CHAPTER ELEVEN
A/N: Spoilers and whatnot in Chapter One.
Greg was fast asleep when an unusual noise woke him. You didn't survive long as a copper if you didn't take notice of things like that, like a wrong note in a symphony.
He got out of bed and pulled on his trousers and a jumper. He crept barefoot along the landing, grasping a sword from the suit of armour that stood at the top of the stairs. He had laughed when he had first seen it. He wasn't laughing now. He heard another noise and walked silently down the stairs. Whoever it was, they had picked the wrong house to burgle.
The door burst open and Greg hefted the sword. He thought he was seeing things, he must be still dreaming, surely. Mycroft was there supporting another man dressed in tattered clothes. Mycroft looked exhausted and unkempt. As for the other man…
The sword clattered to the floor as Mycroft croaked.
"Help me, Gregory. Please."
It was Sherlock. Greg couldn't believe it. He rushed over and took his weight, horrified at how thin he was, how bedraggled and how he seemed to be burning up.
"Graham, it's wonderful to see you."
"It's Greg, you pillock." But he grinned as Sherlock hugged him and felt the other man's smile against his neck. Greg helped him onto the sofa where Sherlock stretched out his long legs. He seemed to be having trouble breathing, every exhalation was glassy.
"He needs to go to hospital," said Greg worriedly.
"There's a doctor on the way, don't worry." Mycroft looked from Greg to his brother, his expression unreadable.
"He's alive. Fucking hell, I need to sit down." Greg slumped into a nearby chair.
"You've got some explaining to do," he said to Mycroft.
He felt numb. People just didn't come back from the dead like that. There was a suspicion growing in the back of his not-quite-awake-yet mind and the fact that Mycroft refused to make eye contact made it grow even faster.
The doorbell rang, and Mycroft went to answer it, returning with an older woman in a severely cut black suit carrying a medical bag. She looked at Greg and asked if he would leave, for the sake of Sherlock's dignity.
He walked slowly back up the stairs, splashed his face with cold water and put on his socks and shoes. His suspicion had turned to sick certainty and he wasn't sure he ever wanted to go back downstairs again. After what seemed like an Ice Age, he heard Mycroft's voice calling his name.
In the living room, Sherlock looked a little better and the doctor had disappeared. He also appeared to be asleep and that suited Greg just fine.
"Is he going to be okay?" asked Greg.
Mycroft stood there, his hands clenching and unclenching.
"Eventually, yes. He's been tortured and severely beaten. Some of his wounds have become infected but antibiotics will clear that up. He needs food and rest now, that's all."
"All this time. All this time he's been alive and you knew. You fucking knew, didn't you. Didn't you?" Greg was furious.
"Yes, I knew. I couldn't tell anyone, Gregory. I'm sorry."
"Everyone who loved him. We were kept in the dark and fed a load of bullshit! Left to grieve for him. And what the fuck for? No, don't tell me any more of your bollocks. Just don't."
Mycroft couldn't move. Greg's face was contorted with fury, there was no loving kindness now in his soft, brown eyes. Mycroft was looking at the face of the man he hoped he would never see. This was the face of Detective Inspector Lestrade, the one the felons saw, the one he wore when he wasn't taking any more of their shit.
"Secrets and lies," snarled Greg. "Why did I ever think it would be different with you? What else have you lied to me about, eh?"
"Nothing, Gregory, I assure you…I couldn't tell you about Sherlock," said Mycroft, desperately trying to get through to him. "It was too much of a risk."
"Brilliant! Now I'm a fucking security threat! Did you not tell me so I wouldn't have to worry my pretty little head about it?" Greg's lip curled in contempt. Mycroft didn't answer. This was so much worse that he had expected.
"Did you ever love me? Or was I just something to do to pass the time? "asked Greg, refusing to look at Mycroft.
"I do love you," said Mycroft, solemnly, eyeing the angry colour that had stained Greg's face. He hadn't imagined such fury, but then he had never been good with other people and their emotions.
There was a long period of silence, punctured only by Greg's heavy breathing. He sounded like he had just run a marathon. Then he drew himself up to his full height.
"Fuck it, "he said. He was inches away from Mycroft now and Mycroft was actually frightened.
"We're done," said Greg.
With a last contemptuous gesture, he took out his key and dropped in on the floor at Mycroft's feet.
The front door slammed and Mycroft heard the screech of tyres on gravel as Greg drove away.
Mycroft dropped to his knees as the pain hit, covering his face with his hands. He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and clutched at it, his only anchor to sanity, or so it felt.
"I'm sorry, brother," murmured Sherlock. Mycroft was incapable of replying.
Greg got as far as Vauxhall and had to pull over. He literally couldn't see any more. He switched off the engine, put his head on the steering wheel and wept.
TBC.