November 27th
When Sherlock's name came up on his Caller ID, Greg knew something was wrong. Sherlock didn't call, he texted. He never called. Pictures of his friends getting caught up in Sherlock's madness and getting killed because of it came up, but he suppressed them as he answered the call.
"Greg." Sherlock said, hallow-voiced, and using Greg's real name for the first time in recent memory. Greg's heart, like a frozen metal gear, constricted and felt like it stopped entirely.
"Who?" Greg's mind was racing- and his heart was back beating full force as if trying to escape him to find a new home just as a child from an abused home might.
"He was shot in the back of the head, no lead suspects."
"Sherlock," Greg begged of his friend, "Don't drag this out, just please tell me."
"In his home, Mycroft died at 3 am this morning."
The world around him stopped spinning entirely.
Greg wasn't sure what happened next, maybe he screamed, but he found Sally walking into his office, expression one of concern- mild panic even.
His phone was on the floor, and he stared as he saw that the line disconnected as he was sure that Sherlock had hung up.
Sally might have been saying something- Greg would never be able to tell for certain.
His world came back into full focus as Sally grabbed his shoulders.
Greg was shaking, not for anything Sally was doing to him.
"Greg!" She shouted. Seeing he was finally paying some attention, she asked, quieter, "What's going on, we heard a shout, and you were standing here paralyzed.
His brain finally caught up with the rest of him, and tears started to pour down his face, which was still frozen in shock and horror.
"I…" Greg began, "He… Oh god, Sally what the hell am I supposed to do?"
She looked at him questioningly, expecting more.
"He's dead." His lungs caught up with the rest of him now, and his breathing quickened, becoming a short staccato-like hyperventilation.
"Who?" Fear creeped up in Sally's eyes. It was only natural- they had a dangerous job, Greg knew that she'd lost friends of her own in her time at the Yard.
"Mycroft." Just uttering his name caused a malfunction of his systems- his breathing calmed, his tears stopped, his heart slowed. But his eyes deadened, his brain subsided into a sharp continuous note. B flat, his brain unhelpfully supplied, the sound that televised heart monitors make when they flatline.
As Greg shifted back to reality, he saw the fear drain from Sally's eyes, involuntary relief filling them in its place.
Greg shook his head, and Sally understood. There was nothing she could do to quell his anguish.
He walked off, already grieving, regretting his passive nature, and tired despite getting a full night's sleep.
Just a year later found Greg's void not yet filled, but softened by the passage of time. He sighed, sitting down at his desk, just after closing the blinds to his office.
He put his headphones in, and relaxed into the song he'd found several weeks prior.
You didn't have to look my way
Your eyes still haunt me to this day
But you did. Yes, you did
He could indeed see Mycroft's eyes, their clouded blue that would swoop him up like the storm that they resembled.
You didn't have to say my name
Ignite my circuits and start a flame
But you did
Oh, Turpintine erase me whole
Cause I don't want to live my life alone
Well I was waiting for you all my life
Greg clenched his teeth, closing his eyes. Not wanting to live his life alone hit too close sometimes. He was approaching 55, and he was past his prime.
Not that he'd want to settle with anyone he found, because they would never compare to what he felt for the man who'd never returned his feelings- and now never would.
Set me free, my… honey
Bee
Honey
Bee
If only Mycroft could set him free from the inadvertent prison that he'd built for Greg when he was shot through the back of the head.
As the song went on, Greg lost himself in thoughts- not even beginning to notice the door of his office opening.
Hello goodbye, twas nice to know you
How I find myself without you
That I'll never know
I let myself go
Greg took in a shaky breath.
And opened his eyes to face the world.
The world turned out to look a lot like Mycroft Holmes.
Greg stood- his breathing quickened, that staccato-esque feeling coming back from the year previous.
Mycroft held out a hand- an offering, a plea, an assurance that everything would soon be okay.
"Greg,"
That was all it took, Greg stumbled forward as he hurried around his desk, throwing himself into Mycroft's opening arms.
Greg was mumbling under his breath, words disjointed, ideas half-formed.
Until Mycroft kissed him.
Lightly at first, but it soon grew urgent and desperate- as if neither quite understood the need that they both had.
Hands still gripped tight- one on the nape of Mycroft's neck, one curled in the man's characteristic vest- Greg pulled ever so slightly away so that his lips still brushed Mycroft's as he spoke.
Mycroft expected him to ask how, why he'd faked his death.
"Thank you. You came back. Thank you." A small, sad smile.
"My Honeybee."