Chapter Six-

Lestrade decided that he would never make another decision for as long as he lived.

This day had been a disaster.

First, he had agreed to give his cell number to the man who had caused him more pain than anyone else.

And right after that he'd agreed to let him stay at his house until he could find a place to settle down.

Lestrade paced nervously, wiping the dust off of the many bookshelves, straightening the knickknacks and bobbles, and making sure that everything looked perfect. Lestrade certainly wouldn't want Mycroft thinking that he'd led himself go.

There was a knock on the door. Oh god. It was probably him.

His heart was racing, blood and adrenaline soaring through his veins. He thought he might black out. Dammit, he needed to stop caring so much! None of this mattered! He was letting an old friend sleep on his couch! That was it! It wasn't a big deal!

His heart lurched again as there was another knock. He opened the door, and none other than Mycroft Holmes stood in front of him. He stood staring for a moment. He hadn't had time earlier today to realize how well Mycroft really looked. Of course he was a little tired from the long plane trip, but besides that nothing had changed at all. He was exactly as he had remembered him.

He stared for too long. "Are you going to let me in?" Mycroft asked with a small smile.

Lestrade jumped back, opening the door. "Oh of course! Please, come in."

Mycroft was impressed. Everything was exactly how he remembered it. Nothing had changed. Not even the man that lived in the house. Lestrade was exactly how he had remembered him; tall, strong, handsome, perfect.

Mycroft began placing his things by the couch.

"Oh, don't do that," said Lestrade. "Take them to the bedroom. I'll sleep on the couch tonight."

Mycroft looked up at Lestrade. He opened his mouth to reply, but Greg interrupted him.

"Really, I mean it. You had a long flight today. You could use some real rest. I'll take the couch."

There was silence. Why was he being so kind to him?

Lestrade mentally kicked himself. He shouldn't be showing this man such kindness. He didn't want to. He wanted to hurt Mycroft the way Mycroft had hurt him. But he never could. Lestrade's heart was too big and kind and warm to ever fulfill the mean thoughts that his brain might conjure up. And maybe…. maybe he still did care for Mycroft after all.

"Are you sure?"

Lestrade nodded. "Yes. I'm certain." A teasing smile crept on his face, "Don't make me take your bags there myself."

Mycroft laid awake all night. The apartment was tiny, and he could hear Lestrade gently snoring from the living room. It should be soothing, he supposed. After all, hadn't this been what he'd wanted? He was back in Lestrade's life after all.

He sighed. It was four a.m. and he still hadn't been able to fall asleep.

He got up slowly, letting the blood rush down to his feet before getting out of bed. Maybe a drink of water would do him good.

He crept to the open kitchen, doing everything with exact precision. He could see the back of the couch from the smooth granite countertops, so Mycrfoct took extreme care not to make a sound to wake the sleeping Lestrade. He hadn't felt this nervous since… well, ever. And since he practically was the British Government that was saying a lot.

After successfully filling a cup with water without a peep, Mycroft stood as silently as a grave at the granite countertop, sipping the icy water and letting it flow smoothly down his throat.

Lestrade's apartment was very nice, and Mycroft had always secretly admired it. It was much homier than Mycroft's mansion had ever been. It was modern and by no means cheap or tacky, but still managed to retain a sense of home. The hardwood floors were dark and so shiny you could see your reflection in them. Artistic-looking bookshelves lined chic, pastel blue walls. The furniture was in shades of sleek grey that complicated the dark wood of the floors and bookshelves and almost mimicked the shades of blue that ran throughout the house. Little houseplants were here and there, and in the center of the living room was a long, thin, flat-screen television. Mycroft breathed everything in. The smells, the way things looked, and just the feel of the place felt like home.

Home….. So many people took that concept for granted, a concept Mycroft was so terrified that he would never understand. Mycroft had never felt home. He'd never felt accepted, he'd never felt like he'd belonged, he never felt loved.

Except for when he was with Lestrade.

He hadn't felt at home for half a decade.

So lost in his thoughts, he failed to notice that the couch had creaked and that a certain sleeping someone had woken from his slumber.

It wasn't until footsteps on the hardwood floors made Mycroft jump that he noticed the tall man standing beside him.

Greg stopped at the end of the countertop Mycroft was standing at. He looked over Mycroft for a long time.

It was a deadly silence, the kind that could kill anything that dared to breathe. If you had the balls to think, to speak, to move, the silence would zap you right where you stood, paralyzing you for eternity.

Mycroft felt like he was being physically strangled. His throat began to close up, and he shifted nervously. He tried to gulp down the water so that he could go into his room (he didn't want to take it with him and spill on the sheets) but the water was too cold.

He couldn't breathe with those icy brown eyes (yes, he realized the metaphor would have been more efficient with blue eyes) shooting metaphorical daggers at him. So he looked somewhere else, somewhere where the piercing eyes didn't feel so prominent.

Lestrade was in a tight blue shirt and loose grey sweatpants. Mycroft gulped when he realized that the sleepshirt was much tighter than a normal shirt should be…. He could see Lestrade's firmly chiseled muscles, his fit arms were exposed entirely, and as his eyes roamed over Lestrade's chest he realized that it must be very cold in the house because Lestrade's—

"Did you hear me, Myc?"

The said man jumped.

"No, I'm sorry—wh, what?" Mycroft's cheeks flushed madly, eyes darting up from where he'd just been staring.
"There's been something bothering me," said Lestrade, and he put his head down, avoiding eye contact with the man that stood before him. His hair showed, and Mycroft suppressed a smirk at the slight bed-head. Although, it didn't look particularly bad. Nothing ever looked bad on Lestrade…..

"I need to know, Myc." Lestrade looked back up, linking sad and curious eyes with Mycroft. Greg hadn't called him 'Myc' in years, and, for some reason, it made his heart flutter.

"Yes, Gregory?"

"I need to know why you left. The real reason."