Author's note: Here's the last chapter.

I don't own anything, please review.

It felt like an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulder. Not only were neither Sherlock nor Mycroft angry with him, but John had come to terms with his and the latter's friendship as well.

True, it was still not easy for the doctor to see Mycroft, which was why Greg had to organize his meetings with them; but since it had been years since he'd had enough friends to even attempt it, he wasn't complaining.

He kept both John and Mycroft informed of every text that arrived. Sherlock still only texted the burn phone he had purchased for this exact purpose, which made Greg fear that what the consulting detective was doing was even more dangerous than he had realized at first. If he didn't want to risk texting the man who must have the safest phone in the UK directly...

He didn't share his fears with the other two men; they didn't really talk about Sherlock, except when he'd once again asked for information anyway.

It would simply hurt John too much, Greg was sure. The doctor was once again living in Baker Street (being looked after by Mrs. Hudson, for which Greg was immensely grateful – he still wasn't the man he'd been before Sherlock's disappearance). But all he did was waiting.

There was no other word for it; Greg didn't think that he could call it "living". John spent his days waiting for Sherlock to come back, making sure his violin was dust free, staring at the skull on the mantelpiece that Mrs. Hudson, despite her obvious dislike for it, just hadn't found the heart to throw away, checking the internet for more articles so he could follow Sherlock's progress even better.

At least he smiled more and he slept better. He'd also put on a bit of the weight he'd lost, although the weight loss was still noticeable.

Sometimes, Greg wondered how many nights he spent listening, waiting for a key in the front door.

So they didn't talk about Sherlock; not much, at least. They talked about football and Mike Stamford and Molly and Mrs. Hudson. If Mrs. Hudson didn't sit next to them in her kitchen in Baker Street, of course; as soon as John had moved back in she'd made a point of telling him he should ask Greg over. She was even nicer to him than she'd always been, obviously thinking that he, like John, was grieving.

It wasn't easy, lying to her, especially since he'd hoped not to have to lie and act again so soon after being freed from this obligation regarding Mycroft, but he dealt with it, mostly because Mrs. Hudson was tougher than she looked and had taken Sherlock's death as well as she could – she mostly seemed to be angry, and Greg wouldn't want to be Sherlock when he returned.

Even he would probably be tempted to punch him, now that he thought about it, although John would certainly gladly do it himself.

With Mycroft, not talking about Sherlock was just natural. They had never talked about the younger Holmes after his disappearance, although it was all they had talked about before, and Greg thought it would stay this way.

Once again, Mycroft surprised him.

One evening, about two months after the elder Holmes had found out, they were sitting in Mycroft's living room. Greg had sent Sherlock some information this afternoon.

Mycroft broached the subject after dinner. In his typical fashion, he didn't raise or alter his voice in any way, simply said, "I assume Sherlock is on the hit man's heels by now".

"Yes" Greg answered, slightly taken aback – a moment ago, they'd been talking about the fact that all of Sherlock's cases had finally been re-examined and it had been proven that he'd been right, meaning that the Chief Superintendent had had no choice but to put Greg off desk duty – "Yes, I think so".

Mycroft said nothing, but now that he'd finally mentioned his brother, Greg dared ask a question he'd been wondering about for some time – since he'd learned Sherlock was alive, really.

"How long do you think it will take him?"

Mycroft tilted his glass and watched the brandy roll from one side to another. Greg recognized this as the British Government's version of a shrug and assumed he wouldn't get an answer until Mycroft began, "It's a big web".

He was obviously debating with himself whether or not to say more, and Greg was silent.

Finally, he added, "To dismantle it completely – and without help – will take quite some time, I'm afraid."

"He's already –"

"It's been almost a year, Greg – and I fear it could take him several more".

"What?" Greg all but shouted.

This time, Mycroft actually chose to shrug his shoulders. He sighed. "It would be easier if I were to help him, of course; if we all were to help him. But he has to be careful – if John has found the pattern, so most likely have the other parts of the web. And there are enough eyes on me already."

Greg nodded; he supposed every Secret Service (he was referring to the ones not run by him, of course) in the world knew about Mycroft Holmes. And, since they were both friends of Sherlock's, Moriarty's former associates would undoubtedly keep an eye on him and John.

"I still don't like it" he answered. Mycroft laughed a short, bitter laugh.

"I don't either. But this is how it is".

Greg nodded again, well aware that Mycroft cared, despite his calm demeanour. Not to be able to help the brother he'd watched over since he'd been a child must be frustrating. And Mycroft Holmes certainly wasn't used to feeling helpless.

"Here's to him dealing with it quickly, then" he finally said, raising his glass. Mycroft did the same and smiled.

Sadly, Mycroft had been right with his guess.

It took Sherlock two more years. Two more years of John living a half-life, two years of visiting the grace of a living man to keep up some resemblance of grief, two years of cases Sherlock would have loved, two years of sending him information, two years of talking to John and Mycroft and doing his best to keep their spirits up. Two years of nights where he couldn't sleep, staring at the ceiling, fearing that the day would come when he'd realize that he hadn't got a text for one month, two months, until he would have to admit to himself that Sherlock wouldn't return. Two years of always, always carrying the burn phone in his pocket or it lying beside his bed (even if he forgot his normal phone, he never forgot it). Two years of hoping and despairing and praying and lying and acting and waiting, always waiting. For that next text to come. For the one text to come he was waiting for.

A little bit over three years after Sherlock had disappeared it came.

Of course it came when he least expected it too. He was busy trying to solve Ronald Adair's murder. Sherlock would not only have enjoyed, but already solved the case, he was certain.

Just after Donavan – who'd not only been very polite to him ever since he was allowed back on cases, but also had stopped to referring to Sherlock as "the freak" on the few occasions she mentioned him – had left his office with instructions, the burn phone chimed.

He took it out immediately, not really paying attention because he'd got so sued to the mention and the always same-sounding texts.

He was wondering whether he should go over the witness statements again while he read the text.

In the next moment, all thoughts about the case just flew out the window.

I'm with John at Baker Street. Will require your assistance tonight to capture Colonel Sebastian Moran, murderer of Ronald Adair.

Just that. Nothing else. Although, knowing Sherlock, he hadn't really expected different.

Still he needed a few minutes to fully comprehend what had happened. Sherlock was home. Sherlock was at Baker Street, with John. Sherlock Holmes had finally returned.

He could have screamed it, let all the world know what was going on. But he couldn't. Sherlock obviously wasn't back yet officially, otherwise Mycroft –

Mycroft.

He immediately called his friend.

Before he could even utter a greeting, he'd blurted out, "Sherlock's back. He's at Baker Street".

A moment of silence followed. Then Mycroft said, "I know. He called me an hour ago. He wanted to tell you himself".

Greg laughed out of sheer relief because he couldn't help it. He was happier than he'd been in three years.

"So" he said, "Colonel Moran". It was useless to pretend Mycroft didn't know what his brother was up to. He'd have known the moment he saw Sherlock.

"Yes. Sherlock is planning on capturing him tonight. I am sure he will send you more information soon".

"So am I" Greg said and they ended the conversation. He hadn't asked how Sherlock was, how he looked, if he'd changed, and Mycroft hadn't told him, because a friendship with a Holmes (two Holmes, he could finally acknowledge it again) didn't work like that.

As Mycroft had predicted, Sherlock sent him the address – the building Moriarty had all but blown up all those years ago, the one opposite 221B – and a time, assuring him that they would only have to wait outside for his signal.

He simply told Donavan that they were needed and left it to her to assemble a team.

He had been on many stakeouts over the years, but these were the longest two hours of his life. Not because he was worried – with John by his side, there wasn't much that could go wrong, and Moran was alone – but he needed to see Sherlock. He needed to see with his own eyes that he had returned.

Before the signal came a shot; a window of 221B shattered. Apparently Sherlock had managed to get some sort of model in the flat. Moran had obviously just tried to kill him.

At the signal – one of them flashing a light in the window of the flat Moriarty had planted the bomb in – Greg started running and didn't stop until he laid eyes on the consulting detective.

Moran was sitting on the floor in handcuffs, Sherlock and John standing next to him.

A part of Greg registered the forming bruise on Sherlock's cheek and realized John had already punched him so he wouldn't have to do it; a part of him saw that Sherlock had got even thinner; a part of him was aware that he looked pale and exhausted. But a bigger part of him didn't care, and before either of them could say anything, he had hugged Sherlock, who tentatively hugged him back.

He turned around to face Donavan, who was doing a rather good impression of a goldfish, and ordered her to have the captive brought to the station.

"Sherlock" he said as soon as they had left, "It's good to see you".

He hadn't expected an answer, but Sherlock swallowed and said, quietly, "You too, Greg".

It was Greg's turn to swallow. Sherlock had remembered his first name. He looked at John, who grinned, and felt a grin break out on his own face. Sherlock grinned too, and then they were laughing, because they were together, because it was over. There would be a time for explanations; there would be a time for stories about texts and brandy and information and files; for now, they were just happy to be together again.

"I see you reacted appropriately" he told John, indicating Sherlock's bruise.

John chuckled. "That's nothing. You should have heard Mrs. Hudson".

Mycroft was waiting in front of the building, discreetly standing in the back. Not one of them was surprised.

"Sherlock" he greeted his brother, "Greg, John". He stopped, unsure of how to proceed, apparently. Finally he cleared his throat.

"I was wondering whether you would like to get something to eat".

Greg expected Sherlock to make a comment about Mycroft's weight and decline; instead the younger Holmes looked from Sherlock to John, a silent communication taking place, and answered, "Good. Angelo's, then."

And the four made their way to the restaurant, Greg walking beside Mycroft, realizing that his life was going to get stranger once again –

He couldn't wait.

Author's note: Last chapter. I hope you enjoyed this fic – I certainly had fun writing it. God I love bromance.

Please review and tell me what you thought.

I wish you all the best of days,

Hekate.