"He's going to bloody murder us when he finds out."

"He will thank us, Gregory."

The DI raised his brows, "You really think so?"

Mycroft considered this for a long moment, "Eventually," he amended seriously. "When he has had to chance to significantly recover from the shock and has dispelled any mistaken anger, he will see reason and, I am sure, choose to mercifully spare our lives."

"Provided he decides to spare his own," Greg added dubiously. It had been a long and difficult afternoon and evening.

Mycroft surveyed Greg contemplatively, "You doubt John's sincerity."

"Oh, no," Greg sighed, "I trust John's sincerity. I'm just not sure which bit was the sincere one." Many compromises had been reached, many promises made, in the course of the past few hours, but Greg couldn't overlook the fact that this whole conversation had begun with John holding a gun in his hand and contemplating ending his own life. Makes you start to think that a bloke is a bit desperate. Desperate people make promises they don't intend to keep all the time…

Mycroft, sensing the direction of Greg's thoughts, reached out and took his hand, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around him. Greg let out the breath he'd been holding but couldn't quite manage to relax his clenching facial muscles. Worried frowns were quickly becoming their favorite default setting. It rather gave the DI a headache.

"If you are worried about the threat John poses to your person, Gregory," Mycroft smoothed his hand across Greg's furrowed forehead, "you needn't be. For two reasons. One, because I would never allow you to be harmed. Two, because John will most likely direct the larger part of his hostility for our present situation at Sherlock or myself."

Greg groaned, "Well, won't that be lovely…" He imagined the consulting detective and the blogger in their weary, worn, and utterly shattered states arguing. It wasn't quite the reunion that he would wish for them, but, unfortunately, it was more likely than not. Just one more thing to worry about, he thought wearily, and that's even supposing that Sherlock comes back in one piece, which isn't guaranteed, not even close. And let's say that he does survive and John won't take him back? Jesus, that'll just be a whole new set of horrible that I can't even—

"Gregory," Mycroft said quite firmly with an underlying note of tenderness and sympathy, "Do try to stop thinking such dreadfully catastrophic thoughts. They are most depressing and worrisome. This is the first peaceable moment we've had in quite some time. I suggest that we try to enjoy it as much as possible." Mycroft's tone was wistful as well as admonishing. He was right, too. Reclining together on the sofa had not happened in quite some time and there was a certain nostalgic comfort about this pose. They could both, for a moment, choose to ignore their situation and just relax.

Nevertheless, Greg found it a bit troubling that sitting on suicide watch for John Watson was considered "peaceable and relaxing." What does that tell you about what life has been like for the two of us recently? Greg wasn't able to rest, not really. He hadn't been able to for quite some time. The circumstances that had been produced today did nothing to ameliorate the knots into which his stomach had been tied for months now. He wondered vaguely if he would eventually reach a plateau in which he had dealt with so much upset, fear, anxiety, and stress that he would just stop feeling altogether. He had never hit such a point in the past ten or so years with Mycroft and Sherlock in his life. This led him to believe that there wasn't necessarily an emotional off switch. However, if anything would bring him to that point, he was damn certain that it was their current predicament.

Perhaps Mycroft was right. There was nothing more that they could do for John or Sherlock at present. Maybe it was time to just rest here. It was nice, lying back against Mycroft's chest, feeling his arms wrapped around him and the other man's chin sitting atop his head. It had been far too long since they had last been together like this, wrapped up in and around one another. It felt right. It felt like home. For Greg, it somehow made the burden less because he knew that, however much he was fretting and obsessing over the boys, Mycroft was agonizing just as much, if not more, than he himself was. They were sharing this with one another and, somehow, this made carrying the burden a bit easier…at least for the moment.

Greg closed his eyes and held Mycroft's hand in his own as the other man turned his cheek and nuzzled Greg's hair softly. He hoped that Mycroft would find sleep tonight. Neither of them had really gotten more than a few winks lately. Granted, Mycroft, like Sherlock, didn't require much sleep. Apparently, it was a Holmes family characteristic. However, unlike his younger brother, Mycroft actually liked to sleep, though he often said that he found it a nearly impossible exercise. His mind was constantly occupied, going in thousands of directions at once, turning any one of them off was difficult indeed, let alone all of them. But he could sleep with Greg, when they lay together, when they touched each other, Greg's presence was soothing. Sometimes, Greg would watch Mycroft sleep and marvel at the fact that his features were able to relax so much in repose, how much younger he looked, and how unburdened he seemed. The DI had also woken many nights, to find Mycroft, who required less sleep than most, and who worked odd hours at best, lying next to him and watching. The first time this had happened, Greg found it a bit startling, creepy even; it was exposing to be under such an intent gaze. Now he found it endearing and tender, and Greg would take the man into his arms and they would find sleep together.

Tonight, Greg hoped Mycroft knew that he would keep watch (Mycroft was hoping the same thing about Greg). The DI listened for any sign of movement or indication of activity from down the hall, reflecting on the day.

After wresting the gun from John, Mycroft and Greg had a very serious conversation in the kitchen about what to do next.

"Do you think we should leave him here?" Greg had asked. He was startled to hear the ragged tone of his own voice, incredibly world weary and exhausted.

"I find that suggestion highly questionable, given John's current level of instability," Mycroft replied, tones clipped, nerves frayed.

"Well we can't take him home can we?" Greg asserted with the emphasis to indicate he was thinking of what the hell would happen to all their bloody carefully laid plans if Sherlock showed up when John was staying with them. It might actually solve this damn problem…desperate times and all that…"But we can't just bloody leave him alone."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and twirled his umbrella. Deep in thought then, Greg surmised, as he waited for the brilliant plan to emerge from his partner's considerable brain power.

"He shall have to stay with us until tomorrow at least. I do not believe that we have another option, Gregory," he added when Greg looked ready to explode with frustration, "We simply cannot leave him here unobserved."

Greg scoffed, and Mycroft sighed, "Fine, we cannot leave him observed but without the necessary responders, not when he is in such a volatile state. It will take approximately" he consulted his pocket watch fixedly, "twenty-four hours to establish such a system."

"I don't know if this is a good idea," Greg was all for keeping John close by, but putting him in the potential trajectory of Sherlock seemed exceptionally risky, especially for Mycroft, "We could just kip here, I mean, it won't make a—"

"Absolutely not," Mycroft interjected firmly, "given what we have discussed regarding John's alternative surveillance, I find the idea of you spending any prolonged period of time in this locality, highly unsatisfactory." Greg knew that Mycroft was referring to the snipers and Moriarty's network and that what he was really saying was "you will kip on 221B's sofa over my dead body." Greg would have found it much more charming if he weren't trying so desperately to find a way to make this work.

"He won't even agree," Greg asserted gloomily, "you can't get him out of here for love or money and quite frankly—"

Mycroft stood to his full height, a direct challenge to any form of, as yet theoretical, resistance from 221B's only resident, "John will come if I have to drug his coffee and drag him out of here myself." Greg's brows rose so high that they fairly disappeared. He must mean business if he's even suggesting getting his hands dirty or mimicking Sherlock's methods. Greg raised his own hands, palms open, in a gesture of surrender, but a third voice chimed in before he could continue.

"Ah, you do know that I can hear you both, yeah?" John stood in the doorway, arms crossed protectively across his chest, eyes deadened. Well at least he moved off the sofa, Greg considered trying to dwell on the positives, wherever and whenever he could find them.

"Of course," Mycroft affirmed, whilst Greg looked guilty, "we were, as you are undoubtedly aware, discussing your lodging situation for this evening."

"Yeah, I got that, thanks," John said caustically. Greg didn't like the tone much. Though he was happy to see John standing his ground, he disliked the fact that the blogger seemed sullen and resentful. He was going to kill himself not an hour ago, Greg, he chastised, did you expect him to walk in all sunshine and daisies?

"Quite," Mycroft continued, "We," Greg noted the emphasis on the plural and sent an admonishing diatribe to Mycroft in his head, hoping that his partner picked up on it loud and clear. If he did, he chose to ignore it in favor of presenting a unified front to the troubled blogger, "rather believe that it would be best for you to stay with us this evening. We can make the guest room up for you fairly quickly. I am quite certain that you will find the accommodations most comfortable."

John looked extremely dubious. His face closed like a locked door. Mycroft was standing primly and impassively smiling, a white knuckled hold on his umbrella the only indication of his underlying tension. Greg wondered if John had noticed or deduced what that meant. He's picked up some of Sherlock's tricks that's for certain. The elder Holmes was quite certainly not going to take no for an answer, although both he and Greg knew that John could prove exceptionally obstinate. The DI honestly doubted very much that anywhere was particularly comfortable for John right now. He was stubborn and despondent, and, despite the fact that he once again seemed steady, was undoubtedly embodying some Sherlockian instability right beneath the surface.

"You're gonna come home with us," Greg said firmly, "we've decided." He invoked the plural as well. He believed that presenting a unified front in the face of opposition might be best, and there was no harm in overtly declaring his loyalties in this moment. John needed to be watched, and, until they could set up something else, Greg wouldn't trust anyone else with the job.

Greg's eyes scanned the kitchen, noticing all the sharp cutlery, the knives, the scalpels, and that was nothing compared to the chemicals and medicines in the cupboards. He was wondering how long it would take to strip 221B of anything dangerous. He pondered the hidey holes that Sherlock had, the ones that John kept, the fact that the good doctor had a prescription pad and access to St. Bart's and the Yard, that it wouldn't matter how much Greg hid or removed, John could replace it. Savvy as he was, dogged as he was, and determined as he was, he would find a way if his mind was set on something. Greg was sure that Mycroft had already considered this carefully. Greg contemplated something else.

"You're coming with us," he affirmed.

John nodded tightly.

"Before that, we're gonna lay out some rules," John squared his shoulders and tightened his jaw. Greg was reminded of a similar conversation that he had had many years earlier and swallowed the lump in his throat purposefully, shying away from the circumstances that had led him there and here and focusing on the task at hand. He placed his hands firmly in his pockets, and Mycroft, sensing the direction of the conversation, inclined his head towards Greg and stepped closer for support.

"Indeed. I believe that that shall be necessary," the head of the British Government confirmed authoritatively.

"You want me to swear not to do it," John deduced, resigned and suspicious all at once.

Mycroft was pleased that he had cottoned on so quickly. Greg was unsure exactly how to proceed. He chose the most straight forward route, "Yeah, that about covers it."

There was a long pause in which no one spoke.

"John?"

"I swear, all right?"

The three men all considered one another. Mycroft and Greg shared a very meaningful glance, full of unspoken conversation: Do we trust him? We regrettably have no choice. I vote we get rid of anything dangerous. I will put a tracking device on John if necessary.

"What?" John asked somewhat caustically, "Do you want me to sign something in blood."

Mycroft laughed rather coldly. It made Greg slightly uneasy. He rather got the feeling that if Mycroft thought extracting such a promise would work, he would produce the necessary contract and tools for blood extraction in a second.

"I want you to give your word," the DI asserted, "and I want you to keep it," he paused before adding, "This is important, John"

"You are important, Dr. Watson," Mycroft emphasized.

John looked between them, processing, evaluating. There was a trace of longing somewhere beneath the exhaustion, grief, and pain on his face. Perhaps, it was for the way that Mycroft and Greg were presenting a unified front. They were partners, they loved and cared for one another, and, when it came to something of this degree of importance, they were most clearly going to support one another. John missed that. He missed having his other half. Missed it so terribly that it hurt all the time. Ached and echoed in the hollow of his chest. It was the reason he'd been holding a gun earlier in the evening.

"John?" Greg prompted.

John nodded tightly, once more, tension evident in every muscle. He clenched his fists and assumed his soldier pose, rigid, upright, and intoned emotionlessly, "I swear that I will not off myself. Better?"

Greg held out his hand and John, after the barest moment of hesitation, shook it, firmly gripping back before letting go.

"I'll, ah, just, ah, go and pack some things then, shall I?" and he turned on his heel and left.

He brought a small bag with him to Mycroft and Greg's flat. Just the essentials for a night: tooth brush, jumper, pajamas, laptop, and something that Greg recognized as Sherlock's scarf, which John quickly covered when he saw Greg looking. The DI wouldn't have said anything, though Mycroft looked quite taken aback. They helped to settle him into the guest room, which was truly quite comfortable. John sat down at the desk and opened his laptop, staring at a blank screen, and Greg wondered if it was a metaphor for how the blogger felt or wished he could feel. Empty, blank, a clean slate, devoid of hurt or pain or emotion. John sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"Do you need anything?" Greg asked.

"No, I'm all right," John answered dully. You're about as far from all right as anyone I've ever seen in my life. And that is bloody saying something, Greg thought but didn't say aloud.

"We'll scrounge up some dinner in a bit if you're hungry."

John nodded, still watching the screen as if waiting for words to appear, answers and stories and solutions and the adventures he had never had, a letter Sherlock had never sent, something, anything to explain or mitigate these feelings.

"Look, John, it's just for a bit…" he tried.

"I get it, Greg, I'd do the same thing if the situation were reversed."

Suddenly, Greg felt a fresh wave of guilt. If the situation were different, would John have revealed the truth long ago? Would this whole thing have been avoided if he had told John in the first place? Would things be better now? Greg didn't know, but he honestly hoped that John would not mention Sherlock because he might give in after all of this.

Greg cleared his throat instead of giving voice to his thoughts. "Well, if you need us, we'll be in the sitting room, all right?"

John gave a mirthless laugh, devoid of any type of happiness, "Suicide watch?"

Greg's mouth was a grim line, "Something like that."

AN:

Hello everyone. Welcome to Chapter 12. Wow, have we come this far already? What did you think of this? Please, leave a review and share your thoughts.

The beginning of this week is a bit hectic for me, but look for an update by Wednesday at the very latest. Until then, thank you so much for reading and reviewing and generally being fantastic.