Even though Greg had known Sherlock was alive for several days now, he wasn't prepared for the sight of him sitting not ten feet away in an armchair. He looked exactly the same as Greg remembered: He was as impeccably dressed as ever, his hair just as wild as ever, and he looked completely, perfectly fine. It was as if none of it had happened -- except for the fact that he was watching John with more concern on his face than Greg ever remembered seeing.

John had a dressing gown wrapped around him and was slumped down in a chair opposite Sherlock. His arms were folded across his chest and the expression on his face was one of deep anger. He was staring straight ahead, not looking at Sherlock, and it was clear that the conversation they'd just had was not a particularly pleasant one.

And there was Greg, in the middle of it all, stark bollocks naked.

The first thing that flitted across his mind was that he ought to put the kettle on, though that might be a bit awkward, considering he'd have to turn his bare arse to everyone to do it. He should probably duck into the bathroom or turn right around and go back to bed and leave them to their fight, but his feet didn't seem to want to cooperate.

There was nothing else for it.

"Morning," he said. They both turned to look at him. John's eyebrows rose and Sherlock nearly did a double-take.

No amount of tea would fix this -- the situation was just too fucking surreal to pretend it was normal. Sherlock Holmes, whose death Greg had held a press conference about not two months prior, was alive and well and sitting in their flat, formerly his flat, and apparently trying very hard to keep his gaze well above Greg's waist.

Greg tried for a smile. "If I'm interrupting, I could just--"

"No, I'm done." John stood and shot one more glare at Sherlock before leaving the room. His footsteps were unusually loud as he climbed the stairs, and he closed his bedroom door with more force than was strictly necessary.

Greg and Sherlock were both silent for a moment.

"Went well, did it?" Greg asked.

"I've no idea what I thought coming here would accomplish." Sherlock stood and began pacing the room, shaking his head. "He won't listen to me."

"He'll come around. He needs some time."

Sherlock turned to look at him with an appraising expression. "Aren't you angry with me as well?"

Greg leaned against the back of the chair Sherlock had just vacated. "I can't say I completely understand why you did what you did, but I do know how undercover work goes."

"Perhaps he'll listen to you, then."

"I'm not taking anyone's side here. I'm just saying that John feels betrayed right now, and that's not something he'll be able to let go of after a single conversation."

Frustration emanated from Sherlock at that. "Why does he feel betrayed? Doesn't he understand that I couldn't tell him what we were planning, that it was necessary for his own protection?"

Greg pursed his lips, trying to decide how to explain in a way Sherlock might understand. "He thinks you chose Mycroft over him."

"That's preposterous."

"Is it? You and Mycroft planned this for months, and you kept it from him the entire time."

"I keep quite a lot from John. I always have. Why should this be different?"

And there it was, that Sherlock logic that made people want to punch him. Greg shook his head. "How many times have you leapt off a building to your apparent death in front of him, prior to this one?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he turned away. "Coming here was clearly a mistake."

"How did you come here, anyway?"

"Mycroft arranged a car in the middle of the night, when I wouldn't be seen."

"And you waited for John to wake up?"

"No, I woke him." Sherlock plucked his phone from his pocket and scrolled the display with one thumb. "Did you know that you snore?"

Greg clenched his jaw. "I'm aware. Look, you can't go now. You can't leave it like this."

Sherlock looked up from his phone. "John made it perfectly clear that the discussion was over, and perhaps our friendship along with it. Staying any longer is futile." His voice was steady as he spoke, but his eyes were not, and Greg saw the pain underneath as clear as anything.

He took three steps forward and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Go upstairs. Talk to him."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled, as if the very idea was incomprehensible. "Why?"

"He's angry because he loves you. And I know you love him as well, though you show it in massively fucked up ways."

"He doesn't want me here."

"He does."

"He said he was done and he left the room in dramatic fashion."

"He needed a bit of a break. It doesn't mean he wants you to leave."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "Oh, know him so very well, do you?"

"In fact, I do. If you go up there now, you can still apologize and make it up to him."

"We're well beyond apologies at this point." Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment; when he opened them again they were focused on Greg's shoulder. "Mycroft said he'd moved on. I suppose I had to see it for myself to believe it." There was a hard edge to his voice and Greg could almost see him slipping into I don't care mode.

He grasped Sherlock's shoulders and only barely resisted the urge to shake him. "Don't be an idiot. You need him and he needs you."

Sherlock snorted. "I thought he had you now."

"He does have me, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't need you as well." It was true, he realized, even as the words came out of his mouth. John needed both of them, and that was fine, it truly was.

Sherlock's gaze flitted over Greg's face. "And what about you? What do you need?"

Greg's hands flattened against the plane of Sherlock's chest and smoothed down over the fabric. "What I need is irrelevant right now."

"You're in love with him."

"So are you."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up. "Irrelevant."

"Wrong. He loves you."

"He loves you as well."

"Then there's nothing to worry about, is there?"

"You didn't see him this morning." Sherlock's expression darkened and he shook his head, and Greg could see the façade begin to crumble just a bit. "I had often imagined what it would be like to see him again, but it was not at all… pleasant. He's been angry with me before, but not like that." His eyes met Greg's again.

They were standing very close together, Greg realized, close enough that Greg could feel the heat of Sherlock's body against his bare skin. It was odd: even though he was the one who was naked, he didn't feel particularly exposed.

"He'll come around. Look, I've been here for more than a month, and I know what he's been through. These last few days, he's been so excited to have you back in his life."

"Don't patronize me. Though I generally choose to ignore it, I do know when I'm not wanted."

Greg reached out and pressed his palm against Sherlock's jaw. "What makes you think you're not wanted?"

Sherlock's cheeks flushed just slightly, enough that Greg could feel the rush of warmth under his fingers, and his gaze drifted down to Greg's mouth and back up again. Greg didn't hesitate, didn't even think: he leaned forward those last few inches and kissed Sherlock with a fierceness that surprised them both. Sherlock froze against him for a split second before moving one hand around the back of Greg's skull, pulling him closer, the other hand on his shoulder, sliding around to his bare back. Both of them needed a shave, but Greg didn't care; it was rough and wet and so very different from kissing John.

John. This was about John.

"Right," Greg said as he pulled out of the kiss. "You should go upstairs. Right now."

Sherlock stared at him a moment more, then nodded and turned away. Greg listened to his footsteps as he ascended the stairs, heard a soft knock on John's door and then the sound of the door opening and closing again.

Greg took a deep breath. He hadn't intended for that kiss to happen, but since it had -- well, it was all out on the table now, wasn't it?

He showered and dressed, then made coffee and waited another fifteen minutes. He didn't hear any shouting; in fact, he didn't hear anything at all. Perhaps they were working it out. Or perhaps they were sitting there and glaring at each other in silence.

He pulled two mugs from a shelf and filled both with coffee. He wasn't sure how Sherlock took his, but it probably didn't matter at the moment. He carried both mugs up to the top of the stairs and paused outside the door. He leaned in close to listen, to work out if he was interrupting.

It was quiet for a moment, and then he heard a sound, and then another, and he felt his cheeks heat when he realized what it was.

He crept back down the stairs and set the coffee mugs on the table, then turned to lean back against it. He put a hand over his mouth for a moment, not sure how he should feel. He'd known it would happen eventually, of course. And he had, after all, just snogged Sherlock whilst naked and then sent the man up to his boyfriend's bedroom. Their boyfriend's bedroom.

Oh, God.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, and then nodded to himself. Right. This was… quite bizarre, but really, it was fine. John had two men in his life who liked to work mad hours and couldn't commit to a normal relationship, but who genuinely loved him, who would do -- and in Sherlock's case, had done -- anything for him. Sherlock and Greg together added up to one fucking fantastic boyfriend.

And that wasn't necessarily a one-way street, was it? He touched his fingertips to his lips. That kiss had been a long time coming, but now it was out there, and perhaps there could be something between him and Sherlock as well.

He wondered if Sherlock remembered that strange kiss from years ago, the one that had seared itself into Greg's memory in that way random and unexpected events so often do. Kissing him just now had been nothing like that memory, oddly enough. Of course, he hadn't known Sherlock at all back then; he'd just been another case, a brilliant, troubled young man whom Greg feared wouldn't make it to thirty, one Greg was tired of finding in the gutter. He'd had no idea how much that young man would weave his way into Greg's life.

And perhaps now…

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Later. All of that could be worked out later. Right now, he had some work to do, and he'd best get started while John and Sherlock were otherwise occupied. He unplugged his phone from its charger and headed down the stairs and out the front door, then off in the direction of the Tube stop.

First to Scotland Yard. It was time.

*****

"He's expecting you. Go straight on in." The young woman smiled at him as if she knew his face well and had seen him there dozens of times before, but he had no idea if he'd ever met her. He disliked the feeling; he generally made a point of knowing the names of the people who kept offices such as this one running.

Of course, this was the security service, and he supposed the point was to feel a bit uncomfortable.

"Thanks." He smiled warmly at her before walking past her to an ornate wooden door. Mycroft was seated behind his desk inside the graciously appointed office, frowning at something inside a file folder. Greg opened his mouth to greet him, but Mycroft spoke before he had a chance.

"Have a seat, Detective Inspector. I'll be right with you."

Mycroft didn't look up as Greg settled into one of the incredibly comfortable leather chairs in front of the desk. "No hurry. I appreciate you fitting me in on short notice."

Mycroft closed the file folder and set it aside. "I trust it was a pleasant reunion this morning?"

Greg paused. "I wouldn't say it was particularly pleasant, no."

"Considering that he's yet to text me for a car, I'll assume it generally went well." Mycroft fishing for details? It seemed a bit beneath him, but then he probably felt out of the loop after the events of the last few days.

Greg smiled tightly. "Depends on what you mean by well, but yes, I suppose so."

Something flickered across Mycroft's face for a moment before his expression shifted to neutral. "My apologies. I wasn't meaning to imply--"

"Please, there's nothing to apologize for," Greg said, raising a hand to cut off that train of conversation before it went in a direction he wasn't ready to go. "It's all fine."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose a bit, and Greg reckoned he'd worked it out just from the way Greg had blinked, or something. Jesus, between the two Holmes brothers, Moriarty didn't stand a chance.

"I'm here purely on business," Greg continued. "I've just come from Scotland Yard; I'll be back at work on Monday morning. Considering the circumstances, I've decided to cut my leave a week short."

"The circumstances?"

"We both know that John and Sherlock will be together in whatever happens next. You're going to need that liaison at the Yard in place as soon as possible."

The smile that appeared on Mycroft's face was as genuine as Greg could ever remember seeing. "Very well. We have a few days to bring you up to speed. I've pushed through some paperwork to get you the clearances you'll need. I've exempted you from most of the mandatory training."

Greg couldn't help but smile at that. "Thanks."

Mycroft paused to open a drawer and flip through its contents. He pulled another folder from the desk and handed it to Greg. "The standard personnel paperwork, contract, et cetera. I assumed you wouldn't have time to deal with HR at SIS on top of everything else."

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Not quite. There's still the problem of what to do about John."

"Ah." Greg knew the rest without Mycroft needing to explain. John was a civilian and even with his current security clearance, he wasn't beholden to any agency. He wasn't anyone's responsibility, nor did he have any responsibility to anyone else.

"The role it would be best for him to play is one he likely won't accept."

"Which is?"

"Continue as he's been doing. Blog about finding missing dogs and the like. Maintain the story that Sherlock is dead."

"And keep playing the grieving boyfriend while the rest of us chase down Moriarty? Not bloody likely he'll agree to that."

Mycroft's pressed his lips together for a long moment. "Moriarty is dead."

Greg had to clench his jaw to keep himself from gaping at Mycroft. Something prickled at the back of his neck, as if this was something he should have known already. He nodded and exhaled slowly. "When?"

"Six weeks ago. He shot himself in the head on the roof of Bart's, just before Sherlock jumped."

Greg swallowed. "Right. So…" He paused, uncertain how to phrase the question, or whether it was even something he had the right to ask.

"The threat at that point wasn't from Moriarty alone. There were other lives in danger. Sherlock's death was a bargain to protect them."

Greg felt the blood drain from his face. That meant John -- it had to. Moriarty had threatened John, and Sherlock had been prepared to sacrifice his own life to protect him. It had been a choice: Sherlock's life or John's, and Sherlock had chosen John's. But of course, somehow he'd found a way around it and hadn't actually had to die, but whoever was working with Moriarty didn't know that, did they? Jesus. Did that mean John was still in danger?

He closed his eyes for a moment, certain Mycroft would see his thoughts as clearly as if they were written on his face. He took a steadying breath and then looked up again. "The situation is quite different from what I'd expected, then."

"And far more delicate than you might imagine."

He nodded. "I take it you want me to handle John."

Mycroft smiled. "Handle is a bit of a strong word for it. Sherlock understands the situation and has likely explained the need for discretion."

That probably explained the fight Greg had walked in on that morning. He imagined John's response to all of this involved multiple variations on the words fuck and no.

"I think he has." They must have come to an understanding of some sort, considering what he'd nearly walked in on upstairs. And here he was, in the middle of that. Greg nodded his head, though his mind was reeling. "I’ve got four days before I'm back at the Yard. What do you want me to do?"

Mycroft pressed a button on his desk. "Mathilda, hold all calls and reschedule any remaining meetings and appointments for the next two hours."

"Yes, sir."

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingertips against his chin, and Greg smiled grimly. It was on.

*****

All done and heading home. Want me to pick up something to eat on the way?

Greg slipped his phone back into his pocket and hoped the subtext of please don't being having sex on the kitchen table when I get there was clear. He was nearly at the entrance to the Tube station when his phone beeped.

Yes, thanks. Just for you and me. Sherlock won't eat anything.

He was surprised to find John alone in the sitting room when he returned with Chinese take-away. John was curled up on the sofa watching television, dressed in loose jeans and a faded t-shirt and looking strangely younger than he usually did.

"Everything all right?"

John shrugged and muted the television. "Sherlock's asleep. Has been for hours."

Greg tried very hard to keep his mind from presenting multiple scenarios of just how Sherlock might have worn himself out. "Just us for dinner then. Right."

They ate straight out of containers, sitting on the sofa. Neither of them spoke for several minutes, and at last the silence became too much for Greg to bear.

"So you two made up, I take it?"

John's cheeks turned a bit pink and he stared down into the carton of lo mein as if it were completely fascinating. "Ah, well… yes. I suppose we did."

"Are you still angry with him?"

"Yes." John didn't look up; he took a bite and chewed, and Greg waited. "I mean hell, how many different scenarios did we have going about why he jumped and why he went along with Moriarty's bullshit story and tried to tell me he was a fake?"

"Half a dozen, at least."

"None of them were close to the truth, and you know why?" John looked up at him. "Because we forgot that Sherlock is… well, Sherlock."

Greg couldn't help but smile. "I suppose we did."

"Six months." John shook his head. "I'm used to him leaving out important details. He does that all the time. I'm used to him occasionally being callous, even cruel, but always before, he never left me hanging for long. He'd always make sure I was okay. Until this time." He looked away.

Greg sighed and rubbed a hand in his hair. "Maybe this time was different because the stakes were so much higher. Mycroft said they had agreed to bring you in a few months from now anyway. Sherlock must have decided he couldn't wait that long -- or that you couldn't."

John nodded, frowning. "I know. I just…"

Greg took a deep breath. "Did he tell you why he had to jump?"

"Yes." John turned back to him, his eyes searching Greg's for a moment. "I knew special ops guys in the army who had to keep secrets, whose families were regularly lied to about where they were and what they were doing. Even when one of those guys was killed, the family wouldn't get the truth." He paused for a moment. "So I do understand, of course. I'm grateful that I finally got the truth. And a bit surprised, of course. I didn't know… I mean, I'd throw myself in front of a bullet for him in a heartbeat, but I suppose I never thought he'd do the same. So I couldn't stay furious at him after that. Pissed off, yes, but… well, there's something about someone so directly saving your life that makes you want to reward them." He smiled.

"That much I overheard this morning."

"Oh, God. We tried to be quiet. I'm so sorry if--"

"No, it's fine." Greg couldn't help grinning. "It was weird, I'll admit. I thought I'd be horribly jealous, but I was actually rather happy for you both."

John looked up, clearly relieved. "Okay, good. That's good."

"I don't have any real experience with this sort of thing. I don't know how to proceed from here, but I think that we have to be honest with each other."

"Yes, absolutely." John set his carton on the floor next to the sofa and turned to face Greg.

"I kissed him this morning," Greg said, and stuffed a rather large bite of chicken into his mouth.

John stared at him for a moment. "He didn't mention that."

Greg had a moment to plan his next words while he chewed and swallowed. "Does it bother you?"

"No, not at all. So does that mean you're… interested in…" He waved a hand in the air.

"Yes." Greg set his container aside and settled back against his end of the sofa. This conversation was going to require lubrication of a nonsexual sort. "Do you want a beer?"

"I'll get them," John said, and scuttled off to the kitchen. He returned with two opened bottles and pushed Greg's thighs apart so he could sit between them. He leaned back against Greg's chest and held out one of the bottles. "Tell me more about what yes means."

Greg took a swig from his bottle and let one hand slide down over John's chest. "I've no idea, but I think I'm open to just about anything."

"So you and me, me and him, you and him, and…" John's free hand stroked Greg's thigh. "Maybe the three of us?"

That was quite a thought. Greg took another drink. "What does Sherlock want?"

"What doesn't Sherlock want?"

Greg laughed. "Have you ever been in a threesome before?"

"Yes. There was a girl I dated when I was at college who was rather adventurous. We invited other people to bed with us a few times."

"Men or women?"

"Both. That was when I worked out that I was bisexual, actually. I liked sex with men much more than I'd expected." John took a drink from his bottle and then grinned up at Greg. "What about you?"

"I've never done anything like that. I've only the slightest idea of how it all might work." He trailed his fingers up the warm skin of John's neck and John sighed.

"Are you trying to distract me?"

"Oh, is that all it takes to distract you?" Greg did it again and watched John shiver against his fingers. He wondered where Sherlock liked to be touched -- and if John was up for another round tonight. "Exactly how many orgasms have you had in the last twenty-four hours?"

John laughed. "Two. Honestly, Sherlock and I mostly talked. And then he slept for a good part of the day." He closed his eyes, silent for a moment while Greg's fingers traced lines on the flushed skin of his neck. "What did you do today?"

Greg entwined his fingers with John's. "I went to the Yard and filled out some paperwork. And then I met with Mycroft this afternoon."

"I was a bit worried you'd run off because you were angry, to be honest."

Greg smiled and squeezed his hand. "No, nothing like that. I'm going back to work on Monday." John's eyes opened again and he looked up at Greg. "It's fine, there isn't a problem. Knowing the two of you, I reckoned things would start to move forward quickly. The best place for me to be is with the Met when the shit starts to hit the fan."

John exhaled and nodded.

Greg took a deep breath. "Mycroft told me that Moriarty is dead, has been for weeks."

"Apparently it's his body in Sherlock's grave."

Greg winced at the thought of the half-dozen times John had gone to the cemetery, always alone, returning pale and withdrawn. "Oh, that's fucked up. I'm sorry."

"I'm not. After all, he's the one who's dead. And apparently my job for the next few weeks is to continue with the charade while everyone else is being useful." He sounded bitter, yet resigned.

"I'm sorry about that as well."

John sat up and turned to smile at him. "You'll have to make it up to me with lots of fantastic sex."

Greg pulled him into a kiss. John's tongue was cool against his and his lips were gentle, and Greg was reminded again of how different it had been kissing Sherlock. He turned his head out of the kiss as a thought occurred to him.

"Hang on, you're just going to take it, then? To do what Mycroft and Sherlock tell you to do?"

John's mouth was working magic on Greg's left ear. "Yes."

"And?"

John leaned back and smiled at him. "And what?"

Greg gave him a long look. "I know you better than that, John Watson. You'll be miserable sitting here and blogging about lost dogs while there's action going on out there."

"I'll deal with it."

"How?"

"Shut up and kiss me."

An hour later John had dozed off against Greg's chest in the middle of watching some costume drama he'd insisted Greg would enjoy. (He hadn't.) Greg flipped through channels with the volume low, looking for something other than news to watch. It was nearly dark outside, and the telly cast an eerie blue glow over the room.

Greg turned his head at the sound of the door opening. Sherlock stood there in the dim light, completely dressed in clothes that didn't look the slightest bit rumpled. He crossed to the sofa and smiled, apparently unsurprised by the sight of John asleep in Greg's arms.

"There's a car on its way. Tell him I said goodnight, will you?"

Greg shifted slightly, hoping John might wake up. He had a feeling John would not be happy with the idea of Sherlock leaving while he was still asleep. "Okay. If we need to contact you--"

"I'll be in touch. Mycroft said he would organize some sort of secure line, perhaps locked mobiles."

"No more secret codes, then?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Horribly inefficient and not nearly as secure as needed."

Greg smirked. "You got yourself banned from that website again, didn't you?"

"No. That requires three warnings; I've only got two at the moment with this username. I'm rather fond of it and I'd hate to lose it."

Greg shook his head. "Doesn't it drive you mad, seeing all the things they write about you?"

A smile curved at Sherlock's lips. "On the contrary, I find it all very interesting."

Before Greg could ask him to explain that particular line of reasoning, John shifted against him and opened his eyes.

"Hey. Leaving?"

"Yes. Back to work. I'll be in touch tomorrow."

"I heard. Mycroft, mobiles, or something. Come here." John held out a hand.

To Greg's surprise, Sherlock immediately stepped forward and took it. He sat on the very edge of the sofa cushion, his eyes locked on John's face, and they stared at each other for a moment. Greg felt like an intruder, but he wasn't sure how to extricate himself from the situation.

"Thank you," John said at last.

Sherlock looked relieved and immediately leaned forward to kiss him. One of John's hands threaded into Sherlock's hair and held him there for several seconds in a kiss that clearly contained quite a lot of emotion. There was a sound then that startled all three of them -- Sherlock's phone had buzzed in his pocket.

"That'll be the car," Sherlock said as he pressed his forehead against John's. "I wish I could stay."

"So do we," John said with a sly glance at Greg.

Greg shot a helpless look at Sherlock, whose eyes had just narrowed at him. He couldn't think of anything to say in response to that.

"Go on then," John said, and Sherlock stood. "Be careful."

Sherlock smiled and crossed to the hat stand by the door on which he'd hung his coat. "I always am."

"You should've kissed him," John said after he'd gone.

Greg laughed. "There will be plenty of time for that."

John yawned and stretched. "Mind if I sleep with you tonight? My bed is a disaster."

"Is sleep the only item on the agenda?"

John grinned. "There's an agenda? What, are we a committee now?"

"Three is the minimum number for a committee, isn't it?"

"If you start quoting Robert's Rules at me, your cock will definitely go unsucked tonight."

"Shutting up now."

John pressed him down into the sofa cushions, his fingers already working at the buttons of Greg's shirt. "Good."

Greg grinned. John Watson's orgasm count was definitely going to go up tonight.

*****