Greg was sitting with Mycroft at the dinner table. He'd made seared salmon with a green salad, and a dill and tarragon sauce. Greg was almost half way, but Mycroft had barely started. Greg had noticed his husband's reluctance to eat as of late, and so had tried to prepare him some tasty, but healthy, meals in the hopes he'd eat a decent amount.
"I spoke with Sherlock today. He said that your family is having a Christmas dinner this year?"

Mycroft looked up from his plate. He nodded stiffly, obviously indicating his dislike for such an event.
"Yes. My mother has decided that since Sherlock is out of hospital, we should all get together as a family."
"Sounds reasonable."
"It will be arduous. I apologise for not telling you sooner, and that you had to hear it from my brother. I have been busy as of late at work and I neglected to bring it up."
"That's ok, love. I noticed. I only bring it up because we had already agreed to go to my Mum's for Christmas."

Mycroft's face fell as he remembered. The sheer anxiety of Christmas with his family had pushed any thoughts of attending Gregory's family's dinner well into the background.
"Forgive me, I had forgotten."
"Nah, that's alright. I still have to go, family tradition and all that. But I can come up to your parents' place the day after?"
"You are really ok with me not attending Christmas with you and your family on the first year of our marriage?" Mycroft asked with a frown. He'd honestly hoped that Gregory would join him to his parents' dinner.
"Well, no. But it is how it is. Don't worry, it'll be fine. I'll get to see you the next morning." Greg said, grinning as his shovelled the last of his salmon into his mouth. Mycroft smiled back and shook his head playfully at the glee his husband showed from eating.

They finished up their meal in silence, Greg occasionally sipping wine while Mycroft slowly cleared his plate. He then collected the dishes and put them on the sink.
"So, what else did you talk about with my dear brother?" Mycroft asked as he carried over their glasses. A pang of anxiety tugged at Greg's gut, but he decided to try and just talk about it casually. Probably not as casual as bursting out with, 'hey, so did you know Sherlock was raped?', though.
"Oh, um, we talked about sex."

Mycroft froze and nearly dropped the glasses on the bench.
"Excuse me? You discussed our sex life with my brother?"
"Haha, oh lord no. He'd never stay in the room long enough to hear it. Not that I would tell him intimate details. No, we talked about his." Greg said, putting the dishes into the dishwasher. He could feel Mycroft raise his eyebrow in that adorable fashion.
"What sex life? His pining after John?"
"No, well yeah, that was part of it. He actually told me about his first, and I suspect only, sexual experience. He was in high school."
"He… he never told me." Mycroft stated, a little hurt.
"It… didn't end well, he said he felt he couldn't tell you."
"What do you mean, Gregory?" Mycroft's voice was clipped as he asked. Greg stood up and faced him.
"He…er…he was raped. By his abusive so-called partner. Then he decided that he never wanted to attempt any kind of relationship again." Greg said.

Mycroft frowned. He could hear the blood rush through his body. He was so very angry that someone had done that to his little brother, and so ashamed that he'd not known about it. That Sherlock had felt like he couldn't tell him.

"Mycroft, deep breaths, remember?" Greg commented, noticing that Mycroft was headed for another panic attack. He'd been having them more frequently since Sherlock was shot; Greg figured he still wasn't as over it as he'd said. Mycroft nodded at his husband, and focused just on taking regular breaths.

"Who?" Mycroft managed to ask.
"I don't know, Myc, but Sherlock told me to make you promise not to do anything drastic in retaliation. So I'm assuming he's not going to want to tell you who."

Mycroft looked away, still tense.
"Listen, why don't we just relax with a movie now. You can tell me about how you're feeling, that usually helps." Greg suggested, using his arm to indicate to the living room. Mycroft nodded, and walked up to hug Gregory close.
"At least I got him to agree to talk to John about his feelings."
"You are a miracle, Gregory dear." Mycroft said, kissing his husband's head.
"I know, you've told me." Greg responded with a cheeky grin.

Mycroft breathed deeply, trying to suppress the irritation bubbling up. He wished Gregory was there with him. Hours on end with his family, minus the most important member to him, was not his idea of an enjoyable Christmas. Sherlock was being particularly irritating. But, at least it seemed like he was going to have 'the conversation' with John. It was obvious he'd brought his junkie friend to orchestrate a private moment. Ordinarily Mycroft would have resisted and revealed his brother's little plan, but the knowledge of Sherlock's past made him just let Sherlock do what he needed. Mycroft had been subdued since finding out. But he couldn't help his frustration at being alone seep through. His mother hadn't let him just attend Gregory's Christmas instead, and he was intent on letting her know he wasn't thrilled about it.

"Am I happy too, I haven't checked?" Mycroft quipped with a rehearsed grin. His mother didn't miss the meaning.
"Behave, Myc!" Violet told him exasperatedly. The nickname ground against him, reminding him of Gregory.
"Mycroft is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end…"

Thankfully, Sherlock's friend interrupted. Mycroft continued to grumble to himself in his head that Sherlock got to invite anyone he liked, but he couldn't be excused to spend Christmas Day with his husband. He was also not impressed at his mother's scolding of him in favour for praising Sherlock, but he guessed that wasn't anything new. Violet Holmes always had thought of Mycroft as uncaring and 'should know better', but Sherlock was her precious little boy. Not entirely unlike Gregory's raising, Mycroft thought to himself.

Once their mother had left the room, Sherlock turned to Mycroft.
"Uncharacteristically brash with her, aren't you? Missing your husband that much?"
"If it's all the same to you, Sherlock, I'd appreciate it if you'd shut it."
"My, my, you are irritable."
"Just get your conversation with him over with."
"Lestrade told you?"
"Of course he did. Sherlock…" Mycroft began to talk, but their mother walked back into the kitchen. He promptly shut his mouth.
"Drink your punch, Mycroft. Then, come outside; we can talk out there for a moment." Sherlock said, slowly standing up. Mycroft frowned, but drank his glass of punch. It was indeed laced with sedatives, but he said nothing. No doubt his brother didn't want any eavesdropping, although it was a rather extreme measure to ensure it.

Mycroft stood by Sherlock's side, both of them staring out away from the house.
"You could have told me, Sherlock." Mycroft said with a tone of sorrow.
"I was afraid. You were off doing things you couldn't tell me about, and I didn't think you'd react well."
"I would have helped. I certainly wouldn't have just continued to push you to stay away from people. I'm… I'm sorry."
"What?"
"I said I'm sorry. I wanted to always be there for you."
"You've gotten emotional in your relationship, brother mine."
"Yes," Mycroft agreed slowly, breathing in his cigarette, "But I believe it has been for the better. I hope that you might find the same." Mycroft hinted, and coughed briefly. He'd quit for Gregory, but the day had been proving rather stressful and he'd decided that Gregory wasn't there to scold him for it. His body was seemingly rebelling against the old habit. Sherlock nodded to him, and then they both straightened themselves; their intimate conversation over.

"I'm glad you've given up on the Magnussen business." Mycroft stated, changing the topic of conversation.
"Are you?" Sherlock asked, glad that his brother believed so.
"I'm still curious, though. It's hardly you usual kind of puzzle. Why do you hate him?"
"Because he attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets. Why don't you?" Sherlock snapped.
"He never causes too much damage to anyone important, he's far too intelligent for that. He's a business man, that's all. And occasionally useful to us. A necessary evil, not a dragon for you to slay." Mycroft stated, trying hard not to say anything that would entice his brother further. He really didn't want the Eurus thing revealed. Sherlock turned and smiled.
"A dragon slayer? Is that what yo think of me?"
"No," Mycroft said with a brotherly grin, "It's what you think of yourself."

Their close moment was broken by their mother snapping at them. They both reacted much as they had as boys, and it was hard for Mycroft not to giggle. He then told Sherlock about the job offer that his colleagues had been insistent Mycroft relay. He was glad that Sherlock declined without retaliation. He was not glad, however, when Sherlock sounded honest when he asked why Mycroft didn't want him to take the suicide mission. He turned to his brother, trying hard not to let his pain show. He responded with his usual bullshit, hoping Sherlock would see beyond the mask.

"Here be dragons." Mycroft said with clear fondness in his voice. He involuntarily coughed again and decided that rebelling against his husband's wishes wasn't worth it.
"This isn't agreeing with me. I'm going in."
"You need low tar, you still smoke like a beginner." Sherlock mused as Mycroft walked back into the house. Mycroft paused. He … he couldn't keep it in. Since Gregory came along, he'd been a lot more open about his emotions and affections. It had been a good change. He wanted to try and keep that change, even with his brother… particularly since the shooting. Learning that it was his cold detachment that had prevented Sherlock seeing out his help after being raped made Mycroft want to be honest with his little brother about his affections.

"Also," Mycroft began, "Your loss would break my heart."
Sherlock coughed.
"What the hell am I supposed to say to that?"
"Merry Christmas?" Mycroft offered after turning to face Sherlock.
"You hate Christmas." Sherlock retorted, still confused.
"Yes. Perhaps there was something in the punch?" Mycroft suggested, but really meant to let his brother know that he knew what he was planning, and was wishing him luck with his conversation with John.
"Clearly. Go and have some more." Sherlock stated, not wanting Mycroft to suspect anything other than just 'private time with John'.

Mycroft walked back into the house and sat at the table in the kitchen. He resisted the urge to phone Gregory. He could feel drowsiness start to take a hold of him, and he suddenly wished that he'd elected to sit in the couch. It was faster than he expected; he didn't even feel himself lowering down onto the tabletop.

When Mycroft stirred awake, he realised that the cold hard kitchen table, and his hand, were pressing up against his face. He groaned, and then sat up, undoubtedly having an impression of his hand remaining on his cheek. He blearily looked about: his mother was still in the chair opposite him, and there wasn't any movement anywhere in the house. And then that was when he realised something was missing. He grasped the empty space between where his hand had been and the table, searching for his laptop. His stomach dropped. What had his brother done?

He jumped up and immediately began to search the house.
"Sherlock?!" He called, but he knew there was no point. His brother wasn't there. There'd only be one reason for him to steal Mycroft's laptop. His mind raced at a million miles and hour. He heard groaning noises, knowing that his family were awakening.
"John?" Mary weakly called out.
"Mary?" Mycroft responded, and walked into the living room to see Mary trying to sit up.
"Mycroft? What's going on?"
"Something… unfortunate." Mycroft groaned, unwilling to reveal what was happening. Mary's stern look at him made him relinquish his control. He let his worry seep out over his face.
"I fear my brother, and your husband, have stolen state secrets to sell to Magnussen in exchange for your safety."
"Oh, God… what are we going to do?"
"First, I'm going to call work. I believe I can make this work in my favour… excuse me." Mycroft said, stepping away and pulling out his phone. His first instinct was to call Gregory, but he shook his head slightly and phoned Anthea.

Moments later, Mycroft returned to the living room, where his parents were both now conjugated.
"I have informed the authorities as to the situation, and they will be sending a helicopter shortly to take me to Magnussen. I assured them that it is, in all likelihood, Magnussen blackmailing my brother into bringing the laptop to him — that it was he requesting to be sold the information. But I can use that as an advantage. Extortion to gain state secrets is punishable on the highest levels, and we will gain the legal rights to search the premises to find more incriminating evidence. You are lucky that such a catch as Magnussen is enough to absolve any transgressions made by your husband, as well as my brother." Mycroft stated, his anxiety lowering now that he had control of the situation again. Mary just nodded thankfully at him, and his parents both looked confused. He excused himself, and went to wait for the helicopter to arrive, leaving Mary to explain the situation to the rest of his family.

Unfortunately, it was dark by the time he and his team arrived at Appledore. Mycroft knew that Magnussen would deny any involvement, and that he would no doubt demand they leave. But possession of the laptop at any rate was enough to warrant at least some search, and Mycroft knew he had the man there. Mycroft was excited that he'd finally be able to get rid of this blackmail master. He felt glad to be protecting his family from Magnussen, given what had happened to Sherlock because of his involvement; and so he could understand why Sherlock was going to such extremes to protect John and Mary. There was just a little part of him that was sad for his little brother, for electing to not actually talk with John about his feelings.

And then in a blink of an eye, as the shot was fired, everything changed. Mycroft's heart jumped to his throat and he had to strangle to shout out not to shoot. He…he couldn't believe it. What had his little brother done? Why? How could it all have gone to hell? Magnussen, killed in cold blood…by Sherlock. He … he was so sure that this was going to be a good day. He was utterly horrified and overwhelmed. What was he going to do now? He once again failed to protect his family. His baby brother.