Annoyed

It annoyed Mycroft, truth be told. The constant niggling in the back of his consciousness be it while he sat in conference with some of the most powerful men in the world, or lay in bed staring sleeplessly up at the ceiling.

What was so special about Gregory Lestrade that had warrented Sherlock's tolerance?

Did Sherlock deduce something in him that could not have been seen by the CCTV cameras? Maybe it was because he thought Lestrade was one of those coppers who would turn a blind eye to his... addictions. But that couldn't be it. Lestrade was the most efficient, if not, quietly passionate officer of his rank on the field. He wouldn't ignore a problem case like Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock stuck with him because he thought he'd be easy to wear in?

So many questions for a man that Sherlock only met four, or five, times.

Strange, because Mycroft never worried much about the people Sherlock chose to surround himself with mostly because Sherlock made it a point not to and because everyone who knew him all wisely kept their distances and had clean records.

Only, he was not so sure about Gregory Lestrade.

As a natural prankster and troublemaker in his teenage years, Lestrade was known to break a few minor laws but was never arrested for one reason or another. Mycroft found this odd as the local officers stationed in the area of his childhood home knew him during that age. They didn't have much good to say about him, but neither bad things.

And, more importantly, none of them offered any explanation as to why Lestrade always got off the hook.

Mycroft rolled his eyes with a slightly reprimanding grumble of 'Let it go, Mycroft.' Really, who was Gregory Lestrade to disturb his peaceful afternoon? Mycroft sat back in his Diogenes club and resolved to think of the copper no more.

Three hours later, he was cursing his own paranoia as Anthea entered the room with Gregory Lestrade's file and a full report on a case Lestrade and Sherlock worked on just that morning.

Sherlock saw something in the man. Mycroft was intent on finding out what that was.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock's baritone voice sliced out of the silence with a painfully feigned warmth.

"Brother." Mycroft inclined his head, pressing his lips together.

Sherlock saw the look and groaned, rolling his eyes. "Oh, Hell! What is it now?"

The younger sibling's torso was draped over the sofa's back but his gangly legs hung off into open space. His head was lolling slightly and his eyes were half-lidded. Obviously, Sherlock was in no condition to have a serious conversation with Mycroft.

Mycroft just rolled his eyes Heavenward and sighed sadly. "A brilliant mind like yours, Sherlock." he reprimanded. "A slave to intoxicants. How tragic."

Sherlock merely made a rude gesture in reply.

"Yes, Sherlock, pleasent seeing you again, too."

Neither Holmes moved very much after that. Mycroft glided about, silent as a ghost, and made them both tea since Sherlock was in no state to accomplish anything.

Half-an-hour later, Sherlock suddenly sat up. "Where's Lestrade?"

Mycroft perked up mentally at that, though bodily, not a muscle moved. "Lestrade?"

"Oh, don't act like you don't know who he is!" Sherlock spat. "Where is he? Did you kidnap him? It's obvious you didn't come here to ask me to help you on a case, what else would you come for?"

Just then, there were footsteps in the hall outside the flat, and they were coming nearer. Gregory Lestrade, come to meddle in Sherlock's business? Or was it for another case?

Mycroft bit his lip a little. Then he stood. "Well, I'll return as soon as you're ready to form coherent words." He frowned at the pale hand that flapped at him languidly, shooing him off.

He gripped his umbrella and walked out of the door, passing Lestrade in the hall.

Lestrade was frowning grumpily and muttering under his breath as he made his way to Sherlock's flat. He was taller than he looked in the CCTV footages but Mycroft chalked that up to his slouch, Sherlock's superior height and his ability to make a man feel two feet tall when with him. The air, as the copper swept past him, smelled of musk cologne, cigaratte smoke, bitter coffee, ... and a faint tinge of fresh soap. How mundane.

Then, as if just realizing that Mycroft had just come out of the very same flat he was about to enter, Lestrade's posture stiffened and he threw a glance at Mycroft's retreating back. Mycroft felt his curious gaze on his back and the hairs on the back of his neck raised but he continued walking.

Then, Lestrade shrugged and rapped twice on Sherlock's door before entering without waiting to be invited in. Because, knowing Sherlock, he wouldn't. Then there was a growl. "Sherlock bloody Holmes!" Mycroft could hear Lestrade mutter and could almost imagine his jaw tightening, sighing at the genius on the sofa. "What have I told you about our agreement?"

Mycroft stopped short in his steps. What kind of agreement? Then he continued walking, he knew that everything they said was to be picked up by his microphones and recorded. He'd listen to it later.

"I can't consult you on my cases if you keep-..." Lestrade gestured at Sherlock's state. "Come on, Sherlock. Work with me here."

Sherlock's eyes were lidded serenely but one of his eyebrows raised. "It helps me think, and in turn, I help you. I think it's a reasonable enough working relation, isn't it?"

"No, Sherlock, it's not!" Lestrade spat back, Sherlock ignored him. Then he saw the tea on the coffee table. "Had a client, did you?"

Sherlock snorted in amusement. "A client...? Lestrade, don't be ridiculous."

Lestrade sighed in exasperation. "Alright, get up." He took Sherlock by the arm and lugged him unsteadily to his feet. "Get up. Stand on your own, can you?"

Sherlock's eyes finally opened although it was only to scowl at the sergeant and bat him away. "Leave me alone, Lestrade." He collapsed bonelessly on the sofa again.

Lestrade just stood staring at him for a while impassively. Then he disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared with a metal cooking bowl full of cold water. He lifted it over Sherlock's head and dumped the contents all over him.

"Lestrade! What the Hell-...!" Sherlock spluttered indignantly.

"That's my line, Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted back angrily. "You said you'd stop! You-..." he bit his tongue to keep obsceneties from flying off it. "Come on, Sherlock. At least sleep in your own bed." He moved to help Sherlock again.

Sherlock slapped his hand away with a childish, "Leave it alone."

"You know I can't." Lestrade picked up an empty syringe and stared at it blankly. "This stuff is going to kill you, you know."

"Oh, and I suppose those who don't do drugs will live forever!" Sherlock snapped back snidely. "What do you care?"

"Sherlock," Lestrade sighed, putting the syringe back down and crossing his arms. "I think you've probably figured this out already, but you're too smart to become a statistic."

There was silence. "You were in the narcotics division before being transferred to homicide." Sherlock deduced.

"We lost good undercover people through drug abuse, Sherlock." Lestrade frowned.

"I'm not one of 'yours'."

"Do I have to have a reason why I don't want to turn a blind eye to you killing yourself?"

They squared off, neither backing down.

"Fine."

Sherlock's murmur was hardly loud enough to be heard, but Lestrade heard it anyway.

"Come on, Sherlock. Let's get you cleaned up. Then I'm going to force food and liquids down your throat." Sherlock made to protest but Lestrade stopped him. "Sure, it interferes with your brainwork, or whatever, but I'm pretty certain you're still smart enough to figure this case out. You know, stupid killers and all that."

"There's no advantage to eating."

"Nourishment, rest, and rehab. Or I'm going to withold cases." Sherlock glared, but Lestrade just smiled back cheekily. "Your choice, Sherlock."

Mycroft frowned. Well, it was more of a pout, but Mycroft Holmes never pouted so it would most likely be reported as a 'grim frown'. Half-an-hour. Thirty minutes. A thousand eight hundred seconds. Whichever suited best. Within a space of such a short time, Gregory Lestrade succeeded in changing Sherlock in a way that Mycroft had been failing to for the last five years. God, but this was embarassing. He felt like a father who's precious child favored a stranger over him but said stranger didn't even know it.

What was Lestrade's secret? Maybe Sherlock hated Mycroft just that much.

He watched the surveilance footages in Sherlock's bedroom as Sherlock and Lestrade went over the details of a particularly gruesome murder. Sherlock was lying flat on his stomache on the bed, eyes closed and almost drifting off to sleep. Lestrade was sitting in a chair he had dragged up to the bedside and was reading out the autopsy report to the consulting detective.

Suddenly, Sherlock chuckled, interrupting Lestrade's discription of the murder weapon. "Oh, Mycroft's going to be pissed at you." he murmured.

Lestrade lowered the file onto his lap. "Who?"

"Mycroft."

"... Okay, who is this 'Mycroft' and why is he going to be pissed at me? Should I be worried?"

"Yes, you should be worried. Mycroft is the most dangerous man you've never met, and you've just one-upped him spectacularly."

Lestrade just shook his head dismissively. "Whatever, Sherlock." And he continued reading out the report.

Mycroft pursed his lips and tapped the tip of his umbrella on the floor. Maybe it was time he acquaintenced himself with Gregory Lestrade and did away with his petty worries about the man's motives and relation with Sherlock.

He picked up his phone. "Anthea, prepare secure meeting grounds, please."