Hospital, again. Greg shifted uncomfortably in his small chair, staring at the door with the same worried anticipation as every other person in the waiting room. Mycroft was pacing up and down on the corridor outside, making phone calls.
The neon lights flickered and buzzed, making him even more nervous than he already was. Sherlock's condition was stable, aside from a minor hypoxemia after almost suffocating in the underground chamber and a few bruises but John was still in surgery, having suffered a severe blow to the head and a stab wound in the shoulder that lost him a lot of blood. The police force had found no weapons or any other trace of what had happened and where the inhabitants of the manor could have gone. Mycroft had been too upset to take another look. Mr Melas had disappeared, his phone had been found smashed at the side of the road and no one had much hope that he was still alive. The Holmes parents had been informed and were on their way to the Hospital, much to their son's annoyance.

Greg jumped as the door of the waiting room opened and a nurse came in. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?" He nodded and followed her outside, where Mycroft was already waiting impatiently. "Mr Holmes is awake. You may ask him some questions now, but make sure not to upset him, his heart is still rather weak. All this drug abuse really hasn't done him very good." Shaking her head, she went back into the waiting room.

It was a strange Déjà vu, entering the room with the yellow lights and the steady beeping of machines. Sherlock was covered in tubes, including one under his nose for extra oxygen. Greg's heart ached as he saw the many scars on his lower arms, showing that it was not the first time a needle had pierced his skin.
"Hey bro!" Sherlock said weakly. "They refuse to give me any morphine, can you believe it?" Mycroft sat down next to his brother. "They probably know better."
"You're getting mud all over my room, brother mine."
"I'd say you're attitude is much dirtier, dearest brother."
"Touché." Sherlock grinned. "Thank you, Mycroft. 'Guess you kinda saved my life or something." "You were lucky! If Melas had hesitated to take the case to Bakerstreet we would've been too late." Greg, who was silently leaning against the window, raised his head. "What was that all about anyways? How come you were at that house?" Mycroft turned to look at him. "The woman, Sophie Kratides, was Sherlock's client. He had a note from her in his coat pocket. I assume she was a hostage and somehow managed to contact you?" He asked, turning back to his brother, who nodded, sitting up straight. Breathing slowly, he started his narrative:

"Ms Kratides contacted me a week ago. She said her boyfriend, Mr Reginald Musgrave, was starting to scare her. Apparently, he had forbidden her to enter the basement, keeping the key always with him, getting mad whenever he mentioned it. She didn't think much of it until one night when she couldn't sleep due to a headache, she went to get some aspirin and heard noises coming from behind the basement door. Someone seemed to be screaming in agony. She couldn't open the door, so she tried to call the police. The servant stopped her, told her it was just a video game and nothing to worry about. Later, Mr Musgrave threatened to kick her out on the street should she ever mention the basement to anyone. Being a poor foreigner that would've caused her quite the trouble but there was some intuition that caused her to ask me for help. Ms Sophie was not allowed to leave the house, so she sent a note to Bakerstreet.

John and I investigated and found out that the Kratides' have an old history with the Musgraves that the girl isn't aware of. The Musgraves are a very old family that has been living in that manor for many years. They were forced to disappear, however, about a hundred years ago. Two brothers were inhabiting the house at that time, and they were part of a complex criminal web. Mainly though, they would send their men to abduct a child from wealthy politicians or other people of public interest that couldn't afford negative publicity, the cops would make sure all evidence disappeared and the families had no other choice but to pay to get their child back. The wine chambers -there's much more to see under the garden than what you saw – were a perfect prison for the abducted children, as well as a hide-out for wanted criminals and occasionally a laboratory for illegal substances.

When the police finally drew their web around them, they knew they'd have to disappear. Hid a part of their fortune as well as any of their records in the wine chambers that had served as prison for their victims. One of them eventually proposed that ridiculous riddle, split in half to make sure they could only find it together. Rather melodramatic, really. One of the Musgrave brothers disappeared somewhere in Wales, the other went to Greece. Now what happened is pretty obvious, the brother living in Wales stays under cover, gets married and has a daughter, a successful reporter by the name of Juliana Musgrave. Whether he mentioned his secret to anyone or she found out about cannot be known. After her father's death, the child steps froward, claiming the heritage to the house, her lawyer punches her through and she tries to find the fortune. Only having the questions, not the answers, she is helpless.

Years later, Juliana and her new husband die an untimely death, leaving both the house and the riddle to their son Reginald. Possibly by mere coincidence, the boy finds records of the family's history -the ones that you probably saw as you were searching the manor. He travels to Greece on the track of his lost relatives and meets Sophie, who does not know about the family secret. What exactly happened between them can only be told by the two themselves but we do know Reginald eventually took Sophie to England with him. Paul Kratides finds out about it and follows them. Musgrave meets him with his team of minor criminals and locks him up in his basement. Through some way or another he must have found out that the brother knew about the riddle and quite possibly how to solve it. My guess is he or his sister showed off at some point.

Having figured this out through our extensive research, we went to confront Mr Musgrave and free the poor Kratides siblings from him. But, as I said in my text to Lestrade, I miscalculated. Musgrave seems to follow in his grandfather's footsteps now. He is far more organized than I anticipated and he took me by surprise. Four of his footmen waited for us in the house, we were handcuffed and shown to the master of the house. When we refused to help them, they locked us in the basement to Paul Kratides. My greek is rather poor but it was enough find out they were getting him out regularly to talk to different interpreters, trying to get him to help them. I couldn't tell him to make the next interpreter call the police, as he would certainly be too intimidated and Musgrave would get suspicious.
Instead, Kratides told Melas to seek help in Bakerstreet, by translating both the words "baker" and "street" to greek in order to keep the guards from understanding. I had hoped Lestrade would be there and get my brother's help.

They grew impatient very quickly, though, and decided to take John as … motivation for me. They stabbed a knife in his shoulder to show me they meant it, so I had no other choice but to help them. I tried to leave as many clues for you as possible.
We found the trapdoor, Musgrave and his men went in with us. There were journals, records, instructions, any kind of information about getting about in London's web of criminals. And of course, the fortune. Expensive jewellery and stones, gold bars, anything that could have been tracked by the police but is now very easy to sell on the black market.

They got what they wanted. Musgrave and his men left, there was a struggle in which was John was badly injured, we were locked away in the darkness. John lost consciousness and I knew we would be running out of oxygen eventually but there was nothing I could do."

He spoke slowly, taking breaks to keep his breathing at ease. As he reached the end of his story, Sherlock's voice broke and tears gathered in his eyes. He looked up at his brother.

"Thank you." He whispered again. Mycroft took his hand.
There was a knock at the door and the nurse came in. "Mr. Holmes? Doctor Watson is out of surgery, his condition is stable, the stab wound is infected but he is young and strong. We are very confident he will pull through." "When can I see him?" "He's in quarantine for now, there's nothing I can do. Tomorrow, if you are fit enough and his body reacts well to the antibiotics. You should rest now, anyway, and you two will have to leave. Enough excitement for the day." She said kindly.
Mycroft and Greg said their goodbyes and left the hospital room, returning to the now considerably more empty waiting room, where Mr and Mrs Holmes were waiting anxiously for news.

The morning after the events at the old Musgrave Manor was a sunny and warm one. Sunlight poured through the dirty window of John Watson's hospital room, reflecting on the white sheets and making the flowers on the bedside table glow in rich colours. John was still unconscious, sleeping under an enormous pile of blankets, tubes and cables all over the place. Sherlock leaned on Mycroft, sitting next to his friend's bed, a tube still running under his nose to supply him with extra oxygen.

"I was afraid." He said quietly. Mycroft cocked his head to the side "Sorry?".
"I was afraid of dying." His eyes slid out of focus, the horror of the previous day reflecting on his face. "It was so dark and cold and there was no one to hear me scream. Then I remembered" he smiled weakly "how I used to crawl in your bed at night, when I had a nightmare, and you would save me from the monsters inside my head and the darkness would stop being frightening. I knew you'd come." Tears glistened in Mycroft's eyes, as he put his arms around his little brother. "Always." he said quietly.

For a while, the brothers sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts and memories. Sherlock listened to the steady beeping of the machines, the sounds that meant John was alive and save. Suddenly, he opened his eyes, turning to his brother. "Have you ever wanted to say something but you didn't know how? Were you ever so scared of saying something out loud but at the same time it just tore you apart to keep it a secret?" Mycroft's heart skipped a beat and he looked at his brother in surprise. A thousand questions and theories stormed through his head. This couldn't be it, it was all wrong, he wasn't ready. "Why do you ask?" he said breathlessly.
"Because when you find yourself in a situation where death seems almost inevitable, then it's not your life flashing before your eyes, but the people who mattered in it. And then you realize that you never told them what they mean to you." Sherlock said, looking at John. His brother relaxed. "Since when do we talk about our feelings?" he asked, confused. Sherlock shrugged. "I guess children make you soft. Or the near-death experiences, of which I had my fair share over the past months. You're my brother, you keep the deepest secrets of the entire country, I thought you were a reliable person to confess to" Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "You can trust me." Sherlock nodded.
He swallowed hard, looking at his brother with a pained expression. "I love him, Mycroft. I am hopelessly in love with John. And I'm afraid if he knew, things would never be the same again."
"How do you know he doesn't feel the same?"
"You know how people always assumed we were dating, he always reacted very cross to that. He said so many times that he isn't interested in men. And it's okay. God knows I'm not the easiest person to be friends with and yet he has always been incredibly loyal and kind. John Watson saved me. And simply being friends with him, getting to wake up to find him in the kitchen and seeing him play with his daughter before going to bed, that is an incredible privilege. He is the most wonderful human being I ever met. I wondered if there was a way to tell him that, to tell him how special and wonderful he is and how grateful I am without giving away what I actually feel." He buried his face in hands in despair, sighing.

"Bit too late now, anyway."

Sherlock rose his head, looking up in shock and amazement. John had opened his eyes, an amused grin on his face. He sat up a bit, chuckling softly. "I always wanted to know how you talk about me behind my back but this is quite unexpected."

Sherlock stared, blood drained from his face, his heart beating faster, so loud it felt like the entire city must've heard it. "I'm – I just – you -"

"You are such an idiot!" John said affectionately and, leaning forward carefully, took Sherlock's face in his hands. "Deduce this." he smirked and kissed him, hesitantly and gently, pulling Sherlock towards him by the neck. The beeping of the machine sped up, but neither of them noticed. They were lost in each other, a tangle of hands so familiar yet so new, the tension, that had been there since the very beginning, fell, leaving them to fall together.

Silently, Mycroft stood up and left the room with a smile on his lips and one less worry on his mind.