A/N: This oneshot is a part of Changing Habits, set right after Waiting For The Storm. It's posted separately because it didn't fit into the series since I changed the POV. I suppose it could be read separately but you might not understand the reference in the end.

Oh, and of course I'd love to hear your opinion on this story, so please review:)

Beta: OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

Shouldn't your first fight be memorable? With a lot of shouting followed by storming out and instant regrets, soon to be forgiven and healed with kisses? But Lestrade realized that with Mycroft Holmes there was none of it.

Rain Starts

There was a corpse in the living room. Fortunately, it was not his living room. Unfortunately, he still had to find the murderer.

"Sir, we found fingertips on the doorframe. This one should be easy."

"Might have been easier if he wasn't found a week after he died." Lestrade glanced at the body, standing at the safe distance away to avoid the smell, but cringing at the sight, and turned away, uncaring. After years of working in police he learned to distance himself from the victims. It was probably heartless, but better than sympathy and anger at the world. It did not work all the time, anyway.

"Tell Anderson to finish up quickly. We are leaving." He stepped out of the room without a last glance, then out of the house and to the street, completely ignoring Donavan's frown.

He wanted to get on the chase after the murderer sooner, needing this distraction from thoughts running through his head – they were far from happy.

He was sure that even a small child could tell that a relationship with Mycroft Holmes would not be easy; but Gregory was still hopeful, because it all started so slowly, so smoothly. He was aware all the time that there were bound to be difficulties. Still they managed to overflow them on the first stages of their relationship and he let himself relax, drop the caution and start acting more freely around his partner. It seemed Mycroft had come to a similar realization and in all it lead to the current situation. Shouldn't your first fight be memorable? With a lot of shouting and angry 'Why do I even bother talking to you?', followed by storming out and instant regrets, which soon would be poured out in a soft heart-to-heart conversation and forgiven and healed with sweet kisses? With Mycroft Holmes there was none of it. Just annoyed glances from both parties, sarcastic biting comments that are just a little too much, silent acceptance that work did come first for both of them. Slowly the offence and irritation bubbled, but it did not blow up like it'd do with normal people. Instead of storming off, Mycroft just exited the car silently, leaving Lestrade watching the figure of his lover walking away. Not shouting, not even a word to indicate that something had gone wrong during that short meeting, but Lestrade knew that he wouldn't be seeing Mycroft the next day. No lunch together, because even with the lack of tell-tale signs, it was their first fight. Lestrade drove away from Mycroft's office building, deciding he could spend the free time usefully and get some work done.

The whole morning the next day he spent locked up in his office, contemplating if he should join Mycroft for their usual lunch after all. In the end he decided against it, giving himself and his lover some time to think. Sometime after twelve Lestrade was called on a crime scene. Now he only wanted to dive into the investigation; which turned out to be easy and boring, at least until Sherlock broke into a flat which supposedly belonged to the murderer and crashed their theory. Donavan rolled her eyes, Anderson scoffed, other policemen watched the consulting detective curiously and Lestrade just listened to him, not even bothering to ask for an explanation.

"Well, you heard him. The museum is our next stop," the DI announced, waving one hand around to hurry his team.

"What? Are you just going to believe him? Like always?" Donavan asked with aggravation.

"Yes, like always," he answered with tired annoyance.

The rest of the day they spent chasing after Sherlock as the detective chased after the murderer. But there was no excitement or anticipation that was normally a constant part of his work. Lestrade only felt worn out and emotionally exhausted; he tried to find a breath of fresh air in work but couldn't. At the end of the day, criminal caught, Sherlock happily gloating, Lestrade was ready to drop all his troubling thoughts to anyone who'd listen.

When he exited the New Scotland Yard it was already late evening, sun almost set and streetlamps glowing. A black car was waiting for him. For a second, he considered just walking past as if not noticing it, but brushed that idea off.

"Good evening, Mycroft." He greeted, getting into the car.

"More like 'Good night' already." Mycroft corrected emotionlessly, looking outside the window on his side.

Lestrade took his time, getting comfortable on the backseat, ignoring his lover's coldness. The engine started and the car moved forward and Mycroft finally glanced at the other man.

"Won't you ask where are we going?" He asked, fingers sliding over the wooden handle of the umbrella – lately Lestrade started associating the gesture with nervousness.

"Well, I'm not a Holmes, but even I have enough sense to make an assumption that we are going to your apartment or to mine. And seeing how yours is the opposite direction…" Lestrade trailed off and turned bodily on his seat to watch Mycroft. "But I am curious why."

"Are you against it?"

"No," he answered quickly and just a little dejectedly.

The rest of the ride was spent in silence, tense and prickly. As they reached the apartment block where Lestrade lived, the DI exited the car first and waited on the sidewalk for his lover. Mycroft circled the car unhurriedly and followed Lestrade inside in the same slow pace.

"You want to talk?" Lestrade asked as he watched Mycroft take off his jacket, fold it carefully and put over the back of the sofa, then lean the umbrella to its back and then finally turn to the DI.

"No. But we need to."

"Kind of, yeah…" Lestrade shrugged.

Mycroft leaned against the back of the sofa himself, hands crossed over his chest. Defensiveness? Lestrade thought for a moment, deciding to go with reading body language since it was nearly impossible to read between the lines – the politician's words were his best weapon, he rarely let the reservations slip. And yes, he let them slip.

"I probably should apologize." Mycroft said.

His tone was absolutely indifferent, his face an almost emotionless mask. He uncrossed his hands and put his palms on the back of the sofa he was leaning on, gripping the colorful upholstery. He leaned forward slightly, head bowed a little, eyes locked on the floor. It was so obvious that the man felt highly uncomfortable in the situation, but Lestrade refused to make it easier for him. It was something they both had to get through.

"That sounds a little too official," the DI commented.

Mycroft glanced at him and only then realized that his position was giving away too much, so he straightened and looked the other man in the eye.

"I should apologize?" The politician repeated, but this time it sounded more like a mocking question.

"Try again," Lestrade retorted, but he was smiling lightly.

Mycroft pursed his lips, frowning at his lover. After a moment he closed his eyes and took a long breath, letting the air out slowly. Lestrade took a step closer to him, and then another but stopped when grey eyes bore into him again. After all it wasn't that difficult to read Mycroft Holmes. With him it was useless to look for the subtle hints that could betray hidden thoughts. No, with Mycroft one better notice the slightest changes in his behavior, attitude, speech…And strangely, for a person who knew him well it wasn't so difficult to tell what the older Holmes was feeling. At least it'd give you a glance to reach over the impenetrable wall that the man had built around himself.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft finally said, loudly and clearly as a challenge to himself, his eyes never leaving his lover's. He wanted to make it right.

"I forgive you," Lestrade replied, even though in his mind it was so obvious it didn't need pronouncing. "I'm sorry as well."

"You are forgiven," Mycroft said with dignity, straightening and letting go of the sofa.

"Always so formal," Lestrade muttered smiling, crossing the room in two strides and blocking Mycroft's way, putting his hands on the sofa on both sides of Mycroft.

The politician lifted his eyebrows questioningly, but the glint in his eyes said that he was quite happy with the new arrangement.

Suddenly his attention was distracted and Mycroft turned his head away to glance at the window.

"It's raining," he stated, slight wonder in his tone.

"Yes, it started almost as soon as we came here," Lestrade stated simply. He frowned in confusion. "Is that bad? You don't need to worry, you have the umbrella…Don't tell me that it's not actually an umbrella but some kind of high-tech weapon or that it has a gun or a sword hidden inside." He was only half joking.

"Don't be ridiculous," Mycroft scoffed. "I'm not some kind of a fictional character."

"Good then. So is the rain bad? It seems like it'd turn into a full thunderstorm."

"No. It's good. Very good."