"What?" Mycroft tried to sit up, but his weak muscles wouldn't let him. "Sherlock, you can't be serious."
"You've seen how John is around me. He doesn't love me any more."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do. Look, I'll stay in touch with you, I promise. But I can't face another day of John acting like I don't exist. I'm going back to London, maybe kip on Molly's sofa until I get a flat."
Sherlock squeezed his arm and stood up straight, hiking a rucksack over his shoulder. Mycroft grabbed his shirt hem.
"No," he said, raising his voice above a whisper. "Don't make another mistake."
His plea awoke Lestrade, who sat up and turned the bedside lamp on. One look at Sherlock- the haunted expression, overcoat, and packed bag- told him everything he needed to know.
"Right- this bullshit has gone on long enough." He jumped off the bed, strode over to Sherlock, and grabbed his arm. "You're coming with me."
"Greg-" Mycroft tried again to rise. Lestrade raised a restraining hand. "It's okay, Myc," he said in more controlled tones. "No one will get hurt. At least not by me."
"Let go!" Sherlock seethed. His bag slipped out of his grasp and thudded on the floor. "What the fuck are you playing at?"
"I'm not playing." Looking comically underdressed in his pale blue boxers, Gregory bent over, hefted Sherlock over one shoulder, and carried him, kicking and protesting, out into the hall. He stopped in front of John's bedroom door, which opened before he could knock.
John stared at the scene before him. "What's going on?"
Mycroft watched as Gregory pushed past him into the room, still carrying his squirming, yelling burden.
"John, this ends tonight. I know you two love still love each other. Now either forgive this reckless brat or tell him it's over so he doesn't have to sneak off in the middle of the night."
"What?"
Mycroft heard a soft thump as something was thrown onto the bed.
"He was getting ready to run away, John."
A loud exhale. Then: "Goddamn it, Sherlock. Fine, Greg. Thanks."
Lestrade emerged into the hall, closing the door behind him. He climbed back into bed with Mycroft, who said, "I'm not so sure that was wise."
"Me neither. But enough's enough. I'm on John's side in this matter, but maybe Sherlock just needs a little reassurance so he doesn't muck things up further."
"I think you might be right." Mycroft rested his cheek against Greg's shoulder. "Perverse as this sounds, I'm grateful for what he did, to me at least. If I hadn't thought I was dying, I wouldn't have given myself permission to have fun, to fall in love with you."
Lestrade's fingers played with his hair. "Don't go telling him that- God knows what he'd do the next time he decided your life needed improving."
He shut the bedside light off and they lapsed into silence, straining to listen through the wall that separated their room from John's.
Sherlock's voice was the first one they heard clearly. "John, I'm so sorry, please believe me."
"I know you thought you were protecting Mycroft. But I went through months of hell thinking you were dead, gone from me forever, and when I realize how it could have been avoided... Sherlock, I do love you. But getting shot in Afghanistan was nothing compared to the pain you put me through. You can't expect me to forget it that easily."
"I don't. But how are we supposed to get past this when you won't even talk to me?"
"We're talking now."
"Yes. Yes, we are."
John's footsteps paced the floorboards. "Was Greg right? You were going to run off tonight?"
"Actually, it's this morning-"
"Answer the question, Sherlock."
"Yes. I was. Because I couldn't take our ...estrangement... any more. My presence also makes you unhappy. It seemed the logical thing to do."
A sigh. "I suppose I can't fault you for thinking that way. I have been hard on you. But that kind of secretive behavior has to stop. We're a couple, we're supposed to be open with- wait, what are you doing?"
Mycroft and Lestrade held their breath, straining to listen.
Sherlock's voice was semi-muffled: was he hugging John? "You just said we're a couple."
A pause. "Yes, I did. And we are. But it's going to take time for the trust to rebuild."
"You have to show me what to do, John. Please. I- I can't navigate these fields like you can."
Mycroft felt for his brother. Sherlock could hack into missile defense systems, create bio-weapons in his bathtub, and solve in ten seconds a case that puzzled Scotland Yard for ten months. But the emotional intricacies of a relationship stymied him.
"I will. Now stop crying, okay?"
Gregory raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock? Crying? Bloody hell."
"He does have a heart," Mycroft gently rebuked.
Sherlock sniffled. "Can't. I've missed you."
"Come on. Let's lie down. We'll talk more in the morning."
Two sets of footsteps moved across the floor, one heavier than the other: John must have been supporting Sherlock's weight. The mattress creaked, and the blankets rustled. Then silence.
Mycroft knew that his younger brother would not sleep; if he'd been distressed to the point of tears, Sherlock would be lying awake for hours, processing the alien feeling and trying to figure out what he'd have to do to mend the relationship.
"I think they're going to be all right." Gregory rolled onto his side and gathered Mycroft into his arms. "Bit of a risk, dragging Sherlock into John's room at three-thirty in the morning, but apparently it's what they needed to move forward."
"Mm." Mycroft felt his heart throb, but from relief and love, not pain. He was soon asleep.