Hey guys! It's been a while I know, sorry about that. I'm trying to come up with ideas for this that aren't too boring but atm I'm having trouble thinking of anything action-y to do so in the mean time you'll get some kinda fluffy still a little angsty filler stuff.

The idea for this chapter came from an rp with my bestie. So Wrider, this is for you

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After Mycroft re-took his seat, Greg joined them in the living room, taking John's armchair.

"So, since we have some time to kill, why don't we have a look at some of these cases?" The inspector suggested, picking up the discarded files of cold cases that Mycroft had brought over.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and sighed softly but still hummed and reached for a file. He hadn't had a chance to look through them himself, knowing that solving them meant Sherlock had less to occupy himself with.

He very much hoped this wouldn't turn into another famous Holmes war, with Sherlock trying to beat him with every new finding, with how quick he could come to conclusions. They always seemed to leave them both in sour moods, and Mycroft wasn't sure he could handle his getting much worse at this point.

Usually with the wars came name calling and little digs at one another, when one brother missed something or solved it quicker than the other.

Another thing Mycroft hoped to avoid; far too tired and in too much of a volatile mood. He wasn't quite sure he'd be able to hold his tongue as he usually did if Sherlock said something personal.

However, as they looked through the first case, Mycroft's worries eased a little. Rather than rushing to get clues in before the other, they found themselves working off of each other.

One brother would point out a clue, the other would explain it and work out if it rang true. One would say something about the case that didn't seem right, and the other would try to figure out why.

The crime scene photos were spread out across the table, all three men leaning in to get a proper look.

Greg found that time with the siblings had enhanced his skills a little; he was able to point out bits and pieces, offer clues that even the Holmes siblings hadn't found yet.

Mycroft watched Greg with careful eyes, lips pulling up into a tiny smile when the man would point something out. He didn't offer any words of encouragement, sure they'd sound false and condescending but he was impressed nonetheless.

He'd grown used to Sherlock's genius, and it caught him off guard to realise that Sherlock and himself weren't the only clever people in the flat.

Not that he hadn't known Gregory was smart, in a manner of different ways, but this kind of thing was second nature to him and sometimes he forgot that others were good too.

It was a refreshing thing to realise and he found himself finding clues but deciding to hang back on voicing them and sure enough, Gregory would get a good chunk of them minutes later.

"I'm starting to think you didn't need our help." Mycroft directed at Greg, who cleared his throat and shrugged.

"Guess I picked up a couple of things hanging around here so much." Greg looked away from Mycroft's face and back at the pictures on the table.

Nonsense, Mycroft wanted to say, you have always been as clever as this.

But he didn't say it.

He just hummed again and opened a brand new folder, sitting that one out, just watching as Sherlock and Gregory got stuck in.

Mycroft loved to solve things, and he loved for people to know that he'd solved things, though Sherlock loved it even more.

It felt...good, actually, to just watch for once. His brother and Gregory had quite a long past, and some of it had been just as volatile as his relationship with Sherlock had been.

Mycroft had been blamed, though not through words, for getting Sherlock onto drugs. And Greg had been blamed, definitely through words, for not allowing him drugs any longer.

Sherlock had been clean, to the best of Mycroft's knowledge, for over a year. Three hundred and ninety one days, if he was being exact.

Sherlock had been on drugs for the entire meeting Greg and working for him period. Up until a year ago, Greg had never met a clean Sherlock, not during the entire four years of knowing him.

Now that Sherlock had been clean for a considerable amount of time, the detective inspector was starting to know the real Sherlock. The brilliant, witty instead of cruel, loving man that Mycroft knew he'd always been, no matter how much he pushed it down.

So watching the pair bicker lightly as they dove into another case, was actually a surprisingly wonderful thing to witness.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the emotion of past years catching up with him, but Mycroft's throat felt just a little tight.

He wouldn't cry, he knew he wouldn't cry, couldn't remember the last time he had, but the physical symptoms of crying remained nonetheless.

Gregory had been such a big part of Sherlock's life; had given him a job and purpose and had almost singlehandedly (because Mycroft was not wanted anywhere near it) detoxed Sherlock up to five times and eventually gotten him completely clean.

Mycroft owed such a huge debt to the man, one he would never be able to repay. And he hated owing anyone anything, but for just this one thing, he didn't mind terribly.

So caught up in his mind and his memories as he was, he didn't notice for a couple of seconds when John appeared at the door.

Mycroft's stomach flipped uncomfortably because in no way, shape or form, was he looking forward to this. He knew he was ill. He also knew how his stats would look, because he never went to the doctors and monitored himself with home equipment.

He knew Sherlock's brows would furrow and he'd look at him with that oh so young, wide eyed gaze.

He could imagine the pity in Gregory's eyes and the barely concealed worry of a doctor in John's.

The case files forgotten for the moment, Sherlock stood fluidly from his seat and Mycroft braced himself for one hell of a conversation.

This would likely not end well.