Mrs. Hudson had been the first one to meet John Watson. One day Sherlock turned up at her door, wearing a cheap black jacket, claiming to be Sherlock's Holmes' new flatmate. Mrs. Hudson had managed to play along, bless her, but Mycroft couldn't forget the frantic call she gave him that day. Then Greg got to meet John, then it was Mycroft's turn. Ella had warned him to take it easy, to try to get through to Sherlock in a non-confrontational manner, so Mycroft had done his best.

What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?

You've met him. How many "friends" do you imagine he has?

You don't seem the kind to make friends easily.

I worry about him. Constantly.

And still nothing had worked. When the diagnosis came - dissociative identity disorder - everyone told Mycroft to have Sherlock committed, but he always refused. He figured, between him, Greg, Mrs. Hudson and Molly, they could manage to monitor Sherlock well enough. He couldn't bring himself to have Sherlock taken away, like he had had Eurus taken away.

And he certainly couldn't bear to imagine Sherlock ending his life alone in a cell, like their sister did.

So Mycroft left him under the watchful eye of Mrs. Hudson and hired Molly to be his nurse. Not that Sherlock would have allowed a real nurse, a person he didn't know, to approach him.

For a while, Sherlock and John cohabited nicely. It was easy to tell them apart, as John would favour his left arm and wear hideous jumpers. Both personalities seemed to be somewhat aware of each other, but they managed. Sherlock had concocted a whole past for John, a personality. He turned out to be a good mediator, and at last Mycroft thought he had found a way to get through to his brother.

But then one day, after reading about the Carl Powers cold case, Sherlock changed again.

One day, Mycroft walked in to find Sherlock wearing a suit and carving letters into apples. One day, Sherlock had acquired a whole new identity, seemingly overnight. His name was James Moriarty, he spoke with an Irish accent, and he quickly grew to become Mycroft's worst nightmare.

A quick search on James Moriarty had told Mycroft all he needed to know about the man. Born in a rich family, he was the second of three brothers. All his life he always seemed to remain a solitary man, with no real relationship with his family and no friend to speak of. It wasn't hard to understand why Sherlock would somehow relate to him.

Moriarty then grew up to be an acclaimed mathematician, a brain that could match London's very own consulting detective's. Mycroft couldn't tell if Sherlock admired him or despised him because of it. But in the end, Moriarty's brain was his own downfall. Another parallel between the two men.

In October 2008, James Moriarty was diagnosed with Huntington's disease, which he had inherited from his father. The decaying of his bodily functions was terrifying enough as it is, but it is the loss of his mental capacities that the young man couldn't bear. During the weeks following his diagnosis Moriarty met a plethora of doctors, desperate for a glimmer of hope that would never come. On Christmas night 2008, James Moriarty went up to the roof of his apartment building, drank a whole bottle of whisky and shot himself in the mouth. He was only thirty-two.

He seemed to be Sherlock's favoured suspect in the Carl Powers case. After all, Moriarty had been a sad little boy who bullied by Powers and his goons for being too smart. But there was no evidence of it and, even though Mycroft had his team do extensive research, nothing remotely subversive could be found in Moriarty's past. Sherlock had simply decided James Moriarty had to be evil, and his new personality acted accordingly.

Ella didn't seem surprised when Mycroft told her about Moriarty. She explained that Sherlock needed John to be his good side, kind, amiable, considerate, empathetic. It followed logically that this personality would someday be balanced with another one. Moriarty was cold, cruel and vicious. And in the middle was Sherlock, constantly torn between the two of them.

Every fairytale needs a good, old-fashioned villain.

At that point, Mycroft thought he had reached his limits. He thought he couldn't go on like this, no matter how much he loved his brother. He even came very close to having him committed one day, but a tearful phone call from his parents had dissuaded him.

"Not him too, Myc," his mother had pleaded, "Please... We've already lost your sister."

And Mycroft had yielded.

Against all odds, he managed to get used to the three personalities inhabiting his brother's body. He even learned to recognize them at a glance. The fact that John preferred jumpers and cardigans while Moriarty only ever wore suits made it easier, of course, but after a while just the look in their eyes gave them away. Each of them had their own voices as well : Sherlock's low baritone, John's soft intonations and Moriarty's high pitch and Irish accent.

So Mycroft learned to handle Sherlock's moods, to open up to John and to swipe Moriarty's occasional crimes under the rug.

It might have been funny if it hadn't been killing him inside.

And then one day, in 2012, a breakthrough : Moriarty was gone. No one could really explain it, but he had just disappeared. John barely ever showed up for a while after that, and Mycroft had started hoping against hope. Maybe, he thought, just maybe, things were ready to get back to normal.

And then the worst that could have happened, happened.

No matter what Greg said, Mycroft still blamed himself for leaving the file on their coffee table. Of course, he couldn't have known that Sherlock would break in in the middle of the night and find it, but he still thought he should have known better.

"Mycroft, she was your sister too," Greg had told him, "And it's perfectly normal that you'd want to look at the file, especially last night."

Last night. The anniversary of Eurus' death.

Given Sherlock's condition,Mycroft never wanted him to know about her. How she had killed Sherlock's best friend when he was only a child. How she had to be committed. How she was found one day hanging from the ceiling, her bedsheets around her neck and her bare feet grazing the floor. She had just turned sixteen.

Mycroft and Greg had woken up to find a stricken Sherlock sitting on the floor, the contents of the file strewn around him. They hadn't been able to get a word out of him, so in the end they had brought him home and called Molly, who sedated him and put him to bed.

The next morning, Mycroft found his brother sitting cross-legged on the floor of 221b's living room, grinning up at him.

"Hello, Mycroft," had said a voice that had never crossed Sherlock's lips before.

Mycroft had frozen, opting for the cautious route.

"Hello. Can you tell me who you are?"

The voice had laughed, a chilling sound that reminded Mycroft of a little girl.

"I that am lost, oh who will find me? Deep down below..."

Mycroft's thoughts had started racing, his every brain cell set on cracking this new code, while his heart begged them not to go any further.

"The old beech tree? Help succour me now"

He had never wanted to run out of a room so bad in his life.

"The East wind blow..."

At those words, everything just stopped.

Mycroft's brain filled with static as another voice, from long ago, had come running from his memory, talking about the East Wind and the unworthy. Sulking about Sherlock's friend. Muttering something about making him disappear.

"Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go..."

Mycroft had found his legs no longer wanted to carry him, and he had half-sat, half-collapsed onto the floor.

"Eurus."

Not a question. He already knew.

Just as he thought his life couldn't get more nightmarish, Eurus had to surface from the deep, twisted recesses of his brother's mind and with her came the guilt, shame and grief Mycroft always associated with her.

Eurus didn't stay in the picture for long, but she had caused the most damage. The memories she brought back to the surface, the things she said, the things she did... Mycroft had very nearly gone insane then, very nearly gave up on his brother, on himself, on everything.

But Greg had been there. Greg had helped him get back on his feet and pull himself together. It was such a strange concept for Mycroft, to rely so completely on someone who he wasn't paying or related to. But Greg made his burden that much easier to carry.

Mycroft hadn't even told Sherlock about their relationship. Or their wedding. Funny enough, John was the one who seemed to pick up on that. Moriarty probably didn't care.

And now, it seemed, after four years, Moriarty was back. It was as if the whole Eurus debacle had just been a preparation for his return. Except now, Mycroft had lost John's trust and Sherlock had retreated back into himself. It was back to square one.

"Mycroft?"

The British Government - as John sometimes mockingly called him - raised his head.

"Yes, Gregory?"

His husband made a face.

"We had a deal. I use your full name only if you don't use mine. Myc."

Mycroft smiled. "My apologies. You were saying?"

"I just wanted to see if you were ready to go see your brother."

"Am I ever?"

Greg swayed his head from side to side, pondering the question, and Mycroft was reminded of Moriarty's mannerism.

"Let's call that a rhetorical question. Here," he added, tossing Mycroft his coat, leaving him no choice. Trust him to give Mycroft the proverbial kick in the butt he needed.

Greg was considerate enough to wait until they were in the car and on their way to ask the question that had been haunting them both.

"Mycroft, do you... Do you reckon we're doing the right thing? Letting him live in that flat, I mean."

Mycroft shrugged, a tired gesture from a defeated man.

"I've no idea. I don't even know if there's a 'right' thing to do."

"But... You do realise that, if worse comes to worst, we might have to commit him someday?"

We. Such a simple word shouldn't have brought Mycroft much comfort, but it meant the world to him.

"I do, yes. I just..." he rubbed his eyes, the act of putting words on his thoughts almost too much for him. "Just not now, okay? I just want to keep him in 221b for a little while longer."

Greg stopped at the red light, shaking his head sadly. "You want to pretend a little longer."

Mycroft could have argued against the notion, but they both knew the truth. As the car started up again, Mycroft couldn't help but worry. If he thought he couldn't take much more of this, how did Greg feel? Was it really fair to ask him to go along with this crazy, and ultimately pointless lie?

Would Greg someday decide that he'd had enough?

A hand reached over to offer his a brief squeeze before returning to the steering wheel.

"Well, I guess we'll have to pretend together then."

Mycroft's heart ached. He didn't like a lot of people. But by God, Mary and Saint George, he loved this man.

"Thank you."

The words had come out so quietly that he wasn't sure Greg had heard. But then his husband's lips curled into a mischievous smile as he pulled up in Baker Street.

"I bet sometimes you wonder how you ever ended up with such an amazing bloke."

And, for the first time in a long time, Mycroft Holmes laughed. He reached out to run the back of his hand against Greg's cheek.

"Constantly."

The End