Previous part of However Improbable, I Promise, This is the Truth.

***

Touch and Go.

It was Mycroft who was the first to John's side. He stood close to the distraught man, stroking his back and petting his hair and murmuring soothingly. "It's alright, John," he said. "You did your best, I'm sure of it. There was simply nothing more anyone could have done. Come, come, it's not your fault..."

Sherlock gazed at the pair, surprise warring with jealousy. It should be me comforting my fiance, he thought, sourly, although he was reminded sharply of a side to Mycroft he hadn't seen since his childhood. Mycroft had been able to make the night terrors go away, to comfort him and make him feel less scared of life and everything in it. It had been years since he had felt that, prompting another jealousy to rear its head. He wanted to be the one receiving comfort from his brother.

Now was not the time. Sherlock rejected his own selfishness and silently berated himself for it. He wasn't a child anymore, and John needed the comfort right now. John was the one who gave him comfort when he needed it, whenever he asked for it. Sherlock knew he now needed to return the favour, although God only knew how John would live with himself after this. Sherlock regretted not dissuading John from going through with his demand to be the surgeon in charge. All the signs were there that things had gone badly wrong.

"Come along, John," Mycroft was saying. "You'll be alright. I know you did your best, I don't blame you..." John's expression changed, and a look of realisation mingled with horror crossed his features. He hiccupped and pulled away, shaking his head. He waved a hand to stop Mycroft, holding a finger up to stem the verbal flow while he mastered himself with some difficulty.

"No, no," he said, his voice unsteady. "He isn't..." John swallowed and coughed and cleared his throat, desperate to communicate. "Damn it, Greg is alive. He's out of theatre...he's in the ICU..." John's voice gave out and he struggled to take a breath.

"John...?" Sherlock was nonplussed. Why the upset if Greg is alright? Had he, for once, mis-deduced the situation? What could possibly have...? Oh, of course, he thought, How did I miss that?

"I'm sorry. So sorry," John was saying. "Oh, God, what you both must have thought." Aided by Mycroft on one side and Sherlock on the other, John struggled to his feet. He accepted the pristine handkerchief Mycroft offered him and blew his nose. "It was the... the whole situation. I forgot how intense it can get, it was...I was—," he shuddered, a whole-body tremble, "—back there. Sorry, so sorry." Sherlock stepped close and rubbed his shoulder.

"It's fine, it's all fine, John," Sherlock reached out then and wrapped himself around the smaller form of his lover. "Just relax. You're not back there, you're not in Afghanistan any more, you're here, with us. You did well, John, very well." John allowed himself to relax into the warm embrace for a moment, drawing strength from his fiance. Then he firmed his jaw and squared his shoulders, hugging Sherlock back briefly before disengaging himself with a tired smile, attempting to pull himself together.

"Greg pulled through, but barely," he explained. "He's been taken to the postoperative ICU. He was stable when they took him down there but the next forty eight hours will be critical. He'll need constant monitoring until he wakes and he will be reassessed then. He's a fighter. He flatlined on us twice but we managed to bring him back so I have hope." John tensed, fighting his emotions again. He won, just. He felt Sherlock's fingers on his shoulder tighten gently in sympathy and John met his fiance's gaze with a grateful smile. "It was never going to be easy," he admitted, "but I've honestly seen and operated on a lot worse. The location of the injury made it difficult, but I had a good team in there. Chin up, Mycroft. He has a good chance."

"Honesty, John," Mycroft said seriously. "I would appreciate it if you didn't try to make it more palatable. Just tell me honestly. Will he be alright?"

John sighed. "I can't give you any assurances, Mycroft. He has a long way to go yet. Greg has to avoid infections from the blade, secondary infections like pneumonia, and he has to recover from the surgery. We've given him antitetanus and antibiotics, he's already immunized for Hep C, and we'll test his blood for pathogens, but every hour he's with us, the odds improve." The risk of HIV wasn't broached, nor were any of the other myriad infections that Greg might have been open to with such an attack. Survival seemed to preclude such worries.

"I'd like to see him."

"You can, but briefly. He'll be out of it until this evening at the earliest anyway, possibly tomorrow. I've asked them to page me the moment he wakes. Then you can expect him to be in the ICU until he's fit enough to be moved onto a ward."

"I want a private room for him," Mycroft said. "I'll pay..."

"You'll need to speak to patient liaison then. The nurses can arrange that. Greg might be transferred to a high dependency unit first though. That will depend on a number of factors; how long he takes to come round, how long he takes to come off the ventilator, what condition he's in when he does... But it's early stages yet. Let's take it a day at a time."

"Dr Watson?" Two men had emerged from the door behind John, both of them similarly dressed in scrubs. Bemused, John turned to greet them and cocked his head on one side quizzically. "Bennett, Director of Trauma Care," the older one said, reaching to grab John's hand. He started to pump it, clapping him on the shoulder. John winced but gritted his teeth; there was no way the man could know he had been shot in that one. "You know Anderson already, he was on your team." Sherlock barely suppressed a snort on hearing the unfortunate man's name. "We didn't get much time for introductions. I wasn't on the team but I had the privilege of watching from the gallery. We'd just like to say, thank you. That was...both educational and inspiring. You're ex-RAMC? You must have done some good work on the front line."

"I tried my best. We all did," John replied carefully, allowing Anderson to take his turn at shaking his hand. "It was an excellent team."

"Well, we were all very impressed," Bennett was saying. "Your involvement was a little unorthodox but I must say, you vindicated my decision to allow it. I admit I had a certain curiosity as to why Mr. Holmes was so insistent on your involvement, but having witnessed your actions in theatre, I can appreciate why." Sherlock detected nothing but sincerity in Bennett's tone. The man was pushing sixty, senior surgeon, respected in his field, unlikely to hand out platitudes.

"You did an amazing job," Anderson said sincerely. "It was a privilege to work with you, Doctor Watson. Honestly."

"Look, John. I may call you John?" Bennett asked and John nodded agreement as the man's manner changed to conspiratorial, comradely. "If you were ever to think about coming back to the fold, as it were, we'd be proud to have you here. I could put in a word, the right ear, you know? I'm sure you catch my drift."

"I'm flattered, Mr Bennett," John replied. "I don't think that will happen now though. This was a favour to a friend."

"A bloody good favour, if ever I saw one. I hope he's appreciative." Bennett smiled. "Well, remember what I said, John..." John nodded and they shook hands again. "I never make empty offers. Call me."

John watched him go, Anderson trotting along in his wake. "Wow," John said. "The Director of Trauma Surgery at Bart's just offered me a job? Did you have anything to do with that?" He accused Mycroft. To his credit, the man looked a little embarrassed but shook his head.

"Certainly not, John. Whatever accolades you have earned, you have done so without my help, apart from the obvious. I did get you onto the team in the first place but beyond that, it was down to you and you alone. Now, let us go and see Gregory. Please?"

0o0o0o0

Mycroft never pleads, John thought as he lead the way. He had it bad for Greg, that much was obvious. Greg was still deeply unconscious when they arrived and John allowed them a very brief visit to his bedside. "He'll be out for a while yet," he explained. "Don't be worried by all the equipment. Most of it is simply monitoring his bodily functions for us. The ventilator is breathing with him, not for him. It pumps air in and allows the patient's chest to deflate naturally. A damaged lung means reduced oxygen intake so we're playing safe." He proceeded to talk them through the function of each line and wire, pointing out the electrocardiogram measuring Greg's heart rate, the endotracheal tube down his throat connected to the respirator, the IV line delivering fluids to keep him hydrated. "He has a line into the artery in his arm monitoring blood pressure and oxygen levels. The chest tube is still in place to make sure any fluid is drawn off to relieve pressure on his damaged lung."

"His eyes are taped shut." It was an observation, although the question hung in the air unasked.

"He's unconscious, and eyes can slide open involuntarily. If that happens, there's a danger that his eyes could dry out. The nurses put drops in to keep the eyes moist, then they tape them shut to gently help the lids to stay closed. It's just a preventative measure to minimize discomfort, that's all. Nothing to worry about."

"What if... is there a chance he won't...won't wake up?" Mycroft was staring fixedly at Greg's inert body.

"Once the drugs wear off, he'll wake when he's good and ready," John assured him. "As well as the antibiotics he's been given a blood transfusion and he's on fluids to keep him hydrated and replace lost volume. He isn't in any physical distress or the monitors would show it. He'll wake when he wants to. He flatlined twice but frankly I doubt his brain was starved of oxygen for long enough to cause serious damage, so that just leaves the trauma to his body. Have faith, Mycroft."

"In what, John?" Mycroft's voice was bleak.

"In me, Mycroft." John said softly. "I'm his doctor."

"Oh, I have faith in your abilities, John. It's Gregory I don't trust. Everything I've ever loved has left me. I have no reason to suppose that Gregory won't do the same." Shock rendered John speechless for a moment. He looked at Sherlock but his fiance didn't meet John's glance. He was gazing intently at his brother, an odd look in his eyes. "I would like to stay here with him. Would that be permitted?"

"It wouldn't be a good idea. He's vulnerable to infection at the moment. It would be best if we all went home, sat this one out and waited for the hospital to page me when he wakes. I don't know about you, but I definitely need some shut-eye or I'm going to collapse." John laid a hand on Mycroft's arm. "Come on, I know you care about him, but you need rest too. Come home with us, you can borrow my bed for a few hours. I'll give you something to help you sleep." He looked over at Sherlock willing him not to raise an objection, and was relieved when he said nothing. It was Mycroft who shook his head in protest.

"No, John, I wouldn't presume to intrude. I should be at work..."

"Bollocks." Both brothers looked startled at the vehemence of John's earthy retort. "First off, Mycroft, you are not intruding. Secondly, you need rest or you'll be no good to Greg when he does wake up. All you'll do is fret about him and God knows, you shouldn't be alone right now. I'm a doctor, and it would be going against everything I believe in to abandon you now. Do not try to lie to me and tell me you're fine because you are clearly not. There is nothing you can do here, so come on, don't be a Pratt and for once in your life, please let us help you." For a moment Mycroft seemed to wrestle with himself, the outward facade of rigid armor plate very much in place but warring with a vulnerability John had never seen him display before. Then he seemed to capitulate and nodded.

"Very well, under the circumstances. I'll text Anthea. She can cancel my appointments, I can blame it on a family emergency."

"Good," said John before Sherlock could say anything or Mycroft could change his mind. "Come on then. I need to find my clothes and get out of these scrubs. Go call a cab."

0o0o0o0

Half an hour later, Mycroft stood in the doorway of John's bedroom looking lost. "I've nothing to wear in bed..."

"It won't kill you to sleep naked for once, will it?" John smiled to take the sting out of the words. "Nothing I own would fit you. Besides, it's only for a few hours." Mycroft watched John pulling drawers open and frowned.

"John, if you have nothing to fit me, what are you looking for?"

"Looking for clean sheets. I was going to make the bed..."

Mycroft sighed. "That won't be necessary. I'll be alright. It's only a few hours after all."

"Oh, okay. Well, get ready and get into bed, I'll be back in a few." He left the man to his own devices.

0o0o0o0

"Your brother is too calm," he said to Sherlock in their room.

"My brother is always calm, at least on the outside. 'Keep Calm and Call Mycroft'," he chuckled. "This is kind of you, John. My dear brother is not having an easy time at the moment. He can't influence what happens with this situation. Mycroft hates such a loss of control."

"I wonder who that reminds me of?" John smiled fondly. "Be back in a mo, I'm just going to make sure he takes these." He held up a pill bottle. Sherlock nodded and climbed into bed with a sigh.

"Good luck with that..." he muttered, eyes closing wearily.

0o0o0o0

"Mycroft? You decent?" John pushed open the door slightly and waited.

"Yes, John. I'm as decent as I'll ever be. You may come in." Mycroft was in bed, propped on the pillows. He looked tired and diminished.

"How are you holding up?"

"Not well, I admit." Mycroft did not look directly at him but rather regarded the bedclothes with an interested expression and fussed over the wrinkles, smoothing them out.

"You'd rather not talk about it." It was a statement of fact, rather than a question. Mycroft gave a little shake of the head. "Here then, I want you to take two of these." Mycroft obediently took the pills.

"Take two of these and call me in the morning, doctor?" He suggested, mouth quirking into a very small smile. John grinned.

"Something like that, yeah." He handed over a glass of water and watched as Mycroft swallowed the pills without even asking what they were.

"You're a doctor, John," he said when John pointed it out. "You would only give me something with an appropriate purpose. In this instance, probably a strong sedative. You know that I am worried about Gregory. You also know that I probably won't sleep well as a consequence. Therefore you have most likely come to the conclusion that the best option is sedation. Contrary to popular belief, I do trust you. My brother trusts you and so does Gregory. After all, Gregory's life was quite literally in your hands and you did not let him down. I think it goes without saying that you have not betrayed my trust in you yet." John smiled, reaching to check the man's pulse out of habit. It was steady and strong.

"Thanks for that," he said gratefully. "But Sherlock didn't exactly trust me... when he... you know."

"John, that was for your sake and it is past and gone. If you had known, you would have been at risk, it was quite that simple. Sherlock trusts you with something far more important than his life, in any case. He trusts you with his heart." For a moment the two men locked gazes, then John nodded once and Mycroft smiled a smile that for once reached his eyes.

"Well, those pills will at least let you get some decent rest," John said. "I could give you something stronger but..." he hesitated. "See how you go. If you find they don't work for you, then you know where we are. If things get too much, then come and find us, you got that?" Mycroft nodded.

"Thank you, John. I appreciate what you're trying to do." John nodded and gave him a reassuring smile.

"You..um...you need me to stay?"

"No, John. Thank you. You've done more than enough."

"Rest easy, Mycroft."

"You too, John." Mycroft knew he would. The covers smelled faintly but reassuringly of John's male musk. They were warm and the bed was comfortable. In moments, the minor government official was fast asleep.

0o0o0o0

Greg woke fighting the tube down his throat and the machine breathing for him. Alarms went off and suddenly there were hands wrestling him to stillness and gentle but insistent voices making reassuring noises as they dealt with him. The voices finally got through to him, telling him to relax and let them help. They removed the tubing carefully and replaced it with a cannula beneath his nose but he coughed anyway, couldn't help himself, pain stabbing through him hard enough to take his breath away. They asked him to rate the pain out of ten.

"Fifteen," he replied huskily, eliciting a chuckle from the nurses. His throat was dry and sore. Moments later, the pain medication they gave him kicked in and brought things to a manageable level. They proceeded to check him over thoroughly, explaining where he was, instructing him to lie still, telling him not to worry, he would be fine, they would look after him.

"I've paged Doctor Watson," one of the nurses said to the other as they were checking the monitors and writing up his chart.

"Doctor Wa'son?" Greg slurred. His voice wouldn't obey him but his curiosity was piqued. "D'you mean John?" He was puzzled. When had John started to work for Bart's?

"Don't know his first name, dear. He was the one who operated on you," the nurse explained patiently. "He asked to be paged the moment you woke so I expect he'll be here soon. You get some rest."

They left him with a call button under his hand and withdrew to their station where they could monitor him from a distance. John had operated on him? It felt like some surreal dream. John could do that? Greg knew he had been in the RAMC, but he also knew him as a quiet, mild-mannered GP, not a surgeon. Although the quiet ones are the dangerous ones, after all, he mused. He could attest to that where John Watson was concerned.

Greg knew there was steel beneath John's mildness. The man carried a gun sanctioned by the Home Office for personal use, self-defense only, but he remembered seeing him shoot the man who stabbed Greg through the heart. There was a pragmatic streak in John. Greg was certain that the man would never shoot anyone in cold blood, but give him the heat of the moment and John Watson was all soldier.

He wondered if Sally was okay and thought to ask but he decided to wait while John arrived. He wondered who would turn up with him. Damn it, had they even told Mycroft? He dimly remembered Sherlock saying he would text him but he wasn't sure if that hadn't been a dream.

0o0o0o0

Somebody was shaking him awake. John was staring down at him, smiling. "It's okay, it's only me. Sorry to disturb you, Mycroft. The hospital called to tell me that Greg's awake. Get dressed and we'll see you downstairs."

Relief washed through Mycroft Holmes as he lay in John's bed, relief so great it left him trembling. He mastered the almost overwhelming feelings with difficulty. It was frightening how much he already cared for the Detective Inspector despite having known him a relatively short time. I should slam the door on this now, Mycroft thought, whilst I still have the opportunity. I shouldn't leave myself open for what appears to be simple infatuation. But is that all it is? Mycroft was having increasing difficulty thinking of Gregory Lestrade in terms of simple infatuation.

He rolled over to look at the time. It was nearly 3 pm. They had left him to sleep for most of the day. That was unheard of. Those tablets must have been powerful, whatever they were. He rose and dressed, hurriedly. A yawn caught him as he opened the bedroom door and he paused, ruffled. Yawning was undignified and something he refrained from doing if he could avoid it. Straightening his tie, he tried to bring down the mask he habitually wore—that of iron-clad resolve—so by the time he reached the landing and joined John and Sherlock who were pulling their coats on and descending the stairs to street level, the Ice Man just about had his facade in place again.

0o0o0o0

"You don't fool me, Brother Dear," Sherlock murmured conspiratorially as they walked down the corridor in Bart's, heading for the post-operative ICU. John had walked ahead of them and was out of earshot. Mycroft shot his little brother a dark look.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you don't fool me. That Ice Man mask you adopt is a fake. You care rather more for Greg than you'd have us believe. You've quite fallen for our handsome detective, haven't you?"

"What if I have?" He was aware he sounded childish but frankly he couldn't care less right there and then. Sherlock seemed to be looking for a chink in his armour and he wasn't about to let him find it.

"Admit it, Mycroft. You've let him get under your skin," Sherlock murmured softly. Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, and then shut it with a snap and sighed heavily.

"I think we should save this conversation for another time," he said testily, tapping his umbrella on the floor in impatience.

"Mycroft, don't try to be a martyr."

"I have no idea what you mean..."

"Of course you don't. You're too busy being noble and brave."

"What would you know about it? Relationships are not exactly your forte, after all."

"I'm learning. I'm a quick learner too. Ask John."

"Your point being?"

"Tell him how you feel and let him make his own mind up. You owe him that much. Anything else is just abandonment no matter the terms you couch it in. You abandoned me once. Please don't make the same mistake twice." Sherlock fixed his brother with a look that spoke volumes. Mycroft stared back stubbornly. "If I were in your position," Sherlock added, "which I thank God that I'm not, I would probably take the time to think things through just as you have been doing. I would probably take the time to consider the impact such a relationship might have both on my work and my status, but if I've learned one thing from John, it is that life isn't a rehearsal. What is really important to you, Mycroft, that stuffy job of yours, or your happiness?"

"Survival is more important right now. Caring is not an advantage...Whether I care about him or not won't save him, and if he dies..."

"What are you two doing?" John had retraced his steps to them both. He sounded exasperated. "Will you come on? I need to examine my patient and time is of the essence! They paged me ages ago, they're waiting on my arrival. I can do without you two facing off in public and blocking a hospital corridor. Just once, I hoped you could pack it in and tolerate each other. Now get a grip and get a move on." He set off again, expecting to be obeyed.

"Come on, brother dear, the good doctor thinks we're arguing again," Mycroft said, mask in place once more.

"Mycroft..."

"Later, Sherlock. The only thing I know right now is that I've opened a can of worms and things can only get worse."

0o0o0o0

Consciousness was overrated, Greg thought, coming up through the morass of anesthetic and pain with great difficulty. There was an annoying bright light in his eyes, muffled voices, the sharp smell of disinfectant. God, it was a struggle to open his eyes. Someone was talking to him but he couldn't make out the words. He wanted darkness, peace and quiet, and all he was getting was this sensory overload. It was too much. His throat was sore, he felt nauseous and thick headed.

John saw the signs and grabbed a disposable bowl from beneath the bed, shoving it under Greg's nose before he threw up over the covers. The patient retched and groaned with the resulting pain. Sherlock and Mycroft, who were sitting primly across the other side of the room on what looked like more of those uncomfortable orange chairs, both flinched. John reached for the call button and pressed for attention.

"Help me with this, would you?" he said when a nurse poked her head around the door and together they managed to make Greg comfortable again. At a murmured request from John, the nurse fetched a syringe and fitted it into the port on the IV, emptying the fluid into the line carefully. "Anti-emetic," John explained. "It's probably the morphine. Some patients react badly to it. We'll manage it for you, Greg, don't worry." He satisfied himself there was no damage from Greg's sudden move and stroked his fingers across the man's hand. "How are you feeling now?"

"Crap. I was stabbed, you know... Didn't anyone tell you?" John grinned.

"Yeah, somebody said something to the effect. You obviously didn't dodge very well..."

"Yeah, well..." Greg took a breath. "Getting older. Nearly fifty you know, not a spring chicken any more. How are you?"

"Fine, actually. We went home and got some rest. Took Mycroft with us."

"Wait a minute, he actually went home with you?"

"Yes, and what's more, he actually got some sleep too. I had to drug him, but needs must."

"Never," Greg smiled, amused gaze falling on the elder Holmes. "Good to see you, Mycroft."

"You too, Gregory." Mycroft's voice sounded strained.

"Hey, come here," Greg beckoned. Mycroft stood up and changed places with John, the better to get closer to Greg. "I'll be fine," Greg tried to reassure him. "Might take a while but I'll recover. Don't look so worried."

"Worried doesn't begin to describe it, Gregory. You nearly died." For a fraction of a second Mycroft's facade slipped and his eyes looked both vulnerable and anxious. Greg's expression softened and he tried to reach up, but groaned softly at the pull on the muscles. Mycroft looked at the offered hand for a second before reaching to take hold, squeezing gently. John pulled a chair over for him and he sat, facing Greg, as close as was allowable in the tight space.

"We'll give you a minute. Sherlock, I need coffee, come on..." John grabbed his arm and all but twisted it behind his back. Sherlock took the non-too-subtle hint and allowed himself to be bundled out of the room. "Don't worry. If you need anything call the nurse, she'll page me."

0o0o0o0

The next few hours were frustrating for Mycroft as Greg slid in and out of sleep, the remains of the anaesthetic periodically overwhelming him. John occasionally popped back to check on them, advising Mycroft that this would be pretty much it for a while. Mycroft stubbornly refused to leave and waited, willing Gregory to wake up enough to listen. John finally told him he and Sherlock would head on home for a while and come back later, when there would be a better chance of Greg being compos mentis enough to converse with them.

When Greg finally opened his eyes later that evening, feeling a lot less woozy, it was to see Mycroft still there beside the bed, gazing at him with something akin to...anger? It flickered behind the blue eyes, warring with...something else...Greg couldn't put his finger on it. "Mycroft, I'm sorry." He yawned. "Can't keep my eyes open..."

"Not your fault." Mycroft sounded testy. "You can't help it. It's the anaesthetic."

"You know...I had...no wish to scare you. But this is my job." He took a breath and let it out. His chest twinged. "It isn't the first time I've landed in hospital...and it might not be the last."

"You do know what happened?"

"I know I was stabbed..."

"You faced off a serial killer with no back-up, Gregory. You tried to talk someone down who could not be reasoned with—"

"I didn't know that though. You wouldn't not try to talk someone down from jumping off a roof...because you didn't think he could be reasoned with, would you?"

"I've never been in that position..."

"You have to try!" Greg gasped in a breath before continuing, ignoring how out of breath he was getting. "You don't know exactly what's going to happen. If you think for a moment I wasn't going to try—"

"That isn't the point!" Mycroft interrupted sharply.

"—then you don't know me very well!"

"The point is that you put yourself in harm's way. You could have been killed. As I understand it, you didn't wait for help, you threw yourself right in there."

"Why are you so angry with me?" Greg frowned, trying to bring his breathing under control.

"John shot the man who tried to kill you, you know that?" Mycroft told him, adroitly ignoring the question. "He insisted I get him on the team to work on you. He operated on you and I have no doubt saved your life. The director of the hospital's surgical team was so impressed he offered John a job."

"Bloody hell, John did that for me?"

"Yes, he did. He loves you, Gregory. They both do. That much is plain. You have a home with them, a place in both their hearts. You could all three of you live in polyamorous harmony for as long as you wish. I think... that's where you ought to be..."

"Mycroft? What do you mean by that? I thought..."

"Well, you thought wrong. Gregory, we both have dangerous professions. This isn't a good idea..."

"What isn't? Us? Mycroft..."

"No, please, listen to me, Gregory. This is important. You're in danger now, because of me. I'm vulnerable because of you..." Mycroft felt the dull ache in his heart and knew he couldn't let it interfere. "All the time we are together, we're under threat. Someone could use you to get to me. I can't allow that to happen. You've already come close to... to..."

"Death, Mycroft," Greg said firmly. "I came close to dying. Doesn't frighten me, you know. I don't actually fancy dying just yet but..." he took another breath. Damn it, he hated that this left him gasping. "It doesn't...scare me. You can say it...out loud."

"Twice, Gregory. You flatlined twice on the operating table and each time, John brought you back. Your blood pressure dropped dangerously low and each time, John managed to stabilize your condition. He is nothing short of a miracle worker. I'm not half the man he is..." Mycroft's voice failed him. "If you died, I would be less than I am now. That scares me terribly. I am vulnerable... you make me vulnerable. I'm not sure I can cope with that."

"And how do you think...I feel?" Greg asked bluntly. He tried to suppress a cough as his voice rasped in his throat. "You have such a fucking high position...you are the bloody British Government sometimes. Christ, I feel...vulnerable just by being with you. What the hell could I possibly have—," he took another breath "—that an elegant bastard like Mycroft Holmes would find interesting? What am I? I'm ordinary—," he dragged in another breath, aware that it was getting more difficult "—I'm an adopted, middle class kid with an average education. Just a bit of rough...a stupid copper, plebeian, clumsy. No!" He held up a hand to forestall Mycroft's interruption and dragged in another breath. That one hurt. "Christ, I like the wrong music, I have the wrong taste in clothes... I wasn't educated in Harrow or Eton or anywhere worthwhile... I can't talk posh and make small talk to ambassadors and pass the time with politicians every damn day... I go in front of press conferences to answer searching questions...about whether there's a serial killer on the loose... I stand in front of my boss to justify my department's budget, I manage a team of detectives and I try to solve crimes. What could you possibly find attractive in me?" Mycroft was struck dumb by Greg's gasping tirade. "It's obvious you don't trust me...to make my own decisions so...no, this probably isn't going to go anywhere so just...go on, get out, go! Leave me alone..."

Mycroft stepped back against the onslaught of Greg's distress. He was acutely aware that his emotions were getting the better of him, that he wanted to take the words back, to unsay them, but he knew that could never be. He turned to leave. Gregory was having difficulty breathing. He was looking grey.

"Oh God, no..." Pain had lanced through Greg's chest and he grimaced with it, distress in his eyes.

"What's the matter, Gregory?"

"Fetch John... please..."

Mycroft called for the nurse who took one look at her patient and picked up the phone, paging John as fast as she could. Then she asked brusquely what had happened. Mycroft told her Greg was upset—distraught was a more accurate term—as she went about fixing a breathing mask over his face. She went on to check his blood pressure (elevated) and temperature (also elevated) and asked him some more questions. Mycroft was sidelined and stood back out of the way. Moments later John suddenly rushed into the room with Sherlock behind him.

"We were on our way up when I got the message. What's happened?" John listened as the nurse filled him in on Greg's condition and Sherlock made a beeline for his brother and took his arm, a searching look on his face. "I think you two had better leave. Go get yourself coffee," John suggested. "Sherlock, take your brother out of here."

0o0o0o0

The tea from the hospital café was marginally better than the rubbish from the machine, Mycroft found himself thinking. He was sitting across from Sherlock who was staring at his tea as if it was going to climb out of the cup on its own and possibly attack him for not drinking it. Neither man said a word. The café was noisy, hot and busy and nobody paid them any heed whatever. That was fine with both of them.

"What will you do if he dies?" Mycroft flinched at the baldly stated question.

"John said..."

"I know what John said. There's a chance he won't make it, Mycroft. We both know that and I... I have no idea what I'll do if he doesn't. Without him... I'll not be offered any more cases, we both know that much. Without cases..." He left the statement hanging.

"Do you care about what it will do to John if Gregory dies?" Mycroft said accusingly. "Stop thinking about yourself for a moment and consider him. He is the one who undertook to save Gregory. If he dies, then John will blame himself. Wrongly, but the good doctor is nothing if not honorable."

Sherlock frowned, a fleeting vulnerable look replaced the normally aloof expression. "I know, but I also know what will happen to me, Mycroft. I was a mess before Lestrade met me. I know what I was like before I knew him and I'm facing that again if I lose him. I know what it will do to John if that happens..."

"Then we both have to hope that the worst will not happen, dear brother. Besides, you do have John. I, on the other hand, have no one. Think yourself lucky."

0o0o0o0

"It's as I feared. He has pneumonia." John said, when he found them both in the café. "It's a common complication with chest wounds."

"What's the prognosis, John?" Mycroft asked.

"As of this moment, he's holding his own but if he doesn't show any improvement by tonight, then it's not going to be good." John sighed and sat down. "Trouble is, he's fighting such a lot already. We've adjusted his medication, changed the antibiotics he's on. Now all we can do is wait and see. Again."

"You love him. You're in love with him, aren't you?" Sherlock fixed his brother with a stare.

"Yes, God help me. I am. Are you happy now?" Sherlock was startled at the vehemence of the quiet admission. His brother seemed defeated. "I rather think that I've rendered myself vulnerable, Sherlock. I have fallen in love and I am laid bare. If he dies, I will grieve and move on, eventually, but the damage is done. If he lives, then the consequences could be even more far reaching. They can get to me through him, he is no longer safe and I've done this to him. I am no longer safe. I am compromised and it's all my own fault."

"Mycroft, don't be an utter moron," Sherlock said bluntly.

"I am not, as you put it, an utter moron. I am merely stating fact!" Mycroft snapped. "Assuming he survives this, Gregory is now caught in the middle. My enemies could hurt him badly, and that would hurt me too. I would have to abandon him in the name of National Security if that happened, and he doesn't deserve that!"

"Mycroft, you'll only be a moron if you run away from this," Mycroft was surprised that it was John who had spoken so gently. "I was so alone, for so long. I owe your brother so much. But we're together now and even if either of us ends up in Greg's position in the future, although I hope to God we don't, then we'll have had each other and admitted how we feel and enjoyed life together for as long as we could." John reached to grasp Sherlock's hand. "You cannot tell me that such a thing is better denied. Would you really, honestly deny yourself the right to be happy because you've been hurt before? Or could be again? That's life, Mycroft. Rough with smooth, bad with good, better or worse, you know? After..." John looked at Sherlock and frowned, pained. "Let's just say, it was a hiatus I would rather forget. I thought he was dead. What really hurt wasn't that he didn't trust me. It was that I never understood how much I felt about him until I lost him. Then all I could do was regret not admitting it to him while he was alive. I didn't even admit it when he returned. I thought I would lose him. Then, when I did finally tell him how I felt, he admitted he felt the same. It was... wow... that felt...I can't describe it. Wonderful. Amazing. Now, we're going to be married. We'll forget all those wasted years and throw ourselves into the future."

"I appreciate what you're saying, John. But I am not you. I would cease to function if I allowed myself the liberty of which you speak. Love is a vulnerability the enormity of which is only now making itself manifest in my mind. Gregory is better off without me. Better I abandon him now and save us both pain."

"Just like you abandoned me before," Sherlock said. "You know how to do that, don't you, brother dear? No wonder we've spent so long being enemies. You abandoned me for University and I couldn't understand it. You were my brother, you were supposed to protect me..."

"Sherlock... I couldn't take you with me. You know why. Besides, I didn't understand you. I loved you, but I didn't really understand you. Your mind took you away from me. It took you where I couldn't follow. We abandoned each other, Sherlock, each in our own way." Sherlock was quiet for a moment, digesting the admission.

"You were my brother, not my parent," he said at last. "I know now that you couldn't take me with you. Although at the time I didn't understand why not. To me, you were the closest thing I had to a parent. Mummy was mourning our father, and she didn't realise what was happening with me."

"I was?" Mycroft said faintly. "But Mummy wouldn't have..."

"Oh, I don't blame mummy either, oddly enough. She was just not equipped to deal with me on top of father's death. I know that I was difficult, damaged, disruptive. I hated school and everybody in it and they hated me because I was more clever than they were. I just wanted to hide and not come out until I was old enough to tell them to go fuck themselves." Shock stilled Mycroft's tongue. He had never heard Sherlock say so much about himself, about them. "I stopped hating you long ago, you know, I just never knew how to tell you. Our emotional anorexia always got in the way. I don't bear you any ill will. Hell's bells, we used to love each other, Mycroft. What happened to us?"

"Our father happened. We had to become men before our time. It took me a long time before I realised I didn't have to impress him or even seek his approval but such is the power a parent has over a child. He demanded things of me, of us, that we were powerless to give." Mycroft looked bitter. "When he died I felt only relief."

"We are starved for emotional nourishment, you and I," Sherlock said. "Caring might not be an advantage but it's bloody well essential if we want to do more than merely exist. I never knew how important it was until I met John. Not caring might stop you feeling the pain of loss and the bitterness of betrayal, the heartbreak and the loneliness, but it also denies us the other side of the coin. When I jumped off that rooftop, it was as if I had really died. I might as well have done, the pain of separation that it caused me. He was alive, yes, but what was the point if I couldn't have him, couldn't be with him? What was the damn point, Mycroft? I needed him, and I had to let him go in order to let him live. I couldn't live without him and I couldn't live with him. I never realized I loved him until I nearly lost him and I realized I had never truly told him how I felt and I had to watch him almost die inside every day because of what I'd done. Never tell me that caring is not an advantage. The trouble with that is that not caring is the biggest disadvantage I ever had. I couldn't think straight, I couldn't concentrate. I've come alive with John; my mind is sharper, my life brighter, my vision clearer. I've done some of my best work since my return and I have more to come, better work to come, at his side, with his ring on my finger." There was a pause when Sherlock finished. John was looking at him with something akin to awe. He met John's gaze with a questioning one of his own.

"I wish I could share that view," Mycroft murmured. "However, I fear it is too late for me. I don't know how to love someone, not properly."

"Pish! You are perfectly capable of loving someone and doing so deeply," Sherlock retorted. "Greg is a good man, and he is perfect for you. He'll stop you getting too above yourself, you'll fetch him out of his shell."

"He has a shell?"

"Yes, he does. I'm surprised you haven't noticed. He's very closed with most people, he doesn't let them see the real person behind the Detective Inspector. If you see it, which I know you have, you can be assured that he trusts you. Don't betray him, Mycroft. At least, tell him so before it's too late."

In the silence that followed, the sound of John's pager made them all jump. John glanced at it and muttered a curse. "Oh fuck...no..." He was up and running before either of the Holmes brothers had the chance to move.

***

Mycroft walks a fine line between the fear of loss and the necessity to care. Full marks if you can spot a shamelessly plagiarised speech within this chapter. I simply wanted to see how it would read with different characters.

Necessarily Mycroft needs to make a

Leap of faith

"I'm staying with him." Mycroft's expression was set in determined lines and John knew better than to try to dissuade him on this one. Greg was too seriously ill for John to refuse Mycroft now. Greg's condition had apparently deteriorated pretty rapidly and he had lapsed into a coma. Now all anyone could do was wait and hope the new medication would work before he was too weak to rally.

"We should call Greg's mum," John said. "She should be here."

"I can arrange transport if she needs it," Mycroft offered and John nodded.

"I think his division ought to be told too."

"You don't think he'll survive this, do you?" There was no accusatory tone to Mycroft's voice, just a weary resignation. He was simply stating a fact.

"Honestly, I don't know, for sure. I've seen patients in worse states survive but... no, if I was being honest, which I don't really want to be, I'd have to say the odds are against him."

"Time to say goodbye then?"

"God, no." The strength of John's reply surprised Mycroft. "Time to tell him how you feel. Let him know. Talk to him."

"He's unconscious. Surely he won't be able to hear me," Mycroft sounded pained.

"That's not true. Hearing is proven to be the last sense to leave you. He might still hear so you talk to him and make sure he knows he's not alone, you got that?" John said sharply, then his tone softened. "Be a bit compassionate, Mycroft. Make sure he knows he's loved. You wouldn't be lying to him about that, would you?" Mycroft shook his head, chastened by John's vehemence.

"Very well, John. I'll do my best."

"I'm convinced of that. Is there anything we can get you?"

"No, thank you. I'll text Anthea."

"Look, I'll stay," John said suddenly. "I know there's very little I can do now but at least I'll be on hand if he needs anything..."

"No, John. There's no need," Mycroft said softly. "Go home, to bed. If there's nothing more you can do, then you should get some rest. I can send a car if there's any change."

"If you're sure." Mycroft nodded.

"I'm sure." Greg had received all the help anyone could give him. Now the fight was his. "We'll be fine. Besides, I'd like to be alone with him. There are things I wish to say." John nodded and patted Mycroft on the arm.

"Keep hoping. Greg's a fighter. Just keep talking to him!"

"I shall." Mycroft watched as John bent close to Greg's ear and whispered something private. When John straightened up again, Mycroft could see that his eyes were glistening slightly with unshed tears, but he didn't break down. He stood back a little, patted Greg's shoulder very gently and glanced across at Sherlock. The man nodded but didn't make a move toward the bed.

"I've said all I need to say," he admitted and walked to the door, waiting for John to join him. He glanced back at Mycroft, then back to Greg again. "You know where I am if you need me," he said and his brother nodded, a slight look of surprise in his eyes.

"We'll see you in the morning. Any chance you could send a car to 221b for 6am?" John asked. "I'd like to get here early."

"As good as done, John. Thank you." Mycroft pulled out his blackberry and began to text, not looking up as they left the room.

0o0o0o0o0

"Is Greg dying?" Sherlock asked when they were in the cab on the way home. He was maintaining an outward calm, but John could tell this was eating at him. For a moment John was tempted to sweeten the pill but felt it would be insulting to Sherlock's intelligence.

"He's very poorly," John admitted. "While I'd love to say that it's 50/50, that wouldn't be true. At present I'd say there's a 70/30 chance against him pulling through. However, that still leaves 30% chance he might, so I'm not giving up yet. I'm still hopeful."

"But you're not, are you? Not really?"

"Not very, no."

"I don't want him to die, John." John thought he had never heard Sherlock sound so vulnerable and lost. "He saved my life once. Greg is one of the best men I know. Aside from you, he's my best friend."

"Yeah, I know." John leaned over and squeezed Sherlock's knee. "Always seems to happen to the good ones."

"We'd better persuade him to be a little less good then." Sherlock made an heroic attempt to smile.

"Let's hope we get the chance, 'Lock. Let's hope we get the chance."

0o0o0o0o0

Mycroft's nanny had been one of the shining lights in his young life. With both parents busy—despite their moneyed and titled background, one was a government official, the other a recognised historian and writer—Mycroft needed someone to be responsible for him, to feed him, educate him and generally care for him. Emily Faversham had been that person. She was stern but kind, ready with sympathy and a sticking plaster for a grazed knee, a reprimand for getting muddy, praise for remembering his times tables or patiently teaching him how to tie his shoelaces or knot his tie. When the time came for him to go to boarding school, she was still there, this time for Sherlock, which made it alright, because she was still part of Mycroft's life.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say, and 11 year old Mycroft missed Emily with all the fervour of a childhood crush. He kept it quiet of course, but every time he came home, she was there with a hug of welcome and praise for how grown up he looked. She looked after them both over his 11th summer and off he went back to school the following autumn confident she would be there when he returned. He turned 12 and she sent him a card and a five pound postal order. Soon after that, he came home at half term to find she was gone. Horrified, he had asked his mother why and it all came out about his little brother's difficulties, his challenges. His parents felt he needed someone who knew more about his condition, someone qualified. Emily had been dismissed in favour of Miss Maddison.

Mycroft had gone to his room and stayed there all week, locked away, refusing to speak to Sherlock, who he blamed for the disappearance of the love of his young life. The boys never heard from Emily again.

0o0o0o0o0

Mycroft lost his best friend, Martin, when he was fourteen. Martin was the only person Mycroft had ever met who accepted him for himself, who knew him better than anyone else. Then, after two years of friendship, Martin simply wasn't there when term began again. Mycroft had written to him twice over the summer holidays, but the letters had not been replied to. The announcement had come during assembly. The headmaster stood up and broke the tragic news to the assembled boys; Martin Donaldson had drowned in his parent's swimming pool three weeks previously. Nobody had thought to consider Mycroft; he had not been invited to the funeral, nor had anyone contacted him to tell him his best friend was dead. He had been simply overlooked.

The blow was a crushing one. Mycroft had persuaded his housemaster to allow him to write to Martin's parents but the letter was not answered. The following week, Mycroft had smuggled an uncensored letter out and posted it in the village but it too was not replied to. Mycroft still had the book somewhere that Martin had lent him over that summer break. It had Martin's scrawled name in the front, all that was left of the one person in whose presence Mycroft had felt truly himself.

0o0o0o0o0

The Holmes brothers lost their father when Mycroft was eighteen. After a fairly active life, he had collapsed at the family home with a massive stroke and died four days later in hospital. Their mother took it hard, despite the fact that Sigur Holmes had been a hard man to live up to and had placed demands on both boys that they could not hope to aspire to. He was a dour man, hard to please and unwilling to praise. Mycroft had felt only relief at his passing but his mother had taken her husband's death hard. For years it felt to Mycroft as if he had lost her too.

Sherlock was one of Mycroft's biggest losses. His mind had taken him away, taken him places Mycroft couldn't follow. The troubled, damaged young man was no longer the little brother he could comfort with stories about dinosaurs and wizards while he held him close beneath a blanket after lights out. Sherlock was out of his frame of reference, far away from Mycroft's sphere of understanding. When Mycroft went to Cambridge and left Sherlock behind, his little brother blamed him for abandoning him to a strict nanny and a loveless family.

The year after Martin's death, Mycroft had begun to change. He cut himself off from his emotions, gradually distancing himself as a coping mechanism, shutting down his feelings. He was polite, calm, studious, even kind, but he found himself mimicking the actions and emotions other people expected to see rather than truly experiencing them himself. Socially he was as adept as ever, even more so, cultivating his not inconsiderable skills of conversation and conviviality. He maintained a polished veneer of respectability and confidence but there was a superficiality to it all, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, genial behaviour that fled as soon as the door was closed. Mycroft found he was ceasing to feel much at all. He graduated Cambridge with a 1st in Law, and went to the London School of Economics to study for his MSc in Global Politics. Sherlock remained distant, showing open animosity when Mycroft next went home.

0o0o0o0o0

Mycroft had never been lucky in matters of the heart. When Mycroft met Johnathan in his last MSc year, he tried to find those lost feelings again. Jonathan was a kindred spirit, sweet and kind and funny, possessed of ambitions to become an actor and screen writer. He had virtually swept Mycroft off his feet and Mycroft had begun to hope that he had found a reason to feel again. Half a year later, he lost Jonathan to another man, a film director called Carlo. The next thing Mycroft knew, Johnathan had moved to LA to star in a porn movie.

Tristan was a nice man who was lost in London. He asked directions outside Parliament, they struck up a conversation, ended up having dinner, and Mycroft hoped he might have found someone else whom he might trust enough to come out of his shell. He lost Tristan to the Diplomatic Corps three months later.

Giuseppe, the Italian Marchese, was the worst. With him, Mycroft actually allowed himself to feel. He allowed himself to be swept off his feet into a romantic relationship. Giuseppe was eloquent, intelligent, and immediately recognised Mycroft's talents for conversation and culture. For a few brief months it was wonderful, and then Sherlock burst that bubble. Even as he thanked his brother for saving him face and proving that the Marchese was a fraud, Mycroft hated him for being the harbinger of doom for Mycroft's fledgling emotions. He once more closed down his emotional centre and vowed he would never be caught again.

Then a certain detective inspector crossed my path and here I am again, he thought, waiting for the best thing to happen to me in years to die. After this there can be no more.

0o0o0o0o0

The hours slid past. This was going to be more damaging than Giuseppe, Mycroft knew. Deep in his soul he knew it. Everyone and everything he ever let himself love had left him. Why should it be any different now? Gregory was too seriously ill to recover. He was fighting a losing battle, and so was Mycroft. Tears escaped, he was simply unable to stop them, unable to parse the feelings that stirred when he looked at the man on the bed. They had shared one night and Gregory Lestrade was everything Mycroft Holmes had hoped he would be. One night and Mycroft had tasted the most fulfilling experience of his life. Yet that was all they would ever have.

Ruthlessly he shoved the unwelcome feelings away, swiped at his eyes with his handkerchief, more than glad that he had sent John and Sherlock home. He was worn out by all of this, but Mycroft was nothing if not stubborn and he would see this through to its bitter end. If this was Gregory's last night on earth then Mycroft Holmes was not going to abandon him, he would not give the man any notion that he was alone. Mycroft moved his chair closer, leaned forward to murmur reassurances that he was still there, that Gregory was not on his own. He squeezed the surprisingly warm fingers that rested in his hand, a morbid part of him knowing that death would chill them. Somehow that small fact saddened him more than anything else about the business.

"I admit I feel silly, Gregory," Mycroft said, his voice sounding loud in the quiet of the room. "I don't really know if you can hear me, but John said you might, so that's good enough for me, even though I never heard of anybody waking up from a coma and carrying on the conversation. I suspect that this is just something they tell us to do to make us feel better, rather than help you. We don't feel quite so useless and helpless. We get the feeling there's still some purpose in our lives. We're not just waiting; waiting for the science to work or the miracle to happen, or—" he shuddered "—for the nightmare to end."

He stalled, at a loss for more to say. Minutes passed and then he smiled sadly. "Just promise me, if you're hearing this, that when you come round—and you are going to, Gregory, you're going to come out of this—just promise me that you'll never bring up anything I say to you now. How's that? Do we have a deal, Gregory? It would be too embarrassing." Mycroft sighed softly and stroked Greg's fingers with his thumb again. "This must be the longest I've ever looked at you and not seen you smile. Every time I've seen you, you've had a smile for me, you know that? Even before we knew each other properly, you were ready with a smile. It's just the way you are." Mycroft shifted in his seat and leaned closer. "I watched you in your sleep, did you know that?" He confessed. "I watched your eyes moving behind your eyelids as you dreamed, wondering what a man like you could be dreaming about. The things you've seen and done, the people you've loved, the cases you've solved. I wondered if you were dreaming about me. I hoped you were dreaming about me, but let's be honest, Gregory, we hardly know each other. Why on earth would you want to dream about me?" Mycroft's expression turned thoughtful. "Even when you dream, you smile. I want to see that smile again, Gregory. I think... No, I know. I love you. There, I've said it. I love you. I love your smile, your eyes, your laugh, your hands... God help me, I want to have the chance to love you properly. You are loved, Gregory Lestrade. Come back to me, please? I need you..." Silence fell when he stopped talking, a profound silence that seemed to shroud the room, deadening even the beep of the monitors and the distant sounds from the wards and corridors, the sounds of life.

"You must be Mycroft." The soft voice made him jump. A woman stood in the door, her white hair a cap on her head and her lively dark eyes taking in every detail of this man, this stranger who was sitting there pouring his heart out to her son. For this must be Gregory's mother, and even though they were not related by blood it was easy to see her son in her mannerisms, her way she tipped her head was Gregory all over.

"You're..."

"Margaret Lestrade, yes. Greg told me all about you. Although he didn't tell me much. You've not been together long, have you?"

"Long?" Mycroft sighed heavily. "We've had one date. I wouldn't say we're even in a proper relationship..."

"That's not how it sounded to me," she said gently. "He was happy about it and you sound pretty smitten with him. Sorry, you have no need to feel embarrassed."

"Would you care to sit down?" Mycroft, ever the gentleman, rose from his chair and offered it to her graciously, but she waved him away.

"I can sit here." She dumped her bag down on one of the hard chairs at the side of the room.

"Nonsense. You're his mother, you have more right than I to sit close to him."

"Mycroft, you love him. That much is obvious. If he is as sick as people seem to believe, then you should have every opportunity to be with him." She moved to the bedside and looked fondly down at her son. Then she reached to stroke his hair. "Poor Greg. He hasn't been very lucky in love. He's not been happy for years and now, when he finally finds someone, this happens. I always feared for him, you know. It's a dangerous profession, but Greg always wanted to make his dad proud."

"I think it can safely be said that he has done that much."

"I think so too." She sat on the chair and folded her hands in her lap. "Do you pray?"

"Alas, no. I hope you won't think badly of me. I don't subscribe to a higher power."

"Do you mind if I do?"

"No, not at all." He watched as she bowed her head and began to speak. The words were simple and eloquent and oddly comforting. Mycroft, who did not subscribe to a higher power unless it was himself, nevertheless felt peace descend on him as she spoke.

"In all my days, you are with me," she said softly. "As I breathe and eat and sleep. I know you can hear my gentle pleas for help and you do not deny me. Give me the strength to face the day, Lord. Give me the knowledge to move through the day. Give me the skills to work today. Give me the humility to help people today. Give me the chance to love today, and when all seems lost, give me faith. Faith is only the belief in the possibility of hope and hope is my salvation." A whispered amen followed and she opened her eyes and smiled. "Thank you," she said softly. "I'll let you finish what you wanted to say, love. I'll go find myself a coffee, I'm sure those lovely nurses will help me. You... tell him what you need to, and don't hold back."

"Mrs Lestrade... You don't have to go."

"Yes I do. You have things you want him to know, things maybe a mother shouldn't hear. Talk to him, my dear, tell him how you feel. Let him know he's loved."

0o0o0o0o0

John woke in the small hours, inexplicably cold. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, breathing hard as if he had woken from a nightmare.

"You're awake," Sherlock said unnecessarily.

"Mhm. Dunno why though. I'm cold."

"It's a warm night, John," Sherlock observed, conversationally.

"It is? Then why am I so bloody cold?"

"It's 3am, the lowest ebb, the darkest hour."

"Waxing lyrical, are we?"

"Just stating a known phenomenon, John."

"You don't suppose...Greg...?"

"Possible, but then it is equally possible that he's alive."

"I know but... I'm a soldier, and we can be a superstitious lot." John reached to put the bedside light on and was startled by a large moth which flew out of the lamp shade and proceeded to flutter around the bulb. "Fucking hell..."

"Calm down, John, it's only a Hepialus humuli," Sherlock said gently, then sighed. "Otherwise known as the Ghost Moth..."

"Ghost moth?"

"Due to the fact that the males are white and hover above fields. They're common across Britain, nothing special in fact."

"But..." It was more than easy to see how John's brain was working.

"Don't let your imagination run away with you, John. Fanciful notions are not fact," Sherlock reminded. "I do not believe in the existence of a soul, therefore one cannot visit me, whether in the guise of a moth or not. Why don't you go get a shower? That would warm you up."

"I don't fancy it at the moment. You could warm me up, couldn't you?" John curled close against the spare frame, feeling the warmth radiating from Sherlock's much leaner body.

"Schrodinger's cat," Sherlock said into John's hair.

"Whose cat?"

"Schrodinger's. It's the theory of parallel dimensions. You lock a cat in a box—"

"—with a potential way for it to die?"

"Or not, as the case may be. The death bit is the variable. Only when the box is opened and the cat is observed do the results become reality. While in the box—"

"—all potentialities are possible?"

"You're learning, John." Sherlock smiled, sounding proud. "Only when the box is opened and the observer observes, does that reality become manifest. The theory is that only one reality can be present in any dimension; the cat cannot be alive and dead in the same place, two opposing states cannot co-exist simultaneously in the same dimension, so on opening the box, all the permutations become alternate realities."

"What does that have to do with Greg?"

"Well, until you get to the hospital, or until Mycroft calls, all potentialities are possible."

"So it's no good worrying until the observer...well, observes, is that it?"

"Well done, John." A warm arm wrapped itself around him and pulled him close.

"So does that mean that if he dies in our reality, there'll be one where he didn't?"

"Quantum theory is not for the faint hearted, John."

"Yeah, but it's comforting in an odd way, isn't it?" John chuckled. "Only I could find that remotely comforting," he said. "Talking to my fiance in the middle of the night about Shrodinger's bloody cat..."

"Go back to sleep, John," Sherlock murmured into his hair.

0o0o0o0o0

The day of the funeral was cold, wet and dismal, as befitted a day of mourning. Mycroft did not want to be there but attended out of a sense of duty. He stood beneath his umbrella with the look of a man who had heard it all before and desperately wanted to get away.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock appeared beside him, staring over the heads of the crowd of mourners and into the middle distance. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, dear brother, why shouldn't I be?"

"Well, he was a good man. I wondered if you might miss him? Or is that beyond you?"

"Great heavens, that would involve my having to care about him, Sherlock. You know there are very few people walking this earth that fall into that category." Sherlock nodded and suddenly appeared very interested in the woman next door.

"There's the mistress," he murmured.

"Are you sure? I didn't think he had one... Sly old fox."

"Oh yes, he did. Hm, about ten years younger, I'd say. Her coat is about four years out of date fashion-wise, although she takes care of it. Possibly one he bought her, sentimental value then. Her jewellery is expensive, although the rest of her clothes don't quite match, gifts he gave her most likely. She's upset, but she's nowhere near the family. No wedding ring, hasn't worn one, no indentation on her ring finger, so not an ex-wife. Mistress."

"The old bugger," Mycroft muttered. "Well, each to his own. Come on, I've been here long enough. What say we head on to Mummy's?"

"We'll be in time for dinner."

0o0o0o0o0

Lavinia Holmes fussed over the state of her sons, scolding them for getting cold and wet as though they were six years old before ordering them upstairs before dinner to shower and change. They went meekly enough, with her words ringing in their ears. "Those men of yours need caring for too, don't forget."

Both of the Holmes boys knew that look. Next she would be telling them they would be going to bed without supper. The brothers shared a look-a roll of the eyes, a patient smile, indulging their mother as a parent would a child-as they hastened to obey, or at the very least made it look as though they were.

"Mycroft?" Mycroft paused on the stairs.

"Mummy," he said, looking down at her.

"How was the funeral, dear?"

"Bearable."

"Hateful things," she said sadly and disappeared back into the drawing room.

"Funerals remind her of father, don't they?" Sherlock observed.

"She still misses him."

"After all this time?" Sherlock frowned. "It's been what? Twenty five years?" Mycroft fixed his brother with a pitying look.

"That's what love does, brother dear. You should know that by now. Have you learned nothing from John?"

"Of course I have. If I've learned nothing else I've learned that being apart from him is not where I want to be. John has taught me so much."

"It doesn't frighten you?"

"Does what frighten me?" They progressed along the landing, their feet making no sound on the persian carpet. Portraits stared fixedly down on them, Holmeses and Sherinfords and Sigersons, generations of their ancestors, some with serenity oozing from their oil painted pores, others with frowns of disapproval fixed forever on varnished brows. Mycroft spared them all glances as they passed as if acknowledging their small part in his existence. "One day you'll lose him, or he'll lose you, for good this time," he said.

"Inevitable, dear brother," Sherlock replied. "Our destiny is to be a portrait on the wall, scaring small children." He pulled a face, glowering. "Remember that one I wouldn't walk past, the one I screamed about until Mummy was forced to remove it?"

"Your Great, Great, Great Uncle Albert Mycroft Sherinford," Mycroft said, smiling.

"Yes, him, ugly brute."

"I remember it well. He had a bulbous nose and gout."

"How did you deduce that from a head and shoulders portrait?"

"Come, come, Sherlock. With that expression?" Mycroft said. "His build? Corpulent, jowly, red faced. It had to have been over indulgence, therefore he suffered gout. A modicum of medical knowhow would tell you as much. Of course he had to be the one I was named after. Father insisted we have names of distinction, names that would be remembered."

Sherlock snorted. "Mine was a murderer..."

"There is a certain serendipity in that," Mycroft said, thoughtfully. "Ironic perfection. You should be proud."

Sherlock paused by the door to his suite. "Would you tell John that I'm going to shower before dinner?"

"It's ages until dinner... ah, of course. Silly of me." Mycroft smiled and opened the door to his own suite. Soft voices reached his ears and he crossed the room to the open bedroom door. John was perched on the bed and was the first to spot his future brother-in-law.

"How did it go?" he asked.

"As well as can be expected, considering it was a funeral."

"You're okay though?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, thank you, John. I really didn't know him all that well but it doesn't do to absent oneself when the deceased is Permanent Under Secretary to the Department of Defence."

"No, of course not." John manfully suppressed the urge to smirk and Mycroft shook his head in exasperation.

"How is our patient, doctor?" he asked, glancing at the occupant of the bed.

"My patient is resting comfortably, thank you very much. I've just checked him over and he's doing fine. Now, no keeping him up past his bedtime, you got that?"

"Of course, John. Would you inform Mummy and Sherlock that we'll dine up here in my suite?"

"Yes, of course."

"Oh, John, Sherlock asked me to tell you, he's showering before dinner."

"Showering?" John checked his watch. "But it's ages to dinner." Mycroft smiled and cast him a meaningful look. "Oh... I see, showering, right. Okay then, I'd better get off. Take care. I'll see you later."

There was a chuckle from the bed at the doctor's precipitous departure. Mycroft looked down."I thought you were asleep..."

"You are evil, My', you know that?" Mycroft gazed fondly at Gregory Lestrade who lay comfortably propped on pillows, looking oddly vulnerable in his blue-striped cotton pajamas.

"I understand, Gregory. No need to look so wistful, my dear. It won't be long before we can partake of sexual gymnastics in our own shower." He sat on the bed and took his lover's hand. Greg squeezed his fingers.

"It's good that you're back. It wasn't too terrible, was it?"

"Oh, positively dreadful, but everything is fine now. I'm home with you, all's right with the World, Mummy is busy plotting Sherlock and John's civil partnership ceremony..."

"Mycroft..."

"Yes? Something amiss, Gregory?"

"No, I've been thinking things though."

"Oh? What about?"

"Us. I've been talking to John. This attack has left me pretty much with impaired lung capacity. It's doubtful I would pass the police medical to allow me to go back on duty. It's going to take months, if indeed I can actually fully recover. I have to face the possibility that I might not."

"Whatever you need, love. However long it takes..."

"No... look, Mycroft, I'm not sure I want to go back."

"But... that job is your life. Gregory, what will you do?"

"I don't know, but I'm tired. This has knocked the stuffing well and truly out of me."

"You're tired now, but you need physio, plenty of rest, looking after..."

"Yes, I know. John explained all that. Look, My', you know as well as I do that I'm not getting any younger. I'd rather like to quit while I'm ahead. I'd like to enjoy my retirement, not spend it struggling with my health. There's life in the old dog yet, you know. Just don't need the work stress. Heart attack country, you know?"

"Yes, I know. So, do you intend to go for early retirement then?"

"I was thinking about it. Pity though, I'd quite like to have made Chief before I retired."

"Gregory, would you excuse me for a moment?" Mycroft said, suddenly finding his blackberry very interesting.

"Sure..." Greg watched him walk casually to the door.

"I realise I have forgotten to let Anthea know about a change of plan. I won't be long, just rest."

"Like I have anywhere else to go," Greg said and closed his eyes. "Oh, by the way..."

"Yes, Gregory?" Mycroft paused at the door, Blackberry half way to his ear.

"You can watch me sleep as much as you like."

"I can? Oh, I can..." Mycroft's stunned expression made the detective smile.

***

Contemplations

"So, John. Do you think you'll take Dr Bennett up on his offer?" The question was asked casually but John knew that Sherlock was affected by the subject, he was just not sure how. The detective was playing his cards close to his chest and not revealing what he really felt. Lying in post-coital bliss in the big bed in Sherlock's suite at the Manor, John wasn't sure what he really felt about the offer either.

"I don't know. Should I? I mean, it's nice to be headhunted and all that, pretty amazing if truth be known, but really? And it's not Doctor Bennett, it's Mister, he's a consultant."

Sherlock shrugged the correction off. "Irrelevant," he murmured. "You're worried that I see this as something of a threat. In fact I would go so far as to say you think I want you to say no to it."

"Do you?" It was impossible to get around that argument. That was exactly what had been going through John's head. He was used to Sherlock's spot-on assessments of what he was thinking by now anyway.

"What? Want you to say no to it?" Sherlock queried. "I'm not sure yet. Part of me recognises that it would give you a job working on something you love, it would improve your self-esteem, make you more agreeable even, not to mention the nice salary and hours to suit. Yet part of me also realises I would have to share you, you would come home wanting to discuss all manner of grisly details and angst over what you should have done... Hm, maybe that's irrelevant too. You do all that anyway."

"And you've never shied away from grisly details. You share me with the surgery already. I work longer hours there than I would at the hospital."

"No competition then." Sherlock smiled. "Starting salary of around ninety thousand I would estimate. You should ask for more though. You're good. Salaries there go up to 150K for someone with your experience."

John didn't bother wondering how Sherlock knew that, nor why. "There's also something it would mean more of," he said, Sherlock's head rolled on the pillow so he could look at John, a glint of curiosity in the pale gaze. "More pressure. I'm really not sure I want that."

"John Watson refusing pressure and excitement? You're not sickening for something are you? Coming down with the 'flu maybe? That is definitely not a reason I would have expected you of all people to give, John. However, much as it pains me to admit it, it's your decision."

"Actually no, it's not. Not now we've made a commitment together. We both have to be happy with this or there's no point in being a partnership."

"Very well, if you insist. John, you should take this job. You are brilliant at what you do. You've missed it and it would help restore your seemingly battered self-esteem, although why you should feel that way I have no idea. You are a wonderful man. I would get to see you more and you could fit your hours around me, like any good husband should." He chuckled. "My mother can tell everyone I'm married to one of the best consultant trauma surgeons in the country and so everybody is happy. Even Mycroft wouldn't complain at being your brother-in-law."

"In that case, I'll call Mr Bennett on Monday and see if his offer was for real or not. I'll take it from there, play it by ear."

"That sounds like a good plan. What?" Sherlock had noticed a change in John's expression as he seemed to realise something.

"Bloody hell! You don't reckon that Greg might...well, him and Mycroft?"

"Quite possible. I would suspect Greg of being the one to pop the question, though. I doubt Mycroft would have the confidence in matters of the heart."

"Easy to see how they feel about each other."

"Plain as the nose on your face."

"You know, we have quite a team," John considered, thoughtfully. "We could open a private security consultancy. We have a talented consulting detective, a brilliant trauma surgeon, an accomplished detective inspector, and..." he paused, eyes meeting Sherlock's. They both burst out giggling. "I'm not sure what Mycroft is, actually," John admitted. "It's all very well him being able to say his brother-in-law is a surgeon, but what about me? How the hell can I swank about my brother-in-law? I mean, has his job even got a title? What does he do, for gods' sake? Apart from saving the world on a daily basis."

"Whatever it is, I know he does it brilliantly," Sherlock admitted. "Mycroft never does anything by halves."

"I was thinking of asking Greg to be my best man. Would you mind?" John enquired.

"Not at all, I was considering asking my brother." Sherlock smiled. "I just want to see his face when I do. It isn't something he'll be expecting, of that I'm certain."

"You're just evil..."

"What can I say? Evil mastermind..." Sherlock shrugged. "Now Moriarty's gone, someone has to step into the breech. Was bound to happen sooner or later. There's still a job for you, you know. Every evil mastermind needs a sidekick."

John smiled. "Sidekick? Thanks a lot! Right hand man at least, surely." He giggled. "It's good we can laugh about it, though."

"I know. Your therapist would probably tell us we were moving on."

"My therapist didn't know her arse from her elbow..."

"And for a medical person that is shameful." They both fell to contented giggling and snuggled closer together, arms entwined, falling asleep soon after.

0o0o0o0o0

"Ah, that's good." Greg sank into the hot water with a contented sigh. He was beginning to feel human again, even though two weeks had passed since the incident and everything had healed up. He was still a little short of breath but John had warned him about scar tissue build up and the possibility of that lung being permanently affected. Still, wasn't as bad as it could be. The scar was actually not that big, but the memory seemed huge and all-encompassing. He shuddered at the thoughts. All he could see in his mind's eye sometimes was the knife handle sticking out of his chest and he had the memory of feeling like someone had stuck a red hot poker in there. Plus the fear, there was always the black cloud of terror that he was going to die, right there, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Gregory? Come back to me." The voice was calm and insistent and Greg opened his eyes to see Mycroft looking down at him.

"Sorry..." he mumbled. Mycroft smiled and squatted down beside the bath. He was wearing a butler's apron and his sleeves were rolled up.

"There is no need to be sorry. You were remembering?" Greg nodded and Mycroft sighed. "You need to speak to a counsellor. Someone to pour it out to. Let me bring someone in for you, Gregory, I know a few good people. I think I can do a better job for you than they did for John."

"When I'm ready, I'll let you know. I don't respond well to being pushed. Back off a bit, My', please? Don't nag me on this."

Mycroft paused, assessing, then smiled and nodded. "Very well, but if this becomes an issue, if I feel you're getting depressed, or if John has concerns, then we'll reassess the matter."

Greg nodded. "Okay."

"Good. Now, I propose to bath you..."

"God, there's no need for that. I can manage now."

"There's every need, Gregory. You're almost healed and this isn't so much about getting you clean as allowing me to be positively filthy." His voice dropped to a husky murmur. "I intend to return the favour of our first date."

Greg's mouth went dry and he felt his cock twitch pleasantly. "Oh. Well then, don't let me stop you..."

"Indeed," Mycroft smiled warmly. "You couldn't if you wanted to."

***

Connecting

When he thought about it all, Greg really couldn't wrap his head around how fast he had fallen for another man. He watched the man in bemused silence as he leaned over the bath and soaped a flannel.

"Good. Now, I propose to bath you..." Greg's first thought was that Mycroft wanted to help him yet again, and he protested his independence.

"God, there's no need for that. I can manage now." Mycroft, however, had refuted the need to help him, while stressing his own agenda. As the words tripped from a mouth that bore a positive smirk, in a voice that had deepened with desire and become husky with need, the full import of what Mycroft intended hit Greg like a ton of bricks.

"This isn't so much about getting you clean as allowing me to be positively filthy."

The words rang around Greg's head over and over again. His mouth dried, despite his close proximity to a fairly substantial body of water. "Oh. Well then, don't let me stop you..." he managed to say in a voice that lacked strength. Mycroft's smirk widened and his next words, the purring sound of his voice, went straight to Greg's groin.

"Indeed, you couldn't if you wanted to."

Greg took a deep breath as his cock filled completely. He watched Mycroft lather the flannel and proceed with the task in hand, unable, indeed, to do anything constructive about it except lie there and let himself be taken care of, in more ways than one.

Embarrassment had coloured Greg's memory of being cared for by Mycroft in the first few days after they had let him out of hospital. He hated being a patient, fretted at being confined in bed for long and disliked the fact that he should be reliant on anyone for his welfare. John sympathised with him and confessed to having felt exactly the same way but, as Greg's doctor in this instance, he stressed that Greg allow himself time to heal and not to try to do too much too soon.

The elder Holmes had insisted that Greg return with him to the ancestral manor in the country, where he could be properly cared for. Mycroft had suggested—God forbid he actually demand—that John and Sherlock come along as well. Mycroft argued eloquently that the idea served multiple purposes. The doctor could be close by in case Greg should need assistance, he could check on his patient regularly and both John and Sherlock would be close by to assist and approve—or disapprove of, as Sherlock pointed out—Mummy's plans for the wedding. The arrangement had made perfect sense and once John had agreed, Sherlock had grudgingly capitulated.

So Greg found himself being helped to dress, to sit up in bed, to eat, to wash, even helped to the toilet, although he refused point blank to allow anything further where that was concerned. He wasn't paralysed and said so. Nobody was wiping his arse for him. Even so, he wondered how he would have coped if he'd returned to his lonely flat by himself. So he swallowed his pride and accepted the help gratefully. Mycroft was actually kindness itself. He was gentle, careful, attentive. He spent time with Greg, simply sitting there reading a newspaper or sharing tea and scones. He moved his office into the bedroom—his files and laptop, Blackberry and briefcase—and sat working in quiet solitude, mostly texting and emailing, retiring briefly now and again into the hall outside the bedroom to make or take a call.

Greg stayed ensconced in the big comfortable bed watching crap daytime television—there was a plasma on the table across the end of the bed—reading the newspaper when Mycroft had finished with it or simply giving in to sleep. When Mycroft took a break, usually when their butler, Jones, arrived with tea and scones, they talked about anything and everything. They found a mutual appreciation of cricket, tennis and golf, although Greg's liking for football and rugby fell on deaf ears. Mycroft's love of opera left Greg floundering a little, and Greg's liking for Gilbert and Sullivan was met with polite disdain and amusement. They found they both liked classical music: Chopin, Mendelssohn, Liszt, although some of the things Greg liked were met with polite restraint from Mycroft who would never see the value of punk rock or New Romantic ballads.

The first time Mycroft had offered to bath him, Greg had been too surprised to refuse. Mycroft had proved himself the perfect manservant, thorough and helpful, gently laving him with a washcloth so soft it had to be expensive. He had dried Greg off with equally soft towels and taken care to make sure he was kept warm. Greg had slept exceptionally well that night, worn out by the exertion but feeling more like himself than he had in weeks. He was cared for, cared about, and that fact alone was inestimable.

Now, though, there was no embarrassment. Greg watched Mycroft through half-closed eyes as the man bent to his task, bathing him thoroughly before moving on to more pleasurable pursuits. It was entirely typical that he get the pragmatic business of cleanliness over with before turning his attention to a different goal.

At the first gentle squeeze that obviously had nothing to do with being bathed, Greg's eyes flew open and he moaned softly.

"Are you quite alright, Gregory?"

"I'm f. ...fine...God, that feels good." He lay against the end of the bath and tipped his head back. Moments later he felt fingertips trace feather-light down his throat, over his Adam's apple and along his clavicle. They descended over his chest, lavishing attention on a nipple, rolling the little nub of proud flesh between thumb and index finger. Greg gasped, arching his back a little, making waves in the bath as he did so. He heard Mycroft's soft chuckle as he allowed his other hand to continue to stroke and squeeze.

Soft lips caressed Greg's ear, Mycroft's husky voice whispering filthy suggestions as the water splashed and slapped around him. "When you're well enough, Gregory, my darling, be sure I am going to fuck you, slowly. Agonisingly slowly in fact." The slow suggestive drawl brought Greg's flesh out in goosebumps. "Oh, I am going to take my time with you," Mycroft whispered. His lips pressed kisses to the shell of Greg's ear, tongue tip tracing the shape. Warm breath huffed softly across the damp skin of Greg's neck, making him shiver. "I am going to possess that strong body of yours, bend you over the desk in my study and take you, very hard—" each suggestion was punctuated with a kiss "—very fast, and very, very deeply. Then I would like it if you would return the favour, and fuck me in return, maybe over the back of the Chesterfield, or maybe you would like me on my knees on the rug..." Greg took a shuddering breath and couldn't help himself, he moaned; a soft groan loaded with passion and almost desperate need. He surprised himself again, wondering at the feelings coursing through him elicited by another man; a good looking, enigmatic man but a man nevertheless.

Mycroft smiled, a neat little playful grin, his hand slowly working Greg's shaft beneath the water. "I think we ought to finish this when you're out of the bath. Otherwise the water will go cold and you'll get a chill. Come on, now." He ceased his stroking and became businesslike, insisting on helping Greg towel down and put on a warm robe. He offered an arm for Greg to lean on as they went back into the bedroom, guiding him to the bed, pushing him down onto it. Greg lay back and Mycroft opened his robe, peeling back the soft fabric from his chest, whereupon Greg watched as Mycroft's head dipped and his tongue lapped at Greg's nipple, teasing it to hardness. Greg's cock jumped and he gasped, and Mycroft moved to nurse the other nipple, sucking and lapping, his hand straying south to grasp and massage Greg's erection.

"Want to touch you..." Greg ground out through gritted teeth.

"By all means, Gregory. Don't let me stop you. Although I am doing this for you, not for me. I want you to relax and enjoy it."

"Oh, I am, don't worry on that score." Greg reached up to slide a hand behind Mycroft's neck and drag him in for a kiss. "Just want to kiss you, actually."

Their lips met in a searching kiss, a messy connection of tongues and teeth, each man tasting and exploring the other, leaving them both breathless and wanting more. Mycroft almost regretfully pulled away and his head dipped, lips kissing down Greg's chest and belly, feeling the muscles flinch under his touch as he worked his way down. Despite Greg's distinguished pepper-and-salt grey hair, Mycroft was interested to note that there were few grey hairs elsewhere. As he followed the trail down from his lover's light dusting of hair across his chest to the nest of darker curls at his groin it seemed the majority of the grey was reserved for more visible areas. Mycroft felt strong fingers card though his hair and heard Greg's breath stutter and catch as Mycroft's mouth found its goal. He lapped at the slit and the salty taste of precome blossomed on his tongue before his lips slid over that beautiful erection.

Greg's hips bucked as Mycroft's hot wet mouth closed over the head of his cock. Greg couldn't help watching, he couldn't look away as his prick slid all the way in, bumping the back of Mycroft's throat. The man's tongue swirled around the shaft as he pulled back, then drew Greg back in again, sucking hard. "Christ! That...what you do...with your tongue. It should be bloody illegal." Mycroft chuckled and hummed and that had Greg gasping and bucking and wondering where Mycroft had learned to give such a fantastic blow job.

"Why, Detective Inspector, are you planning to have me arrested for indecency?" he purred.

"I think...we can come...to some arrangement... Mr. Holmes..." Greg gasped, laughing.

"Good. I can think of nothing more tedious than a night in the cells...although the thought of being handcuffed does have its appeal..." He let that little tidbit hang in the air and continued where he had left off.

Greg lost all sense of time as the gentle onslaught of sucking and licking brought him ever closer to release. Mycroft wouldn't let him up, wouldn't dream of letting him do more than lie on the bed and be given the best oral sex of his entire life.

"Harder..." Greg whispered eventually. "I'm not going to come if you don't..."

Mycroft smiled and nodded, sitting back to reach for a small bottle on the nightstand. Greg regretted the loss of contact but it wasn't for long. He watched as Mycroft squeezed a generous measure of lube into his palm and then wrapped his hand around Greg's shaft. He gave it one or two gentle tugs and then pumped hard and fast, his grip just right, just tight enough, adding a slight twist to the downstroke which brought his lover to completion with a soft cry, his back a lovely arch as he spent himself over Mycroft's fingers.

The look Mycroft gave him, a soft, almost vulnerable look loaded with tenderness, made Greg smile in complete and utter happiness. He sat up and grabbed Mycroft into a hug, wrapping his arms around the not-insubstantial frame of his lover and holding him close. Greg felt soft breath on his neck and a gentle kiss beneath his ear. Their lips met again, each opening to the other, tongues tasting each other again, kisses deepening and lengthening while they explored each other lazily. Greg leaned back against the headboard of the bed and drew Mycroft down so he was lying over Greg's knees. Greg let his hand drop to massage the bulge under the soft fabric of his trousers.

"God, I want you, My'," he said softly. Mycroft gasped and moved to stop his hand, arresting his movement with gentle fingers on his wrist.

"It's alright, Greg. I need sleep, don't fret about returning the favour." He leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to Greg's temple. "You can pleasure me tomorrow if you've a mind to," he said throatily. "Right now, I need my sleep. I have to be up early. I have a meeting I cannot miss and the car will be here at eight." He chuckled at Greg's crestfallen look and patted his cheek. "Go to sleep, my darling. John will shout at me if I don't look after you. I have some paperwork to organise first but then I'll come to bed."

Greg smiled. "Okay. Don't stay away too long. Promise I'll be a good boy."

"That's a shame, I was hoping you would be a bad boy, Gregory. You do it so very well."

"Oh, that's nothing. I can be positively filthy when I want to be."

"That's good. I look forward to finding out just how filthy you can be, tomorrow..."

0o0o0o0o0

A knife flashed in the streetlight and the rain, lightning dancing in the prematurely dark sky, leaden with heavy thunderheads. Rain splashed as he ran, feet flying down the slippery pavements, slithering and sliding as he ducked into dark alleyways. Terror and pain made him run faster, his pursuers close behind but never visible, harrying him into fresh bursts of speed, his lungs screaming with the effort. Abruptly, he ran up against a dead end, the dingy, dirty alleyway blocked by a brick wall, impossibly high and too slick with the pelting rain to climb. Gasping, lungs labouring, he turned, aware how unfit he was to face this unseen threat, the bile rising in his throat at his helplessness...

"It's alright, Gregory! Calm down, darling. You're safe..." Mycroft's voice reached him through the fog of sleep and nightmare. He thrashed free of the constricting sheet and blankets, struggled to sit up, chest heaving, and hissed in pain as his aching chest made itself manifest. He was shaking, gasping, sweat pouring off him.

"Jesus..." he coughed, doubled over with it, felt a gentle hand rub soothing circles on his back.

"Easy, Gregory. Try to relax. I'm here..."

"Thank God," he ground out through teeth gritted against the pain. Gradually, he calmed, leaning against Mycroft as the man held him close, stroked his hair, soothed him.

"Are you quite recovered? Should I call John?" Greg sat up again carefully, testing his strength. When nothing else threatened to give way, hurt or otherwise debilitate him, he shook his head.

"No, I'm okay. Sorry if I scared you. Scared myself..." he huffed an exasperated laugh. "Damn. I don't want one of those too often."

"Care to talk about it?"

"Nothing to talk about. I was running away from something. Classic pursuit dream, unseen foe, terror...Nothing tangible. I maybe need to talk to that counsellor now."

"I can call someone in the morning. I'm honestly surprised you are so...amenable to this, Gregrory. John was far from cooperative."

"Why? Just because John had a shit time and was put off for life doesn't mean I'm going to be the same. Besides, I need a counsellor, not a psychiatrist. I need to talk things through, not So no, I won't refuse your offer. If I asked you not to push me about it, it was only because I need to come to these things in my own time, not that I won't do them at all." He watched Mycroft nod, satisfied. Then Greg lay back, taking a deep breath as he relaxed into the comfort and warmth of the big bed. Mycroft leaned over him, blue eyes gazing into Greg's deep brown.

"Well, for now, maybe I can...distract you?" Mycroft had that filthy smile on his lips again. Greg grinned.

"You did a great job during my bath. What did you have in mind this time?"

"Something gentle, indulgent." Mycroft's voice was all it took to make him erect.

"Mmm, so hard..." Greg smiled, enjoying the feeling. Mycroft's fingers stroked along his length and Greg sighed with pleasure.

"You're quite well-built," Mycroft commented with a smile. "Respectable girth too. I fear I cannot hope to compare."

"Don't be so daft, My'. I've seen you. You're not so bad yourself, you know. Won't be long now and you can do everything you promised."

"Oh, I shall, Gregory. I shall. Now, though, you need to relax. Roll over." Which was how, five minutes later, Greg found himself face down and subject to Mycroft's considerable experience at massage.

***

John found Sherlock in the library, after breakfast. He was facing one of the tall mullioned windows that looked out across the rain-drenched garden. The thousand yard stare he was currently engaged in left no room for doubt that something had overfaced him. Either Lavinia Holmes had been discussing her ideas with him over breakfast or Mycroft had been needling him again.

"Good morning, Dr Watson," Mycroft had greeted John genially from the head of the table when he had gone down to breakfast. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, though. John knew he must have risen quite early; he had been gone by the time John had awoken and the bed beside him was already cool to the touch. John had gone to the sideboard and served himself bacon, eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes from the silver tureens there and then taken a seat a few places away, refusing to cosy up to Sherlock's elder brother if he didn't absolutely have to. "I'm afraid you've missed Sherlock," Mycroft continued. "He was already here when I arrived. I'm pleased to see he's eating more these days."

"He is? Probably no more than necessary," John replied, tucking into his own substantial plateful. The fact that Sherlock was actually eating at all was a miracle in itself. The detective was more content than he had ever been, calmer and more grounded. Whether their impending marriage was doing it or not, John wasn't sure. He only knew it seemed to be doing exactly the opposite for him. He spent more time feeling edgy rather than calm, more than he had ever done before, and he was including Afghanistan in that equation too. So far it wasn't affecting his appetite but there was still time.

"Actually, Sherlock ate quite well this morning," Mycroft volunteered. "I think your arrangement is good for him. You are good for him, John." There was a pause. "You know, I am grateful. I wish you to understand, John, despite our...difficulties in communication, Sherlock and I are still brothers. I do care about him, even though I have made mistakes in that regard in the past, mistakes Sherlock is reluctant to forgive me for." Mycroft fixed John with a look of utter sincerity. "I am glad you have found each other, very glad. I am happy for him, especially. I just wish you to know I am behind your mutual decision to get married. You are good for each other." He smiled and pushed his chair back. "Well, if you will excuse me, I will get on. I have to check on Greg and then I need to work. Good morning."

"Morning..." John watched him go, confused. Mycroft had sounded very sincere. Maybe Greg was rubbing off on him too. If John was honest with himself the thought of this whole marriage thing was agitating him for reasons he couldn't begin to deduce. He was—in the marital sense—settling down (although what could be further from the truth where Sherlock was concerned John had no idea). He and Sherlock were tying the proverbial knot, getting hitched, jumping the broom. Whatever epithet he cared to use, the inescapable fact was that he was getting married, and what's more, marrying a man, for the love of God! When he clapped eyes on the man in question, however, standing stock still in front of the library window, eyes unfocused, whole body almost vibrating with tension, John knew why. Sherlock, even a tense, anxious Sherlock, was a beautiful sight.

"Sherlock? Locky?" John waved a hand in front of Sherlock's face. Nothing. "Sherlock?" He slipped a hand behind the man's neck and slowly rubbed circles on the nape. He felt the shiver beneath his fingers. "Locky, what's the matter?" Sherlock turned, a small frown on his face, making him look older.

"Hmm?"

"Has Mummy been bludgeoning you with her ideas?"

"Mmm." He turned back to the window with John behind him. He let loose a small sigh as that man wound his arms around Sherlock's chest and laid his cheek against the warm shoulders.

"S'okay, love," John murmured. "We'll talk to her together. We'll get what we want, I promise."

"That's alright for you to say but I don't know what I want. I didn't exactly envisage this day arriving, as I'm sure you can imagine." Sherlock sighed softly. "She's bubbling over with ideas and I'm sure they're all lovely but I can't think!" He blew out a gusty exhalation through his mouth, venting his frustration. "She's a little...overwhelming. She's talking about bows and flowers and morning suits and food and.. Gah! Too much! At this rate, I'm beginning to regret asking you." John almost stopped breathing. Silence fell. Sherlock felt John freeze in place behind his back.

"Sherlock, love...you know..." John hesitated, swallowing down the lump in his throat. "If you don't want this," he managed to say. "Well, you only have to say." Sherlock whipped round in the circle of his arms so fast that John gasped in surprise. He suddenly found himself engulfed in those lanky arms, holding him firmly, preventing him either falling or escaping.

"Don't be stupid, John. Of course I want this. Good God, no matter what hoops mummy wants to make me jump through, I do want this. I want you, us, together. You're not getting away from me now."

John buried his face in Sherlock's chest and sighed with relief. "Sorry, but you sounded..."

"I know and I'm sorry. I was being sarcastic, John." The sigh was deep and heartfelt. "Not good, I'm sorry." John huffed a laugh.

"A bit not good, yeah. Apology accepted though." He tightened his arms around Sherlock's back and held on, took a deep steadying breath and tried to calm his heart beat down.

"John? Are you alright?"

"Me? Yeah. Fine. It's all fine, Sherlock. At least, I'm absolutely bloody terrified but it'll pass. This whole thing, it's freaking me out a bit, never mind you."

"Why? Is it too much for you? Would you rather we pulled back...?" Now it was John's turn to hug Sherlock harder.

"No, you daft git. Not at all. I do want this. It's just...important, you know? It's big, very big. I agree that it's a bit overwhelming but nothing I can't handle." Sherlock's smile was broad and warm.

"My John," he said softly. "Courageous as ever. By my side through thick and thin. I'm distinctly aware than I'm often not as reciprocating as I should be. I can only say I'll try to be there for you more."

"You do the best you can. I can't ask for more."

"You can and you should. Demand things of me, John. Make me rise to your challenges. Give me something to aspire to. Call me out on things." He smiled. "But you do that already."

"Yeah, I do. Seems like I'll have to come up with some new challenges for you then. I know. We have to touch each other...not like that!" he added, digging Sherlock in the ribs. "I meant in an affectionate way, not a suggestive or arousing way. We should do that at least once a day and we should tell each other we love each other every day as well. How about that?"

"Hardly a challenge, John. I believe we do that already."

"Hmm, you don't. Not every day anyway."

"Then consider it rectified. I shall from now on."

"Boys, there you are." Lavinia Holmes opened the door and stared at them fondly. "I've been looking for you," she said as they two men reluctantly disengaged from each other.

"Mummy, if this is to inflict your plans on us again...ooft!" John elbowed him in the ribs and growled warningly.

"Sherlock, be nice. Lavinia...mum... what did you have in mind?"

"Oh, John. You called me mum..." "

Oh, I'm sorry, was that not okay? I know you've not told me I could but...well, I will be your son-in-law soon..." Sherlock almost rolled his eyes. John was improving in the dissembling stakes. Mummy was captivated, not to mention distracted.

"No, dear, it's quite all right. Quite all right. So, I really am gaining a son, am I not? Well...Oh, my dear, you've quite flustered me." She dabbed her eyes while Sherlock smirked and nudged John in the back. John ignored him and reached for Mummy's hand.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I simply thought it was...well, I feel a little odd calling you Lavinia."

"That's not a problem, John. I'm flattered. Now, boys," she became businesslike. "I thought you might like to visit Flockton and Graves this afternoon..."

"What?" John asked as Sherlock groaned. "Who are Flockton and Graves?"

"Men's outfitters in town," Sherlock supplied. "Christ, I went there for my first suit. Mr Graves must be into his eighties..."

"He's seventy three and semi-retired, if you want to know," Lavinia explained. "His son has taken over and they still work in the traditional way. You should get your wedding attire from them. After all, the Holmes men have been patronising them for the last hundred and fifty years. I should have thought you would have wanted to continue the tradition, Sherlock. One of you might want to visit on a separate occasion though. After all, you shouldn't see each other's attire before the wedding, that would be unlucky."

"Mother, we are both men, we are hardly having a traditional wedding..." Sherlock began but Lavinia held up a finger for quiet.

"Locky, darling, please allow me some modicum of tradition. I won't ask you to carry flowers and you won't expect me to allow you to see each other's outfits before you say your vows. How would that be?" Sherlock sighed dramatically and Lavinia smiled, ever so slightly triumphantly.

0o0o0o0o0

"My'?" Greg reached out and laid a hand on Mycroft's arm. He had been watching his prospective partner flick glances at his brother and John over the dinner table later that same day with increasing concern. Mycroft's expression was bland but there was a tick in one eyebrow, small but noticeable—especially if you were looking as hard as Greg was. Now they were reclining peacefully and alone in the sitting room on one of the Chesterfields, a fire blazing in the hearth opposite. On the coffee table there were posh little macaron cakes sharing a plate with civilised little chocolatey mint things, a cafetiere of good coffee and all the trimmings scattered across the surface. Greg shifted to find a more comfortable position and looked at his lover. Mycroft was thinking so hard Greg could almost hear the cogs turning.

"My'."

"Hm?" Mycroft turned his blue gaze toward Greg, small frown in place.

"What's the matter? You've been very quiet."

"Oh, it's nothing, Gregory. I'm quite alright."

"Don't lie to me," Greg's voice turned hard. His eyes brooked no argument. Mycroft's frown deepened.

"I am not lying, Gregory, simply thinking. Nothing of consequence, honestly."

"Then why am I having a hard time believing you?" Greg asked him. "Look, Mycroft, I've been watching you. You've been watching Sherlock and John, all evening. What about them is disturbing you?"

"Nothing... honestly, Gregory." Mycroft tried to sound earnest. "Sherlock asked me to be his best man, did you know?"

Greg grinned. "Yeah, John asked me to be his actually. So we're to be best men to our mates, then."

"I'm not sure if Sherlock counts me as a mate, exactly."

"Family, then. Doesn't matter..."

"Yes, family. I am definitely that. It's odd to think I am the eldest, and yet... I always thought I might marry first. Now I wonder if I'll ever marry at all."

So there it was. Greg frowned. Was Mycroft disappointed that it wasn't him getting married? "Do you think you ever will get married, My'?"

"Me? I'm not sure. Maybe, to the right man. Although I don't have a good track record there, as well you know." Greg pulled Mycroft down so his head rested on Greg's knees. Greg combed his fingers through the auburn curls as Mycroft's blue eyes gazed up at him. "How do you feel about us?" Greg asked, curious to understand what was coursing through his lover's mind.

"Us?" Mycroft smiled.

"Yes. I mean, are we just a dalliance, where you're concerned? You know, a way to pass the time?"

"How could you think that, Gregory? Who was it stayed at your side when you were in hospital? I was..." Mycroft paused and looked away.

"What were you, My'?" Greg pressed.

"I was..." Too involved for my own good? Too emotionally connected? "Am—" he corrected "—in love with you, Gregory. I care about you, a lot. Too much, in fact. I find I am invested heavily in your welfare."

"Sorry?" Greg offered, not sure how Mycroft was feeling about that.

"Sorry? My dear Gregory, you have no need to be sorry. This is quite the best thing that has happened to me since I told Mummy I was gay." He smiled with the memory. "Sherlock knew, of course. He knew well before I told anyone but, for once, he had kept it secret. I thought I had been very discreet, but he knew. I told Mummy the evening before my eighteenth birthday. All she said was that she loved me, no matter what, but that that she would lament the lack of grandchildren and admonished me 'for God's sake, don't tell your Father'." Mycroft chuckled. "Why? Tell me, Gregory, how do you feel about us?"

"I was thinking you'd want my viewpoint."

"You are right. I do."

"I'm... not sure. I mean... you and me..." Greg took a deep breath. "Wow," he said pointedly. "It's sudden, scary and...good, actually. But Jean and I were together a lot of years. I'm not completely over that yet. Don't misunderstand, My', please. I still miss her, I miss what we had, but I'm not all weepy and waily about her death. Our marriage was over long ago, we were just in denial. We failed each other and there's nothing I can do to change any of it. It happened. So I need to face that and move on." Greg fell silent. He wasn't sure if Mycroft supported him or censured him for how he was feeling but he found he didn't really care. He had loved her, at some point, back when they first met. They had got married because they were in love, and they really, really were in love back then. The truth of that sat well with him. The fact that he'd fallen for a man at this stage in his life didn't make his previous relationship a lie. Greg had deliberately never labelled himself, choosing to treat his own sexuality in much the same way he treated everything and everyone, with an open mind. He smiled a little ruefully and shook his head. "Can't be helped. Can't be changed. I loved her but she's dead and I'm very much alive and I want to move on."

"With me, Gregory?"

"Yes, Mycroft, with you. I know you probably think it's an indecently short time to mourn someone, but the fact is that things were not great between us for a long time before I met you. Do you want us to be together?"

"Yes, Gregory, I find that I do." Mycroft's voice was hushed. "So, how do you wish to proceed?"

"How do I...?" Greg frowned, glowering at Mycroft. "Just what is that supposed to mean?"

Mycroft blinked. "Why, exactly how it sounds. Where do we go from here? How do you wish us to move forward? Dinner? A movie?"

"Look, Mycroft, we could go on like this forever." It was Mycroft's turn to look puzzled. "I mean that the rate we're going, this could go around in circles and we'll get nowhere. We need to decide what we want and take it in both hands. Life is too fucking short to dance around each other. Now either we do this, or not, but if we do it, we do it full-on, twenty four seven, no arsing around. I nearly died—" he saw Mycroft wince "—so forgive me if I'm less than patient right now. I'm nearly fifty and I'm not getting any younger here. Mycroft, so help me, I want to make this a double ceremony..." Mycroft's expression cycled through slight puzzlement, into surprise, into full-blown comprehension, the shock registering in his blue eyes and sending his eyebrows almost up to his hairline.

"Oh, Gregory..." Mycroft was stunned. This was an unexpected development and one he had not foreseen, nor had he even allowed himself to hope for. They hardly knew each other. It had the potential to end in complete disaster... and yet... "What happened to 'marry in haste, repent at leisure'?" Mycroft asked gently and Greg laughed.

"I have no idea, but bugger the regrets, I've had too many. Marry me, Mycroft. Let's make it official."

0o0o0o0o0o0

"Say something, John." Greg was sitting across from John in the library where they had retreated after Greg had said he had something important to tell John.

"What can I say?" John asked. "This is...unexpected. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes, I am. I love the daft bugger. He's everything I could want. He has money, power, influence. Damn it, I sound like a gold digger." They both shared a laugh at that but Greg quickly grew serious again. "Look, John, Mycroft is a gentle, caring, loving person if you give him chance. I need to be cared for but I also need to do the caring. He lets me do that, and he cares for me. I want this, and so does he."

"Well, I saw how he acted when you were in hospital. He volunteered to pay for everything. He stayed by your side, insisted on it in fact."

"I know. Thing is, do you think either of you would mind if we turned this into a double ceremony, you and Lock, me and My?"

"A double... You mean all four of us, getting married, together?"

"Well, yeah. Not to each other, I don't think I'm ready for polyamory yet." John laughed.

"Well you were all for it when Sherlock suggested the three of us."

"Yeah I know, but that didn't involve his elder brother. I'm sorry but adding Mycroft to the mix is a little...off the wall. Incest was illegal in this country last time I looked."

"Well, you would know, Detective Inspector," John grinned.

"Yeah, so... how about it then?"

"Double ceremony, eh? I'll need to see what Locky thinks. What?" John asked, seeing Greg's smile.

"Oh nothing. It's just rather sweet, you calling him that."

"I do it to irritate him, his mum calls him that."

"Yeah, right, keep telling yourself that."

"Greg..."

"John, he isn't here. You can't needle him by calling him that when he isn't in the room." John blinked, then blushed. Greg's smile widened. John huffed.

"I'll see what...Sherlock thinks," he said, huffily. Greg leaned over and dug John in the ribs. "Oh fuck it, Greg, alright...Why can't I give the man a nickname? He's had precious little in the way of affection over the years."

"Nothing wrong in it, mate. I was just ribbing you. What you call him is up to you. If you can think of one I can call his brother, be sure to let me know, okay?" John huffed a laugh and nodded.

"Okay, it's a deal."

0o0o0o0o0o0

Lavinia Holmes looked up from her reading to see her eldest son and the detective inspector standing just inside the door of the drawing room, looking anxious. At least, Mycroft was looking anxious, but Greg was...well, Greg was looking relaxed and handsome. Lavinia mentally sighed. If she were twenty years younger... "Mycroft Alexander Holmes, what have you to say for yourself?" she demanded, seeing Mycroft stiffen in anticipation of her censure. "Detective Inspector, please sit down. Have you arrested my son or is this an informal visit?" She was delighted when Greg laughed and clapped Mycroft on the back, playing along with her joke. "Informal visit, madam. I won't be pressing charges at this time." He grinned. Mycroft's eyes had narrowed. "Oh, come on, My', she's joking. Relax." Mycroft huffed and sat down. "Well, an army surgeon and a detective inspector... My boys are doing well for themselves," she said, glancing from one to the other. "The only thing that could make me happier is if you two decide to tie the knot as well."

"That's what we've come to discuss, mummy," Mycroft said softly. He looked up at Greg standing beside him and smiled. "The good detective inspector has asked me to marry him, this very afternoon."

"Oh, Greg, really?" Lavinia was overjoyed. Greg nodded, returning Mycroft's affectionate look.

"And he's agreed," Greg confirmed, reaching out to hug Mycroft to him. The man leaned in to the caress and smiled.

"Oh boys, I'm so pleased for you. Goodness, another wedding?"

"Well, actually..."

***

I'm Game If You Are:

Once he was on his feet again, Greg had taken to exploring the big house. He still submitted to a daily examination from John but the doctor was quick to reassure him that he was progressing nicely and Greg really wanted to get back to fitness. John had warned him about overdoing it and specified gentle exercise, but beyond that he had not objected to Greg's daily walks. When bad weather kept him inside, he started seeing a side to the big house that wasn't readily visible.

One day he wandered up a rather plain and rather narrow stone staircase that he found behind an unobtrusive dark green door near the kitchens. It began on the ground floor and went up, opening onto a landing above. Greg gripped the narrow green-painted metal banister and climbed up it, finding that the stairs continued upward past the first landing. He decided to go to the top and work his way down so he climbed to the second floor and found himself walking along a dim corridor as plain as the staircase had been. This had to be the servants' area, the back stairs, although they now gave onto rooms at the rear of the building that were empty and unoccupied.

Greg paced along the varnished wood floors, his footsteps echoing in the stillness. It was cold up here. There was obviously no central heating, few home comforts. Every room had a small fireplace with a cast iron surround, empty now of course but a small fire could have offered some comfort. Some of the rooms bore the remnants of austere furniture—an iron-frame bed here, a wash stand there—no running water and no ensuite bathrooms. The shutters were all drawn across the windows, chinks of light stabbing into the dim interiors. Cobwebs trailed from corners but the rooms looked somewhat clean, as though they might be dusted and swept perhaps twice a year or so. The place did not seem forgotten, rather just unused. The light switches didn't work, either the power was switched off or had been disconnected in this part of the house.

These then were the servant's quarters, plain and bare. He could imagine coming up here to bed after a hard day's work, a candle to light the way, the only warmth being the blankets on your bed and your little fire. He shook his head in wonder, hearing his phone buzz in pocket.

Where are you, my dear? Not lost, I hope. MH

Greg quickly shot off an answering text.

No, love. On the second floor, servants' wing I think. Took the green door by the kitchen.

What on earth are you doing up there?

Exploring. It's a bygone age up here, Myc.

There was no answering text. Greg walked into a nearby room and opened the shutters, gazing out of the dusty window, finding that it overlooked the stable yard at the back of the house. He wondered whose room this had been, probably a succession of people over the years. It was painted white and cream, with a dado rail and peeling green paper beneath. It looked as if nothing had been done to it for a very long time. In the distance he heard a door open and footsteps echoing along the bare floorboards. Outside, the wind threw rain at the glass. Dead leaves blew into a chaos of brown and gold across the yard below. He shivered involuntarily.

"The house had twenty four servants at the beginning of the century." Greg turned to see Mycroft in the doorway. "It was built to house thirty five." The man was leaning against the frame and his eyes seemed to gaze at nothing for a moment. "It must have been magnificent in its day. There are diary accounts of the balls and dinners my great grandparents held here." Mycroft levered himself away from the doorframe and walked up to stand behind Greg, the warmth from his body welcome in the chill of the room.

"Twenty four?" Greg queried. "What on earth did they all do?"

"Oh, various jobs. Butler, housekeeper, cook, nanny, valet, footmen, chauffeurs, gamekeeper and under gamekeeper, stable hands, ladies maids, parlour maids, kitchen maids, tweenies..." He paused seeing Greg's blank look. "Short for between maid," he explained. "Lowest of the low. They were there to serve the servants. The term comes from the fact that their job was split between the Butler, the Cook and the Housekeeper."

Greg nodded and leaned back into Mycroft's warmth. "You know a lot about it."

"I love history," Mycroft admitted. "I am particularly interested in our family's past. We have photos and ledgers and accounts from those days if you're interested."

"In those days, you'd have been lord of the bloody manor, wouldn't you?"

Mycroft nodded. "And you would have been one of the estate workers I expect. Gamekeeper maybe?"

"You don't strike me as a Lady Chatterley type."

"Why, Greg? Are you having fantasies?"

Greg chuckled. "Maybe..."

"Ever read Maurice?"

"Maurice who?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "The book by E.M. Forster?" Greg still looked blank. "Everybody has heard of Lady Chatterley but where one of the greatest tales of homosexuality ever told is concerned, few people I talk to admit to having read it. It actually has a happy ending too, despite it being considered an inferior work of his."

"Doubtless you have a copy."

"Of course."

"What's it about then?"

"The homosexual relationship between the under-gamekeeper of a country house and a young stockbroker by the name of Maurice Hall in the early years of the 20th century."

"What was the gamekeeper's name then? And why is it always a bloody gamekeeper?"

"The gamekeeper's name was Alec Scudder and I have no idea. Maybe there is something delightfully rough about someone who spends his time in the open air and carries a gun around with him."

Greg smiled. "Maybe. So, would you like me to play the part of servant to your Lord then?"

"Gregory, are you suggesting we role play?" Mycroft sounded deliciously scandalised.

"Might be... yeah. You know, out in the woods, you never know what you might come across."

—

The following morning, Mycroft came across Greg sitting by the fire in the drawing room, a book perched on his knee. It was obviously engrossing because he didn't look up. "Gregory? Are you alright?" Greg glanced up as if seeing him for the first time and a grin spread across his features that made Mycroft fall in love with him all over again. It was a heart-meltingly gorgeous smile; relaxed, content and happy. "What are you reading?"

"I'm fine, love. Mummy said any more about the Big Day?" Mycroft shook his head and sat down on the other side of the fire. "John seems to think I'm about recovered," Greg told him. "Sherlock is chaffing to get back to London."

"How about you, Gregory? Would you like to go home?"

"Why, would you miss me?"

"Rather a moot point now, is it not? Considering we are affianced."

"You didn't answer my question."

Mycroft sighed. "Yes, I would."

Greg smiled. "I'll stay with you as long as you want, you know that."

"We haven't exactly spoken about future arrangements," Mycroft observed. "After we're married, you'll come live with me, in my Mayfair apartment? There's room for two."

"There's room for a battalion in your apartment, Mycroft. The place is huge."

It was Mycroft's turn to smile. "Only the best for my husband," he said.

"I don't want to become a kept man, you know..."

"You won't. I'm sure if you cannot go back to policing, then you'll find something else equally worthy of your talents. You could write a book."

"I'm too young to write my memoirs, My'."

"Nonsense. Have you seen who writes memoirs these days? Pop singers barely out of their teens and chat show hosts with obscure little shows that set those of a low IQ against each other like bull terriers in a dog pit. What on earth do they know that would be of the slightest bit of interest to the rest of us? You on the other hand are mature, experienced and capable. I cannot believe you wouldn't find an audience for a volume of your reminiscences." He checked his watch. "I must be off. I'm afraid I have a meeting in two hours. I'll be back this evening." He dropped a kiss on the top of Greg's head. "See you later, my love."

Greg smiled and nodded. "Stay safe," he called and watched Mycroft go.

Mycroft made a dash through the morning drizzle to the waiting car. It was only as he was settling into the plush interior that he realized Gregory had not told him the title of the book he was reading.

—-

Mycroft was seated at his desk in his study a few days later when the text arrived. Gregory had been noticeably absent for a while by the time the text interrupted Mycroft as he tried to finish off a stack of paperwork.

Would you come down to the stable yard? GL

Mycroft stared at the text. What on earth was Gregory playing at? He sent a swift text back.

I'm rather busy. Are you alright? MH

Moments later an answer came back.

Yes. Sorry if I worried you, love. Please could you come?

As nothing else was forthcoming, Mycroft sent a reply.

Yes, alright, but this had better be interesting.

Intrigued, Mycroft left his office and went down to the stables post haste. On the way down he wondered what Greg was up to. Maybe he had found something else of interest on his exploration of the Manor. Quite what, though, Mycroft was at a loss to predict. Once he stepped outdoors his breath plumed in the cold air and he stood in the silence of the empty yard and wondered where Greg had lost himself this time. Once upon a time, as recently as his own childhood in fact, the yard had echoed with the sounds of horses; hooves striking cobble stones, jingling harness and soft neighs. Now, though, it was silent, pregnant with so many memories now no more than black and white photos in tatty boxes in the attic. He shivered, wishing he had thought to don his overcoat.

"Gregory!" he called, frustrated. It was not a day for playing games. It was too cold to stand around waiting. "Are you there?"

"Sir?" Came the familiar voice.

"Where are you? Your..." he had been about to say text but the word died in his throat. "Your message said you wished to speak with me."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir..."

Sir? What was Gregory doing calling him sir?

"Gregory, what are you playing...at...oh." The man in question had just appeared at the door to the stables, the fingertips of one hand raised to touch his forehead in a gesture of respect. Gregory was wearing tweeds; breeches, waistcoat and jacket. From the stout boots on his feet to the ghillie hat perched on his head he was attired top to toe in vintage gamekeeper's uniform, including a shotgun, open at the breech, perched across his other arm. "Oh..." Mycroft wasn't usually at a loss for words but this... ungh... Mycroft was aware of his pulse speeding up and he could swear he had just felt his pupils dilate. Something else south of his navel twitched pleasantly.

"Lestrade, sir. Your new gamekeeper." Mycroft noted the softly rolling accent that betrayed Gregory's west country origins. He wasn't putting it on, merely allowing the natural timbre of his own voice to come through.

"Of course." Play along, play along, Mycroft's mind was screaming at him. He suddenly had to resist the urge to pin his lover against the wall and snog him silly. However, that wouldn't do. Gregory had obviously gone to a lot of trouble and the last thing Mycroft was going to do was waste this opportunity. He rose to the challenge instead and adopted his usual cool aloofness. "You wanted to...speak with me? Then speak up, man. I don't have all day."

"O' course, sir, but it's cold out here. Would you care to step into the warm and share a nip o' brandy?"

"Thank you, I would." Mycroft followed Gregory as he lead him into the stables, out of the wind. Greg picked a silver hip flask out of his pocket and offered it over. As Mycroft took a swallow—it was very good brandy and warmed him to the core—his eyes roamed appreciatively over the details of Greg's costume; the linen shirt with its stiff starched white collar, the gold chain of a pocket watch across the waistcoat, gaters covering his lower legs. Mycroft felt distinctly underdressed even though he was wearing his own country-gentleman tweeds, his suit of choice when at the manor. Despite being contemporary Saville Row, it was a classic so he didn't feel completely out of place. He handed the flask back and straightened his back a little more, peering down his aristocratic nose at the man in front of him. Their eyes met, gazes held. "So, Lestrade,wasn't it?" Mycroft said. "Down to business. Your purpose in asking me here?"

"To meet with you..." Gregory seemed suddenly uncertain. "Sir," he added softly.

"To meet me?" Mycroft affected nonchalance.

"Yes, sir. Well, sir, I've heard a lot about you..."

"If you've heard about me, then you know I don't suffer fools, time wasters or sycophants. You don't strike me as a fool, Lestrade."

"No, sir."

"Or a time waster, either. I've heard good things about you and you don't seem the sort."

"No, sir."

"So that leaves sycophant." Mycroft watched Gregory's eyes turn confused and uncertain. There was something Mycroft found utterly adorable in the brown eyes that regarded him. Gregory lifted his chin defiantly as if seeing something in Mycroft's gaze that intimated he might be uncouth, uneducated, not worthy of His Lordship's regard. He was a good actor, Mycroft had to concede, although in his profession Gregory must have been required to dissemble on more than one occasion. "I cannot believe that you would not give me total honesty, Lestrade, and you do not strike me as one given to servile behaviour, no matter your position." Mycroft suppressed a smile. He was enjoying this. "For Goodness' sake, what the deuce is your name?"

Confusion crossed Gregory's face again. "My name? Your Lordship knows my name..."

"Not your surname, man. Your first name."

"Greg...Gregory, sir."

"Gregory. Gregory it is then. Well, Gregory, delightful as it is to make your acquaintance, there are matters which require my attention. I look forward to a fruitful working relationship. I shall bid you good day." Mycroft turned to go, then paused. "Although..." He spun back, raised a finger to his lips as if thinking, then stepped closer, his gaze taking on a predatory gleam. "As your employer, you are my business. You seem...needful of something. I wonder what that might be?" Somehow, despite being less than two inches taller than his fiance, Mycroft managed to loom over Greg. The man shrank back slightly, as if intimidated by the sudden turn of events.

"I've offended you, sir." He ducked his head in mute apology.

"No, not at all. Intrigued me, but not offended..." Mycroft wasn't sure how Gregory wanted to play this out. Did he want Mycroft to be the overbearing employer, to be the forceful, powerful one? Did Greg want to be the forceful one, a Mellors to Mycroft's Lady Chatterley? So far, there seemed to be no objections. Mycroft shared a glance with his fiance and saw the hidden enjoyment of what they were doing behind the facade. This was alright then, as far as Gregory was concerned. Mycroft gave him a slow wink in acknowledgement.

"Come to my room," Greg suddenly blurted out.

"Your room?" Mycroft put his head on one side and raised his eyebrows.

"We could—"

"Yes, we could, couldn't we?" Mycroft stood back. "Technically, though, Gregory—" Mycroft dropped his voice to a whisper "—the gamekeeper would have a cottage in the grounds, he would not lodge at the house..."

"Ah...well...you'll just have to suspend your disbelief, love," Greg replied, equally softly but unphased by Mycroft's observation.

Mycroft smiled. "Oh," he purred, leaning close enough for his breath to ghost across the shell of Greg's ear and make him shudder. "I think that can be accomplished. Unless the gamekeeper would like the Lord of the Manor to invite him up to his room, that is? In the story, Scudder climbs up into Maurice's room one night..."

Gregory was shaking his head. "No, love, my room. It's... You'll see why. Just come with me, please?" He reached out and slid his free hand into Mycroft's, eyes daring the Lord of the Manor to object. "Come with me?" he asked again and his eyes turned soft and inviting. Mycroft resumed his cool facade and disengaged.

"What are you thinking?" He sounded angry. Momentarily thrown, Gregory looked stunned. "Not in public," Mycroft qualified. "Let's do this right. Anyone might see us, Gregory, and then the cat would be out of the bag. We'd be ruined. We have to be careful." Greg nodded, suitably chastened, and fell into step a little behind and to one side of his employer as Mycroft headed back to the house.

Once inside Mycroft maintained the pretense, looking both ways to make sure that the coast was clear. They hurried past the silent kitchen, at that time of day empty of staff. A hundred years ago it would have been a different story. The cook didn't come on duty until five o'clock these days and the butler would be in his office upstairs. Greg opened the door that lead to the back stairs and stepped inside, quickly closing it behind them.

"The rest of the staff are at their duties," he assured. "No one will find us. Come with me." He lead the way upstairs to one of the servant's rooms. Mycroft could see a warm glow coming from under the door and was beginning to understand why Greg had planned it this way. Opening the door, Greg stood back respectfully, letting Mycroft in ahead of him.

"Oh, Gregory..." The room was lit by the warm glow from the small fire in the grate behind its little fire guard. There was a bright rag rug on the floor which lent some comfort to the austere surroundings. There was a marble-topped wash stand under the window, with a plain white china jug and bowl seated on it, a neatly folded towel beside it. A chest of drawers stood against the wall nearby, an oil lamp flickering on top. The shutters were closed on the world. Then Mycroft's eyes alighted on the bed. It was metal framed, painted white, a colourful but faded patchwork quilt laid over the top. Crisp linen sheets and warm blankets lay beneath the quilt. The whole effect was stunning.

"We've gone back in time," Mycroft murmured and turned. Gregory had removed his hat and was hanging his jacket up on the back of the door. He sat down on the only seat, a bent cane chair in the corner of the room by the door, and took off his boots and socks. Then he removed his watch and chain and placed them carefully on the nightstand by the bedside. Mycroft watched as Greg took off his cufflinks and rolled his sleeves up, exposing those strong forearms of his. When he turned back Mycroft was standing by the fire, his profile thrown into relief by the firelight as he leant against the wall, regarding Gregory uncertainly.

"His Lordship having regrets?" Gregory enquired. "Seemed to me you were fine in the stable yard."

"Gregory, if this was real, it would be illegal. How did we live like that?"

Greg sighed and smiled. "We did. Generations of us did. Somehow. Be thankful that we live now, love, and that this is a nice fantasy. We're not doing anything illegal and people won't hurt us for it. Besides, I won't let them."

"Forster's book—"

"Maurice?"

"Yes, it hasn't published until after—"

"—after his death, yes, I know. I've been reading it. It got published in 1971, two years after we decriminalized homosexuality."

"So that's what you were reading."

Greg nodded. "It's a good story actually. I liked it. Nice ending." He stepped around Mycroft and encircled him in his arms from behind. "You and me, we're okay. We'll be okay. Cannot wait to put that ring on your finger, assuming you'll wear one for me?" Greg suddenly sounded uncertain. Mycroft turned in the circle of his arms and smiled, dropping a kiss to his cheek.

"Of course I'll wear one. I would be honoured to wear your ring."

"Good, because..." Greg fished in his pocket. He brought out a small velvet box and glanced warily at Mycroft. "I was going to wait, until the day...but...well, I know we've already said yes to each other but that wasn't exactly special," he explained. "I wasn't sure if you'd want all the formal down-on-bended-knee thing..."," he explained. "I wasn't sure if you'd want all the formal down-on-bended-knee thing..."

"If you wish to do so, then who am I to stop you, Gregory?" Mycroft said gently. "You are attired correctly for such an old-fashioned approach, after all. Even if we couldn't hope to do so if this was real, if we were living back then. However, this is our fantasy, so whatever we do will be fine." He watched as Greg lowered to one knee and looked up at him, offering the ring in its velvet nest.

"Mycroft Holmes," Greg said formally. "Would you do me the honour of allowing me to take your hand in marriage? Would you agree to be my husband?"

Mycroft smiled and nodded. "A thousand times over, my love. Yes, of course. I would be proud to." He allowed Greg to slide the ring onto the middle finger of his right hand, the promise finger. When they married, he would transfer it to his ring finger on the left. Mycroft drew Greg to his feet. "What a wonderful way to propose," he said softly. "Thank you, Gregory." He leaned in and kissed his fiance, then drew back, admiring the ring. "This design is unusual." The ring was a white gold signet, a flat square top with a curiously familiar sinuous inlaid line in rose gold and a single dark blue stone against a black background*.

"It's the Thames," Gregory explained. Mycroft frowned. "The gold line is the Thames River," Greg explained. "The dark inlay is a fragment of Roman wood, circa AD63. It's two thousand years old, from an archaeological dig near the river, where the first port was built. The sapphire marks the place on the map where the wood was dug up. I chose a sapphire to match your eyes. When you take it off, if you look underneath, you'll see a compass rose with north marked on. It just struck me that it was so right for you. London is your city, after all."

"Oh, Gregory, it's absolutely perfect. Thank you. But I don't have your ring yet."

"That doesn't matter. I'm just glad you said yes."

"How could I not?" Mycroft kissed him again in affirmation and then his smile took on a predatory look. "Well, now, we were up to something, were we not?" Mycroft crowded into him then, pushing him back against the wall, grinding their hips together. Long fingers cradled Greg's face and Mycroft brought their lips together somewhat forcefully, tongue begging entry. Gregory moaned into the kiss, thrusting his hips forward, bumping Mycroft's prominent erection with his own. He opened his mouth and allowed Mycroft's tongue to caress his as the man's agile fingers were busy working on the buttons of Greg's waistcoat. The last button undone, Mycroft eased the garment off Greg's broad shoulders, revealing braces beneath. His eyebrows rose again. Gregory had paid attention to all the details. Mycroft slid the braces off his shoulders and slid the flat of his palm across the warm fabric stretched across Greg's chest and belly. He felt the muscles flinch beneath his touch as his hand slid lower. Gregory's breath hitched audibly and he swallowed.

"What does his Lordship want of me?" Gregory asked, tentatively.

Mycroft exhaled sharply. "Everything," he moaned softly, watching as Gregory sank to his knees again, this time to unlace Mycroft's shoes and strip his socks off. He lifted each foot in turn, massaging gently. Then he stood, pressing close again. Greg's warm and heavy hand palmed him through his trousers, massaging gently. "Oh, God... good," Mycroft groaned, his own hand sliding lower until it was in a similar position, fingers seeking the bulge beneath the warm wool. Those breeches had buttons at the fly and Mycroft spent delicious minutes working them loose one-handed, feeling Greg harden even more beneath his touch as he did so. Once that was accomplished, he reached to unfasten the studs at Greg's neck, removing the starched collar and leaving the skin of his neck exposed. Leaning close, Mycroft fastened his mouth on the tender skin and bit down where Gregory's neck and shoulder met, eliciting another needy groan. He kissed the bite in apology and then trailed a line of wet kisses up to the hollow beneath Greg's ear.

Greg tipped his head to allow greater access for Mycroft's seeking mouth and moaned again as Mycroft suckled hard. Greg's own hands were busy, massaging and encouraging, feeling the length beneath his touch harden enticingly. Greg tipped Mycroft's jacket back off his shoulders, leaning in to kiss while attacking his waistcoat buttons. For once we're evenly matched with the number of garments we're both wearing, Greg found himself thinking in amusement. He fought, and won, with the buttons on the waistcoat and shed it, dropping it onto the chair. Greg's sure fingers took up the challenge with his lover's shirt, untying the full Windsor knot of his tie with a patience he didn't know he had. He tugged the shirt open, exposing the pale skin of Mycroft's chest with its light dusting of auburn hair, a speckling of freckles across his shoulders. Leaning down, Greg tongued a nipple, hearing a satisfying gasp as he did so, letting his tongue linger on the little nub of proud flesh. Allowing his hand to roam again, he moved over and tongued the other one as well. Pretty soon he had Mycroft gasping and moaning and thrusting against him.

Greg pushed them away from the wall and backed the man against the bed and toppled him back onto the quilt, fumbling his own belt buckle and shedding the rest of his clothes before clambering on top of him and bending to kiss and lick and mouth all over the soft skin. Hands roamed, stroking, touching, coaxing and it wasn't long before Mycroft was urgently pleading. "Please, Greg, I'd like you to—"

"To what, Mycroft?"

"Fuck me. Please, please, fuck me ."

Greg grinned. Mycroft only ever pleaded when they were making love. "Of course, sir. Whatever you wish..." He reached to undo the button at the waistband of Mycroft's trousers, grasping the zip and whispering it down. Greg slid his warm hands under the fabric and eased them off slowly, enticingly, tugging the soft cotton undershorts off with them. Respectful of Mycroft's fastidiousness with his clothes, Greg folded the garments and laid them on the chair, then moved back to the bed.

Mycroft watched the purpose in Greg's eyes, the determination in his expression. All he could do was lay helpless as Greg climbed back up, settling on top of him, his weight pinning Mycroft to the bed. Greg's eyes were dark, pupils dilated, gaze intensely focused. He reached up, hands grasping Mycroft's wrists and pinning them to the pillow above his head. Greg leaned down and whispered into Mycroft's ear, his voice a husky purr. "You want me in you? You want me to come inside you?" Mycroft shuddered pleasantly and nodded, not trusting his voice. He was panting, soft exhalations against Greg's skin. He twisted to free his wrists from Greg's grasp and slid his hands across the man's shoulders and down his arms, fingers gripping his biceps as if to stop himself falling. "It's okay, m'love. I've got you," Greg reassured, his own arms enfolding Mycroft in warmth and comfort. "I won't let you fall...sir." He grinned, a slow filthy smile.

Mycroft huffed a laugh and tugged him down for a deep kiss. Greg shifted his hips and angled his body to thrust, forcing their erections to rub against each other. They were both hot, hungry and slicked with pre-come, the pressure a delicious tease for what would follow. Greg slid down, settling between Mycroft's knees, pushing his thighs apart. He bent and pressed his lips to the soft skin on the inside of Mycroft's thigh, biting gently. Mycroft moaned again, canting his hips up in mute appeal. Greg chuckled and then nipped and nibbled a line down from knee to groin. He felt his lover shudder beneath him. Greg met Mycroft's eyes briefly before dipping his head. "What his Lordship wants, his Lordship gets," he said softly, his breath huffing gently across Mycroft's skin, raising goosebumps. "After all, it's more than my job is worth to refuse. He can do what he likes with me...or to me," and opening his lips, Greg slid his mouth down over Mycroft's cock, tongue swirling across the glans and lapping the fluid leaking from the tip.

Mycroft's back arched as his cock slid into the moist heat of Gregory's mouth. He watched in rapt fascination as the man worked on him, sucking and licking and...oh God, too soon... He gasped, tensed and his fingers tightened in the quilt as he came hard, crying Gregory's name. Gasping, chest heaving, he glanced fearfully down to where Greg was licking his lips with a thoughtful expression. He looked like a cat who had just found a tub of cream.

"You swallowed," Mycroft said unnecessarily.

Greg grinned and nodded, tongue darting out to lick his lips. "Seemed like the decent thing to do. After all, it was my fault you came." He didn't look like a man who might find that distasteful, Mycroft wondered, watching him. He looked like a man in control, a beautiful man who knew his own mind.

"I love you." The words were out before Mycroft knew he had spoken them aloud.

"Love you too, darling. Now..." Before Mycroft could say anything more, Gregory urged him to flip over to lie face down, slipping a pillow beneath his hips to raise them slightly. He repositioned himself between Mycroft's thighs, his fingers mapping a trail from the perineum through the gluteal cleft, pressing...ah, right there.

"Yes..." Mycroft breathed, writhing under Greg's touch, feeling the fingers breaching him gently, spreading him apart, relaxing and coaxing. Greg took his sweet time, slow and gentle, working him open. Mycroft slid into an endorphin-induced daze, floating pleasantly. Suddenly Greg's fingertips touched...Oh, Good Lord! He groaned involuntarily as the fingertips grazed his prostate.

Sometime later—it might have been minutes or hours, he couldn't tell—when he heard Greg say "That's it, my beautiful, you're ready for me," it was a statement, not a question. "You need me," Greg insisted, that sexy voice cutting through the daze. Strong fingers gripped his hips, hard enough to bruise but he didn't notice. Mycroft desperately tried to push back against him as Greg pushed in and Mycroft moaned wantonly as he felt his lover slide inside. Greg waited for Mycroft to relax before thrusting further, waited until he was comfortable. Then he began to move, thrust after thrust, deep, strong, confident. Mycroft arched, met each thrust with a counter one of his own.

"Jesus, you're tight." Greg groaned into Mycroft's shoulder. "Fuck, My'... so hard..." Mycroft wasn't sure if he was commenting on himself or not. Greg was hard, thick and long and oh, so perfect, eliciting a delicious pressure that permeated Mycroft's entire body. He began to feel the pleasure coiling in his belly again, rising up his spine, that deeply satisfying sensation of release breaking over him, less intense than the first but no less enjoyable.

"My'? Oh...going to...oh fuck..." Greg's eyes went wide, his breathing hitched and then his climax hit him like a tidal wave, hips jerking hard as he spent himself deep inside his lover. Mycroft sighed as Greg slid to one side, relaxing bonelessly on the bed beside him. Mycroft rolled to face him, tracing his fingers along Greg's jaw with wonderment in his eyes. He had no idea how on earth they had managed to find each other, much less to enmesh their souls together so perfectly in a relatively short space of time. No accounting for it, he thought. They were both ensnared, hopelessly tangled up in each other's life and soul. He relaxed, holding Gregory close, tracing his fingers soothingly through the short silver hair, thinking there was no place he would rather be right there and then. Greg murmured sleepily and moved closer, dropping a kiss on Mycroft's cheek before resting his head on the convenient shoulder. In no time, both men were fast asleep, warm in each other's arms.

*The ring is a variant of the Thames River Ring from Stephen Einhorn's Gay and Lesbian commitment rings collection. The version I've described would have cost £8332 but hell, this is an AU and Greg can buy what he wants. I recommend taking a look at the rings, they're beautiful. The bespoke stuff is amazing. The river wood collection uses wood from the Roman port of London, circa AD63, nearly two thousand years old. I just thought it would be perfect for Mycroft.

I make no apologies for the Maurice references. I thought this was a brilliant screenplay and a wonderful part for Rupert. To play a gay character at his age (24) and so early in his career was bold, confident and ambitious. I applaud him for it.

If you want to know how sexy Mr Graves' voice is (assuming you don't already know), I suggest you look up a clip from Intimate Relations on You Tube. "Imagine my skin rubbing against yours..." Oo yes please...

***

Of Minions and Men.

Sherlock had the sneaking suspicion that if John stopped talking and changed the subject when Sherlock walked into the room just once more, he, Sherlock Holmes, was going to lose what little sanity he still possessed after Mummy's insistence on organising their wedding. John would turn his benign smile on his fiance and ask him how his day was going and if he was alright, or if he'd seen Greg or Mycroft recently. No matter what Sherlock did he could not coax John into returning to the conversation he had been having, no matter who it was with. Either they had finished, or it could wait until later or it wasn't important. Something was going on and it did not take the world's only consulting detective to deduce that John was hiding something. It would, however, take thumbscrews, a rack and red hot irons to persuade John to divulge what it was.

Actually, thinking about it, Sherlock decided to throw that idea out the window, no matter how entertaining or kinky those thoughts might be. John would never succumb to torture. He might succumb to pressure, but he would dig his heels in and shut his mouth and although torturing John (in certain ways) might prove entertaining in the short term, Sherlock would be none the wiser. Withholding privileges might work though, he would have to try subterfuge.

"John, tell me what you are hiding, now please?" Sherlock came right out with it, without preamble. John just sat there with an implacable look.

"Did you just say please?" John sounded incredulous.

"What's wrong with my saying please?"

"You never say please, so I deduce that something is bothering you."

"Oh, very good, John. Full marks for effort. You are withholding information from me. I am your fiance, there should be no secrets between us."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yes you do. You forget, John, you cannot lie to me."

"Er...yes, I can."

"Please," Sherlock scoffed. "Since when did you get anything past me?" He cocked his head and fixed John with a scornful expression. Worryingly, John only smiled.

"There is nothing to tell, love."

"Yes, there is. You are hiding something, and I will know what. Every single time I walk in on you, you stop what you are talking about and change the subject. So tell me. I should warn you that if you do not, I have decided I shall withhold sexual privileges until you do."

"Yeah, right. In your dreams. Who'll crack first with that one then?"

"That goes without saying..."

"Hey, Army Doctor here. Discipline? Training? You... you big twit, you'd capitulate inside of a day..."

"You flatter yourself, John. I am made of sterner stuff than you seem to believe."

"Bollocks. Last time I had you begging."

"I believe that was negotiated, John. I was not desperate, as you seem to wish to believe. I was role playing."

"Aw, come on, I had you pleading with me."

"No matter. This is a question of honour, John. There is something going on. Why would you keep it from me?"

"Sherlock, you're showing signs of paranoia here..."

"I am losing what little sanity I have left, John, I agree with you on that. You are discussing something you do not want me to know about yet you insist on chatting about it to all and sundry. So far I have caught you with Mycroft, Mummy and Lestrade. I wouldn't be surprised to find Mrs Hudson, Molly and Stamford in on it as well."

"If I told you it was a surprise, you'd hound me to find out what it was. So no, there is nothing. I am not telling you..."

"Then there is something. Please, John, what is it? What are you planning? I have to know!"

"No. Sherlock..."

"John, please, you have no idea how I loathe and detest being kept in the dark."

"Oh, I think I do, but seriously..."

"John, I hate being surprised," Sherlock spat, vehemently. "After Baskerville you should know that..."

"Sherlock, calm down. I'm not planning anything bad..."

"You confess to planning something then? Tell me!"

"Sherlock..."

"Now! I demand that you tell me..."

"No. Look, Sherlock, I wouldn't hurt you."

"John..." Sherlock's eyes were slightly wild. John frowned, his concern growing. Sherlock's behaviour was wildly disproportionate to the situation.

"Sherlock!" John snapped, clicking into his Captain's demeanor. Immediately his voice deepened and became more resonant, more forceful. "Enough!" Sherlock stopped as if slapped. "Calm down, love, and listen to me," John said, his tone softening. "Sherlock, do you trust me?" He placed his hands on Sherlock's arms and held him gently. He looked up into his lover's eyes, his hands rubbing gently up and down, .

"I..." Sherlock swallowed, his mouth turned down in a distressed line.

"Do you?" Sherlock nodded unhappily. "Good. Now you listen to me. I would never, and I mean, never do anything to hurt you. I will not break that trust. Do you understand me?" Again, Sherlock nodded. "Now, what on earth is going on with you? Is all this getting too much? You're strung out, sweetheart. Is your mum getting too much again?" John had to admit he hadn't seen his fiance as bad as this since the Baskerville incident.

"There is something you should understand about me, John." Sherlock's voice was shaking. "Surprises have never been good for me. Every time someone promised me a nice surprise, it would turn out to be the opposite. Every time someone at school told me they had something nice for me, close my eyes and hold my hand out... It would be bad. Yet every time I hoped, yearned for it to be good, just once, just this once, and it never was. But there I was, trusting little Locky, who still couldn't help hoping, blindly going to find out, gullible and trusting and..." He shivered. "There was the time I was promised an outing with Mummy, which turned into my first trip to the dentist. It was awful. Mycroft did it, once, promising me sweets and giving me medicine instead, even though I needed it at the time. He didn't even have any sweets to make it better. The consequences were enough to stop him doing so again. My Aunt did it, promising me something nice if I kissed her, the ugly old bag..."

"That's not a nice thing to say..."

"She was horrible, John. She was clinically insane and cared for by her daughter, who was also a bit dim. They were terrible... She slavered and she stank. I was six. Ask Mycroft, even he let me hide out in the treehouse with him when they visited, which thankfully was a rare event. Don't you see what I'm saying John? Every time I was promised anything, it all came to nought." Sherlock sat down on their bed, defeated. "My peers were the worst though. Promised sweets if I would get something for them, promised protection from the school bullies if I helped them with homework, promised anything I could think of and nothing ever came from it. In fact, they laughed at how gullible I was. It's just...now surprises are more than a bit not good."

"Conditioning," John said gently. "Oh, Sherlock, I am sorry, love. They shouldn't have treated you like that." Sherlock sighed and tried a brave smile. "But no," John added with a smile. "I am still not telling you anything. You will not get around me like that." He held up a hand to forestall the protest on Sherlock's lips. "Listen. I have planned something special, but you have to trust me in this, Locky. You know I would never do anything to hurt you. I promise you that you will like this. I also promise that I won't make you wear anything that makes you look ridiculous, I won't make you do or say anything humiliating or stupid. No ear hats, or anything like that. Now that's out of the way, I will tell you this much. The only thing I've done is make a change in our wedding venue."

"Now I know you're lying. You'd never get that past mummy."

"Oh, I think you'll agree that John 'Three Continents' Watson can charm anything out of anyone he wants, if he wants to do so badly enough. Your mum was a pushover, 'specially when I said it was a dream of mine and that as I was only going to get married once, I wanted to give you this. She agreed and we're coming here afterward for the blessing and the reception. Where we are getting married is the secret and you can withhold all the privileges you like, you are not finding this one out. You get to invite four special guests, that's all. Mycroft and Greg will be there for a double ceremony and we're each acting as the other's best men so they don't need to go on the list, as they're got their own lists to draw up anyway. If we find we've invited the same guest, we toss for it, to see who gets to choose someone else. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded. There was a small pause. "Small venue then?" he said, unable to keep the hopeful tone from his voice.

John laughed. "Nice try, Sherlock, but I really do want this to be a surprise, so try not to deduce it? Please? I just would like to spring this one thing on you. It might be the only time I ever manage to surprise you, so... would you just... you know, not do your thing, this once?"

John, you have no idea, Sherlock thought, just how hard that will be. It was his natural state to deduce everything, every last detail. He sighed and smiled and tried, he really did, not to let his mind wander about where John might have in mind.

0o0o0o0o0

"We should all have a massive stag do," Greg suggested, during dinner that evening.

"Ugh," Sherlock immediately exclaimed, echoed by Mycroft a millisecond later.

"Aw, come on, fellas," John cajoled. "It'll be fun."

"I dare say, if your definition of the word fun involves too many people getting pissed and losing their dignity, vomiting into gutters at three in the morning having left the groom stark bollock naked and handcuffed to a railing around Hyde Park in a drunken stupor," Sherlock declared. His expression left no doubt that he felt anyone who could succumb to such a thing to be clinically insane and suffering diminished responsibility. "It's the kind of thing Anderson no doubt did before his wedding," he stated.

"Thanks for that mental image," Greg said, grimacing at the thought. "Doubtless you're right, but you don't have to end up like that," Greg said placatingly.

"I have no desire to end up like Anderson..."

"That's not what I meant and you know it. Look, it can just be a few friends and a few drinks; a kiss goodbye to the single life, you know?"

"Why would I want to?"

"It's a party, of sorts. That's all," Greg said. "Look, John, your army mates would come, wouldn't they?"

"And what seemed like a good idea suddenly took a nose dive," John said. "Unless I want to end up handcuffed to Hyde Park railings stark bollock naked then it wouldn't be wise to invite them at all."

"Gregory, I do think you are probably on a hiding to nothing, my love." Mycroft was smiling serenely. "However, if you would like to mark the occasion, then I am sure you could invite some of your colleagues and friends and have your own stag do, as you put it." Mycroft was making mental notes to have Greg followed if he took his fiance up on the suggestion, just in case the unthinkable happened and Greg was the one left handcuffed to the railings. After all, Greg's colleagues were policemen. They had a ready supply of Hyatt Speedcuffs and the knowledge to use them.

"Nah, not the same, not if you're not enjoying it with me. The only way I can see to get you to agree is if we used your club as the venue and I can hardly see the Diogenes being in agreement, can you?" Greg asked. "Besides, I can imagine a few of the members might have a cardiac arrest if we brought a stripper in there." Mycroft allowed himself a small smile at the mental image.

0o0o0o0o0o0

In the end, it was cocktails in the orangery with a few select friends, a small party that suited both the Holmes brothers and, even if it wasn't the stag event John had envisioned, he couldn't say he didn't enjoy it. Madoc, Murray and Matheson, his mates from the army, were in attendance and on their best behaviour, despite sharing ribald jokes and reminiscences. The only thing they had really stuck to tradition on was that it was a stag do in so far as there were no ladies present, not even Mummy.

Sherlock had invited Angelo along with a couple of other men John had never met. He introduced John to them, announcing that their names were Quentin and James and then promptly dashed off to find them all drinks. Quentin looked to be in his late twenties, sporting hair that was unusually similar to Sherlock's in its short dark unruliness. His facial bone structure with its high cheekbones was also familiar, although that was pretty much where the resemblance ended. Quentin's eyes were darker and he was significantly shorter. James was stocky and muscular and ruggedly good looking and, despite himself, John found he was almost instantly attracted to the blond man with eyes that were paler and more blue even than Sherlock's.

Despite the age gap that John estimated to be at least fifteen years-James had to be older than John-the pair were very much together, comfortably invading each other's space. James slid an arm around Quentin's shoulders and pulled him close, Quentin welcoming the gesture, leaning in the taller man's body. They were supremely relaxed and not a bit out of place in the semi-formal event. John had to wonder how Sherlock knew the pair.

"So, how long have you known Sherlock, then?" he asked.

"Oh, didn't he tell you?" Quentin smiled. "I'm his cousin. Sherlock and Mycroft's mother is my aunt. Her sister was my mother."

"Ah, right, no, he didn't tell me, but then, that's Sherlock for you." James and Quentin both chuckled.

"Sherlock probably deleted it," Quentin replied with a shrug.

"If yours is anything like mine," James said, leaning in conspiratorially, "he knows the most obscure stuff but the ordinary and the everyday just isn't important."

"Damn right," Quentin and Sherlock said almost simultaneously as Sherlock arrived back with their drinks. It was James and John's turn to laugh. "Some things," Sherlock qualified "are simply not important."

"If they are not relevant to The Work," Quentin qualified "then there is no benefit to remembering them."

"Oh, God help us all," John breathed. "There are two of them."

Mycroft had invited a few of his friends, who actually turned out to be far from the superficial stuffed shirt image Greg had imagined. Rupert Henley-Jones, Marcus Crossley and Alexander Fitzwarren turned out to be friends from Mycroft's university days. Oddly enough, Greg was surprised to see, Mycroft was very relaxed around them. Greg battoned down a momentary pang of jealousy and put on a smile.

Rupert, Marcus and Alex were friendly and eager to meet the man whom Mycroft was agreeing to tie the knot with. They shook hands and welcomed Greg into their little cadre with enthusiasm.

"Is he a Richlieu, do you think?" Marcus speculated, looking Greg up and down.

"Eh?" Greg frowned.

"Oh no, definitely not." Mycroft was smiling. "I rather think you will find he has the heart of a musketeer."

Ah, right... they were referencing The Three Musketeers. However, Greg was still in the dark. "Sorry, not sure I follow..." he offered, apologetically.

"We called ourselves the Musketeers at Oxford," Rupert explained. "Because there are four of us."

"Alex there is Porthos," Marcus said with a grin. "He's the blag-artist if ever there was one but a more loyal friend you shall never meet. This youngster here," he said, ruffling Rupert's hair, "is D'Artagnan, he's four years our junior but he tries hard. I-" he bowed low "-am Aramis, because they tell me I'm the religious one. Mycroft here is the aristo so he's Athos. Although ladies were never his area." Everyone laughed.

"Is he a Grimaud, do you think?" Rupert/D'Artagnan suggested, fixing his attention back on Greg.

"Oh, good God, no," Mycroft said with disdain. "Gregory here is a Duke of Buckingham at the very least. Nobody could mistake him for my lackey."

"I think, Greg, you're the elder statesman here, if you'll forgive the liberty," Alex said. "He's a policeman too, didn't you say, Mycroft? So, how about Monsieur de Treville?"

"Oh, I say, that's perfect," Rupert gushed.

"And I'm sure you'll tell me who he was?" Greg said, glancing at Mycroft.

"Only the leader of the Musketeers," Marcus explained. "A father figure to them all."

"Thanks, I'm honoured," Greg grinned, despite suddenly feeling like the old man in their midst. He raised his glass. "There's really only one thing you can say to that." They all clinked glasses. "All for one..." .

"And one for all," came the resounding reply.

0o0o0o0o0o

"Father figure? Bloody hell, Mycroft, they made me sound like I'm cradle snatching you..." Greg scoffed.

"Well, I regret to point out, Gregory, you are six years senior to myself, Marcus and Alex. Rupert is a whole decade younger than you..."

"Yes, thanks for making me feel old. By the way, did you manage to book the time and date John wanted?"

"What? Oh, yes, of course. All set. The guest list is yet to be finalised so you need to tell me who you want to be there. We do, however, have the time and the date that John was insisting on."

"You reckon Sherlock knows?"

"He suspects. However, I have full confidence in John that Sherlock will not find out a thing. I hope for once he refrains from trying to deduce what is going on and simply accepts his fate."

"And the chances of that happening are...?"

"I agree," Mycroft sighed in amused resignation. "In my estimation, almost none."

0o0o0o0o0

They finally fixed the guest list between them, although John had deliberately not included Angelo, Mrs Hudson or Molly on his. Sherlock's circle of friends was limited and John had no need to include Sherlock's friends on his own list, as most were his friends too. As he had thought, Sherlock's list had Mummy, Angelo, Mrs Hudson and Molly on it. John had included Mike Stamford and his three closest army mates, Jack Madoc, Findlay Murray and Alex Mitchinson. The guest list for the reception was considerably larger, overseen by mummy so it included family on all sides. Sherlock kept as far away as he could from being dragged into any of it. He chose to spend time composing his words for the ceremony. He was also, unbeknownst to John, composing a violin piece he intended to play at the reception.

0o0o0o0o0

"Well, Gregory, did you enjoy yourself? I am glad I sent George to escort you. It was a close run thing..."

"Yeah..." Greg slurred and hiccuped gently. "That bas'ard, Dimmock... nearly got me... Was too quick though. George saved me. Thank you, Mycroff... Thanks for saving me..." Gregory made a rather cute drunk, Mycroft considered tolerantly, taking his fiance's arm and guiding him up to their bed. There was a pint glass of water waiting and several proprietary painkillers for the morrow. George has earned a bonus, Mycroft considered. The chauffeur had made sure Gregory had come home safely, despite his colleagues best efforts to leave him in a degrading and ultimately compromising position. No doubt instigated by that bloody woman, Donovan, Mycroft thought unkindly. He spent a few minutes wondering if he could get her demoted to traffic. A sudden thought occurred and whipping out his phone, Mycroft sent a swift text which had Anthea patrolling the social networking sites within minutes, just to make sure nobody had managed to take any compromising photos and then post them.

Gregory had wanted his own stag party and Mycroft, while not willing to join in, could at least humour him and allow him to enjoy a night with his colleagues in the pub. There had been a stripper, some tart who took his clothes off for money and rather beneath Gregory's dignity, Mycroft thought with a pang of what he recognised to be jealousy. However, nothing untoward had occurred-it was more than George's job was worth to allow it-and Gregory had seemingly enjoyed himself.

Mycroft made sure Gregory drank the water, and managed to divest him of most of his clothes before the man collapsed on the bed soundly asleep, snoring hard enough to wake the dead. With a long suffering sigh, Mycroft sat vigil over his inebriated love, wanting to make sure he was safe and cared for.

0o0o0o0o0

The slice of sunlight that managed to penetrate the curtains the following morning knifed across the pillow that Greg managed to roll onto as he woke. He let out an agonised groan as the light stabbed into his eyes and he shrank away from it just as the door opened to admit Mycroft, disgustingly immaculate and cheerful as always. Mycroft placed the breakfast tray he was carrying on the table, then leaned over to switch on a small lamp, in deference to Gregory's abused eyes.

"Please tell me I didn't end up chained to railings...please?" Greg pleaded softly.

"Don't fret yourself, my dear. Not for want of trying on your part, but George stepped in and rescued you. So, no harm done...well, nothing permanent anyway," he smiled. "Now, I suggest you sit up, drink some juice and take your painkillers, then try to get some more rest. The vitamin C and the sugar in the juice will help raise your blood sugar. I do hope it was all worth it."

Greg winced and nodded. "I dare say it was. Thanks for your patience, love."

Mycroft smiled indulgently. "Well, we have to ready ourselves for tomorrow, so I shall keep you company while I pack. Tomorrow night, the eve of our nuptials, you are staying with John at 221b and Sherlock is staying with Mummy and myself at my flat in Mayfair."

"I am?"

"Yes, you are. We are at least being traditional by keeping the respective grooms apart."

"We are?"

"Am I to believe there is an echo developing in here?"

"Oo, you made a joke. You must be learning from me."

"I am quite capable of making jokes, Gregory and, to answer your question, yes, we are. Mummy insisted on that much."

Greg watched Mycroft puttering about their room, dragging cases out from the walk-in wardrobe, then coming and going from his chest of drawers with armfuls of underwear and socks. "I thought you had minions to do that for you?" Greg speculated.

"Alas, my minions are not to be trusted with my underwear," Mycroft replied tartly. "One does not trust one's minions with anything of importance."

"And your underwear is important?"

"To me, yes of course. Comfort is everything when you are sitting in on delicate negotiations for twelve hours, or on a plane for sixteen. Under no circumstances must anything chafe." There was a hint of amusement in Mycroft's tone that made Greg wonder how much of what he was saying was truth. Equally disturbingly, all of it might be true.

"But that implies you have underwear that might potentially chafe. Not like you, Mycroft. Not like you at all."

"Ah no, I am suggesting that, if left to themselves, minions would provide me with underwear that would potentially chafe, not that I own any."

"Okay, so you admit to having minions, then?"

"I admit nothing, Gregory. You of all people should know that." That was a full-blown smile but it did nothing to erase the image that Mycroft Holmes did indeed have minions.

"So is Anthea a minion?"

"Heavens, no, she is about as far from being a minion as it is possible to be. No, Anthea is a colleague. There are colleagues, employees and minions, in that order. Colleagues are people one works alongside, whether subordinate or not. Employees are one's paid help, required for their knowledge and skills. Minions are simply those who, paid or unpaid, do things that one does not want to do oneself."

"They get their hands dirty so you don't have to?"

"Precisely, Gregory."

"You know, scary as all that sounds, I believe you." Mycroft smiled impishly and tucked his socks away into a pocket of his suitcase. "So... love," Greg watched as his lover went back and forth carrying suit bags from the closet . "Er...how many of those do you need? We'll only be gone for a night."

"Yes, but we will be leaving for our honeymoon thereafter. I propose we leave from the apartment as it is closer to the airfield that my charter company of choice uses. I can take the bags with us and leave them at the apartment for the following day."

"Honeymoon?" Greg said weakly. He hadn't even considered it.

Mycroft smiled, allowing a hint of triumph to enter his expression. "Yes, my dear. I hope you don't mind but I picked somewhere quiet and warm. Should you want to go somewhere else we can always decamp and continue on from there."

"We can?"

"Of course. Why? Did you have a preference?"

"Where are we going then?" Mycroft could not help but smile at the excited tone of Gregory's voice. He sounded like a little boy who had been promised the seaside.

"I thought New Zealand for a week, ending up in the Cook Islands. There is an exclusive resort I've been wanting to try. Huts on stilts in the water of a quiet lagoon, nothing for miles, no interruptions."

"Can the world survive without you?"

"Gregory, my dear, it is about time Anthea was allowed her time to shine and prove my faith in her abilities. I have not been grooming her for nothing, you know. She will be my successor when I choose to retire and therefore already has my complete confidence."

"Good. About time you took some time off." Greg's eyes slid closed. "Ah, thank God, the painkillers are working..."

"I shall leave you to rest..."

"No, love. Come here and stay with me, please?" Greg held out a hand and Mycroft smiled. Sitting down on the bed, he toed off his shoes and swung his elegantly trousered legs up, leaning back against the pillows beside his fiance. He was clad only in shirt and waistcoat, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Greg turned and snuggled into a cotton-covered shoulder and sighed as he sank into a perfectly comfortable position, propped against Mycroft's warmth and strength. His aching head was cushioned, his aching eyes were closed and he was drifting. Mycroft was speaking but Greg mumbled something indistinct and slid into sleep.

Mycroft watched fondly for a while; the reassuring movement of Gregory's ribcage as he breathed, the little glimpse of dark hair across his chest, the soft pulse at his throat. He might have lost this but for John and his determination to save Gregory after the stabbing. Moving just slightly, Mycroft slid an arm behind his beloved Gregory's shoulders and pulled him close, appreciating the warm solid feel of the man in his arms. He kissed the greying hair and Greg stirred, snuffling slightly. Mycroft soothed him back to sleep, stroking softly, murmuring gentle hushing noises.

In two days they would be married, and Mycroft would no longer be alone. The simple thought left him breathless, slightly panicked, exhilarated and not a little scared. He had considered this of course; every nuance, every angle, each carefully weighed conclusion and calculated outcome. As was his wont he had approached Gregory's offer of marriage as he did every other scenario he was faced with, be it trade agreements, peace talks or impending war; he approached each new situation analytically, objectively. In this though there was no objectivity. He was far too close to things, emotionally and physically.

He had imagined them together of course, feeling the rightness of it in his mind, even as his head tried to tell his heart that this was not what they did, reiterating his mantra that caring was not an advantage, that one day he would lose Gregory for good, or Gregory would lose him. Nothing worked. His heart won out, his desire for Gregory was so great it blotted everything else out. Oh, but he was reconciled. He was going to go through with this. Yet it was as if the enormity of what he was about to do had only just sunk in. Stunned, he simply sat there, holding on to the one thing in the world he cared most about, and that shocked him to the core. For the first time in his life, Mycroft realised that Sherlock no longer came first in his purview.

***

Part one - Rat

The morning dawned bright and clear, the October sunshine breaking through the early mist to make the stones glow and the river glitter. John had spent a restless night, turning in much earlier than usual, everything ready and waiting. Greg spent the night at 221b and Sherlock had been spirited away to stay at Mycroft's city apartment with his brother and his mother. Greg's mum, Margaret, and his brother and sister were staying in a nearby hotel for the night. Mycroft had, unsurprisingly, invited his three university mates to the wedding. All told, there would be around fifteen people at the morning ceremony and roughly eighty at the Manor that night for the reception. The one good thing about having Mycroft on board was a seemingly endless supply of cars and security.

Missing you. Mycroft is insisting I go to bed early. SH

Not such a bad idea, love. Missing you too btw. JW

It seems to have escaped the notice of my rat of a brother that three decades have passed and I am no longer six years old. SH

Think I might refrain from comment on that one, Sherlock. JW

Your brother is not a rat, he's taking care of you. JW

But, John, I am NOT a child. SH

You don't think of me as a child, do you? SH

Do you? SH

"For goodness sake, Sherlock, I do not think of you like that, I was joking." John had given up and phoned. Texting was all very well but it was shit at communicating the meaning behind the words. He took a deep breath. "I love you. I do not think of you as a child. Honest."

"Why does he think I have to get to bed early?" Sherlock sounded petulant.

"Well, you know, so you can get enough sleep so you'll be fresh and alert in the morning."

"But I will be fresh and alert in the morning. I always am fresh and alert in the mornings. I do not require much sleep, you know that. He's forbidden me to go out, he's ordered me to bed. What he thinks he's playing at I have no idea. I only agreed because Mummy would get upset if I didn't." Whatever opinion John held about two grown men still being under their mother's influence to such a degree he kept his thoughts to himself.

"Computer?" he suggested, helpfully.

"Borning. I have no access to my notes, I cannot write anything up."

"Well, read up on some historical serial killers then. A little light reading for you? You could research those spores you found at the previous murder site. You did say you were going to." There was a pause.

"That's...an acceptable idea, John. Thank you. I can access my photos on-line...I uploaded some of my photos, as you suggested to give me greater access to them. That was a good idea, John."

"Great. Glad I have them now and again."

"You do, John. I would be lost without my blogger."

John smiled. "Thank you, Sherlock. I'd be lost without my detective too. Stay safe, I'll see you in the morning. Even if you don't need much sleep, I'll be wrecked if I don't get enough."

"Goodnight, John. Keep Lestrade from emptying our drinks cabinet. You know what he's like."

John laughed. "Good try, Sherlock. Greg is fine, sober as a judge in fact."

"That will change, John. Take precautions." Sherlock was joking, John could hear the amusement in his voice. "Goodnight, my love. Please stay safe too. See you in the morning." With that, he was gone, off to research something gruesome probably.

0o0o0o0o0

"John! John, come on!" Someone was shaking him awake. It was Greg, a worried look in his eyes. "Bloody Hell, John, wake up, we're running late..."

"What time is it?"

"Nearly ten thirty, my alarm didn't go off."

"Relax, Greg. The car isn't due until twelve."

"We said eleven thirty, last time I spoke to Myc, to allow for the traffic. Remember? I told you last night..." It was suddenly a mad scramble for the bathroom, to shower and shave, which somehow they coordinated. Greg shaved while John showered and then they swapped over, the hot water thankfully holding out until they finished.

They were all kitted out with about ten minutes to spare, straightening each other's ties and brushing imaginary bits of lint off each other's lapels. Finally they stopped, looked at each other and grinned.

"You don't mind that I'm doing this with Mycroft, do you?" Greg asked into the silence.

"Mind? Of course not, you two fell for each other. Why should we mind?"

"Because... we were going to be three, rather than two. You and Sherlock made a place for me, here."

"It was here if you wanted and if you needed, Greg. Still is, if you ever do..."

"And I did, until Myc and I found each other...Thank you, John. You and Sherlock rescued me; you were here for me when I really needed someone, and I am alive because of you. I am never going to be able to repay that, and I won't ever forget, right. If you ever need anything, anything at all, just remember, okay?" Greg smiled. "Okay, I'm done with the uncomfortable emotional crap, so let's get going, eh?"

As they came downstairs, Mrs Hudson sniffed back tears and pinned a white carnation on each of their jackets, giving them each a fierce hug before a large sleek black car swooped up to transport her to the venue. It already had Molly and Mike inside; Mike got out to shake hands and wish them luck, and Molly waved happily. Mrs Hudson got in and then the car was gone, swallowed up by the traffic.

John was unprepared for the vintage Bentley that turned up next. He spent several minutes standing on the pavement just staring at it, before Greg nudged him to snap him out of it. There were the requisite white ribbons and roses festooning the vehicle. Greg insisted on a few snaps and their chauffeur obligingly stood in as photographer and took a photo of the pair of them leaning on the bonnet, the door of 221B behind them. The official photographer would meet them at the venue.

The London traffic was busy as usual and they had to slow down several times, waiting for traffic lights or roadworks. A group of women waiting to cross the road saw the car and started smiling and waving, blowing kisses and taking mobile phone photos.

"That's it, John. You'll be all over Facebook in a few minutes." Greg grinned.

"So will you, mate," John replied, his grin broadening at Greg's horrified look. "You're sitting next to me." He laughed at Greg's groan.

"Oh, God, kill me now. Maybe Myc can suppress it..."

"Greg, mate, I don't think even Mycroft Holmes can suppress social networking."

Despite the traffic, the car drew up along Belvedere Road in no time at all, or so it seemed. John searched for Sherlock and their wedding party, but he couldn't see them. A familiar figure stood waiting, flanked by two men in dark suits and dark glasses who seemed to be looking everywhere but at them. Anthea smiled as she stepped up to open the door and slid inside to sit with them for a moment. "Mr Holmes would like to know what you want to do about meeting up. He assumes you want to see Sherlock's face when he sees the venue?" she said with an uncharacteristic grin.

John smiled and nodded. "Short of blindfolding him, which I do think might be a bad idea, if he'd even agree to it, which I don't think he would, we'll have to walk down the tree avenue anyway. Okay, then, meet here."

"I'll text him," Anthea said and sent off a swift response, ducking out of the car to call someone over. Moments later, she ducked back inside. "Mr Holmes says to wait here, they'll join us soon. They're only minutes away. He delayed leaving so you would arrive first."

"Typical," John replied. "I guess our guests are already here?"

"Yes, they're all here. They've been escorted there already. May I suggest we clear the preliminary photos before the rest of the party arrives?" The two men nodded and she called out "Mr Drake?" She beckoned a small man forward who nodded and smiled and greeted both of them warmly.

"Duncan Drake, sirs, I'm your photographer. Now, if you don't mind, some shots of you two alighting from the vehicle..." Neither man had any more time to think because the photographer started snapping, posing them getting out of the vehicle and then leaning against it.

"Work with me, baby," Greg muttered as they changed places, eliciting a snort of laughter from John. "Jesus, what is this, a wedding or a shoot for GQ?"

"Mycroft will have given him detailed requirements, don't you worry. What do you care, as long as it makes you look dashing, and younger?"

"The only way that'll happen is with airbrushing," Greg muttered and leaned against the car as Duncan knelt to get the perfectly angled shot.

John stood back and surveyed their surroundings. The weather was perfect, clear and dry and sunny. The view will be stunning too, John thought, pleased. His plan was coming together.

A few minutes later a beautiful vintage Rolls, bright yellow with a black roof, drew up some minutes later, disgorging a complaining Sherlock. John stared, he couldn't help it really. Sherlock was wearing a Pignatelli black suit, tailored to fit his slim frame, piped along the edges and down the trouser seam with glossy black satin. The wing collar shirt was a dark purple silk and a damask pattern waistcoat in a similar purple shade peeked out from beneath the jacket. John was mesmerized until Sherlock moved up close into his personal space and laid a warm hand on his arm.

"John? Are you alright?"

John shook himself and smiled as warmly as he could. "Oh yes, love. I'm fine. All fine now you're here."

"You look amazing, John." Sherlock slid his fingers beneath the lapel of John's jacket, the RAMC dress uniform fitting him perfectly. "You look...heroic."

"Thought you said heroes don't exist?"

A slow smile spread across Sherlock's lips. "But If they did, you would definitely be one, John," Sherlock murmured huskily.

"Right on schedule," said a familiar voice and John turned to see Mycroft getting out of the car.

Greg forgot to breath. Mycroft looked stunning. Tall and distinguished in his dark grey frock coat, the royal blue of his cravat and waistcoat changed hue in the sunlight, flashing slightly purple highlights as he turned. The blue brought out the colour of his eyes and his hair flamed in contrast. Greg thought he had never seen his fiance looking so handsome and composed. He fell in love with him all over again.

Mycroft was similarly struck dumb by the vision in front of him. Greg's own suit was dark charcoal grey, a match for Mycroft's, except Greg's was set off by a claret waistcoat and tie. Gold cufflinks glinted at his wrists and a gold tie pin-his father's-caught the light as he moved to look at his fiance. A gold watch chain was strung across his waistcoat to complete the ensemble.

"Hey, guys?" John nudged them both. "Time for that later. Can hardly tell you two to get a room right now, can I? Photos?" Mycroft nodded, still stunned, and Greg took his arm. Duncan posed them and moved them and John barely managed to make Sherlock behave.

"Where are we anyway?" the detective demanded. "Some godforsaken bit of London. John, what have you done?"

"Shut up, you prat," John grinned and took his hand, lacing their fingers together and not caring who saw. "Come on then, follow me." He turned toward the river and lead Sherlock along between the trees.

"John, we're heading for the Eye," Sherlock said. "What...?" Then he caught sight of John's expression and frowned. His eyes searched John's face. Then his eyebrows rose. "John?" John grinned. "John, explain," Sherlock demanded.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock," John said, smiling warmly at him. "Today of all days and you're telling me you can't deduce where I planned for us to get married? This is the surprise."

"But the Eye? How? I mean..."

"It's a wedding venue, Sherlock, and I wondered where in all of London could we get married in sight of the whole city, your city...?"

"Our city, John." Sherlock swallowed a very uncharacteristic lump in his throat.

John could hear Duncan snapping away, recording the moments. He would savour seeing Sherlock's expression again, that was certain. "Our city," John amended. "Laid out before us, beneath us, our life's blood, our beating heart..."

Sherlock stopped walking and threw his arms around John, pulling him close and burying his face in John's hair. They stood like that for a few minutes, Sherlock trying to pull together his unravelling composure, incredulous that John would do such an amazing thing for him. Eventually, John pulled away, smiled reassuringly into his love's eyes and took Sherlock's hand again. With Mycroft and Greg following on behind, their hands as firmly clasped together as John's and Sherlock's were, John lead an unprotesting Sherlock up toward the waiting Wheel.

***

Rat, Wedding, Bow – part two - Wedding

There was spontaneous applause when the four men arrived at the Eye. They were shown into their pod and greeted by everyone, ushered to the front and greeted by the registrar who would take the civil ceremony. He was a small dapper man with a similar taste in suits to Mycroft. Possibly why he's been hired, Greg found himself thinking. Anthea and a silent bodyguard type entered last and took up a position at the rear. She was still texting madly. Some things never change, Greg thought with a smile.

John and Sherlock stood forward first, flanked by Mycroft and Greg. The Registrar welcomed them as the pod began to move upward. This is it, John thought. This was what they had fought for, and won. Their day. They had all agreed that John and Sherlock would go first, then step aside and act as Mycroft and Greg's Best Men as they took their turn to say their own vows.

"Greetings, ladies and gentlemen," the registrar said. "My name is Rodney Bright and I am Registrar with the Borough of Lambeth. It is my pleasure to welcome you today to the magnificence that is the London Eye for this, the joining together of Sherlock Holmes with John Watson, and Mycroft Holmes with Gregory Lestrade, in their civil partnerships."

"Gay," Sherlock murmured, soto voce, and John hid his smile. If Sherlock hadn't tried to deduce the man, he would have been surprised.

"John, Sherlock, if you would care to step forward and say your vows to each other." The registrar handed Sherlock a card with the words he had to say. Sherlock barely glanced at them, and then turned to John. There was a flash of embarrassment on his face as he opened his mouth to speak.

"I, Sherlock...Oberon Lysander Holmes, take you, John Hamish Watson, to be my civil partner under law." John could understand the slight hesitation. He hadn't ever known Sherlock's other names. Now he knew why. He smiled reassuringly at his fiance, glad beyond measure that nobody had made a sound on his utterance of his full name. "I make this pledge freely," Sherlock continued, his voice low and earnest, "with honesty and sincerity and with a commitment that will grow deeper and stronger as the years pass. I hereby pledge to share my life openly with you, John. From this moment on I ask you to be with me on our journey, to share our dreams, go forward together and to be my companion along the way."

"John?" the registrar prompted and John took the card.

"I, John Hamish Watson, take you, Sherlock Oberon Lysander Holmes, to be my civil partner under law." He completed the rest of the paragraph by reading it, rather than with the flawless recitation Sherlock had accomplished. He had barely glanced at the card and had then kept his eyes fixed on John the entire time. Sherlock was smiling at him though, and he grinned back.

"Sherlock," the Registrar said, bringing them back into the moment. "Are you, Sherlock Oberon Lysander Holmes, free lawfully to form a civil partnership with John Hamish Watson?"

"I am," Sherlock said confidently. Then it was John's turn to say the same from his point of view.

"Now," the Registrar said. "It is customary to exchange rings to seal your vows. Sherlock, if you would like to take your ring and speak your heart to John?"

Sherlock turned to Greg and his friend stepped forward and opened the small box he was carrying. Sherlock took the ring from its depths and turned back to John, holding the ring in his fist. "John," he began softly. "There are folk more eloquent than I when it comes to baring their souls so I shall draw upon the words of Philip Sydney to express my heart to you." He smiled and began to recite.

"My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given.
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a bargain better driven.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart for once it was his own;
I cherish his because in me it bides.
My true love hath my heart and I have his."

Sherlock took hold of John's hand and lifted it, holding the ring to fit it to his finger. He paused and met John's gaze with his own. "I was asleep until you found me," he said softly. "You and I fell together in haphazard chaos but meshed into something more than either of us hoped for or could ever have believed we would find. I am so glad, so eternally grateful and always will be incredulous that you observed me, that you saw the heart of me and recognised that I had one. I am still in awe that the Universe would offer you up to me, and have you accept me and welcome me into your heart as you have done. Together we are a force to be reckoned with, Captain John Watson. You are many things to me; captain, doctor, blogger, lover and now husband. I will never ever grow bored learning all your facets. We are each a pair of gentle hands with a sure touch, a soothing balm when the other is in pain, each of us a warm shelter when the other is cold, each offering the other a quiet harbour in times of chaos. You shield me with your strength and your bravery and your guidance. I am more of a man when I'm with you. I can face the world. I can face people. I can stand taller because of your faith in me."

Sherlock paused, took a breath and then launched off into the last part of his speech, his promises to John. "I now call on all those here present, our family and our friends, to bear witness to my vows to you. I give you these promises, John. I promise to listen to you, to care for you, to love you. I promise to never leave you behind, to support you in every way I can. I just hope it will be enough. I give you this ring as a token of my love and a sign of the promises I have made to you today. You are my heart, John." He slid the ring over John's knuckle and held it there for a moment. When John looked at it, he saw the narrow gold band with a familiar bend in it. It looked like the trace of a single beat on a heart monitor. He smiled at the rightness of the choice and lifting Sherlock's fingers to his lips, he dropped a small kiss to the tips.

"Sherlock," John began, " I don't have your facility with words, but while I doubt these vows will be as nicely worded as yours, I know they will be every bit as sincere. You brighten my world in so many ways. You constantly amaze and astound me. You taught me to be a bit amazing too, and I love you for that. I love you for all sorts of things, actually. The list is too long to go into right now, but I hope you already know them all anyway because I try to tell you as often as I can just how wonderful you are." John smiled up into Sherlock's face. He didn't need to refer to written words to say what he needed to say. It was all in his heart. "Of course we do have our 'moments'," he admitted. "You are fabulous and handsome and astounding, but you can also be the most maddening, annoying, frustrating prat at times. I do tell you those things as well, because what we share is very real and right. Nothing escapes you and you have learnt to care about me as much as I have learnt to care about you, and we work at it to make sure we stay friends. Sherlock Oberon Lysander Watson-Holmes, this is our special day. We're going to have lots more of them though, thousands in fact, because I am going to be yours and you are going to be mine for the rest of our lives. I make this commitment to you today with sheer joy in my heart. I know no-one else I would rather be with."

John also took a deep breath at this point and then added "I now call on all those here present, our family and our friends, to bear witness to my vows to you. . . I promise to love you, honour you, cherish and respect you, defend you, listen to you, talk to you, compliment you, feed and water you, cuddle and cosset you, protect you and support you in every way, shape and form you can imagine. I promise to let you do all of those things for me in return too. Thank you for allowing all this to happen." He turned to Mycroft who, on cue, stepped forward with the ring. "So, that's my speech done with. I hope if I missed anything out you'll take it as read, because everything I am and everything I have the potential to become belongs to you now and I lay claim to you in return, now and for always, so there." He slid the ring onto Sherlock's finger, a broad platinum band, plain except for some etched lines on one side. When Sherlock examined the pattern, it proved to be a fingerprint, obviously John's, etched into the surface of the ring.

"Sherlock and John Watson-Holmes," the Registrar said. "I now have great pleasure in declaring you joined under civil law. May you go forward together and may your love grow stronger with each day forward. May I join with everyone here present in offering you heart felt congratulations. Ladies and Gentlemen, Sherlock and John Watson-Holmes." There was applause and cheers and whistles and then after a brief kiss, they were stepping back to make way for Mycroft and Greg.

The first part of the Lestrade-Holmes ceremony was almost the same as John and Sherlock's. Sherlock was surprised to hear his brother's voice waver slightly, not from reluctance it seemed but emotion, which was something he never usually allowed to affect him.

"I, Mycroft Galen Aubrey Holmes, take you, Gregory Jonathan Lestrade, to be my civil partner under law. I make this pledge freely, with honesty and sincerity and with a commitment that I know will grow deeper and stronger as the years pass." On the next words though he seemed to falter. Greg frowned and reached for Mycroft's hand.

"It's alright love. Speak your heart," Greg murmured reassuringly.

"I'm sorry, Gregory," Mycroft's murmur was troubled. "I cannot promise you the same as Sherlock promised, although you deserve everything from me. I cannot promise to be completely open with you about..."

"Mycroft," Greg kissed his fingers. "I know. So promise me what you can, love. Be honest. I understand. Mycroft nodded but his expression was unhappy. Greg leaned in and whispered something in his ear that nobody else could hear. Mycroft smiled and nodded and squeezed his fiance's hand.

"From this moment on, then," he continued, "I hereby pledge to share my life as openly with you as I can, Gregory. I ask you to be with me on our journey, to share our dreams, go forward together and to be my companion along the way."

"Greg?" the Registrar prompted. Greg grinned and took the card.

"I, Gregory Jonathan Lestrade, take you, Mycroft Galen Aubrey Holmes, to be my civil partner under law. I make this pledge freely, with honesty and sincerity and with commitment that I know will grow deeper and stronger as the years pass. I hereby pledge to share my life as openly with you as I can, Mycroft. From this moment on I ask you to be with me on our journey, to share our dreams, go forward together and to be my companion along the way."

After they had both declared their legal status as being lawfully able to undertake the civil partnership, it was Mycroft's turn to speak his promises. He fixed Greg with a tender gaze and nobody could miss the love he felt for the man in front of him.

"Gregory, I have never met anyone like you," Mycroft declared gently. "Never met anyone I wanted to know so completely, much less wanted to get close to, but here you are. You have single-handedly broken down barriers that have withstood the test of many years, of many an onslaught. You have dissolved defences as though they did not exist. I am unequivocally yours, Gregory, despite not being able to share every aspect of my life with you, I do promise that nothing I keep from you shall be of a personal nature to ourselves. I will endeavour to be honest and trustworthy in our emotional dealings with each other."

"Can't ask for anything more, love," Greg reassured him with a smile.

"Let not the marriage of true minds admit impediments," Mycroft recited, .
"Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
Oh no! it is an ever-fixéd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved."

Mycroft took his Gregory's hand and raised it, Sherlock stepping forward this time to offer the ring. Mycroft smiled at his younger brother as he took the offered band and held it for a moment. Then he turned the full force of his blue eyes on Greg and smiled. "I call upon all those here present to witness my promises to you today, Gregory. I promise to love you, to honour and cherish you, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, good times and bad. I promise to care for you and listen to you, to provide safe harbour in times of crisis, calm and rest in times of stress. I promise to defend and protect you, from myself if necessary, certainly from those who mean you harm. I promise to respect you and your needs and wishes. Everything I am is yours. I give you this ring," he slid it home, "as a token of everything I have promised you today." It was a plain platinum band, simply inscribed with the date, time, and GPS co-ordinates of the place they had first met. Mycroft's smile lit his face as Greg took his turn to speak.

"Mycroft, you came out of nowhere and gave me something amazing when I needed it most. Your trust. Plenty of couples love each other but not many trust, but somehow, you and I have that between us and that is more precious to me than anything. I promise now to cradle that trust and keep it safe, and to surround it with the love we have and keep it nurtured. I promise to honour and respect you, care for you, love you, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, in good times and bad." Greg cleared his throat, sounding gruff when he continued. "I've tussled with my age for a long time," he admitted. "I've felt myself getting older and feeling more like a father figure than a lover. Then along you came and turned that on its head." He smiled and took a folded paper out of a pocket. "Unlike you, I can't remember words but I was given a book when I was a kid, and the words struck a chord, particularly now as I'm going grey. So here they are..." Greg began to read, the words coming alive for Mycroft who recognised them instantly. Looking at their guests it seemed a few others did too.

"'What is REAL?' asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. 'Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?'.
'Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'
'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit.
'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.'
'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?'
'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand'."

Greg paused, swallowed, took a slightly shaky breath and let it go. "You, Mycroft, you understand. That's why I'm proud to marry you today. With you, I'm not old, I don't feel old and I sure as hell don't act old. With you," Greg lifted Mycroft's hand and reached for the ring John had stepped forward to hand over. "With you, Mycroft Galen Aubrey Holmes, I am Real." He slid the ring home, the bright plain platinum band a mirror for his own, unadorned except for the date, time, and GPS coordinates of the place they first laid eyes on each other, the place they first exchanged words, 221B Baker Street.

At the peak of the Eye, at the zenith of their climb into the sky above London, John and Sherlock stood next to Mycroft and Greg, each couple holding hands and staring out at their city laid out below them. The sky was clear, the view incredible. The spires and towers, green foliage peeping through between brick and stone and asphalt, the muted colours of red and grey and black and ochre, all etched themselves on the men's memories as never before.

Down there John had dashed after Sherlock, dodging down alleys and across roads and over rooftops, regaining his freedom and his sanity and his self esteem. Down there was tea and jam and blogging, red pants and cable knit jumpers.

Down there were blood and sweat and tears, deductions and addictions and The Work, violin music at 4am and tea in the afternoon. Down there were purple shirts, long coats and short friends, skulls on the mantlepiece, heads in the fridge and eyes in the microwave.

Down there was a minor position in The British Government, dark cars, MI6 and the CIA on a part time basis. Down there were Saville Row suits and no talking in the club rooms and umbrellas no matter the weather.

Down there were murders, crime scenes and the world's only consulting detective, the worst that humans could do to each other, and the best that they could be. Down there were clues and evidence, chases and arrests and his Division.

The photographer captured them all in profile as they stood looking out and down, each in his own thoughts but together nevertheless. Ever after Mycroft would treasure that particular photo as being the one that made him realise that something had changed, subtly altered, bringing a new dimension to the view; together they were more than the sum of their parts, weaknesses accepted, burdens shared, support given, truces made, treaties signed, love declared and received. The ring on his finger caught the light from the westering sun and glinted, catching his gaze. He smiled and there was a click as the photographer caught that too. For ever after, Greg would treasure that one as being his favourite, Mycroft smiling softly, his gaze on the ring on his finger.

It was with great reluctance that they descended again to street level, coming down to ground themselves in their kingdom again. Congratulations rained on them from friends and family, rice and confetti and rose petals showered them as they walked back to their cars. Ahead of them was the blessing, the no-doubt lavish reception at Homes' Manor, and their evening entertainment.

"John," Sherlock said, leaning over to kiss his husband once they were in the safety of their car and on the move again.

"Yes, and what can I do for you, Mr Watson-Holmes?" John grinned. He liked the sound of the name.

"You are...brilliant. That was inspired. Truly," Sherlock offered, voice gleeful. "The Eye, London laid out below...Did you see it all?" His voice held a touch of awe and wonder in it. "Everywhere we've been, everywhere we've really lived! John, you are a genius!"

"Say that again," John grinned, grabbing his husband into an embrace.

"You. Are. A. Genius," Sherlock supplied and chuckled. "Savour it. I shan't tell you again."

"Thought as much." John claimed Sherlock's mouth in a kiss. "I better enjoy the moment then." He combed his fingers through Sherlock's curls, pressed his lips to the soft cupid's bow and licked, savoured Sherlock's soft moan. He pulled back and stared into his husband's eyes. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"What for, calling you a genius?"

"No, you prat, for marrying me. Thank you for making me yours."

"My pleasure, John. I'm yours too, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I noticed."

"Good. Shut up and kiss me again then," Sherlock demanded, and John obliged.

Reviews are welcome as always

Readings:
My True Love Hath My Heart is from Arcadia, by Sir Philip Sydney, around about 1580
Let Not the Marriage of True Minds - Shakespeare's sonnet no 116, written around 1593
Greg's passage is from the Velveteen Rabbit, by Marjorie Williams, 1922.

***

Rat, Wedding, Bow - Bow

Arriving at the Manor as a couple gave Greg pause. Damn it, but they were a couple; married, hitched, partners. He found he liked it, liked it alot, even as it gave him cause to reflect on the feelings churning through him.

"Has it only just occurred to you, my dear?" Mycroft smiled at his husband and reached to take his hand.

Greg grinned. "Trust you to know what's going through my head," he said gently.

"Of course I know. You have a smile on your face so whatever you are thinking about obviously pleases you, and you glanced at me before it appeared so it probably has to do with me, and we have just got married, so I surmised that you were thinking about us being married and that is what you were smiling about. Ergo, it has just occurred to you that we are now in fact partners, Mr Lestrade-Holmes, and that sits well with you, doesn't it, Gregory?"

Greg nodded and his grin widened. "Oh yes, Mycroft. Yes it does. Thank you, love."

"What for? Marrying you? Some might say we deserve each other."

"And you know what? They would be right. Here we are, time to shine." The chauffeur opened the door and they got out, the lights from the windows illuminating the early dusk. It was a little after four when they arrived, and light spilled out through the open door and pooled on the gravel as they crunched up to the steps. Mycroft paused before ascending and gripped Greg's arm to halt him. "What's wrong, love?" Greg asked.

"Nothing, I merely wanted a moment of quiet before I have to share you." He leaned in and gave Greg a quick kiss, hugging the man to him. Warm arms enfolded him in a hug and Greg planted a kiss on his lips, gazing into his eyes the while. Mycroft pulled back and returned the gaze. "I hope this will be everything we ever hoped for, my love." He looked worried for a moment.

"It will be everything we work to make it," Greg said. "Whatever it is, it's ours." Taking Mycroft's hand in his own and lacing their fingers together, they walked up the steps and inside to applause and cheers and whistles.

Sherlock and John were already there, and all their wedding guests were arriving behind them and they were swept up in the celebrations as Greg found himself introduced to every damn member of the Holmes clan by a proud Mrs Holmes. He was interested to note that nobody said anything untoward, they were all obviously on their best behaviour.

After what seemed an interminable time being welcomed by the Holmes elders, they were ushered to the family chapel for the blessing that Mummy had insisted on. Sherlock and John, Mycroft and Greg, Margaret Lestrade and Lavinia Holmes were the only ones present for that. They had specified they would do this in private, and the local vicar, Tony Appleton, a long-time friend of Lavinia, had agreed to give the blessing despite this being not one but two same-sex partnerships. When asked why he was prepared to do it, he had replied simply that his God, in his wisdom, had not seen fit to reject the LGBT community, but people had. Appleton was adamant that the bible said many things that simply did not happen any more and as such, unless people were going to reintroduce stoning as the penalty for adultery, he was not going to reject gays from his church. Unfortunately, the man was controversial but, in Mycroft's opinion, for the right reasons. Mycroft resolved that he would endeavour to aid the man keep his position as local vicar, should it ever be challenged. He would consider it remuneration for what he was about to do, something that would greatly comfort both his mother and Gregory's.

"We thank you, O God, for the love You have implanted in our hearts," Appleton began, smiling beatifically. "May it always inspire us to be kind in our words, considerate of feeling, and concerned for each other's needs and wishes. Help us, oh Lord, to be understanding and forgiving of human weaknesses and failings. Increase our faith and trust in You and may Your prudence guide our life and love." He turned over a leaf in his book and lighted on a passage. "It was St Paul who said that Love is patient and kind; love is not jealous or boastful; it is not arrogant or rude. Love does not insist on its own way; it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs, but rejoices with the truth. Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, love never gives up... Three things remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love." He turned his smile to the four men in front of him. "So, dear God, in the name of your love, bless this, the partnership of Sherlock and John." Tony made the sign of the cross in the air in front of them, then did the same for Mycroft and Greg. "Bless this, the partnership of Mycroft and Gregory, with Peace and Happiness, and make their love increase for Your glory and gift them joy both here and in eternity. Amen."

They heard both Lavinia and Margaret intone their Amens to each side of them, then Appleton smiled and offered his congratulations to them all.

"Oddly enough, I find I am not that put off by such sentiment," Mycroft admitted as they exited the chapel. "I admit it was largely for our mothers' benefit but it was not...unmoving."

"Ah, you old romantic, you," Greg said. "Well, both our mums are happy, anyway. We didn't disappoint there."

"I find I too was not as uncomfortable with the overt expression of religious sentiment as I thought," Sherlock admitted. "As you pointed out, Greg, both our mothers are happy and I draw your attention to the fact that they now seem to be completely besotted with our vicar." They looked back to see Appleton walking along with one lady on either arm, escorting them both back to the house. Both women seemed to have their attention fixed upon him and Greg grinned.

"Wouldn't worry, lads. I think it's probably a passing phase," he suggested. "You know what they say about vicars. They marry everyone but remain single..."

The reception in the Orangery was bedecked with garlands of white flowers tied with blue and gold ribbons. Pale blue tablecloths and ivory candles graced the tables and every place was set with a small wedding favour box, tied with a blue and gold ribbon holding a tiny bunch of blue roses, the guest's name embossed in gold on the side of the box. Inside were chocolates, hand made and filled with champagne liqueur. Lady Holmes had outdone herself. The meal passed in a blur; all that John could later recall was that the food was delicious. The cake, a massive affair with a rainbow of delicate sugar roses cascading down the five tiers, had apparently been Margaret Lestrade's contribution to the proceedings. Then, of course, came the speeches.

Greg and John had decided that they would each make one, saving the Holmes brothers the bother (and the angst, John thought). Greg stood up first and cleared his throat, tapping a glass to get the guests' attention.

"Right then," he began, surveying his audience. "Bloody hell, this is worse than a press conference." That drew a laugh. "Although the good bit about this is the audience won't be asking me awkward questions later..."

"Don't bet on that, Laddie," Murray shouted from the back and another laugh erupted.

"You're John's mate, you can ask him the awkward questions," Greg shot back with a grin. "Seriously, I hate speeches, but tradition demands so here it is. I doubt there are many couples who can say they first saw each other across a crime scene but there you go, that was us. I should maybe make some quip about it being a crime that we met in the first place but I really can't. I can honestly blame Sherlock for the fact that Mycroft and I got the chance to speak to each other. We met each other properly when Mycroft visited his brother and I happened to be there at the same time. He obviously saw something in me that he liked, but I am still not sure what. I've learned not to ask. I'll just accept that I've obviously got something he wants. I think it's my police contacts, really..." Greg grinned down at Mycroft who smiled and shook his head slightly and someone tittered. "However, he is a good kisser which makes up for it. I am proud to have this man as my lifemate. He is an amazing person, he is romantic, imaginative, rich and powerful. Honestly I feel like a kept man..."

"I'll keep you, Gregory, don't worry. Having you re-homed would be such a chore..." Mycroft's interruption drew a round of laughter and threw Greg off balance. He had not been expecting that. Mycroft grinned and subsided. "My apologies for the interruption. Please, do go on," he invited, waving an imperious hand.

Oh, I will so get you later, Greg thought, flashing him a warning grin. "Thank you, My', I knew you wouldn't disappoint," Greg replied. "Right, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted? Ah, yes, being a kept man. I could get used to it though, I have to admit. Mycroft is generous by nature and loves bringing me presents, but honestly, when I said I fancied to retire to the country, I didn't expect him to buy me one of my own." Greg paused and allowed the chuckles to subside again, then his voice turned softer and more serious. "I am bound to say though that this man is everything I could ever want in a partner; kind and caring, understanding and of course, good looking. I love him, and I am so glad he loves me in return. I also get an amazing brother-in-law in the form of Sherlock. So, now I will hand you over to my other equally amazing brother-in-law, John Watson." Greg sat down and planted a kiss on Mycroft's lips as scattered applause rewarded his words.

"Thanks, Greg," John said, as he stood up. "Hm, amazing brother-in-law...well, not sure about that, at least I'm not sure when you refer to me like that. Sherlock is a given. He is amazing, I'll agree. I've seen him grow and change, and expand his horizons enormously from the person I met a few years ago." John cleared his throat, staring at Sherlock and ordering his thoughts. "He is incredible, really," John said. "I was so alone, and I owe him so much. This man is my best friend, he's everything I could wish for and more. Our future together will never be boring, that's for certain. I'm not much for speeches, but I do want to offer thanks from all of us here. For Mrs Holmes and Mrs Lestrade, our powerhouses of planning." John signalled and two waiters came forward to hand presents to the mums. "My own mum sadly isn't here to see this or I am sure she would have been in there with you both. So on behalf of all four of us, thank you so very much. This is wonderful." There was a smattering of applause. "As we all acted as each other's best men, we can thank each other in an appropriate way after the proceedings." There was another smattering of laughter and John's army mates whistled. "Settle down, lads, don't make me come back there," John said, his Captain's voice switching on. "I would also like to thank everyone and anyone who made today possible. I am bound to forget someone so please just consider yourself thanked and the cheque is in the post, promise. Thanks to the caterers, the staff, the DJ, the quartet, the whole army of people behind the scenes who never get thanked and wonder why they do the job half the time. Here's to you all. So, ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to charge your glasses please." John waited a moment and then said "It is my honour to propose the first toast." He raised his glass. "There are lots of people who cannot be here with us today. Friends and family who have passed, some who just could not manage it for whatever reason, so, would you join with me now in a toast to absent friends." Everybody stood and scraped back chairs, raised their glasses and echoed "Absent friends."

Harry Watson stood then, raised her-non-alcoholic-glass of bubbly and smiled. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I could just interrupt?" She raised her voice to be heard. "I would like to take this opportunity to say what a wonderful little brother John has been to me even although I've been a bitch and a difficult person to deal with at times. He's always been there for me and I wish him every happiness, he deserves it. So I am taking it upon myself to wish our happy couples all the best and may they have a wonderful future together. Ladies and Gents, I give you Sherlock and John, Mycroft and Greg."

"Sherlock and John, Mycroft and Greg," came the answering chant, everyone drank and then the applause and catcalls, whistles and cheers filled the room. The two couples kissed (Mycroft spending time wondering how he could get the pictures suppressed before they made their way onto social media) and then everyone resumed their seats to chat until they could escape to get ready for the evening's entertainment.

"The cake?" Mycroft murmured.

"Oh, the cake!" Greg said. "One cake, two couples, we need another knife."

"No we don't," Sherlock insisted. "We can take turns, each couple can pretend to cut it for the photo, then we can gather round and all hold it and cut properly."

"Genius," John said.

"I know." Sherlock grinned.

"Oh, my God, John. Not Karaoke, please..." Sherlock had seen the machine set up beside the disco lights coupled with sound production equipment.

"Don't worry, 'Lock. I'm sure Greg will have a go for all of us. He has a good voice. Heard him before."

"Yes, no doubt. At three in the morning and three sheets to the wind. As long as you don't expect me to sit still while you serenade me when you're drunk, John."

"No chance, I have a rotten voice."

"Just remember that when you're three sheets to the wind as well."

The room was cleared for the following dance. A quartet set up in the corner to play more sedate music for the elder guests. However, Mycroft smiled and tugged Greg into a clinch. "First couples on the dance floor," he said, firmly. "It is traditional and mummy will expect it. Sherlock, John, if you please..."

"I'm a crap dancer..." Greg began to protest but was stilled by a soft kiss.

"Follow my lead," Mycroft said with a smile.

In truth, neither Greg nor John were bad. John was leading there though.

"All those regimental dinners, I couldn't escape learning," John explained. It had been a pleasant surprise for Sherlock, and he had to admit he wasn't often surprised. He had difficulty in allowing John to lead but he was a quick study and nothing if not graceful on his feet. They did a circuit of the floor as the audience admired them and then, formalities over with, Greg was all for grabbing a drink and left Mycroft with Lavinia while he did the drinks duty.

John and Sherlock ended up chatting to Molly and Mrs Hudson, while the disco was setting up in the orangery where the reception had been.

"Oo, dance with me, John?" Molly pleaded, when the first strains of music drifted through to the ball room. Sarah Sawyer drifted over and threw an arm around John's shoulders, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek.

"If you're marking your card, put me down for a dance as well. Not missing this chance. Congratulations, the both of you," she said warmly, a smirk on her lips. "So, how about it, John. Can I have a dance too?"

"Well, how could I refuse two lovely ladies?" John grinned.

"Easily," Sherlock deadpanned. "Dancing is boring."

"I think I can unequivocally say that it is not boring, Sherlock. It depends on who you do it with and how you do it."

"How you do it? Jigging your hips it not dancing, John. At best it is an embarrassing display, at worst, an unmitigated disaster..."

"Speak for yourself. At least I try to make some moves..."

"Woah, you should see Doc's moves, Holmesy, he's amazing." Sherlock found himself face to face with one of John's army mates, and for the life of him, he couldn't remember the man's name. John laughed and clapped him on the back and they ended up with an arm around each other's shoulders, leaning against each other. "You know, I gotta hand it to you, Doc. He's a looker, your fella."

"Thank you, I thought so."

"Oh, so now I'm your trophy husband?" Sherlock asked mildly. John grinned.

"Of course you are. I married the best looking guy in the room."

"I think you are sadly mistaken there, John," Sherlock said gently.

"Oh, you do, do you? Calling me a liar?"

"On the contrary, John. It's just I think you'll find I am in the enviable position of having married the best looking man in the room." John blinked and then smiled, a slow grin that lit his face. There was a collective "Aww" from the girls and then John was kissing sherlock, hard and passionately. Everyone in the room disappeared and for a blissful moment it was just the two of them.

"They've got to break for air soon," someone said with a chuckle.

"Not if they're breathing through their noses." That had to be Molly.

"Well, if we're not careful, we might need a fire extinguisher."

"Or a bucket of cold water." John stuck two fingers up at that one.

"Fuck you, Murray," he murmured. "I'm John Watson-Holmes, I married a gorgeous man, I do what I like and fuck you."

Sherlock chuckled and stepped back, taking John with him. "We'll be back soon, and then you can have him for dances if you still want to risk it. We have some...family to chat to. Come on, John." Sherlock set off at a lope across the room, John trotting to keep up with his husband's longer legs. Sherlock headed out the back, grabbed his hand and swung him through the doors out onto the terrace. He headed for the darkened garden, to a wooden door in the wall. It opened onto a kitchen garden, fifteen foot brick walls all around. Sherlock did not stop there, heading through another gap in the wall and into a different part of the estate. John became aware they had gone right around to the back of the hall and were in the stable yard at the back.

"Where the hell are we going?" he asked. "It's bloody cold out here..."

"Somewhere where they won't find us, we can go to our room the back way and get changed there. I want out of this suit. Come on, John. I rather hoped to get you out of yours too."

—-

Life gets no sweeter than this, Greg thought, admiring his husband, the physical evidence of this next stage of his life. Here was the person he would grow old with, the man he would delight in being with, the man whom he would weather the ups and downs of the future chapters of his life. I should stop questioning why he wants me, and be glad that he does, he thought, watching the man chat companionably with his university friends, laughing and relaxed. For however long I've got him for, I'll love him as he deserves to be loved, wholeheartedly and honestly. At least, I can get that right this time, he considered, momentary regret for everything that had gone wrong before crossing his mind.

"Oi, stop that right now," John stood at his elbow, watching him.

"What?" Greg took a swig of his drink to cover his discomfort.

"I can see you, wondering how long this is going to last. Don't. Believe me, been there, done that. Doesn't pay. You'll have him as long as you'll have him, no longer, and you'll not be able to alter that so don't waste time thinking about it. Just learn to enjoy each day as it comes."

Greg chuckled. "I swear some of Sherlock's deductive skills are rubbing off on you." John laughed.

"Possibly. Anyway, the man sent me to find you. He's planning something. Asked me to bring you along."

"What's he planning then?"

"Buggered if I know but I think it has violin playing involved."

"I just hope it's nothing too highbrow. We don't need Pomp and Circumstance..."

Mycroft came over and linked an arm through Greg's. "Shall we go through to the music room?" he said, tugging on his arm. "Has John told you, I and my brother have a little surprise planned."

"Both of you?" John asked. "He told me he had something up his sleeve..."

Mycroft smiled. "Yes, John, both of us."

"Never trust those two when they get together, they plot world domination," Greg warned. Mycroft laughed and guided his husband toward the open doors of a room that housed a baby grand piano and several chairs and music stands, and Sherlock, currently rosining his bow. Several people had drifted in, anticipating a show. Mycroft kissed Greg and moved him toward a seat, then took his place at the piano, adjusting his seat accordingly.

"I never knew he played," John admitted.

"Me either but maybe he kept it as a surprise."

Mycroft played a few notes and ran his fingers along the keys, the waterfall of melody hushing the chatter and allowing silence to fall.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Mycroft said. "In honour of our joint wedding, Sherlock and myself considered it right and proper to offer something of our own to the festivities. Sherlock has composed a piece for piano and violin in celebration of our marriage which we will now play for you, and then we will follow it with some more music which we hope you find entertaining." Mycroft glanced up as Sherlock poised his bow and glanced back at his brother, an infinitesimal nod the only communication between them. Then Sherlock began.

The piece set off in quite a somber mood, slow and thoughtful, waves of sound that spoke of sadness, the lonely violin tempered with the deeper notes of the piano underscoring what it meant to face life alone. It spoke to John and Greg both, tugging at their memories of days and nights spent in solitude, neither of them with much hope for a better outcome, a more hopeful future. Sherlock understood that outlook, that hopelessness. It was revealed in his command of the music, notes weaving a story of their own. Gradually, though, the melody changed; a major lift, a quicker tempo, up and down across the scales until it was lighter, more joyful. His bow danced across the strings, piano notes underscoring the melody as the lilting tune swirled in John's ears evoking chases through the streets, twists and turns, a few discordant notes recalling that they didn't get on well all the time but quickly swept away with joyful harmonies and ultimately, the weighty but blissful feel of companionship and partnership. The music wound down to its close in a decreasing spiral of notes that came to rest rather like a train pulling into a station, a bird alighting on a wall, a measured slowing down to a natural halt.

There was a second or so as the audience absorbed what it had heard before applause broke out, and John and Greg among the most enthusiastic. They both rushed to embrace their partners. "Some wedding present," John said in Sherlock's ear as he hugged his partner. Sherlock grinned then pushed John away again.

"There's more..." he said, motioning for quiet, then lifted his bow and began the first notes of Pachelbel's Canon in D major. Mycroft disengaged from Greg and sat down again, coming in with the accompaniment to the somber tune as Greg took his seat again. There was a small pause and the brothers exchanged glances. Then Sherlock suddenly broke from the original and upped the tempo. John stared as his partner swung into Canon Rock, the modern take on the original. Greg laughed and clapped his approval, John joining in. Sherlock grinned, obviously loving the effect he was having. Never in his life would John have thought that his perfectionist lover would have lowered himself to play such a modern variation. When they finished it was to tumultuous applause, squeals of glee from Molly and whistles from Sarah.

"Never let it be said that I never do anything for you, John." Sherlock was grinning. John cuffed him gently.

"That," he said, "was amazing. I'd have lost the bet, if anybody had asked me if I thought you would unbend enough to play something...like that. That was brilliant."

"Thank you, John." Sherlock almost looked shy. John hugged him.

"Come on, My'." Greg tugged his husband out of the room, following the sound of the loud music coming from the direction of the Orangery.

"Oh, no, really? Do we have to?"

"Yes, we do. Besides, I have something of my own planned."

"Hey, little sister, what have you done..." Strains of Billy Idol's White Wedding assaulted their ears as they walked through the doors. Mycroft's university friends bustled over and hauled him away with assurances that they would 'look after' him. Greg wondered but doubted he would come to serious harm. Besides, they knew to make sure that his husband was on the front row in a few minutes anyway. He hurried off and had a brief word with the DJ and then disappeared behind the makeshift wings of the temporary stage. He shed his jacket, and tie, rolled his sleeves to the elbow and waited for his cue.

"Okay everybody," the DJ called out. "Karaoke time. To kick us off tonight, a brave man who has just tied the knot. I give you Greg Lestrade..." The music kicked in, Greg flicked the curtain aside and raised the mic to his lips.

"Hell has gone and Heaven's here, there's nothing left for you to fear. Shake your ass, come over here. Now scream!"

Mycroft's eyes widened, and the three musketeers started clapping. Molly's eyes were even larger. Sarah was laughing and clapping. Everybody laughed at the "Grab yourself an alibi" line, which was to be expected. Greg had chosen the song deliberately. He carefully directed the "The kettle's on, so don't be long," line at John.

"Let me...entertain you," Greg sang, unfastening the top button of his shirt, his eyes on Mycroft. As he sang the line again, he unfastened another, and another until his shirt was more than half way undone. When he finished the song it was to tumultuous applause. He bowed low to his audience.

"Thanks, folks. If the day job fails I might release an album. I have just one more to sing, and then I won't inflict my voice on you again. The rest of you can embarrass yourselves to your heart's content. This one's actually for Myself and Myc, and for John and Lock too." He looked over at the DJ and signaled. A calmer and more gentle melody filled the air. Greg leaned forward and reached out, taking Mycroft's hand and drawing him close. He laced their fingers together as the first bars echoed around the dance floor and Greg smiled, raising the microphone to his lips again.

"You and I, we've been at it so long, still got the strongest fire. You and I, we still know how to talk, know how to walk that wire..." Mycroft's eyes were riveted on him, the blue gaze intense as Greg sang his heart out. John had Sherlock in his arms and, contrary to his opinion about John's moves, Sherlock's hips were swaying with his husband's as they let the music carry them.

"Cause it's us against the world, you and me against them all. If you listen to these words, know that we are standing tall..." Greg dropped a soft kiss to Mycroft's cheek. "I don't ever see the day that I won't catch you when you fall, cause it's us against the world tonight..."

John buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder. "But I didn't..." he said softly.

"Past and gone, John," Sherlock said gently. "Maybe you didn't because you couldn't. I wouldn't let you. You've saved me today, though. Today, all debts, if there are any, which I do not personally consider there to be any but knowing you, you'll disagree...all debts are paid. You've given me everything I could ever want or need. You've given me yourself."

"You've done the same."

"Yes, as I said. All debts, John." Whatever the world threw at them, they would be together to face it. Himself and John Watson, Greg and his brother. The beginning of a long and lovely friendship. No debts... Sherlock smiled.

"Us against the world..."

Thanks for the comments and the love, people. This is it. I may post an epilogue but it won't be attached to this and I have no idea when.

Look up Canon Rock, if you've never heard it. I figured it was the kind of mad thing Sherlock might pull off, despite giving the impression of being a bit of a purist where violin music is concerned. And if you can't imagine Rupert singing, then shame on you, he has a great voice. If you want to know what the wedding cake looks like, it looks similar to this, but five tiered. .

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