Mycroft muttered instructions to the driver, asking him to wait, and moved to step out of the car. He groped around for his umbrella for a moment before he remembered that he had somehow misplaced it the previous day. He would look for it after his meeting with Gregory, he decided.

He had planned to walk into the building to find his partner, but was surprised to see Greg striding towards him quickly as he stepped out onto the pavement. Mycroft gave him a curt nod, which the other man returned, and he stepped back to allow Greg entry into the black car they were to take to the detective inspector's flat.

Mycroft slipped in besides him, shutting the door as he settled in. "I apologize for the sudden plans, but this situation requires immediate attention," he said blandly, and Greg nodded guiltily.

"I'm so sorry for what happened, Mycroft," the grey haired man said, wringing his hands as the car began to move away from the Yard. "I hope you know how much I regret what happened, and what it did to Sherlock," he continued, his voice softening as he neared the end of his sentence.

Mycroft pursed his lips. "It would be unfair of me to be angry with you, Gregory," he said simply, turning his head to stare out of his window.

Greg frowned. "How so? You have every right to hate me for being a stupid, careless, and unprofessional twat," he said, and Mycroft knew he was right. But, at the same time, he reasoned, it wasn't as if Greg was carrying all the blame.

No, Mycroft had done his share of damage, but the explanation and assessment of his behavior could wait until they could talk in Greg's flat.

Greg took Mycroft's silence as a sign. "Fine, don't tell me anything," he muttered, turning to look out of his window as well.

Mycroft sighed, and silence fell for the rest of the thankfully short ride.

Mycroft had followed Greg into his flat, taking note of the slight mess that cluttered the sitting room. There were a few empty beer bottles scattered amongst piles of papers and other work related clutter, as well as dirty dishes stacked in the sink. At least a week's worth, he noted, furrowing his brow.

Greg took notice of Mycroft's expression. "I haven't been home too much in the past week," he muttered defensively, sweeping up a few of the empty bottles into his arms and rushing over to the bin, where he dumped them unceremoniously. "I've been busy, and the business with the murder-well, it hasn't helped," he finished lamely.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "I was going to remain silent," he said plainly, delicately sitting himself down on Greg's old sofa, placing his hands primly on his knees.

Greg sat across from him in his recliner, leaning forward in an attempt to close the gap between them. "You said something about not being completely guiltless in the car," he pressed gently. "What was that all about?" His voice was soft, but Mycroft could detect his inner detective coming out into play.

Mycroft gave him a withering look. "There is no need for an interrogation, Detective Inspector," he said icily.

Greg rolled his eyes. "You didn't look like you were about to jump into any explanations," he shot back, cocking an eyebrow. "Go on," he continued when Mycroft remained silent for a moment.

Mycroft sighed wearily, but began to speak. "Sherlock and I have had a difficult relationship for quite a long time," he said plainly. "I won't bore you with our childhood stories, but the trouble really began when he was around thirteen, and I twenty. Our parents were in the middle of a not-so-amicable divorce, and Sherlock was sent to live with me while they tried to settle their affairs.

"I was still very young, and I had no idea how to really care for him. He was a handful, as you could have deducted yourself, and he had a burning passion for anything and everything he could do well." Mycroft scowled involuntarily. "I cannot tell you how much I learned to hate the violin in the years that he lived with me." He heard a slight chuckle from Greg, and stopped to look up.

Greg cleared his throat, but a small smirk remained on his lips. "Apologies," he said, waving a hand at him. "Go on."

"He lived with me for a few years, first due to our parents' inability to divide their estates evenly between them, and then due to their unexpected passing about three years after Sherlock had left them." Mycroft had tried to keep emotion out of his voice, but a bit of sadness escaped. "It was much more difficult for Sherlock than it was for me. It may seem cold, but, I had grown far apart from my parents in the years that I had lived on my own at university. Besides, I had always been more successful in suppressing my emotions, even as a child." He paused, running his right index finger over the back of his left hand absently.

"Sherlock started to struggle in his focus. I could tell that his emotions were making it difficult for him to keep his mind on school and the things he loved." He paused, kneading his hands nervously. "His marks had begun to slip; he rarely even looked at his violin…"

"I had no idea how to help him," he continued, glancing up at Greg briefly, but looking down again before he established eye contact, "so I continued to treat him exactly as I had for the last few years. I told him that caring was not an advantage, and that the world did no favors for those who were 'too weak' to repress and 'manage their emotions properly.'" He swallowed hard. "I forced him to finish his A-Levels and go off to university against his will. I don't know if I was just looking for a place to send him away or if I actually had his best interests at heart-"

At this point, Mycroft had begun to unravel. His hands shook and he felt his throat clench in the telltale signs of surfacing emotions. "I made him go to that dammed university," he hissed, his eyes beginning to spill hot, angry tears that fell hastily down his cheeks. "If I hadn't sent him away, he would have never met Moriarty, and he would have never-" He stopped, wiping hastily at his tears. "He could have been safe," he said angrily. "I could have protected him, Gregory, and I didn't."

"What could you have done, Mycroft?" Greg asked softly. "It is not your fault that Moriarty manipulated him and hurt him. That was, and is, solely Moriarty's doing, and not yours."

"Alright, fine; it was not my fault that my brother was taken advantage of by a psychopath," Mycroft returned bitterly. "I concede to that." He pressed his fingertips into his temples hard enough to leave bruises. "But, I cannot say that I hold no responsibility for how Sherlock's confession came to pass."

"Mycroft, we've already discussed how I've fucked up," Greg sighed. "That was my stupidity, not yours."

"I made my errors before the interrogation," Mycroft insisted, standing quickly and moving to lean against the wall. "I, by extension, made the interrogation necessary," he added grimly, bringing long fingers up to cover his lips and folding his arm across his ribs.

Greg huffed. "Mycroft, beating around the bush won't help me understand any more than I already do, which isn't that much." His lips drew back into a sharp line. "Either tell me or don't."

Mycroft nodded and began. "I was called in a month and a half ago to assist in interrogating a criminal connected to several breeches in government security," he began, stopping when he saw Greg give another exasperated sigh. "It's context," he snapped, continuing when Greg rolled his eyes and urged him on.

"The man in question identified himself as James Moriarty, an apparently popular 'consulting criminal,'" he said, using air quotes for emphasis. "His words, not mine," he said flatly as the other man gave him another eyebrow raise.

"I had no reason to see him as anything more than a public nuisance at the time," he continued, grimacing as he did. "That was my first mistake. I underestimated him, exactly as he had expected me to."

"We had assumed that the interrogation process would be no different than any other; that, with the standard procedure, Moriarty would agree to offer us any and all of the information we needed."

"'Standard procedure?'" Greg asked cautiously.

"Bribery, threats, torture." He paused, biting the inside of his cheek. "The 'Unholy Trinity,'" he remarked sarcastically.

Greg narrowed his eyes. "That's 'standard procedure?'" he asked bitingly.

Mycroft exhaled sharply. "If this is going to turn into my Judgment Day, I would much rather that God come down himself to draw his own conclusions," he snapped.

Greg sat back, his face still drawn. "Fine," he returned tersely. "I'll keep my mouth shut."

Mycroft glared at him, but kept going, regardless. "We were mistaken in our assumptions. He was incredibly resilient. None of our bribes suited him, none of our threats fazed him. Not even physical pain could make him lose his composure."

"Then, one day, during one of my meetings with him, I received a call from John concerning some trifle Sherlock had caused."

"I must have said my brother's name aloud as I left the cell to take the call," he continued, "for, when I returned, Moriarty made it clear that the key to gaining any information from him lay in my willingness to…exchange information with him."

"Information about what, exactly?" Greg asked.

"Information about my younger brother." Mycroft answered, his voice low. "He wanted to know about Sherlock."

"You caved, didn't you?" Greg asked quietly. "You sold your brother out for information about a psychopath."

"How was I to know what Moriarty had done?" Mycroft asked, his voice pleading. "The details I gave him were small; things that I thought insignificant. His age, his occupation, his inescapable smoking habit-" Mycroft swallowed. "But, you're right. I did betray my brother." He lowered his head, so as to not look at Greg. "I ignored every warning sign and every instinct that told me not to say anything, because I was selfish and because I thought that I was doing someone a favor." He shut his eyes tightly. "And, it turned out that that someone was James Moriarty."

Greg stood and walked over to him, stopping a few inches in front of him. Mycroft opened his eyes and almost recoiled upon seeing Greg so close to him.

"Why did you tell me, Mycroft?" Greg asked simply. "You could have hold anyone, but, why did you come to me?"

Mycroft gave him an incredulous look. "I decided to tell you because I hurt my brother, Gregory, and because I believe that family is more than just a group of people fate burdens you with," he answered. "I told you because you hurt him as well, and because you showed me that you care enough about Sherlock to want to repair the damage you'd done." He paused, his face softening. "When you called me to ask for my help, I thought that maybe…I had an ally in you. I thought that, maybe, you would understand that I'd 'fucked up' as well, far more than you had, and that you would be willing to help me." Mycroft clasped his hands together nervously, kneading them again.

"Am I wrong, Gregory?" he asked softly.

Greg stepped slightly back, unsure of how to answer. "No, I don't think you are, Mycroft," he said. "I know that you love Sherlock, no matter how much you may not advertise it to the world, and I know that I care for him, too." He stepped forward again, taking his hands. "I need you to know that, whatever you decide to do, I am here to help you."

"You don't just have an ally in me, Mycroft." He smiled slightly. "You have much more than that, and I hope that you understand that."

Mycroft exhaled in relief and embraced him suddenly, almost knocking Greg backwards. "Thank you," the taller man whispered, and Greg settled into the sudden contact. "I'm sorry," he continued, resting his head on the silver-haired man's shoulder.

"Don't apologize to me, Mycroft," Greg returned. "Sherlock deserves that more than I do." He pulled back. "In fact, he deserves it from the both of us."

Mycroft nodded, but not without hesitation. "Surely, he does; but, not today," he said carefully. "The wounds are still too fresh, for everyone involved, but especially for him." He shrugged slightly. "Besides, my visits are not often well received, even on better days."

Greg gave a nod of agreement in return. "Soon, though?" he asked.

"Soon."

A/N: Damnit. I was close enough to Wednesday, right? Apologies.

Buuuuuuuuuuutttt...

A very kind reviewer by the name of WL Chastain gave me some great advice about focusing on my schooling and suggested that I change my schedule to an update every two weeks. I'm hesitant to do that, mostly because my procrastinating habits are AWFUL (and I will probably end up pushing my timetable further and further back), but, I am thinking about not being so hellbent on an 'update every Wednesday' thing.

So, here's my plan: I will write as I can, and I will strive to give you quality chapters that are well proofread and thought out. That's the main reason that I am updating this 'two days late;' I proofread the shit out of this chapter, man! :) I'll try to stick to a 'once a week-ish' timeline, as that allows me the flexibility I need to provide quality writing, as well as the kick in the ass that I need to stay consistent. :p So there!

Also, here's a quick shout out to all of you who have followed, favorited, and reviewed this story! I cannot tell you how happy I get when I'm at school and I get a new follower, favorite, or review notification to my phone! It seriously makes my days so much better! :')

Thank you so much for taking time out of your busy lives to read this!