"Freak's here. Now coming in." Donovan's bored tone crackled on the radio, and Lestrade nodded to himself, deciding not to answer. He stood by the door and crossed his arms, his eyes running over the large library before coming to rest on the body of a man sprawled on his back in the centre of the room. His throat had been cut, so cause of death was obvious. What wasn't so obvious was the fact that the room had been locked from the inside with all doors and windows shut.

He had been reluctant to call Sherlock, knowing that the consulting detective was going through a hard time right now. He'd seen first-hand how affected he'd been by his brother's death, and as much as he wanted to leave Sherlock to grieve, he really did need help. Maybe this was something Sherlock needed, anyhow. That and it would probably be a chance for John to have a break from making sure he was alright and not about to off himself at any time.

The man himself waltzed in a few moments later, his long coat billowing behind him. He ignored everyone in the room and breezed straight over to the dead man several feet away. John followed a couple of minutes after, looking tired but giving Greg a small smile. The DI raised his eyebrows in question but John just shook his head.

"John, come here." Sherlock commanded, and the doctor strode over to crouch next to his friend. From where he was stood Greg couldn't make out what they were saying but he decided not to worry too much; Sherlock would hopefully relay it to him in a moment and if not John would send him a text. He watched the two work next to each other; one of them gesturing to the body whilst the other would not in agreement or shake his head and then point at a different part of the man or somewhere in the library.

And from here, Sherlock didn't seem all that grief-stricken. It wasn't like Greg was expecting him to be constantly pulling out tissues and dabbing at his eyes, but what would have been more likely was some form of depression, like a cold silence or sullen answers. Instead, he was acting as he would at any other crime scene; with an air of arrogance and irritation at everyone else's stupidity. Yes, it was better than Greg had hoped, but the detective seemed to be behaving as if he hadn't lost his brother at all.

His answer entered ten minutes later with an umbrella swinging at his side and a brief case in his hand. By then Sherlock had finished examining the body and was rapidly telling Greg everything he needed to know, whilst the DI scribbled furiously on a notepad. John was still by the dead man, looking down at the bloke with regret. When he heard the new pair of footsteps enter, Greg glanced up and his jaw dropped when his gaze fell upon Mycroft.

He then proceeded to punch the smirking sod in the face.

"You son of a bitch." Greg growled down at Mycroft, who was on the floor and holding his jaw, watching the DI with an expression which seemed to say he knew this was going to happen. This only served to infuriate Greg more.

"I don't know if this faking deaths thing is a family trait or what, but you have no right whatsoever to prance onto my crime scene without warning. No right whatsoever."

"Inspector–" Mycroft began, but Greg shook his head, cutting him off.

"No, shut up you arrogant git. Do you have any idea what you did? To us? To Sherlock?"

"Lestrade." Sherlock barked sharply, ignoring the curious look from Donovan. Greg ignored the plea to stop talking and continued to glower at the government official.

"I swear to God if this was some kind of way to get back at your brother, then you are one hell of a selfish bas–"

"Greg." John appeared in front of him, his hands on the DI's arms and gently guiding him away from Mycroft, giving him a chance to get up. "It wasn't a joke or anything of the sort. It was completely necessary."

And then everything clicked into place. "You knew?" he asked. When John didn't answer, he laughed. "Of course you bloody did. Did Sherlock know?" Again, he was met by silence, and he shook his head. "No, he didn't."

He glanced back at Sherlock, who was watching the two with a wary eye, as if he was expecting Greg to attack John. Greg pursed his lips. Not today.

He lowered his voice so only John would hear, turning it into a growl. "Jesus Christ, John, you were in his shoes once, and then you go and decide it would be perfectly fine for you to help his brother do it just when everything's gotten more or less back to normal? That's completely unacceptable. God, I can't believe you two did this." he exclaimed in a louder voice, and John took a step back, utterly silent.

Greg turned to Sherlock. "When did you find out?" he asked, because it would have been especially cruel for his brother to show up for the first time at a crime scene of all places. He granted Mycroft that much.

"Two days ago." Sherlock answered.

Greg faced John and Mycroft, who was now stood next to the doctor. "So you two kept him in the dark for a week before telling the truth?"

"It had to be done, Greg." John said softly.

"No, it didn't. I'm sure there would have been another way, you just chose not to look for one. Can you honestly stand there and tell me you thought of every single possibility, regarding this bloody bomb?"

John clearly wanted to argue but he didn't say anything, which was probably the wisest thing to do. He knew Greg needed to vent and let what he was thinking out, and it was better to do it now in one go than over the space of, say a week and make every crime scene visit tense.

"That's what I thought." Greg said lowly. "Now get off my crime scene, you two, I don't want you here."

At this Sherlock protested. "You can't punish John for something he didn't particularly want to do Lestrade–"

"But he did do it Sherlock! That's my point. They both went behind your back and made you think Mycroft was dead, for God's sake."

Nobody said anything. Every officer that had previously been in the room had left at one point, even Donovan, who would have been dying to know the gossip but obviously knew it was the wrong time. It was just the four of them in the library, all looking solemn and unsure of where to go next.

The DI sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "I know I haven't heard all the facts." he said. "I know there is most likely a reasonable explanation. But I don't want to hear it right now, I'm too angry and I'll probably end up saying something I'll regret. So please, John, Mycroft, leave."

Mycroft exited without a word, though John lingered with the intent of saying something. But when Greg shot him a fiery look, he too left.

And Greg was not surprised to see Sherlock brush past him and out the door seconds later.


It had just gone eleven in the evening on the same day when Greg heard someone knock on his door. He looked up from his work on the desk and stood up to cross his office to answer it. He was the only officer left at Scotland Yard – having been determined to break this case quickly so he could focus on other matters – and the sound of the cleaners vacuuming in the corridors was the only sound. He wondered who could be wanting to see him at this hour.

One of the cleaners was stood outside, holding two case files. When Greg asked him what the matter was, the bloke offered the files.

"These were downstairs in the lobby." he answered gruffly. "Had your name on 'em so I brought 'em back. Didn't suppose you'd want 'em thrown in the trash."

Greg took the proffered files, and with a thank-you, shut the door and sank down at his desk, frowning down at the two items. Both had his name stamped on them, and warily, he opened the first one, setting it on the desk.

In a nutshell, it provided Greg with the culprit to this morning's murder. All the evidence was there, motive explained and the way the murder was carried out was also clarified. Everything made perfect sense, and all he needed to do was give the word and they'd have the suspect in jail within the hour.

But he was cautious to trust it. Actually, he trusted this informer more than others who had convinced themselves they'd known who committed the crime. Others added their names so that they'd be given some praise. Because that's what they really wanted; a few minutes on TV where they could boast and make Scotland Yard look bad. This case file, however, had no name – besides those involved in the murder – printed anywhere, as far as he could see. So yes, this informer appeared to be reluctant to put him or herself in the spotlight, but that didn't mean Greg should take this at face value.

Closing the file and pushing it aside, he lay down the next manila envelope and opened it.

He spent five minutes reading the information there before he calmly closed the file, walked to the bathroom and threw up.

When he returned to the office, someone was sitting in the chair in front of the desk, his back to the door. Greg jumped, but when he saw who it was he sat back down and gave Mycroft and long and hard look.

He gestured to the file. "This is everything that happened, then?" he asked.

"Yes." Mycroft answered.

"So John found the bomb plans with your name on them, told you, and he spent the night working out a way to keep you from getting blown to pieces."

"Precisely."

"And you spent the week away making sure Milverton had nobody left who could come after Sherlock." he said tiredly, putting his head in his hands. "But did you really have to be so graphic about the way your fake body was cut up and scattered so that when I later had to search the site I would definitely find pieces of you?" he asked, looking up.

"It was necessary." Mycroft answered.

"What happened?" Greg asked.

A faint frown formed as Mycroft nodded at the file. "It's all there."

"I don't want to hear it from pieces of paper, I want to hear it from one of the victims." Greg said. "Talk to me, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes sighed. "As you said, John discovered the plans for a bomb Milverton had drafted, along with the connection to me. After you and I dropped them both off at 221B the night they broke into the offices, and you returned to your home, I visited John again after he told me he needed to urgently speak with me.

"Once there, he told me what he'd found, and he explained how it was unlikely the bomb would have a wire or something similar that could prevent it from going off. Instead, he promised to revise the plans and he would message me when he found a way to keep us all alive.

"He eventually found a way to delay the explosion once the wire triggers about my legs were broken, and then I was able to get out of the building just as if exploded.

"I survived the explosion, as you now know, and I chose to wait for a week before revealing myself to Sherlock. I had to be sure that nobody was left and he was safe. John protested against it, of course; he argued that Sherlock was suffering too much for me to wait a week, but I could not afford that luxury. So John promised to look after my brother for the week, and I hear it did cost him when he held Sherlock back at the car park. Apparently Sherlock received John's way of keeping him alive without the thanks he deserved."

Greg sighed. "And I was a complete arse to him today." he said, feeling like the villain in this story.

Mycroft shrugged. "He said he understood where your anger was coming from."

"Yeah well he would say that, wouldn't he? Self-deprecating idiot." he muttered.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, each remembering the costly event, costly to all parties involved.

"Sorry about your jaw." Greg said, nodding at the bruise forming on Mycroft's face.

"It will heal in due time."

"...I'm still angry, you know."

"Understandable."

"Not so much at John now. Mainly you."

"I see."

"But I suppose there really was no other way to go about it, not in the limited time you had."

"No."

Greg sighed again. "How did Sherlock take it?" he asked after a while.

Mycroft considered. "As I thought he would. Silence at first, then anger, then reluctant acceptance." A soft smile graced his features.

"You really hurt him, you know. He went to pieces after your death."

"I know." The smile vanished.

"I mean, he didn't show it, but we could all see he was struggling to cope."

"As I've heard repeatedly from John."

"Sorry, that probably wasn't very helpful." Greg admitted.

Mycroft exhaled. "I know Sherlock didn't take things very well, but there really was nothing I could do."

The DI nodded his agreement, and his eyes fell to his desk. He frowned slightly. "You solved the murder?" he asked, gesturing to the other case file.

"Sherlock did, actually. I agreed to drop it off when I came by here."

"I'll pop by Baker Street during the week." Greg said, nodding to himself. "Buy John a well-deserved pint." he added with a guilty expression.

Mycroft got to his feet, buttoning his jacket. "I'm sure he'd appreciate it." he said.

Greg too rose and stuck out his hand. "Good to have you back, Mycroft."

The government official took his hand and they shook, Mycroft smiling slightly. "Good to be back, Inspector. Don't remain here too long. Night." And with that he left, the air of mystery seemingly leaving with him.