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Chapter Text

Greg Lestrade didn't bother glancing up as the posh black car pulled to a stop just in front of him. He'd been awake for nearly three days, chasing murderers and drug addicted geniuses, he was damp through from rain, and he just wanted to go home.

"Detective Inspector." 

A woman in an expensive coat and heels had gotten out of the car, and was tapping away on her phone. "Could you get in the car please." She looked like an extremely competent PA, but also like she could kill him without blinking. 

Greg looked at her for a minute, then at the car with its door open,  then around the dark, rain drenched street. Every CCTV camera was focused on him. Greg snorted at the unsubtle display of power. Anyone with the ability to hack all the security cameras in an area, all on their separate systems, was in an unbelievably different league to him. He was just a homicide detective. On no sleep. 

He sighed, and got into the car. Maybe he could nap on the way. Maybe whoever was orchestrating this would kill him so he wouldn't have to work out how to explain or hide in the paperwork the fact that a homeless drug addict had solved his case. Again. 

He woke up as the car pulled to a stop. He probably should have been counting turns or something, but honestly it was probably pointless. His time should have been better spent catching up some sleep, but really he just felt worse for it.

"We're here." The girl with the phone said, not looking up and making no move to leave the car. 

Greg hid an amused sigh. He didn't usually get reckless when tired, but then he didn't usually go this long without sleep either. He opened the door and stepped out. 

He was in a warehouse. The strip lighting on the ceiling casting a pool of light on a tableau at the other side of the space. A desk, two chairs, and a man in an expensive suit leaning on an umbrella. Christ, the dramatics. 

The chair looked comfy, was the main thought that slid its way through his too tired brain. He focused on it, walking his way across the empty space, shoes nearly silent on the concrete floor, before sliding into it. Yes, it was exceptionally comfortable. 

He studied the man, still standing, beyond the other side of the desk. Expensive suit. Umbrella. Thin. Too thin. Ginger. Studying Greg in turn with very intense eyes. 

Greg just blinked, too tired to be fussed by it, and turned his attention to the desk. It had some files on it. And a lamp. The lamp was not on. How could it be? There wouldn't be a socket in the middle of the warehouse floor. And running an extension lead would definitely ruin the drama of the setup. 

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." The man stated, stepping closer, umbrella tapping against the stone. His shoes were silent too. 

Greg blinked and looked up, trying to pull his thoughts away from the rabbit holes they'd been burrowing down. 

The man seemed to be waiting for something, but Greg honestly couldn't focus enough to work out what. The man sighed, an irritated little noise that Greg had already heard far too many times in the last three days. 

"What can you tell me about Sherlock Holmes?" 

"Oh, Christ." Greg muttered. He frowned at the desk. "I need caffeine for this, why isn't there tea? This whole kidnapping setup would be wildly improved by tea." Greg looked up at the other man with a scowl, only to be met with a raised eyebrow. It was adorable. 

"I will make a note." He responded dryly, and Greg bit back a chuckle. "You'd have drunk it?" The man asked, a note of vague curiosity in his voice, the entire rest of the tone of his voice implying that he would be absolutely stupid to do such a thing. Which, yes, it would be. 

"I've had five hours sleep in the last three days." He said instead. "You could scoop a muddy puddle into a tea cup and I'd drink it."

The eyebrow rose further. 

"Tell me what you know about Sherlock Holmes."

"Why?" Greg asked, hoping it didn't come out quite as whiny as it sounded in his head.  Christ Almighty, he just wanted to sleep. "What could I possibly tell you that you can't find out for yourself?"

"I'm afraid he takes quite some pains to avoid me."

Greg stared at him. Then the whole warehouse kidnapping setup. Then back at the man again. Nope, he couldn't imagine why that might be. 

"I'm afraid he sees me as some sort of...nemesis."

"Christ." Greg said, eyes slipping closed. This chair was very comfortable. "Why are you both so fucking dramatic?" Yes, very comfortable. "You're like if you combine an evil villain with an over protective big brother. And add extra drama." Greg felt his lips twitch, and curled closer into the chair. "Do you have a cat?"

The man sighed.

"It seems I've miscalculated." He seemed very put out by it too. Greg bet that didn't happen often. "I'm not going to get anything useful out of you tonight, am I?"

Greg hummed without opening his eyes. "Not without caffeine or sleep. Preferably both." He didn't know what prompted him to add "Kidnap me again tomorrow, and we'll see if that's any better." But hopefully it wasn't the complete lack of brain to mouth filter while sleep deprived in front of an attractive man with a beautiful voice and a wickedly dry sense of humour. No. Definitely not. 

"Very well then." 

Greg was halfway back to the car when he heard

"Sleep well, Detective Inspector."

Chapter Text

Greg managed six hours sleep. All he had time for before his alarm woke him up. The world has lost that distant, foggy, feeling but he's far from alert. He clocks the well dressed, texting, woman outside the shabby cafe he passes on the way to work as incongruous well before he realises she's familiar from the kidnapping of the night before. Which he still wasn't entirely sure hadn't been a dream. He turned his head to glance in through the brightly lit, slightly fogged up windows, and sure enough, a posh ginger bastard is sat at a table for two, a pot of tea in front of him, a mug by the empty seat opposite. 

Greg sighs. He's going to be late for work. But it's definitely going to be better in the long run if he gets this over with now. 

The little bell above the door chimes as he walks inside. The ginger bastard calmly looks up, straight at him, stare intense and measuring. He hadn't imagined that bit then. It makes him feel seen. Despite being completely different to Sherlock's casual dismissive perusal, it feels the same. Similar, perhaps rather than the same. Much less insulting. 

"May I take this seat?" Greg asks, dropping his hand on top of the spare chair. As if the woman outside hadn't been standing there purposefully to drag his attention to this entire scenario. He was still more amused than scared. If either of them had wanted to hurt him, they'd have done it already. 

"Of course." The posh bastard replies. As soon as Greg's sat down, the bastard flicks his eyes to the mug of coffee between them, then back up to Greg. 

"It's no muddy puddle water," he says, and he really is a bastard because his eyes are crinkling with the tiniest bit of wry humour, and it looks good on him. "But it should be sufficient." Greg's aware that his own amusement is probably showing in the shadow of a smirk, but he's long since given up the fuss of attempting to conceal his own emotions. He wraps his hands around the mug, because he needs caffeine dammit, and it's still hot. He peers inside, and sees it black and undoctored, as he prefers it, a hint of steam still rising from the top. He ponders for a minute, but he knows he's already decided. If they were going to kill him, there would be easier and more subtle ways than drugging his coffee. He takes a sip. 

"I'm late for work." He tells the bastard, resigned amusement curling over him. "Which I'm sure you know. What did you want?"

The bastard arches a fraction of an eyebrow at him. Then sighs. A perfectly executed dramatic little sigh. "Unfortunately, you were perhaps somewhat closer to the mark than either of us expected in your inferences last night."

Greg parsed through what he could remember of last night's kidnapping. He'd grumped about the lack of tea, then told the umbrella wielding bastard that he was giving off over protective evil villain big brother vibes. 

Oh.

He studied the man in front of him. There wasn't much of a resemblance. They were both too thin. Their eyes were the same colour, but this man's were much paler. And that was about it, physically. Their accents were different, the bastard's much posher. The intonation wildly different. But the tone could perhaps be similar. 

What was similar though, was the arrogance. The superiority. The absolutely ludicrous sense of drama. The feeling of being known. That a single glance could peel back all your layers.

Yes. They were brothers. What had he said last night? "He'd call me his nemesis?" Yes, Greg thought, that's exactly the sort of thing Sherlock would call his irritating older brother. 

Greg sighed. Great, now he had two over dramatic Holmes'es to deal with. 

"You do the deducting thing too." He said. A resigned statement rather than a question.

The eyebrow rose again. "Do you require a demonstration?" Holmes Two said, in an utterly bored voice.

Greg snorted, and leveled him with his best unimpressed copper's stare. He tapped his mug, and the bastard tilted his head slightly, that hint of amusement flaring in his eyes again. 

"You already gave me one."

It could have been a guess, how a sleep deprived overworked copper took his coffee, but it wasn't. Not with a Holmes. 

Greg caught the brief tick of a smile at the edge of Holmes Two's mouth. 

"I would be most grateful," Holmes Two said, serious, finally getting to the point, "If you could provide me with... Updates on my brother." Greg wondered what the hell it was about this man that made everything from his mouth sound stereotypical evil villain. Maybe he was one. An evil, competent, Sherlock Holmes would be able to bring down the world without even trying.

Greg considered him. Sherlock would never trust him again if he ever found out. But Greg had siblings. Knew what it was like to worry. And none of his were drug addicts. Thankfully. 

"I'll let you know if he gets into trouble. Or if he falls off my radar for longer than usual."

Holmes Two considered this, then nodded slowly. "And in return?" The eyebrows were raised expectantly. 

Greg sat back as he pondered. 

"While I'd like help on what makes him tick, to try and keep him out of trouble, I can't take it. He'd know. I'll have to muddle that out by myself." Holmes Two was studying him intently again "And I don't want to have to arrest you for attempting to bribe an office of the law, so I can't take anything material." Greg smiled with his own amusement. "So I think the only thing left I can ask for is your name. Because I can't keep calling you 'That Posh Ginger Umbrella Wielding Bastard' or 'Holmes Two'."

The eyebrows were raised in patient disappointment, but doing absolutely nothing to hide the amusement. Greg grinned, unrepentant. 

"Mycroft" Holmes Two said, after the perfunctory tiny dramatic little sigh. He handed over a card, blank except for a single phone number. "And for goodness sake do not enter that number under that name in your phone. Sherlock has a dreadful habit of snooping where he's not wanted."

Greg grins and raises his own eyebrow "Why do you think I keep him around? Snooping where you're not wanted is the definition of a detective's job." The look Mycroft gives him is singularly unimpressed, and Greg feels his grin widen as he glances down at his phone. "I'll put you down under Evie."

The look Mycroft sends him tells him he absolutely does not want to know. 

"E. V." Greg expands. "For Evil Villain."

Mycroft actually rolls his eyes. Greg feels a gleeful sense of achievement. 

Chapter Text

They swap occasional texts. Greg quickly decides that he can't only tell Mycroft the bad. That would kill any of his siblings. So he starts to send the good as well. Nothing too intrusive. Just a gentle "He's doing well, there's a particularly gruesome case he's spent three days obsessing over."

And Mycroft makes an effort to respond. While it's clear he's not as socially inept as Sherlock, it's obvious he struggles in anything outside of a narrow range of interactions. 

"The Grayson case, yes, that should keep him occupied."

Greg knows he's thankful, if only by the fact that he always responds. Even if those responses don't always come across as such. Greg doesn't know if it's classic upper class British repression of feelings, or if it's just something the Holmes brothers struggle with. It's not like it matters either way.

The first time Greg phones Mycroft is from the ambulance. Mycroft picks up on the first ring. For all the training Greg's had, all the experience, of breaking bad news to relatives, he knows Mycroft won't appreciate it. 

"Ambulance." He says. "On the way to St. James. Overdose."

And that's all that's needed. 

Mycroft arrives barely after they do. 

It's the weekend. Work is slow, Greg's not needed in the office. They spend two days sat at Sherlock's bedside. 

Mycroft works the whole time. Not out of a lack of care, his face is grey, mouth set throughout. And Greg knows that Sherlock is at his most vulnerable when he's bored. It makes sense that Mycroft wouldn't be able to sit with nothing on his mind but worry for his brother. Instead, he takes his laptop, and positions himself in the corner of the room where no one can see the screen. Greg makes a point to sit on the opposite side of Sherlock's bed, where he won't even catch a glance accidentally. Mycroft raises an amused eyebrow at him, before his face turns stony again. He's furious with his brother. 

He takes calls as well. In a variety of different languages, often disappearing out of the room to do so. 

"What do you tell people when they ask you what you do for a living?" Greg asks at one point. 

He's met with the most condescending look he's ever seen.

"I'm a minor civil servant." 

Greg employs his unimpressed copper's stare. "Nobody says that. They say 'Oh, I work for the DWP', or 'I'm a junior researcher in the environment agency'."

Mycroft gives a non-commital hum. 

"And what department do you work for?" Greg prompts.

"Transport." Is his answer.

Greg just grins at him. "Fair enough."

Mycroft levels him with a look. "Why, what would you say I do for a living?"

Greg raises his eyebrows. "You know exactly what I have you under in my phone."

Mycroft sighs, eyes flicking back to Sherlock's still form. 

"I suppose I haven't given you much evidence to think otherwise." He says quietly. 

And while the blatant emotions he's not even trying to conceal about the man on the bed between them are one form of vulnerability, this is another entirely. And completely unexpected. 

"Sherlock," Greg starts, and then has to pause, to swallow the worry and grief, "Sherlock is blindingly brilliant. But you, Mycroft, are terrifyingly competent. If you truly were evil, none of us would be able to move for laser sharks."

Mycroft sends him a completely bland look, and Greg can't help fond tint to his own small smile.

It's not his fault. Greg knows this. He's dealt with drug addicts in the past. He's sat through all the training and the courses. But still. The what if's crowd his mind. What if he'd found a better case for Sherlock. What if he'd visited the slum he lived in more often. What if. 

"Detective Inspector."

Greg looks up. Mycroft's voice is drained in a way he doesn't allow it to be on the work calls. 

"I'm sure I've told you to call me Greg."

Mycroft ignores that. Eyes intense again. "It's not your fault. It pains me to say it, but this was inevitable. He was doing better with you. What you were doing was helping." Mycroft held his stare. "I will always be grateful for it."

Greg draws in a slow breath, and closes his eyes. The gratitude of a man like Mycroft Holmes is a heavy thing. He opens them again, focusing on Sherlock's pale face. 

"He's a good bloke." Greg says quietly. "Absolutely annoying, but a good bloke."

Mycroft huffs quietly. "Most people would disagree with you."

Greg feels a sad smile cross his face. "Most people are idiots." He quotes quietly.

And that gets a small, watery, choke of a laugh.

Chapter Text

Sherlock pulls through. Mycroft manages, somehow, to wrangle him into rehab. 

And a posh black car pulls up in front of Greg on his way home one day. It takes him to a quiet little restaurant where Mycroft is waiting, and they start plotting. 

It's not the only time it happens, and the result is the official position of consulting detective, and unrestricted access to the mortuary at Bart's. 

Also, the name of Mycroft's assistant. Who still doesn't talk to him, but is called Anthea. Sometimes. 

The in person meetings dwindle, once Sherlock is released, and around to notice them, but they don't stop. The progress is there, Sherlock is sober, and housed, but it's tentative. Fragile. For all their frantic brainstorming, Greg and Mycroft are struggling for ideas. They both know that this, however incredibly better than before, likely won't last. 

Greg is on his way home when the posh car pulls up next to him again. He's had a terrible day. The murders of children always affect him the most. It's natural, he supposes. But that doesn't make it any easier to deal with. The case had been clear. Open and shut. Easy. A standard day in the office. But that didn't make the kid any less dead. Didn't stop the images floating through his vision every time he closed his eyes. He's used to this. The horror of it all. Practiced at working through it. But that doesn't make it easier. Or better. 

Mycroft steps out of the car, and takes a step towards him, where he'd stalled in the middle of the pavement. Studies him with his intense eyes. Gestures towards the car. Greg slides into soft leather, watches buildings drift past the window. 

The restaurant Mycroft takes him to this time is up a flight of stairs. Dimly lit. Calm. He's guided to a stool at a counter, watches a chef work at a carefully lit hotplate. Mycroft orders quietly, then sits with him, intense gaze focused on the movement of the chefs hands. He doesn't speak. 

Breathing starts feeling easier. 

Greg eats the ramen that settles in front of him. It's delicious. And settles easily in his stomach. He hadn't been able to eat lunch. 

Once he's finished, once he's let the calm fill him, he turns to Mycroft, and asks about Sherlock. Mycroft's lips turn up in classic enigmatic style. 

"Oh, I think we've already established a precedent for kidnappings two days in a row." He waves a hand, dismissing the thought. "Let's not bother with him tonight." 

And Greg can't help but smile in return. 

"You're a good man, Mycroft Holmes." Greg tells him. Mycroft blinks, then turns the most incredulous look Greg's ever seen on him. Greg feels his lips twitch. "You're a big picture person." He concedes. "But you're a good man."

They sit for a while longer, in comfortable silence, sipping their drinks.

They pause for a moment, on the pavement outside the car. The evening air is warm. 

"Mycroft." Greg says. "Thank you."

Chapter Text

And one day, Sherlock turns up at a crime scene with another man in tow. He's short, with a limp and a cane. And he watches Sherlock with wide eyed wonder and a bemused fondness. 

And Sherlock is bright and happy and nervous. He's showing off. 

As soon as Sherlock bounces off, Greg pulls out his phone.

"Christ, he's smitten. Who's the bloke?"

"Doctor John Watson, retired army surgeon. Invalided home from Afghanistan. Sherlock's new flatmate." Comes the reply. 

And later, in another of the endless list of cosy small restaurants Mycroft knows, Greg watches long elegant fingers play with an empty glass. Gold band catching in the low light. 

"It's easy." Mycroft says lowly. "When you can see so much about a person so quickly." His gaze stays fixed on the glass in his hands. "You fall hard, and you fall fast." Another twist of the glass. A horrible wry curve to his lips. "And then it's difficult. They don't know you. And you don't know them. Not really. Only facts and deductions." The gold band glinted in the light. "I've never been married." Mycroft looks up, then tilts his head. "You're not surprised"

Greg frowns, trying to work out why he'd never thought of Mycroft as married, despite the ring, on the wrong hand though it was. He shrugs. "I don't read people like you and Sherlock. But I think that you're loyal. Once you've committed to something or someone, that's it." He meets Mycroft's pale eyes. "If you were married,  we would be having these conversations over the phone, or quick catch ups over coffee. You enjoy coming to these restaurants, but you would be doing it with them, not with me."

Mycroft is giving him that intense studying look again.

"You've loved before though." Greg says. Because that's where this conversation was going.

Mycroft gives a short humourless laugh. "It didn't end well. And Sherlock was around to see it."

"And he's never..." Greg ventured.

Mycroft shook his head. "No. I believe this is a first for him."

Greg ran a hand down his face. If Sherlock's only experience of love was watching his brother's end badly, this was going to be difficult. 

"They're so good together." He groaned. "It's so adorable. I told you about the whole 'a bit not good' thing?" 

He looks up, and Mycroft's smiling at him. "You did, yes."

And Greg smiles back, hopelessly happy for his friends.

Chapter Text

Greg knocks on the open door as he steps into the flat, case files under his arm. The inhabitants ignore him, Sherlock is prowling behind a seated client and John has his head in his hands. Greg leans back against the wall, and settles in to wait. 

"Stop pining over someone unobtainable." Sherlock grouses, obviously completely done. "It's pathetic."

The client spins round to face him, face pulled tight in anger. "It's not pathetic -"

Sherlock cuts him off with a snort. "It's not pathetic to love someone unobtainable," he waves a hand in Greg's direction "look at Geoff over there."

"What?" Greg asks, startled. And is, obviously, ignored.

"He's been in love with someone unobtainable for years, but he's  not pathetic about it."

"What." He says again.

This actually draws Sherlock's attention to him. "You used to date people." Sherlock says. "Only ever one date. You never slept with them. You were measuring them against some standard, and they never matched up. And then you stopped dating. Because you realised that nobody ever would. You haven't been through a period of sadness, and then started dating again, which you would have if they'd turned you down. So. Unobtainable. Married. Lesbian. Or a straight man." Sherlock shrugs as if he couldn't care less which it was.

Greg sighs and concedes with a tilt of his head. All the main points are right.

"You still love them." Sherlock says, no doubt at all. Then his voice turns annoyed. "And you're not pining and yearning and being pathetic. See if" he waves another hand towards Greg "even George can love someone unobtainable without being pathetic about it, it can't be difficult."

Greg raises his eyebrows, amused. "Thanks, Sherlock."

John, who'd lifted his head out of his hands to watch Sherlock deduce open Greg's nonexistent love life, lowers it back into them with a groan.

Chapter Text

Greg whirls as the door slams behind him. It's suddenly pitch black, and he knows screaming is useless. He fills his lungs as far as he can, and slowly expels the air. Several times. A technique he's had to perfect since meeting Sherlock. Eventually, he's calm enough to say "Mr Holmes. I'm afraid I'm going to have to kill your brother." 

In the darkness next to him, Mycroft answers. "Would you be open to accepting assistance with that?"

Mycroft explains that they'll be found, either in nine hours, or whenever his idiot brother feels up to letting them out. There's no phone signal. For someone so brilliant, Sherlock was also unbelievably stupid. Greg and Mycroft were only here because this case was dangerous, and seriously Mycroft hated fieldwork. He wouldn't be here unless his brother's life was on the line. But no. Apparently they were 'in the way', so Sherlock had decided to get them out of the way. By locking them in a bank vault. 

Greg slows his angry pacing, and tilts his head. It's unnerving, the darkness. Total and complete. He can see nothing other than the colourful flickering shadows his eyes are making up. He wasn't expecting Mycroft to be talkative, but...

"Mycroft?" He asks into the darkness.

There's no response.

"Shit." He mutters, and pulls out his phone. 

Mycroft is sat against the wall, knees up, shoulders hunched, head dropped forwards. And he flinches as the phone light passes over him. 

"Shit." Greg mutters again, softer. He crouches, and tilts the light away, into a corner. "Mycroft," he says gently, "Can you tell me where you are."

He's silent for a few breaths, before he says "London." In a quiet voice. "Bank vault." 

"And can you tell me who I am?" Greg asks.

"Detective Inspector" Mycroft responds, the syllables rolled carefully through his mouth, clipped with irritation. Greg grins with relief, and Mycroft continues with the rest of his name "Gregory Lestrade". 

"Well," Greg says, humour colouring his voice. "That's the closest I've ever got to you calling me Greg."

Mycroft raises his head just enough to shoot Greg a glare over the top of his arms. Greg knows there's enough reflected light for Mycroft to be able to read the humour on his face. 

"Would... Would it be better for you if I sat next to you." Greg offers. "So you know where I am."

Mycroft's got his inscrutable penetrating gaze on again, but eventually decides on "yes."

So Greg walks over and tucks himself against the wall next to Mycroft, legs stretched out in front of him. His phone blinks out, and darkness surges forwards again. 

He can hear Mycroft's breathing, and it's too even. 

"Physical contact?" He offers. 

And Mycroft hums deep, "perhaps." 

Greg shifts himself across a centimetre, so they're touching shoulder to hip, and Mycroft lets out a long, shaky, breath. 

"Tell me about Sherlock," Greg asks, because he's not sure if it's the darkness, the enclosed space, or the silence that Mycroft's struggling with. Maybe all three. "What was he like as a kid? Do you have any really embarrassing stories I can blackmail him with once we're out of here?"

Mycroft gives an amused huff. It's not the chuckle Greg was aiming for, but he'll take it. He presses his shoulder a fraction more into Mycroft's, and Mycroft starts talking, voice low and quiet. 

He tails off at one point with a shiver, and Greg mutters an absent "Cold?" Before tucking an arm around him. Then his actions catch up with him, and he freezes. They sit like that for a second, before Mycroft relaxes into him with a long sigh, tinted with amusement. 

"Yes." He concedes. 

And then Greg is sitting there, trapped in a goddamned bank vault, in pitch darkness, Mycroft bloody Holmes tucked under his arm, leaning into him, telling him about the time baby Sherlock covered Mycroft's socks in jam to attract ants. 

Eventually, the conversation winds down, and they're trading subtle yawns. 

"Sleep?" Greg asks, and Mycroft hums in response. This close, Greg thinks he can feel the sound vibrate through him. "We're both too old to sleep sitting up." Greg tells him. "I'm told I make a good pillow." He raises the hand he's had tucked round Mycroft's waist for god knows how long, brings it to his shoulder, and nudges him down. Mycroft follows easily, curling up with his head on Greg's lap. Greg raises his hand automatically, but this time he catches himself. "Mind if I touch your hair?" He asks. Mycroft gives an agreeing hum, so he carefully reaches down, and lets his fingers drift through the fine strands. "Sleep." Greg says.  "I'll wake you if anything happens."

Greg is focusing on the cold hardness of the wall at his back, the texture of Mycroft's hair between his fingers to keep himself awake when Mycroft stirs. Greg knows he could have drifted off, but he hadn't wanted to while Mycroft was feeling vulnerable. 

"Your turn." Mycroft says, voice hoarse from sleep, and Greg's hand slides off his shoulder as he sits up. 

"Are your boney legs going to be comfortable?" Greg teases through a yawn.

"Better than the floor." Mycroft states, and Greg laughs quietly as a hand on his shoulder encourages him down. Mycroft's legs are boney, but he's right. They're better than the concrete floor would be. He feels movement in the darkness above him, and manages to stop Mycroft's hand before it makes contact, one finger against Mycroft's wrist. 

"Won't get 'ny sleep if y'r touching m'hair." He mumbles. He traces his finger along Mycroft's skin until he finds his fingers and laces them together, wanting it clear that wasn't a rejection. Mycroft rests their joined hands on his thigh, just above Greg's head. Then, after a second, slides his thumb to rest over Greg's pulse point. 

Greg must have shifted slightly, because Mycroft whispers "I'm not... I just. I need to know that you're alive." 

And while Greg has deliberately never asked what Mycroft's actual job is, he's not stupid. He's absolutely sure he never wants to know exactly why Mycroft is scared of being trapped in the dark. He reaches up with his other hand, to the one Mycroft has left on his shoulder, and tugs it over his heart. Holding it in place. 

Above him, Mycroft lets out a long gust of air. Startled. Pained, perhaps. Greg doesn't know, he's drifting already into sleep. 

His phone alarm wakes him, five minutes before they're due to be found. It's still pitch black. His fingers are still tangled with Mycroft's. Mycroft's hand still over his heart. He pulls free and stretches with a yawn.

"Alright?" He asks. 

Mycroft gives an amused little hum, he sounds much more like himself. "As well as can be, I think." 

And Greg knows Mycroft can't see the grin that's stretched over his face, so he says "Good."

He makes a half-hearted attempt to straighten what he can of his jacket in the dark, and faces where the door should be. Waiting. 

They're separated when the bank employees let them out, and interviewed. Even Greg's ID doesn't get him out of this one without questions. When they are released, it's to find John's in the hospital. He's been shot. 

Sherlock's hovering at John's bedside of course, making a massive nuisance of himself, bored and worried and guilty. Mycroft sends him a poisonous glare, sweeps his eyes over John with worry, then turns on his heel and storms out. Well, whatever the Mycroft Holmes version of storming is. More of a prowl, Greg thinks. Sherlock sits suddenly, a cut-off noise making its way out of his throat. Greg walks over and drops a heavy hand onto his shoulder. They sit like that for nearly a whole minute before Sherlock starts fidgeting.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" He asks suspiciously. Voice that frustrated defensive he gets when not understanding a social interaction, just a hint of a whine underneath the words. 

"Because you already know what I'm going to say." Greg tells him. And the shoulder under his hand is tense and stiff. 

"Why are you being nice to me?" Sherlock snaps at him, spitting. 

"I'm a very nice person." Greg says blandly, and Sherlock narrows his eyes at him before turning back to stare at John.

Christ, Greg hates hospitals. Hates seeing the people he cares for hurting. 

"As someone who has made a lot of mistakes, Sherlock, take it from me that the best thing to do with them is to learn from them."

Sherlock huffs, and Greg drops his hand, and makes his way to the chair on the other side of the bed. He has a couple of hours before he needs to shower and head into the office. He can spend them watching over John. 

Chapter Text

John finds him after work a few days later, and they sit opposite each other in the pub, pints in hand. 

"I'm so sorry." John says. "I had no idea he would-" 

Greg waves him off. "Not your fault. And it's not something he's going to do again, given the consequences."

John looks at him, confused.

And Greg furrows his brow as he clarifies. "He was distraught you were hurt."

John raises his eyebrows, then mutters into his drink "Didn't fucking seem like it."

Greg stares, then the answers clock into place in his brain. "He wasn't there when you woke up, was he."

John shakes his head.

Greg snarls, then drops his head onto the table. "That utter fucking moron!" He takes his familiar, deep, dealing with Sherlock breaths, and raises his head again. "He damn near tore the hospital apart." He tells John. "You know what he's like when he's got nothing to do, doubly so when he's got emotions he doesn't know how to handle."

"Guess I took too long to recover, and he got bored and wandered off again." John says, aiming for humour, but hitting bitter. 

Greg sighs, and props his elbows onto the table. "Let me tell you about Sherlock Holmes before you met him. He was cold and callous. He'd spit out deductions with no explanation at all. He'd gleefully tear anyone he didn't like, which was everyone, to shreds. And then vanish into the mists. He barely even seemed human, John. And then you turned up. And he's brighter. He's happy. He's showing off. Taking time to explain himself, because you ask him to. Checking the worst of his casual cruelty, because he knows you don't like it. He's inviting people for Christmas, he's lingering, allowing us into his life, because you want us in yours. And for Christ's sake, John, if you two are in the same room, he's always angled towards you somehow."

John is staring at him with wide eyes. 

"Imagine having a brain like his. Imagine seeing someone for the first time, and knowing everything about them. Imagine if you liked what you found." Greg takes a breath. "He loved you the moment he set eyes on you John. What form of love that is, I have no fucking clue. And obviously it's not something he knows how to deal with. But do not think for one second that he doesn't love you in some fashion, because even I can see it."

Chapter Text

"Detective Inspector." Mycroft greets as he appears in the door to the 221b sitting room. 

His distracted "Hey" in return is met by an overlapping

"You know Mycroft?" And

"How do you know my brother?"

From the two other occupants in the room. 

John snorts. "He offer you money to spy on Sherlock too?"

Greg blinks. "He offered you money-?" He repeats, highly amused, because that's exactly the sort of thing Mycroft would do. Setup a situation with no bad outcomes. If John had taken the money, he would be getting updates about Sherlock. If he hadn't, then he'd proven himself trustworthy. 

"How do you know my brother?" Sherlock demands with narrowed eyes. 

Greg glances at Mycroft, who has both hands on top of his umbrella, and is watching all this unfold with deep amusement. 

"Sherlock." Greg says. "We spent two days at your bedside thinking you were going to die, and then you locked us in a vault together for nine hours. Do you think we sat there in silence the whole time? Of course I know him."

Sherlock snarls and whirls away into the next room, muttering under his breath.

John is staring at him with his eyebrows raised in suspicious disbelief. "And the phrase 'warehouse kidnapping' doesn't mean anything to you?" He asks.

Greg turns to look at Mycroft, who's casually examining the tip of his umbrella, blatantly pretending to ignore them. And of course he kidnaps anyone who comes close to his brother and plies them for information.

Greg schools his face into the picture of innocence, and sits back in his chair. "I can't imagine why you would ever think that it might."

John snorts with laughter. 

"What did you tell him?" John asks at their next pub night.

"The bare minimum." Greg answers. John frowns at him, and Greg holds up a hand. "It was... Not good, John. You know he was using. That he overdosed. I told Mycroft if he was having a worse time than usual. If he disappeared for longer than expected. If I found something that managed to occupy him, keep him sober for a bit. We were trying to work out what worked, what didn't. We were trying to keep him alive, John. And we nearly didn't."

"And what did he offer you in return?" John asked, still not quite convinced. 

"Nothing." Greg said. 

John raised a dubious eyebrow. 

Greg tilted his head with a smile, and gave him that one.

"He asked me to name my price. Obviously he knew better than to actually offer me anything I could arrest him for." John smirked, and Greg frowned, trying to remember. "Ah, his name. I asked for his name."

John's eyebrows were being extremely judgemental.

"Well," Greg said "I wasn't about to type Posh Ginger Umbrella Wielding Bastard into my phone."

John snorts a laugh. "Far too many letters." He agrees sagely.

"PGUWB doesn't really flow, either." Greg says, and that sets them both off again.

Chapter Text

Greg is walking home from the latest Sherlock related drama, he's got a small cut just above his ear, and he's aware his hair is matted with blood. But it's shallow, the bleeding has just about stopped, and his flat isn't far away. He just wants to sit down with a cup of tea. 

The posh black car pulls up beside him. The look Mycroft gives him is singularly unimpressed. Then he's being glared into the car, having something pressed against the side of his head, and being told to apply pressure to it. He's barely in the car a minute, before he's being ushered out again and up to the door of his own flat, which Mycroft lets them into with no involvement from Greg, and pushed down onto his sofa. He says nothing, amused and fond, as he lets Mycroft tut disapprovingly and clean and patch him up with gentle fingers. 

Greg's scalp has always been sensitive. Every touch of Mycroft's fingers is a spark of electricity and a stutter of his heart. When Mycroft's finished, he runs a soothing hand through Greg's hair, just above the cut. Well, Greg's sure it's supposed to be soothing. Instead, his control cracks. He refuses to label the noise he didn't manage to quite cut off as a keen. And he's definitely ignoring the fact his head has arched into the touch, leaving his neck bared. 

"Oh." Mycroft breathes, and it's a noise of realisation and of want. 

Mycroft's other hand comes up to tilt his chin towards him, and Greg is still .... Exceptionally aware of the first hand, still in his hair. 

He opens his eyes.

Mycroft is staring at him, eyes dark even in the bright overhead light of Greg's sitting room. He wonders, suddenly, if this is why Mycroft has always taken him to dimly lit restaurants. 

"This can't be a surprise to you." Greg says with a smile. "I've thought you were attractive since that first kidnapping. I've wanted you since the cafe. I've loved you since I realised exactly how much you care for your brother. And I told you I wouldn't get to sleep if you touched my hair."

Mycroft is still staring at him.

Greg feels his smile grow. 

Mycroft's eyes narrow, and he changes his grip on Greg's chin, so he can press his thumb over Greg's lips. Stopping him from commenting. 

"I was fond of you when you criticised my kidnapping etiquette." Greg felt his lips twitch up into a smirk, catching on the skin of Mycroft's thumb. "I wanted you when you asked if I had a cat." The blunt statement caused Greg's heart to jump in his chest. "And I stopped fighting the fact I love you after the vault." It's Greg's turn now, to stare with wide eyes. "No." Mycroft continues, stepping closer, tilting Greg's head back with both hands and watching him shiver. "You're an objectively handsome man, Gregory Lestrade. Unfathomably kind. I confess, it keeps catching me off guard, quite how much I want you. And the fact you want me in return."

Greg can't parse the feelings that creates, so he lets them wash over him. He knows Mycroft can read the mischief in his eyes. "Well," Greg says, dragging his lips over the pad of Mycroft's thumb. "If you were fishing for complements, you'd have moved your thumb." He slants Mycroft a look from under his lashes, lips twitching as he bites down a laugh. "Same if you were going to kiss me."

Mycroft gives his patented tiny dramatic sigh, eyes crinkled with laughter, slides his thumb across Greg's lips, and leans in to do just that.

Chapter Text

It's pure coincidence they walk into 221b together. Well, probably coincidence. You never could tell with a Holmes. They'd met on the landing, Greg reaching the top of the stairs with an arm full of case files just as John was opening the door to Mycroft. 

But Sherlock takes one look at them standing next to each other, and starts, eyes wide and horrified. His head nearly vibrates as his eyes flit between them, cataloguing god only knows what. 

"Betrayal!" He cries, and storms off to his room. 

Greg and Mycroft share a highly amused glance, and then John is laughing, curling in on himself with the force of it. 

"Got your unobtainable man then, mate?" He asks once he's calmed down.

Mycroft arches an amused eyebrow at him.

"Seems so." Greg agrees with a smile.

Sherlock storms back in with a dramatic sigh, and throws himself onto a sofa. "At least he's got enough sense not to pine pathetically." He grouches. And from him, that's approval. 

Greg watches Mycroft's eyebrows slowly rise up his face as he stares at his brother. Sherlock can obviously deduce something from this, as he suddenly goes still. 

"Hmm." Mycroft says. 

"Don't." Warns Sherlock.

Greg catches John's eye, points at Sherlock, and mouths "pining."

John chokes out a laugh, and both the brothers turn to face him. Sherlock winning slightly on speed and drama. Both Greg and John plaster on their most innocent faces. 

"Ah." Says Mycroft. 

"What? Asks Sherlock.

"Nothing." John chimes, butter wouldn't melt. 

"And that's our cue to leave." Mycroft says, standing up. Greg stands with him, leaving the pile of case files on the table. In the doorway, Mycroft turns his head. "Just tell him, brother dear."

Greg wonders if Sherlock gets whiplash, the speed he breaks off his staring competition with John to turn to them at the new form of address. 

"How long did it take you to tell yours?" Sherlock snarls in retaliation. 

"I always knew." Greg says calmly. And it's true. Mycroft had been taking him out to restaurants for years. They'd been basically dating this whole time. The last few years, since the arrival of John, and corresponding increase in Sherlock's stability especially. Needing to discuss Sherlock an increasingly flimsy excuse.

"And look what's happened now that I have." Mycroft says, with a pleased smile.

Sherlock turns away from them, towards John, with a scowl.

"Would it help if I told you I loved you too?" Greg hears John ask, as he shuts the door behind them. 

"Thank you." Mycroft says. 

Greg sighs. "Guess that makes the both of them effectively my brothers now too."

And Mycroft cackles. 

"Your Evil Villain laugh needs work, love."

Greg watches Mycroft settle into the posh black car, and sees Anthea glance up, away from her phone. She meets Greg's eye and smiles, pleased and approving, before the phone claims her attention again .