Nobody knew. It was their secret. The best kept secret in the country. Only Mycroft and Anthea knew it for sure. Mrs. Hudson had her suspicions, but they have never confirmed it to her. He wasn't even sure if Sherlock's parent knew it. He had only met them once when Sherlock was still an addict. But it wasn't only that it was a secret, it was something that didn't fit into any common description. There was no way to pigeon-hole it. Even now he wouldn't be able to give it a label. They weren't really boyfriends. Sherlock despised the word boyfriend. And they didn't do the things normal boyfriends would do anyway. Sherlock wasn't interested in going to the pub, he hated football and he wasn't one for public displays of affection, no, he detested them. It was a strange relationship, one that began right after they met, when Sherlock was still doing drugs. Greg tried to resist for a long time. First he managed, telling Sherlock that he wouldn't start anything with him while he was doing drugs. But then Sherlock stopped the drugs and Greg was helping him through withdrawal. When Sherlock was finally clean, right when he was out of rehab he broke into Greg's flat, waiting for him on the sofa and greeting him with a smug "Now you have no excuse anymore". And that was it.

And they kept it a secret all these years. Sherlock mocking him with a different name each time they weren't alone just as to pretend that they didn't have whatever kind of relationship they had. Well, they had a close relationship, but also one that was strange. Sherlock wasn't good with emotions and it was Greg's job to sense those invisible boundaries of their relationship. But they found their way, something that was for sure difficult to explain to others, like the fact that they didn't want to live together, that Greg never stayed a night at Sherlock's place, that only Sherlock sometimes stayed at Greg's flat. Once they discussed telling John, but they agreed to wait for a good moment. But then Moriarty came along and as he used John to get Sherlock. After that they both agreed revealing their secret to John only after they managed to finish Moriarty off. But that never happened. And now Greg was alone again. And he couldn't even explain to his colleagues or to John, why he was grieving the loss more than they did. He didn't lose a consulting detective, who got on everybody's nerves, and he neither lost his best friend like John did. He lost the love of his life, the secret love of his life, the man who made him feel things he never felt with any other person in the world. Sherlock never truly said that he loved Greg, but merely nodded when Greg said it. And even though there were moments when he wasn't sure if his feelings were truly reciprocated, he still loved him.

And now there was nothing left, not a wedding ring, not even a picture of them together that wasn't taken by the press during their work. There was just this single message on his phone, typed minutes before Sherlock stepped off that roof. "It wasn't your fault. Everything will be okay." Sherlock didn't even call him when he was on that damned roof making that decision. He had called John and left the note with him, Lestrade thought bitterly. Since John stepped into Sherlock's life Greg's fears and doubts have grown. Every time Sherlock asked to meet he thought that the young men would end whatever it was that they had. But now he was dead and Greg wasn't even allowed to see him just one last time. Mycroft had been the one to identify the body and he had then hold him back, told him, it was better not to see the smashed body.

Lestrade went to the cupboard to pour himself another glass of Whiskey. He had been at home all week, suspended from work, left alone by the man he loved. He had to go to a funeral he had no idea how to survive it. And he was right the funeral was awful. Only a handful of people showed up. Not even his parents were there, strangely enough. Everybody who was there seems to concentrate on John, clearly thinking he was the one who grieved the most. And from looks of John that might as well be true. For a moment he thought about telling John, revealing the secret at last. But Mycroft had strongly advised him against it. So only Mrs. Hudson came up to him. She gave him a tight hug and whispered soothing nonsense into his ear, telling him that everything would be okay. But he knew better. Nothing would be okay.

A week after the funeral Lestrade went to the cemetery. He stood in front of the black headstone, his hand in the pocket. In his right hand he felt the ring, the ring he had wanted to put on Sherlock's finger. He had bought it a couple of months ago. He wanted to propose, but Sherlock had deduced his intentions before Greg had a chance to ask. And then the bastard demanded the ring, took a chain out of his chaotic desk and from that moment on he wore the ring on the chain around his neck. No yes, no wedding, just that. Like with everything in their relationship Sherlock didn't stick to the rules. And now Greg was standing in front of the headstone, silent tears falling down, holding the ring, not knowing what to do with it. Mycroft gave it to him, outside of the morgue the day Sherlock killed himself. Take good care of it, he had said. Take care of it, why, for whom?

Mycroft was busy reading through a pile of government papers, when his phone chirped, not his usual phone, but the one only Sherlock could call. And he hasn't called it since he has left London five months ago.

"Yes, brother mine." Mycroft said with a smile on his face.

But there was no answer. He could just hear somebody breathing, heavily, with a wheezing with every breath. For a moment Mycroft feared that he had revealed his brother's identity to somebody by calling him his brother.

"Hello?" He tried again.

"My? I need help." Sherlock whispered, his words accompanied by a rattling, wet cough.

"Yes. We will detect your location immediately." Mycroft answered, trying to push his fears aside. He pressed a button on his intercom and just like as she had been waiting behind the door Anthea came in.

"You need to trace Sherlock, at once. He needs help, fast." Mycroft commanded and Anthea left the room, not waiting for Mycroft to finish the sentence.

"Lock? Are you still there?" It was a stupid question as Mycroft clearly heard his brother's breathing as well as another painful sounding cough. "You don't need to talk, but don't hang up."

"Okay." Sherlock whispered as an answer.

The next minutes neither of the brothers said a single word. Mycroft just listened to his brother's wheezing breathing pattern, hoping he would keep on breathing. In the past months he hadn't heard a single word from Sherlock. Of course his agent kept track on him, so he knew that he was in Chile at the moment. Never once had it occurred to him that Sherlock could be severely injured, he was too smart and also a good fighter. But now as he had to listen to the ragged breathing of a clearly serious injured Sherlock he felt a fear he had never felt before. He realized he could lose his brother. Maybe he should say something, but he just didn't know what he could say to keep his brother alive.

After about ten minutes he could hear his agents in the room with Sherlock. The call was disconnected after they informed him that Sherlock had a stab wound in his back and that they will take him to a doctor and as soon as he would be able to be transported they would transfer him to a safe house on the coastline of Chile. Now Mycroft had to wait for more news. He hated waiting. He felt the urge to order a plane to be taken to Santiago at once, but he knew that that wouldn't be a good idea. And it would take too long anyway and he would not be able to do anything anyway. So he waited, trying to evade his feelings of fear.

It took another two hours until he got a text message informing him about Sherlock's state. He was alive. Everything would be okay. Six hours later another text messages arrived with the new location, but he had to wait another day until the special phone chirped again.

"Yes." Mycroft said as calm as possible.

"I am okay." Sherlock answered plainly. He sounded weak, but he obviously tried to conceal it.

"Good." Mycroft replied and he could hear Sherlock cough and he was sure he could hear him wince in pain, but he didn't want to comment on that. "Take care of yourself."

"I will do my very best." Sherlock answered slightly out of breath. "I will keep you informed when I am ready to move on."

"Okay. Please, take your time to heal, don't rush. If you need anything, just ..."

"I know. Thanks." Sherlock was surprised by the clearly worried undertone in his brother's voice, unsure what to do with it. So there was a minute of silence before Sherlock spoke again.

"How is he doing?"

Mycroft knew that Sherlock asked about Greg and he contemplated for a moment what to answer, but decided for the truth.

"Not good. Well, he tries to keep up a façade, but he blames himself. But I take care of him. I promised you and I do it."

Silence stretched between them and Mycroft didn't know what to say to soothe his brother's worries. But then Sherlock spoke again.

"And how are they doing?" Again Mycroft knew that that question was about Sherlock's friends.

"Not good, but I monitor them. Trust me, I will not allow that anything happens to them."

"I do. I trust you."

Mycroft felt relief flooding him. "You should rest now. You need to heal."

"Yes, I know."

Silence again.

"Don't worry, My." With that Sherlock hung up.

Mycroft felt slightly disappointed. He would have liked to talk to Sherlock a little bit longer, maybe bicker a bit like they used to do. Instead he grabbed his usual phone and called Greg's number. He would ask the other man to join him for dinner, like he has done every few weeks since Sherlock left. He would keep his promise.