John had been dreading the idea of grabbing a drink with Greg all week. He had nearly cancelled after Greg postponed their meet up from 6 pm to 10, but John didn't want to be the one to call things off. He wasn't upset at the Yard, not anymore, anyway. It would be hard to settle back into old habits though.

They met at a pub near NSY. It was a quiet and clean place, not at all like the Triangle. John got there first and sat down at the counter, hooked his cane over his knee, ordered a rum and coke, and downed it as fast as he could. By the time Greg arrived five minutes later, he had ordered a pint for each of them and felt a bit more relaxed from his first drink. "John, sorry I had to push back a few. Big case, you know?" he said, sliding onto the stool next to him. "How have you been?"

"Good. Yes. Quite well, actually. I've got a job at Princess Grace," John replied with a small smile.

"That's great, mate!" Greg said, clapping him on the back.

"It's good. Steady, anyway. God knows it's nice to know where you're headed every day," John shrugged it off and took a pull of his drink.

"How's your sister been?"

"It's hard to say. I don't hear from her often, but if there was real trouble she'd call. How've you been?"

"Good, good. Same old, same old." He took a long draught. "Donovan left. Transferred somewhere up north." John looked up at that, surprised.

"Left?" Part of John hoped that it had been because of her guilt at how appallingly she had treated Sherlock, but he knew how unlikely that was.

"Her and Anderson split, I guess. Had this big falling out." John nodded. That sounded more plausible.

"I can't say I feel too bad about that."

"She was good, most of the time. Did her job well. Anderson is still around."

"How are things with Jennifer?" John asked, changing the subject.

"Divorcing. Papers went through two months ago." Greg took a large gulp of his drink.

"I'm sorry," John spluttered, choking a bit on his beer. He wasn't sure what he had expected Lestrade to say, but that wasn't it.

"Yeah, me too, but it wasn't ever going to work out. It was all a matter of who would pull the trigger first." John shook his head in sympathy- Greg had spent a long time trying to make things work.

"Kids doing alright?" John asked. Greg had two little kids, Amanda and Joe, who were both in primary school.

"They're staying with her. The Yard's been running me ragged. I haven't seen them as much as I'd like, but you know…" Greg shrugged and took a deep pull of his pint.

"Jesus, I'm sorry Greg."

"No, no. It's fine. I think I've met someone, anyway."

"Really?"

"Yeah…I didn't want to…you know…while I was married, but I can't get her out of my head. I think it might have been my push to sit down with Jenny. You know, admit that it was over." He sighed.

"It'll end fine, Greg," John said reassuringly.

Greg nodded. "What about you?"

"No…I made a pass at a girl I know, but it didn't go over well."

"They can't all end in your favour."

"No, I guess not." They sat together in silence, sipping their drinks. It wasn't awkward like John had thought it would be, just the two of them. It was nice. Two friends, catching up. After a few minutes, Greg looked straight ahead, over the bar, gazing away from John. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. John knew what was coming and looked away, bracing himself.

"I'm sorry, John."

"Greg…"

"No, let me get it out." Another deep breath. "I need to apologise for whatever part I had in this whole mess. I know it's been complete rubbish for you. I didn't know…I didn't think it would end like it did."

"You were just doing your job." John replied quietly. He had been thinking those words for months now, but it felt different saying them. It felt like a weight had been lifted from John's heart.

"It didn't make it better." John didn't respond, simply nodded slightly in acknowledgement. "Sometimes I start to call him, when I see a case that I think he'd like. I reach for the phone to text him to come, but then I remember that he won't answer." Greg swallowed and looked down into his drink.

"Don't." John was ready to forgive, but it was another thing entirely to share someone else's pain. He was barely living with his own, and he didn't want to admit how many times in those first few weeks after he'd texted Sherlock's number, knowing that there wouldn't be a reply, that no one would read the message. Greg nodded, seeming relieved.

"I've got to go. Work tomorrow." John said, looking down at his now empty glass. "Do you want to do this again sometime?"

"Sure. I'll text you." Greg smiled. "It was nice catching up."

"Yeah. It was. I'll see you later." John grabbed his cane and made for the door, catching a cab just as it pulled up to the kerb.

Mycroft looked up in surprise as his office phone began to ring. Precious few people got through without going through his secretary or his PA, and that was assuming they knew his number at all. He picked up the phone. "Holmes." No answer. "Hello?" he tried again. Still nothing. Irritated, he hung up and picked up his pen. As soon as he set the phone down, however, it rang again. He let it ring three times before answering. "Holmes." he repeated.

"Mycroft." The deep baritone on the other end nearly caused Mycroft to fall off his chair.

"Sherlock?" he asked incredulously, hand gripping the edge of his desk in an attempt to ground himself.

He could practically hear the eye-roll when Sherlock replied, "Who else would it be?"

"I identified your corpse!"

"Obviously you were not as thorough as you thought. You are surprisingly easy to fool." Sherlock's voice dropped its sarcastic tone and became serious and business-like.

"Why?" Mycroft managed to ask as he felt his heart start to beat again, trying to wrap his head around this.

"Moriarty."

"Why would you do that to John? Oh…I see. Brilliant."

"Isn't it."

"Why call now?"

"Resources. You have them, and I do not. I'm out of cash, and I don't know how much I can take without John noticing. I also need everything you have on a few individuals." Mycroft could hear movement, and he could almost see him pace, hand on hip.

"Money isn't a problem. Who do you need dossiers on?"

"Ivan Gregor, Edward Dunnigan, Thomas Parker, and Sebastian Moran."

"How would you like me to get it to you?"

"Preferably by a very discreet courier. I am currently staying at number 12 rue Saint-Charles in Nantes. Don't use that address after this time."

"Consider it done. You'll have them tomorrow morning." Mycroft was already making a note to have the files in question drawn up.

"How is he?" Sherlock's voice softened slightly, losing some of the sharp professional edge.

"Better. I called in a few favours to provide him steady employment, and he has a few friends he sees regularly. He's using the cane with increasing regularity, and attends therapy once a week. I know that you do not want to ask it of me, childishly, I might add, but yes. I will, and have been, keeping an eye on him."

Sherlock's breath hitched. "Thank you," he managed, voice strained.

Mycroft hesitated. "Sherlock... you should know that I played some part in your…death. I-"

"Apologise when I am no longer deceased," came the clipped reply. Before Mycroft could answer, the line went dead.

"Anthea!" he called. She came into his office, tapping away at her Blackberry without looking up. "I need the entirety of our information on Ivan Gregor, Edward Dunnigan, Thomas Parker, and Sebastian Moran. Check Interpol as well as with the Americans. I want it all." She stood to leave, still texting. "And Anthea?" She looked at him. "Upgrade Dr. Watson's security status. Level 4."

"Yes sir," she answered.

The minute the door closed behind her, Mycroft sagged. His heart was racing. He had managed to keep his cold aloofness on the phone, but now his pulse thrummed in staccato time. Sherlock wasn't six feet under. That opened a world of possibilities he didn't want to contemplate at this time. Sherlock was also probably actively committing homicide on a daily basis, a thought which made him shudder. He had the urge to call John, or to pick him up, and tell him that everything was going to be okay, but Mycroft knew that wasn't an option. It would have to wait until this was all over, one way or another.

Dear God, I hope it ends well, for all of our sakes, he thought, covering his face with his hands.

Sherlock had debated for hours over whether or not it was time to get Mycroft involved. On one hand, Mycroft had resources. And Mycroft owed him. It had taken him mere seconds to realize that the information Moriarty had used against him had come from none other than his brother. It couldn't have been John, because even if he'd known what Moriarty had, John was far too loyal to ever betray Sherlock. No, it had been Mycroft. He would give Sherlock what he asked now, because Mycroft was sentimental too.

On the other hand, bringing Mycroft into things meant that someone was watching him once again. It had been liberating, not having the (in this case, literal) big brother watching. Things had worked so smoothly thus far because he had been able to fly under the radar surprisingly well. Moriarty's web, although constructed to run even in his absence, was falling slowly. He had already identified eight of Moriarty's men who needed to be taken out one way or another to ensure that his friends were safe. Four down, only four to go. At this rate he could be home within a year of his death.

Despite this, what tipped the scales about going to Mycroft for help was Sherlock's concern for John. He needed to know. It was worse than he thought. John's reaction was beyond the scope of his deduction. For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, he was not sure of something. He hadn't anticipated the return of the cane. General grieving, yes, but the limp? He wished he could see John. Just for a moment.

He had made the call from inside a French café tucked away down a narrow street. Moriarty had a well-established cell outside of Paris, so it made sense for Sherlock to stay in France for the time being. He had found a nearly decrepit temporary flat with a landlord who didn't ask questions and accepted the rent in cash. Call made, he headed back to it to think about the next step in his plan. As he stepped out of the café into the blinding midday sunshine, he tossed his mobile into a bin and pulled an identical one out of his pocket. He had to make one more call.

John had barely finished paying the cabbie when his phone rang. "Doctor Watson," he answered. Now that he was working as a doctor again, he felt justified using the title.

"Thought I'd check in on my favourite doctor. You did say you preferred being phoned on your phone as opposed to abduction."

"What do you want, Mycroft?" He was still agitated at the very idea of Mycroft.

"As I said, checking in. You've barely touched your bank account."

"I've gotten a job, but you'd know that already wouldn't you?"

"Now, Doctor Watson, you overestimate the resources spent on you."

"But you did know." Mycroft didn't answer, but John could hear his smirk. "Did you want something in particular?"

"I was curious as to the nature of your plans for 221B. Were you going to take up residence there once again?"

"I hadn't planned on it, no. Not for…for a while anyway."

"How illogical. But I understand. I've taken the liberty of putting all of Sherlock's effects in a storage facility. I thought it would be easier for you."

"Er…thank you?"

"It was my pleasure." John had reached his room, only to find that all of his things were missing.

"Mycroft! Where the hell are my things!?"

"You'll find them in a delightful flat conveniently located next to the Camden tube station. I chose somewhere that would be convenient for you to commute."

"Somewhere easily spied on, you mean."

"John, come now. Sherlock had enemies who didn't just disappear."

John felt something akin to defeat. "If I do this, will you leave me the hell alone?"

"I thought about making it less obvious, but felt we could be transparent with each other when it comes to your surveillance status."

"I'll move. But then I don't want to hear from you again unless it's a bloody emergency."

"Of course. Now, the car is outside."

John sighed inwardly as the line went dead. Well, wherever he was going, it couldn't be worse than this place. And it would be new. A fresh start for them all.