The limo ride with Mycroft had only made John want to get in bed more, by the time the two reached 221B that's all he could think of. They hadn't spoken on the entire journey, and it definitely wasn't a comfortable silence, but it was probably a necessary one. John would still likely have snapped at Mycroft without little provocation, and provocation was still Mycroft's middle name, even if he'd forgotten it at the moment.

As the two men entered the flat, John spoke in hushed tones. "You'll be alright on the sofa, Mycroft? Greg's in my room, and I'll stay with Sherlock." John waited for Mycroft to reply, while he put the kettle on and brought Mycroft a tea, for shock John thought, momentarily wondering how long shock can last for, but it was definitely to late for those types of thoughts. "Mycroft?" He questioned a little louder.

"Yes John, your sofa is most expectable, but I'll be honest, I don't see myself doing much sleeping." Mycroft replied sitting on the sofa, with a carefully blank expression.

"Well do try, at least to rest, Mycroft. I'll be back in a moment, with some bedding for you."

"Ever the doctor, John." Mycroft replied stoically.

When John returned he saw Mycroft sat holding the drink he had made moments early, knowing full well that Mycroft wouldn't drink it, and suspecting he knew that too. Had he been thinking properly he would have offered him the same sleeping pill he had left for Greg, but thinking is something that is increasingly difficult to do the more tired you are. When he finally got to his bed, next to Sherlock, he was asleep in seconds.

It was in that position, Greg found Mycroft a few short hours later. His eyes closed he appeared to be sleeping, but he was still holding the tea, a testament to the tightness of the grip he heled on the cup.

Greg had only gotten up use the bathroom and was instantly shocked to see Mycroft there. He considered waking him, but as he knew the man had barely slept recently, he decided against it. Taking the cup gently from his hand, he proceeded to lie Mycroft down, removing his slippers and covering him with the blanket that sat next to him. And then he went back to bed. He still needed more sleep before he was able to deal with this, and he, forgetting in his shock all need for the bathroom.

Mycroft woke sometime later, to Greg sitting in the chair opposite the sofa watching him. After Greg couldn't fall back to sleep earlier that night, he moved back into the Livingroom simply to be close to Mycroft.

"Hi." Mycroft says to attract the attention of Greg who was absent-mindedly staring at nothing in particular.

"Hey" Greg replies standing quickly, "Can I get you a cuppa?", he asks moving into the kitchen before Mycroft even replies, he is not ready for this.

Mycroft follows Greg into the kitchen, "We need to talk about this", he places a hand on Greg's arm.

"No." Greg replies anger seeping from his voice, as he pulls from Mycroft's touch he spills the boiling water of the kettle he was in the middle of pouring over his hand.

"Shit", he yelps hissing. Quickly moving to put his now scolded hand under the cold water, Greg tries in vain to suppress the tears, only partially caused by his now burning right hand.

At that moment John walked in. "Are you okay Greg?"

"Yeah mate, sorry didn't mean to wake you, I just burnt my hand."

"You didn't wake me, I've always been an early riser, to the dismay of Sherlock." He says with a laugh, "Let me take a look at it." John says trying to take the wrist of the mans injured hand.

"It's fine." Greg says trying to pull away.

"Mate, I'm a doctor, its my job. Now let me see." he says sternly. Greg concedes, looking at Mycroft for a moment, he can see the concern in his eyes, but he hasn't moved from his position.

"It doesn't look to bad, you were right putting your hand under the water. I've got some cream in the bathroom cabinet. I'll go and get it. Go and sit on the sofa I'll be back in a minute".

Reluctantly, and fighting some new instinctual urge to run, Greg goes and sits on the sofa as John told him to, Mycroft follows behind.

The two don't speak, and although Mycroft looks repeatedly at Greg, Greg does not once look at Mycroft, and it kills something within him.

Just as Mycroft tries to say something, John returns, sitting on the coffee table in front of Greg.

"Here's some cream that'll cool the burn down, and a painkiller, just to help" he says with a small smile.

"I'll take the cream, John, but I don't want the painkiller."

"Greg." Mycroft sighs, "If you're in pain, you need to take it."

"Painkillers won't help with this kind of pain, you know that Myc, plus the hands a nice distraction."

Mycroft looks away, suppressing a sob. Greg didn't mean to snap, its just right now he needs his hand to hurt, he needs to feel something else, anything else. He regrets hurting Mycroft, but he can't bring himself to look at the man, let alone apologies.

"You don't have to take the painkillers, but please remember the cream." Greg nods. "Good. Me and Sherlock are going out soon, something about Molly needing help, so we'll be out for most of the day. I'll make you both a cuppa before we leave. And I have my phone if you need anything."

Greg attempts to smile but fails. John takes the attempt, and quickly goes to get Sherlock, the sooner they can get out of the house the sooner the men can talk, he thinks.

Neither men speak until the two of them find themselves alone in the flat.

Mycroft is the first to speak. "Do you want some help putting the cream on?" He asks taking the tube from the coffee table, looking at Greg who still refuses to make eye contact as he asks.

"I'll manage." He mumbles but doesn't reach to take the cream.

"It'll be easier if you let me help." He insists.

"Fine", Greg agrees reluctantly, only now turning to face Mycroft slightly, still avoiding eye contact. He really didn't want his help, he wasn't sure he could take even this slight physical contact after so long without anything meaningful, but he had to concede it would be easier with Mycroft's help.

As Mycroft begins applying the cream gently, Greg feels himself relax, and reluctant to fall apart again, initially tightens his resolve.

"I'll be finished in a moment."

Greg nods to Mycroft's assertion, finally starting to relax into his touch he is filled with panic, that should Mycroft let go he may never be this close again. It is a stupid, irrational thought, and he knows it. But one which is so overpowering that as Mycroft removes his hand, Greg grabs his arm with his other hand, gently squeezing. "Don't let go" he says trying not to sound so pathetic at needing this contact from his lover, he fails, and then "Please."

Mycroft eyes fill at the moment Greg's do and though Greg is unaware of Mycroft tears as he still hasn't looked at the man, Mycroft knows Greg is crying, and for the first time is glad that he isn't crying alone.

The two men cry silently for a moment, together for the first time since that awful day.

When he is in control enough to suppress the whimper Greg finally speaks, still looking away from Mycroft and, so quietly that Mycroft has to fight the urge to move closer to Greg to hear him better.

"I just, I wanted to be there for you Myc, I tried so hard to be strong for you, it was all for you." He sighs and continues "I thought there would be a moment when it hit you, and I didn't want you to be alone. I wanted to be there". Breathe he reminds himself, he wants to stop, but he thinks now he's started he might as well finished. "We're supposed to be in this together, and after everything I knew you needed someone, and I was supposed to… I needed to be that someone. And you fell apart in the arms of a stranger. A stranger Myc! You might know this guy, but I… I don't know who he is. He was there for you, when I couldn't be, when I wasn't enough." Greg sobs audibly for the first time in Mycroft's presence, tightening his grip on Mycroft. "Do you know how pathetic that makes me feel?" He asks as for the first time he looks at Mycroft tears running down both their faces. "We're supposed to be grieving, together. And all I can think about is him and how you need him more than me. I should be thinking about our baby," Greg can barely get the word out, he feels his heart clench, but continues. "I I I'm jealous, Mycroft. I'm jealous of a guy I don't know, and I stopped thinking about her, and I wasn't there for you, and she's gone, and I just… I" he breaks into another sob, severing all contact both physical and otherwise with Mycroft.

For a moment, Mycroft's sits there, watching the love of his life fall apart, as the sobs that wreck his body get louder, and more visible.

He moves to the other end of the sofa, needing the space, and time to breathe before he speaks. He needs to tell Greg, the truth all of it. He knows that now.

"Gregory, there's something I need to tell you, you need to know who James is, you're right and I should have told you sooner." He sighs wiping his face with his hand, and placing the other hand in his pocket, pulling out a small, light blue baby blanket. Greg still isn't looking at him, so he stares at it for a moment, before continuing. "I will tell you it all, my love. But I only want to have to tell this story once. So, I would much prefer John and Sherlock to be here, if you're okay with that of course?"

Now Greg looks at Mycroft, and nods, noticing the baby blanket in his hands, one he'd never seen before. He stills for a moment before Mycroft speaks again.

"Thank you, Gregory. I'll texts them to come back at their earliest convenience."

"Okay" Greg answers in a hoarse voice, "I'm just going to go to the bathroom."

"No problem."

As Greg heads to the bathroom, Mycroft texts John:

If you and my brother could return to your flat at your earliest convenience. We have some things we need to discuss. MH.

And then a moment later: As a family. MH.

Mycroft is glad to be alone for a moment, as he has time to compose himself before he opens up about James, about all of it. He knew it would have to come eventually, and he was sure he could do it, almost sure that he could. Enough time had passed, he reassured himself. His mobile vibrated momentarily breaking his thoughts.

We will be there shortly. JW

In the bathroom Greg fights to get a hold of himself, sitting on the toilet lid, just breathing. He wasn't looking forward to whatever he was going to learn next, half convinced it was that Mycroft was going to leave him for James. Whatever was going to happen, he really didn't want an audience for, and couldn't understand why John and Sherlock had to be there to see it. But if it meant he was going to learn the truth, he could take it. If there was a chance it could bring Mycroft back to him, he could take it.

Nothing much happened until Sherlock and John arrived home a short time later. Greg did end up leaving the bathroom, to back on the sofa with Mycroft. But the two men never spoke, never really looked at each other, or at least did so, so the other would notice.

They couldn't have arrived hone a moment too soon. Or maybe it would have been better if they never arrived home. Mycroft isn't sure which one of these statements is true. But the moment John and Sherlock walk through the door, he genuinely believes the latter of the two.

So now these two men are sitting across from Mycroft and Greg, they have been for a while, they've made tea and everything. But right now, in this moment, its here and he can't find the words. He doesn't know where to start. He wants to sink into some invisible hole, to never exist in another moment again, and he's starting to panic, and then John speaks.

"What's that you're holding Mycroft?"

At first the question doesn't make sense, he wants to ask John to clarify his question, that is until he looks down and sees he's still holding the blue blanket in his lap. Exactly how long he's been holding it for he isn't sure, only then does he realize his hands have gone numb.

"I erm" he fiddles with the blanket in between his fingers, half trying to get the feeling back in his hands, and the other part of him trying to ground himself to the story he's going to have tell. He can do this, you know, he can, it just he really doesn't want to.

"Mycroft, brother dearest." For the first in a long while, Mycroft makes eye contact with Sherlock before he continues. "There was an obvious reason that you insisted John and I return home, and here we are. If you do not hold up your end of the situation, you are wasting all of our time."

"Sherlock!" John interjects quickly.

A small knowing look crosses Mycroft's face, "Its quite alright John. Sherlock is correct in his deduction of my stalling, and I apologies to you all for that you all deserve better from me". As he continues he looks back down at the blanket, "Its just this is a difficult subject for me to discuss, and I don't really know where to start it."

"How about at the beginning, Love." The pet name from Greg gives Mycroft all he needs to start the story; though the distance in his voice, is an ever-present, different kind of terrifying, whether he can get through it all, is another question entirely.

"He was the head councillor at school."

"Mr. Davidson…" Sherlock supplied, instantly knowing where this story was going. His face not to dissimilar from Mycroft's fear etched, deep into the skin. The brothers look at each other, and Mycroft can already see the guilt swell with in Sherlock. It wasn't your fault… it will never be your fault. He wants to scream it at Sherlock, but of course he can already read it on his face.

"Don't be smart Myc." Sherlock says not even trying to hide the pain in his voice, he stands quickly and heads to the kitchen table, placing all his weight on it, breathing harshly he continues. "If I hadn't said anything to you…"

"He would have hurt you instead. We both know that. I'd do anything to protect, Sherlock. Anything." Mycroft said looking properly at Sherlock for the first time.

"Someone abused you as a child, Mycroft?" John asks, not really sure why he's looking for confirmation of what he already knows.

"I believe you would call some of his actions abuse, Dr Watson. Though the most painful were those of a sexual nature." Mycroft says, not really looking anywhere, scared to see the look on the faces of those he cares for most. They'll hate him, he's sure, he deserves there hate.

Sherlock has already hated him for years, he made sure of that to keep him away. And John will try to be civil, managing amicably. But Greg, he will hate him. Plain and simple.

There's silence for a long while, and Mycroft looses all his will to speak. Sherlock hasn't moved from the table, and John hasn't even looked at him. But its Greg Mycroft cares about all he cares about.

"Say something, Gregory please." Mycroft begs, almost whimpering as he speaks. He needs to leave but he can't just walk out, he can't just walk away from Greg, not after everything they've been through.

After another minute, Greg finally looks at Mycroft tears in both there eyes, he asks the one question stuck in his head. It's the one thing he knows he shouldn't be thinking of right now, yet the only thought he has, selfishly he takes a breath and asks. "What does this have to do with James?"

"Really Greg." Sherlock shouts turning round to face everyone, making everyone else in the room jump. "My brother just told us all that he was abused and raped as a child, and the first thing you ask him is about a guy you saw him hug!"

Greg knows that Sherlock is right, he's about to apologies for asking the question at such as a stupid time when Mycroft speaks.

"Sherlock do be quiet. I betrayed Greg, he's entitled to want answers to what he saw."

Sherlock visibly sulks, but says nothing more.

"Mr. Davidson," Mycroft continues, "had his … way with me", closes his eyes for a moment, memories overwhelming him. "Periodically, over several weeks. After the 14th encounter, I felt something, I…." Greg is the only one in the room now looking at Mycroft, everyone else is averting there eyes, and Mycroft is so grateful. "He usually made me sick, but I was never actual sick, I mean the first time, I was, shock perhaps. But the other times, I just let it happen, I was fine." He stops breathing for a moment, visibly shaking, before he continues. "This time, after he finished, I ran straight to the nearest water closet and was sick. I didn't equate it to the recent events at the time, I had been sick a few days, usually in the morning, but it happened daily. Some other boys saw me run, but I couldn't stop, I heard them follow me, and I heard someone stop them, it was James. He came in a few minutes later, handed me some tissue, I was now leaning over the sink, asked me if I was okay. I tried to warn him off, tell him it was not his concern. And then he starts going on about when his sister was pregnant with his niece, and I was sick, again, right there in the sink. I knew, I don't know how, but I knew I was pregnant, and I knew it was his."

"Oh, Mycroft… I" John begins.

"What about the child?" Sherlock interrupts Mycroft looks over to Greg who isn't looking at him anymore, and for a painful moment he's sure it's because he can't, he hates him that much. "If you were pregnant, what happened to the child? And why didn't I notice?!"

Mycroft laughs, his brother's relentless egocentrism, was a comfort. "If I gave you an answer, when you were a child, you took it, had no desire to look any further."

"So you lied to me?", Sherlock states angrily.

"I lied to everyone, Sherlock. Except James. He figured it out, so I … he was there. The only one up until now I ever told. He stood by me, helped me plan what to do. We were, we were, going to give him away. If I kept him, I had to explain it again and again, and I just couldn't. And anyway, he deserved a better life than me."

"You gave away your child?" Greg almost sobs, still not looking directly at Mycroft, but more towards his direction. Small mercies, Mycroft thinks.

"I…" Mycroft tries, looking at Greg seeing the pain in his eyes. He has to look down before he continues, "That was the intended idea, yes Gregory."

"But not what you actually did?" John questions.

Mycroft looks directly at John, tightening his grip on the blanket. "I went into labour earlier than I calculated, so I called James, in a blind panic. He took me away, to this little cottage, his parents own. By the time we got there, I was in so much pain I couldn't think. When I got out of the car, there was blood on the seat, and I almost passed out. He got me inside, and well….. he… he was born. And he didn't cry, Mycroft sobs "not a sound."

Silently for a minute, Mycroft loses himself in his grief and guilt, he's drowning, and he cant breathes, and he just wants to disappear again.

The eyes of everyone else in the room are wet, and John is about to speak if only to brake the deafening silence, when Mycroft continues.

"I didn't even see hin," another sob slips through his body. "James took him away, and buried him in a field somewhere, im not exactly sure where. It was to much then, but now… now I don't even know where to go to see my boy."

"And you've never asked James?" The question is raw, from a broken voice, and that's a big clue to it coming from Greg.

"I tried…. a few times. But I just didn't know how, how to bring up something I told him I wanted to only forget. I told him I wanted to forget my son Greg!" Mycroft's anger at his own actions coming through in his voice. "This blanket is all I have of his…. I tried to get rid of it, but I just couldn't. I just couldn't forget, I tried." And then after I second, "I'm sorry."

Greg places his hand on Mycroft's leg, and Mycroft cant help but jump. He honestly believed he would never feel the touch of the man he irrevocably loves again. Its not much, but its contact. And even that allows Mycroft to breathe a little easier through his sobs.

"Let's go home". Greg says, trying to smile, but as Mycroft looks at him, he knows it isn't a genuine smile, how can it be after all this. But the love his sees in his eyes, is true, and he knows it.

As the two men stand, not loosing their physical connection, Greg speaks quietly to John. "It's going to be the day after tomorrow", he whispers, as Mycroft practically passes out in his arms.

"We'll be there," John assures him, and with a tight nod and unspoken thanks, the two men leave.

John and Sherlock are left alone in the flat. Sherlock still leaning on the table and John just standing in the middle of the livingroom. John doesn't know what he's supposed to do with the information has just been given, and he can see that neither does Sherlock. So John does the only thing he can think of.

He crosses the room quickly, wrapping himself around Sherlock, who looks up to meet his eyes. John strokes the tears as they fall freely down Sherlocks face, he can read a thousand emotions, the strongest one is guilt. He touches his forehead to Sherlocks, willing him to know that whatever happened to Mycroft was not his fault.

John kisses Sherlock, desperately, they both need this contact. "I'm here," he whispers, then a moment later, "I've got you." They touch each other with an increasing feverish speed, John can tell this isn't love, not this time. It's a desperate need to be held, to be loved, wanted, forgiven. And he is happy to supply what Sherlock needs, not wanting to be alone either.

Things progress to the bedroom, as they inevitably do. And for the first time in all the times the two of them have slept together, Sherlock cries as they make love.