ID and made a note on the tablet she had brought with her. “I need to speak to you then. Privately would be better, I think.”

“Everything you have to say about my brother, they are allowed to hear too.”

“Well, it’s the protocol to only inform family members. Privacy measures, you know-“

“They are family, even if not by blood.”, Mycroft answered sternly. “And I don’t care about your protocols right now. The man to my left is my brother’s best friend and happens to be an excellent doctor himself. The man on my right, is also a very good friend and an excellent Detective Inspector with New Scotland Yard and if you refuse to speak up on the matter immediately, you should check again, who exactly you are talking to right now!”, Mycroft almost shouted. Thankfully, the area they had been waiting in was mostly empty, so he only earned a few confused, but disinterested looks by other tired family members, waiting for updates on their loved ones.

The nurse inhaled sharply but didn’t have the nerve to prolong this whole interaction. “Fine, Mr. Holmes. The good news first: Your brother’s surgery went extraordinarily well, despite the condition he was brought in. We were able to fully remove the bullet in its entirety from the thorax. It was a close call though, a few centimetres to the left and it would have hit his heart. We were also able to restore most of his blood loss and all in all, finished with no complications.”

It was good news indeed. Too good. If that had been all, she wouldn’t have walked towards them with such fast steps. She wouldn’t have started with ‘the good news’. Mycroft closed his eyes, already having a suspicion, about where this conversation was going.

“What is the bad news then?”, he sighed.

“Well… We brought your brother to the ICU for observation. We wanted to wait for him to wake up before we brought you in, in case his condition worsened. It usually takes from ten to thirty minutes, depending on how the patient reacts to the anaesthesia. So, we went to check on your brother after half an hour, but when we entered his room… he was gone.”

Mycroft’s eyes snapped open. They were a mixture of something like a bubbling volcano, just about to erupt, covered by a thick layer of spiked ice. He desperately tried to keep his composure, be the stoic, cold-blooded businessman, everyone believed him to be. But under the surface, the pressure had been building up for a long time. His heart wasn’t this cold clump of brittle ice, no, it was a burning tornado right now. Filled with rage and anger, but also worry and pain. And there was only one person, who could evoke those emotions within him, so it was no use to get angry at the hospital staff. Mycroft took a deep breath. He knew John and Greg had both eyed him carefully, waiting for his response, his call, his choice. Because it was always on him, wasn’t it?

“When was he last seen?”, he eventually answered in an eerily calm tone.

“About twenty minutes ago. We’ve been trying to check the security cameras, but haven’t found him yet.”, the nurse answered in a desperate attempt to be helpful.

“Is there any possibility, someone could have gone into his room?”, John chimed in at once. “Someone who wasn’t supposed to be there?”

Obviously, he was thinking about Mary, even if it would be logistically very strange.

“Not that we know of. I know it’s not much of a consolation, but it’s much harder to get in than to get out. If he left of his own volition and simply walked out, without any suspicious stunts, then there’s not much we could have done. I’m really sorry.”

“Wait…”, Greg turned to her. “Is it even medically possible for him to be up immediately after such a surgery?”, he asked confused.

“Well, theoretically not, but everybody reacts differently and we don’t know if he…”, she wavered.

John let out a grunt. “It is theoretically possible. If someone had built up somewhat of a resistance towards anaesthesia, or pain in general. Or if someone had ingested something prior to the surgery.”, he spat the last part.

“He didn’t.”, Mycroft said in a surprisingly gentle voice, turning to John. “The resistance might be one thing, but he hasn’t taken anything since he’s back, I vow for that.”

John hesitated believing his words. Sherlock had deceived him many times when it came to his drug addiction. He had deceived a lot of people actually and he wasn’t sure Mycroft hadn’t been either. But then again, he didn’t know what Sherlock was up to these days anyway. Also, he trusted Mycroft, for various reasons.

“Fine.”, he said. “What’s your guess then? Where could he have gone?”

Mycroft’s face shifted. Something apologetic loomed over him. “You will not like my answer.”

Mycroft was right. John did not like the answer.

Chapter Text

Escaping from a hospital was easy. Just find some clothes that aren’t a hospital gown, pack the IV into your coat pocket and steal some morphine. It really was that simple. Walking out and hailing a cab had taken him less than seven minutes. The time frame that followed was the tricky part because timing was essential here. He had to leave before anyone noticed, but he had to also be gone before his brother noticed, or else he wouldn’t have made it more than two blocks. His security had been on standby, and Sherlock had noticed them as soon as he had left through the main entrance. They had always been idiots, he had told Mycroft over and over. He hadn’t even been that covered and they still hadn’t noticed him. It had been crowded though, to be fair.

Either way, Sherlock had made it out and had arrived at his destination. He paid the cabby with some bills he had also ‘borrowed’ along with the morphine and made his way to the door. The door that had started all of this. John and Mary’s front door. Only this time, he wouldn’t ring a bell and wait for the outcome. The lights were on and shining through the curtains, so Mary was home, assuming John was still at the hospital. Without further ado, he picked the lock with some wire he had found in a plant pot beside him. As quietly as possible he entered and made his way to the kitchen. Some muffled sounds and some sort of lullaby playing came from upstairs. Sherlock’s lips twitched into a grim smile momentarily. He sat down at the kitchen table. Then he waited.

He waited for seventeen minutes and forty seconds until Mary finally descended the stairs. Once she reached the entrance her eyes fell on her unexpected visitor and she immediately froze on the spot.

“Don’t worry, you’re not going insane, it really is me. Hi.”, Sherlock greeted her unimpressed.

Mary blinked a few times and then carefully walked towards the table. She narrowed her eyes when she stopped on the far end and crossed her arms. “How?”

“Oh, escaping from the hospital? It was quite simple, I-“

“No, you idiot! How are you still alive?”

“Well, Mary, if that is even your real name, you’re apparently not as good of a shot, as you believed yourself to be. Oh yeah, maybe the surgery did help, also.”

“But there’s no way you did arrive in time. By the time Janine or any of the staff should have found you, it would have been too late. Even if they called an ambulance, it would have taken too long.”

Sherlock shot her a smug smile, satisfied even. “Well, it wasn’t Janine who called an ambulance, nor any of those daft idiots.”

“Oh, come on, you didn’t call it yourself, you were knocked out when I left.”

“That’s right, but I wasn’t alone.”

“Magnussen was dead.”

“I’m not talking about Magnussen.”

“Then who the hell-“

“I called the ambulance.”, a familiar voice disrupted their little guessing game.

Mary turned her head to the other entrance and immediately knew she was fucked. John looked at her with a face she had never seen before. His eyes narrowed in disgust, his nose scrunched in anger and his nostrils flared. She could tell, he was clenching his teeth behind closed lips as he was clenching his fists over and over again.

“John.”, she breathed out with a pleading undertone. “Please. How much do you know?”

Sherlock also stared at him bewildered. He had anticipated, that his absence would have been noticed by now. He hadn’t anticipated John would blindly follow him here, without backup.

John took a few steps into the room. “Enough to know you did this.”, he vaguely pointed towards Sherlock. “Enough to know, you are not, who you pretend to be. Enough to know you lied to me. The one thing, I told you, would be a deal breaker in our relationship. In our marriage. We vowed, to never lie to each other. And yet…”

Mary pressed her lips together. She wasn’t far from tears, but with Sherlock present, she couldn’t let her guard fall down yet. “What do you want to know?”, she offered.

“Fuck you.”, John spat. “Now, you want to talk? Tell the truth, huh? Now that you know, you can no longer play pretend? That what you’re saying?”, he all but shouted. His throat got drier with every minute and his heart started pounding faster and faster.

“John, please lower your voice.”, Sherlock jumped in. “I believe your daughter has just fallen asleep.”, he added gently, because there really was not much else he could have said to calm him down.

John turned his gaze to his left, where Sherlock’s eyes caught him off-guard. They had a gentleness to them, he had rarely seen before. But he also saw pity in them, which he couldn’t stand. He let his eyes wander to the baby monitor on the counter, sitting there, quietly, with no indication of his daughter waking up. And lastly towards his wife. “Fine.”, he spat. “Your way. Tell me then… who are you really? Huh? Who did I marry?”, he said with a low and very dark voice.

Mary hesitated for a moment but gave in eventually. “Does it really matter? It’s all in the past. I’m not who I used to be. I am the person you married. Isn’t that enough for you?”, she tried on the verge of tears.

“Fuck shit, you are.”, John countered. “All in the past, yeah? And how do explain shooting my best friend? Attempting to kill him, after he’s just come back from the dead? Doesn’t seem like past to me, as it just happened!”

“John, please. I- I can’t. You’ll hate me if I tell you.”

“He’s not very loving of you right now anyway, is he?”, yet another voice rose behind John. Mycroft and Greg appeared from the front entrance side by side. Mycroft slowly made his way over to his brother, while Greg kept his position in the background, having everyone in his sight.

“Mary Morstan was stillborn in October 1972.”, Mycroft began. “Her gravestone is in Chiswick Cemetery, where five years ago, you acquired her name and date of birth and thereafter, her identity.”, he continued and held her gaze sharply.

“So, that’s why you don’t have friends from before that date. And that’s why you told me you’re an orphan.”, John added with amused anger.

“I am an orphan.”, Mary tried to justify herself.

Sherlock got up from his chair and took a step in Mary’s direction. “Interesting. This is an old enough technique, known to the kinds of people, who could recognise a skip code on sight and have extraordinarily retentive memories.”, he said, reminded of the day John had been kidnapped.

“You were very slow.”, Mary answered unimpressed and something in her demeanour shifted from busted sadness to almost nasty glee. “From what John told me about you and from what I’ve gathered through research, I thought you’d be much quicker. I had already made plans on how to keep you away from him, to buy myself some time, but…”

“That wasn’t necessary, because I’ve played right into your cards, haven’t I?”, John answered flatly. “I’ve been so caught up in my anger, about being tricked by him, that I didn’t notice I was tricked again… right in front of me. In my own home. By you.”

Mary once again shifted, almost like she was at war with herself. Something in her was deeply regretting everything she ever did and everything she did to hurt her husband. Sadness and pain were overcoming her, every time she looked over to John. But as soon as she turned back to the man who had brought her to her downfall or the man who just revealed bits about her true identity, she went into defence mode. All high above and smug, not giving in to either of them.

“It won’t take much longer until I have your real name and therefore access to every last bit of information about you.”, Mycroft threw at her. “But if I was to guess, I’d say your name was… Rosamund.”, he added, not without a quick grin.

Once again, Mary froze. Mycroft Holmes never guessed. Upon hearing that name, she knew, she really had run out of time. Defeated, she lowered her head and averted everyone’s gaze, especially her husband’s.

That’s all it took, to take the rest of John’s composure. Of course, it had to be that name. Of course, that’s why it was mentioned on that card. Magnussen wasn’t addressing their daughter, he was addressing his wife. And Mycroft had realised that, as soon as he had seen the card earlier.

“You… How could you?!”, he shouted at her. “How could you name our daughter after you?! With all whatever that name stands for. How could you?!”

“It’s Rosamund Mary. My name, I mean.”, she answered with a small voice.

“As if that’s any consolation.”, John murmured as he ruffled through his hair and grabbed one strand just a bit too harshly. It hurt a little, just enough to ground him, just enough to not jump on her. “Why you? Huh?”, he asked. “Why are you like this? What did I ever do, to deserve you, huh? Can you tell me that?”

“Everything.”, Sherlock answered for her. “Everything you ever did.”

“Sherlock now’s not the time to get clever.”, John said as calmly as possible.

“I mean it. Look at you. You were a doctor who went to war. You’re a man who couldn’t stay alone after he got discharged and moved in with the first man he met, who turned out to be a sociopath, who’s solving crimes as an alternative to get high. That’s me by the way, hello. Even our landlady ran a drug cartel once.”, Sherlock listed.

John turned his gaze towards him and shot him an angry look. “What are you saying, then? That this is my fault?”

“John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You’re abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people, so is it truly such a surprise that the woman you fall in love with, conforms to that pattern?”

“But she wasn’t supposed to be like that.”, John countered through gritted teeth. “Why is she like that?”

Sherlock stared directly into John’s eyes. He knew nothing he just said was what John wanted to hear. And he also knew, what he was about to say, would most probably be the last straw. But he had to say it anyway. “Because… you chose her.”

John stared right back at him, not moving at all. Sherlock’s eyes conveyed a certain sadness to them, John couldn’t really place, but at least he knew, he was telling the truth. It was his fault. He had chosen her.

“But why?”, he asked, almost choking. “Why did I choose someone, who turns out to be just like…”

John’s words got stuck in his throat as soon as he realised what he was about to say.

You, he thought instead. Why did she have to be so much like you?

“It’s what you like, Dr. Watson.”, Mycroft’s voice cut through the tension. “The mystery, the danger, the unpredictability. But make no mistake, if I had known to what all this would lead…” He turned his gaze towards his brother, the pain written on both their faces.

“But you didn’t.”, Sherlock answered him. “You couldn’t have. All I ever asked of you was to keep him alive.”

John eventually turned towards Mycroft and frowned at him. Mycroft instantly lowered his head to avert any eye contact. Sentiment wasn’t his forte and he wouldn’t start now, by letting others know, he of all people would care about his little brother’s best friend.

But it was this exact moment and this exact reaction, that made John realise precisely that. Because Mycroft Holmes was a lot of things, but never ashamed. The only thing that man would ever be ashamed of, was when other people could see him. Really see him, for who he was. And now John could. A sweep of memories rushed through his mind that made him realise Mycroft had always cared about his brother, even if John had accused him of the opposite, especially after his ‘death’. And now he saw, that he had at some point started to care about him too.

It was kind of ironic, that the sole reason Sherlock had left — saving John’s life — was also the reason, they were all entangled in this mess right now. If he hadn’t left, John wouldn’t have chosen her. Because back then, it would have meant moving out of Baker Street. Moving away from Sherlock, leaving him behind. And that would have never happened. Sherlock saving John’s life had led to him being shot by John’s wife. John wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh so badly, that it was almost hysterical. But no sound came out of his mouth.

Eventually, he turned back to look at Mary. She had risen her head again, staring at him expectantly, with her head cracked to one side, almost touching her shoulder. Her eyes were shimmering, but not yet crying.

“If I chose you...”, John started with a surprisingly cold but calm voice. “I can unchoose you.”

As the words reached Mary, realisation kicked in. John had made up his mind. She knew, pleading and begging wouldn’t help her anymore. She also knew, that if John chose to break up, or even divorce her, he would also shut her out completely. Meaning, she would also lose her daughter, because in what world, would anyone let her near a child, knowing what she did. Also, there was still the attempted murder of Sherlock, which she now realised, she probably wasn’t getting out of. Oh, and the actual murder of Magnussen. So, her fate was decided then anyway: Incarceration or death.

Mary quickly reached behind her back and pulled out the gun, she had stored on her belt. If she was going down, she at least would take the person, who brought her into this situation, down with her. With a stone-cold face, she cocked the gun and pointed it straight at Sherlock, like she had done earlier that night.

“Oi, put that down!”, Greg finally got himself involved. He pulled out his own gun as he took a few steps closer, to get a better angle. “Seriously, Mary, this is not a joke.”

“Oh, shut up Greg. We all know, it’s over.”, she resorted. “I’m not walking out here freely, am I? And I already lost everything that’s ever meant anything to me.”

“You’re correct on both counts.”, Mycroft confirmed. “But it would be a tremendously unwise choice, to pull that trigger.”, he said and stepped right beside Sherlock again.

One corner of her mouth shot up, which gave her somewhat of an unhinged look. “It doesn’t really matter anyway, does it? I’m already dead, aren’t I, your majesty?” A single tear finally made its way down her cheek.

Neither of the four men present, liked the way this situation was going. All of them knew, what was coming because there was no way of stopping her.

“Any last words, Sherlock?”, Mary asked almost amused now.

“Go to hell.”, Mycroft answered on his brother’s behalf.

Chapter Text

One shot. That was all it took to end a life. A single bullet, once fired with such precision, was certainly lethal. One clean shot, aimed at the one organ that could never be replaced. One organ that could never be salvaged by any surgery, not with that angle. A heart was salvageable, a heart was replaceable. Even if it wasn’t easy, per se, it was possible. What wasn’t replaceable and in only very few cases salvageable was an equally important organ: The brain.

So all it took to end a life, right then and there, was a clean, precise shot in the head.

And it had landed.

Mary had been clever, deceiving everyone for so long. She had even outplayed Sherlock Holmes, the great detective. She herself had never been deceived before, not once in her life. Mary had always been the one in control, the one who managed everyone else. But there was a first for everything, wasn’t there? She had known her end was coming. What she didn’t anticipate, however, was that the person who took her life would be Mycroft Holmes.

The unapproachable ice man, hiding behind his mask, always looming in the background. But not this time. This time, it was personal. He would have never forgiven himself if he had lost his brother that evening. Especially after he had just survived a gunshot. Once it had been established that Sherlock had fled the hospital, Mycroft knew what was coming. He had known that Sherlock would do everything to take Mary’s case. To sort things out for her and make John forgive her. But as always, his little brother did see, but not observe. Mycroft had observed. Everything. Since the moment Sherlock had left the country three years ago. He had been there for all of it. He had observed John. His grief, his pain, his heartache. Then there was that day. The day they had both silently agreed to never speak of again. After that, he had seen him get married and start a family. Mycroft damned himself for not being more thorough when he first acquired a file about one Mary Elizabeth Morstan. Perhaps some of this mess could have been avoided.

So, when Mary raised her gun, once again, facing his baby brother, Mycroft didn’t hesitate. He gripped the handle of his umbrella and clicked a button on its side to release a secret gun. As swiftly as the rest of the umbrella had fallen, as precisely did he point his own gun at Mary, just as she had spoken her final words. A question, he now almost answered with pleasure.

‘Go to hell.’, he had said in an unnervingly calm voice.

And to hell, she went.

But Mary was clever in the end. She may not have anticipated who would take her life, but she knew how to control her reflexes. So, as soon as the words had been spoken, she pulled her gun slightly to the left, switching targets with her last breath.

Mycroft didn’t realise at first why he suddenly felt so calm. He looked to his left again and saw Sherlock. His brother was alive, and that was all that counted. When he saw the utter shock in his face, though, he did start to wonder. Then he heard a cry from his right. A cry for his name. So piercing, so full of pain, so loud. He turned his head and saw Greg rushing past John and towards him. It all happened so slowly, as if time was about to stand still.

When he felt a hand gripping his arm hard, he finally looked down and realised why everyone was behaving so strangely. Blood, his own blood, was streaming down his torso. Oh. Well, this wasn’t how he had imagined his death at all. On the other hand, he had always suspected it would be because of, or to save, his brother. It was sort of both now, but at least Sherlock lived; that’s all that mattered. Of course, he had to look out for himself now, and that did scare Mycroft a bit, even now that he couldn’t do anything about it anymore. But he had faith in his brother. Always had. And he had instructed Anthea, in case of his unexpected death, just to be safe.

There were little things Mycroft regretted in his life, most of them regarding his brother. However, there was one thing that ultimately bothered him in the end. He had never allowed himself to love again. Not after the horrible things that had happened the first time, he dared to fall in love. He had not found the need, nor the want, to pursue any kind of romantic relationship afterwards. But things had changed. Moves were made, dinners were eaten, conversations were had. One man. One man was all it took to crack the walls, Mycroft had built around himself over the years. Just one smile, one touch, one look from Greg Lestrade was all it took to melt the ice around his heart. They had become so close nowadays. And he had become close to just letting him in. Almost ready to take a risk. Now it was too late. Now, all he could do was look at his somewhat blurry face, hovering over him, as his body made its way to the ground. The last thing he could feel before he reached the floor was the other’s strong arms catching him.

Then he was gone.

Death was not at all how Mycroft had imagined it. He didn’t believe in the afterlife. To him, death always meant a certain end to everything. No consciousness, no thoughts, nothing. So it was surprising, he was still able to think. He couldn’t move, nor did he feel his body at all. Everything was dark, so he couldn’t see either. All he could do was think. Was this his personal hell? Trapped in his own mind for eternity? Forever wondering what was happening to the ones he left behind? Forever wondering if he had let them down? Oh, and what would his parents say? Would Mummy be sad or cross?

Mycroft remembered all the times he had almost lost his brother. How painful it had been to watch him be in withdrawal afterwards. How painful it had been every time, mummy had found out, and he had taken the blame for not looking well enough after Sherlock. Would she be angry with him for not taking care of himself? Would she be sad that she lost her son? Would she at least be happy that he had saved her other son? Mycroft would never know. And maybe he didn’t deserve to.

The way he didn’t deserve to know how Greg felt about him. He had been such a coward, always hiding and waiting. And for what? Just to die a tragic death and be forever stuck in this limbo? Well, maybe he deserved that, too. There wasn’t much he could do about it, either way.

Ouch.

That was weird. Since he had died, he hadn’t felt anything. Now, a piercing pain had covered his entire body, which was also weird since he didn’t have a body anymore. Well, maybe it was the final signal that his soul had left its cage. Yes, that seemed like the most logical conclusion. Not an hour ago, Mycroft would have laughed at himself for having such thoughts. Nothing about souls or the afterlife or any kind of this was anywhere near logical.

Ouch. Again.

Even if his soul had left his body, why was he still stuck here, in this nothingness? A dark, never-ending nothingness. How much time had passed since he had died? He didn’t know. At least he hadn’t lost his hearing. Wait, where did these sounds come from? Mycroft tried to focus, to make out what exactly he was hearing. First, there was a muffled sound in a certain rhythm. A steady and continuous rhythm. Strange. On closer inspection, there were also dull-sounding voices. Almost like he wasn’t alone in this. Almost like other souls were trying to get through to him, to take him with them. Finally, make him escape this darkness.

It took another few minutes until the voices started to become louder and somewhat clearer. Oh, and the rhythm also got annoyingly louder every second. It was giving Mycroft a headache. Again, strange, without a head to have an ache with. The clearer the voices got, though, the harder he tried to make out the words they were speaking.

‘Please, can you do this for me? Just… wake up, My. We need you. Sherlock needs you. I… need you. Please, just… please wake up.’

It was not any voice. It was the voice he had least expected, yet yearned for the most. To hear him one last time, just to remember the sound of it. The deep, rough rumble. The warmth. Or was it to taunt him? To show him what he missed out on. What he could’ve had if he wasn’t such a coward.

But why was Greg begging him to wake up? He had witnessed his death? Certainly, he must know that miracles do not happen. They simply are not real, merely an illusion. An error in perception, that one holds both about themselves and the world. And yet, it sounded tempting. To simply open his eyes and not be dead. Getting another chance at life. Maybe a life with… him?

Now, Mycroft was hooked. Now, all he wanted was desperately not to be dead. To tell Greg that it was okay. That he was alright, he didn’t need to worry. Tell Sherlock that he was still there for him, that he’ll always be there for him. Tell his parents that they didn’t need to worry about him either. That, yes, he had been shot too, but he was just fine. Tell Anthea that she didn’t need to roll out plan ‘Titanic’ and worry about Queen and country. Everything was fine.

It was all within reach. So close. He had to simply open his eyes.

Waiting. The one thing Sherlock hated the most, right now.

Patience. The one thing Sherlock lacked the most, right now.

Mycroft. The one thing Sherlock was afraid to lose the most, right now.

When Mary had asked him for his last words, he was prepared to take another shot. He was prepared to die. He deserved it. After all, there was little left to live for. Mycroft would be disappointed in him. John would hate him. Greg would not care about him. His parents would have one less worry on their minds.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t matter.

When his brother had answered for him when he had shot Mary himself… Sherlock had been surprised. When he saw, though, that Mary’s bullet did not hit him, but Mycroft… Sherlock had been shocked. Seeing his brother collapse in front of him had terrified him because it was unimaginable. His brother never got in trouble, and he never got defeated. Not once had Sherlock seen him being the one who got hurt. Mycroft was this unreachable, indestructible human being. Always one step ahead, always above everyone else, even above Sherlock. Always the smart one.

The ambulance ride had been the worst in his life. Sherlock had been in many ambulances before, but usually, he was the unconscious one. The one who needed tending to. The one whose life had been hanging by a thread. Seeing Mycroft lying on the trolley, not moving, being attached to various machines and tubes… it had made him sick. Greg had insisted Sherlock had to go with him, in case his own condition worsened. He had taken John with him and followed right behind. Sherlock hated that decision with every fibre of his being. He hated seeing his brother like this. He hated being useless in helping him.

Waiting while Mycroft was in surgery was even worse. John was sitting in the corner furthest away from Sherlock, holding his sleeping daughter close to him. He looked so detached from the world that Sherlock couldn’t even blame him. Greg had started to talk to Sherlock at first, trying to give him some hope, when he had just done the same for Mycroft earlier that night. But he had given up eventually when Sherlock didn’t respond in any way. He had since begun pacing around the room, taking the occasional call, always on the verge of tears, but not letting himself slip up.

After Sherlock had endured a thorough check-up on himself, he had slumped down in one corner of the room. Sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chin. He hadn’t spoken another word since they had left the ambulance. And in there, he had only answered the questions regarding his brother’s health and condition.

When the news came, after an eternity, that Mycroft had gone into cardiac arrest and they were currently trying to resuscitate him, that was the moment Greg finally crumbled. The first tears finally found their way down his cheeks, and a faint sob escaped his throat. It was John who had found the strength to pull himself up and try to comfort him. Sherlock, however, felt like all the strength he ever possessed had left his body. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t cry. He wasn’t even sure if he was still breathing.

He was supposed to die. He, not Mycroft. Not the man who had done everything in his power to protect him. Not the man who had protected him all his life. Not the man who had been there for him. Always been there for him, no matter what.

Not his brother.

It wasn’t fair. Mycroft deserved better than this. He certainly didn’t deserve to die because his brother made a stupid mistake. Or a series of stupid mistakes.

Sherlock hated himself.

Now he finally understood what his brother had meant earlier, when he had told him that he couldn’t lose him.

Sherlock couldn’t lose him either.

Chapter Text

If Greg had to name his biggest strength, it was keeping calm, even in the most stressful situations. No matter how dangerous the case, how fast the pursuit, how forceful the arrest. No matter how disgusting the crime scene, how messy the evidence, how upset the people around him. Nothing fazed him.

Unless it got personal. Which it never had before, so this was a first.

The second Mycroft had been shot, his body reacted, before his mind could catch up. He was by his side and catching him, before he had realised it himself. When he did realise, he wanted to cry, wanted to let himself go numb. But then he saw Sherlock, his face white as the walls, his body shaking. He heard distinct cries coming from the baby monitor. He heard John running up the stairs. It was at that moment, he knew, whatever happened, it was on him to keep everything under control. There would be no one, miraculously stepping in and managing everything. Calling an ambulance, calling for backup, calling anyone, really. It was on him.

So, he had done what had to be done. He had waited for the ambulance and instructed Sherlock to go with his brother. He had sat John down with his daughter in his own car, far away from the actual crime scene. Because this is what this had become: A crime scene. And that was his job, after all. He had called Donovan, had given her the lead and a short briefing over the phone. When his team had arrived, he hadn’t waited for another second and drove himself, as well as John and his daughter, straight to the hospital.

Once there, he had coerced the information about Mycroft’s status out of one of the nurses, gladly using his badge. Then they went to find Sherlock. He looked worse than Greg had ever seen him. And he had seen him 'almost' die multiple times. Greg let John retreat to another corner, knowing there was nothing he could do for him right now. He tried talking to Sherlock, though, but to no avail.

Almost relieved, he took an incoming call from Sally. He answered as many of her questions as he could and received an update in return. Mary’s body had been taken care of, and the flat was currently being searched for evidence about her true identity. So far, nothing had been found. Once the call ended, he returned to pacing. Moving around calmed his mind, at least that’s what he told himself.

He thought about all the times he was on the other side. All the times, he had witnessed the turmoil of the loved ones, who were fearing for someone’s life. All the encouraging, hopeful things he had said to them. All the empty phrases. He was glad no one was trying those on him now.

Merely a few hours ago, his biggest worry had been not to tell Mycroft the truth about how he was responsible, Greg had gotten over his divorce. Not telling him that he fell for him… that he was the reason, he could love again. It felt utterly foolish, looking back at it now. It seemed ridiculous, even, that he had worried about it at all. He should have simply told him. If he didn’t… If he didn’t get to tell him now at all, Greg would regret this for the rest of his life. Because Mycroft deserved to know. He deserved to know, he was loved.

When another nurse approached him, a glimmer of hope rose within him. But it was blown away like it wasn’t even there in the first place. Hearing about the cardiac arrest was the last straw. It was the thing tipping him over the edge. An unbearable pain shot through his own heart, making him almost unable to breathe.

Then the tears started falling.

From then on, everything was a blur.

John had felt pain before. Immeasurable pain. A pain that had almost killed him.

Now, sitting in the waiting area of the same hospital, he had waited for Sherlock hours ago, he felt no pain. He watched Sherlock, barely a shadow of himself, and felt nothing. He watched Greg, pacing around, more worried than he had been with Sherlock before, and he felt nothing. He thought about Mycroft, who was currently fighting for his life. The man, who was willing to give his life to save his brother’s. The man who had saved John’s own life, years ago, when he had been at his worst. He still felt nothing. He thought about Mary, the woman who had destroyed his entire life in one evening, and he felt… numb.

Then he let his eyes rest on his sleeping daughter, the only good thing left in his life, and he felt… sorry. Sorry that she had been born into this mess. Sorry that she would grow up without a mother. Sorry, that she would have to deal with a mess of a father. But she was the only reason he was able to keep himself together. That tiny little human was his sole anchoring point. If not for himself, he would pull himself together for her.

He thought about what was coming next. If Mycroft didn’t survive, he was sure Sherlock would end up like he had, after Sherlock’s death. And there would be no Mycroft to save him, in the end. And John couldn’t trust himself to be there for him, the way he needed him to be. And judging by the way Greg was behaving, he wouldn’t be much help either. He rather looked like he would need the help himself. Not that John didn’t care about Sherlock’s brother, but he wouldn’t be as affected by his death as the others. He would be sad, of course, he would, but he would survive. He would be able to move on. What he would not be able to do was deal with the aftermath that came with his friends' grief.

Mycroft couldn’t die. It simply wasn’t an option.

So, John thought about what would happen if Mycroft survived. What will happen when he survives. Maybe, he would, in time, of course, finally get answers about Mary. Maybe, he would be able to get answers about Sherlock. Maybe he would be able to talk to him in a normal way again. Maybe, he would even be able to forgive him. Because almost losing him a second time made one thing clear: He still cared deeply about him. If he had lost him tonight too… he would have survived, for his daughter, but he wouldn’t have been good at it. It was a tremendous relief that he hadn’t died.

He briefly thought about his home, and that he could never ever live there again, but he pushed the thought away immediately. That was something he had to deal with later. Maybe he could get a hotel room, or maybe he would simply sleep here, in the hospital, on one of those awful benches. He only knew he wouldn’t sleep at home. Or what’s left of it.

After a good while of waiting, a nurse came bearing news. He was too far away to hear what she was saying, and since Sherlock hadn’t made any attempts to move, John had watched Greg. It wasn’t the way they would have announced Mycroft’s death, but judging the way Greg’s head and shoulders dropped, it couldn’t have been good news. Since he could only see his back and not his face, John wasn’t any the wiser. Then Greg started to shiver. Oh, John thought. He didn’t know if he had ever seen Greg cry before, but this must’ve been as bad as it gets… hopefully.

John hadn’t made any attempts to move himself, but seeing as Sherlock surely was not capable of comforting Greg, John had thought about doing it. Even though he had no clue what he should do, or say, for that matter. But he thought about all the times Greg had been there for him, when Sherlock had died. Every time he had crashed out, he had walked around the city, pissed as a newt, ending up in all sorts of shady places. Greg had miraculously found him every single time and taken him home. He had listened, he had talked, he had taken care of him, but he had never judged.

Now that he thought about it, it was strange. Perhaps there was another person involved, because Greg couldn’t have possibly found him every single time. Maybe he had been watched over… by someone else. Someone who had found him that one last time, right before he…

And maybe that someone was fighting for his life right now. And there was nothing he could do about it.

What he could do, though, was pull himself together and be there for his friend. Glancing at Sherlock, there was not much he could do. John wasn’t sure; he was aware of his surroundings at all.

But he could be there for Greg.

So he was.

What people didn’t talk about, when you come back from the dead: Everything is just too bright, too loud, too much.

It had been easy after all to open his eyes. It was much harder to keep them open, looking at the bright headlights above him. He was lying on his back then. After immediately shutting his lids again, Mycroft tried to focus on his other senses. The rhythmic beeping sound was loud and clear now. He could hear other muffled sounds again, but this time it was more natural, as if coming from another room. People walking and talking, doors sliding open, things being pushed around. Within the room he found himself in, he only heard breathing. Different breathing, so multiple people. Some sniffling, so familiar people. Trying out his sense of smell next turned out to be the most helpful measure yet. Filtering out the different odours: antiseptic, disinfectant, sweat, metal.

He was in a hospital then.

Not dead.

Carefully, he tried to open his eyes again. Slower this time, blinking a few times to adjust his vision. When he was able to fully take in his surroundings, a surprising warmth spread through his body. Yes, he was lying in a bed, most probably post-surgery, judging by the IV and the bandages around his chest. But what was comforting him the most was the sight around him. Sherlock had changed into some hospital-branded pyjamas, sitting in a wheelchair to his left, eyes closed, and soft snoring escaping his body every now and then. Right beside him was John, also fast asleep in one of those awful hospital chairs, with his daughter strapped to his chest. They were safe, after all.

Then Mycroft turned his gaze slightly to his right, and his heart almost skipped a beat. Luckily, it didn’t actually, or else his heart monitor would have given him away. Greg had also sat down in a chair on the other bedside, somewhat slumped down. His head was lowered, his gaze fixed on his hands. Only now did Mycroft gain his sense of touch again. He not only saw but also felt Greg holding onto his hand, stroking it, ever so gently. Mycroft couldn’t help himself and squeezed lightly. Greg’s movements stopped momentarily, and his head snapped around. His warm and puffy eyes met Mycroft’s still tired ones.

“Mycroft.”, Greg croaked and immediately cleared his throat. “You’re awake.”

Mycroft just smiled at him and nodded.

“Thought I’d lost you there for a moment.”, Greg said, almost choking, and returned his previous caressing of Mycroft’s hand.

“I thought so, too.”, Mycroft whispered. He didn’t dare to speak up just yet, trying not to wake the others. He wanted this moment to be only between him and Greg.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again, do you hear me?”, Greg answered in a quieter tone now, trying to match him.

Mycroft gave him a weak smile in return. “I had to save him.”

“And what about you? Who’s going to save you?”, Greg sounded a little angry.

“I don’t matter.”, Mycroft sighed.

“You matter to me!”, Greg tried so hard not to raise his voice.

Mycroft looked at him thoroughly, searching his eyes, but all he found was a pleading warmth, inviting him to stay. He squeezed his hand again briefly. “I’m sorry.”, he added.

“I’d like to say ‘it’s fine’, but it’s not. You’re not fine, and don’t tell me you are.”

“Fine.”, Mycroft replied with a small grin, “I’m not.”

“Good. I mean, not good, but… you know what I mean.”

Mycroft gently pulled their intertwined hands to his chest and placed them right above his damaged heart. “I do.”, he said with a warm smile.

It wasn’t how he had imagined it would happen. He hadn't imagined it would happen ever again. But for the first time in ages, Mycroft Holmes truly felt… happy.

Chapter Text

It was almost two in the morning when Greg and John had finally and very reluctantly left the hospital. It took a lot of bargaining on the Holmes side to convince the other two that they would be fine and that Greg and John, as well as his daughter, would need some rest of their own.

It had been a whole other level of convincing when it got obvious that John couldn’t return to his flat. Even if Mary’s body had been taken care of and the place had been cleaned, thanks to Greg’s team, he couldn’t bring himself to go back. That’s when Sherlock, without thinking, offered him his old room at Baker Street. John had been reluctant for a variety of reasons. He didn’t want to be a burden, especially to Mrs. Hudson. Also, it simply seemed wrong, after everything that happened. Sherlock’s betrayal, his attempt for redemption, risking his life all over again… almost losing him a second time. John didn’t know if he could take it. But after it had been pointed out that it was the most convenient option, and Greg had offered to help him get his stuff and move — temporarily, John insisted — to Baker Street in the middle of the night, John had eventually agreed.

Mycroft was relieved that everyone (who wasn’t Mary) was alive, everything seemed to work out, and they were finally able to rest. Or so he thought. Sherlock still hadn’t left his side and returned to his own room.

“Sherlock, I don’t think you’ll have a well-rested sleep if you stay in that chair.”, Mycroft pointed out with a yawn.

“I don’t mind.”, Sherlock made no attempts to move, his gaze fixed on the floor.

Mycroft carefully lifted himself into a half-sitting position, not without hassle. “What’s on your mind, brother dear?”

Sherlock shrugged. Mycroft inspected him carefully. His eyes were puffy and red, probably from crying. And he was holding onto something in his hand, but Mycroft couldn’t make out what it was.

“I’m here. I’m alive.”, he tried reassuring him.

“But you almost weren’t.”, Sherlock shot back absentmindedly.

“Come here.”, Mycroft gently pulled him out of his thoughts.

When Sherlock looked up, his brother had made some space for him on his bed. Sherlock eyed the space warily. Mycroft, however, didn’t take his eyes off his little brother, insisting with a warmth Sherlock hadn’t expected. Eventually and not without some struggle and pain, he hauled himself over to sit on the edge of Mycroft’s bed. Much to his surprise, Mycroft didn’t say anything further; instead, he leaned forward and took him into his arms. Sherlock adjusted himself so that he could wrap his arms around his brother as well. It was a weird angle, and they both felt the pain all over their body, but neither of them cared. It was the first time in forever that they got to share such an intimate moment. Then, Mycroft started to gently stroke through Sherlock’s hair, just like he had done all those years ago when they were little boys. It was his way of comforting his little brother, and it had always worked. Even now, Sherlock felt some sort of relief rush through his body.

“I’m sorry.”, Sherlock whispered into his brother’s neck. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Mycroft moved back to glance at him. “Stop it.”, he said sternly. “You made a mistake… but so have I. That we’re here, though, is no one’s fault but hers. Do you understand?”

Sherlock held his gaze momentarily, letting the words sink in, then he gave him a small nod.

“Good.”, Mycroft replied with a soft smile. “Are you okay, though? Apart from the obvious?”

Sherlock hesitated a moment, then shook his head. He raised his hand and held it out for his brother to see what he had been holding on to. It was a bullet, obviously a fired one, and it still had some blood on it.

“It’s yours.”, Sherlock explained. “They asked if we needed it for evidence. Lestrade let me take it.”, he admitted quietly. “Look at it. How small it is. That little piece of scrap almost…”

“Sherlock.”, Mycroft sighed, obviously heartbroken.

“I get it now.”, Sherlock said and put the bullet away into a pocket of his pyjama bottoms. “What you meant when you warned me about Magnussen.”

Mycroft gently resumed the stroking through his brother’s hair.

“And he was right in assuming that John would be my pressure point.” Sherlock lifted his head slightly and stared right into his brother’s glassy eyes. “But so are you, apparently.”

Mycroft couldn’t keep it together any longer and drew him into another hug, which Sherlock didn’t resist in the slightest. Slowly and quietly, the tears started to fall in unison.

“Can I…”, Sherlock eventually asked in between sobs, “Can I sleep here tonight?”

Mycroft slowly pulled back again, to look at his brother, and all he could see was that little ten-year-old boy, sheepishly asking that question almost every night, back when they were younger. Mycroft was seventeen at that time and had told his brother that he needed to learn to sleep on his own since he was soon leaving for university. And yet, Sherlock had asked again and again. Mycroft, without further resistance, had agreed every time.

“I think this bed is a little too small for both of us.”, Mycroft eventually answered with a slight grin, wiping away the last of his tears.

Sherlock’s head dropped, a little disappointed.

“But if you ask nicely, maybe the nurses will roll over your bed to my room.”

And of course, Mycroft couldn’t help himself and agreed this time as well.

Sherlock’s face seemingly lit up, like it always had, all those years ago. He all but jumped into his wheelchair again and started rolling towards the door, while Mycroft’s gaze followed him fondly.

Meanwhile, Greg had successfully dropped the Watsons off at Baker Street with the necessities they had quickly gathered from John’s flat. Of course, Mrs. Hudson had made a fuss at first, but after hearing what happened, she simply took John in her arms and welcomed him home.

Now, he had put his daughter to sleep in a portable playpen in his old room upstairs, while Mrs. Hudson had prepared a cup of tea for both of them. He thankfully took it, as he sat down in his old chair, while Mrs. Hudson took Sherlock’s.

“Funny.” He carefully took his first sip of the hot liquid. “Everything looks exactly how I remember it.”

“Well, that’s because I kept it exactly the way it was.”, Mrs. Hudson declared with a little pride in her sadness. “I couldn’t bring myself to rent it out. Not after I lost both of you. I needed some sort of comfort.”

John frowned at her. “I wasn’t dead, I just moved out.”

“Yes, but you rarely called or visited. It was like you were gone too.”

“I’m sorry.”, John answered remorsefully. “It was only that… I couldn’t bring myself to come here. It was too painful.”

“And you think it wasn’t painful for me? I lost him too, if you remember?”, she replied, possibly a little too harshly.

John took another sip and lowered his eyes. She was right, of course. And while he did feel horrible and sorry, he was too exhausted to fully convey that to her right now.

“But enough of that. Now’s not the time to dwell on past mistakes. You must have a lot more things on your mind than that.”, she offered kindly to drop the topic.

John lifted his eyes at her again, and a slight smile crept up on his lips. The whole thing must’ve looked a little delusional, but maybe he was exactly that. “Strangely enough, I have nothing on my mind right now. It’s empty. Or so full that it feels empty.”

“I don’t know what happened back there, and maybe I don’t want to know. And I know it sounds hard, but you have to focus on the good things. You’re allowed to grieve your wife, but you can not let yourself fall into that hole again like you did last time.”

“Don’t worry, that’s not going to happen. She doesn’t deserve my grief. Not after what she’s done to me.”

“That’s not what I’m concerned about, John.”, she said a little more sternly. “You have a daughter to take care of. I’m always here for you, to help out wherever I can, but you didn’t just lose your wife. That little girl lost her mother, and she doesn’t know any better. She’ll need you more than ever. You have to be present. For her.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”, John offered a little offended.

“Physically, yes, but I’ve seen how bad it was last time. You slowly drifted off to who knows where. You were barely approachable back then. And the drinking, John, you can’t do that this time.”

“I won’t, alright?”, he snapped. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Well, Sherlock’s a genius and even he is an idiot sometimes, so…”

“He’s the biggest of idiots if you’re asking me. After the stunt, he pulled tonight.”

“How is he anyway?”

“Alive. Barely, but he’s alive.”

“That’s all that counts, right?”

John gave her a short nod. It was all he had wished for a few years ago. Just one more miracle, for Sherlock to not be dead. And now he had it all, Sherlock was not dead. But it wasn’t how he had imagined it to be. During his years of absence, he had hoped for a sign, anything really. To give him hope, to prepare him, if he really was to come back. There had been nothing but that one night. The night of the first anniversary of Sherlock’s supposed death. It had been the worst night of his life, and he almost made the worst mistake of his life. But there had been one thing that saved him, one thing that gave him that tiny shred of hope he needed to survive. One person and one person only could have given it to him. And he had.

But all that didn’t make up for how he felt right now. Empty, used, betrayed and not only by Sherlock. After everything he went through, he was left a single father, with a dead wife, who wasn’t who he believed she was, no home and a lunatic ex-best friend, who came back from the dead, begging for his forgiveness, only to almost die on him again. Twice. In one night.

John Watson allowed himself to drown in self-pity. Just for tonight. After careful consideration, not even being a soldier in an active war had been this troubling. It seemed like child’s play in comparison to his life as it was right now. Whatever else there was to feel, to think of, to care for. It had to wait until morning. Which was only a few hours away. And a few hours of sleep did seem very sweet.

“What’s on your mind?”, Mycroft asked quietly into the dark.

Sherlock’s bed had indeed been moved over, and Sherlock had also insisted that it had to be placed directly beside Mycroft’s, no space in between. Mycroft had first thought it to be a bit overbearing, but giving it a second thought, he found it rather… comforting. After everything was settled, they had tried to go to sleep, but Mycroft sensed something was still keeping his brother awake.

“What do I have to do so he stops being angry with me?”, Sherlock eventually shared his thoughts.

“Oh Sherlock.”, Mycroft sighed with a softness in his voice, Sherlock hadn’t heard in a long time. His heart shattered at the thought of his brother’s pain. “He needs time. And you need to be patient.”

“That’s not my forte.”

“I, of all people, know that, but you’ll have to be. You can not force him to forgive you.”

“But I did everything. I saved his life, I kept apologising over and over again, I tried keeping a distance, I tried involving him, I even tried to take Mary’s case after I realised something was up with her. I tried to save their marriage before it was even cracking. Now I offered him a place to stay, and he would barely take the offer. What else do I have to do?”

Mycroft thought about it for a moment. Then he reached for his brother’s hand.

“Maybe that’s the point.”, he offered. “You’ve done everything. Now it’s his turn to do something. He has to make a decision. But to come to a decision, he needs to work through everything, and that will take time. He’s not like us in that way.”

“How did you and Lestrade do it then?”

“Pardon me?” Mycroft was left a little perplexed by the underlying suggestion, but he knew his brother wouldn’t be that observant.

“I mean, you’ve shut him out, but he seemed to have forgiven you very easily.”

“You do realise, those are two vastly different situations? You and John have a completely different history from Greg and me. Also, Lestrade didn’t recently lose his wife, and his entire marriage didn’t turn out to be built on lies. And while I did shut him out… he always had the security of knowing… I was alive.”

Sherlock couldn’t respond to that. As always, his brother was right. Of course, John was devastated, and of course, he wouldn’t be thinking about forgiving him anytime soon. If anything, he would be grieving his wife, his marriage, and his daughter losing her mother. And here he was, being selfish all over again.

“I know, this isn’t how you imagined things to be after your return.”, Mycroft whispered. “And I know it will take some time, but everything will be alright again.”

“Promise me?”, Sherlock whispered back.

Mycroft gently squeezed his hand. “I promise you.”

Mycroft rarely promised anything, least of all things he wasn’t in control of. And he certainly wasn’t in control of the situation between Sherlock and John. And yet he had promised. Even if it was simply an attempt to give his little brother hope, it had worked.

Chapter Text

Mycroft woke from a restless sleep the next morning. Too many nightmares had been haunting him. Old ones, he carried since he was a child, newer ones, gained throughout the years and his latest addition, which was given to him only a few hours ago. But the soft snoring that woke him gave him a little peace of mind. His brother was safe. The fact was confirmed as soon as he opened his eyes and saw Sherlock still sound asleep right next to him. A smile crept up on Mycroft’s lips as he watched his brother’s chest rise and fall evenly. It was a rare occasion he got to see him so peaceful. As he lay there on his side, facing his brother, he eventually noticed another sound coming from behind him. Laptop keyboard, someone writing, familiar clicking sounds… Anthea. Mycroft slowly rolled over on his back, not without being painfully reminded that his body wasn’t fully functional. Once he was settled, he looked over and saw his assistant smiling at him.

“You’re awake. Good.”, was all she said to greet him.

“Good morning to you too, good to see you.”, Mycroft answered a little warily.

She returned her focus back to her laptop, finished the sentence she had been writing and closed it with a little too much force.

“You’re angry with me.”, Mycroft concluded.

Anthea clasped her hands together, rested them on her laptop and returned her gaze to her boss. “I’m angry with a lot of people. But you are one of them, yes.”

“Care to tell me why?”, he raised a brow at her.

“You’re the smart one. Figure it out.”, she replied, crossed her arms and waited.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at her, looking her up and down. Same clothes as yesterday, make-up a little smeared, hair in a neat ponytail, but not as brushed as usual. Dark circles below her eyes and chipped nail polish. Anthea would never leave her home in such a state.

“You’ve been here all night.” It wasn’t a question; it was so obvious, Mycroft was almost ashamed it took him so long. “You’ve been concerned about me. You’re furious at me because I didn’t respond to your last query about my location. You had to track me down, only to find me here. You’ve been infuriated with the hospital staff because they didn’t let you see me right away, though the reason is unbeknownst to me, as you maintain the highest authorisation status regarding my persona. Someone informed you about recent events, but seeing as it was neither me nor my brother and Dr. Watson clearly wouldn’t have been in the right mental state, it had to be Gr… I mean… Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

Anthea shot him an almost proudly triumphant expression. “So, at least you’re brain’s working, even if a bit slow, but I’ll write it off to the drugs.”

“How kind of you.”, Mycroft replied sarcastically and pulled himself to sit up.

“He found me in the hall on his way out. I was… having a… discussion… with one of the nurses, since no one would tell me a thing. I showed them several IDs, clearance certifications and whatnot, only to hear the same response over and over. Their system was malfunctioning, and they didn’t have paper copies of every patient's contact info. Or they were too lazy to get it from the archives. And since I couldn’t prove that I was immediate family, I was condemned to wait it out. Lestrade was kind enough to release the nurse and fill me in. Also, I know you call him Greg, by the way.”

In all his years working with her, he had never seen Anthea so distraught. She never shouted, she never cried. She was always calm, collected and very charming. He couldn’t even imagine her shouting at a nurse, of all people. But he didn’t doubt her. He never doubted her. She was one of the only people he knew who would never lie to him. And in return, he had never lied to her. Not once. It was a mutual trust unmatched. So, of course, it should have been obvious that she’d be worried about him, and yet he was surprised at the extent. Or rather, the way it had shown.

“My apologies.”, he offered gently. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

Anthea took in a deep breath upon hearing those words. It was a rare occasion for Mycroft Holmes to apologise… and truly mean it. She gave him a small nod in response. “How are you feeling then?”

“I’ve been better. But nothing I can’t handle.”

“Sure.”, she responded sarcastically. You almost died, you idiot, is what she didn’t say. “Your brother?”

“Physically alive. Not sure about his mental state, though. It’s been a lot lately.”

“I know. I assume Dr. Watson’s state is even worse? He’s not been looking well, earlier.”

“He wasn’t physically hurt, but the emotional turmoil was quite… excessive. But he’s been brought to Baker Street. Hopefully, that keeps him from falling apart momentarily. Did you by any chance—”

“Complete the research on Ms. Morstan? What do you think? I may have been a little beside myself, but I’m not a slob.”

“I never doubted that.” Mycroft shot her a proud grin. “So?”

Anthea opened up her laptop again to search for the files on the subject. “I have been in contact with Sal-, I mean, Sergeant Donovan, about the matter. Lestrade told me she had the lead on the case. So far, there has been no evidence found on the property, but I’ve done some research digitally and contacted Interpol. Her real name is Rosamund Mary Smith. Born August 23rd 1971, in Columbia, South Carolina. Her parents died due to a car accident when she was five years old. She was placed in an orphan home and went through the foster system, as there were no other relatives alive. She moved to New York when she was sixteen and started working as a contractor for various jobs. Traces are lost here and there, as she started changing her identity by the age of eighteen. She moved places and names several times, but nothing of relevance, until six years ago. She must’ve returned to her legal name and joined a team of agents prior. It was a freelance group going by the acronym AGRA.”

“AGRA…? I remember them. They worked for us, until the… Tbilisi incident. They were the reason we stopped using freelance agents.”, Mycroft concluded.

“On your authority.”, Anthea added.

“She was part of that group?”

“Yes. She was presumed dead, as were the other members. But apparently, she survived and, some while prior to meeting Dr. Watson, obtained the name Mary Elizabeth Morstan.”

“I didn’t know.”, Mycroft whispered to himself, more than to anyone in particular. It was a revelation he wasn’t proud of. Usually, he was meticulous in every way possible, especially when it came to the safety of his brother and, in extension, his acquaintances, or well… friends. But he had missed a crucial piece of information, and he could not repair his mistake. Not this time.

“If I had known…”, he whispered again.

“What would you have done? Killed her on the spot?” Sherlock’s voice rose beside him.

Both Anthea and Mycroft turned their heads to the younger Holmes. They didn’t know how long he had been awake, or how long he had listened. But Mycroft decided it didn’t matter. He would have given him the information anyway if he had asked for it.

“You did everything you could, Mycroft. It’s not your fault things went this way.”

“I could have prevented it if I had been more thorough. But I was too occupied with…”

“Me?”, Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer.

Mycroft gave him an apologetic look before averting his gaze completely. It was true, he could have done something to prevent John from meeting Mary. He could have made her disappear. Not killed, obviously, but placed her on the other side of the planet, if he so wanted it. But he didn’t. Because he didn’t see. He could run the entire British nation and several secret agencies with ease. But navigating his brother through dismantling Moriarty’s network, with minimal contact, frequent loss of track and an ever-changing plan… that had worn him out. Even Mycroft Holmes had days on which he reached his boundaries. Little sleep, constant worry, and an ever-annoying Prime Minister didn’t help during that time.

Anthea placed a gentle hand on Mycroft’s arm. “You know, I’ve been there. I’ve seen you. You’ve outdone yourself several times. But even you tend to be…”

“Flawed?”, Mycroft offered.

“Human.”, Sherlock finished.

A sudden knock on the door interrupted them, much to everyone’s liking, before they could spill any more sentiment. As soon as it opened, Mycroft’s lips curled into one of the biggest smiles Anthea had ever witnessed on him.

“Hope I’m not intruding.”, Greg’s voice joyfully filled the room.

“You’re not. Come on in.”, Mycroft answered a little too fast for his own liking.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes on him, obviously intrigued by the sudden shift in his brother’s demeanour.

“Glad to hear that. Morning, everyone.”, he gleefully greeted the others and walked over to stand beside Anthea. “Brought you some treats.”, he added and placed a paper bag that smelled deliciously sweet on Mycroft’s lap. Then he handed each Mycroft and Anthea a paper cup, still hot in their hands. “Don’t worry, Anthea, Mycroft’s is decaf, like promised.”

“Oh, I don’t care anymore, as long as mine’s not.”, she answered with a mischievous grin.

Mycroft simply rolled his eyes and took a sip. Even if it was decaf, it tasted delicious. A spoonful of sugar and a splash of milk. Exactly how he preferred it.

“What about me?”, Sherlock intervened, offended and got himself into a sitting position.

“Oh, I didn’t forget you, don’t worry. Just didn’t know you changed rooms last night.”

“What has that to do with-“, Sherlock started, but was abruptly shut up when another visitor entered the room.

“Well, could have spared me a trip down the hall.”, John greeted him with a half-smile.

Sherlock didn’t dare to move or take his eyes off of him when John walked over to him and placed another paper bag and an identical paper cup on his lap. “Hope that suffices.”

“Thank you.”, Sherlock answered, taking the cup, without breaking eye contact.

For a moment, no one dared to say anything. Too fragile the atmosphere. Being around someone whose life was ripped apart just mere hours ago would make anyone feel uneasy. But especially the people who had to witness everything, or worse… were a part of it.

“I think I could use some fresh air.”, Mycroft announced, finally cutting the suffocating silence. “Greg, would you be so kind as to help me into the wheelchair? And Anthea… you should go home. Get some rest. You need it.”

“That’s a very kind way of telling me I look like shit.”, she laughed.

“You look wonderful, like always, but also… very tired.”, Greg chimed in while preparing the wheelchair.

It hadn’t taken them less than ten minutes to get ready and be gone. John had taken a chair from the other side of the room and placed it beside Sherlock’s bed. A couple of minutes had passed in silence before Sherlock dared to speak again.

“How are you?”, he asked carefully, nibbling on one of the pastries John had brought.

“Shit.”, John answered without hesitation. “Utterly shit. Never been worse would be a lie, but it’s a close one.”

Sherlock agreed with a hum.

“How are you?”, he asked in return.

“Well, apart from this…” Sherlock vaguely gestured around his chest. “I’m okay… I think.”

John acknowledged his answer with a nod.

“How did Mrs. Hudson take the news of your return to Baker Street?”

“Better than expected. She’s watching Rosie while I’m gone. Think that helps. Both of us. But she knows it’s only temporary.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”, Sherlock said and immediately turned his focus on his pastry instead of John. The latter only raised a brow in confusion.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”, Sherlock added quickly. “It’s been your home, too. And it would be understandable not to go back to… your flat.”

“Would it, though? Because as I see it, it looks like as soon as my wife’s dead, I’m already moving in with my…” He had to stop himself. Once again, he was on the brink of saying things he would regret. And if he didn’t get more sleep soon, one of these days, he’d be slipping up.

“With you again.”, he answered instead. “Might look a bit suspicious or desperate to other people.”

“Why do you care about what other people might think. It’s futile.”

“It’s not only that… It’s… complicated.”

“Try me. I’ve been raised by ‘complicated’.”

John took a deep breath, his hands steady on his own cup of coffee. He was afraid that if he let go, his tremor would show again. He had seen it this morning, and he most definitely didn’t want to deal with it now. Especially not in front of Sherlock. He opted for: “I’m still pissed at you.”

“I don’t know how to change that.”

“You can’t, I have to. But I can’t forgive you like nothing happened, especially not after last night.”

“I wanted to help.”, Sherlock said desperately. “I didn’t know…”

“It would blow up in your face? Like, usually when you try to help? Sorry, that was unnecessary.” John stopped himself immediately and scrunched his nose momentarily. “I know you meant well, in your own way. But what you did was unbelievably stupid. You could have died. Actually died.”

“I didn’t know she was there with Magnussen.”

“I’m not talking about Magnussen!”, John almost shouted. “That was incredibly stupid, too, but at least it would have only been partially your fault. I’m talking about you, running loose, as soon as you were out of surgery, of which I still don’t know how you did it. I think I’d rather not know anyway. But that was the most idiotic thing you could have done. Why didn’t you tell me first? Or Mycroft? Or Greg? Why did you have to go there, all by yourself, hurt, unarmed, without a word? Why, Sherlock?”

“I thought that by offering her my help prior to you discovering she had a secret, I could mend things before they would escalate. I didn’t think you’d show up there so soon.”

“Well, I think you magnificently miscalculated the situation.”

Sherlock didn’t respond other than by swallowing the last bit of his pastry.

“Look, after you were shot at Magnussen’s office, I talked to Janine and later to Mycroft. Then I received a weird call from Mary. A lot of things started to add up. Something was wrong about her.” John sighed heavily. “My first instinct was to talk to you, and I hadn’t had that thought in a long time. But before I even had the chance, you were already gone.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply. Once again, he had royally fucked up. Nothing he did was right, nothing good enough. Maybe Mycroft was right. Okay, Mycroft was always right, but he would never admit that to his face. Maybe he did have to step back and wait. But he hated waiting. It was dull and boring and hardly ever satisfying. Except for stakeouts. These were the only times he could accept waiting. Observing, testing a theory, waiting for the trap to snap shut. Maybe this was his only way of dealing with this situation as well: Observing John, testing his state of mind every now and then, waiting for him to act. Yes, this would be the only way. This and… being honest.

“John, I am sorry, truly sorry, for what happened last night. For what happened before. For the three years and for… leaving you. I know, it makes in no way up for your pain and your loss, but please believe me, when I tell you… I never meant to hurt you.”

Sherlock had his eyes firmly fixed on John’s. The latter had to collect his thoughts before he was able to answer.

“Thank you.”, he sighed, a little relieved. It was the first time since Sherlock had been back that he truly believed his apology. That he truly believed, Sherlock meant what he said.

“I’d like to propose something.”, Sherlock offered at once.

John raised his brows.

“I’d like for you and your daughter to stay at Baker Street. For as long as you feel comfortable, of course. I promise, there will be no experiments in the flat anymore, no body parts in the fridge, no chemicals, no explosions, nothing. If I’m correct, her safety, security and well-being are your highest priority, right?”

“Obviously.”, John half-laughed.

“Then I’ll childproof everything.”

“You don’t have to— “

“I want to.”, Sherlock cut him off. “I want to make things right this time. No sketchy people, no clients, no weird cases.”

“Sherlock, I-“

“No, John. I mean it.”

“I know you do. But please… be realistic. You without clients, or cases or a little bit of danger, are like a sitting time bomb.”

Sherlock still held his gaze, but now pressed his lips together into a thin line. John thought about his proposal, though. It would solve at least one problem: He didn’t have to go back to his flat. And it was convenient to have Mrs. Hudson around, so he didn’t have to deal with a baby and Sherlock on his own. Perhaps it would also help them repair what little is left of their friendship.

“How about this?”, John counter-offered, eventually. “Once you’re fully healed, you can have clients, but not with Rosie present. No dangerous stuff around the flat. You can take cases. But there are three things I will absolutely not tolerate.”

John leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. His eyes darkened a little bit as his face got more serious than it had already been.

“Go on.”, Sherlock encouraged him.

“Absolutely no drugs. None whatsoever, not even cigarettes.”

“Nicotine patches?”, Sherlock tried to bargain already.

“Fine.”, John agreed, since it was the easiest of his rules and he wouldn’t compromise on the others.

“What else?”

“No lying. I mean it, Sherlock. I’ve had enough. You can’t lie to me, you can’t hide things from me, you can’t withhold important information from me. Not anymore. You’ve lost that privilege the second you stepped off that… roof. And I’ve had enough lying and deception for a lifetime.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “I’ll try.”

“That’s not good enough.”, John snapped.

Sherlock flinched ever so slightly at the sudden increase in volume. “I promise.”, he changed his answer. “What’s the last one?”

John took another deep breath. “You can’t die.”

“John, even if you believe me not to be, I am still human. I will die someday.”

“Yes, when you’re old and grey and preferably after me. Because Sherlock, I swear to god… I can’t take your death a second time. It’ll destroy me, and I can’t let that happen… not anymore. I have a daughter, I can’t fall apart. So, you can’t die. Not in the near future anyway. You can’t risk your life as if it has no worth. Not anymore.”

John’s demands were pretty simple, looked at soberly. Clear and straightforward. Elementary even. But they conveyed more about his thoughts than Sherlock had imagined to receive. He was obviously agreeing to the temporary living arrangements, but he was also agreeing to live with him, not just at his flat. His demands, especially the last one, also revealed that after everything that happened, even after last night… John still cared.

“Okay.”, he said. “No dying.”

John had conferred a value onto Sherlock’s life, but it was a currency he did not know how to spend. But he was determined to find a way. Determined to repay him, make up for lost time, make up for lost lives. Even if it took him years… he would find a way.

For John Watson.

Chapter Text

“So, did you sleep at all?", Greg asked. He had taken the courtesy of rolling Mycroft around in his wheelchair. They had successfully accompanied Anthea outside and even went for a short walk before it got too cold.

“Not much, to be honest.”, Mycroft answered. After that, they had found a place in a less frequented sitting area back inside. Greg had parked the wheelchair right beside the seat, he had taken afterwards.

“How’s your pain level right now?”

“Manageable. How was the rest of your night?”

“Well…”, Greg almost laughed. “There was not a lot left after I dropped John off. I think it was about four or so when I finally got home. I was so bloody exhausted, I fell asleep right away. But it wasn’t a very restful sleep. Nightmares and such.”

Mycroft sheepishly turned his gaze towards the window in front of them. “My apologies. When I asked you to come along, I didn’t anticipate… well, anything that happened actually.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault. And I’d rather be with you than hear about your near-death experience the day after. I’m glad you asked me to come along, even if it was the worst night of my life.”

Greg gently took Mycroft’s hand into his own. Mycroft’s eyes shifted their focus to that new sensation. It was the second time they were holding hands now, not that anyone was keeping count. After careful consideration, Mycroft decided to take it a step further and intertwined their fingers. He looked over at Greg to seek approval. It was given in the form of a simple smile.

“What were your nightmares about?”, he eventually picked up on their conversation again.

Greg ran his free hand through his hair before he answered. “Usually, I only get them when something really bad happens. A case gone wrong or something like that. Or when your brother died. I think you can guess what it was about last night.”

Mycroft softly squeezed his hand, and it was answer enough. Almost losing someone dear to oneself is a life-altering experience. And they both were obviously very dear to each other, and yet they hadn’t really talked about their situation. They were getting closer, right before hell broke loose yesterday. But maybe they didn’t have to talk about it. Not right now anyway. Being close to each other, knowing they were alive, holding hands… it was enough for now. Reassuring. Grounding in a way. It felt good to know someone was there. Mycroft hadn’t imagined he would ever feel that way again. And neither had Greg.

“You never gave me an answer.”, Mycroft suddenly remembered.

Greg gave him a confused look. “To what question?”

“How I helped you get over your divorce?”, Mycroft referred to their conversation last night, before he got that dreadful phone call.

Greg let out a quick laugh. “You haven’t forgotten that, have you?”

“Well, I have a remarkable memory. I don’t tend to ‘forget’ things.”, he answered with a sly grin.

Greg scratched his beard, thinking of how to answer that question. “See, this may sound weird without context, so I’ll give you this: After Sherlock deduced that my ex was still cheating on me, even though we tried to reconcile, couples therapy and everything… I just didn’t know what to do. We had been together for so long, and believe it or not, we were happy once. Truly happy. But over the years, she started to complain about my job. It was too dangerous, too time-consuming. We could never make plans when I was on call. She even blamed me for the fact that she started cheating because I didn’t have enough time for her. And that hit so damn hard because I did everything for her. I tried to change hours, switch shifts, you name it. But it was never enough. I wasn’t enough. And I love my job, I love what I’m doing, even if the paperwork gets tedious sometimes, and even if Sherlock has tested my patience so very often, I still love it. I couldn’t give it up just like that, especially when she never compromised.”

“It seems like there was a disequilibrium in your marriage.”

“Indeed. It still took a long time until I finally got the divorce papers. Took me even longer to sign them. But I did, in the end.”

“I think I remember that day.”, Mycroft said with a frown. “You came to my office and complained about my brother and some case he was messing with again. Henderson, I think?”

Greg stared at him in disbelief. “It was that day, and that case, but I never mentioned anything?”

“Oh come on, how long have you known me?”, Mycroft smiled triumphantly. “I’m very observant. You were more irritable than usual, you talked way too much about an ongoing love triangle in one of your departments and how love ruins everything. Very much unlike you. Also… it was the first time you didn’t wear your wedding band.”

Greg smiled at him in awe. Of course, he had to be bloody obvious.

“True. And as freeing as it felt, it made everything so much worse. I felt so worthless at that time, so unwanted, so… empty.”

“You were understandably depressed. You lost what you thought was the love of your life. Believe it or not, but… I know that feeling.”

Greg stared at him wide-eyed. Mycroft Holmes was a lot of things, but a romantically entangled person was not one of them. Since they had met, Greg had never suspected any sort of involvement on Mycroft’s part. The man was married to his work, much like his brother.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. It was long before we met. But you weren’t finished. I want to hear the rest of your story.”, Mycroft teased.

Greg tried to compose himself again. “After a while, I thought that would be my life from then on. Grey and empty. Work, eat, sleep, repeat. But then things changed. You started to call me to your office more frequently, to check up on your brother. Now that I think of it, it may have been intentional. You even started to invite me to dinner, at least twice a month. And most of all… you listened to me. Actually listened. And you made me laugh when I thought I could never laugh again.”

“I noticed your distress, but it may have also been a bit of a selfish action. I never felt particularly lonely, but I did find that time spent with you was more… fulfilling.”

“Was it now, huh? Well, then it was a win for both of us.”

“It was indeed.”, Mycroft replied and let his eyes wander back to their joined hands in his lap.

“You know…”, Greg started. “Somewhere along those dinners… I think that’s when I… fell for you.”

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to stare at him in surprise.

“That was when I knew, even if the chances of you liking me back were zero, I had moved on from my failed marriage. That’s how I knew I was over my divorce. And you were the reason for it. So… thank you.”

Mycroft’s mouth fell agape at the revelation. The meetings and dinners were on purpose; they were supposed to help, and he did enjoy them. But that there was even more to it… well, he hadn’t expected that.

“I always thought you didn’t ‘do’ relationships. So I never said anything, never made a move.”

“You’re right, I didn’t.” Mycroft agreed, a hint of sadness in his voice. “Not since I let it almost ruin me, once.”

Mycroft turned his head back to glance out the window again. Fixing his gaze on something far, far in the distance.

“I’m not asking, but if you wanted to talk about it… I’m listening.” Greg made sure Mycroft had the option to change the topic right away, even if he was dying to learn more about his past. He waited patiently, but Mycroft seemed to have drifted away. He was about to give up and say something himself when Mycroft let out the smallest sigh.

“I was twenty-one when it happened. Most people would say, I was a late bloomer, but before that age, I didn’t have the time to even think about… romantic entanglements. I was in my last semester at Cambridge, just finishing up my second degree. The first had been Social and Political Sciences, and that one was going to be Law and Economics. In one of my courses, we were supposed to partner up for an assignment. Naturally, I preferred to study on my own, and I did most of my previous projects alone. But that particular professor insisted on pairs. So, she placed me with the only person left. His name was James and he was two years older than me. To my surprise, working with him wasn’t as unproductive as expected. Still slow, but not as tedious. We spent progressively more time together, even outside of our assignment. I started to… like him. We could talk for hours without it getting boring. One day, he took me out for dinner, which wasn’t unusual per se, but it was… an expensive restaurant. One, I would have chosen for myself because I knew I could afford it, but he obviously tried to impress me.”

“He took you out on a date and you didn’t realise it?”, Greg grinned at him.

“Well, I might have excelled at everything else, but romance was not present in my repertoire. It went well, mostly. During desert though… he kissed me, which was very… unexpected.”

“Because he was a man or because you’ve been blind to his advances?”

“Please.”, Mycroft jokingly rolled his eyes. “The latter, obviously. I didn’t know what to do, what to think, what to say. He thought he made a mistake, but… I quite liked it. I wanted him to do it again. So he did. One thing led to another, and three weeks later… I had a boyfriend.”

“Three weeks, huh? Lucky bastard.”, Greg laughed.

Mycroft gently squeezed his hand before continuing. “I did have my concerns, though. My path was pretty clear: Getting my degree, taking up a previous job offer at White Hall, and working my way up from there. There was little room for personal matters, and his plans were mostly seeing where life would take him. I think in hindsight, it was doomed to fail.”

“But you were in love.”

“I'm afraid so. It blinded me in every way possible. I overlooked it when he started making remarks about my lack of a social life. I endured his obnoxious friends, and I even tolerated that he never referred to me as his boyfriend or partner. I was always merely his friend to others. Intimacy in public had been kept to a minimum anyway, on my request. It had always made me feel uncomfortable laying my heart out in the open, for everyone to see.”

Greg thought about loosening his grip or even letting go of Mycroft’s hand entirely, but the latter shook his head with half a smile.

“Don’t even think about it. This… is different.”, he finished with a stern look.

Greg’s lips curled into the tiniest of smiles, and if he started to blush, Mycroft didn’t mention it.

“One day, we talked about moving in together. He insisted on two bedrooms, saying we could 'use a guest room'. I knew he wanted to hide the fact that we’d share a room. I’m the smart one, always have been. But then, I had been an utter idiot. I agreed, of course, because I told myself he would come around at some point. I wanted him to have all the time he needed. I cared. It all went downhill from there. About a year in, he had some of his friends over, like he often used to. I had been working in ‘my room’, while they were in the living room. When I got myself a snack from the kitchen, I overheard them talking about me. They said how weird it was for us to live together since we were both doing rather well financially, and I didn’t seem to be the type you’d want to be friends with anyway. You know what James’ reply was?”

“Nothing good, I assume.”

“He’s alright, he said. Alright. That’s all he had to say about me. But as irritating as his friends were, they weren’t complete idiots. They started to get suspicious and asked him all sorts of questions, leading to the biggest one: Was he gay, and were we in a relationship?”

“Let me guess, he denied both.”

“Indeed. I remember it vividly: Brian, one of his worst friends, asked if I was. Before James could say anything, I stepped out of the kitchen and confirmed it. I could see the colour rush out of James’ face. He knew, I knew, what he had said. Brian noticed something was off and started confronting James, asking him why he would willingly live with a… well, he used words I do not wish to repeat. James struggled for words, but with not one did he defend me. He left me out in the open… and Brian took it upon himself to… attack me. Verbally and physically.”

“And let me guess again, that arsehole of a boyfriend did nothing.”

“It was the first and the last time I had let myself be vulnerable. I hated being powerless, helpless, defenceless. That night, I packed my things and left without another word. I drove to my parents' house. Sherlock was thankfully asleep when I arrived, but Mummy was furious.”

“Not with you, I hope?”

“No, of course not. She was ready to drive all the way back to London to make him regret ever daring to breathe the same air as me. But I convinced her not to. Told her that he wasn’t worth it. I tried to hide what happened from my little brother; he was 14 at the time, mind you. But you know Sherlock. He figured it out at breakfast the next day. Thankfully, he didn’t further question me. About a week later, James turned up at my parents', asking if I was hiding there. I was indeed hiding, but not from him. I couldn’t go to work with all the bruises. But that was the least of his concerns. Sherlock had opened the door, and when he realised who it was, he instantly called for our mother. He knew nothing he could deduce about James would be as humiliating as our mother shaming him, for what he had done to me and what he had let happen to me. And shame him, she did. He kept begging to see me, to talk to me, and to have a chance to apologise, but Mummy wouldn’t let him. Sherlock had made sure to lure me out of my room, so I could listen to everything from upstairs. It was one of the kindest things he ever did for me.”

“Sherlock and kind in one sentence? That’s almost like a miracle.”

“He wasn’t always the way he used to be when you first met him. I wasn’t always the way I am. But one thing Sherlock always has been: mischievous. A few months later, I had long returned to London and to work, Sherlock told me he had a surprise for me, and I should make sure to read the newspaper the next day. I would have read it anyway, but I almost burst out laughing when I read one of the headlines stating that James got miraculously arrested for suspected credit card fraud, document forgery and identity theft.”

“No way!”, Greg laughed. “And you let him rot in prison?”

“No, of course not.”, Mycroft rolled his eyes, grinning. “But those were a blissful three weeks, though.”

“Three weeks?”

“Well, I told Sherlock he had to clear his name. I didn’t tell him when he had to do it.”

“I know, as a police officer, I shouldn’t say this, but that bastard deserved it. And you deserved so much better.”, Greg said and gently squeezed his hand again. “Mycroft, I’m sorry this happened to you.”

Mycroft shook his head immediately. “Don’t be. It was a long time ago, and I don’t like to be pitied.”

Greg mustered him for a moment before asking a very delicate question that had been burning inside him. “Have you ever been in a relationship after that?”

Mycroft hesitated with his answer. He knew Greg wouldn’t like it. “Yes.”, he eventually said. “But never again out of love. They were strictly relationships out of… necessity. But not the way you think. They brought me valuable intel on certain people of interest. Or people they were connected with.”

“Mycroft… that’s-“

“Wrong, I know.”

“I was about to say… sad. It was wrong, too, yes, but I’m not going to question your motives anymore. I gave up on that a long time ago, much like with your brother. That you never found love again, that’s just sad.”

“Well, I never felt like I lacked anything. I had my work and my brother to worry about. That was plenty. Also… I knew I couldn’t risk falling for someone like that again. Or worse, for someone who would put my position in the government at risk. But mostly, I couldn’t ever let myself be fooled again. Hurt again. I never wanted to feel… powerless again.”

“That’s why you became the most powerful man in the country?”, Greg teased.

Mycroft jokingly rolled his eyes. “Please, how many times do I have to tell you that I occupy-“

“A minor position in the ministry of transport, yes, yes, I know.”, Greg cut him short. “That’s what you tell people, but we both know that’s only your official title. It’s not even half of what you really do, is it?”

“Even if I wanted, I’m not allowed to say.”

“How convenient.”

Mycroft gave him a mischievous grin.

“So… you never fell in love again, right?”, Greg picked up on the more interesting topic.

“And you’d never want to be in a relationship, a real one, ever again?”, he asked with a little disappointment in his voice.

Mycroft’s face immediately shifted from triumphant to heartbroken. That was not the message he wanted to convey. But what did he want, then? This suddenly felt like a turning point in his life. He had to make a decision that would affect both their lives.

Mycroft Holmes didn’t believe in fate, or coincidences, or soulmates. But if he did, he’d believe Greg entering his life, all those years ago, had been fate. And all the little things he did for his brother and himself were signals of the universe. And all the little things that had led up to him liking Greg were signs of how well they fit together. But Mycroft didn’t believe that. Mycroft was a man of logic and science. He knew love was a chemical defect, messing with his head. Messing with his heart. He also knew he should be scared. Scared to let himself be vulnerable, scared to risk losing his integrity, scared of losing himself. Or rather, the version of himself he had carefully crafted over the years: Strong, powerful, hardly assailable. Romantic entanglement would make him weak.

But when he looked at the man beside him, with those warm brown eyes, all hopeful, he knew he was done for. No matter how hard he had tried, how high he had built the walls around him, how carefully he had protected his true self. Greg Lestrade had walked right through the barrier as if it hadn’t even been there. Casually and effortlessly, like it was the easiest thing in the world. And he had, without question, taken hold of the shards that were once his heart, and he had slowly and carefully pieced them back together. And it had started beating again… for him.

And that was just that. No matter how much he wanted to deny it, there was only one truth: Mycroft Holmes had fallen in love again. And if last night hadn’t revealed his true feelings, he didn’t know what would.

So, when Greg stared at him, still waiting, Mycroft couldn’t think of a better answer than simply leaning forward, slowly and carefully, giving Greg time to realise what was about to happen. And when the latter did, all the doubt and questions left his body, and instead, he met Mycroft halfway. With both their eyes closed, they came to a halt, their lips only millimetres apart. Savouring the moment, they had both anticipated for so long. And when their lips finally met, it was nothing like what they had imagined it to be. It was not an explosion of emotions, and it didn’t feel like fireworks, like how a first kiss was often described to be. No. It felt more like finally coming home. Finally, finding their missing puzzle piece. It felt just… right. Like it had always meant to be that way.

When they eventually parted, hearts beating fast, faces all flushed and bodies a little shaking, they looked at each other like they were in their own world. No hospital, no people, no worries. Only them.

“Does that answer your questions?”, Mycroft whispered, faces still only barely apart.

“I think so.”, Greg whispered back. “Are you making an exception for me then?”

Mycroft gave him a warm smile. “When I thought I was dead… my last thoughts, before I woke up, were what I wouldn’t give to be with you. How much I regretted not being honest with myself about my feelings for you. All I wanted then was to tell you, to show you, how much I want you. To be with you, to give ‘us’ a try. And I still want that.”

“Well, that’s convenient.”, Greg said with a whimsical smile. Then he leaned forward, raising his hands this time, to cradle Mycroft’s face, before he kissed him again. Mycroft’s hands automatically found their way to mirror Greg’s. They kept kissing like that for several minutes, exploring new sensations, revelling in their finally admitted feelings for each other, until something else caught Mycroft’s attention.

A very distinctive voice was cutting through to him, which made him stop dead in his tracks. A woman arguing with one of the nurses. An extremely familiar voice, he would have picked up on upon thousands. He instantly let go of Greg’s face and turned himself around, as far as his body allowed, to confirm what he already knew.

“Mummy?!”, he exclaimed through the hallway.

Chapter Text

Mycroft valued his personal assistant for a lot of things. Calling his parents and sending a car for them after he nearly died wasn’t one of them. Of course, it was the obvious thing to do. It was considerate, nice even. If you weren’t Mycroft Holmes, that is.

“So?”, his mother asked expectantly.

“So?”, Mycroft shot right back at her.

After the initial confusion on both parts, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had greeted their son. His father with a pat on his back and his mother with one of the longest hugs Mycroft had ever endured. He was secretly pleased to see them, but equally irritated. Eventually, Greg had given up his seat so that the two visitors could sit down. Mycroft asked him to place his wheelchair opposite them, his back facing the big glass front. Greg obliged and was about to give them some privacy when Mycroft held him back and asked him to stay. A little confused, but happy to support, he came to stand beside him.

“Well, what the hell happened to you? And to your brother? And where is he anyway?”, Mrs. Holmes pressed further.

“My assistant hasn’t briefed you then, I assume?”, Mycroft asked as calmly as possible.

“She only said that there was a case of Sherlock’s that went terribly wrong and that both of you got shot.”

“Well, that’s one way of describing it.”, Greg mumbled to himself. Mycroft picked up on it, though and shot him a warning glare.

“It’s your luck, she was able to calm me down and reassure us that you were both alive, or else I would’ve been here last night already.”

“There was no need for that, as you can see.”, Mycroft tried to calm her. “It looks worse than it is, mummy, I can assure you of that.”

Greg turned his head slightly in Mycroft’s direction and raised a doubting brow. Remembering this wasn’t his battle to fight, he refrained from further commentary.

“So, what happened then?”, Mr. Holmes eventually joined in.

Mycroft sighed deeply. “As you were told, there was a case that went wrong. I can not go into detail, as it would reveal classified information, but it wouldn’t be of interest to you anyway. What I can tell you is that… yes, Sherlock and I have both been shot. Yes, we’re both alive, no, the shooter is most definitely not, so no use in getting furious. Sherlock and I are currently sharing a room here, and he’s still in bed.”

“We’ll get back on that case later.”, Mrs. Holmes said, narrowing her eyes on her son. “Can we see him, then?”

“Well, he’s currently got a visitor.”, Mycroft answered a bit hesitantly. “Dr. Watson’s in there.”

“You make it sound like that is a problem?”, Mrs. Holmes asked, her tone indicating that she was not willing to accept that ‘problem’.

Mycroft quickly glanced at Greg, looking for the right words to describe the fragile situation. Greg shot him an apologetic look in lack of an answer.

“Dr. Watson’s wife…”, Mycroft began and clasped his hands together. “She was involved in the shooting as well. She wasn’t so lucky.”

“Oh, good god. That poor man.”, Mrs. Holmes gasped and immediately covered her mouth with her hand. “Don’t they also have a daughter? I think Sherlock mentioned something last time.”, she added.

Mycroft nodded. “She’s fine, though, completely unharmed, wasn’t even near the situation.”

“But that poor girl lost her mother. And John his wife. Oh god, I can’t imagine how cruel that has to be.”, Mrs. Holmes worried further.

Mycroft wasn’t sure if his mother would still say the same if she knew the full truth. But of course, he wouldn’t reveal that to her. If anyone was allowed to do that, it had to be John himself, and Mycroft was confident that the latter was far from comfortable sharing that truth with anyone who hadn’t been there last night.

“I think, maybe it would be time we checked on them anyway.”, Greg chimed in. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to keep them on their own for too long. They’re both not the most stable of people right now.”

Mycroft’s parents both turned their attention to him now.

“Sorry, it seems very rude now.”, Mr. Holmes said with a frown. “But who are you again?”

“This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. He’s the one kind enough to work with Sherlock. I’ve told you about him.”, Mycroft answered on Greg’s behalf.

“Oh, right. I knew I remembered that face.”, Mr. Holmes now said with a slight smile.

“Well, you can just call me Greg. And I was not only working with Sherlock, I’m also friends with him and John. And Mycroft obviously.”

“Really?”, Mrs. Holmes asked, surprised and turned back to her son with furrowed brows as if it was an unfathomable concept that Mycroft had a ‘friend’.

“Yes.”, Mycroft sighed.

Mycroft’s father stood and reached his hand in Greg’s direction. Greg took it thankfully and gave it a firm shake. “Anyway, it’s nice to meet you… Greg. I’m Siger and this is Violet.”, Mr. Holmes said and pointed towards his wife. “Would you be so kind and lead the way to their room? I’ll take the wheelchair.”, he asked so nonchalantly, Greg didn’t even have the time to question the sudden request.

Mycroft’s father waited until his wife and Greg had already walked ahead before he started pushing the chair. When they were out of earshot, he leaned down a little to his son. “You know, you may be able to fool your mother, but you can’t fool me. Not in that regard.”

Mycroft turned his head slightly upwards. “What are you talking about?”

“That Greg. He’s not your friend, is he?”

Mycroft was almost affronted at the assumption, but was too confused to make anything of it. “He is, actually.”

“Oh wait…”, his father laughed. “Let me rephrase it: He’s not just your friend. He’s more than that, isn’t he?”

Mycroft almost choked. “How—“

“Well, while your mother, brother, and you are all about brains, I’m the one thinking with my heart.”

“So it’s your fatherly intuition speaking? I don’t know if that’s a reliable source.”, Mycroft tried to calm himself down.

“I also saw you kissing him, while your mother was arguing with that nurse.”, his father answered with a huge grin.

Mycroft’s eyes widened in surprise. This was not at all how he had imagined this to go. “Father, I—“

“Don’t worry, Mycie. You know your secret’s safe with me. I’ve never snitched on you, have I?”

Mycroft, to his dismay, had to agree. Whenever he had told his father something in confidence, he had kept it to himself. Always. Even, or especially, from his mother.

“I only wanted to tell you, if you found someone in him… I’m happy for you. Truly. And your mother will be too, she will just make… a lot more fuss about it.”

“That’s exactly why I’m not going to tell her anytime soon. What you’ve seen before… that was actually the first time… he and I…”, Mycroft struggled for the right words.

“Oh.”, Mr. Holmes gasped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”, he apologised.

“Well, it’s fine.”, Mycroft waved it off. “I didn’t know either.”, he added with a slight grin.

Upon reaching their destination, Mycroft’s little hint of happiness got slightly dimmed again. John was still there, which made this whole mess unexpectedly complete. When Mycroft and his father entered the room, his mother had already taken in Sherlock for a big hug. She was about to pay her condolences to John when she paused, seemingly remembered something and also went for a hug instead. As surprised as John had initially been, he thankfully took it all in.

“John.”, she said as she pulled back. “I know we barely know each other, but you seem to mean a lot to Sherlock, so… if you ever need anything. Or need any help with your daughter, we’re here for you.”

John momentarily stared at her like she had just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. After his first meeting with Sherlock’s parents, he had already been confused at their ordinariness. But to receive such kind words, when he hadn’t wrapped his head around the situation he was in himself, was hitting him out of nowhere. In lack of a fitting response, he tried for a simple smile and a nod to thank her.

“Oh, and I’ve been thinking.”, she announced on a lighter note, while turning back to the others.

“Only god knows why.”, Sherlock mumbled to himself.

“About Christmas. Wouldn’t it be nice if you both came home this year?”

“I’m not sure what’s supposed to be nice about that?”, he mumbled a bit louder.

“Sherlock, behave.”, John directed at him. “Be grateful you still have parents. And be happy they care about you.”

“And why would I do that?”, Sherlock answered faster than he could think. It felt like second nature to him to make snarky remarks around his family. But seeing as this probably wasn’t good timing, he immediately wanted to take it back.

“Because others aren’t so lucky.”, John remarked with a grim face.

No one dared to respond to that. Sherlock, least of all, the aftermath of recent events still looming over everyone’s heads.

“Well? Are you coming then?”, Mrs. Holmes asked again, this time directed more at her eldest son.

Mycroft shot Sherlock a warning glare before turning to his mother. “We’ll be home for Christmas.”, he answered, his face softer now.

“I thought maybe you could also bring your friends?”, she said and vaguely gestured towards Greg and John. “Maybe even stay for a couple of days? I know it’s still a few weeks, but it may take all of your minds off for a little while.”, she added almost with glee.

Mycroft looked at Greg, silently asking him ‘Would you?’. Greg raised a brow, asking ‘Are you sure?’, to which Mycroft immediately nodded. “I’m free on Christmas.”, he said eventually. “And I have nothing better to do anyway, so…”

“Then you’re more than welcome.”, Mrs. Holmes said with a big smile. “John?”

John thought about it for a moment. His life had been ripped apart only a few hours ago, and Christmas really was the last thing he wanted to think about. It would be the first Christmas as a father. The first Christmas for his daughter. The first Christmas for her without… “Well, I don’t think I have anywhere to be.”, he cut himself out of his thoughts. “But I’m not sure with Rosie and all. I—“

“Oh, don’t worry. She’s not a burden, and I’d love to meet her.”, Mrs. Holmes immediately interrupted. “Maybe we could even take a little load off of your shoulders?”, she offered.

John exchanged a questioning look with Sherlock.

“She’s right, you know?”, Sherlock said. “And maybe it wouldn’t be so tedious for me if you were there with me?”

John hesitated, feeling like everything offered to him was too weird to be real, after everything that happened. But then again, everything that happened had been utterly weird, too. Maybe his life was supposed to be weird. Then he turned to Mrs. Holmes again. “I guess, we’ll come too, then.”

“Oh, how lovely.”, she cheered on. “Siger, remind me to extend the shopping list when we’re home again.”

“Of course, darling.”, her husband answered and jokingly rolled his eyes.

Later that day, Greg had once again offered John a ride home, which the latter accepted thankfully.

“That was bizarre, right?”, John asked after a while.

“What exactly?”, Greg asked in return. “Because there’s been a lot of bizarre things happening lately.”

“Well… their parents are so… unlike them.”

Greg laughed at John’s phrasing. “Nice, you mean? And ordinary? Yes, they are.”

“And that whole Christmas thing?”, John went on.

“Well, I think she really wants to get to know us. Must be very unlikely that their sons have friends. And it was the perfect opportunity, don’t you think?”

“Of course, it’s just… a lot. Everything is just a lot.”

Greg quickly glanced at him. ‘A lot’ probably wasn’t even a strong enough word for everything. Finding out your best friend faked his death, being kidnapped, finding out your wife is not who she told you she was, losing her moments after, fearing to lose your best friend once again, being left a single father with a nine-month-old. That certainly was ‘a lot’.

“Did you and Sherlock talk?”, he asked.

John inhaled sharply. “Yes, and that was also…”

“A lot?”, Greg offered with half a laugh. John agreed with a grumble.

“What did you talk about, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“He offered me to stay at Baker Street. Possibly infinitely.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“Is it though?”, John sighed sadly. “I’ve told him my list of demands, and he agreed. So I agreed to stay.”

“You make this sound like you were forced to agree.”

“I wasn’t, but… it feels too… sudden, I think. I mean, I don’t know what to do anymore; my whole life is so… derailed right now. I don’t know what to think, what to feel, how to act, what to do. I feel like I don’t even know who I am anymore. Don’t know what’s real, because everything feels so surreal.”

When Greg stopped the car at a red light, he turned to look at his friend. “You are John Watson. Veteran, Doctor, Father. Those are the facts.”

John shook his head. “I’ve been betrayed and lied to by the one person who meant everything to me. And just when I was ready to make my peace with it, it happened again. With my wife. In a span of days. Then one of them died, and the other barely survived. How am I supposed to accept that and move on?”

“You’re allowed to take your time and grieve.”, Greg replied and turned his attention back to the road again.

“But that’s the thing…”, John replied, agitated. “I don’t want to grieve. I can’t, I’m empty. I’m all out of grief.”

When the lights finally turned green, Greg started the car again. “Maybe you should reevaluate the situation. Take a step back and look at what’s happened.”, he offered.

“What happened is I got betrayed twice in the most cruel of ways.”

“See, that’s where you need to stop. Think about why you were betrayed.”, Greg said a bit more harshly. “Why did Sherlock leave you and not tell you he is alive? Did he do it to hurt you? Or to humiliate you? Or did he do it for his own personal gain?”

John took a moment to think about it. He had no idea what had happened back then. He hadn’t even talked to Sherlock about it since he was back. Only Mycroft had told him the most important information. “He did it to protect me.”, he answered eventually. “To ensure my survival. And yours.”

“That’s beside the point.”, Greg waved the last part off. “This is about you. Now, why do you think Mary lied to you?”

John thought again. He didn’t exactly know what she hid from him, other than the fact, she was an excellent shooter and didn’t hesitate to kill when necessary. From what he had seen, she could have been a soldier or perhaps an assassin. But either way, she was willing to end two lives to keep her secret. “She tried to hide her identity from me, to protect… herself.”, John went on. “Because she knew, if I found out, I would hate her. She even realised that, last night.”

“You said to her that you were ready to leave her, after what she’s done to Sherlock. Maybe that’s why you don’t feel like grieving her? Because deep down you knew, you couldn’t forgive her.”

“Or maybe it’s because…”, John trailed off. “I never really loved her in the first place.”

Greg quickly shot him a confused look before turning his attention back to the street again.

“I’m not saying I never loved her, but it didn’t feel the same. It was not like before… I think. Sherlock and Mycroft were right. She was exactly what I liked. But I think I loved the idea of her more than herself.” John pressed his lips together and lowered his gaze. “And now I feel like the bad guy.”

Greg had a hunch what John was referring to, but he was kind enough to not rip open old wounds. “Well, you never lied to her, though.”, he opted for instead. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, mate.”

John suddenly let out a genuine laugh. “Have you ever thought about a side career as a therapist?”

“Oh god no.”, Greg joined in. “I did six months of couples therapy myself. Still got cheated on and divorced her. I’m not sure I could deal with such idiocy on a daily basis.”

Comparing their situations, John asked: “Was it hard? For you to move on, I mean?”

“At the beginning, yes.”, Greg answered honestly. “I didn’t want it to be true. I didn’t want to be the loser who got cheated on. I was too proud for that. But I couldn’t live with it either. The divorce was necessary to keep up my dignity, or what was left of it. But everything felt empty afterwards, I thought I’d never be happy again.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Oh, I’m happy again.”, Greg answered, his face a little blushing, realising his answer may have come a little too fast.

“Meaning…?”, John asked, with growing curiosity.

Greg hesitated with his answer. He was sure of his feelings for Mycroft, but what they had was still fragile. He knew that if they were to pursue what they had started earlier, John would find out one way or another. But it was too fresh to talk about, especially when he hadn’t talked to Mycroft about it.

“Greg?”, John asked when the other still hadn’t said anything.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”, Greg replied in lack of a better answer.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile, back at the hospital.

“Now that they’re gone…”, Mrs. Holmes said, as she closed the door of her sons’ room. “I want to know what happened to you.”

Mycroft, still in his wheelchair, looked at his brother with a concerned face. Sherlock had started pacing the room when he could no longer sit still. He pressed his lips together as he returned Mycroft’s gaze.

“Oh, come on, boys, you’re usually not that quiet. What happened?”, their mother once again asked, as she sat down in one of the visitor’s chairs. Mr. Holmes took the seat beside her.

“Not that I’m not curious.”, he said, “But you know, she won’t let it go until you tell her.”

Mycroft sighed, deeply frustrated. “I’ve already told you what you need to know.”, he said.

“And that was barely anything.”, his mother replied. “That you’ve been shot, alright, we can see that. A case gone wrong, sadly, not the first time. But both of you? Getting almost… murdered, at the same time? I know Sherlock’s been fairly reckless, but you, Mycie? I’ve never thought you’d be so… irresponsible.”

Both Sherlock and Mycroft snapped their heads towards her in surprise.

“What?”, she asked. “You’ve always been the grown-up. You’re in the government, aren’t you? How could you let this happen to both of you? Don’t you have security for exactly that reason?”

Few things in his life intimidated Mycroft Holmes. His mother was by far the scariest one. He had wanted to stand up to her so many times, but he never could. He knew she loved him, but he always struggled to satisfy her. Nothing he did was enough to get her approval. Or at least that’s what he told himself, most of the time. Right now, he wanted to tell her in extended detail exactly what had happened and how Sherlock was actually the main reason they were in this situation. Although it was obviously Mary who shot them, the situation could have been very different if Sherlock hadn’t run off. But he couldn’t tell her that. Never could he lay the blame on his little brother. He had sworn to himself he’d protect him, always. So, he just stared at his mother blankly.

“It’s not his fault.”, Sherlock eventually cut the silence.

Now, everyone turned their attention to him, instead of Mrs. Holmes.

“The second shot, the one aimed at Mycroft… it was also meant to hit me, because the first one… wasn’t enough.”, Sherlock confessed with his head lowered, averting every possible eye contact. That the two shots were fired hours apart was not something she needed to know, though, he decided.

“How?”, she asked further. Because if there’s one thing she has in common with her sons, it is absolutely hating not knowing, not having all the information.

“He protected me. If he hadn’t shot first, her bullet would’ve killed me.”

“Her?”, Mrs. Holmes asked, exasperated. That was a twist she hadn’t anticipated.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, her. Women can shoot, too, you know? Equal rights and stuff.”

“I don’t think that’s-“, his father chimed in.

“It doesn’t matter, alright?”, Sherlock cut him off.

“So… ‘She’ shot you.”, his mother said and pointed at Sherlock.

The latter nodded in return.

“And then she tried to shoot you a second time.”

Another nod.

“And then you…”, she pointed towards Mycroft, “…shot her?”

Mycroft still looked at her without any expression. His face was as pale as it could get, his hands clasping the handles of his wheelchair so hard that his knuckles were already turning white. He was sure, if he let go, his hands would start shaking. So, he held on. Watching his mother, during her interrogation, had made one thing clear: She was still above them all. And right now, she had figured it out already. The truth, that is. Even if she didn’t have all the details. Mycroft refused to respond to her question.

“Yes, he did. To protect me.”, Sherlock clarified.

His mother narrowed her eyes at her eldest son. “And didn’t you say earlier that John’s wife… Mary was it? She was also part of this?”

Mycroft held her gaze, his throat dry, a lump slowly forming. Why did she have to be so god damn clever? Why couldn’t she be an idiot like their father? And that was meant in the most loving way possible.

“You also said she wasn’t ‘so lucky’, meaning she died, right?”

“Violet, stop making this so dramatic and spit out what you want to say!”, Mr. Holmes tried to relieve the tension that had built between his wife and his son.

“Well.”, she said in a much calmer tone now and clasped her hands together in her lap. “As I see it, John’s wife shot Sherlock, then Mycroft shot her, and she shot Mycroft. Am I correct?”

She and Mycroft were still at a stand-off with their eyes, while Mr. Holmes turned to his eldest son with furrowed brows. “Is that true, son?”, he asked quietly.

Mycroft finally gave in and turned to his father. “Yes.”, he pressed. It was barely a whisper, but he got it out. His father’s face softened at the revelation, which let Mycroft finally take a much-needed breath. His mother wasn’t as easily persuaded, though.

“So, you’re responsible for your brother’s best friend’s misery? And for your own almost-death?”, she asked.

Of course. There it was again. The blaming. It wasn’t painful enough for Mycroft to live with the fact that he had taken another person’s life for the rest of his life; no, of course, he had to be the scapegoat once again.

“And for my survival!”, Sherlock snapped at her. It was a rare occasion that Sherlock would snap at her in all earnest. Usually, it was mockery or his lack of patience. But this time, it was to defend Mycroft. Which he did rarely.

Mycroft felt his eyes were on the verge of burning, so before he could embarrass himself anymore, he simply closed them and focused his thoughts on something else. Something less dramatic. Something easier, nicer. Greg, for example. His existence in his mind palace alone brought a little calmness over him. He tuned out the rest of the conversation. Which didn’t stop the conversation from happening, though.

“But he should have done better.”, Mrs. Holmes directed at her youngest. “He should have protected you before it even happened! Doesn’t he have the resources to know everything about everyone? Why didn’t he see she was dangerous? Why did he let you near her?”

“He didn’t let me!”, Sherlock shouted. “I was the one seeking her out! I was the one going rogue, without Mycroft’s knowledge! I made the mistake. Me. Not him. And he may be the smartest man in the world, but even if he tried, he couldn’t know everything. It’s not his fault. Mary lied. She deceived us all, and she was very good at it. She was trained. It could have happened to anybody.”

“But you’re not anybody!”, Mrs. Holmes exclaimed.

“They’re still human!”, Mr. Holmes cut her off. “Cut them some slack, Violet. Don’t you think they’ve been through enough? Both of them?”, he said and put a lot of emphasis on the fact, she had two sons, who were currently hurt.

When Mycroft opened his eyes again, a small gasp escaped his mouth. He was no longer in the stiff hospital room, but outside. Adjusting his vision, after the first shock of brightness, he realised he was on the rooftop terrace of the building. He took a deep breath of fresh air.

“There you are again.”, his father’s voice came from behind him. “It’s much nicer out here, isn’t it? Much quieter.”, he said, as he stepped beside the wheelchair, so Mycroft could actually see him.

Taking a look around, he realised that his father must have taken him here while he was in his mind palace. There were no signs of his mother or Sherlock. Just a few other patients and their visitors were scattered around the area, far enough so no one would disturb each other.

“I thought you could use a little break.”, his father continued. “And honestly… so could I.”

Mycroft turned his head to look at his father. He had always admired him for his calmness. However much fuss his mother made, good or bad, his father had always been unbothered. He loved her, of course, which helped a great deal. So did Mycroft, of course. But then again, there was a difference between loving someone and being in love with someone. That’s something else, he couldn’t wrap his head around for the longest time. How, after all these years, their parents could still be so besotted with each other.

He gently reached for his father’s hand, who squeezed it in return.

“I’m sorry.”, Mycroft eventually found his voice again.

His father glanced at him cautiously, then looked back over the border he had placed them in front of, taking in the view over the ever-busy city.

“You know your mother’s only furious because she’s worried.”, he said. “Doesn’t justify her choice of words, though.”

“She’s right.”, Mycroft said much quieter. “It was my fault, in the end.”

“Mycie, listen to me.”, his father stopped him with a strict tone. “Did you protect your brother?”

“Yes.”

“And did you do it with a right conscience?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him. “Of course.”

“And did you protect yourself?”

Mycroft swallowed hard. He turned his head and fixed his gaze on something in the distance. “No.”, he whispered.

“Then riddle me this: Why does your brother deserve protection, and you’re supposed to rely on luck? Because from what I’ve gathered, that’s what you’ve been this time: Lucky.”

Mycroft didn’t know how to answer. It seemed so logical when his father laid it out like this. And yet, he struggled to grasp the full content. For him, the only thing he had ever done in his life, without thinking about it twice, was protecting Sherlock at all costs. Everything else was a choice. His job, his home, his appearance, the people he surrounded himself with. Protecting his brother was never a choice. He meant it when he once told Greg that he would do everything to save him, even give his own life. It had never occurred to Mycroft that his own life would be more important than his brother’s. Not to him, at least. Or his mother, as it seemed.

“I couldn’t live with myself if I’d lost him.”, he eventually confessed.

“I know.”, his father said and squeezed his hand again. “But did it ever occur to you that he couldn’t live without you either? Or me, for that matter? Or your mother, even if you don’t believe that right now. And what about your… what was his name again?”

“Greg.”

“Right. What about him? He would surely be devastated if he lost you.”

“He made that much clear already.”, Mycroft said, not without a small grin.

“See? We all care about you, too. Even your mother. She just gets… sidetracked a little sometimes.”

“She favours Sherlock. You can say it, we all know it.”, Mycroft sighed, defeated.

His father’s head snapped around, and when Mycroft turned to face him, his expression looked a little heartbroken. “Mycroft.”, he said softly.

“What? It’s true. She always has and always will be. It’s insignificant, I’ve made my peace with it a long time ago.”, Mycroft answered and turned his head away again.

“It’s not true.”, his father answered, keeping his eyes fixed on him. “She loves you both, just very differently. Sherlock’s her little boy. He’s always been the wild one. Hardly controllable, always a troublemaker in every sense of the word. He needed more protection, more guidance, more… attention. You, on the other hand… You were her perfect role-model son. She never had to worry about you a single day of her life. You were quiet, disciplined, and dedicated. You grew up so fast… too fast, in my opinion. And Sherlock? He put you on a pedestal. And when she realised that, she knew you didn’t need her, you were at your maximum potential. Sherlock did need her, apart from the fact, he was seven years younger. But her shift in attention might have unintentionally caused you to feel…”

“Neglected? Out of place? Unwanted? Like a disappointment?”, Mycroft offered.

“She never loved you any less, Mycie. And neither did I, by the way.”

Now it was Mycroft squeezing his father’s hand. “I know. But you’re different. You never cared about our intelligence or our achievements. With you, it was never a competition between Sherlock and me. You treated us equally. Always.”

“Well, if you feel that way, I think I might have done something right in my life.”, his father laughed.

Mycroft looked at him again, a little surprise on his face. “Of course, you have.”

“There’s one thing, though, I’ve always preferred doing with you, rather than your brother. I don’t know if you remember, but-“

“You took me fishing. Every Sunday, from when I was six until I turned eleven. Of course, I remember. It was my favourite time of the weekend. I don’t remember why we stopped, though?”, Mycroft said and frowned at him.

“Because of Sherlock.”, his father laughed again. “When he was about four years old, he started to admire you, I think. Or he was jealous, I could never tell the difference. Either way, he started to follow you, everywhere you went. He always wanted to know what you were doing, where you were going, what you were thinking. At four years, mind you. I was sceptical, but we took him to one of our trips once and it was… chaotic, to say the least.”

“Oh, yes. Now I remember. He always lacked patience. He was blabbing nonstop. We tried to sit him down, but he was squirming all the time.”

“Yes, and not only did that scare away all the fish, it also made the usually relaxing experience quite…”

“Not so relaxed.”, Mycroft smiled at his father, thinking fondly of the memory.

“Exactly. So, we didn’t take him anymore. But that wasn’t a solution either, because he hated you going anywhere he couldn’t go. Except for school, somehow, he was able to accept that.”

“I decided to stop going, so he would stop his outbursts.”

His father nodded with a smile, but Mycroft could see the hint of sadness and disappointment around his eyes. Mycroft wanted to apologise, but knowing his father, they had one thing in common: They didn’t like to be pitied.

“Maybe, when I’m healed and the weather is better… we could go for a trip? For old times' sake?”, he offered instead.

When he realised what his son had just said, Mr. Holmes beamed at him. “Oh Mycie, really? You would do that? You’re not too busy dominating the world and all?”

“Father, please.”, Mycroft now laughed. “I occupy a minor position in the government. I’m not interested in taking over the world. Far too much hassle and… legwork. I am able to skip a few tedious meetings and spend some time with you.”

His father looked him up and down, seemingly trying to decide on something. “Can you stand up?”, he asked eventually.

Mycroft frowned at him first, but with a little help, rose to his feet. Then his father didn’t hesitate another second and pulled him straight into his arms. Mycroft froze for a split second at the sudden movement and then let himself relax into the embrace. He couldn’t remember the last time he had hugged his father like this. Usually, they went for swift greetings or maybe a short hug on his birthday, but this… this he hadn’t gotten in a long time. And he certainly hadn’t anticipated how much he had missed it. Not that he would admit that to anyone.

Chapter Text

Hours later, it had long gone dark again, Mycroft found himself taking a little walk through the little garden in the middle of the hospital grounds. He was hesitant at first, but he did feel much better already and risked going without his wheelchair, even without his IV. He relished the cool night air as he wrapped his coat a little tighter around himself. The uplifting words of his father earlier had given him the strength and his mother the sense to call a cease-fire. She had postponed her anger and instead hugged both her sons goodbye with the promise of another visit the next day. Or actually, the next couple of days, depending on how long they had to stay. Mycroft was tremendously thankful to the doctors, who saved his life, and he did not actually dislike most of the nurses. He was grateful Anthea had organised to bring over clothes for him, and he did enjoy Greg’s visits. But for the love of god, he couldn’t wait to get out of this place as soon as possible.

Wandering around, deep lost in thought, he only now realised he had been followed. Someone had been hiding around corners and hedges, but was unmistakably following him. Mycroft knew, whoever that was, he couldn’t outrun them, not in his condition. He also had no defences on him. So he simply turned around and waited. It didn’t take long until a small figure emerged from the shadows. As it came closer, Mycroft almost choked on his own breath when he realised who it was.

“Did you miss me?” an all too familiar voice echoed in his drumming ears.

“It—it can’t be. You’re…”, he whispered.

“Dead?”, she answered with a big grin.

Mycroft blinked a few times, trying to understand, but he couldn’t. Right before him stood the person whose life he had taken just one night ago. Mary Morstan, in flesh and blood. On her forehead was a big bandage, where the gunshot wound was supposed to be. Mycroft swallowed hard, and a sudden dizziness overcame his body. This couldn’t be real. This must be a dream. He had killed her. He knew he had. Greg had confirmed it. Her body had been transported to the morgue, he was sure of it.

“How?”, he gasped.

Mary’s smile got more devious. “Oh, come on. Can’t you figure it out? Is the big brother of the great Sherlock Holmes too stupid to solve this puzzle?”

Mycroft desperately tried to collect himself. “I fear… I am.”, he gave in without pretending. He was far too tired and far too confused to try anyway.

“Well, let’s say… your brother came back from the dead, why shouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s physically and logistically impossible.”

“And yet, here I am.”

There was nothing Mycroft could respond. He still hoped this was some sort of dream or hallucination. “What do you want?”, he asked.

“What do I want? Oh, there’s nothing you could give me. You’re brother has already taken everything from me that’s ever meant anything to me. John will never forgive me. And my daughter? I will never be able to see her again, will I?”

“I fear not.”

Mary gave him an eerie smile again, which made Mycroft feel uneasier with every second.

“But you? Oh, I can’t get enough of seeing you. You should have seen your face, right when you noticed me. Like you saw a ghost.”, she laughed. “How does it feel? To live with the knowledge you’ve taken someone’s life? Do you sleep well at night?”

Mycroft didn’t sleep well. If he was honest, he hadn’t slept much at all since it happened. So, this being a hallucination still seemed like a plausible option.

“How does it feel to kill? Did you find it as satisfactory as I did? Do you want to do it again?”

“Stop this nonsense!”, he all but shouted. “I am not a murderer. I shot you to protect my brother.”

“As if the reason matters.”, she said, still grinning. “You still did it. You still have blood on your hands. My blood. And nothing will ever change that. Not even the fact that I’m here. Because no one will know, and no one will believe you if you tell them otherwise. The whole world will think you ended my life. My daughter will grow up knowing you took her mother’s life. You’re the reason she’ll grow up without a mother.”

“Shut up.”, Mycroft demanded. “Judging by everything I’ve gathered about you… Maybe it’s for the better.”

Mary narrowed her eyes at him, but her grin didn’t vanish. “It doesn’t matter what you think, though, does it? She will hate you. John will further resent you. And Sherlock? Oh, Sherlock’s take on you is my favourite. What do you think? How will he decide? Will he side with John? His best friend, his blogger, his doctor, his ‘Conductor of Light’? Or will he side with you and further estrange his relationship with John?”

Mycroft tried to keep his breathing slow and calm, but something stirred in him. It was almost as if she knew exactly how to hit his weak spots. He decided not to give in to her questioning.

“Oh, come on, you don’t have to put up your facade for me. I already saw you. The real you. You would do anything for him, wouldn’t you? You protect him, you care for him, you nourish him. And what do you get in return? A bit of leg work, as you call it? A bit of mockery, a few insults and a lot of ungratefulness. How very rewarding.”

“You don’t know the first thing about me, my brother or our relationship.”, Mycroft snapped at her.

“No, but I know that he will never care about you as much as you care about him. Do you think he would have shot me if your roles were reversed? Do you really think he would have wanted to have blood on his hands? For you?”

“Shut up!”, Mycroft screamed with his last bit of energy before everything went black.

Then he finally woke up.

Safe, in his bed, with cold sweat all over his body. His breathing was fast and shallow, his mouth dry as a bone. His head immediately snapped to his right, and only when he saw his brother sleep soundly in the other bed did he allow himself to calm down slowly.

It was a dream after all. Mary was still dead. They were still at the hospital. Sherlock was still safe.

When his breathing had slowed down, Mycroft tried to get up as quietly as possible. His body made things not as easy as he wanted to, when the pain spread throughout it as he pulled himself up. When in his dream he had felt vastly better, he now felt all the worse. A few sounds of agony escaped his mouth, but it was enough to make Sherlock stir.

“Mycroft? What are you doing?”, he said, still half asleep.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”, Mycroft replied and made his way to the bathroom.

But it was never 'nothing'. Especially when coming from Mycroft, Sherlock was sure of it. So, he rubbed his eyes, and just as Mycroft vanished in the other room, Sherlock caught a glimpse of him. And he did not like what he saw. Mycroft looked worse than he had the night of the shooting. Sherlock pulled himself up to sit, then he listened. First, there was a little thud, then silence. When, after a couple of minutes, not even the water was running, Sherlock got up and walked over to the bathroom himself.

“Mycroft?”, he asked quietly and knocked on the door. He could hear a faint sniffling before his brother cleared his throat.

“I’m fine, Sherlock. Go back to sleep.”

“You’re a bad liar and you know it.”, Sherlock responded without hesitation. “Open the door, please.”, he said a little softer.

When nothing happened for another minute, Sherlock tried again. “Please. I know something’s not right.”

“Can’t you simply let me suffer in peace?”, Mycroft finally gave in.

Sherlock’s shoulders dropped at the revelation. “No.”, he said firmly. “You consistently annoy me when I’m at my worst. The least I can do is return the favour.”

“Sherlock… please.”, Mycroft pled.

“No. You always pester me, that you’ll always be there for me.”

“Not right now.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Let me be there for you, you idiot.”

It took another minute before there was some shuffling, and then finally the lock turned. Sherlock carefully opened the door and found his brother sitting on the floor right beside it. The only source of light was the dim mirror light, just enough to see, not enough to blind them in the middle of the night. But it was also enough to see what Sherlock had only seen once before in his life. Mycroft had been crying. Not as heartbreakingly as the first time he saw him, decades ago, but it was just as ugly. Sherlock closed the door behind him and then went over to the sink. He wet a washcloth and, without another word, started cleaning his brother’s face of the sweat and tears. To his surprise, Mycroft didn’t object. When he was done, he dried it down with one of the towels and then sat down right in front of him, cross-legged.

“Nightmare?”, he asked gently.

Mycroft nodded.

“What about?”

Mycroft let out a desperate laugh. “Can’t you guess?”

Sherlock looked him up and down. “Mary?”

“Sort of.”

Sherlock inspected him further. “Oh.”, he realised. “Losing me?”

Mycroft nodded again. “But not in the way you think.”

“Then tell me.”, Sherlock offered to listen.

“I can’t—“, Mycroft choked on his own words. Then his eyes started to get watery again.

“Alright, then we go on like this. It’s not about my death.”

Mycroft shook his head.

Sherlock tried to imagine all the possible ways his brother could lose him. Death was the only one that occurred to him. There was no other way he could think of. “Has it to do with John?”

Mycroft nodded again, but averted his gaze completely.

“You’re afraid to lose me to John?”

“Yes.”, Mycroft finally found his voice again, even if it was barely audible.

Sherlock thought about it for a moment. Then it dawned on him. “You think he’ll hate you because you took his wife. And you’re afraid I’ll be on his side and turn away from you.”

“He’ll hate me…”, Mycroft tried, but had to clear his throat again. “Because I took his daughter’s mother. I don’t care about his opinion on me; he can hate me all he wants. It’s his right.”

“But you can’t stand me hating you with him.”

“I can’t… lose you.”, Mycroft choked again. Then the tears spilt. Mycroft immediately pulled his legs close and buried his head behind his knees. He was too ashamed to admit this. In front of Sherlock, of all people.

Sherlock pulled himself across the floor to sit right beside his brother, not a centimetre space between them. “Ugh.”, he sighed. “I’m not good at this, and I hate that you’re making me do this. But it’s irritating to see you like this.”, he said and laid one arm around Mycroft. “Please stop crying.”, he said. Mycroft, surprised by the sudden affection, lifted his head.

When he looked at his brother, he saw the little fourteen-year-old boy again. Back when he fled home after his big heartbreak, he had locked himself in his room for days, only leaving for an occasional meal. Sherlock had found a way to climb through his window, though. He had quietly climbed onto Mycroft’s bed, where he had curled up, silently crying. At first, he hadn't known what to do, but eventually he settled for slow pats on his brother’s back. When Mycroft had realised what was happening, he had turned around and, at the sight of his utterly confused little brother, had taken him in for a hug instead. After that, he hadn’t locked his door again, too afraid of Sherlock’s risky climbing skills.

Now he was looking at him the same way. Utterly confused, but determined to soothe him. Mycroft couldn’t help himself and threw his arms around his brother’s neck. Sherlock started to slowly pat his back, just like he had all those years ago. And just for a moment, everything was alright again.

“You will not lose me. One way or another.”, Sherlock said after a while. “You’re stuck with me.”

Mycroft slowly pulled back, and another desperate laugh escaped his mouth. “Promise?”, he asked, wiping away the last of his tears.

“Oh, I enjoy being a pain in your arse, far too much.”, Sherlock grinned. “And you’ll need me for your leg work anyway.”, he added and slowly pulled himself up again.

Mycroft stared at him for a moment in all sincerity. “You know, you’re more than leg work to me?”, he asked a little uncertain, reminded of what the dream-Mary had thrown at him.

Sherlock held out his hand for him. “Don’t ruin the mood, brother mine.”, he laughed.

Mycroft let himself be pulled up and once again couldn’t help himself as he embraced his brother once more.

“You owe me for this.”, Sherlock mumbled over his shoulder.

“I’ve just saved your life.”, Mycroft answered with a slight grin now.

“Well… you may have to do that a few times more.”, Sherlock replied jokingly as they parted.

Mycroft mustered him for a moment. “Always.”

Chapter Text

Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year. Although there wasn‘t a single flake of snow in sight anywhere and the current mood was far from cheerful.

It was Monday before Christmas and Greg had taken the courtesy of driving himself, Mycroft, Sherlock, John and Rosie to spend the week at the Holmes residence, the latter being a small cottage in East Sussex, as promised a few weeks earlier. It was a two-hour trip that consisted mostly of silence and a barely deniable tension in the backseat area.

Upon picking them up at Baker Street, Greg and Mycroft immediately knew something wasn‘t quite right. Since Sherlock and Mycroft were both still not allowed to do heavy lifting, or lifting of any kind, Greg and John had resorted to loading the boot up with their luggage. Sherlock, meanwhile, flung himself to the further backseat, while Mycroft shot him a confused glare from the passenger seat. Sherlock didn‘t pay him any attention. After everything was loaded, John placed Rosie in her baby carrier right between him and Sherlock, before closing the door after him. Since then, no words were spoken except the occasional direction guidance from Mycroft towards Greg.

When they had finally arrived at their destination, Sherlock was the first one to jump out and immediately head towards the front door. When the rest of them followed suit, John had already put on his mask and behaved like nothing had happened at all.

“Oh, there you are!”, Mrs. Holmes shouted cheerfully and waved them inside. “I‘m so happy you‘re finally here.”

“Hello, mummy.”, Mycroft greeted her with a sincere smile and involuntarily let himself be pulled into an embrace. He caught a glimpse of his brother vanishing at the top of the stairs, before he was released by his mother.

Both Greg and John were welcomed equally heartwarmingly. Upon spotting John‘s daughter, Mrs. Holmes offered to take her to let them arrive and put their luggage away. John agreed thankfully.

“Bedrooms are upstairs, Mycie will show you.”, she said as she took the carrier.

“Of course.”, Mycroft sighed and motioned them to follow him. Once they had all climbed the stairs, he pointed to his left. “This is one of the guest rooms. John, I think it's best if you and your daughter take this. There should also be a cot inside, mummy mentioned something on the phone earlier.” Then he pointed a little further. “That‘s Sherlock‘s room. I‘d advise you both to stay out of it, judging by his mood.” He turned to his right. “Right across is my room and over here…”, he said as he pointed to his immediate right, coming full circle. “Is the second guest room.” Then he made a half turn. “And right behind the stairs is the bathroom. And that‘s it.” He turned back around. “Welcome home.”, he whispered, more to himself. “Make yourself comfortable, take a break, whatever you need. However long you need.”, he directed towards John. “I suppose your daughter is in good hands for the time being.”

“Right.”, John answered flatly. “Thank you.”, he added for manners and went straight into his assigned room.

“Do I get the full tour?”, Greg said with a lowered voice and a mischievous grin.

Mycroft turned to face him and raised an intrigued brow. “The full tour?”

“Well, I‘d really like to see what your room looks like. See where the British Government grew up and all. What secrets you‘re hiding? “

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but not without a grin himself. Then he led the way into his own room. He closed the door after them to give them some privacy, while Greg put down their luggage and took a first look around.

“So? Are you disappointed?”, Mycroft asked slyly.

Greg took another spin and inspected everything a little closer. At first, it seemed like a pretty ordinary, unimpressive room. Two big windows in front of which were placed a dark wooden desk and a queen-size bed with a matching bed frame. On one side, a large bookshelf covering the entire wall and on the other, a wardrobe made from equal material. But on closer inspection, Greg could see the resemblance to its owner. The books on the shelf were first sorted by category and then in alphabetical order of the authors, indicated by the little signs stuck to the edges. The walls were decorated with possibly every single academic award, certificate or achievement one could get in one lifetime of school and university. The room and especially the desk were meticulously clean. Only one thing stood out and therefore drew Greg‘s attention. On the wall right beside the desk hung a pinboard, which didn‘t match the rest of the room at all. It was cluttered with pictures, letters and postcards.

“It‘s interesting, isn‘t it?” Mycroft, of course, had followed Greg‘s gaze every millimetre of the way. “What a room tells you about a person. About their mind.”

“Or about their heart.”, Greg added and turned to look at Mycroft. “And to answer your question: No, I‘m far from disappointed.”

Mycroft stepped closer towards him. “That‘s very fortunate.”, he said with a grin.

“Is it now?”, Greg answered with an equal expression and met him halfway.

“Well, I really hoped you would like it, so I could persuade you to stay here, instead of taking the guest room.”

“Oh, is that so?”, Greg asked playfully. “Is there a kiss included in your offer, or does that cost extra?”

“All kisses are free of charge.”, Mycroft answered and immediately closed the distance between them, gently pressing his lips onto Greg‘s.

Greg‘s hands instinctively found their way up Mycroft‘s back, over his shoulders, until they were cupping his face.

“Don‘t you think your mother will get suspicious, though, if I don‘t use the guest room?”, he asked, once they had parted again.

Five weeks earlier

“You‘re pick-up service is here!”, Greg said gleefully as he entered the hospital room, hopefully for the last time. Today was release day. Both Mycroft and Sherlock had passed their final check-ups and were more than ready to leave.

“You know, I could have ordered a car. You really didn‘t have to do this.”, Mycroft answered, while putting on his coat.

“Oh, and miss out on your everlasting gratefulness? I don‘t think so.”, Greg laughed.

“Why are you so happy?”, Sherlock asked a little suspiciously. “You know once I‘m out of here, I‘ll need a case.”, he added with a mischievous grin.

“And you‘re getting one right away.”, Greg answered him with an equal expression. “The case of ‘how to live with a nine-month-old baby and how not to wake her up when you‘re bored, especially when you don‘t want to piss off her sleep-deprived father’.”

The look on Sherlock‘s face was priceless.

About an hour later, they had successfully dropped him off at Baker Street, and Greg had just parked his car in front of Mycroft‘s home.

“Stay right where you are.”, Greg ordered as he got out of his seat. He rounded the car once while Mycroft playfully rolled his eyes. Then he opened Mycroft‘s door and held a hand out for him.

“You‘re ridiculous.”, Mycroft said as he took the hand. “I‘m not made of glass.”

“Of course you‘re not.”, Greg laughed. “You‘re a diamond. All the reason to be even more careful.”

“Stop it.”, Mycroft joined him and lightly slapped the back of his free hand against Greg‘s chest.

Greg placed a quick kiss on Mycroft‘s cheek before letting go, which left the latter a little startled. Then he picked up Mycroft‘s bag from the boot and led the way towards the front door. Mycroft followed him, shaking his head with a small smile. During the few days in the hospital, they didn’t really have the time to explore their newly found feelings for each other, which was probably the reason Greg had been so eager to pick him up. Once inside, Mycroft closed the door behind them and led the way to the living room.

“Wow.”, Greg said and dropped the bags on the floor. “It looks bigger than I remember.”

“You haven‘t been in here in four days.”, Mycroft said as he hung up his coat.

“Seems like an awfully long time.”, Greg joked.

“Well, if you feel that way…”, Mycroft teased and wrapped his arms around the other. “You could just… stay.”, he added with a genuinely warm smile.

“You know I can‘t.”, Greg answered, a little disappointed. “I‘ve already extended my lunch break.”

“Which is exactly why I told you, I could‘ve ordered a car.”

“But then I couldn‘t have done this.”, Greg said and leaned forward, sealing their lips with a kiss.

“Mhm.”, Mycroft agreed. “That‘s a valid reason.”, he mumbled against Greg‘s mouth. “Can‘t argue with that.”

“Less talking and more kissing.”, Greg demanded.

“I don’t care what she thinks.”, Mycroft eventually answered the question. “She hasn’t earned the right to know, not when she still treats me like an enemy of the state.”, he added, letting go of Greg. Then he picked up his bag, lifted it onto his bed, and started unpacking.

“She doesn’t understand what happened that night.”, Greg tried.

Mycroft scoffed. “She doesn’t have to understand. She knows me, and therefore knows I had good reason to do what I did. Or at least I thought she would.”, he mumbled the last part as he walked over to his wardrobe.

Three weeks earlier

Greg woke unusually late to the scattered rays of sunshine falling in from between the curtains. Mycroft’s curtains, to be precise. He had once more spent the night at his new second home, as Anthea had called it the other day. She had found him at the breakfast table when she was bringing over some files for Mycroft to work on from his home office. He didn’t mind one bit, because first of all, Mycroft’s bed was far more comfortable than his own and secondly… Mycroft was in it. Not currently, though, Greg had to realise, disappointed. Since it was Sunday, he wasn’t particularly eager to get up, but without Mycroft around, there was not much point in staying in bed. After throwing on some of his clothes, which he had found on the floor, he made his way downstairs, looking for him. His search didn’t last long, as he heard his voice coming unusually loud from the kitchen.

“Yes, we’re still coming for Christmas. No, I’m not calming down! I don’t— Goodbye, mother!”

Just as he entered the room, he saw Mycroft fling his phone on the countertop.

“So you’re still fighting?”, he asked, followed by a yawn.

Mycroft turned around, the surprise written on his face. “Apologies, I didn’t mean to wake you.”, he said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter. “And yes, we apparently are.”, he added.

Greg walked over and came to a halt right in front of him. “You didn’t wake me, don’t worry.”, he answered and took a moment to study him. Then he placed his hands left and right beside Mycroft and leaned forward, his face stopping only a few centimetres from Mycroft’s. “How’s your body?”, he asked. He had refrained from asking ‘How are you?’ after only receiving vague answers. Instead, he had started focusing on more precise questions.

“My wound’s healing fine.”, Mycroft answered and lowered his eyes. “Maybe getting a little headache after that phone call.”

“How’s your mind? Apart from the possible headache.”

“Busy.”

Greg had learned in only two weeks that ‘busy’ didn’t actually mean busy. It meant Mycroft didn’t know how to respond to that particular question, because too many things were plaguing him. He raised his left hand and lifted Mycroft’s chin with his finger. Mycroft also lifted his eyes again, staring at Greg expectantly.

“Nightmares?”, Greg asked further.

“Not as bad tonight.”, Mycroft answered truthfully. Since he had been home, they weren’t as bad as that first one in the hospital, but they had recurred every night. Some nights only briefly, not even waking him up, some nights worse, not letting him go back to sleep.

“Breakfast?” Greg had further noticed that, most of the time, one-word questions worked better for both of them.

“I was waiting for you.”, Mycroft replied quietly, a shy smile on his lips.

“Kiss?”, Greg asked with a mischievous grin.

“Idiot.”, Mycroft answered with an equal expression and leaned forward.

Greg wandered over to Mycroft’s desk, in lack of an answer. He further inspected the pinboard he had spotted earlier. There were three postcards, each showing a picture of their origin. One was from Venice, one from Prague and one from Barcelona. Greg was curious as to who would have written them to Mycroft, but didn’t dare to touch anything. Then his gaze drifted to a letter, clearly written by a very young child. He skipped over the brief text and smiled. A probably six-year-old Sherlock had written his big brother a letter from a school trip to the museum. It must’ve been an assignment at school, but Greg found it cute that Sherlock had chosen his brother as the addressee. Besides that, there were a few, obviously carefully selected pictures. They all showed the Holmes family at different locations, probably on holiday, Greg suspected. But they all had one thing in common: Mycroft and Sherlock both looked happy. Judging by the end of pictures by a certain age of the boys, Mycroft had probably stopped going once he had moved out.

“What happened?”, Greg asked and turned around again.

Mycroft had just put away the last of his clothes before he made his way over to Greg. “What do you mean?”, he asked with a furrowed brow. He had noticed before, already, that Greg was inspecting his collection of precious memories, but he couldn’t make out what was wrong with them in Greg’s eyes.

“Well, you look like a… happy… ordinary… family.”, Greg tried to phrase it. “Knowing both you and your brother for several years now… What changed?”

Mycroft’s face instantly dropped. He knew Greg didn’t mean to hurt him with his wording, but it did hurt nonetheless. “Those pictures are from our annual summer holidays. We went every year up until I was seventeen. Then I moved out.”, Mycroft confirmed Greg’s former suspicions. “After that, Sherlock and my parents went alone. The postcards are from him. He didn’t want to go anymore after three years.”

“Why?”, Greg asked, still confused.

“Because I left.”, Mycroft stated blankly. “My mother blamed me, of course. Said I could’ve still gone with them, even after I moved to London.”

Now it dawned on Greg. He got the feeling, a whole lot of things got blamed on Mycroft when none of them were really his fault. “I’m sorry.”, he said, also realising his words may not have been received as intended.

Mycroft shook his head and smiled at him, the momentary sadness vanishing from his face. “Don’t be. It’s all in the past. No use for pity.”, he answered.

Greg lifted his hand in an attempt to cradle Mycroft’s face, but the latter turned it down and walked over to put Greg’s bag on his bed. “I’ll help you unpack, if you still want to stay with me?”, he said with a little uncertainty in his voice.

Two weeks earlier

After another much too long shift, Greg had picked up some takeaway on his way home. His ‘home’ being Mycroft’s home, to which the latter had given him a spare key only three days ago. He had been a little baffled at first since they had only been with each other for three and a half weeks now.

‘It’s more convenient this way.’, Mycroft had said. ‘When I’m in a video call or something alike.’, he had added.

Greg hadn’t questioned it further and had gladly taken it. For a brief moment, he had contemplated giving Mycroft a spare key to his own flat, but seeing as they were hardly spending any time there, he hadn’t deemed it necessary. If Mycroft wanted to enter his flat, he probably wouldn’t even need a key anyway.

After placing the food on the dinner table, he went upstairs to see if Mycroft was still working. They had agreed that because of his still-healing wound, he would work from home for the rest of the year, which wasn’t that long anymore anyway. Upon climbing the stairs, he already heard Mycroft arguing again. Another call from his mother, on speaker this time. Greg stopped and listened to decide if he should interrupt or not.

“No, I couldn’t have possibly predicted that Sherlock would run loose!”, Mycroft shouted. “I am able to anticipate a lot of things, but I’m not a psychic!”

“But he was hurt!”, his mother’s voice echoed. “You should have been with him right after he had surgery!”

“How was I supposed to know, when the nurse only told me after he was gone?!”

“You should have asked her before!”

“I did! They wouldn’t tell me anything!”

“Then you should’ve been more persistent.”

“I’m not harassing hospital staff without reason. And at that point in time, I didn’t—”

“You should have done better.”

“I did my best!”

“Then you are very limited.”

The next thing Greg heard was angry tapping on a phone screen and a small thud. Mycroft had probably ended the call and once more thrown his phone on the next best surface. He waited another moment before gently knocking on the door to Mycroft’s home office. Before he received an answer, though, he had already opened it and entered. Mycroft didn’t say anything; he simply stared at him, exhausted. Glancing at Greg, he knew the latter had heard at least part of the conversation, and he wasn’t keen on commenting. But Greg knew better than to ask him about it. It hadn’t been the first phone call since he had been home, and it would certainly not be the last. Greg wordlessly walked over and took Mycroft in his arms, holding him, letting him rest his head on his shoulder, letting his sobs ebb away in the crook of his neck.

Greg stared at him momentarily, with mixed emotions all over his face. Then he joined him, because, of course, he wanted to stay right here, with him.

“Why are they here, though? The postcards, I mean. Wouldn’t he have sent them to your flat in London, back then?”, he asked, still curious.

Mycroft couldn’t hide a small grin. “He did. But this is the place they belong to. This room… this pinboard… it’s the very heart of my private life. If I had those memorabilia back at home, and someone unauthorised found them…”

“You’d be prone to blackmail.”, Greg finished.

“Exactly.”

“And you’re not afraid someone who really wants to get to you would find them here?”

Mycroft turned to look at him sternly. “This place is one of the best hidden secrets, even if it doesn’t seem like it. Only very few select people know this is where I grew up, and where my parents still reside. There’s a different address listed on all official records. I made sure of that years ago, so that they could live in peace and I had some peace of mind.”

“So I’m one of those very few select people.”, Greg asked playfully, trying to lighten the mood.

Mycroft rolled his eyes with a small grin. “Obviously.”, he said and started unpacking Greg’s bag.

The latter let his gaze linger a little longer on the other. “You called me family earlier… in the hospital, I don’t know if you remember.”

“Of course, I do. It was intentional.”, Mycroft answered without hesitation.

“Did you mean that? Or was that only to persuade that nurse further?”, he asked and picked up some of his clothes from the bag.

“Maybe a little bit of both.”, Mycroft answered quietly. “I didn’t know how you’d interpret it, if at all.”

“How do you want me to interpret it?”

Mycroft thought about it for a moment. “I want you to know that, even if you weren’t interested in me at all, you’d still be part of my family because of Sherlock. The way you put up with him, care about him… The number of times you saved his life. I couldn’t imagine what he would be like without your help. I’ll be forever grateful for that.”

“My…”, Greg sighed, and his face immediately softened.

Mycroft offered him a small smile and a shrug. Then Greg crossed the small distance between them and kissed him gently.

“It’s a good thing I can care about more than one person.”, he mumbled in between more kisses. “And I want you to know that I am very interested in you.”

Mycroft took Greg’s face in between his hands and pulled him slightly back to make eye contact. “Thank you.”, he said before kissing him again.

Chapter Text

Since they had arrived after noon and had taken their time ‘arriving’, the first time everyone gathered together again was at dinner. Mrs. Holmes had dished up the most deliciously smelling roast beef with mashed potatoes. John had helped her set the table in return for her babysitting, while Sherlock had still been sulking in his room. He had been lured out, though, because his mother insisted he had to eat, and he wasn’t one to argue with her.

“Can you pass me the gravy?”, John directed at Sherlock, who had just placed down the gravy boat.

Sherlock shot him an icy glare. “I don’t know, can I?”, he scoffed.

“Sherlock, behave.”, his mother warned him.

Then he reluctantly passed the desired item over the table.

Five weeks earlier

Sherlock had just returned home from the hospital as he made his way up the stairs of Baker Street.

“John?”, he exclaimed as he reached the landing.

“Here!”, the other replied from the second floor and immediately descended the stairs. “Welcome home.”, he said a bit too cheerfully for the current situation. “You’ve got visitors.”, he added before Sherlock could say anything.

“Clients?”

“Not quite.”, John responded. “Is your bag downstairs?”

Sherlock frowned, but eventually nodded.

“I’ll get it for you. Why don’t you see for yourself?”, John replied with a huge grin.

When Sherlock hesitantly opened the door to his own living room and eventually entered, he immediately froze.

Shit , he thought. Well, shit indeed. In his living room were three people, expectantly staring at him. Three women, to be precise. And they all looked… pissed. Usually, when someone came home from the hospital, people were joyful or kind. Sherlock knew he wasn’t going to be met with either joy or kindness.

“Welcome home.”, Mrs. Hudson greeted him finally. She was standing right in front of the fireplace, her arms crossed and her eyebrows raised.

“I would have visited you at the hospital if I had known you’d be there.”, Molly said with a fake smile. She had taken a seat in John’s armchair, a cup of tea in hand.

“What do you think about a summer wedding, Sherl?”, the last of the pack asked. Janine was sitting in his own armchair, currently twirling her hair with one finger. “Or would rather elope right on the spot?”, she added with a mischievous grin.

Sherlock blinked a few times, taking in what he had just witnessed. Then he decided this wasn’t for him and turned on his heel. To his demise, John was already standing behind him, blocking his escape route.

“Oh no, you’re not getting out of this one.”, John said, far too happy. “I’ve been waiting for two days for this moment. Consider this partial payback for keeping secrets.”, he added and pushed Sherlock back inside.

Sherlock decided to give in to his defeat and took off his coat. When he hung it up on the rack, Janine slowly made her way over to him. When she came to a halt in front of him, she didn’t say a word. Sherlock tried to deduce her: Obviously knows about Magnussen’s death, is well aware of John’s current living situation, so knows about Mary too… knows their relationship was a ruse.

“Janine, I—“

“Save it, Sherlock.”, she cut him off. “You are a backstabbing, heartless, manipulative bastard.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes on her.

“You lied to me. You lied and lied.”

“I’m… sorry.”, he offered. “I exploited the fact of our connection for the greater good.”

“The greater good?”, she exclaimed, exasperated. Then her features saddened. “Just once would have been nice.”

Sherlock eyed her carefully until he understood. “Oh.”, he gasped. “I was waiting until we got married.”

“That was never going to happen.”, Janine answered with a laugh. Then she gently placed one of her hands on Sherlock’s cheek. “You shouldn’t have lied to me. I know what kind of man you are.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened at the realisation.

“We could have been friends.”, she said and pulled herself up to kiss him on the other cheek. “Got to go. Good luck, Sherlock.”, she said and let go of him. “And have a nice life.”, she added as she made her way out the door. On her way out, she gave John an apologetic smile and then descended the stairs.

Sherlock’s eyes followed her until she was gone. Then he swallowed hard before he turned to face his remaining visitors. He carefully walked over and sat down in his chair, where Janine had sat mere minutes ago. “I suppose you know what happened?”, he asked.

“John filled us in, as well as he could.”, Mrs. Hudson answered.

“Although…”, Molly chimed in, “I kind of knew something had happened since I was called into the morgue for a special case in the middle of the night, the other day.”

“Oh.” Sherlock inhaled sharply.

“Yes, oh. I don’t know if you can imagine what that felt like. Walking in there to see… her.”

“I can’t.”, Sherlock answered honestly. He had seen Mary’s body. He had even seen her die. But in comparison to Molly, he had expected something to happen; it wasn’t out of nowhere for him.

“Well, I can’t imagine what it feels like to almost die, so I think I’m better off this time.”, she stated with a small smile. A sort of peace-offering, on her behalf.

“I am sorry.”, Sherlock tried once again. “I would have called you or texted you, but—“

“I heard about your brother, too.”, Molly cut him off. “I bet you had more important things on your mind than making phone calls.”

“How is he anyway?”, John chimed in from across the room.

Sherlock turned his head to look at him. “Well, he’s had it a bit worse than me since his heart’s been perforated, while mine has been missed by a centimetre. But he’s recovering just fine.”

“Greg’s taking him home, isn’t he?”

Sherlock nodded in response.

“Well, they could’ve come in to say hello, at least.”, Mrs. Hudson stated.

Sherlock turned around once more. “Oh no, he’s had enough of me for a while, I suppose.”, he answered with a grin.

“What’s going on with you anyway?”, Mrs. Holmes directed at her youngest son. “You’ve been sulking all day.”

“Nothing’s going on.”, Sherlock retorted. “And I’ve not been sulking, I’ve been thinking.”

“As if there’s any difference these days.”, John muttered.

Mrs. Holmes frowned at him. “Did something happen between the two of you?”

“No!”, they both snapped in unison.

Five weeks earlier

It was the middle of the night when John woke in his old bed at Baker Street to a row of clashing sounds. Confused, he looked at his phone and groaned when he saw the time. Reluctantly, he got up and quickly confirmed his daughter was still asleep in her cot at the foot-end of his bed before looking for the source of the noise. As he walked down the stairs, he saw light coming from the kitchen through the half-opened door. Upon entering, he saw Sherlock picking up some pots from the floor.

“What the hell are you doing?”, John asked, even more confused.

“John!”, Sherlock exclaimed, startled. “Sorry… didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Well, you did. Now tell me what this mess is?”

“Nothing for you to worry about.”

John frowned at him. “No secrets, remember?”, he warned him.

Sherlock sighed. “I just wanted to change my plaster, but the first-aid kit was stuck up there.”, he answered and pointed towards one of the hanging cabinets.

“Why was it up there? I always stowed it beneath the sink.”

“Well, you weren’t here before, and I was bored, so I decided to rearrange everything, just to realise I hate the way I rearranged it.”

John had to do a double-take. Then he shook his head and decided it was far too late, or too early, to discuss the whereabouts of life-saving utensils. He walked over and picked up the first-aid kit, while Sherlock put away the rest of the pots. “Here, let me help you.”, he said and opened one of the plaster packages.

“No, I’m fine.”, Sherlock immediately responded. “I can do it on my own.”

“Come on, it’s no big deal, just—“

“I said I’m fine.”, Sherlock cut him off harshly.

John once more frowned at him. Before… it had never been an issue, if he wanted to treat Sherlock’s wounds. The latter had often insisted that he do it, rather than any other doctor. But apparently even that had changed… after.

“Greg, Mycie? Are you two alright, at least? You’ve been awfully quiet so far.”, Mrs. Holmes tried to steer the conversation in a hopefully better direction.

Mycroft and Greg shared a sceptical look. After the increasingly exhausting phone calls over the past weeks, Mycroft didn’t feel too inclined to talk to his mother.

“I’m fine.”, he stated blankly.

Greg had witnessed most of those phone calls and wasn’t too keen on a conversation either. Not that he wouldn’t have liked to say several things to Mycroft’s mother, that would have ended this holiday very abruptly, very quickly.

“Thanks for having us.”, he opted for instead. “It’s a beautiful home you have here. And the food you’ve served is exquisite. Now I know where Mycroft got it from.”, he tried for a casual response.

“Oh, don’t be silly.”, Mrs. Holmes laughed. “Mycroft doesn’t cook. I don’t remember the last time I saw him preparing something in the kitchen.”

“January fifth, nineteen-eighty-eight.”, Mycroft replied without batting an eye.

The sudden response drew everyone’s attention to him, though.

He rolled his eyes. “It was the last time you saw me preparing something in your kitchen. It was a cake for Sherlock’s eleventh birthday the next day.”, he further explained and took another bite of his roast beef.

“So, that was the last time you cooked or rather baked anything?”, Mrs. Holmes asked.

“No, I’ve seen him cook rather recently, actually.”, Greg chimed in again. “He’s had me over for dinner a couple of times. His cooking skills are actually quite good.”

Mycroft didn’t lift his eyes from his plate, but one corner of his mouth shot up triumphantly.

“Really?”, Mrs. Holmes gasped in disbelief. “I didn’t know that about you, Mycie.”

“Well, it seems like you don’t know a lot of things about me.”, Mycroft snapped back.

“If you don’t tell me anything, how am I supposed to know?”, his mother asked in return.

“Seems like keeping secrets runs in the family.”, John muttered absentmindedly.

Two days ago

After careful consideration, John had to admit that settling back into Baker Street had worked rather smoothly. Being a single father was still a challenge, though. Mrs. Hudson mostly watched his daughter while John was out settling things with his job, or moving stuff from his former flat or simply grocery shopping. Explaining the situation to his boss had resulted in him being able to take some time off for an extended period, which helped a lot.

Against all odds, Sherlock had been the biggest surprise, though. He had done everything he had promised John. He had thrown out each and every little thing that had screamed danger. He had child-proofed all surfaces and had even set up a playpen in the living room. With more time passing, he had offered to help John with the childcare. Preparing food, changing nappies, and entertaining Rosie. The latter had mostly resulted in him teaching her basic skills without him realising it. John had found it quite endearing to watch.

As for Mary, there wasn’t much John had to think about anymore. He had become tired over the years, feeling angry about things he couldn’t change. Mary was gone, permanently, and that fact wouldn’t change. Holding a grudge over her lying wouldn’t benefit anyone, and he needed his energy in other regards, so he hadn’t thought about her in a while.

That had abruptly changed, though, when his daughter started to cry more often, seemingly noticing her mother’s absence. Like today. He had done everything in his power to calm her down: Changed her nappy, offered her every food he could think of, bounced her for over an hour, he even tried to sing to her, which he rarely did before. But nothing had worked for hours, and he was getting exhausted. So when Sherlock finally came home from a meeting at a crime scene with Greg, he was more than happy when he offered to take her.

“I got this.”, Sherlock said and carefully plucked Rosie out of John’s arms. “You go and have that shower you’ve been craving.”

John didn’t even want to know how Sherlock had that figured out so fast, and he frankly didn’t care. All he cared about was that his daughter was safe and he could finally catch a break.

As soon as Sherlock heard the water running, he took Rosie upstairs to John’s room. John was okay with him being there since it was also Rosie’s room for the time being. What John would certainly not be okay with was the fact that Sherlock knew exactly how to calm her down. He had actually figured it out weeks ago, but John was not keen on his suggestions. Balancing Rosie on his hip, he reached into one of her baby bags and fished out the two items he had placed there: A photograph of Mary and Rosie and a plush toy. The latter was a small teddy bear that Mary had bought for her. It wasn’t her favourite toy, but it soothed her as soon as Sherlock handed it to her because there was one little difference to every other toy of hers: Sherlock had sprayed it with Mary’s perfume. Just enough to soothe her, not enough to get John suspicious.

It wasn’t that Sherlock particularly wanted to keep this from John, but every time Sherlock had tried to talk about her or talk to Rosie about her, he had snapped. Sherlock wasn’t sure if John was even aware of his temper, but he didn’t want to risk anything by telling him. So he had resorted to waiting until John was busy or out of the flat before he handed these items to the little girl.

“See, little Watson, there’s your mother.”, he said in a very low and soothing voice. “I know you miss her, and I am sorry she can’t be here anymore.”, he added. “But I’m trying my best to keep her memory for you.” He gently placed a kiss on top of her head while she was still squeezing the toy. Her crying had already stopped as soon as she was handed the bear, and there were only the last few tears ebbing away now. To further calm her, Sherlock walked over to her cot and turned on a small children’s record player, which started playing a soft lullaby. “See, everything’s going to be alright.”, he whispered and started slowly swaying with her still on his hip.

After a while — the lullaby had changed for the fifth time already — Rosie had fallen asleep in his arms, so Sherlock carefully laid her down in her bed and turned the record player off. Just as he took back the plush toy and the photograph, he heard the door swing open.

“How did you manage to do that?”, John asked with a tired smile.

Sherlock turned around, a little startled. He had lost track of time, apparently, or John had showered faster than usual. “Oh, well…”, he struggled for an explanation.

“What have you got there?”, John asked with furrowed brows as he spotted the teddy bear and the picture in Sherlock’s hands.

“Nothing.”, Sherlock said and quickly walked over to the bag he wanted to put it back in, but John was quick enough to grab his arm. Sherlock sighed, defeated. “Those are the only things calming her down, John.”

John took the bear and inspected it. “I thought I had thrown this out? Why do you have this?”, he asked sternly.

“John, I know you don’t talk about Mary to her—“

“Don’t say that name.”, he warned him.

“She’s a baby. She misses her mother. It’s the only thing that reminds her of her.”

John narrowed his eyes on the plushie again and suddenly caught a whiff of a very distinctive smell. Then the conclusion was written on his face. He looked back at Sherlock, his eyes suddenly very dark. “I told you, I don’t want her to get further attached to someone that isn’t here anymore and never will be again.”, he answered with a little anger in his voice.

“John, calm down. You’ll wake her up.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Sherlock. She’s my daughter, and I don’t want to be reminded of her dead mother every time she cries. And why did you keep this from me, anyway?”

“John, please. I think it’s best for her if she—“

“I don’t care what you think is best for her!”, John raised his voice. “You’re not her father! You don’t have to deal with her questions about her mother when she’s older. You’re not the one who has to tell her that her mother was a lying piece of shit and a murderous one, too. And I don’t want to do that either, so the less she knows, the less she’s reminded of her, the sooner she forgets her, the better.”

“So you’re going to lie to her? You’re not better than Mary, then, are you?”

“Not better than you either, am I?” John glared at him, clenching his jaw and his fists over and over again. “Sherlock, if you can’t accept the way I’m dealing with her mother’s death, it may be better if you didn’t take care of her anymore.”

Chapter Text

It was early afternoon the next day when Greg handed Sherlock a file containing one of the Yard’s cold cases as an early Christmas present. Mycroft had hinted to him that it might be necessary to give it to his brother earlier than intended, since his mood hadn’t improved much. They were currently sitting at the kitchen table, discussing for the second time already why Sherlock couldn’t get access to any more sample data. The reason being: there simply wasn’t more since the case was twenty years old. Mycroft had taken the seat across from them, typing away on his laptop, while his father had joined them a bit later to read his newspaper. It was a lucky occurrence for every party that Mrs. Holmes had joined John and his daughter in the living room, to not further fuel the tension between her and Mycroft and between Sherlock and John, respectively.

“The samples are not the issue, Sherlock.”, Mycroft stated, not even taking his eyes away from his screen.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “So, you’ve solved it already?”

Mycroft smiled without further comment.

“What’s the issue then?”, Greg asked, curious himself, if Mycroft actually had the solution.

Mycroft eventually lifted his eyes to glance at the widely spread documents. “Read the police report again and then look at the pictures of the bedroom.”

“You haven’t even read the police report.”, Sherlock scoffed, but took the report anyway and started reading.

“He has, actually.”, Greg answered, a little apologetic. “When I asked him if it would be a good case as a present, a week ago.”

“Why would you ask him?”, Sherlock asked without looking up.

“Probably because he’s your brother.”, Mr. Holmes chuckled behind his newspaper. “And no one understands you better than he does.”

Mycroft’s smile brightened as he returned his focus to his own end-of-year report, he was currently writing.

Then Mrs. Holmes entered from the living room. “Siger?”, she asked. “Do you know if we have any batteries left? The remote ran out, and there are none in the usual drawer by the telly.”

Her husband didn’t look up from his paper, simply shot her a quick sideways glance. “There might be some in my toolbox if you’re willing to scavenge for them.”

She rolled her eyes but walked over to retrieve the toolbox from the cabinet below the sink.

“Anyway.”, Mr. Holmes continued and put the newspaper down. “Did you solve it then?”, he asked his eldest with a curious grin.

“Took me about ten minutes.”, Mycroft answered, still typing.

“Oh, fuck off. Why am I doing this then, when Lestrade knows the answer anyway?”, Sherlock asked, a little offended.

“Because he hasn’t told me.”, Greg laughed. “He thought it was a good one and you’d have some fun with it.”

“Do I look like I’m having fun?”, Sherlock pouted.

“Beneath all that crap… you are.”, Mr. Holmes replied.

Sherlock threw the police report in Greg’s direction and started looking at the crime scene pictures of the bedroom like his brother had suggested. They mostly showed the corpse of a Caucasian man in his mid-fifties. He had collapsed in front of his bed, still fully dressed in a suit. There were no traces on his body, no signs of a physical fight, and the toxicological screens were inconspicuous. If it were anyone, it would have been declared a death of natural causes and not a crime. But the victim was a key witness in — ironically —  a murder trial, and there probably was at least one person who had wanted him dead. Sherlock drew the next photo and frowned. He handed the picture over to Greg.

“There’s an EpiPen on his nightstand.”, he stated. “It was not mentioned in the police report.”

Greg took a look at the picture himself. “You think that he died because of an allergic reaction?”

“Most probably.”

“So it wasn’t murder?”

“No, it most definitely was.”, Sherlock concluded, delighted.

Having retrieved her batteries and put away the toolbox again, Mrs. Holmes came to stand beside her youngest son. “What’s this?”

“Just an old unsolved case of my department.”, Greg explained.

Mrs. Holmes turned to frown at him. “An actual murder case? And you’ve brought it for Sherlock to solve?”

“Well, if none of us could solve it for the last twenty years, it can’t hurt to consult the ‘World’s only Consulting Detective’.”, he replied with a small smile.

“And can you solve it?”, she directed towards Sherlock.

The latter sighed, annoyed by the constant distraction. “If Mycroft could do it a week ago, I can most certainly do it now.”, he answered absentmindedly.

“You solved it a week ago?”, she asked, looking at her eldest son.

Mycroft glanced up from his laptop, nodded once and looked back down.

Mrs. Holmes turned back to Greg. “So you know who did it? Can you pursue them even after all this time?”

“Since there is no statute of limitations for murder, we could reopen the case, yes. But I still don’t know who did it. And even if, we’ll need—“

“But you said Mycroft solved it already.”

Mycroft momentarily closed his eyes, already sensing where this conversation was headed. He took a deep breath but refrained from further engaging, instead keeping his focus on his report.

“Yes, but he hasn’t told me, because he wanted to keep it for Sherlock to reveal. Also, even if he solved it in theory, we’ve no proof yet of how to back that theory.”, Greg tried to calmly explain. “We will need to reopen the case first and then see if there’s even a possibility of gathering new evidence. If we’re lucky, we will be able to cite some of the past witnesses—“

“Or some new ones.”, Sherlock chimed in and handed him another photo with a possible witness.

“Right, or some new ones. But it will take time, and the success rate is pretty low… but it’s not impossible.”

“But if Mycroft already solved it a week ago, couldn’t you have started a week ago? And he probably has more resources to help you with tracking down witnesses than Sherlock anyway?”

Greg drew in a sharp breath. He had known arguing with a Holmes was difficult, but he had never imagined he’d have to argue with Mrs. Holmes about her sons. Because he wasn’t an idiot, he knew to her this was not about the actual crime. It was once again about Mycroft not doing enough. He had witnessed enough phone calls ever since he had first met her at the hospital weeks ago to know she could be pretty tough on Mycroft.

“Violet, I appreciate your concern.”, he tried to calm things down, “But this is not how things work. I can’t run to Mycroft about every unsolved case and ask him to use his resources to solve it. We have our own resources and our own people working these cases. It’s not his job.”

“But it could be.”, she tried to argue. “At least he could help you here and there. Tell you what to look for, who to talk to. Could save you some time at least.”

“He’s not my handler.”

“And I have a pretty demanding job myself.”, Mycroft pressed between clenched teeth, typing away more aggressively.

“Doing what exactly?”, Mrs. Holmes asked. “Controlling politics? Deciding over other people’s fates? Over other people’s lives?”

“What are you implying?”, Mycroft asked in return, finally raising his head to stare at his mother.

“That you’re brother and Greg here are actually trying to help people. Trying to solve crimes and incarcerate bad people. You, on the other hand… Whatever happened the other night, it doesn’t seem like it was the first time you took someone’s life, judging by how unbothered you are. Sitting here like nothing happened? Meanwhile, John and his daughter are in the next room, grieving.”

“Violet, cut it.”, Mr. Holmes finally decided to step in. “You’re being extremely unreasonable.”

“Unbothered?”, Mycroft asked very calmly as he closed his laptop with a little too much force. “You think I’m unbothered?” He stood to be at eye level with his mother, staring at her intensely. “I am the most bothered person in the world. Contrary to what you think, I actually care about other people. I do what I do because it is in my best interest to keep this country running in harmony. And contrary to what you believe, I never had to kill another person before.” The more he said, the louder his voice got, pulling everyone’s attention to him. “Since that incident five and a half weeks ago, I am painfully reminded of what I did each and every day. I’m fully aware of the consequences, and I am sick and tired of you holding it over my head when you don’t have the first idea what happened and why it happened!”, he shouted.

“But why did you have to kill her? Why couldn’t you have aimed for a less lethal body part? Mycroft, this is not you. You’re not an idiot. That’s not how I raised you.”, his mother snapped back.

And that was the last straw.

“Maybe because you stopped raising me after the age of seven!”, he yelled. “I did everything you ever asked of me. I have been working my way into a political position where I always have the resources at hand to protect Sherlock from any kind of trouble he manoeuvres himself into. I’m working day and night to keep this godforsaken country running while always keeping an eye on him. I’ve been the one sitting on dirty floors in run-down drug dens and shady alleys, waiting for him to pass seizure after seizure. I had to witness all of it. I’ve been the one dragging him to rehab facilities and taking his hatred towards me. I’ve been the one always taking the blame for each and every one of his failed actions since we were children. You always blamed me for not doing enough. Now I’ve saved his life again, and it is still not enough. It is still wrong. And that’s the whole point, isn’t it? No matter what I do… it will never be good enough for you. I will never be good enough for you. And you don’t even care that I was literally on the verge of dying a few weeks ago!”

The realisation of the pain in his voice seemed to finally dawn on his mother as she didn’t have anything else to reply. Instead, her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of a bewildered Mycroft before her.

He had talked himself into rage so much that he only now realised how blurry his vision had become. “I hate you!”, he spat viciously and rushed towards the hallway. He took his coat from the hanger and wanted to storm outside, but was held back by Greg. He turned around, the first tears rolling down his cheek. “Please let me go.”, he pled quietly. “I need to be alone right now. Please.”

Greg hesitated a moment, considering whether he should follow him anyway. Seeing him so broken made his chest ache. But he knew Mycroft wouldn’t do anything stupid. He trusted him. Reluctantly, he let go and watched him practically run outside.

Leaving everyone behind, Mycroft could vaguely hear arguing coming from inside, but he didn’t care right now. He kept on walking and walking for a good while, passing fields until he reached a forest entrance. A forest he had been to quite often as a teenager. He was not particularly fond of being ‘outside’, but it had been the most peaceful place to hide from all his sorrows back then. Eventually, he reached a clearing that led him straight to a small lake. Coming to a halt, he suddenly realised his heavy panting. A slow-burning sensation filled his lungs with every breath he took. And even though his wound was mostly healed, he could feel the scar throbbing with every heartbeat.

He tried to calm himself down, but to no avail. He tried not to think about his mother. Literally anything but her, but no matter how hard he tried, she always crept her way back in. He tried thinking about Greg and how good and happy he felt around him, and how he hadn’t felt like that in ages. But then he thought about what would happen when his mother found out. She would be happy for him at first, but she would find something to blame him for soon enough. She had already accused him of interfering with Greg’s work. She would probably accuse him of not loving him, only using him for his own gain.

Exasperated, he picked up a tiny stone and threw it as far as he could. It splashed into the middle of the lake. Then he took another and tried again. And again. And again. And with every throw, his vision got blurrier and his pulse got faster until he couldn’t take it anymore. He let out the ugliest, most agonising scream before he collapsed against the nearest tree. He let himself sink down and drew his knees to his chest.

Then he allowed himself to cry.

“Was that really necessary?”, Mr. Holmes scolded his wife. “Do you always have to be so mean to him?”

“I wasn’t trying to be mean, I was—“

“It doesn’t matter what you tried, Violet! What you did was once again alienate your son further from you.”

Mrs. Holmes was seemingly taken aback. She looked around and found Greg deliberately not batting her an eye and Sherlock looking at her, somewhat disappointed.

“I’m only trying to understand what’s wrong with him.”, she said. “He’s not like that.”

“Like what?”, John asked suddenly, joining them from the living room with Rosie in his arms. The arguing had obviously drawn his attention.

“Well…”, Mrs. Holmes tried to find the right words. “He’s the smart one. He follows rules, he’s orderly, he’s supposed to be the one in control. He’s not supposed to be an adrenaline-seeking lunatic, risking his life and taking other’s. He’s not supposed to be—”

“Me?”, Sherlock intervened calmly, but obviously offended. It hadn’t occurred to him before how often his mother had berated Mycroft, but looking back at it, the picture became crystal clear. And he actually felt sorry for his brother.

Mrs. Holmes turned to her son, desperately struggling for words.

“You can say it, mother. You can’t handle two of my kind, can you? And you’re afraid he’s turning into… me.”, he added a bit harsher.

“Sherlock, I love you, exactly the way you are.”, Mrs. Holmes tried to argue.

“And that’s the problem right there!”, her husband interrupted her. “When was the last time you said those words to Mycroft? You know, your other son?”

“Siger, that’s not fair.”, she tried to defend herself.

But her husband was not having it. “You’ve not been fair. And he’s suffering because all he wants is your approval. Your love. And you can’t give him even a piece of that.”

“It’s true.”, Greg suddenly chimed in and fixed his gaze on Mrs. Holmes. “I’ve spent a lot of time with him the past few weeks, during his recovery. I’ve had to witness some pretty nasty phone calls, I must say.”, he explained. “And even though he almost died and he was suffering physically for weeks, nothing pained him as much as your words.”, he ended with emphasis.

He kept staring at her with an almost unbearable intensity. Mrs. Holmes tried to endure it, but felt like it got increasingly harder. Hearing from a third party that Mycroft had been hurt by her words was something new. Something she didn’t know how to handle.

“I don’t get it.”, John interfered once more. He shook his head lightly while clearing his throat. “It was my wife who died.”, he said and also stared at Mrs. Holmes. “How do you get to be upset about it? If anyone should be upset about someone killing my wife, it should be me. But I’m not, because I don’t think it was wrong. I know Mycroft did the right thing.”, he explained, quickly glancing at Sherlock before he lowered his gaze completely.

“John, I’m truly sorry.”, Mrs. Holmes replied, a lot quieter now. “I don’t even know what happened, but it sounds so cruel… to shoot someone. And Mycroft—”

“She shot first.”, Sherlock snapped, reminding her of his own surgery. Trying to remind her who the real enemy was.

“You didn’t know her.”, John went on. “I didn’t even know her, apparently. All I know is Mycroft saved Sherlock’s life. If he hadn’t shot her, Sherlock would be dead. Is that what you would’ve wanted?”, he asked once more, looking right at her, frowning. “Because your reasoning doesn’t make sense otherwise.”

Mrs. Holmes paused for a moment, seemingly letting those words sink in.

“Also…”, John further said, “It’s not the only life he saved. If it wasn’t for him, that one night a few years ago… I wouldn’t be standing here, right now.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes on John, seemingly searching his mind palace for the occasion the latter was talking about.

“He might not be perfect, but then again, none of us are. I make a lot of mistakes, for example, marrying a woman who would rather kill my… friend… than tell me the truth about her past. But I’m trying my best to be a good person. And so is Mycroft. And I think you’re not giving him enough credit for it.”

Mrs. Holmes continued to stare at John, completely dumbfounded. She wasn’t used to other people telling her off about her own family. She hadn’t even thought that someone needed to stand up for either Mycroft or Sherlock, because she had always been the one standing up to others. Defending them because of their differentness, their weirdness, their gift. She wasn’t used to them having friends, actual friends, who would stand up to her. She hadn’t even been aware of her own behaviour. Now she slowly realised her mistake.

Sherlock couldn’t wait any longer, jumped out of his chair and went to grab his coat. He didn’t even have to say where he went for Greg to instantly follow him.

When even her husband walked to the coat rack, Mrs. Holmes tried to plead: “Siger, I—”

“Stop it. I don’t want to hear it. I’m getting my son to come back home!”, he answered harshly. “And you better have an apology ready, once we’re back.” And then he went off.

John hesitated a moment, debating whether he should follow them, too. But thinking about the time Mycroft had been the one picking him up, getting him out of a really dark place, the decision wasn’t that hard to make. He placed a kiss on his daughter's head before walking over to Mrs. Holmes. “Would you mind?”, he asked and held her out.

She instinctively took her in before she could even think about it. “You too?”, she asked quietly, as she looked after him.

“I have a feeling… I might know how to help.”, John sighed. “And by the way… Contrary to what you believe, I’m not grieving. You might want to start blaming me for being a bad husband and father and an overall terrible human being.”, he added and then followed the others.

Violet was left at a loss for words.

Chapter Text

It felt like an eternity before Mycroft eventually came back to his senses. Ever since the crying had stopped, he had fallen into a sort of trance, still sitting at the bottom of the tree, staring blankly at the lake in front of him. What pulled him out of this state, though, were a few distinct voices coming from behind him.

“See, I told you he’d be here.”, he heard his brother say, coming closer.

Mycroft didn’t move.

Not when Sherlock held a hand out for him to help him get up.

Not when Greg knelt down beside him and caressed his arm.

Not when his father tried telling him in how many ways his mother had been wrong.

“Mycroft, don’t listen to her.”, Sherlock said, squatting down beside him. “She’s… ”, he tried, but struggled to find the right words.

“She’ll come to her senses, eventually.”, his father added when he came to stand beside Sherlock. “I told her off, very explicitly.”

But Mycroft still didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He only wanted to sit there and stare at the lake, not thinking about anything. It had a rather calming effect on him. Because if he didn’t think, he couldn’t come up with another idea on how to disappoint his mother.

“My, please.”, Greg said softly, still stroking his arm. “You need to get up or you’ll freeze to death.”

Mycroft had to admit it was getting significantly colder by the hour. And significantly darker. But he still didn’t move.

“You know that I don’t care about all that crap she said.”, Greg went on. “I care about you. And I hate seeing you like this. Please… say something.”

Now, Mycroft did want to react. He wanted to tell Greg that he was fine. Let himself be drawn into his arms. But he couldn’t. His body wouldn’t let him move. His mind wouldn’t let him talk. Because it would have been a lie. He wasn’t fine. He was very clearly far from fine.

“It’s not your fault.”, John suddenly chimed in, coming around the corner. “Mary, I mean.”, he added and came to stand right in front of him.

That did catch Mycroft’s attention. He briefly flicked his eyes up to look at John and then lowered his gaze again immediately. Too much could have been read in his eyes if he wasn’t careful.

“Her death is not your fault, even if you were the one who ended her life. Her death is solely her own responsibility. She didn’t have to act the way she did; she didn’t have to shoot Sherlock, but she did. So she had it coming, one way or another. If not by you, then… by someone else.”, he said. “We both know that.”, he added with emphasis.

Mycroft buried half his face behind his knees, not strong enough to take another look at anyone. The words did reach his ears, but he couldn’t believe them. What he did believe, though, was that he could’ve prevented everything from happening if he had simply been a bit more observant. He should have done better. Maybe his mother was right, after all.

“It’s also not your fault you didn’t know about her past.”, John continued, almost as if he could read his mind for a change. “You couldn’t have… because as long as Sherlock was ‘dead’… she wasn’t a threat. She only became dangerous once he came back, because he… cared about me. Because, for some reason, I’m still his… pressure point. And he’s yours.” John turned to look at Sherlock, who was still squatting beside his brother. “And that is not your fault either.”, he added, not entirely clear to whom it was directed. But it made Sherlock look up at him.

There were still too many unsaid things hanging between them, but hearing those words gave Sherlock a little hope. Maybe there was a chance at forgiveness, a chance to start over.

Mycroft’s head started spinning once again. Even if it wasn’t his fault, that he hadn’t seen it coming, his mother was still right. He could have chosen a less lethal body part. He could have kept her alive. But it had been a split second in which he made the conscious decision not to. Because if she had been incarcerated instead, she would have still been tied to John and his daughter. She would have done anything to maintain a relationship with her at least. There was nothing stronger than a mother’s love and determination towards her child. And god knows what she would have been capable of. So in that split second, where he had decided between lethal and non-lethal, he had thought it to be a kindness to John and Rosie to cut all ties right then and there.

“What you did do, though…”, John turned his attention back to Mycroft, ripping him out of his thoughts, “… is save a life. And I’m not just talking about Sherlock’s. You also saved… mine. Years ago.” John also knelt down in front of Mycroft, trying to face him directly. “You saved me from my biggest enemy during Sherlock’s absence: Myself.”

Mycroft buried his head deeper and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to hear that story; he didn’t deserve to hear it. He didn’t deserve to be painted a hero when he was clearly only doing what his brother asked of him. Too embarrassed by the sentiment he had shown, he swallowed hard.

“Don’t you think I have it figured out by now?”, John asked with a small laugh. “The number of times Greg coincidentally found me, hammered like there was no tomorrow? I don’t know how you did it, because Greg was clearly just as clueless every time he found me, but I know it was your doing. No one else would have followed my every step. No one else would have done that. No one else would have cared.”

“I did wonder.”, Greg said. “But, of course, it was you.”, he also huffed out a laugh and rested his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder for reassurance. Back in the day, he had been sent around London for various mysterious ‘minor crimes’, always happening in the close vicinity of pubs or liquor stores. It felt so random at times, but during or after handling the cases, he had always spotted John. He had sighed and then dragged him home again and again. After the fourth time, it felt like a pattern. Like someone was deliberately sending him to those locations. He wouldn’t go as far as to imply the  ‘crimes’ were manufactured, but he hadn’t been entirely convinced they weren’t, back then.

“And then that one night?”, John went on, his focus still fixed on Mycroft. “The night I tried to follow him?”, he motioned towards Sherlock, who narrowed his eyes at him. “Because I couldn’t stand it any longer… living without him. Thinking I failed him?”

Sherlock let himself fall on his buttocks, his gaze insistently fixed on John. He couldn’t make any sense of what he had been saying. What night?, he thought. Follow me, how? He didn’t know I was—

“The night I stood on that bloody roof…”, John continued calmly.

Oh. Sherlock’s eyes widened at the realisation. His father and Greg both turned their head towards John, too, surprised just the same.

“No one would have noticed… I would have been gone in a heartbeat.”, John said, quieter now, almost ashamed.

Hearing those words broke something in Sherlock. John had tried to take his own life. Because of me?, he thought. Because I was gone? That wasn’t something he would have ever expected. What was even more heartbreaking, though, was that Mycroft must have saved him and carried that secret with him ever since. He hadn’t told him, not even hinted at it. He had saved John’s life for him, like he had asked, and never said a word.

“But you followed me instead, quite literally.”, John continued. “You were the one trying to talk me down. And when that didn’t work, you were the one forcibly pulling me back, pinning me to the ground until I stopped resisting. You were the one taking me home without judging me. You told me exactly what I needed to hear. And then you never mentioned it ever again. You saved my life that night. And I… have never thanked you for it.”, he admitted a little awkwardly.

Mycroft slowly released a breath he had been holding. The memories of that night were replaying in his mind over and over again. The call he had received from Anthea during a meeting, that John had left the cemetery and was headed towards Bart’s. His adrenaline had spiked as he had run towards his car and told the driver to go as fast as possible. The relief he had felt when he had arrived before John. The sour smell right before the long-awaited rainstorm had started later on. The faint noises of someone climbing the roof, while he had hidden behind a vent. The desperation in his voice had been evident when his attempt to talk him down didn’t work. The effort he had to put in to get him away from the edge of the building, to pin him to the ground. The almost slip-up about his brother’s true whereabouts. The shift in John’s demeanour. The deadly silent ride to John’s flat. The restless night he had spent in his car right outside said flat.

Remembering all this, and what he did this for, he eventually raised his head. “You didn’t have to thank me.”, he finally found his voice again. He stared straight into John’s eyes, making his next point crystal clear. “You are… family.”, he replied sincerely, without otherwise moving.

Back then, on that roof, he wouldn’t have thought he’d ever say those words to anyone who wasn’t blood-related. Back then, he wouldn’t have believed those words. But looking back at everything that had happened ever since he had tried to intimidate that stranger, Sherlock had dragged along, in an empty warehouse, all those years ago… How he had become loyal to his brother in the blink of an eye. How he had immediately turned down the bribe he had offered him. How he had become Sherlock’s conscience, his voice of reason, his conductor of light.

Those words had become true.

“Despite what your mother told you earlier…”, John replied, “…you are a good man, Mycroft Holmes.” He shot him an earnest smile.

Eventually, Mycroft could return that smile.

Feeling like his job was done, John had excused himself and started to walk back the way they had come from. He didn’t dare look back, didn’t dare to look at Sherlock in particular. He had never told anyone about that night. Not even Mary. He hadn’t talked to Mycroft about it either, or rather, especially not to him. And he certainly didn’t want to talk about it again, possibly ever.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had gotten up from his spot and had looked after John as he was leaving the small clearing around the lake and vanished behind some bushes. He was still too shocked about what John had revealed. About the trauma he had gone through because of him. He didn’t know what to say, what to think, what to do.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you.”, Mycroft suddenly ripped him out of his thoughts. He finally let Greg help him get up, too, and stood a little shaky between them.

Sherlock’s head snapped around to face him, his eyes searching for answers Mycroft couldn’t possibly give him.

“I made a promise to you.”, Mycroft stated sternly, “And I kept it. But I promised myself to keep this between us, to leave him his dignity.”, he explained further.

Sherlock’s eyes widened in realisation. Of course, that’s what his brother had been so mysterious about when he had briefed him in his office after Serbia. Of course, he would have acted differently around John if he had known. Of course, John would have been… embarrassed. Sherlock swallowed hard and then leapt forward, flinging his arms around his brother's shoulders, hugging him tighter than he had ever before.

Mycroft, surprised by the sudden movement, had to take a step back to steady himself. Once he regained his stance, he wrapped his arms around his brother’s middle, momentarily closing his eyes.

“Thank you.”, Sherlock whispered in his ear. “For everything. Everything you ever did.”

Mycroft inhaled sharply upon hearing those words. It was a rare occasion for Sherlock to thank him in general, but now, after today… after the past weeks… after the past three years… they conveyed a much bigger meaning than any of them was ready to fathom.

“Always.”, Mycroft whispered in return and slowly pulled back.

They stared at each other for a moment, obviously connecting in a way no one would ever be able to understand.

“You should go after him.”, Mycroft told him gently. “Make sure he’s okay.”, he said with a warm smile.

Sherlock gave him a quick nod and turned on his heel to make his way back home.

“I never thought I’d see you two this close again.”, his father laughed from behind him and made Mycroft turn to face him.

“Well…”, Mycroft started and had to smile himself, “… a lot had to happen for this to come about.”

“I know.” His father replied and took a few steps closer.

Greg stepped out of the way to give them some space.

“I also know you’re not inclined to physical affection.”, Mr. Holmes continued, “But I need you to know that you’re perfect, exactly the way you are. You are a good man, a loving brother and a dearly-loved son.”

Mycroft struggled to fight back more tears. “Oh bugger!”, he exhaled as the first one escaped one of his eyes. “Shut up, old man.”, he said and pulled his father into an embrace.

“Hey, who are you calling old?”, his father laughed. “I’m only seventy-five.”

Mycroft wiped away the last of his tears when he let go of his father again.

Mr. Holmes let his eyes wander between his son and Greg, who was facing away from them, clearly feeling a bit lost. “I think he could use a hug, too.”, he whispered and gave Mycroft a pat on his shoulder before he left.

When he was gone, Mycroft bit his lip, watching Greg, kicking some of the rocks, with his head lowered. He slowly took the few steps to come to a halt beside him. He inspected him closer, not entirely sure of his frame of mind. “Did I do something to upset you?”, he eventually asked.

Greg’s head snapped around, looking at him, utterly confused. “What? Of course not.”, he reassured him.

“Then why are you so… gloomy?”, Mycroft asked in lack of a better description.

Greg let out a desperate laugh. “Because for the first time in a good while, I felt utterly useless. When I saw you over there… I wanted to help you… but I couldn’t. I didn’t know how. Everyone else was much more helpful, apparently.”

Mycroft frowned at him first, then his features softened again. He gently reached for Greg’s hand, and the other let it slide into his, intertwining their fingers, which fitted so perfectly together. “You know, that you are the reason I was able to stand up to my mother in the first place? You are the reason why I was able to not drown in self-doubt over the past weeks. You are the reason why I was able to get up on my feet again, quite literally even.”, Mycroft explained calmly.

Greg glanced at him hesitantly.

“Don’t you see?”, Mycroft asked desperately. He placed his other hand on Greg’s cheek and turned his head to look straight into his eyes. “You have been there for me, especially the past six weeks. You picked me up when I was on the ground, you had my back, you were my shoulder to cry on, my rock. You gave me strength when I thought all was lost. Without you… I wouldn’t be me. I wouldn’t be… who I want to be.”

Greg swallowed hard, hearing those words. Of course, he had made sure to catch him every time. But he hadn’t thought Mycroft had noticed his efforts. He often had been too lost in thought or too tired to talk about it. But he had simply been there for him.

Because on the surface, Mycroft was distant, strong, powerful, always above everyone. Flawless, calculating, always a step ahead.

But deep down, in the privacy of his own home, and the presence of Greg, he had been softer, gentler, more caring. Mycroft had allowed him into his life, had allowed him to see him vulnerable, to see the raw version of himself, no one else got to see. And Greg had simply accepted him the way he was.

Eventually, Mycroft leaned forward and pressed his lips onto Greg’s. He could taste the mint of the chewing gum Greg had used earlier, the coffee he had drunk before that and the salty tears that were streaming down both of their cheeks and mingling somewhere in between.

It tasted like bliss.

Chapter Text

After he had successfully returned to the Holmes residence, without having to talk to anyone, except briefly with Mrs. Holmes, John had set his daughter down in her cot, where she was happily playing with one of her toys. He was about to pick up his phone and sit down on his bed when someone knocked on his door. He sighed. The day had been very draining so far, and all he wanted to do was wind down and rest.

He wanted to forget.

“Come in.”, he heard himself say instead.

Sometimes he hated himself.

As soon as the words were spoken, Sherlock’s head lurked from behind the door. After a first evaluation of the room, he entered and closed the door behind him, but remained standing in front of it. John stared at him expectantly. Ever since his monologue at that lake, he was aware that Sherlock now knew one of his best-kept secrets. One, he thought he could never share with anyone because he felt too ashamed. Now that it was out in the open, it seemed to loom over him even more than the fact that his wife died a tragic death. He could see it in Sherlock’s eyes.

“What do you want, Sherlock?”, he asked eventually, when the other still hadn’t said anything.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I… Is that really true? What you said earlier?”, he asked hesitantly.

“Why would I lie about something like that?”, John replied, a little offended.

“I’m sorry.”, Sherlock said. “I’m just trying to understand.”

“Understand what?”

Sherlock looked at him with a mix of sadness and sincere confusion. “Why you would… do that? Why you would want to take your life?”

John narrowed his eyes on him. Was he really that blind? Or was he just an idiot behind that big brain of his?

“You took yours.”, he answered. “Or so I thought, at least.”

“To protect you.”, Sherlock instantly replied. “I don’t understand why you—“

“Take a hard guess!”, John snapped at him. “I told you the reason earlier.”

“You said you wanted to follow me. That… you couldn’t live… without me.”, Sherlock remembered. “But I still don’t understand… why?”

“Why?”, John asked, full of indignation. “God, Sherlock… You know why.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “I really don’t.”

John took a deep breath, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was useless. Sherlock would leave until he got his answer. But in order to make him understand, he would have to go farther back. “You know I was… not really living before I met you. I was merely existing.”, he started. “You figured that out pretty quickly.”

Sherlock’s face dropped. This was not exactly how he had imagined this conversation to go. “You couldn’t live with the fact you got discharged.”, he remembered. “You felt useless and… unwanted.”, he stated quietly.

“Exactly. And what did you do?”

“I asked you to come along to a crime scene.”

“Which was the most ridiculous thing anyone could have suggested to me.”, John laughed. “And yet, it was exactly what I needed. You didn’t belittle me, you didn’t pity me, you didn’t mock me. You took me along and asked for my opinion. Not that I was of much help, but you asked anyway. Sincerely asked.”

“Of course, I asked sincerely? Why wouldn’t I?”

John smiled in disbelief. Even after all this time, Sherlock couldn’t see how oblivious he was.

“You dragged me out of a really dark place.”, he explained further. “You were the strangest person I ever met… then I met your brother, and I was surprised there were two of your kind, even though slightly different versions. You remember he lured me into an empty warehouse, all evil mastermind-like and tried to bribe me?”, John recalled their first encounter.

“Well, he always loved a touch of drama.”, Sherlock shrugged.

“Sure, only he does, of course.”, John replied sarcastically. “Anyway. Moving in with you was probably one of the best and simultaneously one of the worst decisions I ever made.”

Sherlock frowned at him again, seemingly not being able to connect the dots.

John sighed. “Everything was so… weird, yet so… exciting. The cases, the blogging, the life we built… together. I never thought… anything or anyone could ever destroy that.”, he said and started pacing. “The almost two years we spent together… were the happiest of my life. You were… my best friend. The best I’ve ever had.”

Sherlock stared at him wide-eyed. “I was?”, he gasped.

John let out a hysterical laugh. “Of course, you were, you idiot. You meant so much to me… when you jumped off that roof… it was like… like… you ripped the life right out of me. Losing you was like…”, he almost slipped up on another secret he had been keeping. John swallowed hard, avoiding any eye contact. “… a part of me was dying right there with you.” He almost choked on the last part.

Sherlock gasped inaudibly. “John, I—“

“And that bloody phone call, Sherlock. What the fuck was that?”, he suddenly snapped, diverting the topic quickly, before he would actually burst out in tears. “Do you know it still haunts me to this day?”

Sherlock silently shook his head, a pang of sadness spreading through his whole body.

“It does. And so does the image of you, lying there. Even right now, when I know you’re alive… when I can see you right in front of me… I can still remember it vividly… like it was yesterday.”, John explained further. “And going back to Baker Street… without you… it felt wrong. Everything felt wrong. Everything reminded me of you, constantly. Every day.”, he said and swallowed hard. “So… I started drinking. The one thing I swore I’d never do.”, he admitted, ashamed.

“Because of your sister.”, Sherlock concluded.

“And my father.”, John added.

That was obviously new information for Sherlock.

“But I finally understood. Drinking the pain away… It’s what my father did when my mother left him… and he didn’t stop until it killed him. It’s what Harry did when things with Clara started to drift apart, but she luckily found a way to stop. It’s what I did when I lost you. And it almost killed me, but funnily not because of the alcohol.”, John laughed darkly. “The more I drank, the more my body got used to it, the less it worked. At some point, I knew it wasn’t helping anymore. Nothing would. Nothing would bring you back and nothing would stop the pain.”, he added on the verge of tears.

John could finally see the gears in Sherlock’s head start to turn. He had dreaded this talk for so long. Ever since Sherlock had come back, he knew, whenever it would come up, it would seal his fate as 'fool for life'. How tragically idiotic would it have been if he had actually succeeded with his attempt? Sherlock would have come back, and everyone would have laughed at him or pitied him, and he would have died for nothing… without ever knowing any of it. But he was alive, so he had to endure all of this…mess…all over again.

“It was the day of your one-year mark. Or rather the night.”, John continued, biting back the pain, marching on like the soldier he once was. “I didn’t drink that day, not a drop. To honour you, have a clear head when I talked to you. Because that’s what I did.”, he said and came to a halt again, fixing his eyes on his daughter. “When the sun had finally set, I went to your grave and I talked to you. Told you how much I missed you, how every day got harder and harder. How sorry I was for failing you, for not being a good enough friend. How sorry I was that I couldn’t live on like that. I asked you for one last miracle. I asked you to not be dead. But of course, nothing changed. So, I went on with the plan I had set earlier that day. I walked all the way to Bart’s, climbed to that bloody roof and then I stood there for a good minute before I walked over to the edge.” John took a deep breath, still trying to suppress the tears that kept creeping up.

Sherlock watched and listened, too afraid any movement would make John stop talking, when he so desperately needed to know what had happened while he was gone.

“And then, out of nowhere, your brother was talking to me, out of all people. Like he had been waiting there for me to arrive. Like he had known all along that I would end up there. You know what’s even weirder?”, John let out another hysterical laugh. “It started to rain right in that moment. Again a perfect touch of drama, wasn’t it?” He finally turned his eyes on Sherlock, piercing him with his watery eyes.

The latter didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His body suddenly felt like lead, melted to the ground, his heart heavy with guilt. He wouldn’t have forgiven himself if…

“Mycroft tried everything.”, John once more interrupted his train of thought. “Telling me how stupid I was for throwing away my life, when you gave yours to save it. How you wanted me to live, and how you most certainly would be disappointed if I didn’t. How it would hurt you. But in my mind, it didn’t matter, because you were dead… gone… you couldn’t be disappointed, you couldn’t hurt. And living would mean, constantly being reminded of that.” After those words had left his mouth, the first tears finally started to spill. A strange sense of relief washed over him.

“And then… Well, I would have never guessed how strong your brother is…”, he continued with a slightly shaky voice. “… but he pulled me back so hard, the air got knocked out of my lungs, and I had trouble breathing for a good moment. When I came back to my senses, though, I tried to pass him again, eager to fulfil what I came for. He wrestled me. Can you imagine? Your brother… of all people… would fight me to keep me alive?” An undefined laugh, filled with disbelief and pain, escaped John’s throat.

“I can, actually.”, Sherlock suddenly interrupted him absentmindedly. “He did the same thing for me once when I was about to… overdose, now that I think of it.”

It had been a faint memory locked away in the very back of Sherlock’s mind palace, only now swept to the front by the sheer similarity of the situation.

“Sorry, I didn’t…”, he shook his head, motioning for John to resume.

Their eyes locked for a moment, the air hanging heavy between them. With their bodies standing only a few feet apart, their minds were separated by three years of two very different kinds of pain. Once being able to understand each other on a very distinct level, they now both felt like two strangers after they once had been… not that.

John took a deep breath before he continued.

“I didn’t endure for very long. My body wasn’t in the best shape, thanks to the amounts of alcohol I had ingested over a year. When I had somewhat calmed down… Mycroft said something that just seemed so… strange. He said that he couldn’t let me die, because I was the only one who ever meant something to you. The only one making you… shine. Said that he made a promise to you, and if he didn’t manage to save me, to keep me alive… that he would lose you forever.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply, remembering the day his brother had reluctantly made that vow. It only now occurred to him what kind of a burden he had laid on him.

“That didn’t make sense to me.”, John went on, wiping away the oncoming tears. “He had already lost you… like I had. Now, in hindsight, it obviously makes sense. But back then, I thought that he was struggling with your death just as much as I was, only in a different way. Trying desperately to keep his promises to you, to not disappoint you, even beyond death. And it was… relieving to know I wasn’t alone with my struggles. It was actually the first time I felt… understood. When you died, a lot of people grieved. Your friends mourned you, like good friends do. I mourned you, like I… lost everything. Your brother didn’t even show up at your funeral. First, I thought he didn’t care enough. I was even angry at him for a hot minute. Then I thought, the people and everything else probably were just too much. But when he pinned me down on that roof, I looked him in the eyes and I thought… maybe he was hurting too much to attend. In that moment… it saved me. He saved me. His love for you… saved me.”, John finally concluded his monologue.

Sherlock stared at him, flabbergasted. Out of all the things his brother could have said, could have done, it was him almost slipping up on their secret that actually saved John Watson. He could virtually feel the desperation he must’ve felt in that moment, trying to do the one thing he had asked of him: ‘Save John Watson, keep him alive.’

Now knowing that Mycroft had feared losing him, if he couldn’t save John… broke something inside of him.

John’s words still echoed in Sherlock’s ears.

His love for you… saved me.

I wasn’t alone with my struggles.

The first time I felt… understood.

And then it finally clicked.

Chapter Text

“You feeling okay?”, Greg asked softly. Upon returning home, he and Mycroft had instantly resorted to Mycroft’s room again. They were standing in front of one of the windows, watching the last rays of sun vanish on the horizon. Mycroft’s arms were hanging around Greg’s neck, while the latter’s were resting on Mycroft’s back, holding him close.

“I don’t know.”, Mycroft replied, resting his cheek on Greg’s shoulder. Today had been a lot, to say the least. The emotional roller-coaster he had been on had taken its toll. Mycroft felt drained. His body was heavy, and he was thankful for the support Greg provided. The latter gently placed a kiss on the other’s forehead. Mycroft sighed in relief. The continuous care and love he received were holding him up.

Eventually, the silence was interrupted by a knock on the door. Mycroft closed his eyes and inhaled sharply.

“Mycroft, it’s me.”, his mother’s voice sounded dull from the other side.

“What do you want?”, he asked in return.

Mrs. Holmes slowly opened the door and immediately froze. She had expected a lot of things, but seeing her son being held like this by Greg was not one of them. Then again, there were a lot of things she apparently didn’t know about her son.

Mycroft pulled his head back and turned to face her. “I’m not repeating myself.”, he stated blankly.

Mrs. Holmes cleared her throat. “Can we talk? Preferably alone?”, she asked and glanced at Greg, who didn’t move a centimetre.

“About what? All the ways, I’m still a disappointment to you? Or all the ways, I’m—“

“I came to apologise.”, she cut him off. “I was wrong before.”

That was… unexpected. Mycroft stared at her for a moment in disbelief, clearly hesitating.

“I’d like to make it right… if you’ll give me a chance.”, she added.

Mycroft turned to Greg with a questioning look on his face.

“It’s up to you.”, Greg whispered, so only he could hear him. “I’m with you, either way.”

Mycroft took a deep breath and then gave him a quick nod. “I’ll try.”, he said quietly.

Greg stared at him for a moment, trying to reassure him. Then he placed another kiss on his forehead and reluctantly peeled himself away from Mycroft’s body. He crossed the brief distance to the door but came to a halt in front of Mrs. Holmes. He glared at her intensely. “I swear, if you hurt him again…”, he murmured, “I’m taking him back to London tonight.”

He waited for the words to sink in and then closed the door on his way out.

When his mother had collected herself again from the sudden hostility, Mycroft had already turned to look outside the window, his hands resting on the windowsill. Mrs. Holmes walked over to stand right beside him. They stood like this for several minutes, not facing each other, not talking.

“Did you know…”, Mrs. Holmes eventually disrupted the silence, “… when you were born, you were my greatest gift? My miracle.”

Mycroft glanced at his mother out of the corner of his eye, not otherwise moving. He did not know where this was going, but he was willing to listen.

“From a very young age on, I was told it would be incredibly hard for me to have children, if at all. So, when I had you, I gave up everything. My job, my studies, my life as it was… I wanted to make sure I’d be a good mother.” Mrs. Holmes lowered her gaze towards the garden beneath the window. “And you were perfect. The perfect child. Quiet, easy to handle, charming. You were different from other children, though. You liked to be by yourself and said they were being too slow for you. Which I found quite understandable to a point, and therefore endearing, because you reminded me of me in a way. You liked to read a lot, but not anything, no. You taught yourself Latin in a week, just so you could read Homer in its original language. At the age of eight, mind you. When you took piano lessons at the age of six, you found it boring after two weeks and wrote your own composition instead of learning the one handed out to you. You taught yourself to play the violin the week after. When you took up fencing at twelve, I was so proud of your first victory. And every single one that followed.”

Mycroft couldn’t stop a tiny twitch on the corner of his mouth at the fond memories.

“You did all these things with ease. You loved to be orderly, you loved to follow rules, and you were always careful about everything you did. Mycroft, I never had to worry about you a single day.”, she said and finally turned to look at her son.

Mycroft didn’t look at her in return, but swallowed hard.

“It was different with Sherlock. We didn’t think we’d be lucky twice, but he was my second little miracle. And he turned out to be almost as bright as you, but so vastly different otherwise.”, she said, and a small laugh escaped her mouth. “He was… wild, chaotic, and he didn’t like rules at all.”

“He still doesn’t.”, Mycroft replied with a small grin that vanished just as quickly as it had appeared.

“No, he certainly does not.”, his mother agreed. “He needed a lot more attention than you, which is why it may have felt like I neglected you sometimes. I’m sorry for that.”, she said and gently placed her hand atop Mycroft’s.

Mycroft inhaled sharply, but didn’t respond further.

“He adored you, though. He listened to you like he did with no one else. He followed you everywhere, and he always wanted to do the same things as you. And I know you adored him just as much. I could see it in your face when you first laid eyes on him after he was born. And I knew you’d do anything to protect him, no matter what.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together in a thin line. He would still protect his brother, but the older they got, the higher the stakes, the higher the cost. It was a prize he was willing to pay, still. Always had been.

“Over the years, I realised that hardly any of you two needed me anymore. But you needed each other. Sherlock needed someone to guide him and protect him, and you needed someone to challenge you and keep you company. It was hard watching it all go downhill when… Sherlock started… using.”, she said and turned to face the window again. “I can’t imagine what it was like for you to… find him. I never dared to really think about it. But from that moment on, I knew he needed you more and more. And I knew I could rely on you to be there for him.”

“But he kept relapsing. And you always blamed me.”, Mycroft stated blankly.

Mrs. Holmes took a deep breath. “I know. I initially thought you to be the solution to everything… but when you weren’t… I didn’t know what to do. Neither of us understood why he was doing these reckless things… and you were always the one who understood him best. And when you couldn’t… no one could.”

“It wasn’t fair.”, Mycroft snapped.

“No, it wasn’t”, his mother agreed. “And I regret blaming you. I regret putting a weight on your shoulders, you shouldn’t have to carry. I’m sorry.”

Mycroft released a breath, he didn’t know he had been holding. Then he finally turned to face his mother. He studied her carefully. She looked smaller than he had ever recognised, defeated in a way. He almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

“I did something a mother should never do.”, she sighed and turned as well. “I saw you as Sherlock’s protector first, as his brother second and… as my son last. I didn’t realise that before today and… I’m truly sorry, Mycroft.”

Mycroft, finally able to see her face, recognised the glassy eyes and the sincerity in her apology.

“When your assistant called us and told us that you were both in the hospital and that you could have died… that’s every mother’s nightmare. I was so afraid to lose you… especially you. Because you’re the one person I never had to worry about. All of a sudden, I did. I had to realise that, against all odds, you’re not indestructible. And I have no idea what you sacrificed, but I was so busy being worried about your brother for so many years, I didn’t see, you were hurting, too. And I can not reverse that. Sorry, love.”

Mycroft’s breath hitched upon hearing the endearment, he hadn’t heard in ages.

“And up until earlier, I thought you shooting John’s wife to be a mistake. And you never make mistakes. Not that I know of, at least. But if I believed that you did do that, that you did make a mistake, it would mean it could happen again. Therefore, I had to worry again, and Mycroft, I can’t do that. I couldn’t take losing either of you. But when John told me that he was not grieving… I realised that I can’t be the judge of whether it was a mistake or not. And I will never know, because I’m not part of this whole thing. All I am… is your mother, and all I should do is be there for you, for the rare occasion you do need me.”

Mycroft held her gaze and thought about her words. Everything she had just said was an admission of guilt. She had never done that before. She had never realised how her words had hurt him. Knowing his mother, Mycroft also knew this must have been incredibly hard. They were unmistakably similar in that regard. They both hated nothing more than to be wrong, because for the most part, they tended to be right about everything. He had to at least give her the credit for being honest about her mistakes, even if she couldn’t undo them. And honestly, that’s all he ever asked for: For his mother to see. To see him for who he is. To see him as an individual person again. To see him as her son.

Eventually, he made a decision and took her hand in his.

“You may not be able to reverse what’s already done. But you can always change your behaviour henceforth.”, he offered her.

She stared at him, obviously surprised by the warmth in his words, and knew this was her last chance to save their relationship.

“I will.”, she agreed.

For the first time in ages, Mycroft felt like he could breathe a little lighter around his mother. At least a tiny part of the heavy load on his shoulders had been lifted. And who knew, even if it would never vanish completely, maybe with time, it would diminish even more.

“You know, I might have also said something that was not entirely fair.”, Mycroft said with a little apologetic smile himself. “I don’t actually hate you.”

Mrs. Holmes laughed softly. “I’m glad.”

“I actually only now thought of a moment when I was really thankful to have you as a mother.”, Mycroft remembered.

“Really? And when was that?”, she asked.

“My first… heartbreak, if you remember.”, he replied very quietly.

Mrs. Holmes' eyes widened as she remembered very vividly how her son had stood in front of her in the middle of the night. Beaten up and broken, barely a shadow of himself. And when she had asked him what was wrong, he had simply cried. For hours, he hadn’t stopped.

“How could I ever forget?”, she said grimly.

“I didn’t know what to do, so I came home.”

“Now that I think of it, it may have been the first time I was actually deeply worried about you. You didn’t talk much, even less than usual, you barely ate, you didn’t even leave your room for days.”

“But you cared for me.”, Mycroft smiled at her again. “And you told him off, which was somewhat of a compensation.”

Mrs. Holmes briefly relished the very satisfactory memory of how an endlessly ashamed young man had trotted off her property after she had told him in exactly how many ways he was a terrible human being and that he would never understand what he had just lost.

“After that, you closed yourself off.”, she suddenly remembered. “Never introduced anyone else.”

“Because there was no one worth mentioning.”, Mycroft sighed.

Mrs. Holmes bit her lip, obviously curious about the scene she had seen earlier. “Well…”, she said.

“Well, what?”, Mycroft asked in return, raising his brows with a knowing smile.

“Is there someone now?”, she finally asked.

Mycroft jokingly rolled his eyes. “You’re smart enough to know the answer.”

His mother stared at him, equal parts happiness and uncertainty written on her face.

“He threatened you before he let you talk to me. Is there really any room for doubt in your head?”

Before his mother could reply, there was a soft knock on the door, interrupting them. Immediately after, Greg’s head peeked in. “Just checking in.”, he said. “Making sure you’re not at each other’s throats again.”, he added with an apologetic grin.

Mycroft’s features softened, and his heart grew a little fonder at the simple gesture. He motioned for Greg to come in, and the latter obliged happily. He came to a halt right beside Mycroft, instinctively placing a hand on the small of his back.

“So, you’re good?”, Greg asked, still not entirely sure of the situation.

Mrs. Holmes looked at her son with a questioning expression.

“We’re… neutral.”, Mycroft approved. “For now.”, he added and turned his head to look at Greg. Then he leaned over and kissed him softly.

Greg lifted an eyebrow at him in surprise.

“I never thought I’d see the day…”, Mrs. Holmes said happily. Then she turned to Greg. “But if you ever threaten me again, in my own home, of all places, then may god have mercy on you.”, she said jokingly.

“It wasn’t a threat.”, Greg answered triumphantly. “It was a promise. I won’t let anyone hurt him, especially not his own mother.”

Mrs. Holmes turned back to her son. “I like that one.”, she said with confidence. “Well, anyway… I’m really happy for both of you. And I hope you can forgive me, too.”, she directed towards Greg.

Greg hesitated a moment. “We’ll see how things go. But as long as Mycroft’s happy, I’m happy.”

“Well then.”, she said and took a deep breath. “I’ll leave you two to yourself and go see what your father is up to.”, she added and gave them a last smile before she left the room.

As soon as the door fell shut, they both resumed their earlier position, in each other’s arms.

“You really are okay?”, Greg asked and leaned his forehead against Mycroft’s.

“I believe so.”, he replied. “I think she understood my concerns and is willing to work on it. It doesn’t erase everything that’s happened, but… it’s a start. It’s more than I ever hoped for, to be honest.”

“I’m so proud of you. I want you to know that.”, Greg whispered and could feel Mycroft frown against his forehead. “It’s been so hard… to watch you lately. All these calls… added to your nightmares… I hate that all of this is happening to you.”

Mycroft pulled his head back slightly to get a full look at Greg’s face. He mustered him carefully and could indeed see all the worry and pain it still carried. Seeing the other so… troubled made his heart feel heavy, when all he felt for this man was… “Love.”, he whispered absentmindedly.

Greg furrowed his brows in confusion. “What?”, he asked carefully, not sure if he had heard it correctly.

Mycroft blinked a few times, realising which word had come out of his mouth.

The old Mycroft from a few months ago, the one before the incident, would have panicked. He would have fled the room and, ashamedly, buried himself somewhere no one would ever find him. He would have probably never talked to Greg again after such a slip-up.

But this wasn’t the old Mycroft. This was the new, improved version. Still developing, but the version he liked far better. Opening himself up to someone else had terrified him… before. Opening himself up to the man, who was willingly putting up with him, his job, his brother, his family… had been easy after all. Mycroft had not only allowed himself to be cared for, allowed himself to be held and cherished, he not only relished those things, but even craved them now that he got a taste of them.

Eventually, he made the only logical decision, because logic was his forte. Only this time, his heart and his mind aligned on the same conclusion, for the very first time.

“I love you.”, he said softly.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had said those words aloud to anyone. Once they were out, a knot of anxiety that had built up in his chest seemed to evaporate instantly, and only left a wave of warmth and relief spread from his heart throughout his body.

Greg stared at him, blinking as if his brain had suddenly stopped working. This was the moment he thought would take another couple of months. He had been surprised already at the amount of physical contact he had gotten ever since they had kissed for the first time. Knowing Mycroft for many years, it had always been a game of cat-and-mouse when it came to personal stuff. It had taken time to slowly crack the shell open, tiny bit after bit. But Greg had been patient. He knew if he ever had the chance of being with Mycroft, they wouldn’t rush things. Everything would take time, and Greg would have waited. But then, Mycroft had almost died. And then they had kissed. And then he had slept over once and then never returned to his own bed ever since. And suddenly it felt like Mycroft was the one rushing things, seemingly not able to get enough of him — not that Greg would complain in the slightest. Mycroft had invited him in, and in the blink of an eye, they had started sharing a life in every way possible. And it felt like the most organic relationship he had ever had. Except for the fact that they had never explicitly talked about their feelings for each other. Greg would have loved to tell Mycroft that day in the hospital, but he didn’t want to scare him off. So he had waited for the perfect opportunity. But like so often, Mycroft had beaten him to the occasion.

When the words had finally sunk in, Greg’s eyes widened in surprise. “You do?”, he asked, only a hunch of uncertainty left in his voice.

Mycroft nodded, and one of the brightest, warmest smiles, Greg had ever witnessed on him, flashed over his face. “I do.”, he confirmed. “I love you.”

Greg leaned forward and kissed him, like the world was about to end. Like this was the last time he would ever be able to kiss him. Like he was his everything.

When the first wave of emotion slowly ebbed away, he drew back ever so slightly, his lips still lingering close to Mycroft’s.

“I love you, too, by the way.”, he whispered with a smile. “If that wasn’t obvious.”

“I’m immensely grateful for the confirmation.”, Mycroft answered, relieved and closed the distance once more.

Chapter Text

Nothing could have prepared him for this situation.

Nothing could have prepared him for the amount of pain he was feeling right in that moment.

Nothing could have prepared him for this tragedy.

Not the hours he had spent in his mind palace thinking everything over, not the days he had spent planning with his brother, not the three years he had spent fighting. Actually being dead instead of pretending to be would have been easier in the end. But nothing ever came easily to Sherlock Holmes.

Since he had come back from the dead, he had gathered the following information: John had been shocked, as expected. He had been understandably angry for being tricked. He had unexpectedly moved on with his life in a completely different direction. John had been pissed at him, he had been kidnapped, found out his wife was a liar and lost her the same night.

All of this should have broken him.

It hadn’t.

It obviously hadn’t, as he had agreed to move into Baker Street again, when everything should have told him not to. What it took to break John Watson, though, was something Sherlock only now understood. Now that he had heard exactly what had happened after he had left him behind.

His death had broken him.

Because even if Sherlock Holmes was an impossible man… John Watson still cared about him. Always had. More than anyone, besides his brother, ever had. And it took another breakdown for Sherlock to finally see.

And what he saw was a crying John, standing utterly lost in the middle of the room, his face buried in his hands. Sherlock didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t good with… emotions. Or at least that’s what he told himself. He didn’t know what John felt right now, what he needed. But while his mind was busy contemplating what to do, his body had started moving, and before he knew it, he was standing right in front of him. A little awkwardly, he wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders and simply held on. He felt John draw in a sharp breath and then quiver in his arms.

After remaining like this in silence for a while, John eventually decided to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s middle and pressed his face against his chest.

They didn’t do this. They didn’t hug, they didn’t cry. But apparently, they both needed exactly this, right in that moment. John equally as much as Sherlock.

“I’m sorry.”, Sherlock whispered after John’s cries were slowly ebbing away. “I’m so… so sorry.”, he almost choked.

John drew in another breath. Then he loosened his grip and pulled back slightly. He looked up at Sherlock, wiping his tear-smeared face, and was hit with a sincerity he had almost given up on. The first apology he had accepted from Sherlock had been in the hospital, right before he agreed to stay at Baker Street. It was the first time John had believed him. Looking at him now, he not only believed his words, but he finally felt like Sherlock understood why he was apologising.

Not for tricking him, not for leaving him behind, not for lying to him.

But for breaking his heart.

“I… uhm…”, Sherlock stammered. “I want to show you something.”

John frowned at him after wiping the last of his tears away.

“Something I… have been keeping from you, because I think you weren’t ready to see… and frankly because I felt too… ashamed.”, Sherlock continued and slowly took off his jacket.

John still stared at him expectantly, his voice not ready to come back to him, just yet. His confusion began to grow when Sherlock started unbuttoning his shirt.

“The other night I didn’t let you change my plaster and you rightfully wondered why.”, he said and let the shirt elegantly slide off his shoulders.

As it fell to the ground, John took in the sight before him. The place where he had last seen the plaster wasn’t covered anymore. What was left from the second most traumatic day in his life was a tiny, still pinkish scar. He inhaled sharply, remembering who had left it there.

“This…”, Sherlock said and pointed to the spot John had fixed his eyes on, “…is nothing compared to the marks I’ve been carrying with me for some time now.”

He sighed, a little defeated and slowly turned around for John to see his back. When he heard a very audible gasp, he closed his eyes and waited.

“Sherl…”, John croaked. When Sherlock had offered to show him something, he thought nothing could shock him anymore. He had been wrong. Sherlock’s back was covered from top to bottom with various, mostly healed scars in different shapes and sizes. Some of them seemed to have been deeper cuts than others, some wider. Two larger ones were covering his left shoulder blade, a dozen smaller ones his spine. All of them painted a picture that made John hold his breath. When the first shock had settled, he carefully raised his hand and hovered over Sherlock’s back, hesitating.

“It’s okay… if you want.”, Sherlock permitted, when he realised. “Those scars… I’ve been… carrying them…” He took a deep breath. “… for you.”, he then admitted quietly.

That was it. That was all it took for John’s eyes to fill with tears again, and a knot to form in his throat. He swallowed hard before he finally dared to let his fingers wander gently across the fine lines scattered across Sherlock’s body.

Upon the sensation, Sherlock’s breath hitched, and despite his best efforts, his first instinct was to flinch ever so slightly. John stopped momentarily, obviously afraid to move on.

“It doesn’t hurt.”, Sherlock reassured him. “It’s just…”, he trailed off.

“The memories.”, John completed for him, with a hoarse voice. He had far not as many, but still enough scars on his own body to know the feeling. He eventually cleared his throat and resumed his previous tracing, even more careful now. He let his fingers wander up and down, along the most prominent scar for a while. “What did they do to you?”, he asked absentmindedly.

“Well, apparently dismantling a criminal network only sounds fun in theory.”, Sherlock answered, trying for a laugh, but failing miserably.

John didn’t think it to be the least bit funny. “I…I…”, he tried to find the right words, but he didn’t even know where he was going. Mycroft had told him… at the cemetery, weeks ago. He had warned him that Sherlock was wounded. He had asked him to go easy on him. And while John had not particularly been harsh physically, he knew his words and his anger must’ve hurt Sherlock just as much.

“Turn around.”, he eventually decided. “Please.”, he added a lot softer.

Sherlock obeyed his request. When their eyes met again, something shifted between them. Like a heaviness had been lifted… a knot had burst… a burden had been taken away. Like some unsaid things had finally been said, even if not only by words.

“I am the one who has to be sorry.”, John confessed. “You’ve risked your life… on more than one occasion… for me. And I’ve been such a… dick.”

“John, don’t—“

“No, Sherlock. I’ve been angry at you for quite a while, and for what? What good did it do? It didn’t help me to cope, it didn’t help you to settle back in, and it certainly didn’t help anyone around us.”

“John, you were allowed to be angry.”

“At first, yes, maybe. But I…”, he sighed heavily. “I didn’t even give you a chance to explain. It’s been over two months since you’ve been back. And that one time after I met your parents for the first time doesn’t count.”

“It’s okay, really.”, Sherlock tried to wave it off.

“No, it’s not.”, John countered. “It really is not okay. Nothing is. How can any of this be okay?”, he asked hysterically. “I lost you and I mourned you for a year. Then I tried to move on, never fully accepting your death. Meanwhile, you’ve obviously been to hell and back… for me. And then you return and I… I push you away, because losing you… was the worst pain I’ve ever felt. Now I almost lost you a second time, and I knew I couldn’t do this, not again. Then I lost my wife, who I’ve been with for two years and have a daughter with, six weeks ago, and I don’t…”, he stopped himself, choosing his next words carefully. “I don’t even… miss her.”, he confessed quietly. “Now tell me again, how any of this is okay?”

Sherlock mustered him carefully. “It’s not.”, he eventually decided. “But it is what it is.”

“Yeah, and what it is is—“

“Da-Da!”, Rosie suddenly interrupted the very serious conversation. The whole time she had been quietly playing by herself, but now she apparently felt it was the right time to cry for attention from her cot.

Both men turned to look at her immediately.

“Did she just…?”, John asked in disbelief, realising what had just happened.

“She just said her first word.”, Sherlock said and picked up his shirt from the floor. “Well done, Watson.”, he beamed at her.

“Da-Da!”, she yelled again, reaching with her tiny arms in John’s direction.

John’s lips turned into a huge grin as he walked over to pick her up. “I’m here, sweetheart.”, he said gently, balancing her on his hip. “You’re a clever little girl, aren’t you? Knowing exactly when to join in on a conversation.”

Once he was done buttoning up his shirt again, Sherlock came to stand beside them. “Well, she gets it from you.”

John laughed, sniffling. “I’m not clever. I’m an idiot.”

“Compared to me or Mycroft, you might be. But compared to everyone else… you stand out, John Watson.”

John lifted his head to look at Sherlock, while Rosie began to joyfully hammer her teddy bear against his chest. “You don’t have to cheer me up, Sherlock.”

“I’m not.”, Sherlock insisted. “You’re extraordinarily good with words, as you’ve proven over and over again. In that regard… I feel like an idiot sometimes.”, he laughed.

Before John could answer, Rosie threw her teddy across the room and clapped happily, as if it were an accomplishment. John rolled his eyes. “Are we back at the throwing phase again, then?”, he asked his daughter, who simply smiled back at him.

Sherlock couldn’t hide a grin and went to pick up the toy. Only when he held it in his hands did he realise it was the very teddy bear he had soothed Rosie with a couple of days ago. The very same, John had yelled at him about. He turned and held it with a questioning look. “I thought you didn’t want her to have it?”

When John looked over, he realised another apology was in order. “I didn’t.”, he said. “But the other night, she had one of her tantrums again and nothing helped… and to my regret, this was the only thing I could think of to make her stop.” He turned his gaze to his daughter and gently stroked through her hair. Then he sighed and turned back to Sherlock. “But it didn’t. I was wrong for yelling at you. I know you only tried to help. But you were wrong, too, because that thing wasn’t really the key.” He pressed his lips together and walked over to one of his bags to retrieve another item. Once found, he held it out for Sherlock to see. “This thing did help, though.”

“A scarf?”, Sherlock asked, confused.

“Not any scarf.”, John replied with a small smile. “Your scarf.”

Upon closer inspection, Sherlock realised that it was indeed one of his scarves. One he used to wear… before. “Why do you have it? And why do you have it with you?”, he asked, even more irritated.

“I borrowed it after you left.”, John explained. “It was my… comfort item… during the first year.”, he admitted.

Sherlock only stared at him in disbelief.

“I was prepared to give it back to you before we left to come here. But when I picked it up, while holding her, she clung to it. And it turns out… she comes after her father.”

A frown formed on Sherlock’s face.

“Sherlock… it’s not the memory of Mary that calmed her, when you tended to her… it was you.”

“Me?”, Sherlock asked. “How? She barely knows me?”

“We’ve been living with you for over a month now, and you’ve been taking care of her just as much as I have. And she’s a baby… she gets used to people who are around her a lot, pretty quickly. She likes you.”

“Oh.” That was all Sherlock could reply. He had tried his very best. He had wanted to show John that he could change, that he could adapt, that he cared. He had put all his effort into helping him with his daughter, trying to make them stay. All the while, he hadn’t realised that it had also affected the little girl in a way he hadn’t expected. Processing, he lowered his gaze, focusing on the plush toy, still in his hands.

Meanwhile, John had put Rosie back in her cot after she had repeatedly yawned at him. He placed a kiss on top of her head before turning to Sherlock again. Seeing him turning over the teddy again and again, he said: “Maybe it is really time to throw it out now.”

Sherlock nodded. “Judging by the fact, it had to be repaired multiple times already, you may be right.”

“What do you mean?”, John furrowed his brows. “Mary only bought it about six months ago. I don’t remember Rosie destroying it.”

“That’s odd.”, Sherlock replied. “It has obviously been manually stitched with two different kinds of thread. Here, look.” He held it out for John to inspect.

Taking a closer look, he did indeed see what Sherlock was talking about, even if it was barely visible if one didn’t know what to look for. But apparently, Sherlock was still more observant than the average person. Then a thought crossed his mind. “You don’t think…”

Sherlock shot him an apologetic look because he had the same thought. “May I?”, he asked for John’s permission.

The latter nodded. “Go ahead.”, he sighed.

Then Sherlock pulled out his keys and started tugging at the threads until one of them came loose. A few more tugs and he could easily open the back of the teddy. He hastily pulled out some of the filling until he found what confirmed their suspicions. First, he retrieved a folded and crumpled piece of paper. Upon opening it, he froze.

“What is it?”, John asked impatiently.

Sherlock took a deep breath and then held it out for John to take. “It’s a letter I’ve written to you a week after I came back. Mary promised to give it to you.”

John took the letter with a deep frown. “She never did. She never even mentioned it.”

“You don’t have to read it, but if you do… please do it when you’re alone.”

John looked up at him and caught a glimpse of embarrassment in Sherlock’s eyes. He simply nodded and stowed it away in his pocket for later. “Something else in there?”

Sherlock further scoured the inner life of the toy until he retrieved another item. “Nothing but a… memory stick?” He turned it over to find something written on it.

“What’s Agra?”, John asked when he saw it too.

Suddenly, Sherlock remembered what Anthea had revealed to them in the hospital. “It’s an acronym.”, Sherlock explained. “Based on the very limited facts I have, I would guess the R stands for—“

“Rosamund.”, John cut him off. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Contain it, Watson.

“According to my brother’s assistant, she was part of a group of freelance agents. Contract killers, if you will.”

“So, what you’re saying is… Mary… my wife… my daughter’s mother… She hid a letter addressed to me and a memory stick, possibly concerning horrible details about her past, in one of Rosie’s stuffed animals?”

“Seems like it.”

“Do I even want to know what’s on there?”, John asked, suddenly very tired.

“In any case, I know whose laptop we could borrow.”

Chapter Text

Not wasting another second, Sherlock stormed out of John’s room and headed straight for his brother’s. Not even considering announcing himself, he swung open the door.

“Mycroft, I need to borrow—“, he began and immediately fell silent, facing a scene he never in a million years would have thought he had to witness. Mycroft, his brother, the one person he never thought to be capable of so much as flirting with another person, was currently smothering someone in kisses. And not anyone, no. It had to be Lestrade, of all people.

Upon the sudden interruption, Mycroft let go of Greg and sighed, annoyed. “Sherlock, how many times do I have to tell you: Knock on a door before you enter.”

Sherlock was frozen in place, rapidly blinking at them, while Greg grinned at him, amused.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “What do you need to borrow, then?”, he tried to defuse the situation. “Sherlock?”, he asked a bit louder when the other still didn’t respond.

Sherlock quickly shook his head, as if to erase the picture that had just burned itself into his head. “Sorry, what?”, he asked, seemingly confused.

“You came to borrow something?”, Mycroft tried again.

“Right.”, Sherlock tried to focus. “I, uhm, we found this.”, he said and held his hand out for Mycroft to see the memory stick.

Curious, his brother stepped closer to inspect the item. When he spotted the letters written on it, his eyes snapped to look at Sherlock’s. “Where did you get this?”, he asked with a sudden urgency.

“Mary hid it in one of Rosie’s stuffed animals. We found it by chance.”

“You realise this may contain classified information.”, Mycroft replied sternly.

“Which is why I came to you.”, Sherlock announced, almost innocently proud.

“And because he’s the only one who brought a laptop.”, Greg chimed in as he walked over to join them.

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.”, Sherlock waved it off.

Mycroft took a deep breath. “You get John, I’ll get the laptop. We’ll meet downstairs.”

Sherlock didn’t have to be told twice and vanished as rapidly as he had appeared.

“What’s this about then?”, Greg asked carefully as he watched Mycroft walk towards his bag to retrieve said device.

Once Mycroft had obtained what he was looking for, he turned to Greg with a worried face. “It may reveal some concerning things about Ms. Morstan’s past.”

“Fuck.”, was all Greg could reply.

A couple of minutes later, the four of them were gathered at the dining table. Mycroft was sitting in front of his laptop, currently letting a special government-approved anti-virus software run over the contents of the memory stick, just in case. Sherlock was impatiently hovering behind him, while John and Greg had taken a seat on each side of Mycroft.

“It’s password protected.”, Mycroft announced once the software scan was done. “Any guesses?”

“Is there a limit on how many tries we have?”, John asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“It is most likely something deeply personal.”, Sherlock concluded. “Not a birth date, though, and not a name of a loved one. Something that isn’t easily guessed by strangers.”

“If she ever had a loved one.”, John shot sharply.

“Don’t you have a tool to crack this?”, Greg asked.

Mycroft turned to face him. “We have people who are specialised in the technical solution, but it would take longer than to figure it out this way. Also, we can’t let anyone know we have this, as long as we don’t know what it contains.”, he explained. “John, when did you meet? The exact date?”

“I think… it was the 29th of April, 2013. Do you really think she would have chosen something to do with me? I thought this was about her past?”

“Well, seeing as this might be something of the utmost value to her, she must have regularly changed the password, so it has likely a relevance to her more recent life.”, Sherlock highlighted. “Also… it was hidden in Rosie’s teddy. It can’t get any more personal, can it?”

John nodded quietly. He hated every second of this. He hated how, even after her death, Mary was still causing havoc. How she was still haunting him with her presence. Just when the nightmares had declined a reasonable amount.

“Doesn’t work.”, Mycroft interrupted his train of thought. “Your wedding date and any relevant birth dates don’t either.”

“I told you so.”, Sherlock replied, annoyed.

“I made the mistake of not being thorough once, I will not repeat that error.”

Upon hearing the obvious pain in Mycroft’s voice and remembering their talk at the hospital, Sherlock’s features softened. Realising the recent events were not only still looming over John, but his brother as well, he was even more determined to figure out the password.

Twenty minutes and an infinite number of guesses later, they were suddenly slightly distracted by Rosie’s cries once more. John sighed heavily.

“It’s like she has a sensor for the most inconvenient moments.”, he said and made his way upstairs.

Sherlock had long started pacing behind his brother, tussling his own hair, when Greg did the only useful thing he could think of. He pulled out his phone and made a call. It didn’t take long for it to be picked up.

“Boss, what’s up?”, Sally’s voice came through the speaker.

Sherlock stopped momentarily and gave Lestrade a look that said: Really? Greg shot him one back that said: You don’t have any better ideas, do you?

“Donovan, you’re still at the Yard, aren’t you?”

“Yep. Haven’t anything better to do, apparently.”

“Listen, Sherlock and Mycroft are listening too, maybe John as well in a minute. I need you to tell us everything we know about Mary Watson. Not facts like names or dates, but details revealed by people you questioned after the incident. Things her co-workers said about her, maybe friends. Did she have hobbies or any special interests?”

“Uhm, sure. Let me get the file… ah yeah, here. Give me a minute.”

While they waited for her to find something, anything helpful, John returned from upstairs, rocking his daughter in his arms, trying to get her to fall asleep again. When he came to stand beside the others, he heard the shuffling through Greg’s phone and frowned.

“Donovan.”, Sherlock whispered.

John nodded as if that answered all of his questions, when in reality he was none the wiser.

“They all said pretty much the same about her. Charming, forthcoming, always thinking about others first. That there was nothing suspicious about her. Stuff like that. Nothing negative, really.”

“We’re not looking for negative aspects of her, we’re looking for personal stuff. Things she liked, or did in her free time.”

“Ah, well, here is a statement of a neighbour. Beth Wilson. She said they took a monthly cooking class together, every first Thursday.”

“Anything else?”

“Not really. It’s the same as before.”

Greg sighed, seemingly running out of ideas. “Alright. Thanks anyway.”

“Wait, before you hang up. There’s something else. I thought it could wait until the morning, but when I have you on the phone—“

“What is it?”

“Her body has been authorised to get a burial. Forensic’s finally done.”

Greg looked over at John, who, upon hearing the news, turned white as a ghost. That was something he had forgotten about. Getting a funeral for his wife. The one thing that was expected of him as a good husband. The one thing he wanted to do least of anything.

“Right.”, Greg answered hesitantly.

“We’ll take care of it.”, Mycroft suddenly took over the call. “Sergeant Donovan, would you be so kind as to get in contact with my assistant and send the paperwork over to her? I’ve heard she worked with you on the case anyway.”

“Yeah, no problem at all. She’s a real gem. I’ll call her right away.”, Sally answered, almost cheerfully.

“Thank you.”, Mycroft replied and turned away from the phone again.

“Keep me posted, Donovan.”, Greg said.

“You’re on holiday.”, Sally almost laughed. “You’re not supposed to work.”

“You know how it is, Sal. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

Then Greg ended the call and put the phone away. “Sorry, that wasn’t as helpful as I hoped.”, he apologised.

“It’s not nothing.”, Sherlock tried to be optimistic. “John, regarding the cooking class Mary took… did she have a favourite dish? Or food in general?”

John stared at him as if paralysed, Rosie long gone asleep in his arms again. He didn’t hear what Sherlock had asked. He hadn’t heard what the others had talked about after he heard about Mary’s body. All he could think about was a fact that hadn’t hit him as hard before, because he had hardly left the flat or talked to anyone outside of the group of people he was currently with.

He was a widower. He was supposed to mourn his deceased wife, the mother of his daughter. He was supposed to arrange a funeral. He was supposed to talk to their mutual friends and their co-workers. While they had most probably all been informed already due to the questioning by the police, they would still have questions. Worse. They would all pay him their respects.

He hated Mary for causing this mess. He hated her for leaving all of this for him to deal with. He hated her for ever entering his life.

“John.”, Sherlock once more tried to get to him. He must have called his name a few times already, John concluded, since he had put his hands on John’s shoulders to lightly shake him back into reality.

John seemingly snapped out of his rigour. “Sorry, what?”

“There you are.”, Sherlock replied softly. “I asked about Mary’s favourite food. For the password?”

John took a deep breath and tried to think of anything. “I don’t believe she had one. She was always trying new things, hence the cooking class. And she wasn’t a picky eater, but… She always pretended not to, but she hated asparagus with a passion. I could see it in her face every time she tried it.”

“Try that.”, Sherlock directed at his brother.

But Mycroft was a step ahead and had already typed in the possible password. “You’re kidding me.”, he said at once. “We’re in.”

In a matter of seconds, everyone gathered behind Mycroft to peek at the contents of the memory stick that were finally accessible. It contained numerous folders, each labelled with a date and two capitalised letters. Mycroft opened the one that immediately caught his eye: 2009-06-19-SA. As suspected, it contained documents, pictures and even some video footage of the Tbilisi incident.

“As far as I can tell, the date tells us when an order was given to AGRA and the initials by whom. 19th of June 2009, Smallwood, Alicia. She ordered the rescue mission for the ambassador, who was held captive at that time. It failed terribly, yet the reason is still unknown. All four of the agents were presumed dead, and we cut all ties with freelance agents.”, Mycroft explained as he scrolled through and briefly scanned the pictures.

“So, what you’re saying is… that each of those folders was an assignment for them? A contract? To kill people?”, Greg asked, trying to piece everything together.

“Not necessarily kill, but presumably most of the time, yes.”

“You said they were presumed dead.”, Sherlock interfered.

“Yes, why?”

“Because then this should have been the last one, but there was another folder after that one.”

Mycroft frowned at him for a brief moment but went back and looked for said folder. 2013-04-29-WJ. He hesitated and turned to look at John. The latter didn’t even know how to react, but still holding his daughter prevented him from crashing out.

“Well, I’ve never paid her to kill.”, he stated, completely emotionless.

Mycroft eventually opened it. They were presented with a bunch of photos from John and Mary’s early days, their wedding and eventually their daughter. After that, there was a single video dated back two months ago.

“Why would she put in that folder?”, Greg asked. “If the rest contains her horrible past, why add that?”

“I think it was part of her insurance. The whole memory stick, I mean.”, Mycroft concluded. “It not only contains her past, but the ones of her teammates as well. If any one of them thought of ever betraying the other, they had enough incriminating material to stop that from happening. As for the personal touch at the end… It is possible that she expected it would be found someday. And if that happened, the finder should be shown that she wasn’t an inherently bad person.”

“Yeah, right.”, John spat. “That’s utter bullshit.”

Since Mycroft had already noticed the recently added video, he was almost sure it was a goodbye message. As if to prove a point, he clicked on it. Immediately, Mary’s face covered half of the screen.

“John, this video is for you.”, her voice was echoing through the speaker. “When you see this, I’m most probably dead. And if I’m not… I will be, at least to you. Because if you’ve looked at the rest of the contents on this memory stick… you know who I am.”

“Stop it.”, John demanded. “Stop it right away.”

Mycroft immediately pressed pause. “Apologies.”, he said quietly without facing him.

“Leave that folder. Now.”, John ordered him.

Mycroft obeyed and went back to the overview. When John took a deep breath and started pacing the room to control himself, Mycroft inspected the rest of the folder names.

“That’s weird.”, Sherlock stopped him from scrolling. “There’s a symbol on that one.”, he said and pointed to one right in the middle of the screen.

When Mycroft clicked on it, another window popped up. “It’s password-protected again.”

“Great!”, John almost yelled. “It’s like even after her death, she gives us riddles to keep herself entertained in the afterlife. Taunting us with how clever she was.”, he spat.

“23rd of September, 2010, MJ. Does that ring a bell?”, Sherlock ignored his outburst and tried to solve the actual puzzle.

John, no matter how infuriated he was, thought about it for a moment and then stopped dead in his tracks. “No.”, he gasped in disbelief. "I swear if that’s true…” Then he walked over to Sherlock and motioned for him to take Rosie. Completely surprised, he took her in a little awkwardly. Then John walked to grab his coat.

“Where are you going?”, Sherlock asked, baffled.

“I just need to get some air.”, John explained as he put on the coat. “I think that password is for you to crack.”

“Me? How?”, Sherlock frowned.

John stared at him with an intensity that sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. “Autumn 2010. MJ. Try for… Moriarty, Jim.”, he explained and walked out the door.

While Sherlock watched after him, completely lost, with Rosie still in his arms, Mycroft turned to Greg. “Would you go after him, please?”, he said and took the other’s hand in his own. “You’re less… involved.”

Greg gave him a small smile. “Of course.”, he said and squeezed Mycroft’s hand before following the request.

Then Mycroft turned to face his brother. “It’s a possibility.”, he offered.

Sherlock stared back at him, still processing. Because if that really was true, if Mary had really worked for Moriarty… it meant she had known John before they had officially met. Judging by John’s behaviour, he had already figured out that much.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile in London

“Glad you could make it so fast.”, Sally said as she handed Anthea the paperwork about Mary.

Anthea took it and immediately stowed it away in a briefcase with a combination lock. “Well, this is a highly sensitive case on our part, so I’d rather pick these up myself than have you send them over. If the wrong person gets their hands on this file, we’d lose our advantage.”

“Advantage? I thought this was a simple attempted murder - self-defence case?”, Sally asked, confused, accompanying Anthea out of her office.

“On your behalf, yes. But there’s another investigation going on within our department.”, Anthea explained and walked towards the lift.

“And let me guess, you can’t tell me about it because it’s classified.”, Sally laughed as she followed.

“You’re a quick learner, Sergeant Donovan.” Anthea said with a grin. Then she came to a halt in front of the lift and pressed the button.

Sally crossed her arms and raised a brow. “How many times do I have to tell you to just call me Sally?”

“As many times as I have to tell you that it would be unprofessional on my behalf.”, Anthea replied.

“Because we’re working together occasionally?”

“Exactly.”

When the lift doors opened, Anthea stepped inside and instantly pushed the button for the exit floor. Before the door could close, though, Sally followed her inside.

“Are you going somewhere?”, Anthea asked, raising a questioning brow.

Sally crossed her arms again. “I’ve heard you call Lestrade by his first name.”, she countered.

Anthea’s face dropped momentarily, trying to suppress a smile, but she composed herself again just as quickly. “That’s different.”, she simply answered and faced away from Sally.

“How’s that different?”, she asked. But as soon as she had spoken, something dawned on her. Something she had talked to Greg about weeks ago. “You are his date, aren’t you? You’re the one he’s constantly texting.”

Anthea abruptly almost choked on her own spit. She had to cough a few times before she almost burst out in laughter. “Lestrade and I? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in a while. And it couldn’t be further from the truth. I think Mycroft would kill me, if I even—“, she suddenly stopped herself, when she realised what she was about to hint at.

Sally eyed her suspiciously. “What’s the truth, then?”, she asked and stepped directly into Anthea’s field of view.

Anthea lowered her gaze, but couldn’t hide a tiny grin appearing on her lips. So much for professional.

Before Sally could ask any more questions, though, the lift came to a very abrupt halt midway. Then the lights went off, only for a moment, later to switch to the emergency-power lighting, which illuminated the small cabin in a much dimmer, blueish light.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”, Sally groaned. “That’s the third time in two months. I thought they had finally fixed this bullshit.”

Anthea lifted her gaze again and stared at her in disbelief. “This isn’t the first time?”

Sally took a deep breath. “No. This thing has had a malfunction, which we were told was already fixed. I’ve luckily only been trapped once out of the two times.”

“Two out of three now.”, Anthea smiled at her.

Sally rolled her eyes and turned to push the emergency call button. When nothing happened, she let herself slide down the wall until she could sit down on the floor. Anthea shot her another questioning look.

“Yeah, that thing didn’t work either last time. We’ll have to wait for someone to find us. Could be a few minutes, could also be tomorrow morning.”

Anthea kept staring at her, blinking a few times, trying to process the fact that it was close to midnight and barely anybody was left in the building.

“You might as well sit down, it’s going to be a while.”, Sally offered. “At least the company is better this time.”, she said with a huge smile. “Last time, I was trapped with two guys from Forensics. All they did was estimate how long the air in here would last and which of our bodies would decompose faster if nobody found us.”

Anthea put down the briefcase, closed her eyes momentarily and took a deep breath. Then she knelt down to ease her way into a sideways sitting position right beside Sally. Choosing a skirt this morning as her attire didn’t seem like the best choice after all. At least she wasn’t trapped in here with a stranger.

“Seeing as this really will take a while… you could simply tell me what the truth is.”, Sally resumed their previous conversation. “If you’re not dating him and Mycroft would kill you if you did… does that mean?”

“Sergeant Donovan, I will neither confirm nor deny any of your suspicions regarding the love life of my boss.”, Anthea tried to stop the discussion.

“So you’re admitting he has a love life?  And it’s still Sally, by the way.”

“Fine!”, Anthea snapped. “Sally. If Lestrade hasn’t told you by now who he is dating, if he is dating that is, there’s probably a good reason.”

“Okay.”, Sally backed off slightly. “No need to yell. I’ll just ask him once we’re out of here… since there’s also no signal in here.”

“Perfect.”, Anthea pressed under her breath.

“What’s going on with you all of a sudden?”, Sally asked, a little concerned.

Anthea tried to wave it off. “Nothing. I simply thought I’d quickly pick up the file on my way home, and then I’d finally be able to rest. At least for today.”

“Tough week?”, Sally asked, a little worried.

“Week?”, Anthea asked, bemused. “Tough months would fit better.”

“That bad?”

Anthea shook her head. “It’s really none of your concern. I chose this job, I’ll have to be able to handle it.”

Sally laid a reassuring hand on her arm. “It’s okay to admit if you need a break. I need one from time to time. Everyone does.”

Anthea fixed her eyes on the unexpected gesture. “I can’t afford a break.”, she replied and tried for a smile, but Sally could tell it was forced.

“Does your boss really coerce you to work while he’s on holiday?”

Anthea turned to look at her sternly. “Mycroft would never do that. Despite his reputation, he is one of the most generous people I’ve ever met. He wanted me to go on holiday, too.”

“Why didn’t you go then?”

“Because…”, Anthea started, but didn’t know where that sentence was headed. She thought about what to say, or rather, if she should say anything. It was not like she didn’t know Sally, but they weren’t that close. But it was the first time in forever that she had the opportunity to tell someone, besides her boss, about her struggles. The first time someone, besides Mycroft, had asked. And seeing as she wouldn’t be able to escape this situation anyway, she gave in eventually.

“Working for Mycroft Holmes comes with a lot of benefits, but also with a lot of sacrifices.”, she tried to explain.

Sally kept her gaze fixed on her, trying to emphasise that she was listening, her hand still resting on Anthea’s arm.

“He and I… we’re a team, always have been since I started working for him. We trust each other blindly, we know how the other thinks, how they work, how they behave. It’s become a routine, even though no day is like the other. But ever since he got shot… some things have changed. He has changed.”

“And you don’t like that change?”

“Actually… I’ve waited for some part of that change to happen for years… but the other part… that’s throwing me off in a way.”

“I’m not sure I can follow?”

Anthea closed her eyes and thought about how to get her point across without revealing too much. Seeing as there was no way around it, she made a decision. “I’m going to tell you something, but you have to promise to keep this to yourself. Even if your life depended on it.”, she said with a stern face.

“Seems a bit dramatic, but alright. Fair enough.”

Anthea hesitated another moment, but then went on. “You were right. About Greg and Mycroft. They’re… involved.”

“I knew it.”, Sally smiled triumphantly.

“That’s the good part. The part I’ve been waiting for to happen. Mycroft seems… happier. But there’s also been a shift in our relationship. Before, we were both unattached. We both confided solely in the other, if ever. He still does that regarding work, but now he has Greg for everything else. He’s been there for him, and he’s been so great at it, so don’t get me wrong. It’s only that…”, she trailed off.

“Are you…”, Sally tried carefully, “… jealous… of Greg?”

Anthea let out a small laugh. “I think… I might actually be jealous, but not of Greg… and not in the way you think.”

Sally frowned at her and squeezed her arm lightly. “Then enlighten me.”, she said encouragingly.

“Mycroft and I… we always had each other’s backs. We still have. But he also has him to fall back on now. And I have…”, she explained and had to stop herself again. It was the first time she allowed herself to admit this to another person. “No one.”, she whispered. Then a small, desperate laugh escaped her throat. “Sorry, this is ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not.”, Sally immediately replied. “It’s completely understandable. Believe me, I would know.”

Anthea once again raised a questioning brow.

“Greg and I, we’re not an exclusive team like you and Mycroft are. There are other people on the team. But I think we’re the closest to each other. And we both don’t really have friends outside of the Yard. But he has John and Sherlock… and now even Mycroft. And me? Look at me, I’m working on Christmas.”, Sally tried to cheer her up.

And it did work somewhat, seeing as a small smile crept up on Anthea’s lips. “I’m sorry. I’m usually not that… whiny. I’m more composed, more—“

“Professional?”, Sally offered, amused.

“Yes.”, Anthea admitted and jokingly rolled her eyes.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul. What happens in this lift, stays in this lift.”

Anthea gently put her hand atop Sally’s, which was still resting on her arm. “Thank you.”

“You know…”, Sally said, not without a grin, “… maybe we should do this more often. Talk to each other, I mean. Maybe we could even become… friends?”

“I don’t think I’d be a good friend.”

“Well, that’s not for you to decide, is it?”

Anthea inspected her carefully. She had to admit one thing about Sally: She was persistent. And kind. And so unexpectedly gentle. “Okay.”, she finally agreed.

Sally beamed at her. “So, next time you feel like this…”, she said and vaguely waved her hand around her, “… you call me. And you don’t eat it up until you can’t take it anymore. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”, Anthea replied and gave her an ironic salute, to which Sally only rolled her eyes with a grin.

“Also, you can call me if you want to talk about literally anything else. Or if you don’t want to talk at all.”

“And do what instead?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe do something fun?”

“And what would you consider ‘fun’?”, Anthea asked impishly.

“Usually something like going to the movies, going shopping or something like that. But I’ve heard this time of the year people tend to go to the ice rink or to the Christmas market. Does any of that sound fun to you?”

Anthea took a moment to think about it. It had been a while since she last did something to enjoy herself. Truly enjoy herself. Not another lonely spa treatment or a weekend binge-watching her favourite TV show.

“I think I haven’t been to an ice rink since I was a little girl.”, she eventually said, something nostalgic in her voice.

“So the ice rink it is.”, Sally joyfully decided. “And Christmas market right afterwards.”

“You’re really invested in this friendship thing?”, Anthea laughed.

“I’m invested in you.”, Sally admitted with a mischievous grin.

And when the tiniest hint of a blush appeared on Anthea’s cheeks, she was immeasurably grateful for the terrible lighting of the broken lift.

Chapter Text

“Fucking bitch.”, John whispered into the cold night air. He had started pacing in front of the Holmes residence, trying to get a clear head, but his thoughts were a mess.

When they had found the memory stick, he hadn’t known what to expect. When Sherlock started rambling about Mary possibly being an assassin, he had to hold himself back. When they had finally accessed the contents of the memory stick, he just wanted to get it over with. Seeing that video addressed to him had hit him like a train. Full force without hesitation. But when he pieced together that Mary had possibly worked for Moriarty, of all people, he had finally snapped. If that turned out to be true, he couldn’t guarantee anything. It would be an even bigger betrayal than Sherlock faking his death. It would mean that she had possibly spied on him before they officially met and then knowingly started to date him. She had possibly known Moriarty, known what he had done to Sherlock and him. It would only leave the question of whether she had been interested in him after her job was done or if dating him had been one part of the job.

“I’ll spare us both the question if you’re okay, seeing as you’re clearly not.”, Greg’s voice echoed through the front yard.

John came to a halt and turned to face him. “Okay?”, he asked in disbelief. “How can I be okay, Greg?”

The other came to a halt in front of him.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.”, he spat.

“I know it seems like that right now. And I know it’s no consolation, but you will get through this. Things will get better.”, Greg tried and knew those were only empty phrases. There was nothing he could have said that would have made John feel any better.

“Really? Will they?”, John shouted. “Because so far, it has only been hit after hit after hit! And every time I thought things would get better, they actually got worse.”

“John, I—“

“No! It’s true, just look at my life:

I’ve been a great soldier. ~ I get discharged and don’t know how to cope.

I meet Sherlock, and my life turns for the better. ~ He dies, and so do I, almost.

I meet Mary, and she kind of builds me up again. We marry, have a daughter, everything’s perfect. ~ Sherlock turns out to be alive, and I’ve been played like a fool.

I try my hardest to work through this, trying to forgive him. ~ He gets shot and almost dies on me again.

He survives, and I’m ready to give him a chance to explain himself. ~ My wife turns out to be the shooter and a liar, and almost kills Mycroft.

She dies, he survives, and I’m finally ready to forgive Sherlock. ~ We find that fucking stick with that fucking video, and it turns out that meeting me has possibly been a larger scheme of the one person who made Sherlock fake his death in the first place.

So, no, Greg, I’m not fucking okay and I will never be okay again!”

Living in a cottage came with some surprising benefits. Not worrying about neighbours who could hear someone yell at that volume in the middle of the night was one of them.

“Alright.”, was all Greg could reply. There was no point in arguing with him in that state.

Since the yelling and the cold air didn’t go well together, John had to take a moment to catch his breath again.

“You know…”, John said in between breaths, “I can’t take this anymore. I don’t want to care about this bullshit. I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to think about it, I don’t even want to know about it.” He turned back to pacing again. “Sometimes I wish… I never met Sherlock.”, he quietly admitted.

“Sometimes I wish that, too.”, Greg answered, much to John’s surprise. “The hassle at work, the ungratefulness, the obnoxiousness. The pain of his loss.”

Upon hearing the last part, John drew in a sharp breath. Sometimes he forgot that he hadn’t been the only one grieving Sherlock. Sometimes he forgot that he wasn’t alone in all of this.

“But there are a lot of things I would miss out on. I wouldn’t be the detective I am today. I would have found out my wife was cheating on me much later, if at all. I wouldn’t know Mycroft. I wouldn’t be able to… be with him.”

John stopped pacing at once, frowning at Greg. In hindsight, a lot of things made sense all of a sudden. The conversation they had in Greg’s car after leaving the hospital. The number of times he had casually been near Mycroft when they were talking on the phone. The closeness between them since they had arrived here. That moment on the lake earlier that day.

“I also wouldn’t know you and wouldn’t be able to call you my friend.”, Greg tried to divert the topic.

“And you would be better off for it.”, John snorted. “I’ve been a shit friend, so far.”

“You’ve had a lot going on, John. I had my bad days, too, but you had it far worse. It’s understandable—“

“Understandable? Don’t be ridiculous, Greg.”

Greg eventually had enough and walked over to grab John by his shoulders. “Stop it with that self-deprecating bullshit. You and Mycroft really could shake hands in that regard. I don’t know which one of you is worse.”, he laughed bitterly. “Aside from the few work-friends, I don’t have a lot of people I care about. You are one of them. Because even though you think you’ve been a shit friend, you’ve been there when I needed you. Around and after my divorce. It’s not your fault you couldn’t provide the help I needed, but it was nice to just have a pint every once in a while, not having to talk or think about any of it. And once that one year after Sherlock’s death was over… you came around again. Even if it was a rare occasion, I enjoyed talking to you every once in a while. And when you made me Rosie’s godfather alongside Molly and Mrs. Hudson? Do you have the first idea how honoured I felt? Even after all this time? After everything that’s happened?”

John stared at him in disbelief. He tried to find a counterargument, but he didn’t want to give Greg the satisfaction of being right about the self-deprecation. Eventually, Greg let go of him again, easing the situation.

“Not everything that happened to you is bad. It all depends on how you play the cards life deals you. You don’t have to keep the ones you don’t like. Throw them away and draw new ones. Keep the ones that benefit you.”

“So… you and Lestrade?”, Sherlock cautiously asked out of the blue. He had taken the seat Greg had sat in earlier, right beside his brother, holding a, thankfully, still sleeping Rosie pressed against his chest.

Mycroft, who had tried every password he and Sherlock could think of for the better part of the past ten minutes, turned to frown at his brother. “That’s what you want to talk about right now?”

“Well, I’m running out of ideas, and sometimes it helps to… converse.”

“And that’s the topic you chose?”, Mycroft asked further.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s all I can think of outside of… this.”, he explained and pointed to the laptop with his free hand. “Ever since I had to witness… whatever you were doing up there.”

“I told you to knock.”, Mycroft retorted and turned to try another password.

“How long has this been going on?”, Sherlock didn’t want to change the topic.

Mycroft sighed, defeated. He knew there was no way around it. If Sherlock wanted to know something, he wouldn’t back off until he got the answer. “I believe there’s been something between us for a good while, but I only realised… I wanted something more… something real… when I thought I had passed up all chances.”, he confessed honestly. “When I thought I was… dead.”

“Huh.”, was all Sherlock replied.

“Luckily, he felt the same way.”

“Funny.”, Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “Must be my other older brother then, who warned me not to get involved. Who told me that sentiment would be our demise.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and took a deep breath before he turned to face his brother again. “I know what I said, and I still believe these things to be disadvantages. Letting Greg into my life puts an enormous target on his back, and it makes me vulnerable and susceptible to blackmail. Plus, all my previous experiences in ‘getting involved’ proved to be superficial mistakes.”

“Why did you give in to it then?”

“That’s a bloody good question, brother dear.”, Mycroft laughed and lowered his gaze. “Perhaps, because I’m… weak, after all. Perhaps, because I was painfully reminded, that despite my best efforts, I’m still human. That night… I would have died without ever trying to be…”, he trailed off and lifted his head again, staring right into his brother’s eyes. “I would die for you any day, Sherlock. But apparently… that could happen any day. So, why shouldn’t I allow myself to be with the one person who’s able to catch me when I fall? The one person who accepts me for who I am, who doesn’t judge me, who doesn’t demand anything of me in return? The one person who wants to be with me and who doesn’t want me for my mind but for me? The one person I want to be with?”

Sherlock stared at him, as if his brother had just revealed highly classified state secrets to him. Something he wasn’t supposed to know, something Mycroft would have never told a soul, even if his life depended on it. It felt like he had just been allowed to take a glimpse at his brother’s soul, which had forever been a mystery to him. Something so raw and vulnerable, he almost felt like vomiting. Then he drew in a sharp breath, suddenly remembering something from a very long time ago.

“Because… I will burn the heart out of you.”, Sherlock whispered absentmindedly.

“What?”, Mycroft asked, perplexed.

Sherlock quickly shook his head and himself out of his mind palace. Then he placed Rosie in his brother’s arms so fast that Mycroft couldn’t even prevent it.

“Sherlock, what the hell?”, he asked, confused, carefully adjusting the baby in his lap.

“That’s what he said to me. Moriarty.”, Sherlock added hastily as he grabbed the laptop. “In a locked room, the man with the key is king.”, he said as he entered the first letter. I. “The final problem.” Then the next letter. O. “Have you figured it out yet?” And the last. U.

Mycroft watched his brother carefully, thinking he had finally gone mad. But much to his surprise, upon pressing the return button, the folder opened. And what was displayed in front of them was exactly what they had feared most: A few documents at the top, probably containing the assignments and the contracts between Mary or rather AGRA and Moriarty, then followed by several pictures of the empty pool, Moriarty had confronted Sherlock and John in, back in the day. On closer inspection, they were shot out of the perspective of one of the snipers who had pointed at Sherlock back then. Then followed by a few pictures of the actual scene, with all three of them in it.

“She was there that day.”, Sherlock whispered, scrolling further down.

Both he and Mycroft had suspected as much upon opening the folder. What they hadn’t anticipated, though, were the pictures that followed. They were almost exclusively of John after the fall. Of him mourning at Sherlock’s empty grave. Of him in various pubs and bars. Of him moving out of Baker Street and into a new flat. Of him standing on the roof of Bart’s, shot from a bottom perspective. Of him being escorted home by Mycroft right after. And lastly, of him starting at a new clinic. Then the photos stopped.

“She was there all that time.”, Mycroft added, utterly shocked, that he had been in those photos, too. Absolutely perplexed that he hadn’t noticed at the time. That he hadn’t been more aware of his surroundings.

Sherlock scrolled back to the top and opened the contracts, briefly scanning their contents.

“He planned this all along.”, Sherlock said, while Mycroft still stared blankly at the display, not able to process anything. “He told me he’d burn the heart out of me. He told me he owed me a fall. He even anticipated… that there was the possibility… of me… faking my death.”

On that part, Mycroft turned to stare at his brother instead, patiently waiting for his explanation.

“In the contract, it isn’t explicitly stated that Mary was supposed to get into a relationship with John, but she was paid extremely well to observe him for at least five years after my death.”, Sherlock explained and looked back at his brother. “He anticipated… she would fall for him. He anticipated… John would be willing to give her a try. He anticipated… if I ever came back… John would hate me to no end… and she would be too afraid to lose him…”

“So, she did everything to keep us apart.”, John concluded from behind them.

Both brothers turned their heads in an instant. They had been so occupied with the documents that they hadn’t heard the other two men come in again, and they most certainly didn’t know how much they had heard.

“John, I…”, Sherlock tried, but didn’t even know what to say.

John shook his head, giving him to understand that there was nothing to say anymore. He merely walked over to retrieve his sleeping daughter from Mycroft’s arms. Then he turned and walked towards the stairs.

“John?”, Mycroft stopped him momentarily.

The other turned his head one last time.

“That memory stick… it belongs to you. But its contents might be of value to—“

“You. I know. I don’t want it, Mycroft, and I don’t need it. I don’t want to see any more than I’ve already seen, and I sure as hell don’t want to watch that stupid video.”, he said and looked over to Greg, who was still standing at the door frame. “I’m taking the advice of a good friend, and I am freeing myself of things that aren’t good for me.”, John continued and looked back at Mycroft. “It’s yours. Do with it whatever you want.”, he said and continued to approach the stairs. “Good night.”, he added before he vanished around the corner.

When they heard the door of John’s room fall shut, Greg finally dared to move closer again. He came to a halt behind Mycroft’s chair and placed his arms around the other’s neck. Mycroft instinctively let himself fall against the back of the chair, leaning his head against Greg’s stomach. This had been such a trying day that even Mycroft Holmes desperately needed a break.

Watching them, a bitter smile crept up on Sherlock’s face. “That’s it.”, he said eventually. “The final problem.”

The other two stared at him with a frown each.

“Moriarty wanted to burn the heart out of me. And he succeeded. My heart has been ripped out and burned to the ground. I only realised that today. Too late. And the only question remaining is whether I will be able to repair it or lose it forever.”

Neither Greg nor Mycroft had to ask anything further, because in hindsight, it had been clear as day. It simply took Sherlock an awfully long time to recognise it.

John Watson was Sherlock’s heart.