Chapter Text
It didn’t rain the day they buried the broken body of Sherlock Holmes.
Greg always figured it was fitting for it to rain after someone died. But then again, who would be crying for the consulting detective? The fake, the fraud, the criminal. The world cried fraud and they believed it with all their hearts. The newspapers had reported it as fact, after all. Personally Greg wanted to knock a couple journalists' heads together.
Greg had been suspended, of course; every case that Sherlock had even breathed on was being reviewed. He didn’t begrudge the Yard for doing it given how Sherlock had been dragged through the mud. But he also knew the cases were as tight as he could make them, Sherlock’s interference besides. He was a good cop, damn all of this. He’d be reinstated soon enough. Waiting for vindication was the best he could hope for.
The worst part though was that he’d doubted Sherlock too. John couldn’t even look at him when they’d met after the detective’s death. He'd tried to comfort John. God how he had tried but it was hard to comfort a comfortless man who wanted nothing to do with Greg. Then again, John was angry at the entire world in general at the moment. The man had lost his best friend, and Greg didn’t blame John for hating him at all, at least while it was all so fresh in everyone’s minds and hearts.
Greg couldn’t fault John for laying part of the blame at his door. Later, when everything he could have done was far too late, Greg berated himself for that trickle of doubt that had formed in his mind. Of course Sherlock was genuine, he’d seen him do things time and time again that couldn’t have been faked. He’d seen Mycroft do the same thing. They can’t both have been so flawlessly convincing.
But when he knew his job was on the line, Greg had doubted him. He had done the best he could, warning Sherlock of his impending arrest, trying to convince everyone their suspicions were incorrect…but he’d always wonder if he could have done more.
Now Sherlock was dead and there wasn’t a thing he could do. The funeral wasn’t a funeral at all, just a burial with a few quiet words said. It was a quiet sendoff with only a handful of the people Sherlock knew. It was probably for the best. Most of the people who would have gone to the funeral either hated themselves for their part in the man’s death or hated anyone else who would have shown up. It was hardly advertised in the papers and Greg suspected that was entirely Mycroft's doing.
Mycroft was the lone figure at the grave when Greg finally approached him. They hadn’t seen each other for days, Mycroft barely sending so much as the information for when Sherlock was to be buried. When Greg came around to fully see Mycroft’s face he started a bit. Mycroft was sporting a rather large black eye.
“Christ, what happened to you?” Greg asked, frowning at the unsightly bruise, “Are you okay?”
“John did not take well to my apologies for my part in recent events,” Mycroft said softly, “He chose not to attend…this. I’m sure he’ll come to visit soon. I’ll be fine, Gregory.”
Greg sighed, exhaustion creeping up on him. “Is that what you’ve been telling anyone who asked, that you’ll be fine? Mycroft, why didn’t you call me? I had to bloody ask you when you were burying him…Christ, I could have been there for you.”
He paused, looking down at the freshly turned dirt, at the lone black rose laying on the grave, and then summoned up the bravery to ask the one thing he’d been terrified to ask since Sherlock died. “Do you…do you blame me?”
As the last words left his mouth, raindrops began to fall and Greg would have smiled sadly if he’d not been bracing for the impact of even more bad news. This was it. The end of something barely born. His stomach twisted into a knot.
Mycroft gave out a short, scraping laugh. “Blame you?” he asked, eyes confused, “I suppose John did not tell you.”
Mycroft opened his umbrella and held it over them both.
“Tell me what?” Greg asked, frowning, “John’s not talking to anyone other than Mrs. Hudson right now.”
“The information that leaked to the press, I told Moriarty all of it,” Mycroft said softly, “What happened, happened because of me. I did not think you would want anything to do with me now.”
Greg closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. His heart clenched painfully for what Mycroft, his stoic masked Mycroft, had kept hidden the past few days. He finally looked up at the man beside him and cocked his head towards Mycroft’s black car.
“I think we should talk about this back at yours. We’ll catch our…we’ll become very ill if we stay out in this.”
Mycroft nodded guardedly, as if he wasn’t certain them going anywhere together was a wise idea. For all Greg knew, the man expected to have another black eye to match the one he already had. Greg wished he had pushed more in the days since Mycroft had left his bed to just talk to Mycroft. But Mycroft had been a bloody closed book, always too busy to talk in light of recent events. Greg hoped it was only because he was busy and not consciously avoiding him, despite all Mycroft said that he didn't blame Greg.
The ride to Mycroft’s house was silent (as the grave, Greg's mind unhelpfully supplied) and he let Mycroft gather himself in peace. It couldn’t have been easy to see the younger brother he’d worked so hard to keep alive all these years lowered into the ground like that. Harder still when it was clear Mycroft blamed himself for what happened. And he'd done it alone, when he bloody well didn't have to.
If this thing between them survived, Greg would have to take Mycroft to task for that.
Soon enough they found themselves in Mycroft’s study with two glasses filled with scotch between them. Neither of them knew what to say to the other. Finding it all a bit unbearable, Greg finally gathered up his courage and decided to speak. Somebody had to, now more than ever.
“I think not having a formal funeral was good,” Greg began, “It was probably for the best really.”
Mycroft stared into his drink. “Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted a funeral when the end result was either burial or cremation. It didn’t make sense to act as if he were going to a better place.”
Greg finally took a sip of the scotch and hissed a little at the burn of the alcohol as it slid down his throat.
“I don’t hate you, you know. I hate myself more actually,” he began slowly, “I not only doubted him for one crucial fucking moment but I failed in what I promised to help you do. Keep him alive.”
“It wasn’t your fault. Moriarty skillfully manipulated us all in order to play to his tune,” Mycroft argued mournfully, “I should have seen a way out.”
“Oh fuck that,” Greg shouted suddenly, slamming down his drink on the side table, “Mycroft, you are not infallible, however much you wish to be. And I’m not leaving you because of this unless you ask me to leave. You need someone as much as I do right now and fuck, I thought we’d started something really great. Just…let me in. Allow me to shoulder some of this for you. Please.”
Mycroft looked at him again and Greg could see the pained vulnerability rising to the forefront of the man’s eyes. He knew Mycroft wasn’t one to easily ask for help unless he were desperate and it probably became even harder when he needed someone to comfort him. Instinctually, he pulled Mycroft to him, enveloping the other man in his embrace.
“It’s fine,” Greg whispered against Mycroft’s hair, “We’ll make sure everyone knows he wasn’t a fraud, yeah?”
“Your job,” Mycroft murmured against his shoulder, “I’ll make sure you’re reinstated as quickly as possible. I promise you that you will not lose your job.”
“Not important at the moment, mate,” Greg said softly, “Let’s just take this time together and mourn. You don’t have to pretend you’re fine to me. Cry if you need to. I know you wouldn’t have dared let anyone see you cry before.”
With a sniffle, Mycroft turned and curled into Greg. Now and again Greg would feel silent tears drip upon his dress shirt for the brother Mycroft had failed to keep safe.
Greg held the man until it grew dark, taking as much comfort from the embrace as he gave.
“Come on, I’ll put you to bed,” Greg said soothingly, “You’ve had a hard day.”
“I’m not a child,” Mycroft murmured, “I can take myself to bed."
He’d be willing to bet that Mycroft hadn’t slept much since the night they’d spent together if he’d slept at all. It was clear the man needed someone to take care of him just now, someone who understood how important it was that Mycroft present an emotionless mask to the world just now.
Greg stood and faced the man still sitting on the sofa.
“Right. Should I leave then?” Greg asked, his voice betraying none of what he wanted in the matter. If Mycroft truly wanted him gone, he’d have to say so.
“Do you want to?” Mycroft replied.
“No. I want to go up to your bedroom and cuddle together until we both fall asleep. No agenda, just two men taking comfort in each other. Whatever happens after, and I really hope that it's our staying together, is up to you,” Greg said plainly, “What do you say? We’re all each other’s got right now, Mycroft.”
Mycroft looked conflicted, as if he thought there might be a catch. Then he sighed, decision made, and stood up, putting his hand in Greg’s and letting Greg lead the way upstairs.
For now, it was enough.
For now.