By then, it was several weeks beyond Sherlock's thirteenth birthday. Mycroft had continued working, continued going on cute, simple dates with Lestrade, and even found an unlikely companion in Anthea. Of course he still walked home with Sherlock, despite the boy's protests that he didn't need to be walked home anymore. After Sherlock's protests, Mycroft had begun to let him walk home alone once a week. It was a nice opportunity to work late and to allow Sherlock a bit more freedom.

That did cause some stress, of course. How much freedom was Mycroft allowed when he was thirteen? He thought back to his home life. His mother was usually off planning some social event, and his father was rarely, if ever home. Mycroft couldn't remember a single spoken rule imposed to him. There were dozens unspoken, of course – make sure your suit was pressed, speak softly and only when spoken to, don't say anything that could even potentially be considered 'not good'. Beyond that, however, he was free to roam the manor as he pleased.

And yet, Mycroft recalled, he never thought about even pushing the rules. He didn't dare venture beyond the grounds of the Holmes Manor without express permission. When he was older, of course, he relaxed a bit, especially when he met-

Well.

Reminiscing never led to any good decisions.

On those days when Mycroft came home late, he always returned to violin music. Sherlock practiced more than that, of course, but it was always special to come home and hear Sherlock playing his music. The boy really was rather good at it, Mycroft thought, not without a touch of envy. When he was younger, Mycroft had tried to become proficient at an instrument. Even now, he could barely play the piano. He didn't remember the lessons fondly – mostly, he remembered his father looking over his shoulder with a chilling hand on his back.

Sherlock, however, was marvelous. A true genius, entirely comprised in a thirteen-year-old frame. Mycroft was so proud of him. Already, Mycroft had ideas of Sherlock channeling his hyperactivity into something like this.

His grades had been picking up, he had been getting into less trouble, and, once, just a few days ago, he had told an animated story to Mycroft about a young boy that he had met, in his class, named Carl Powers. Mycroft listened intently.

Overall, Sherlock was doing beautifully.

He was walking home at that very moment, a bag of groceries thrown casually over his shoulder. Mycroft had begun to increase his cooking ability. With that, Mycroft came across a brand-new worry – the fear of gaining weight. He had taken to looking at himself in the mirror and placing a hand on his stomach, which caused Sherlock's shouts of 'Fatcroft' to become ever more cutting.

Still, if that was the most that Mycroft had to worry over, he was happy.

He crossed through the neighborhood with confidence, now. The assault that had happened to him seemed so far away, now. Besides, if he ever felt frightened or vulnerable, his Lestrade was only a phone call away.

When he came home, there was no violin music.

Mycroft tilted his head to the side in confusion, although he made his way to the kitchen first. "Sherlock?" He called out hesitantly. There was no fear in his voice, not quite yet – Sherlock was probably just napping, or in his room doing something else. He put away the shopping in silence, although his hands started to drift occasionally to his mobile.

With still no response, Mycroft frowned and then walked to Sherlock's door. He rapped his knuckles against it. "Sherlock?" The question was delivered softly, and when he heard no response, Mycroft entered the room.

Sherlock was not there.

Oh, not again.

This time, he was more annoyed than frightened. Mycroft immediately made his way to the window with the fire escape, pushing it open. He stuck his head out into the stifling air outside and called out, "Sherlock?"

There was a loud cry of 'fuck!' and some scurrying from the floor upstairs.

And suddenly, Sherlock was standing before him. His eyes were wide and blue; his hair was a ruffled mess. Before Mycroft could properly see what it was, Sherlock tossed something off the side of the escape and straightened his clothing down.

Mycroft could tell. His eyes flicked over the boy, and if the physical observation wasn't enough, Mycroft could smell it all over him. Beyond that, Mycroft had to look to see if the boy was doing this constantly. No, there was no yellowing of the fingertips, no slightly glazed-over look in the eyes. In fact, Sherlock looked quite green, as if the smoke had been too much for him.

"Sherlock Elliot Holmes." Mycroft's words were delivered through hissed teeth. One hand immediately went forward to snatch up Sherlock's collar. "What on Earth do you think you're doing? You are thirteen, for God's sake, and this is no time to adopt a smoking habit. Can you understand how furious I am with you? Get inside your room!" His words hardly sounded like his own, and he realised with a small shock that he was doing a fantastic impression of his father.

Sherlock didn't fail to recognize that. His blue eyes widened in shock at Mycroft's outburst, and for a second, guilt mixed in with all of Mycroft's blind fury. That disappeared mercifully quickly. As Sherlock slipped back inside his room, he began to speak.

"No – Mycroft, you don't understand. I needed to concentrate, badly. A boy…a boy in my class, the Carl Powers boy, he got into a fight today at the schoolyard." Sherlock started to stutter out, waving a hand. As he finished, he coughed before going on. "It was awful, and Carl was worrying whether or not he'd be able to go to his swim meet this afternoon because he had a blackened eye, and then the boy threatened to kill Carl and there was this smaller boy, I don't know his name, something with a J, Jason, or Jackson, or Jam-"

"It does not matter." Mycroft held up one hand, his eyes flashing dangerously. "I do not care how badly you needed to concentrate, Sherlock. I will not have any brother of mine smoking in this flat. I am supposed to be taking care of you, Sherlock. I am responsible for you, and you won't be doing this."

Sherlock seemed to regain a little of his moxie. Getting off his bed, he looked up at Mycroft. "You're always doing this, Mycroft!" He hissed at him, trying to rise to his full height. Mycroft realised with a shock that Sherlock had grown a few inches. "You never listen to what anyone else has to say! Nobody died and made you Queen, Mycroft, and not everybody has to listen to you! You just think you're so important, with your big bloody job, and you think you can just order everyone around! This is why nobody likes you, Mycroft, and this is why you're the biggest shitface that's ever waddled around!"

It was as if he had prepared the speech. Sherlock then stood on his feet and just stared at Mycroft.

Mycroft honestly did not know what to say.

He was blinded with a mixture of anger, guilt, shame, and a strange nostalgic (and certainly not in a good sense) came over him. There was a strange, tense silence between the two, and several unsaid (although unkind) words travelled between their eyes.

Full of fury, Mycroft left the flat.

It took him only twenty minutes for him to reach Lestrade's flat.

Although he had never properly been there, Lestrade had forwarded him the address several times. Close by, although still a bit of a walk. The walk, in all, took about forty-five minutes – enough for Mycroft to sort his thoughts out.

That ungrateful little twit. Mycroft had done everything for him, done things that Sherlock didn't know about and would never know about. Perhaps he was a little bit overbearing – he had to be. Sherlock was the most irritating, hyperactive little person on the planet and Mycroft was the one tasked with taking care of him. And Mycroft had done it to the best of his ability. He'd stand in front of a bullet for him any day.

And that crock about nobody liking him was what led him to Lestrade.

Mycroft knocked on the door firmly, still brimming with anger. At the moment, he didn't even care about Sherlock being in the flat on his own. Sherlock was ungrateful for what Mycroft had done, and Mycroft was fully intending to go after his own pursuits. If only for a few hours, he told himself.

His brother had started smoking. Mycroft couldn't wrap his head around it.

Lestrade opened the door just a half-minute later. At the time, the sun was just beginning to set. Lestrade had changed out of his Yarder clothes into a more casual polo and jeans. It was lovely to see, and Mycroft was filled the ridiculous urge to do something brash.

Brash, for Mycroft, was more or less just not introducing himself. Brash, for Mycroft, was him throwing his arms around Lestrade and pressing their faces together harshly. Brash, for Mycroft, was him throwing his full weight against Lestrade's front and pushing him back inside his flat.

They continued in that fashion until Lestrade finally pulled away from him. He put both hands on his shoulders and gave him the same breathless, goofy grin that Mycroft loved so fantastically. As his eyes fell on Mycroft's face, though, his smile fell. His hands moved from Mycroft's waist to his face, and he murmured in a soft voice, "You're crying."

Oh, hell, no. Mycroft immediately stepped away from Lestrade and began rubbing at his face. "I…Apologies, Gregory, that was temerarious of me. I was just behaving like…like a child, I suppose, but I so wanted to see you, and I just – "

With that, Mycroft took the opportunity to look around Lestrade's flat. It was certainly more spacious than his own, but that wasn't what caught Mycroft's attention. There was a football game on the telly; there was a can of beer on the table, some Chinese food next to it. The flat wasn't messy, per se, but there was a certain roughness to it that made Mycroft's heart twitch. It was decorated simply and clearly on a budget.

Overall, it looked so wonderfully domestic and homey that Mycroft almost started crying again. The fact that he had been crying, before, still alarmed him. He was Mycroft Holmes, for goodness' sake, not some sensitive teenager. Still, he told himself, it was his brother – who could have been his child.

It wasn't like he could tell Lestrade any of that.

"Sweetheart, what happened?" Lestrade murmured in the most loving manner possible. One hand pushed up through Mycroft's hair, and the other rested firmly on the small of Mycroft's back. "You look upset, and…hell, My, did you walk here? It must've taken ages."

Mycroft realised that he was so spun up that he couldn't even remember the fake address he must've given Lestrade. He let out a shuddering breath. "Nothing, Gregory, it's…nothing specific. Just a cumbersome day, I suppose. I am so terribly sorry for the intrusion, but I was wondering if I could just stay for…" God, pure spite wanted to ask to spend the night. Let Sherlock have a night on his own and see just how little he really needed his older brother. But, at his core, Mycroft Holmes was an honourable man. "A few hours, at most. Perhaps we could watch the rest of the football game?"

"Uh, sure. You hungry? I mean, I think have some leftovers in the kitchen, and there's still a bit of Chinese left. If you want." Lestrade offered, although Mycroft suspected it was mostly out of chivalry. As Lestrade turned around to sit, Mycroft caught a glance of something troubling. It was…not distrust. Not as severe as that, but certainly confusion. He felt the keen, hard prick of fear.

He just shook his head and sat on the sofa.

Initially, Mycroft sat a few inches away from Lestrade, feeling awkward.

For goodness' sake, this was Lestrade's home. Mycroft could see where he slept on the sofa, could see the worn buttons on the clicker, and could see how Lestrade had just thrown his Yarder jacket on the floor. It was touchingly personal, and initially, Mycroft feared slipping back into his panic attacks. Then, as some team or another made a goal that Mycroft truly didn't care about, Lestrade slipped his arm over Mycroft's shoulders.

The peace that he felt in that instant was earthshattering.

In that way, they continued. Little by little, they leaned across on the sofa. By the time the game ended, Lestrade was laying on his side, facing the telly. Mycroft was tucked comfortably against his front in the same position. Occasionally, in a happy sort of stupor, he would lean up to press a kiss against Lestrade's cheek or to nibble at his ear. Each time, Lestrade would let out a happy sort of grunt, and Mycroft focused way too much on the way his hand was slipping lower and lower down Mycroft's chest. Once, Lestrade leaned down to nibble at his neck affectionately, which caused him to let out a stifled little noise.

Lestrade summed it up best, he figured: "Look at us. Proper domestic couple, aren't we?" His temporary suspicion from early seemed to have disappeared.

Oh, and now, Mycroft wanted to tell him. Wanted to tell him about Sherlock's little cigarette habit, wanted to tell him about their shared fight, wanted to tell him about everything. He had gotten what he had come for, however – reassurance that someone did like him for who he was. Granted, that person also knew very little about his past life. The point still stood.

"A domestic couple, indee-"

"You know, My, I think I-"

They both spoke at once, and Mycroft turned around in his arms to stare up at that lovely face. "You said something?"

Lestrade looked a little bit hurt, a little bit hesitant, and a little bit guilty. "Nothing. I was just going to say that…well, My. I don't know how to say I feel about you. It's…odd, because I just…I don't know. I want to know everything about you. I know you can tell everything about me from a glance, but I'm not like that." He leaned down to press a kiss to the man's cheek. When he spoke again, it was directly into Mycroft's ear. "Tell me, Mycroft."

And suddenly, it was all too much and all too stunningly close to being revealed.

Suddenly, he was no longer just a man using Lestrade as a way to blow off steam. Lestrade was becoming a very, very important part of his life, and Mycroft knew it wouldn't last for very long.

Mycroft's reaction was to flee.

He stood up and immediately brushed himself off. Lestrade looked up at him with the hurt, puppy-dog look that he had nearly patented. "I'm sorry, Gregory, but I must – I have to go. A very important meeting that I've forgotten. I'll see you-"

"Let me drive, My, it looks like it's raining outside – " Greg interrupted him, standing up and reaching for his jacket on the floor.

"No!" Mycroft hissed at him. Looking at him with widened, confused, and disappointed eyes, he stomped out the door.

It was raining.

For the entire walk home, it rained. Overall, he had probably been away from Sherlock for about four hours. Four lovely, romantic, affectionate hours, but Sherlock could've gotten up to anything. It had been foolish and irresponsible of him to leave Sherlock alone.

Moreover, his boyfriend was getting suspicious. Mycroft had probably hurt him, too.

And suddenly, Mycroft was feeling worse than ever before. He entered into their flat building with slumped shoulders. Dripping slightly, he fiddled with the key and let himself in.

Oh. Violin music.

Mycroft looked up to see Sherlock sitting on the sofa. He hadn't smoked any more, but he had gone somewhere. The edges of his shirt were still wet from the rain, outside. Still, Sherlock was playing the violin and Mycroft felt his heart settle. If only slightly. The sound of Sherlock's lovely sonatas and symphonies were absolutely calming.

The bow skid off the strings with a violent screech as Sherlock looked at him. His eyes were sharp, keen, and penetrating. Mycroft realised with a curse and a shock that he was being deduced.

The sound of the violin shocked Mycroft more, admittedly. It was like nails on a chalkboard, and it struck Mycroft to his core.

"You have a boyfriend, Mycroft!?"