Stephen stood near the window of his hospital bedroom, the flood of early January sunshine from outside dappling his hair. He was fully dressed; Mycroft, standing vigilant by the doorway, noted that he still needed some help with his shoes, even though his doctor had cleared him to be released that afternoon. He watched as Stephen listlessly folded a pair of pyjamas and stacked them neatly in his suitcase.

"Carson just texted me," he offered, a little awkwardly. "He said everything is ready for you, and you won't want for anything."

Stephen, now shifting around in the bedside drawer for any loose items, glanced up but said nothing. Mycroft's gaze was drawn, as it so often was, to the livid scars where his ears should have been. His chest thumped painfully.

"Stephen," he said. "You know why this has to happen. We discussed it."

"Yes." Stephen looked down again and swallowed heavily.

For a few seconds there was a silence so profound that both men could hear a conversation two nurses were having in the corridor outside.

"How is your brother?" Stephen asked stiffly. He knew Sherlock was still hospitalised, although he'd been transferred to London four days before for follow-up care. But Mycroft sighed and pushed that issue aside. Whenever he had thought of Sherlock in the past few days, it had been with a frustrated sort of jealousy. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Sherlock blundered through life with so few responsibilities. It wasn't bloody fair that he had so many people who...

He cleared his throat.

"He's recovering well," he said simply. "Stephen... I need you to understand that I'm sorry about this."

"I know you are," Stephen muttered into his chest. "And so am I. But I'm not a kid, Mycroft. I worked for MI6. I think I remember the word 'dangerous' was even on the job description."

"Yes, but we're not talking about your job now, are we? You weren't... hurt... because you were my employee." Mycroft looked down briefly at the umbrella he clutched in his right hand. "A man in my position can have employees, Stephen, but he can't have relationships. This way, there will be a chance you might-"

Stephen scoffed. "In Pembrokeshire?" He had only two days before been shown pictures of the quaint property Mycroft's security people had discreetly bought in St. David's, near the Welsh coast; a place Mycroft had begged, scolded and ordered Stephen not to leave for at least twelve months. With his own name carved into him, it would take a long time for even geography and total lack of contact to free Stephen; to convince others that he was nothing to Mycroft, that there was no benefit in using him as leverage.

"Your pool of potential life partners may be limited there," Mycroft conceded, shifting his weight onto his heels for a second. "But you will also be safer."

"I don't particularly want to be safer."

Stephen was closing the zip on his suitcase. Mycroft's reached out and laid his hand over Stephen's. The younger man looked up at him in silence.

"I particularly want you to be safer," Mycroft said heavily. "This is not due to a lack of sentiment on my part, I can assure you."

Mycroft had already squared this with himself, in the dark hours at the hospital and at home: this was a weak decision, fuelled by sentiment. Stephen was infinitely useful to him purely in a professional sense. He'd been easily the best personal assistant he had ever had, as a matter of fact. Pragmatism would insist the man continue as an employee, while denying his sensual needs by cutting him off as a lover. Pragmatism would expect Stephen to put himself directly back into the firing line of any number of budding psychopaths miffed by legal decisions made years ago.

Stephen turned his hand over and brought Mycroft's to his lips for a second. "I know," he muttered, giving it one last squeeze and releasing his fingers. "I know."

Mycroft's phone bleeped from his jacket pocket and he drew it out to check the incoming text. "The car's out front," he said distractedly, a new kind of strain in his voice. He snapped his phone shut and pocketed it, taking a deep breath. "Remember that Carson is now in charge of providing you with anything and everything."

"Except you."

"I'm sorry that he can't provide you with that." Mycroft glanced toward the door. "Shall I come out with you?"

Stephen shook his head. "No," he said. "I think it's best if you didn't." He lifted his suitcase off the bed.

As he passed close by him, Mycroft expected... something. Some last words of sentiment. Some plea for him to change his mind. A kiss. A slap. Something.

There was nothing. He watched Stephen walk, purposeful and strong after his ordeal, down to the nurses station and hand in his discharge paperwork as if nothing momentous had happened between them. He did not even glance back at Mycroft as he finally walked toward the lifts, suitcase still in hand.

Mycroft searched distractedly in his pocket for his phone.

Text me when you greet him. Look after him. – Mycroft Holmes

Seven anxious minutes later, Ewan Carson's response came: Hassell received sir. Security update on arrival. – EC

At Sherlock's hospital bedside in London that evening, Mycroft received his security update text. Stephen had arrived safely in St David's and was under protection.

Mycroft never saw him again.

A/N – Despite the wonderful series 3 stomping a mudhole in my AU, I've decided to continue it. "Smoke and Mirrors" can be found from my profile. x