CHAPTER TEN

A/N: Spoilers and whatnot in Chapter One

SHERLOCK HOLMES VINDICATED

NET 'TEC ACTUAL GENIUS

MORIARTY WAS REAL

THE NATION DEMANDS ANSWERS FROM SCOTLAND YARD.

"Of course, it fucking does," growled Greg. "Fucking Daily Mail. They were howling for his blood a year ago."

Disgusted, he threw the paper at the waste bin and missed which made him swear again. He switched on the TV but all that was on was the canonisation of Sherlock Holmes. In despair, he switched it off.

Mycroft came down the stairs as Greg swore at another newspaper headline.

"It's all over the papers," said Greg gesturing to the pile. "Everyone loves your brother again. Too fucking late but I suppose you get points for covering your arse at this stage."

Mycroft's nose wrinkled as he poured himself some coffee and perused one of the more lurid headlines.

"Yes," he said solemnly. "Poor Sherlock. However, you and your team did an incredible job, Gregory. Everyone knows the truth now."

Greg's furrowed brow cleared and he smiled. It was like watching the sun come out. Mycroft swallowed the last of his coffee and consulted his pocket watch.

"I must go, my love. Meeting at Vauxhall Cross."

"Take care," said Greg, kissing him goodbye.

Greg watched the long, black car pull away and poured himself more coffee. In a minute, he would have to go to Scotland Yard to deal with the media shitstorm that was about to engulf him and his team both. He had warned them all to be prepared, he just hoped no one cracked under the pressure.

"Mr Holmes, the Director will see you now."

Mycroft followed the young man away from the waiting area and along the corridor to the office of the Director of MI6.

The two men smiled and shook hands, the underling dismissed with a wave of the Director's hand.

"James, it's been an absolute age," said Mycroft warmly, settling himself into one of the comfortable chairs across from the desk.

"It has," the other man replied. "You look well, Mycroft. In the pink, even"

The Director of MI6 was a large, heavy-set man, almost identical in age to Mycroft. He had thick black hair and beetling black eyebrows over icy grey eyes which had led to some of the more courageous members of the intelligence community to nickname him 'Lenoid'. He had been a superb field agent and his rise through the ranks had been meteoric.

Mycroft knew the man did not waste time on trivia. If he had requested this meeting it wasn't to discuss Mycroft's health.

"Blooming, thank you. Now, James. Why did you want to see me?"

Silently the Director handed him a file marked FOR YOUR EYES ONLY. Mycroft opened it and read through its meagre contents swiftly. Panic blossomed in his gut but he forced himself to remain calm.

"This is accurate?" he asked.

"As of yesterday, certainly. Our team has located him, now they need someone with local knowledge to help with the extraction."

Mycroft frowned. "Did you have someone in mind?"

"Yes, you. None of our current I. O's are as fluent in the language and they certainly can't read the political situation like you can. Do what you do best, Mycroft. Talk to people and get them to do what you want. If you don't, you may never see him alive again."

"For God's sake, James! You of all people know that there's nothing I wouldn't do for him!"

"Yes, you've proved that already. And he has been extremely useful to us as you promised. Was it really necessary to seduce the Detective Inspector though?"

"It wasn't like that," whispered Mycroft.

"Nice move, though. He doesn't give up on trying to clear your brother's name in case he disappoints you. And now the way is clear for the return of the prodigal son."

"Go to hell, James. Just make sure everything is in place for tomorrow. I'll show myself out."

Back at the office Mycroft called Anthea, his assistant, in to speak with her. She stood, perfectly poised, with her notebook and pencil.

"For heaven's sake, sit down. Have you taken your medication?"

Anthea had long ago stopped being surprised by her boss's observational skills.

"Yes, sir. Some days are worse than others. Today is not a good day."

"I'll send you home. No, don't argue, just listen. I'm going away tomorrow to get Sherlock. He's been located and they need help with the extraction."

There was a stricken look on Anthea's face and she clutched at her side. That was how she had been betrayed as a field agent. Once her wounds had healed as much as they ever would, she had come to work for Mycroft. She had never regretted it and he had her undying loyalty.

"He needs to come home, "said Mycroft softly. "Moriarty's network is finished, he will be of much more use here. Oh, I'm just going as an interpreter," he continued, correctly guessing what was distressing her. "I won't be in any danger. One more thing before you go. Book me a table for two at Le Cirque for tonight. Eight o'clock should do."

Anthea's eyes widened. Le Cirque was one of the most exclusive restaurants in London. Eyewatering expensive and grandiose and usually packed. Not really her boss's kind of place at all.

Mycroft looked directly into her eyes. She saw both his pain and despair and could have wept for him.

"When one might be saying goodbye forever, I feel it should be in the most opulent surroundings."

"As you wish, sir."

Mycroft broke eye contact and fired up his laptop. Slowly Anthea walked back to her desk to make the necessary calls.

Mycroft picked up his phone and Greg answered on the second ring.

"Hi, love,"

"Gregory, something's happened and I have to leave the country for a while. Tomorrow, to be precise."

"That's a bit sudden," said Greg.

"Sometimes world events take us over. Can I see you tonight?"

"You'd better."

"Le Cirque and eight o'clock. And Gregory?"

"What?"

"Wear a tie, darling. They won't let you in otherwise."

Greg was laughing as he hung up.

Greg tried not to gawk but he had never seen so many famous people outside of an awards ceremony and this was real life, not TV. When the waiter guided him to Mycroft's table, the man himself astonished Greg by giving him a long, lingering kiss, heedless of who was watching.

Greg thought Mycroft looked tired and strained. The smile he was wearing never quite reached his eyes.

"So, where are you off to this time?" asked Greg after they had placed their orders.

"I'm sorry, I can't say. I promised I wouldn't lie to you and I'm not. It is of the utmost secrecy, Gregory. You'll just have to trust me."

"I do, you should know that. Will it be dangerous?"

"It may well be but, on balance, I think not."

"Okay, looks like I'll be doing a lot of overtime till you get back."

Their conversation edged away from uncomfortable topics. Mycroft held his hand on the table and Greg was aware of something building between them as they talked. When the food arrived, Mycroft looked at his plate then directed his burning gaze towards Greg. Greg felt his nostrils flare, he could almost feel the wanting. And suddenly he was no better.

"I'm not really hungry," murmured Greg. "Let's go home instead."

By the time the taxi dropped them off at Mycroft's house, the sexual tension between them was almost unbearable. In the hallway, Greg nudged him against the wall as they kissed hungrily leaving a trail of clothes on the way to the bedroom where Greg pushed his lover onto the bed and ravished him with his tongue and his teeth until Mycroft was practically begging Greg to finish him.

"Christ!" exclaimed Mycroft when he was finally able to speak again.

"We're not done yet," promised Greg.

It was almost dawn when they were finally sated. Greg rested his head on Mycroft's chest, idly stroking the smattering of dark red hair that grew there. Mycroft would be leaving soon and Greg didn't want to miss a second. And there was something else. Now was as good a time as any.

"There's something I need to tell you. I love you. I really, really love you."

Mycroft's smile was the most beautiful thing Greg had ever seen. Just for a second it looked as though he had laid down whatever burden was making him so unhappy.

"Oh, Gregory," he murmured. "I was yours before you kissed me for the first time. I love nothing in this world as much as you. Remember that."

"I will."

Greg was fast asleep when Mycroft left, stealing out of his own house like a thief. Saying a proper goodbye would have been too much for him to bear.

He wondered if, if something went wrong, it would result in his own death and speculated if it would be less painful; that what he would endure when he returned.

TBC