Mycroft could do nothing but return home to his flat and wait. He instructed Mrs Hudson to inform him should Sherlock return there. Phone in hand and checking it constantly he instructed the driver to take a particular route past some of Sherlock's old haunts, to no avail. Obviously, thought Mycroft. He didn't call John or Lestrade, assuming they were the last people, himself aside, that his brother would seek out and because he couldn't do it, he couldn't put them through it not so soon after finding out he was alive again. So Mycroft waited pacing the living room of his flat phone in hand waiting.

Sherlock slipped away from the man no sooner had he slipped the familiar package into his hand. Inside the familiar building was unchanged, had he been of a state of mind to he might have analysed how or why in ten years this old warehouse had escaped either renovation or demolition, as it was he had little on his mind except the small package just slipped into his pocket. From his favourite window he had a view of the dark water of the Thames bellow, for a moment he stared into the blackness the quiet darkness bellow with the soft lights of the city beyond. He had missed the city but it felt empty again now, just as it had when he had come here regularly despite the excitement, the constant energy and life it always felt there something missing that he was somehow separate. That was why he had come here.

Slowly methodically he unpacked the materials from his pocket, a well-practiced routine he could conduct with his eyes closed; the most simple of experiments. Preparation complete he lifted the needle up to the light to check before slipping it into his arm. The tiniest sensation of pain, not nearly enough really, before the wash of warmth took over him. It had been long enough-not quite as long as his brother liked to think-that the effect was swift and Sherlock felt his mind almost immediately succumbed and his body quickly followed.

'Any news?' Mycroft asked the assistant who answered the phone

'None as yet sir.'

'Find him' Mycroft snapped and hung up the phone.

Sherlock leaned back against the window frame and looked out at the light and darkness as the drug took complete hold. Everything seemed to blur and merge into one, his mind quieted and for a time there was something akin to happiness, to contentment as his mind shut down. The feeling was quite alien to him, the drug replicating a feeling he'd all but forgotten.

Across London, John Watson savoured the warmth of scotch slipping down his throat and warming his body, soothing slightly the shake in his right hand as he looked anxiously towards the door. It had been one hell of a day that was for sure and still despite all this time, and despite the reason why today had been such an ordeal there was still only one person he wanted to talk to, and one he couldn't. He downed the last of the drink just as he spotted Greg Lestrade coming in he stood and nodded at the detective from across the room.

Lestrade saw John instantly, the pub was quiet and he was seated at the bar angled towards the door perfectly positioned for observing, some habits never die. He looked well, it had been a while since they'd seen each other, a month after his wife's funeral if Greg recalled a chance meeting near Scotland Yard and a tense coffee under the pretence of beginning to rebuild a friendship. Neither had done anything about it since, though Greg felt he should have done more across the three years.

John stood up and walked across to the Inspector and held out a hand, Greg took it.

'John. You look well.'

He nodded 'You too Greg. Drink?'

A few minutes retrieving drinks-pints this time for both, Guinness for John and a larger for Lestrade-followed by some small talk about the quiet pub and the football muted in the background. Eventually they seated themselves in a corner and sat in silence each staring into their drink.

'So you know then?' John asked, not needing to elaborate on what or whom.

Greg shifted uncomfortably, 'Yes. I err found out yesterday.'

'Right. Right ok.' John nodded to himself 'So that makes you and Mrs Hudson, not to mention his brother' John nearly spat the last work 'Who all knew he was alive. And I'm the last to know. Right.'

'John it wasn't like that.' Greg exhaled wondering where to start and knowing this was not going to be an easy exchange. He began with the neutral ground, or at least ground that was nothing to do with him. 'From what I saw he needed to build up to it- he wasn't ready. He went to Mrs Hudson first-wouldn't you choose the path of least resistance? She was never going to do anything but welcome him with open arms-and possibly the sharp end of her tea towel.'

John had to smile at the image, 'I suppose. And I assume Mycroft is influencing these events slightly? As usual.' John took a sip of his pint 'But that doesn't explain why, with all respect Greg, he went to you next?'

Greg swallowed hard and took a sip of his pint partly for Dutch courage, partly to delay a little further; this wasn't going to go well he knew. 'Mycroft.' He said simply 'You're right it's his doing-the whole thing-but I swear John, I had no idea and I only know what I managed to get out of him at the house last night.'

'The house? Last night?' John frowned.

Shit. Greg thought, that came out wrong, he'd meant to bridge the topic slowly lay the blame on Mycroft-where he still firmly placed it himself.

'Whose house?'

'Mycroft's.' Lestrade explained 'Well technically I suppose it belongs to both of them, that's where they stayed after Mycroft got back from Germany with him.'

John nodded slowly, that all fit with what Sherlock had told him, however something wasn't fitting or rather it might be beginning to, and John didn't like the knot it was forming in his stomach.

'So you went to his house? Isn't that place somewhere in the wilds of Kent?' John had a vague recollection of Sherlock mentioning 'Holmes Manor' to him at some point 'surely they could have come to Scotland Yard? Brought you to Baker Street? Also if they were talking to you last night why the hell couldn't someone talk to me?' John was growing angry again now

'I know, I know.' Greg raised a hand as a means of appeasement and John nodded and took a sip of his drink.

'Sorry.' He said 'It's just all a bit….'

'Yeah I know.' Greg exhaled slowly 'I'll explain best I can from my point of view, but I warn you John you're not going to like it, and I'm sorry.'

John nodded, 'I had a feeling I might not. Just as long as you're not a long lost Holmes or even' he laughed hollowly 'That you were sleeping with Sherlock all this time.'

Greg attempted a laugh but it caught somewhere in his throat, 'No.' he said 'Not Sherlock.' He bit his lip and prayed John wouldn't make him say it.

Realisation slowly dawned and John blinked swallowed hard and took a gulp of his pint trying to give his brain a chance to catch up. 'You- err -and you? What?' he managed.

Greg sighed, no such luck. 'Me and Mycroft Holmes.' He said with a shrug 'Yes.'

John didn't know how to respond, the idea of Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade was alien enough without adding that he'd spent the last three years hating the former and avoiding the latter for their involvement with Sherlock's' death'.

'How long?' he asked

'Two years.' Greg said evenly 'I swear John I would have told you, if we…well.' He didn't need to add 'were on speaking terms'

John closed his eyes and tried to measure his next response, he didn't want to make a scene.

'Did you know as well?' He asked softly unable to keep his hands from shaking in anger.

'No!' Greg answered quickly, 'God no John, I knew nothing until last night.'

John exhaled and looked Greg in the eye, he was telling the truth-and something else edged in there underneath something akin to what John was feeling. He frowned slightly at the other man, questioning.

'And I have never been so angry in my life.'

'Makes two of us.' John said

'Everything we had built ourselves around just gone-our entire relationship a lie.' He shook his head 'God I sound like some crap daytime TV show.'

'Connie Prince could have sorted you out.' John quipped and before he knew it they had both dissolved into giggles unbefitting of the situation- particularly given the unfortunate end of the talk show host herself. Eventually they composed themselves and John downed the rest of his pint and looked at Lestrade for a moment.

'Still you and Mycroft Holmes…how does that happen? He asked

Lestrade shrugs, 'How does anything happen?' He paused and leaned forward 'Look if you're asking how do I go from being dumped by my wife of ten years- for the second time- to being with a man, particularly one like Mycroft Holmes, then I think John Watson you of all people are asking the wrong question.'

John shifted uncomfortably, 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Yes you do.' Lestrade said downing the remains of his own pint. 'Another?'

John nodded, grateful for the distraction, he spent the next few minutes while Lestrade retrieved their drinks obstinately trying to think of anything else but his brain refusing to comply.

There was a comfortable pause while both sipped their drink then Lestrade continued;

'I've known Sherlock a long time, and I was grieving and Mycroft understood like nobody else' Lestrade held up a hand to silence John 'No really. What you and Sherlock had-have-is different. To me he was always like the annoying little brother I never wanted.' He smiled 'And what with my marriage breaking down and losing him as well, Mycroft and I sort of drifted together.'

'Just like that?' John asked with a frown

'We have a history Mycroft and I. I knew Sherlock for five years before you did, and those were not his best years, Mycroft and I were well, thrown together then.'

'Picking up the pieces after Sherlock?'

'Picking up the pieces of Sherlock more like it.' Lestrade explained.

'Oh.' John said softly 'You mean when he…' he didn't need to finish the sentence

'Yeah.' Lestrade said. 'So obviously then Sherlock started working with me and then you came along and Mycroft and I sort of faded into the background a bit.' Lestrade shrugged 'With him gone we found ourselves I don't know gravitating towards each other.'

'Alright.' John said mulling it over in his mind, 'But Mycroft Holmes?' he could see how, theoretically people might drift together in a situation like that, though why anyone would want to drift towards Mycroft Holmes of all people was at present a mystery to him, he was not anybody's first choice of companion surely? No sooner had that thought crossed his mind John felt a sinking feeling in his stomach and a pang of guilt. 'Sorry.' He said looking over at Lestrade.

The other man shook his head 'It's fine.' He said

'No. It's not.' John said 'How many times did I put up with insults and teasing for living with Sherlock for being his.' He paused struggling to get the words out 'His friend.' He shrugged 'I'd get so angry-that people couldn't-or wouldn't see-what I did. Even when what I was seeing was him being a dick.'

Lestrade snorted 'Runs in the family I'm afraid. As does arrogance, pomposity and an inability to admit they are wrong.'

'Which they never are.'

'Of course not.'

'Arseholes.' John smiled at Lestrade over his pint, Lestrade returned the smile but with another look in his eye this time, one John didn't want to admit to recognising in himself as well. 'Jesus, you really love him don't you.'

It wasn't a question but Lestrade answered anyway. 'God help me I do.' He said 'And so do you.' He added 'Not Mycroft-and believe me I appreciate the sentiment at present- but Sherlock.' He held a hand up 'Don't look at me like that. I don't know how you love him or what your relationship is-clearly neither of you two do either-but you love him, whichever way you dress it up. So what are you going to do?'

John was silent for a long time, staring into the murky depths of his Guinness hoping it might give him an answer, eventually he gave the only honest answer he could 'I don't know.' His voice wobbled a bit and he felt Greg's eyes on him, he continued talking into his pint 'I spent three years wishing-wishing how old am I?- that he wasn't, that he wasn't dead and…' he paused trying desperately to pull his thoughts into some kind of coherence 'And all that time defending him, insisting he wasn't a liar, and somehow he's made a liar out of all of us.'

'But a lie told for the right reasons?' suggested Lestrade. 'John he died for you.' Again he held his hand up silencing the other man 'Yes for Mrs Hudson and me after a fashion, but I don't kid myself, it was for you really. He's not a sociopath, whatever he likes to say, and he'd do all he can for the people he cares about-however few they may be-but he wouldn't do that for anybody.'

'But he didn't actually die.' John said

'Didn't he?' Lestrade asked 'You thought he was. I thought he was. And I'm going to hate to admit it to his face but for his brother it still felt like he had.'

Mycroft paced the flat again phone in hand checking over and over, still nothing. His thumb hovered over Greg's name but he forced himself not to dial, not yet at least. Instead he crossed to the small cupboard in the hall and pulled out a battered violin case. Crossing back to the living room he placed the case on the table as if it were the most precious object in the world, which to him at this moment and many across the last few years it had been. The one thing he'd taken with him the day Sherlock died too precious a thing to be kept in storage, and one that Mycroft needed close, much more than a picture it was so fully Sherlock. He played it regularly, telling himself he needed to keep the old instrument in use but really just to keep his idle hands busy. He began to tune it and then played a slow mournful piece to keep the silence at bay.

It wasn't enough. He could still hear himself, the experiment was a failure. Again the small scratch of pain and a wave of warmth, this time he allowed his eyes to close a little, focusing on the drug coursing through his veins and the respite it gave. In the darkness Sherlock heard sounds in the distance voices and footsteps approaching, he thought he should move but couldn't find the will, instead he continued to stare out into the lights of the city. The sounds got closer; two men each around six foot four he deduced from their footfalls, heavy set, no doubt dealers checking their rival's haunts.

'What's this then?' one voice broke through the haze, baritone, Cockney inflection drawing closer.

'What's that?' the other, lighter with Essex undertones came closer.

'Ay-posh boy.' The voice was directly above him now and he turned to look through glassy eyes.

The last thing Sherlock saw was a fist heading towards his face. The attack was swift and brutal, extracting exactly what they wanted-phone, wallet, drugs-with precision and maximum force. Sherlock didn't fight back, what was the point? He was in no shape to fend them off and even if he were he could see little point. So he let them pummel him and relieve him of everything he had until finally they left and he slumped down into a puddle and out of consciousness.

'So will you forgive him?' Lestrade asked as they left the pub.

'Will you?' John asked.

Lestrade thought for a moment 'Probably, eventually. Maybe I already have.' He paused again 'But that doesn't mean I'm not still angry at him, or that it won't take time to fix.' He snorted 'Jesus perhaps I should get my own talk show!' he thrust his hands into his pockets embarrassed slightly at this public introspection on his relationship. John didn't seem to notice, lost in his own thoughts again.

'Can I trust him?' he asked eventually

'Yes.' Lestrade said firmly 'If nothing else you can trust Sherlock Holmes-when it matters at least.' He reached out a hand and touched John's arm firmly 'That's Sherlock Holmes-can't trust him to pick up the groceries but you can trust him with your kids!' Lestrade winced the moment the words left his mouth and tightened his grip on John's arm 'God I'm sorry' he said 'I didn't mean.'

John shook his head 'It's fine. Really I know you didn't.' he looked down at the floor 'Things have changed though.' He shrugged.

'Things do.' Lestrade said gently, 'Who knows what would have happened if he'd stayed. Look if we're thinking that way I'd be second guessing everything I've done since-and I've done enough of that to last a lifetime.'

'Really?' John asked

'Really.' Lestrade said 'One does not simply get involved with a Holmes brother and not second guess your sanity if nothing else.'

John chuckled too, 'Quite.' He paused and shuffled his feet 'What if, well what if I did things that need to be put right too? Said things?'

'Then put them right.' Lestrade said clapping a hand to John's shoulder 'Look John I'll tell you what I told him yesterday-you're a good man. And for please don't' repeat this any time soon-so is he. '

John frowned a bit and nodded. 'Right, well I'd better…'

Lestrade smiled at him and pulled him quickly into a hug.

'You know where I am.' He said before turning to walk to his car.

John watched him go and glanced at his watch, quite late he'd better get the tube home, but he had time and a walk would clear his head. He turned and headed back towards Baker Street.

Sherlock came slowly back to consciousness, with no idea how much time had passed. He moved to glance at his watch-gone of course-and pain seared through his head. A quick inventory of his body indicated no major injuries-several cuts and bruises and a couple more cracked ribs or possibly just worsened the existing injury. All extremely painful but nothing life threatening, pity, he thought. He rummaged in his trouser pocket until his fingers found the small plastic packet, swallowing the sedatives lifted from Mycroft with a grimace he began to drift off and forget the pain.

Mycroft picked up his phone again, then placed it back on the table, picked it up again, and put it down. Finally he hit call.

Lestrade was almost at the car when his phone rang, cursing silently whatever emergency someone was no doubt dragging him in to work on a Friday night for he pulled out the phone. He frowned at the caller id but didn't hesitate in answering.

'Mycroft?'

'Gregory I need your help.' Mycroft's voice had an edge to it Lestrade had heard rarely but he knew exactly what was about to follow 'It's Sherlock.'

'What happened?' Lestrade fished the keys out of his pocket and got into the car.

'He's gone.'

'Gone? Gone where?'

'He, well I suppose 'ran away' would be the appropriate term, though it seems faintly ridiculous for a man of thirty six, but then as you know most things regarding my brother are faintly ridiculous..'

'Mycroft' Greg tried to interrupt the nervous ramble

'But you see that's what it amounts to he ran away. Which is ridiculous my own staff think I've gone mad shouting at them to find him but he's dropped off the radar-of course he has he's Sherlock.'

'Mycroft!' Greg raised his voice this time 'Breathe ok?' he did the same exhaling sharply, when Mycroft was nervous he talked, when he was upset he talked or he completely shut down, another infuriating trait he shared with his brother.

'I am sorry Gregory.' Mycroft seemed to come to his senses a little having let out some of what had been building for hours 'I am worried about him.'

Greg's chest tightened a little, he was too 'What can I do?' he asked 'Do you want me there? I can ask my men to look for him.'

'You need to look for him Gregory. I've got my people looking but he knows how to hide. You, well you know the places he used to go.'

There was silence for a moment as Greg absorbed what Mycroft was saying 'You mean?'

'Yes.'

'Right ok.' Lestrade started the engine. 'And what if he's well, you know?'

'Bring him here unless it's absolutely necessary. I can take care of him.'

'Right. Ok then.' Lestrade pulled off 'I'll be in touch.'

'Thank you Gregory.'

Mycroft hung up and looked out of the window dreading the next time the phone rang but willing it to all the same.

It didn't take Lestrade long to find Sherlock, there were three or four particular favourite haunts of his he'd used when he didn't want Mycroft to find him, for some reason he'd never bothered to really hide form Lestrade, possibly he'd reasoned because Sherlock Holmes was far too fond of himself to ever enter a serious suicide bid, but wasn't quite clever enough to realise when the next fix was an overdose. When he saw him this time however Lestrade feared for the first time in many years he was too late.

Sherlock was slumped under a window ledge lifeless and bleeding-a large gash on his forehead was mixing with filthy water from the puddle he'd landed in which Lestrade hoped was making the volume of blood look far worse than it actually was. Lestrade reached him and immediately put two fingers to the younger man's neck, breathing a sigh of release to find a strong if slightly elevated pulse.

'Sherlock' he said gently shaking him 'Sherlock come on.'

A gargled sound escaped Sherlock's throat as Lestrade shook him.

'That's it come on Sherlock.' He said repeating his name in the hope of recognition.

Another set of garbled sounds followed by a weak 'John?'

Lestrade felt a pull at his chest, relief followed by another ache. He swore as long as Sherlock was ok he might punch him for being so stupid later.

'No its Greg.' He said easing Sherlock up off the ground.

'Mycroft?' Sherlock muttered his eyelids fluttering.

'No Sherlock Greg.' Lestrade finally got him upright and had a good look at him, cuts to his face bleeding quite badly, shirt was torn, probably a mugging. 'Sherlock can you open your eyes?' he asked holding him against the window ledge.

Sherlock blinked open his eyes as if it were the most difficult thing in the world. Pupils wide and blown, unable to keep them open, head lolling from side to side, up there with the worst Greg had seen him then. For a brief moment he focused on Greg's face and muttered

'Lestrade' before his eyes fluttered shut again and his head lolled to the side. He should take him to the hospital he knew, but Mycroft had insisted, and it wouldn't be the first time Mycroft had taken care of him in this sort of state. Greg sighed looking at the mess of a man before him.

'Alright then Sherlock, off we go.'

He hauled the other man up into his arms, limp as a ragdoll now, and made slow painful progress out of the warehouse.

Lestrade thanked whatever force had kept the rest of the place free of the kinds of men who had done such damage to Sherlock as he secured the still unconscious man in the back of the car. Slipping into the front seat he hit Mycroft's number as he pulled away, anxious not to spend too much time here without backup.

Mycroft answered Lestrade's call before it had rung out once.

'Gregory.' He said urgently

'I've got him. I'm on my way.' Greg said tightly 'ETA fifteen minutes.'

'How bad is it?' Mycroft asked

Greg winced glancing in the rear-view mirror 'I'd say an eight. Sorry Mycroft, he'd been attacked.'

A sharp inhalation travelled down the line.

'Hurry.' Was all Mycroft said before hanging up.

John waited outside Baker Street for a long time staring up at the windows, which were all dark. Luckily for him Mrs Hudson was long ago in bed otherwise she'd have whisked him in for a cup of tea and he'd never have escaped, or possibly had him arrested for stalking. Realising Sherlock wasn't there John began to walk to the tube. About halfway there he pulled out his phone, scanning through the last couple of messages he came to Sherlock's from earlier in the day. He stopped and hit dial listening to it ring.

It rang and rang and eventually and automated answerphone picked up, clearly Sherlock hadn't had time to record a message.

'Er, Hi yeah it's me. John' he said awkwardly 'Look um, if you get this give me a call. I err well I'm sorry about just walking out earlier, let's meet up. Tomorrow, yes? Baker Street. Right. Ok.'

John hung up and silently cursed his rambling tapping out a text.

'Baker Street. Tomorrow 6pm. JW.'

He pocketed the phone and tried to stop himself checking it the rest of the way home.

Lestrade made it in ten minutes, he was probably going to owe a few favours to the Traffic division but it was worth it. Mycroft was waiting on the pavement; he had the door open almost before Lestrade stopped. Lestrade jumped out himself and rounded the car to help Mycroft pull his brother out. Lestrade moved to lift him but Mycroft stopped him silently with a hand, Lestrade nodded and instead helped hoist Sherlock into his brother's arms.

'What has he taken?' Mycroft asked urgently as Lestrade opened the door.

'I'm guessing cocaine-injected-from where he was and the dealers who operate around there.' Lestrade impatiently pressed the lift button as Mycroft shifted Sherlock in his arms, beginning to feel the weight of him, 'He was mugged and they took whatever he had on him. Except these' Lestrade pulled out the packet of Mycroft's pills he'd found in Sherlock's pocket 'No idea what they could be-are you sure we shouldn't take him to hospital?'

'I know what they are.' Mycroft said as the lift finally arrived 'I gave them to him-at least I gave him two yesterday, of course he stole the rest' they stumbled their way inside and Mycroft leant his weight against the wall. 'They're sedatives' he explained 'I checked the composition to ensure no severe damage would be done should he mix them with other substances.'

'You knew he'd take them?'

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and then looked down at Sherlock's lolling head 'I know my brother.' He said sadly. 'Though of course I had hoped…' he didn't get chance to finish as the doors opened then directly into Mycroft's penthouse flat , stumbling through the door Lestrade held open Mycroft carried Sherlock to the bathroom and put him down as gently as he could manage.

'Sherlock.' He said gently touching his dirty damp face 'Sherlock I need you to open your eyes.'

Sherlock moaned slightly, good that was good, Mycroft told himself, he gave him a gentle shake. 'Sherlock.' He repeated.

'Myc..' Sherlock muttered this time. Fairly sure that was an attempt at his name Mycroft kept talking in the hope his voice could focus Sherlock's addled brain long enough to find out what he'd taken and what he'd injured.

'Yes it's me. You're at home-well no you're at my home- making a terrible inconvenience of yourself as usual.' Sherlock mumbled something incoherent again 'So if you'd be willing to wake up for just a bit I can find out what's wrong with you and put you to bed. How does that sound Sherlock? Do you want to sleep?'

'Mmm.' Sherlock mumbled 'Sleep, Mycroft.' And began to close his eyes again.

'No!' Mycroft commanded pulling up by his lapels. 'No. Awake Sherlock! I need to make sure you're ok before I let you sleep. Sherlock!'

It was useless Sherlock slumped down again unconscious.

'I checked him over at the scene.' Lestrade said from the doorway 'But I reckon whoever mugged him didn't have much resistance so they just roughed him up a bit. He's got that cut and probably a few bruises.'

Mycroft spun around startled; he'd forgotten Lestrade was even there. He nodded, 'Thank you.' He said 'Don't let us trouble you any further, you can go.'

'I can help?' Lestrade offered, trying not to take offence at the brusque dismissal. Mycroft looked hesitantly at his brother and Lestrade knew he was weighing up the embarrassment of needing help, of exposing them both at a weak moment, with the need to actually help Sherlock. 'Come on.' Lestrade added 'It's not like I haven't done this before.'

Mycroft nodded, 'Thank you.' He managed 'Could you try and find something for him to put on? I'll get him out of these clothes.'

Lestrade nodded and disappeared into the flat. Mycroft looked at his brother dishevelled bloody and dirty slumped against the bath; he looked so small, so broken and so helpless. Mycroft bit his lip fighting the emotion, it would be no use to give in, and yet he'd thought they'd seen the last of this. He set to work, easing Sherlock out of the sodden coat and suit jacked throwing them in a corner, next he worked off the shoes and socks. Leaving Sherlock in his trousers and shirt for a moment he stood and ran some warm water into the basin. When it was full he dipped a flannel in and slowly began to clean the blood off Sherlock's face, working around the cut until everything else was clean and only Sherlock's sheet white skin remained. Trying not to focus on that at the moment Mycroft rinsed the cloth and examined the cut. It wasn't that deep, just happened to have hit on the thin layer of skin at the hairline at an angle that produced a lot of blood.

'This is going to hurt a bit.' He muttered although he was sure Sherlock couldn't hear him. He gently dabbed at the cut cleaning gently and methodically, he was almost done when he must have hit a sore spot. Sherlock jerked out of unconsciousness and let out a yelp of pain, Mycroft attempted to steady him with a hand as Sherlock flew upwards in surprise.

'Alright, alright.' Mycroft attempted to sooth him as soon as Sherlock was upright however he doubled over clutching his stomach. 'Sherlock?' Mycroft asked placing a hand gently on his brother's back.

Sherlock doubled over the pain in his stomach contracting felt like it was tearing him in two. His stomach contracted and he cursed the fact that he'd been eating properly for three days. He moaned once more as a warning before his lost control and vomited over himself and Mycroft. He felt himself hauled upwards and in the general direction of the toilet as his stomach convulsed against him again, while a firm hand was on his back as he gripped his stomach with one hand and the toilet with another. Sherlock heaved until nothing was left and his stomach continued to cramp determined to rid itself of everything. He coughed and dry heaved a little before collapsing back down closing his eyes again. He felt a cool sensation on his forehead and flickered open his eyes, Mycroft was wiping his face with the cool damp flannel, gently and carefully again but with a dark look of concern in his eyes. Sherlock tried to smile and reassure him the worst was over but it came out tired and pained. He let his eyes fall shut again.

Mycroft was working methodically, working with a damp flannel cleaning the sick off his brother's face, where moments before he must have also cleaned the blood. Greg stood in the doorway watching quietly, the man in his three piece suit now covered in almost as much grime as the frail younger man before him. As his wiped the last of his brother's face clean Mycroft lifted a hand to his cheek.

'You'll be alright now.' He said softly

Sherlock who was almost back to full consciousness now opened his eyes and fixed his brother with a look of such sadness it almost broke Lestrade's heart. He couldn't imagine what it would do to Mycroft.

'Liar.' Sherlock said quietly.

Mycroft's face twitched trying to formulate a response that wasn't a lie but Sherlock's eyes fell shut again so instead he busied himself propping him against the wall again, he heard movement from behind him and jumped a little and instinctively tightened his grip on Sherlock.

'Sorry.' Lestrade said feeling suddenly extremely self-conscious, the look on Mycroft's face he could only describe as feral a protective instinct kicked into overdrive. Lestrade held out the clothes he'd retrieved 'Just wanted to, well.' He put the pile on the floor not wanting to intrude further than necessary. Mycroft reached over one hand still supporting Sherlock, he frowned looking at the clothes and looked back up at Lestrade.

'Mine, yeah. The ones I leave here. Left. ' He said cursing his choice of words, he shook his head 'Figured t shirt and joggers would be better than silk pyjamas.' He quirked a little smile at Mycroft who responded in kind with a softening of his expression. 'Look.' Lestrade continued finally stepping over the threshold and picking his way across the mess to crouch down about a foot from the two of them 'Let me help-be quicker and easier with two of us.'

Mycroft nodded and the two of them set to work undressing and re-dressing Sherlock in the clean dry clothes. He stirred a few times attempting to help them and therefore making the task far more difficult. Pulling the t shirt over Sherlock's head Greg's palm grazed his face and he quickly pressed it back to check what he'd just felt.

'He's burning up.' He said putting the back of his hand to Sherlock's slightly damp forehead before pulling the t shirt down.

Mycroft nodded grimly leaning over and brushing against Greg's shoulder to place his own hand on Sherlock's forehead. 'He should be fine. But it will be...' He tightened his lips 'Unpleasant, for a few hours.'

'Let's get him to bed.' He suggested. Mycroft nodded and hauled Sherlock into a sitting position, he struggled for a few moments to get a grip and pull Sherlock into his arms but a combination of their angles and his fatigue meant he couldn't get his brother off the ground. He hung his head and sighed in frustration. Lestrade crossed the room and took a hold of Sherlock by his underarms and pulled him upwards, Mycroft stood and grabbed his brother's feet and together albeit with limited dignity they carried the still unconscious Sherlock to the bedroom. Once there Lestrade left Mycroft to fuss with sheets for a few moment, ensuring they weren't too tight or covering too much of Sherlock's burning skin, he checked and re-checked Sherlock was securely on his side. Lestrade returned unheard again and gently took his arm and jerked his head towards the door. Mycroft reluctantly followed, pulling the door behind him but not quite closing it.

'What?' he asked a little irritably.

'He's fine. You need some rest.'

'Thank you Gregory. I appreciate the concern but…'

'But nothing.' Greg insisted 'You're exhausted and frankly filthy. He's sleeping. Clean up and get some rest.'

'Gregory I assure you that I am fine.'

Lestrade took a step closer to Mycroft longing to wrap his arms around him and hug some sense into him or something, knowing he wasn't ready for that and knowing that Mycroft wouldn't respond favourably to that approach right now, he simply spoke plainly and evenly 'Please.' He said 'Let me take care of you for a moment. Or you'll be no use to him anyway.'

Mycroft nodded meekly too tired to fight any more, longing for just that, to allow himself to give in and wrap himself around Greg once again. But he couldn't, he'd sacrificed that privilege when he started protecting his brother. He cursed internally but allowed himself to be led to the bathroom.

He perched himself on the edge of the bath, noting that in his absence Greg had cleaned up the room, all evidence of the earlier events were eliminated. Greg stepped closer to Mycroft and began to unbutton the many layers of clothing that were earlier damp now dried into a sticky mess. Helping him down to his underwear Greg turned on the shower and excused himself allowing Mycroft a moment of privacy. He slipped into the bedroom to check on Sherlock.

He was lying on his side facing the door, eyes shut and it seemed finally peacefully asleep. Greg wandered over and adjusted the blankets, pulling them down a little more to keep him cool. He reached up and gently patted his hair.

'Idiot boy.' He muttered, Sherlock stirred under him and Lestrade withdrew his hand. Sherlock muttered something 'What's that?' he asked thinking he was simply talking in his sleep.

'Mycroft.' Sherlock muttered 'Mycroft ok?' he flickered open his eyes and managed to focus on Greg.

'Yeah, he's fine.' Greg said crouching to bed height 'He needs to sleep. And so do you.'

Sherlock muttered something again and then more clearly 'Look after him.' He said closing his eyes.

Greg patted his hair again 'I intend to.' He said softly before straightening up.

'Thank you Greg.' Muttered Sherlock before Lestrade saw his body go limp and give in to sleep again.

Mycroft appeared in the doorway clad in his customary silk pyjamas.

'For once we are in agreement-thank you Gregory.' He said with a tight smile.

Lestrade nodded and made his way towards the door, Mycroft moved to one side to allow him to pass, as he did so he raised a hand to touch Greg's arm but caught himself and dropped it. Greg stopped just past Mycroft torn between instinct and intellect-the latter preventing the former by reminding him just how angry he still was, and how worried his rational side was about getting hurt. He looked up at Mycroft aware of the sleeping Sherlock just behind him, Greg gave in and crossed the distance between them and kissed Mycroft gently.

'It's not fixed.' He said 'I need you to know it's not fixed. I can't… and I can't, not yet…' Greg didn't know how to finish the sentence.

Mycroft nodded, and they stayed for a moment barely in contact-Mycroft's hands firmly by his sides Greg's barely touching his shoulders keeping him at arm's length. Eventually Greg nodded turned and made his way out. The door clicked shut behind him and moments later Mycroft heard the front door click and lock, Lestrade using the key still in his pocket. Mycroft moved to the bed, giving his brother a quick once over he sank down on the other side. He shouldn't sleep he knew, he should stay awake and keep an eye on Sherlock's condition, but his whole body suddenly felt so heavy, he sank quickly into a deep sleep.

As he feared it didn't last long, Sherlock began to overheat and thrash violently in his sleep. Mycroft woke him several times and forced some water upon him, and pulled the damp sheets back. Abandoning sleep himself he perched in the armchair next to the bed and dozed as Sherlock did, always somehow awakening just before him to shake him awake or try and sooth him back to sleep. They managed a pattern of two hours sleep at a time until six thirty, when a blood curdling scream ripped through the flat.

Sherlock had been fighting nightmares all night; everything from giant spiders stalking him, to falling into deep holes, he'd relived the worst beatings of his childhood and some from adulthood as well, he'd drowned and suffocated all within a matter of hours. None had made him scream like this. It was so simple a dream really Sherlock knew the outcome the minute it started. He was at Bart's, it was the day, the last day. Except this time he was on the ground and he was watching the others fall; one by one-first Mrs Hudson, then Lestrade, then Mycroft and finally John. He heard their desperate pleas for life, to be spared, for justice and for him, they all cried to Sherlock for help but he was frozen seeing them fall in a broken blood heap at his feet. Then he was on the roof looking down, and he wanted to jump, he wanted to jump more than anything he'd ever wanted but Moriarty wouldn't let him, merely beat him within an inch of his life and taunted him 'You have to live.' Before leaving him alone and stranded on the roof. Sherlock screamed in anguish and in pain, and woke up.

Within seconds there were arms around him, holding him trying to pin him down as he thrashed against the Moriarty he could still see, a few blows hit home catching Mycroft but there was no force behind them, no injury sustained.

'He's not there Sherlock, he's not there.'

Sherlock had no idea if he'd screamed Moriarty's name or if his brother just knew what would make him react so. He leaned into the touch unselfconscious in his dream and drug addled state, he felt Mycroft's arms tighten around him as he tried to catch his breath. He felt Mycroft push him back slightly and saw him peering down in concern.

'I saw… he was…they were all dead. You were dead, John. I wasn't. It hurt.' The words made no sense he knew, which told him his brain was beginning to function properly again but was still quite a way from it. Sherlock shook his head, eyes closed trying to focus. 'It hurt.' He managed, no that wasn't right 'It hurts.' He said opening his eyes and looking up at Mycroft 'It won't stop hurting.'

That was the limit for Mycroft, three years of waiting worrying, of fear, the relief at bringing him back alive and the torment of trying and failing to bring him back to the life he knew, of wanting to fix whatever was broken in his younger brother and himself and failing so miserably. Even Mycroft Holmes had his limits and the desperation in his little brother's eyes then was it, tears spilled out of his own eyes and he began to sob silently.

Sherlock's brow collapsed into a frown and he instinctively reached out to his brother, Mycroft turned away from Sherlock attempting to hide his face, the one thing he'd sworn though all this is Sherlock would never know just how much if affected him, it wouldn't help. He tried to settle his breathing and stem the flow of tears but to no avail. He felt a hand on his shoulder but he couldn't turn around, Sherlock shifted slightly on the bed behind him and rested his chin on Mycroft's shoulder. A gesture he'd often made as a child when Mycroft was ignoring him, the reference to their childhood only made it worse Mycroft's stomach tightened and he let out a sob he couldn't silence. He felt Sherlock wind long arms around his middle and hold on as Mycroft had for him a few nights before, holding on until the deep grief inside him was exhausted and he slumped down letting sleep take over him again as early morning light began to seep through the curtains.

John had spent the morning, much like the evening before doing nothing much except checking his phone every five minutes. His flat admittedly was spotless, his paperwork filed and shredded, computer files organised, all mindless tasks because his brain could think of little else but the reply he was waiting for. He'd been worried-scared he'd said something stupid to offend Sherlock then briefly worried that something had happed-a thought he dismissed quickly with Mycroft's omnipotent presence lording over his brother, to now being angry he was being ignored. This time he picked up his phone and dialled Lestrade's number.

'John?' Lestrade sounded groggy, distracted 'Everything ok?'

'Not especially.' John said 'Look at the risk of sounding like a teenager, I'm being ignored and I don't like it.'

It took Lestrade a moment to register what John was talking about, the moment he did he cursed himself for being such and idiot. He sat upright on the sofa where he'd fallen asleep in the early hours.

'Shit. John no, I'm sorry this is my fault.' He rubbed a hand through his hair in frustration, of course John would have tried to contact Sherlock, who wouldn't have answered even if he hadn't lost his phone, and of course now John thought Sherlock was ignoring him, because well it was Sherlock.

'He isn't ignoring you, he ah, shit John. I should have called.'

'What is it?' John asked immediately sensing there was something to be concerned about.

'Last night, I guess after you saw him Sherlock well, he fell into some old habits. He was mugged-so I guess he lost his phone.'

'Is he…?'

'He's fine' Lestrade answered quickly then cursed himself for the lie again 'Well no, he was in a pretty bad way-they didn't really hurt him but he'd taken quite a lot and well…'

'Shit. Fuck.' John cursed himself for not checking sooner 'I should have thought- I should have, Jesus this is my fault isn't it?'

Lestrade faltered for a moment 'John he…'

'It's fine.' John said 'I know.'

John perched himself on the edge of the sofa and ran a hand across his face. He should have realised it was a danger, Sherlock after everything he'd been through and then their meeting.

'Don't blame yourself John, Sherlock right now, I've never seen him quite like this. He's been through it I guess.' Lestrade shrugged.

'I could have helped though couldn't I?' John said 'What can I do now?'

'Talk to him? Like you were planning to?' Lestrade honestly didn't know if it would help he hoped that last night was the beginning and end of it but who knew. 'I'll text Mycroft, check how things are and let you know.'

'Tell him Baker Street, at six. I'll be waiting.' John said 'Thanks Greg.'

He hung up and hung his head, cursing himself once more he thrust the phone into his pocket and grabbed his jacket. He'd take a walk before going to Baker Street, work out exactly what to say or do. He flinched as he began to walk, the pain in his leg flaring like a warning.

Once he was sure his brother was asleep Sherlock had extracted himself from the bed, he was exhausted but knew sleep wouldn't come. He needed to think so he slipped away quietly hoping his brother would now get the rest he needed. When Mycroft awoke his mind felt cleared wiped, not fixed far from it but something had lifted. He opened his eyes and a moment of panic seized him' Sherlock was gone, in an instant possibilities and solutions raced across his mind, and then he heard the faint strains of a violin coming from the living room. Getting up he padded into the living room.

Sherlock was standing looking out of the large patio doors that opened up onto the balcony and the city beyond. It was a nice day and the sunlight was bouncing off the tall buildings of the city to the right and the smaller older buildings to the left were bathed in a glow. Sherlock wasn't playing anything he recognised, therefore one of his compositions, a new one it seemed. Mycroft doubted he'd had time to compose while he was away so had clearly thrown this together this morning. A part of him cursed the musical gift Sherlock had that he himself lacked-he could play and play well but he lacked the same soul of music Sherlock possessed, that was when he deigned to play properly, as he was now. Listening Mycroft could hear frustration, sadness and a string of questions in the music. Sherlock stopped playing and turned around to face his brother, his face streaked with tears.

Mycroft looked at him with sadness and recognition.

'Keep playing.' He said

Sherlock nodded, and began again a renewed energy and anger working its way into the notes, a determination of sorts. Mycroft's phone beeped and he retrieved it from the table where he'd abandoned it last night. Ignoring the barrage of emails that had accumulated in his absence he went straight to the text message-the only person who ever texted apart from his brother was Gregory.

'Baker Street 6pm I'll bring a Watson if you bring a Holmes?'

Mycroft had to quirk a smile at that, he didn't have to think, the response was as his brother would say obvious.

Yes. And thank you.

Moments later the phone beeped again

No problem. Talk to you later?

A strange lightness appeared in Mycroft's chest.

Yes Gregory.

Across London Greg smiled to himself and pocketed the phone.

Sherlock's playing had reached a fever pitch now, his face reflecting the harsh anguished notes his picked out with fresh tears joining those already marking his cheeks. Mycroft crossed the room and placed a hand on Sherlock's back halting his playing.

'Enough now, enough. Time to get on Sherlock.'

Sherlock nodded dropping his hands to his sides, not turning around. Knowing his brother was speaking for both of them he wiped a hand across his face and attempted a smile.

'Can one of your minions bring me some clothes? If it's a choice between greeting John in these' he gestured in mild disgust to Greg's slightly scruffy and very oversized clothes 'Or nothing. I'm likely to take nothing.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'Unfortunately I know you would.'

Sherlock smirked a genuinely mischievous grin this time and Mycroft turned to his phone instructing one of his assistants that clothes shopping for Sherlock Holmes was now on their to do list for the day. He paused then tapped out another memo-his assistants could spare one more day sorting out his brother's affairs.

John felt like he had walked the entirety of London trying to decide what he would do or say to Sherlock but by the time he found himself walking up Baker Street again he was still none the wiser. He saw Greg approaching from the opposite direction and breathed a sigh of relief, at least he wouldn't be going in alone somebody there to ease the tension-or at least create equal tension with the other Holmes was a blessed relief John thought.

'Greg.' He smiled in greeting which quickly melted into a frown 'Have you heard anything?'

Lestrade shrugged 'Mycroft agreed to meet without hesitation. I assume that means he's alright.'

John nodded, 'Shall we then?'

Greg nodded looking as uncomfortable as John felt.

Mrs Hudson opened the door barely before he had chance to knock-he should have spotted her twitching at her net curtains.

'John! Inspector!' she exclaimed

John Smiled 'Mrs Hudson.' And was enveloped into her hug, Lestrade likewise.

'You can call me Greg.' Lestrade said with a smile

'Of course dear.' She said both of them knowing full well she wouldn't. 'So happy to have you both here.' She cooed ushering them towards the stairs, 'Finally to have things getting back how they should be.'

John followed directly behind her up the stairs so it took a moment after she moved inside to fully register the scene in front of him. He blinked several times.

'I'm sorry have I managed to walk back in time?' he asked

'Don't be absurd John.' Sherlock said from his seat in front of the empty fireplace opposite Mycroft both of them upright and stiff facing off, just as John had walked in on many times.

The room too looked eerily familiar, all of Sherlock's possessions had reappeared, the furniture rearranged back to its former layout. But as John looked closer taking in the scene things were different, subtleties only he and of course Sherlock might notice. There was no real mess, sure the furniture and belongings were in their usual ordered chaos but there were no bits of paper, fragments of evidence and mercifully perhaps no latent body parts. What else was missing that seemed to leave half the room empty despite the clutter, was anything of John's. He'd always assumed amidst the clutter of Sherlock's belongings that his things occupied a minuscule portion of the flat. Now with the other items restored the place looked almost as barren as it had under the previous tenants.

There was one another difference, now that he looked closer; although Sherlock and Mycroft were sitting opposite one another in their customary pose there was something different. Gone was the tension between them, the atmosphere you could sometimes cut with a knife. They looked, not relaxed as given the circumstances tension ran clearly through them like a current, but as if they belonged. John half smiled realising what it was-for the first time they looked like they belonged to each other and suddenly everything he'd been trying so hard to think about fell into place. John didn't respond to Sherlock's question instead he strode across the room to Mycroft's chair. The elder Holmes looked frankly alarmed at the sight of John striding towards him, probably fearing another blow he managed however not to flinch. John held out his hand.

'Mycroft.' He said 'I owe you an apology. I'm sorry for yesterday, I shouldn't have hit you.'

Mycroft didn't bother to conceal the surprise on his face but he stood slowly and took John's hand shaking it firmly.

'Accepted.' He said with a nod.

John nodded in return, 'I also need to thank you.' He said with a nod towards Sherlock who was sitting watching them with a confused expression on his face. 'For keeping him safe.'

Mycroft this time didn't know how to respond, he swallowed hard and simply nodded. 'Pleasure.' He said awkwardly before releasing John's hand and adjusting his suit.

Lestrade cleared his throat behind them and Mycroft jerked his head up, 'Yes quite.' He said 'Mrs Hudson the Inspector and I would love a cup of tea if you'd oblige.'

'Oooh yes. Yes of course dears.' She smiled and looked fondly at John 'Give you two some peace a moment.' Lestrade gently ushered her out of the door. 'I'll bring you something up later Sherlock, you look worse than yesterday. Needs feeding up like you.' She said to Mycroft and John caught Lestrade's affectionate grin back at the elder Holmes before he shut the door. They'd be ok he decided, he hoped he could say the same for the younger Holmes and him.

Sherlock fixed him in one of his penetrating stares the minute the door was closed, the kind that gave nothing away but seemed to rip right through its recipient. John looked at him properly for the first time that day, despite the clean suit that was clearly new and fit him better than yesterdays and the fresh haircut that brought him some way to his former immaculate turnout, he was far from fixed. His skin was ashen and his eyes darkened with fatigue, now that John looked closer his upright posture was not merely pomposity or self-defence- it was pain likely from cracked ribs. Topping all this off an angry gash dissected his forehead.

'What have you done to yourself?' John couldn't help ask crossing the room and reaching out to the cut instinctively.

Sherlock flinched away, partly in pain, partly in surprise.

'Sorry.' John said taking a step back, 'Sorry that must have hurt.'

'It's fine.' Sherlock said looking down.

John swallowed hard, 'I owe you an apology too.'

Sherlock waved a hand 'You were upset yesterday. You were shocked. It's fine.'

'No not for yesterday.' John said firmly 'I maintain you deserved a punch to the face and I challenge anyone to prove otherwise.' He smiled a little to try and lighten the mood. Sherlock gave him nothing, looking down at his lap. John took a breath preparing himself; 'I owe you an apology for the last thing I ever said to your face.'

Sherlock looked up in confusion, this wasn't what he'd expected 'John look I…'

'No be quiet. For once in your life shut up and listen to me.' John instructed wandering away to the window trying to order his thoughts again 'The last thing I told you, the last thing I told my best friend before he threw himself off a building-it doesn't matter if you really did or not-I called you a machine. And I'm sorry Sherlock, you aren't a machine.'

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment and John began to worry he'd made things worse. 'The most human, human you ever knew?' he asked quietly.

'What?' John said his voice almost a whisper 'How did you…?'

Sherlock stood and faced him 'In the interests of full honesty-as I believe this is important should we…move forward... I heard you say so. '

'You heard…wait- you were there?'

Sherlock nodded. 'I was on the way to the airport, as I explained I spent several weeks hiding here at first.' He looked down again 'Before I was due to depart I begged my brother-believe me that is an accurate adjective-to see you once more. It just so happened that was where you were going.'

John shook his head in disbelief. 'You were there, close enough to hear…' he looked up at Sherlock and locked eyes with him.

'I understand you're probably upset.'

John's face quirked into a slight smile 'No.' he said.

'No?' Sherlock frowned tilting his head, his expression of genuine confusion so rarely seen John fought hard not to break into a grin.

'No.' John said simply 'Then you already know everything . You heard.'

Sherlock still looked confused 'I simply heard your conversation with an imaginary version of myself; you were talking out of a severe grief. What am I supposed to know?'

John took a step towards him and folded his arms 'Deduce it you idiot.'

Sherlock had a pained expression on his face, the one he usually wore when social conventions or popular culture references confused him. 'What? Your grief filled ramblings don't tell me much other than you outpour sentiment when you're upset.'

'Sherlock.' John warned

'What? I don't know!' he exclaimed.

John smiled and shook his head, 'My ramblings, as you so eloquently put it tell you I was lost without you Sherlock, that I didn't realise how much I needed you until I didn't have you anymore.'

Sherlock's face now didn't seem to know what to do and John had run out of words, so he did the only thing he could think to do, the only thing he'd wanted to do since he'd first laid eyes on Sherlock yesterday-no he corrected himself, since Sherlock had fallen in front of him. In two quick strides he crossed the room and pulled Sherlock into a hug.

Downstairs Lestrade and Mycroft found themselves sitting uncomfortably close together at Mrs Hudson's small kitchen table while she chattered about how lovely it would be to have some life back in the place now that Sherlock was back, and did they think that Doctor Watson was really going to move back in after everything with his wife? and then moved on to fill them in on the saga of the new owners at Speedy's next door and Mrs Turner's take on the matter. Greg nodded along politely one ear trained to upstairs for sounds of shouting or gunfire when suddenly she fixed them both in her sights.

'And what about you two?' she asked sternly 'When are you two going to get sorted?'

Mycroft nearly choked on his tea and then promptly spilled Greg's putting his own down. Mrs Hudson tutted and fussed for a cloth, Greg found himself laughing much to Mycroft's disgust.

'Oh come on.' He said 'Mr Perfection spills his tea! He is human.'

Mycroft huffed slightly accepting Mrs Hudson's fussing around him to clean up with good grace.

'I am you know.' He said sounding slightly put out.

Greg smiled a softer smile now and put a hand over Mycroft's 'I know.' He said and Mycroft smiled back tentatively.

'It's gone quiet up there.' Mrs Hudson noted 'Do hope they're sorting things out.'

'Perhaps time to check?' Lestrade asked getting up and moving towards the door.

Mycroft nodded, 'Then perhaps we can leave them to it?'

Lestrade turned back and locked his eyes to Mycroft's 'Good idea.' He said.

Sherlock was momentarily taken aback finding John's arms wrapped around him, his body responded before his brain and he instinctively wrapped his arms around John and dipped his head to meet John's finding his face buried in sandy-grey hair. He felt John adjust his grip and hang on a little tighter as Sherlock returned the hug and he sighed contentedly, John was warm and strong and smelled comforting and familiar, suddenly he felt like he really was home. He squeezed tightly not wanting to let go anytime soon, perhaps never. John felt the embrace tighten and burrowed a little deeper into Sherlock's chest just to reassure himself it was real. Sherlock had been tentative at first but now was returning John's hug with an urgent ferocity, John moved a hand up and down the other man's back reassuringly. Sherlock muttered something into his hair.

'What?' John muttered into his chest. Sherlock made a noise again, John couldn't be certain but he thought it sounded like 'I missed you.' He smiled and gave Sherlock a gentle squeeze in reply, careful not to aggravate his injuries. He'd have to look at those later he reasoned, and then it occurred to him, his medical bag was back at his flat. John pulled back and looked at Sherlock who looked down at him with something akin to outrage that he'd broken the contact, and not quite letting go, his long arms still holding a light grip on John's sides.

'What?' Sherlock asked

'I don't live here anymore' he said his tone halfway between realisation and question.

Sherlock tilted his head and opened his mouth to answer when the door clicked open behind John. Sherlock broke into a wide grin. 'Mrs Hudson.' He said triumphantly 'Doctor Watson will be moving in.'

'Of course he will.' Mrs Hudson said as John jumped back in surprise at their entrance behind him, he felt Sherlock's hand at his back to steady him, which with the lightest contact possible he left there, John looked up at him and he looked away but didn't move 'It'll take me a few days to clear the other room though.' Mrs Hudson said 'That is if you're still needing the second room.'

John attempted a protest but nothing coherent came out of his mouth in response, the distraction of Sherlock next to him still touching him, still being there was enough without Mrs Hudson's teasing on top of Greg's hint, not to mention he thought again Sherlock still hadn't moved. Luckily Greg came to his rescue.

'I'm sure they'll work something out Mrs Hudson.' He said with a slight glint to his eye 'But I think they have a fair bit of catching up to do. Shall we leave them to it?'

'Ooh! Yes of course.' Mrs Hudson all but squealed hurrying out 'I'll bring you something up later-just this once for your first evening back.' She called behind her.

Greg smiled 'I'll give you a call.' He said 'See if you've got time for a few cases.' He turned to Mycroft 'Dinner?' he asked

Mycroft frowned a little, then smiled a little, then frowned a little more, 'If you would like?' he asked.

Lestrade shook his head 'I asked didn't I you fool?' he looked over at John 'They should come with a manual.'

Mycroft and Sherlock huffed in unison Sherlock finally moving his hand from John's back to fold his arms crossly, he looked mortified when he looked up and realised Mycroft had done the same.

'Oh Mycroft he forgives you-or he will eventually-because for whatever reason the Inspector is in love with you. How can someone as intelligent as you be too stupid to see that?'

Mycroft remained impassive, 'We are perhaps all permitted a little ignorance Sherlock.' He said with a meaningful glance to John. Sherlock and John both frowned at the other two, Mycroft and Lestrade's eyes met and they smiled.

'Dinner then Gregory?' Mycroft asked, Greg nodded and allowed Mycroft to guide him out with a hand on his back.

Sherlock and John turned to look at each other

'I err…' John began 'Lestrade was talking last night…it…doesn't matter.' He said shifting looking down at the floor.

'What?' Sherlock asked tilting his head trying to look John in the eye again.

'Well you know.' John said 'That nonsense again about us being well…more than flatmates, colleagues.'

'Friends?' Sherlock asked, he cleared his throat 'I thought we'd established that, well…'

'What?' John said looking up suddenly on alert.

'Well I told you, before that I didn't have friends that I…'

'Only had one. Right.' John said 'And I told you, well you heard and then I told you that you were….'

'Your best friend. Right.' Sherlock said 'So that's clear then.'

'Clear.' John said shifting awkwardly; he looked down again 'God I missed you Sherlock.' He said his voice catching a little, he began to take a step forward again but stopped.

'I, um, that is, I missed you too John.' Sherlock said lifting a hand then dropping it.

They both shifted a little looking at the floor, after a moment they both looked up at the same time, catching sight of one another they broke into a grin. Sherlock took a tentative step forward and John mirrored, standing very much in John's space now Sherlock reached a hand out and brushed his fingers over John's and held on very lightly, barely a touch.

'John.' He said in a low tone, John's eyes flickered back and fore trying to decipher the meaning, he didn't give anything away in his face but slowly, very slowly giving Sherlock every chance to back out he curled his fingers around Sherlock's.

'Sherlock.' He said with a tentative smile.

'Sense at last.' Came a voice from the doorway. John and Sherlock jumped apart guiltily.

'Mycroft!' John exclaimed

'Forgot my umbrella.' He said gesturing and crossing the room to the armchair where it still rested.

John glanced at Sherlock waiting for an explosion at the intrusion; instead he allowed his brother to retrieve the umbrella and simply stepped into his path as he headed towards the door. Mycroft threw him a questioning look, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around his brother. For a moment Mycroft was shocked but returned the hug.

'You forgot nothing did you?' Sherlock muttered into his ear

'Simply checking you were going to be alright.' Mycroft whispered back.

'As always.' Sherlock said holding on a little tighter.

'As always.' Mycroft repeated giving his little brother a final squeeze before stepping leaning back 'But the rest you have to figure out yourself.' He told him 'But as usual I think you already have.'

Sherlock quirked his mouth into a half smile 'With a little help.'

Mycroft smiled at him and affectionately and completely unselfconsciously brushed the hair on Sherlock's forehead out of his eyes. He caught himself in the gesture, one he'd not repeated for nearly twenty years. Sherlock smiled at him.

'Thank you Mycroft.' He said

Mycroft nodded 'You know where I am.' He said striding towards the door. Sherlock nodded, adjusted his jacket and turned nervously back to face John.