It was Thursday night when it happened. Lestrade remembers this very clearly. The pub they had chosen this time, the trio had frequented often enough before hand.

John was the first to arrive as always, his work had allowed him that perk on Thursdays, saving two other stools at the bar before ordering himself a lager. Greg showed up a few minutes later with Mycroft in tow who was busy staring at his phone, working out the last of his work day details before his boyfriend would force his phone out of his grip for the following hours.

"G'Evening Greg, Mycroft" John waved them over and the both men sat down and ordered their perspective drinks; Greg, a Guinness, Mycroft, a two-finger brandy. The government official had no pretenses when it came to starting slowly, and hated the taste of beer at that.

John and Lestrade both chatted about the little things at first, Mycroft generally keeping quiet mostly because that part of the conversation was always boring, after a drink or two though the other two men were always able to drag him into the conversation, willing or not. Generally by the end of the night they'd be talking about Sherlock's childhood, and how the grudges that the two brothers had once held were so petty now, and having a good laugh of it.

Half way through this evening though, something unexpected happened. Mycroft was in mid-sip when the glass paneled-front of the bar shattered. All three of them knew exactly what had caused the breakage, and were reacting accordingly. The bar was being fired upon by an outside vehicle. The eldest Holmes caught a glance of the black SUV as his lover who was acting pushed him roughly to the ground on pure instinct now.

"John!" "Greg!" "Mycroft!" All three of them shouted simotaniosly for one another over the noise of the others freaking out and the bullets making a mess of the modern pub.

After a few seconds that felt like an eternity there was utter silence that replaced the chaos. Mycroft was holding Gregs' hand that was staring at him with wide eyes. The government official was on is side, the other hand in a death grip on one of the stools.

It was then that he felt the pain and something was off. Hesitantly he let go of the bar stool, and fell onto his back as his hand went there instinctively.

"Is everyone all right, Greg? Mycroft?" John was asking shakily, glancing over the two from his crouched down position. He seemed basically unharmed except for a bullet fragment graze near his left ear. It bled slowly, and was superficial, Mycroft could see that even with his current unsettled state of mind. Bodies were moving about him, he heard someone calling 999 in the distance.

"Just got some scratches from all the broken glass, Myc?" Greg looked back to him, calling him by the shortened name that had quickly become his pet name for the eldest Holmes.

Mycroft did not say a word, he could not. His face was stark white at this point, lips trembling with shock and eyes widened as the pieces began to fall together, and the reason for the pain was becoming more obvious. What was the most troubling sight though was when he slowly pulled his hand away from underneath his back and it was covered in blood, a lot of it.

"Fuck." He heard John curse moving towards him. Greg gasped, his own complexion paling at the sight.

"I can't…" Mycroft shuttered, blinking heavily. "Can't get up…" And suddenly as if the strings to a puppet that was Mycroft had been cut. His head fell backwards to hit the ground, but before it could he felt a masculine hand beneath it, and his upper body being moved gingerly to the lap of his lover. His vision was blurring with each passing second as he tried to focus on Greg's face, who he had noticed was beginning to cry.

"Don't… cry" Mycroft's voice lacked its' usual strength and candor, and it only caused Greg to shudder and attempt to stop the sobs that would soon over take him. He lifted his bloody hand up to stroke his lovers' cheek, leaving a smear as his fingers ran along the silver haired man's jawline. It was suppose to be an act of love and care and not be morbid, but it was all Mycroft could do at the moment to keep his strength.

"Mycroft!" John's face was now nose to nose with his own, or nearly. The doctor had been trying to get his attention during this entire process. The ambulance was taking far too long for John and Greg's liking.

"Stay awake." His voice too sounded like he was on the verge of tears. Mycroft nodded once, but in the same turn closed his eyes.

"No!" Both Greg and John cried at the same time, Mycroft opened his eyes on command, but only half way now. Both the others hovering over him could tell he was fading fast. Lucky for them though the ambulance and the police car sirens could be heard in the background approaching with intense speed.

"Imasorry…" Mycroft's voice was so soft and quiet that both men had to strain to hear the apology that was said in one breath before the eldest Holmes closed his eyes, and did not open them again.

John had two fingers to the tall man's throat in that instant to make sure he still had a pulse. He told Greg that it was faint, but still there when the rescue and police crews took over.