"I thought it was clear," Gregory said by way of greeting, "that I really don't want to talk to you right now."

"I know," Mycroft admitted. "But I have something for you - information you should know."

"Let me guess - if I don't meet you for some ridiculously posh lunch you'll kidnap me the way you always kept kidnapping John."

"I . . ." Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "I'm sorry. That I wasn't - that I couldn't be honest with you earlier."

There was the sound of a door opening and closing, then the echo of an enclosed space. The tiny janitorial closet at the Yard, judging from the acoustics. "I haven't told anyone, you know," Gregory said in a low voice. "So if you're just trying to warn me off about that-"

"No, I know." Mycroft had, at Anthea's insistence, increased the monitoring around Gregory. So far there was nothing to indicate he had unduly altered his routine, or indeed done anything that might indicate he knew anything about Sherlock's not-death. Which was appreciated, if not unexpected - he was a DI, after all, and they'd long ago come to some sort of truce about "work details which are supposed to be kept confidential." Mycroft had years' worth of experience with Gregory's ability to keep a secret, even before starting their weekly chats. Now, though, when it really mattered . . . "I wish I could have told you," Mycroft admitted.

"I wish you had too."

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"So," Gregory said. "Was that the information you had for me?"

Mycroft closed his eyes and let his head fall forward, chin digging into his chest. Suddenly the pretext of my not-dead brother was prying into your actually-dead brother's death on my behalf didn't sound like such a strategic move. Sherlock-level lack of empathy, more like. There was nothing else, though. Nothing he could say to make his lie of omission better, nothing to make it less true. Less painful. "No," Mycroft murmured. "It wasn't. But I suppose it doesn't matter."

"Okay then." Gregory didn't press, didn't ask for more. "Mycroft . . . look." It felt like he was trying to gather his words. "I'm not - I'm not saying never, all right? I'm just saying I need some space. God knows I overlook plenty of other shit from you, and maybe someday I'll be ready to deal with this too. But I'm not, right now, and I'm still rather spectacularly angry at you, and pressing me isn't going to help."

"I understand," Mycroft said, because there was nothing else he could say.

"Thank you." There was a faint scraping noise on Gregory's end, something in the closet shifting as he moved. "I've - I've got to go, Mycroft. Just - don't spy on me, don't follow me, don't call me. If and when I'm ready, I'll call you."

Two weeks later, Mycroft was taken aback to get an actual phone call to his private mobile. Only a handful of people in the world knew his number, and none of them would have come up as "unlisted." If Sherlock was actually calling . . . Mycroft walked out of his meeting with the Prime Minister without explanation and locked himself in his office.

"We've got a mole," Sherlock announced the moment Mycroft answered the phone. "Evacuate them, Mycroft. Now."

Mycroft sat down. Hard. "Tell me."

"Don't know who." Sherlock actually sounded frightened, one of only a handful of times in his life Mycroft had heard that tone from him. "There's a significant probability the mole will put the pieces together at any moment, though, so there's no time to lose. Use Anthea; she's safe."

"Clarkson and Forrester?"

Sherlock made a vague noise of agreement. "Those three, though - no others. I don't care who else you think you can trust. How quickly can you pick up the primary targets?"

It still felt odd to think of John and Gregory and Mrs. Hudson as "targets," but names - even on a secured line - were an unnecessary indulgence. And risk. "Twenty minutes for the two males. The female is with her sister in Leeds this weekend, however."

"Take the sister too." Sherlock paused, suddenly tentative. "Mycroft - this is going to be it, you realize."

He didn't have to explain what it meant. John and Mrs. Hudson still didn't know Sherlock was alive - it was going to be the shoe dropping, the bomb going off in John Watson's sterile stasis of a life. The tear-filled (or anger-filled, or joy-filled) reunion. The point Sherlock could no longer pretend he didn't believe in sentiment, didn't love his flatmate enough to jump off a roof for him. The point where John would realize Sherlock would truly do anything to keep him safe. Whether John would reject the role of "damsel in (unknowing) distress" was a point Sherlock had ranted on endlessly over the course of the past few months. He still hadn't come to a definitive conclusion.

John angry, Gregory furious, Sherlock surly, and Mrs. Hudson trying to ensure they all behaved - it sounded like hell on earth. Mycroft was rather relieved he would be needed elsewhere. Although, on that note . . . "Where?"

Sherlock paused, longer than Mycroft expected. "You have a place," he finally said. "Six months of my life there - if I couldn't get out, Moriarty's men can't get in."

The island. The one rehab that had stuck. Sherlock had broken out of half a dozen expensive and highly-rated facilities before Mycroft finally kidnapped his younger brother and left him on the uninhabited island, miles from the Scottish coast. It had truly taken nearly six months for Sherlock to detox completely and to come back to himself - he'd spent most of the first month systematically dismantling all the hidden cameras he could find, one at a time, but after the initial withdrawal symptoms were over he'd mellowed considerably. To the point he tolerated Anthea's occasional company, sometimes. That was the first of the many times Anthea had proved herself an invaluable PA. At the end of the six months Sherlock had wordlessly allowed her to escort him to a helicopter and back to London and had never again fallen quite as low as he'd been before Mycroft stole him away. The island wasn't technically Mycroft's - it was a nebulous holding of Her Majesty's government, used for occasional military training maneuvers and even more occasional "individuals of interest" who were too politically explosive to hide away in the normal manner- but at the moment it was vacant. And since Mycroft was the one nominally tasked with ensuring it stayed that way, there was no problem with adding a few inhabitants for a while.

"That will work," Mycroft said slowly. "Where shall I have Anthea gather you?"

"I'm here already."

Mycroft didn't ask how.

"I succeeded in stocking provisions," Sherlock continued. "I haven't entered the facility yet - I assume that's monitored even when empty - but I'll find you when you get here."

"Not me," Mycroft corrected. "If you want to root out the mole, I'll be of more use behind my own desk. But I will have the targets delivered to you shortly."

Sherlock hummed, low in his throat, the nearest he ever came to a thank you. "See that you do."

Anthea was, as usual, shockingly efficient. Nineteen minutes and forty-five seconds after Mycroft briefed her on the situation, she was back in Mycroft's office with a verbal report. John Watson and DI Lestrade were safely in the backseats of two nondescript black cars (driven by Clarkson and Forrester, respectively) and en route to the airstrip. Martha Hudson and her sister Eugenia Sissons (sixty-four, never married, career waitress and barmaid) had been located at a small restaurant in downtown Leeds and she was headed to go to collect them herself as soon as she finished. Mycroft received the news with more than a little relief.

"You are a marvel," he told her sincerely. "You have both my gratitude and my thanks."

Anthea smiled at him, a bit more tentative than she usually allowed him to see. Embarrassed? Concerned? She cleared her throat. "Your trust, too, I hope?"

Beyond question. Mycroft was mildly surprised to realize he actually could name all the people on the very short list to whom he could answer "yes" in conjunction with that topic. His parents, Anthea, Gregory, and (in most respects) Sherlock. "Without a doubt," he assured her.

"Good." Her smile turned a bit grim at the edges, and she apologized with her eyes as she leapt across the space between them and plunged the needle into his neck.