"Hello, brother," Sherlock spat, "Lestrade, you're home late."

Greg looked over at Mycroft then back to Sherlock, Damn it. This is going to be bloody horrible.

"Ah, Sherlock, about that, I—"Sherlock's eyes were fixed upon Mycroft like he wished him nothing but ill. Mycroft seemed completely at ease, if a bit more ruffled than was his custom. The two were staring one another down, and Greg was glancing back and forth between them trying to get his brain into gear and diffuse the impending explosion. He didn't think that he had ever been in a more awkward situation. Ever. Not even when Sherlock had walked in on him in the shower last Tuesday. You could cut the tension with a knife.

"Lestrade," Sherlock hissed without looking at the DI, "do come inside."

Greg considered Mycroft, who was giving Sherlock a glare full of pure loathing.

"Sherlock, I—" he began, but Mycroft interjected.

"Don't be a child, Sherlock," the elder Holmes retorted, leaning back slightly so as to give himself more of angle from which to look down his long nose, "Gregory is perfectly capable of making his own decisions regarding his current positionality. Aren't you, Gregory?"

Greg immediately opened his mouth but before he could respond, Sherlock inquired dangerously, "And who, pray tell, is Gregory?"

Mycroft fairly cackled, "You can't possibly be serious, Sherlock."

At the same time, Greg rolled his eyes and said, "I am."

Sherlock regarded the two of them, as if highly suspicious of their motivations and very skeptical of the veracity of their claims. Perhaps, judging by the blank look on his face and way that multiple chins of disdain had appeared, he was revisiting the scene that he had just witnessed. Of course, Greg mused ruefully, there is the very real possibility that the blighter actually doesn't know my name. Still. I mean it's not as if we live together or anything.

"Highly unlikely," the consulting detective declared before once more focusing his attention on his brother, who was, apparently, the bigger issue and threat, "You stole Lestrade."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "I did no such thing," he smirked cheekily at Greg before continuing, "The good detective inspector came along of his own free will. Didn't you, Gregory?" Greg was unsure if Mycroft was deploying his given name with such frequency because he liked it, because he knew Greg appreciated it, or because he was on a mission to make Sherlock as baffled and uncomfortable as possible. Whichever it is, it's working, the DI sighed.

"He's right, Sherlock, I—" in all fairness, Mycroft had rather surprised him and dragged him along, but Greg had fully committed himself to the ride. He had enjoyed it, in point of fact. There was no denying that he was a willing participant in tonight's activities. In fact, if Sherlock hadn't intruded on them—

"There is no need to lie, Lestrade," Sherlock interrupted Greg's speech and thoughts brusquely. The consulting detective drew himself up to his full (considerable) height, and his nostrils flared in warning. He had adopted the stance unique to someone preparing to square off in a battle of wills to the death. Greg almost groaned. This was not going well. "He cannot harm you, Detective Inspector."

Greg was completely puzzled by the statement before realizing that the danger to which Sherlock referred was his older brother (on whom his gaze remained glued). That Greg was not even being allowed to take part in this conversation gestured towards the fact this was not really about him at all. Or, rather, he was only part of a longer more vicious ongoing struggle between the brothers. By the looks of things, this evening would not end without bloodshed. I suppose I'm lucky it's taken so long between hospital visits, but still this is not how I wanted to spend this evening.

Mycroft had lost his unconcerned mask of condescension at Sherlock's comment. He appeared, to Greg at least, like he was quite close to throttling Sherlock, new waistcoat be damned.

Greg tried to intervene, "I wasn't really worr-" Mycroft, however, waved him down. Oh, Jesus, Lestrade thought.

"Do you dare? Really?" Mycroft's voice was so laced with vitriol it was a wonder that Sherlock didn't wince under the assault. "Are you casting aspersions upon my motivations?"

"In point of fact, I am, dear brother," Sherlock's icy eyes shot sparks. Greg was under the impression that a gauntlet had been thrown into a ring and there was no going back from here. He ran a hand over his face. Things had been going so well, too. If there were any justice in this whole bloody world he would have been having a decent shag right now at the very least. Don't dwell, Greg, he advised himself, focus on keeping the two of them from ripping each other to bloody bits.

"That is highly ironic, Sherlock," Mycroft's tone was so scathing and intentionally abrasive it was frankly amazing that it didn't scrape away at Sherlock's resolve. It would seem that the younger Holmes was made of sterner stuff. He remained standing still in an attitude of determination. Holy hell, Greg thought, the idiot is defending my honor.

"I do not see how, Mycroft."

The elder brother scoffed, "Can't you? With your considerable powers of deduction? Tut-tut, baby brother. You're losing your touch," he chuckled softly and paused to survey the boy before him, as if looking for all the available shortcomings inherent within his person, and Sherlock, for the first time, looked uneasy. It must be strange for someone accustomed to observing everyone else to be scrutinized himself. "I find it most peculiar that you find yourself on a moral high ground from which to judge my actions," another pause, "considering that you use your fellow men as guinea pigs in an ongoing science experiment."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to laugh with a superior affectation, while Greg winced, looking around and trying to judge how likely it was that his neighbors were overhearing this entire conversation. Bloody likely, he concluded.

"Better experiments than pawns in a diplomatic chess match, Mycroft," the younger of the two pronounced.

Oh, shit, Greg thought, now he's done it. Mycroft looked properly apoplectic, and Greg was reminded that the head of the British government had trained killers at his disposal. Sherlock was probably safe as a family member, but it wouldn't do to offer further provocation.

"Gregory is not a pawn," he hissed; his eyes narrowed to slits, head inclined forward as if poised to spit venom.

Sherlock smirked disbelievingly, "Everyone is a pawn in your games, brother. Some more than others. If Lestrade is not, I'd be delighted to hear what exactly he is." Sherlock gestured expansively and then crossed his arms leaning back, waiting.

"Gregory is nothing but an experiment in your attempts to comprehend emotivity," Mycroft shouted, spurred on by Sherlock's calculated attack. Apparently, he had touched a nerve, and, judging by Sherlock's shifty expression, Mycroft had repaid him in kind. Greg had had it. Before either brother could throw the next punch in their verbal combat (and they were both clearly on the verge of doing so), he intervened.

"All right," throwing his arms wide, the DI attempted to redirect the Holmesian attention onto himself (a bold and disconcerting move), "That is enough. From both of you," he expanded when he saw Mycroft's look of outrage and Sherlock's bewildered countenance (which suggested that he had been so consumed by his argument that he had literally forgotten that Lestrade was there). The DI took advantage of their silence and their momentary consideration, brought on by the shock of having been interrupted.

"You are both acting ridiculous, not that I'm surprised, mind you," he paused to look between the two faces, whose expressions were nearly identical, though Greg had the presence of mind not to mention that particular observation in this moment, "Now, stop it. If you want to keep going at it, at least let's take it inside, all right? It's bloody late and I have neighbors that I'd like to be able to look in the eye at some point within the next ten years."

Mycroft's face was an odd mixture of chastened (after this reminder to return to "civilized behavior") and a sort of naughty gleam in his eye that made Greg feel hot under the collar and reflect on the types of noises that had been (and would have been) elicited before they were interrupted. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked like he was filled to the brim with righteous indignation, tempered with a healthy dose of haughtiness, and a continual loathing for his elder brother, which nothing could diminish. His expression clearly implied that the boring, ordinary, idiotic neighbors could snuff it for all he cared and perhaps their deaths would provide an interesting new case. Greg sighed: I swear the two of them will be the death of me.

"Well?" he asked, tapping his foot impatiently.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, who was resolutely ignoring him. The elder brother rolled his eyes at his young sibling's antics and then glanced at the DI somewhat ruefully.

"I do believe that I have taken up enough of your time this evening, Gregory," he had recovered his suave demeanor, but seemed slightly reluctant to leave (Greg, at least, Sherlock, perhaps less so). Greg was half inclined to tell him to stay or rewind the evening and replay the past few, surreal but ultimately enjoyable, hours, which had been cut far too short. The DI glanced at Sherlock's face and knew that he needed to talk to the kid and that that wouldn't happen if the brothers continued to be in the same room. Responsibilities, priorities, and all that. Mycroft seemed to see all of these thoughts going through Greg's head and looked at him as if to say, "What a strange pair we make. Take care of him if you will."

Greg nodded slightly, "Right."

Mycroft inclined his head. He turned to his brother, who was still moodily ignoring his gaze, and implored, "Do behave yourself, Sherlock."

Sherlock condescended enough to roll his eyes, "You behave yourself, Mycroft."

Mycroft smirked and declined a comment. Silence could be more effective with his brother occasionally.

The head of the British government fastened the buttons on his coat, nodded to his brother, and then walked up to Greg, who felt his pulse speed at the proximity. Mycroft leaned in and kissed him soft and slow. Greg was very conscious of everywhere they touched and everywhere they didn't. He was also extremely aware of the fact that Sherlock, though resolutely looking away, was observing the scene with great distaste.

Mycroft pulled back, smiled at Greg and gently squeezed his hand, "Good luck, Gregory. I do hope that we may continue at a later date when we are less likely to be disrupted." There was no doubt to whom that last comment was directed, "I will be in touch."

He sauntered down the corridor and disappeared. Greg watched him walk away, and then turned back to find the younger Holmes waiting for him by the open door to the flat. Once more into the breach, he mused in the face of Sherlock's glare.

Greg tilted his head towards the apartment, "Well, I ah, reckon we should have a chat."

Sherlock merely turned on his heel and strode into the sitting room before flopping onto the sofa in a clear strop.

Greg was tired. He was confused and stressed. He very badly just wanted to go to bed at this point. There was zero desire to deal with Sherlock at his most temperamental. Alas, this is what happens when you take in a stray consulting detective. I'd say I don't get paid enough for this, but, well…

He needed some caffeine for this conversation. He walked into the kitchen, made some tea, and came back into the sitting room to find Sherlock still glowering with his arms crossed. He set a mug down before the consulting detective and gripped his own like it contained a magical elixir that would make the world sensible again. He took a sip, but if it did contain such properties, they were not immediately effective. At least the beverage made him feel moderately more human.

"Are you all right?" he cautiously asked the clearly disgruntled consulting detective, bracing himself for the response.

"He is using you," Sherlock said in his deduction voice.

"Mycroft?"

The younger man rolled his eyes in a fair imitation of his brother, "No, the queen of England. Yes, Mycroft. Idiot."

"Sherlock, crazy as it is, I was an active participant tonight," Greg acknowledged.

"You only think that you were," Sherlock was firm in his convictions.

"So I was—?"

"Duped, bamboozled, tricked, played like a fiddle, yes," Sherlock seemed pleased that Greg was cottoning on so quickly.

"Um, Sherlock, I, ah," he was trying to find a way to discuss this subject with someone who was clearly not very understanding of human relationships of any variety.

"Wrong."

Greg inhaled deeply and released the air slowly, only marginally resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and stem the oncoming headache, "What's wrong, Sherlock?"

Sherlock appeared gratified to have been asked and given the opportunity to continue his tirade against his brother. Oh, here we bloody go.

"You are operating under the delusion that Mycroft is capable of human emotion. He is not. You also harbor the false assumption that you exercised 'free will' in your interactions with my brother. This is not possible."

"Sherlock, I don't know what happened between the two of you, right, but I think I can assure that I exercised free will. As to Mycroft's emotions…Well, I don't know about all that. But I do know that he, ah, cares for you, very much in his, um, own way," hesitation and determination mixed in equal parts during this declaration, which generated a facial expression from Sherlock akin to sympathy for his poor slow witted brain. Pity over disdain. Dear me, I'm moving up in the world.

"What happened between he and I is irrelevant to the matter at-"

"I don't think that it is. Irrelevant," Greg sipped his tea while Sherlock paused, surprised at the interjection.

"As I say, it is irrelevant. Mycroft is manipulating you, Lestrade," the younger man was adamant and bitter, "He manipulates everyone. It is what he does. You are no exception. If you think otherwise, you are an even bigger fool than I take you for. Though," he considered Greg, "I doubt that is possible."

Greg took another deep calming breath to keep from shouting.

"Is that what happened between the two of you?"

Sherlock ignored the DI's inquiry, as if he hadn't heard it, "Mycroft doesn't care for you. He doesn't believe in caring, and I highly doubt that he is capable of it. Neither of us is." The consulting detective stared into space resigned, and Greg wondered what the bloody hell was wrong with the Holmes' and where things had gone so awry between them.

"I'll keep that in mind, Sherlock," he said, getting to his feet. He placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder, as he went to return his now empty mug to the kitchen. He needed to get at least a modicum of sleep before he could continue the conversation, "I don't think that you're incapable of it," he hesitated, as Sherlock flinched slightly and looked up at Greg with impassive calculation in his eyes, "I think you're just a bit, ah, out of your element…"

A second of silence ensued in which Greg tried to find a way to say that he was relatively sure that Sherlock was damaged, but he really believed that Sherlock could come out of this "rough patch" a great man. Greg cared for the boy, but it would be a lot easier if Sherlock would just let him. The fact that the kid was concerned about Greg at all showed that he cared. And Greg wanted him to know that being with Mycroft tonight had nothing to do with Sherlock. It wasn't meant to be a part of this war the two of them seemed to have; it didn't necessitate a division of loyalties. He tried to convey this by gripping Sherlock's shoulder for an extra second before letting go.

"Don't be dull, Lestrade," Sherlock said before shrugging off the hand. Greg just sighed as he left the younger man to his sulking.

AN:

Welcome to Chapter 10! What did you think? I do hope it met your expectations.

The next chapter should be up by Sunday at the latest. Until then, I would love to hear your thoughts.

Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read, review, and follow this story. Much Love.