A/N;

Did you miss me?

;D

-Nonny

......

The camera showed Sebastian Moran himself, holding a knife in one hand and an emaciated, blood-covered Sherlock in the other. Molly and Dimmock had stopped cuddling each other and were now crowded around John and Greg, watching the video with tense looks on both their faces.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. As you have probably figured out by now, my name is Sebastian Moran, and I've kidnapped your little brother here."

Moran held up the detective by his hair, earning a groan from him. John glares at the screen, clenching his fists.

"I'm going to cut to the chase, Mr. Holmes; this is it for your brother. I'm not giving you any clues to where he is, and I'm not pulling any smart tricks like the late Jim Moriarty. This is the end of Sherlock Holmes."

Moran pushed the blade against the side of Sherlock's cheek, sliding it slowly down as a thin red line sprung up, small droplets of blood falling down to Sherlock's pale porcelain neck. John grits his teeth, fingernails digging into his palms as he watches the blood drip down Sherlock's face.

"I'm sure you've got many questions. Questions such as; if I'm not giving him up, why am I sending you this video message?"

Moran paused, then shrugged. "Let's just say I'm feeling generous. I thought you might like to have one last glimpse of your little brother before his untimely death."

"Another question you probably have; why am I doing this?"

The detective began to struggle slightly, but stiffened as Moran put the cold steel of the blade against his neck. John and Greg both sucked in a deep breath as Moran looked back up at the screen.

"You see, a long time ago I made a promise to someone. And not just anyone; my boyfriend, Jim Moriarty."

Moran shifted slightly, pushing the knife more tightly against Sherlock's neck. John's hand trilled nervously at his side. "I told him that, if anything were ever to happen to him, I wouldn't let it go. I promised him I would get revenge."

"After all, what would you do?" Moran said, voice getting darker by the second. "If the person you loved most in the world was killed, wouldn't you want revenge on their killer? Wouldn't you do everything you could to avenge their death?"

"Sherlock Holmes pushed Jim Moriarty off the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital."

Moran pulled the knife away from Sherlock's pale, bruised neck, giving the camera a dark and dangerous smile. John glared at him, even though he knew Moran couldn't see him.

"And believe me when I say that nothing, nothing, will stop me from keeping my promise."

The sniper violently stabbed the knife into Sherlock's shoulder and the screen went dark.

John let out a stream of curse words, jumping up off the bench to pace around the pavement as the others sat there in a state of shock.

"Damn it, Moran!" John yelled, kicking a lamp post and sliding to the ground. He put his head in his hands.

Greg seemed to wake up a bit and went back, looking at the message history. "No traceable address or location, sent…eight hours ago."

John groaned as he realized Sherlock could easily have bled out in that time.

Molly stood up. "Well?"

John turned in a circle, frustration seeping through his every pore. "I don't know!" He gripped his short blond hair with desperate fingers, practically pulling it out. He finally collapsed onto the bench beside Dimmock and Molly, the pure picture of agony and despair.

"I don't know."

...

Approximately 22 miles away, around the same time, a tall, dark-haired man woke slowly in a small, seedy flat.

"uuuurghgod…wh'the hell…"

A voice echoed out of the shadows in the corner. "Be silent. You've lost a fair amount of blood."

"Where….wher'm i? I…"

"You're in my flat. Not far from where I found you," the voice said quietly. It had a crisp, educated, upper-class tone to it. "No identification, so I haven't any idea who you are. It's probably a good thing…the way I found you made it seem like you would prefer people not to know your name." He laughed politely. "You must have an interesting enemy."

The man sat up slowly, wincing and rubbing his head. "You have no clue, my friend. And yes, I would rather prefer that."

The owner of the accented voice came into view. He was short, with scruffy curls and a dirty face. He smiled politely. "Pardon my appearance…my job dictates a certain appearance." He began to wash his face with a soft cream-coloured towel. "You wouldn't believe how difficult it can be to find work these days, even with an Oxford degree."

The man on the bed nodded, offering no comment as he stretched and scratched at a patch of dried blood on the side of his head.

"Of course, you may stay here for a few days, as I imagine you may have some trouble with getting back out into the world." He continued to wash his face, scrubbing at the grime that layered over finer skin.

He nodded again, then said softly, "I will need to be getting along after that, though. My boyfriend will certainly be wondering where I've got to." He looked down, face almost seeming guilty.

"He'll be rather worried by now."

...

"Excuse me…"

John and Greg both leaped up at the sound of the young nurse's voice. "Yes?" John said, shaking slightly with nervousness. Greg couldn't even bring himself to speak.

She smiled nervously. "Which one of you is Gregory Lestrade?"

Greg went white. "What happened? Is he okay? Is he alive? Is he-" he broke off, unable to voice his next words

The nurse said in a quiet voice, "Sir, he's perfectly fine." John claps a hand onto Greg's shoulder, who practically melts with relief.

"And…" she hesitated before finally blurting out, "he's asking for you."

...

"Mycroft?"

The aristocratic eyes opened the moment Greg spoke. Mycroft looked the detective inspector up and down, eyes wide. When he finally spoke, his voice was so soft it was barely there.

"…Gregory?"

Greg stepped forward to stand beside the hospital, entire body trembling. He took a deep breath before finally speaking, voice shaking. "H-how…how are you?"

Mycroft said quietly, "I…" He didn't answer right away, staring at Greg, before finally blurting out, "Gregory, I am…I am so, so sorry. I…" He looked down at the IV hooked into his arm. "I was trying to protect you. I thought that if I didn't seem…emotionally invested in you, that they wouldn't…"

Greg sagged into a chair. "Oh, Mikey…"

Mycroft flushed deeply at the nickname.

Greg said softly, "Don't you know that I don't care? I want you to be emotionally invested in me, I want them to know that I love you…I want the world to know that I love you, Mycroft Holmes! I don't give a fuck what happens to me if you act 'emotionally invested'!"

Greg took a shaky breath as Mycroft stared in shock. "And I can understand if you don't want the same. I…god, Mycroft, there are times when I've been a complete and total ass, but if you'll have me…"

Greg closed his eyes. "If you'll have me, I'll have you. For the rest of this life and the next."

A few moments later when he opened them again, it was to see Mycroft Holmes crying. He spoke in a choked voice. "You're…you're asking me to m-marry you?"

Greg exhaled shakily and said with a low, sincere voice, "Yes. God, yes. If you'll h-have me."

Mycroft sobbed, voice shaking with joy as he answered, "Yes. Yes! Gregory!" He reached out and took Greg's hand, trembling. "I will. I will have you forever and for always."

Greg pressed his face to the soft, pale hand in front of him, lips caressing the fingertips, and whispered two words repeatedly, almost too softly to be heard.

"Thank you."

"Thank you."