When Greg woke with faint memory of curling next to a beautifully warmed-up and ruffled body of one Mycroft Holmes and a more distinct fear caused by the absence of said body lying next to him now, it must have been about ten already.

With a grunt, he stood up and after three or four steps realised that he was walking the exact opposite way than the bathroom was, and that it was caused by him not being in his house but in a overly large house Mycroft inhabited.

As soon as he managed to relieve himself and cleaned his face, Greg continued downstairs to find out if he was indeed left alone in a big house. He wasn´t.

There were few sights Greg ever saw that were so beautiful he wanted them to stay there forever to be taken out and relived whenever a particularly gruesome triple murder done by a blond curled and angel faced child happened. This was one of them.

Because the French door from the dining room was open and soft breeze came through as a beautiful day was starting. Because through this he could see a table set on the garden, with two simple chairs, a huge pot of tea, basket with fresh bread and all things you could imagine to put on it; including cheese, ham, jam, vegetables and fruits.

To Greg´s right near the table sat Mycroft. His legs were stretched so far that for a while Greg wondered that the next time he has an opportunity he has to measure how long exactly are they, because it wasn´t possible that they were so nice. Said legs were covered by plain light-coloured trouser, but from beneath them, two bare feet touched the grass lazily in a lazy, out-of-mind fashion.

As for the part of Mycroft from the waist up, he had a dark blue polo-shirt on and seemed to be completely focused on a small volume sitting on his lap.

"What´re you reading?" asked Greg when he danced slowly to sit and have breakfast and noticed Mycroft´s eyes following the movement.

"Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse."

"German, is he?"

"Your powers of observation are astounding, Inspector."

"Detective Inspector, laddie," Lestrade grinned. "Is it fun? Is there a lot of action?"

"Yes, it´s fun, and no. But it is very interesting, even if it is lacking chases on the rooftops, shooting guns or a lot of running."

"Oh don´t say you don´t like legwork even if you just read about it?"

Mycroft grinned. "I´ve decided to not hear that. Now eat your bread, you have honey dripping all over you."

"Oh shit."

Mycroft just smiled pleasantly and watched as Greg started to lick the honey from the edges of his bread and when it didn´t help, he just stuffed the whole slice into his mouth and started to chew carefully.

"You´re disgusting."

"And you still love me."

Mycroft´s face came from mocking to honest in record time. "Yes, I do."

"John, I need you to talk to Lestrade." Sherlock was sipping his tea and breaking the toast he was given onto small pieces, letting breadcrumbs all over the couch.

"Sherlock! Stop it! Can´t you just eat your bloody toast like normal people."

"No. Now listen what I say," the younger Holmes sat properly and enunciated with too much care: "I need you to talk to Lestrade."

"I heard you the first time. Why don´t you just call him?"

"This has to be done face to face. And besides, it has to be done by you."

"All right, you have my attention. What do you want me to do?"

"Warn him."

"I need more information, Sherlock."

"He´s with Mycroft. In a relationship."

"You aren´t surprised, are you? Because I would say that someone with your powers of observation would have realised long ago from the looks in the hospital they were giving each other..." John noticed, that he must have picked Sherlock´s habit of talking quickly when explaining something painfully obvious, because he muttered those sentences in record speed.

"No, I am not. Neither am I appalled, or disgusted or whatever other ideas you might have."

"How do you feel, then?"

Sherlock took a while before carefully answering: "...good. I feel good. They both needed someone."

"I don´t see why I should talk to Lestrade, then."

"I need you to warn him, as I said. Give him the usual ´you hurt him, I hurt you' speech."

"You want me to warn him not to break Mycroft´s heart?"

"... Yes"

"You want me to warn him?"

"I said yes!"

"But it´s your job, Sherlock! Mycroft´s your brother."

"I can´t do it."

"Sherlock, you have no case," John warned.

"No, I cannot do it. I am... biased."

"How? Because Mycroft´s your brother? You realise that´s rather the point of this social norm?"

"No, because I am already on Lestrade´s side."

"I don´t get it. Could you just explain it so that mere humans would understand?" John sighed and sat to his favourite armchair, revelling in the familiarity.

"Mycroft was here yesterday. Asked me to protect Lestrade."

"From what? I thought Mycroft has people, bodyguards and such."

"Not physical harm. Emotional one."

"And who would hurt Lestrade emotionally, according to your brother?"

"He."

"I don´t follow."

Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh and leapt out of the sofa. "Mycroft has this idiotic notion that he is like our father. And he made me swear that if he ever... abused... Greg, I would take Lestrade´s side and get him out of the relationship no matter what."

"Why would... Abused? Why would Mycroft hurt..?"

"Oh do stop stuttering, John, it´s unbecoming." Sherlock snapped, but than threw an apologetic glance at him. "He´s so scared, John."

The doctor considered it for a while. "So... your father was... not good?"

"A bit not good, yeah," Sherlock chuckled mirthlessly. "Though I didn´t know much about it first hand. It mostly stopped when our step-mother started to live with us. And it doesn´t matter, not to me."

"But it matters to Mycroft, is that what you´re saying?"

"It´s not like he´s scared of beating Lestrade. If you think about it, I think Greg would have been able to break all of Mycroft´s bones if he all but raised his hand." Another not-so-much chuckle. "But there was something that terrified Mycroft about mother – our mother, real one –and she died giving birth to me, so this is really just... guesses."

"I thought you didn´t guess," John tried to lighten the mood.

"Oh, not about real stuff. But this is... emotions... it´s messy. Long story short, I think that when Mycroft was little, father used to beat both him and our mother, and she still wasn´t able to leave. She could have, she should have – she was by no means stupid or anything, but somehow father managed to have such control over her that the thought never occurred in her brain."

"So, Mycroft worries about Lestrade becoming dependent on him? As in being unhappy in a relationship and being unable to leave?"

"I think so, yes."

"Oh, Sherlock. Why didn´t you tell me?"

"Well, you are clever enough to realise that Mycroft – that we both- have trouble not being emotionally distant. And it´s not something you tell every potential flatmate. And by the time you were solving crimes with me... I just didn´t want you to... worry. I´m fine. And Mycroft will be fine, if he manages not to screw up things with Lestrade."

"Does Lestrade know?"

"About this, you mean?"

"Yes. You said you know him for a very long time."

"He certainly knows now, most likely far more that we will ever know."

"You think Mycroft told him?"

"Yes. Either in a desperate attempt to drive him away, or while being gallant and giving him all the information needed to decide whether or not it was worth it to date Mycroft. But I think Lestrade knows."

"OK. I´ll do it. Warn Greg, I mean. Not that it´s really necessary, if your suppositions are true. But I will warn him."

"Good."

"I´m gonna get milk. Get rid of the crumbs while I´m gone, it might attract mice and they would destroy your experiments."

"Poor attempt, John. I´m not a child."

"Just do it," ordered John, checked his pockets for keys and money and added, as an afterthought in the doorframe: "Remind me to talk to Mycroft too. I don´t think I apologised enough for how I used to behave towards him."

"It´s not necessary. He doesn´t hold a grudge."

"Still."