Chapter Three: The Paths We Took

Author's Note: BAM, another chapter! I now have a vague idea of where this story is going... a very vague idea. But that's better than what I had when I wrote chapter two, so... yay! Anywho, thank you for all your wonderful reviews, I appreciate them all.

Also, there's some fabulous fan art for this story by the wonderful qed221b that can be found here; qed221b ["dot"] tumblr ["dot"] com / post / 50721270998 / just-a-few-illustrations-for-the-wonderful . Obviously, just replace the ["dots"] with the symbol, and take out the spaces, and you should be good to go.

Enjoy,

{Dreamer}

Mycroft was actually surprised when Sherlock took him up on his offer. He'd thought Sherlock would bolt, like usual, or sneer at Mycroft's attempt to mend their relationship. Instead he shrugged and said, 'Sure, why not?' and climbed into the cab with Mycroft. Usually Mycroft- and Greg- took the bus or tube to their destinations, only using cabs when it was late or they were in a rush. The bus and tube were both cheaper, and the past four years had taught them both to save every scrap of money they got their hands on.

But it didn't seem wise to put Sherlock on a bus full of people, so a taxi it was.

The trip was taken in silence, both staring out their windows; Mycroft gripping the umbrella he took almost everywhere, Sherlock tapping at his denim-clad thigh.

Mycroft had to wonder what Sherlock would think of the small flat he and Greg lived in. Sherlock lived in a large Manor house that had twelve bedrooms, five bathrooms, sprawling dining rooms and living rooms and grounds you could drive a car around. Mycroft shared a small space with his boyfriend and son, and had boxes stacked in corners full of the books, CDs, and other objects they couldn't find space for. The bed was tucked into one corner, a TV system against the opposite wall with a small sofa and armchair sitting before it.

Mycroft wasn't ashamed of his home. It was the first place he and Greg had been able to rent, the owner of the building a nice older woman who took one look at them and let them move in immediately. Before that they'd slept in crappy hotels with questionable stains and even more questionable patrons, and had even spent a good two weeks camping out in parks, alleys, and shelters. Mycroft knew what it was like to sleep on cold concrete or hard wood; knew what it was like to fear for your possessions, your life, your partner's life. A small studio flat was a hell of a lot better than a cardboard box wrapped in newspaper behind an overflowing skip bin.

The flat, though small, was Mycroft's home. It was a place where he could take shelter from harsh London winters. He could kiss his boyfriend, hold his hand, without fearing that someone would try to rough him up for it. He could cook lumpy pasta and live off toast for two weeks and try and add rice to everything to make the food last longer, without anyone judging him or saying he'd made poor life decisions.

The Manor was big, beautiful, spacious; it was cold, empty, lonely. The flat was freedom, was home, was where Mycroft had felt safe for the first time in his short life. If Sherlock had a problem with it, Mycroft honestly wouldn't care. Mycroft loved it.

The taxi pulled up before the building and Mycroft carefully counted out the correct change, thanking the driver as he climbed out. Sherlock was already standing on the pavement, his hands stuffed into his large coat pockets as he stared up at the building. Mycroft let his brother stare for about a minute before walking forward, eager to get out of the chill. Sherlock followed.

The building was three storeys, with three flats on the ground floor, three on the second, and two on the third. Mycroft and Greg's flat was on the second floor, and Mycroft could see Sherlock eyeing the stairs, the wallpaper, the ceiling, as they walked up the flight of steps. He didn't say anything, though; just turned left on the landing and slid his key into the lock.

It opened with a click and Mycroft ushered Sherlock in, telling him to hang his coat up, take his shoes off, and follow Mycroft down the hall.

Sherlock froze in the hallway entrance, but Mycroft paid him no attention. His entire focus was on Noah, who Greg was bouncing on his stomach.

'What are you doing?' Mycroft asked instead of saying hello.

Greg tilted his head back and grinned upside down at his boyfriend. 'Showing Noah that Daddy doesn't have a belly, unlike some people believe.'

Mycroft smirked. A few days previously he'd commented that if Greg kept eating the chocolate one of his band mate's, Alan, kept sneaking him, he'd grow pudgy. There was no chance of that happening; the two worked enough to work off whatever food they did consume, and they only ever ate when they were hungry. There was never any chocolate or ice-cream in the Lestrade-Holmes household unless it was somebody's birthday.

'I was joking, love,' Mycroft said as he approached.

'I know, darling,' Greg responded and tilted his head up for a kiss.

Mycroft obliged before reaching out for Noah, who was drooling and trying to bounce on Greg's stomach again, hands grabbing for Mycroft.

'Look, Papa's home,' Greg said and handed the baby across. Mycroft easily lifted Noah into his arms and Greg rolled onto his stomach before propping himself up on his arms. He spotted Sherlock, still standing in the entryway, and said, 'And Papa brought home a stray.'

Mycroft snorted, but made no comment. Gregory had talked on the phone with Sherlock more often than Mycroft had, but seeing each other in person was different. The week previously Mycroft had revealed to Sherlock that he and Greg had run away because their parents were abusive; Sherlock had thought they'd run because they wanted to be together, or because they hated their families. For a long time Sherlock had been living with false information, and Mycroft wasn't sure how he felt about Gregory now. He still hated Mycroft, so there was a good chance he hated Mycroft's spouse too.

Finally, Sherlock, having run his sharp blue eyes over the small flat, looked at Gregory. 'Lestrade.'

'Sherlock,' Greg replied, voice neutral. 'What brings you to our humble abode?'

Sherlock's nose wrinkled at the last two words, and Mycroft watched Greg tense. Thankfully Sherlock just shrugged and said, 'Mycroft invited me.'

'Did he?' Greg asked and looked at his boyfriend.

'I didn't think he'd say yes,' Mycroft mumbled. He broke off into chuckles when Noah got a hold of his collar and stuffed it, and half of his fist, into his mouth. He beamed at Mycroft as he did, like he'd accomplished something great, and Mycroft couldn't help but smile in response.

'He's been doin' that all day,' Greg said, his attention drawn back to his family. 'Gummed my ear for a good five minutes before I pried the little vampire off.'

Mycroft smiled. 'That's just his way of showing love.'

'Right...so he loves me, but only loves your shirt,' Greg grinned. He sat up and kissed Noah's cheek loudly, making the baby huff out a laugh. 'I knew Daddy was your favourite!'

'Don't be absurd,' Mycroft sniffed. 'Clearly I'm his favourite.'

'Oh yeah? Who says?'

'Noah,' Mycroft said and looked down at their son. 'Isn't that right, Noah?'

'Gurhh,' Noah replied, drooling all over his fist and Mycroft's shirt.

'See?' Mycroft said. He looked pointedly at Greg. 'That was clearly, "Yes, Papa, you're my absolute favourite father".'

'No,' Greg shook his head, 'that was, "Da, get this lunatic away from me, I love you the most!"'

Mycroft rolled his eyes, Greg snickered, and Noah drooled some more.

Sherlock cleared his throat pointedly and the two older men looked at him. 'That's the baby, then?' he asked. 'The one your sister dumped?'

Greg got to his feet quickly and rubbed his hands together, as though getting rid of dirt. 'Listen here, mate, 'cause I'm only gonna say this once,' Greg said, staring at Sherlock. 'You wanna be welcomed here? You don't talk shit about my kid. You keep your opinions to yourself; we don't care where Noah came from, he's our son. So say shit to me, to Mycroft- hell, scream at our neighbours and make scathing remarks about our flat if it gets you off. But you don't say anything hurtful to my son, or I'll fuck you up, I don't care who's fuckin' brother you are.'

Greg paused to make sure his point was drilled into Sherlock's head.

'Got it?'

Silence descended, so thick Mycroft was sure he could cut it with a butter knife. A full two minutes passed before Sherlock pressed his lips together and nodded once, sharply.

'Good,' Greg said and a grin spread across his face. 'You stayin' for dinner, then?'

He turned his back on Sherlock, apparently not waiting for an answer, and headed for the kitchen.

'What are we having?' Mycroft asked as he stood too and went to the sofa.

'Curry and rice; chicken's almost outta date, and we gotta use the last of that sauce,' Greg said from the kitchen. 'Figured we could heat it up tomorrow for dinner, take leftovers to work and shit.'

'Sounds good,' Mycroft replied and sat, moving Noah around to make sure the baby was comfortable.

There were four main food groups in the Lestrade-Holmes household; pasta, bread, curry, and baby food. Pasta and curry could be frozen and re-heated, and they could mix different vegetables and rice into it to make it last longer, or make it taste different.

Bread was good for toast and sandwiches and could be frozen, so they always had at least two loaves in the freezer in case they were every tight on money. More than once they'd gotten few shifts and used all their money on rent and bills, and therefore had lived off peanut butter, and later plain, toast for weeks at a time.

More than half their vegetables and perishables went towards Noah's dinner. They made sure Noah's food was fresh and healthy. When a use by date rolled around, or passed, Greg and Mycroft threw it into their own dinner or lunch.

Sherlock still seemed a bit lost after Gregory's deceleration, still standing just before the hallway, looking around.

'You can sit, Sherlock,' Mycroft said.

Sherlock twitched but then nodded and walked across the short distance to sit in the armchair. It was old, like most of their furniture, and bright blue. Greg had nicked it from out the front of a house across the city four months after they'd moved in. He'd convinced a band-mate, Mick, to load it into his van and drive it to their flat in exchange for Greg preforming a free gig with Mick's band.

It was the first piece of furniture they'd owned, and Mycroft and Greg had spent days curled up together on it telling each other stories to pass the time (and share body heat, because this was before they'd had enough blankets to keep comfortable during winter).

Mycroft tilted his head slightly as he looked down at Noah- still happily spreading saliva all over Mycroft's white shirt- and then at the couch he was sitting on. Everything in the flat had a history; the couch had been given to them by a neighbour, who'd actually nicked a practically brand new one from the same neighbourhood Greg had gotten their armchair from.

Their dining room table used to belong to Mrs Carter, their landlady, and she'd given it to them for free after her son had bought her a new one. Two of their chairs matched, the other two were hard plastic and had been picked out of a skip bin behind a McDonalds.

Greg had stumbled across their wardrobe and dresser dumped in an alley, and a quick clean had made them ready for use. Their pots and pans, their plates and bowls and cutlery, all bought from second hand stores, stolen from fast food restaurants, or taken from various bars they'd had lunch or dinner at.

Half of their clothes were second-hand, having been bought from charity shops or donated by their various colleagues. Only the uniforms they had to wear when working at Ryan's were brand new, as well as their underwear and socks and a few shirts.

Even most of Noah's things were second-hand; stuff Ryley had taken from the Lestrade family home; stuff Greg's many siblings had used before Noah got them. Some of the toys and books were brand new, and most his clothing Mycroft and Greg had saved weeks to buy. Noah needed new things; deserved new things. Greg and Mycroft were fine with second hand clothing.

Mycroft tilted his head up to look at his brother. His coat was brand new, his jeans bright with colour, shirt perfectly ironed, runners still white. Everything Sherlock owned was clearly new. Mycroft had forgotten what it was like to have everything you wanted because you had the money.

How times had changed them; how choices had led them down two very different paths.

Sherlock seemed to have finally gotten over Greg's words, because now he was staring at Noah.

'Can I help you?' Mycroft asked.

'How old is he, again?' Sherlock questioned.

'Almost seven months,' Mycroft replied. 'He's just started teething.'

'He chews on everything!' Greg shouted from the kitchen. 'Got my bloody mobile around lunch, nearly gnawed off a goddamn button.'

'Any damage?' Mycroft asked.

'A bit of the hash button's missing,' Greg replied. 'I got the chunk out before he swallowed it.'

'Naughty boy,' Mycroft tutted at Noah, who blinked up at him with large chocolate brown eyes. Mycroft sighed. 'That's not fair.'

'Haha! The Lestrade eyes best you again!' Greg cowed triumphantly.

'Shut up!' was Mycroft's reply.

Sherlock watched with morbid fascination; he seemed to find their behaviour- and the thought of a baby trying to chew a mobile phone to death- disgusting. At the same time, his curiosity was leaking over, making him shift forward in the armchair to look at Noah carefully.

'Would you like to hold him?' Mycroft asked.

'He bites,' Greg warned. 'And if you say anythin' to him, remember my earlier warning.'

'He's seven months old; I doubt he'll understand what I'm saying,' Sherlock replied.

'I don't give a flying monkey what you think, Sherlock,' Greg snapped at him. 'My kid, my rules; got that, sunshine?'

Sherlock just nodded and Mycroft smirked. Gregory was fiercely protective of Noah. Not that Mycroft wasn't, but the red-head handled himself better. Whenever anyone looked at Noah Greg gave them some version of the speech he'd given Sherlock. Mycroft was dreading a time when Noah started dating. Even if he was straight, the future girlfriends wouldn't escape Gregory's speech.

'Why did you name him Noah?' Sherlock asked, tilting his head. Noah was staring at him, brown eyes wide, completely fascinated by the new human being in his home. Mycroft and Greg didn't really get a lot of visitors, unless you counter their landlady and the odd neighbour wanting some milk.

'Gregory liked the name,' Mycroft shrugged. 'I didn't see anything wrong with it.'

'And he has his mother's name as his middle name, correct?' Sherlock asked.

Mycroft nodded, but it was Greg who said, 'Well, she's his biological mother, now his aunt, so we wanted to honour her in some way. And Ryley's a unisex name.'

Sherlock nodded along, and Mycroft wondered if he'd remember this, or delete it. He might choose to remember and try and study Noah's progress; he'd expressed an interest in teaching Noah how to deduce people. Then again, he might find Noah completely boring and wipe his mind clear of anything important.

Mycroft sincerely hoped he didn't do the latter. Noah needed at least one uncle who wasn't either in trouble with the police, taking care of his own kid, or in another country (for all they knew, Greg's eldest brother was on the fucking moon; he'd disappeared more thoroughly than Gregory and Mycroft did).

'He looks exactly like Lestrade,' Sherlock commented. 'Brown eyes, a milk chocolate colour. Brown hair, already curling. He has Lestrade's nose and ears, too.'

'If you remember, most of the Lestrade siblings all looked alike,' Mycroft said.

'Every single one of us had brown eyes,' Greg nodded. 'Though Dan and Josh have blonde hair, like Mum. And Beth's is dirty blonde. Liam's a fucking ginger; not sure he's even a Lestrade.'

'It wouldn't surprise me,' Sherlock murmured. Greg still heard him; the flat was rather small.

'No need to hide how you really feel, Sherlock!' Greg growled.

Sherlock immediately hunched his shoulders, preparing for shouting, or scolding, or... whatever it was Gregory was going to do.

Mycroft barked out a laugh. 'Gregory, don't be mean.'

Sherlock frowned at his brother, while across the flat Greg chuckled. 'Sorry, Sherlock; can't help myself.'

'What are you talking about?' Sherlock demanded, looking angry.

'Jesus Christ, Sherlock, there are seven of us,' Greg said and spread both arms. 'The chances of us all being Lestrades is pretty slim, especially considering the amount of men my mum dated whenever the old man was outta town. I reckon me and Ryley are the only Lestrades; everyone else looks like Mum or someone else.'

Sherlock didn't know what to say and looked to Mycroft for help.

'I'm not getting involved,' Mycroft said. 'Don't play "Who Had the Shittiest Childhood" with Gregory, because you'll lose.'

Sherlock pressed his lips together, eyeing Mycroft carefully, but he didn't say anything. He was no doubt thinking the same thing the older Holmes was; the two had had very different childhoods.

'Hey, Myc, wanna help me cut the chicken?' Greg asked. 'There's three breasts here; it goes outta date... huh, today, would you look at that.'

'You're using expired poultry?' Sherlock demanded, twisting in the armchair to glare at Greg.

'Goes outta date today, Sherlock,' Greg said. 'It's just an estimate. What, you think the chicken goes from good to off at midnight exactly?' He snorted and went back to cutting up the rather limp vegetables that had been sitting in the fridge for a good week. They'd be fine once cooked and covered in spicy sauce.

Sherlock scowled but twisted back around to look at Noah, who'd finally let go of Mycroft's shirt and was chewing on his papa's finger.

'Can you hold Noah while I help Gregory?' Mycroft asked.

Sherlock seemed to go from mildly annoyed to freaking out in three seconds flat, but Mycroft paid him no mind. Holding a baby wasn't that difficult, and Noah could sit up by himself. Before Sherlock could say no, Mycroft had plopped the baby on his lap, placed one of Sherlock's hands on Noah's back, the other on his hip, and kissed Noah on the head.

'Get to know your Uncle Sherly,' Mycroft said and walked towards the kitchen.

'Mycroft! Mycroft, come back!' Sherlock whined.

'Get to know your nephew, Uncle Sherly,' Greg snickered.

'I hate you both,' Sherlock scowled but eased himself back slowly and kept his hands firmly where Mycroft had placed them.

'You sure he'll be okay?' Greg murmured when Mycroft joined him.

'Sherlock's fine,' Mycroft replied.

'I was talkin' about Noah,' Greg said and Mycroft snorted. 'It ain't funny.'

'He's two feet away, Gregory; they'll both be fine.'

'Hey, you're the one who didn't wanna talk to him,' the brunette reminded Mycroft. 'And suddenly you're handin' your son over?'

Mycroft just shrugged one shoulder as he started cutting the fat from the chicken Greg had thawed. He wasn't an idiot; he knew he and Sherlock would never have the relationship they'd once had. Too much had changed; too much had been broken.

But if there was even a slim chance of Mycroft getting his little brother back in his life, he'd take it; threats and snarky comments included.

Unless, of course, Sherlock proved to be a danger to Noah. Then Mycroft would personally kick his brother's arse.

Sherlock, though, seemed fine on the armchair, even bouncing Noah a little. He mostly stared at him, no doubt trying to work out what Noah's biological father had looked like. All Ryley had said was he was older, black hair and brown eyes, and great in bed (Greg really hadn't needed to hear that last part, and Mycroft too would have survived without that little titbit).

Noah was his usual charming self; he drooled, he showed Sherlock his gums, he chewed on his fingers and toes, Sherlock's fingers, and the buttons on Sherlock's coat. Watching Sherlock tell a baby to "cease that action immediately!" was going in Mycroft's top five favourite stupid things Sherlock had uttered in his life. The first being the time Sherlock had, rather scathingly, told a dog to stop sniffing his shoe. The result of that conversation was Sherlock walking home with one shoe.

Dinner was almost ready when peels of laughter reached Mycroft and Greg's ears. The parents turned to see Sherlock scowling at Noah.

'Why are you making that noise?' he demanded.

Noah giggled and clapped his hands together.

'What?' Sherlock growled, brows furrowed.

Noah just laughed harder and bounced, little feet kicking up and down.

'Mycroft, your spawn's laughing at me!' Sherlock snarled.

'S'cause you're funny looking,' Greg said immediately.

Mycroft slapped him with the hand towel he was holding and left the rice to boil as he walked back to his son and brother.

'Why's my little man laughing?' Mycroft asked as he reached them. 'Did Uncle Sherly do something silly?'

'Stop calling me that!' Sherlock hissed, his entire face scrunching up in displeasure.

It made Noah laugh until his whole body was shaking, and Mycroft raised both eyebrows.

'Huh,' he commented, 'it seems you are doing something silly.'

'I am not!' Sherlock denied- and his face scrunched up, and Noah laughed, and Mycroft smirked while Greg started making faces in the kitchen. 'Mycroft, tell the boy to stop!' Sherlock ordered.

'Yes, sir,' Mycroft saluted, followed by an eye roll. 'He's seven months old, Sherlock; I can't order him to do anything.'

'Then how do I stop him?' Sherlock demanded.

'Stop making funny faces and he'll stop laughing,' Mycroft shrugged.

'I hate you, all of you,' Sherlock seethed. Noah, of course, laughed.

Mycroft left his brother to suffer until dinner was ready. Then he took his son back- much to Sherlock's relief- to feed him before putting him down for a nap.

Sherlock sat at the small table with Gregory, who started eating immediately while Mycroft walked upstairs.

'You're not waiting for Mycroft?' Sherlock asked.

'He can put Noah down by himself,' Greg replied. 'If he needs help, he'll shout. After I eat I'll go up there, kiss my kid goodnight, and head off to start my shit at the club 'round the corner.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'You work at a club? Mycroft told me you waited tables and played in bands.'

'Well... yeah,' Greg nodded and popped another piece of chicken into his mouth. He chewed quickly and swallowed before adding, 'But I can pick up a few shifts at the local club, either as security or a bartender. Pay's good, I've done it before, and we need the cash, so...' he shrugged.

'I forgot you were working tonight,' Mycroft sighed as he re-joined them.

'Noah drop off alright?' Greg asked.

The red-head nodded. 'I think Sherlock's amazingly funny face tired him out.'

'You're always so funny,' Sherlock spat and speared a piece of chicken on his fork viciously.

'I am to entertain, brother dear,' Mycroft replied.

They fell into silence after that, and Mycroft would be lying if he said it wasn't awkward. Usually he and Gregory would exchange stories about their days, but neither made an attempt to start a conversation, and Sherlock seemed happy to poke suspiciously at his dinner. Mycroft noted that he still didn't fancy eating; he'd been picky when he was younger, too.

When the three had eaten their fill Greg went to kitchen to put away the leftovers, leaving Sherlock and Mycroft at the table.

'A friend's picking me up from outside,' Sherlock said and slipped his iPhone into his coat pocket.

'Okay,' Mycroft said, standing and leading his brother to the front door.

'Seeya, Sherlock,' Greg called.

Sherlock just nodded.

Mycroft walked his brother downstairs and outside. The day hadn't been a complete failure; Gregory had gone into over-protective mother mode, which Mycroft had expected, and Sherlock hadn't wanted to hold Noah, which Mycroft had also suspected. But there hadn't been any shouting or punches thrown; so Mycroft would call it a success.

Now that they were alone, Sherlock's posture eased a little; some of the tension drained from his shoulders. Mycroft wouldn't even begin to wonder why Sherlock felt the need to put on a show for Gregory. He'd just get a few foul words for his effort.

The siblings stood in silence as they waited for Sherlock's friend- again, Mycroft wasn't going to question why Sherlock had a friend old enough to drive- and they had a cigarette each before a black car pulled up to the kerb.

'So...' Sherlock cleared his throat and flicked his butt across the pavement. 'This... was... you know,' Sherlock settled on saying.

Mycroft nodded. 'Yes, it was.'

'I'll...' Sherlock frowned down at his shoes.

'I'll call you,' Mycroft said. The teenager looked up at him. 'I promise,' Mycroft added.

Sherlock nodded jerkily and turned, getting into the car without another word. Mycroft stood on the cold street until the car disappeared around a corner, and then went back inside.

Gregory was on the couch, already dressed for his shift at the club; black slacks and a black button-up shirt. His hair had been styled into some form of neatness that would unravel five minutes after Gregory left the flat, but he still tried; that had to count for something.

Mycroft groaned and flopped onto the couch. 'Why do you have to work?' he sighed.

''Cause we haven't won the lottery,' Greg stated. The red-head snorted. 'So... that didn't go too bad.'

'Mm.'

'You reckon he'll come back?' Greg asked.

Mycroft shrugged. 'I said I'd call him.'

'Will you?'

'Yes!' Mycroft snapped. Greg just raised both eyebrows. 'I promised,' Mycroft added.

Greg nodded. 'Fair enough.' They fell into silence, both staring at the blank TV and mulling over Sherlock's visit.

'Do you suppose there are any happy families out there?' Mycroft asked suddenly.

'Dunno... probably,' Greg shrugged. 'Maybe kids with two parents who care, or even just one. They might not have family dinners, but they probably know about each others' days, their favourite foods and TV shows... they, you know, talk... don't throw bricks at each other.'

Mycroft closed his eyes at that memory. Greg had climbed through his bedroom window, half his face covered in blood that had quickly soaked through his shirt. Greg had refused a trip to the hospital and still had an impressive scar across the right side of his scalp. Mycroft was just glad Greg's dad didn't have better aim when he was drunk.

'Cheer up, love,' the brunette said, nudging Mycroft with one shoulder. 'Could be worse.'

'How?' Mycroft asked.

'Could still be living at Holmes Manor.'

Mycroft snorted and shook his head, but turned and pressed a gentle kiss to his boyfriend's lips. He'd rather be here, in his small flat, with Gregory and Noah, than back at Holmes Manor with his parents. He missed Sherlock; he didn't miss his parents, or his old school, or the town. Like he'd told Sherlock; the place had been suffocating him, slowly but surely.

'You know, it doesn't matter if we didn't have happy families growing up,' Greg mused. 'We're making our own; you, me, and Noah. We love Noah for who he is, and he'll always know that. He'll grow up knowing both his parents love him, and he'll never even have to think about doing some of the crap we've done.'

'I'd die before I let that happen,' Mycroft nodded.

'It won't,' Greg promised.

Mycroft smiled and Greg grabbed his hand, giving it squeeze. Mycroft looked down at their joined hands and studied the little scars they both had; scrapes from heavy lifting, thin lines from climbing fences, bruises that had somehow scared their skin lighter colours, and large scars across both their hands that had been courtesy of a bar fight when they'd first started working at Ryan's.

'We'll never have the relationship we used to,' Mycroft commented suddenly. Greg didn't have to ask who he was talking about. 'But it was falling apart before Siger found out I'm gay. We're... too similar, yet too different.'

'Yeah, well siblings are like that,' Greg said. 'At least you're talkin'; that's good.' Mycroft hummed. 'Hey, it's more than I've got,' Greg continued. 'I've only seen one of my siblings- one out of six- in the past four years. And she was eight months pregnant and asked me to take her goddamn baby.'

'I'm glad she did,' Mycroft said and tilted his head so he could see the vague outline of Noah's cot upstairs.

'Yeah, me too,' Greg agreed quickly. 'Fuck, Myc, my life'd be empty without Noah.'

Mycroft smiled; he knew the feeling.

'But as soon as the paperwork had cleared, Ryley took off home again. She said she'd rather be an aunt than a mum, but she hasn't visited- hell, she hasn't even called. Beth, Daniel and Joshua all live within five minutes of Ryley, and not one of them called or visited to meet Noah. Daniel's got a goddamn daughter I've never met; my niece, Myc, and she'd be... what, two? Three?'

'You could always go to them,' Mycroft pointed out.

Greg shook his head roughly. 'No, fuck no. I can't go back there, Myc. I... when we skipped town, I fucking swore to myself I'd never go back. I don't care what the fuck it's for, I ain't steppin' foot in that place ever again.'

Mycroft just nodded. He understood completely. Nothing, baring Sherlock falling deathly ill, could get Mycroft to set foot in Holmes Manor again. He hadn't gone back for Siger's funeral (not that he'd even know the old man died, Ryley had told him a year after the fact) and he wouldn't go back for his mother's either. The place held too many horrible memories, and Mycroft would get sucked back in if he went back.

'Even if I did go back,' Greg continued after a moment, 'me and my siblings... nah, we were never close, not one of us. Liam tried his best, but we were all too stubborn and fucked up to listen to him. We got used to having no one in charge, we wouldn't have listened to Liam if someone had paid us. Between mum not caring, and dad being a fucking violent dickhead, we all found our own ways of coping, and... it wasn't with each other. I never had a close relationship with any of them.'

Greg turned to look at Mycroft, and Mycroft titled his head slightly to return the gaze.

'You and Sherlock were close, once... you can't get that back, but... you can get somethin'. That's worth fightin' for, yeah?'

'Yeah,' Mycroft nodded. He leaned forward to kiss Greg softly, enjoying the gentle press of lips, the warm hand that was suddenly stroking his cheek. 'Love you,' he said when they broke apart.

'Love you too,' Greg said before kissing him again. This one was all heat and tongue, teeth nipping and lips sucking, and Mycroft groaned into Greg's mouth. He grabbed Greg's shirt to tug him closer, only for the older man to pry himself free and stand.

'I fucking hate you!' Mycroft groaned, head tilting back to rest on the sofa.

'I thought you loved me,' Greg pouted.

'I loved you before you got me hard and then fucked off to work,' Mycroft growled.

Greg snickered. 'Nah, you know you love me.'

'Hate you.'

'Do not.'

'I very much do, Gregory.'

'No.'

'I. Hate. You.'

'You said it wrong, Myc,' Greg said and Mycroft lifted his head to stare at his boyfriend. 'It's pronounced looove not haate. Say it with me-'

'No.'

'You're a fucker,' Greg poked his tongue out, and ducked down for a sneaky kiss before heading for the door.

'What time do you get off?' Mycroft asked.

'Two in the goddamn morning,' Greg grumbled from the hallway. 'Three if I need to help with cleaning or anything.'

'Do it if it gets us some extra money,' Mycroft said.

'Yeah, yeah,' Greg said. He re-appeared wearing Mycroft's leather jacket. Well, it was both of theirs, really. They shared most of their clothes. 'You working the bar or studio tomorrow?'

'I'm heading into the studio early, around seven, to finish a painting that's due at three. Then to Ryan's from ten to five, back home for some lunch, and then Ryan's again from eight to midnight. I picked up Sam's shift; she cancelled again.'

'Fuckin' Sam,' Greg muttered.

'More money for us,' Mycroft shrugged.

Greg just hummed and crossed back over to Mycroft to kiss him again. 'Don't stay up late, 'kay? I wanna find at least half-an-hour sometime this week to get my freak on with you.'

'You're such a weirdo,' Mycroft chuckled and cupped Greg's cheek for another quick kiss. When they broke apart he slapped Greg's face gently and said, 'Go before I change my mind and fuck you over the couch.'

Greg shivered and licked his lips. 'Not fair, Mycroft.'

'Payback's a bitch, Gregory,' Mycroft smirked.

'Oh, how I've corrupted you,' Greg hummed before winking. 'I love it.'

'And I love you.'

'Hey, you got it right!'

'Go, Gregory, or I will seriously change my mind.'

'Okay, okay,' Greg said. After one last kiss he darted for the door, waving over his back. 'Watch the stars for me, babe!'

Mycroft chuckled and heard the front door shut, Gregory locking it behind him. He stayed sitting on the sofa, staring at the blank television. Mycroft needed a shower, followed by bed. He'd never been a morning person, and he had to get up at five-thirty so he had enough time to get some coffee into himself, maybe a piece of toast too, and then get over to the studio to finish the painting.

Mycroft sighed and stood, stretching and hearing various bones crack. As he walked into the small bathroom he thought about what Gregory had said.

Unlike Gregory's siblings, at least Sherlock was trying. Which meant he did want some type of relationship with his brother, even if it was filled with tension and awkward silences.

Mycroft rubbed his eyes; he was too tired, and he'd thought about Sherlock enough over the course of the day. He'd call and soon and see what happened; one step at a time, and all that.