Greg had barely recovered from his meeting with one Holmes before he had to deal with the other.

The next morning, he was called in to report on a case regarding a teenager who had been missing for several weeks and whose body had just washed up. Of course, by the time Lestrade arrived, Sherlock was already bent over the body, sniffing it daintily. He probably beat the bloody forensics team here, he thought. Judging by the disgruntled faces that Anderson and company were making, Greg's assumption would appear to be correct.

"Ah, Lestrade," Sherlock spoke without looking up from what he was doing, "I don't believe that your presence will be required here," the young man straightened, "It was quite obviously her aunt."

Lestrade shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and rolled his eyes. It's so wonderful to be needed.

"Right. Great," he nodded at Anderson, letting him move in to examine the body, "Sherlock, I need to speak with you."

The younger man seemed suspicious but protested far less than Greg would have thought likely.

"They're just going to ruin it," he said moodily under his breath, but the DI didn't take the bait.

When they were far enough away from the law enforcement and forensics teams, Greg stopped and considered Sherlock very seriously. The consulting detective narrowed his eyes in response and seemed to be deciding something.

"Look, mate," Greg began.

"You met him."

Greg shook his head, as if to clear it, "What?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and he looked possibly more annoyed than Greg had ever seen him. It was ironic (or perhaps telling?) that the most passionate response he had yet seen Sherlock display was one of frustration, disappointment, and anger.

"Mycroft," he fairly spat the name, "You met Mycroft."

Greg was mildly taken aback by the younger man's vehemence.

"Yeah," Greg nodded, "I met him." If you count abduction and a forced tea party "meeting" someone…

"Well?" Sherlock gestured expansively, appearing slightly wild. Greg was becoming increasingly alarmed, but he endeavored not to show it, "What did my darling brother have to say?"

He was staring at Greg, as if willing him to spill all of his secrets, but the maniacal gleam in his eye was not particularly encouraging. Greg opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off before he could even formulate words.

"Told you to tell me to go home, didn't he? Leave poor, little Sherlock to his big brother?" He spat each bitter word.

The younger man was properly fuming. It was a shock for Greg to see Sherlock this upset and demonstrative. If he was this distraught that Mycroft had spoken with him,
Greg hesitated to even imagine the two brothers in the same room with each other. He had a horrifying vision of Sherlock suddenly launching himself at Mycroft, and the elder brother stabbing him with an umbrella. Greg shuddered, just thinking of it.

Sherlock seemed ready to continue ranting, but now Greg did react. This was getting slightly out of hand. He reached out to Sherlock who pulled back glaring like a furiously cornered animal. Greg rolled his eyes. Why were things never easy with this kid?

Before Sherlock could continue his vicious invective, Greg intervened, verbally this time.

"He told me to look out for you," he said quickly but firmly, "He said he was worried about you." Greg admitted the last bit somewhat sheepishly.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, frozen. His mouth was slightly parted, and his eyes were wide. He looked like he had just been punched in the gut. Greg was not sure what to do. He was still in a state of indecision when Sherlock started to laugh. Hysterically laugh. The consulting detective could hardly catch his breath. He waved his hand vaguely as he doubled over, and Greg was taken completely by surprise. This was not good. Not at all. After weeks of wishing that Sherlock would behave a bit more like a human being, he had final gotten his request and he was beginning to regret ever having asked for it. Sherlock apparently displayed his emotions, much like he did everything else, to a complete extreme that made Greg feel increasingly concerned.

When the consulting detective had finally caught his breath, he looked up to find Lestrade eyeing him warily.

"Oh," Sherlock was clearly not himself. There was something decidedly off, "My dear brother is worried about me." He laughed again; it was a cold hollow sound, and Lestrade regretted that they had moved this conversation quite so far from the medical personnel.

"Worried about me?" Apparently, this was meant to be extraordinarily funny, but Greg was missing the joke. He had been under the impression last night that the brothers had, at best, a contentious relationship. Sherlock's reaction pointed to something far worse.

Greg therefore proceeded cautiously, "That seemed to be the point, yeah…"

"Well you should tell my brother that there is nothing wrong with me," Sherlock was regularly punctuating his statements by pointing at Greg, his eyes flashing dangerously, "He should look to himself."

"I wasn't planning on talk-" Greg began indignantly.

"Don't be an idiot, Lestrade," Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Greg was too concerned to feel insulted or annoyed, "If my brother wishes to speak with you, I doubt there is anything that you could do to stop him."

Greg considered this and then decided that (rather unfortunately) he didn't really have any evidence to refute this claim. He wondered if the younger Holmes was speaking from personal experience.

Sherlock nodded curtly, glaring, clearly thinking of something very seriously. Then, suddenly, he seemed to withdraw somehow. The clearly manifested anger disappeared and all that was left in its place was a studied ennui, which made Greg question everything he had ever assumed about Sherlock's emotional capacities. The entire Yard thought that he was a heartless automaton, but it seemed more likely that he buried everything he was feeling beneath a studied exterior, refusing to deal with any of it. That won't ever blow up in any of our faces, the DI mused with increasing trepidation.

"Well, then, I must be off," Sherlock spun around, but not before Greg glimpsed his strangely glittering eyes. His coat flared out behind him, as he left the scene.

"Sherlock," Greg implored, but it was too late. The younger Holmes studiously ignored him as he strode away. Sudden theatrical departures and a tendency to completely ignore anything that Greg had to say were characteristics that the brothers seemed to share and not positive ones. Although, when Greg reflected on the other qualities they both held, he wasn't sure that he had yet to spot anything affirmative.

No, what was more troubling at this moment was the fact that Greg's trusty instincts were telling him that Sherlock was in no fit state to be left to his own devices. He had a very bad feeling about this…

This sensation stayed with Greg as he and the others cleared the scene. It remained in the back of his mind while he listened to Donovan and Anderson complain about Sherlock and he told them to shut it. The worry lingered as the DI kept glancing around, expecting the young man to come back in order to finish the case (Sherlock never left one unsolved if he could help it). The sense of unease persisted when he arrived back at the Yard and began filing paperwork. It hung around him all afternoon and into the evening, increasing exponentially with each passing hour.

Greg was completely on edge, tapping his pencil against his desk with a ferocity that was not his norm.

"Sir?"

He looked up, startled, to find Michaels in his office. He hadn't heard the officer come in.

"What it is it?" He asked testily.

Michaels hesitated, gaze shifting uneasily, reluctant to speak.

"Out with it, sergeant," Greg didn't have the patience for this.

"Well, sir, it's just that we, ah, got a report about a drugs case," he fiddled with the forms in his hands.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, "Drugs case? That's not our division, Michaels." He turned away, but Michaels lingered in the doorway awkward and anxious.

"You'll want to look at this one, sir." He offered the report to Greg, who took it irritably, thinking that the sergeant would be lucky to have a job in the morning if he didn't bloody go away.

He glanced at the report, fully prepared to tear the officer out for having interrupted his obsessive worrying. That was his plan…until his eye caught on a sentence that sent his heart straight to his throat. Well, fuck, he thought.

"It was an overdose," Michaels confirmed somewhat guiltily, "He's at St. Bart's. Thought you ought to know. He-"

But Greg didn't have time to listen. He jumped to his feet, grabbed his coat, and dash out the door with all the speed he could muster.

"Bloody idiot," he muttered and he wasn't sure whether he was referring to Sherlock or himself.

AN:

Ta-da! Welcome to Chapter 3! What did you think? I justify Sherlock being out of character by the fact that, technically, he isn't quite our Sherlock yet. He's a more extreme version of himself. What did you think of Lestrade? Of Sherlock? Of the ending?

Thank you to everyone who has read, followed, and reviewed this story. You guys make my day. If you get the chance, please leave a review and let me know what you think. :D