This is is the literary equivalent of a doodle-a doodle I have sketched when, in all honesty, I should have been doing some other things. It's a character study of Mycroft, Lestrade, and Sherlock-a dialogue between the two older men in a pre-canon past. I used it mainly to consider all three characters, and to consider some of the ways Mycroft and Sherlock might have become who they are-and where Greg Lestrade might fit in that. It's speculative, and it's not, in the normal sense, a story. The tone is very much a matter of singin' the blues.

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"They weren't bad parents," Mycroft says to Lestrade as they gulp tea between times when Sherlock is awake. "Far from it, though I know some of my subordinates prefer to believe I was raised by man-eating tigers or something similarly catastrophic."

His tone is apologetic. After the past days of fighting Sherlock's withdrawal battle at Mycroft's side, dealing with Sherlock's sweats and pain and endless rage and terror, Lestrade thinks he has come to understand why: it's the same mournful sense of inadequacy he finds in so many families facing devastation and loss—a sense of shame that all the good intentions, all the worthy efforts on the part of all the family still came to this. "It happens in all kinds of families," he says. "All sorts."

Mycroft nods. He's dressed elegantly, but by no means in the bespoke suits Lestrade had associated with him previously. Instead he wears sturdy, if beautifully cut, duck trousers, a high-quality white short-sleeved t-shirt, with a well-worn, but equally well-maintained tweed jacket that he puts on between rounds with Sherlock. He clearly had no illusions about what it would be like to shepherd his brother through this. But, then, he'd already made it clear that he'd done this before.

Lestrade had felt a horrified grief for him when he mentioned that the first time had been when Mycroft was only twenty-four, mere months after his father's death. Lestrade already knows enough about the family history to know that Mycroft had been struggling to integrate his career and his inheritance, to take responsibility for a mourning mother. Part of him had wanted to pummel Sherlock for piling responsibility for an addicted brother on top of that. When he'd said so, though, Mycroft had merely shrugged.

"I'm afraid that time was so full of things to grieve over that Sherlock's 'little problem' was almost too easy to lose myself in. IRA bombs, AIDS. And a heat-wave—I remember that. So hot and horrible. In comparison with all that, Sherlock seemed like something to hope for. Of course, that was before I knew how much harder it is to make an addict stay clean than is to get him clean in the first place. I was honestly naive enough to think we were coming through the worst."

Lestrade understands Sherlock's rage at this man—a rage he had witnessed weeks before he knew the man it was aimed at. He suspects it would be hard for most young men to accept control and discipline from an older brother, these days: it's not the middle-ages, when Mycroft might well have been Sherlock's liege lord. Even in those days, a younger son might well have ventured out on his own to avoid the need for that sort of submission. Lestrade has no doubt that Sherlock would never have coped well with the discipline of being under anyone's command, even before he was idiot enough to dump cocaine into his system. After? Impossible.

Understanding Sherlock isn't the same thing as agreeing with him, though. Over time he's concluded that the young arse is luckier than he has any right to expect. It's the rare addict who's blessed with a brother with the spine, the resources, and the absolute dedication to fight for him, over and over again, no matter what it takes. At this stage in his life he's seen this hell from all sides—and having seen, he's more than a little in awe of Sherlock's older brother.

Mycroft is still brooding over his parents, though. "It wasn't their fault, really. They tried. They tried much harder than many parents of their class...and what they didn't attempt themselves, they paid quite well to have done by those better qualified than they. I know people like acting as though artisanal parenting is better than hiring good help, but the truth is skill and kindness can be better than good intentions and a complete lack of talent. We were well cared for."

Lestrade understood that all too well. "Mmmm. I was damned happy to find a guitar teacher for my daughter—and that's in spite of at least being able to get through a better than average attempt at Stairway to Heaven. The first time I tried to teach her, she ended up crying and I ended up going through three pints down at the pub before I was ready to come home."

"Exactly," Mycroft says. He pours himself a new mug of tea, and asks Lestrade with a glance whether he'd like his cup topped off, too. When it's declined, he leans over the sugar and milk as he prepares his tea.

"The real problem," he says, sadly, "is that children live in a world the adults around them never see, and believe things their parents never imagined. I'm quite sure they never wanted us to think we were disappointments, and yet both of Sherlock and I came to much the same conclusion. And it was much later that I realized that they'd neither of them have thought pure reason and discipline was the correct cure for the symptoms of being children. I'm afraid I passed that delusion on to Sherlock, never knowing how much worse it would be for him than it was for me. I didn't understand then how much he was given to extremes. He ended up twice as analytical, twice as childish, and with no discipline at all but the discipline of deduction—and none of the empathy to successfully apply that to the people around him. I didn't really understand yet how different we were—all I saw was how much we were the same."

"No two children born alike in the world, I sometimes think," Lestrade says. "My Patty's steady as a rock, and stoic. Angie's my romantic little empath. I never have told them, but in my mind they're 'Sense and Sensibility.'"

Mycroft nods. "Yes. I'm afraid as a boy I projected far too much of myself onto Sherlock. I thought he was shy, for example." He laughs at the irony. "Sherlock! Shy! I assumed his difficulty in social situations was far more like my own than it ever was."

"No. He's an extroverted exhibitionist..." Lestrade laughs. "He's just really bad at it. Tragedy of his life: he loves being around people and adores attention, and puts his foot in it every last time. It's why he wants cases so much, instead of things he can do in his own home, or a lab, or a library. Why he's such a nasty-mouthed little git, too: gave up on charm, and settled for being hated instead. Anything not to be ignored."

"Yes. An option that would never have occurred to me as a young man," Mycroft says, ruefully. "Mirror twins, Sherlock and I. A pity he wasn't gifted with the ability to work with people—and I sometimes think it's as much a pity that I was."

Lestrade notes this down to consider in future. He'd not considered that the collected, confidant Mycroft, who according to Sherlock was best known for wrestling nations to their knees and making them like it, might in be both shy and introverted, but it adds up. It does seem like a kind of tragedy to him, though. Still... "You could have taken another sort of job," he points out. "No one made you become the British Government. Why not just become a librarian or a mathematician or something?"

Mycroft looks at him as though he's suggested he take up pole dancing. "Good heavens, no! One has an obligation, after all. Though I had hoped that transferring from field work to analytical would help." He shrugs and makes a wry face. "I'm afraid it only sealed my 'doom,' if you don't mind me indulging in a bit of Sherlockian melodrama. I hadn't considered that a good record in both areas increased the odds of my being pushed to the fore. They do love to fill the highest levels with people who are, how shall we say...ambidextrous. And of course, once they started using me to clean up messes, well...it's not as though it would have been appropriate to do less than my best, after all."

Lestrade blinks. "Oh my God."

"What?" Mycroft is defensive.

"You're a frigging gentleman. I mean, you really are: let me guess. Duty to Queen and Country, right?"

Mycroft blushes, but is by no means unarmed. "And for you, Detective Ispector? Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity?"

Lestrade grins. "Guilty as charged."

"You care enough to make the Met's motto real. Is it so much more ridiculous that I attempt to be worthy of my legacy?"

"A man of honor?"

Mycroft shrugs, and this time looks away, not meeting Lestrade's eyes. "I'm afraid honor is in short supply in the arena in which I operate. Most days I am lucky to manage duty...and when I do, that's often the day on which honor proves impossible. Duty and honor make poor bedfellows, in my experience."

If Lestrade were not burdened with the weight of his own profession's ideals and realities, he might not understand the complexity of what Mycroft has said. As it is, he finds himself comforted that this man is the master of his chosen arena. He has faith that Mycroft, of all men, will fight to make honor and duty lie peacefully, side by side—and that when he fails, as is inevitable, he will come as close as he can, and make up the difference in good faith and contrition.

He feels an odd sense of kinship with the younger man, as though he's found a brother who understands his burdens. He's been a leader for years, now, mentoring his subordinates, developing his investigative team, and much as he's come to value Sherlock, there's never any question in his mind that the boy in Sherlock needs Lestrade to anchor him as a man. Sherlock doesn't need him as a peer, he needs him as a guide and a guardian. Mycroft, though—

Mycroft is too old and too experienced to need a model, while still being young enough that Lestrade can look on occasion and see someone still growing—coming into blossom. He's a compatriot. A brother. Judging by the fact that Mycroft has invited him to help with this little stretch of hell on earth, perhaps they are even friends.

There's an uneasy murmur from the room beyond, and Mycroft and Lestrade both flinch and look up, dreading Sherlock waking. Too soon! Too soon! It's been less than an hour, Lestrade thinks, and in his mind he begs Sherlock to sleep on. When the whimpers cease, Mycroft droops in relief, head falling back against the back of the sofa, a movement echoed in Lestrade's heart.

"Thank God," Mycroft says, wearily. "I don't think I'm ready for another round."

No wonder. He's the point man in every encounter with Sherlock: the target, the leader, the victim, the hero, the villain. Sherlock batters him, accuses him, clings to him, begs him, thanks him, derides him, cries against him, mocks him. What a burden, to play so many parts while a brother's life is being weighed in the scales. Lestrade can't do much more than serve as Mycroft's faithful side-gunner in this war. He can spell him for a time, give him short rests, but in time only Mycroft can dance the complex dance that allows Sherlock to come at last to rest, and sleep.

The two are co-dependent, of course. Lestrade knows it when he sees it. Fresh out of training for the CID he'd have clucked and tutted. Now he's older, and he's heard too many sensible professionals say, "Whatever gets you through." It's all good. If co-dependency is what allows these two brothers to keep on keeping on, then Lestrade is all for it. He still can't help praying for both their sakes that someday they're able to step away, find other anchors in their lives, loosen the death-grip they have on each other. Lestrade doesn't think it's going to happen while King Cocaine still rules Sherlock's soul, though.

He considers the younger man, evaluating him as he evaluates his team during long, hard cases. "I think it's time to make some dinner," he says. "Then you need a few hours sleep."

Mycroft raises his head, studies Lestrade, and says, "We need some sleep," with a mischievous grin—a grin that had been a wonderful surprise to Lestrade as he came to know the man.

Lestrade grins back. "Don't flirt with me, sunshine. I'm too tired to satisfy you even if I were your type."

He'd learned Mycroft's sexual inclinations when Sherlock screamed them out in one of his bad sessions. He's actually shocked: Sherlock's young enough, and enough of a sophisticate, that the nasty words seem out of place in his mouth, as is the mockery. He'd asked, then, during a time like this, when he and Mycrofted gulped down caffeine and marshalled their resources.

"We're seven years apart," Mycroft had said, ruefully. "And he thought I was a God. It was bad timing all the way down the line. When I was fourteen, he was seven—and just starting school with me, and hearing the first whispers. When I was seventeen, he was ten—and struggling with the fact of my first relationship. When he was seventeen, our father died, I had my first real AIDs scare, and Sherlock made the profound mistake of hacking my emails, including the professional ones. I was still in field service at the time, and had recently had to kill for the first time. It all turned into a...bit of a mess, and my personal preferences were a lot of the problem. He was afraid, you see...including being terrified he'd lose me."

His eyes were haunted. Lestrade knew what was involved when a policeman had to kill in the line of duty, and he knew the emotional price a good officer paid. He'd paid it himself. He was less sure what circumstances led a field agent to play 007, and exercise a "license to kill." From the look in Mycroft's eyes, it wasn't a memory he cherished with any pride or comfort, though.

"I wasn't the brother he'd thought I was," Mycroft had said...and said no more.

Lestrade, though, had been connecting the dots and adding up the little details. "It wasn't your fault he started using, you know."

"It was a bad, bad year."

Lestrade refused to let the point pass. "It wasn't."

Mycroft shrugged. "I know. I just...don't believe."

Now Lestrade prods his friend with one sneakered foot, nudging his shin. "Come on out to the kitchen and I'll make scrambled eggs. You need your strength."

"I need to lose ten pounds," Mycroft mutters.

Lestrade sighs and shakes his head. "I know when you ate last. I know what. You're entitled to a meal. Sometimes you can be pretty stupid, even if you are Sherlock Holmes' older, smarter brother."

Mycroft, rising, grimaces. "Older, certainly."

"Smarter, too."

"On what basis to you make that judgement, Detective Inspector?"

"Besides expert testimony from the second-smartest man in your family?" He thinks about it. "You don't spend your life making enemies when you don't have to. That's not just a matter of charm, of inhibition or extraversion, or whatever. It's just plain sense. You're smarter than Sherlock."

Mycroft broods, perching one hip on the kitchen table while Lestrade collects food for the meal. After awhile he says, softly, "It's true; however it's not as true as you seem to thinks. I'm better at large patterns than Sherlock, especially when they involve people. I do, however, think he's better at small patterns, particularly those that relate to his criminal investigations. He's really quite clever at those."

"Yes...I wouldn't work with him if he weren't."

Mycroft nods. "Do you need help with anything?"

"Here, chop some onions and some parsley for me."

They work quietly together in comfort. The eggs are done quickly, and they eat at the table, sharing a carton of orange juice and nibbling on toast. It takes a mere few minutes to clean up the plates afterward. When they're done, Mycroft stands at the sink, staring out over the well-tended lawns. "He's right, you know. I wish he weren't, but he is. I'm...smarter. It's not the sort of thing that shows in his investigations. I think it's why I can't get him to join me in my work, though." Seen in profile he looks like a gloomy ibis, his long nose a drooping beak. "He is uniquely skilled at deduction of the past, and the present: he sees what is. In that he may exceed my abilities, though it was always an open question between us. So hard to factor in the difference of seven years age and experience, though. I was never sure if he was just that bit younger, or that bit less capable."

"From what I've seen it's a close call, yes. But he doesn't do predictive as well as you—does he?"

"Not now," Mycroft said. "Not any more." He sighs, and looks forlornly at Lestrade. "It was one of the later skills I developed: you've got to reach a certain level of maturity and experience to make predictions, and a higher level to predict how to control outcomes. I had thought—Sherlock showed so much promise. At one time I thought he might prove even smarter than me, you see."

It takes Lestrade a moment to follow what his friend is trying to say. Then he flashes a glance back toward the rooms beyond, toward where Sherlock sleeps. He's a policeman; he's the sort of policeman who chooses to work from a foundation of wide and effective knowledge. He knows about addiction, because he works in a job that consistently involves him with addicts and their works.

"It's changed the way he thinks, hasn't it?"

"Yes. It's changed his personality, it's blunted his cognitive abilities, and it's altered his understanding of how the world works. He was never an easy person...but now he's what his drugs have made him. Still brilliant, but damaged—and damaged in ways from which he will never fully recover. And it rather ended any hope I had of him mastering the prediction of consequences."

Lestrade has taken the courses and sat in on the seminars. He knows; the chemistry of addiction has changed what Sherlock Holmes is, and the changes can't be unmade.

"He can still be a great man," he says, offering it as consolation. "He can be a good one."

"Yes, and I do hope he will become so," Mycroft says. "But he will never become what he might have been. That door is closed."

"It wasn't your fault," Lestrade says, hearing the lingering guilt and despair.

Mycroft doesn't answer.

They sit together in the kitchen as the light fades, rising only when Sherlock cries out, and the cycle begins again.