CHAPTER TWO

A/N See Chapter One for warnings, etc., etc.

The sun shouldn't have been shining at Sherlock's funeral, thought Mycroft. The very heavens themselves should have been protesting the fact that he had had to bury his little brother.

It was a very poor turnout for a man who, until recently, had been a darling of the internet and the press, only Mycroft's influence had kept the vultures at bay. Their growing condemnation of Sherlock had sickened him to the core.

Mycroft hadn't known what to expect when he saw John Watson afterwards. He certainly hadn't expected the punch that had nearly floored him. Mycroft knew John blamed him, in part, for Sherlock's death and thought he had gotten off lightly.

Greg Lestrade had stepped in before it got any worse, bundling a now-weeping John into his car with a firm command to stay put before returning to Mycroft, who had only just stopped seeing stars.

Gently Greg touched where the punch had landed.

"That's going to be a right shiner," he said, grimacing. "I'd get a bag of frozen peas on that. Look, Mycroft. John was out of order. Do you want me to…"?

"I'm fine, Gregory. He's grieving. He needs someone to blame and God knows I've given him good cause."

Greg looked concerned. Without thinking he took both of Mycroft's hands in his, holding onto them for longer than was strictly necessary.

Mycroft could hardly bear it, first the touch on his brow and now this. He resisted the insane urge to throw himself at Greg Lestrade's feet.

"Go home, Mycroft. Take some aspirin or something. You've had a hell of a day and you're white as a sheet. I'm sure the country can run itself for a while."

That made Mycroft smile, just briefly. Greg had let go of his hands and stuck his own in his coat pockets.

"I'd better get him home. Are you sure you're going to be okay?"

"Yes, of course. I must ask you though, has there been any improvement?" He inclined his head towards Greg's car.

"Not really. He barely sleeps and when he does the nightmares are horrific. He barely eats and today was the first day I've seen him get dressed. It's just as well I'm still suspended, I don't think I could have coped with this as well as my job."

"I honestly don't have the words to thank you for what you're doing, Gregory." Greg shrugged, suddenly embarrassed.

"That's what friends do for each other, innit? See you."

Mycroft watched him drive away then his driver materialised at his side.

"Where to, sir?"

"Home, please. I need some aspirin."

Mycroft closed his front door behind him and went to the kitchen. After rummaging in the freezer, he went into his living room but he couldn't settle. He paced the floor, tea towel-wrapped ice cubes clamped to his throbbing eye as he gave himself a good talking-to.

Greg Lestrade disturbed him but in a way Mycroft had neither been looking for nor expected.

Mycroft admired his way of thinking, his strong moral code and his work ethic. Also, the man's kindness knew no bounds. That awful day in his office when Greg had broken down Mycroft realised the man had a heart big enough for the whole world.

He had been pleased when Greg had taken Sherlock under his wing in a quasi-paternal fashion as it had been the perfect excuse for Mycroft to increase the surveillance on him and he would not admit, even to himself, how much time he spent poring over the reports and watching the CCTV recordings.

Greg Lestrade was also extremely handsome but Mycroft had met some of the most beautiful men and women in the world and they had left him unmoved.

The deduction was laughably simple. Mycroft was infatuated. It had taken a while to work out as he had always believed himself to be above physical and emotional attachments and made no attempt to pursue any. Isaac Newton had died a virgin and no one had said very much about that, had they?

Mycroft knew he was as clever as Newton but fatally flawed when one glimpse of a certain tall, powerfully-built man in a cheap suit could set his heart pounding faster than any treadmill.

Sometimes Mycroft thought he could sense something between the two of them, a lingering glance, a shy unprovoked smile, a warmth between them more than would be expected given their actual relationship. Other times Mycroft thought he was fooling himself, mistaking kindness for something else, looking for a sop for his loneliness. He missed his brother more than ever now. Sherlock would have been amused and disgusted in equal measure if he'd know the thoughts going on in his big brother's head.

Mycroft gave up as his head was really starting to ache and went in search of some painkillers.

The next day he went back to work and had literally just sat down behind his desk when his mobile rang. He smiled when he saw "G.L." on the screen.

"Hello, Gregory."

"Hello," Honey poured over gravel. That's what Mycroft had likened Greg's voice to in one of his more fanciful moments. "I'm ringing to see how you are. How's the eye?"

Mycroft felt his spirits lift, this was typical of the man.

"Causing no amount of rumour and speculation throughout the building, Gregory." Greg laughed but it was true. Mycroft had woken up to a spectacularly black eye than morning and he was sure that only his position had stopped everyone from asking about it.

"It's fine. A little tender, granted, but I'll live."

"Good to hear. I know you're busy so I'll let you get on."

"Yes, I have to get ready for Brussels tonight." Part of that preparation had included asking Anthea how best to camouflage the damage. Her suggestion of a paper bag had earned her a withering glare.

"Lovely, all that beer and chocolate. And there's some incredible museums." Mycroft snorted.

"Not much chance of that, I'm afraid. I suspect it will be extremely dull."

"Safe trip, anyway. Let me know when you get back."

"Yes, of course. Goodbye, Gregory."

As he ended the call, Mycroft was smiling. The day looked better already.