As soon as Mycroft had rung the door bell he regretted it. He had done it as an act of acknowledgement, he knew that he did not own the place therefore he had no right to waltz in like he did. Besides, he shouldn't pretend that the fact it was his brother's house changed anything, if anything it made him less welcome. But it was definitely suspiciously out of character of him and he really did not want more attention than was absolutely necessary at the moment.

He put on his custom fake smile as the door swung open to reveal Mrs Hudson. Mycroft internally cringed at the weird look she gave him but thankfully she did not say anything. "Good evening, Mrs Hudson." He said with a emotionless smile, the woman knew him well enough, if only just, to not be fooled by his fake exterior, not that she could see his true self, just that she could tell what she was seeing wasn't it even if she didn't know what the alternative would be. To such people, they tended to be his brother's associates, he just gave them a business man's smile and a mask of emotionlessness few could even begin to look past, he didn't bother to lace any fake emotion into his actions. "I'll tell them you're here." The lady said after a nod of greeting, she then departed up the stairs.

Mycroft laughed dryly to himself. It was certainly notable the way that she did not smile or make him feel welcome because of corse he wasn't. She didn't tell him to come in because she did not want him to but she did not tell him to go away, because she knew the self dubbed British government would do as he pleased and no one could stop him. With the heavy feeling that he was highly unwelcome, Mycroft walked into the flat, climbing the stairs with a surprising feeling of dread.

"Hello, brother mine." Mycroft said with a smile, trying to keep his face blank and his body unreadable. For some reason he felt defensive, as if he had to justify himself. For what he hadn't the slightest clue. The feeling was ludicrous, as feelings mostly where, he had nothing he needed to defend and even if he did why would he need to justify himself? And yet he got the urge to squirm as he felt the calculating gaze of his younger brother scanning him accompanied by John's less observant yet still considerably professional watch.

"What is this, Mycroft, you don't do house calls, what do you want?" Sherlock said after tearing his eyes off his brother's appearance and any clues it had to the man's life. Mycroft couldn't help the annoying nagging of not knowing what the conclusion was his brother had come to from his assessment, because he never stopped scanning until he'd gotten something.

"You're quite right." He said, getting to the business bit, which was really much more his element "I've come to present a case to you." He said, handing over the file "A mass killing in a little fishing village on the east coast, I doubt you will have to do much work away from home for it. The locals expect magic or evil spirits or something just as ridiculous."

Sherlock took the file and flicked through it quickly, making a little noise of approval "Why? This is hardly 'a matter of national importance' so why do you care?" Mycroft shrugged, feeling very much like he was in an interrogation under the younger Holmes' scrutiny. "I don't, but I came across it and thought you might enjoy solving it." He replied earnestly, eliciting a snort from Sherlock "And you walked the whole way across London to give it to me in person? You never walk anywhere, in fact you never leave your office if you can help it. Why do this?" Sherlock frowned suspiciously.

Mycroft felt his head starting to throb with a forming head ache and he resisted the urge to massage his temples. Why had he thought that this was a good idea? "Sherlock, I just thought you'd be interested in the case, okay? I walked here because there is a rather refreshing breeze and I felt like it. I have no idea why I felt like it, human nature will always remain a mystery to me. Now if we are quite done I do have stuff to be doing other than standing in your living room and trying to ease your paranoia." Mycroft grimaced as he saw some puzzle pieces falling together in Sherlock's mind. He did not understand why his brother was being like this today, it's not like he was doing anything that he had to hide yet Sherlock seemed to be monitoring him like some experiment.

Mycroft huffed and turned to leave but as he reached for the door his brother's voice stopped him. "Don't leave, Mycroft. I just… John and I were just about to go out for dinner, would you like to come with us? There is a new restaurant that is celebrating their opening tonight, free drinks, specials, discounts that type of thing." Mycroft looked up at him in surprise "Are you quite alright, Sherlock?" He asked, thrown by the uncharacteristic behaviour. Sherlock smiled dryly "Always. So will you come?" Mycroft opened his mouth, a declination evident on his face but he was cut off by Sherlock "Please?" Mycroft frowned, surveying his younger brother. "Well if I won't be a bother." He said hesitantly, noting the relief in Sherlock's eyes. "Excellent, lets get going. The owner promised me a table but there's only so much you can do when it gets really popular, we'd better get a move on."

Mycroft nodded and retreated down the stairs. His left hand was balled into a fist, the nails digging into his palm, as he cringed internally. Why had he thought this was a good idea? Now Sherlock was acting all strange, presumably he'd come up with some over the top explanation for some data about his clothing that meant he was in grave danger or terminally ill or being stalked by a killer or something. Anyway, had he not just sworn off trying to be kind and act via feelings? Had he still not learn his lesson about how it's safer for the people he cared about if he just stayed away?

Mycroft clenched his clenched tighter. It was not an act of anger, well maybe a bit towards himself, but more a way of dealing with the emotions that he didn't understand well enough to deal with. He couldn't help but feel that he'd completely failed at this interaction and he had no idea why. Perhaps it was because he'd let a bit of truth and emotion into his words. Maybe it was because he'd somehow failed to keep the frosty façade he often used up. He just hated the way Sherlock had looked at him. Why? Why did he look at him like that? It then struck Mycroft what look that was and why it irritated him. Sherlock was looking at him as if he was one of his cases, a problem for him to pick up clues on until he solved it. But that was unfair and uncalled for, because there was nothing about Mycroft to be 'solved' or 'fixed'. There was no problem.

And then there was the whole matter of dinner. The idea would normally have excited Mycroft, as long as it was a good restaurant he did enjoy eating. But he couldn't help the nagging feeling within him that told him this was wrong. For the first time in ages Mycroft hadn't eaten some massive, over the top breakfast and lunch, and he'd even walked all across London. He couldn't help but feel disappointed in himself that he was going to give in now. Presumably he would eat far more than he'd burned off, because he could never resist food. And this sounded like a good deal. Sherlock and John would be there. Sherlock was accustom to Mycroft's eating habits but John wasn't. What would the good doctor think of him now? His ice man image would surely be ruined, for what type of cool and respected man had an obsession with cake? Mycroft sighed to himself, the packet of cigarettes feeling as if they were burning a hole in his pocket as he longed to have one, despite the fact he'd only just finished one before coming in.

Sherlock watched his brother's tall form descend down the stairs with a look of concern. John turned to him "Dinner? Since when were we going out for dinner?" John watched his friend in curiosity. He could tell something was wrong but he didn't know what "Sherlock, what's going on?" The only reply he got from the curly haired detective was a muttered "Full tar."