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Chapter Text

The quiet hum of Mycroft’s townhouse was disturbed only by the occasional clink of silverware as he and Greg sat across from each other in the dining room. The warm glow of the chandelier illuminated the table, casting a cozy light over the remnants of a meticulously prepared dinner. Mycroft had excelled himself tonight: a four-course meal accompanied by a rare Bordeaux.

Greg leaned back in his chair, his smile easy as always. “You’re spoiling me, Myc. If I start expecting this every time, I’ll get insufferable.”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. “I thought I had made it clear that you are to expect nothing less, Gregory. My standards do not waver.”

Greg chuckled, brushing crumbs off his shirt. His phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up momentarily. Mycroft's gaze flicked to it out of reflex. The name “Mon Coeur” appeared, followed by the words: Love you too.

The soft smile on Mycroft’s face froze. He blinked once, twice, his sharp mind whirring at an uncharacteristic loss for words.

Greg, oblivious, picked up his phone and glanced at the screen. He quickly typed something before setting the phone back down. “Sorry about that.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said coolly, though his stomach churned.

Greg didn’t seem to notice the sudden tension. He continued chatting, recounting a bizarre case at Scotland Yard, his laughter ringing warmly. Mycroft nodded in all the right places, his responses polite but mechanical.

Inside, his heart was cracking apart. Mon Coeur. The words echoed like a mocking refrain in his head. My heart. And “Love you too”?

The night continued, but Mycroft's mind spiraled into a labyrinth of assumptions. By the time Greg kissed him goodnight and left, the fortress Mycroft had so carefully built around his emotions was crumbling.

The next morning, Greg arrived at Mycroft’s townhouse, two coffees in hand and a warm smile on his face.

“Myc,” he greeted as Mycroft opened the door, “thought you might need a caffeine boost for your morning meetings. You’ve got that ‘save the country’ look about you.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft said, his voice clipped, “we need to talk.”

Greg’s smile faltered. “Oh, uh, okay. Sure. What’s up?”

Mycroft stepped aside, allowing Greg to enter, but his demeanor was cold. He led Greg into the sitting room, gesturing for him to sit. Greg frowned, setting the coffees down on the table.

“Did something happen?” Greg asked, his concern evident.

Mycroft remained standing, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He stared at a point over Greg’s shoulder, his jaw taut. “I believe it would be best if we ended this... arrangement.”

The words hit Greg like a punch to the gut. “What?” he said, his voice cracking slightly.

“Our relationship,” Mycroft clarified, each syllable precise and devoid of warmth. “I fear it has run its course.”

Greg stared at him, dumbfounded. “Run its—Mycroft, what the hell are you talking about? Things were fine last night! We were fine!”

Mycroft’s gaze didn’t waver, though his heart screamed at him to look away. “I have come to the conclusion that this relationship no longer serves us both.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Greg snapped, standing now. His voice was loud, full of hurt and confusion. “What’s really going on? Why are you doing this?”

“I am simply acknowledging reality,” Mycroft replied, his voice icy.

Greg ran a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. “Mycroft, please. Don’t do this. If something’s wrong, just talk to me. We can work through it.”

“There is nothing to discuss,” Mycroft said, his tone final.

Greg’s shoulders slumped, the fight leaving him. He looked at Mycroft, his eyes filled with anguish. “If that’s what you really want...”

Mycroft nodded, though the gesture felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

Greg lingered for a moment, as if hoping Mycroft would say something, anything to take it back. But when silence stretched between them, he turned and left.

Chapter Text

Mycroft sat stiffly in Sherlock's sitting room, his umbrella balanced meticulously against the side of the chair.

The chaotic mess of 221B Baker Street was as suffocating as ever, but today, Mycroft barely registered the clutter. His mind was elsewhere.

Sherlock, however, was far too observant to let his brother’s silence go unnoticed. He lounged in his armchair, his sharp eyes flickering over Mycroft with laser focus.

“You’ve been quiet,” Sherlock said, his tone almost lazy, though the glint in his eye betrayed his curiosity. “A rare treat, to be sure, but... unusual.”

Mycroft did not respond immediately, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Hmm,” Sherlock mused, tilting his head. “The tension in your shoulders suggests stress. Stress caused by a recent, significant emotional upheaval.” His lips twitched into a sly smile. “You’ve broken up with Lestrade."

Mycroft’s reaction was subtle but telling: his hand tightened on the armrest, his expression hardening just enough for Sherlock to notice.

“Ah, confirmation,” Sherlock said with a flourish of his hand. “The question is why. A mutual decision seems unlikely, given that you look... well, miserable.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said sharply, his voice a warning.

Sherlock ignored it. “Lestrade has been acting strangely, in the past few weeks I’ve seen him. He’s certainly not the sort to stray. So why—”

“Mycroft,” John interrupted from his seat at the kitchen table, frowning. “Is that true? Did you and Greg break up?”

Mycroft sighed, his facade of composure slipping momentarily. “Yes, Doctor Watson. I ended our relationship yesterday.”

Sherlock leaned forward.

“Gregory’s... affections,” Mycroft said carefully, his voice colder than before, “appear to lie elsewhere.”

“What?” John said, his brow furrowing. “That doesn’t sound like Greg at all.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed in thought. “Elaborate.”

“There is nothing to elaborate upon,” Mycroft said, standing abruptly. “The matter is settled.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to press further, but Mycroft’s glare silenced him. “Do not meddle, Sherlock.”

And with that, Mycroft grabbed his umbrella and swept out of the flat.

“Do you believe that?” John asked, breaking the silence.

Sherlock tapped his fingers together, his mind racing. “Lestrade is loyal to a fault. Whatever Mycroft saw, he misinterpreted it.” His gaze darkened. “Or, more likely, he convinced himself of the worst.”

John shook his head. “Why wouldn’t he just ask Greg about it?”

“Because Mycroft is incapable of vulnerability,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “He’d rather end things abruptly than risk being hurt. Classic self-preservation.”

John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Greg must be gutted.”

Sherlock glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “You’re going to see him."

John stood, grabbing his coat. “Someone has to. If Mycroft’s too much of a coward to talk to Greg, then I will.”

Sherlock smirked faintly, reclining in his chair. “Do send my regards.”

Chapter Text

John arrived at Greg’s flat, his mind buzzing with the conversation he’d had with Sherlock earlier. He had no doubt that Mycroft had misunderstood, but Greg was the one left to pick up the pieces.

John just hoped that he hadn’t done irreparable damage to what seemed to have been a relatively quiet and peaceful relationship between the two.

As he approached the door and knocked, the sound of soft footsteps echoed from inside. The door opened, and John was surprised to find a young girl standing in the doorway. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen or sixteen, with soft brown hair and bright, inquisitive eyes.

"Uh... hello," John said, slightly thrown off. "Is Greg home?"

The girl nodded, stepping back slightly and holding the door open. "Yeah. He's in the hall." Her tone was polite but neutral. “You can go ahead in.”

John’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t question her further. He stepped inside, his eyes scanning the hallway. It was quiet, and a little too still for John’s liking. He knew Greg wasn’t one for long silences, especially not after everything that had happened. He moved toward the living room, the sound of muffled music playing in the background.

There, slouched against the couch with empty bottles of beer scattered around him, was Greg.

His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale and drained of life. He looked like he'd been drowning himself in alcohol for hours—or maybe days. John’s heart sank.

"Greg," he called softly, but the detective’s response was slow and slurred.

"John..." Greg greeted him drunkenly, lifting his head with difficulty. His lips curled into a weak, lopsided smile. "S'ppose... s'good to see ya..." His words wavered, and it was clear that Greg wasn’t holding it together very well at all.

John moved closer, his worry mounting. "Hey, Greg," he said, his voice calm, but firm. "What the hell are you doing to yourself?"

Greg didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flickered around, as though he couldn’t quite focus. "I—" His voice trailed off. "I... can't... John, he left me, and... and I don't know what to do..."

John crouched beside him, looking into his eyes, trying to gauge how much of what he was saying was the alcohol speaking, and how much was real. "I know, Greg. I know it hurts. But you’re not alone in this."

Before Greg could respond, his head lolled forward, and his body slumped further into the cushions.

"Greg?" John asked, but Greg didn’t stir.

With a sigh, John quickly checked his pulse. He was still alive, though barely coherent. Definitely not in a state to talk through what had happened.

John stood silently, his eyes flickering between Greg, who was now passed out on the couch, and the girl, who was still standing in the doorway.

He couldn’t help but feel a deep pit form in his stomach as he watched the way Greg seemed to surrender to the weight of his emotions, drowning himself in drink to escape it.

The girl who had been standing by, moved to the couch where Greg lay slumped.

She reached for a sheet folded nearby and carefully draped it over him.

John didn’t say a word. He stood still, processing everything

As she finished covering Greg with the sheet, she turned to John.

“Don’t worry about him,” she said softly, her eyes meeting John’s for the first time. “He’s seen to. He’ll sleep it off.”

John swallowed, unsure of how to respond. He’d seen many sides of Greg, but never like this—never so vulnerable.

He wasn’t used to someone else taking control of the situation, and for a moment, he felt helpless. His protective instincts kicked in, but this girl—seemed to have it under control. Still, something felt off, something John couldn’t quite place.

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

"Alright, enough of this," John muttered, his tone breaking the silence. He shook his head in disbelief. “Who the hell are you?”

Alexandra paused for a moment, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I think you know exactly who I am,” she replied, her voice soft but firm. She met his gaze without flinching, as if she had anticipated the question long before he asked it. “I’m Alexandra Lestrade. Daughter of Gregory Reginald Lestrade.”

John’s eyes widened, his mouth hanging open for a moment as the words sunk in. His mind struggled to process the information, the pieces not fitting together quite right. The silence in the room grew thicker.

“Why... why does no one know about you?” John finally asked, his voice low, almost a whisper, as if he feared the answer. “I’ve known Greg for years, and I’ve never even heard of you. How come you’ve been kept so...

Alex’s expression shifted for the first time, a shadow passing over her face. “There was an incident... when I was younger.” Her voice faltered for a brief moment, but she pushed through. “Someone threatened me. A man. He was dangerous, and he... he was terrified. He couldn’t protect me the way he wanted to, so he sent me to live with his parents. With my grandparents.”

John’s heart sank as he listened to her words. “He sent you away?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Why would he do that?”

She looked away for a moment, her gaze distant as she seemed to recall painful memories. "Because he couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to me. He’s always been protective, but when that man threatened me... he realized he couldn’t keep me safe here." Her voice quivered ever so slightly. “So he sent me away, to live with them in the countryside. He thought it was the only way I’d be safe.”

John swallowed hard, the weight of what she was saying sinking in. “He was terrified... for you?”

Alex nodded. “Yes. And I don’t blame him. He was just trying to do what was best for me. I don’t think he ever wanted anyone to know—didn’t want anyone to see how vulnerable he was. He’s always been so strong for everyone else.”

John was silent for a long moment, processing it all. He had always known Greg to be tough, the sort of man who would do anything for the people he cared about. But hearing this—knowing the fear that Greg must’ve felt all those years ago—it made John’s chest tighten with empathy. The pain of seeing his daughter threatened, the crushing guilt of being unable to protect her—it must’ve torn him apart.

“And no one knew?” John asked, his voice soft, filled with disbelief. “Not even Sherlock?”

She shook her head.

John’s mind raced, his thoughts darting between the realization of how much Greg had been carrying on his own and the fact that no one—not even Sherlock—had a clue about his daughter. It was a secret so well-kept that it was almost impossible to believe.

After a moment, John nodded slowly, his gaze softening. “I understand. And you’re... you’re here now?”

Alex's smile was faint but warm. “Yes. He was planning for a get-together, for me to meet his closest friends and his, now ex-boyfriend.

“Oh God,” John said quietly.

He’d been right: Greg needed to talk to Mycroft, and he needed to do it soon.

“Alright,” John said, standing up, “I’ll leave you to it for now. You can uhh... call me, if there's something or if you need any help.

She nodded, “I will, Dr. Watson."

Chapter Text

Sherlock barged into Mycroft's office, not bothering to knock. He was already beyond frustrated, his impatience written all over his face.

"Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, walking straight to his brother’s desk. "You need to visit Lestrade. Now."

Mycroft looked up from his paperwork, his expression cool but mildly annoyed. "Sherlock, I’m rather busy at the moment. Whatever it is, it can wait."

"No, it can't," Sherlock replied, his tone clipped. "Greg's been a mess since you broke up with him. It's affecting his work—he's completely distracted, and it's disrupting everything. You need to fix this."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Why on earth would I visit Lestrade? It’s his personal matter, not mine."

"Because," Sherlock said, stepping closer, "it’s interfering with his job, and by extension, mine. I can't work when he's in a state. You’ve broken him."

Mycroft's jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue further.

"Fine," Mycroft said reluctantly, standing up. "I’ll go. But only because you’ve made it clear I have no choice."

Sherlock smirked, nodding. "Good. He must at least be home by now. Get it over with."

Mycroft stared at his brother for a moment, his face unreadable, before nodding curtly. "I will."

With that, Sherlock turned and left, leaving Mycroft standing in his office, staring out the window with a troubled expression.

Mycroft stood before Greg's door, his hand hovering just inches from the knocker. His mind churned with doubt, the weight of his decision pressing on him. Why am I even here? he thought, his gaze flicking toward the door. Greg's fine. He's moved on. Clearly, he’s with someone else. A new... "girlfriend" or whatever.

Before his knuckles met the wood, a burst of feminine laughter echoed from inside the flat, followed by Greg’s deeper, warmer chuckle. Mycroft’s chest tightened. So, he’s already found someone

For a moment, he considered turning around. After all, Greg seemed perfectly content.

Reluctantly, he knocked.

Inside, the laughter died down, and a voice that made Mycroft’s heart skip a beat drifted through the door.

"Mon cœur, peux-tu ouvrir la porte ?" Greg's voice was soft, affectionate.

As the door creaked open, Mycroft’s gaze met a familiar face—but not the one he was expecting. Standing in front of him was a young woman, no older than twenty, with dark brown hair and eyes that seemed to look right through him.

Before any of them can say something, a voice from inside the flat called out, breaking the silence.

"Mon cœur, qui est-ce?" Greg’s voice was warm, affectionate—a stark contrast to the tension Mycroft was feeling.

The girl looked back toward the interior of the flat before replying. "It’s Mycroft."

The music playing softly in the background suddenly stopped. The silence that followed was suffocating. Mycroft held his breath, his heart racing, as he heard the shuffle of footsteps from the other room.

Greg appeared in the corridor, his eyes settling on Mycroft, but there was no warmth in them. The smile he had heard was gone, replaced by a mask of cold indifference.

Greg spoke, his voice flat but laced with a quiet anger.

"You’re not welcome here anymore."

The words cut through Mycroft like a blade. He swallowed, trying to keep his composure.

Greg stepped closer.

"Who is she?" Mycroft asked,he gestured to the girl still standing by the door.

Greg’s expression shifted, his jaw tightening.

"Why do you care, Mycroft?", he replied his tone sharp.

"I should've known, it wouldn't take you long to acquire-"

"It’s my daughter, Mycroft! Greg yelled, his voice sharp and full of emotion.

Mycroft froze. His mind was racing, trying to catch up to the realization.

"You have a daughter?" he asked.

Greg’s eyes flashed before Mycroft could say another word, Greg snapped, his words venomous. "Yes, Mycroft. I have a daughter. And it couldn’t have been a secret with you, could it?".

Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat. The sting of the accusation was sharper than anything he had expected.

He’d always prided himself on knowing everything about the people around him, but this—this was something he had missed.

The silence between them was suffocating. Mycroft opened his mouth, but the words failed him. There was nothing left to say.

Greg didn’t wait for him to speak. With an angry shove, he closed the distance between them, reaching for the door. "Good night, Mycroft," Greg spat, his eyes narrowing. "I never want to see you again."

Mycroft stood rooted to the spot, his heart hammering in his chest as the door slammed shut in his face.

Chapter Text

The sound of the door slamming shut echoed in the stillness, ringing in Greg’s ears long after Mycroft had gone.

He stood there, frozen, staring at the door as if willing it to open again, to undo the damage he’d just inflicted.

But it didn’t. The silence was deafening.

Greg took a deep breath, forcing his shoulders to relax, trying to steady the storm brewing inside him. I’m fine. I’m fine. He repeated the mantra to himself, but it felt hollow.

With a fake chuckle, he turned back to Alex, his eyes bloodshot but trying to force a smile. "Sorry about that," he said, his voice shaky, as though the words themselves were a mask he could barely hold up.

Alex didn’t say anything at first. She just watched him. Finally, she stepped closer.

"It’s okay, Dad," she said quietly.

For a long moment, Greg tried to keep the facade intact. He swallowed hard, willing the tears that were threatening to rise to stay at bay. But it was no use.

His hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the nearby table, his breath coming in uneven gasps. He could feel the walls inside him crumbling, his carefully constructed calm slipping through his fingers.

Then, in one broken motion, he collapsed onto the couch, his face contorting in pain as the tears spilled over.

Alex moved to his side immediately, her arms wrapping around him without hesitation. She didn’t speak, just held him as he broke down.

"I'm sorry," Greg whispered through his sobs, his voice barely audible. "I didn’t want you to see me like this… not like him. Not like that.."

But Alex simply tightened her grip on him, "It’s alright, Dad. Everything will be fine."

Chapter Text

Mycroft arrived at a cordoned-off crime scene, his polished shoes clicking against the pavement as he approached. Greg was standing with his team, clipboard in hand, directing officers. When their eyes met, Mycroft saw the immediate flicker of recognition, but it was quickly replaced by something colder, sharper.

"I need to speak with you," Mycroft asked.

Greg didn’t respond. Instead, he simply turned his attention back to his team, issuing instructions as though Mycroft didn’t exist. When Mycroft stepped closer, Greg gave him a withering look—a look that said everything without a single word.

Mycroft hesitated, then stepped back, knowing he would get nothing here.

Mycroft tracked Greg to a nearby café during his lunch break. Greg was seated alone, picking at a sandwich while glancing over some files. Mycroft approached, the air between them tense as he stood by the table.

"Gregory, we need to talk," Mycroft said, his tone quieter this time, almost pleading.

Greg didn’t look up. He closed his files, stood, and gathered his things without a word. Mycroft’s chest tightened as Greg walked past him, leaving the café entirely.

By mid-afternoon, Mycroft found himself at Scotland Yard, standing outside Greg’s office. He knocked lightly before stepping inside.

“Sherlock, I’m not in the mood,” Greg said irritably without looking up, his pen scribbling across a report.

“Gregory....” Mycroft said softly.

Greg froze, his pen hovering over the page. Slowly, he looked up, his expression darkening when he saw who it was. He set the pen down, leaning back in his chair as he crossed his arms.

“Get out,” Greg said coldly.

“Gregory, please—”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Greg interrupted, his voice rising, his anger barely restrained. “Do you not understand that? I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear you. I want you gone.”

“Greg—”

“You don’t get to do this!” Greg yelled, standing now, his fists clenched at his sides. “You don’t get to break me and then just show up whenever it’s convenient for you!”

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond, but Greg cut him off. “Get. Out. Now.”

Mycroft stood there for a moment, the weight of Greg’s words heavy in the air. Then, without another word, he turned and left, the door clicking softly behind him.

Greg collapsed back into his chair, burying his face in his hands as the anger gave way to the ache he had been trying so desperately to ignore.

Chapter Text

Greg pushed the door open. His entire body ached with exhaustion, but the sight of home was enough to give him the faintest flicker of relief.

“Mon coeur!” he called out loudly, forcing warmth into his voice despite his fatigue. “I’m home!”

There was the sound of light footsteps from the kitchen, and then Alex appeared in the doorway, her smile lighting up the dim space.

“Hey, Dad,” she said, and before he could say more, she stepped forward to hug him tightly.

Greg leaned into it, wrapping his arms around her as if drawing strength from her presence.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said as she pulled back, her tone cheerful.

Greg gave her a tired smile, ruffling her hair. “You’re the best, kiddo.”

He walked toward the hall, but he froze in his tracks when he saw who was sitting there, waiting for him.
Mycroft, immaculately dressed as always, rose slowly from the armchair, his expression unreadable.

Greg’s breath hitched, and he quickly took a deep one to steady himself, his face tightening as he fought to keep his emotions in check.

He clenched his fists briefly, willing himself to stay composed, before finally stepping forward, his eyes locked onto Mycroft’s. He didn’t break the gaze as he called out.

“Alex!”

She appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

“What,” Greg asked, his voice low but firm, “is he doing here?”

Alex opened her mouth to respond, but Greg held up a hand, cutting her off. His gaze softened briefly as he turned toward her.

“No, scratch that. We’ll talk about it later,” he said, his tone gentler now but still strained.

He turned back to Mycroft, his face hardening once more, and took a step forward. “You need to leave,” Greg said coldly, his voice steady despite the anger simmering underneath. “I would like to have a peaceful dinner with my daughter without you ruining it.”

Mycroft's hands clasped in front of him as he spoke, his voice low and steady, but tinged with something Greg hadn’t often heard from him: pleading.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said softly, “please. I just want to talk to you.”

“Oh, you want to talk now, do you?” Greg said “And what exactly is there to talk about, Mycroft? Hmm?” He took a step closer.

“Our relationship? Because from where I’m standing, it’s already run its course. There’s nothing left to talk about.”

Mycroft flinched ever so slightly at the words.

“Gregory, I’m sorry—” Mycroft began, his voice breaking slightly, but he was cut off.

“Save it!” Greg yelled, “I’ll be back,” he added sharply, spinning on his heel.

Without another glance at Mycroft, Greg stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

Greg stood on the bridge, leaning heavily against the railing, his eyes fixed on the dark, rippling water below. The cold wind bit at his face, but he barely felt it. His mind was consumed with a storm of emotions he couldn’t control.

How pathetic do I have to be to let myself get like this? he thought bitterly. He clenched his fists, hating the tears that threatened to form.

He hated Mycroft—hated how the man could unravel him with a single look, a single word. He didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to see him.

But god, I love him, Greg thought, his chest aching with the truth. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to hate Mycroft. Not even a little. Not even after everything.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke his thoughts. He stiffened but didn’t turn, his breath hitching when a familiar figure came into view in his peripheral vision.

Mycroft stopped beside him without a word and gently draped his own coat over Greg’s shoulders, the warmth and scent of it an immediate comfort. Then, Mycroft moved to stand next to him, silent but present, as the cold wind continued to whip around them.

Chapter Text

Greg stayed quiet for a moment, staring down at the water. When he finally spoke, his voice was small, breaking with the weight of his emotions.

“What do you want?”

Mycroft flinched at the sound of it, the raw pain in Greg’s voice cutting through him. Seeing Greg like this—hurt, broken, and knowing he was the cause—made Mycroft’s chest ache.

“I...” Mycroft hesitated, searching for the right words. “I came to apologize, Gregory. For... for misinterpreting the message I saw on your phone.”

Greg turned his head slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his face through the tears. “What message?”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “The one from ‘Mon Cœur.’ I assumed...” He looked away, ashamed. “I assumed it was from... someone else. That you had another partner.”

Greg stared at him, the confusion deepening as the weight of Mycroft’s words slowly sank in.

Greg’s expression shifted from confusion to disbelief, and then to something darker—anger.

His entire body tensed as he took a step back, his eyes narrowing, his fists clenched at his sides.

"Really?" Greg’s voice cracked with frustration, the hurt evident in every word. "How could you? How could the smartest person on earth—you—think that?"

He didn’t wait for an answer, his voice rising with each syllable.

"How could you doubt me like that, Mycroft?" His chest heaved.

"Cheating has always been a strict boundary for me. A line I will never cross! How could you even think for one second that I would?"

His words hit Mycroft like a physical blow, and for a moment, he could only stand there, speechless, as Greg’s eyes burned.

Mycroft took a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to the ground. “It wasn’t you, Gregory,” he said softly. “It was me. My own insecurities... they stopped me from confronting you.”
Greg glared at him.

“I was afraid,” Mycroft continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “Afraid of being hurt. Afraid that if I asked and it was true, I wouldn’t be able to bear it. So, I thought it would be easier to leave. To keep my pride intact, no matter how much it tore me apart.”

Greg’s jaw tightened, the words landing heavily. But before he could speak, Mycroft raised his head slightly, meeting Greg’s furious gaze.

“Why didn’t you ever mention Alexandra?” Mycroft asked, his voice tinged with both hurt and confusion. “I had no idea you had a daughter, Gregory. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Chapter Text

“Because I was terrified!” Greg yelled, his voice trembling as he took a step closer to Mycroft, his face contorted with anguish.

Mycroft’s breath hitched at the raw pain in Greg’s voice, but he said nothing, letting Greg speak.

“Fifteen years ago,” Greg began, his voice cracking as he gestured emphatically, “after I’d just been divorced, I got full custody of Alex. She was mine, Mycroft. My little girl. My whole world. I was the happiest bloody man on earth.”

Greg let out a bitter, shaky laugh, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “My ex-wife? She took almost everything—every asset I had. But she couldn’t take the one thing that mattered the most.”

His voice hardened, his words spilling out like a dam breaking. “Then, while I was working on a case—a big case—against the Black Vipers, I got a call.” He looked directly at Mycroft, his gaze piercing.

“From daycare. Two people were shot dead,” Greg said, his voice faltering as he took a deep, shaky breath. “And my daughter—my Alexandra—was gone.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened in shock, but he still didn’t interrupt.

“I was so close to getting that gang convicted,” Greg continued, “But that didn’t matter. Do you know what helplessness feels like, Mycroft? Real, soul-crushing helplessness?”

He let the question hang in the air for a moment before continuing. “They took me off the case. Said I couldn’t be objective because she was the victim. They were right. I was useless—completely bloody useless. All I could do was wait.”

Greg’s voice broke, the tears finally falling. “For fifteen days, I didn’t know if she was alive or dead. Letters came—taunting me, threatening me. My world came crashing down. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I was nothing.”

He took another breath, trying to steady himself. “When they found her... she wasn’t hurt, thank God. But I couldn’t risk it happening again. So I sent her to live with her grandparents.”

Greg looked away, his shoulders slumping. “I thought it was the best way to keep her safe. To keep her away from me and everything I could bring down on her.”

Greg’s breaths were ragged as he turned back to Mycroft, his eyes red but blazing with intensity.

“How I could've told you?” he demanded, his voice breaking but resolute.

“ When all I’ve ever done is to protect her. She’s my life, Mycroft. My heart. Everything I hold dear in this world is her.”

Greg’s voice cracked slightly, but he kept going, his tone gaining strength. “God knows what I’d do to protect her. Anything. Everything. So don’t you dare call me a coward for keeping her safe—for keeping her away from everything that could hurt her.”

Mycroft opened his mouth, but Greg cut him off, his voice steady now, full of certainty. “She’s my daughter, Mycroft. My daughter. You don’t get to question the lengths I go to for her.”

The words hung heavily in the air, both men locked in silence for a moment. Mycroft’s usually composed face softened.

“I’m sorry, Gregory,” Mycroft said, “I’ve been an utter fool. I can never take back the hurt I’ve caused, but I swear to you, I will do anything—anything—to earn your forgiveness.”

Greg stared at him, his lips pressed into a tight line, tears threatening to spill again. Mycroft took a step closer.

“And I promise,” Mycroft added softly, his tone more tender than Greg had ever heard, “to protect you both—to the best of my abilities. You and Alexandra.”

Greg didn’t move as Mycroft slowly reached out, wrapping his arms around him. For a moment, Greg stood rigid, his breath hitching.

Then, with a broken sob, he melted into Mycroft’s embrace, clutching him tightly as he cried against his chest.
Mycroft held him close, one hand gently stroking Greg’s back as the storm of emotions finally broke.

Greg pushed the door open, his steps heavier now with emotional exhaustion. Mycroft followed closely behind, his presence quieter but steady.

“Alex!” Greg called out, his voice echoing through the house. “We’re back!”

Silence greeted them.

Greg frowned, his heart skipping a beat. He called again, louder this time. “Alexandra! Where are you?”

Still nothing.

Panic began to creep into his chest as he hurried further inside, checking the kitchen, the sitting room.
“Alex?” His voice grew sharper, a tremor betraying his worry.

Mycroft’s eyes scanned the space as he moved, his usually calm demeanor cracking as unease set in.

Greg bolted toward the staircase, rushing up to check the bedrooms. He threw open doors, calling her name again and again. Each empty room only added to his mounting dread.

Finally, Greg returned to the hall, his face pale, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He turned to Mycroft, his voice strained.

“Mycroft. Where’s Alex?” he asked, as the realization dawning on them both at once.

The house was empty.