(( Hi, everyone! Nice to see you all again! I've made it definite, now - updating every Saturday, unless otherwise said. I really like this story, and I'm trying to make it just as much of a cute Holmesian brother story as a Mystrade fic, so we'll see how it all balances out. I read every single one of your guys' comments, and you're all so awfully sweet with all of this. Thanks for all the support!))

Of course he was bloody going to go.

It was Lestrade. And even after the incident, Mycroft still felt warm butterflies drifting about his stomach as he read over the note. Damn it all. If he could have anything in the world, he would have shut down all emotions concerning that devilish officer. No, strike that – if he could have anything in the world, he would have shut down all emotions entirely.

There was also another point of interest.

Lestrade was worried about him.

Mycroft couldn't remember a time when people were worried about him. Sherlock seemed concerned at times, yes, but Sherlock always trusted Mycroft to return at the end of the day. His parents had never seemed worried – after all, he was Mycroft Holmes, who was going to be something big and important and was never going to get in trouble, ever. And now here was Lestrade, who was not only worried about him, but voiced his worry.

He felt woozy.

The rest of the day passed by in a painful, dull blur. Mycroft looked at the tips he had gotten with distaste and shoved them deep into his pocket. He had the most insane urge to leave the tips at the shop, because god damn it, he couldn't handle being confronted again. Still, though, he had to get dinner for Sherlock, and for himself. Swallowing, he changed back into his regular clothing and made his way to the school.

People were staring at him. Mycroft didn't think he was the topic of much gossip, but everyone seemed to be staring at his limp and his blackened eye. He hoped to God that Sherlock would hurry up. All he wanted to do was get Sherlock home, feed him, and then go meet his Prince Charm – Lestrade. Greg Lestrade. That was all.

"Your eye has gotten worse."

"Wonderful to see you too, Sherlock." Mycroft greeted him wearily, placing his hands in his pockets. Slowly, he began to walk home with his brother. Usually, he would have offered to take Sherlock's pack. That wasn't an option now. Sherlock was working to keep up with him, still, and he didn't spare Mycroft any dirty glances as they hurried along. "I shall be out tonight. I only expect it to be an hour or two. You know what you must do."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Really, Mycroft? You're leaving again? Did you learn no lessons from last night? What on Earth be so important as to drag you out again?"

Sherlock wasn't yet old enough to be able to hide his thought processes. Or, perhaps, Mycroft just knew his brother too well. It was obvious that Sherlock was thinking, very, very hard. Finally, Sherlock tilted his head to the side and asked, "You did get beaten up by some street thugs, yes?"

Mycroft looked at the small boy skeptically. "Of course, Sherlock. Who else would have done so?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Together, they walked in silence back to their flat. When they had entered the neighborhood again, Sherlock was the one to grab his brother's hand. Sherlock had never initiated that before, and Mycroft was wholly touched by such an action. It was a good thing, too, because as they had entered their neighborhood again, Mycroft had begun feeling…poorly.

He hoped to God it wouldn't worsen, but his chest was feeling tight. His breath was coming faster. A light sweat broke out on his face. For the thousandth time, Mycroft hated these little attacks. He thought of them as weakness personified, and he couldn't find a reliable way to rid himself of them.

But as Sherlock grabbed his hand, Mycroft felt more relaxed. Just enough to keep him together as he opened the flat for them and pushed Sherlock in. He withdrew the tips from his pocket and fingered the ten pound note. Sherlock's eyes widened at the sight of it.

Chinese. Ordering Chinese sounded heavenly, and Mycroft reached for the menu they kept near the kitchen. Sherlock smiled when he saw Mycroft reaching for it. For a few seconds, Mycroft thought everything at peace. Even his knee started to hurt a little less.

"First you must start your homework. Go on, then, I shall help you with your English."

Some minutes later, they were both sitting at the kitchen table. Sherlock was pouring over a passage they were to read, and Mycroft would occasionally point out words here and there. Finally, Sherlock began to ask questions. "Where are you going?"

Mycroft thought that, perhaps, he should tell Sherlock. Logically, if something happened to him, Sherlock should know where he was. But he didn't tell him. He didn't want Sherlock to know about Lestrade just yet, for whatever reason. Perhaps he didn't want Sherlock teasing him. Perhaps he didn't want Sherlock, heaven forbid, following him. And…perhaps, if it didn't work out, he didn't want Sherlock pitying him.

"Oh, I must go out and collect a few things, talk to a few people. All terribly boring adult work, Sherlock. You shan't be interested. Just stay in the flat and amuse yourself, would you?" Mycroft asked him, his hand drifting underneath the table to rub uncomfortably at his knee.

The doorbell rang.

Five minutes later, there was just the sound of gentle chewing. Mycroft knew it wasn't particularly healthy, and he felt guilty that he hadn't given Sherlock a proper meal, but it was something. Sherlock seemed happy, either way. He was jovial and talkative, telling Mycroft about the various schoolmates and teachers. Mycroft listened patiently, occasionally offering a gentle world of encouragement or sympathy. Even if Mycroft couldn't force himself to be emotional around Sherlock, he could still listen to what was going on with him. Something their parents never did.

Nightthingboyfriendnodon'tthinkaboutit.

His fingers tapped anxiously on the table, and his good leg shook. Of course Mycroft knew Sherlock noticed, but the young boy didn't say anything until it was time to leave. He stood up and brushed off his trouser legs. There was a mad electricity in the air.

"I must be heading out. Do take care of yourself. I will be home later in the night."

As Mycroft was heading out the door, though, he was suddenly surprised by Sherlock standing directly behind him. Sherlock shuffled his feet and then put a hand on the back of Mycroft's polo. "Mycroft? You're not…seeing anyone, are you?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him and freely laughed. "What a ridiculous notion, Sherlock. Of course not." As he walked out the door, his hand clapped over his bad knee. The limp was getting better, but the twinges of pain were still apparent.

The walk from his neighborhood to the coffee shop again was one of the worst things Mycroft had ever experienced. Indeed, it was nearly as bad as the incident itself. His chest was tight and he felt the world swim before his eyes again. One hand went to the side of a building in order to support himself. For a few minutes, he gagged, his dinner requesting to come up. After a few minutes, the world steadied.

The rest of the walk occurred without incident.

When Mycroft showed up at the coffee shop, he was alone. Fear started to brew deep in his gut. What if Lestrade wasn't the kind gentleman Mycroft thought he was? What if Lestrade had just sent him here to laugh at him? His leg twitched painfully, and he just sat on one of the little tables. He would wait. Yes, he would wait like a damn twit, while Lestrade would laugh at him from afar.

For a full five minutes, Mycroft just fumed in silence. What a fool he was. Fancying a man like this. It wasn't decent, and Mycroft had far more things to worry about. What had he been thinking? That he would show up, and Lestrade would be there to sweep him off his feet? Like one of those damn fairy tales?

"Hey."

A hand was on his shoulder. Mycroft jumped and turned around. Lestrade was just a few inches away from him, and Mycroft's eyes widened. The blackened one gave a few twinges of pain.

"Oh – sorry. Did I frighten you?" Lestrade asked, taking a seat opposite Mycroft. Mycroft stared unashamedly for a good few moments. After all, Mycroft had never seen Lestrade out of his Yarder clothes before. He had a leather jacket on over his button-up, and his trousers were dark and stained with oil in several places. Overall, he looked like the most gorgeous man Mycroft had ever seen. He wet his lips.

"No, you did not. It's just night out. You never know who may be wandering around." Mycroft replied airily, leaning back in his chair. His heart was thumping like a rabbit, and he forced his eyes to remain firmly on Lestrade. "May I ask as to why you arranged this meeting?"

Lestrade let out a chuckle. "I think it's obvious enough, mate." Leaning forward, he jabbed one thick finger vaguely towards Mycroft's eye. Hopelessly, Mycroft felt his eyes rake over his well-built frame before he mentally kicked himself for doing so. "I'm here about that."

He shouldn't have been watching Lestrade like a dog watches for dinner. No, Mycroft should have been deducing him. His eyes raked over him again, but for an entirely different reason.

He rode a motorbike, which he often worked on. He lived alone with a dog. He worked often. Often called his little sister to make sure that she was alright. He got on well with his coworkers. He was an avid coffee-drinker. He was looking for a serious relationship, but currently, was single.

Mycroft's heart soared.

"There is nothing to talk of concerning this. I have a feeling you know the reason concerning this, and I am letting you know now that I plan to do nothing to prosecute them." Mycroft quipped. He had the urge to cross one leg over the other – but the action caused him so much pain that he visibly winced.

Lestrade blinked at him. "Right. So that was you, then. Back there. You nearly gave me a bleeding heart attack, I'll have you know. There was a damn lot of blood on that knife, and I was thinking that you were going to be my first homicide case. The man who serves me coffee every morning. Could you imagine?" He played with his fingers on top of the table, and Mycroft noted dully that he was a smoker. "Why don't you want to tell anyone? Those men could have killed you. Besides, what were you doing in that part of London? I swear to God I'm called there every week. Everything from domestic abuse to burglaries. You don't live there, do you?"

And that was where Mycroft's pride came in. True, he wasn't as competitive as Sherlock. However, he had more pride than that young child would ever have. And he so desperately wanted to impress Lestrade, even now. Even with a blackened eye and a swollen knee, Mycroft wanted to impress Lestrade. So he just leaned back and shook his head. "Of course I don't live there. Don't be absurd. I have merely just moved to London, and I'm afraid that I got lost. I do not want to tell anyone because I do not see the point in arresting them. If the neighborhood is as bad as you say, then more will come to fill their place. That's all."

"But…" Lestrade's eyebrows f urrowed. "It'd be the right thing to do. Turning them in."

Mycroft shook his head and uttered a quick, short, bitter laugh. "I'm sure you can tell by your little sister that the right thing to do doesn't always get done."

Lestrade jumped in his chair, and suddenly, he seemed angry. Thankfully, it seemed to vanish after a moment, replaced by obvious confusion. "Sorry. How did you know about that?"

For the first time in his life, Mycroft felt nervous about his deduction. However, he still spoke with all the calmness and authority of a politician. "Your ear is red and shiny. That only comes from holding your mobile between your shoulder and your head for a long period of time. Obviously, as you were getting ready to leave, you received a call. It must have been very important to you, considering that you were already running late. Not a parent, I think – those, we can push off. Someone who depends on you, then. A little sibling was obvious, the sister was a guess. So your sister must be in a state of urgency, then, and you worry about her. You'd do anything to speak to her."

Lestrade blinked at him. The only sounds Mycroft could here were a gentle chirping of a sparrow and the mad beat of his heart.

"Bloody hell. Yeah. That's…yeah, that's…something." Lestrade coughed out finally. His gaze on Mycroft was different, now. Before, it had been a pitying look, like someone would give a domestic abuse victim. Now, Lestrade was looking at him with something like…admiration. "You're right. Er, little sister got into drugs a couple of years ago. Just as I got a job at the Yard, in fact. I just want to make sure she's doing okay."

Mycroft had never been so damn proud. He was lost in a cloud of his own superiority before he was thrown roughly back into reality. Lestrade was laughing. A true laugh, from deep down in the gut. Mycroft wasn't sure whether to be mortified or to laugh along with him. He chose an emotionless stare.

"Well, I've got to admit it to you, Mycroft. I had you pegged completely wrong. I thought you were just this timid little mousy bloke, serving coffee. But look at you! You're like a bloody mind reader!" Lestrade managed to get out through his titters, and Mycroft managed a chuckle along with him. He calmed down soon after, and looked at Mycroft with a warm eye. "So, what're you doing working in a coffeeshop? Bloke like you, you should be out campaigning to be the PM."

There wasn't a chance in hell that Mycroft was going to tell him. Not a damn chance.

"It's brilliantly difficult to acquire a career in the government, Gregory." The name rolled off his tongue easily, and Mycroft felt a devilish sense of closeness to the man. "I'm merely doing this to pay the rent until I require a more stable income."

"Understandable. I'm guessing you live alone, then?"

Mycroft's heart thumped in his chest. "I'm afraid so. No family to speak of, no significant other." No friends. No brother.

"Oh? Pity." Greg gave him a smile that nearly made him faint. It was warm and inviting, and Greg leaned across the table a tad as he said it. "Intelligent, handsome bloke like you? I bet half of the ladies of London must be in tears."

Mycroft wasn't sure what made him tell Greg. It probably had something to do with the copious amount of lies he'd been feeding him, as well with the stupid desire to let Greg know that he liked men. And perhaps Greg liked men, too. And perhaps they liked each other. And perhaps-

"Then let them cry, for I'm more interested in the…male persuasion." Mycroft muttered, tracing designs into the table between them. His eyes were as low as they could be.

"Nothing wrong with that." Greg told him, and leaned over to put a finger underneath Mycroft's chin. Mycroft felt a bolt of electricity go through him, and he looked up at Greg. Damn it. If he had been standing, his knees would have gone weak. "I like both the blokes and the lasses, myself."

It would have been so easy to say something, to try and further the relationship. Witty responses that could be clever alludes to a date filled in his mind, but his throat was completely dry. Finally, he stuttered something out like, "It's late. I must be getting home." Not exactly a lie, but in Mycroft's mind, it was the worst thing that he could've said.

"Right." Leaning back and taking his finger with him, he gestured to his bike. "Want me to take you home? Your leg looks like it's bothering you."

God, yes, I want you to take me home.

"Apologies, I can't. I'm…" Living in the poorest part of London, and I lied to you about it. I'll shatter the half-decent image you have of me. If I stay any longer with you, I'm liable to do something stupid. "Just terrified of motorbikes. I'll walk, Gregory. Thank you for the lovely talk, and I assure you, I'm fine. I will alert you if I change my mind."

"Wait!" Greg stopped him as Mycroft stood. "Your number. Mind if I get it?"

In Mycroft's mind, Greg should've added a stipulation to that. Mycroft thought that he would clarify, perhaps say that the number was only used for emergencies, or even that Greg wasn't his friend. But no. Greg just let the question hang, and Mycroft gave him his number without hesitation.

They both stood to depart, and Mycroft watched him slide his helmet on. Damn it all. It was practically unfair, with Greg in his leather jacket and straddling his bike. "Nice to meet you, My!" He shouted out, muffled, before he started the vehicle and left.

Mycroft was left, in the dark, his mind a jumbled mess. He turned and started to walk. He couldn't have been more surprised if Lestrade had kissed him right there.

They had to meet again.