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Greg wasn’t sure what to expect when he found Sherlock sitting on his doorstep. The consulting detective’s shoulders hunched, drawn close to his ears. His back was curved almost unnaturally, his forehead resting on his knees, which were drawn up to his chest. His right side was pressed against the stone hollow of the doorway, in an attempt to shelter himself from the biting wind that was sweeping its way through London.
“Sherlock?” he questioned, crouching down on the concrete steps so that he was level with the other man.
Sherlock’s head lolled as he tried to raise it, his unruly mop of dark curls falling across his eyes. His skin was waxy, almost translucent in the glow from the streetlight nearby. There was several days’ worth of stubble lining his angular features, jutting out from his once smooth face. His eyes rolled upwards meeting Greg’s and he could see that his pupils were large and black, seemingly swallowing up the majority of Sherlock’s bright blue iris.
It made Greg’s head spin, and his heart stutter as the memory of his own brother in a similar state hit him like a freight train.
He could remember Lyle perched in a different doorway, shivering, and covered in sores as he pleaded with Greg to help.
Sherlock wouldn’t ask for aid; it wasn’t in his nature, but the fact he had turned up here spoke volumes. Greg reckoned that there weren’t a lot of places that Sherlock deemed as safe. With great difficulty, Greg managed to loop one of Sherlock’s arms around the back of his neck before he half carried, half dragged the other man into the building and upstairs to his apartment.
Sherlock was still completely off his face by the time Greg had managed to guide him towards his bedroom and tuck him like a child into his bed. It struck him once more how he had used to do this for Lyle when he turned up. Even though it had been three years since his brother had died, the pain was still visceral.
It was the rap on his apartment door that drew his attention away from thoughts of his brother and back to the present. He inhaled deeply, drawing in enough oxygen to anchor himself once more before he straightened his shoulders and went to face Mycroft.
His heart rate quickened upon opening the door. Mycroft stood before him, his face blank as slate. He was dressed neatly in those dove grey, tailored chinos that Greg had come to love in their brief time together, paired with a blue button-down shirt that complemented his pale skin tone and auburn hair. The top two buttons of the shirt were undone, revealing a tiny wisp of red chest hair.
Their eyes met and, in that moment, Greg saw everything that Mycroft was trying to hide. There was a wild and torrid sea inside the other man, Greg could see the waves of emotion battering at Mycroft’s defences as he fought to remain composed.
“He’s in the bedroom.” Greg told him, inclining his head in the general direction.
He needn’t have bothered; Mycroft knew his way around the apartment well enough.
There was a hurry in Mycroft’s step as he strode inside, leaving Greg to close the apartment door behind him. He turned to time to see him hesitate for a moment before reaching out for the brass door handle and opening it just a crack.
Greg understood the pause. It was the moment the dread of what you would see on the other side of that door consumed you. If you didn’t look you could still believe that everything was fine, that your world wasn’t about to be turned upside down. He’d felt it at St Bart’s with Molly when he had been summoned to identify his brother.
Mycroft’s mouth fixed into a grimace as he reviewed Sherlock and Greg felt that grief deep down inside of him. Like Greg, he was his brother’s keeper; the only thing that seemed to be holding his younger sibling back from hurtling over the precipice.
“It was heroin.” Greg spoke quietly into the air between them. “I found it in his jacket.”
“Where is it now?” Mycroft asked, his gaze never wavering from Sherlock’s unconscious form.
“Flushed it.” Greg informed him with a shrug of his shoulders.
Mycroft closed the door quietly. He turned to face Greg, his stare empty as his hand rubbed over the back of his neck. Greg could tell that already he was searching through the achieves of his mind, pulling out all the data he knew about heroin and applying it to this situation.
“Mycroft.” Greg said gently as he sat down on the sofa and lightly patted the space beside him.
He could already see those walls of Mycroft’s being erected; the armour carefully being reapplied to his psyche. Greg wanted to remind him he didn’t have to do that, that he was allowed to feel, to express emotion at his brother’s choices.
“He can stay here over the next few days, until he gets his head screwed on.” Greg told Mycroft as he took up residence upon the sofa alongside Greg.
“You’ve done so much for him already…” Mycroft began.
Greg reached out, his hand coming to rest upon Mycroft’s knee. His thumb smoothed over the indentation in the joint through the grey material. Mycroft exhaled deeply, his muscles seeming to relax under the thread of their connection.
After his divorce, Greg thought he was broken, that he had nothing left to give anyone and then Sherlock had come swanning into his life with Mycroft following closely behind.
Colour had begun to seep back into his world. He wasn’t simply going through the motions anymore. For the first time he allowed himself to feel again and eventually their friendship had developed into a relationship.
“And I’m happy to do more.” Greg informed him. “Your brother’s bloody brilliant...”
“Gregory.” Mycroft said softly as his hand came to rest on Greg’s, entwining their fingers. “I know how hard this much be for you after what happened with your brother.”
It was that acknowledgement that reminded Greg how much Mycroft cared, how lucky he was to have the other man in his life.
Greg tilted his head towards Mycroft, capturing his gaze as he spoke resolutely.
“I want to do everything within my power to make sure you don’t lose yours.”