Greg came home two days after John moved back into Baker to Street to hear a door slam accompanied by raised voices.
Ah, Sherlock must be home, he reflected. If not for the shouting, he would have been quite glad at the prospect. It was always lovely (and extremely relieving) to have confirmation that Sherlock was still alive. It usually allowed Greg to breathe freely for at least a day or two.
Instead, he began to mentally prepare himself for the impending domestic battle. My hasn't sounded that completely miffed since before Sherlock came back. In fact, the incensed tones that echoed down the corridor, as Greg removed his coat and loosened his tie, hadn't reached this volume in at least a year. Greg thought the quietude had been a gesture of gratitude for Sherlock's continued existence in an increasingly shaky world. The fact that Greg could hear this argument from the sitting room was a bad sign indeed.
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade could essentially write an anthropological study about the Holmeses at this point. He was an expert, in many ways, on their habits and peculiarities. This is why he knew that the Holmeses had a tendency to lower their voices during verbal sparring matches, like incensed geese hissing at one another. Increased volume was never ever good. It indicated a crisis situation and a level of hostility that was extreme even for the two brothers.
Greg, therefore, being a wise and pragmatic soul, approached Mycroft's study with the utmost caution: the type of careful consideration and delicacy he would use to defuse a bomb. Greg had, in the course of his relationship with Mycroft and Sherlock, neutralized more sibling conflicts than he could count. He had played referee so frequently that it was extraordinary that he had never received permanent damage in the crossfire of their attacks. As the family arbiter of justice, Greg was an expert at avoiding injury, mostly because he could read the situation well (by this point at least. Originally, trying to get Sherlock and Mycroft to stop attacking one another left Greg at a sincere loss, and there had been some near misses). The key, he had learned, was to pick your moment: do not, under any circumstances, make any sudden moves, lest all the attention (biting, snide, condescending, resentful, cold, burning) be directed at you. One should always be wary of startling a Holmes (let alone two) in the middle of an intense "debate." This is why Greg took his time as he walked towards the source of the commotion. From his place in the corridor, he could begin to discern the nature of the conflict, gathering information in preparation of his entrance. So far, it did not sound good.
"You are being exceptionally foolish! Even for you!"
"You are the foolish one, Mycroft," Sherlock spat venomously, "I am completely rational."
"Ration—?" Mycroft sputtered angrily, and Greg winced sharply from his place just outside the door. If Mycroft as at a loss for words, clearly the situation had devolved well past the point of recuperation, "Rational? For pity's sake, Sherlock, just look at yourself! Do you call this," there was a pause for some sort of emphasis, "rational?"
Sherlock responded with surly obstinacy, "I fail to see your point!"
"You cannot possibly be serious!"
"Oh, I assure you, I am entirely serious."
"Well then you have completely forsaken all logic in your infernal and, I might add, idiotic, quest for vengeance—"
"It is not about revenge—"
"Just another indication that you cannot be objective, at all, in fact, I believe that the time has come to—"
"To what exactly!"
Sherlock's last comment had been delivered with such invective and challenge that Greg could fairly hear Mycroft bristling with apoplectic rage from where he stood on the threshold. I think that's my cue, the DI decided. He took a very deep breath before entering his partner's study, which was currently serving as the arena for the most recent Holmesian Battle Royale. Greg ruefully wondered, as he always did, if he should have sold tickets or if he could buy some sort of protective armor in anticipation of what he was about to get involved in.
However, once he stepped into the room, his train of thought switched tracks rapidly from "How do we all get out of this one alive?" to "Where the bloody hell is Sherlock?" Mycroft was standing in the center of his study with a glare on his face that could kill mere mortals with ease and, undoubtedly, pleasure. This was why Greg was completely confused by the fact the man sitting in front of the irate personification of the British Government had not yet dropped dead from fatal injuries. The young man on the sofa with a hateful expression on his face, at first glance, appeared about as far from Sherlock as possible. He was dressed as bicycle courier. Helmet still on his head, trainers on his feet, bicycle pants, tight cycling shirt, with a jacket, fingerless gloves, a scrape across one forearm, shadows on his face. It took Greg about two minutes of careful examination of the room (to make sure that there was no one else here) to confirm that the bicyclist was, in fact, Sherlock. Well that's a bloody thorough disguise. Greg would have whistled to express the level to which he was impressed except he realized that that might be dangerous given the present climate.
"Hello, boys," he said instead, as casually as possible, "good to see you two getting along."
"Ah, Gregory," Mycroft said, without turning in greeting, and somehow unable to repress the flaring of his nostrils or intense downward turn of his mouth, "thank goodness you have arrived. Perhaps you will be able to talk some sense into this complete," Greg once again marveled at the fact that Mycroft was angry beyond his ability to verbally express his hostility. His partner gestured emphatically as his frown deepened, his eyes shot sparks, and he frantically searched for the proper term to describe was an arrogant and idiotic twat his brother was being. Mycroft, being Mycroft, twat was not a viable option. "Neanderthal," he concluded.
Sherlock actually snarled; his lips curled in a sneer. Greg's eyes widened. Over ten years and I've never seen them quite this bad.
Greg cut in before Sherlock could launch into whatever diatribe he had prepared, "Can one of you please tell me what the hell is going on?"
"With pleasure," Sherlock began, unfastening his helmet and tossing it on the sofa with a flourish. The misplaced anger made Greg wonder what the poor inanimate object had ever done to incur such harsh treatment. Mycroft, however, was absolutely, under no inducement, going to let Sherlock have the first or last word. In fact, it would be lucky, to judge by his incendiary expression, if Sherlock were allowed any words in between either. Greg was actually alarmed at this point and felt a strong urge to caution Mycroft to watch his blood pressure. Clearly, present circumstances had reached an untenable point because Mycroft was not able to reign in his upset, and Greg was sensing some sort of panic along with the anger in his partner's stance, face, and voice. This is not bloody good.
"Your…boy," he spat, pointing emphatically and accusatorily at Sherlock, "has taken complete leave of his senses!"
"I have not!"
"Shut up, this moment!" Mycroft hissed, "He has no concern for his own safety, nor John's, nor yours. In fact, I highly suggest that he not be permitted to leave this location for the remainder of the year at the very least—"
"Have you completely lost your mind, Mycroft? Just because you are so dense that you can't see—"
"I can't see? I can't see?" Mycroft's voice was actually bordering on the hysterical, as he drew himself to his full height and gave his brother such a hostile stare that Greg was quite certain that someone, somewhere in the world had just dropped dead as a result of it.
"Do you have even the slightest notion what your current escapades are putting us through? What you are doing to yourself? Have you any conception at all! You selfish, foolish, willful child!"
"Better than an arrogant, pompous, ignorant fool, who can't even begin to comprehend the importance of—"
Mycroft laughed cruelly. Sherlock stood up with eyes like ice. Greg had heard quite enough and was compelled to actually move as quickly as possible (eschewing all his previous self-directed advice about making sudden movements and avoiding becoming the focus of their attention at all costs).
"All right!" Greg shouted, "That's enough," He glared at both of them with his sternest and most rational expression. Placing his hand on Sherlock's chest, he gently (but firmly) shoved him backwards, "You sit down," he directed, adding a stern, "Now," when the younger man resisted. Sherlock crinkled his nose in complete disdain, but sat as directed, crossing his arms.
That settled, Greg turned to Mycroft, "You as well." Mycroft's mouth opened slightly, surprised, but he quickly followed his directives, sitting in the winged armchair with grace, crossing his legs with flair, and inspecting his nails, as if he could care less about what was going to transpire. Greg stood between the two of them and sent a silent plea for patience and strength to whatever deity might be listening.
"Now," he said calmly, "would one of you like to explain to me what the hell is going on? And, if you could use indoor voices, that would be bloody marvelous," he crossed his arms and waited.
No response was forthcoming, however. It appeared that the boys had gone directly from a shouting match to stony silence and elected to completely eschew rational conversation. Why is it always me? The DI thought, rolling his eyes in exasperation and impatience.
"All right, let's try another one, shall we?" It was moments like this, however rare or frequent they might be, that Greg was grateful that part of his job description involved interrogation techniques. Talk about bringing work skills to bear on your personal life. Although, in Greg's case, the overlap between the two was frequent and blurry. "Sherlock, why are you dressed like that?"
The consulting detective glared at Greg and refused to answer. Mycroft cleared his throat and Greg turned towards his partner for explication.
"Sherlock is dressed in this ridiculous manner because he spent the morning spying on John Watson," for someone who dealt in secrets, lies, clandestine facilities, espionage, and generally knowing things that he oughtn't, Mycroft sounded extremely judgmental of Sherlock's chosen morning excursion. Greg couldn't blame him. Fuck that was not a good decision. He stared at Sherlock incredulously, and the younger man glared back with defiance, though he attempted to maintain a certain flippant "I could care less" position with the rest of his body. The combination didn't work at all. Apparently, though, Mycroft hadn't finished. When he began talking again, Greg's head swiveled to face him rapidly, "In point of fact, Sherlock was so very meticulous in his surveillance that he actually collided with the good doctor." Mycroft's hands were now gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that Greg thought he was going to leave permanent imprints.
"You can't be serious?" Greg turned to Sherlock for confirmation and the detective only gazed back impassively, which was all the verification that Greg needed, "Have you completely taken leave of your senses?" he said, and he was now close to shouting himself.
"Of course I haven't," Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Well you could've bloody fooled me! What the hell were you thinking? Do you know how dangerous that was?"
"John was not in any danger from falling, in fact—"
"Bloody idiot, that's not what I'm talking about, and you know it! Don't be difficult."
"I do not believe that he is capable of behaving in a mature fashion," Mycroft asserted acidly, "heaven forbid that he should conduct himself like an adult for once in his life."
"Mycroft," Greg said firmly, "enough," Mycroft appeared incensed, but Greg waved him down, "I'm not saying you're wrong, but lay off for a minute. Both of you are acting like children. Yes, I'm serious. Sherlock don't look so damn smug."
Navigating this was complicated at best, and Greg was developing a headache right between his eyes, coincidentally, the spot where the majority of his frown lines converged. He honestly didn't know if he could neutralize this situation.
"Why would you do something so bloody reckless?" he asked, completely flat.
Sherlock's eyes appeared dead. Greg's frown deepened, "You have us going around lying to John to fucking 'protect' him. Has it crossed your mind that it's a bit hard to do that while you're running into him on a bloody bicycle! How could you be that stupid?"
Mycroft took Greg's exasperated sigh and defeated incredulity, as the perfect moment to chime in, "He clearly made the most irrational and unfortunate choice of letting his heart rule his head in a situation in which that decision is unsustainable."
Pieces clicked in Greg's head, like a complex puzzle suddenly forming an image. Oh, he thought, and then, Oh, fuck. Of bloody course.
Greg tiredly rubbed his eyes, trying to relieve the pressure. He rested his hand on Mycroft's shoulder, which Mycroft held and squeezed tightly. Greg looked at his partner, and they conducted an entirely silent conversation. Greg affirmed that Mycroft was right, but this had to do with feelings and he should try to remain calm while Greg took the lead. Mycroft apologized for behaving irrationally and for whatever fault he played in Sherlock's inability to handle these things. That done, Greg walked over and sat next to his boy (why is he always mine when he's in sodding trouble and acting like a right poncey git?).
"I know that you miss John," he said quietly, as if approaching a very skittish animal, "Honest, it must be bloody hard, Sherlock, but you can't keep doing this…"
He trailed off, considering how to continue, "You're brilliant, and you can do things that ordinary people couldn't dream off, all right? No one's denying it. But even you can't keep this up."
Greg glanced at Mycroft, who nodded in encouragement, but wisely kept silent, letting Greg muddle his way through this dangerous territory, "You either have to keep John in the dark, or just quit this whole thing and come home already. You can't do both. You can't play like this, running into him on the street, messing about with his head. He's fucked up enough as it is," Greg's mind drifted to an image of John sitting in 221B holding a gun. The blogger was already haunted by his memories of Sherlock; he didn't need the real thing adding to the instability of his fragile state. "None of us can afford that."
Sherlock glowered and placed his face in his hands, "It is not a game."
"You're right," Greg agreed, "It's the most fucking serious thing we've had to deal with in our lives. That's what I'm telling you this," he rested his hand on Sherlock's bowed shoulder in comfort and affirmation.
"You can't have these close calls. You just can't."
"I—" Sherlock took a deep breath, and Mycroft looked stricken, staring at his brother with a sudden onslaught of tenderness and loss. It was as if he were seeing a younger version of Sherlock, one who had fallen and scraped his knee or was sitting sad and alone because none of the other children would play with him. Mycroft couldn't help or protect him at his most vulnerable even though he wanted to. Greg felt his heart go out to his partner and he tried to convey as much love as he could from where he sat, both to the boy next to him and the man across from him.
Sherlock cleared his throat, "I am—I am not right without John. I wanted to see him."
Greg heaved a sigh, "I know…really. You miss him. That's bloody normal."
Sherlock scoffed at the reference to being anything less than extraordinary. "Look, mate, even geniuses have feelings," he said, "your brother's living proof," Mycroft rolled his eyes, and Greg smirked before turning serious again, "so are you. You wouldn't be acting like an idiot if you didn't miss John. Sometimes, uh, love makes a bloke a bit irrational."
Sherlock glanced up with incredulity, and Greg cut him off before he could begin, "Don't give me any of that bloody 'caring is not an advantage' bollocks either. Why else are you doing this? You damn moron. Whether you admit it or not, you're a bloody emotional mess."
"Well it's clearly not an advantage if I can't behave objectively," Sherlock said.
"It is only a disadvantage because you refuse to acknowledge and control it," Mycroft said finally, "There is an important distinction to be made between moments in which it is acceptable to allow your emotions to govern your actions and those in which you must control them," he shook his head ruefully, "In order to determine the wisest course of action, it is absolutely essential that you acknowledge the causes behind your actions and the motivations that propel them."
Sherlock glared at his brother before glancing at Greg tiredly. The DI felt himself cave slightly under the sadness in his eyes. It's bloody good I didn't raise him; he would have had me wrapped around his finger at the age of three.
"I care about John," he said, gripping his hair like he might go mad and could somehow extract these wayward feelings forcibly through his skull. Good luck with that. His tone, however, was totally devoid of emotion.
"Yeah," Greg confirmed, "We all cottoned on to that quite quickly. Look, I'm not, ah, saying that you can't see him, all right? But you need to finish this bloody business with Moriarty so that you can come back for real." He took in Sherlock's increased pallor, gauntness, and the steadily twitching of fingers and legs, "This isn't good for anyone, least of all you and John."
Sherlock seemed pleased that Greg had not attempted to dissuade him from direct participation in the completion of his mission. Mycroft was less pleased, but Greg knew that trying to talk Sherlock out of it would likely just result in him becoming more set on it.
"Gregory is quite right," Mycroft agreed, "Now, why don't you get something to eat and change out of that ridiculous costume." Sherlock smirked at the notion that Mycroft could hardly stand having a bicycle courier, however false, in his office.
"My's right," Greg said, giving Sherlock's arm one final squeeze, "Reckon you could do with some food and some sleep."
Sherlock, still shell shocked from his earlier admission, squinted between them, clearly deducing something. Apparently, the conclusions he reached were positive. He nodded tightly and rose to his feet, pausing as he reached the door handle and turning back to face them. "Thank you," he said tightly before disappearing down the corridor.
Once he had gone, Greg buried his face in his hands with a groan. Mycroft came over to sit with him, placing a hand on the spot in his neck that held all the tension form the altercation they had just had. "Well done," the elder Holmes said, "I believe that that was the most effective diffusion that you have performed yet."
Greg laughed and then groaned again before sitting up and facing Mycroft, who looked exhausted, "I think that's the first time he's thanked you in about six years."
"Well," Mycroft said crisply, "yet another sign that the apocalypse is nigh."
Greg guffawed, "Maybe that will solve all our problems for us…wait you haven't actually helped organize the apocalypse, have you?"
Mycroft smiled and kissed Greg lightly before gracefully rising to his feet and smoothing his vest with purpose, "I am afraid that even my authority does not extend quite that far," he looked serious, but Greg wasn't sure that he believed him.
Mycroft extended his hand. Greg took it, allowing himself to be pulled into a standing position.
"Now, I believe that my brother is not the only one in need of sustenance. I am positively famished and you clearly need to imbibe something…Besides you shall undoubtedly be prevailed upon to force your boy to eat something. I know how much you enjoy that task."
As they walked towards the kitchen Greg elbowed Mycroft lightly, who made a face of mocked outrage, "Why is he your brother when he's done something brilliant and my boy when he's acting like a bloody prat?"
Mycroft kissed Greg again and smiled brightly, "Because you are clearly the more terrible influence on his behavior." Greg just rolled his eyes.
AN:
Hello Everyone. Welcome to Chapter 14. Sorry for the delay. I am approaching the last week of term, which means lots of grading and academic/professional writing. That being said, hopefully by Wednesday I shall be back on track in terms of fic writing and posting.
What did you think of this chapter? Enjoy the brotherly bickering? The forced discussion of emotions? Sherlock almost running John down on a bicycle? Sherlock disguised as a courier?
Please, please, please, leave a review if you get the chance. Thank you for taking the time to read!