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Inspired by the following GIF - with full credit to its creator, lestrabbit




Greg holds Mycroft's gaze along the barrel. The handgun stays steady as a rock against his forehead, not a shake, not a flicker of doubt. The safety catch is off and the thing is loaded, Mycroft's finger curled comfortably around the trigger. With the gentlest little squeeze, all the world will be over.

There comes an awful pause; it seems longer than their whole bloody marriage.

Greg forces out the words. "You're meant to be dead."

Nothing crosses Mycroft's face. His eyes are as hard and cold as the handgun's nose. 

"What are you doing here?" he asks.

Greg's heart falls into shards. It's been two years since he heard that voice. Two years of grieving, two years of letting go. They were only married for three months when Mycroft was killed. A routine diplomatic mission abroad. The car got stopped by armed men, the passengers were all taken, and that was the last anyone saw of Mycroft Edward Holmes. The government official who broke the news to Greg told him Mycroft's body had been recovered and identified, but not in any state that family would want to see. He'd been buried without delay, packed into the cold black ground in the churchyard on the family's estate.

They put Holmes on his headstone.

He was Holmes-Lestrade.

So it was only for three months. So it had been a whirlwind. So MI5 had been furious Mycroft didn't get proper permission, and so the signatures on the marriage certificate were barely dry, and so all of Greg's family thought he'd lost his fucking mind. Not one person had understood. 

But Mycroft Holmes had belonged to Greg. They'd had everything they needed in the world and it was perfect.

Now Mycroft is dead.

Dead, and training a loaded handgun between Greg's eyes.

Greg's hands gather silently into fists, the rain-drenched concrete hard against his knees. 

"I'm doing my job," he says, "foiling a robbery. What are you doing here?"

Mycroft seems to swallow. "God almighty," he breathes. "Of all the bloody officers to send..." His grip tightens on the gun. "This is a complication I do not need."

Greg's heart clenches. I always was.

Mycroft sees it cross his face.

The rain drives down around them, cold and cruel, no sign of it stopping.

"I was going to come for you," Mycroft says. His voice hardens. "In time, Greg. When I'd eliminated all of… you don't understand. I disappeared to keep you safe. We were being watched. I had to make you believe it so that they would believe it."

Greg almost wants to laugh.

"I stand and cry at your grave every Sunday," he says. "Two hour drive just to tell you that I miss you." He shakes his head, staring into Mycroft's eyes. "Tell you my life's grey and lonely without you. I can't tell anyone else. I was going to go tomorrow. Guess I don't need to bother now."

Mycroft's expression works. "If you're seen leaving this building alive… if they discover I was here—"

"Do I get last words?" Greg interrupts.

Mycroft says nothing. 

Greg takes it as a yes.

"I hate you," he says. Mycroft's gaze flickers. "You ruined my life. Then you died and you ruined it more. Now you're alive and you're still ruining it. Just shoot me, Mycroft. I'm done."

Mycroft's shoulders stiffen. He readies his finger on the trigger.

"And for the record," Greg adds, "that moustache is a fucking atrocity."

Mycroft falters. His expression twists, fighting something. "I happen to think it suits me," he says.

Greg snorts.

"You look like you escaped from a Eurotrash special," he says. "I can't believe that's my final sight in this world. Fuck me up."

Mycroft's left hand twitches at his side. Greg glances towards it, distracted, and before Mycroft's fingers can curl out of sight, Greg catches the glint of a wedding ring. His stomach flips. His own hangs on a chain around his neck. It's there right now, safe beneath his shirt. He never takes it off. He can't bear seeing it every morning. A fucking widower. But he just can't take it off.

He looks up along the barrel of the handgun, no longer breathing.

His husband gazes back at him, silently searching his face.

As the flutter of a distant siren catches their ears, Mycroft draws a breath.

"How quickly can you run?" he asks.

Greg's heart skips a beat. "Let's find out."




Five days, five nights. Coaches, trains. Sleeping on benches in stations, one of them awake and one to keep watch. Food where they can find it. Mycroft won't let Greg use his bank cards, says they might be traced. They reach Riga at last and find a dodgy hostel in the back streets where the staff don't ask any questions. Mycroft pays for the night in advance with forged Euros. They have to be gone by dawn, but there's a proper bed to sleep in and a shower.

As soon as they get through the door, Greg slams Mycroft up against it. For a while it's not clear if they're fighting or kissing. Greg doesn't care, so long as they're touching. Mycroft grips Greg's hair hard enough to hurt, and Greg bites into Mycroft's neck until he tastes blood. Mycroft has the sense to lock the door, then drags Greg to the bathroom, rips the clothes off him and hauls him into the shower.

They stay under the water for nearly half an hour, kissing, grinding and swearing, spitting rage and love at each other. Mycroft washes Greg. He washes away the grime and the sweat of the last five days, and the grief of two lonely years, then sinks to his knees on the tiles, gathers Greg's cock into his throat and reminds them both why they fell in love so fast.

They can't screw—no lube. Greg's angry, but he's not that angry. He bends Mycroft over the bed instead, holds him open and rims him until spit and two fingers feel as good as being fucked and My muffles his cries into a mouthful of duvet. We'll get lube on the way to Tallinn, Greg thinks. He'll make My plead for it. Give him rough until midnight, then slow until dawn.

After that, onto Helsinki. Get hold of the money. Mycroft says there's only two more men to take care of. Hard bastards, but in two long years they've grown arrogant and lazy. Both are in Chicago.

Then the network will be gone, and the planet will be safe for My and Greg again. No more watching eyes. No more danger. They'll find somewhere to settle. Some corner of the globe. New names—think up some story—find some place to live, some way to pay the rent, and see what the rest of their lives turns up.

"Should've told me," Greg murmurs at one AM, lying on Mycroft's chest in the darkness. "Two years ago. Should've taken me with you."

My drags on the cigarette they're sharing. They only have two left to get them to Tallinn.

"I needed the world to see you grieve," he says.

Greg watches him blow out smoke. "I needed you not to be dead."

"Did you have anyone else?" Mycroft asks. "After me."

"No." Greg bites the side of his cheek. "Tried. Few times. But I couldn't." He takes the cigarette and settles himself with a drag. "Always broke down and started crying," he mutters around it. "Telling him I hated you. Telling him I missed you."

Mycroft huffs. "Not conducive to the ambience, I imagine."

"Mmh. Not really." Greg takes another drag, trying to push the memories from his head: dark curls, pale skin, long legs too much like My's. Grey eyes, too much like My's. A friendship choked to death by the black bands of grief. "For what it's worth," Greg says, sighing, "he missed you too."

Mycroft's eyes flicker into his. They darken slowly.

"Who?" he intones, his voice hard.

Greg rolls the cigarette across his lower lip, saying nothing.

Mycroft's jaw sets in fury.

"Precisely how many times," he demands, "did you try to fuck my—"

Greg rolls his eyes. He pushes up onto his elbows, grinds the cigarette into the ashtray and crushes their mouths together. Mycroft snarls at him, fighting him. Greg grabs his wrists and holds him down. They kiss until their lips are bruised, then Greg winds his way down the bed to start making amends. He makes several more before dawn.

They leave at six. Greg steals the key.

Months later, in a high-rise hotel suite in Chicago, he gives it to My for their third wedding anniversary. A bewildered jeweller on West Division Street engraved it for him.


Eurotrash. From your complication.
Don't ever fucking leave me again xxx