Mycroft Holmes stood at the window. His hands were curled around the hot teacup as he stared outside. Rain was running down the windowpane. Stepping away from the window he moved closer to the fire that was crackling merrily in the fire-place. Momentarily he shivered before his body began to soak up the heat the fire radiated.

Soft steps approached him.

"I'm leaving. The cab should be here in five minutes."

Mycroft nodded and turned to look at Sherlock. His younger sibling's hair was still slightly wet from the hot shower Sherlock had taken, while Mycroft had turned to tea and the open fire to warm himself. A hot bath would follow later once he was alone.

Earlier on, in a rare display of brotherly unity Sherlock had accompanied Mycroft to a funeral. Simon McMillan, one of the few people Mycroft had ever felt a connection with during his time at university had been put to his final rest. It had been blessedly dry during the speech. When the coffin had been lowered into the ground the wind, much too cool for the month of July, had picked up and intensified the cold Mycroft had become acutely aware of during the ceremony. McMillan's widow and his daughter had still accepted the condolences with undisguised grief, and then the rain had started.
One minute a few drops were falling, as if to warn people to seek cover, the next water was pouring down. Sherlock had been utterly stunned when Mycroft had handed his umbrella to the widow and her daughter before he had huddled fruitlessly into his coat and hurried towards the waiting car. Both Holmeses had been soaking wet when they had reached the vehicle.

"If I didn't know better I would say you cared, brother," Sherlock had said before he had shaken his hair, wilfully annoying Mycroft with the droplets of water that flew from his locks.

On the face of it, it had been the promise of an endless supply of hot water that had lured Sherlock to stay for another hour at his sibling's place but Mycroft knew that it was the absence of John Watson that really kept him there. Naturally Sherlock never said anything but Mycroft was very aware how keenly his brother missed the blond doctor.

The brothers were strangers to display of emotions but before Sherlock went for the door to let himself out, Mycroft stopped him. "Thank you for accompanying me today. That was kind of you."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "No regrets," he said, quoting Simon McMillan's personal motto. McMillan, who had once lost his first wife and two sons to a car accident had been a rare breed who had not been completely broken by the tragic loss but had managed not only to find new love but embrace it to the fullest before a tumour to the brain had swept him away.

Mycroft returned his brother's gaze, ready to reply, but the familiar words, "caring is not an advantage" wouldn't come. Instead he asked, "do you think it's true that drunk people speak the truth, Sherlock?"

Only the faintest twitch of the corners of Sherlock's mouth revealed that he knew what Mycroft was talking about. He considered the question for a moment.

"Yes," he said eventually and took a step towards the door. "Perhaps it's time for you act upon that knowledge," he added before walking outside into the rain and to the waiting cab.

Running himself a bath Mycroft brushed his teeth while he was waiting for the tub to fill. His mind went back to a night almost six weeks ago. It had been close to midnight when the ringing of his mobile had woken him up. Seeing on the display that it was DI Gregory Lestrade who called, Mycroft had expected the worse; but instead of hearing that his brother had been injured or worse the policeman had declared that he was in love with Mycroft.

"It's my birthday and I'm all by myself," he had babbled. "I wish you were here 'cause I think you're wonderful and I'm in love with you."

The slurred speech had made it perfectly clear that the DI was spectacularly drunk wherefore Mycroft had told him that it was perhaps a good idea to go to bed instead of drunk dialling friends. Had he really used the word friends? Mycroft had wished the man a happy birthday, ended the call and spent the reminder of the night staring into the dark while wondering if any of Gregory Lestrade's word had been true.

Climbing into the tub, Mycroft lowered himself slowly into the hot water. Submerging himself all the way to his chin, he closed his eyes to think.

Apparently the DI hadn't remember a thing of what he had said that night. When he had called two days later not only had he apologised profusely for disturbing him in the middle of the night but he had also asked if he had insulted him in any way.

Mycroft had answered truthfully that he hadn't been insulted and the Inspector shouldn't worry about the late call. A bit of drunk talk was better than learning about an overdosed sibling. After another apology, a heartfelt sigh and the promise to make it up to Mycroft by inviting him for a cuppa, Lestrade had hung up.

Handsome Gregory Lestrade in love with Mycroft Holmes. The thought alone was mind-boggling and considering Mycroft's rather impressive mind, there was a lot to boggle.

Instead of playing it safe after the loss of his family, late Simon McMillan had embraced life. He had taken risks and had dared to love again. It was Simon's death that had shoved the fact in Mycroft's face that he had always shied away from feelings. Well not always. Once he had cared and the outcome had been painful. Even the love he felt for his brother was barely tolerated and certainly not appreciated.

By drunk-dialling and revealing his feelings, the DI had allowed Mycroft who wasn't very adapt when it came to reading emotions, what could be considered a glimpse into the proverbial crystal ball. Should he act on his own infatuation with the silver-haired DI at least he knew his feelings were returned.

Although his brother thought otherwise, Mycroft wasn't lonely but that didn't mean he wouldn't enjoy spending time with Gregory Lestrade. There was still the offer of a cup of tea. Perhaps it was time to call the DI and remind him of it.