CHAPTER NINE

A/N Spoilers, etc. in Chapter One

THREE MONTHS LATER

Greg left the court on a real high. Seeing someone who had senselessly butchered a number of innocent people just because they could get sent down for life gave him a real feeling of achievement.

He straightened his tie before giving a prepared statement to the waiting press then returned to Scotland Yard.

Everyone on his team was in a hyper mood. It was really good when they got a result like that, it made all the grunt work, long hours and sleep deprivation worthwhile. Even now a marathon drinking session in the Frog and Whistle was being planned. The Superintendent had been impressed, sparing the team a rare word of praise.

"He's sickening for something," laughed Greg. Out the corner of his eye he could see DC Smith hovering, a thick file clutched in his hand.

"What is it, Smith?"

"Sorry, sir. I thought you might want to see this."

The file he placed on Greg's desk was labelled RICHARD BROOK/JAMES MORIARTY and Greg's heart sank. He didn't want to be told about another red herring or dead end. Not today.

"Well? "he asked impatiently.

"Well, sir. I found this…"

Ten minutes later the feeling of euphoria had returned.

"Got you, you bastard," exclaimed Greg. "Smithy, I could kiss you." The poor kid looked terrified. "I'm kidding, this is excellent work. Really excellent. Now here's what else I need you to do…"

It was very late when Greg parked his car outside Mycroft's house. The gravel crunched under his feet as he approached the front door, remembering to avert his eyes to avoid being blinded by the security lights.

He took out the key that Mycroft had given him some weeks previously. There had been no fuss or fanfare, he had merely pressed the key into Greg's hand one morning saying that Greg shouldn't have to make an appointment if he wanted to see him and Greg had been quite happy with that.

As their relationship had strengthened and intensified Greg found any time spent away from Mycroft to be irksome. He had fallen harder and deeper than ever before in his life, but he just went with the flow, reluctant to disturb the equilibrium.

He let himself in to the house, shedding the problems of the day along with his overcoat and gloves. He was much later than he had intended to be but he saw, to his delight, the soft glow of light coming from the living room. Mycroft was still up and Greg couldn't wait to tell him the news.

Mycroft was sitting at his desk, tapping away at his laptop. He looked up when Greg walked in, trying and failing to hide the pleasure in his expression. Greg walked over and kissed him.

"I wasn't expecting to see you at all tonight. I thought you would still be in the pub with the rest of them," said Mycroft "That was quite a result, Gregory. I must admit, you looked incredibly handsome on TV. I don't think there was a reporter in that crowd that didn't want you."

Greg chuckled as he helped himself to Mycroft's whisky.

"You're prejudiced though," he smiled.

"Certainly not. I know exactly what they're missing and I feel sorry for them."

Greg sat down on the sofa with a groan.

"Mycroft, we've had a breakthrough in the Richard Brook case."

"Oh," Mycroft's expression was guarder." What kind of breakthrough?"

"If it plays out, Sherlock's name will be cleared. He'll be utterly vindicated."

Greg frowned. Mycroft's expression had set. "I thought you'd be pleased?"

"I am, I truly am. It's just…after all this time…I…" His eyes were suspiciously bright. "This will mean so much to me. To our parents. It's over whelming."

Greg made no comment about Mr and Mrs Holmes. What kind of parents didn't attend their own child's funeral? Greg suspected them of being utterly heartless, unable to come to terms with the shame, but he had kept that thought to himself. The whole family was weird. One son solved crimes instead of succumbing to heroin while the other basically ran the country but had never been kissed. Greg thought Mycroft's parents had a lot to answer for.

Greg got to his feet and hugged Mycroft tightly, feeling his lover's arms close around him as Mycroft buried his face in Greg's neck. Greg felt dampness there and was shocked. Only in their most intimate moments did Mycroft show any unguarded emotions. He had never seen Mycroft shed a tear, yet he was crying silently now.

"It's okay, "he ventured. Mycroft sniffed in response.

"I am being utterly ridiculous. Too much work, not enough sleep, I suppose."

"Then let's go to bed," said Greg firmly.

Upstairs Greg felt the mattress dip as Mycroft got in beside him. Greg's arms went around him automatically and he heard Mycroft's sigh of contentment. They fell asleep holding hands.

Greg was awoken the next morning by a very different Mycroft, one with stormy eyes and busy hands, one who was utterly in control. He wasn't like this very often and Greg knew from experience that the only thing to do was to lie back and, literally, enjoy the ride. It was incredibly intense and Greg was most vocal in his appreciation, devoutly thankful that Mycroft didn't have any neighbours to hear quite how loud they were.

Later that morning at breakfast Mycroft looked at Greg over the newspaper as Greg buttered his fourth slice of toast.

"It's your day off. What have you got planned? Apart from eating me out of house and home?"

"Well, I need all the energy I can get to keep up with you," teased Greg, grinning as Mycroft went absolutely scarlet. "Speaking of which, you really need to cut your bloody fingernails." Mycroft wasn't sure where to look.

Greg took a long swig of coffee. "I'm going to the cemetery. Today's my Mum's birthday and I really should go. It's been too long since I did. I thought I might pay Sherlock a visit as well. It's been a while."

"May I come with you?" asked Mycroft.

"Yeah, of course." Greg was surprised and more than a little touched. "But first I need to go to the florist. It's on the way."

It was a beautiful spring day, white fluffy clouds scudded across the azure sky as the two men walked through the cemetery gates.

"This way," said Greg, heading for one of the older sections.

Mycroft was intrigued. It was a small stone at the head of the joint grave. Greg's parents had died within a year of each other, he noted. Mycroft couldn't imagine how much pain that must have caused. He handed Greg one of the bouquets that they had bought.

"I'll leave you for a moment," murmured Mycroft and walked back to the path leaving Greg alone. Greg placed the flowers in the urn designed for that purpose, noting that the grass around the stone needed trimming and the stone itself could do with a good clean. He had been neglectful, he knew. Straightening up, he put his hands in his pockets.

"Happy birthday, Mum," he said. He never felt strange talking out loud to his parents. "I know it's been a while, but you might have known I wouldn't miss your special day and I know how much you love carnations. Dad, you'd better be looking after her, wherever you both are." He stood with his head bowed in silent contemplation for a while then said, "One more thing, before I go. That man there," he gestured towards Mycroft who was far enough away for him not to hear. "He IS the British Government. And I'm in love with him, God help me. I dunno, but I think you'd approve."

He placed his hands on his parents' headstone briefly then walked back to Mycroft who squeezed his hand in silent sympathy.

It was a much further walk to Sherlock's grave and Mycroft surprised Greg by remarking,

"You never talk about your parents. I mean, I knew they were both dead but that's all."

"See if you can deduce them then," smiled Greg. "You know me better than anyone alive."

"Is that really necessary?"

"It passes the time. Go on."

They took a few more steps before Mycroft said.

"I think you were a late baby, I know you don't have siblings and your parents were fairly old when they died. You were very close to both of them but you had no desire to follow in their footsteps. They were educated people, I would surmise that one was an artist of some description and one had a real love for English literature."

Greg laughed, a very unusual sound in a graveyard.

"Brilliant. Spot on. One was an English teacher and one was an Art teacher. But which one?"

"Mother Art, Father English?"

"Other way around. And you were doing so well, "he grinned as Mycroft glared at him. "I got my drawing skills from my Dad and my passion for Shakespeare from my Mum. And a proper sense of justice from both of them. Not bad work, Mr Holmes." Greg smiled broadly but it quickly disappeared when they reached their destination.

This time both men approached the black marble headstone. Greg knelt down and gathered up all the dead flowers that had accumulated there, laying them to one side and wiping his hands on his jeans as he stood up.

"John's been here," he said quietly.

"How do you know?"

"Single red rose with bright yellow wool tied round it. He comes every week, or at least he did. I dunno what Huw would make of that."

"They're still together?"

"Yes, they seem very happy, or they did the last Friday I saw them in the Black Dog. And John's really enjoying his work. And yet…"

"And yet, there is still a red rose here more often than not. He really loved him, didn't he?"

"Yeah, and part of him still does."

"I never really appreciated what that meant. Not until I met you," said Mycroft tenderly. "Now I do. The poor man."

Greg swallowed his astonishment and knelt again to place the flowers they had brought.

"There you go," he muttered, giving the headstone an awkward pat. "I know. Sentiment. Waste of money. Big newsflash, Sherlock. I don't give a shit. But you knew that anyway. Miss, you, mate."

Greg withdrew out of earshot sensing Mycroft might feel a bit embarrassed but that wasn't what was making Mycroft Holmes feel like he was dying inside. It had started last night and he knew it was only going to get worse. And the fault was all his.

He knelt, resting his forehead against the cold black marble and whispered.

"Have patience, little brother. It won't be long now, I promise."

TBC