CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A/N Spoilers and whatnot in Chapter One.

Mycroft awoke in a semi-darkened room attached to a piece of equipment that wouldn't have looked out of place on the Space Station. His mouth felt like he had been licking carpet all night and his head ached, yet everything was bathed in a rosy glow. Someone just outside of his view cleared their throat. Hope flared treacherously in Mycroft's chest, but it was his little brother who actually spoke.

"So, not dead after all, brother dear?"

"Sherlock," he croaked. "What happened?"

"I got a phone call to say you were on your deathbed. Thought I'd come and make absolutely sure, but you can never trust the government to do what it says. You disproved your own mythology. You do have a heart and, apparently, it's broken.

"Oh, lord," cringed Mycroft. "How embarrassing." For some reason, that made him grin like an idiot.

"For both of us. I don't want a big brother who's a walking cliché. It's quite pathetic, really. What happened to 'Don't getting involved, emotions are dangerous, we should avoid them'. Or was that only valid until Lestrade batted his eyelashes at you?"

"I fell in love, "said Mycroft, adjusting the bed so he could sit up and glare at his mouthy sibling. "It was the best thing that had ever happened to me and we were incredibly good together. But he couldn't see past the lie. He thought everything we had done and said to each other was just one huge fallacy.'

Sherlock frowned. That did not sit at all with the Lestrade he thought he knew.

"He's damaged, Sherlock," sighed Mycroft, as always correctly interpreting his brother's expression. "Just like the rest of us. All his wife did to him was lie and lie and lie."

"Oh, I see."

"So, there's nothing more to be done. If he could have found it in himself to forgive me for lying about your death, I probably wouldn't be stuck in this infernal bed half-stoned on morphine. All that matters now is me getting out of here and getting back to work."

"Don't be ridiculous, there has to be something…"

"Spare me your sentiment, brother mine. This is just further proof that emotions, love and desire are dangerous. Look after your John, and never, ever lie to him. Not about anything important. Promise me!"

"Of course. But surely someone can talk Gavin round?"

Mycroft looked sadly at his brother, an unnoticed tear trickling slowly down one drawn cheek.

"I wanted Gregory to be your brother-in-law, Sherlock. If things had gone the way I hoped, he already would be. At least get his fucking name right!"

Sherlock looked like he'd just been slapped, but he quickly rallied.

"I'll leave you to get some rest," he said, standing up. "Let me know when they're letting you out."

Mycroft merely grunted and closed his eyes, surrendering to the siren call of exhaustion and narcotics. Sherlock closed the door quietly and left the hospital, his mind awhirl.

The taxi pulled up outside number 42 and John Watson got out. He hoped he'd find Greg at home, he had drawn a blank at Greg's local and the Star of Bengal but he could hear music and the lights were on in what he knew to be the living room, so he walked up and knocked hard at the front door.

The Greg who answered it looked like he'd just rolled out of a skip. His clothes were crumpled, he hadn't shaved in a few days which had given his face a covering of silver-grey stubble and he sank of stale beer.

"Oh, it's you," said Greg flatly. "Come in, then."

John followed him into the living room where Madam Butterfly was playing on the stereo and, judging by the absence of other CD cases, probably had been for a while. Great, thought John. An opera about doomed love and betrayal. On repeat, no less. John wondered if he was really up to staging a one-man intervention.

"Fancy a beer?"

"Love one, thanks."

Greg shambled off to the kitchen and returned with two full bottles, one of which he handed to John.

"Cheers," said Greg. "So, to what do I owe the honour?"

John squirmed in his seat, taking a swig of beer to bolster his courage. He didn't like the look in Greg's eyes one bit, it looked like hatred.

"Someone asked me to come and talk to you. And, judging by the state of you and this place, it's not a moment too soon." His gesture took in the thick layer of dust on the furniture and the, frankly, ripe smell coming from the kitchen, like a dustbin in urgent need of emptying.

"Tell your boyfriend to mind his own fucking business!" snarled Greg. "Or better yet, let him tell me himself. I've got the urge to punch someone."

John tried, and failed to keep a rein on his temper.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Greg! This isn't about Sherlock! This is about you being too bloody stubborn for your own good. This is about you adding two and two and getting twenty-five."

"Start making sense, or get out," growled Greg.

"First off, I know about you and Mycroft. Nice job of keeping that one secret, by the way. I know you didn't want anything to do with him after Sherlock came back, but you never gave him a chance to explain."

"Explain what? He lied to me! He promised he never would and he did. Everything we had was a lie. Everything."

"You know that's not true. If it were, he wouldn't be in a hospital bed right now with Broken Heart Syndrome."

Greg went very pale, his jaw dropping open.

"No," said John as Greg moved to speak. "You're going to hear every word I have to say without interruption. When I'm done, well, that's up to you. You're my friend, Greg. I can't bear to see you hurting like this, especially after everything you did for me. I was ready to follow Sherlock, you know. I would have had no hesitation in sticking my gun in my mouth and pulling the trigger. You're the reason I didn't. You gave me hope. Now it's my turn."

John had Greg's undivided attention now. Mercifully the CD had stopped playing and the only sound in the room was John's voice.

"Mycroft and Sherlock, they were playing a long game. Once they knew about Moriarty, they knew he had to be stopped. They planned everything down to the last detail. Mycroft fed Moriarty a load of bullshit about Sherlock with just enough truth for it to be palatable. Sherlock even planned to fake his own death, but something made him actually go through with it. Moriarty couldn't get to Mycroft, he's far too well protected. But you and I and Mrs Hudson, well, that was a different story. The day Sherlock jumped from the roof of Bart's, there was an assassin in your office, one in Baker Street pretending to do some repairs and a sniper aiming at my head. If he hadn't jumped, we would all be dead. Only Moriarty had the ability to call them off and he left most of his brains on the hospital roof. Other people would have had to bury us, Greg, and Sherlock wasn't going to let that happen, not to the three people he cared about most in the world.

He was then free to dismantle Moriarty's criminal network. The world's finest detective was dead, you see, they never expected the lie. That's how he managed to bring it all down in such a short time. Then Sherlock's luck ran out. He was captured and tortured. You should see the scars on him…Anyway, Mycroft got him out and brought him back. You and your team had already proved that Moriarty was real, there was nothing to stop Sherlock coming back from the dead.

There should have been a happy ending all round but you couldn't, or wouldn't let anyone explain all of this to you. You were far too indignant, too hurt to listen to anyone. Until now. So, what are you going to do?"

"He still lied to me," said Greg in a dead voice.

"Christ, Greg. He lied to me too. I've forgiven him, why can't you?"

"I can now. But will he forgive me?"

John shrugged. "Take some time, then go and find out. He should be discharged from hospital either tomorrow or the day after. If you love each other, and I don't doubt that you do, you can work something out."

Greg sighed, his head in his hands.

"I'm going home now," said John. "Thanks for the beer. You know what you have to do."

Anthea was just about to switch off her laptop and go home when she received an alert. She picked up her internal telephone and dialled the extension.

"Hi, Anthea, it's Mike here. I know your boss is due back soon, but there's something I need you to look at."

"Can't it wait?"

"Don't think so," said the voice on the end of the phone.

"I'll be there in a minute," she said.

The control room of MI6 was vast. Mike waved cheerily at her as she wove her way towards him. She peered at the monitor he was pointing at.

"You asked for Scotland Yard surveillance to be activated again. Well, this turned up."

Anthea realised she was looking at a screenshot. Inwardly she rejoiced but kept a poker face.

"Send a copy of this to me, I'll see that Mr Holmes gets it as soon as possible. Oh, and Mike?"

"Yeah?"

"You never saw this, this never happened."

"Gotcha."

Back at her desk, she opened the attachment and saved it to her hard drive. She only hoped it would be enough. She was looking at a very familiar pair of hands holding up a large sheet of paper on which was printed.

MYCROFT – I'M SORRY

I LOVE YOU

FORGIVE ME.

"About time," she muttered.

TBC