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Greg had just tossed his keys onto the counter and kicked off his shoes when the mobile rang — Mycroft’s private line.
He answered without thinking, still shrugging out of his coat.
“Yeah? What’s up?”
There was a breath. A hitch.
“I think—I think I… I think I need help…”
Greg froze. Everything inside him went cold.
“Mycroft? What happened? Where are you?”
“I’m sorry—” the voice broke, thin and wavering in a way he had never heard from the man — “I think I need help.”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m coming, yeah? Just tell me where you are.”
“Greg…” A swallow. Wet, shaky. “My… it hurts.”
Greg’s throat closed around panic.
Christ, what the hell—?
“Where are you?” he tried again, sharper, urgent, the whole sentence pushing out on instinct.
“M’sorry.”
“I’m not angry, love, but I need you to tell me where you are.”
Silence. Then—
“I’m bleeding?”
Soft, disbelieving.
“I’m bleeding.”
The last word cracked apart.
“I-I-I—”
“Where are you!?” Greg snapped, voice breaking clean through the panic.
“Help me.”
Even quieter now. A child’s-voice version of Mycroft, one he’d never imagined existed.
“Please help me.”
“I’m coming! Just tell me where you—”
“Please help me. I’m sorry. I need help. Please help me. Someone help me. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—”
That was when Greg realised he was already running — grabbing his coat, keys, not even sure how he’d crossed the room.
“I’m on my way,” he said, breathless, jogging down the stairs two at a time. “I swear I’m coming.”
“I need help. Someone help me. I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry, I need help. I need help. I need help. Anyone?”
Greg’s car door slammed behind him.
“Oi, I’m still here. I’m right here. Can you tell me where you are?”
“I… I don’t know.”
A tiny sound of pain.
“I think I need help. Are you coming?”
“Yes — yes, love, I’m coming. Just tell me where you are.”
“Hello?”
Barely audible.
“Are you there? I… I think I’m going to pass out.”
“WHERE ARE YOU?”
It ripped out of him, raw, terrified.
There was a rustle. A grunt. Something clattering.
And then—
“Hello?”
Quiet.
Far away.
Wrong.
Then nothing.
“…Shit.”
Dead air hummed in his ear.
Greg slammed his hand against the steering wheel, breath coming too fast, eyes burning.
“Where the hell are you…?”
He reversed hard out of his drive, tyres skidding, because if someone had gone after Mycroft — his Myc — if they’d targeted him, cornered him, left him bleeding—
Someone was going to bloody well pay.
But first Greg was going to find him.
Even if he had to tear London apart brick by brick.
Greg shoved the phone onto the passenger seat, started the engine with shaking hands, and hit dial on the only other number Mycroft had ever insisted he keep memorised.
Anthea answered on the first ring.
Her voice was its usual cool, well-bred monotone.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade. To what do I owe the pleasure at this hour?”
Greg didn’t bother hiding the panic.
“It’s Mycroft.”
A pause. A subtle shift.
The sound of someone sitting up straighter.
“What about him?”
“He rang me. Injured. Bad.” Greg swallowed hard, pulling out into the street far too fast. “I need to find him. Now.”
“Where is he?”
“If I bloody knew, I wouldn’t be ringing you,” Greg snapped, voice cracking with fear. “He couldn’t tell me — he didn’t seem to know. He sounded disoriented, Anthea. He said he was bleeding.”
Anthea inhaled — one precise, controlled breath that told him more than any outburst would have.
“All right,” she said. “Stay on the line.”
A series of quick taps followed — typing, access codes, something high-level and classified opening behind whatever façade she used as a job title.
Greg changed lanes without checking, adrenaline eating the edges of his vision.
“Tell me you’ve got something.”
“I’m working on it.”
More typing. Faster.
Then—
“…Oh.”
Greg’s heart plummeted.
“Oh what?”
“His tracker has been disabled.”
Greg nearly veered into a parked car.
“What do you mean disabled?!”
“I mean,” Anthea said calmly, “someone with technical ability and forethought removed or destroyed it. Which means this was planned.”
“Christ.” Greg’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. “So he was targeted.”
“That seems extremely likely, yes. He often is.”
He breathed hard through his teeth, trying not to spiral.
“Anthea, he didn’t even sound… like himself.”
“I gathered,” she said quietly. And for Anthea, that tone was practically shouting. “But don’t panic yet. There are redundancies.”
“Redundancies?”
“You don’t think the most important man in the country walks around with just one method of tracking, do you?”
Greg let out something halfway between a sob and a laugh.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Anthea muttered something under her breath — a swear, Greg thought, though delivered in her usual clipped politeness.
Then she inhaled sharply.
“There.”
Greg’s grip tightened.
“You’ve got him?”
“A signal. Weak. Likely interference from structural material. Somewhere subterranean.”
A beat.
“East side of the city. Near the river.”
Greg felt his chest loosen — not in relief, but in direction.
A target. A place to go. Something to do.
“Send it to my phone.”
“Already done.”
“Good. I’m going.”
“Yes, you are,” Anthea said, and for the first time since he’d met her, her voice held something unmistakably human — thinly veiled fear.
“But Greg?”
“What?”
“Hurry.”
He didn’t need telling twice.
The location Anthea sent was a disused service tunnel near the river — abandoned decades ago, half-collapsed, technically sealed off.
Technically.
Greg forced the rusted grate open, the metal screaming as it gave way. The moment he climbed down the ladder, the smell hit him — damp concrete, rust, mould—
—and something metallic.
Blood.
His stomach dropped.
“Mycroft!” he called, voice echoing. “Mycroft, can you hear me?”
No answer.
The light from his torch cut through the darkness in skittish, frantic sweeps. Water dripped from somewhere overhead, the sound sharp and mocking in the silence.
Then the beam caught a glint.
Not just any metal scrap.
A cufflink.
One of Mycroft’s.
Greg’s breath stuttered.
“Hang on, hang on, I’m close,” he muttered, half to himself, half to whatever gods might be listening.
He moved faster now, splashing through shallow water, turning the corner into a collapsed maintenance alcove—
—and stopped dead.
“My God.”
Mycroft was crumpled against the far wall, half-sitting, half-sprawled in an unnatural angle. His coat was soaked, dark and glistening. His head had tipped forward, chin resting weakly against his chest. His skin was—
Too pale.
Grey around the lips.
“Mycroft,” Greg breathed, crossing the space so fast he nearly slipped.
He dropped to his knees beside him, hands already shaking as he touched his face.
“Myc. Come on. Look at me.”
A tiny sound escaped Mycroft — more exhale than voice.
Greg pressed fingers to his neck, searching—
There. Faint. Thready.
“Thank Christ,” he whispered, though it didn’t feel like relief. Not yet.
He peeled the coat aside, and the breath was punched out of him.
It was a stab wound. Deep. Clean. Direct. Someone knew what they were doing.
And Mycroft had pressed his own hand over it until his strength gave out — his palm was slick and cold and covered in warm blood.
“Oh, love… why didn’t you call sooner…”
Mycroft blinked. Slow. Barely there. His eyes didn’t quite focus, glazing past Greg’s shoulder.
“…G’g…?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” Greg cupped the back of his head gently. “I’m right bloody here.”
Mycroft’s mouth parted on a shallow breath.
“Hurts…”
“I know, sweetheart. I know.” Greg swallowed hard. “We’re getting you out. Stay with me, yeah?”
But Mycroft’s eyes fluttered, rolling slightly.
“Hey—no. No, no, no.” Greg tapped his cheek lightly, panic clawing at his throat. “Come on, stay awake. Talk to me.”
Mycroft didn’t. His head lolled faintly to the side.
Greg yanked off his own jacket, pressing the folded fabric hard against the wound, his hands already slick with blood.
“Come on, love, don’t do this, don’t you bloody dare—”
A small, wavering whisper:
“…s’rry…”
Greg squeezed his eyes shut.
“No. Don’t you apologise to me. Don’t you dare.”
Mycroft’s eyelids drooped further.
Greg leaned close, voice breaking on the edges.
“Mycroft Holmes, you listen to me. You’re not dying in a bloody storm drain. Not while I’m breathing. Do you hear me? Look at me—look at me.”
A faint stir — eyelashes twitching.
“That’s it. Good. Stay there. Don’t close your eyes again.”
Greg fumbled for his phone, one hand pressed desperately to the wound, and hit Anthea’s number with slick fingers.
She answered instantly.
“Do you have him?”
“Yes,” Greg said — or tried to. It came out strangled. “And he’s— Anthea, he’s bad. I need medical, now. High-level response. He’s losing too much blood.”
“I’m already on it.”
“Tell them he’s hypotensive, slipping in and out— and tell them to move faster.”
Greg dropped the phone to speaker mode and set it beside him, both hands back on Mycroft’s torso, applying pressure he knew was hurting him — pressure Mycroft wasn’t even reacting to anymore.
“Stay with me,” Greg murmured, leaning his forehead against Mycroft’s temple. “I’m right here. You’re not alone. Come on, Myc. Come back to me.”
Mycroft’s breath shuddered, shallow and fading.
“Gregory…?”
Greg’s heart nearly split.
“Yes. Yes, love, I’m here.”
“…cold,” Mycroft whispered, almost inaudible. “…tired…”
Greg’s voice cracked.
“No. No sleeping. Don’t you even think about it.”
From the phone, Anthea’s voice:
“Emergency response is en route. ETA three minutes.”
Greg didn’t hear her.
He was watching Mycroft’s face, willing it to stay alive.
“Come on, love,” he whispered again, voice trembling. “Just hold on for me.”
And in the dim light, with water dripping around them and blood pooling warm under Greg’s knees, Mycroft’s eyes slipped closed again—
—but his fingers twitched weakly toward Greg’s.
And Greg held them like a lifeline.
The private room was quiet.
Not peaceful.
Quiet in the taut, suspended way that comes after catastrophe — a silence padded with antiseptic, machinery hum, and dread waiting in the corners.
Greg sat in the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white. He hadn’t moved in an hour. Maybe two. Every now and then his eyes flickered to the heart monitor, counting each beep like it was oxygen.
Mycroft lay pale against the sheets, an IV line running into his arm, bandages hidden beneath sterile hospital blankets. He looked… still.
Too still.
Greg hated that stillness.
It reminded him of the tunnel.
It reminded him of how close he’d come to losing him.
He reached out, brushing his fingers over Mycroft’s wrist — not enough to wake him, just enough to reassure himself that the skin was warm.
Minutes later footsteps approached the door — soft, hesitant ones.
Sherlock.
Greg didn’t even need to look up.
He spoke without turning his head.
“No.”
There was a short pause outside the door.
Sherlock’s voice filtered through — soft, for once, an unheard-of combination of restrained and hurt.
“I only want to see him.”
“I know,” Greg said, and he meant it. “But you can’t. Not right now.”
Another silence, the kind that pressed against the walls.
“Let me in, Greg.”
Greg looked at the door then — just long enough that Sherlock would know he’d been acknowledged.
But his voice was steady, immovable.
“He nearly died tonight.”
The words scraped.
“And he’s still not out of the woods. So no, Sherlock. Not just yet.”
Sherlock didn’t argue further.
The footsteps retreated.
Greg exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over his face. He wasn’t being cruel. He wasn’t punishing anyone. He simply—
He simply couldn’t bear another presence in the room.
Not yet.
Not until Mycroft opened his eyes and Greg heard his voice again — whole and sharp and unbearably alive.
The door clicked open a few minutes later — quietly, respectfully. Greg didn’t stiffen; this wasn’t Sherlock’s tread or a stranger’s boldness.
Anthea entered with the same clinical calm she used in crisis, carrying a tablet and wearing her usual immaculate expression of “I’m in complete control of everything within a twenty-mile radius.”
“Vitals are holding,” she said softly, eyes flicking over the monitors.
“Good,” Greg muttered, standing only when she gestured him aside with a small wave so she could check the IV connections. He didn’t leave Mycroft’s line of sight — not for a second.
Anthea noticed.
Of course she noticed.
“You’re not going to collapse, are you?”
The tone was dry, but not unkind.
“No.” Greg swallowed. “Not until he wakes up, anyway.”
Anthea’s gaze softened by a millimetre — the Anthea equivalent of a sobbing embrace.
“You kept him alive long enough for the surgeons to do their work,” she said. “That is no small thing.”
Greg looked down at his hands. The blood had been scrubbed off hours ago, but he still saw it.
“I should’ve got there faster.”
“You got there,” Anthea replied. She adjusted Mycroft’s blanket with faint, precise movements. “That’s what matters.”
A soft scrape sounded at the doorway. Greg’s shoulders tensed instinctively — protective, bristling without aggression.
The on-call specialist, one of the three Anthea had cleared, stepped in.
“Just checking his drip rate and pupil response,” she said, offering Greg a tentative nod, as though approaching a guard dog who’d lost its owner.
Greg didn’t move from Mycroft’s side.
But he didn’t stop her, either.
Anthea’s clearance was enough for him. Barely.
He watched every motion the doctor made — every adjustment, every flick of her penlight across Mycroft’s eyelid. His entire body was wound tight as wire.
“He’s stable enough,” she murmured. “Still deeply sedated, but that’s expected with the blood loss he suffered.”
Greg closed his eyes for a moment.
Deep breath in.
Slow breath out.
The doctor glanced at him briefly — studying, evaluating.
“Are you two—?”
“Yes,” Greg said simply.
She seemed to understand.
She left without further questions.
Anthea gave him a long, knowing look.
“You realise,” she said quietly, “that if anyone else tried to stand guard over him like this, he’d have them removed.”
“I know.” Greg sank back into the chair, taking Mycroft’s hand gently in his. “But he’d do exactly the same for me.”
Anthea’s expression softened again — barely noticeable unless one knew her.
“Yes,” she agreed. “He would.”
Greg sat back, thumb brushing absently over Mycroft’s knuckles.
A memory flickered — years ago, the two of them in a safe house, injured and exhausted, sides pressed together and sleeping in shifts, because it was the only way either of them slept without flinching.
Back then it had been necessity.
Now it was something else.
Something far more frightening.
Greg leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper.
“You’re safe, love. I’ve got you. No one’s getting in unless you let them.”
As if in response, Mycroft’s fingers twitched faintly — the slightest movement, but unmistakably deliberate.
Greg’s breath caught.
Anthea straightened, attention sharp and alert.
“Mycroft?” Greg murmured, leaning in. “Come on, sweetheart. I’m right here.”
Mycroft didn’t wake — not yet. But his hand curled, faint and shaky, around Greg’s.
And Greg bowed his head, hiding the tremble in his jaw.
“See?” he whispered against their joined hands.
“That’s why I’m not letting anyone else in.”
It happened slowly at first.
A twitch of Mycroft’s fingers.
A tightening around Greg’s hand.
A small, broken sound pulled from deep in his chest.
Greg sat up straight instantly, heart in his throat.
“Myc? Mycroft, love — I’m here.”
Mycroft’s eyelids fluttered, his brow tightening as if pain was dragging him toward consciousness. He breathed in sharply — too shallow, bordering on a gasp.
His eyes opened halfway.
Not sharp.
Not calculating.
Not the brilliant, terrifying mind behind half of Britain’s stability.
Just… frightened.
Lost.
They darted around the room unfocused, then fixed on Greg — and something primal, bone-deep, ancient flickered through them.
He reached for Greg’s shirt, fingers grasping blindly, desperately, like a drowning man grabbing for the surface.
Greg was already moving, leaning forward, settling a hand against his cheek while the other supported Mycroft’s head.
“Easy, sweetheart. I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”
Mycroft’s breath hitched — a sharp, pained inhale that vibrated through his whole frame.
“Hurts,” he whispered, voice cracked and sounding so young it broke something deep in Greg's chest.
“I know. I know, love. You’re safe now.”
But the reassurance wasn’t enough.
Mycroft’s grip tightened, trembling violently. His breaths grew shallow and rapid — panic clawing upward before he could stop it. His body tensed beneath the blankets, instinct screaming danger despite the machines and the soft lighting.
His gaze skittered, terrified, checking the room, the shadows, the corners—
Until Greg cupped his face firmly with both hands, leaning close enough that their foreheads touched.
“Mycroft. Look at me.”
The command — soft but absolute — hit something deep inside Mycroft.
His eyes snapped back to Greg’s, wild but present.
“That’s it. There you go.” Greg’s thumb brushed his cheekbone gently. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’m not leaving.”
Mycroft swallowed — or tried to.
His mouth opened, a small, broken breath escaping.
“…Gregory.”
“I’m here.”
Mycroft’s hand fisted in Greg’s shirt again, dragging him closer with surprising strength for someone half-conscious moments ago.
Not romantic.
Not weak.
Instinctive.
The kind of clinging that came from nights locked down in agency safehouses, from nights spent in hostile places, from whispered reassurances in dark rooms when they were barely out of university.
Anthea was standing at the foot of the bed, tablet in hand. She froze.
She had never seen Mycroft cling to anything.
Never seen him reach.
Never seen him… need.
Her eyes widened — just a fraction. Enough to reveal genuine shock.
“My God,” she murmured under her breath. “I didn’t realise…”
Greg didn’t look away from Mycroft.
Mycroft’s breathing hitched again, rising.
His eyes flicked around suddenly — sharp panic flaring.
“Greg—”
His voice strained as if something in his brain had fired alarms all at once.
“Greg, don’t— don’t go—”
He shifted, trying to sit up despite the pain, desperate and shaking.
Greg was already there, sliding onto the edge of the bed, one arm around Mycroft’s shoulders, the other hand carding through his hair.
“Hey— shh, shh, I’m not going anywhere.”
His voice was low, steady, grounding.
“You’re not alone. I’m right here. Feel me?”
He took Mycroft’s hand and pressed it to his own chest.
Mycroft’s fingers curled instantly into the fabric, clinging as if the world would vanish otherwise.
“Yes,” Mycroft breathed, voice shaking. “Yes.”
His forehead pressed weakly to Greg’s collarbone, body trembling with the aftershocks of pain and terror.
Greg held him close, mindful of the bandages but refusing to let even a millimetre of space form between them.
“It’s okay,” Greg whispered into Mycroft’s hair. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. You can breathe now.”
After several long moments, Mycroft’s shaking eased. His breathing slowed. He sagged against Greg — exhausted, hurting, but held.
Anthea cleared her throat softly, trying to reclaim her composure.
I’ll… ensure no one disturbs you,” she murmured.
Greg nodded, still cradling Mycroft carefully. He didn’t dare look away from Mycroft.
“Thank you.”
She hesitated — rare for her.
Then:
“For what it’s worth… I’m glad he has someone.”
Greg didn’t respond.
He didn’t need to.
Because Mycroft tightened his grip at that moment — a small, unconscious gesture of trust, of safety, of don’t leave me.
And Anthea saw it.
And understood.
And slipped silently out the door, locking it behind her.
Leaving them together — exactly where they needed to be.