A/N: So, just to let you all know, I now have AO3 under the same penname! I'll still be posting here, but I think AO3 presents is more nicely so toddle over there if you're interested :)

Chapter Eleven: The Necessity of Nicotine.

He watched from behind a double espresso and a half-smoked Mayfair as a tall, blonde man leaned down to kiss a little girl in a pink leotard goodbye, before turning and jogging across the road towards the cafe outside which he was sat. Mycroft raised a despondent hand in greeting.

Tripping up the three steps to the wooden veranda, Harry's eyes drifted from the coffee, to the cigarette and finally settled on his friend's worn face with an expression of disapproval. "You hate coffee," he observed, pulling out the chair on the opposite side of the round table. "And you don't smoke. Is the world coming to an end?"

"I've smoked in front of you before," replied Mycroft smoothly, stabbing out what appeared to be in his fifth Mayfair.

"Yes, but not since...Ah."

"Mmm." He raised the espresso cup in a wry toast and drank deeply, trying to repress a wince at the unpleasant flavour.

Across the table, Harry shifted and scratched his nose. "Is it...the same?" he asked with some awkwardness.

For a moment Mycroft was silent – since last night, he had been desperate for human conversation, anything that would keep the hundred thoughts from tangling even further within the confines of his own head. Now, though, it seemed much less of a good idea. Still, he thought with an internal sigh as he pulled another cigarette from the crumpled packet on the table, it was too late to go backwards.

"Yes," he said, placing the foam end between his lips and flicking up the lid of his lighter, "it feels the same."

The blonde man watched with brow creased in concern as plume of white smoke rose and curled around them. He rose purposefully. "Right, you need tea. Give me a second."

"I don't want tea."

"You need tea."

"So?" Harry pressed him gently, pouring out two cups of strong breakfast tea and pushing one across the table to Mycroft. "What's happened? We never seem to speak unless it's an emergency..."

Mycroft flushed, defensive. "That's not true," he objected guiltily. "It's not the case at all, I-"

But his protestations were silenced by a dismissive wave of the hand. "It doesn't matter," said Harry lightly. "I know that it's been hard for you. I do understand, Mycroft."

Mycroft could feel the tips of his ears beginning to burn. "Have my biscuit," he muttered, half throwing the little plastic-covered biscuit onto Harry's saucer.

Tearing the red cellophane in one delicate twist of the fingers, Harry regarded his friend with a pitying expression. "Having one of those weeks again?"

"Something like that."

The caramel-biscuit darkened several degrees as it was lowered briefly into Harry's tea. "You look fine. Well, maybe 'fine's not quite the right word..."

"Mmm." The delicately crafted china cup held halfway to his lips, Mycroft considered the tea unhappily before placing it back down on its saucer. "Lestrade made a pass at me."

Harry's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Lestrade? Your detective inspector?"

"Not my detective inspector," Mycroft mumbled, fiddling unconsciously with the ring on his left hand.

"But you like him."

Mycroft bristled slightly, resenting the lack of a questioning inflection. "That is quite beside the point."

"Is it?" Harry concealed his smirk behind the rim of his tea-cup.

"Yes," said Mycroft firmly. "It is."

"So, what's the problem?" the other man asked. "It's taken you long enough to find someone you could be even remotely interested in, I don't see how – when you do – their reciprocating the feelings can be a bad thing."

Mycroft shot him a brief, dark look before his eyes dropped to the ring he was still fiddling with. "Whatever feelings I may or not have," he said stiffly, "that...kiss is no indication that they are reciprocated. It was a reaction, nothing more. And I have absolutely no intention of being a 'rebound'."

At this, Harry laughed out loud, earning him another, even darker, glare. "You always have an excuse," he mused with a chuckle.

Mycroft's jaw tightened. "Indeed?"

"Yes," replied Harry firmly. "For almost as long as I have known you, you have avoided getting involved with anyone. I understand why," he continued before Mycroft could speak, "but it's been twenty years. You owe it to you to give yourself a chance."

Mycroft's lips set into a single hard line, eyes cast steadfastly downwards – an uncomfortable heaviness settling in the pit of his stomach. He put out a hand for his cigarette packet again but was stopped by Harry reaching it first. He pulled back abruptly, heart juddering almost visibly beneath his shirt.

"Mycroft." The voice, gently commanding, made Mycroft's bottom lip disappear between his teeth. Harry hesitated momentarily, carefully contemplating how to phrase what he wanted to say, then, softly, "I don't think it is him rebounding that is worrying you, is it?"

Mycroft was barely able to repress a wince. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' he wanted to say. But there was no point in lying. So he settled with silence.

"It's been twenty years," he heard Harry say again. He wiggled the ring over his knuckle then back again. "You've got to...you've got to forget about it."

Mycroft had to swallow hard twice before being able to reply with a mumbled, "Why would it matter to you?"

"Petulance doesn't suit you," Harry pointed out reprovingly, picking up the tea pot and giving it a gentle shake before refilling their cups. "And it matters to me because it is both ruining our friendship and preventing you from moving on. And," he sighed heavily, "as much as I know it's my fault, I hate seeing you like this." Harry's eyes flicked from the tea down to Mycroft's hands which were still toying erratically with the gold band. "You could start by taking that off," he suggested in the tone he generally saved for coaxing inappropriate objects away from his daughters. ""It can't help, looking at it every day."

Mycroft brought his hands up close to his face, studying the simple gold band with a pained expression. It had been on his finger for half his life; he couldn't imagine being without it. "Where's yours?" he murmured, grey eyes not leaving his ring.

Harry shifted uneasily before admitting, "I don't know. Presumably it's knocking about somewhere. I didn't throw it away."

This did very little to make Mycroft feel better. "I don't think I can do it again," he admitted, his voice a barely audible mumble. "I don't want to do it again..."

"Mycroft, you have got to put it into perspective," Harry told him with a shake of his head. "Things like that...they are happen at university, but they don't mean-"

The sudden appearance of a little girl in a startlingly pink leotard trotting up the wooden steps of the veranda put an abrupt end to their conversation.

With a high-pitched cry of, "Daddy!" she threw herself into Harry's lap, spilling his tea across the table, before shuffling around to grin toothily at Mycroft. "Hullo!" she chirped. "I'm Liz'beth."

It was all Mycroft could do to nod, mute, as he fought desperately not to let his dismay show. He looked to Harry, hoping that he would help him out, but the other man was already lifting Elizabeth from his lap and standing up.

"It's been good to see you," said Harry with a smile as though they had been simply discussing the state of Asia. "We must catch up again soon."

Without waiting for a reply, Harry put his arm around his daughter's shoulders and walked away, crossing the road to where his car was parked.

As he watched them drive away, Mycroft let his head fall forwards into his hands, wondering how it was possible to feel even worse than he had an hour ago. He was no closer to knowing how he ought to handle the situation with Gre- Lestrade, and now all the unwanted feelings concerning the past were tangling with those of yesterday, the result of which was a rather excruciating headache.

Mycroft was as close to crying as he ever had been as an adult.

After a few minutes, his wallowing was disturbed by the short vibration of his phone which signalled a text message. It would be Anthea, he thought wearily, pulling the mobile out of his pocket. It would be Anthea warning him of an impending World disaster to which he must immediately give his full, undivided attention despite the fact it was Saturday, despite the fact he had rung her that morning and told her not to disturb him –

A delicate eyebrow was arched in surprise. It wasn't Anthea.

DI Lestrade: Feel like a complete dick- can I buy you tea as a sorry? –Greg

Today, 13:31

Even more surprising was the smile tugging persistently at the corners of his lips as his eyes swept over the screen.

I'd really like that. When and where? – M

Lestrade's response was almost instantaneous – That place in Covent Garden in an hour? –Greg

See you there. –M