Archive of Our Own ^beta

John hummed under his breath, jostling Emily in an attempt to stop her from breaking into a full out scream as he negotiated the uneven stairs of the Holmes' family home.  The whole cottage seemed to be in darkness, which was only to be expected given that it was one am on Christmas Eve, Christmas morning he supposed really.  It was a lovely home, one he’d hardly been in the place to appreciate properly last year when he’d spent months convinced that Sherlock was about to die on him (again) and trying to come to grips with the fact that his pregnant wife was really not who he thought she was.  And then of course there had been the Incident with Magnusen.  

This Christmas though, he was sleep deprived and exhausted but happy.  Happier than he had any right to be he supposed.  He and Mary had reached an understanding and somehow seemed to have come out of the experience stronger than they had been before.  John had also found a job that somehow seemed to pay him enough, leave him with enough time to spend with Emily and Mary and also enough flexibility that he could hare off after Sherlock when the need arose.  Most of the time anyway… This week, the surgery had been busy, Sherlock had him chasing after geese and jewel thieves and who knew what else and Emily had decided that sleep was not something she needed.  Mary had been at her wits end when he’d made it back in at lunch time and while he’d been exhausted, he knew he hadn’t been pulling his weight at home and so tonight, he’d told her to sleep and that he’d look after Emily.

"Come on Em," he said reaching the living room.  "You're not hungry, you've been changed and you must be tired cause I know that you haven't slept enough this week.  Now, shhh we don't want to wake everyone up, yes that’s right, even Uncle Sherlock's sleeping."  Only because having been wrapped up in his case all week, he had crashed spectacularly shortly after he’d been fed but still, he was asleep.  John continued to talk quietly to his daughter as he walked back and forth across the rug and tried not to think about the ache in his once injured shoulder.  He had managed to lull himself into a trance even if his daughter was showing no indication of being ready to sleep yet when a voice behind him made him start,

"Problems sleeping?"  Mycroft asked.  The other man was still fully dressed, though he’d shed his jacket and tie since John had last seen him.  He’d been working most of the evening, though he’d appeared to play the piano at his mother’s request.  John hadn’t seen much of the Minor Civil Servant since Sherlock’s return and particularly in the last year; while Mycroft still had the tendency to behave like an officious twat, he did seem to acknowledge that he was not one of John’s favourite people and had given him a wide berth wherever possible.  

"Well my daughter appears to have decided that I don't need any so…”

"Ah yes, the wisdom of a nine-month-old."  It was said with a gentle humour that  John wouldn’t have associated with him but he knew from years of night shifts that barriers were always lowered in the small hours.  There was a gentle melancholia that was also common to the wee hours, and it seemed to suit Mycroft Holmes well.

John was going on to say something but he was overtaken by a jaw cracking yawn, before he could formulate it.

"Sorry," he managed once it was passed, "guess I'm too old to work full time, run around after Sherlock and stay up with a fidgety infant."

"I am confident that you do a better job than most could.  However," there was an uncharacteristic pause, "there seems no point in us all being awake.  I have some work related dilemmas that require some thought and if Emily is disinclined to rest then I would be happy to take care of her."  John blinked trying to clear his head.

"Are you sure..?" he asked as this seemed a little too much like legwork for the elder Holmes to be comfortable with it.

"Quite,” came the calm and assured reply, “unlike my brother I can multi-task and am not entirely incapable of the practicalities of life."  The other man was holding his arms out and John had handed his daughter over before he'd really thought about it.  If he had any concern, it faded when he saw the way that Emily settled into the other man's sure embrace.  "I shall not hesitate to wake you if something untoward happens but I am sure that we will be fine for a few hours."

"Thanks, there's uh, there’s a bottle in the fridge and you can put her in the pram if she does go to sleep."  

"We shall be just fine, and you will only be upstairs."

"Yeah," he rubbed a hand over his face, "you sure...?"

"Go John," Mycroft said softly as he began a steady circuit of the room.

------

Mary woke slowly, naturally, rather than to the sound of a disgruntled infant or John's alarm for what felt like the first time in an age.   It took her a moment to remember what it was that John had mumbled when he came back to bed without their daughter but when she did, she decided that she had better go and check that everything was alright.  It wasn't that she didn't trust Mycroft to cope or to let them know if he needed help, but it didn't seem fair that the man who was one step away from running the country had also been saddled with their teething daughter.

She slipped out of bed, balancing on one foot and holding her breath while John stirred but didn't wake.  When she was certain that he was still asleep, she exhaled and  picking her dressing gown up from where she’d thrown it over a chair and crept down stairs.  At a little after seven, it was still dark outside and the house was hushed without being silent in the way only a family home in the country could be.  She paused at the bottom of the stairs to allow her eyes to adjust and then to take in the scene before her.  The only light was coming from the hallway at the other end of the room, spilling out across the carpet and falling short of the couch where Mycroft Holmes was artistically draped.  His long legs were propped over one arm and crossed at the ankle, carefully polished shoes not touching the fabric.  He was obviously asleep, one arm thrown across his face while the other was carefully wrapped around Emily who was also clearly asleep snuggled on his chest.  Rarely had Mary ever been so frustrated by not having her phone on her.

While she was contemplating sneaking upstairs for it, Mrs Holmes appeared from the corridor and waved before holding a finger up to her lips.  She lifted up a camera and snapped a picture of the two gently sleeping forms but as soon as the shutter sounded the tableau was disrupted. She recognised instincts like that, the eyes snapping open, his arm tightening around Emily as he turned into the back of the couch.  He wasn't a pro by any standards but his reactions certainly suggested he was more highly strung than most men.

"Mummy!" Mycroft hissed as he obviously realised what had happened.  Mary smiled at the way he was now trying to judge whether Emily was awake without moving any more.  

"Here, let me," she said, putting him out of his misery and crossing over to scoop her snuffling daughter off his chest.  

"Really."  Mycroft was obviously still flustered, whether at being caught asleep with an infant or just because he'd been woken so abruptly.  Whatever the case, the rumpled civil servant looked utterly adorable in his wrinkled shirt, creased waistcoat and with his hair in disarray.

"Now, now Myc," his mother chided, "you can't blame me for not being able to resist that!"  This resulted in a noteworthy frown and Mary stifled the urge to laugh as Emily snuggled sleepily into her shoulder.

"I can and do blame you for many things, Mother," he replied with an exasperated and long suffering air as he rubbed his eyes and tried to smooth down his hair.

"You should go upstairs," Valerie suggested, concern flitting across her face, "go to bed and get some proper sleep."   Mycroft chose to deflect this by turning to Mary.

"She slept for a few hours and then took the bottle about five," he said succinctly.

"Thanks for letting John get some rest, he was dead on his feet."

"Sherlock will do that to a man.  I'm going to go and shower Mother, then I'll deal with breakfast."

"I can make breakfast, I'd really rather you got some more sleep.  You're looking peaky..."

"I look permanently peaky Mother, and we both know that cooking is not one of your greater talents."  

“Your father and I do manage to feed ourselves when you aren’t here you know.”

“And yet you know that Sherlock will ask who has cooked before he deigns to sit down at the dining-table.”  Mary had to refrain the urge to roll her eyes at the level of pandering that went on around Sherlock Holmes.  "I will be back down in fifteen minutes."  

"Well then, shall we have tea?" the other woman asked, turning to her with a smile.

"That sounds wonderful," Mary admitted, following her through to the kitchen and watching as she filled the kettle and put it on the AGA.  "You're worried about him," she said as Valerie sat down at the kitchen table.  

"With sons like mine, I'm always worried," she said it with a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes.  "Mycroft's always been closed off.  He just... the last few years have been hard on him."  Mary reached out her free hand and grasped the other woman's forearm just before the whistle on the kettle started to sound.

----

Valerie poured tea as the young mother made porridge for her now fully wakened, and apparently starving daughter. It was so nice to have the house so full of life; having both of her sons at home was a rare treat, and to have those close to them here as well made it all the more special.  She loved both Mycroft and Sherlock but neither of them had ever been particularly good at forging relationships and for a long time she had thought that it was something she would never see.  

When Mycroft re-appeared, he still looked exhausted, not that she’d seen him any other way since all that unpleasantness with Sherlock, but at least he’d opted for a sleeveless pullover rather than his usual waistcoat and suit jacket and when he pulled one of her aprons from the hook on the back of the kitchen door and put it on over his own head, both women failed to smother their amusement.  She handed the porridge over to Mary and took a seat at the table as the younger woman started to feed her daughter.  The infant giggled then protested when there was too long an interval between each spoonful reminding her strikingly of her youngest when he had been that age.

By the time that Sherlock himself surfaced, looking nothing more that like he’d done nothing except crawl from his bed, her elder son had made good progress on breakfast.

"Food,” Sherlock demanded imperiously.

"Good morning to you too, darling," she said, wincing as her youngest threw himself down at the table, the wooden chair creaking at this disregard to it’s age.

"Ten minutes Sherlock," Mycroft said from the skillet.  Sherlock looked exactly the same way he had when sulking at age three.  Valerie poured him a mug of tea from the pot on the table.  Both John and her husband had drifted into the kitchen by the time that Mycroft had filled the table with stacks of french toast and bacon, grilled mushrooms, tomatoes and scrambled eggs ten minutes later.

“There’s enough here to feed an army!” John declared, taking a plate, “or at least there was until Sherlock started digging in.”

“W…nt … a… l’ft..nce My….. sta… ”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Val chided automatically, knowing it was unlikely to have any more impact now than it had when he was a child.

“There won’t be anything left for the rest of us once Mycroft starts,” Sherlock said much more clearly.  Mycroft simply raised an eyebrow in return as he poured himself a bowl of muesli.

“Stop being such a rude git,” John chided him lightly, “this is really good Mycroft.”

“We won’t have lunch until about four, so you should eat your fill now,” Mycroft said, brushing off the compliment as had always been his way.

“Well worth the wait though,” Richard said, lifting his face from his plate for just long enough to smile at his elder son.

“There’s plenty of snacks though, if anyone’s stomach starts complaining that their throats been cut,” she reassured her guests.

“I really wish you wouldn’t fill the house with empty calories Mother,” Mycroft said with an air of great forbearance.

“Well if your Mother had realised quite how much food that lovely PA of yours was going to have sent from London then we wouldn’t have bothered to go shopping at all.  We’d have built a bigger larder instead,” Richard said dryly.

“I merely arranged for some basic provisions to be laid in.  If I’m going to cook then I must have the right ingredients surely.”

“Of course dear,” she agreed catching Mary’s eye and hiding her smile behind her teacup.

“These eggs are amazing Mycroft, do you enjoy cooking?” the younger woman asked.

“I find it… therapeutic is probably the best description.  Unfortunately I don’t often find the time.”

“Do sit down Mycroft,” she encouraged her elder son who was still hovering at the counter top.  

“He obviously doesn’t trust his own restraint if he gets too close to the food,”

“Sherlock would you,” Mary began pausing to put down her fork and cover her daughter’s ears, “shut the hell up.  If you’re going to eat his food the least you could do is observe the basics of common decency.”  Sherlock paused and glanced at John.

“Not Good, mate.”

“Not Good does not apply to Mycroft,” sherlock replied churlishly but there was a long enough pause that Valerie was convinced that he was at least considering what it was he had said.  Mycroft did sit down and join them, though he ate his cereal with natural yoghurt and didn’t touch any of the delights that he’d cooked for them.  She had learnt long ago not to try and argue with her eldest about food and at least what he was sticking to religiously, seemed to be a balanced diet, even if it was a shame that he didn’t seem willing to treat himself at Christmas.

They lingered over food and tea, and much to Mycroft’s chagrin (for it was much too early in the day for it), coffee. It was such a rarity, such a rare and exquisite pleasure to spend time like this, that she was almost as surprised as everyone else when the doorbell rang.  She exchanged an urgent look with Richard before standing abruptly,

“I’ll get that!”  In one way, she knew that she had left Richard with the awkward questions but he wouldn’t have to last long and to be fair she’d be astounded if at least one of the boys hadn’t figured it out already.

“Hi Mrs H,” the young man said when she opened the door, “Merry Christmas!” He looked tired and stressed but he had said he’d be coming straight from a night shift.  She held him close though when he leant in to kiss her cheek.  

“Merry Christmas to you too Greg, come in out of the cold.”

“Thanks again for the invite, I wasn’t sure…”

“You’ll always be welcome here Greg, as a friend of Sherlock’s or…” she drifted off.  “Now, leave your bags there and come on through.”  She led him towards the kitchen, her anxiety rising but as soon as she made it to the doorway she knew that cat was out of the bag.

“Oh,” Greg said, “I… I didn’t know that you’d be here.  I’m sorry…”

“I was equally unawares…” Mycroft said, his tone formal and stiff.  He had moved to the far end of the kitchen, and he looked remarkably like he was wishing he was wearing a three-piece suit.  She’d never known any child other than her Mycroft, who felt more comfortable in uniform or formal wear than out of it.

“I could…” Greg began, gesturing back towards the front door.

“No,” Mycroft said forcefully, “no. You’ve had a long night and probably shouldn’t have driven out here in the first instance.  Besides, you have been a good friend to Sherlock for a long time now.  Eat and get some rest… then well… I’m sure there’ll be a seat for you at the dinner table.”

“I…” Greg began.

“Excuse me, won’t you?”  Mycroft said cutting him off quite succinctly, slipping out into the utility room.  A few moments later there was a click of the back door closing.

“Hey mate, good to see you,” John said, finally breaking the silence, “coffee?”  He nodded allowing her to guide him into a seat.

“And let’s get some food into you,” Richard said, a hand clapping him on the shoulder as he sat down, “what do you fancy?”

“I uh… is that French toast?”

“It is Mycroft’s French toast to be exact and I have first claim…”

“You’ve stuffed yourself already,” John pointed out.  Val knew that wouldn’t stop him from keeping eating just to deny someone else though.  She drifted over to the sink, picking up crockery as she went and found herself staring out at the garden.  

“He’ll be ok once he’s had a chance to process,” Mary said, coming up next to her.  

“I.. I just…I want what’s best for him.”

“I know.”  The quiet affirmation was reassuring somehow but Valerie was still unsure that she hadn’t just alienated one of her sons and made her biggest mistake to date.

-----

Greg didn’t know how he had ended up in this situation.  He couldn’t fathom that he had so easily believed it when Val had casually mentioned that Mycroft wouldn’t be coming home for Christmas this year and then later suggested that if he didn’t have any other plans he’d be welcome to join them.  He’d said yes mostly because he really didn’t have anywhere else to be and for someone who had never had a particularly close relationship with their own parents, the warm welcome he’d always received from Val and Richard was a strong draw.  He’d offered to work, knowing that there were lots of officers who would cut off their right arm to spend Christmas with their families, but in the end he’d been given an equally unpopular stretch of nights right through the week before Christmas day.  This not only meant that you weren’t able to attend any of the usual festivities but also that you were on duty to cover the worst of the night outs and the ever peculiar Christmas Eve.  He‘d been glad to sign off that morning, and had headed straight out of the city towards the cottage.

As soon as the door opened, warmth and the smell of cinnamon spilled out into the chill air and something in his soul seemed to lift.  He relished the familiar embrace of this remarkable woman who had raise two such… remarkable sons.  Her open affection had taken him aback when they had first met all those years ago.  He'd been wrapped up with the Holmes boys for so long now, through the bad times and the good and the...  Well, as a general rule, he tried not to think about the intervening years.  The years when Sherlock had been ‘away’, when he had joined Mycroft and his parents for Christmas as more than a friend, the years when he'd lived with a partner who was being torn apart at the seams, a partner who had allowed him to believe... no, who had actively lied to him about his brother’s death.  He tried not to dwell on these feelings for too long as he knew it wasn't healthy... the way his heart had leapt at the sight of Sherlock returned to them, only to have it plummet as he realised there was no way, simply no way that Mycroft hadn't known.  A thousand things fell into place in that moment and the truth of his relationship had become painfully clear.  The explanations and the apologies had not proved balm enough for the broken foundations and sometime that made him feel like a monster.

He did his best to do justice to the breakfast he knew that Mycroft would have slaved over, but he struggled to swallow past the lump that had lodged itself in his throat and what he did manage to stomach sat heavily.

"I'm going to head out,” he said at a suitable pause in the conversation.  “Get some fresh air before I try and get some sleep."  It was a poor attempt at subterfuge but no-one pulled him up on it.  
“You do that dear," Valerie said, “I've made up a bed for you in the room at the end of the hall.  Opposite Myc’s,” she added.  Sometimes it was the veneer of normalcy alone that kept everything together.

Leaving from the back door that Mycroft had used for his escape, he took the winding path around the house and followed the gravel towards the bench at the side of the property.  He was glad to see that he still knew Mycroft well enough to predict where it was he would have retreated to. The other man was wearing his Dad's old Barber jacket and one of the sets of wellies that lived perennially by the door in the utility.  It was a look that he remembered well, so alien from the everyday image that Mycroft projected to the world.  

"I hope you're wearing a proper scarf," the other man said, his gaze unshifting.

"It's one that you bought me so I hope it passes muster."

"It is entirely pointless in wearing a rag around your neck if it has no thermal insulating properties."

“I remember," he said with a fond smile, rounding the bench. " Alright if I join you?"

"Please do," Mycroft said, though he continued to stare out into the middle distance, not doing anything further to acknowledge he was no longer alone.

"So..." Gregory said after they’d been sitting there for what felt like an eternity in an increasingly heavy silence.

“I’m really not sure what you want me to say Gregory,” Mycroft said eventually, “I rather got the impression you didn't want to talk to me any longer when you... left."

"You lied to me, Mycroft!  You lied and lied and lied,” he hadn’t meant to raise his voice but he found himself standing and the sound of his angry accusation dissipating through the frigid air.  He walked to the edge of the garden, looking out over the beautiful vista, breathing deeply and thankful for the cool breeze against his warm cheeks.  He felt the other man’s presence behind him long before he spoke.

"I…” Mycroft began quietly, in a gentle tone very unlike his clipped business ones from earlier, “I regret  that I hurt you more than I can say and I would never challenge your right to be upset at my behaviour.  You have every right to loathe and despise me.” Greg bit his lip to stop himself from interjecting, pointing out that his emotions were far from that simple.  “But, I would not do you the disservice of claiming to have seen the error of my way or denying that if I was in the same situation again, I would do the same thing."

"You would lie to me like that again?" he asked, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"To protect you? To save your life? Absolutely."  This silence that grew between them seemed somehow more profound than the last one.  Mycroft’s statement at once thrilled him with the compassion with which he knew it was said, and stirred his righteous anger.  He knew there was no point in going back to the original argument but he could see that the last few years, that the loss of their intimacy had cost the other man as much as it had hurt himself.  He liked to think that over their time together, he’d had a positive impact on the civil servant and his quality of life, but now the lines around his eyes were deeper than ever, he was obviously back on the ridiculous diet and he looked chronically exhausted.

"When was your blood pressure tested last?" he asked eventually, his tone soft and conciliatory.

"I hardly think that's any of your business any more."  The reply was abrupt and defensive.

"Mycroft... I'd like to think I'm still your friend.  I certainly still care..."

"Gregory... I... with all due respect, while I understand why you can no longer be in a relationship with me, I really don’t think... I don't think that I can bear for you to be more than acquaintance.”

"Mycroft?"

"I... spent a long time not realising what I was missing... now that I do know... I don't think I can,” there was a pause where the other man seemed to try and pull himself together.

“You are such a strong reminder of what I cannot have.”

“Mycroft…” he began, waiting for the other man to meet his gaze but it didn’t happen.

“Please.” It was said so quietly that Greg nearly missed it and so close to a plea that it almost broke his heart.  But he’d promised himself that he would not abandon his ground, that he would not be swayed no matter how much he still loved this man who had with absolute impunity lied to him consistently for two years about his own brother’s death.  And so, he turned and headed back to the house.  He wasn’t safe to drive so he’d sleep but he wouldn’t make any decisions about dinner until after he’d got some rest.  At the moment though, he couldn’t see how he could bare to behave like they were polite strangers over an extended meal.  All or nothing had always been more his style.

-----

John found Sherlock, still in his dressing gown, perched on the deep stone windowsill half way up the stairs.  He was watching the garden off to the side of the building and the scene below with formidable focus.

“Don’t you think you should give them some privacy?” he asked.

“I’m not in the branches of the oak tree where I would have a much better view of what’s going on.”

“But you’re trying to lip read aren’t you?”

“I am not succeeding so it would seem to make very little difference.”

“Look, this is something that Greg and Mycroft need to work out for themselves,”

“Why?  They’re both doing such a remarkably poor job of it.”

“Just because they’re not doing what you would or what you want them to do doesn’t mean that they’re doing the wrong thing for them.”

“But this… separation is making them both miserable.  Surely they must realise that it must be time to try an alternative solution?”

“It’s not always that simple Sherlock.”

“But it should be.  They were… they were better as a unit.”

“I might agree Sherlock, and so might they, but it’s not that simple I’m afraid.  Things happened.”

“You keep telling me that love matters, that it changes things…”

“And it does.  But sometimes, love isn’t enough.”

“Enough for what?  To make up for all Mycroft’s gargantuan faults.”

“For the sake of tradition I’m going  to point out that your brother is not fat, in fact I think he’s too skinny at the moment and if you took your blinkers off for a minute you’d see he’s had to have another hole added to his belt recently.”  Sherlock unsurprisingly didn’t rise to this.  “What I meant was… you… when you went on your hiatus, Mycroft knew you weren’t dead.  Knew exactly what you were up to, but through omission and outright blagardry he led us all to believe he knew no different than we did.  When you love someone, expecting them to be truthful is part of the deal.  Mycroft lied to Greg repeatedly about something that was ongoing and important.  Sometimes love isn’t enough to make up for a lack of trust.”  Sherlock was quiet for once as he seemed to be trying to absorb it all.

“That doesn’t change the fact that being apart is making them both miserable.”

“I know,” John said, resting a hand on his friend’s arm.  Sherlock would never be good at the social norms, he didn’t even care about them enough to even fake them convincingly most of the time, but he did care.  Underneath it all, he cared more deeply than he could understand and since his return in particular, it was far less well buried than he tried to convince everyone,  himself included.

“Mother has given Lestrade the wrong bedroom.  She’s put him opposite Mycroft but something at the other side of the house, would be quieter and darker.”

“She’s trying,” John paused trying to establish how he could word what it was he knew that Valerie was understandably trying to do.

“She is doing what you are telling me not to.”

“How do you think it’s working out for her?” he asked as Greg turned, dejectedly trudging across the grass to the path and back towards the house.

“It is too early to say,” Sherlock said quietly, before leaping nimbly off the window sil.  “I am going to shower and then Emily and I will open presents with our without my Parent’s permission.”

“Do Mary and I get a say?”

“No.”

“Just checking,”

“You will be busy.”

“Busy doing what exactly?”

“You need to move Gregory into an appropriate room and provide whatever sort of support it is that is appropriate in this situation.  You must also stop my parents from harassing him.  I am trusting in your ability to convince him to stay after he’s rested.”

“Oookay and Mary?”

“She has already abandoned your daughter for a much larger and less socialised  infant.”  John followed the other man’s gaze and saw his wife exchange a quiet word with the detective just outside the front door.  She was still in her slippers and had pulled her cardigan down to cover her hands but wasn’t dressed for the December morning, and she was shivering by the time she followed Greg back under the porch, the door closing with a heavy thud behind them.  “At least she’s sensible enough to take the precaution of a putting on a good coat before venturing out.  Now John, out of my way if you’d be so kind.  The beds will undoubtedly be made in the other room but you’ll need to move his bag... “ The other man’s volume increased exponentially the further away he got.  John simply shook his head and climbed the rest of the way down the stairs noting absently that they didn’t seem nearly as creaky and loud now that the household was awake.

John found that Greg had been waylaid in the sitting room and bundled into a chair by the fire to thaw out.

“Here,” Richard said, handing over a crystal tumbler containing a good inch of whiskey, “bit early but it is Christmas after all and it’ll help warm your bones and let you get off.”

“Thanks,” Greg took the glass and swallowed half the booze in one gulp.  Richard lifted a glass in his direction and he shook his head in response to the offer.

“Alright mate?” John asked, letting a physician’s eye take over.  He looked rough but that wasn’t surprising given that he’d been pulling night shifts all week.  That said, he hadn’t looked much better the last time that they’d gone for a pint.  He was functioning certainly but he wasn’t happy no matter how hard he’d tried to pretend he was, living in the same dive he’d moved into when he’d left the home he’d shared with Mycroft.  John had been so caught up in Sherlock getting back and then with Mary and the wedding and the baby and then The Truth and Magnusen, that it had taken him a while to realise how thoroughly his friend’s relationship had dissolved.  He had been struggling to deal with his anger at Mycroft since Sherlock’s ‘death’ and so they hadn’t really discussed the other man when they’d met up throughout Sherlock’s absence but that hadn’t stopped him seeing how content Greg was.  It did mean that it took longer for him to realise that everything had changed however; the relationship had been relatively young before Sherlock had vanished from all of their lives but it had seemed to grow and flourish.  Sherlock was right, it had been good for them both.  

“Yeah,” Greg said after a minute, “I’m knackered but I’m alright.”

“He… he doesn’t mean to hurt you.” The elder man said abruptly, turning back to face them with his own glass.  “He loves you Greg, so much it scares him, and he isn’t good at dealing with that fear.  He has a brilliant mind, but…”

“I know.  And I love him too but…”  Richard stalled him with a hand, his understanding written all over his face.

“They’re not easy men my boys, and they’re harder to love than anything,” he said with a rueful smile.  “You need to look after yourself first lad, and Val’s right that you’ve done more for Sherlock and Mycroft than almost anyone and you’ll always have our unending affection and gratitude for that, but if there’s some way for you to make things right with Mycroft...  Find a truce if nothing else, then… I think well maybe it would do you both good.”  John often wondered how two such grounded people had raised two such maladapted sons.  Sometimes when he thought about Emily it scared him witless but the sound of her happy burbling from the kitchen made that concern fade into the back of his mind.

Greg offered a tight lipped smile and downed the rest of his drink, he opened his mouth and then closed it again and frowned, rubbing his face briskly with his hand.  

“Don’t you say a thing, lad.  John? You’ll see he makes it upstairs?”

“Course, come on mate.  Sherlock’s got your room all picked out,”

“Do I want to know?”  Greg asked in a resigned tone as they stood and made their way to the stairs.

-----

Mary, wrapped up like the abominable snowman, watched her prey before she approached.  Watched the lie of his shoulders, the tense way he was poised, ready to spring into action at any moment.  Once again she saw the traits of someone who had learned never to let their guard down, or at least that doing so resulted in being hurt.  He was smoking, she realised, something she’d never seen him do but wasn’t really surprised by.

“If it bothers you, I can put it out,” he said loudly enough for her to hear at a distance, acknowledging her presence before she could announce it.

“No, you’re alright.  I don’t suppose you..?” He held out the packet before she could ask.  

“I can’t vouch for their freshness, Sherlock must have stashed them last year.”

“It’s been so long I’m sure I’ll not care,” she said, sitting down and leaning in to let him hold the newly lit match to the end of her cigarette.  His hands, wrapped in exquisite leather gloves, shook perceptably.  They smoked in silence for several moments.

“They are never as satisfying as I feel they ought to be,” Mycroft said with distaste looking at the smouldering fag between his fingers.  “I always crave them at moments like this, but they don’t seem to do anything other than leave me with a pounding headache and bad taste in my mouth.”

“Maybe it’s not the cigarettes but the situation that leads to the headache?” she suggested non-committally.  It was strange, she and Mycroft had no reason to be friends, after all she was the reason that Sherlock had killed Magnussen and everything that had followed.  But while they had never been close and saw little of each other, she suspected that they understood each other better than most in their circle.  He understood the world in which she had worked and she understood those areas of grey in which he lived.  They slipped back into silence and she continued to smoke, pulling each breath deep and watching as it plumed from her mouth as she breathed out.

“It’s just…” the words seemed almost to be explode out of him as he stood, fists clenched at his sides, “it’s just not fair.”  He almost seemed to deflate as he said it.  "I know I shouldn't…” he sat back down, “I know that it’s horribly juvenile.. but it just doesn't seem fair.”  The breath he released was almost a sob.  “You lied about your past and John forgave you,” he said fumbling for another cigarette and struggling to light it.  “Sherlock came back from the dead and everyone forgave him.  I helped him make it happen and I've lost everything that ever mattered to me.  It just... It hardly seems fair."  Mary looked at him as he raised the cigarette to his lips with a trembling hand and drew deeply.  

“You and I both know that life isn’t even close to being fair,” she said bluntly.

“No.  No it’s not.” His shoulders slumped and leant forward, his forearms resting on his thighs.  In that moment he look exhausted, beaten and worn but it didn’t last long.  He took one last drag before flicking away the stub and straightening up.  “And so, we simply keep going.”  Just like that, the shell was resurrected; the Ice Man Returneth.  “It’s time I started preparing dinner and I believe Sherlock has probably opened all of the gifts under the tree so...” he was cut off by the ringing of his phone.  She watched his eyes change as he looked at the number on the screen.

“ Nem fela? ” he said, his arabic far better than her own was these days.  “Fahimt 'ann hdha kan alttaeamul maeaha.” Another pause, as he reached up and pressed the heel of his hand between his eyes.   “ Wabitabieat alhal sawf tadtur 'iilaa aittikhadh almazid min al'iijra'at fi hadhih alhala. ”  Well whatever it was that was supposed to have been dealt with, it was clear that something important was awry and that it would seem Mycroft was going to need to fix it.  She smiled in return when he offered her an apologetic grimace, he stood and given that he knew she would understand what he was saying, she expected him to remove himself from her presence or to expect her to leave.  Instead he gestured for her to follow him as he made his way back into the house.  He held the door open for her, the warmth spilling out into the cold as she hurried past him.  “ Yumkinuna 'iieadat alnnazar fi almufawadat al'awwalia? ”  Valarie, came out of the living room and was about to speak when Mycroft snapped into his phone, “ La! Bialttabe la .”  Her face fell.

“Work,” Mary said quietly as she toed off her boots and the other woman nodded, a tight smile stretching her face.  Mycroft was fishing around in the pocket of his wool coat that was hanging by the door and produced a bluetooth earpiece which he hooked over one ear, all the while continuing to talk.  

“Come through,” she said equally quietly, “I’ve just made tea and I’ve managed to hide some of the presents so Sherlock and Emily haven’t had all the fun.”

“Thanks,” she said shrugging off her coat and going to hang it up.  Mycroft held out a hand to take it, having obviously transferred the call onto the headset.  He hung it up next to the old Barber he’d been wearing before padding in his stocking soles through the house.  A few moments later, Richard appeared out of the kitchen.

“I’ve been evicted,” he declared, swooping down and stealing Emily from Sherlock’s grasp, swooping her through the air and making her giggle before handing her to Mary.  “Cards?”

------

Mycroft listened to the reports coming through, providing instruction or seeking clarification as required.  All the while, he prepared food that he had no taste for and tried to ignore the building pressure behind his eyes.  He’d peeled the potatoes, carrots and parsnips the previous evening, and once the bird had been stuffed, and placed in the AGA, he turned to more immediate matters.  Some insisted that mulling was a waste of good wine, but Mycroft knew that warming it gently with the correct spices, slices of clementine and just enough sugar could make a good wine great.  

“ Gde on seychas? ” Surely, surely they must at least know where he was now.  There was only silence and static in return, and he momentarily wondered if he’d used the right tongue.  No, he was speaking to Akim now whose mother tongue was Russian, that had definitely been Russian and his Russian was fluent.  “ Akim, gde on ?” he asked again.  

“ My ne znayem . My poteryali yego .”  They didn’t know.  They had lost him, lost the one man who was key in this particular web of exchanges on which peace was today precariously balanced.  

“ Nayti yego. Teper' .”  His voice remained quiet, but the instruction was clear and he hoped the consequences were equally plain.  He ended the call, breathing deeply and trying not to think what would happen if they couldn’t find this particular defector in the near future.  His pulse pounded in his skull as he stirred the deep red liquid, idly wondering if he should have added a third bottle.  It was moot now, as the mixture had reached the perfect temperature so he ladled it into the mugs waiting on the tray he’d set out earlier.  Opening the small oven, he removed the sausage rolls he’d made with some leftover sausage meat stuffing and the cheese twists he’d made with the leftover pastry.  Sliding them onto a tray he added this and a stack of napkins to the tray and took it out into the living room.  

“Mycroft,” his mother greeted enthusiastically.  

“I’ve brought you something to tide you over,” he said, placing the tray down on a side table.  “I take it Emily will need to eat shortly?” he asked Mary.

“Usually about midday,” she said, bouncing the little one on her knee, “I can heat something up though.”

“I have some fresh vegetables and pulses ready to be blended.  They are in line with what you brought and only very lightly seasoned, if you think that would be appropriate?”

“That’s very thoughtful,” John said, “but don’t be offended if she isn’t as appreciative of your culinary skills as we are.” He waved away the concern,

“There is always the jar if it doesn’t appeal but it seemed to me that she should get something special for her Christmas lunch.”  Any further conversation was stalled when his earpiece buzzed.  

“ Herhangi bir haber , Bay Holmes var mı? ”  The line from Turkey was poor, and while there was news since he’d last spoken to this particular player, it wasn’t news he was about to share.  “ Bizim arkadaşlar gecikme ile endişeli artan hale gelmektedir. ”  Well their Turkish friends were not the only ones becoming more anxious as the time passed.  

“ Bizim arkadaşlar sabırlı olmalı ya da onlar ne arzu almazsınız , ilerleme kaydediyoruz, ” he said.  They were not the only ones who would need to be patient in order to get what they wanted…

He retreated into the kitchen and by the time that he’d dished the orange coloured mush into one of the garishly coloured plastic bowls, John’s head appeared around the side of the door.  He waved the other man in but didn’t interrupt his flow, he did however mistake his thumb for the brussel sprout he was trimming.  The white hot pain, broke through everything for a moment and he stared at the welling blood, strangely surprised to see it.  The moment couldn’t have lasted more than a second before he continued interrogating the man on the other end of the phone.  He almost jumped when the shorter man took his bleeding appendage in one hand and removed the knife from the other.  Allowing himself to be led, Mycroft watched as John placed his thumb under the cold tap and the running water washed away the accumulated blood.  The cut wasn’t bad at all, and the cold water numbed it further.  John tapped his arm, and he looked up;

Stay there,  he mouthed at him and Mycroft wondered for a second where the other man thought he’d go.  He watched as the army doctor picked up his daughter’s lunch, and the plastic monstrosity of a high chair and left the room.  It took him a moment to realise that the person on the other end of the call had stopped talking.

“Anthea?” he asked, knowing that she had been listening in since the first call.

“There’s been no new intelligence come in to back up these claims.”  Ah, and there was the bugbear, no new intelligence, there had been rumors and whisperings for some time and often in these cases that was as much as you were going to get.  Still, that wasn’t what he needed to focus on now.  Once he was done with this call, he’d need to speak to his German counterpart.  

“ lm yataghayar shay', ” he said and nothing had changed.  He continued, trying to get the other man to agree to wait, to give it more time but he knew that even with his persuasion, of all types, he knew that he could only hold off so long.  John was back he noted absently, switching off the tap, moving him away from the sink and guiding him into a seat at the kitchen table.  His thumb was gently dried and then probed before a plaster was carefully fixed in place.  It was a minor injury, given far more attention than it really warranted but he knew enough now to recognise this as a show of affection, as much as Mary coming to smoke with him on the bench.  It struck him, not for the first time, how remarkable it was that Sherlock managed to build and maintain relationships with people who did such things.  The malicious voice that had residence in the back of his mind cleared it’s throat ominously, but even he could only find capacity for so many thought processes at any given time so he shut it down mercilessly by sheer force of concentration.  

Offering John a nod of thanks, Mycroft stood and went to check the turkey.  He’d need to move it into the cooler oven soon if he was any judge, and yes, it was time.  He went back to the vegetables, finishing the brussel sprouts and putting on the potatoes to par boil all the while threatening and cajoling in any one of four languages.  He was surprised how well he got on, how much he managed to achieve in the kitchen while his mind was elsewhere but it did reach the point when really, he needed to focus, to be able to read reports as they came in.  He paused between calls, while only Anthea remained on the line, to review where he had reached and was content with his progress.  The bird wouldn’t need much longer, the veg were all ready to go in when the turkey came out, the gravy had been started and dessert had been finished the evening before.  He sat at the kitchen table and jotted down a few instructions for what would need to happen in order for them to complete their dinner.  It was becoming increasingly clear that he wouldn’t manage to join them to eat but there was no need to declare that now.

“A moment please Anthea,” he said, when he was done and muted the call.  It was then in the silence, as he allowed his aching head to hang between his shoulders, that he permitted himself to think of the man who was presumably still somewhere in the house.  He’d meant what he said earlier, that it would be easier to think of Gregory as nothing more than an acquaintance, a friend of Sherlock’s.  That was never going to be the truth of the matter though, however much he tried to convince himself and suddenly he wasn’t all sure that he had the energy to spare to keep up that self-delusion.  Still, there were more pressing things that required his attention.  He needed to pass on his instructions, retreat to his mother’s study and focus solely on this particular problem.  He’d take something from his head, if there was any of the milder medication left in his attache case, but then it was time to focus.  

It wasn’t until he went back into the livingroom and saw that Gregory had yet to rejoin the group, that he realised how much he had dreaded seeing him.  As it happened, he could see that his father and Mary were winning at cards, even if that was only because Sherlock had been removed from the equation.  His younger brother was currently slumbering on the rug before the fire, wrapped protectively around young Emily who looked equally content.  His cheeks were flushed with the warmth and the his curls damp eliciting an echo of those days when his body had been wracked by fever and none of them had known whether he would survive.  Mycroft dragged his eyes away from both the sight and the memory and focussed on the others.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to abandon the kitchen to focus on work, things are at a rather critical juncture.  There are some instructions on the table and things are well in hand though,” he said trying to keep his tone from sounding as grave as he might do.  

“I can step in,” Mary offered, "I’m not bad in the kitchen and I’m better at following instructions than this one,” she said, nodding her head in the direction of her husband.  He gave her a tight lipped nod in response.  

“Would it be acceptable if I borrowed your office again Mother?”

“Of course,” she said though there was a note of uncertainty in her tone.  

“Sir?” If Anthea was overriding his mute then it was certainly worthy of his attention.  He tapped his earpiece,

“Go ahead,” he offered an apologetic hand to the rest of the room and crossed quickly to the stairs which he climbed and headed along to his bedroom.  The door opposite, the one that had been prepared for their unexpected guest was ajar and through it he saw the curtains had not been drawn; the assumption clear that Gregory had not stayed to sleep.  The relief that he would not have to face the other man was dwarfed by a sense of loss at knowing he was no longer close and a concern that he should not have been driving in his sleep deprived state…

He pushed these thoughts aside, picking up his case and descending the stairs as quickly as was practicable all while Anthea briefed him on what their assets had discovered.  Things were certainly not improving it became clear as he passed back through the living room, past the kitchen and then along the corridor until he reached his mother’s domain.  He turned the central light off as he passed the switch, closing the door and disconnecting the accursed earpiece in favour of putting the phone on speaker.  He opened his case, retrieved his laptop and set it in the desk before opening it.  There was, thankfully, a blister pack tucked into the usual pocket and he dry swallowed two capsules, drawing the curtains  and pushing open the window before he sat down.  The screen of the computer seemed unnaturally bright in the artificially created gloom and he had to squint and fumble to lower the contrast before he was able to make out any of the details.  Sitting down, he settled himself in for the long haul and he knew that was what he was in for.

------

Sherlock watched up close as Emily woke from her nap, snuffling and wriggling on the sheepskin rug before scrunching up her nose and opening her eyes.  He had woken some time earlier, early enough to hear Mycroft’s recusal of his familial duties in the kitchen.  He’d been surprised that Mycroft hadn’t called him out on his pretence of sleep but either he had gotten better at imitating or Mycroft was more preoccupied than he had realised.  He felt another pang of something that he struggled to identify and gently probed it; cautiously testing the depths and shape of the feeling.  Sherlock had learnt to admit that he was not an automaton; to claim so at this stage would be pointless, but he did not necessarily like or trust his own emotions.  He loved this child before him, was inconvenienced by her, enraptured by her and he would give his life for her if ever he was asked.  Just as he would his father and then by association Mary, because she meant so much to John.  His parents were simply that, his parents, but Mycroft had always been different.  Mycroft was his nemesis, his arch enemy, the bane of his existence, the favourite focus for sharpening his wit and had been for as long as he could remember.  

He enjoyed making Mycroft miserable, enjoyed poking at him until he could get a reaction.  Sherlock enjoyed taunting him about his failures, his shortcomings and faults but somehow, seeing him suffer through this emotional turmoil had been strangely unsatisfying.  He should have relished another example of Mycroft’s inability to even successfully mimic human relationships, but he didn’t.  After that first meeting, so soon after he’d been back in Baker Street, when they had played childhood games and had probably the deepest conversation they ever had, they’d fallen back into the shallowest of old habits.  The only times they’d spoken since then, he had been as rude as possible, childish even by his own standards but he’d struggled to get a rise out of him.  When they’d arrived here last night, he’d still been running high on adrenalin from the end of their case, his senses heightened to their extreme.  Without conscious effort he had been able to see the signs of sleepless nights in his brothers pocket watch, the weight of his responsibilities in the way his shirt cuffs sat beneath his jacket and the frequency of his international trips, in his choice of aftershave.  He had seen but he hadn’t read what he ought to have from what he’d seen.  When the doorbell had sounded that morning he had been able to deduce quickly that it had to be Lestrade or Anthea.  He had ruled out Anthea when it had become clear that Mycroft wasn’t expecting anyone.  The fact that he wasn’t even expecting the DI when he walked through the door was just another indication of the state his brother was in.  The short conversation that had followed had revealed more chinks in that Savile Row armour and it was almost as though someone had plunged his head into a bucket of ice water and he suddenly realised something had changed.  

He heard Mycroft thump his way back down the stairs, moving briskly across the room, no interruption in his stride to indicate he’d even made eye contact with anyone else.  Sherlock strained for more information, for anything that could be deduced, but even he was sometimes at a loss when his eyes were closed and the basics were all well known.  Mycroft had put his worn sheepskin slippers back on at some stage, a present from their parents three, no… four years ago.  He was taller than average, long legs but not all of his height was down to that.  The sound of the fabric implied high quality garments but not kept for a special occasion, they were worn, comfortable.  The sound also implied that they were not stretched and taught, no, there was loose fabric required to make that particular noise. Another pang at the internal admission that perhaps John had been correct in his earlier assertion that his brother’s weight had in fact been waning.  A flurry of other ignored information cascaded in on him as he struggled to file it away in the room allocated to his brother in his mind palace.  He’d always thought of it as a being a dungeon but increasingly he realised it was not that the room was windowless but that there were dusty, heavy drapes nailed over the windows and blocking out any light.  He tugged experimentally at one that seemed particularly keen to come down.  It fell with a gentle tug, dust motes filling the air and dancing in the weak sunlight that poured through the recently revealed stain glass.  The light, coloured by the glass fell onto particular corners of the room, highlighting scenes that were familiar but somehow alien.  There was Mycroft, that strange wistful smile across his features as they had caught up during his time away from London.   There was the look on teenage Mycroft’s face as Sherlock had flounced away at some perceived fault.  Then there was all the thousands of signs that he hadn’t seen when last he’d been summoned to the diogenes and then...

Emily squealed, bringing him abruptly out of his thoughts. She was reaching out her adorably chubby little first, grabbing at his hair, one of her favourite attractions of the moment.  He caught her hand, blowing a raspberry on the palm to distract her as he sat up and lifted her on to his knee.  

“Your daughter requires changing,” he declared a moment later holding her at arm’s length.

“Isn’t it strange that you always remember that she’s my daughter when she needs changed?” John said taking her into his arms,  “Is Uncle Sherlock scared of a dirty nappy?”  The other man addressed this comment to Emily and she screwed her face up in response.  Despite his pathetic protests however, John seemed remarkably happy to go and deal with the foul mess his daughter had no doubt created.  While Sherlock was happy to hand over the responsibility, he did think he was beginning at least to understand.  He wondered, as he wandered into the kitchen in search of tea, just how one was supposed to balance this desire for a given outcome with the ridiculous idea that one was not supposed to interfere.

------

Greg woke, the way you only could when you had had slept deeply and soundly.  It was a foreign enough feeling that he lay under the duvet and enjoyed the sensation before he started thinking too hard about where he was and what happened next.  He wasn’t sure whether it was the sleep, the sounds of Sherlock playing carols downstairs or the amazing smells that were drifting into his room but he felt much more positive about things this afternoon.  He didn’t know what his future held but he was increasingly certain that in some way or another it involved Mycroft Holmes and that filled him with a warmth he wasn’t about to give up.  He pulled on jeans and a rugby shirt and the tatty looking sheepskin moccasins that Mycroft had given him the first year they’d spent Christmas together here.  Emily was crawling towards the stairs like a child possessed and he captured her, lifting her into the air and turning her so that she was facing the room as he held her against his chest.  She paused for a moment, turning to look up at him with that uncertain look that infants specialised in.  He gave her a little bounce and she seemed to decide that he was an acceptable bearer and held her arms out indicating that she wanted taken over to John.

“Lost something?” he asked with a smile.

“Not much chance of that, is there munchkin?” the other man said taking the wriggling bundle.  “Sleep well?”  It was an innocent question but the subtext was in bold.

“Yes actually,” he said “I’m like a new man.”

“Good,” he said and Greg thought that though his look was piercing, he was genuinely pleased for him.  

“We’ve set a place for you at the table,” Val said coming in from the dining room.  The weight in her words, the indication that he would stay, heavy but he’d already made his decision.  

“Great, it smells amazing,”  he said, smiling brightly.  

“And so it should,” Mary called from the kitchen.  “Five minute warning,” she continued, coming out and wiping her hands on an apron.  “Sherlock please wrestle your God-daughter into her highchair, John would you…?” she indicated down the hall and Greg wasn’t sure what at but he didn’t have long to ponder. “Richard, you better charge everyone’s glasses and Greg you’re with me.”  

“Yes, Chef.” he replied, following her through.  He’d just assumed that Mycroft was holed up in the kitchen, even if for some reason he had allowed Mary to play sous chef.  But he found himself looking around for someone who wasn’t there.  

“He’s been on the phone for most of the last six hours,” Mary said perfunctorily,  “He did most of the prep but a couple of hours ago, he withdrew into Val’s office so he could concentrate.”

“Do we know what?” he asked, knowing that if anyone would it was Mary.    

“I’ve heard Arabic, Turkish and Russian,” she said noncommittally.  Greg had always tried to follow world events but much more so once he’d met Mycroft and again once he’d understood how closely he was involved with them.  That said, it wouldn’t take Sherlock to put together these pieces and get at least a vague gist.

“Right,” he said with a sigh,  “You ah, you wanted a hand?”

“Could you start taking the veg out?” she asked, indicating the covered dishes.  “Then I’ll need a hand with the turkey, I just about killed myself getting it out of the oven.”

He helped to decant all the dishes through to the dining room, where the curtains were drawn against the encroaching dark.  It was after five now, and Greg was suddenly ravenous.  John returned and with a gentle shake of his head, let them know that Mycroft wouldn’t be joining  them.

“Well there’s bound to be plenty left.  We can take him in a plate in a bit,” Mary said, grasping his arm for a moment.  He’d try later he thought, he’d take something through and see if there was anything he could do.  

They ate and laughed, mostly at Sherlock, who seemed to think that the food would disappear if it wasn’t on his plate given how much he’d piled on there.  John and he started a game of sneaking the odd chipolata, honey roast carrot or parsnip off the detective’s plate and soon everyone was at it.  Despite his theatrical protestations however, he didn’t leave the table and throughout it all there was something cosy and familial that Greg hadn’t realised he’d been missing for so long.  Emily managed to coat most of herself and several other people in smooshed up potato and carrot but seemed to be having a whale of a time.

“You lot linger at the table, finish the wine,” Val suggested, “Richard and I will see to getting the little one bathed and ready for bed.”  

“That would be lovely,” Mary said, “if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all, dear, just like old times, eh Sherlock?”  

“I have no recollection of what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said crossing his arms.

“We used to have an awful time keeping you clean,” Richard said with a twinkle.

“Yes, yes enough!” Sherlock declared, “Emily, don’t listen to a word they say.”  This sent the rest of them into another round of laughter and while Sherlock attempted to look indignant he reached for the wine to refill their glasses.  

Later, as they moved the dishes back through to the kitchen, Greg found his eye wondering towards the corridor that led to the study.  

“Just knock on the door,”  John said, coming up to stand beside him.

“If he’s in the middle of something I’ll be the last person he wants to see.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”  The statement was so matter of fact that Greg looked around in surprise, John simply shrugged his shoulders.  “Look, Mycroft and I have our differences but… he’s not at his best, just see if you can’t get him to eat something.”

One look at the other man and Greg knew there would be no getting him to eat.  He’d knocked quietly and turned the handle, knowing that it would be locked if Mycroft really didn’t want to be disturbed.  It had opened, and he’d stepped into the dim office space and had to wait for his eyes to adjust before he spotted the other man at the desk.  He gestured to his mobile sitting next to the laptop in query and Mycroft shook his head in return.  

“No…” his voice was quiet and hoarse, he cleared his throat and started again.  “No there’s no one there.”

“How bad’s the head?” he asked casually.  Mycroft seemed to still be looking at him overly closely and blinked several times before replying.

“It’s.. I’ll be fine.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Greg said pointedly,  “Can you take a few minutes?”  

“Anthea will ring when we know more.  I may need to return to London this evening.”

“Can I get you anything?  Mint tea?”

“I… Yes.  If you wouldn’t mind.”

“‘Course not, I’ll be right back,” he said.  

John was watching the kettle on the stove when he returned to the kitchen.

“Peppermint tea,” he said then by way of explanation, “he’s nursing a hell of a headache.”,

“Hmm, I did wonder.  Doctor’s instincts,” he added when Greg raised an eyebrow.  “Low lights, low temperature, convulsive swallowing.”

“It’s fairly common for him but if he’s working he won’t take the good stuff which is the only thing that has any chance of making a difference.”  There was a box of the mint tea that Mycroft favoured sitting on the counter with the others caddies and he wondered just how long he’d been nursing this headache when he realised it was half empty.  

“Well that’s a familiar trait.  Do you think that this crisis will last long?”

“The implosion of Syria and the Middle East or the headache?” he asked dryly.  

“Touche,”  John acknowledged pulling the whistling kettle from the top of the AGA.  He poured the water into a teapot that had already been set out and the smaller one that Greg had found.  “Here,” he said having placed the kettle on the side and headed into the freezer.  He produced a couple of gel packs, “these might help.”  

“Thanks,” Greg said, pulling a couple of clean tea towels from the drawer and wrapping the cold gel packs and placing them on a tray with the teapot and a cup.

He didn’t bother knocking this time but just went straight in, putting his tray down on a low table near the little sofa tucked away in an alcove.  Mycroft didn’t seem to have moved since he’d left but he offered him a tight smile.  

“Tea and ice packs,” he said lightly.

“This is very good of you,” Mycroft said, finally standing carefully and coming over.  

“You’re frozen,” he said as their hands brushed when he passed over a cup of tea and a shiver ran through the other man.

“Mmmm….  it helps with the focus.  And the nausea.”  

“How about you get one of these on the back of your neck and I’ll close the window,” he suggested, handing over the tea-towel wrapped gel pack.  Mycroft accepted it and sat slowly but appreciatively, Greg took that as permission and crossed the room to pull closed the window.

“Would you turn off  the anglepoise?”  

“Sure,” Greg said, and he switched off the floor standing lamp that was already angled into the corner.  

“Thank you,”  he said.

“I wish you’d stop saying that,” Greg said, coming back to join him.  

“I’ve got no right to expect…”

“Shhh… Let’s not do this now,” he said firmly, sitting down close enough that their legs were touching.  There was a quiet exhalation next to him and the other man’s head lowered back to rest on the top of the cushion.  

“I didn’t think that you were still here,” Mycroft said after a moment.  Greg wasn’t sure what to say to that.  “The bedroom my mother put you in was empty and after… I just assumed…”

“Sherlock had John move me to the shadier side of the house.”

“Of course he did.”  It was an acceptance rather than anything else, as though it was an obvious answer.  Greg didn’t think it was worth pointing out that his car was visible from the window that the other man had obviously opened earlier.   

“I am so tired Gregory,” came the quiet admission some time later, “like butter scraped over too much bread.”

“Oh love,” the endearment was out before he had a chance to think about it and it was equally as instinctive to raise an arm so that the other man could fall sideways and rest his head on Greg’s shoulder.   They sat like that, in the dark, the only sound that of careful breathing.  He shifted occasionally, to resettle the cold compress against the back of Mycroft’s neck, and managed to snag other gel pack and making sure it was properly insulated with the towel, slipped it between his shoulder and Mycroft’s forehead.  The other man moved then settled with a sigh. The civil servant’s phone was still in his hand, but it was resting open, palm up on his thigh. Greg gave it fifteen minutes before he reached down and plucked it from unresisting fingers.  

“Wha…” Mycroft asked, swallowing convulsively as he moved too quickly.  

“I’m calling Anthea,” he said bluntly before looking down and realising that the screen was locked and he had no clue what the passcode was.  Mycroft made a reach to take it back but he was pretty sure that he was struggling to focus.  Discarding the other man’s phone he wriggled enough to get his own out of his pocket,

“Gregory…” Mycroft protested.

“Shhh…” he put him off, finding the number he had never been able to bring himself to delete, he hit dial.  “Hey,” he said.

“Detective.” Came the cool response.

“Merry Christmas,” he replied lightly,  “I’m with Mycroft.”

“Ah,” he’d never known anyone else who could get more feeling into that syllable.  This time at least she seemed to be happy with him.

“I know you were waiting to establish if he was going to have to head back to the city tonight.  I just wondered if we’d gotten any further forward?”

“Things seemed to have settled for the time being.”

“Ok, well I’ll let you speak to Mycroft about what exactly is going on, but he’s got a migraine that’s going to need the heavy duty medication and twelve hour’s sleep to lift and…”

“Ah.”

“Exactly.  I’m going to hand you over.”  He handed the phone over and moved away, letting the pair of them talk.  He mooched along the bookcase, loving the eccentric mix of mathematical textbooks and Jilly Cooper.   Like many comfortable spaces this one screamed of the woman who worked in it, the 70’s furniture worn and lived in.  

Mycroft seemed to be listening more than he was speaking and when he did it was a barely a few words.

“Very well.”  Greg gave him some time to compose himself before he turned back around.  “I think I’d like to go to bed now.”  

“That sounds like a very good idea.”

-----

Mycroft allowed Gregory to lead him through to the living room, pausing as the others stopped talking and looked up.  

“I’m…” he began, unwilling to rely on the other man to justify him, “I’m afraid I’m feeling a little under the weather.”  Sherlock snorted.  

“Oh sweetheart,” his mother said,

“It’s nothing really, just headache,” he said trying to forestall her,  “A good night’s sleep and I’ll be quite alright.”

“If you’re sure?  You haven’t had a bite since breakfast,” she continued, her worry, grating on his raw nerves.

“That is currently something to be grateful for I fear, I do hope you enjoyed your Christmas meal?” he added as an afterthought.

“It was great,” John said, “now piss off and get some sleep.  We’ll try and keep the noise down.”  

“Good luck with that,” Gregory said with a smile, but Sherlock was in fact being uncharacteristically quiet.  Mycroft crossed the room, heading for the stairs, the undemanding hand on his back, following him.  Never had the stairs up to his bedroom felt so long, but he didn’t let his progress falter.  He knew now that he had to keep going or he would stop completely.  His bed was still perfectly made, unslept in the previous night, but he’d unpacked enough.  

“Do you have the squirty stuff?” Gregory asked, closing the curtains.  

“There should be some in my washbag,”  Mycroft replied absently, sitting on the edge of the mattress and contemplating leaning over to untie his laces.  

“I’ll get it in a mo then.  Whoa, let me help with that,” he said, crossing quickly over, “it’ll only make you sick if you try and do it yourself.”  He let Gregory help, the fact that his gorge was rising even at the thought of having to bend over only made the decision easy.  How well Gregory knew him still, after all this time, how well he knew what he needed, what he was thinking.  

“Oh love,” Gregory said when he stood back up having divested him of shoes and socks.  Mycroft wasn’t sure what had elicited this response until the other man reached up and wiped away his tears.  He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried.  

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.  

“Shhh.. enough of that.  You’re done in, love.” Mycroft allowed himself to be worked out of his sweater, shirt and trousers, as though he was child being readied for bed.  “You get your PJs on and I’ll get the medicine,” Gregory said softly, placing a chaste kiss on the crown of his head.  It took several moments for him to stir into action, to pull on the soft cotton bottoms on over his briefs.  

“Here,” Gregory said when he returned, “have you changed prescription?  This looks different.”

“Mmmm… oh, no.  It’s uh, still the same but I’ve been using a higher dose so they’ve prescribed the largr size.  I’ve been struggling to clear them once they’ve set in properly...”  The unsaid loud in both of their ears.  He should have taken this hours ago, shouldn’t have had that cigarette, shouldn’t have let himself get in this state.  There were tears leaking down his face again.  “Thank you,” he said, accepting the nasal spray and the tissues that were being held out.    

“I’m going to go rescue the ice pack and get you some water,”  Gregory said quietly, his hand gently stroking the soft hair at the back of Mycroft’s head.  Appreciating the privacy, and the unspoken gesture of the basin had been left on the nightstand, he inserted the spray into first one nostril then the other.   He’d lost his battle shortly thereafter, and when Gregory returned, he it was to find him hanging over the basin that now contained a quantity of mint tea, stomach acid and the last of Mycroft’s composure.  

“Here, rinse your mouth out,” the other man said, handing him a glass of water.  “Ready to lie down?”  

“Yes,” Mycroft said, suddenly weary beyond words.   He settled into the pillows, relishing the cool sheets as Gregory  drew them up.  

“I’ll lay the pack over your eyes, not as good as a mask, but hopefully it’ll help.”  He closed his eyes, allowing the gentle words to wash over him.  Vile barely touched the depths of how awful he felt but there, with Gregory’s weight pulling the mattress down at the edge where he was seated, he felt himself relax for what felt like the first time in years.  

"’M sorry,” he mumbled, struggling to form the words.  

“I know you are, but it’s ok.  Just rest,” the hand was back in his hair.  

“Stay?” he asked, unable to cover the need oozing from his every syllable.  

“Course I will,  I’ll rest here, right next to you and tomorrow we can think about what happens next.  But for now, I’m here…”  Mycroft could feel the drugs taking effect now; the buoyancy they gave to his thoughts, carrying them over the worries, the concern.  It was almost as if he was watching them from a distance; the concerns and the pain to drifting over him and away as morpheus pulled him under.  

Translations - all by googleTranslate so apologies in advance.

Nem fela? (Arabic)

Yes?

Fahimt 'ann hdha kan alttaeamul maeaha. (Arabic)

I understood this had all been dealt with.

Wabitabieat alhal sawf tadtur 'iilaa aittikhadh almazid min al'iijra'at fi hadhih alhala. (Arabic)

Naturally, we’ll have to take further action in that case.

Yumkinuna 'iieadat alnnazar fi almufawadat al'awwalia?

Can we revisit the initial negotiations?

La! Bialttabe la. (Arabic)

No! Absolutely not.

Gde on seychas? (Russian)

Where is he now?

Akim, gde on? (Russian)

Akim, where is he?

My ne znayem . My poteryali yego. (Russian)

We don’t know.  We lost him.

Nayti yego. Teper'. (Russian)

Find him. Now.

Herhangi bir haber , Bay Holmes var mı? (Turkish)

Is there any news Mr Holmes?

Bizim arkadaşlar gecikme ile endişeli artan hale gelmektedir. (Turkish)

Our friends are becoming increasingly anxious with the delay.

Bizim arkadaşlar sabırlı olmalı ya da onlar ne arzu almazsınız , ilerleme kaydediyoruz.  (Turkish)

We are making progress, our friends must be patient or they will not get what they desire.

lm yataghayar shay' (Russian)

Nothing has changed.