a/n: companion piece for The Premier League - read it and it will all make sense...
can be read on it's own...
from Greg Lestrade's p.o.v.
{don't own any of the characters, sadly...}

~ many thanks to JohnsArmyLady for keeping my nose in the right direction, and to Sherlock'sScarf for the beautiful examples she's set in her stories...


part 1

Keep your head up,
keep your heart strong.
keep your mind set,
keep your hair long.

Oh my, my darlin'
keep your mind set in your ways.
Keep your heart strong.

'Cause I'll always remember you the same.
Oh eyes like wildflowers,
oh with your demons of change
{ben howard, keep your head up}

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

five and a bit years on...

From those beginnings, when all was new and strange and unfamiliar, exciting and unsettling, life has come a long way… Thinking back on it made me realise how very extraordinary it all was, the turn my life had taken, the feelings I'd developed for one particular man, how having him in my life proved to be so incredibly important.

The summer had been a continuation of our getting to know each other even better, with days by the sea, meeting up with my family, which Mycroft said was infinitely more pleasant than any weekend with Mummy (although our friendship with Swedish home help Annika helped a great deal there), fitting in our mad working hours to actually have time together at all, keeping Sherlock out of trouble, which was not easy, now that a psycho-headcase called Jim Moriarty had appeared on the scene, testing the reserve of all in his life to the extreme. Especially that of poor John Watson.

Christmas with his mother, and John and Sherlock, along with Mrs Hudson and her sweet, dotty sister, and some other guests, was quite amusing. Mainly because there were so many people to talk to (and flirt with – I remember Annika took a shine to me, having figured out that I used to be married, and therefor possibly still interested in women, and I must say that it was quite nice to be chatted up by an attractive young woman like her, at my age… Telling her that it was never going to happen, that I was in love with and committed to Mycroft, but that I was very flattered was painful. I've never been good at disappointing women… But it worked out okay, because she's now one of my dear friends…), and being able to confide in John Watson that I'm involved with his boyfriend's brother was great… Somehow it was a relief, and he seemed cool with it too, though it took him a minute to get his head around it, but that might have just been the notion of Mycroft having a love life to begin with…

The New Year that followed began okay. I was getting to know John a lot better; we hung out and shared Holmes Horror Stories. A very nice way to spend some of my spare time… But then things began to go strange.

Moriarty cranked up the pressure bit by bit, managing to slowly imply that Sherlock was a fraud, and the media, who'd fallen in love with the idea of Sherlock, as well as people who worked closely with me, started to turn against him.

I noticed how close John and he were, throughout all this, but that cracks were starting to form, miniscule, but visible to the trained eye. Mycroft's behaviour was getting more puzzling too, as time went on, and although I was getting used to him not telling me everything about what he got up to with regards to his work, there was something odd about this one.

And then Sherlock jumped…

0o0o0o0o0o0

It felt like the earth stood still…

I had seen suicides in my career, plenty – too many… I had been witness to one or two, desperate people knowing no way out, and even though they'd never, ever become part and parcel, I had shut myself off from becoming too upset, somehow. Until it happened to the younger brother of my partner…

My partner, who seemed to turn into an iceman even more than he appeared before this happened…

It was heart rending to see John deal with it. Or rather: not deal with it… He'd gone into melt-down, became thoroughly depressed, and it took a lot of my energy to keep him from going after his lover, jump off that roof, or do something drastic with his Browning… Not even Mrs Hudson had much to offer, apart from homemade biscuits and a shoulder to cry on. Us three being the Reason He Jumped was eerie… It brought us closer together…

Mycroft disappeared into a world of his own. I sort of lost him, and it took me weeks of probing and asking and gaining his trust back, only to have it all shattered into a million pieces, when he said that Sherlock was still alive…

In a haze of disbelief and anger I heard him tell me that he was the reason that it had come this far, that he had to go to these lengths to get Jim Moriarty off this planet. He had told the Consulting Criminal vital stuff about Sherlock, to gain his trust, to be able to catch him, and Moriarty had used it all to turn the world against him. To turn John against him…

'How the fuck could you let this happen, Mycroft?' I almost scream at him. 'How the fuck…'

'I had to, Gregory, I had to find a way to get that awful man to speak, to give us an angle… I had to gain his trust, somehow, so I thought… I never thought…' he says, pained. I can see that he's sorry, that he is carrying the weight of the sadness of three people with him, and that he would really want this another way, but that his hands were tied.

'But John is… Can't you tell him? He's this close to giving up, Mycroft… This close,' I spit, indicating half an inch with my fingers, finding it very hard to empathise with the impasse my dearest must've found himself in, back then. Without telling me… 'Why didn't you tell me?' I'm whispering now. I'm so incredibly angry…

'Sherlock is okay, he's hiding somewhere, and he's slowly eliminating sections of Moriarty's network, with the help of MI5, in as much as he's willing to work with them, of course… He needs time for that… Until then you and John and Mrs Hudson are in severe danger… I'm not going to risk losing you, or getting John Watson in danger for no reason…'

'No reason? I think John's life is in far more danger now…'

'I know, Gregory… Do you really think that his health is not any of my concern? What do you take me for…'

'At this moment? I really don't know, Mycroft…'

0o0o0o0o0o0

I take some extended leave, move in with my sister in Brighton for a few weeks, get John to come down to join me for a couple of days, and he actually manages a smile, when we get attacked by seagulls, trying to nick our chips. It felt like the sun came out, after months of cloudy dreariness. He appeared to be going uphill from then on.

My relationship with Mycroft, however, nosedived. Tragically…

I moved into my room at the back of the house, and we spoke only when needed. I noticed his anguish, how sad it was making him feel, but I couldn't kiss him, or even touch his hand, while my anger at his cold and distant dealing with this tragic event hadn't subsided. I felt betrayed by him, as if I couldn't trust him any more. I still loved him, deep down, but I just couldn't show it.

So much so that I decide to moved out.

I take a flat not far from my old one, close to the Yard, walking distance, in fact, making life a little easier in that sense. No more sleek black Bentleys taking me around, just old fashioned footwork. Better for my health any way…

Mycroft has turned as withdrawn from me as I could imagine, unable to share his thoughts and feelings with me, and why should he – I'm deserting him, after all the love he showed me, after all the exposing of his vulnerable side… I can't blame him, really…

After three months alone in my flat I break down…

Hours of tears pour out of my face, my eyes turn red and bleary, and I really couldn't give a fuck… The sadness for my relationship breaking down, for the love I lost, for the time I had with a man that I was so in love with… Also my father's death appeared to still have bits of unresolved flotsam in my subconscious. And my fucked up marriage to Louise… Cases that meant more to me than I wanted to ever admit, deaths and despair, all of it came out, and it made me scared enough to call my sister, beg her to come over to help me.

'It must be bad then, if you're asking me for help…' she said, when I rang her. It somehow made me laugh. A bit.

'I really don't know what to do, Nat…'

'Are you sure it is me you want to see, Greg?'

'Why, who else should I ring?'

'Um, I don't know, your boyfriend, maybe? Just a wild guess…'

'We're on a break, Nat… Stuff has happened and I needed some space…'

'Doing you a world of good then, by the sound of it… Anyway, I'll be with you tomorrow morning. Can you hang on till then?'

She came over, armed with an overnight bag and a dvd of a film we used to watch as youngsters, one that used to have me in stitches.

'Just in case yelling at you doesn't work,' was her reasoning.

She made me soup, got fresh bread form the bakers down the road, changed my bed clothes, opened the windows, bullied me into the shower, got me to have a shave and sat down with me on the sofa, flicking through the channels on my tv.

'Nothing on… it must be Saturday…' she grins. I'm stirring my soup – carrot and lentil, her favourite – taking the odd sip, feeling slightly better already.

'Thanks for this, sis,' I say.

'You're welcome, smurf.' She grins. 'Makes a change from sorting out your niece… She's more of a handful now than when she was three…'

'How's her study going?' I ask, suddenly remembering that I have relations.

'Okay, I guess… She's found somewhere to do her apprenticeship, in Brighton, so no traveling for her. And if she remembers to go in to school, all is well. No nagging from her teachers… God, I don't know…'

Then she turns to face me. 'Are you going to tell me why you're on a break with Mycroft? I know his brother jumped to his death two years ago, has it got something to do with that?'

I take a deep breath, and let it out again slowly.

'It's a very long story, Nat… Let's just say that Mycroft wasn't all I though he was. It's all really complicated…' I say, hoping that will keep her happy.

Of course it won't…

'In what way? Did he push him?'

'Not really, no…'

'How does that work, not really? How did Mycroft not really make… Sherlock? That's his name, yeah? Why did Sherlock jump? Did stuff happen between the both of them?'

'Yes. Loads happened, Nat… Mycroft told stuff to someone that had a massive grudge against Sherlock and that lead to him having to make it look… To make him jump… With John, his partner, watching…'

'Jesus, Greg… What kind of weird, fucked-up world do you live in…? Poor bloke…' she stares out in front of her for a while, then something kicks in. 'Make it look, you said… to make it look, what, like he jumped? So he's still alive?'

I close my eyes, trying to work out how I can stop her form asking me more. But who am I kidding?

'Yep. And I can't tell John, or anybody else, because Sherlock is busy taking out anybody that's associated with his nemesis. He made Sherlock jump, and if he wouldn't, then I and John Watson and Mrs Husdon, the lady that owns the flat where he and John live, would've been killed instead. So in order to prevent that, he made it look to the world…'

'…And his boyfriend…'

'…Yes, that he had jumped off the roof of St. Barts… Only, somehow he survived, and now Mycroft is busy trying to keep him hidden away from danger.'

'Okay… And you're angry with Mycroft for lying to you…?'

'Betraying Sherlock's trust, and mine… And John's. Although I sort of understand that he did it to protect me, and the other two… I don't know, Nat… Every time I looked at Mycroft I saw John's despair, his grief, not to mention Sherlock, and how he must be feeling… He seemed so cold and unfeeling…'

'But you still love him…' she puts her hand on mine for a minute, and that's enough to make me start sobbing again.

'Yes…' I squeak.

'Then why don't you ring him, you daft man?'

'Because I can't…'

'Because you're scared he doesn't want to talk to you…'

'Yeah? Good enough reason, I think…' I sniffle. 'Not sure if I'd want to talk to me, after all that…'

'But you don't know…'

'No, I don't know…'

'Ring him…'

'Náát…'

'Okay, then I'll ring him…'

'No you bloody won't… I'll ring him when I'm ready…'

'Which is when?'

'I don't know, do I? Jesus Nat, leave it, will you?'

'I will, if you ring him up… Come on, Greg… Don't let this man go because of this all… I totally understand that you feel horrible, and that this has been distressing, but he's done all he can to do the right things, to protect as many people as he can…'

'You should've seen John, Nat… He was so close to following Sherlock down that roof…'

'I know, Greg, I'm not saying that he hasn't been a bit of a prick, but I'm sure he still loves you… Can you let go of your anger? Or is that more important than the love you shared with him?'

'I don't know, Nat… Maybe I should just try to forget him…'

'Like that's ever going to happen…' Nat gets up from the sofa to put the dvd in the machine. 'Didn't have you down as a coward…'

'I'm not a coward… I'm just not ready yet…'

'Okay… Let's watch this for a bit… Take your mind off all this.'

And with that I hear the beginning sounds of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and it does the trick within a minute. Thoughts of Mycroft disperse and I find myself giggling, something I haven't managed for so long…

Later that week I go back to work, and within days it feels like all is back to normal. Mycroft keeps appearing in my head, but just as easily vanish again, and there are days that I don't think about him at all.

Nathalie sends me the odd text, asking if I've phoned him yet. And when I answer 'no' she calls me a chicken, and I tell her to back off… Which she doesn't of course…

After months of this, I decide to take the plunge, and send him a text, just to test the waters. He appears delighted, if that's measurable in a text message. I asked if I could ring him later that day, and he said yes, with three exclamation marks...

When the time comes to make the call, I feel jitters. Like I did when I asked Louise out for dinner, many moons ago. My fingers tremble when I press his name, then touch the green dial button, and hear the tone which tells me that he should be hearing his ringtone, somewhere else in London.

'Hello Gregory,' then says a very familiar voice on the other side. God! I missed that so much…

'Hi, Mycroft,' I almost whisper, overwhelmed with feelings of longing to be back with him.

'It's so nice to hear from you,' he carries on. 'How are you doing?'

'Um… Alright, I guess… You?'

'As well as can be expected… Busy, trying to stop the prime minister from making a fool of himself, you know the drill… What are you up to these days?'

Jesus this is so bloody hard… All my feelings of anger and mistrust and whatever else drove me to leave him, have evaporated, and all I want is to see him again, listen to him, touch him…

'Can I see you, Mycroft? Please…'

'Yes, of course! Do you want to come over now?'

I do, desperately, but I decline.

'Dinner maybe, tomorrow? Just talk, nothing more…' he suggests, his voice soft and fragile, suddenly.

'That'd be great… I'm sorry, and I miss you…'

'I miss you too…'

And then our chat is over again.

I don't sleep much that night, thinking over what has been happening these past two and a half years, the reasons why, the depths of despair, the bonds broken… And it all seems to matter nothing…

Dinner is nice, once I get over my trepidations, and I accept that I wish to be back with the man that betrayed his brother (reasoning that I don't know what I would do in his situation…), that all my anger means nothing when I'm in his company again. Halfway in the meal he puts his hand on mine, carefully stroking it, taking it into his, and I allow him to lift it, and pull it towards his mouth, kiss it, and I move my finger so that I touch his face, hold it, caress it for a few seconds, and make my thumb rub his lips, ever so gently, and know that any restraint I might have had has disappeared.

That night I'm back in his bed – our bed.

And for the first time in ages, I sleep well…

Quiet weeks pass by, and once more I feel happy.

And then John Watson calls me to say that Sherlock had just turned up at the flat…