"So." Gregory crossed his arms and glared Mycroft down. "I can tell why John's here, some messed-up little reunion, but what do you need with me?"

"I'm . . . sorry you've been inconvenienced," Mycroft said slowly, choosing his words with care. "As much as I was trying to respect your wish to be left alone, current circumstances required me to meddle in your life once again. And for that, I do sincerely apologize."

Gregory cocked his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. "Define 'circumstances.'"

Mycroft sucked in a long, fortifying breath. Odd, how negotiations which literally stopped or started wars never gave him butterflies in his stomach, but this conversation did. "I never did tell you why Sherlock faked his death," he said.

"Would have been a bit hard, since you apparently wanted me to believe he was still dead."

Mycroft managed not to flinch. "Moriarty had a rather elaborate trap for him," he continued evenly. "Intent to not only kill him, but to discredit his work. The second-most-important thing Sherlock held dear."

Gregory cocked his head slightly. "Second-most?"

"First was you." Mycroft couldn't even meet his eyes. "John, Mrs. Hudson, and you. Three snipers, three bullets. Unless Sherlock declared himself a fraud and jumped."

"Jesus." Gregory sank down onto the bed behind him, blinking heavily. "How could he possibly have been sure he'd survive a fall from that height?"

"He wasn't." Mycroft sat, too, mostly because his legs were suddenly feeling unreliable. He left a good three feet of space between them. "There was a contingency plan and some sleight-of-hand involved, but mostly . . . he considered it a risk worth taking. Moriarty killed himself on that rooftop to prevent Sherlock from being able to talk his way out. If the assassins had known he survived, they had orders to fulfil their contracts no matter what."

Gregory closed his eyes for several seconds. "Fucking plonker," he finally muttered.

"I assure you-"

"Not you." He sighed. "All that talk about 'caring is not an advantage,' and he goes and fucking KILLS himself without us even knowing why."

"I . . . may have had something to do with that particular aphorism," Mycroft admitted. "It's one I lived by for a long time."

"Not anymore?" Gregory held Mycroft's gaze, refusing to let him look away.

Never again. Even with all the pain of the last several weeks, Mycroft wouldn't have given up those shining moments of Gregory caring at him for all the power in the world. The memories would keep forever. Always a bit bittersweet, but worth savoring all the same. "I was wrong," Mycroft conceded. "Sherlock had John - he knew. I refused to see. And I . . . I was wrong."

"What changed your mind?"

"You." Mycroft dropped his gaze. Gregory was too raw, too large in his senses to look at directly. Like staring into the sun. "I had never - I'd never felt like that before. Like I didn't have to earn something with you. You just . . . gave it. I've never been needed in that way."

Gregory snorted. "You bloody well run half of England. Everyone needs you."

Mycroft shook his head. "They value what I can do. What I accomplish. You're the first one to want me since Sherlock was small. I know you're angry, and you may yet find me keeping this particular situation from you to be unforgivable, but I . . . wanted you to know that." He winced. "I hope you do understand that I don't make such confessions lightly. Almost never, as a matter of fact. After we resolve the current dilemma and go our separate ways, I would hope you don't think ill of me for my weakness."

"Your . . ." Gregory sighed. "Mycroft. Emotions are not a weakness."

"They lead to tactical errors."

"Which I have every confidence in you identifying and overcoming." Gregory sat on the edge of the bed again, leaning forward at a rather ridiculous angle to put his face back in Mycroft's field of view. He offered a hint of a smile, which was enough to start Mycroft's gut roiling anew. "I'm pissed that you didn't tell me about Sherlock, yes, but you're being honest with me and that does help. I get the impression that you don't get to indulge in honesty with very many people."

It was true. Mycroft merely nodded.

"So then." Gregory gestured toward the other end of the bed, indicating for Mycroft to sit. "Tell me about this 'current dilemma.'"

Mycroft shared what information he could. Which was painfully little, unfortunately. He gave Gregory an abridged account of Sherlock's recent whereabouts, the disentangling of Moriarty's web, Sherlock's panicked phone call, and Anthea's duplicity. Gregory listened to it all without expression, just nodding and prompting for more when there was something he wanted clarified. Mycroft didn't look at his watch, but he could sense they'd been at it for quite a while when there was a knock at the door.

"Hoohoo!" Mrs. Hudson poked her head in, a mothering expression affixed firmly to her face. "You boys haven't been yelling anywhere near as much as Sherlock and John - I assume everything's alright?"

"We're fine, Mrs. Hudson," Gregory answered. "Thank you."

"Well then." She opened the door the rest of the way. "Eugenia and I have thrown together a little something for supper - nothing fancy, mind, but it was a rather long trip today and heaven knows Sherlock probably hasn't eaten since last week, the silly boy. His idea of stocking a pantry is a bit odd, but we'll do alright for now. Coming upstairs?"

Mycroft looked at Gregory, who looked back at him and shrugged. There wasn't really anything more either of them could do at the moment without further data, anyway. And Mycroft realized he was quite hungry. "Thank you; we'll be right up."

Gregory smiled and nodded in agreement, but didn't move. He waited until after Mrs. Hudson's footsteps had receded before levering himself up off the bed with a creak and - surprisingly - offering a hand to Mycroft. "Eat first," he declared. "Then we can all have that strategic session I know you're so anxious to dive into."

Mycroft let himself be tugged to his feet, expecting Gregory to let go the moment he was vertical, but Gregory did the utterly expected once again and drew Mycroft into a full-body hug.

"I missed you," Gregory whispered into the silence. "I did need my space, and I am still angry, but . . . I missed you."