Whenever Mycroft was out of town, Greg felt a bit uncomfortable. He had gotten used to the size of their house and had put his personality into it, but something about so much space for just one person got to him. It was a lot of space for two people, but it reminded him that Mycroft had spent so many years in that house alone and lonely, which made him sad.

Don't be such a girl, Greg, he thought as he opened a bottle of his favorite lager and flopped down in front of the telly. He had been watching football highlights for only a few minutes when his phone rang. He groaned, hoping that it wasn't work more than he was hoping it was Mycroft. He was thankful that it was an unknown number because it wasn't work, but he was disappointed that it wasn't Mycroft.

"Lestrade," he answered.

"Hi, Greg, it's John Watson," a somewhat hesitant voice said into his ear.

"Hey John," Greg replied. He cringed when he thought of all of the messes that Sherlock could have gotten into that would have warranted this call. "What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if you'd be up for getting that pint sometime soon."

God yes he would. "Tonight work for you?"

"Tonight's fine. I'll meet you at your local if you'd like."

Greg rattled off the address of his usual pub, killed the rest of his beer, and headed out the door.

John arrived about ten minutes after he did. Greg had ordered but had saved a stool for him. John fell into it and placed his order.

"What has he done?" Greg asked.

"He's fine," John said. He kept swallowing as if he was trying to say something but didn't know how to put it. "What's the deal with his soul mate?"

Greg froze. This was not territory he wanted to wade into. "John-"

"Look, I know that he's your brother-in-law and you don't want to divulge anything he wouldn't want others to know, but I can't figure it out. He's amazing. Why would anyone abuse him like that? He pretends he's stoic but in reality he's so fucking fragile that I can't stand it. Who would not let him love them and get close to them?"

Greg stared down at the bar. "I don't know, John. I assume you know what happened when he was younger based on that? John nodded. "Did he tell you how he got into the drugs?"

"No. I assume they were related but he was done talking before we got to that," John admitted.

"Christ, I shouldn't be telling you any of this," Greg breathed, tipping his head back towards the ceiling. He straightened his neck and looked John directly in the eye. "You have to promise that no matter what, you don't bring this up with him. I know he'll probably know that I've told you this, but if for some reason he doesn't don't tell him." He took a deep breath. "I wasn't in the picture until about four years after the whole thing with Victor came to a head, so all of this is through Mycroft. Sherlock was running down the stairs after he discovered that he'd been tricked and he fell. Busted up his ankle pretty badly in the process and the doctors put him on some heavy painkillers because it was that bad. You wouldn't know it now by the way he runs. Bloody bastard heals like he's immortal," Greg mumbled into his glass before he took another drink. The lager burned in his stomach.

"Anyways, he was pretty emotionally fucked up as well as physically hurt. The prescriptions helped with the pain in his ankle, but they also helped him deal with the emotional pain as well. Blurred everything around the edges and made the pain seem a little less fresh. They kept giving it to him because the ankle was so messed up, but he ended up getting addicted and when the prescriptions were cut off, he found less legal methods to get them. It started as morphine, and then he got into cocaine."

"Jesus," John pulled a large gulp from his glass. "How did he kick it?"

"I sort of blackmailed him," Greg admitted somewhat sheepishly. As an officer of the law, he was staunchly against blackmail, but for Sherlock it was either rehab or a very certain death that would happen very soon. "I met Mycroft about ten months before I met Sherlock. I met the parents, but Sherlock avoided them like the plague. He didn't want anyone to see him like that. Mycroft didn't care and went over to his flat as often as he could. He used to bring Sherlock clean needles to make sure that he didn't resort to using someone else's and getting a disease." Greg's shoulders slumped at the memory. "He used to come home on those days looking like the world was ending. The man has his fingers in every country's national security, and not being able to help his little brother was more troublesome than our involvement in those American wars in the Middle East or Putin threatening to cut off the natural gas supply to former Soviet Bloc countries.

"Sherlock sort of fell into my lap. One day this kid who was higher than a fucking satellite comes marching onto my crime scene in this dingy alley a few feet from his building and starts declaring that we're all idiots because it was clearly a homicide and not a tragic accident." He felt his lips quirk up involuntarily, but they fell quickly. "He then collapsed. He'd taken too much and overdosed. I took him to the hospital and waited for him to wake up with strict instructions to not touch the scene or the body. When he woke up he told me everything that he had observed, and sure enough he was right. I had already decided that I was going to offer him a deal: jail time for trespassing on a crime scene and I would have his flat searched because there was no way there weren't drugs there, or rehab and a guaranteed consultant's position when he was finished with the program and sober. He took it after I had learned his name and went into the hall to get in touch with Mycroft. When Mycroft showed up Sherlock almost went back on the deal and went to jail to spite his brother. Bunch of morons, I tell you.

"Anyway, he went to rehab and when he came back, he started consulting for me. I also worked with him to develop a private business. We've had more than enough scares when it comes to him actually staying sober, but he hasn't touched any drugs since he got out. We test him regularly, which he hates but he knows that he won't be allowed access to the Met's open or cold case files if he doesn't get the test done."

"I- shit, Greg, I had no idea it was that bad. I knew there were drugs, but I didn't-"

"You couldn't have known, John," he said gently. "Honestly, you may live with him but you aren't Sherlock. You can't see everyone's lives with just one glance."

"Yeah," John said, breathing out heavily. "What about his actual soul mate?"

"That I am expressly forbidden to tell you about," Greg answered honestly. He had already betrayed Sherlock's trust too much, and Sherlock had made him promise not to tell anyone about it. "You'll just have to talk to him about it."

"I tried. The man's a fucking clam," John groaned. "You can't tell me anything about him other than the fact that he's color blind?"

Greg thought for a moment. "This man, he's color blind, but if you see him around this guy you'd have to be well and truly blind in order to realize that Sherlock isn't painfully in love with this silly bugger. Sherlock is probably repressing a lot of his feelings for him. I don't know if he knows how fiercely he loves him yet, but Sherlock definitely knows he's in love. That's all I'll say."

John opened his mouth as if he were going to ask something else but he shut it and shook his head. "I just don't understand why someone wouldn't find him fascinating. Yeah, he can be a bit of a prick a lot of the time, but he's brilliant."

Greg shrugged. "Sherlock Holmes is remarkable. He has the potential to be a good person, but he chooses not to live up to that potential. He's a rude, arrogant wanker and I love the kid like he was my own flesh and blood." His phone beeped, and he read the text with a smile. "I've got to dash. Mycroft has been out of town for almost two weeks and he just got back."

"Christ! I didn't know. You should have said so," John exclaimed, clearly distressed about the fact that he was separating Greg from his partner.

"Neither did I. He says between one and three weeks, so I try to live my life as normally as possible and not sit around pining for the bastard when he's away." He fished in his pocket for cash for the beers and said, "You have an enormous amount of power over Sherlock, John. Don't abuse that."

With a clap to John's shoulder, he turned and walked out of the bar. He had intended to walk home since it really wasn't too far, but there was a ubiquitous black sedan outside of the bar. He rolled his eyes and walked straight over to the car as Mycroft stepped out.

"You know, I can make it home just fine on my feet," he said.

"I know," Mycroft said smoothly as the car pulled away. "I just thought you might like some company on your walk home." He held out his hand and Greg snatched it with a smile.

"Missed you a lot," he said shyly. He still didn't know what it was about Mycroft that made him so sheepish even after so many years together.

"I missed you as well," Mycroft said softly as he gave Greg's hand a quick squeeze. "Has anything notable happened during my absence?"

"Sherlock almost got John killed and fell in love with him in the process," he answered nonchalantly as if this were standard fare. When he thought about it, Sherlock almost got a lot of people killed at an alarmingly high rate, so it was pretty standard.

"That was fast," Mycroft muttered. "I thought it would be at least another month before they sorted themselves out."

"I didn't say that they had," Greg said. "I was actually getting a pint with John. Sherlock took a case for Sebastian Wilkes and he ended up telling John about Victor. John asked him about his soul mate, and Sherlock admitted he'd found it but his soul mate is color blind and said that they would never love Sherlock the way Sherlock loves him. John tried to get more information about it out of me since apparently Sherlock clammed up."

"That's more than anyone else has gotten," Mycroft said with a strained smile. "He's learning to trust John more."

"It would appear so. Tell me a bit about your trip. What you can," Greg added, knowing full well that Mycroft would have to gloss over most of the details of the trip.

Mycroft spoke briefly about his tour of several countries in the southeastern region of Asia until they reached their doorstep when he abruptly said, "I really have missed you."

"I didn't doubt that," Greg smiled over his shoulder as he fumbled with the keys. The door opened and Greg was barely over the threshold when Mycroft spun him around and gripped both of his shoulders.

"I mean it. I keep thinking about Sherlock and how difficult everything has been for him, and each time it made me remember just how lucky I've been. I never stopped thinking of you and I missed you immensely, Gregory." Mycroft realized what he was saying, and the man went beet red and turned to close and lock the front door. Greg wrapped his arms around his waist.

"If it makes you any less embarrassed, I feel the same way about you," Greg said into the space between Mycroft's shoulder blades.

Mycroft turned in Greg's arms and stooped a bit so he could rest his forehead on Greg's shoulder. "I would do anything to make sure that Sherlock experiences this."

"I know you would," Greg cooed. He ran his hand into Mycroft's thinning hair and pulled him impossibly closer to his body. "Let's go to bed." He didn't make a move until Mycroft nodded into his jacket and straightened up. He led his partner by the hand up the stairs and down a long hallway to their bedroom where they spent the rest of the night taking each other apart and quietly thanking any and all higher powers for the each other.