The Weight of the World on Your Shoulders Ch. 4

What’s done is done Greg reminded himself yet again as he stared at the closet of an office he occupied now. It was a month now since the world had flipped upside down and Sherlock committed suicide. That was something Greg had never believed the man capable of. Sherlock had been brilliant and obsessed with proving that brilliance. And, without doubt, Sherlock was as brilliant as he appeared. Greg didn’t believe that Sherlock had created the cases he’d worked on. After all, it was usually Greg’s choice whether to call the detective in or not. There was no way Sherlock could guarantee he’d be called in on the right cases.

The fallout from the falling dominoes included Greg as well. As the man who worked with Sherlock, Greg was the scapegoat sacrificed to the papers by New Scotland Yard. It didn’t matter that his solve rate was the highest of anyone else’s, except perhaps Dimmock who worked with Sherlock every once in a while. He supposed he was lucky that he hadn’t been fired outright. Those solved cases counted for something. Yet Greg had been shunted off to the back end of nowhere, to a department on the very outskirts of London. He didn’t have to move, thankfully, but his commute in was a half hour longer. Demotion followed the transfer and now he was working as the lowest man on the totem pole in his new department. The others had delighted in giving him the grunt work, everything they hated doing. Which, usually, meant paperwork. It was a sad fact of police work that paperwork accompanied everything they did.

Checking his watch for what felt like the hundredth time today, Greg saw that it was nearly time to head home. He finished up the report he was working on and saved it. Filling out reports by computer saved a lot of time and hassle, Greg had to admit. Anne had kept him sane after all this, kept him moving forward even when Greg just wanted to sit down and give up. It was partially his fault and that was something Greg was never going to forgive or forget. Surprisingly, Anne had merely nodded when he’d told her about the demotion and subsequent pay drop. Things were going to be tight for a while but it could be done. There would be a few less luxuries but the girls would be able to stay in their school. That was important; Greg wanted the best for Sophia and Elizabeth and Anne agreed.

Shutting down his computer, Greg stretched his arms above his head and heard his shoulders pop. He’d been sitting here for hours catching up on paperwork for the division and his body was reminding him he wasn’t in his twenties anymore. Though the one advantage that came from his demotion was getting home for dinner every night. Greg even managed to sleep through the night most of the week as he wasn’t called in for every case that came through. He’d gotten used to the new routine but, in the recesses of his own mind, admitted that he missed the rank. Missed the responsibility and the chase and the power. But all that was behind him now. All because of a mistake and the doubts of the people he worked with.

Greg walked out of the building still buttoning up his coat. The sky was filled with clouds, many of which were a dark gray that seemed to threaten rain. Flipping up his collar against a gust of wind that whipped around the corner, Greg headed to his car. He was actually looking forward to tonight. It was the first night since everything had happened that he and Anne had a night to themselves. The girls were having a sleepover at a friend’s house and Anne was making dinner for them both. It reminded Greg of when they were first married and he whistled happily as he drove home.

“Dinner’s almost done, dear,” Anne said, smiling when Greg walked into the kitchen. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, smiling back.

“Smells wonderful,” Greg told her, sniffing appreciatively. “You decide on steak? And are those garlic mashed potatoes I smell?”

“I did and it is,” Anne replied, stepping out of Greg’s arms to stir the vegetables boiling on the stove. “And these are brussels sprouts. Once they’re done, I’ve got some cheese we can melt over the top.”

“Sounds perfect. Let me go clean up a bit and I’ll set the table,” Greg offered, kissing Anne’s forehead before he walked away. Anne nodded and Greg washed his hands in the bathroom down the hallway. Once that was finished, and he made sure he looked all right in the mirror, Greg came back and set the table. Anne had set the potatoes and the steaks in the middle and the smell was so very tempting. He sat down and watched Anne, smiling as she moved about the kitchen. Once the brussels sprouts were done boiling, she drained them and sprinkled cheese over the top. Then, it was into the microwave just long enough for the cheese to melt.

“And voila,” Anne said, setting the brussels sprouts on the table. She sat down across from Greg and took his hand, twining their fingers together. “Dinner is served.”

“This is wonderful, honey,” Greg replied, squeezing her hand. “Thank you. I know this past month has been difficult on you.”

“It’s all right, Greg. We’ll get through it,” Anne said, pasting on a smile and holding it tight. If she were being honest, she had hated it. The drop in pay, the earlier mornings for Greg. Anne had come to like the money Greg had brought in before, the luxuries they could afford. It grated, now, that she couldn’t have any of that anymore. “It’ll just take some time. Things will get better.”

While they ate, Greg turned the conversation to more pleasant subjects. Sophia and Elizabeth were a large part; both girls were active in school clubs, Sophia in volleyball and Elizabeth in choir, and there was an event coming up for both of them. Anne told jokes to keep Greg laughing and he described a few of his new coworkers. He was surprised Anne was willing to listen but Greg supposed it was because they were new people. And Sherlock was... gone. It made Greg’s throat tighten to think of that and he had to cover it by taking a drink of the wine Anne had chosen to go with their meal. Dinner segued into cuddling on the couch while an old movie played in the background. Neither concentrated on it, more concerned with exchanging kisses and little breaths of laughter. And they ended the night in bed. Greg was happier than he could remember during the whole last month and could only hope that this good fortune would continue.

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Mycroft surveyed his desk, sighing at the familiar sight there. It seemed that no matter how many papers he reviewed and signed, how many problems he solved, there were always a hundred more to take their place. He almost couldn’t remember the last time his desk had been completely clear. And, of course, the man sitting across from him brought his own army of problems. Sherlock smirked at Mycroft, following his thoughts by the expression on his face.

“I may be problematic but at least I’m alive,” Sherlock said dryly, arching an eyebrow at Mycroft. “Would you rather I were dead?”

“Not at all, Sherlock, and you know it,” Mycroft sighed again, rolling his shoulders to ease some of the tension. Even though it had been a month since Sherlock faked his death, things kept piling up. “What I don’t understand is why it must be you who goes after this group Moriarty claims he put together. Even with the time he spent in my custody, he never mentioned anything about it. And I’m sure he would have.”

“Moriarty told you exactly what he wanted to and no more,” Sherlock replied dismissively, slashing a hand through the air. “He got what he wanted to convince the world I was a fraud. Moriarty also put me in the perfect permission to hunt down his group. I’m dead, Mycroft. I can go places that you can’t.”

“You’re going to go alone?” Mycroft asked, making the sentence a question even though he knew Sherlock had no intentions of taking anyone with him. But he wanted to make Sherlock think, to remember who he was leaving behind. “You are good, Sherlock, but even you can’t watch your back every single hour of every single day.”

“Who do you propose I take with me then?” Sherlock snapped irritably, glaring at Mycroft. “Molly? She’s the only other one who knows I’m alive and she’d be useless. She’d get killed and I’m not repaying her with death.”

“That’s not who I meant and you know it, little brother,” Mycroft replied, keeping calm even though it cost him. Grinding his teeth together only increased the headache pounding between his temples so Mycroft deliberately took a deep breath and unlocked his jaw. “There is one person you know, one who’s been torn apart by this whole debacle, who has the skills and the will to help you. Why let him suffer like this?”

“Why?” Sherlock repeated softly, eyes taking on a distant cast. “Because John is important. So is Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. If any of them know I’m alive, the sniper Moriarty put on them will kill them. I don’t want to lose them. John will have to live with his grief until my work is done and they’re all safe.”

“If you believe that has to be the way it has to be,” Mycroft said, though it rankled. He didn’t like the idea of Sherlock going after criminals and killers by himself. “I can help you from here. Research, information, a new identity if you need it. Is there anything else you can think of?”

“Not at the moment, though some supplies would be handy,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. “Clothes, not something I would normally wear, a couple untraceable guns. And a passport.”

“That all can be arranged,” Mycroft smiled, pulling out his phone and sending a quick text to Anthea. She would have everything in hand before Sherlock left. “I do have one name for you, one that Moriarty let slip. Moran. Apparently, he was a soldier that was dishonorably discharged. A sniper and one with a few too many kills that he hadn’t been assigned. He fell off the grid a few months after the discharge. I believe that’s when he started to work for Moriarty.”

“He may be the most dangerous then,” Sherlock mused, tapping at his lips. His eyes were focused on a point on the wall over Mycroft’s shoulder, as if seeing plans and information unfold in the air. “Probably the one assigned to John, though I can’t assume anything.”

“It’s better not to assume,” Mycroft agreed. “Especially with a man like Moriarty. He could have laid a hundred false trails in the time he’d been planning this. I have to admit, I have a grudging respect for the man.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said simply, nodding. He brought his focus back to Mycroft, quicksilver eyes narrowing just the tiniest bit as he studied his brother. Mycroft appeared to have most of his old strength back, shoulders set. Of course, there was still a bit of sadness in his eyes but that could be expected. “I understand you’ve made a friend in the last year or so. John told me you and Lestrade were spending a lot of time together.”

“We have become friends, yes,” Mycroft answered slowly, too used to Sherlock to be surprised by this non sequitur. Though the subject of it was surprising. Since when did Sherlock care about his life or friends? “It’s been pleasant, actually. Why do you mention it?”

“You seem... happier, less stressed,” Sherlock said, sweeping his gaze up and down Mycroft in obvious appraisal. “Happier than I’ve seen you in a while. You were starting to worry me, actually. It looked like you were cracking under the strain.”

Mycroft stared at Sherlock for several seconds, speechless. He still didn’t like the feeling. It was actually impressive and surprising that Sherlock had bothered to deduce that, had cared enough to mention it now. Then again, Sherlock had always fought against the saying Mycroft had finally given up. Sherlock had always fought against everything their father tried to teach them while Mycroft had tried to follow it. He’d tried to be the perfect son to keep their father’s attention on him and not on Sherlock. Their childhoods had molded them into the men they were now but Mycroft could only hope that Sherlock had been able to escape much of their father’s influence. God knew, it had taken him years to shake off most of it. Yet Mycroft was still thankful for that. Sherlock had grown into a great man and, with John’s influence, a good one.

“I was, difficult as that is to admit,” Mycroft said softly, looking away from Sherlock. He couldn’t meet those eyes. They were far too knowing right now. “Greg’s friendship has helped. It finally convinced me that I couldn’t live with father’s doctrine of caring is not an advantage.”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened at mention of their father. He wouldn’t quite say he hated the man but he despised him, certainly. It had been a relief the day their mother had called to say he’d passed away. And Sherlock couldn’t find it in him to feel any guilt at all over that relief. To hear Mycroft say he’d finally let go of that ridiculous saying made Sherlock happy. One of the things Sherlock had learned from John was that caring was a strength that nothing else could equal. Under the strain of events that might break someone, they could move on and deal with it with the support of friends and family.

“Good,” Sherlock said simply, nodding at Mycroft. “I’ve observed Lestrade a few times and he appears to be grieving. You could help him through it.”

“I will help him as much as he allows,” Mycroft promised. A flash of the night Greg had come to his home drunk passed through his mind. It sent a thrill through Mycroft before he managed to push the thought away. That wasn’t something Sherlock needed to know. A discreet knock on his door interrupted what Mycroft was going to say next. Anthea came in, a small box in her hands rather than her usual phone. She set it on Mycroft’s desk, raised an eyebrow at Mycroft, and left when he nodded. She hadn’t even glanced at Sherlock, though Mycroft knew Anthea had taken in every detail.

“There you go,” Mycroft said, pushing the box towards Sherlock. It was heavier than it looked but it was about right for two guns and extra clips. “There will be a passport in there as well. Make good use of it and keep me apprised of where you are going. I can’t help if I don’t know where you are.”

“You’re not my babysitter, Mycroft,” Sherlock grumbled though there was no real heat in it. He opened the box and looked through the contents quickly. Everything he would need appeared to be included. “What about clothes? I don’t exactly have access to my money anymore.”

“Will be dropped off at Molly’s flat,” Mycroft explained smoothly. “I was able to give Anthea your size and she has arranged for a suitable array to be delivered. It won’t be what you’re used to but no one should recognize you in them.”

“That’s the whole point. And thank you,” Sherlock said, standing and picking up the box. He snugged it under one arm and met Mycroft’s eyes again. “Well, I suppose I’ll wish you good luck then. Just do me a favor and watch over John. Don’t let him do anything... impulsive.”

“Of course, as much as I can,” Mycroft nodded, suppressing a sigh. “I don’t think John is going to be too happy to see me for the foreseeable future. He knows the role I played in giving Moriarty the information he needed.”

Sherlock nodded and walked out, everything that needed to be said having been said. The butlers, at least that’s what Sherlock called them in his head since he wasn’t sure what their actual title was, merely watched him as he walked. Sherlock had been here before and knew the rules, as well as the way out. So far, his plan for Mycroft and Lestrade was working though Sherlock was a bit surprised Lestrade was still with his wife. He’d seemed happier in the few months before Sherlock had to fall and Sherlock could only assume that Lestrade’s wife had stopped cheating. For now at least. A quick cab ride later, Sherlock was at Molly’s flat desultorily pawing through the selection of clothes Anthea had had delivered. He sneered at it but had to admit Mycroft was right. No one would ever expect to see Sherlock Holmes in any of these ragged jeans and t-shirts.

After Sherlock left, Mycroft paged through some reports. He couldn’t make himself actually work, though, exhaustion weighing him down. In the past week, he had slept about three hours each night, something coming up that had to be dealt with. Most of it was Sherlock but there were agents and connections that had to be tended. His phone interrupted him and Mycroft smiled as he saw Greg’s name on the display. Talking with the man always cheered him up and if his mind wandered to certain lips and the sound of panting against his skin, well, Greg didn’t need to know. There was no way Mycroft would erase that memory even if he could.

“Greg, hello,” Mycroft greeted him. “What occasions this call?”

“Hi, Mycroft. I was wondering if you want to have another pub night?” Greg asked, trying to stop the yawn that stretched his mouth and failing miserably. He’d been at work since about six this morning and it was nearly four. “I need something happy right now.”

“Is something wrong?” Mycroft asked, then rolled his eyes at the question. Of course there was; Greg was still grieving. “Other than the obvious, I mean.”

“Not really, no,” Greg replied, sighing as the grief ripped at him again. “I was hoping that you might consider... sharing your memories of him. I only knew him for eight years or so and only as close as Sherlock would allow me to get. And then maybe forget the past month in music or a game.”

“I can understand that,” Mycroft said sympathetically. “I can’t tonight, far too much work demanding my attention. How about tomorrow? Maybe come over to my flat and we can have a few beers if you like. It might be better to talk without onlookers.”

“That actually works really well for me,” Greg said, smiling. Mycroft could hear it through the phone and couldn’t help smiling. “After work I think I’m going to collapse in bed. See you tomorrow? I’ll bring over some beer. It’s fair after all.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Mycroft replied, smile widening just a little bit. Greg had been busy for the past month, as had he, and he hadn’t seen the other man as often as he would have liked. “Don’t push yourself too hard Greg. You don’t want to work yourself to death.”

“I could say the same to you,” Greg laughed. “Goodbye, Mycroft.”

“Goodbye,” Mycroft replied, a little wistfully. He told himself after Greg had hung up that he could deal with only friendship. He really could. But that didn’t stop Mycroft from wishing for more. He supposed it was the human condition to fantasize and hope for more than what was had. Mycroft would take friendship over nothing any day, though. Especially with how easy it was to spend time with Greg, to talk to him. And the music. The music was rapturous and Mycroft could admit to himself that he pushed for playing rather than going out to the pub. He’d only had this level of connection with someone once before and she had died in a car accident many years ago. Sometimes in his dreams, Mycroft could still hear the delicate strains of a flute. Tomorrow would be soon enough, though, to see Greg and have that connection again. Even if he had to flay both of their souls recounting stories of Sherlock. The pain would come before recovery, though what pained Mycroft was keeping the secret that Sherlock still lived. He made a promise to himself that if there was any way to let Greg know Sherlock was alive without harming him, he would. It was the least Mycroft could do to help ease his pain.

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Six months. For six long months, Anne struggled to be the perfect wife. It was good to feel that connection again with Greg, the love they had. But there was still something missing. Anne craved the thrill of something new, the adventure of it, the danger of getting caught. Everything that made her feel completely alive. She’d gotten used to the feeling over the years she’d been having affairs. Some were short. Some were just little things that lasted one night or at most a week. Colin was the closest Anne had come to actually leaving Greg. But she loved Greg and, if she was being brutally honest with herself, Anne rather enjoyed the convenience his paycheck gave her. Towards the end of her relationship with Colin, that paycheck had actually been the primary reason she stayed. It wasn’t the reason she could give Colin of course, and Anne wasn’t lying with the reasons she did give, but it was the simple truth. As long as Greg never caught on, and Anne had made sure he didn’t, she pursued her own interests and was the good wife when he needed it.

But now, now she was chafing under the restrictions Greg’s demotion and paycut had put on her. The girls didn’t notice anything, really, other than a few less trips to the movies or mini vacations. Anne had agreed that Sophia and Elizabeth should be affected as little as possible. Trying to be happy with Greg wasn’t difficult. It was the lack of everything else that troubled Anne. They’d tried spicing things up in their relationship early on in their marriage. Unfortunately, that had led to a lot of giggling while trying to pretend to be someone different. Roleplaying was not for them. Anne sighed as she looked up from the book she was trying to read. She’d been on the same page for about ten minutes now and not a word had stayed in her mind. While Anne stuck to a decision once she’d made it, if time proved that decision to be wrong or poorly made, she had absolutely no problem changing the decision. After all, why stay any more unhappy than she needed to be.

With only a twinge of guilt, Anne set her book on her knees and thought about her options. It was doubtful Colin would be willing to consider taking up their relationship where they’d left off; he’d made it clear that her goodbye was the end between them. Perhaps it was better that way; Greg had seemed to have too much knowledge, be a little too knowing whenever Colin was in the same room with them. But there were always others. Other men, other interesting pursuits that could occupy her time. She was practiced at it, after all. Greg had not known for years and he wouldn’t know now. A grin pulled at Anne’s lips as she contemplated where she might go to find a new adventure. Her heart beat faster and adrenaline started pulsing through her veins. This was going to be fun. And she could still be a good wife to Greg. Anne had been pulling this double life off for years and had no doubt she could continue to do so. What Greg didn’t know wouldn’t hurt either of them.

The next night, after claiming she was joining a book club, Anne took a cab to a club she’d found near central London. She rather enjoyed the noise and the crush of people, having spent time in here before. This was where she and Colin would go when they wanted to go dancing. There were always desperate and lonely people on the prowl for others to spend a few hours of ecstasy with. Even though she hadn’t done anything of the sort for nearly a year now, Anne knew exactly how to pick and choose to get what she wanted. Tonight, she wanted the flash, the quick and burning passion that flared between two strangers who just wanted to forget themselves. After ordering a drink and casually looking around the place while sipping it, Anne had narrowed the possibilities down to a couple of handsome men. One was dark haired and one light though both had piercing dark eyes. And both were tall, something Anne especially looked for. Now just to see who would approach her first. Anne gave both men a lazy smile full of promise and waited.

The blond approached her first, stalking through the crowd and settling in between her and the man on a stool next to her. He merely looked at the man when he started to complain and turned his attention back to Anne. A grin spread across his face, answering Anne’s smile. Holding out a hand, the blond said, “Jason. You are one of the prettiest women here, you know.”

“Anne. And just one of?” Anne replied, laughing to show the joke in her question as she took his hand. “Nice to meet you Jason.”

“And you,” Jason said, stroking his thumb over the pulse in her wrist. “I may have been a little hasty, I agree. You may just be the prettiest woman here. The music’s a little loud for decent conversation. Want to get out of here and go someplace quieter?”

“Just what I was thinking,” Anne said, satisfaction coating each word. She let her fingers trail over Jason’s hand as she pulled away and took a final sip of his drink. “How about your place?”

“Perfect. I’m just a couple streets over,” Jason replied, taking Anne’s arm and looping it through his. They made their way through the club, the dark haired guy grimacing at the obvious hook-up he’d lost out on. Maybe next time, Anne thought. The walk was quick once they were out in the cool night air and Anne let herself relax into Jason’s side. The thrill was pounding through her veins and anticipation rumbled in her belly. She was going to enjoy tonight.

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Sherlock grimaced as he watched Anne walk away with some blond guy. He could read exactly what each was thinking in their body language and glances and it frustrated him that Lestrade was still with her. She’d been doing so well for the last six months but now, Sherlock was going to intervene. It was time to put step two of his plan into place and, luckily, since he’d taken out Lestrade’s assigned sniper just a few days ago, Sherlock could reveal his being alive to Lestrade. And try to convince the man to keep everything from Mycroft. Sherlock didn’t need more lectures about what he was doing from his older brother and he certainly didn’t want Mycroft to find out he was masterminding this whole delicate dance. At least not until the end was reached.

Sherlock swept his eyes over Anne and the blond guy one more time before they disappeared into an apartment building about halfway down the street. This was going to be a one night thing or Sherlock would give up deducing everything forever. He shook his head and started walking though he had no destination in mind just yet. Before he could do anything with Lestrade, though, Sherlock had to make sure this was more than a one night thing. Anne could probably talk her way out of it if it was. That would throw a convenient spike into his plans and that would never do.

Sherlock pulled himself out of his musings to look around the street. His treacherous feet had taken him dangerously close to Baker Street. To John. Sherlock missed his best friend, more than he would have ever expected. He stopped at the head of the street, staring down at the flat they’d shared. Sighing, Sherlock turned his back on the street and walked away as fast as his feet could carry him. He wasn’t quite running but it was close. It was far too dangerous to see John right now, especially as Sherlock wasn’t sure he could stay away from the best friend he’d ever had. Best to go back to his little, dingy flat and plan what he could do for Lestrade and Mycroft. He was stuck on Moriarty’s little group until Mycroft teased out some hint of where the second sniper had gone.

About a month later, with still no word on where the second sniper or Moran were, Sherlock found himself following Anne Lestrade again. After the first blond man, who she had indeed not seen again, she had gone to three more guy’s flats before finally seeming to settle on this one. In the past two weeks, she’d gone to his flat six times that Sherlock was sure of. The man actually vaguely reminded him of Colin, with short dark hair, brown eyes, and a tall, muscled build. Anne seemed to enjoy the whole situation, looking around and laughing as if waiting for someone to catch her. It had taken every shred of Sherlock’s patience to allow everything to proceed to this point but now considered himself amply rewarded. If he hurried, he could get Lestrade and convince him that Anne wasn’t worth his time anymore.

Sherlock flagged down a cab and gave the cabbie Lestrade’s address. He had to hope Lestrade was home as he wasn’t able to keep a tab on him while following Anne at the same time. Using his homeless network was far too risky. He fidgeted and twitched in his seat as he watched the street roll by, wishing the car could move faster. When the cab pulled up outside Lestrade’s home, Sherlock handed a few bills over and told the man to wait. The cabbie shrugged and pulled out a book as Sherlock bounded up the sidewalk to the door. He knocked on it, three sharp knocks, and waited impatiently.

Greg wasn’t expecting anyone this evening and was sitting on the couch eating a slice of pizza while watching crap telly. He was the only one home and was enjoying having a bit of peace and quiet. He started at the knocks and sighed. So much for peace and quiet. Eating the last bit of his pizza and getting up, Greg made his way to the door and peeked out the peephole. He didn’t recognize the man standing there but something tickled at his memory. Those eyes... But it couldn’t be. He was just imagining things because he still missed the brilliant and irascible madman who had worked on cases with him. Standing here staring wasn’t answering any of the questions running through his mind so Greg took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Can I help you?” he asked, pitching his voice a little cold.

“It’s more that I can help you, Lestrade,” Sherlock replied, unable to stop a small smirk at Lestrade’s reaction. “Come on, hurry. No time to explain so I’ll give you the basics: no I’m not dead and yes you need to listen to me.”

“Sherlock?” Lestrade gasped, mouth gaping open in shock. That was his voice and how he spoke but how? “Why are you dressed like that? Ragged clothes with paint stains don’t suit you.”

“Walk and talk, Lestrade, walk and talk,” Sherlock replied, taking Greg’s arm and pulling him through the door. Lestrade twisted and managed to close it before allowing Sherlock to draw him down to the cab. None of this made sense, least of all Sherlock’s apparent resurrection. “You need to see something. I suppose I’m sorry for it but it needs to be done.”

“You suppose? What the hell is going on here, Sherlock?” Greg snapped, stopping at the cab and pulling his arm from Sherlock’s grip. “You need to explain. Now.”

“In the cab,” Sherlock said irritably, glaring at Greg before sliding into the cab. He gestured imperiously and Greg sighed before getting in himself. At least this was interesting and a change from the monotony his job had become. “Good. Now, as you can see I’m alive. The fall was a trick. There are snipers targeting people in my life and I had to die to keep them from killing those people. I dealt with the sniper assigned to you so I can tell you I’m alive. As to why, it’s your wife. There’s something you need to see.”

“My wife?” Greg repeated, his mouth dropping open at the little speech Sherlock gave. He was impressed at how quickly Sherlock could speak without tripping over his words. “What do you care, Sherlock? I mean, really? What could Anne possibly be doing that I need to see? She’s at a book club thing tonight.”

“Club yes, at first. Book not so much,” Sherlock replied, shaking his head. He refused to say anymore which annoyed Greg to no end. Normally, Sherlock couldn’t get the words out fast enough to explain something, especially when it was something he’d deduced. Anne had been going to her book club fairly regularly over the past month and, come to think of it, Greg had never actually seen her with a book she might be reading for the club. What was going on with all this. Knots formed in his stomach at the possibilities. Greg wasn’t an idiot and if Anne were lying...

“I don’t think I want to know,” Greg muttered softly as they cab pulled to a stop on a quiet street. They’d passed a couple clubs on the way and that just made Greg worry even more. The knots multiplied when Sherlock shot him a sympathetic look before paying the cabbie. Sherlock!. That was a very strange sight, one that made Greg fidget uncomfortably.

“You have to,” Sherlock said simply as he got out and waited for Greg. The flat Anne and her new lover were in was on the second floor and the front door to the building wasn’t locked. Once he was sure Greg was following, Sherlock stalked up to the door and slipped inside. He hurried up the steps, hoping that Anne was still in the flat. It had only taken him a total of about 20 minutes to get Lestrade and come back. Her previous visits with the man had taken far longer. “I am sorry for this, Greg.”

“What are you going to show me?” Greg asked, a thread of worry in his voice. Sherlock never called him by his first name. This had to be something horrible. Greg only hoped it wasn’t a dead body. Sherlock just shook his head and opened the door slowly, making sure to be absolutely quiet. Greg took a deep breath and followed. Laughter flowed out of the apartment and gasps that made it obvious what the occupants were doing. A woman’s voice laughed out a name and Greg started. Was that Anne? Pushing past Sherlock, Greg followed the voices into a bedroom. Anne was straddling a man’s lap, fingers tangled in his dark hair. They were both topless and the man was busy working at the clasps on Anne’s bra. He must have let out a gasp or made some noise because the guy looked up suddenly and met Greg’s eyes. Anne sat back, confused, before turning to see what he was looking at.

“Greg?” Anne gasped, hands flying to her shirt on the bed next to them. Not needing to see anything more, Greg backed out quietly and walked out of the flat, letting Sherlock decide to follow or not. There was no point in getting into a confrontation right now so Greg left the building quickly.

“Well?” Sherlock asked quietly once they were back outside. There was no sign of the cabbie as Sherlock hadn’t told him to wait this time.

“Well? That’s all you can say right now?” Greg snapped, pain in his voice. “You just brought me to the flat my wife is having an affair in, let me walk in on that, and all you can do is ask “well”? God help me, Sherlock, do you even have a heart?”

“Better pain now than pain for the next however long you would be with her,” Sherlock replied quietly, keeping pace easily with Greg. There were footsteps behind them but neither man stopped. Sherlock glanced back to see Anne stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, thankfully in her shirt. “Do you really want to continue being the cuckold here, Lestrade?”

“Just... just leave me alone for tonight,” Greg snapped, flagging down a cab. He glared at Sherlock when the other man moved to get in after him. “I can’t thank you for this, Sherlock, maybe not ever. But we’ll see if it was the right thing to do.”

Sherlock stepped back quickly as Greg slammed the door. The hem of his shirt had nearly been caught by it. Watching the cab drive off sympathetically, Sherlock shook his head. Just like with Molly, his version of kindness had been misunderstood. But this may turn out better than Molly’s relationship with Jim. After all, Jim had been a criminal mastermind intent on using Molly to get closer to him. Anne was nothing like that. Footsteps and panting breaths sounded behind Sherlock as Anne caught up to him. She stopped and breathed heavily for a few seconds, hands on her knees, before straightening and glaring at Sherlock.

“I don’t know who you are but I know you’re involved in this,” Anne accused, glaring for all she was worth. “What gave you the right to barge in on my life?”

Sherlock just shrugged and turned, making sure that Anne never got a clear look at his face. It wouldn’t do for her to recognize him, after all. Stalking away was the only thing Sherlock could do; he’d gotten involved enough and the rest was up to Lestrade. Anne followed for a bit but Sherlock lost her quickly in alleys and side streets. He was willing to bet no one knew London the way he did. A couple streets later, Sherlock flagged down his own cab and directed the man to the flat he stayed in while in London. Now was the time for more patience, much as Sherlock chafed at the time spent. Lestrade had to take the next step and nothing could happen until then.

-----------------------------------------------------

“Greg can we talk about this?” Anne asked, tired of the silent treatment she’d been getting. “It’s been a week. And you have no excuses this time. We’re alone in the house today. No one to interrupt us.”

“You really want to discuss what happened?” Greg asked instead of answering her question. It still twisted his belly into knots thinking about what Sherlock had had him walk in on. “Are you sure you want to do that, considering what direction that conversation is likely going to go?”

“Yes, I’m sure. We can’t avoid it forever,” Anne sighed, settling into the chair across from Greg. She propped her elbows on the table and met Greg’s eyes. “It happened and we should talk about it.”

“Fine. Explain to me how you found yourself in... that situation,” Greg said tonelessly, slipping into an interrogator mindset. It hurt less to distance himself, pretend it had happened to someone else. For now, at least.

“It’s difficult, Greg,” Anne sighed, looking away and twisting her fingers together. She recognized that cold voice from a few times she’d heard him questioning people and it was weird to hear it directed at her. Of course, from his point of view, it was probably completely warranted. “It’s nothing you did. Or didn’t do. I hope you believe that. It’s more of what I want, maybe even need.”

“All right, I’ll bite,” Greg said when Anne stopped talking and looked away. “What do you need that you need to have an affair to get?”

“The... the danger, the thrill of something new,” Anne replied. She settled back in her chair, shoulders slumping as Greg continued to regard her as a stranger. “I love you, I hope you believe that. But there’s a part of me that wants more.”

“How long have you been “looking for something new”?” Greg asked, putting a sarcastic twist to her repeated words. “How long have you been cheating on me?”

“You want the completely honest truth?” Anne said quietly, waiting for Greg’s nod before going on. “This time, about a month. But I’ve been doing it, off and on, for years now.”

Greg shook his head and stood up quickly. He paced the kitchen until he could bring his face under control. It wouldn’t do to break down into tears or start screaming out of anger. Anne knew him well enough to keep silent, letting Greg work through the emotions surging through him. When the anger finally ebbed enough that Greg could speak without screaming, he sat down and crossed his arms over his chest. Sherlock hadn’t explained what he wanted to happen from dragging Greg to that damned flat but there was really only one path from here. Now that it was all out in the open Greg couldn’t let things go as he had before. There was no convenient blindfold anymore.

“Since it was off and on, you obviously aren’t going to stop,” Greg said quietly. His voice was still cold, though, cold and distant. He saw Anne shiver but didn’t let that affect him. Not now. “I don’t think it’s going to work between us now. I can’t stay with someone I don’t trust.”

“Wha... what?” Anne stammered, mouth dropping open in shock. Was Greg saying what she thought he was? If he was, Anne never believed it would come to this. “Are you saying you want a divorce?”

“Yes, I guess I am,” Greg nodded, sadness passing through his eyes before the cold replaced it again. “I love you, Anne, but I think that’s the best idea right now.”

“But... divorce?” Anne repeated in a small voice. She drywashed her hands, unable to hold still as her life started to fall apart. A divorce was never what Anne wanted. Her life with Greg was comfortable, familiar, even with the lower pay. Her marriage had been a safety net to fall back on, a place to always call home when her affairs ended. “Are you sure, Greg? I love you and I don’t want to break apart our family.”

“Anne, you already broke it,” Greg laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “The only difference now as opposed to before is that I know now.”

There was more argument on Anne’s part, more desperate pleading for Greg to change his mind. Yet nothing she said could convince him to do so. There was a pain twisting through Greg’s chest and squeezing his heart but he stood firm. Repeating the same sentences in a calm and cool tone of voice eventually convinced Anne that Greg meant what she said. Stifling tears, she left the kitchen and packed a bag. She’d spent the night at a motel and figure out where she was going to go from there. Greg had the job of explaining to Sophia and Elizabeth, now 17 and 15, that their parents were getting a divorce.

The next week passed slowly as the Lestrades adjusted to the new world they found themselves in. Anne would spend a few hours each night visiting with Sophia and Elizabeth. Both girls were taking news of the divorce hard, trying to convince each of their parents to stay together. Arguments were put to rest, however, when both Greg and Anne retained lawyers and began proceedings. After Greg had explained everything to Mycroft, the elder Holmes had recommended a lawyer, a man he’d gone to university with. The split was fairly amicable and bloodless, though Greg was implacable regarding the terms: he would keep main custody of their daughters and Anne would have visiting rights. Greg, as the guardian of their daughters, would also keep possession of the house. Signing on the line of the final paper that finalized their divorce, Anne felt a pang of sorrow and guilt. It was her fault, everything happening now was her fault. Yet, perhaps it was better this way when a flash of freedom overtook the sorrow and guilt.

Six months later, after the dust had settled after the divorce, Greg found himself following a set routine. The grief he’d felt over Sherlock’s death was completely gone since the man had shown up alive. That was a bright spot that still made Greg smile. Anne had worked with him to figure out a schedule for her days with the girls and it seemed to be working. There was still a tangle of anger and pain deep in the pit of Greg’s stomach, one he believed might always be there. After all, Anne had been his high school sweetheart, they’d been together for years. Another bright spot in his life also involved a Holmes. His nights with Mycroft still continued, their friendship now strong and easy. He’d taken to recording some of their music when they played together; the improvised pieces were extraordinary.

There was something that needled at Greg about their relationship, though. It was nothing overt that Mycroft did and half the time, Greg thought he might be reading too far into things. What Mycroft did could be considered old-fashioned politeness, after all. There was no way Mycroft was flirting with him, especially not after he’d calmly agreed to forget about Greg’s drunken antics. Surely Mycroft wouldn’t open that can of worms again? Yet it seemed to be flirting, when Mycroft would offer him something first, especially food. Waiting to eat until Greg started was just good manners, wasn’t it? And the little touches, hand on a shoulder or on an arm, they were just friendly, right? Greg had done the same with close friends, seen others touch casually. But there was always a warmth, a sense of more that came with Mycroft’s touches. Before Greg could focus too closely on it, though, Mycroft had a job for him. Something that Greg leaped at: his rank back at New Scotland Yard and the task to restore Sherlock’s reputation. The man wouldn’t want to stay dead forever after all.

The first step was to go through each and every single case Sherlock had worked with the department. That was done with the Chief Superintendent that John had chinned, which made Greg smile slightly every time he thought of it, and Mycroft. It was fascinating watching the elder Holmes work, all careless confidence and razor-sharp logic that cut through each and every protest the Superintendent raised. It took another two months, and by now they were nearly at a year and half since Sherlock fell, but Sherlock was cleared of being behind every single one. There was no apology, not that Greg expected one. Nor did Mycroft, he admitted later to Greg when they were out having a drink at what had become their usual pub. They’d become very close during the time spent clearing Sherlock. But that could happen when you spent at least a couple hours with someone every day.

“So that’s one thing crossed off the list,” Greg said, clinking his glass against Mycroft’s before taking a big drink. “What’s next, Mycroft?”

“Next is a short time to recuperate,” Mycroft answered, fiddling with his glass and turning it in circles on the bar they were sitting at. “There’s only so many things we can do so fast. To be honest, we went through those cases a lot faster than I expected.”

“Faster than you expected?” Greg repeated incredulously. “It took two months! How long did you think it was going to take? I got barely any work done in my division as it was. I’ve been leaving most of it to Dimmock, happy as he is to take it. I think he means to replace me when I retire.”

“He is the most competent of your team,” Mycroft said approvingly. “And yes, faster than I expected. Mostly due to the Superintendent. He didn’t fight as hard as I thought he would. I understand that I intimidate people at times. It’s good to know I can do it on purpose. And that it works.”

“You... you did it... on purpose?” Greg managed through wheezing laughter. He bumped Mycroft’s shoulder with his own, inviting the other man to share in his laughter. “I’ve never met anyone who could intimidate him like that. You need to show me your secrets sometime.”

“And if I did that, what use would you have for me?” Mycroft joked back, though he hid the flash of worry that burned through him. Losing Greg’s friendship was something that terrified Mycroft but having him around outweighed that. Even though the longer they were friends, the more Mycroft was sure he could come to love the man. The fact that he might already be falling was conveniently swept to the back of his mind.

“I’m sure I could find something,” Greg laughed, catching his breath again. “You are a genius on the piano after all. Who would I play with if you stopped?”

A lull in their conversation grew, a comfortable silence that both men had come to enjoy. There was something soothing in not having to speak every single minute that they were together. They drank slowly but had finished their first pints by the time Mycroft spoke again. He signalled the bartender for another round then turned to Greg.

“And how are you? I haven’t wanted to ask before now, since I didn’t want to open wounds,” Mycroft started delicately. He took a drink of his fresh pint to give Greg a moment to gather himself. The pain that flashed across Greg’s face actually hurt Mycroft, as well. “Are you... adjusting? It must be difficult.”

“It’s been... an experience,” Greg muttered, draining a good third of his fresh pint. Maybe talking would help. He’d always been able to discuss just about anything with Mycroft, especially after Sherlock’s fall. “I still love her, you know. Even after everything. Even after trying to convince myself that I don’t anymore.”

“From what I’ve learned, love is never a bad thing,” Mycroft mused softly. “It may hurt but its not bad. Anne was a large part of your life. Maybe a piece of you will always love her. Is that really so bad?”

“Well, no, I suppose not,” Greg admitted, shaking his head. “I know Sophia is still angry. She only speaks to me when she has to. Elizabeth has withdrawn into herself. Oh, she’s still happy and open when she’s with friends or at school. But at home, she stays in her room with the door closed. I feel like they believe its my fault since I pushed for the divorce.”

“It hasn’t been all that long for them,” Mycroft said sympathetically. He risked a hand on Greg’s shoulder, relishing the warmth that bled into his hand. He left his hand there, longer than he’d ever touched Greg before. Allowing short touches had been fine, had been just platonic from Greg’s point of view. “They probably just need a little more time. How has Anne been taking all this?”

“Anne does what Anne wants and everything works around her,” Greg replied dryly, rolling his eyes. “You know, its the little things that I notice now that I never did before. Anne has a tendency to be bossy and stubborn. I don’t know if she reduced it when we were together or I just didn’t see it. But we’re working through the visits. I wish I didn’t have to see her as often as I do. It’s like being flayed in small strips. Every time you think you’ve healed, it happens again and all the old wounds reopen. But, you’re right. All I can do is wait.”

Hearing the pain in Greg’s voice and feeling a tad guilty for bringing the situation up, Mycroft turned the conversation to happier topics. They stayed at the pub for a few more hours before work convinced the two to call it a night. Life went on even when the only thing one might wish for is for it to stand still. The same could be said of time, Mycroft mused as he drove back to his flat. Time had the ability to sharpen memories and feelings or dull them until all that remained was a pale shadow of the original. And again, only time would tell which of these options happened to Greg. If he was being completely honest with himself, and Mycroft tried to be as often as he could, he was hoping for the latter. After all, if Greg moved on from Anne and the hurt faded, perhaps he would be interested in someone else.

Over the several months, Mycroft collected information, sifted through rumor, and passed on what reliable facts he could to Sherlock. The second sniper proved elusive but was finally cornered in a small town in France. People left a trail wherever they went and Mycroft had people who did nothing but search for that trail, no matter how small. With a small nod to himself, Mycroft managed to balance his actual job, his work with Sherlock, and his friendship with Greg. It was like juggling slippery glass balls blind but it worked. And Greg never noticed the little flirtations Mycroft slipped into nearly everything he did. Handing something to Greg allowed Mycroft to let their fingers touch, a small brush as he pulled away could be construed as making sure Greg had whatever it was firmly. Warm glances and warmer smiles could be taken for friendship, though some of Mycroft’s glances danced on the edge of hot rather than warm.

Sherlock came back to London after dealing with the second sniper. While waiting for concrete information, Sherlock had not been idle. Then again, sitting and twiddling his thumbs was never something Sherlock could do. He set about dismantling the web Moriarty had set up. Contacts, protection, advisors, everyone. Thankfully, the web was not as big as Mycroft had feared though larger than he’d expected. One hundred people dying of accidents or outright murder over a short time could not be overlooked, would raise suspicions and alarms. Five, ten, even twenty deaths by accident or murder could be hidden. Could fold into the backdrop of life and be forgotten. So far, twelve people had met their end at Sherlock’s hand, every single one hip deep (or deeper) in the games Moriarty had played. Eight more waited, not including Moran, never knowing that death stalked them on silent feet with fury and a cold resolve in quicksilver eyes. Moran was proving to be a nearly impossible target. The man was a ghost, a hint of his presence there, the rumor of seeing him here. What little Mycroft knew was incontrovertible were just whispers of names: S. Moran in Russian, J. Moran in Greece, James Moran in Germany, and Sebastian Moriarty in America. The whispers said that the man belonging to those names lived in each country though for how long, no one knew. None of Mycroft’s informants had actually seen Moran either. He could literally be anywhere and that fact was like a burr under Mycroft’s skin. But he would make a mistake, talk to the wrong person or show himself in the wrong place. Mycroft had to content himself with that.

The day after Sherlock had shown up on his doorstep full of grim satisfaction at the death of the second sniper, Mycroft sat at his piano and traced his fingers over the keys. An unfinished composition rested on the stand in front of him, a pencil held gently between his teeth. It wasn’t often Mycroft composed anything, especially something as sentimental as this. But there was just something about the melody, about the man who was described in notes and beats, that had caught Mycroft and held him completely. His fingers pressed down on three keys, a warm chord filling the room. It didn’t sound quite right and Mycroft changed two of the notes. Another chord followed the first, this one slightly darker as if it had an edge that could cut. Nodding in satisfaction, Mycroft added the notes to the score and settled the pencil between his lips again. That had been a tricky part, trying to find the right notes.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft started at the beginning of the piece and played it through. His fingers never fumbled, every note perfect and perfectly timed. If the sheet music had been taken away right this instant and destroyed, Mycroft would still have been able to play this piece. He knew every single beat, every note, every pause, every inflection. It was engraved on his heart and ingrained in his mind and he would have had it no other way. That was the way of music that he composed: the need to get it down on paper so that he had an outlet for the grip it had on his heart and mind. The music was so compelling, so absorbing, that Mycroft didn’t hear the bell ringing until it had rung for the third time. Setting the pencil down, Mycroft left the music where it was and went to get the door. It was rare but he did sometimes get people wanting to sell him something. Probably one of those, considering he wasn’t expecting anyone.

“Hey, Mycroft,” Greg said when the door opened. He forced a smile onto his face, trying to ignore what had sent him here in the first place. Though Mycroft probably knew exactly what he was thinking; the Holmes’ often did. “Mind if I come in?”

“Of course not, Greg,” Mycroft said, a pleased smile tugging at his lips. He stepped back and gestured for Greg to come in. “How are you?”

“Been better, been worse,” Greg replied, stepping into the foyer and shrugging out of his jacket. He hung it up on the coatrack next to Mycroft’s and turned, crossing his arms over his chest in an effort to look nonchalant. “How about you?”

“I’m well, thank you,” Mycroft answered, closing the door and studying Greg. There was an old pain on his face as well as some bafflement. While Mycroft would admit that he could usually deduce what other people were thinking, this confused him. Especially as there was a sense of... relief? “What brings you to my flat?”

“A... a realization, I suppose,” Greg muttered, looking away from Mycroft’s eyes. He wanted to get this out before he lost all courage to speak. The epiphany he’d had was still new, still fragile, and Greg hoped speaking it would strengthen it. “Anne came over to pick up the girls for her visit. They’re going to a movie. When I saw her again, I braced myself for the pain and love and everything else I’d been feeling since the divorce. But it never came. All I felt was a... faded love for her and a sense of resignation. I think I’ve finally realized it’s over and stopped beating myself up about.”

“I hope that’s a good thing,” Mycroft said seriously, wondering what Greg wanted to hear. The truth was what Mycroft decided on. Better that than lies. Greg had had enough lies from people he cared about. “Sometimes letting go is the best thing we can do in some situations.”

“Yeah, I think I finally realized that,” Greg nodded, then turned towards the hallway. “I didn’t bring my guitar but maybe we can listen to some of your records or something? I just needed to tell someone about this and get out of my head for a while.”

“Sure, sounds good,” Mycroft nodded and gestured for Greg to precede him down the hall. Mycroft stopped at the doorway and continued, “Why don’t I get some tea while you decide what you want to listen to? You know what’ll get you out of your head, as you say.”

Greg nodded, thumbing through the records while Mycroft headed to the kitchen. It didn’t take long, Mycroft gathering the cups, teapot, sugar, and milk while the water boiled in the kettle. There was no music coming from the record player just yet but that could mean that Greg was feeling indecisive. When the kettle whistled, Mycroft poured the water into the teapot and let the tea steep while he carried the tray he’d set everything on into the music room. There was a table against one wall just for the purpose of holding a tray; Mycroft didn’t want anything liquid near his piano or the records. Yet, when Mycroft walked into the room, he didn’t see Greg where he expected at all. The other man was sitting on the piano bench, one hand raised to touch the sheet music still on the stand. It took an effort not to drop the tray from suddenly nerveless fingers as Mycroft watched Greg’s finger trace over a line on the composition he’d been working on. He set the tray on the small table, working to compose his face, before turning and meeting Greg’s eyes.

“Tea’s almost ready,” Mycroft said, proud when his voice remained calm and steady.

“That’s good,” Greg replied absently, smiling at Mycroft. Most of his attention was on the composition, notes sounding in his head. “I didn’t know you composed as well as played. This sounds beautiful when I go through it in my head. Would you mind playing it? I’d love to hear it.”

“As you wish,” Mycroft said, ignoring the tea for now. His mind rushed as he settled himself on the bench, next to Greg as the other man just slid over to make room. Mycroft stared at the music, fingers resting lightly on the keys that would sound the first notes. Composing was fine but Mycroft had never played one of his compositions for anyone before. He knew he was only adequate and didn’t want to hear faint praise. But Greg was watching expectantly, waiting for him to start. Squaring his shoulders, Mycroft started playing. After the first few bars, he closed his eyes not wanting to see Greg’s reaction until he was done. If it wasn’t a good one, Mycroft didn’t think he could continue playing to the end.

Greg watched, enthralled, as Mycroft lost himself to the music. The main melody was calm, stately, and firm, a strength that everything else hung on. The harmony weaved and danced around it, teasing at the main melody until both finally worked together. It was haunting and compelling and Greg found himself falling in love with the piece. Mycroft started to sway gently as he played, moving with the rhythm of the music. All too soon, it came to an end. It didn’t sound finished, which frustrated Greg a little bit. Something that beautiful should have an end.

“It’s amazing,” Greg said softly when Mycroft stopped playing. “What gave you the inspiration for it?”

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured, just as softly. He wondered how much to say then settled for the bare bones truth. “A friend, actually. This is how I see... that friend.”

Greg studied Mycroft in turn, wondering how many friends the man actually had. As far as he knew, and Sherlock had intimated as much, he was the only friend Mycroft had. Was this piece about him? That was how Mycroft saw him? Suddenly, Greg remembered all the times he thought Mycroft was just being polite or friendly. That piece had a... longing to it, a desire. Maybe Mycroft hadn’t been as aloof as he’d appeared when Greg had kissed him. Did he want to press this?