Author's Note: Sorry this chap is shorter, been busy, and still a bit unsure about how these boys are proceeding. Reviews and comments, please. It only gets better that way.
"MYCROFT!"
The loud bellow preceded the bounding footsteps of the detective inspector, echoing off the concrete and thundering through the warehouse.
"WHERE ARE YOU, YOU BASTARD?"
Mycroft began to step forward when Lestrade rounded the corner and spotted him. Greg's face was drawn up in anger, his whole body tense and near to shaking. He was beautifully fearsome and a tiny shiver rolled up Mycroft's spine as Lestrade approached. Mycroft swallowed, time suddenly slowing as Greg neared, his eyes unable to look away. Lestrade marched forward, a general on the attack, determination written across his face, radiating from him in waves. Pinpricks of excitement danced across Mycroft's skin as he stared, because the DI was definitely something to stare at. Broad shoulders concealed beneath a cheap twill blazer, a rock-hard torso that was defined by the shift of a crisp, pale blue oxford with each step, and trousers that seemed to shine a spotlight onto thighs that made Mycroft's breath catch in his throat. Good God, I've awakened a beast.
Lestrade shook the papers in Mycroft's face and then threw them to the ground. The rage was barely controlled.
"What the fuck is this?" he spat. "You're spying on my ex? On me?" He ran a hand back through the short salt and pepper strands, coming back to jab a long, pointy finger into Mycroft's face. "You'd better start explaining. And it better be fucking good, or I will pound you into the concrete right here, government official or not."
"There's no need for violence," Mycroft sniffed, holding himself straight. An angry Lestrade seemed infinitely larger than a happy one, a notice that set Mycroft's breathing on edge. More noticing shed light on fascinating things, such as the rapid rise and fall of Greg's chest, the twitch of long, lovely fingers clenched at his side, the hard set of a jaw he was certain could cut glass, a jaw which he wanted to drag his tongue across. Stop this now. He's rightly pissed and all you can do is stand around looking surprised while imagining your tongue all over his body. All over? Sweet Christ.
"Then tell me what in the bloody hell is going on! I didn't even know she was planning on doing this!" A slow burn started behind Lestrade's eyes. "I can't believe she's doing this! She can't do this!" he yelled, throwing his arms in the air, forcing Mycroft to take a step back.
"Calm down," Mycroft snapped. "I understand you're angry—"
"Angry? Angry? This is beyond ang—You? Understand?" Greg scoffed. "How could you possibly understand? These are my children, Mycroft. You're interfering and she's trying to take them away from me! This doesn't concern you!"
"And I told you it would not happen," he shot back. Not going well, Mycroft. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, letting the calm wash over his face as he considered his next words carefully. "I realize I have crossed a line here, Greg." He paused. "And I am sorry. You are correct; it's not my place. But, I can help you. I want…to help you." He suddenly wished he had his umbrella, needing something to do with his hands, other than offer them to Greg in supplication. The umbrella was a grounding tool, able to keep him focused and in control. Not to mention its Bondesque duality as a weapon. There were perks to being the British government, after all.
"By spying on me? Is that how you government types get your jollies? Watching people? Playing with their lives?" Lestrade's eyes iced over. "I want no part of that, do you understand? No part." His shoulders relaxed, but he still glared. "And even though I hate the bitch with every passing breath, I won't have you watching her, either. Or my children."
"Point taken." Mycroft shifted nervously on his feet. He wasn't used to taking orders, but the look in Greg's eyes told him this was something the detective inspector would not concede, and if pressed, he would fight back.
"Good," Lestrade murmured. "Now call off your watchdogs."
"You have my word, Gr—"
"Do it." Lestrade's voice was sharp as steel and just as deadly. "Now."
Mycroft slipped his mobile from his jacket pocket and sent a quick text. "Done."
The cold faded from Greg's face and he let out a deep sigh. "Thank you."
He tucked the mobile away and managed a small smile, pleased to see that Greg's face remained placid. Crisis averted. "I shall remember in the future your dislike of intrusion."
"Like kidnapping me and whisking me away to dilapidated warehouses in the south of London? That kind of intrusion?"
"In my defense, this warehouse only looks dilapidated," Mycroft smiled lightly.
"Right," Lestrade sniffed. "Now, why are we here?"
Mycroft's eyes hit the concrete and he shifted again. "I thought, possibly, er..that is, you might want to have dinner with me?"