You've got me, baby, are you mine?

by SunnyRea

Sherlock's return from the dead brings Greg and Mycroft back together after more than a year without seeing each other. Will the reunion be for better or worse, can they forgive and maybe start over? -Sequel to "Yours is the only ocean." Third and final in the trilogy-

6. Record

Greg and Mycroft sit on the small couch beside Mycroft's front windows. Mycroft sips a glass of wine while Greg has a beer. The grandfather clock – grandmother maybe, if those even exist – says the time is quarter till midnight. The New Year will be coming soon. Mycroft does not own a TV, so no watching celebrations in the center of London. Mycroft slides his hand absently along Greg's thigh as he takes another sip of his wine. Greg touches Mycroft's hand as he glances behind them out the window.

"Stop."

Greg turns back. "What?"

"Do I need to tell you how many times you have looked out that window in the past hour?"

He frowns. "You're the one who wanted to sit in the window."

"It is a couch."

"Right in front of the windows. A perfect shot."

"No one is attempting to shoot me or you."

Greg tilts his head. "You sure?"

Mycroft finally turns to look at him. "We cannot live every moment waiting for some supposed gun shot, Greg."

Greg grits his teeth. "We don't need to invite it either."

Mycroft pulls his hand away and puts his glass down on the windowsill behind him. Then he turns back to Greg. "I know you are worried; such a display as we all saw and nothing to follow but that is how this man works. He plays games. If he were to come for me, or you even, it would not be a shot through my window." Mycroft holds out his hand to the window. "Far too easy."

Greg sighs and sits back against the couch. He rubs a hand over his face then drops it again. "I don't like waiting."

"You may be waiting for nothing."

Greg glances at Mycroft. "You believe that?"

"No."

Greg huffs. "Well then?"

"Greg, he is dead. We know that but that message obviously means something. I cannot tell you everything I am doing to investigate it but I assure you I am."

Greg laughs once. "So no point in worrying about it, that what you're saying?"

"Oh, I worry constantly, Greg, but I always have something in process. There are levels." Mycroft turns and picks up his wine again. "We may as well enjoy the last day of the year together, yes?"

Greg takes a gulp of his beer. "All right, fine, you're right."

"Usually."

Greg tries to suppress a smile. "Bit of cheek, yeah?"

"I imagine you would be distressed should it disappear after how you've worked to cultivate it."

"I would."

"As would I."

Greg chuckles. "Okay." He takes another drink of his beer then puts it down on the floor. He stands up and walks away from the couch. "I have something for you."

"Oh?"

"Well," Greg says as he walks over one of Mycroft's cabinets against the wall. "Since Christmas was a bit interrupted I didn't get to give you your proper gift."

"Not just a horrible orange tie you mean?"

"And purple."

Mycroft makes an uncomfortable noise. "And purple."

Greg turns the old brass key in the lock and opens the cabinet. "Plus, you gave me your gift, which I love."

"You needed some nice shoes."

Greg only chuckles as he pulls a long flat box off the files stacked on the top shelf.

"Hmm. I had wondered why you 'needed' to know if that cabinet was classified."

Greg puts the box on the edge of the chair nearest to him. "Well, never can be too careful in your house and with your cabinets, Mycroft." Greg turns back around and closes the cabinet again. "Might have an assassin in one of these."

Mycroft sighs.

Greg turns the lock, turns around and picks up the box. "Actually more likely to find your security, Anthea I bet!"

"Anthea is not my personal assassin."

"Meaning you share her?"

Mycroft presses his lips together and Greg knows he is trying not to smile. Greg walks back across the room and sits down beside Mycroft again, avoiding his beer on the floor. He shifts back to allow space between them then holds out the box to Mycroft.

"Merry Christmas."

Mycroft holds the box, looks down at the purple ribbon wrapped around the width and made into a bow in the center, no wrapping paper. He taps his finger once on the box then rests it in his lap. He slides the ribbon carefully off one end and lets it fall to the floor. He lifts the top off of the box and puts it aside leaning against the wall. He opens the two flaps of tissue paper to reveal a light gray coat inside.

"You bought me a coat once, if you remember."

"I remember it is in a drawer upstairs," Mycroft says quietly.

Greg smiles. "I should take it out again."

Mycroft pulls the coat up and out of the box, the bottom still hitting the tissue paper. The coat is double breasted with black buttons; not long like Sherlock's trademark coat but long enough that it would hit Mycroft around his knees. Mycroft glances at Greg from around the edge of the coat.

"I thought you could use a change."

Mycroft looks back at the coat, rubs the wool fabric between his fingers then puts the coat back down in the box. He looks up at Greg again. "Thank you."

"Know it's not as grand as all your usual but I hope you like it."

"I do."

"Good." Greg grins. "You'll have to wear it constantly."

"I plan to." Mycroft picks up the box off of his lap and puts it on the floor near the box top. He slides closer and kisses Greg. "Thank you."

"You already said that."

"I felt a coat deserved more than once."

Greg chuckles and kisses Mycroft again. "Well, that's all right then."

"Good."

They lean back again and Greg's eyes tick to the windows, dark with street lights and not too many people, most probably in pubs or at parties.

"Greg…"

Greg looks back. "I know, I know. I can't help it."

"As I said before, we cannot live our lives waiting for a man to appear at the door and threaten bombs or death."

"Or at Sherlock's door?"

"At anyone's door." Mycroft clicks his teeth. "I work in such intelligence, Greg, and I know the multitude of threats which are present every day. I also know how to combat them."

Greg purses his lips. "So we're never safe?"

"Or we always are."

"Trying to sound positive?"

"Perhaps you rub off on me more than you think."

Greg laughs despite himself. "There's a joke in there."

Mycroft just smiles slowly.

Greg nod then leans down and picks up his beer glass. Mycroft picks up his wine and clicks it against Greg's glass.

"You know, this is our first New Year's together."

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. "It was also our first Christmas."

Greg nods. "Add a couple of firsts then. Not sure I'd chalk up the Christmas as perfect."

Mycroft's face shifts. "No."

"But New Year's is good," Greg says suddenly touching Mycroft's knee. "Quiet like you wanted." He taps one finger against his glass. "And this is good beer."

"I would never buy you subpar beer."

"Lucky me."

"Greg… I… I just…" Mycroft clears his throat. "I cannot tell you how much you… how…"

Greg reaches up and squeezes Mycroft's hand. "I know, Mycroft." Greg glances at the clock then back to Mycroft. "Looks like it's time for that count down."

"Must we actually count it? I always felt that seemed very…" Mycroft makes a displeased face. "Indoctrinated."

Greg huffs with a smile. "You really over analyze sometimes."

"Group chanting is –"

"Nu–uh, stop." Mycroft abruptly closes his mouth. Greg nods and squeezes Mycroft's fingers again. "We don't have to count though."

Greg glances at the clock, looks down at his watch and sees the second hand hit, eight, seven, six –

Mycroft touches Greg's cheek and kisses him on three.

–––––––––

Greg sits at the table in their big conference room with half the department also seated around it. He rubs one hand against his forehead while tapping his pen on the file in front of him.

"Nothing? How can there be nothing?"

"We tried to trace the signal but it was fed through a splitter." Gupta makes a fanning motion with her hands. "It bounces the originating signal out through dozens if not a hundred different satellites. It makes the source impossible to trace."

"Not to mention that even when we try to follow one specific lead," Cooper adds, "that signal is split as well. So every access line to the original source is diverted at least twice."

"How can that even be done?" Brooks asks. "Wouldn't you have to track every signal then?"

"Not exactly, it's a computer program," Cooper answers.

"But couldn't we trace that program somehow then?" Brooks waves a hand in the air. "Isn't there a marker or something?"

Gupta laughs once in a weary way. "Unfortunately, programs don't work like that."

"Why not?"

"Do you want me to explain computer theory to you?" Gupta smacks the table lightly. "Sorry, I didn't take the theory course."

"I'm just –"

"We get the point!" Matthews interrupts. "We can't trace the signal so what can we do?"

"Thank you. Matthews," Greg says and points to Avery with his pen. "Did we find anything in the clip itself? Any embedded information? Any background sound? Anything?"

Avery bites his lip. "No."

"No?"

"No."

Greg frowns. "Care to elaborate?"

"It's just a hacker clip," Gupta grumbles.

"Just how much time did you spend making those?" Cooper mutters back.

"I was not a hacker!"

"No?"

"Were you?"

"Back to point!" Matthews snaps.

"The clip isn't even video," Avery says. "It's an image with sound and graphics cut in. There is no background sounds to be recorded and the audio itself is distorted."

"So, the voice could be anyone." Greg drops his hand from his forehead. "No proving that any of it is really Moriarty."

"I could still try some voice recognition software, just in case?" Donovan offers.

"Who else would it be?" Banks asks. "Who would impersonate someone who is supposed to be dead?"

"I can give you a list of identity thefts," Brooks says.

"But like this, splattered across the telly?" Banks shrugs. "Why?"

"That is the question," Greg says with a sigh. He looks down at his file again, turns the pages past the reports about the broadcast signal, the BBC. "Have we heard anything about Moriarty's ashes?" Greg looks at Bell. "Thought we should have those by now."

Bell purses her lips. "Soon."

Greg raises both eyebrows. "That your term or the morgue's?"

"They said this week, don't have an exact day."

Greg sighs again and makes a note at the top of his page. "What about the crimes we know he was connected with? Matthews, you were looking into any contact he might –"

"Haven't we had enough of this?" Bell interrupts.

Every head at the table turns to her.

Greg puts his pen down. "Bell?"

"We're not getting anywhere. We know we're not. We're just hitting our heads against the wall!"

"We can't do nothing, Mari," Brooks says putting a hand on Bell's shoulder.

Bell shrugs her off. "Oh, enough! We don't even know enough to know of that stupid video was real or just a hoax. The man is dead!" Bell reaches over to Greg's file and pulls the death certificate out. "We know that!"

"We have to investigate," Matthews interrupts. "We are the police, Bell, or have you forgotten?"

Bell scoffs. "Throwing insults?"

"We don't know what it could mean, Bell," Banks says. "We have to try and find out. Just because it's hard –"

"She's not saying –" Cooper starts.

"I wasn't insulting her, I was –"

"She didn't say that either, Banks," Avery says quietly from Cooper's left.

Banks holds up both hands. "I'm not 'he said, she said–ing.'"

"The point is," Bell says again to regain attention, "we have no proof about where that video came from, what it could mean or whether it is even real! The man is dead!"

"Sherlock Holmes was dead too," Brooks says.

No one responds. Greg leans back slowly in his chair and crosses his arms. Everyone turns to look at him, Bell crossing her arms as well and Matthews shaking his head.

"I get your point Bell." Greg looks at her for a moment then turns back to the table at large. "We're not tabling this, not yet, but I know you all have other cases." Greg sits up again, closes the file in front of him and slides the stack near his elbow to center. "All right, Banks, you and Cooper need to work on your Jubilee line double homicide. Waiting on finger prints, right?"

"One is back as no match so far," Banks replies.

"Right, see if Parker can spare time if you need." He looks up at Brooks. "You have the murder in Regent's Park?"

"Have a working theory on that one; think it might an employment dispute." Greg raises his eyebrows at her. She taps one of pieces of paper on her pile. "Have to work some leads."

"Get Bradford to assist on that."

Brooks nods her assent.

"Right, as for the rest of you, I know you all have witness statements, CCTV footage and reports piling up on your desks which need attending to. So, on it." He knocks his knuckles on the table. "As for Moriarty and video fun, I'll be on it and no doubt will have Sherlock round to annoy us all." The coppers all smile or laugh quietly. "Dismissed."

Greg stands up as his staff files out of the room, Gupta and Brooks speak softly but animatedly as they go. Greg drops the Moriarty file on the top of his pile. He stares at the nondescript cover for a moment then picks up the stack and heads toward the door.

Fifteen minutes later, Greg walks into the morgue. At first everything seems quiet, the lights dim and the room sterile. Greg walks in further, hears quiet speaking and rounds the corner. Molly stands beside a body, chest open and some organ in a hanging scale – might be the heart? Greg walks toward her, Molly not turning to him until he is almost beside her. She starts slightly then sighs behind the mask over her face. She pulls off one latex glove then leans over to the laptop on the table behind her and clicks a key.

"Greg, hi," she says as she pulls her mask down with her ungloved hand.

"Hi." He looks down at the corpse on the table. "Autopsy?"

"No, just some fun."

Greg frowns. "What?"

"Oh, I was… I was joking."

"Right."

Molly clears her throat. "Yes, autopsy, though pretty clear cut strangling case." She pulls off her other glove and drops them into a biohazard bin near her feet. "So, what are you looking for?"

"No body right now, came to see you."

"Me?"

"Yeah, wanted to just check on you what with that Moriarty video before the New Year." Greg taps his fingers against his thigh then smiles. "I remembered you were seeing him before, well… before we knew who he really was and all."

"God…" Molly closes her mouth quickly and stares at him.

Greg almost looks behind him because of the way Molly stares. "What?"

"I just… I'm just surprised."

"Oh well, I know it was a while ago, your seeing him, but don't think he's the type to forget."

"Yes, that, I… just surprised you'd think of me."

Greg cocks his head. "You did help Sherlock fake his death."

"Sherlock's death, not mine."

"But you helped him and Sherlock's death is what Moriarty wanted; might come back to you as well."

Molly grips the edge of the metal table and looks away at the wall of drawers. "I hadn't thought of that."

"I'm not saying it will or that all that was even real. He is supposed to be dead after all."

"He has to be," Molly says, looking back at Greg. "Sherlock saw him shoot himself. How would he fake that?"

Greg shrugs once. "That's the question."

Molly chews the edge of her lip, eyes coasting back and forth as she looks down at the body in front of her. She nods twice then looks up again at Greg. "Well, I haven't had… I mean, nothing strange has happened to me." She cracks a smile. "Nothing stranger than the normal post mortems."

Greg smiles back. "No notes stuck inside a chest cavity saying 'did you miss me?'"

Molly laughs for real at that and shakes her head. "Happily, no."

Greg nods. "Well good. Be sure to bag it and send it up should you get one."

Molly smiles. "I will."

Greg clenches his fists once, glances at the scale hanging between them. The organ inside the scale is not a heart, looks like kidneys. He glances back to Molly, smiles then turns back toward the door.

"Greg?"

He turns around again. "Yeah?"

"Thank you for thinking of me." Molly waves a hand vaguely in the air. "I'm sure he'd never bother with me – if he were even really alive – but thank you for thinking about me all the same."

Greg smiles. "Of course, Molly."

–––––––––

Greg walks through the front door of the Diogenes, checking his mobile to make sure it is on silent as he does. He only gets five steps in before one of the employees – guards, maybe – stops him. Greg opens his mouth then closes it again. However, before he can attempt sign language the man motions past him down the hall in a clear 'follow me' gesture. They walk down the hall together, past two lounges and up a set of stairs Greg has not seen before. They stop at the second heavy–looking, dark wood door and the man unlocks it with an old fashioned gold key. Then he steps back. Greg turns to him and raises both eyebrows. The man stares for a moment then smiles just a little before turning away.

Greg twists the door knob and steps into the room. Greg closes the door behind him and sees a room similar to the privacy room he met Mycroft in before, a desk near one wall, three bookshelves full up and a small bar with glass tumblers against a wall with paintings of monarchs. The rest of the room has a number of leather chairs and couches with plush, feather pillows. Mycroft lies on one couch, head on two pillows, eyes closed, no suit jacket or waistcoat, tablet dark over his lap.

Greg chuckles to himself. "Sleeping beauty."

Greg walks over and sits on the edge of the couch, catching Mycroft's tablet as it starts to slip to the side. Mycroft breathes in audibly but does not open his eyes. Greg smiles and places the tablet to the side on a chair. He turns back to Mycroft, scoots up a little with a gentle nudge to Mycroft's knees. Mycroft breathes in again, his fingers clench slightly and Greg knows he's awake.

"Hi."

Mycroft opens his eyes and smiles. "Greg."

"Do you often fall asleep in public places?"

Mycroft circles two fingers in the air where they rest on his stomach. "Hardly public."

"Not your house either." Greg points at the door. "Could anyone just walk in?"

Mycroft sits up slightly against the pillows. "I left instructions for only three people allowed to disturb me."

"Anthea, Sherlock and me?"

"Sherlock was not one of them."

Greg snorts. "Oh right." He smiles. "Glad I made the cut."

Mycroft smiles back. "Would that I could have made it just a list of one."

Greg leans over, hand in Mycroft's hair, and kisses him. Mycroft kisses Greg back, slides his hand up along Greg's side under his suit jacket. Greg sighs, kisses Mycroft again and very seriously thinks about taking off Mycroft's trousers. Then Greg leans back, touches Mycroft's hand. Mycroft threads his fingers with Greg's then sits up on the couch. He holds his other hand out for his tablet.

"Haven't been here all night with work have you?" Greg says as he picks up the tablet and hands it to Mycroft.

"As always." Mycroft swipes his finger across the tablet. "Terror never sleeps."

"Feel like you've said that before."

"It remains true."

Greg purses his lips. "Still." Mycroft looks at him. "Should sleep at home. You have a bed there. I've seen it."

"You've slept in it."

"And more."

Mycroft grins. "I recall."

"I'd hope."

Mycroft chuckles and taps his fingers over the screen in some one handed amalgamation of typing. Greg watches him a moment then glances around the room, wondering where Mycroft's jacket might have gotten to. He looks back again, Mycroft still tapping.

"Have time for breakfast?" Greg asks.

"Hmm," Mycroft says absently.

Greg reaches over and suddenly takes the tablet out of Mycroft's hands. Mycroft opens his mouth to retort with obvious annoyance but Greg holds up a finger. "Breakfast? I would have made it for you if you'd been home."

"Greg..."

"Just trying to instill in you the idea of sleeping in a bed as opposed to a couch."

"It is not as if I do this often."

"Yet."

Mycroft gives Greg a withering look. "You should be well aware of how I value my comfort."

"I don't know, some of the chairs in your house..."

"Greg."

Greg hands the tablet back. "Couldn't hurt to have a break at the late hour of eight–fifteen AM to get yourself some breakfast with a charming officer of the law, could it?"

Mycroft lets the tablet fall flat against his thighs. He watches Greg for a moment then smiles in a fond way he rarely uses.

"What?"

"You would do this every morning, wouldn't you? Make breakfast, smile, bring your causal humor with the sun."

"What?"

"If it were every morning."

Greg cocks his head to the side. "If it were every morning waking up with you in the Diogenes?"

Mycroft chuckles in his polite way. "As I said, your casual humor."

"I have direct humor too, even serious humor."

Mycroft presses his lips together but he is still smiling. Then he knocks his knees into Greg's back. Greg scoots to the far side of the couch so Mycroft can move. Mycroft shifts forward and slides his legs off over the side so he sits parallel beside Greg now. He puts his tablet down on the couch and looks at Greg again. Then he stands up and crosses the room toward the far desk. Greg sees Mycroft's coat draped over the chair now as well as Mycroft's signature umbrella nearby. Mycroft picks up the jacket and slides his arms through, rubbing away nonexistent wrinkles.

"It would be," Greg says. Mycroft looks up at Greg. "Every morning." Greg threads his fingers together and rubs his thumbs over each other. "I do like to cook after all."

"Even simple breakfast?"

"I could make it complicated too."

Mycroft chuckles. "I am sure I would enjoy it."

Then Mycroft picks up his umbrella and walks back over to the couch in front of Greg. Greg flips the cover closed on Mycroft's tablet, picks it up then stands up in front of Mycroft. He holds out the tablet. Mycroft wraps his fingers around Greg's on the tablet and kisses him. "Thank you."

"Have time for some breakfast now?" Greg asks.

"As long as you join me."

"As long as it's somewhere we can talk."

"Certainly."

"And as long as you stop sleeping at your club."

Mycroft laughs for real this time, kisses Greg again. "As you wish, Greg."

–––––––––

Greg sits across the table from his parents, three plates in between them and a candle that would have been lit had it not burnt itself out already. Greg's father carefully spears one piece of chicken at a time with his fork, eating slowly like it is a project. Greg's mother eats her pasta in between words about Iceland and Prague and Australia – maybe, might have been Atlanta she said or Alaska, did they even go to the US? They were not on a cruise this time, just a trip and Greg has really given up trying to keep track.

Greg has never been entirely close with his parents. The pair spent most of Greg's childhood fighting with one another and attempting to pit the children against each other. Greg would never say that his parents were necessarily bad parents. They raised their children with plenty of food and schooling and clothes and roofs and holiday dinners and Christmas Trees and laughter; but they also fought and yelled, were petty and bitter and forgot that their children could hear and see everything they said. The result was the trio of children bonding in an 'us versus them' mentality while cultivating three extraordinary senses of humor. A psychiatrist might say they are avoiding issues or using coping mechanisms; Greg thinks they just saw their parents and learned how to do the opposite.

Luckily for Greg's parents, however, after their children were grown and gone they decided to finally see a psychiatrist and learned how to fall in love again. And travel. Their reconnect seemed to center around constant travel. Greg wonders where the hell all the money for it comes from. It is possible his parents have been drug lords the whole time. It really makes no sense, their whole blasted life actually, and Greg tries not to think too hard about it.

Still, as a result of fifty plus years of ups and down, Greg hardly knows what to say to his parents most of the time, so he just lets them talk.

"And that was Sydney. Now Greg." Greg looks up at his mother from his nearly empty plate at the sound of his name. "You must give in and tell me about this young man of yours."

"We're hardly young anymore, mum."

She and his father chuckle. "Certainly younger than us, Greg."

"I'd hope so."

"We still haven't met him."

"Yes."

Greg's mum purses her lips. "I hear something implied in that tone."

Greg clicks his teeth. "No."

"Yes."

"Mum, you two are out of country constantly, what do you expect?"

"Needn't be defensive, son," Greg's father says as he cuts another piece of his chicken.

Greg clears his throat and resists the glare he wants to give. "I'm not."

"Oh, Greg, come now, how long have you been seeing this man and we have yet to even put a face to a name, let alone an actual visit!" Greg's mum cocks her head and gives one of her disapproving 'mum' looks that Greg believes only mothers can really do. "Is a photo really so hard?"

"Told you before you're hard to keep track of, couldn't well send you one if I can't find you."

She waves a hand at him. "You have a mobile."

"What?"

"You have a mobile. Doesn't everyone have all their photos on their mobiles these days? You must too."

"I… well…"

"Unless he's not real," Greg's dad mutters.

Greg snorts and smiles. "He's real."

Greg's dad looks at him and raises both eyebrows so Greg thinks of David. "Really fit?"

Greg rubs one hand over his face and shakes his head. "Dad!"

His mother giggles. "Should have known he got that from you all along, Paul."

"My eyes are only for you, darling." Greg's father kisses his mother's cheek.

"Except when we were in Hawaii."

"Oh now, I don't believe I was alone in that."

Greg's mobile buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out while his parents practice teasing romance. It is a text from Mycroft:

[19:02] I trust your meal is progressing as expected?

Greg smiles and texts back.

[19:02] Counting down the minutes until it is over.

Mycroft [19:03] Their second wind romance cannot be more trying than any theater with my parents.

Greg snorts quietly.

[19:03] The last one was months ago. Not over it yet?

Mycroft [19:04] I will never be 'over' sitting through a production of "The Phantom of the Opera." I fear organ music has been forever ruined in my mind.

Greg chuckles. "Brat…"

[19:04] Worst son ever.

Mycroft [19:04] My name is not Sherlock.

Greg laughs at that and groans at the same time, the thought of Greg dating Sherlock popping into his head unbidden.

"Is that your Mycroft?"

Greg looks up in surprise to see both his parents looking at him. Crap.

"I…"

Greg's mum reaches across the table and grabs Greg's mobile out of his hands before he can properly react to her new found form of 'conversation.'

"Mum, stop."

"Hmm…" She slides her finger down the screen.

"Mum, privacy invasion."

She glances up from the screen and tsks. "Oh dear, there is no need to be rude."

Greg tries to snatch the phone back but his mother slides her chair away from the table. "Mum, you are meddling and I am fifty now, not –"

"Oh come now, Greg, age means nothing with one's children."

"Not true."

"Grace, it is his mobile."

She glances at Greg's father and smiles slowly. "Quite right."

She clicks the screen then puts the mobile up to her ear.

Greg frowns, half leaning over the table with his hand out. "Mum, please." She just smiles and the mobile rings. "Are you a teenager? Can I have my mobile?"

"No, you may not."

Then Greg hears a voice faintly over the phone and his mother smiles. "No, actually, this is his mother."

Greg curls his hand on the table into a fist then relaxes it again. He sits up and slides his empty plate to the side.

"Well, we have been talking about you in fact though Greg here seems to be trying to talk me around the table instead of just showing me your picture on his mobile," Greg's mother says.

Greg shakes his head. "That is not what's happening."

"Just let her go," Greg's father says as he spears his last bite of chicken.

Greg sighs and rubs his fingers over his eyes. "I hate you."

Greg's mother chuckles. "Then we will have to meet you instead."

Greg drops his hand and raises his eyebrows. His mother starts to smile more. She glances at Greg and the lines around her eyes crease.

"I don't think time is the point, is it?"

Greg frowns at her and really wishes he could hear both sides of the conversation.

His mother chuckles. "Oh my, that sounds like an excuse. I think I should like to meet your mother as well. I am sure we could compare notes."

Greg definitely hears Mycroft say, 'notes,' indignantly.

"Though would be better to meet you first I believe."

Greg looks at his father. He only wipes his mouth with his napkin then drops it onto his plate. He looks back at Greg then shrugs.

"Oh my, that sounds like you were attempting a guilt trip! Have a sister that taught you, did you?"

"Wait, what?" Greg holds out his hand. "Can you just give it to me?"

Greg's mother holds up a hand and ignores him. "I am sure that would be an interesting philosophical discussion but I think you are trying to distract me from my point."

"She sounds like Claire…" Greg mutters.

"Claire sounds like her, more like," Greg's dad counters.

"Well then?" Greg's mother says using her 'discipline time' tone. Then she smiles. "Yes. Good. Very good." Greg's mother taps her fingers on the table. "Of course." Then she pulls the mobile away from her ear and holds it out to Greg.

Greg frowns and slowly takes the phone from her, putting it up to his own ear. "Mycroft?"

"You mother reminds me greatly of David."

"He is her son."

"And it appears your mother has convinced me of the benefit of my meeting her and your father."

Greg glances at his mother who is grinning at him. "Yeah, gathered that." Greg shrugs and looks away, lowering his voice. "We did talk about it at Christmas."

"We talked about how we had not met each other's parents, not plans to do so."

Greg laughs quietly. "Splitting hairs?"

"You can take my parents to the theater then."

"Let's leave the date on all this meeting open, yeah?"

Mycroft chuckles. "Please."

Greg smiles at the word. "Please?"

"In all earnestness, please."

Greg chuckles quietly. "Call you later when I'm free."

Greg mother raises one eyebrow at him.

"Good bye, Greg," Mycroft says and Greg clicks the phone off.

He puts his mobile back safe in his trouser pocket. He then puts his hands on the table and threads his fingers together. He glances back and forth between his parents. "We need to discuss boundaries."

They both begin to laugh.

–––––––––

"Right, so Banks and Cooper are looking into those two." Greg hands two case files to Donovan sitting on the other side of his desk. "Matthews is working with Avery on the body from Peckham."

Donovan frowns. "That a good idea what with –"

"The inquiry is long gone and neither of them are holding any kind of grudge."

"You sure?"

Greg gives her a look. "Positive."

Donovan holds up her hands but does not press the matter. Greg hands her the case file with a post it note on the front. He picks up a case file which he knows belongs to Donovan and hands her that one as well.

"This one looks like Bell and Brooks." He flips it open for a moment. Couple murdered inside their flat; looked like a stabbing but not your standard knife. "Still running down suspects on that one." He puts the file to the side and finally gets to the thickest file with hardly anything in it; the Moriarty file.

"So?" Donovan asks.

Technically everyone is tasked to spend time on the Moriarty issue if they can; review the old cases with his involvement, review the court case, look into any old leads or leads on the video, run down any more technical aspects they can glean from the seemingly bare message.

"We need to scale it back."

Donovan raises her eyebrows. "Really?"

Greg shrugs. "Everything has been dead ends. More departments than ours are checking up on it. We can't waste any spare minutes on it when there are solvable cases which could use those minutes."

Donovan frowns. "We can't just let it go. He's the one who –"

"I know, Sally," Greg cuts her off. "But we are just hitting walls."

"Sir?"

The two of them turn to see Brooks in the door way. She holds up some papers. "Review of the jury members from the Moriarty trial. A few did report about the threats they received and almost all are asking questions about the new appearance. Are they safe, all that."

Greg sighs. "Right, of course. Don't suppose we have any of the video threats any of them got?"

Brooks shakes her head. "Not a one."

Greg turns and looks at Donovan. She clears her throat and nods. Greg turns back to Brooks and holds out his hand. "Thank you, Brooks."

She hands him the file. "About any of their questions?"

Greg grimaces. "Give them the line from the PR department and, no, we're not offering them protection. Their court case is done and our proof is near nonexistent."

"Going to be a fun day," Brooks says as she backs out of the door.

"Make some coffee," Donovan calls after her.

"And some tea," Brooks calls back to her as she walks down the hall.

Donovan turns back to Greg. "I hate that bloody video. Such a crock of shit. If I found out Sherlock did it or something…"

"Sally."

"You're right," she grumbles. "I just… I don't believe it. There is no way."

"Stranger things have happened, yeah?"

Donovan nods. "I'll give these case files out."

"Thanks." Greg taps the Moriarty case. "You and I are still on this. Everyone else can shelve it. I'll send around a memo but you can tell others if you like."

Donovan sighs. "Oh, great." Then she turns and walks out of his office.

Greg rubs a hand over his forehead, massaging in a circle. Sometimes he wonders what the point of the motion is. It never eases any headache he has. Greg drops his hand then picks up his mobile from beside his laptop. He clicks in and dials Sherlock.

"What is it this time?" Sherlock says after the third ring.

Greg rolls his eyes. "Calling about your Moriarty."

"Something new?"

"I was going to ask you that."

He hears Sherlock sigh. "No. Good bye."

"Sherlock, wait!"

Amazingly, Sherlock does not hang up. "Yes?"

"Sherlock, we could use your help here, all right? We are hitting dead ends left and right on this one."

"As to be expected."

Greg picks up a pen and squeezes it tightly in his hand. "Right, yeah, but you're just as good as him, Sherlock. You've got to have something!"

"If the message were in fact from Moriarty himself, which I highly doubt, anything which would come of it would be unlikely to involve your department until it was all completed." Sherlock knocks something in the background and Greg hopes it is not Sherlock any body parts again. "So you needn't worry about it, Lestrade. Leave such complicated matters to the professionals."

"I am the professionals, Sherlock!"

"As you use the term."

Greg sighs and clicks the end of the pen down on his desk, open, closed, open, closed. "Sherlock, you're not helping."

"Whatever the intentions of that video, they will become known and I will be there when it happens."

"Sherlock, there has to be a way to prepare, the risk –"

"Is not your concern."

"You sure about that?" Greg snaps and he means something else entirely than work.

Sherlock says nothing for a few seconds then Greg hears glass clink in the background. "Should there be a pertinent threat I become aware of, Lestrade, I will inform you with due diligence." Then he hangs up.

Greg pulls the mobile away from his ear and stares at for a moment. Then he puts his mobile back down on his desk. In terms of Sherlock, that might be the closest he will ever come to 'cooperation.'

–––––––––

Greg and Claire stand on one side of the table, Kate and John on the other. John hunches slightly holding his paddle in some sort of play stance. Beside him, Kate holds the table tennis ball in her hand ready to serve.

"Shouldn't we have a referee?" Claire says.

"Are you planning on cheating?" David calls from the table in the corner

Greg grins and glances at David while Kate and John both chuckles. Claire only shakes her head. "Count off then, John, and no early starts."

"Of course, mum."

"Should one of us count?" Greg hears Colin say.

"Don't get involved, safer that way," Jane answers him.

Greg considers a retort but then John says 'one, go' and Claire hits the ball down on to the table.

Claire makes a surprised noise and hits the ball back hard so it flies over the net and smacks straight into Kate's chest.

"Mum!" she cries.

"Bit rough, that," Greg says with only a touch of guilt.

"I think that still counts," Claire says, tapping her paddle in her hand. "All quite fair."

"You're not supposed to hit me!" Kate insists, gesturing to the ball rolling across the room toward the door that leads back into the hall and on to the living room of Claire's house.

"No worries, mum, we'll give you the handicap of a first point," John says instead.

"Oooo," David, Colin and Jane heckle.

This time Greg turns and gives all three of them a glare. "No audience interaction!"

David snorts. "You ruin all the fun, Greg; must be that copper training!"

Greg waves a hand at them then turns back around just in time for John to return to the table with the ball in hand. He holds it up then hits it down without counting off. Greg jumps back but makes the return hit over the net.

"Trying your talking tricks again?"

"You were the one talking to Uncle David," Kate counters as she hits the ball back.

"For all I know you paid them off." Greg hits the ball.

"With all the money I've got, right." Kate hits back.

Greg chuckles as Claire hits the ball this time, just catching it on the edge of her paddle. It soars far past the end of the table but John hits it in the air, sending it back toward Greg. Greg taps it lightly over the net in an attempt to throw them off. However, Kate is ready for him and knocks the ball back, just catching the edge of table so it is still legal but nowhere near enough for Greg to return.

Greg frowns as the ball bounces away. "Bugger."

Kate laughs and claps her hand against her paddle. "Fail!"

John laughs and taps his paddle against hers. Then Kate does a victory dance of a sort as she chases after the ball which rolled in their direction.

Greg and Claire look at each other. Claire sighs. "My children are charming."

"Just like their mum."

"Or their uncle."

"Yes, David can be an arse."

Claire grins and mock punches Greg in the shoulder. "Look who's so clever."

"Must be the company I'm keeping."

Claire smiles. "Hmm, maybe." Greg raises his eyebrows at her. She shifts her lips from side to side, pursed and comically contemplative. Then she smiles again, smaller and more real than before. She clicks her tongue and nods. "Oddly good company despite it all."

Greg smiles slowly. Then John and Kate clear their throats. Claire and Greg turn to them.

"We playing, mum?" Kate asks holding up the table tennis ball.

Claire smiles. "Would do to break the tie, yes?"

Kate rolls her eyes. "You're the one who said we should play." Kate mocks her mother's voice. "'Activity is good for you, you never play with the table tennis, why did we buy it if not to use it?'"

John laughs as do Colin and David in the far corner, clinking their beers together. Claire turns and points at the two men behind her. "At your own peril you laugh!"

"Uh oh!" Jane quips and Colin abruptly stops laughing.

David waves a finger at her. "You don't scare me, little sister."

"Not so little," Greg counters.

"Did you just call Claire fat?" David cries with a gasp at the end.

Greg and Claire sigh at the same time. Across from them, John and Kate groan together and say, "Can we play?"

"It still freaks me out when they do that," Greg mutters.

Claire snorts then says to the twins. "Your serve then."

John holds up the ball then serves it across into Greg's court. Greg returns to Kate's side straight across from him. She returns and she and Greg go back and forth a few times amiably. Then Kate hits the ball hard so it bounces over to Claire. She knocks it back toward John, nearly missing the side of the table. John dives for it and somehow hits it back to their side. It flies right in between Greg and Claire. Claire makes a go for it so she knocks into Greg also moving to return. Greg stumbles to the side but Claire gets caught around her own feet and abruptly falls hard.

Kate gasps high. "Mum!"

Claire groans on the floor and rubs her lower back. "I'm fine."

"Jeeze, mum, watch the feet," John says.

Claire glares up in John's direction, though the table mostly blocks any line of sight. Greg leans over and holds out his hand to her. "It was a graceful fall."

Claire grabs his hand and he pulls her up. She shakes her head, brushing a hand over her rear. She chuckles once and gives Greg a look. "The most graceful, I'm sure."

Behind Greg, Kate clears her throat. "Goal." Greg and Claire both glare at her. Kate shrugs and points at the ball near the wall. "You falling doesn't disqualify it."

"I hate my children," Claire says to Greg.

Greg smiles. "Only a little?"

"Did I say 'little'?"

Greg huffs quietly and smiles. He peers around at Claire's arse then looks at her again. Greg clears his throat carefully and does not laugh. "Going to need new trousers."

"What?" Claire cranes her head around trying to see the new rip in the back of her trousers. "Fuck, I love these!"

"Dad, mum said fuck!" John looks at Colin and points at Claire.

"Good for her," Colin says as he gestures at Claire and her ruined trousers.

Claire bites her lip then turns and walks toward the hall. "Time out!"

Colin stands up from the corner table and follows Claire, David and Jane whispering something to each other with smiles a bit too big.

As her parents leave the room, Kate walks around the table to stand next to Greg with her arms crossed. "This game is going nowhere fast."

Greg looks at her. "Can always just hit it back and forth if you like, free for all?"

Katie glances at him. "You looking to be crushed?"

Greg laughs. "Big talk."

"Can I ask you a question, Uncle Greg?" Kate says softer.

"Yeah?"

"Your boyfriend, is he… is he family now?" Greg looks at her and she looks down at the floor, rubbing her shoe into the unyielding wood. "I mean, he came to Christmas. You'd dated him before and now you are again." She looks up once more. "My mate Gloria says if you go in for the second time that means something."

Greg raises his eyebrows. "Something?"

"Something good."

Greg sees John around the other side of the table watching their conversation, quiet and listening. Greg clears his throat. "This Gloria have a lot of relationship experience to draw on, does she?"

"Well, she's eighteen."

"I see."

Kate cocks her head and shrugs. "So?"

Greg purses his lips. "Well, we're not married."

"He has to marry you to be family?" John asks with genuine confusion as he walks over to their side of the table.

Greg and Kate turn to John. Kate snorts and shakes her head. Greg smiles and swings his arms once. "No, you're right, John. Doesn't have to be."

"Unless you're planning to?"

Greg jerks his head around to the side. "Kate!"

She giggles. "Dunno, could make for a party, right?"

Greg sighs. "You're turning out a lot like your mum."

Kate smiles as she puts her paddle down on the table. "Thank you."

Kate flips her hair – it is so long now it is half way down her back and the fringe she had throughout childhood is gone – then loops her arm through her brother's and pulls him toward the door to the hall. They turn perfectly in sync to the right down the hall and out of eyeshot. Greg turns around and looks at David and Jane in the corner. Jane shrugs and drinks some of David's beer. David smiles at her then stands up and walks over to Greg still standing beside the table tennis table.

"Did our niece just ask you if you're going to marry Mycroft?"

Greg frowns. "No."

David grins widely. "Aw, you're adorable."

Greg tosses his paddle down on the table. "Sometimes I wonder why I visit all of you."

David tsks. "And miss all the rousing table tennis debacles?"

Greg huffs. "You're driving me to smoke again."

"So good you and Claire are on the quitting track! But I am still keeping the record at…" David mock checks his watch. "How many years is it now?"

Greg frowns. "I need to find somewhere new to hang out."

"But you get free beer when you visit."

Greg purses his lips and crosses his arms. "You make a compelling argument, Lestrade."

"Usually do, Lestrade."

"Oh god," Jane groans.

The men turn and look at her. She stands up, picking up David's beer. She leans over then picks up another unopened one from the sidebar. She walks over, hands David his beer then gives the other to Greg.

"You two be brotherly or something. We're having dinner in thirty minutes, all right?" She points at the hall. "Colin is very prompt."

"Yes, ma'am," David replies and kisses her.

She smiles then walks out the door and down the hall. David glances at Greg as he takes a drink of his beer. Greg frowns down at his beer then looks at David again. David sighs then roots around in his trouser pockets. He pulls out his keys, flips them around in his hand until he gets the bottle opener between his thumb and forefinger. Then he holds them out to Greg.

Greg smiles and takes them. "Cheers." Greg pops the top off his beer – the cap flying somewhere toward the window – then hands the keys and opener back to David.

"What would you do without me?"

"Go to the kitchen and get an opener."

David snorts and drinks his beer again. Greg clicks his bottle against David then takes a big gulp. He is not a huge fan of the brand but whatever.

"Everything all right on your end, what with Mycroft and that video and all? Seemed like a bit of an uproar before the new year, yeah?" David asks.

Greg sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "It is a big load of shite and I'd rather not talk about it."

David chuckles. "Oh, no problem. I was being polite."

Greg laughs and drops his hand. "Best brother."

"I know."

They stand for a moment in silence then David cocks his head. "So it seems Kate has some ideas about –"

Greg groans before David can finish his sentence. "Isn't the marriage pressure supposed to stop after a certain age... and divorce?"

David laughs. "There's no pressure, Greg. We're just glad to see you happy, really happy, not just being all work and no gay."

Greg laughs despite himself and drinks some of his beer. "All right. I got it."

"Though if you switch around and find yourself a lady instead I am still on board, as long as she makes you happy, despite no amusing rhyme."

Greg smirks. "Doing all right where I am so you can enjoy your rhyme."

David gives Greg a thumbs up. "What I like to hear." He smiles and swirls the liquid in his bottle around. "I'm glad you're happy, Greg."

"I feel like you've been telling me that a lot lately."

David gives Greg a look. "I have a soft spot for my siblings and you are my only brother."

"You're my only brother too."

"Uh oh, we're getting sentimental." David makes a put upon face. "I blame you."

Greg shrugs as he tips his beer up again. "I guess I'm the sweet one."

"By the way." Greg glances to David as he turns toward him. David smiles. "I'm going to wear a bow tie this time when you get married to Mycroft."

Greg half chokes mid drink of his beer. "David!"

David just laughs.

–––––––––

Greg climbs the stairs from the second floor up to the smaller third floor of Mycroft's house. The sun shines through a window behind him making him think of warmth even though the house is chill. Greg wants to pull the cuffs of his sweater down more but he has a cup of tea in each hand right now. He reaches the landing of the third floor and turns to the left, past the storage closet – more like a room really with the size of it – and into the next room. This room is filled into every corner with sun. The only shadow is Mycroft at his easel to the right beside the large double windows, floor to ceiling. Greg watches Mycroft for a moment, small table with two trays of paint and a glass of murky water beside him nearer the windows than the door where Greg stands. His sleeves are rolled up, no suit jacket or waistcoat or tie and while that might seem out of character for Mycroft, Greg knows there is no way Mycroft would risk getting paint on any of his suits. The old white shirt he wears may still button up the front more formally than some artists would likely prefer but it is Mycroft after all.

"Hi," Greg says. Mycroft's eyes shift away from his canvas to Greg in the door way. Greg holds up the cups slightly. "I brought you tea."

Mycroft smiles. He glances around him then points toward the table against the wall with a few paint boxes stacked and some paint brushes in a cup. "There should be a small folding table over there, I believe."

Greg walks over, puts the cups down on the large table then looks underneath it. There is indeed what looks like a TV tray leaning horizontally against the wall under the table. Greg pulls it out, picks up one cup of tea then walks back over to Mycroft. Mycroft puts down his paint brush on the lip of the easel and holds out his hand for the cup. Greg hands him the cup then opens the small table beside Mycroft. Mycroft puts the cup down on the table.

Greg gestures with his head toward the easel, angled away from him so he cannot see the front. "What are you painting?"

Mycroft looks back to the canvas and raises his eyebrows. "A poor imitation for memory, I think."

Greg frowns. "What?"

Mycroft looks at Greg again and smiles. "It has been a long time to recall as many details as I should wish."

Greg tilts his head then steps around behind Mycroft so he can see the canvas. The painting is only half done, background greens and yellows already applied but pencil lines over that for tree details, a building in front of it all and what is distinctly a gravel road leading up to it. The building isn't a building exactly; it is a house of stone, details in pencil, some painted in, but completely familiar.

"It's Italy," Greg says. "It's our house in Italy."

Mycroft chuckles quietly. "We do not own it."

"You know what I meant."

"And I know how enjoyable it would be should I own a house in Italy."

Greg laughs this time. "And leave dear old England? I think I remember you being against that idea."

"Certainly not permanently."

Greg gazes at the painting. He feels for a moment as if he smells the sunflowers and jasmine, hears Mycroft talking about Florence, sees the blue and white tiles in the enormous kitchen. "I love it," Greg whispers.

Mycroft huffs. "It is not done yet."

Greg looks down at him. "I know."

Mycroft looks up at him with a frown of confusion but Greg only smiles back. He touches the back of Mycroft's neck and kisses his forehead. Then he steps away back to the other table and picks up his own cup of tea. He blows across the top then takes a sip. Mycroft watches him for a moment. He glances down at his tea them back to Greg. Greg raises both eyebrows. Mycroft makes a 'hmm' noise then picks up his paint brush again.

As Mycroft turns back to the canvas, Greg crosses the room and sits down in one of the pair of worn arm chairs against the opposite wall. The position turns Mycroft into a picture, windows and sunlight behind him with Mycroft in profile at his canvas. It looks like an antique illustrated cover of The Strand or The New Yorker – old aristocracy with their classic pleasures and poise. Greg grins and sips his tea again, crossing his legs and leaning back into the cushions. He wraps both hands around the cup, fingers over lapping, and watches Mycroft as he picks up a different paint brush and makes short strokes with a pale green. Depending upon how Mycroft moves – leans forward, sits back, turns to the side, sits up straighter – the sun blocks his face into shadow or reveals it with a surprise of color. Greg thinks he could sit here and watch Mycroft all day.

"Are you planning to watch me all day?" Mycroft echoes Greg's thoughts.

"I might."

Mycroft glances at Greg. "Surely there are more productive ways to spend your Saturday off?"

"Does it bother you if I watch?"

"No."

"Then I'll not be 'productive.'"

Mycroft's lips form into a small smile as he twists one paint brush around in the glass of water. He taps the brush on the edge of the glass to remove excess water. Then he chooses another color from one palette. He glances at Greg again with his brush just above the canvas. Greg smiles, tea cup in front of his lips, and Mycroft smiles back at him.

Mycroft turns back to his canvas, brush moving carefully and Greg rests his tea cup on his thigh. He thinks, this could be every day.

–––––––––

Greg walks over Westminster Bridge closer to the North side. He came out on a call over on the south side, reports of someone with a gun, shots possibly fired and maybe even a body. Everything turned out to be very unsubstantiated by the time they arrived and interviewed about five people who were fuzzy on their facts; not to mention they found no body or signs of any gun shots. To be honest, despite the cold, Greg was glad to get out of the office for a bit even on a hoax. Sometimes he thinks he spends a bit too much time behind his desk. After the wrap up, Donovan and Bradford elected to take the car back to the office but Greg decided to walk.

"Don't want to be a fat copper?" Bradford joked as Donovan practically shoved him into the car.

Now, Greg attempts to weave through brave tourists and belligerent Londoners on his way back to the Met. He'll probably stop for coffee or tea on the way. The cold has already seeped into his bones as it is want to do. Still, it is good to be moving about.

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade?"

Greg halts suddenly just beside a lamp post on the bridge as a woman – dark black hair, some Indian decent in her background and a good deal shorter than he is – stops in front of him saying his name.

Greg frowns slightly and cocks his head. "Yes?"

"Of the Metropolitan Police?"

Greg nods. "That would be me. Do I know you?"

"No." She shakes her head just slightly. "We do have a mutual friend." She presses her lips together then clicks her tongue. "A few in fact."

Greg raises an eyebrow. "That right?" He waits for her to elaborate but she merely watches him steadily. "And you are?" Greg finally asks to fill the space.

"Sebeena Moran." She holds out her hand which Greg shakes – her grip is tighter than he expected. "And I am pleased to meet you in person."

"Right." Greg drops his hand again. "So... are you –"

"It is a funny thing, this bridge," Ms. Moran says suddenly and Greg's mouth clicks closed. "They call it Westminster Bridge, don't they?"

"Uh, yeah."

"I always found that odd." She holds up her hand as if to point behind her. "Yes, the abbey is there but Parliament, our dear Big Ben, is the corner stone of the scenery." She drops her hand down again. "I suppose that Westminster Abbey has been there longer but we do love to rename and rebrand in this day and age."

"Ms. Moran, did you want –"

"I wonder what it would turn into if someone should come around and rename it, turn it into Parliament Bridge which does seem more apt?" She makes a face which is probably supposed to show amusement but seems vaguely threatening instead. "That would be an interesting contest to present to the public." She shrugs just slightly. "But then again, that might mean the masses get the final say. Bad idea. My friend would say that all people are boring and they'd probably pick something like 'Government Bridge' or try to name it 'London Bridge' as if that's not taken already."

"Your friend?"

"He was fond of games." She smiles. "He was very good at them, though you were never a real player, were you, just a piece."

"I don't know what you mean."

She laughs once low. "No, you wouldn't. But it is not a piece I care about. It is a player, two players in fact."

Greg narrows his eyes. "Who's that?"

"The only two left playing." She tilts her head. "That they know of at least."

"Ms. Moran, would you care to stop talking in riddles and ask me what you want because I'm not standing on this bridge in the cold all day?"

Ms. Moran purses her lips just slightly and Greg cannot help but notice how still she stands, how imposing she seems for someone who only comes up to his chin. Then she laughs once. "No, you're right. Forgive me; it must be all the time I spent with him. The riddles do rub off." She steps just a bit closer to Greg and the space is no longer normal. "You don't play games and neither do I. Perhaps we can thank army training for that in my case?"

"You were in the army?"

"Odd to be trained by the army if I wasn't in it?"

Greg clicks his teeth together and does not rise to the bait. "Well, what do you want then? I'm ready to walk around you."

She chuckles as if that is the most ridiculous thing he could have said. "Oh certainly, D.I. Lestrade, you could."

"Then I will because you're obviously not getting to a point." Greg moves and steps to the side but suddenly she catches him by the crook of his arm.

"How many people do you think end up in the Thames every year and never come out again?"

Greg stares at her. "What?"

"That river has a history the rest of this city never knows, a muddy bottom holding secrets we never hear and maybe never should."

"Are you threat –"

"Why would I do that?" She lets go of his arm. "It would certainly not be safe to threaten an officer of the law." She laughs but it is not with humor. "Certainly a silly choice to make. But..." Her eyes tick to the railing beside them and the water below. "I would wonder just how many people would notice someone falling into that river right now." She makes a derisive noise. "What with all their cameras and mobiles busy pointed at parliament or The Eye, posting as quick as they can to their Facebook pages."

Greg takes another step around her, personal space regained. "Who are you? What do you want?"

She reaches into her pocket and Greg stiffens without exactly knowing why as she does so. When she pulls her hand out again, it holds a black business card. "I want to give you this." She holds it out between two fingers.

Greg stares for a moment then takes the card without looking at it, keeps his eyes on her. "All right. Is that it, Ms. Moran?"

She smiles slowly. "Call me Sabeena and yes, that's it." She puts her hand back into her pocket. "For now."

Then she turns on a heel and walks back toward the south bank over the bridge. Greg watches her until he can no longer see her past the cars and people. Greg taps the edge of the card against his other hand and chews the inside of his mouth. He cannot decide if she was crazy or not. He taps the card on his palm again then finally looks down at it. One side says, Sabeena Moran – Consultant, on it. He flips the card over and sees the white outline of a skull.

Suddenly someone grabs Greg's shoulder and spins him around. Greg nearly lashes out with a fist but stops just as quickly. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft breathes fast, staring at him with surprise and worry. "Greg!"

Greg frowns. "What?" He looks over Mycroft's shoulder then out to the side. "What is it?" He frowns. "What are you doing here?"

Mycroft grips Greg's shoulders tightly, looks over Greg's shoulder then back to Greg's face. "I... are you..." He looks down at Greg's hands and the business card between them. He suddenly snatches it out of Greg's hands.

"What..."

Mycroft stares at the card in his one hand, the other still holding fast to Greg's shoulder. He blinks, licks the edge of his lip and flips the card back and forth twice.

"Mycroft, what's going on?"

Mycroft looks around the card at Greg then abruptly puts the card in his jacket pocket. He puts his hand back on Greg's shoulder and breathes out slowly. Then his face changes – somehow calm and certain and focused – and his breath begins to even out.

"Are you okay, Mycroft?" Greg reaches out and touches Mycroft's face. "You look –"

"I am fine." Mycroft suddenly grins, so wide and so happy Greg has no idea what to say. "I am perfectly fine, Greg. You are fine and so am I."

"Mycroft, you sound a bit mad…"

Mycroft pulls Greg close and kisses him on the lips right in the middle of the sidewalk. "I am perfect, Greg."

"Something just happened, didn't it?" Greg tries to look over his shoulder. "Was it that..." But Mycroft touches Greg's face to turn him back.

"It is fine, Greg. It will all be fine. You are right here and so am I and everything is fine." He kisses Greg once more – hot and almost desperate. "Believe me."

Then Mycroft pulls back and turns them around to walk over the bridge toward Parliament. He does not let go of Greg's arm.

–––––––––

A week later Mycroft calls Greg at work at three–fifteen.

"Greg, my dear."

Greg frowns and stares up at the windows of his office, half expecting to see Mycroft standing there. "Hi, Mycroft. Everything okay? You called just me dear."

"Perfectly fine, Greg, I simply wanted to tell you…"

Greg waits as Mycroft pauses, silence stretching on. Greg frowns and cocks his head to the side as if it will help him hear better. Finally he shrugs even though Mycroft cannot see him. "What, Mycroft?"

"I wanted to tell you, Moriarty's men, his… well, what was left of his organization… it will no longer be a problem."

"What?"

"I am afraid I cannot tell you more than that, Greg, but believe me, it is well taken care of."

Though he always believed it – the mysterious changing offices, the lack of title, the phone calls, the government at his back and all those dark cars that could appear at any time – this time when Mycroft speaks Greg feels for just a moment as if he can see the full expanse of Mycroft's power hiding in the shadows.

"Good," Greg says quietly.

"Good bye, Greg, I will see you later."

Greg hangs up the phone, limp in his hand. He knows he will never know exactly what happened – what Mycroft may have done – and this time, this one time, he is glad he does not know.

–––––––––

Greg sits at the end of a number of small tables pushed together to make one long table in a corner of a pub not terribly far from the Met. Greg leans back against the wall, pint glass in one hand and the other rubbing a circle on his temple as his coppers have three different conversations in front of him. At the far end of the table, Donovan is debating bank robbing methods with Avery and Cooper sitting on the booth side across from her.

"The computer system is the entry point," Cooper insists. "Security is always the first issue and if the system can be breached –"

"But that is what everyone thinks of," Donovan counters. "That is why the systems are so increasingly complex and protected."

"Every system can be hacked, look at the Walters brothers!"

Avery leans forward and speaks louder. "But the low tech option –"

"I'm not saying low tech," Donovan says waving her hand. "I am saying why break in at all? The entry point should be finding a way to have the bankers let you walk right in."

Cooper scoffs. "Oh come on, this is not a heist movie with the guy in the suit posing as someone else while confederates are positioned around roofs."

"Which is why the good old guns and 'get down on the floor' actually produces better results if you can get out fast," Avery insists.

"Straight bollocks," Cooper snaps, taking a big drink of her ale, then points at Donovan. "And you're off your rocker."

"Hacking doesn't last forever, there are counter measures."

"Which can also be hacked!"

Next down the line of the table, Banks and Bradford on one side with Bell and Matthews on the other keep going back and forth about crime scene procedure which is almost enough to make Greg get up and leave.

"Protecting the integrity of the scene –"

"No one is debating that, Manchester." Banks taps his glass on the table. "The point is how do you preserve integrity in the elements? How often is it raining and when you –"

"Come on, we're past that, everyone has an umbrella." Bell waves her pint glass hand. "It's the crime scene photographers that always get me. You want to protect the scene then photograph it but –"

"While comprising evidence?" Matthews scoffs. "What good is the picture then?"

"SOCO are the most important link. Without them all we've got is constables mucking about –"

"Hey!" Banks and Bradford cry together at Bell.

"First year constables, feel better?"

"I do," Banks says while Bradford rolls his eyes. "And no one says that the SOCO are anything less than essential."

"I could do their job," Matthews mutters.

"Oh, shut it," Banks says at the same time Bradford groans, "give over, Manchester."

"I'm not a city!" Matthews snaps making Bell snort and laugh.

Though Greg wants to tape all their mouths shut for talking about work when they are supposed to be enjoying the pub but Greg likes hearing Bell laugh again. Lastly, and right next to him, is a conversation about… to be honest, Greg is not one hundred percent sure what the whole point of the conversation is.

Peters shrugs. "I'm just saying, chocolate is not all it's cracked up to be."

"You're mad." Brooks nudges Gupta. "Dark or no?"

"Oh, always dark chocolate."

Parker makes a derisive noise. Gupta shoots him a look. "What, milk chocolate for you?"

"White chocolate."

Brooks and Gupta gasp.

"Heathen!" Gupta holds her glass up in front of her face. "I cannot look upon you."

"It's just chocolate!" Peters says with a groan. "Can we talk about peanut butter instead? That I can go on about."

"Clark, what have they done to you in organized crime?" Gupta knocks her glass onto the table. "Should have never let you go." She turns to Greg. "What is wrong with you?"

Greg starts slightly at being pulled into the conversation he was mostly staying out of. "What?"

"They've turned him into a peanut butter loving whore!"

"Who said whore?" Peter cries indignantly, his voice pitching higher.

"You let him be taken by…" Gupta whispers. "Organized crime."

"I hope the mob pays better," Brooks says into her glass.

Parker laughs again and eats some nuts from the bowl in the middle of the table.

Peters frowns at Brooks and cocks his head at Gupta. "Chocolate is not worth it. I'll have pie instead thanks."

"They make chocolate pie."

Greg crosses his arms, pint glass resting on his arm. "Why are you lot talking about pie?"

"We're talking about chocolate," Gupta corrects, holding up one finger.

Brooks and Peters sigh heavily, though Brooks just ends up laughing. Parker makes a face and glances down the table at the other two conversations. Then he points. "Are they talking about bank robberies and crime scene officers?"

"Are they?" Brooks says, turning to look.

Gupta frowns. "Together?"

"Yes," Greg answers Parker.

"Why would they do that?" Gupta asks.

"Not together," Greg says to her.

"Then who are they talking to?" Peters asks.

Greg bites the edge of his lip and narrows his eyes at them. "You're all doing that on purpose, aren't you?"

Gupta smiles slowly while Brooks gives Gupta an incredulous look. Parker just shakes his head. Peters beside him has a nostalgic look on his face. Greg humphs, drinks some of his beer then puts the glass down on the table. He taps it twice significantly making most of the table turn to look at him.

"But that system was broken when –"

"Cooper!" Bell snaps.

"What!" She turns her head in annoyance to Bell beside her. Bell points at Greg. Cooper looks around, notices the rest of the table quiet then smiles sheepishly. "Oh, right, yeah." She clears her throat. "Listening."

"Thanks." Greg smiles and waves a hand absently. "Just real quick, know it's just a good night out for everyone but wanted to give a proper welcome and thanks for being part of the department to Parker." Greg picks up his beer and holds it up toward Parker. "Noah, happy to have you with us and glad to have you as a permanent member of homicide."

Banks and Bradford snicker behind their hands. Matthews shoots them a glare.

Greg smiles and holds his glass up a little higher so everyone else around the long table holds up their glass or bottle as well. "Welcome Sergeant Noah Parker, we know you'll do well." Greg clears his throat. "As you already have been."

"Here, here," Brooks, Bell, and Avery say.

"Cheers," Matthews says and everyone assents, clinking glasses around the table.

Parker smiles, looks only a touch embarrassed and says 'thank you' to every person who clinks his glass. He taps his glass with Greg's glass and looks more appreciative than Greg would have expected. If he thinks about it, Greg supposes their team can be somewhat difficult to break into. They are more like a tight knit family.

"Miss us?" Gupta says to Peters.

Peters shrugs. "Parker can fill the hole I left."

Gupta snorts. "Long time coming, yeah?"

"And not a replacement," Greg gives Peters a look, "of course."

Peters smiles. "Of course."

"Notice you didn't answer me," Gupta says then grins. "You do miss us."

"Oh, leave him alone, Parni," Brooks shushes and waves a hand. "Organized crime made him a sergeant! Why should he miss us?"

"Do I have to call you Sergeant Peters now?" Donovan asks from down the table.

"Yes!" Peters calls back.

"Not doing it," Banks and Bradford say together.

Avery laughs and has to put down his glass to keep from spilling. Peter leans over the table and gives them the finger.

"Sergeants don't behave like that," Donovan chides.

Matthews raises his eyebrows at Donovan. "Really?"

Donovan's mouth drops open as Bell and Avery both cry 'ooohhhh.'

Greg sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "And this is Scotland Yard."

Peters and Gupta look at him, both cracking a smile.

Brooks grins and holds up her glass to Greg. "You love us and wouldn't want any others."

Greg laughs once and glances around the table; Matthew is wagging his finger at Donovan while she waves a hand at him. Banks and Bradford sit shoulder to shoulder laughing into their glasses. Cooper whispers in Bell's ear and gestures at the table at large. At the end of the table, Avery pulls out his mobile, looking like to record Donovan and Matthews' blossoming row. Parker says something across the table, under the fight, to Bell and Avery which makes them both grin. Then Greg looks back at Brooks and Gupta who are staring back at him.

Greg smiles. "No, I wouldn't; you're all the best coppers I could have."

–––––––––

"I still can't believe we know when your birthday is now!" Claire crows, almost bouncing around Mycroft – not that Claire bounces, of course.

"I could be lying," Mycroft mutters.

"You're not," David and Claire say together.

Mycroft only sighs. Greg shakes his head and pours more wine into Mycroft's glass. "Here, drink the problems away."

"Isn't that our job?" David says pointing between himself and Claire.

"You get a day off," Greg says as he walks with the wine bottle back into the kitchen. He emerges again a moment later with a glass of ale in his hand. "Plus, I think with three Lestrades, Mycroft deserves point on that."

David snorts and Claire grins slowly as she walks aimlessly around the living room. She looks at Mycroft on the couch and shrugs. "Oh, I think he can handle it."

Mycroft raises one eyebrow at her. She mimics him until he scowls.

"You done?" Greg asks. Mycroft and Claire turn to Greg with rather different expressions that somehow both say 'yes.' "Right… Everyone done with cake?" Greg gestures to the plates on the table beside David.

David turns to look behind him at the cake that is left. He bites the edge of his lip, shakes his head from side to side in contemplation then looks at Greg. "Done."

"Please, remove it before I have more," Mycroft mutters.

"I think you're allowed," Claire says.

"I'd rather not."

"Don't start," Greg says as he picks up the dirty plates.

"I can be on a diet if I choose," Mycroft counters.

"You don't need to be."

Mycroft shakes his head and sips some of his wine. Greg purses his lips then turns and walks toward the kitchen. He puts all the plates and forks into the sink, runs the water over them for a moment then shuts it off again. He turns around to see David waiting with the remains of the cake in his hands. He grins like a ten year old who is so very good at helping.

Greg snorts and takes the plate from David. "Thanks."

Greg puts the plate on the counter then pulls out the cake box top from a cabinet and puts it over the whole thing.

David cocks his head and nods. "Great idea that invention."

"Wasn't mine." Greg shrugs. "Probably Mycroft's."

David chuckles and turns with Greg as they walk out of the kitchen again. In the living room Claire waits with some wrapped presents in her hands. Mycroft looks vaguely uncomfortable.

"Present time!" Claire says brightly.

"I am turning forty–nine, not four," Mycroft says tetchily.

"Never too old for presents, Mycroft," she counters.

"Wasn't it recently that you still did not care for me?"

Claire shrugs. "Maybe."

"I miss it."

Greg tries not to smile while David outright laughs. David walks back over and sits in the chair beside Claire. He pulls one present out of the four in her pile. "Well, you can't claim they're all from you, Claire."

"I never said they were."

David takes two more from her and holds them out for Greg. Greg takes the presents then sits beside Mycroft on the couch. He hands one to Mycroft. "This is your tacky present."

"Joy." Mycroft rips the paper quickly and find a pair of black socks with Big Ben and the flag on them. He raises one eyebrow and looks at Greg again. "Thank you."

Greg grins stupidly. "You're welcome."

"Ew," Claire says quietly. Then she leans forward and holds out her present so Mycroft can reach it. "Mine is a lot less sickening."

Mycroft takes the present form her. "I should hope."

Mycroft unwraps the present with less disdain and abandon than he did with Greg's, likely because the present is shaped very much like a book. He puts the wrapping aside and turns over the book. It is a hardback copy of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy by John le Carré. Mycroft smiles and looks up at Claire again. "Thank you. You may be surprised to know I have not read it."

Claire fists her hand and makes a 'score' motion. David rolls his eyes.

"Well?" Greg says pointing at David's present.

David shakes his head. "Uh uh, mine goes last."

"Why?"

"Oh you'll see when he opens it."

Greg and Mycroft glance at each other quickly. Then Greg hands his other present over to Mycroft. Mycroft turns it over twice in his hands then looks at Greg sharply.

"Really?"

"You only have the one and I'm pretty sure you use it just for work."

"Only for non–classified or immediate action items."

"And all those identity covers to make us think you're not a master spy or something without a name working in the government?"

Mycroft sighs. "As you say."

"I thought this could be a personal one, what with you in the back of cars all the time." He waves a hand at the still unwrapped present. "Plus, it's small enough to fit in your inside coat pocket. I checked."

Mycroft purses his lips but it is combined with a smile. "Thank you."

"What is it?" Claire says with exasperation. "Unwrap it!"

"I think I know," David says tapping one finger on his lips.

Mycroft rips the wrapping paper revealing a box with a Samsung tablet image on the front. David and Claire say 'oh' at the same time with dawning comprehension. Mycroft puts the box down on the coffee table and folds the wrapping paper into a square beside it. He smiles at Greg again, touches Greg's hair briefly then looks at David.

"You're all going to kicking yourself you didn't pick something as amazing as this." David holds up the present for display then hands it to Mycroft.

Mycroft clears his throat and eyes the present warily. He holds it for a moment then gives David an odd look. David smiles and leans back in his chair. Mycroft pulls at the wrapping paper at the tapped seams the puts it on the arm of the couch. In his hands is a black picture frame with a photo inside. Greg leans over and sees it is a photo of him, younger, twenty or so when his hair was dark and curly and he dressed like he probably owned a motorcycle. In this photo he stands with his hands in his pockets – just blue sky and grass behind him and Greg cannot pinpoint when or where it was taken – wearing tight jeans and a similarly tight white cotton long sleeved shirt. In the photo he looks at someone just to the right of the camera as he leans forward slightly, laughing. Greg huffs but smiles despite himself. Mycroft looks up at David and looks uncharacteristically surprised.

David smiles slowly. "Don't say I never did anything for you."

Greg looks at David. "Where'd you find that? Back corner of a closet at mum and dad's?"

"I cannot reveal my secrets."

"So yes?" Claire answers.

"Thank you," Mycroft says and his voice makes all three of them turn. Mycroft smiles, wide and pleased. "Thank you very much. It is perfect."

Greg bites the edge of his lip and is pretty sure he does not blush. David makes a whooping noise and points at Claire. She sighs and waves a hand at him. He laughs haughtily back. The two of them begin to make faces at each other, very reminiscent of nineteen seventy–five in the Lestrade house.

Beside him, Mycroft looks down at the photo again then up at Greg. "I never did imagine you with curly hair in your youth."

Greg taps the edge of the frame. "Guess you won't need to imagine now."

Mycroft reaches over, runs his hand through Greg's hair and just smiles.

–––––––––

Greg checks the time on the oven, less than ten minutes until the pot pie is done. Greg turns on the light in the oven and crouches down to take a look. It has been a while since he has made a pot pie and the crust can sometimes be tricky.

"I am sure it will be fine, Greg."

Greg looks over his shoulder at Mycroft who is looking at his arse. "What, and spoil your view?"

Mycroft's eyes shift up just enough and he smirks. "Well…"

Greg stands up and shuts off the oven light. He pulls out a trivet from a drawer and sticks it on the counter next to the stove in preparation.

"Come on," Mycroft says as he steps out of the kitchen doorway. "Mustn't stand in here and hover."

"Watched pot?"

"It is an oven."

Greg gives him a look but follows Mycroft out of the kitchen and back into his living room. Mycroft sits down on Greg's couch and picks up the copy of Dr. No sitting on the coffee table.

He holds it up to Greg. "You cannot still be reading this?"

"Well, I shelved it for a while. I think I was angry at the guy that gave it to me." Mycroft presses his lips together tightly as Greg sits down. Greg kisses him hard so Mycroft relaxes again. He leans back and smiles. "But I think I got over that and, yeah, did finally finish it."

"Only took you a few years."

Greg laughs. "To be fair, I did already know the ending."

"The film not a far deviation?"

"Nope." Greg takes the book out of Mycroft's hand. "Did finish it though. Felt like I should." He turns back to Mycroft. "It being a gift and all."

"A long time ago."

"Years."

Mycroft smiles a little. "I should buy you more books. I am realizing now I haven't since that one."

Greg shrugs. "Don't have much time for reading."

Mycroft huffs. "It is only because one does not attempt to make time."

"Well, I work for the police." He tilts his head. "And says the man who runs the government. Sure you have all the time for reading."

"I do not run the government, Greg." Greg gives him a look which Mycroft pretends to ignore. "And, I will have you I know, which I believe you already should, I make time for reading on a regular basis."

"Does the newspaper count?"

"One must be up to date on current events."

"Because no one gives you reports on all of it before it's in the newspaper, yeah? Anthea must be slacking."

"She would be amused to hear you say such."

Greg laughs and kisses Mycroft next to his eye. Mycroft turns his head and kisses Greg on the lips, soft and with a hand tracing Greg's jaw. Greg breathes in Mycroft then leans back.

"Got something for you, might amuse you instead of Anthea."

Mycroft just raises his eyebrows. Greg stands up and walks back into his bed room. He pulls a box off the shelf from his wardrobe, tape gone now leaving layers of paper ripped away from the cardboard. He opens the box and pulls out the one object remaining in it. Greg drops the box on his bed then walks back into the living room. He sits down beside Mycroft and hands him the tie.

"Ah."

"Bet you'd forgotten about this one," Greg says.

"No, I knew where it was."

Greg frowns. "Really?"

Mycroft tilts his head. "Well, at the time I thought it trite to squabble over a tie."

"Uh huh."

Mycroft purses his lips and looks away. "There may have been sentiment involved as well."

Greg smiles. "Something of yours still with me?"

Mycroft clears his throat quietly. "Yes." Then he looks back to Greg.

"Well, I can hang on to it, if you'd like. You really don't leave enough clothes here, you know."

Mycroft opens his mouth then closes it again. He gives Greg a strange look then he nods. "Why not? It is always beneficial to have an extra tie in reserve."

Greg laughs. "That is just something you would say."

Mycroft frowns. "Would you not agree?"

"Well, I don't wear ties quite as often as you do so I can do without."

"Shame." Mycroft runs his fingertips along Greg's neck. "I recall a rather fine tie pin I gave you that sees little use."

"Pouting about it?"

Mycroft pulls his hand back and humphs. "Certainly not. You are permitted formal wear, even if I must purchase it all for you."

"Well, you have better taste I think."

"Likely."

Greg chuckles. "Prat."

Mycroft frowns but Greg kisses him again to stop him. Mycroft sighs but Greg kisses him once more until Mycroft smiles and gives in.

"And you throw disparaging names at me."

"Oh?" Greg kisses Mycroft again, slides his hand under Mycroft's suit jacket. "Something you'd like to call me?"

"Distracting," Mycroft says as he kisses Greg back.

"From what?" Greg pulls at the knot of Mycroft's tie. "You're not doing anything."

"I did not say," Mycroft slides his hand around Greg's neck, pulling him closer. "It was I…" He slides a hand up Greg's thigh, "who was being distracted."

"Oh?" Greg kisses down Mycroft's jaw and to his neck. "I'm distracting myself?"

Mycroft slides his one hand down Greg's inner thigh and scratches his nails against the skin of Greg's neck. "I do hope no one else is here."

"Me too." Greg moves back up to Mycroft's lips, tongue and presses harder. "Good thing I'm not busy." Greg leans up into Mycroft's hand so he gasps.

"Well…" Mycroft strokes his hand up and down the front of Greg's trousers slowly. "You were recently…" Mycroft makes a quiet, choked off noise when Greg bites his neck, "finishing dinner."

Greg stops and notices the smell of burning. "Shite." Mycroft chuckles and unbuttons Greg's trousers. Greg yanks Mycroft's tie off abruptly so Mycroft starts slightly in surprise. "I should get that, shouldn't I?"

Mycroft pulls at Greg's zipper. "I suppose."

Greg groans. "Now who's distracting?"

Mycroft smiles as he slides his hand into Greg's trousers. "I have always been a quick study."

Greg breathes in deeply and forces himself to stand up before he cannot, giving Mycroft a very frustrated look. Mycroft only grins triumphantly as Greg stumbles toward the kitchen. Greg hears the timer beeping now, angry and insistent. Greg grabs a pair of oven mitts, opens the oven and pulls out the pot pie. He sticks it onto the waiting trivet, not quite so burned as it could be but certainly in the oven several minutes longer than Greg would have liked.

"I hate you," Greg mutters toward the oven.

"Hardly your oven's fault," Mycroft says as his hands settle on Greg's hips from behind him.

"More like yours."

"One should not point fingers, Greg. Certainly when they are over fifty."

Greg turns around in Mycroft's hands. "You've got a year left and then you can join me."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "I have no fear or internalized dismay at the approach of fifty. It is merely another year."

"Uh huh."

Mycroft frowns. "Believe as you will."

"I'll throw you another party."

Mycroft sighs so Greg kisses him. Mycroft tries to keep his huff up but Greg wraps his arms around him. Greg touches the back of Mycroft's neck, kisses him again, then kisses his nose so Mycroft starts laughing. Greg holds him tighter, knocks them back against the counter so Greg hears the dish slide. Mycroft kisses him and his hands move and Greg says softly, "I love you."

Mycroft stops moving and leans back just enough that Greg can see his face. Mycroft stares for a beat until he smiles wide and surprised and confused and elated and possibly like he might cry.

"Mycroft?"

"Greg..."

Greg smiles back. "You okay?"

"Yes."

"I just told you I love you, Mycroft, not that the world's about to end."

"I…" Mycroft laughs once in a quiet, unusually shy way. "I know …" He smiles again. "I love you too."

Greg kisses Mycroft and feels like he has flown years back, back when Mycroft first sent him a card, when they first had dinner, when they first kissed, first had sex, first went to parties together, gave presents, met family, stood in the rain, then did it all again and Greg wants every bit repeated, an endless happy loop. He kisses Mycroft, smiles, holds him close and it is just like before, like every first time, like when they were first happy, because they are happy right now.

–––––––––

Greg rushes into Mycroft's house using the key he sometimes still cannot believe he has. He shuts the door behind him, throwing off his coat and suit jacket before heading toward the stairs.

"Greg?"

Greg stops at the foot of the stairs to see Mycroft exiting the kitchen down the hall. "Hi, sorry." He waves a hand down at his stained shirt. "Spilled about a full cup of coffee on myself. Thought I could grab a new shirt."

"You do have some here."

"Sorry, need to hurry, supposedly running a meeting in twenty minutes."

Mycroft pulls his pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket and raises his eyebrows. "Indeed, you should hurry."

Greg flashes another smile at Mycroft then bounds up the stairs. He discards his stained shirt as he walks into Mycroft's bedroom, tossing it somewhere on the floor. He pulls a clean white shirt off a hanger in the one side of wardrobe and pulls it over his shoulders. He looks up into the mirror on the one door of the wardrobe as he buttons.

"Much better, Lestrade." He tucks the shirt in quickly and rubs his hands down the front. "Not a total mess."

Greg smiles at his reflection then heads out of the room and back downstairs. Mycroft waits for him at the bottom of the stairs beside the railing.

"Hi." Greg points at the shirt. "All clean again."

"Perfect."

Greg kisses Mycroft quickly then moves past him to retrieve his suit jacket and coat. He picks up the suit jacket and pulls it on, turning around toward Mycroft again as he does.

"Greg," Mycroft starts. Greg looks up at him as he fixes his shirt collar. "You usually wake up at seven each morning."

"Yeah."

"Would it bother you terribly to wake up at six?"

Greg frowns. "I don't know, might depend on when I go to bed. Do seem to need less sleep the older I get. Isn't that when you wake up?"

"Yes. And would you be interested in more regularly observing proper tea time?"

Greg laughs as he buttons his suit jacket. "What, like in the afternoon?"

"Yes."

"Could be trouble with my job, you know. The nine to five does mostly keep me from nine to whenever I'm able to get off. Minus when we get lunch, of course."

"Hmm. Still, you might enjoy it on occasion."

Greg picks up his coat. "Sure. I get coffee with you sometimes why not tea time too?"

Mycroft smiles. "Do you prefer one pillow or two? I notice you tend to change."

"Sometimes my neck hurts and sometimes it doesn't. You can move pillows."

"Point." Mycroft takes a step forward. "Your couch, are you particularly fond of it?"

Greg huffs. "Uh… I don't know; it's just a couch."

"Ah, good. And kitchen wise, I would think you prefer mine if only due to size and the amount of amenities. My stove is quite good."

Greg puts his coat down again then puts his hands on his hips. "Yes, I like your kitchen fine. Mycroft, why are you asking me all this?"

"I have something I would wish you ask you."

"I think you just asked me plenty."

Mycroft gives him a look then takes another step forward, close enough to touch Greg now. "I wished to ask you… I wanted to know if…" Mycroft clears his throat and readjusts his smile. "Greg, would you be interested in living with me?"

Greg's smile shifts. "What?"

"Would you be interested in moving in with me," Mycroft holds out an arm to the side to indicate his house, "here?"

Greg's mouth drops open slightly and he stares at Mycroft.

"Greg?"

"I…"

"You needn't decide now if you wish to think about it. I simply wanted to ask. I thought…" He tilts his head slightly. "I thought it could be time."

Greg looks past Mycroft – down the hall, at the walls, into the kitchen, the stairs beside him, the living room behind him, the bedroom upstairs, the second sitting room with the fine glass tumblers and fireplace, both bathrooms, the attic with its sun and paint – and he breathes out slowly. "Me move in here?"

"Yes."

Greg purses his lips. "Can I get rid of that weird suit of armor you've got upstairs?"

Mycroft huffs quietly but he is smiling. "Yes."

"Can I bring my TV?"

"Yes."

"Will you let David and Claire visit?"

"Yes."

"Will you watch football with me every now and then?"

"Yes," Mycroft laughs, "if you wish, yes." He grips one of Greg's hands. "Greg, will you move in with me?"

Greg grins and looks away at the wall, at the stairs behind Mycroft and he cannot help remembering Mycroft lying beneath him on those stairs.

Then Mycroft says, "Please?"

Greg turns back and squeezes Mycroft's hand in his. "Yes. I'd love to, Mycroft."

"Yes?"

"Might make it a bit less formal around here."

Mycroft shakes his head. "I do not mind."

"Then all right." Greg grins as Mycroft pulls him closer. "Yes, I'll live with you." He breathes out quietly. "As long as you want me."

Mycroft kisses Greg happily, fingers sliding into Greg's hair. "I do, please."

Greg wraps his arms around Mycroft – imagines every day together in this house, in their house – and kisses Mycroft back. "Yes, definitely, yes, please."

THE END

---

Author Note: Thank you everyone who has read through this whole long and winding series. It has been a joy to write and certainly bittersweet to finish! I appreciate everyone who read and commented and enjoyed.