"Mycroft!" Lestrade yelled as soon as he saw him. "Mycroft, are you all right?"

No. Of course he was not all right. He has brought his younger brother into danger. Again.

But Lestrade seemed to get it. Because he stopped asking stupid questions. Because he sat on the grass next to him. Because he has thrown his arms protectively around Mycroft´s torso and started rubbing soothing circles on the pyjama-clad back.

Around them, people started to gather, some moving efficiently, seemingly knowing what they wanted to do, some just staring without understanding.

But Mycroft was safe for a while, safe from all that. He didn´t know how to tell Greg that, how to express how sorry he was. How do you express this horrible fear that you are lost despite every effort on your part? How to explain that you cared for so long that you forgot how it feels to be cared for and it scares you to no end?

But there was no time. There was no time for this emotional nonsense now. Think, Mycroft. Think.

"Safe." He tried again. When did he lose the ability to speak properly?

"Yes, My. You´re safe," whispered Greg.

No! Yes! Well, of course he was safe, but it was not what he had meant.

"The safe. There´s a giant safe drawn on the plans of Milvertons house. Availiable from the home office," breathed Anthea. "You think they´re there?"

Mycroft could only nod. He hoped they were there. He would have tried to get in there. But Sherlock wasn´t like him, as was proven each and every occasion Mycroft has tried to project his own thinking into his brother´s head. And he might not have had enough time. Or he just didn´t have to necessarily know.

But Anthea, and Mycroft´s driver, and the capable fellow, who stopped him from harm few moments before, were already taking hold of the situation, coordinating the fire fighters and everyone they deemed able to find the safe and open it.

Hope. Where did they get their hope from? Mycroft wondered.

But there was nothing he could do now, and the last reserve of logical reasoning finally overdrove the alcohol, and fear and all those stupid emotions, which were basically just stopping him from doing what was necessary.

"Shouldn´t you be helping those who need you?" he asked after a while, his gaze turning to the silver-haired policeman.

"I am," Lestrade announced and hugged a baffled Mycroft tighter.

"They are at 221B now, safe and sound. Well, apart from a few skratches." Lestrade helped himself to a glass of brandy. Mycroft´s one was filled, but he had little appetite for anything now. He was feeling a bit nauseous.

"You didn´t have to come back." He has sent Lestrade with his brother and John Watson to have them settled home. He suspected that they would get little sleep anyway - Mrs Hudson would try to drown John in tea and worry, and Sherlock was so wound up he would torture his violin for certainly a few hours - but he couldn´t deal with the guilt now.

Lestrade continued as if he hadn´t heard. "Sherlock said that I should tell you that all and every material Milverton might have gathered and which was outside of the safe was destroyed. He might have mentioned something very illegal about a hacker, but I wasn´t listening very intently," Greg grinned.

"And he also apologised profusely to John. That is a first. Well, probably a second, since I didn´t see them meet after he came back from hiatus, but still."

"John has been a very beneficial influence on my brother, yes."

"He also ordered me, and I quote, to ´tell that obnoxious fool that if this was anyone´s fault, it was certainly not his´. Assuming the ´obnoxious fool´means you, I agree that you should stop feeling personally responsible for all bad that ever happens to your brother."

Mycroft was silent for a while. How easy was life for the common people. They didn´t feel responsible, because they couldn´t see the connection between their actions and the big bad thing that happened in the news.

No, Mycroft. You are wrong. Lestrade is very intelligent, if this was really your fault, he would see that. And knowing you as he does, he wouldn´t have attempted to lie. Look at him - he is the figure of honesty. He really means what he says.

He is biased. He has feelings for you. But - why? Why would anyone care for Mycroft?

"Go to sleep, My. It will make things better," a gentle voice said.

"You think?!" Mycroft couldn´t restrain himself anymore. "Do you really know me that well, then? You have no idea, do you? What I did, what I dream at night about? Just exactly how wrong I am?!" He barely registered that he was standing now, Greg´s eyes wide in surprise - and was that fear?

"You think you can waltz into my life and just decide I am going to accept your help, just announce to everyone within hearing distance that Mycroft Holmes is a decent man, without knowing anything, just on the basis of a belief. A stupid, naive belief that everyone is at their core good, isn´t that true?

But let me tell you one thing, inspector - I have seen things you can´t ever dream of in your worst nightmare - and there was no good there, just darkness, just nothingness. And I am one of those things.

So if you want to help someone, if you want to care, if you really feel the need to waste your time on someone - leave now, before you develop feelings too strong."

He was gasping now, utterly drained. He shouldn´t have drank all that brandy. But he shouldn´t have allowed Greg into his life in the first place, and if this outburst helps the policeman realise that, than the result could be considered positive. No, not positive. Necessary.

But Greg smirked. His face contorted into something both sad and victorious. "I have really gotten under your skin, haven´t I? Oh no, Mycroft, I am not going to believe in anyone´s claims about themselves without evidence. And I have read all the letters you two stupid Holmes´wrote to each other, without asking permission, because I am a nosey policeman. And I have listened to you, what you said and what you didn´t say. And I know withoud a shadow of a doubt, that I am not afraid of your darkness, whatever it is, whatever you think it is."

Mycroft could barely breathe. His heart was painfully hammering in his ears. One part of him wanted to say something really awful, so that Greg would go, and the other wanted to kneel and cry.

And then the bomb dropped. Greg looked into his eyes and proclaimed, quietly but with pure certainty: "I love you."