He was elbow deep in a mini-meltdown of paperwork when he heard the door open. He was supposed to be undisturbed and there was only one person that Anthea would have let enter. Mycroft smirked as he dropped his pen and leaned back in his chair, finally looking up and catching sight of Lestrade closing the door. This was the third time this week he'd come...but Mycroft was hardly complaining. "Ahh, Detective Inspector."

"I think we're on a first name basis at this point, aren't we?" the man said, approaching his desk, but not sitting down in the chair.

After a minute of thought, the statesman nodded. "Very well, Gregory. What are you here for today?"

"You know the answer to that."

His smirk only grew. It had all started nine months ago…

"…What?"

"I said drop your pants and get in my lap," Mycroft repeated. Lestrade's jaw dropped and Mycroft watched as he shifted, the very manner in which he held himself all but screaming how much he wanted him. Honestly, the detective inspector was the right kind of rough and tumble that the elder Holmes was attracted to and he'd been idly fantasizing about having him in bed for a while.

Seeing the indignation, the downright rage, on the man's face, he held up both hands as he silently asked for calm. "I'm aware you came to discuss Sherlock, which I am willing to do…but as you obviously have desire for me, and I have desire for you, I see no reason why we can't indulge ourselves."

"Oh, I don't know, for one thing I'm married."

"Unhappily so."

"That doesn't matter—"

"Lestrade," he said, interrupting him and catching the man's attention with his name, "I'm not suggesting an affair by any means. I'm merely suggesting that we allow the mutual physical reaction we both share. I promise you, not a soul will find out. I will protect your reputation with an iron fist and you will be quite safe. It will never go past this room and you can forget about it the moment you walk out that door. There will be no pressure. You may come and go as you please, so long as I'm not occupied with business and I assure you, this is the safest room in the entire country."

"So…you're saying all this…is under my control."

"Yes."

"What makes you think I'm even interested?"

Mycroft refused to dignify that with an answer when it was so obvious.

Lestrade gave him a disbelieving look. "I can't believe a Holmes would let someone else call the shots." After a minute, the detective smirked and stood, coming around the desk. "But there's a first for everything."

"I think I could…find time to indulge you," he commented.

"Only you can make a leer elegant," Greg told him, running his fingers along the desk, "but I can't right now." Mycroft noted the papers in his hand. Following his gaze, the detective inspector shrugged. "Divorce papers. At least it will all be over."

"You don't seem upset."

"I guess I'm not, not really. I knew she was cheating on me for a long time, it was just a matter of time before it got to this point. Not that I wasn't doing that with you, but…"

"Hasn't it been pleasant? I enjoyed giving you what you needed when she wouldn't, physically at least."

"Oh, I'm not ending this, if that's what you're thinking." Mycroft had to admit that he had considered the possibility. "I think it's just that I've prepared myself for it at some point, knowing that this was what it was going to come down to eventually. At least that's part of it."

"What's the other part?"

"Anyway, I came to ask that since I have to go to the courthouse today and drop these off, I don't really have that much time to spend and I thought maybe tonight you could…come to my flat," he said instead of answering the question. "Sheila's already gone."

While Mycroft would have spent an inordinate amount of time contemplating what the other part was, the request derailed it entirely. To his flat? Their sexual relationship had never left this room. He'd buggered Lestrade in every possible way on his desk and sofa, but he controlled everything in this room. No one had even suspected. He'd told Anthea that Lestrade was allowed to pass because anything he came for would involve Sherlock and he had to be watched at all times. She wouldn't question it, wouldn't suspect…

But to go somewhere else where he wouldn't have full control was risky. Still, it wasn't as if Lestrade was asking him to go out for drinks or a date. They were merely moving locations temporarily. He could have his driver take him home and then take a cab back to Lestrade's so no one would know. He had too many enemies to count and he really didn't want to cause trouble for the detective if it were to get out that not only was he having sex with a man, but that it was a government official.

"Mycroft?"

"I suppose I can make it there tonight. It might be late," he warned.

Yet Lestrade was grinning in delight anyway. His eyes narrowed and he hoped that the detective inspector wasn't getting emotionally attached to him. He couldn't possibly return those feelings. "That's fine. I don't have to work tomorrow anyway."

As the man left and Anthea entered, his eyes remained on where he'd left. Maybe he should stop this, just in case? Nine months ago, it had been just a way to bring them both physical pleasure, but if Lestrade was getting attached, that could pose a problem. Yes, that would be best. Tonight he would tell him they would have to stop.

"Sir?"

Mycroft studied Anthea closely, but the look she was giving him was blank. They were careful, he was careful to protect Lestrade. She wouldn't know, wouldn't have an inkling…but he didn't hire stupid people. Others would likely be clueless, but she was his personal assistant. She was there at every moment he was working, was his hands and legs when needed. She couldn't be that unobservant.

"Anthea."

"I know," she said, as if divining what he was about to say. He knew she wasn't stupid. "You've been very discreet, sir. Only I know and only because I work with you so closely." Seeing his expression, she added, "Your secret is safe."

Well, he wasn't about to fire one of the best assistants he'd ever had over this, particularly since he was determined to end their sexual relationship tonight anyway. "I'll be going to his flat after work. I plan to end it. Wouldn't do to have him fall in love with me or something equally foolish."

She gave him a look that sometimes his mother had given him, one he knew meant that she was pitying him for some reason, and merely said, "Yes, sir."

"What?"

"What, sir?"

"You clearly have some thoughts on the matter."

"No, sir."

So she was playing dumb now. Still, he didn't really care what her opinion was, so long as she kept quiet. "Take this paperwork to the Prime Minister. Hopefully he doesn't do something stupid while trying to not make things worse with this."

Yes, stopping this was best.

-0-

Mycroft had never seen Lestrade outside his suit and he thought the t-shirt and flannel pants suited him. As he followed him in, he surreptitiously placed a few bugs as he moved. He was planning on stopping this, but that didn't mean he could take chances with Lestrade's safety. Sherlock would really be unbearable without his handler.

"Do you want a beer? Or is wine more your thing?"

"Scotch, preferably, but anything is fine."

Still, it couldn't hurt to have a drink.

The apartment itself wasn't as bad as he feared it might be. It was still far too small for his liking and it was clear that Lestrade had been trying to clean the place before he arrived, but it was in solid shape. There were no pictures of his wife anywhere, or anything that he couldn't attribute to Lestrade. She had left nothing behind of hers when she'd left.

A glass was held out to him. "Whiskey is the closest I have."

"It's fine," he said, sipping at it and deciding that while it wasn't great, it was definitely above passable age. Lestrade's eyes were on him a bit hungrily, but unlike in his office when the detective inspector would often just shove him back into a chair and rip off his clothes, he didn't make any moves. Well, they did have more time right then.

Mycroft pulled off his jacket and vest before sitting on the sofa. Lestrade dropped down next to him, reaching out and removing his tie, but then sat back. He raised an eyebrow at the man in question, but instead of answering the silent query, he asked, "You follow sports at all?"

"No. They've never caught my interest."

"Movies?"

"I do enjoy movies, particularly the classics."

"Let me guess, reading too."

"Yes." He glanced around, spotting three bookshelves almost bursting with books. "I see you do as well."

"Yeah. Always been a big reader since I was a kid."

Mycroft found himself trading thoughts about authors with Lestrade. He'd finished his drink with a wealth of more information about the man's likes and dislikes than he'd ever had before and he filed it all away in his mind under the folder named 'D.I. Gregory Lestrade'. "I would honestly not expect you to be a big reader. It's surprisingly refreshing."

Greg grinned and leaned in, stealing a kiss that Mycroft was loathe to break. The things that tongue could do… He remembered now why he hadn't stopped this before: because he was good at making it feel great. "Tell me more about what's refreshing later," the man said as they parted. "Right now I've got an empty bed and you."

He smirked as Lestrade pulled him up and shut the door behind him. He could always stop this tomorrow.

-0-

Greg knew he was playing with fire. Mycroft was an unknowable bastard. That was what he had known up until nine months ago and then added 'but was great at sex' that to sentence. It was phenomenal, what that man could do, and he had been right: it was giving him something that he hadn't had with Sheila for at least two years. Their marriage had fallen apart long before the divorce papers, long before she'd started stepping out on him, but he hadn't wanted to admit it. He hadn't realized just how badly he'd been starved of physical touch of any kind until Mycroft had broached the unorthodox subject of sleeping together.

After their first time, he'd tried to argue with the man that what they were doing was an affair even if it had nothing to do with emotional attachment and was only physical, but Mycroft had only given him that patented 'obviously I'm right and you're wrong' look that Sherlock gave him all the time.

And it was fine…at first.

He'd showed up twice a month in the first two months when he needed a great shag to work off the stress that had accumulated and it worked a treat. He was in a much better mood in general, something even Sheila had commented on once. It had made him optimistic at first, being happier and more relaxed, that he could revive something with his wife, but they had stopped talking within a week again and just passed each other in their flat as they went on with separate lives.

The first time Greg thought things had begun to change with him was when Mycroft had accurately guessed when he would show up and had had lunch ready for him. It had been a simple thing to do, he probably thought nothing about it, but it had been so long that anyone had even remotely thought of doing something for him that it made his heart skip a bit. They'd made small talk before pleasuring each other by hand and he'd left.

It had spiraled down after that. He found himself mentally going over the small smiles that Mycroft would give him when he'd show up or he'd found something amusing. He had begun to memorize the tones of voices and what they meant. Sometimes the words were insulting, but by the way his voice sounded kept it from being intended as an insult.

Greg found himself wanting to know more. So he would fish around for whatever information Mycroft would give about himself in the brief stints of conversation before their sexual activities, but it soon wasn't enough. To Greg it was, and would always be, an affair because he had fallen for Mycroft Holmes.

He was also not an idiot, no matter what Sherlock said. He was well aware that Mycroft wasn't in love with him at all. He was pretty sure that he wasn't anything but a pleasant distraction most of the time. It wasn't demoralizing though, because Greg also knew that if he wanted something out of the Holmes brothers, he had to take an active role to get it, particularly with Mycroft. He was the type of person to sit back and observe the world rather than participate in it like Sherlock, so he'd have to pull him in from the sidelines.

So he had used the excuse of receiving the divorce papers as a reason why he couldn't stay and invited Mycroft over to his now-empty flat. For a minute, he was terrifyingly sure that Mycroft would say no. It was only supposed to be something that lived in his office. He thought that surely the statesman would see that it was an excuse to get an impromptu date, as it were, trying to be as subtle as he could get.

But he had agreed.

The sex that night was probably the best they'd had yet, if only because his bed was more comfortable than anything in Mycroft's office. Sure the man had disappeared as soon as he'd fallen asleep, but he hadn't expected him to stay. No, that Greg could work on.

He wanted to go over to his office today, but he had to pace himself. He couldn't just take his lunch hour and go over there every day or Mycroft would bolt. He would see that he had developed feelings for him and then it would stop. He had to be careful, ease the man into it, and if he happened to fall in love with him on the way, that was an added bonus.

"You must have seen your mystery partner again."

He looked up at Sally as she dropped a folder on his desk. "What?"

"You always look like that when you go see her."

True to his word, Mycroft hadn't let a single soul know. There were no rumors, no one suspected anything. His team weren't idiots, again no matter what Sherlock said, and they had figured out pretty quickly what his good mood was attributed to, but he had always denied it even though it was like a public secret by this point.

"See who and like what?"

Donovan rolled her eyes. "Fine, go with the party line, but you're not fooling anybody, you know. Everyone knows you're getting laid. The question is, are you dating or is it just a sex thing?"

"It's a nothing-thing, Donovan. I'm not sleeping with anyone."

"One day you're going to have to introduce her to us."

"Sure. One day I'll introduce this mythical lady I'm supposedly having hot, wild sex with," he said sarcastically. It wasn't an actual lie, because he wasn't sleeping with a woman. Maybe if he could get to his goal, he might be able to tell them, supposing Mycroft was all right with it, but he had just put his plan into motion and he wasn't going to screw it up by putting the cart before the horse.

-0-

It was another week before Mycroft heard from Lestrade after that night, as he was being driven to the Diogenes club. An unfamiliar sound of a text caught his attention and he dug his phone out of his pocket. His eyebrow rose at the message.

'Need to see you, but can't make it out of the office today. Meet at my place?'

Well, well, wasn't he being bold? It seemed like such a nonchalant thing to ask, but Mycroft could hardly believe there wasn't some kind of motive besides the urge to get him into bed. There was no denying that it was better in a bed, the detective inspector being far more passionate than other times, but he could see problems start to arise if this continued for long. Furthermore, he wasn't entirely comfortable at Lestrade's flat. It was too open and Mycroft hadn't liked almost being seen by a night-owl neighbor of his as he'd left.

Having nothing to do until they had arrived, he pressed the autodial button. The answer that picked up sounded harried, as if he hadn't even looked at the caller I.D. before he'd picked up. "Lestrade."

"It does indeed sound like a bad time."

There was a pause. "Mycroft." He heard someone call the man's name in the background, but if Lestrade heard it, he was clearly pretending he didn't. "Something you need?"

"About your message… I'm afraid your flat is quite…inconvenient and unsecure. Future encounters will prove troublesome and dangerous there." For a reason he couldn't quite fathom, he found himself wanting to make sure he didn't cause that much discomfort and continued, "If we are to have any rendezvous outside my office, it should be done at my place."

There was a long silence after that and when Lestrade answered, his suspicions were confirmed. "That…sounds great. You know, you could have just texted me."

"I dislike texting," he explained, knowing that it was now or never to cancel. Clearly the detective had gotten attached to him if that happy tone was to believed. If the man thought he was being subtle, he was wrong. "At nine, I will pick you up, provided you can be discreet at getting out of your flat."

The prospect of great sex overrode his better judgment. Besides, if he was going to stop this, he would rather do it facing the man than over the phone, as a courtesy to the detective he respected.

"Of course I can." The voice that had called him before was louder now, more insistent. "I do have to go now, though."

"Then at nine."

"Yeah."

Well this was certainly proving more complicated than he had anticipated.

-0-

The car was waiting down the block and Greg jumped in the front seat, telling his stomach to settle down. He was nervous. He had never, in a million years, suspected he might see Mycroft's place. The man himself was behind the wheel, still wearing a to-die-for expensive three-piece suit. "Stealthy enough for you?"

The man flicked his gaze at him and then out to the street. "Quite. You do realize that the secrecy is for your benefit?"

"I know, and I appreciate it." He did. He appreciated that Mycroft had even considered such a thing when this had started…but he had no fear of making it public if it became something more, like he was hoping for. He would be proud to state he was dating Mycroft even if it might cause him trouble.

"Do you," was all Mycroft said, without even a glance in his direction. After a minute of silence, just as Greg opened his mouth to say something, Mycroft commented, "Gregory, I do hope you're not getting attached to me."

He felt his heart seize a little. Would it be of any use to lie? Surely Mycroft Holmes, even smarter than his brother, would see through that. If he even brought it up, didn't that mean he'd seen something already? He took a shallow breath, striving to act normal, and said, "Of course I'm attached to you, Mycroft. We're friends." There, twist it in a different way. Acknowledge that he was right, but make it seem like he was wrong about what it might be.

That got him a gaze flickering in his direction. "Friends?"

"Yeah. You, John, and Sherlock are my friends. Why is that so hard to believe?"

Mycroft snorted. "You, of all people, know my brother. He is hardly a 'friend' sort of type. Nor am I."

"I think you underestimate him, and yourself."

Though he had expected Mycroft to argue the point, all he heard was a humming next to him, as if the man was lost in thought. The rest of the drive, mercifully short, was accomplished in silence and Greg gaped at seeing the long driveway and large house at the end. He had always figured that Mycroft had money, but that much?

"…Blimey," he muttered, eyes roving up from the bottom floor to the second story. It wasn't quite as huge as he had from his initial look, which made it slightly less intimidating, but it was in no way any less impressive.

The door swung open, startling him from his contemplation. He hadn't even realized that the car had stopped. Mycroft was standing there and even holding his hand out. Greg blinked at the gentlemanly action, not something he had been expecting in the least, but grinned a bit and took the hand. If he hadn't known Mycroft as well as he thought he did at this point, he would have missed how Mycroft awkwardly straightened his suit after he let go.

To not make it worse for Mycroft, he decided not to say thank you and draw attention to it, instead following his friend into the house.

-0-

"What?" Mycroft asked as he answered his phone, standing in the bedroom doorway. It was almost one in the morning and Greg passed out in his bed, a beam of moonlight coming through the uncovered window to illuminate his figure as he sprawled out on his back. Mycroft couldn't help but admire the shape of the inspector's body. He had considered waking the man up at least a good two hours ago, having a car around to take him home, but he had hesitated too long and doing it now, at this time of night, smacked of cruelty.

And he had worn the man out.

"I was just wondering if you'd finished doing whatever you're doing with Lestrade."

He rolled his eyes at his brother's question. "What does it matter to you, Sherlock?"

"You've been having sex with him and every time he comes to a crime scene after he's spent time with you makes me want to vomit. And considering that it would be impossible for Lestrade to keep himself emotionally separate, you know what's going to happen."

It's happened already, slipping Sherlock, Mycroft thought but decided against antagonizing his brother that late when all he wanted to do was go to bed. He wrapped his dressing robe over himself a little tighter, saying, "You decided to call me at this hour for that?"

His brother continued as if he hadn't spoken at all. "Unless…oh. Oh, dear brother. A relationship? You? Your goldfish?"

"There is nothing of the sort, Sherlock. It's merely convenient for both of us."

"Then why is he in your bed?"

The last two words were said with emphasis, pronounced to their full extent the way Sherlock did when he wanted to prove a point. "What makes you think he's here?"

"Now you're insulting my intelligence, Mycroft. That look on Lestrade's face said it all this afternoon and he wouldn't be that excited about going to his own flat even if you were planning on going there and he's been to your office so many times it's likely dull for him."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm going to say this only one more time: There is no relationship." Before the argument could continue, he ended the call and headed back in, tossing it on the bedside table. Greg didn't even stir, a heavy sleeper, and he likely hadn't noticed that Mycroft had left the bed at all. Rolling his eyes at his brother, slipped back in and wanted to get at least a few hours' sleep before he had to work.

-0-

The door to his office swung open so hard it almost hit the wall behind it. "Jesus, Sherlock!" Greg spat as he jumped, the quiet he'd enjoyed shattered. "What the hell was that for?!"

Said consulting detective stalked in and strode right up to his desk. Even when he stopped walking, the fierce stare didn't change and Lestrade shifted in his chair. Greg had never quite determined whether Sherlock knew that he was shagging his brother. Sometimes, like now, he was almost positive, but others he seemed so distracted and out of touch. He'd always assumed that if Sherlock had known, he would have said something about it, whether freaking out or something worse, but he never had.

"…Sherlock?" he prompted.

"I've brought you a gift, Lestrade."

"…You have?" he asked suspiciously.

With a flourish, Sherlock brought a hand from behind his back that Greg hadn't even noticed had been held back and showed a small fishbowl with a goldfish inside it. It bobbed around and through a plastic corral arrangement that looked surprisingly heart-shaped, but that was probably just how they'd fallen together.

"A goldfish?"

"His name is Cecil."

Part of him worried that it was going to blow up or something equally horrendous, but no matter how long it sat in Sherlock's hands, it remained the same. Cautiously he took it, but again, it didn't blow up, and finally he grinned brightly. "Thanks, Sherlock. Um…what's the occasion?"

"Oh, you know," the detective commented while looking around, the way he did when it was clear he wasn't going to explain.

"Uh, no I don't. It's not even close to my birthday." With a swirl of his coat, Sherlock headed for the door. "Oi, Sherlock!" There was no answer, leaving him alone with his new fish. He really didn't understand the why of it and he contemplated calling up John, wondering if he had any idea what had happened to cause Sherlock's downright bizarre, for him, behavior.

Greg made a mental note to buy fish food for Cecil and had resolved to talk to the doctor, but a rough murder pulled him back to working before he could. He was out of the office within ten minutes and didn't return until almost eight that night. He cursed himself that he had told Donovan that he could take a taxi back to the Yard so she could take the car to head over to Bart's. He had fully intended on getting a taxi, but his poor luck had kicked in and he hadn't seen a single one on his way back.

Which meant that when the sky opened up and began to pour, he was caught out in it. He'd contemplated waiting in a doorway or calling someone to pick him up, but by that point, he was so close to the Yard, he just gave up and jogged the rest of the way.

It was quiet as he came in and he didn't see anyone around. Well, it was late and they'd probably all went home for the night. Sighing, Greg pulled off his wet coat and let it drip from the coat rack. If he'd had anything around, he would have put something underneath it to soak up the water, but all he had were a few napkins from a lunch of his days ago.

There was a knock on the open door and he turned. Though he told himself not to, he couldn't help a smile at seeing Mycroft standing there. He was, of course, completely dry and he reflected that carrying around an umbrella all the time seemed to have its benefits. "Mycroft!" He hadn't seen the man for two days, not since he'd woken up in the man's house. He'd been alone, Mycroft heading to work first, but he'd been pleasantly stunned that he'd been allowed to stay.

"I was hoping you would have the evening free."

Well, he did have paperwork, but… "I can probably leave in half an hour, if you can wait," Greg told him, gesturing to one of the chairs opposite his desk.

"Very well." Mycroft was heading for one when he froze. "…Gregory, what is that?"

"Hm?" He paused in his futile attempt to dry himself with napkins and looked down where the statesman was staring. "Oh, Sherlock gave me that this morning. He named it Cecil." If anything, Mycroft's complexion became whiter. "Something wrong?"

"My brother gave you that."

"Yeah."

"And named it Cecil."

"Yeah. Why?"

"…I'm afraid I will have to postpone our evening. It appears as if I have to send Sherlock on a trip. In a crate. To the bottom of the ocean."

His jaw dropped and he quickly came around the side of the desk to prevent Mycroft from stalking out. "Mycroft, hold on here. What's the problem?"

"He's angry at my gift."

Greg almost broke his neck, his head snapped to the side so fast. There was Sherlock in the doorway, blocking the exit, and John behind him, looking serious. "What?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft hissed and he had never heard the man sound…well, angry. Mycroft was always in complete control.

"My brother's name is Mycroft Cecil Holmes."

"…You named it after your brother…and gave it to me."

"Of course. After all, you are his goldfish."

"I don't—"

"That's enough, Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted, his hand gripping his umbrella so hard his knuckles went white. "I don't appreciate your meddling—"

"Well now you know how it feels."

"Would somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on?!" Lestrade demanded, now getting severely annoyed at being left behind in this conversation.

Before Mycroft could answer, Sherlock beat him to it. "You've been sleeping with Mycroft for nine months now. I could go into all the minute details of how I know, but that's not important. What is important, Lestrade, is that what once was purely sexual has clearly moved beyond that."

It felt like someone seized his heart and he couldn't look at Mycroft. He knew there was no point in attempting to deny what the detective was about to blurt out and he wanted to strangle him. If he kept his mouth shut, he might have had a chance of moving this beyond sex, but now Mycroft would break it off completely—

"You've fallen for Mycroft, haven't you, Lestrade?"

Now he could feel Mycroft's eyes on him and he sighed, moving from angry to resigned at losing his one chance with the older Holmes. "…Yeah, I have."

"And that is exactly why this has to stop."

"Hypocrite!" Sherlock accused his brother. "You were content to continue with him without telling him that it's mutual!" Greg's 'what' was completely lost in Mycroft's yell of Sherlock's name. "Lestrade, you became Mycroft's goldfish, the one he's come to care about. Now I don't care what you both do either way, but if I leave it alone and let you two idiots fumble about, eventually, Mycroft, you'll break Lestrade and then what am I supposed to do?"

"Enough, Sherlock. I said enough." Mycroft looked incensed and he stalked out, even pushing Sherlock aside. Greg reached out to stop him, but Sherlock stopped him, holding him back until the statesman was out of sight.

Angry beyond reason, he jerked back and if it hadn't been for John suddenly pulling him back, he would have decked the detective. "What the hell did you do, Sherlock?! I was handling it!"

"You weren't, Lestrade. The way you were going about it, it would have never worked. Mycroft would have been content to ignore it for years and eventually you wouldn't be able to take it."

"Greg," John muttered in his ear, "that's Sherlock-speak for 'I'm looking out for you both'. He's trying to help."

"Well he bloody screwed it up! You ruined any chance I had, Sherlock! He won't ever look at me, even in a professional sense anymore, much less talk to me! Was this all some joke to you, some way to one-up your brother? Do you even care who you hurt?!"

There was a flicker of something, there and then gone, on Sherlock's face. If he wasn't so angry, he might have recognized it for the vulnerable emotions that it was. John's hands tightened on him, but he remained silent. "…You're upset."

"What was your first clue, Sherlock?!"

"I mean, you're sad-upset, not angry."

"Get over here and I'll show you how angry I am!"

Sherlock shook his head. "Just trust me, Lestrade. This is going to work."

"Why the hell should I trust you?!"

"When have I ever steered you wrong?"

He took a deep breath, taking the silent support of John's presence to rally some manner of coherency. Sherlock was right, he had never been wrong in a case before and arguably this would be even easier, because it was his brother, right? But when had Sherlock ever even understood emotions? He could put no stock in John's assurances that Sherlock was trying to help in his own weird way.

When there wasn't another outburst, Sherlock sidled forward from the doorframe. His voice was deliberately quiet, as if he was trying to tread carefully through a minefield. "It won't be immediate, a few weeks or a month, even two, but Mycroft will be back. He can't leave you alone. For a while, he'll ignore you, then as his longing grows he'll resort to watching you on surveillance and getting reports. After that, when that proves not enough, he'll follow you, visit your crime scenes but won't let you see him. Finally, he'll break and come to you and you'll have your choice to take him back or not. If you really want Mycroft, all of him, don't settle for another physical relationship when he does."

"Why do you even care?" he asked with a heavy sigh, dropping down into a chair and not caring that he was getting water all over it.

There was no answer to that question. Instead, John pulled him back to his feet. "Come on, Greg. We're going to take you to your flat and get you changed. Tomorrow, when you're off, we'll go out drinking."

"Have a murder to take care of."

"It can wait until tomorrow," Sherlock told him. "The son killed his father for the inheritance."

"How did you know—"

"Never mind about that, wet clothes," John interrupted, steering him out the door. Sherlock looked at the harmless goldfish on his desk for a minute before following.

-0-

Mycroft threw himself into his work after that, sometimes seeing his flat only a few nights a week. He found himself sleeping on his sofa most of the time and changing into the spare suits he kept there for emergencies, only returning home when all of them were in need of cleaning. Andrea's eyes grew more and more disapproving as time went on, but that was fine. This was what he should have been doing anyway, had he not been distracted by that…man.

A month in, and he considered that he had finally hit his stride. "Tell the African delegation that they will be moved to another hotel to accommodate them," he told Anthea, handing her a small pile of papers that he had finished with.

She handed him more in return that needed his signature and left without a word. As he flipped through each, determining which he wanted to sign and what needed to be rewritten or scrapped entirely, he froze. A picture had somehow made it amid the rest and he dropped it as if it burned him. It wasn't a shot that he believed the Detective Inspector was aware had been taken, as he was looking in another direction, leaving just his profile. He looked worn, haggard.

His hand hovered over the phone, ready to call Anthea in and order her to dispose of the picture that she had obviously put there on purpose, but he couldn't quite do it. It had just been sex, he scoffed at himself, but pushed the picture aside all the same rather than throw it out.

After that, more little things started showing up amid his reports. Little written notes here and there regarding Lestrade's work and even a few of his personal life. Mycroft felt his breath seize just a little when he'd read that Lestrade had met with his ex-wife. There had been no reason given and even though he told himself logically that it was probably about the divorce, for a brief moment he feared they were getting back together.

It was at that time he finally knew he couldn't lie to himself anymore. He felt something for Gregory Lestrade and he didn't particularly appreciate it right then. He knew better than to get emotionally involved with anyone, yet he had apparently done just that.

Damn Sherlock for being right.

-0-

True to Sherlock's predictions, within three months, Greg started to spot Mycroft's car near his crime scenes. He wasn't sure what to feel at first, after all that had happened. Sherlock had turned out to be right, but was it worth it after everything? Did what happened prove that a relationship with the elder Holmes would be doomed to fail?

As if that hadn't been enough, life kicked him when he was down when Sheila had asked to meet him. She wanted some of the things he had kept, that had meant something to him, and he was loathe to give them up. He had let her take everything she wanted when she moved out. She had had her chance to take them and didn't and now she wanted them?

Sherlock swept up to him as he knelt over the body of a homeless man. He knew that the detective used them as a network and he asked, "One of yours?"

"No." As Sherlock crouched next to him, he added, "I was right."

"I don't want to hear it."

"He's here."

"I know."

Gray blue eyes watched him. "What are you planning on doing?"

"Nothing," he spat, straightening. "I'm not letting either of you pull me around anymore." Greg stalked past John, the only one he'd come to rely on the last few months. John had never asked him to talk, had never told him that he had to do anything. Most of their weekly meet-ups that had come out of the disaster were spent in silence and a lot of the time, that was all he wanted.

"Donovan, when you're done with the witness statements, bring them to me!" he called as he got in the car, not waiting for an answer. He noticed out of his rearview mirror that the black car was gone.

To say that Greg was stunned when he walked into his office to see Mycroft standing there was an understatement. The man was staring at the goldfish that Greg couldn't bear to get rid of. The little animal had done nothing wrong and it did feel kind of nice to have something around him that wouldn't manipulate him. "What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, striving desperately to remain professional.

If his choice of wording bothered Mycroft, he couldn't tell. The man might as well have been made of stone. "I won't take up much of your time," Mycroft said, tapping his umbrella on the floor. Greg wondered if he did that unconsciously or if it was done to unnerve him. "I merely came to inform you that, as much as it pains me to admit, Sherlock was right. I have…feelings for you and that if you still wish to pursue something of that nature with me, I would be amenable."

Trust Mycroft to make admitting his feelings sound like a business deal. "…He wasn't entirely right about everything," he told him, slapping down a folder onto his desk. At the eyebrow raise, he added, "He said you would be coming back to resume being fuck buddies and I should hold out for a relationship. I don't think the fact that you might admit it occurred to him."

"He always says he misses something."

Greg had expected a tense silence to follow as Mycroft waited, but instead the man turned and headed for the door. "Where are you going?" he asked suspiciously. What, Mycroft wasn't willing to fight for his feelings? How much did he care about him them?

"I'm going to give you time, Detective Inspector. You may decide that being in a…relationship with me is not something you want anymore, and I will respect your decision, but I would prefer you take the time to think about rather than answer now. I merely wanted to let you know what the options were."

It was surprisingly considerate of Mycroft and most of Greg was just downright relieved. He didn't even know what he felt right then. "I'll call you," he muttered. "I have a murder to take care of right now."

Mycroft was out the door without another word and Greg slumped down into his chair with a heavy sigh.

-0-

The waiting was horrendous. Not a single text or word came from Greg and by the time two weeks had passed, Mycroft was all but convinced that that was his answer. He sighed, staring at paperwork that he had no interest in. He understood now why Sherlock wanted a distraction that would consume him. This work was menial, requiring little effort on his part, and would do little to cause him to forget his anxiety.

He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, but his hope that he might get a moment's peace was shattered as he heard the door fling open. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

Mycroft didn't need to open his eyes to know that his brother had dramatically flopped into one of the chairs opposite his desk. "Lestrade kicked me out of the crime scene, saying he didn't want to see another Holmes right then. This is all your fault."

He couldn't help opening his eyes at that and staring at his younger brother. "On the contrary, Sherlock, everything that is currently happening is entirely your fault. Had you kept your meddling to yourself, it wouldn't have happened."

"If I hadn't done it, Lestrade would have broken down eventually. No matter what he says, he's not the type to be able to sustain an only-sexual relationship for long."

"I think you underestimate him, but regardless, the point still stands: your meddling caused this situation."

"You're worrying for nothing, Mycroft. He'll call." Seeing Mycroft's disbelieving look, Sherlock snorted in disgust. "Though I don't know why, Lestrade is still completely in love with you. It's obvious if you looked at him for ten seconds."

The sound of his phone ringing in the silence that followed seemed louder than it should be. Despite a sudden feeling of nerves, he reached out for the mobile on his desk and answered with as even tone as he could, "Detective Inspector."

"Are you serious about this? Really serious? Because if you're not, I'm hanging up."

"I have never been more serious about anything in my life."

He waited patiently as the man let the answer sink in. "Then…we can start slow. Dinner first."

For a minute, Mycroft couldn't believe his ears. He was…agreeing? He flashed a look at Sherlock, who tried and failed not to look smug as he correctly deduced what the detective inspector had said. "That would be…delightful. Is Thursday evening acceptable?"

"Yeah."

"I shall make the arrangements then. See you then, Detective Inspector."

"One more thing before you go: it's Greg, Mycroft."