A/N: This is a late birthday gift for the wonderful ivefoundmygoldfish who's such a wonderful friend and beta, and who introduced me to the hell that is mystrade! Also, thanks to earlgreytea68, who was so kind to beta-read for me!

Here we meet again

It was already dark when Greg exited his car, the clouds putting an early end to what hadn't been a very bright spring day to begin with. To make things even worse, the grey mess above had seemingly decided to, again, soak everyone below and make sure not one spot remained dry. Without an umbrella and no chance to find a parking lot closer to his destination, Greg simply sighed deeply, accepted his fate and set down the street.

He crossed the main road, carefully avoiding the spray of dirty water caused by cars driving by, until the market square came into view. The very fancy-looking restaurant he headed to was small, pressed between the facade of a bakery and a café. He entered, the door squeakingas Greg pushed against it, and steeled himself for the disapproving glances of one or two posh guests sitting nearby, but no heads turned to stare at his dripping form in the doorway. After hanging up his coat and at least somewhat drying his shoes on the carpet, Greg quickly scanned the room, finding the reason for his visit sitting at a small table tugged into a corner. The man didn't look up to acknowledge him, but the way he held his shoulders and had his head leaned slightly to the right, listening, told Greg he was aware of his presence.

The distance between them quickly lessened as Greg wound his way around the tables, determined not to falter in his stride. Once he'd reached his destination, he plumped unceremoniously into the free chair and focused on the damp hem of his shirt. A rather pointless attempt, given his state of complete wetness and the droplets of water running down his neck, but he continued wiping it on his jeans, more out of need for something to do than anything else. He couldn't even tell why he was so self-conscious.

There was silence, an awful lot of it, and although Greg should be used to it by now, it unsettled him more than he cared to admit. "Sorry I'm late." And with a faint gesture to his suit, darkest where the fabric was wettest, he added, "And for...this."

"It's alright," Mycroft answered, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The sign of emotion was so unexpected, Greg stared, but the tension fell away from him immediately.

Mycroft caught him staring, and the smile disappeared to be replaced by his usual passiveness. "I just got here myself," he added, face carefully controlled again.

Greg snorted. "No, you didn't."

"No, I didn't." And just like that, the smile was back, this time full force, unguarded and open. The sight chased away the coldness, and Greg momentarily forgot all about the wetness of his skin.

They quickly scanned the menu, falling into their old, well-practiced pattern of silence and awkward looks out of the corner of their eyes. It was their anniversary of sorts. Fifteen meetings in the past year, all held for the single purpose of discussing Sherlock and the so far fruitful attempt to keep him clean and occupied.

They passed the time until their lunch was served with smalltalk. Or Greg did, at least. He talked about his latest case, complained about the incapability of some of the Bart's staff he'd had to deal with recently and moaned about the London traffic. The parking situation. The weather. Everything.

Mycroft, on the other hand, simply listened, and on very rare occasions expressed his understanding with a nod or a muttered exclamation of 'yes' or 'I see'. Nonetheless, Greg found it always refreshing to be able to voice his thoughts without anyone judging him, and took an odd comfort in these one-sided conversations. So much, even, that he'd started to look forward to these secret meetings. The familiar number withheld on his mobile screen alone worked wonders on his nerves. Why, Greg didn't dare consider, yet.

It should have felt awkward; talking to the most uptight and punctilious man about such trivial matters, talking to Mycroft Holmes, but it had become their pattern. And both seemed to enjoy it, relish it, although what the elder Holmes gained from Greg's string of quite meaningless words was beyond the inspector's reach. Maybe it helped encourage his desire to keep distancing himself from such normal - and probably to him very boring - talk, or it functioned as the last true social interaction that wasn't accompanied by manipulation or deduction. Greg liked to think the latter was true, although he doubted Mycroft could switch off the urge to analyse him, whatever the circumstances. Surprisingly, that thought didn't unsettle him as much as it probably should.

When their food came, it marked a turning point of their meeting. And sure enough, after they had raised their wine glasses and taken a careful sip, Mycroft addressed the reason of them coming together.

"So, has my brother tormented the Yard lately? I hope you have lost not too high an amount of sleep over him."

"Nah," Greg waved his concern away with his hand, still holding his glass of wine. His gaze quickly focused on the red fluid swirling dangerously, and he hurried to safely put it down again. Mycroft, however, didn't seem to mind the offending gesture. "Just the usual nagging," Greg continued. "Lots of insults, mainly, of how stupid we all are. Nothing we're not used to, mind you, and he did solve the case after all."

"How long did it take him this time?"

"4 hours and 37 min," Greg answered, trying to ignore the rare sign of surprise on the other man's face. He'd counted the hours and minutes, yes, because he knew Mycroft would ask.

Face back to the usual unreadable mask, the elder Holmes focused back on his food. "He's slipping. Any idea as to why?"

Greg thought back to their last encounter, and how Sherlock had hesitated just a tad too long before commenting on Greg's usual lack of brains. "He seemed distracted, like something was keeping him from connecting the dots."

Across from him, Mycroft froze, his fork halfway between his mouth and plate.

"No, no," Greg quickly continued. "It's not drugs."

"Are you sure?" His voice didn't waver, but Greg could hear the deliberate calmness, and, for a terrifying and confusing moment, thought he caught a glimpse of emotion as well. But the moment passed and Greg felt the weight on his chest disappear. He dragged in a deep breath to calm his racing heart.

"Yes. John seemed a bit beside himself, too. It's probably either between the two of them or about someone they know very well."

Taking a few bites from his pasta, Mycroft seemed to consider the possibilities. "What do you think?"

Greg hesitated, before answering carefully, "I know very little about the art of deduction, or at least your and Sherlock's approach to it." He might be a copper and no stranger to constructing the greater picture, but Greg preferred to not be humiliated in front of a Holmes. Especially not the one who was probably one of Britain's most intelligent and influential men. Especially not in front of Mycroft.

"Don't sell yourself short, Detective Inspector, you know quite a bit." He didn't say 'quite a lot', which really was rather telling, but rather than feeling offended, Greg couldn't help the smile stealing itself on his face, as well as the heat he could feel rising to his face and neck. Normally, his flushed face wasn't very obvious, but this was Mycroft. Sure the elder Holmes hadn't missed it and flustered by the embarrassment that followed that realisation, Greg struggled for words. "Well…"

"Go on."

The encouragement broke Greg's resolve, and his shyness was replaced by the desire to impress. "Sherlock's not a role model, with his weird moods, so I'll focus on John, who did accompany him to the crime scene, but wasn't his usual self either. While Sherlock seemed more annoyed, however, John was simply distant."

The waiter came to refill his glass, causing Greg to pause in his narration. But the interruption was welcome, seeing as it presented him the opportunity to think. He sipped at his wine, considering the rest of his answer.

"My guess?" he asked, just to be sure, and Mycroft nodded. "Sherlock did something rude and offensive, probably pissed off John's girlfriend again - he did mention a night out last we met which I know he didn't attend yesterday evening - and John's probably angry. It doesn't take a great mind to draw said conclusion. God knows what he threatened Sherlock with, I'm impressed he's even able to get through to your brother."

"It is fascinating, the influence John has over him," Mycroft admitted, the hesitation in his tone hinting at a deeper meaning.

"Hm." Focusing his attention on manoeuvering the bits of spaghetti onto his spoon, Greg said absently, "Not that much, no."

"Oh?" The confusion on Mycroft's face was evident and expected. What surprised Greg was the uncharacteristic curiosity and hope that he thought he recognised.

"He craves danger," Greg explained simply, "and would do a lot for a good adventure. Why would the mystery of a Holmes not entice him? I do understand the attraction." Realising what he'd just said, Greg quickly lowered his eyes to his plate, the flush returning full force. "Although he's much better at suppressing the urge to punch him."

The waiter chose that exact moment to stop and ask if they wanted anything else. While Mycroft thanked him, Greg studied the herbs in his sauce, suddenly not that hungry anymore. The loud beating of his heart and internal curses at his own damn mouth almost drowned out Mycroft's response.

"My brother is in his own way a very difficult person to understand, Gregory," Mycroft said softly. "Both of us are - albeit in different ways - complicated."

The use of his first name wasn't lost on Greg, but if Mycroft regretted it, he didn't let it show. His gaze seemed far away as he added, "John is rather good for him."

The words were almost whispered, like an afterthought not meant to be spoken aloud. The atmosphere had changed unmistakably. Their topic of conversation, first light and edging on playful, had changed from Sherlock to something far more complicated Greg struggled to define. How they had ended up here, he wasn't sure. His mouth speaking before his brain had caught up had probably been part of it.

"Yes," Greg agreed, quickly reaching for his glass to wet his dry throat.

The awkward silence returned, filled only by the clatter of metal against porcelain as they ate. Just as Greg was sure they wouldn't exchange another word until they'd finished their meal and said their goodbyes, he heard Mycroft taking in a sharp breath.

He steeled himself for whatever Mycroft would say to lessen the tension.

"I keep boring you about Sherlock, my sincere apology. How have you been?"

Greg froze and stared at Mycroft. What?

The confusion Greg felt must have been visible on his face, because Mycroft quickly added, "We've shared a lot of meals, and yet I barely know anything about you."

That was by far the most ridiculous thing Greg had heard all evening. "You know everything, Mycroft, with your 'minor position' in the British government. I'm sure you even know what sort of cornflakes I had for breakfast this morning and which red traffic light I passed on my way to work." Flashing the elder Holmes a smirk he added, "Thanks for not reporting me, by the way."

Mycroft didn't object nor confirm the accusation. "And your daughter?"

"Is that a threat?" Greg asked, raising an eyebrow. It had been meant as a joke, another way to ease the previous tension.

Mycroft went rigid, blinking rapidly. "No, I... I merely thought.." He seemed actually unsure how to continue. "If you do not wish to discuss personal matters, Inspector, but keep this arrangement on a strictly professional level-"

Noticing how Mycroft had switched back to the formal form of address, Greg felt his heart sink, and regretted his words. His disapointment, however, was quickly replaced by disbelief as the words reached his brain. "Are you asking if I want to be friends?"

Mycroft hesitated, again. "If you do not -"

"She's fine, Emma," Greg interupted him, afraid Mycroft might reconsider. "We met up for her birthday last week and dined at a nice Italian restaurant. I'm glad she seems to have finally accepted the divorce and forgiven me, especially since breaking contact with her wasn't an option for me."

Mycroft seemed truly confused. "But it wasn't your fault."

Greg shrugged. People kept saying that, and he'd had that argument with himself many times. But what difference did it make? "Maybe not, but she's only 16 and eager to lay blame. [Name of ex-wife] didn't tell her why I filed for divorce and I am most certainly not going to explain to her that her mother cheated on me. Destroying their bond wouldn't help anyone."

They chatted back and forth after that, keeping up a light stream of conversation. Mycroft seemed truly interested in his life, and Greg gave information willingly, accepting that the elder Holmes wasn't and wouldn't be revealing anything about himself. Mycroft asked, Greg answered. Simple, yet more personal and intimate than any of their previous encounters.

Plates were cleaned, dessert served and glasses emptied. Before either of them knew it, they were standing on the pavement in front of the restaurant. The rain had stopped, and the watery film on the streets shimmered in the daylight. A car drove past, splashing up muddy water that barely avoided them.

"Maybe you two should lay aside whatever brotherly rivalry you have going on," Greg mused, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. "It seems ridiculous, your distance-keeping, when you obviously care so much about him."

It was true, and Greg meant it as honest advice. But as the silence stretched on, he started to regret his words. Greg became painfully aware of whom he was talking to, that it was none other than Mycroft Holmes standing beside him, and his stomach clenched.

"I am sorry, that wasn't..." He didn't dare look at the elder Holmes, while trying - and failing - to desperately find his way back to that easy-going flow of conversation from just minutes before. But there was nothing to be done, the opportunity had passed.

"My sincere apology," Greg mumbled, already mourning something that hadn't really been reachable in the first place. "It isn't my place to judge. I know nothing about your brother, nor do I know anything about you."

Staring straight ahead, anywhere but to his right, Greg waited for a response. For the venomous words calling him out for his behaviour or angry footsteps quickly putting distance between them.

Beside him, Mycroft slowly turned to look at him. He studied the DI intently, carefully weighing his next words.

Finally, he said, very quietly so that Greg almost didn't hear it, "You know enough."

Surprised, Greg turned to ask what that meant, but Mycroft had already disappeared into the London traffic, leaving a bewildered DI behind.

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