So, my attempt at a story for the 'Mystrade Bad-Boy' challenge doubling as a desperate attempt to kick my writing muse back into drive XD
Anybody who's still reading my WIP's new chapters are imminent, I'm sorry it's taken so long, I'm both a busy and lazy arse I'm afraid X
Either way, I hope you like this :D
WARNINGS: Dysfunctional family; mentions of bullying; Underage smoking/drinking; sex; suicide; violence; gay bashing
Greg sighed.
His back hurt after hours of sitting in a series of crappy hospital chair. He was quickly beginning to believe they were in fact torture devices in cushy disguise. There had to be a trick to it, like one possible way of using it that didn't result in an ache in some part of his body. Perhaps it was a puzzle, thought up by a bored and malicious furniture designer who knew full well that some poor sod like Greg would be stuck using the bloody things for hours.
He sighed again.
It had been a long ten hours and he was tired, so damn tired. But he couldn't sleep, no matter how much the steady beep of the heart monitor beside him tried to help.
Biting his lip, he blinked wearily about the curtained off cubicle, before slowly reaching over and carefully taking the limp, bandaged hand laying across the starched sheets of the bed.
He allowed himself to fall forward, resting his head on the bed as he pressed the bruised and broken skin of those knuckles to his lips.
God he was so tired.
Gregory Lestrade had been having an absolutely lovely dream. There had been a number of very pretty supermodels involved and a motorbike, all on a beach.
He'd had every intention of seeing it through to the end. In fact, if he'd had his way, there would have been an encore performance.
Unfortunately, it seemed that Miss Fortune had a few issues with that plan, as just when he revved the engine of the absolutely gorgeous Harley Davidson, making it come to life with a fearsome roar, something truly horrible happened.
"Lestrade! Wake up!"
The devil-incarnate arrived.
In an instant the supermodels, the beach and the motorcycle were gone, only to be replaced by evil in human form, or as he preferred to be called-
"Sherlock!"
"Rise and shine," the brat sang, smirking mischievously as he climbed up onto the bed.
"What the hell is wrong with you," he cried as the monster began to jump on it (and his legs). "I'm trying to sleep!"
"I know," Sherlock groaned. "It was soooo boring. Aaaand, I ran out of space on your face twenty minutes ago."
"My face?"
Sherlock grinned, before pulling a permanent marker from his pocket and holding it up for all to see.
"You little bast-"
"Ms Lestrade!" Sherlock hollered, leaping from the bed Greg was groping around, searching desperately for his mobile. "Gregory called me a bad word."
"Gregory Lestrade, how dare you?!" Mrs Lestrade cried, bustling down the hall to his room. "Sherlock's father left him here, trusting us to take care of him and you think it's alright to swear at him?!"
"I didn't swear at him Mum," Greg huffed, letting out a triumphant cry as he finally spotted the blasted thing, snatched it up and begun inspecting his (spotless) face for traces of ink. "I might have let something slip when he jumped on me!"
"That's enough attitude out of you thank you very much," his mother scolded, before turning to Sherlock (who up until that point, had been smirking from behind her legs) and tutting, "Now sweetheart, you know we don't jump on people don't we."
Bowing his head in quite obviously feigned contrition, Sherlock nodded and mumbled a glum, "Yes Ms. Lestrade."
Patting his head approvingly, she smiled and replied, "Just don't do it again sweetheart," before turning back to Greg and ordering him out of bed this very instant.
"I have work and you're going to have to look after Sherlock today."
He groaned, throwing the covers over his head.
"Gregory," she scolded.
"I had plans," he moaned. "I was going to play footy with the lads."
"You can still do that. Just include Sherlock."
"But he's like, 6."
Sherlock gasped.
"I am 10!" he cried.
"Don't look it," Greg retorted.
"Gregory stop being so childish and get out of bed!" his mother snapped, before turning to Sherlock and patting his head. "Now dear, you will be a good boy, won't you?"
"Yes Ms. Lestrade," Sherlock replied, smiling angelically up at her as Greg pretended to retch beneath his covers.
"Very good," she replied, sending unimpressed glances her son's way. "I'll be back at six. You two have fun now."
"Oh we will Ms. Lestrade," Sherlock called, waving her down the hall.
As the lock of the front door clicked shut behind her, Greg tugged the covers down and glared at Sherlock, standing in his doorway, smiling smugly.
"I really dislike you, you know that right?"
The smirk became smugger still.
"It's the air I breathe," the Antichrist boy all but purred, before flouncing down the hall, calling over his shoulder, "Do get up Lestrade. I've got plans."
Greg rolled his eyes.
"Oh you've got plans," he grumbled, swinging his legs off the side of the bed before pulling himself into a semi-upright huddle and stomping across the room, closing his door with a firm crack. "Well that's completely different."
"Why can't your brother ever look after you?" he whined as he moodily buttered Sherlock's toast for him.
Sherlock shrugged, putting the glass of iced orange juice ('For scurvy Lestrade') down on the counter.
"Pater doesn't trust him," he replied. "That's what Mycroft says at least. He thinks that Pater thinks he would kidnap me."
Greg's eyebrows rose.
"Seriously?" Greg asked. "Why would he think that?"
Sherlock shrugged again.
"They don't get on. Mycroft walks out a lot, when they fight, sometimes for days on end. The only reason he doesn't stay gone is because of me. So Pater doesn't want to give him the opportunity to take me with him. He'd never find us if he did."
Greg blinked, stunned.
He'd heard about Mycroft Holmes of course, everybody had, what with Mrs Turner continuously going on about him the way she did.
"They were at it again last night," she would excitedly whisper every single time she stumbled across Greg's mother on the street or in the shops. "I haven't any idea how poor Siger and Sherlock put up with it. He has such an attitude."
His mother had begun to form the habit of standing on his foot around that point, to stop him from rolling his eyes.
But she wasn't the only one.
More than once Mrs. Anderson and Ms. Donovan had complained about him as well.
"He's always scowling. I've never seen him smile once, smirk yes, but never smiling like a normal person. He scares poor Andrew."
"Out all hours of the night. Carrying on with strange boys. Never the same one twice, and without any thought of it being a public area. His father needs to do something about him because he's going to end up in trouble, I'll tell you that now."
Mostly, Greg found it amusing. He was pretty sorry for them (and all the other naysayers) come five or so years time, when their little angels reached adolescence and they discovered that moodiness, sex and general rebellion were all part of the parcel.
But this was different. If he really was planning to abduct his brother, then he was far worse news than Greg had given him credit for.
Squaring his shoulder resolutely, he turned back to Sherlock and asked, "So, if your brother comes by to pick you up, I'm guessing I don't let you go with him?"
Of course, that resolution all but vanished a split-second later when Sherlock, contrary bastard that he is, responded exactly the opposite of how he expected him to.
He laughed.
"Mycroft wouldn't take me," he said.
Greg frowned.
"But you just said-"
"That's what Pater thinks," Sherlock sighed long-sufferingly (the 'you idiot' was left implied). "He doesn't know us very well. Mycroft never lets me do anything fun. I tried to follow him one time, after a fight. He led me around the block before handing me over to Mrs Hudson. I was really annoyed."
"Huh," Greg murmured, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.
"Well why don't you tell your father that?" he asked. "It would save your brother a whole lotta trouble, surely."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"He doesn't believe me," he answered with a disdainful sniff. "He does that ridiculous 'You'll understand when you're older' nonsense whenever I try to tell him they're both being stupid."
Greg chuckled.
"Ah, I know it well."
"I'm sure," Sherlock retorted, smirking. "Mycroft just says to leave them to it, so that's what I do. And Pater says they're both big enough and ugly enough to make their own mistakes… which I think's true."
Greg shook his head, smirking himself.
Well that's what you get for not minding your own business figured.
Pushing over the plate of toast, he sighed, "Probably for the best I suppose. So, what did you have in mind for today anyway?"
Grinning, Sherlock replied gleefully, "There's a forensic exhibition on at the museum. You and I are going. I've heard it is delightfully gory."
Greg decided to forgo breakfast.
Six hours later and he was never going to look at a ham sandwich the same way.
"I still can't believe we saw an actual autopsy. Do you remember when they emptied out the stomach?! That was so brilliant!" Sherlock cried, eyes wide and face practically splitting with his excited grin. "Did you spot what else he'd eaten?"
Greg swallowed thickly in an attempt to battle the nausea.
Sherlock, naturally, didn't bother waiting for an answer.
"I saw spaghetti, bread – probably garlic bread, and chewing gum!" he cried. "Maybe that creamy stuff was ice cream or some kind of desert."
"Please stop," Greg gasped, actually feeling himself beginning to turn green.
"And did you see the decomposition tank?!" Sherlock gasped. "I could see- god, I wasn't aware the intestines would turn that colo-"
"I'm going to be sick!"
"Again?!"
"There is something wrong with you boy," Greg groaned as he doubled over and tried very hard to concentrate on breathing deep lungfuls of nice, fresh air.
Sherlock grinned.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't meant as one."
"Regardless."
Groaning, Lestrade straightened up once more, determined to think clean, happy thoughts.
"We're never going back."
"I thought you wanted to be a police officer," Sherlock moaned as he led the way back towards Baker Street. "You can't be a police officer and have such a weak stomach."
"You're mistaking your keenness for the macabre as an advantage once again brother dear," a low, cultured voice scoffed behind them.
Spinning around, Greg found himself face to face with the infamous Mycroft Holmes, dark suit, lit cigarette and all.
"Is it not an advantage?" Sherlock argued, crossing his arms. "You don't see me chucking up in rubbish bins."
"That was once!" Greg argued
"You got us run out of the station!" Sherlock cried.
"No, that was down to you! You and the lecture on the decomposition of human flesh you gave the entire carriage."
Sherlock shrugged unashamedly.
"Wilfully ignorant plebs," he grumbled, before jumping at his brother without warning and attempting to snatch the cigarette from his mouth. "Gimme a go!"
"Get your own," Mycroft chuckled, blowing smoke deliberately over his head. "Anyway, it's low tar. You wouldn't like it."
"You smoke?!" Greg cried, fixing Sherlock with a scandalised glare.
"No," he grumbled.
"Not through lack of trying," Mycroft chuckled. "He actually did a study of it, in an attempt to convince me to buy him a packet."
"Which you wouldn't," Sherlock snapped. "Even though the presentation was flawless."
"You're going to have to find some other way to poison yourself I'm afraid," Mycroft drawled, dropping the source of the dispute to the ground and stamping it out. "And no, that's not a challenge."
Finally, he turned back to Lestrade, offering him his hand.
"Mycroft Holmes," he said.
"Greg Lestrade," Greg replied, shaking it, noting the bruising over his knuckles.
Sherlock followed his line of sight, eyes widening gleefully.
"Did you get into a fight?!" he asked.
Mycroft smirked.
"A minor dispute with a punching bag," he replied. "I've agreed to spar with Collins and those brutes of his you told me about I thought it best to be prepared."
Sherlock grinned.
"Does he know yet?" he asked gleefully.
Mycroft scoffed.
"I informed him in no uncertain terms."
"Get him a few times in the gut for me won't you?" he replied.
"Oh I plan to do so much more than that," Mycroft replied with a wink.
Greg frowned.
"I'm sorry, what?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Mycroft told Collins, a boy from our school, that he would be sorry if he picked on me anymore. He and his friends beat me up on the way home yesterday, so Mycroft's going to beat them up."
Greg's eyes widened.
"Ah, a full confession," Mycroft chuckled, "I sincerely hope you've no ambition for one of the more criminal lifestyles in the futures Brother-Dear."
Sherlock frowned.
"You're going to beat up an 10 year old?!" Greg asked, frowning incredulously.
Mycroft eyebrow quirked upwards with the corner of his mouth.
"A 17 year old actually," he replied. "If it were a 10 year, Sherlock would have no trouble taking care of them himself."
"Yeah," Sherlock cried, lifting his hands and jabbing sharply at thin air.
Mycroft chuckled.
"No, this particular imbecile has been a nuisance to me for some time and has recently gotten it into his quite unbelievably thick head that he can get to me via Sherlock. I plan to disillusion him. By all means try to stop me, but it will happen, sooner or later. Count on that."
Greg frowned, thinking it over.
"17?" he asked.
"Three of them," Sherlock replied.
"It was just a light dusting," Mycroft added, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his coat, "But that's hardly the point."
Greg nodded slowly, before turning to Mycroft and asking, "Would you like a second?"
For a moment, not even a moment really, a split second, the elder Holmes almost seemed stunned, before letting out a bark-like laugh.
"No I think I will be alright," he replied. "Although I appreciate the offer."
"I don't."
"Shush Sherlock."
Smirking, Greg replied, "Well you know where to find me."
"I do indeed," Mycroft slowly replied, before pulling his packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting another.
"Well I best be off," he announced, flicking his lighter open. "A pleasure to meet you Lestrade, it was… most illuminating. Sherlock, I'll see you when Pater grants me visitation," he rolled his eyes, "Behave yourself."
Sherlock sneered.
"And stop trying to make Gregory bring up his lunch," he called over his shoulder as he strolled towards Regent's Park.
And with that, he was gone.
"What did he mean by that?" Greg asked, glancing down at Sherlock. "Illuminating."
Sherlock grimaced.
"He likes you," he grumbled, pocketing the cigarette bud from the pavement. "I hate it when that happens."
For some strange reason, Greg found that he was actually didn't mind all that much at all.
He chewed on that one for a little while.
There was something different about Mycroft, that Greg couldn't quite put his finger on. It was like, every time the boy acknowledged him, approved of him, Greg would feel this sort of thrill that was somehow different from making a good impression with any other stranger.
And he just couldn't stop thinking about it.
Perhaps it was because he kept seeing him around all the time after that, which was weird, because he had never noticed him before.
After their first meeting, he didn't seem to go a day without seeing him, whether it was spotting him walking home from school (Sherlock had violin rehearsals, boxing, Baritsu and fencing practice, Latin and chemistry tutorials and whatever else their father could think to sign him up for (Sherlock never ceased complaining about it all)), loitering outside Speedy's, enjoying a fag out of his bedroom window or climbing out of it at all hours of the day and night, hanging about the park with some guy or another (usually attempting to suck each other's face off).
Mycroft would always smirk, nod, wink at him or tap his forehead in some sort of half-hearted salute. It was very peculiar.
What was more peculiar was that Gregory not only found himself returning these greetings, but before too long, was actually keeping an eye out for him.
And after a fortnight of this, that thrill continued to flare, and showed no apparent sign of easing up any time soon.
Greg figured it must simply be down to the sheer novelty of meeting someone new, which made sense because, when he started to think about it he realised that everybody he hung around, his school mates, his football team, even bloody Gregson, he'd known for years. He knew everything about them, all of their characteristics and tells.
Mycroft Holmes however, was somewhat of a mystery. He knew nothing about him, and the more he tried to work him out, the more complicated he seemed, what with his suits and smirks and that devil-may-care thing he had going on.
Suffice it to say that by the time of their next run in, Greg's initial amusement at his neighbour's antics had increased ten-fold, forgoing curiosity completely and jumping straight to outright fascination.
Said run-in occurred exactly two weeks following their first. He'd been roped into babysitting Sherlock, again, and was standing at the front door of 221, only to have it swing open before he could so much as lift his hand to knock.
"...Hey."
"Morning," Mycroft curtly replied, although his voice was almost completely drowned out by a sharp, "Mycroft Holmes, come back here this instant."
Sneering, Mycroft tugged the coat that had been draped over his arm on, muttering bitterly under his breath, "Oh, has hell frozen over already?".
Greg stepped out of his way, but before Mycroft could so much as set one foot outside of the door, his father had dashed down the stairs and grabbed a hold of his collar.
"You're not going to walk away from me this time Mycroft!" he snapped.
"Am I not?" Mycroft snarled. "And how do you plan to stop me?"
Mr Holmes grimaced.
"Mycroft, we need to talk about this," he replied, and now it almost sounded like he was pleading with the boy (angrily). "Just hear me out."
"Oh I think I've heard enough."
To say Gregory felt uncomfortable, standing there, practically in the middle of the two of them, would be the mother of all understatements.
He'd never felt more uncomfortable in his entire life.
For a long moment they all stood there, Mycroft and his father glaring daggers at each other, sizing the other up, Greg standing there like the titular object of a 'What doesn't belong?' puzzle, too scared to move away lest he draw their attention to him.
"Are you two still fighting?" Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes as he and his friend, John, stomped down the stairs. "It's dull."
"Sherlock," John quietly scolded.
"What? It is."
With a sigh, Mr. Holmes roughly released his hold on Mycroft's coat, muttering tiredly, "I've not got the energy for this."
"There's a surprise," Mycroft grumbled, storming past Greg and down the street without as much as a backwards glance.
Shaking his head, Mr. Holmes finally turned his attention to an ever so slightly shell-shocked Greg, and grimaced apologetically.
"I'm sorry you had to witness that," he sighed.
Shaking his head roughly, Greg haltingly replied, "No problem."
"Yes it is," Mr. Holmes argued. "It was incredibly inconsiderate of us."
Greg took a deep, calming breath before finally feeling most of the tension the dispute had inspired in him dissipate.
"Nah, it's fine, really," Greg replied, shooting the man a disarming grin. "Me and my Mum go at it sometimes too."
"Is that so?" Mr Holmes replied, an amused smile twitching at his lips. "Then there still is hope."
"She starts it," Greg chuckled.
Mr. Holmes laughed.
"Naturally," he chuckled, before turning to Sherlock and asking, "You have your wallet?
Sherlock patted his pocket. "Yep."
"Your bag?"
"It's on my back!" Sherlock replied with an exasperated sigh.
"Sherlock!" John scolded
Sherlock rolled his eyes
"Yes Pater."
"Your phone?"
"For goodness sake!"
"Sherlock!" John snapped
"John!" Sherlock retorted.
"I think he's okay," Mr. Holmes chuckled, ruffling his son's hair fondly. "Thank you again for doing this Gregory. I was going to take them myself, but work called and my PA assures me my presence is urgently needed."
Greg smiled again.
"It's no problem," he replied. "Haven't been to the zoo in years. Should be fun, eh boys?"
"Yeeeeeah!" John enthusiastically replied, deliberately loud enough to drown out Sherlock's unenthusiastic, "Less dull than the norm at least."
Mr. Holmes smiled.
"And you'll be alright dropping them off at the Watson's?"
"No problem at all."
"That's excellent. Thank you again," he sighed gratefully, before turning to the boys and announcing, "Well you best be off then. You don't want all the lions to be napping when you get there do you?"
"Lions are nocturnal," Sherlock drawled. "Statistically speaking the chances of them doing anything interesting are slim no matter what time we turn up."
"Have a good day at work Mr. Holmes. I promise to take care of them," Greg chuckled, ushering them away. "You've always got to have the last word don't you?"
"Obviously."
"I don't see why we can't just catch a cab."
Greg sighed.
"For the eighth time, I'm not paying for a cab just so you can be spared waiting five minutes for the 274."
"Why can't we just catch the tube?"
"Because the bus will drop us off right in front of the zoo."
"We could have walked through the park by now!" Sherlock moaned, flopping back across the bus bench. "Why can't we do that?"
Rolling his eyes, Greg replied, "Because you would get bored halfway there, do something stupid, hurt yourself, and John and I would be stuck lugging you back home."
John nodded firmly in agreement.
"We're catching the bus."
"But it's Booooooooorin- Mycroft!"
"Brother-Mine," Mycroft drawled, strolling over to join them. "You look… let me see- oh, bored. That's unusual."
Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock turned to Greg and promptly announced, "He's trying to be funny because he's got a crush on you."
Greg glanced incredulously from brother to brother.
Mycroft just smirked.
As it turns out, that really winds Sherlock up.
"Anyway," he cried, in an attempt to break the tension, "What you up to today Mycroft?"
Mycroft shrugged.
"No plans," he sighed, leaning against the back of the bus shelter. "I'm sure I'll find something to do."
"Why don't you come with us?" Greg asked.
"I'm sorry?"
"Come with us," Greg repeated. "To the zoo. Eat crappy overpriced food and enter philosophical debates about the morality vs. the necessity of animal captivity whilst the kids gawp."
"I do not gawp!" Sherlock cried indignantly.
Greg rolled his eyes.
"Whilst the kids examine the creatures with a great deal of interest and analytical skill, with just a little squealing mixed in."
John giggled as Sherlock's face turn a furious red.
Mycroft smirked.
"Come on, it'll be fun."
Mycroft sniffed.
"It's not really my scene."
"He's too lazy!" Sherlock jeered, poking his brother's stomach accusingly. "Too much walking for Fatcroft."
Mycroft smirked as Greg and John obediently 'ohhhhh-ed' at the remark.
"You're not going to take that are you?" Greg laughed.
"No I don't think I will," Mycroft drawled, stamping out his cigarette as the 274 rolled to a stop in front of them. "It would be a pleasure to join you Gregory, John. I can take the opportunity to enlighten you on the mating habits of the Ratus Sherlockus."
"You called me a rat!" Sherlock cried indignantly. "Lestrade – he called me a rat!"
"And?"
Sherlock sulked for the entire five minute bus ride around the park and then another ten minutes whilst they went about buying tickets before catching sight of a Gorilla, after which nobody could shut him up.
All in all, the trip to the zoo ended up being much more fun than Greg had thought it would be.
It turned out that John somehow managed to make Sherlock, more or less, behave himself (although they were both little maniacs, so Greg still couldn't keep his eyes off them for a second, lest they attempt to climb into the wolf enclosure like they'd been plotting) which meant he didn't have to constantly worry about getting thrown out or assaulted by irate tourists or zoo staff.
On top of that, Mycroft was incredibly stimulating company: witty, intelligent, surprisingly polite and in possession of a particularly dark sense of humour.
Yes, the day was going well indeed.
"Cigarette?" Mycroft offered, holding out his pack.
"Not for me thanks," Greg replied with a smile.
"Don't smoke?"
He shrugged.
"I used to," he confessed. "Quit about a year ago though. Getting in the way of football."
Mycroft nodded, a smile tugging at his lips.
"Fair enough," he murmured, lighting up.
"That and my mum threatened to scalp me."
"How imaginative," he laughed, stowing the packet away. "Fortunately, mine doesn't mind all that much."
"Really?" Greg asked, eager for a shred of information of the mystery woman who birthed Lucifer Mark II (read: Sherlock).
Mycroft scoffed.
"No, she's a pretty free spirit," he chuckled, smiling fondly. "She mostly left Sherlock and I to our own devices, trusted us to learn from our mistakes and that." He sighed. "Quite the opposite of our father."
Greg frowned.
"Yeah," he murmured, scratching the back of his head uncomfortably. "You two don't get on all that well do you?"
Mycroft smirked.
"You should be a detective," he scoffed.
Greg cleared his throat, flushing with embarrassment.
"Yeah, Captain Obvious, I know," he chuckled.
Mycroft glanced over at him and grimaced.
"My apologies. That was rude."
Greg smiled.
"Nah, don't worry about it."
"You're quite right either way," Mycroft sighed, glancing over the heads of the crowd to make sure Sherlock and John were still safely on the outside of the Lion enclosure. "I confess, there's not much love lost there."
Greg frowned.
"Why? If you don't mind me asking."
Mycroft shrugged, drawing in a deep lungful of tobacco and nicotine.
"Sherlock thinks we're too similar," he replied, blowing the smoke over their heads. "I believe the opposite. Though I fear that makes me sound a terribly immature."
"Eh?"
Smirking, Mycroft replied in a high pitched whine "Oh he doesn't understand me. He doesn't know what it's like. He can't tell me what to do, I have rights. Et Cetera. Et Cetera. So on and so forth."
Greg scoffed.
"No," Mycroft sighed. "We're just two very different people, and the sooner he realises that and stops trying to fix me, the better it will be for the both of us."
Greg grimaced sympathetically.
"Can't really comment myself," he sighed. "My dad pissed off before I was even born."
Mycroft sighed.
"Fathers," he muttered, shooting a bitter smirk at Gregory. "Who needs them?"
"Oi!" a squat zoo guard cried, waddling over to them. "You can't smoke in here."
"I apologise, I didn't know," Mycroft drawled, rolling his eyes as he gently scraped off the smouldering end of the cigarette against the lid of the bin they were standing by (which had a 'Do Not Smoke' notice spray painted onto the side of it), before tucking the remainder behind his ear. "Won't happen again."
"Better not," the guard gruffly replied before waddling off once more.
It was dangling from Mycroft's lip once more before he took two paces.
Greg scoffed and shook his head incredulously.
"You're going to get us kicked out," he said.
"Shall we move on?" Mycroft asked in reply, smirking as he fiddled idly with his lighter.
Rolling his eyes, Greg stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket and replied, "Sure."
"You've stopped flirting then?" Sherlock sneered the second they drew within earshot.
"Have you?" Mycroft retorted without missing a beat.
"I'm not the one who's flirting Mycroft," Sherlock argued. "Has he offered you a fag yet Lestrade?"
"Why does he keep insinuating you've got a thing for me?" Greg asked.
"Because he does!" Sherlock cried.
Mycroft scoffed.
"He's done it every time he spots me with someone that's not him," he replied, glancing heavenwards. "Ever since he found out about Harry."
"Harry?"
"His booooyfriend," Sherlock jeered.
Grimacing, Mycroft corrected, "Ex-Boyfriend, now."
Greg jumped in before Sherlock could seize the opportunity to take a cheap shot at his brother, asking loudly instead, "So, where would you two like to go next?"
"I don't know," John replied, "Wherever Sherlock wants.
"I can see why Sherlock like you," scoffed Mycroft, "Sherlock?"
"I want to see the Owls!" Sherlock promptly declared.
Greg frowned.
"Owls?"
"Mh-hm. I like owls," Sherlock replied, leading the way. "Symbols of wisdom and intelligence. Mycroft's got a tattoo of one on his chest you know?"
"I didn't," Greg answered, shooting Mycroft an impressed glance. "How big?"
"This big," Sherlock cried before Mycroft could reply, holding up his hand, before slapping it (hard) on the right side of his brother's chest. "Right there. He said it reminded him of me."
Greg scoffed.
"Really."
"Initial agony upon reception and a constant source of trouble ever since?" Mycroft replied with a shrug, "Do you not hear the same bells ringing that I do?"
"Hey!"