Author's note: This is for TadPole11, who suggested this angle of the "Mycroft doesn't know Sherlock has survived, but someone else does"-story, and my brain jumped right on it. It's a great idea, and I'm kind of disappointed I didn't come up with it myself. I hope this lives up to your expectations.

I don't own anything.

The first time John started to talk about it, Greg was convinced the loss of Sherlock had finally driven the doctor crazy – there was no other explanation. He didn't tell him, though; they'd both drunk a little too much anyway, and John had always been a friend, ever since he showed up with Sherlock on that crime scene, the one he'd always remember.

John had been through a lot in the past few months, or rather, in the past five months, twenty-four days, fourteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds (within the first week of Sherlock's – passing on, he had given up the pretence that he didn't consider it one of, if not the greatest tragedy of his life). So, him getting drunk and declaring Sherlock was still alive wasn't surprising at all.

That's what he told himself as he put John in a cab and sent him back to the small flat he now called home (even though he still had a difficult time repressing the impulse to send him to Baker Street), that's what he told himself as he found his own cab, that's what he told himself when he finally arrived home and stared at the file, the certain file that had always been with him, ever since that fateful day (no one had ever asked for it, just like no one had ever asked him why he had consulted Sherlock on so many cases, almost certainly because of Mycroft).

No matter how long he stared at it and tried to convince himself that John Watson was simply lying to himself, he couldn't shake the feeling that the doctor might be on to something.

Simply because Sherlock Holmes was not the type to commit suicide.

Greg had been a police officer for almost thirty years and, of course, knew that desperation could bring people to do many things. He also knew that there wasn't really a "type" for suicide –

But he had seen many cases in his career, even talked a few of bridges and high buildings, and Sherlock running away only to jump to his death later –

It didn't fit.

Sherlock had been an addict when he first met him; he had relapsed several times before finally getting clean; he had lived through so many dangerous situations that Greg couldn't even remember all of them.

And this man was supposed to have committed suicide, just like that? Yes, he had been declared a fraud. But Sherlock had lived for a challenge, and clearing himself of the charges would have been one.

And, furthermore, he would never be able to believe that the consulting detective would kill himself in front of his best friend.

Despite what most people – especially Anderson and Donavan – might think, Sherlock had cared about John, more than about anyone else (and he certainly didn't feel a pang of jealousy at this thought). He would never force the doctor to witness his death – it would be a "bit not good" as John had so often said.

He had come so far when he realized what he was thinking; he was allowing John's hope to enter his head, and hope, in his experience, was rarely a good thing. He had seen too much; relatives that clung to the hope that their missing family member was alive; hostages that believed everything would turn out well; and –

And he had hoped, until he'd been called, until he'd realized that he would never see Sherlock Holmes again, that the consulting detective would find a way to prove he'd been innocent all along.

Otherwise – why would he have escaped? Why should he run away only to commit suicide? He could have done that in a cell.

Greg wouldn't deny that he had been more annoyed than anything else when Sherlock and John had run away; he would have proved that Sherlock had been right, he would have –

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Not even that he had tried to hinder the search for Sherlock in any way possible, not even that he had driven to St. Bart's as soon as he got the message, only to see a broken John Watson being escorted to a car. John hadn't forgiven him immediately; he had needed two months to even speak with him, but eventually, he had said that "He understood why people would think it possible Sherlock was a fraud".

It hadn't made him feel better. He hadn't known how to make John believe that he had never considered Sherlock a fraud, that he'd always been sure that he was a genius. In the end, he'd been satisfied with him and John being friends again, meeting in a pub every now and then –

Until John had started talking about how Sherlock was obviously still alive.

Greg, once he'd gone through the file yet again and decided there was really no reason to believe John's theory (much as he and the traitorous hope that somehow wouldn't leave ever since the doctor had broached the subject this evening wanted to), wondered whether he should tell Mycroft that John was obviously having a harder time coping with what had happened than they thought. Ultimately he decided against it because it was John's business and because –

His friendship, or whatever to call it with the elder Holmes, was strange enough.

He didn't even know when or how it had started; Mycroft had been kidnapping him in regular intervals ever since he'd made Sherlock's acquaintance, of course, and for a long time, nothing had changed.

Until Sherlock had committed suicide, when Mycroft had all of a sudden decided that to kidnap him once a week was the best way to get information about the investigation in Sherlock's old cases, or how John and Mrs. Hudson were doing, even if he could have found out all of that very easily on his own. It had taken Greg a while to realize that Mycroft was simply lonely, even if the elder Holmes certainly wouldn't admit it.

He had only then become aware that no one had thought about Mycroft. They had all been so concerned about John, and the aftermath of Sherlock's suicide, and the funeral –

They hadn't even spared his brother a thought.

So the next time Mycroft had him collected, he suggested they get a drink before he'd even said hello.

Mycroft had raised an eyebrow and said nothing for a few seconds; Greg had just started contemplating where they would hide his body when the elder Holmes had nodded.

True, Greg had meant at a pub or a café and not at the Diogenes Club (he'd been there a few times in the past and had always felt underdressed and uncomfortable) but he would take what he could get. And at least the brandy was good.

He'd got Mycroft to talk after the second glass – there was no point to return to the office anyway, the Chief Superintendent had made sure that he didn't get any important or interesting (interesting – did he really just...?) cases until each and every of Sherlock's old ones had been re-examined. So far, he had been proven correct every time, to Greg's not-so-secret delight.

That wasn't what they had talked about, though, in fact, Greg couldn't really remember everything they had discussed on that strange afternoon, mainly because it had been everything from his failed marriage to Mycroft's problem of finding good employees (naturally, he hadn't said what for).

That had been two months ago. Nowadays, after they had exchanged texts, Mycroft showed up at Greg's with a bottle, or Greg drove to Mycroft's after work, sometimes he even made his way to the Diogenes Club.

He wasn't sure what they were exactly; somehow, calling them "friends" seemed –

Sherlock had been his friend. He was sure of that. It didn't matter how many times the consulting detective had forgotten his first name, or belittled his intelligence. There had been an inexplicable bond between them ever since he set a young drug addict free who'd been arrested after he had decided he just had to break into a crime scene. A bond that had made him look after him on danger nights until (and occasionally after) John had shown up, had made him offer Sherlock to be an unofficial consultant. It was also the reason that Sherlock being a fraud had never crossed his mind; he'd had to ask Donavan what the other possibility for him finding the children could be, and even when they had given him so many reasons that he had to go to the Chief Superintendent, he hadn't believed for one second that Sherlock could be anything other than the always-right, impolite, kind-of-sociopathic genius he had always declared to be.

He blamed himself for what had happened, how could he not. If he had been as logical as Sherlock, it wouldn't have been a problem; if he hadn't gone to the Chief Superintendent, someone else would have, or Donavan and Anderson would have gone without him. This thought didn't really help.

Maybe this was the reason that had made him befriend Mycroft; he wasn't the only one who had unwillingly played a part in Moriarty's game, after all. According to John – who still refused to talk to Mycroft and avoided mentioning him as much as possible – the elder Holmes had given Moriarty all the information he needed to make everyone believe Sherlock was a fraud. Greg didn't know why, but he assumed Mycroft had to have had a good reason, probably the safety of the country. And he, other than John, still thought that he had cared for his brother, was in fact grieving and feeling guilty.

So they talked, even though not about Sherlock, or about their roles in his death.

Greg hadn't mentioned this development to John – he didn't know how the doctor would react. As far as he knew, John wasn't aware that he still had contact with Mycroft, and there was no reason he should think so; he probably assumed that Mycroft had disappeared from the lives of all of Sherlock's friends as soon as his brother's life had ended.

Greg didn't want to lose John as a friend – and even though he considered his opinion on Mycroft a little unfair, he couldn't help but see his arguments – so he didn't mention it. Mycroft knew all about the evenings he and John spent together. But it was Mycroft's job to know everything, and he had yet to say anything about it.

Greg maintained this balance between his friendships – wasn't it typical that the two best, if not only, friends he had had come out of his relationships with Sherlock? – even after John had started talking about his belief that Sherlock was still alive. Maybe it was just a phase before he accepted the consulting detective's death and moved on.

It wasn't. John kept insisting that Sherlock was out there, somewhere, doing God knew what – he seemed to have an idea, but didn't go into details – every time they met for a pint, and Greg was glad that they had picked a pub that had no security cameras inside. John was desperate and perhaps delusional, but he didn't want to see him locked up somewhere, and he wasn't doing any harm – except himself, that was, and Greg tried in vain to convince him of that.

"John, why are you so sure that Sherlock's alive?"

"Why do you keep on insisting that he's dead?"

"Because he is".

"He isn't".

The conversation ended like this every time, and Greg was close to finally telling someone –

And then John showed him proof and he began to wonder if he was the insane one.

Author's note: I realized I had to flesh out Greg's and Mycroft's relationship before the plot started – I know, me, rambling in a story? It's unheard of.

I hope you liked it, please review.