God, I'm tired. I run my hands down my face, and only then realize that I need a shave. Too tired. Right now I just want to go to bed. The London streets are dark as I plod along—there's really no other word for it. The sooner I get home, the better. Ellie and the kids left months ago, so there's no one waiting for me. It hurts. To top it off, it's started raining.
To be honest, I want a cigarette. Yeah, the patches are great, but there's nothing like the feeling of soothing smoke. But, of course, I haven't got any. So now I'm walking down an empty London street at half two in the morning, sopping wet and exhausted. Only when I get to my door do I remember I've left my keys at the office. That's the third time this week.
I let out a swear as I find the door unlocked anyway. Someone's broken in. Just what I need. Right now, I'm too tired to care, and when I take off my coat, I just drop it. Then I hear his voice.
"You really ought to take better care of your clothes, Detective Inspector."
It's funny. I've just spent all day and then some with Sherlock Holmes at the office, and I find his brother waiting for me when I get back. I'm about to point out that he broke into the flat of a law enforcement agent when I catch sight of his eyes. He knows I can't resist him.
"Can it with the titles. I'm off the clock."
"As you wish, Gregory." It's like there's something wrong with calling me Gregory. He must have noticed that I sighed. Damn it. Why do I hate his brother but love him? The two aren't that different, really, but I guess Mycroft's nicer. At least Mycroft's got a sense of social etiquette, aside from breaking and entering.
"I could arrest you for breaking and entering."
He smiled. "But you won't. Take a seat."
Why does everything he say sound like a threat? "Mycroft, I just want to go to bed."
"No, you don't." He puts his tea down (the man made tea in my kitchen?) "You should probably take that shirt off. It's soaking. You'll lower your immune response's ability to cope."
So I do. He lit the fire while I was out, too, which should probably make me angry. It doesn't. Normally I hate being manipulated. I'm headstrong and I know it—how else could I have risen in the police ranks? But him? I don't mind at all, and before long I've taken off my trousers to dry, too. Mycroft is still smiling at me from the other side of the sofa, and he's taken off his suit jacket and undone his tie.
"Only one thing left to remove, Gregory."
He's right. He's always right. And of course, once I've taken off my pants, I'm a bit cold. He comes over and helps warm me up. With himself. But God, that rug feels soft.