The black sedan was waiting for him. It was late, and Greg really didn't feel like cleaning up after Sherlock. But he'd lost that fight months ago, so he climbed in.
"Hello then," Greg said. "What's the occasion?"
Mycroft stiffened, if that was even possible. "No occasion," he said carefully.
Greg shrugged. "Used to taking orders secondhand, is all," he said. "Where is, um…"
"Night off." Mycroft looked pointedly at Greg. "For all of us."
The car glided forward into snow-hushed streets. Greg's confusion faded as he stared out the window, spellbound.
"This," Mycroft said softly. "This is the reason."
