Title: When We Stand Together

Pairings: Mycroft & Lestrade , minor John & Sherlock

Warning: AU, Ages differ from Cannon, Not Beta'd - any mistakes are mine.

Summary: AU. Mycroft's parents die and Mycroft is left in charge of four year old Sherlock. Gregory Lestrade just wants the four year old to stop sneaking into crime scenes, and maybe for Mycroft to give him his number. Mystrade.

.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, it is the property of it's respective owners. I have not, and will not make any money off of this work at any point, nor do I claim the character's as my own.

.

Oneshot

.

.

Mycroft Holmes dropped out of college, two years into his degree and only one course shy of graduating three years early. His 'friends' at College claimed he just up and left one morning, no word of warning. Some of them thought he'd gotten into some bad stuff, like drugs and Mafia kind of bad, others were sure he'd just been called back to the family fold. Others just didn't care the reason. There was even rumours of secret lovers and fleeing to South America.

Of course, the real reason was hardly that dramatic, merely tragic.

Mycroft stared at the young boy slumbering, sprawled across the couch, a half-sized Violin clutched to his chest. "Does he know?"

"Not yet." The doctor glanced at the eighteen year old. "Mycroft..."

"I'll tell him in the morning. Let him sleep," Mycroft commanded, stepping back. "He should hear it from me."

The boy wiggled on the couch, one eye opening sluggish, defying him even by simply waking early. "My?" The boyish tone was filled with sleepy confusion. Mycroft tensed, but went to crouch next to the child.

"Bonjour, 'Lock," Mycroft greeted his younger brother. The boy blinked, releasing his death grasp on his violin.

"What..." The four year old's eyes narrowed, scanning his brother. Mycroft stayed still, knowing there was no stopping the realisation now. The mental wounds were too fresh, he couldn't hide them, not even from the four year olds prying eyes. Sherlock's eyes widened abruptly. "No." His eyes filled with tears, the first time he had cried since infanthood. Mycroft flinched as the tears slid down the pale cheeks. He longed to reach for his brother, but he knew the boy wouldn't allow it, so he simply sat that, listening to broken sobs.

"Mommy," the boy cried, "Daddy!"

Even at four years old, something in Mycroft eyes told Sherlock all about the tragedy that had become their parents.

Mycroft felt tears burn the back of his eyes, but he did not allow them to fall. The doctor watched the Holmes' boys mourn their parents, and sighed, stepping back to give them privacy.

.

"Are you sure, Mycroft?" Missus Laura asked, wringing her hands. "London?"

Mycroft paused his packing and glanced at the house keeper. "Yes. It is for the best."

"Best for who?" Laura threw her hands in the air. "His parents died, Mycroft. He doesn't need to worry about a new house, new people, and the city."

"My parents died too!" Mycroft snapped, slamming his suitcase with a loud 'snap!' that startled the elderly woman. Her eyes were wide, but filled with sympathy almost instantly.

"Oh, dear," she whispered, stepping closer to the boy she had raised. She carded her fingers through his thick brown hair, messing up the product-filled style. "I know - and God bless both of you - but Myrcoft, he is only a lad. You..."

...should be able to handle this? ...need to be the parent? ...Need to take responsibility of him? ...need to make decisions only for him? There were millions of finishes to that partially whispered statement, and Mycroft hated all of them.

Their parents had died, but it seemed that only Sherlock was allowed to grieve.

"I've made my decision, Missus Laura," Mycroft said coldly. "You and the staff may stay here with regular pay, but we will not be returning."

.

Missus Laura put Mycroft in contact with an friend of her younger sister, Mrs. Hudson. She and her husband lived in a small building which rented out part of them as flats. One of them was up for rent, and Missus Laura had insisted that he go and look.

Arriving at 221B Baker Street, holding tight to Sherlock's reluctant hand, the eighteeen year old stared at the dark buildings of London. He wondered again if this was the right decision, but there was no going back.

He raised his hand to knock and Sherlock huffed.

"I don't like London," he announced loudly, trying to tug his hand away from Mycroft's, but his brother held tight.

Mycroft said nothing, but plastered a polite smile on his face as the door opened. A pretty petite woman stood before him, her hair beginning to grey though she appeared only late thirties, early fourties. Her smile was tired, but warm. Judging from the way her eyes lit up at the sight of Sherlock, she liked children.

"Hello dear!" She swept forward, embracing Mycroft, much to his shock. "I am so sorry about your parents! My sister told me all about it." Mycroft doubted she knew the real details, but then again, no one did. "Please, come in, come in." She waved them inside, and Sherlock scowled, but was gently tugged inside the building.

"Flat B is upstairs. My husband and I are just through there," she motioned to her own flat, smiling still, though it grew more forced at the mention of her husband. "Go on up, I need to fetch Mr. Hudson some food and then I will come up and see how you like it." She waved them up the stairs and Mycroft followed her suggestion.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he said, through another polite smile.

.

The flat wasn't too bad, Mycroft thought. The rent was fair and it was close enough to a few schools for when Sherlock eventually went, and it was close to the building he would be working in. There was just one last thing he needed to check on, before signing the lease.

"Sherlock?" He called out, frowning as he glanced through the rooms trying to find his wayward brother. The four year old balanced precariously on a chair, obviously dragged from the kitchen, to reach something on the mantle piece.

...A skull. A human skull.

"Oh dear!" Mrs. Hudson gasped from the doorway, holding a tray of cookies and tea. "The last tenant left that! I kept meaning to get rid of it but - "

"Leonard!" Sherlock announced loudly, staring at the skull. "His name is Leonard."

Mycroft stared at his brother for a moment, before smiling pleasantly. Each smile he managed to force felt somewhat like it was drawing blood. "We'll take the flat, Mrs. Hudson, if you will. Oh, and the skull."

Mrs. Hudson looked lost, but nodded, still staring at the boy who now sat, crossed legged on the floor, examining the human remains with the brightest smile she had ever seen on a child.

.

Sherlock got the upstairs room and Mycroft took the downstairs one. Perhaps if Sherlock had two sets of stairs he had to climb down, Mycroft might be able to catch him before he managed to sneak out of the flat.

Maybe.

Perhaps he should install some security cameras? He could link them to his phone, so he could check on the younger boy during work. He'd need to find a babysitter, but, well, Mycroft figured a second pair of eyes on the young boy couldn't hurt anyone.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft called out, dropping the last box into his brother's room. "Come unpack."

"Dull!" The four year old whined, stomping into the room. At his brother's firm look, the boy ripped open the boxes and promptly chucked all of his books and clothes out onto the floor. He took great care to place his chemistry kit and dissection kit on the table in the corner, before dumping everything else out of the boxes.

"Done," he announced, and stomped over to the desk and settling on the chair.

Mycroft stared at the messy room, and sighed. He crouched to sort out the mess, ignoring the smirk on his brother's face. Damn brat, Mycroft thought, resentment festering in his gut as Sherlock stared at a slide of mould in his microscope.

.

The first nanny lasted a day.

.

The second lasted two minutes.

.

The third lasted two weeks, but was promptly fired and brought up on child abuse charges when Mycroft caught the woman smacking Sherlock. He had come home early from work, as his brother had been acting oddly since the third nanny had been hired, hoping to surprise his brother with some biscuits. Sherlock hated sweet things, so Mycroft had gotten Chocolate biscuits for himself, and Almond biscuits for Sherlock.

Using his key to enter the flat, he heard stomping from upstairs and the sound of a struggle. He dropped the biscuits on the table inside the door and took teh stairs two at a time to reach the source of the noise.

He got there just in time to catch sight of the palm headed for Sherlock's red face, but he was too far away to stop it. The sound was loud in the quiet room, and Sherlock didn't even make a noise.

Mycroft's face went fuchsia with rage, and he grabbed hold of the female's wrist. She was practically thrown from the flat, and Mrs. Hudson only watched with shocked eyes, as Mycroft spat, "if that woman ever comes near Sherlock or this flat again, call the police."

Slamming the door and locking it behind him, Mycroft returned to his brother. Sherlock stood where he had been before, rubbing his reddened cheek and sniffling. Mycroft dropped to his knees and pulled his brother into a hug, ignoring the way he struggled at first, but even the snarky, grumpy four year old couldn't resist the comfort for too long, and soon burst into tears. Mycroft felt his shoulder growing damp but only clung tighter to his brother.

The charges were filled the next morning, and Mycroft used every connection he had gained at that point to make sure it stuck.

.

The fourth Nanny was far better suited for Sherlock, and to be honest, Mycroft wondered if it was helping Mrs. Hudson as well. Hiring their landlady as the nanny had been her own idea.

She had insisted that it would only be temporary ("I'm your landlady, dear, not your live-in Nanny") but as the weeks passed, Mycroft stopped looking for a replacement, and Mrs. Hudson stopped asking how the search was going.

.

Sherlock ran away frequently. Back at the Manor, he had acres of land to explore. In London, he only had the flat and that just wasn't enough for the curious four year old. The surveillance that Mycroft placed on him turned out to be invaluable, as the amount of frantic phone calls from Mrs. Hudson were easy to solve by simply scanning the CCTV footage.

Sure, it took up quite a lot of Mycroft's days at some point, but every time, Sherlock was returned safely.

Until one day when the storms knocked out much of the CCTV cameras. Mycroft prayed that it would not be one of the days Sherlock disappeared, but shortly after 2pm, his fear was confirmed.

"Mycroft! I can't find him," Mrs. Hudson cried into the phone. "We were just out shopping and -" she sobbed. Mycroft brought up the footage, but received only grey fuzz for his efforts. He swore.

"I'll be right there," he told her swiftly. He left the files open on his desk, dodging his secretary and hurrying out the building at run. He saw people scoffing at him, whispering how terrible a boss he was, running out and the day wasn't even done yet. He blocked them out, and simply kept running.

.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft bellowed over the sound of roaring traffic. Of course, Sherlock had to disappear in the heart of London, during the worst thunder storm of the year. Mycroft was soaked, head to toe, and had sent Mrs. Hudson home after she began to sneeze from the cold. He had called in some favours, and had others out looking too, but there had been no success so far.

The sound of an ambulance caught Mycroft's attention as it sped to some location up ahead. He felt his heart stutter, and he sent up a prayer to whatever deity was watching over he and Sherlock, before racing after the siren and lights.

.

"You're wrong!" Sherlock snapped, "he didn't die from asphyxiwation!"

The entire crime scene froze, and glanced towards the voice. The four year old was soaked, red nosed, and scowling at the elderly medical examiner.

"What the hell?" The examiner said. "Why is there a kid in the crime scene?"

"Get lost, brat," the young black haired assistant snapped and Sherlock screwed up his face in annoyance.

"No! You're wrong! Wrong! Wrong!"

"What the devil?" A deep voice said from behind Sherlock and a hand grabbed his shoulder. "What is going on here? Who is this?"

"I don't know, Lestrade," the medical examiner said, running a gloved hand through his hair (Sherlock scoffed. He just got blood in his hair - so much for not contaminating the crime scene!), stepping up to hide the body from the four year old's gaze. "I was going through cause of death with Anderson and he just...appeared."

"Is he a witness, do you think?" A uniformed officer asked, staring with adoring eyes at the precious little boy, who shot her a dark look and her smile faded to a frown.

"I'm four, not a baby!" He huffed. "I can answer for myself!" He was very well spoken for a four year old, the Detective had to admit, and stared at the young boy.

"Well? Are you?" Lestrade asked, feeling...awkward. He wasn't bad with children, but he hadn't had that much experience either.

"No," Sherlock pouted. "Just a witness to the stupidity of your scientists." There was a slight lisp to his speaking, and his sulky tone belied the adult words.

"How did you get here?" Lestrade asked, trying to steer the boy away from the body. He wiggled and struggled though, causing Lestrade to bodily lift the boy up so as to get him from the scene. They stood near the police cars, on the inside of the police tape.

"I flew," Sherlock said sarcastically, shivering slightly. The sound of sirens approached the scene and Sherlock scowled. "It wasn't asfwicitation."

"What?" Lestrade blinked.

"He didn't die of asfwiciation," Sherlock repeated, sounding annoyed and still struggling over the large word. "Look at his eyes, he doesn't have - "

"SHERLOCK!" A familiar voice bellowed, and Lestrade jerked around.

A slender man was racing towards them, his suit soaked through and his brown hair hanging low across his face. His nose was red and his eyes frantic, but locked on the boy. The man couldn't have been more than twenty himself.

Ah, so the boy was a runaway, Lestrade thought, dragging his eyes from the rather handsome young man back to the young boy. Sherlock's cheeks were bright red with embarrassment as his brother ducked under the police tape and over to where his brother stood. Mycroft scooped him up.

"No! My!" Sherlock shrieked. "Put me down! Noooo!"

"Don't you EVER run off like that again," Mycroft snapped, his voice cold but he clung to the boy, keeping his brother firmly in his arms.

"I wasn't in danger!" Sherlock retorted, wiggling. "I knew where I was, and I went to the police, like Nanny Helga use'ta tell me to do."

Mycroft wanted to throttle his brother, but finally glanced towards the young police detective watching them.

"I take it this hellion is yours?" Lestrade joked lamely, motioning to Sherlock.

Mycroft nodded, a polite smile that erred on the side of 'honest relief' than 'fake politeness'. "Yes. I hope he didn't cause irreparable trouble?"

"You're sure he caused some trouble though?" Lestrade asked, catching on to the phrasing and Mycroft shrugged. He knew his brother. "He was fine. He should be kept under closer watch though, but it seems that this won't happen again-"

Sherlock scoffed loudly, still wiggling. Mycroft scowled at his brother and held tighter.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow but kept going. "I'm, ah, sorry to say he may have caught sight of the...victim..." He winced, and waited for the angry explosion of worry from the...parent?

Mycroft looked relieved. "That's all? Good."

"That's all? What the devil," Lestrade asked, mouth open. "He's a kid! That's not 'good'!"

Sherlock snickered and finally succeeded in dropping to the ground.

"Detective, there are far worse things to see and do in life than dead bodies," Mycroft said, rather briskly. "Now, do you need me to fill out some paperwork or something, or are we free to go?"

Lestrade blinked. "Ah, he didn't touch anything, so it should be fine...you can go. Just...keep him away from crime scenes."

Mycroft nodded, and scooped up Sherlock once again, ignoring the boy's loud protests. He ducked under the police tape and walked to the road.

Lesrade watched as a fancy black car pulled up. Sherlock was placed inside the back seat first, before Mycroft followed him inside. Lestrade shook his head, as the car disappeared.

"Well, that was the weirdest thing that's happened at a crime scene," so far, he thought, shaking his head again and returning to the victim as the ambulance loaded up the injured witness who had been sitting to the side.

.

Mycroft spent the next few days, sick on the couch while Sherlock sniffled and whined next to him, both wrapped in fuzzy blankets from Mrs. Hudson's flat and fed soup regularly.

When Sherlock's fever didn't drop down after three days, Mycroft booked an appointment at a doctor for that afternoon.

.

Dr. Watson's paediatrics office was filled with bright colours and noisy toys that had Sherlock clinging to his brother and groaning. The noise and the bright colours hurting his already sore head. Mycroft, dressed in dress pants and a white shirt, jacket slung around Sherlock's thin shoulders for extra warmth, had one arm wrapped around his brother as he thumbed through a magazine with the other hand.

"Mr. Holmes?" The nurse called out, and smiled as Mycroft picked up Sherlock, still wrapped in the jacket. "Come on through."

"I hate this place," Sherlock whimpered into Mycrofts neck, coughing wetly. Mycroft patted his back soothingly, sitting on the examination table, keeping hold of the boy. He was enjoying being able to hold his brother. Sherlock never allowed it when he was healthy.

"Mr. Holmes?" A greying man stepped inside, smiling at the pair. "Ah, and this must be Sherlock. Says here you played out in the rain too long and caught a cold?" The doctor glanced at Mycroft and raised an eyebrow. "Looks like your father did to."

Sherlock shot him a dark look. "Brother."

"What?"

"Brother, not daddy," Sherlock sniffled, nose running pitifully as he buried his face back in his brother's shoulder. "Stupid!"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft scolded, but patted his back absently. "Mycroft Holmes," he introduced himself to the doctor. "Sherlock is right, however, I am his brother, not his father."

"Ah, I thought you were a bit young," the doctor laughed, "but you never know these days! Now, why don't you set Sherlock down and I'll take a look."

It took a while to detach Sherlock from his neck but eventually the boy sat on the table, wiping his nose with his shirt sleeve, to annoy Mycroft. He got the desired scowl and smirked behind the sleeve.

"Say 'ahhhh'," the doctor encouraged, opening his mouth wide. Sherlock kept his mouth firmly shut.

"Sherlock," Mycroft groaned, his head throbbing already. "Just do it."

"No," Sherlock said, through clenched teeth.

"Come on, be a big boy," the doctor tried to coax but Sherlock scowled.

"I'm four."

Mycroft and the doctor shared mildly frustrated looks, before a knocking on the door distracted them.

"Yes?" The doctor called out and the nurses' blond head peeked inside.

"Sorry to disturb you, sir, but your son is here?" She looked apologetic. "Your wife dropped him off."

The doctor flinched, but then brightened. "Bring John in here, won't you?" The nurse looked confused but nodded, slipping out.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the doctor, who shot him a look that said 'trust me'.

An adorable, if not slightly pudgy, looking blond boy came toddling in. He looked about four or five, and beamed at the sight of his dad. He held out his arms for a hug, which the doctor granted happily, the older man groaning as he stood back up.

"Hi daddy," John greeted his father, brightly, before peering over his shoulder at the dark haired boy with obvious curiosity.

"Hi Johnny boy," the doctor greeted back, and rubbed his back. "Wanna give me a hand with something?" The boy nodded, still watching Sherlock. "This little boy is a bit confused as to how to do the examination. Wanna help him?"

John nodded happily, and was set beside Sherlock. "Hi!"

Sherlock scowled. "Hi."

"I'm John!"

"My name is Sherlock," Sherlock said primly, and John giggled.

"Ya gotta open your mouth," John announced, and mimicked what his father had done early, completely with 'ahhhh'. "It'll hurt if your throat's sore, but daddy can then help make it better."

Sherlock looked suspicious, but John's continuously bright smile seemed to be wearing away at him a bit. He opened his mouth slightly and John giggled. "Bigger!" He encouraged, until Sherlock opened his mouth fully.

Doctor Watson swooped in to examine the boy's throat while John continued to smile. The young blond continued to step Sherlock through the entire examination, even going so far as to hold his hand when it came time to check his ears, which hurt sometimes if the ears were sensitive. Judging by Sherlock's flinch when the doctor placed the device into his ears, it hurt.

"Well done, Sherlock!" Doctor Watson encouraged. "Why don't you and John go play in the waiting room while I talk to your brother?"

Sherlock scowled but nodded, wiggling down from the table and refusing help from Mycroft. The two boys toddled out, John talking excitedly the whole time, and tugging Sherlock's hand.

Mycroft watched, amused, before glancing at the doctor. "Just a cold," Watson confirmed. "I can prescribe some medicine for his throat and ears, and some cough drops in case his chest becomes congested, so far it seems like we caught it at the start, so depending on how he reacts to the medicine, it should get better instead of worse."

Mycroft nodded, but Watson continued. "I'd also like to, if you consent, give you a quick look over. I can't prescribe you anything, but I could suggest some over the counter medicine."

The elder Holmes looked surprised, but nodded. He hadn't had time to get to a doctor himself, and Sherlock would most likely be distracted by the blond boy for a while. His checkup was fast and painless, and he stepped out into the waiting room clutching the prescriptions for Sherlock.

"Thank you, Doctor," Mycroft said, his polite smile fixed firmly in place.

It took ten minutes to detach the two boys, who were playing cops and...well, cops, it appeared. Neither wanted to play the robbers, so the toys were sitting unused as the two boys played with the two 'cop' figures in the playpen.

"Bye 'Lock!" John waved from the pen as Mycroft finally hoisted his brother into his arms.

"Bye John," Sherlock mumbled back, pouting as he was taken from the doctors' office.

.

The next time the four year old appeared on the crime scene, Lestrade simply scooped him up and carted him away from the dead body, ignoring the cries of 'It was a suicide, idiot!'.

"Didn't your brother tell you not to run away again?" Lestrade asked, dropping the boy onto the park seat outside the crime scene.

Sherlock scowled. "No, he told me not the 'run off like that' again, not never run off. There's a difference."

Lestrade blinked. "Ah, no I don't think there is."

"Is too!" Sherlock scrunched up his face.

"Is not," Lestrade couldn't help but shoot back.

"Well, well, good to know the police force is in good hands," an amused voice came from behind and Lestrade flushed, spinning to face the toddler's elder brother.

Sherlock snickered, but squeaked when his brother swooped down and placed a loud kiss on his cheek. "EW!" He scrubbed his cheek. "Why did you do that?"

"You don't respond to threats, taking away your toys only ends up in damages to the flat and hitting you is simply not an option - so every time you run away, you will get one kiss, plus one extra for each time."

Sherlock looked horrified. "No!"

"Yes," Mycroft confirmed. "Next time, you will get two, and three the time after, and -"

"I get it, I get it!" Sherlock sulked, crossing his arms in a huff.

Lestrade grinned. "Inventive."

"Well, 'normal' does not work for Sherlock," Mycroft said calmly. "Thank you, Detective, for minding him."

"No problem," Lestrade said, chuckling. "Perhaps you should give me your number."

He froze, as did Mycroft.

"I mean, to call you if Sherlock shows up again!" That totally didn't sound like a come-on, well done Greg, Lestrade groaned to himself.

Mycroft looked amused. "Perhaps." He grabbed hold of Sherlock's hand and tugged him to his feet. "Come, Sherlock."

Sherlock was still pouting as his brother lead him away.

Lestrade watched them leave, cursing his stupid mouth for listening to his stupider brain. "Why not just give me your number?" Lestrade muttered to himself as he stalked back to the crime scene. "Try to come off a little creepier next time, Greg."

.

Sherlock appearing at crime scenes became a bit of a long-running joke, and Lestrade had taken to waiting outside the tape for the boy to show up at times, catching him before he got into where the body was. He often didn't manage to catch him, but some of the time was better than having a toddler staring at dead bodies.

"Hi Sherlock," Lestrade greeted him, watching the boy try to crawl passed a few police officers, not noticing Lestrade leaning against the police cruiser.

Sherlock pouted, but didn't try to run into the scene. He walked over and leant on the cruiser too. "You suck," he muttered, crossing his arms.

Lestrade ignored the insult. "Your brother coming to get you?" He hoped he didn't sound hopeful.

"No," Sherlock said, giving him an odd look. "My's got meetings all day. Nanny will be coming to get me."

"Not your Nanny dear!" a tired voice sounded, friendly, smiling at Greg. "Hello Gregory."

"Hullo Missus Hudson," Lestrade returned the greeting to Sherlock's Not-Nanny. "He didn't get away too far this time then?"

"No, no, Mycroft warned me about his pension for crime scenes. I suppose, considering the skull..." Mrs. Hudson said, shaking her head.

"The skull?" Lestrade blinked, and Mrs. Hudson launched into the story, all the while brushing her fingers through Sherlock's curls, while the boy pretended not to enjoy it.

.

Mycroft hadn't appeared to collect Sherlock in over a month, so when Lestrade caught sight of the slender man approaching him and Sherlock, it was a bit of a surprise. Sherlock snickered, shooting Lestrade a taunting look.

"Shush, you!" Lestrade still hadn't figured out how a four year old had guessed his crush on his elder brother.

Sherlock just smirked. Lestrade hadn't let him get close to the body this time, so he was feeling petty.

"Sherlock," Mycroft greeting, his voice colder than usual, so Sherlock knew he was tired. He crouched to give Sherlock a few quick pecks, causing the boy to pull a face and try to wiggle away, the punishment still in place.

Lestrade wondered if that was his standard punishment for everyone, and if so, how 'bad' did one have to be? He inwardly smacked himself as Mycroft glanced up.

"Detective," he greeted, hoisting Sherlock into his arms in order to keep track of him. Sherlock huffed, but looped his arms around his brother's neck. Deciding to taunt the Detective a bit more, Sherlock pressed his face against Mycrofts neck, cuddling close to him.

Mycroft looked rather startled, and patted his brother's back soothingly, unsure of why he was getting cuddled by the boy.

Lestrade scowled. Damn him.

"Hello Mycroft," he returned the greeting anyway. "How are you?"

"As well as can be," Mycroft mused, expression turning puzzled as he felt Sherlock nuzzle closer. He titled his head to stare at the curly haired boy, before glancing back at Lestrade. "Did someone scare him?" He frowned, glancing back at the crime scene.

"Ah, no, nothing like that," Lestrade hurried to reassure. "Maybe he just missed you?"

Mycroft snorted loudly at the idea, and even Sherlock snickered. "He is playing a prank then," Mycroft mused, dislodging his brother and setting him back on his feet. Sherlock stuck close to him though, shooting Lestrade a 'HA!' look as he clutched Mycroft's leg.

Damn, I'm jealous of a four year old, Lestrade groaned, but shared a slight smile with Mycroft. "I should get back to the scene," Lestrade admitted, waving to the taped off area.

"Of course. Good day, Detective," Mycroft said, nodding, and grabbing his brother's hand.

"Gregory," he couldn't help but say, and Mycroft's eyebrow rose. "My name. Uh, feel free to call me that instead of Detective. I've only been detective for a little while, so it's a bit weird and we see each other a lot so -"

Mycroft smiled. "Good day, Gregory," he said instead, correcting his address.

Greg grinned. "Seeya Mycroft. Stay out of crime scene's, Sherlock."

Sherlock stuck his tongue out at Greg, who simply waved and disappeared back into the crime scene.

.

Mrs. Hudson appeared the next few jaunts into crime scenes.

"You need to start behaving," Mrs. Hudson scolded Sherlock, planting a large kiss on his cheek as she had been told to do by Mycroft. Greg watched in amusement. "Your brother has enough to worry about than you running off all the time and looking at dead bodies!"

Greg frowned. "Is something wrong with Mycroft?"

"What? Oh, no, nothing like that." She paused. "Well, he's been getting thinner and thinner these days, but he's not ill if that's what you mean." She sighed, and ruffled Sherlock's hair. "I think the responsibility of being a p-a-r-e-n-t at his age is getting to him."

"I can spell, you know," Sherlock drawled.

"He's alone with him then?" Greg had assumed.

"Yes," Mrs. Hudson confirmed, nodding sadly. "Poor lads, both of you," she addressed Sherlock who scowled.

"Be quiet! You don't know anything!" Sherlock shouted.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson fussed, but Sherlock jerked away.

"Poor lads, poor lads, you all say that but we're not!" Sherlock sniffed. "So what if Mommy and Daddy died and left us? We're not b-babies! We're fine."

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson grabbed for him, but he darted around her and bolted away, away from the crime scene and into the suburban neighbourhood.

"Sherlock!" Greg bellowed, but Sherlock was running as fast as he could. "Oh, damn it all, call Mycroft. I'll go after him, see if I can catch him before he disappears." He pressed his cellphone to Mrs. Hudson (who commented to him a few times ago that she didn't carry one, she had no need, despite Mycroft's protests).

Greg was thankful of the amount of criminals he was forced to chase down, as he managed to cover a good deal of ground, but Sherlock was small, and crafty. By the time Greg was out looking for him, he was long gone.

Greg jogged around the neighbourhood, stopping to ask a few citizens if they'd seen him, but he had no pictures to show, so Sherlock would likely blend in with every other child in the surrounding area.

Damn it! Mycroft was never going to speak to him again.

Not that they spoke much now, but still, damn it.

.

Mycroft found Sherlock easily. The boy had found the nearby stream and was sitting by the bank, sniffling. A certain blond haired boy was beside him, patting his shoulder reassuringly.

"There there," John said soothingly. Sherlock shot him a glare, but John didn't looked concerned.

John spotted Mycroft first, and frowned. "He doesn't want to talk to you!" He said protectively, wrapping his short arms around Sherlock. Sherlock leaned against his new 'friend', and refused to look at Mycroft.

"He doesn't need to talk, just listen." Mycroft crouched beside the two children, and sighed. "Sherlock, I know this is hard. It is hard for both of us, but I'm sure it's harder for you." That got Sherlock's attention, and he opened one eye to stare at his brother. "I'm not trying to be your parent, Sherlock," Mycroft assured. "I'm not trying to be your dad."

"That's genetically impossible, unless there was inbreeding in our family," Sherlock spat out, sniffling.

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Barely. "I meant, I'm not trying to act like Daddy," he clarified. "I'm still your older brother, even if it's just us now. Even when the day comes it's just you, I'll still be your brother, just like Mommy and Daddy are still our Mommy and Daddy now."

"Except they're dead," Sherlock pointed out, blinking as more tears slipped down his cheeks. "Why are they dead, My?" He sobbed, transferring himself from John to Mycroft.

John, however, followed the dark haired boy and sat closed to Mycroft, continuing to pay his back and murmur 'there, there' as Mycroft held him and let him sob.

.

Greg found them half an hour later, as he walked, winded, back towards the crime scene. Mycroft held Sherlock's hand as they walked, and Sherlock held John's. John held some flowers he had picked for his mother.

Greg blinked, before crossing the road to meet up with them. "Ah, you do know you have another one?" Greg asked, by way of greeting.

Mycroft's lips twisted up into a slight smile. "Gregory, meet Sherlock's best friend, John Watson."

John smiled and waved.

"Don't smile at him, he's stupid!" Sherlock burst out, frowning at his best friend. "You're only supposed to smile at me!"

John looked confused. "Smiles are for everyone, silly," John protested, "but I'll only hold hands with you, okay?"

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment, and then nodded. "Don't smile at Stupid too much, or My will get jealous anyway." Sherlock sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve, enjoying Mycroft's flinch at the gesture, before both adults seemed to realise what he'd said.

Mycroft felt his cheeks heat a little and cleared his throat. "We best be getting John home. Thank you for trying to find him, Gregory."

"You're welcome, Mycroft, I felt kinda bad since my conversation with Mrs. Hudson..." He trailed off, not wanting to get into the details with Sherlock around. Mycroft seemed to understand.

"No damage done," Mycroft excused, as the black car pulled up beside him. "Excuse us, Gregory." He opened the door for both children, who scrambled in (still holding hands, though John had to squish his flowers a bit so he could get in and not let go of Sherlock).

Mycroft hesitated. "Would you like a lift back to the scene, Gregory?" He asked, feeling rather prim, and nervous, but that feeling faded at Greg's smile.

"Sure, help save my energy for later!" Greg announced.

"Later?" Mycroft couldn't help but ask.

"Yes, when I take you out to dinner, so you can make up for me running around for half an hour to find Sherlock when you already had him." Greg hesitated. "If that's alright, of course?"

Mycroft couldn't help but smile a little, more genuine than his polite smile. "Fine. I get to pick the restaurant, however," he insisted, and Greg grinned.

"Not a problem," he assured.

"John and I are going to grow OLD and DIE waiting in here. Hurry UP!"

Sherlock's petulant voice broke the moment and Greg couldn't help but laugh, ducking into the car after Mycroft.

.

Mrs. Hudson was practically giddy when she heard of Mycroft's 'date' with the handsome Detective - through Sherlock's whining, of course.

"I'd be happy to watch him for however long you need tonight, dear!" She assured Mycroft, as he fixed his dress shirt. Forgoing the tie tonight, as he had always hated the blasted things and the restaurant they were going to wasn't that fancy.

"Just a few hours will do, Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft said coolly, faintly amused. "I'll be back by Ten at the latest."

"Fine, fine, just give me a quick call if you expect to be out longer," Mrs. Hudson insisted. "Or even just text if you can't call!"

Mycroft blinked. What did Mrs. Hudson expect him to be doing on this date? He shook his head.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," he said to his pouting brother. Sherlock grunted, but refused to look at him, staring at the turned-off TV screen. "I said, Goodnight Sherlock," he repeated.

"'night," Sherlock mumbled back and Mycroft rolled his eyes. He bent and planted a kiss on his brother's cheek, causing him to shriek.

"I didn't do anything wrong this time!" Sherlock protested, scrubbing his cheek.

"That's a warning to behave tonight with Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft warned, and patted his brother's head, moving to the door. "Goodnight Mrs. Hudson!"

"Goodnight, dear!" Mrs. Hudson giggled in reply.

.

They met at the restaurant, Greg arriving twenty minutes early, but was seated at their table right away. He fidgeted for fifteen minutes until Mycroft appeared, five minutes early.

They looked surprised to see each other, but Greg grinned. "Hi Mycroft." He held out a hand, feeling awkward, but when Mycroft's slender hand slipped into his, Greg couldn't help but praise the invention of the hand shake. He held the smooth hand in his for a moment too long, before clearing his throat and releasing it.

"Gregory," Mycroft said in greeting, offering him a small smile. They sat down and gave the hovering water their drinks order.

When they were alone again, Greg blurted out the first thing he could think of. "How's Sherlock?"

Looking rather startled, Mycroft answered simply, "stroppy, as usual. He will give Mrs. Hudson hell tonight, I gather."

"Oh, uh, not because of this?" Greg asked, waving his hand awkwardly, gesturing to the two of them. Mycroft looked amused, and shook his head.

"I don't think Sherlock's moods reflect too heavily on who I share a meal with," he mused. "It is merely Sherlock's way of communicating."

"I've noticed he has odd social skills," Greg admitted.

"He certainly does," Mycroft agreed, smoothing out his napkin across his lap, before pausing thoughtfully. "Though I do admit, his friend John Watson is one of the few who has bothered to look past the awkward social skills. It's interesting to watch."

Greg nodded. "So what about you?" He asked.

"What about me?"

"Were you like Sherlock as a kid?"

Mycroft laughed, accepting his glass of mineral water from the waiter (Holy crap, Greg realised, he's almost too young to drink). "No, I was a very social child," Mycroft said. "I was the first born, so Dadd-" he cleared his throat, and changed the childish name, "-Father enrolled me in all sorts of classes as a child. Public speaking, debate, etcetera, etcetera."

"Sounds like he was building a mini politician," Greg said, eyebrows raised.

Mycroft gave a sharp smile. "Very close."

"What do you mean?" Greg asked, leaning forward.

He hesitated for a moment, toying with his glass. "I was studying Political Sciences in College before...the accident that claimed my parent's lives," he explained coolly, detaching himself for the story. "Though I didn't finish my degree, I have taken control of my father's enterprise which is composed of many areas relating to Politics...in a way."

Greg sat back. "Wow. I'd always wondered what you did...I mean, you kept showing up in suits. I was starting to wonder if you were a male model or something." He felt his cheeks flush, realising that statement gave away just how attractive he saw Mycroft as.

Mycroft's own cheeks were slightly pinked and he shifted. "No, merely politics," he denied quietly.

"What did you want to do?" Greg asked, wanting to keep the conversation going and get away from the whole 'Mycroft as a model' idea.

"Had my parents not died?" Mycroft clarified, before playing with his glass thoughtfully. "I had plenty of plans, from taking on a minor position in Father's firm, or travelling while I could." The glass came to rest firmly on the table again, and a wry smile twisted the pale face. "Those ideas are gone now."

"Not completely," Greg said. "You can still travel."

"With a four year old, while trying to run Father's business?" Mycroft scoffed. "No. Those dreams are done."

"You can't give up on what you want, just because of Sherlock, or you'll come to resent him."

Contemplative, Mycroft looked suddenly amused. "No I wouldn't. I may hate him whilst caught up in a moment, but he is my brother, Gregory. I would never come to resent his presence in my life."

"Even when he's a teenager going through all those blasted hormones?" Greg teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Mycroft laughed. "Don't remind me. I'm dreading those years. He's moody enough at four."

.

Over their appetisers, Greg decided to breech the 'age' discussion. Subtly - or as subtle as he could get.

"So, how close were you to finishing your degree?" He asked, taking a small bite from his prawn cocktail.

Mycroft glanced up from his own cocktail. "One semester course," he said simply, looking...amused.

"Wow, so you finished a couple of extra courses in your semester, or had to delay the course?" He continued to pry.

Mycroft sat back, stiffling a smile. "Just ask."

"Ask what?" Greg feigned ignorance.

"My age." Mycroft chuckled.

Greg flushed. Okay, so he wasn't that subtle. "Uh, how old are you?" He tried to sound confident about the question.

"Nineteen as of next month."

"Crap, you're young," Greg blurted out, and Mycroft looked insulted.

"I'm not that young. You are only twenty-seven, frightfully young for a detective, but still, that is only eight years difference."

"Sorry, I just meant," Greg floundered. "You act a lot older and what with Sherlock and your college years, I just assumed..."

"I started college at sixteen," Mycroft said, somewhat stiffly. "I was two years into my course when my parents were killed, and yes, only one course shy of completion. I finished multiple semester courses each year, as many as I was able to take on and some extras. Does that answer your questions?" His fork hit his plate with a little too much force.

Greg reached out and grabbed his hand over the table. "Shit, I'm sorry, Mycroft. It's just...I'm an idiot, okay?" He smiled at the man, who stared back with cold eyes. There lurked a slight petulance behind the gaze though, that was very similar to Sherlock's when he was denied from a crime scene. "I was promoted to Detective earlier this year, when I was heading a big case that went bust in a good way. I ended up arresting twenty drug dealers in one night. The city thanked me and the force promoted me. It still doesn't seem real and sometimes, I feel ancient. I'm a lot older than twenty-seven in my head, and your just...starting your life." He shrugged, squeezing the smaller hand. "Hell, you're barely even able to drink."

"Alcohol does not measure a man," Mycroft said stiffly, but seemed to relax a bit. "I feel a lot older than nineteen, Gregory. In my head, I'm fourty four and still chasing after my brother."

"Wanna just forget this conversation ever happened?" Greg asked.

Mycroft frowned. "I find the idea of deleting a conversation with you to be...unfavourable. Why don't we simply move on to another topic?"

Greg grinned. "Perfect." He squeezed the hand again, and went to pull back, but the hand turned in his and gripped his in return. Their hands stayed linked on the table as they worked at finishing their appetisers, until Mycroft finally took pity on Greg and realised his right hand after Lestrade dropped his third prawn, unused to using his left hand to eat.

.

After dinner, dessert and an after-dessert coffee, the pair left the restaurant.

"Did you drive?" Greg asked, toying with his car keys.

"My driver dropped me off," Mycroft explained. "I can just text..."

"Let me drive you home," Greg insisted, placing his hand over Mycroft's, preventing him from texting his driver. Mycroft looked surprised, but nodded, pocketing his phone. He slipped into the car and allowed Greg to close his door for him.

"I am not a female, you know," Mycroft remarked, as he buckled his seat belt. Greg flushed.

"Sorry, habit." He smile sheepishly, and Mycroft smiled slightly.

"You don't date many men." It wasn't a question.

"No, I haven't dated a man for...many years. Since college," Greg admitted, pulling out of the parking lot. He was thankful that he could pay attention to the road and have an excuse not to look at Mycroft. "No one's really interested me."

"But I do," Mycroft asked, staring at the older man in the darkness.

"You do," Greg agreed, feeling his neck and face heating up.

"Good," Mycroft said, leaning back in his chair, and Greg grinned.

"So, I, uh, interest you too?" Greg pried a little.

"It seems so," the brunette murmured quietly, and Greg beamed in the dark. "Oh stop smiling at the stop sign like that," Mycroft muttered teasingly. "I'll start getting jealous." Copying his brother's words earlier.

Greg laughed, reaching out and throwing his arm along the back of the passenger seat, thankful his car was automatic and not a manual, and left his arm there for the rest of the drive.

.

Greg walked Mycroft up to his flat, standing awkwardly outside the door.

"I had a good night, thank you, Gregory," Mycroft said, fiddling with his keys in his pocket, smiling at the Detective.

"Me too," Greg responded, smiling. "Defiantly made up for running around after your little hellion today."

"Oh," Mycroft said, feeling disappointed that Greg did not insist on another date. He seemed to pick up his tone almost immediately, because he caught Mycroft's elbow.

"Wanna go out tomorrow night?"

Surprised, Mycroft hesitated but nodded. "I would."

"I'll pick the place tomorrow," Greg insisted. "You better give me your number, so I can text you the details." He just grinned at the transparent excuse. Mycroft looked amused, and slipped Greg's phone from his jacket pocket, seemingly ignoring the intake of breath that Greg gave as Mycroft brushed his side.

Mycroft clicked a few buttons and turned the phone around, showing Greg the number, installed in the contacts under 'Mycroft H.'. Greg grinned, and pressed the call button, Mycroft's ringtone sounding loud in the silent hallway.

Mycroft clicked 'Do Not Answer' and saved the number.

"So, I'll text you tomorrow," Greg said, pocketing his phone again. Mycroft nodded, but made no move to enter the flat.

Greg leaned forward, resting his hand above Mycroft's shoulder on the doorframe. Mycroft tilted his head, shifting forward to meet Greg half way.

The door behind them opened, just as their lips touched.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson squeaked. "Sorry dears!" She slammed the door shut.

Mycroft and Greg, who had pulled apart as soon as the door opened, glanced back at each other and laughed. Mycroft cleared his throat, and knocked on the door. Mrs. Hudson opened it slowly, peering out.

"Hello Greg," she greeted the flushed Detective, sending him an apologetic look.

"Hello Mrs. Hudson," Greg returned, rubbing the back of his neck, and grinning.

"Sherlock's asleep in your room, dear," Mrs. Hudson said to Mycroft. "He fell asleep while reading some of your books and I just didn't have the heart to move him."

Mycroft smiled at that. "It's fine, Mrs. Hudson." It wouldn't be the first time Mycroft had been kicked out of his bed by his younger brother. "I hope he was not too much trouble?"

"Oh, he sulked most of the night," Mrs. Hudson said, waving off his concerns. "Other than that, he was a complete angel."

The three stood in silence for a moment. "Well, I best be off to bed! Goodnight Mycroft dear, and you too, Greg," she said brightly, slipping between the two boys. She slipped into her flat with a grin, taking a long while to close her door, watching the boys.

She finally closed the door when Greg waved at her.

Mycroft snickered, and Greg couldn't seem to wipe the grin from his face. "I better get going too," Greg admitted, shifting on his feet. "G'night Mycroft. See you tomorrow?"

"Goodnight Greg," Mycroft said, shifting forward to press his lips against Greg's briefly, barely more than a butterfly touch, before pulling back. "Until tomorrow." He slipped into the flat, leaving a beaming Greg standing on the stairs.

.

Mycroft slipped into his room, having to make a conscious effort to wipe the smile from his face - but it only came back again, softly, when he spied his brother curled in the centre of the bed. A pillow had been placed beneath his head, and a blanket draped over his form. Several of Mycroft's medical journals were stacked beside him, and Mycroft quietly lifted them from the bed, least they slip and crush the boy.

"My?" Sherlock whispered, eyes blinking open.

"Yes, 'Lock," Mycroft responded, crouching beside his bed.

"You said you'd be back by ten,"Sherlock pointed out, peering at the clock on the wall. "It's eleven thirty."

"Sorry, 'Lock," Mycroft said, running his fingers through the boy's hair. "I'll be on time next time."

Sherlock yawned. "See that you are."

"Shift up," Mycroft commanded, and Sherlock sleepily obeyed, allowing his brother to shift him further up the bed and tuck him under the quilt. "Goodnight, 'Lock." Mycroft pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, taking advantage of his sleepiness to do so without being bitched at.

"G'night, My," Sherlock whispered, yawning and curling up further.

Mycroft waited until his brother had fallen back to sleep before rising and gathering his pajamas to sleep on the couch. While Sherlock was a sleeping angel right now, Mycroft didn't put it passed him to sneak out in the morning while Mycroft was upstairs, so the couch would have to do.

.

Greg caught a case the next morning, and as usual, Sherlock appeared. Greg let the boy enter the taped off area before walking over and catching his shoulder. Sherlock stopped and glanced up, with a scowl.

"If you don't let me go, I'll tell everyone you kissed My," Sherlock announced loftily. Greg's cheeks went red.

"How would you know, you were asleep," Greg retorted, leading him away from the victim who was, thankfully, inside the building and out of sight.

"Mrs. Hudson was giggling all morning," Sherlock said, saying 'giggling' as if it was a disgusting word. "And My kept smiling. It was gross."

Greg grinned. "Kept smiling, huh?"

"Oh great, now you're smiling," Sherlock complained. "Stop it."

"Sorry, sorry," Greg laughed, crouching down to be at eye level with the child. "Does it bother you? Me dating My?" That was a weird sentence, Greg decided. 'Me dating My' sounded like he was dating himself. Me, Myself and I. Wasn't that a song? Greg shook his head.

"If I say 'yes', would you try to buy my affection?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the detective.

"Nope."

"Then I don't really care."

"It's good to know you don't care unless it benefits you to be upset," Greg said, bemused. "Though, if you're really,really nice to your brother, I might be able to convince him to let you come to the station with me sometime, and read over some case files." Not murder case files. Robberies, or something innocent.

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Really?"

Greg nodded and Sherlock threw his arms around the detectives neck. Greg looked startled, but patted his back, before wrapping his arms around the young boy and lifting him as he stood.

He stood with Sherlock in his arms for a while, waiting for Mrs. Hudson to appear to take him back. Apparently, the way to a four year old's affection was giving him access to criminal case files.

Well, the way to this specific four year old's affections, at least.

.

"Did you say something to Sherlock today?" Mycroft asked, smelling the rose that Greg had brought him, locking the flat behind him as he stepped out.

"Why would you ask that?" Greg asked, smiling.

"He's been oddly pleasant today," Mycroft admitted, chuckling and allowing Greg to tuck the rose into his shirt's pocket button hole.

"Maybe he's just growing up."

"Also, he mentioned that you were, and I quote, the 'best boyfriend ever'?" Mycroft continued and Greg coughed, flushing red.

"Ah, well, I might have mentioned if he was nice to you, I'd let him look at some case files. Just little ones! Not murders or anything like that." Greg winced, waiting for Mycroft to freak out, but he should have known better. He didn't think Mycroft had done what he'd expected him to do in the whole time he'd known the man.

Mycroft pressed his lips to Greg's cheek, near the corner of his mouth. "Ah, blackmail. You fit in well, Detective Lestrade. Now, come, we'll be late for our reservation."

He swept down the stairs, leaving Greg staring after him. Greg laughed to himself, before jogging to catch up with his date. Boyfriend? Hell if he knew, but he was having a good time not being able to figure it out.

.

The kiss they shared that night at the doorstep was uninterrupted and far more confident. Mycroft found himself pressed against the door within a few minutes of awkward 'goodnight' conversation, gasping at his...partner? that sounded like they were opening a business together. Date? Too juvenile. He was eighteen, not a child. Lover? Not yet, but if Greg kept biting his lower lip, they would be soon!

"Stop thinking," Greg gasped, breaking the kiss. "I can hear it from here."

Mycroft smiled, tightening his hold on Greg's shoulders. He pressed himself close for a languid kiss, before regretfully pulling back. "Goodnight, Greg," he said quietly.

Greg chased him for another kiss, one that lasted far longer than intended. When he pulled back, he spoke almost hoarsely, as he whispered back, "goodnight Mycroft."

The pair shared a smile before Mycroft ducked inside. Greg could hear Mrs. Hudson's squeals from outside, probably from Mycroft's ruffled appearance. Greg grinned, and jogged down the stairs.

.

"The freak is here," Sally Donovan, a young police woman said, her uniform tight around her curves. She shot Sherlock a dark look where the boy was toddling off towards the body.

Greg turned and scowled. "Don't call him that, Officer Donovan," he snapped, before jogging off to intercept Sherlock. He scooped the boy into his arms, and placed a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek, to the amusement of the surrounding officers.

Most had gotten used to Sherlock's presence, so his appearance was more a welcome one than an annoyance now.

"Argh!" Sherlock bellowed, wiggling away from Greg. "You suck!"

Greg grinned at the childish insult and allowed the boy to slid back to the ground. "Thought I said to be good to your brother," Greg pointed out. "No more sneaking off."

"I didn't sneak off!" Sherlock protested, rubbing his cheek dramatically to remove the traces of the kiss. "Mrs. Hudson is just slow!"

"Don't be rude," Greg scolded, but spotted the woman approaching the scene, looking frustrated but not angry. Greg placed a hand on the back of Sherlock's head and used it to guide him towards Mrs. Hudson by the tapes. "Hello Mrs. Hudson." He smiled.

"Hello Greg!" She smiled. "I see you found Sherlock. This time, I did know where he was going, but I'd forgotten how impatient they are at that age." She laughed, and Sherlock pouted. "Have you asked him yet, dear?" She encouraged Sherlock, who huffed and reached into the bag Mrs. Hudson carried.

Pulling out a brightly coloured envelope with a childish scrawl across the front reading 'Idiot', he held it out to Greg. "For you."

Greg looked startled and crouched to take it. "Thanks, Sherlock. Can I open it now?"

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled. "Else I wouldn't have given it to you now."

Greg and Mrs. Hudson rolled their eyes but he carefully unstuck the back of the envelope and pulled out a card from inside. It was made from a bright cardboard and again was filled with childish writing, though Sherlock's was neater than most children twice his age.

'You are invited to Mycroft's birthday party' the card pronounced, inside holding the details of the time and place.

"Mycroft's having a birthday party?" Greg asked, surprised.

"He doesn't know it yet," Sherlock said, with a devilish grin.

"It's a surprise party," Mrs. Hudson clarified. "So try not to give it away, though I'm sure he suspects already."

Greg grinned. "I'll try. Thanks for the invite Sherlock." He wrapped his arm around the boy's shoulder, giving him a quick squeeze before he could try to hide from it. Sherlock scowled, but didn't complain, moving back to stand next to Mrs. Hudson.

Greg stood. "Do you need me to bring any food or drinks?"

She looked surprised. "If you want to, dear." Her smile was pleased. "If you can come over earlier, you might even get to help Sherlock and I bake a cake!"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Greg admitted, and waved goodbye to them as they left to deliver some more invites.

Greg tucked the card into his pocket, and returned back to the murder and mayhem of London town.

.

Greg felt bad for cancelling his date with Mycroft only two days before his birthday, having begged off of the night out, claiming the current case was taking up all his time and he couldn't spare an evening out.

It was true, his current case was pretty bad, but he could have spared an evening. The problem was more that it was two days until Mycroft's birthday, and he had yet to buy the man a gift.

They'd only been dating for a month, though thanks to Sherlock they had known each other longer. Still, what did you get a man who had his own driver?

Greg was thankful for late night shopping, as he only managed to get out of the station at seven that night. Walking through the shops, Greg was getting closer and closer to ripping his hair out.

What would Mycroft need?

A group of giggling college girls walked passed, casting him long looks. Greg should have felt flattered at their giggly, googly eyes but they just made him laugh. They were probably the same age as Mycroft, he realised, shaking his head, but they were worlds apart.

After spending an hour walking in and out of shops, Greg found a present he figured Mycroft would enjoy. Grinning as he bought it, the saleswoman gave him an odd look, especially when he asked if they gift wrapped things.

At her blunt 'no' he laughed and just handed over the cash.

.

Greg had to resist sending Mycroft a 'happy birthday!' text on the day of the party. He tried really hard. In the end, he called him at lunch time.

"Hey Mycroft."

"Hello Greg." Mycroft's smile was in his tone.

"So, a little birdy told me that today's a bit special," Greg teased.

A chuckle. "Does this little birdy answer to the name Mrs. Hudson, or Sherlock?"

"I'm not telling," Greg laughed. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you, Gregory."

"Are you having a good day so far?" He lent back in his chair, enjoying hearing Mycroft's voice in the middle of the day - a real rarity.

"Bored to tears, but I'll live."

Greg smiled. "Sorry. Wish I could liven things up for you, but this case is still giving us hell."

He practically heard Mycroft frown. "Do you want some assistance?"

"From who? Sherlock?" Greg laughed. "It's fine, Mycroft. We'll live. It just means late nights until we crack this."

"Oh." Mycroft sounded disappointed.

Greg couldn't help the pleased smile. "I'll try to get away tonight to come and see you though," he assured. "Have to give you your birthday kiss."

"Ah, well, that sounds...pleasant," Mycroft said, sounding faintly awkward, but pleased.

Greg chuckled. "I'll see you tonight sometime, yeah?"

"If you can. This birthday is nothing special, so - "

"Nothing special? Nonsense," Greg insisted. "It's your first birthday of us together. That is important - as will be every other birthday we have together." Oops. Was that giving away too much? They'd only been dating a month...

Mycroft was quiet, but his smile was evident when he spoke again. "Well, when you put it like that..." His voice was mildly husky and Greg groaned.

"Don't use that voice on me when I'm in the station," he warned, and heard his...well, his Mycroft laugh.

"Goodbye Gregory."

"Talk to you later, Mycroft."

"Oh, and if you talk to Mrs. Hudson, warn her that I'll be later than six tonight, so there is no need for everyone to start hiding until six thirty at the earliest."

Greg gaped.

"See you tonight, Gregory."

He laughed as he heard the dial tone. That Holmes!

.

Greg knocked off work early, heading to 221B Baker Street at four. Mrs. Hudson let him in and ushered him to the kitchen where Sherlock perched on a chair, alternating between stirring the cake batter and stealing tastes with his finger.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson scolded. "Leave some to put in the oven!"

Sherlock grinned around his finger, but consented. Greg slipped on an apron and stepped into the messy kitchen to join the fray.

.

Having relayed the message to Mrs. Hudson that Mycroft was going to be late, she laughed and true to Mycroft's suggestion, did not start hiding until 6:30. The party consisted of Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, Greg, and an elderly couple that Mrs. Hudson explained were the house keepers for Holmes' manor. Mrs. Hudson admitted that Mycroft didn't really have any other friends, and those she had asked from Mycroft's work had turned down the invitation to the party. Oh well, all the more cake for them, Greg shrugged.

When Mycroft stepped into the flat, they all leapt out, wearing ridiculous party hats and broad grins. "Happy Birthday!"

Mycroft smiled, but looked honestly surprised to see the elderly couple. "Missus Laura, Monsieur Henri," he said, eyes wide. Misses Laura stepped forward with damp eyes and embraced him tightly.

"Well, you said you two wouldn't come back, so we figured we'd come out to see you two!" Missus Laura announced, fussing with Mycroft's suit. The man smiled at her, and shook hands with Monsieur Henri, who grinned at the lad he had known since infancy.

"Were you surprised, My?" Sherlock demanded, party hat sitting crooked on his head.

"Yes," Mycroft lied, and Sherlock scowled.

"Liar!" he protested, but allowed his brother to scoop him up and plant a few kisses on his cheeks, before wiggling and demanding to be put down. "I bet you didn't expect us to bake a cake though!"

"You baked?" Mycroft felt mildly sick at the idea, wondering just what 'extra flavourings' his brother had added in to the cake.

"Greg and Mrs. Hudson helped," Sherlock admitted, and Greg grinned.

"Extra flavouring free, I promise," Greg assured, stepping forward. He hesitated, before wrapping his arm around Mycroft's waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Happy birthday." He had, after all, been introduced to the elderly couple as Mycroft's boyfriend anyway.

Mycroft smiled, and wrapped his arms around Greg's neck. "That was a terrible birthday kiss," he scolded, before pressing his lips to Greg. Greg tightened his hold on his Mycroft, but neither pushed the kiss further than the pressing of lips. They had company, after all. They could hear Sherlock exclaiming 'yuck' loudly. Greg pulled back with a loud, wet noise, and Sherlock looked disgusted. Greg grinned.

"Better?" He asked Mycroft, who smiled and nodded. He dropped his arms, but Greg kept one arm around his waist as Mrs. Hudson bustled over to embrace Mycroft.

.

Present time came soon after the cake had been demolished, Mycroft's sweet tooth prompting a second helping for the birthday boy, before Sherlock hid the cake from him, warning him he would get fat if he kept eating like that.

The adults had laughed and Mycroft leaned back against Greg on the sofa.

"Present time now, I think!" Mrs. Hudson announced and brought the pile of presents from the kitchen to the lounge. "Who do you want first, dear?"

"Any," Mycroft said, resisting the urge to ask for Greg's first.

Mrs. Hudson handed him hers, which turned out to be a lovely vest, much like the ones he wore on occasions, but with gold buttons and in a soft teal colour. "It's wonderful, Mrs. Hudson," he said, kissing her cheek.

Missus Laura and Monsieur Henri had gotten him some books that he had wanted and Sherlock gave him a pair of cuff-links - picked out by Mrs. Hudson no doubt. When Greg's present came around, he was regretting his choice immensely. Mycroft could feel how tense he was as he took the present from Mrs. Hudson, and placed a hand on Greg's knee.

"Relax," Mycroft said softly.

"I'll get you something else as well," Greg hurried to assure, as the wrapping fell away.

Mycroft stared at his present with wide eyes. Mrs. Hudson looked confused, as did Missus Laura and Monsieur Henri. Sherlock's eyes, however, lit up like Christmas lights.

"Is that a Dr. Lucas Miniature Chemical Kit?" Sherlock asked, bouncing on his seat and leaning forward to look at it more closely.

"Yes, it is," Mycroft said, shaking his head and feeling a smile bloom across his face as he turned to look at Greg. "What a perfect present," he murmured, leaning up to kiss Greg softly. As he wrapped his arms around his lover's neck, he felt the present being scooped from his lap by the curious Sherlock and grinned into Greg's lips.

"Did you want the kit, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked, curiously. She hadn't realised Mycroft was interested in chemistry.

Mycroft pulled back, and glanced over to find Sherlock racing into the kitchen to lay out the chemicals in the kit. "Not at all," Mycroft laughed quietly.

"Then why..."

Greg cleared his throat. "Ah, Sherlock mentioned the other week when he came to see me how he wanted the kit. Said there was a hundred and one experiments he could do with it. That wasn't a guess either, he counted how many he'd be able to do. One hundred and one."

"So it was a present for Sherlock?" Monsieur Henri asked with furrowed brows.

"Sort of," Mycroft said, smiling. "It's a present to keep Sherlock busy."

The adults eyes' widened and they chuckled. "Very clever, Greg," Mrs. Hudson approved, and Greg grinned, dragging Mycroft closer to him.

"I try," he said modestly, pressing a kiss to Mycroft's temple.

.

"I loved your present," Mycroft repeated to Greg as they cleaned up for the night. Mrs. Hudson had stayed to help, but had been sent home when she was wobbling on her feet. Missus Laura and Monsieur Henri had retreated to their hotel for the night and Sherlock had been sent to bed after he fell asleep during his experiment and almost singed off an eyebrow.

Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft from behind and pressed a kiss to his neck. "Yeah?"

Mycroft smiled, and covered Greg's hands with his own. "Yes, and not only because I get to keep you to myself sometimes now." He gently turned in Greg's arms, holding his gaze. He reached up to brush Greg's cheek and cup the back of his neck. "You showed that you listened to Sherlock."

Greg looked surprised. "I always listen to him...Even when he's shouting about asfyciwation," he joked, using Sherlock's juvenile pronunciation.

Mycroft continued to smile, and pressed Greg close for a short kiss. "Exactly."

"That really matters to you, doesn't it?" Greg mused.

"Of course it does. I am not the same college boy who used to dream of travelling, Gregory. Sherlock relies on me, even if he pretends he doesn't," Mycroft said simply. "He worries if I'm home late, he gets jealous if I don't spend time with him, sometimes when he's scared he'll read books in my room even though he claims it smells like dark and that my books are boring." He shook his head and rested his forehead against Greg's. "I need someone in my life who cares for him, who will listen to him, learn to know him so that he can rely on them too."

Greg swallowed. This was heavy talk for one month into whatever this was, but...then again, Greg had never dated anyone with a kid before. Maybe this was just the right speed for that kind of a relationship.

"Listen," Greg said, pressing a quick kiss to Mycroft's lips, unable to resist since they were right there, tempting him. One kiss turned to three, before Greg managed to pull back enough to talk. "I care for both of you. A lot. I didn't intend for my gift to say all of that, it was just me being selfish and wanting more time with you, but I do care for Sherlock. I don't care if he convinces Mrs. Hudson to take him down to the restaurant to see us in the middle of a date, or when he takes over the TV in the middle of a movie to watch some documentary." Mycroft smiled, and Greg kissed him again. "To be honest, I like having Sherlock around and I want him to be able to rely on me someday too." Greg grinned. "Though there are sometimes I am very glad he has an early bed time."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, looping his arms around Greg's neck. "Really? Like when?"

"Like...right...now," Greg whispered, pressing Mycroft backwards until they fell onto the couch. Mycroft laughed into Greg's mouth, and allowed himself to get his proper birthday kiss from his lover.

"I'm not going anywhere," Greg told Mycroft, breaking their kiss, breathing heavily. "I'll be here as long as you and Sherlock want me here."

.

As it was, Greg was there when Sherlock turned five, and started school.

.

He was also there the day Sherlock changed school because he punched a teacher in the face for giving him a 'B' on his science experiment. He was also the one who had, unfortunately, taught Sherlock to punch which was why the teacher's nose had been broken, not bruised.

.

He was there the day Mycroft took over Russian, though...you don't really need to know about that.

.

Greg was there when, at 13, Sherlock asked John Watson to the dance. He took pictures of the adolescent couple as they nervously stood by the door, waiting to be allowed to leave.

.

Greg was even there when Sherlock moved out, leaving Mycroft in 221B Baker Street.

"It's strange, him being gone," Mycroft admitted, relaxing back into the couch as Greg closed the door behind Sherlock, who had been keeping John waiting by lingering in his old home.

"He's not really gone, love," Greg pointing out, dropping down next to his lover. He tilted the pale face towards him, taking in the receding hairline and the pale skin from too many years in the office. "He's just down the road."

Mycroft shot him an unamused look, but allowed the kisses that his lover bestowed on him. "I've had him in my life for fifteen years, full time. Now he's gone..." Mycroft shook his head, with a frown. "What if he's hurt?"

"John will patch him up," Greg said, kissing Mycroft's neck.

"What if he gets involved in drugs?"

A buttons slipped from the button hole, and a kiss pressed to Mycroft's collarbone. "Then we'll lecture him, sober him up and sent him back to John for a proper ass-kicking."

"He's too fascinated by murder, Greg, what if he -"

Greg sighed and lifted his head from his lover's chest. "What if he gets involved in some lunatic battle of the minds with a serial killer? What if he doesn't eat every night?" He stared at his lover. "You can't protect him from everything, Mycroft, and you shouldn't try. He's a clever boy."

"Perhaps if I just step up his surveillance a bit more," Mycroft suggested, reaching for his phone. Greg snorted and threw the cell phone across the room. It landed safely on the carpet, though Mycroft scowled.

"Love," Greg said patiently, "how are you not getting the fact that for the first time in fifteen years, ever in our relationship, minus the few nights Sherlock spent at John's and our brief faux-honeymoon in Russian for the Event-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named, -" Mycroft shot a dull look at Greg's attempt at humour "- that we don't have to be quiet!"

Mycroft blinked, realising rather suddenly that his shirt was completely unbuttoned and untucked from his pants. Mycroft smirked. "Oh."

"Yes, 'Oh'!" Greg laughed. "It's a good thing I love you, you fool. Now shut up and kiss me properly."

.

The couple, after basking in the after glow for a good half an hour, stumbled to their feet and moved towards their bedroom, leaning heavily on each other and laughing. Loudly.

A beep came from the discarded cell phone and Greg grabbed Mycroft. "Leave it."

"It could be important," Mycroft warned, slipping out of his hold and picking up the phone. It was a new text, from Sherlock.

He smiled.

"Important?" Greg asked, wrapping his arms around him from behind and resting his chin on his shoulder to read the message.

Mycroft tilted the screen to make it easier for his lover. "Yes."

John informs me that it is customary to inform ones 'parents/care givers' of gratitude when one moves from home.
So. I suppose 'thank you' is in order.

-SH

Greg grinned. "Oh Sherlock, what would we do without you?" He laughed, and Mycroft nodded, as another beep sounded.

Clicking through to the next screen, both men grinned. "He'll be fine," Greg assured Mycroft who leant back into his embrace.

Sorry for the crap message from Sherlock, you know what he's like. He does love you, both of you, really, he's just being an idiot.

See you next week for the house warming!

Maybe bring some milk with you?

JW

.

F i n

.

Author's note:

This could have continued on indefinitely, but I had to stop somewhere before this grew horrendously large. This was an excercise to get me back into writing, and somehow grew into a large piece of fluff. It was inspired by all the Mystrade fiction I've been recently and a random fact which told me 'Four year olds ask, on average, 437 questions a day', which prompted me to wonder about Sherlock as a four year old.

He wouldn't ask those questions, he'd just stare at you and know.

I hope you enjoyed the unnecessarily fluffy AU.

Reviews are very much appreciated,

-Liaa

.

Edited on 12/1 for drinking age in Britain.