Sherlock: I need you to make sure that my brother is at Baker Street at one o'clock tomorrow afternoon. -SH

Lestrade: Why?

Sherlock: It's a surprise. Make sure you're both here. -SH

Lestrade: Can't you at least tell me what it's about?

Sherlock: Do you really think you are able to keep any sort of secret from Mycroft? I never had you down as delusional, Lestrade. Trust me – it's a good surprise. -SH

Lestrade: Fine. I'll do my best. See you tomorrow.

Gregory: Fancy having lunch tomorrow? We haven't been in our café for ages! Say, twelve?

Mycroft: That would be delightful. I was going to suggest doing something tomorrow anyway – it seems years since we've spent any real time together. -M

Gregory: It's only been two days! And they're because your head was turned by the Foreign Secretary. It's fine, it's fine. Don't apologise. I know I can't compete...

Gregory: P.S. I miss you.

Mycroft: The FS might have had my body, but my mind remained true to you. I felt quite unfaithful at times... I miss you too. -M

Gregory: Do I need to start sewing tags into your clothes saying 'Property of D.I Lestrade'? Is that what we have come to, Mycroft?

Mycroft: If you wish to do so, I would not object. -M

Gregory: I'll make sure to bring some along tomorrow, then.

Mycroft: I look forward to it immensely. -M

Gregory: x

Mycroft: x

They greeted each other warmly with sincere smiles and uninhibited kisses, as though they had been parted for months rather than simply forty-eight hours – each pleasantly surprised to find that the other had not changed their mind since Tuesday.

"Did you bring labels?" Mycroft asked, lips quirking into a teasing smile.

"Of course."

He was kissed again, hard – Greg's hands moving to his hips and pulling them closer together. Greg smirked and cocked his head to one side, admiring the pink tinge flushing across Mycroft's cheeks. "There you go. Now nobody can be in any doubt."

Neither gave a thought to the looks they were receiving as they stood in the middle of the London street in broad daylight, behaving like love-struck adolescents.

Eventually the knowledge that this wasn't their last chance to see each other, they pulled reluctantly away, grinning dopily through kiss-swollen lips, and entered the little café.

It was odd to think that the last time they had been there everything had been so completely different, and teetering on the very edge of such big change...

They stood together, hand in hand, and considered the enormity of what it had taken place here and the consequences it had had for them, both separately and together.

Greg turned his head slightly at the soft, "It's funny, isn't it?" that came from Mycroft.

He nodded slowly in agreement. "Bizarre."

Mycroft glanced sideways with a raised eyebrow. "Good bizarre?"

Greg smiled and gave the hand in his a brief squeeze. "The best."

They settled down at their usual table and Greg introduced Mycroft to the delights of Breakfast For Lunch – something which Mycroft found to be both perplexing and delightful, having never really understood the attraction himself. He was immediately hooked and at once proposed that they make it a regular occurrence. Even more enticing was Greg's casual proclamation that his own home-made fry-ups were far superior, and Mycroft actually wiggled in his seat when he was promised he could come over for one any time he liked.

They shared pudding – a dense slice of apple pie, with custard and two spoons, and then a second because Greg felt like he didn't get his fair share. Not that he got his fair share the second time round either.

It seemed to both men as though life couldn't be better; the awkwardness between them had completely passed, leaving only a residue of warm contentment. They were still very much aware that they were in the early days, but the early days of something good, something mutually favourable which – in their individual private opinions, made a bloody change.

Sitting back in his seat, blissfully full and content, Greg glanced surreptitiously over Mycroft's shoulder to the wall clock hanging above them whilst Mycroft himself was distracted by turning the dregs of his tea into something palatable. Twelve forty-five... Lestrade chewed his lip, the cogs of his mind whirring as he tried to formulate a plan to get Mycroft to Baker Street without sounding too contrived.

"Um..."

Setting his empty mug down upon the plastic tablecloth, Mycroft lifted his eyes to meet Greg's, eyebrow raised in expectation.

Greg faltered for a moment, then said casually, "I've got to nip over to Baker Street to pick something up from John. Fancy coming?"

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in distaste, but nodded. "Let's not stay long though. If it's a choice of spending an afternoon with you or with my brother, I know which I prefer."

The bright and cheery welcome they received from Sherlock as the front door opened did nothing to alleviate the distinct sense of foreboding in Greg's head. Nor did the quizzical look Mycroft shot him at Sherlock's exclamation of, "Good job, Lestrade! I didn't think you'd be able to pull it off!"

At a gesture from his brother, Mycroft began the assent upstairs with Greg two steps behind him and Sherlock taking up the rear. Confusion was not a comfortable place for Mycroft – it nearly always ended badly, and to think that Gregory had had a hand in it put him even more on edge. His senses were all on high-alert as they reached the landing, and he lingered several steps away from the doorway into the living room – almost apprehensive of what he was to find there. He wished that they were still in the café, or walking along the Thames as they had planned to do, or at Greg's flat sorting out boxes of books, or just anywhere but there...

A meaningful push from Sherlock in the small of his back sent Mycroft stumbling over the last few steps and into the cluttered sitting room, Straightening up, he found himself face to face with the person he had least expected, and least wanted, to see.

Mrs Holmes' lips tightened, her expression hard with surprise – evidently as pleased to see her son as he was to see her.

Mycroft found himself rendered mute and immobile as he struggled to register what was happening – until Sherlock, who was dragging a very bewildered Greg along after him, moved in-between them with a chirpy, "Well, this is nice, isn't it?" pushed his brother down onto the sofa and placed Greg beside him, looking very pleased with himself.

'Nice' was not a word any of the other three would've chosen to use.

Mrs Holmes' glare shifted from her eldest to her youngest as Sherlock took the seat beside her. "What is he doing here?"

Mycroft turned his face towards the empty corner of the room and focused on a tear in the wallpaper. He could already feel the uncomfortably familiar tightness beginning to clench itself around him, smothering the lightness of the day – of the past few weeks – and injecting the old instabilities back into his system against his will.

"I thought it would be nice," Sherlock tried to explain, although he sounded unconvincing even to his own ears. "I can't remember the last time we had a get together." He laughed awkwardly into the stony silence.

"And who's he supposed to be?" She nodded towards Greg who was perched on the edge of his seat feeling out of depth and out of place.

"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock waved a vague hand between them as an introduction. "Lestrade, our mother."

Greg rose quickly upon being addressed and leant over to offer a hand. "Very pleased to meet you." He hoped he sounded at least a little sincere. "I've heard a great deal-"

"I highly doubt that." Mrs Holmes sniffed and looked towards her youngest, ignoring Greg's hand completely. "And why is he here?"

"He's-"

"I'm Mycroft's boyfriend," Greg informed her tightly, irritated that that he was being treated as though he wasn't there. "I am here for him."

Mrs Holmes' lip curled unpleasantly, her eyes – identical to her sons' – swept over him, appraising Greg coldly, before fixing on Mycroft who was still keeping his had turned determinedly away. "Boyfriend?" She laughed and shook her head as if it were a poor joke. "Have you still not grown out of that nonsense, Mycroft? Really, I think it's about time you were sensible about these things. You're running out of time, if you have any time left at all. You need to start putting a little effort in instead of playing these silly games."

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his head. "Mother. Don't start-"

"Well what did you expect to happen?" Mycroft snapped suddenly, jerking his head around to glare at his brother. "How exactly did you expect this to go, Sherlock?"

"Mycroft…" Greg's hand felt burning hot as it slipped over his in an attempt to calm him.

Mycroft jerked away with a hiss, still smarting from the knowledge of the role Greg had played in all this, and now he had the audacity to presume he had the right to check him in such a way! And in front of people…

Stiff with anger and humiliation, Mycroft fixed his eyes determinedly on a bullet hole in the wall and counted down from a hundred in prime numbers, trying not see the look of triumph on his mother's face or notice the hurt on Greg's. Breathing was beginning to become laborious and it was painful to have to try and not let it show. Inhale…1, 3, 5, 7… exhale… 11, 13, 17, 19… inhale… 23, 29, 31, 37…exhale…palms together, fingers clasped blink once every five seconds and you'll be fine. Everything's bearable if you remember to keep existing.

At least he hadn't forgotten the old tricks.

"How long have you and my son been…at it, Mr Lestrade?"

"Um…" Dazed and more than a little confused by the whole situation, Greg tore his eyes away from where Mycroft pointedly ignoring him to address Mrs Holmes' question, choosing not to notice the barb of derision. "Not long. A couple of months. We're taking it slow."

"I see." Each word issued from the woman's mouth was slippery and insidious, and made Greg's skin prickle. "And have you always been so inclined?"

Greg shifted uncomfortably. "Not exactly. I was married until relatively recently."

"Indeed?" Her eyes flicked to Mycroft, lips curled in an amused smile. "A rebound. How interesting…It's beginning to make more sense to me now."

Mycroft's fingers twitched in his lap and he had to work harder to concentrate on the spot in the wall. 71, 73, 79,83… The exhale was unsteady… 87, 101, 103, 107… He dug his finger nails into the palm of his hand to distract himself… 109, 111, 113, 117…

Greg shifted uneasily. "I wouldn't exactly call it a rebound-"

"So, the cause of the divorce was your desire to be in a," She sniffed, "relationship with Mycroft?"

"Well, not exactly, but-"

"Are you in love with him?"

Greg's cheeks coloured. "Excuse me?"

Mrs Holmes fixed him with a piercing eye that reminded him strikingly of Mycroft. "Are you in love with him?" she repeated with exaggerated slowness. "It's a simple question, Detective Inspector."

In Greg's opinion, she could not have asked a more complex one; they had not said it to one another yet, they were still laying down the foundations of their relationship, and – no matter how close to being able to say it Greg was – this was not the circumstances he had envisioned for their first time. He was brought uncomfortably back to the evening he had proposed to Caroline; the intention had been there, he had bought the ring the week before, he was ready to do it, but in his own time. Why his ex-sister-in-law had had to interfere and announce at a family dinner that she had found the ring in his jacket pocket… He remembered feeling several pairs of eyes all fix upon him expectantly, just as they did now, rushing him and putting him on the spot. He remembered hesitating in the same way and hating himself for doing it, but being able to say either 'yes' or 'no' because neither was appropriate.

"I-"

"I'm going to make tea," Mycroft announced suddenly, unable to stand this any longer. He had lost count the moment the question had left his mother's lips, despising the way she belittled the sentiment with her mocking tone, and stung – yet unsurprised – by Greg's unwillingness to answer. He rose unsteadily, using the arm of the sofa to lever himself up.

Greg got up after him, sensing Mycroft's disappointment and needing the chance to explain. "Mycroft…"

"Leave him," Mrs Holmes said coolly, looking after her eldest's retreating back. "Don't rise to it. He's always loved his little dramas."

"Fuck you," Greg told her with all the calmness of barely contained anger. "And fuck you too," he added, glancing at Sherlock who, for the first time in their acquaintance, was looking distinctly contrite. Greg shook his head in disgust and turned his back with a muttered, "Unbelievable," before following after Mycroft and sliding the door between the kitchen and living room shut, giving them at least the illusion of privacy.

He stood for a moment and watched Mycroft reach up to rummage in the higher cupboards, looking – no doubt – for something that bore even the vaguest resemblance to half-decent tea. He gave up and fetched down a large box of PG Tips Pyramids – John's personal stash – and slammed it down upon the countertop, causing several teabags to jump out and scatter across the linoleum. They were ignored. Greg moved cautiously around him and bent to retrieve the fallen teabags, throwing them with a skilful aim towards the open bin before standing beside Mycroft and rinsing a chipped teapot under the tap. He was ignored also.

Feeling distinctly dejected, Greg moved a Bunsen burner and a petri-dish containing an unknown specimen from the nearest tray and slid it towards Mycroft, glancing at the other man out of the corner of his eye. Mycroft's expression was tight and unyielding; his lips were set into a single, hard line, his nostrils were flared angrily and he kept his eyes determinedly fixed upon the box of tea as he waited for the kettle to boil.

"You okay?" Greg asked quietly, inching his hand closer to Mycroft's.

"Fine."

"No you're not." Their fingertips brushed.

Mycroft jerked his hand away, almost knocking over the teapot. "Then why ask?"

Greg sighed and turned to face him. "Mycroft, look…I know you're upset, but there's no point taking it out on me."

"Thank you for, once again, informing me of what I should and should not do," Mycroft returned with a snarl, grabbing a handful of mugs from the same cupboard he had found the tea. "I'll be sure to take your advice, seeing as you have made yourself the leading fucking expert!"

Wincing, Greg rubbed his forehead. "You know that's not what I-"

"I do not need this from you as well!" The last note was plaintive, with just the slightest waver, and conveyed all the hurt that had been building up since they had arrived at Baker Street.

Greg swallowed, hating himself for the role he had played in this fiasco. "I don't mean to lecture," he said softly. "And I am sorry for bringing you here in the first place."

"Why did you?" Mycroft's voice was barely above a murmur as he kept his head bowed, addressing the mugs more than Greg, who gave a hapless shrug.

"I didn't know," he replied lamely. "Sherlock said I should bring you, that it was a surprise - a good surprise – and I…Well," he finished with a shake of his head. "I should've known better than to put my faith in Sherlock."

"Yes," said Mycroft coolly, "you should've."

"But I didn't know and I'm sorry. Come here." He reached out to draw Mycroft to him, hoping that the affection would soften the tension.

"Stop telling me what to do!" Mycroft slapped him away again, bristling with anger. "Why do you suddenly presume to have the right to do that? If this is what a relationship is I don't want it!"

"Excuse me?" Greg retreated back a step, staring at him in disbelief. "You don't want what, exactly? You don't want someone to try and pull you out of your mood? You don't want someone to give a shit when you're upset? What? I don't get you!"

A flicker of regret flashed across Mycroft's eyes, before he raised his chin and looked at Greg levelly. "I don't want somebody who thinks they can speak to me like a child."

"Woah!" Greg raised his hands in surrender with a dry laugh. "Okay, fine. Let me get this straight – you want someone who will nod and smile and go 'Yes, Mycroft' and not tell you when you're being a shit, right? Look," He took a deep breath, gathering himself back under control and when he continued, he continued carefully. "I fucked up, I know that. I have apologised, I am trying to support you. I want to be on your side, but you're the one not letting me! I have no time people who whine and moan and refuse to let anyone help them, Mycroft, and I am surprised that you are one of those people. And more than a little disappointed, actually." Greg made a disparaging sound in the back of his throat and shook his head. "You've obviously got a lot of shit to deal with but if you don't want my help, that's your prerogative. Fuck this, I don't need this from you."

Mycroft stared hopelessly after him as Greg turned on his heel and wrenched the sliding door back, storming through the living room and snatching up his jacket without a word of goodbye to any of them.