So, I decided to be really progressive tonight, and give ya'll ANOTHER chapter. R&R!

August

Mycroft quietly closed the door, and sighed when he saw his husband waiting up for him. "Gregory," he started, but was cut off.

"Third time, Myc. Third. Time. This. Week."

"I am aware, Gregory," the red head responded warily. "The office has been extremely busy, what with the economy in Greece a disaster, and upcoming elections in Uganda to prepare for."

The D.I. stood in front of the Holmes, keeping his distance by several feet. His arms were crossed, and his eyes were steely. "I don't give a bloody shit, Myc. You could've at least given me a fucking heads up. Even hearing it from Anthea would've sufficed. Christ, Myc. Me aside, you have a six and two year old who need you. When was the last time you even talked to Destany? Or saw Reinette? They need you just as much as I do!"

Mycroft stood there, leaning on his umbrella, head bowed while Greg shouted at him. He let his husband finish, before responding calmly and quietly, "They are sleeping, Gregory. Please keep your voice down."

Greg stared at him, dumbfounded. "Are you fucking kidding me, Myc? That's all you have to fucking say? Do you even care anymore?"

The Holmes looked up so quickly with fierceness in his eyes that made his husband take a step back. "There is nothing I would not do for them. For this family. Do not tell that I don't care. Everything that I do I do for this-"

"That's bullshit and you know it! Those girls haven't seen you in days, Mycroft. Looking me in the eye and tell me that that's helping them."

Mycroft slowly raised his head and stared the D.I. in the eye.

"Unbelievable. You are fucking unbelievable." Greg ended the fight there. "I'm going to bed. I have to go in early tomorrow and deal with the mess your brother made with Anderson." He avoided making eye contact with his partner, and turned to go upstairs.

"I'll be up soon," Mycroft almost whispered.

Not stopping, Greg responded coldly with "No."

Mycroft stood there for a moment, slowly hung his umbrella up, and made his way to the kitchen. He poured himself a shot of scotch as he heard the bedroom door close and lock.

October

Greg rolled over and groggily sat up when he felt the bed shift. "Myc?" he asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Go back to sleep, love. There's an emergency at work."

The D.I. looked at the clock on his bedside table; 1:27 am. "Jesus, Myc, again? Don't you think that they can deal without you for a few more hours?"

"I'm sorry, Gregory. I really do have to go in now." Mycroft turned away from his husband, and began to dress.

The room remained silent except for the sounds of Mycroft getting ready. Greg sat there, watching his husband, who continued to ignore him.

"Myc," the D.I. hesitantly started. "Myc, I feel like we never see each other anymore."

The Holmes didn't respond, continuing to dress.

"And, I just feel like we're not talking anymore. I'm really worried that we we're becoming really distant."

"Gregory, we're fine."

Taken about by Mycroft's bluntness, Greg remained quiet for another minute, before trying again. "Myc, when was the last time we spent time together as a family? Or even just the two of us? You come in so late, and then have to leave before the sun's even risen again."

"I'm sorry, Gregory, but I really have to leave. We can talk about this later."

"No, Myc, you can't just-" he was cut off by an abrupt and rough kiss on the cheek before his husband swiftly exited the room. "I'll be home late tonight," was all he got.

"Mycroft!" Greg jumped out of the bed and followed him out into the hallway. "Mycroft, we need to talk! You can't just keep running away from this."

All he received was silence, until a bedroom room door at the end of the hall opened slowly, and out emerged a sleepy six year old.

"Père? What's going on?"

Walking down to her door, he led Destany back inside. "Nothing, sweetheart. Go back to sleep."

December

"Père, look!" His daughter excitedly announced as she showed her father a painting in a book of Renoir works.

"Hmm. Interesting. Do you like that one?"

"It's my favorite," Destany responded with joy in her voice. The D.I. smiled to himself as he entertained Reinette on the floor of the living room. His eldest daughter had taken an exceedingly deep interest in art, and Greg was willing to oblige her with books on various artists.

All three Holmes' and Lestrades' looked up when the door opened, with a snow covered Mycroft entering.

"Daddy," the six year old called, and ran to greet him. He smiled, and picked her up, tossing his jacket and umbrella on the chair.

"Ugh, Mycroft. You can't just leave them there. They're soaking," Greg chastised him. The D.I. was annoyed, and wasn't hiding it.

"Sorry, love. I'll get it."

"No, no, just-leave it. You have her, and you already got the chair wet. I'll deal with it." He got up, and went to grab the offending outerwear.

"Honestly, Gregory. I am perfectly capable of putting them away-"

"Myc, I got it."

"Gregory-"

"Seriously Mycroft, I can handle it!" He took the umbrella and jacket off the couch, and aggressively threw them onto the coat rack. "Honestly, what is it with you Holmes' and your bizarre power complex? If I say that I can do something, I can do it!" Greg's words were biting as he stormed out of the room.

Destany looked from Mycroft, to the direction that Greg had just stormed off in, and back, trying to understand what had just happened.

February

The two men worked in silence as the prepared lunch for their family. They wordlessly worked in and around each other, avoiding eye contact.

Destany strolled into the kitchen, and observed them for a moment. "Daddy, can I ask you something?"

"Of course, darling. What is it?" He knelt so as to be eye level with her.

"Why are you and Père sleeping in different bedrooms? Are you two in a fight?"

The Holmes blinked a few times, and the D.I. stopped what he was doing.

"Well, Père and I are sleeping in different bedrooms because we need our own space for a while. Sometimes you like to be away by yourself, correct?"

She nodded.

"Well, we just need to be by ourselves for a bit."

Greg didn't add anything, but noted how Mycroft managed to maneuver around the second question. Destany didn't seem to want to accept that answer as the whole truth, but let it go, seeing how Greg was looking at Mycroft.

Waiting until she left the room again, Greg turned back to the sandwich he was making, and tried to comment on what just happened. "Mycroft-"

"Don't. Please don't, Gregory. It's fine. We're fine."

"How can you say that, Mycroft? Especially after what just happened. We sleep in different rooms. We don't touch each other anymore. Good God, when was the last time we had sex? We're not fine, Mycroft. We haven't been in a while. If we want to salvage whatever we may have left, we need help."

The genius put down the butter knife he was using. "Absolutely not. We are not going to some shrink to fix something that is fine."

Greg's voice out of frustration. "Mycroft! You need to stop telling yourself that! If we don't try to fix this, fix us, we are not going to work out together."

"Twelve years, Gregory. Twelve years of marriage, sixteen together total. That's not going to just disappear."

"Look around you, Mycroft. It's been disappearing for the past seven months. One fight after the next after the next. Nothing is getting resolved. If we don't try to fix this, this hole we've dug ourselves into is only going deepen until neither of us can get out."

Mycroft didn't respond, even though he knew his husband's words were correct.

They worked in silence for another two minutes before Mycroft tried to respond. He tried to take Greg's hand, but the D.I. quickly jerked it away, in a force of habit. "Please, don't touch me," he hissed. The Holmes quickly pulled his own hand back. This had been a regular occurrence over the past few months: Every time Mycroft to touch him, Greg would pull away.

"Myc," he said, much softer now. "If you won't agree to get help, I'm going to leave."

Mycroft stood silent for several minutes. Greg returned to lunch preparations, while his husband stood there thinking. He finally responded in a whisper so low Greg barely caught what he was said, but was chilled when he heard the response, "I can't."

The air in the room immediately turned cold, and the D.I. slowly but precisely put down the knife he was using. Carrying the plate with a sandwich for Destany, he silently exited the room.

Mycroft put his head in his hands, and rested his elbows against the counter for support. His chest felt like it was about to concave. He knew that once he'd said those words, there'd be no turning back. He knew what was at stake, what he was giving up. All he was willing to sacrifice for his pride.

His breath shuddered out as he heaved a sob.

So, um, you know how I said there would be major Mystrade angst? Well….there you go. I'm going to try to get the last chapter up tomorrow, but Supernatural premiers tomorrow night, so I may not be able to. Reviews, please!