Somewhere between the rather awkward conversation with Mycroft, that had left Greg more confused than ever, and getting the case wrapped up, the rain had stopped falling. The night was glistening cold and clear now, the temperature on the verge of freezing. But at least there was no more rain.

Thank God for small favours, Greg thought while he watched the last of the police cars drive off. The scene was almost all cleared; only one ambulance was still parked next to the warehouse. It was, he realized, the one Sherlock and John had earlier been treated in for their gunshot wounds.

Why hadn't they left for the hospital already? The second ambulance car with little Ryan, the kidnapped kid, and his father inside had left the crime scene a while ago, Greg had noticed. So, what's keeping them?

Greg slowly made his way over, carefully avoiding the patches of slowly freezing rainwater on the uneven ground. He could sure as hell do without slipping and breaking his neck in the process. So far, the night had been bad enough with the whole having to shoot a man, running around in wet clothes that now felt stiff with frost, and dealing with Mycroft Holmes' weird behaviour on top. No, he'd had quite enough.

Greg approached the ambulance and saw the back doors were closed, the lights inside were on, and it looked ready to go. Only, the two paramedics that should have been inside were standing next to their vehicle, clad in warm goose feather jackets complete with gloves, drinking coffee from small thermos cups.

"What's going on?" Greg's eyes travelled to the ambulance and back. "Are they inside?"

"Err, well. Yeah," the taller one, Josh something, if Greg remembered correctly, nodded. "Sherlock Holmes, well, he wouldn't let us treat him."

Greg huffed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. Bloody hell, Sherlock! Not again. The other paramedic had meanwhile filled a cup with coffee.

"You want some?" Greg took the cup, grateful to get some warmth into his body. "Thanks." He threw another glance at the lit window. He could see a shadow moving inside. "So, I take it John is…?"

"Yeah, Doctor Watson's just taking the bullet out."

"One-armed, he is. And still better than some doctors I've seen." The paramedics sounded impressed rather than annoyed that they had to stand around in the cold, waiting for a not exactly legal surgery to be done inside their hijacked ambulance.

Josh seemed to know what Greg had been thinking, for he shrugged indifferently. "Hey, it's not my first time dealing with Sherlock Holmes. I was on duty a few weeks ago, when that thing went down at Victoria Station, remember?"

"Oh, right," Greg did remember. Sherlock had been extremely difficult and stubborn in the aftermath of that particular case. "So, you just, what? Wait outside till they're done then?"

"Yeah, it's cool. It's stopped raining, and we have coffee. As long as we don't get another call in… let them have it their way."

Greg silently agreed and took another sip of coffee. The hot beverage ran smoothly down his throat and filled his stomach with a pleasant warmth. He could almost feel his feet again, and wasn't that something quite nice? His mood lifted considerably. He was about to pull his pack of cigarettes from his pocket when suddenly the radio in the ambulance's front went off.

Oh shit. The paramedics sprang into action. The one whose name Greg didn't know hammered against the side of the car.

"Sorry, you two. Are you done? We have a call!"

He opened the back door while Josh jumped into the front to answer the radio. Greg followed to the back.

Inside, he saw that John was obviously just done bandaging Sherlock's left thigh. The bullet had grazed it just about a hand's width above the knee, and the leg of Sherlock's trousers had been cut open from the bottom almost all the way up. What was left of it was caked in blood. So were Sherlock's hands, Greg noticed. He must have tried to stem the blood flow earlier.

John's right sleeve had also been cut open to treat the wound he'd got. It was properly bandaged and John was just putting his arm back into the sling around his neck. So much for one-handed, huh?

Both men looked pale and tired. Greg could relate.

"Ah, Lestrade," Sherlock carefully climbed out of the ambulance while John stayed to exchange a few quiet words with the paramedic. Sherlock pulled his coat around his thin frame and hobbled over. "You're still here, good. You can take us home."

"Wha… what?" Greg groaned. "Sherlock!" Baker Street wasn't exactly on his way home, quite the contrary. It'd be hours before he'd finally make it to his own bed.

"Oh, fine," Sherlock had watched his face closely. "We'll take a cab then. John?"

He turned around just as John was climbing out. The paramedic gave one last wave goodbye, closed the door from the inside and then the ambulance sped off, blue lights shining and casting ghostly shadows onto everyone's face.

"A cab?" John had joined the two of them, his jacket slung loosely around his shoulders. "We'll never get a cab here, Sherlock. And besides, none will take us. I mean, have you looked at us?"

Greg silently agreed. Cabbies these days were very stubborn when it came to blood-soaked passengers. Something about the cleaning bills for the upholstery or such rubbish. Not that he didn't understand, he did, but… well, where had the days gone when you could be sure you'd get home safe, even if you looked like you'd been drinking and whatnot for three days straight? Which you had, most times? Bloody hell, Greg thought, he was getting old.

He let out a sigh, both mourning the good old days and the fact that it looked like he'd have to make the detour round Baker Street after all. He couldn't very well just leave Sherlock and John here, could he? Sherlock would never let him forget it, and he'd be in a strop for weeks!

So, better to deal with it now, right? Even if it meant he'd barely get four hours of sleep till he'd have to be back at the Yard. Greg resigned to his fate and gulped down the rest of his coffee. He'd forgotten to return the cup, he realized. Oh, well, it's not like it was the first time.

Greg stuffed the cup in his pocket but looked up again when he suddenly heard Sherlock groan. A shadow had fallen over the tall man's face, both literally and figuratively.

"Why are you still here, Mycroft?" Sherlock almost spat his brother's name. Greg stiffened inwardly and slowly turned to where Mycroft Holmes had suddenly materialised out of thin air.

"Why, to offer you a lift, dear brother." Mycroft fixed Sherlock with a superior glare. "Naturally, I anticipated such childish antics as displayed earlier. Instead of going to the hospital like any sound person would, of course you had to act difficult and had to pressure Doctor Watson into treating you while he's injured himself. Typical selfish behaviour, Sherlock, and thus transparently obvious."

"He doesn't like hospitals, so what?" John obviously felt the need to defend his friend. "It's no big deal. We're both fine now."

"Yes, thank you, John, for treating my brother. I doubt that he's voiced his gratefulness to you, nor that he ever will. But I suppose you must be used to it by now."

"Well, yes, I am. And you're welcome." John shifted on his feet. "So, yeah. If you'd give us a lift home, that would be great, wouldn't it, Sherlock?"

"No."

Greg had watched the whole scene from the side lines, grateful to not be directly involved, and couldn't help but snort. Seriously, Sherlock was worse than any kid.

"Well, I'm not driving you home, Sherlock," Greg smirked. "So I think you'd better take him up on his offer."

"No."

John glared at him. "Sherlock!"

The Consulting Detective remained as stubborn as ever. He even pouted. "I'm not going with him." He threw a glare at his brother and Mycroft, Greg saw, stared right back. The silence lasted for two seconds, and then Mycroft huffed and looked away.

"Get in the car, Sherlock."

"Not with you."

"Fine," Mycroft sighed. "Have it your way."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed triumphantly. Mycroft closed his eyes, probably to hide an eyeroll. "I'll let you have the car. I will have another brought for myself."

Greg blinked surprised, and so did John. It seemed that they'd both not expected Mycroft to give in. And surely not in such a, frankly speaking, stupid way.

"You're both nuts, you know that, right?"

Greg got two frowning Holmes' faces in return. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Well, I'm off. You sort this out for yourselves."

"Come on, John," Sherlock took hold of John's sleeve and, without another glance at his brother, pulled the poor man away to where Mycroft's black car was waiting.

"Night, Greg," John threw over his shoulder. Sherlock added a pointed "Goodnight, Mycroft!" before he opened the back door and ushered John inside.

Greg watched the car drive off, still shaking his head. It was in moments like this, he realized, that he felt almost glad his two brothers lived far away. Not that he'd ever compare his own average family to the complex relationship the Holmes' seemed to have going on, but… well, yeah.

A movement by his side had Greg snap out of his thoughts. Mycroft had shifted his umbrella to hang from his left arm while he was trying to reach into the inside pocket of his coat. His hand came back out with his phone.

"You're gonna call another car?"

"Of course," Mycroft looked at him with one eyebrow raised questioningly.

"Like, seriously? You're gonna pull some poor bloke from his warm bed to come pick you up in the middle of the night?"

The look he got for that, very condescending and slightly amused, had Greg feel very stupid. As if he'd questioned something so ordinary and mundane as, don't know, the sun rising in the east or such. Which, come to think of it, he probably had. Chauffeurs and whatnot at his every beck and call, no matter what hour of the day… that was Mycroft's world, wasn't it?

Yeah. Still, Greg was sympathising with the poor driver that would have to come out here to the docks. In this weather no less. The wet ground had, thanks to the temperature rounding on zero, partly turned into a slippery slope. And even if the busy streets of the City shouldn't present the same problem… the driver would still have to get here.

Before he knew it, Greg had reached out and halted Mycroft's hand that held the phone. "Don't bother."

Mycroft looked at their joined hands, then into Greg's face. Both eyebrows were up now. Greg let go and shrugged.

"Come on, don't be daft. I'm here, your car's not, so… yeah. And before you say it, I know that you've got people who get paid for catering to your whims twenty-four seven. Still, let the poor bloke sleep and let's get out of here. I'll drive you."

"I wouldn't want to inconvenience you, Detective Inspector."

"You're not."

"You don't know where I live."

He was right, Greg realized. He'd been to Mycroft's office at Whitehall, and he knew about the Diogenes Club (John had complained, err, spoken of it more than once), but he had no idea where Mycroft lived. The man had to have a home somewhere, or, more likely, several. A vast County estate in Sussex perhaps, and probably a flat or two in one of the poshest areas London had to offer. Kensington seemed most likely.

He didn't want to just guess though, so he simply shrugged. "Well, how about you just tell me then? Would make things easier."

Mycroft seemed reluctant.

"Or is it a government secret?" Greg's eyes gleamed with mirth. He had no idea why he suddenly felt like it was a good idea to tease Mycroft, he just… it just felt right.

"I can assure you, it's not. However…"

Greg had had enough. "Oh, for God's sake, I'm starting to think you're an even harder piece of work than Sherlock. And that's saying something."

That seemed to do it. Mycroft pocketed his phone and conceded with a nod. "Very well. Lead the way, Detective Inspector."

They walked in silence to Greg's car and, once inside and buckled up, Greg turned his head. Mycroft seemed to feel out of place or, rather, he looked out of place among the knickknacks that cluttered the car. Greg turned off the music (he wasn't sure that Mycroft Holmes appreciated his choice of music anyway – not that it should matter to Greg what Mycroft thought). To fill the sudden silence, Greg voiced one of the things currently on his mind.

"You know, it's Greg by the way."

"Pardon?" Mycroft lifted his gaze from where it had lingered on Greg's hands on the wheel.

"You keep calling me Detective Inspector. That isn't my name, you know. It's Greg."

"Apologies, Detec… Greg." Mycroft looked as if he had a toothache. Greg snorted.

"Right, well, if it's such a strain, you could always call me Lestrade. Some people do."

"I am not some people."

"Yeah, you're sure as hell not."

Greg missed the frown Mycroft sent his way because he'd turned his attention to the road. He mastered the slippery dockside well enough and eventually pulled into more traffic. Instinctively, he drove in the general direction of Kensington. Mycroft would say if it was wrong, Greg hoped.

"This is not to be taken personally, but I don't particularly like the name Greg," Mycroft surprised him. "And neither, I should think, does my brother."

Greg shot him a quick glance. "Huh, you're right. Sherlock keeps conveniently forgetting it, calling me Graham or Gabe or anything but Greg really."

"I don't blame him," Mycroft looked down at his hands. "And I assure you, it is not forgetfulness. He is just…"

"He's doing it to rile me up, I know."

"I don't think that's the case. He is…" Mycroft paused. Greg saw him swallow and turn to look out the window before he quietly continued. "Sherlock appreciates… he values your friendship, Detective Inspector. More than you know. I think it is simply his way of dealing with another 'Greg' in his life."

Before Greg could ask what Mycroft meant (so there had been someone called Greg that both brothers had known and, apparently, had no good memory of), the latter cleared his throat and then continued briskly.

"If you would turn left at the end, please."

"Sure," Greg knew when to shut his mouth. This was obviously something very personal, and not very pleasant. So, he wouldn't pry. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know.

Greg drove down the street, turned left and continued to follow Mycroft's directions in silence. Eventually they reached the quiet streets of Kensington and Mycroft shifted in his seat.

"If you'd stop here, please."

Greg pulled over and turned towards Mycroft, not sure what to say. Only, he felt the need to say something. He didn't want this to end with the rather frosty air between them. But Mycroft beat him to it.

"Thank you, Detective Inspector." Without looking at Greg he opened the door and quickly got out, his umbrella in hand.

Greg stared after him. 'Damn it!' he cursed and jumped out of his seat. "Wait!"

Mycroft stopped walking but didn't turn around.

Greg blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. "You got a pub around here? Let me buy you a beer."

Inwardly he kicked himself. Could he have come up with something more far-fetched? Mycroft Holmes, in a pub, drinking beer? Greg shook his head. He couldn't even envision it.

Neither, it seemed, could Mycroft. The look on his face when he turned spoke volumes. It was nothing short of absolute and utter bafflement. As if he'd never heard the words 'pub' and 'beer' in his life. Greg assumed he could've just as well shouted 'Fuck the Queen!' in Chinese or something. Mycroft couldn't have looked more bewildered then. Perhaps even less so, come to think of it, since Mycroft probably spoke Chinese fluently.

"Sorry? A beer?" Mycroft seemed to have found his voice eventually. The toothache-face was back though, complete with a biting tenor in his voice that would've made Sherlock envious.

"Yeah, no," Greg scratched his neck in embarrassment. "I know. Forget I said anything. I didn't… well, it's just that…" He stopped to take a deep breath. Mycroft was still staring at him as if he'd grown a second head.

"Look," Greg finally sighed. "Back in the car, the whole Greg thing… which I don't wanna know about since it's obviously none of my business… Anyway, it was awkward. And it doesn't have to be. So, I just thought, I don't know, do what normal blokes do. You know, grab a pint and forget about it. I didn't think things through, obviously. Forgot who I was talking to and all."

Mycroft made two steps in Greg's direction. "I am certainly not a 'normal bloke'."

"No, you're right. You're the posh Mycroft Holmes, the British Government incarnate." Greg stuffed his hands in his pockets to stop them from fidgeting. He huffed and shook his head. "Told you, I didn't think it through. You probably don't go to a pub, like ever."

"I do not," Mycroft confirmed with both eyebrows raised.

"Or drink beer."

"Never."

"Right," Greg nodded. He took a step back, and another, wanting nothing more than to get out of here. What had he been thinking?

Mycroft tilted his head and eyed him rather curiously. Then he cleared his throat and gave his umbrella a casual swing.

"I do, however, like to enjoy a glass of well-chilled Château Latour every now and then. Which I… happen to have in my kitchen. Would you care to join me for a glass, Gregory?"

Greg's eyebrows shot up. Was Mycroft suggesting…? That almost sounded as if… But, well, that's not what Greg had had in mind when he'd suggested they'd have a drink. Or was it? He wasn't sure.

"I…"

Mycroft forestalled whatever he'd been about to say. "I understand, however, if you'd rather decline, and I will by no means be disappointed or irritated. After all, it is late, you have had a trying few days, and I can imagine that you long to change out of your drenched clothes. So…"

"You're right," Greg agreed. He was tired, and beat, and he was yearning for a hot shower and a cigarette. But above all else, he was suddenly very curious what it would be like. Mycroft's home… Mycroft in his home… drinking wine with Mycroft in his home…

"I see. Well, then." Mycroft ducked his head briefly.

"Yeah. Listen, I don't suppose your offer could be raised to, let's say, wine, a shower and some spare clothes?"

For a second, Mycroft's mouth opened and closed like a fish's. Then he smirked. "I do believe that could be arranged."

Greg grinned and held his car keys over his shoulder. The sound of the central locking system rang loudly through the night.

"Then count me in."