Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Notes: A 221b ficlet - a story of 221 words, with the last word beginning with the letter b. Originally posted on AO3 and LJ in December, 2011.
A heavy pause followed Mycroft's question, and the short hairs on the back of Lestrade's neck stood on end when Mycroft's piercing eyes met his again. He licked suddenly-dry lips. The air crackled around them, and faintly Lestrade realized that he had allowed the silence to drag on a beat too long, but the intensity of Mycroft's gaze held him locked in place, unable to even formulate a response.
He had never met the older Holmes before, and now here he was, standing in Lestrade's office, dressed in a smart three-piece charcoal-grey suit that brought out the sharp blue of his eyes, pink lips twisted in a disapproving grimace.
Sherlock shifted behind Lestrade; he started. He had forgotten that the other man was still in the room with them. Mycroft had that effect everywhere he went, Lestrade suspected - the feeling that all the space had been sucked from a room when he stepped into it, the parameters of the world narrowing until they contained him and him alone.
"I'll ask again, Inspector," Mycroft drawled. "How long have you been sleeping with my brother?"
The sleek voice finally broke Lestrade from the spell, as did Sherlock's sudden presence at his shoulder.
"Long enough," he said quietly, looping his fingers loosely through Sherlock's, "to know that it's none of your business."