Lestrade had had a very long week.
No, make that month.
No, better make it year.
Actually, his life had started getting… let's say interesting- on the day he met Mycroft Holmes.
Not that his life hadn't already been just a basket of fun with one Holmes brother, but this one was… just something else. The elder Holmes was different from his little brother- different, but exactly the same. This one was more discrete about being a genius of epic proportions, and less of an obsessive and crazy genius to boot, but he had exactly the same tendencies that made Lestrade tear his hair out when working with Holmes the younger.
The main difference between the Holmes brothers, despite what anyone else might say about appearance, vivacity, occupation, social grace, power, or intelligence- the main difference was who they loved, and who loved them. A lot of people seemed to fall for Holmes the younger, while no one ever seemed to go for the elder. The younger had wisely selected a mate who came equipped with military training and a cane that could easily function as a weapon for fending off adoring fans and other admirers, whilst the elder had engaged- tentatively at first- in a relationship with none other than Greg Lestrade. Lestrade was quite enamored with the elder Holmes brother, which was probably the only reason he hadn't yet arrested the man for sheer annoyance. He knew he could count it as a public disturbance, if he played it right…
"You look like you could use a companion." John Watson appeared where he was needed, as he always seemed to do, bearing two drinks.
"He's not here with you, is he?"
"God no. He'd never set foot in something so common as a bar, Greg. Unless there was a body on the floor. No, I came here to get away from him, actually."
Lestrade gestured to the seat across from him, gratefully accepting the glass of he-didn't-even-care-what. "Yours is driving you up the wall, too?"
John snorted, folding his arms. "When is he not?"
"Fair." Greg gave a small toasting motion with his glass before taking an overlarge swallow of some burning liquid mixture. "God, what is this?"
"Made it up myself. I call it the 'Sherlock's-being-difficult,' though I suppose in your honor we could rename it the 'Holmes-brothers-suck.'" He quirked a grin. Taking a swallow of his own drink and grimacing at the taste, he asked, "So what's Mycroft gotten into this week?"
"Are you really asking? Don't get me started if you don't want to hear."
"I'll trade you- you listen to me harp on about my half of the terrible twosome, I'll listen to you harp on about your half. Seem fair?" He pulled his pant leg up at the knee to bend his leg, getting comfortable in his chair.
"Okay. So this week alone, he's had to save the Queen twice. Which raises serious questions about the way the government functions; that it should ever fall to Mycroft to care, but that's not really the point. I come home exhausted, and find him in bed. Just sitting there like he never moved and never noticed I went to work. I walk in the room, make some crack about his still being in bed, and start taking off my tie, and the bastard just puts up one eyebrow and says, 'Greg, I'd like some cake. Bring me cake.' So I told him that he said last week not to let him have any more cake, says it's his weakness. He gets this expression of supreme condescension, and asks me in a tone meant for primary schoolers whether I'd saved the Queen lately." Lestrade snorted. "It sounds so stupid, but I guess I was hoping for a bit of a different welcome home… One night. Just one night of 'hello honey, how was work? Oh, you have problems too? I won't ridicule your lowly peasant difficulties.'"
"Ugh." John leaned back and took a sip of his concoction.
"And that was just today! Your turn, though."
"I spent the day getting texts from Sherlock every time my grammar was 'wrong,' I misspoke, or said or did anything he considered 'wrong.' I kept looking around for him, and I even stood with my back against a wall or two during conversations just so I could see where the hell he was hiding, but no luck. Of course. Then I get home and the first thing I hear is that damned noise that means Adler's texted him- which he refuses to change, because apparently then he'd have to go get his phone and read the message in case it's from me. Which is sweet, but still bloody annoying that he won't get up for anyone else, so I have to find his phone and make it stop moaning, and I was looking everywhere but I couldn't find it, and finally I thought well maybe he hung up his coat in my closet for whatever reason. No. I open the door and there's a head. A head. In my closet. In ice- didn't stink or anything- but still, Greg, a head in my closet."
"God. If Mycroft brought home heads I think I'd throw him out."
"Right. Anyway. Your turn." John slammed back the last of his alcohol.
"Two days ago, he woke me up with an air raid. An air raid. And it wasn't on us, oh no, that'd be too simple. We were in a bomber. In our night things. He told me that they tried waking me up but I just hung on to Mycroft and murmured something about not letting the bad men take me." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I don't believe it for a second. Not one goddamn second. So there I was, in a jet with the British. Royal. Air. Force… and I'm clinging to my stupid old boyfriend, who's been carrying me even though he knows it's going to strain his back- and then I'll have to take care of a bedridden Mycroft! Can you imagine? So he's holding me and I'm clinging to him. On an air raid practice run. Mycroft said he had to oversee one; what he failed to mention was that he'd be doing it in the middle of the damn night and taking me with him."
"How is that even…" John cast about for the right word. "How do they allow things like that?"
"He's Mycroft Holmes. If he told you he wouldn't leave his boyfriend in the middle of the night, would you tell him he had to?"
"And I'd thought the way Sherlock woke me up was bad. Around Monday, I wake up to find his face about an inch from mine. He had our noses touching, just barely, and it was like he was levitating over me. He loves to show off how damn strong he is and how much endurance he has. Drives me up the wall. Anyway, I woke up with him that close, which normally is nice, you know? But this time, with that curly hair flopping into my eyes and his limbs keeping me basically in a cage, he's poking me incrementally harder in the ribs and whispering at increasing decibels, 'bored.' He says it was for an experiment. I didn't even ask what kind of experiment, I just got up with a blanket and slept on the couch. 'Course, I woke up back in bed, and he was on the couch… which made me feel like a right idiot."
Despite how frustrating the younger Holmes was in daylight hours and how much Lestrade envied John Watson's strength and patience to be able to put up with that all night too, the description of Sherlock's apparent repentance was a little bit touching. "Sweet though, that he realized he was bothering you and would rather be uncomfortable himself…" He cleared his throat and jostled his chair a bit, thinking with awkward tenderness of the little things Mycroft did for him.
A feeling flooded through John that had nothing to do with the alcohol he'd consumed. He wanted to give his Holmes a hug and say just how sorry he was for making Sherlock feel unwanted, even if the man had been being a pain in the everything. The levels of self-recrimination Sherlock was capable of when it came to John were truly incredible. Normally it didn't show much, because he believed in his reasons for acting as he did and knew that John wasn't really all that bothered, but sometimes he knew he'd stepped past the line of reasonable justification and spent the next few days treading carefully and being overwhelmingly sweet- in a very Sherlock way, of course. "Yeah… it is. Sometimes… it's all worth it. When he…" John too made several jerky physical motions to distract from the sudden vulnerable moment. "Anyway. More Holmes-brothers-su-" he changed his mind. "Anything to drink?"
"Sure. I'd love a brandy." Lestrade handed Watson a bill, and the ex-army doctor returned a moment later with two more drinks.
"What else has your half of the set of idiots been up to that's got you looking so tired?" He asked as he sat back down.
"Well," Lestrade took a sip. "He showed up at the yard the other day. Just out of the blue. Holding that stupid umbrella even though it hasn't rained for a week and won't rain for a week more. Completely ignored me. Talked to my secretary, talked to other department heads, only thing he said to me was, 'good morning, Chief Inspector,' as he walked out the door. I asked him about it, of course, when I got home, and he said, 'business, you know.' With his smug little superior face. 'don't take it personally,' he tells me, 'it simply wouldn't be proper for people to know about us while I make my inquiries at the Yard.'" Lestrade snorted again and took another drink, larger this time. "What does he think? That they don't already know? The way he talks about it, you'd think I had been trying to get him to go for it in the supply closet- all I would've liked was for him to acknowledge my existence before he went off on whatever crusade he came for. I'm sure it was important, it always is with Mycroft, but sometimes it's so hard to be patient with his uptight professionalism…"
"Sherlock won't touch me while we're on a case. Nothing anyone else would notice, ever. I don't know why he's so worried, but he says there are people who might use me against him… like that hasn't happened before. And when we're not doing something case related, like if we just pop out for dinner, he almost won't let go of me. Flings himself between me and whatever loud noise or sudden movement might be a threat. Including, notably, an alley cat jumping off a trash can. Obsessively protective."
"That's Mycroft too. For God's sake, I have a gun. I'm authorized to shoot anyone who so much brandishes a butter knife at me. I suppose he's worried more about long-term dangers, though…"
"I guess they both must have their enemies- they both do have their enemies. It's a wonder we can go out for a drink without them following us." John snorted.
"Last week, Mycroft showed up all of a sudden, you'll never believe this- dropped out of the air vent. How he got up there… he's not as spry as Sherlock. I'd expect it of the younger psychopath-"
"He's a high-functioning sociopath, Greg, do your research," John corrected humorously.
"Whatever. Anyway, I'd expect those sorts of acrobatics from the younger of the set- I have no idea how you keep up with all his running and such- but Mycroft being in the air vent completely shocked me. He drops out of the air vent right ahead of me, lands like some kind of a ninja, knocks my feet out from under me, and just as I start to shout at him, there's a hail of bullets right over our heads. Not aimed at us, just unlucky that I was there. My guess is that the Secret Service wouldn't spare one of their men to stop it- just an attempted burglary, I made the arrests myself- so Mycroft took it on himself to protect me… which is incredibly touching, don't get me wrong, but could he not have called me? Did he have to drop out of the vent? It was so out of character, and ridiculously dramatic."
"The Holmes brothers." John shook his head a little drunkenly. "Whatever will we do with them?"
Meanwhile, from beneath some rather fantastic disguises, Sherlock and Mycroft were sitting at the bar together in hostile understanding, watching their respective other halves.
"Do I make him that sad? Really? When you see him, Mycroft- which I wish you'd stop doing, he's not yours to kidnap at random- does he seem that sad?"
"Sad, no." He pondered. "A bit frustrated might be more appropriate phraseology. Overwhelmed at times. But he's always… worried for you. Always caring for you." He pulled a face at the mere thought of caring. "You keep him on his toes. He likes that, more than he should, more than he's likely to ever admit."
Sherlock nodded, his baseball cap slipping a bit and exposing some of his distinctive hair. He couldn't afford to draw attention to himself by fixing it, but he hoped John was buzzed enough that he wouldn't notice the freckled "American" in jeans and a Yankees T-shirt watching him from across the bar. "As long as he's happy with me." He murmured.
"Getting sentimental, brother?" Mycroft scoffed from under a ridiculous Stalin-esque moustache. His matching bushy eyebrows moved mockingly at Sherlock. "Don't tell me you care."
Sherlock looked over the rim of his false glasses. "You're saying you don't care about how exhausted Lestrade looks- shoulders carried one point six inches lower than normal, back bowed an additional five degrees, shadows under his eyes- or how his clothes look nearly twice as rumpled as they usually do in the evenings, or the way he has makeup and wig powder on his jacket because he wasn't looking where he was going today and ran into an old lady- what was he distracted by, did you two have a fight? You don't care that he looks discontented and every time he says your name his mouth twists slightly in disgust?" Mycroft's gifts had never tended toward excessive observation, like Sherlock had tuned his to do, and Sherlock used his advantage now.
Mycroft, however, made an amused, condescending face, his usual arch expression looking ridiculous on the face of the elderly blue-collar man they had chosen as his cover. "That 'twist of disgust,' as you call it, dear brother… that is indeed the face he makes when he says my name. In mid-coitus. I believe it to be connected to the sentiment of attachment and/or the state of arousal."
Sherlock, repulsed and trying to score back a point, answered pithily; "Is that the face you make to your cake, then?"
Mycroft glowered.