Fading out

More than just a handler

Greg

It was already quite dark and late in the day when the knock came to his door. Greg was relaxing with a good book and some comfortable jeans and shirt when he was interrupted. He looked up when the knock came, a small frown on his forehead as he stood up and made his way to the door. He wasn't in the mood for much company tonight, and the company he usually get is either door to door sales or a case.

"Hell..ooo." His voice trailed of seeing his guests, this was quite unexpected. He stared at Anthea before he turned to Lady Smallwood, he recognized her from the newspapers. Lady Smallwood gave him a small smile.

"Detective Inspector, I know it is quite late, but may have a moment of your time?"

"Oh yes, of course, please come on in." He held the door for them to enter and locked it behind them before he led them to his small living room.

"Please make yourself at home, it's not much, but it is comfortable." Anthea sat on the edge of the three-seater, her hands folded in her lap, Greg looked a bit worried but sat down lower on the sofa as well. Lady Smallwood sat on the single, a bit more relaxed than Anthea. Greg eyed them both.

"Why do I get the feeling that this conversation needs something stronger than tea?" Anthea smiled briefly before she caught herself smiling and straightened her face. Lady Smallwood looked down to her hands before she turned to him.

"Do you have something stronger than tea?" Greg narrowed his eyes, darting between the two women before he stood up and walked to the kitchen, he came back with a full bottle of whiskey and three glasses. He put it on the table, opening the bottle with his hands while looking at them.

"This is a bit worrisome, just so you know...I feel like I have to prepare myself for something big." They didn't reply as he poured them each a glass. Anthea lifted hers and drank it on all in one sip.

"Okay, forget worrisome, this is getting scary. What is going on?" His voice was losing that openness, that softness, he looked at Lady Smallwood.

"Don't get me wrong, you are welcome here, but Anthea I know, you I've hardly met, and now both of you is here is in my house, and you who are practically surgical attached to Mycroft aren't here..." His eyes opened, he licked his lips.

"...Anthea...Mycroft...is he okay?" He asked softly, his sole attention on her, ignoring Lady Smallwood. She took the opportunity to look at him, the one Mycroft trusted, probably the only man he trusted if he allowed him to look after Sherlock. He gave him half of all his money, the man who made such an impression that Mycroft asked how a man like this can be. He was handsome, she would admit, and he was open to read, he didn't try to hide anything, to play mind games, he was sincere in his dealings and Mycroft was right, it was refreshing.

She picked up her glass and drank the liquid.

"Detective..."

"Greg, please." She nodded.

"Mycroft Holmes died today." She watched as the emotions ran across his eyes, unbelief, doubt, surprise, uncertainty pain, the worry and the concern, his eyes turned darker as it filled with tears. She waited for the usual responses, the 'it's not true', and the 'you're lying' or the dramatic 'no' Sherlock yelled, instead none came. He reached his hand and took hold of Anthea's folded hands in her lap, his one hand nearly covering both of hers, she wanted to stop him, tell him Anthea doesn't like that but to her surprise Anthea allowed it.

His voice was soft, filled with sorrow.

"Anthea?" The question of is true was loud in her name. Anthea looked down and swallowed, her head bobbed up and down twice. Greg squeezed her hands softly before he looked down.

"Oh God no." He uttered to the floor as his free hand rub across his face. He looked at her.

"Does Sherlock know?" Lady Smallwood nodded.

"He was informed this afternoon, before we came here." Greg closed his eyes, he would need to check on him, make sure he isn't relapsing. Shit. Bloody hell. He looked up to the two women.

"What happened?"

"He was killed while on duty. I cannot divulge..."

"I'm not talking about that, I don't care about that, I care about Mycroft, what happened to him?" Greg interrupted her; she took a breath before answering her hands fidgeting with the glass in her hand.

"He was caught by shrapnel from a car bomb." Greg's mouth fell open before he closed it sharply, he looked away, and she could see he was trying to keep from either crying or yelling.

"Where was his security? Why didn't anyone do anything? You always took stuff like this into account, he especially anticipates everything and takes the necessary steps, and his plan A has a plan A to Z, so that his plan B, why didn't anyone..." His voice got louder before he stopped, his mouth open and eyes wide. He looked to her.

"He did it on purpose didn't he?" Anthea opened her eyes in shock, so did Lady Smallwood, they glances at each other and Greg knew he was right.

"He did! Bastard!" He exclaimed as he jumped up from the seat, he started pacing the floor his pain making way for his anger.

"Of course he did, he still felt guilty didn't he? Trying to what...makes things right? Save an agent's life? Only he would do that, I know about what he tried to do at the prison, with Sherlock and John, what does he think he is, some martyr dying for the greater bloody good?...What are we supposed to do? Accept it? Move on? How...the bloody bastard..." He started strong but lost momentum as he went on, until he stopped at the window overlooking the street, he trailed of, his voice slowly cracking. Lady Smallwood and Anthea stared at him, he got it right, he voiced their feelings too, Anthea felt proud at Greg in that moment, once again proving himself to be more than what he was credit for, he was living to prove people wrong about underestimation.

"I failed." Both women looked up at that and turned to him, his one arm was resting against the wall, his body leaning into it. They didn't understood. Anthea stood up and walked to him.

"What do you mean?" Greg looked straight ahead as he answered.

"Sherlock asked me to look after him, and I did, I met with him that night, made sure he ate and got home safe, I send him texts, I tried to get through to him, to make sure he was okay and he assured me he was fine, that he was taking time off work and we would talk when he get back...I should've know...bloody Holmes..."

Anthea grabbed his shoulder.

"You didn't fail! If you did, so did we, and we can't think like that, the guilt will ruin us."

"So we wash our hands of him? Give ourselves a pat on the shoulder going, did good lad, you did good? We didn't do good, we should've done better. He is dead Anthea; he is never going to kidnap me to shady warehouses for dramatic effect to check on his brother, he is never going to walk down the street twirling that umbrella as if he owned the place. He will never stare us down, tilting his head and order us to look after Sherlock." Greg's voice was half hoarse; he was having a difficult time with this. Anthea let of his shoulder and turned away, he stopped her. She was right, ultimately, once a Holmes gets an idea he is too stubborn to back down, he tried to smile at her reassuringly.

"Anthea, we did well with what we had, and you're right, we didn't fail, not really and I want you to know I am so sorry for your loss." He knew Mycroft was her mentor, and in some way a friend, just like he was to Greg, from all the people in the world, the two of them understood the loss of losing someone like Mycroft in their lives.

Lady Smallwood looked away, giving them their private moment, they were loyal to him, because they cared, because they were somehow his friends, not because he owed them, or bought them. She didn't understood initially why Mycroft thought it was going to be difficult to get him to accept the money, it was a huge amount, but now seeing him, she understood, everything in this man is going to push against accepting it, she will just have to find a way.

He went to the funeral, he even wore his best suit, the special 'weddings and funeral only' one. He even went to get a haircut the previous day; he wanted to look his best for the man he respected the most. He stood alone at the grave, his eyes watching the rest. Anthea stood next to Lady Smallwood about a step behind her, her eyes were staring at the coffin. John stood by Sherlock and his parents. His father was holding his mum in an embrace, she had been crying, but then again, she is burying her child. Greg thought it was ironic, first she buried her youngest, then her middle child, all fake and not real - she didn't know about Euros till recently but still - now she is burying her eldest, for real. They say you shouldn't play with fire, that you shouldn't tempt fate, Sherlock did, Euros did and Mycroft is the one to pay. He was always the one to pay. He sighed, he really hate irony sometimes. Sherlock is taking it hard, he could see it, and Greg felt a stab of fear that he might start using again.

He looked at John, he hoped John would be enough to keep him from using, he frowned, John is looking very tired and exhausted, as if he is carrying some guilt. Oh yes… He remember what he said that night when he told Sherlock what Euros did to Mycroft, what goes around comes around he commented, Greg just walked away. He probably has to keep an eye on him too, damn; he is like the god-uncle keeping an eye on the kids. The funeral was over and he looked at the grave, not a single bloody flower. Mycroft always said 'no flowers' Bastard.

He left after Lady Smallwood and Anthea, Sherlock was still standing there with his parents, and Greg wondered why Lady Smallwood didn't even try to talk to Mycroft's parents beside the universal nod of acknowledgment. She blamed them, he saw the video, the inheritance, and it was the only he would accept the money. He left and drove around for about an hour, when he made up his mind and stopped at the store. Buying what he needed he went back to the cemetery. It was empty, everyone was gone. Taking the item he walked down the path to where he was earlier that day. The grave was closed and they stone on top. It was similar to the one Sherlock had, black and sleek and plain with his name. Greg looked around before he grouched down and dug a small hole.

"You know, I think it is time we are honest, I was your bloody handler...but like I told Sherlock, I just don't do what you tell me so there." Greg dusted his hands and looked at his handy word; next to the stone he planted a small cactus.

"I didn't really take you for the shiny, frilly flowery type anyhow, but a plant yes, actually a tree with roots deep in the earth and branches in the sky, just like you hand your fingers in pies all over the world, but your roots were here." With Sherlock he mentally added.

"I couldn't find you a tree in the shop, except bonsai, I'll see, maybe I'll buy you one later on, just to spite you, right now, I feel like you are a cactus, all thorny and a pain in the arse." Greg took a breath and stood there for a while. It was getting late.

"I have to go, have to get some rest if I'm going to look after Sherlock; he is going to need all the help he can get. I'll see you around and I will bring you that bonsai..."