A/N: I accidentally uploaded chapter 13 on chapter 12, sorry! DX Thanks to Redhead1215 for pointing it out!

Anyway, enjoy!

Chapter Twelve

Lestrade's eyes flew open when he heard a noise at his bedroom door, he could see the golden bar of light from the hall growing from the steadily opening door. Lestrade could vaguely make out the shape of Mycroft Holmes silhouetted on his bed covers and blinked blearily at the source of the light.

"Mycroft?" he murmured, a little peeved at being woken up from his comfortable rest. If he was a little more alert, he would be wondering what the Hell Mycroft was doing in his room while he slept.

Mycroft hovered in the open doorway, not entering the room. "Are you alright?" he finally asked.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Lestrade asked curiously, rolling onto his side and propping his head up on his hand.

"You were speaking in your sleep." Mycroft told him. "I couldn't hear what you said, but I thought I might check up on you."

Lestrade licked his dry lips, looking a little distressed. "I think I'm alright. I didn't even know I was having a nightmare." He saw Mycroft raise his eyebrows and corrected himself. "Didn't know I was sleep talking, I mean."

Mycroft was silent for a while. "Would you like to talk about it?"

Lestrade fisted his eyes sleepily. "Not really." he grunted in reply.

"I think it would do you good." Mycroft encouraged, sidling into the room to stand by his bedside.

If he had done so before the shooting, Lestrade would be quite a bit frightened by the action. But now, he found himself startlingly unaffected. "It's silly..." he sighed and shook his head.

"I'll be the judge of that." Mycroft said in an authoritive tone that Lestrade could easily imagine him using on especially stubborn politicians. "What do you dream of?"

Lestrade worried his lip in silence for a moment, not looking at Mycroft. "Doors." he said finally, then he chuckled darkly. "It's silly, I told you." Mycroft shook his head. "You know, I used to have nightmares about doors since I was a kid. Always dreamt that I opened the door and a faceless copper would be standing there to tell me that my parents died in a traffic collision." He swallowed. "Then, since becoming a copper myself, there were more times that I found myself standing on the other side of that door and dishing out the bad news."

Mycroft nodded understandingly, although, the notion of him really understanding in the way that Lestrade did was unlikely. "And since the incident at the pool-..." Lestrade's voice broke. Mycroft, unaccustomed to dealing with persons plagued with nightmares, settled for squeezing Lestrade's shoulder. "Since that time," Lestrade continued, clearing his throat. "there has been an alarming rise in the times I find myself at Baker Street."

Mycroft's hand on Lestrade's shoulder twitched. In all the times he had both expressed and felt worry for Sherlock, he had never really thought about Sherlock dying. Because Sherlock was Sherlock, he was Mycroft's annoying younger brother and he never died. That gave Mycroft something to think about.

"I'm sorry." he said to Lestrade. "I'm not the best at-home therapist and I'm sure you can think of several many people better to help you..." Lestrade shook his head.

"I'm not looking for ways for the nightmares to get better, Mycroft, it's alright." He smiled a little. "At least you listened." And then, for the first time, Lestrade realized that Mycroft was still standing. "You want to sit down?"

Mycroft blinked, turned a little, looking for a chair before he realized that Lestrade was offering space on the bed. He sat down awkwardly on the duvet, much to Lestrade's amusement. They sat and lay in calm silence, thinking.

Mycroft absently reached over and rubbed Lestrade's arm in a way, that he observed, brought slight comfort to the drowsy man. "Sleep, you've got work tomorrow." he said. Lestrade just settled his head back onto his pillow, grunting stubbornly in reply and Mycroft was vaguely reminded of a child Sherlock refusing to sleep. Sherlock never really did get around to sleeping routinely.

Lestrade, Mycroft noted, looked very much like he was in his younger years when he was resting and completely relaxed. He thought of a vaguely-remembered photo of the DI still in the academy, Mycroft had run across it when he was doing a background check on the man after Lestrade and Sherlock had wrapped up their first case together.

He had thick, dark brown hair back then, though, slightly curly and a little too long to be considered 'sharp'. He had very expressive eyes, deep brown and very, very curious, and a hairless cherubic face with a ready and wry smile. Mycroft couldn't be certain how old he was then, but he couldn't have been older than twenty-five when the picture was taken.

Now, Lestrade was thinner and his hair was silver, he had stress lines and tired eyes that told of emotional scars. But Mycroft liked him better for it, it just went to show that Lestrade was no longer a naive young boy.

When Lestrade slept, his emotions were writ clear apon his features. He smiled when he dreamt of happy moments, frowned when he recalled a particularly gruesome case, and awoke when feelings of regret were too strong to let him sleep. Mycroft found he quite enjoyed watching over the DI as he slept.

Mycroft was broken out of his reverie as Lestrade let out a soft contented sigh and his breathing deepened. He was fast asleep. Mycroft chuckled a little and gave his arm one last pat before making his silent exit.

Mycroft was gone the next morning. Lestrade yawned as he stumbled sleepily into the kitchen. Mycroft always left him a note saying he'd be out when he was called in for an emergency and today was no different. There was a crisp slip of paper with Mycroft's flowing handwriting resting on the kitchen counter weighed down by a salt shaker from the condiments dish. Lestrade picked it up.

Out conducting political damage control for the day. Lestrade let out a slight chuckle at that. And, before you get to work, there are a few things I must advise you on. Lestrade raised his eyebrow but continued reading. 1. We cannot be certain that your life is no longer in danger. Keep an eye out for trouble and avoid it at all costs. Of course Mycroft would think to number his advice, was all Lestrade could think when he read that. 2. You must assume that MI-5 is watching you. They have good intentions, but illogical reasons. Nevertheless, do not attempt to keep them from doing so. 3. If you happen to find information regarding the case, please contact me. 4. NEVER find yourself alone in public. Keep a friend or collegue with you at all times, for safety's sake. On another note, your flat has been tidied up and is once again habitable. Feel free to retain it, but know that my door will always be open. Best of luck at work. -MH

Lestrade smiled and sat down with a cup of coffee. He had time before he was expected in the Yard. He was in no hurry.

"Oh, God is it good to have you back, Sir!" Donovan sighed in relief when she entered the office and found Lestrade already behind his desk like he had never left.

"Morning to you too, Donovan." Lestrade grinned back, picking up the top one page of a whole stack of paperwork to be done. He waited for a hurrying copper to pass by the office before lowering his voice a few notches. "I heard there was a break-in."

Donovan glanced around to make sure nobody would overhear them and neared the desk. "Nothing was taken, but the office was in shambles!" She shuddered. "It was horrible! The damage caused by throwing paperwork around, alone, took days to rectify!"

Lestrade chuckled. "Don't worry, I've been wisely restricted to desk-duty until I'm fit for field work."

Donovan rolled her eyes and let out another sigh of relief. "Thank God."

"On another matter," Lestrade rummaged around in the papers on his desk. "I got a call from Homeland Security on the Holmes case." Donovan raised her eyebrow suspiciously. "They just called in to make sure they wern't missing any evidence on the case, said something about recreating the scene. Don't ask me what they're up to. You don't happen to have a list of all the stuff we brought in, do you?"

Donovan shook her head. "No, I'll ask around for it, though."

Lestrade smiled at her gratefully. "Thanks Donovan."

Donovan shook her head with a wry smile. "As always the copper, not five minutes back in the office and already up to solving crimes."

"You won't believe how slow and boring my sick leave was!" Lestrade muttered back, then a look of horrified shock crossed his face. "God, I'm beginning to sound like Sherlock!"

Donovan just nodded to him understandingly and stared at the towering pile of paperwork on his desk. "I'll get you a cup of coffee."

Lestrade sighed, surveying his desk, mentally working out how long it was going to take him to finish all of his paperwork. "Thanks Donovan. I'm going to need it." He cracked his knuckles and got to work.