Chapter 2:

The elder Holmes brother sighed as he attempted to focus on the paperwork in front of him. Words of decoded messages splayed out across from him, and though he knew this could determine the outcome of a civil war occurring in Northern Africa, he couldn't pull himself out of his mind to focus. Mycroft stood resignedly and walked over to his window, gazing out upon his bleary kingdom. London wasn't known for sunshine and goodness, but the criminal intent seemed to lessen as time had passed. With no mastermind, criminal genius to concoct vicious schemes, much of the crime rate had steadily decreased.

The grand puppet master himself, Moriarty, had been found dead (obviously), and his network was coming apart, one piece at a time. The British government official pulled up his mouth in a thin line. One year. It had been a year since he had helped Sherlock with his suicide scheme. And now, his little brother was gallivanting around the world; hunting down the last frayed edges of Moriarty's network and putting an end to them. It had not been an easy task to identify who was associated with Moriarty, but with Sherlock on the case, surely it would be solved. Why, if the great consulting detective himself couldn't identify who was, and wasn't, associated with Moriarty, there would be much more trouble for Mycroft.

"Such a stubborn boy," he mumbled to himself, lost in his thoughts. He had offered to help Sherlock, time and time again. Assuring him that his "friends" (as Moriarty called them) were safe, under no duress, and that he could come back and let Mycroft's men deal with the rest of the web. But no, Sherlock had adamantly refused, and severed all connections with the elder brother immediately thereafter. Mycroft wondered idly if his brother was still alive at this moment, he hadn't heard from him since that day, though he was keeping a weather eye on the traces of his handiwork that showed up around the globe.

There was a knock at the door suddenly.

"Come in," he replied without turning to see who it was. The sound of feet shuffled towards him told Mycroft it was Anthea coming in.

"Yes?" he asked as he continued to look out at the gray London before him.

"Sir, the detective inspector from Scotland Yard is here to see you," she said, her fingers typing furiously away at her blackberry. But she looked up, awaiting his response.

"Ah, yes," Mycroft replied, turning from his window gazing and moving around to the front of his desk to lean upon it.

"Show him in."

"Yes, sir," she acknowledged and returned to her phone whilst walking out of the posh office of her boss with the same shuffling that had brought her in. Mycroft's hands rested against the cool mahogany of his desk, absently running his fingers over the smooth polish as he awaited his visitor.

Greg and Mycroft had become close after Sherlock's drugs bust. Lestrade had been the officer to conduct a strike against a dealer's nest, and had found Sherlock in the midst of everything. Delirious with the newest dose raging through his system, it had taken three of Lestrade's best men to hold him down and be taken into custody. Before he had even the opportunity to put Sherlock in the car, the British government had casually walked up and taken over, much to the DI's dismay.

Mycroft's mouth pulled into a grim smile as he remembered Greg's face when he had intervened. After learning about Sherlock's situation from Lestrade, Mycroft took it upon himself to personally see to it that Sherlock was checked into rehab, and unable to leave until he was clean again. Figuring that that would have been the end of communication between himself and Lestrade, he was surprised to be called upon one day by the DI, who was curious about how Sherlock's progress in rehab. Mycroft discovered Greg was a very good listener, and eventually, it became a routine for them to meet. Though they had started by using Sherlock as an excuse to talk, they soon found themselves talking to each other about more personal issues. The elder Holmes brother would share his secret side of life (when security permitted), and Greg would talk about new cases he was currently working on. Mycroft found a fondness for the handsome DI, and was not oblivious to the feelings coming from him either. They grew close, closer than Mycroft had ever let anyone in before. But before things could progress to a new level between them, Sherlock had finished his rehabilitation. Mycroft and Greg agreed, somewhat grudgingly, that it was best to stop talking. Lestrade promised to set Sherlock up with puzzling cases, in order to occupy his mind, rather than drug use. And for Mycroft, it was simpler not to have a relationship interfering with his line of work. Not to mention the torturous hell of teasing he would have to endure from his ever perceptible younger brother.

The door opened again. Mycroft's face lightened as he saw Lestrade coming in. The DI looked as fit as ever, and gave a warm smile as he shut the door and strode over to the desk, standing in front of Mycroft.

"You look like hell," Greg stated, a faint trace of concern gracing his features. Mycroft walked out from behind his impressive desk and came to came to stand beside Greg, his hands reaching for Mycroft's and lacing together softly. There was a small bit of silence between them before Mycroft found his voice.

"Indeed, I probably do. I've been trying to determine the best course of action in preventing civil war in Africa. Not to mention trying to manage the rest of British national security on the side," he said somewhat jokingly. Greg saw right through him though and gave Mycroft's hand a reassuring squeeze.

"You'll figure it out, I'm sure of it," he said.

"Eventually no doubt. It's interesting to think about international affairs right now though." Greg gave him a confused look before Mycroft continued.

"My primary position really only deals with internal affairs. Terrorism, political scandals, etc. To have orders from up above about international affairs is rare and generally means things have been peaceful at home long enough to shift our focus to other matters," Mycroft explained, pulling Greg closer to himself.

"I don't really wish it were this peaceful though," he said half mumbling in Lestrade's ear. His partner nodded understandingly. Since the massive takedown of Moriarty, crime seemed to have been reduced to normal. No mentions of imminent terrorist threats, no rash political scandals that could result in an upheaval of British law. Nothing. Sherlock's added disappearance hadn't left Mycroft unstirred. Despite knowing, generally speaking, that his brother was alive and fighting somewhere around the world, he was Mycroft's little brother; Mycroft did in fact miss having the annoying brat around sometimes. More than that though, he knew how much Sherlock's supposed death was affecting Dr. Watson.

The two lapsed into silence again with Mycroft holding the smaller, yet remarkably fit, detective. These silences weren't uncommon for them, and neither were they uncomfortable. Both partners could generally read each other's emotions in silence better anyway. Not to mention, Mycroft had a flare for being dramatic, even in his personal relationships.

Greg spoke up first.

"How's John doing today?" Mycroft made a peculiar face that caused his nose to look pinched, as if he had smelled something sour.

"I'm not sure. I stopped keeping tabs on him a couple of weeks ago upon his insistence he was getting better. By what standards 'better' is, I haven't the faintest idea. He hasn't seen his psychiatrist in months, so most of my reports about his wellbeing are sent through occasional watchers."

"Could he be moving on perhaps? I've passed by him occasionally on my way to work, and he on his way to the clinic." Greg looked up at Mycroft with hopeful eyes.

"I would like to hope so, Greg. But I'm afraid most of what I've heard lately proves the opposite is true. He's bought less food this month than previously, and hasn't been out other than work, and the regular outing you two have."

Greg's face fell as he listened.

"You two have an outing tonight, don't you? You could try prying and see how he's really doing. I suppose if things have gotten as worse as they seem we could intervene…"

Greg leaned his face into Mycroft's chest, hugging him tightly. John is one of Greg's closest friends, and unable to be of much use to helping the doctor recover from his emotional wreck sometimes made him feel helpless about the situation. Once, after Lestrade had just returned from one of his visits with John, about seven months after Sherlock's "death", Greg had been so upset over John's condition that he had threatened to leave Mycroft for good if he didn't bring back Sherlock to Baker Street immediately. Obviously neither of them had done such things, and Greg had calmed down after a few days.

"I'll try to, I suppose. Hard to tell when he's putting up a face and when he's genuinely feeling something better these days," Greg muttered as he began to pull away from Mycroft; it was almost time for them to meet up anyway.

"Speaking of which, I need to be heading over there now."

Mycroft, keeping their hands together, walked him over to his office door. As they reach it, both facing each other, Mycroft leant down and placed a sweet kiss on his boyfriend's forehead, followed by a (much) longer one on his soft lips.

"You are helping, Greg. Despite whatever negativism you have running through that clever mind of yours, I assure you he's getting better bit by bit."

Greg nodded in agreement, slightly after that pleasant kiss. Mycroft rarely allowed any types of PDA, but in private he was quite a touchy-feely person. Hearing his encouraging words, Greg let out a deep sigh and mustered up a smile.

"Guess I'll continue doing what I can then."

Mycroft gave his hand one last squeeze before reaching to open up the door for the detective inspector.

"See you at home later?" Greg asked quietly, just before he stepped out. With Mycroft's crazy work schedule, it was hard to say what days he would be able to stay at home, instead of working through the night, or traveling somewhere.

"I hope to, Lestrade," he replied and with that watched as Greg gave his thanks to Anthea and headed out to catch a cab to the pub that he and John met at. How lucky he was to have such a tender and caring partner. He smiled fondly as he sat down at his desk, trying to refocus his mind into actually assessing the information written on the messages after such a welcomed distraction. His phone pinged, alerting him to a text message.

Definitely need to come home tonight. Have a surprise. ;)- GL

And with that, Mycroft was left to try even harder to focus on his task.

Greg shivered as he stepped outside the cab in front of his regular meeting place with John. He paid the cabbie, and stepped inside the warm atmosphere full of laughter and delightful pub smells. Greg made his way over to an empty section of the bar, more away from the crowd since he knew John was a bit uncomfortable with lots of people around, strangers or not.

"Can I getch' ya' sometin' to drink?" asked the bar tender with a Scottish accent.

"Beer, thanks" Greg ordered as he settled in to wait for John. Shouldn't be too long now; they normally meet at 8:30 and it was 8:20 now. The bartender, Clyde, came back with Greg's beer and basket of pretzels. The beer was nice and refreshing after the day in Scotland Yard, though his quick visit to Mycroft had been more than enough to make the day worth it. He didn't often surprise Mycroft unannounced, lest should he be in an important meeting Greg didn't want to disturb him.

Onto his second beer, and about to order food at this point, Greg began to wonder where John was. Surely walking didn't even take this long; it wasn't far away from Baker Street for John's convenience. He glanced at the clock, 8:55. Maybe he was just running a bit behind from the clinic today? Greg shot off a quick text to John, just to remind him.

9:25.

This late wasn't like John. And even if he had been, John had the courtesy to let Greg know if he wasn't coming by now. Greg pulled out his mobile and called to see if John would pick up. No answer. He left a message and sighed, motioning to Clyde he would like another beer. Clyde nodded his understanding. Greg fidgeted, a bit nervous now.

Give it a bit longer. He told himself. Maybe he just decided to take a nap after a long day and didn't realize the time. Regardless, and though it seemed like a bit of an overreaction, Greg was getting more and more worried.

By 10:00, Greg had waited long enough. He paid his bill to Clyde, pulled on the gray wool coat perfect for cold London weather. As he stepped outside, he thought about heading over to Baker Street right quick, at least to ask Mrs. Hudson how John was. Deciding he would, Greg took out his phone and sent a text to Mycroft explaining how John hadn't turned up and that he would swing by to check with Mrs. Hudson before heading home.

Be careful. If he decided to drink on his own you don't know what kind of John you'll have on your hands- MH

I will. Let you know if anything suspicious comes up- GL

Alright-MH

Watching his breath in the cold evening, Greg trekked along the damp streets towards Baker Street. Thankfully, it had stopped raining so Greg didn't have to waste money on a taxi. Again, it wasn't a very long walk, and within a few blocks he was standing in front of the doctor's flat. He rang the doorbell and when no one came to the door after almost a minute he decided maybe John was out elsewhere. But, just then the door opened and Mrs. Hudson was there.

"Good evening Mrs. Hudson, is John around?" She stepped back to motion the detective inside.

"Oh, what a surprise detective. I believe so. He came home earlier this afternoon, but I never heard him leave," she answered.

"I see," Lestrade said then, "well would you mind terribly if I went upstairs to check on him? Haven't heard from him in a while."

Mrs. Hudson gave a soft sigh.

"I'm not really certain how much better he's getting. If any at this point. I haven't seen him eat for weeks you know?" she began to ramble. Greg nodded and smiled awkwardly and tried to make his way upstairs. She continued talking to nobody as he made his way to the upper flats.

"John?" he called out, unsurprised when he was met with silence.

Maybe he really did just fall asleep, he thought to himself and made his way into the flat. He walked upstairs first, not seeing anyone in the kitchen or living room. The creaky stairs would have alerted anyone to his presence, let alone a trained soldier.

"You in here?" he called again, pushing John's bedroom door open. The space was vacant, and held a slight staleness to it, as though this space hadn't advanced through time like normal. As if living in the past…

Greg's face tightened at finding the flat so unchanged while so empty at the same time. Nothing had really been moved since Sherlock's death. Shutting the door to John's room, Lestrade made his way back downstairs and surveyed the kitchen more closely. There were a few empty whiskey bottles in the trash and the place was meticulous, but in a very unused way rather than a constant clearing of food particles.

Or crazy experiments on remains of all sorts of species. He opened the door, definitely prying now, and felt a bit saddened. There wasn't a piece of food in the fridge that hadn't expired by now. He made a mental note to have Mycroft send in his creepy stalkers to refill the fridge with something edible. Greg shut the door, and was about to leave, thinking that John most likely wasn't in the flat and Mrs. Hudson simply hadn't heard him leave.

Sherlock's door caught his eye though.

Suppose if I wanted to drink myself into oblivion death over Mycroft's death, I would do it in our bedroom.

He walked down the small hallway, passing the darkened bathroom and rapped gently on the door.

"John," he called again, "are you in there mate?" There wasn't a real response, but Greg could make out the faintest snore-like sound. He sighed, a bit relieved and opened the door. There was a lump in the sheets, difficult to see in the dark but Greg could easily assume it was John.

He reached out and shook John's arm lightly.

"Hey, John wake up," he called, loud enough to hopefully wake him. Greg needed to be sure John was really okay.

There was no response.

"Oi, John, get up!" he said a bit louder, and shook him more vigorously.

Still no response.

He reached over and flicked on the light switch, and that was when he saw it.

John was sickly pale, with faintly blue lips, barely breathing at all.

"Oh god! JOHN!" Greg shook him, ridiculously hard now trying to wake up the unconscious man and hope to heaven it wasn't what he feared.

Nothing.

The detective side came out and he immediately grabbed for his mobile and called an ambulance. On the phone with the operator, John looked white as death, which he would be if Lestrade hadn't come by.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Greg shouted, beginning to search the room for a bottle of pills.

"Mrs. Hudson get up here!" he yelled as the older woman came into view.

"Oh, goodness! John! Inspector is he…"

"No, not yet, but I need you stay here in case he starts to throw up or stops breathing."

The detective swept into the bathroom, knocking down bottles of anything that wasn't what he assumed John's drug of choice would be until he found a small blue bottle lying in the hamper, next to an empty bottle of whiskey.

Seconds after he found the bottle he could hear the ambulance pulling up outside, and his phone ringing at the same time. Greg began barking off facts to the paramedics, while reaching for his phone.

"Hello?!" He said, not looking at the caller ID.

"Greg, is everything alright?" Mycroft's voice came over the speaker, "I was just notified that an ambulance was sent to John's flat, what happened?" he said, his director voice coming through loud and clear. Lestrade focused on that to get the words out to Mycroft.

"It's John, Mycroft, he…he tried to kill himself."