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Mycroft Holmes was not a man who made rash decisions. Every time he was faced with a problem he would carefully consider both sides of the situation, before coming to a well-rounded and perfectly reasonable conclusion. Nevertheless, he felt that there was something decidedly reckless about this decision. His heart pounded inside his chest, and for perhaps the first time in his life, Mycroft realised what everyone meant when they said they had butterflies in their tummy.
He approached the door to the house, noting the peeling paint, and knocked three times on the slowly splintering wood. The door opened to reveal Greg Lestrade standing in the doorway wearing dark blue jeans, a plain white shirt and a few days’ worth of stubble.
“Mycroft,” he said, startled.
“Hello, Greg.” Mycroft allowed him a brief smile.
“Sherlock’s umm, upstairs right now. I’m not entirely sure what he’s doing but…” Lestrade trailed off at Mycroft waving a hand dismissively.
“I’m not here to see my brother,” he replied.
“Oh. Umm.” A faint blush crept up Lestrade’s neck and onto his cheeks. “No one else knows, Mycroft. That’s the thing. It’s not that I’m not happy to see you or anything, because I am. I mean, I really, really am. But…”
“Sitting in the same room with you will be more than satisfactory.” With that, Mycroft brushed past Lestrade, his fingers lingering on his arm for a moment, and then entered the living room.
Lestrade rubbed his temples slowly then shut the front door. Two Holmes’ in one house could be a problem.
*
Sherlock and John eventually dragged themselves out of bed at about half past eleven in the morning. Sherlock froze in the doorway to the living room the second he saw his brother.
“Mycroft,” he said, his expression stony. “To what do we owe this dubious pleasure?”
Mycroft looked up at the younger man and placed his almost empty mug of tea on the coffee table in front of him. “Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock, I am not, in fact, spying on you. I’m merely paying you all a visit.”
“’Us all’ being myself, John and Lestrade, given that you’ve never actually spoken to any of the other police officers here. Convenient that they’re all out, isn’t it?” He focused his sharp gaze on Lestrade.
“Completely coincidental, brother,” Mycroft said, an alarming smile causing the corners of his mouth to quirk upwards.
“Nothing is coincidental with you, Mycroft.” He sat down on the armchair, and tried to conceal the wince he made at the familiar twinge of pain. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing.
“How is the case going?” Mycroft asked politely, addressing his question to Lestrade.
“Oh, yeah, fine. It’s going fine. Should be able to go home soon.”
Sherlock snorted as John sat down beside him on the sofa.
“What?” John asked.
“Get to your point, Mycroft. I’m sure Lestrade looks great lying in your ridiculously oversized bed, doesn’t he?”
Lestrade spluttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “How the hell did you…” before he realised that this was Sherlock he was talking to.
John was looking between Sherlock, Mycroft and Lestrade, an expression of absolute shock on his face.
Sherlock glanced at his watch. “By my calculations, you’ve got about forty-five minutes until the rest of the team get back. Well, forty-four minutes now.”
Mycroft and Lestrade both stood up and left the room, hands joined, Lestrade looking significantly more uncomfortable than the other.
“So…” John said after a while.
“I’d really rather not think about the sex lives of Mycroft and Lestrade separately, let alone together,” replied Sherlock.
John barely managed to supress a giggle. “As long as they’re happy, that’s all the matters, right?”
“Ugh,” Sherlock groaned. “How dull. Mind you, if they stay together, family reunions will be a barrel of laughs.”
At that remark, John lost it, and they were both soon breathless from hysterical laughter.