When Gregory Lestrade first met Sherlock Holmes, he had thought him to be cold-hearted machine, incapable of understanding – let alone feeling – human emotion. It had taken quite some time for him to see behind the mask of confidence and cold brain-work. He remembered now, the time he first realized there was an actual human heart beating inside the Detective's chest, during a case for a missing child.

Sherlock had found the kidnapped girl within hours, leaving an abandoned building with the frightened child in his arm. The girl had refused to leave his side until her parents arrived at the scene. It had made Greg very fond of him, watching the tall, detached man whisper secret words of kindness to the fearful kid, holding her close to his chest, refusing to let go until she was safe with her family.

„Uhm… Mycroft… Make sure he's looked after. He's not as strong as he thinks he is."
"Yeah, I'll take care of it."
"Thanks Greg."

When John Watson had stepped into their Investigations, the same protective instinct seemed to have sparked in Sherlock Holmes' heart. He had changed him, made him more human than any other man Greg had ever met.

"He's a great man." "He's more than that. He's a good one!"

He looked back, watching John and Sherlock as they huddled together, speaking in low voices. He was relieved to see them back together, the two of them against the rest of the world, once again.

The yellow neon lights were flickering and buzzing, making his heart beat even faster with nervosity as he walked down the long corridor, his footsteps echoing through the empty halls. It wasn't very difficult, finding the hospital room in which Mycroft Holmes was staying, as two heavily armed men were guarding the door. They eyed Greg suspiciously as he approached the door. He held up his badge to them.
"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Scotland Yard."
"Mr. Holmes does not wish to speak to the police." One of the guards grunted.
Greg rolled his eyes, sighing. "Well I'm not the police." He said. "I'm family".
"We have our orders, no one is to enter this room aside from the staff."
"Oh for god's sake, let the man in!" called a voice from inside the room.
"Yes, sir!" The men said in unison, stepping aside.

The room was dim lit and it smelled of hospital and sickness. Mycroft looked up from between the white sheets, tubes running from his arm into strange machinery, some of which made an annoying beeping noise. He did not smile. He looked tired, bruises on his face and arms where Eurus had hit him.
"How is my brother?" he asked quietly, his eyes clouded with worry and pain. Greg sat down next to the hospital bed, his heart aching with sympathy. "Sherlock's fine. Shocked and exhausted but unharmed." Mycroft exhaled in relief.
"And Doctor Watson?"
"Hypothermia and shock but he'll be fine. Are you okay?"

Mycroft's eyes stared, unfocused, into the distance. There was silence, except for the beeping of machines and the soft sound of traffic outside. Somewhere out on the streets a group of teenagers where shouting, an ambulance rushed through the busy streets of London, the roaring engine of a motorcycle echoed through the streets. Hesitantly, Greg took Mycroft's free hand into his own, tracing little circles on the soft skin. He had always found them quite pretty hands, slim and clean they looked so fragile in his own rough, dirty fingers, scarred from years of shooting and fighting. His heart beat so strong inside his chest, he felt as if it would right out of his ribcage. Inhaling sharply, Mycroft pulled his hand away. "I do not deserve this." He whispered. He looked up, wincing at the shock and pain he saw in the other man's eyes. "I do not deserve you." He said, his voice breaking, tears glittering in his tired eyes. "Look at what I have done, Gregory. People died. I almost lost my brother. I enslaved my sister to be tortured by her own mind. I was overconfident in my own cleverness and now others had to pay the price."
Greg to a deep breath, nodding slowly.
"I've been a cop for many years. I made wrong choices. Got the wrong people behind bars, let serial killers escape, I even killed people because I knew no other way to stop them. God knows I regret a lot of decisions I made. Went over the same moments in my head again and again, thinking about all the ways things could've been different. But in the end, there's no way to go back. There's nothing to be gained from torturing yourself with guilt. You have carried the weight of this choice for so long, Myc, it's time to forgive yourself."

Mycroft had turned his head away again, staring out the window, his glistening eyes moving quickly, as if he was watching someone or something no one else could see. "Forgiveness" he whispered "'and intentional process by which a victim lets go of emotions such as vengefulness, increasing the ability to wish the offender well.' It sounds so easy, doesn't it? Just letting go. Yet, it is the hardest thing to do, especially if the offender is yourself. I have tried so hard to detach myself from human emotion. For the longest time, it seemed to work quite well."

He closed his eyes, his breath shaking as memories danced through his mind, memories he had kept hidden, buried in the depth of his mind, for many years. "My sister and I used to make up riddles for each other to solve. She was always better than I was, of course but for me it was never about competing. She drowned an innocent child and burned down our home. I saw the emptiness in her eyes. She was born a prisoner of her own mind. Isolated and lost, unable to connect to any other human being. No matter how hard I tried, I was never quite able to despise her. I forgave her. Payed her visits, brought her gifts. I was so sure I understood her. I thought I knew what I was doing. But I was blinded by my own overconfidence. Five minutes. Five minutes that made all of this possible." He opened his eyes. "… You should probably leave, Gregory."

His voice was tense with the effort to keep up his façade. Taking a deep breath, he held his hand out to Mycroft's, whispering softly "I am there for you. I will not leave you. I forgive you."
Slowly , Mycroft raised his hand, their fingers interlacing. Unable to hold back his tears any longer, every last bit of the Ice man's mask breaking away, he held on to Greg's hand, shaking.

Greg moved forward onto the creaking hospital bed, pulling his boyfriend against his chest. He felt his anxiety fade, his heart beating slow and steady. Everything around him disappeared, the traffic, the strange smell, the beeping machines and the flickering lights. There was only Mycroft, curled up in his arms, sobbing softly. "God, I love you so much, Myc."