A/N: This is the last chapter. It also happens to be my favourite:)

Beta:OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

Chapter 3. Getting Lost With Mr. Holmes

Mycroft was an early riser. Even without an alarm clock to wake him in the mornings he was up almost as early as the sun. It was a useful skill with a life like his and in his field of work. This morning not being an exception, Mycroft woke up to the rays of the rising sun; they didn't reach the bed yet, did not hit his eyes but gave enough light to take in his surroundings. It was a large room, the sensation of space intensified by the lack of furniture, from his position on the bed only a small bedside table was visible as well as the wardrobe at the periphery. Everything else was just the floor with clothes scattered around, books and papers thrown around randomly. The memories of the owner of the flat replaced the thoughts of the interior, making Mycroft aware of the second person present next to him on the bed.

Lying on his back, sheets half covering him, Mycroft turned his head on a pillow. Gregory, Mycroft thought he already had the right to call the man by his first name, was still sleeping peacefully, his head practically buried in the pillow and his bare back exposed to the warm spring air. Mycroft's eyes traced his limbs, seemingly thrown haphazardly, stopping on the right arm that was resting across Mycroft's waist, not gripping but holding and excluding any attempts to escape.

Involuntarily his right hand lifted, knuckles grazing over the other man's cheek, a feathery touch grazing the stubble. It didn't feel unpleasant, on the contrary, however unusual it was for Mycroft, it felt nice. But, no time for sentiments, Mycroft stopped and extracted himself carefully from the weak embrace. Quietly he gathered his clothes and dressed up as neatly as was possible in the situation.

He left the bedroom, not sparing a glance to the man on the bed – the image imprinted in his mind already. In the living room Mycroft checked his voice mail, paying most attention to the PA's messages informing him that the police had captured a man they suspected in the assassination attempt. In the next message she informed her boss about a meeting he had to attend that day. Nodding to himself Mycroft gave the small flat one last look and let himself out, carefully closing the front door and cringing at the soft click it made. Safely outside, Mycroft made his way down the corridor and to the stairs.

Mycroft was taking out his phone again to make a call to Anne and ask her to prepare the needed documents in his office two flights down Lestrade's floor, when he heard hasty steps thudding down the staircase after him. He picked up his pace, hoping to avoid confrontation with any of the other inhabitants of the building.

"Mycroft!" A familiar voice shouted, making the man in question stop in his tracks. Holding onto the handrail Mycroft bent his neck to look upward and saw Lestrade, leaning over the handrail a floor above. "Where do you think you are going?"

"I'm a busy person, Gregory." Mycroft replied. "I have a lot of work to do."

"Are you crazy?" Lestrade exclaimed while descending down the stairs. "There is a hit man walking around. And you are his target."

Mycroft speechlessly took in the other man's appearance. It was obvious that the man had thrown on the first things that came to his hand, which consisted of a simple plain shirt, only half buttoned, a pair of jeans and shoes with shoelaces untied. It looked unexpectedly attractive.

"Mycroft? Does your silence mean that you agree with me and will return to the flat calmly?" Lestrade frowned at Mycroft's spaced out look. "Or you are just dazed by my handsomeness?"

"Of course not," Mycroft scoffed returning to his senses. "I'm leaving."

He turned to do just that but Lestrade caught his wrist just like the previous day to stop him. Then the DI's palm slid down his wrist to hold his hand, the touch becoming more intimate. Mycroft spared him a glance from the corner of his eye.

"I was informed that your colleagues captured the suspect."

"Suspect? Until they prove that he's that guy who tried to kill you, you are not safe. You should stay here."

"Oh, please," Mycroft drawled with a roll of his eyes. He fixed his gaze on the DI. "Don't pretend like you brought me to your flat to ensure my safety."

Lestrade frowned, first in confusion then in understanding and he nodded curtly. His hand didn't let go of Mycroft's though.

"I admit, partly I did it because I found you attractive. Very," he made sure to keep eye contact as he said that. "But partly because I actually feel responsible for you. I want to ensure that you won't be shot the moment I let you out of my sight."

"There is no need to worry about that," Mycroft untangled his fingers from Lestrade's hold and took the last flight of stairs down. On the way to the door he threw over his shoulder. "Though your concern is very sweet."

Lestrade, still in shock for a short moment, stared at Mycroft's back. But, he reminded himself, it was not the time for flirting, and followed the other man out. By the time he was standing at the stone steps Mycroft had already hailed a cab and was getting in. Promptly he jumped inside when the car was just starting to move.

Mycroft spared a glance to Lestrade as the vehicle started gaining speed. If the DI wanted to stalk him so much, there was nothing he could do about it. On the other hand, he was not as opposed to it as he made it seem.

"Where are we going?" Lestrade asked as soon as he caught his breath. He settled on the backseat unnecessarily close to the other man. "Since I'm going wherever you are, you might as well tell me."

"My office. As I mentioned before," a pointed glare accented the words. "I have a busy job. I'm behind schedule already."

"Well, sorry for interrupting your routine, which I'm sure is pretty boring, so that I can save your life."

"Better say, so that you can get me in your bed."

"True," Lestrade agreed with a sigh. He smiled. "Didn't hear you complaining."

"I wasn't," Mycroft smirked back. Then he turned away, so that Lestrade wouldn't see his smirk blooming into a full smile. He viewed the shop windows pass by, noticing in the distance a flower shop that his mother favored. The cab made a turn and the shop disappeared from view completely, stirring a memory in Mycroft's mind. Something was wrong. He looked straight through the front window at the road ahead. And he knew what that something was.

Lestrade sat at his side, clueless and relaxed. Mycroft's mind was swirling with ideas, but none of them was good enough to get them both out of this situation. Feigning nonchalance he reached for the phone in the pocket of his jacket, from the corner of his eye he noticed the cabby's eyes following his move with alertness that should not be there. And then someone on the street was shouting, the cabby was swearing and the cab slowed to a stop abruptly, a sound of tires on the still wet asphalt overpowering all other sounds for the passengers. Using the fortunate distraction, Mycroft grabbed Lestrade by the shirt and tugged him out of the car. Holding onto Lestrade's shoulder he dashed into the nearest alley and ran.

"What the hell?" Lestrade shouted, a step behind him. Despite his confusion he didn't drop the pace and followed Mycroft's winding way through the alley, to the narrow way between houses, another alley, across the street, away from the cab.

"He was going the wrong way. The address I gave was in the other direction," Mycroft clarified.

That was enough to answer all questions. Right address, wrong direction, a guy who attempted to kill Mycroft the previous evening. They were lucky a mindless pedestrian decided to cross the street right in front of their cab. Well, lucky for them, not for the poor bloke. Lestrade hoped he was fine after the impact.

"Stupid amateurs," Lestrade muttered under his breath. "Don't know how to organize a proper assassination and we got stuck running around the city."

Mycroft chuckled but refrained from commenting in order to save his breath; he was never fond of sports, so his running skills left much to be desired. But then the sound of a gunshot echoed from the bare walls of the narrow side street, spurring his strength.

Lestrade pulled sharply on his hand, somehow his palm moved from the man's shoulder to rest against Lestrade's palm, their fingers intertwined. The impulse made him falter and stumble back, but the DI held him up and kept him from falling. At that moment Mycroft realized how stupid he had acted; he rushed away without thinking through their escape, which led to their pursuer cutting a path at some point and appearing ahead of them. Lestrade stopped him just in time and dragged Mycroft in the other direction, making another turn just at the asphalt under their feet got scratched by bullets.

At that point Mycroft's mind, incited by the realization of his foolishness more and more, started to panic. He was too self-confident; his ignorance, naiveté in some sense, made him underestimate the danger. So many times he had been a target of an unsuccessful assassination, he got used to his life being in danger; as well as the protection of his bodyguard and even the small personal squad. But when he visited Sherlock, the PA and the driver were the only people accompanying him, because his brother hated the crowd, because Sherlock always teased him for showing off, because he needed Sherlock to be on good terms with him at least this one time. Much good it did for him. Now, his egoistical thinking to blame, Mycroft's life was in actual mortal danger. Worse even, he dragged another person into it; a good man who didn't deserve to be shot by a maniac with a grudge against Mycroft Holmes in a deserted alleyway. At least there were no more passers-by; it was still too early on a weekend for it.

Mycroft felt fear slowly crawling on him, consuming his rational thoughts; his heart beat so fast and so loud in his chest – it was the only sound in his ears. Somewhere, seemingly so far away, he could recognize music and a familiar voice, but it didn't register for long enough to be analyzed in his chaotic mind. The grey and blue and green, the colors of streets they passed before his eyes, but he could not distinguish where they were running any more. He felt like he'd lost his sense of direction; they were lost in a maze of London streets.

A tug on his hand, another sharp turn and Mycroft's body was slammed into the wall. Hard. Hands gripping his forearms with enough force to bruise, shaking him.

"Mycroft!" Lestrade was shouting right in his face, bringing the other man out from his blind panic back to sanity. As soon as the DI recognized the sense returning to Mycroft's eyes, he let go, hand seeking Mycroft's again and ran, taking the other man with him.

Mycroft gulped and breathed deeply, mind restoring the order of thoughts, Lestrade's hand and his presence on the whole anchoring to the semblance of calm he managed to reach.

"Turn your phone off," Lestrade shouted to him, turning for a second to look into Mycroft's unnaturally pale face.

"What?"

"Your phone. It won't stop ringing."

So that's where the music was coming from. At least that was clear and, thankfully, Mycroft wasn't hallucinating; the music existed, but it stopped as his hand unsteadily reached into his pocket. Knowing it'd be better to turn the phone off since it might start ringing later at a critical moment, such as if they'd need to hide, Mycroft ran his finger across the screen brining the device to life. He had four missed calls and a message. The text came last, just seconds ago. Mycroft opened it. He stumbled as his concentration was on his hand movements instead of his legs for a moment, but Lestrade kept him from falling again.

The DI was about to make another turn but Mycroft didn't let him, pulling the other man along until they passed the turn. That gave their pursuer an advantage since he had a gun and such tactic left them in the line of fire long enough for him to take aim. Ignoring the dread such thoughts awakened, Mycroft bypassed another turn, overpowering Lestrade who attempted to tug him to a side alley.

"Mycroft!" The DI shouted, a question and worry in his tone. He was running out of breath as well.

"Trust me," Mycroft replied, the third turn was passed by.

The sound of bullets hitting the pavement ran shivers down his spine in the worst way possible.

"There," he muttered under his breath. His hand gripping Lestrade's so tightly the other man had probably lost the feeling in his fingers by this point, Mycroft tugged him into a side alley. It was so narrow the light of the still rising sun was not enough to light it.

As soon as they were hidden by the wall of the corner building he slowed down but didn't stop running. Ahead of them there was a figure of a man, positioned in the middle of the alley. Mycroft ducked to the side, Lestrade after him, gluing his body to the building wall.

The shot rung in the still morning air.

Lestrade's hold on him tightened as the DI jerked in an attempt to somehow protect Mycroft with his own body. But it was as useless as it was unneeded. The pursuer fell as he appeared at the mouth of the alley, his figure highlighted by the light coming from the street they had left seconds ago.

Mycroft breathed out a sigh of relief. Lestrade could feel how the other man's body relaxed behind him, but he still watched the new party cautiously. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he recognized Sherlock Holmes in the man standing in the other end of the alley.

Sherlock quickly crossed the alley as the pursuer groaned lowly; he was coming back to his senses, slowly trying to rise from the ground, one hand clutching the wound on his shoulder and the other fumbling for the gun he had dropped. The consulting detective impassively neared the man and hit him over the head with the back of his gun. The groaning stopped.

Relieved with assurance that it was over, Lestrade leaned on the wall by Mycroft's side. Tired, he slid down the dirty bricks to sit on the ground. He threw his head back, watching Mycroft.

"How did you get here?" Lestrade asked the younger Holmes, not taking his eyes from the older. Mycroft was slumped by the wall, leaning heavily on it, still catching his breath. As he noticed the DI's gaze he smiled weakly and put his right hand on the other man's shoulder, using it as a support, balancing his weight carefully.

"Since you, idiots," Sherlock replied, spitefully accenting the last word Lestrade knew addressed the police, but didn't have any energy to disagree. "Can't find a criminal for the life of you, I decided to take the investigation in my own hands."

"I take it," Mycroft said, his voice raspy as his chest hurt and it felt like there were thousands of needles driving in the inside of his throat with every breath he took. He hated physical exercise all the more for it. "The suspect they caught wasn't the actual murderer."

"No. Also because he was unsuccessful in his assignment it'd be more correct to say attempted murderer." Sherlock replied. He was crouching over the prone form of the man, inspecting his pockets.

"So you figured out that the murderer was still running free. Doesn't explain how you appeared here." Lestrade intruded, returning the conversation back on track. He was still exhausted but he was taking this running around London thing better than Mycroft, especially since it could be considered a part of his job.

"When the first attempt happened I was still on the crime scene," Sherlock started his explanation and Lestrade remembered that Mycroft stepped out of the car to stop his brother from leaving. He had never thought about where the consulting detective had disappeared to after that, he just concluded that he had left. "I was at the window he was shooting from before Donavan appeared so, thankfully, I had some time to examine it in peace. I found clues, however small they were, which helped me find the man. Then it was just a matter of following him as he followed you. I watched how he stopped a cab and, using a gun, threatened the cabby. So he took the car and, because he already knew that you were at Lestrade's place," there he gave a pointed look to Mycroft that didn't leave a doubt that he was aware of what exactly had happened there. "He only had to wait for you to come out. I admit neither he nor I expected Lestrade to rush after you like that. Probably you left quite an impression."

Mycroft didn't dignify it with an answer, used to his brother's mocking.

"And again," it was Lestrade who interrupted the silence. "Doesn't explain why you are at the right place at the very right time."

Sherlock, who by this time had finished the search of the unconscious man, was now standing in front of them, hands crossed. His eyes swept over Lestrade's form and he frowned.

"What are you wearing?"

Lestrade heard Mycroft's snort and felt the hand on his shoulder falter as the other man contained his laughter. During the chase his already rumpled look transferred into the whole 'I rushed out of my house like it was on fire' look. It was close to it, anyway. So what if his shirt was half buttoned, part of the buttons haven fallen off, it was dirty and creased. So what if his jeans got a few tears that were not a part of the original design and were so dirty he considered just throwing them away and his belt was unbuckled because he simply didn't have time for that when he left the flat in the chase for Mycroft Holmes? He was sure that his hair, sweaty sticking to his forehead and standing in all directions at the nape, completed the look.

"I rather like it," Mycroft commented and Lestrade felt his fingers run through his hair, messing it even more.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I sent Mycroft a message."

"What?" Lestrade asked, momentary distracted by the gentle tugging at his hair. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back more.

"As I said," the consulting detective was becoming irritated. "I was following him while he followed you. I lost you when you started the mad chase, taking one blind turn after another. But I figured it won't take much time to trace Mycroft with the GPS in his phone."

"You know the password?" Mycroft asked, but there was not much wonder in his voice.

"Knowing you, it's easy to guess. So I traced you, figured out the best place to meet up with you and sent a text. Easy." Sherlock looked bored as he explained, but his eyes shone and a smile threatened to bloom. The corners of his lips continued quirking upwards no matter how he wanted to suppress it. He was pleased with himself. "Also I made a call to the Yard. Your team should be here shortly."

"Thank you," Lestrade breathed out, looking him straight in the eye.

Sherlock nodded, holding his gaze. Then his eyes traveled upward and settled on his older brother.

"You okay?"

"Yes, thank you for your concern."

No mocking, no teasing, not even a bit of resentment and Lestrade felt stupid for assuming that Sherlock had simply left after his brother was almost killed the day before. They didn't get along, but that didn't mean that they didn't love each other. The Holmes brothers cared and looked out for one another no matter how many times they got into arguments and proclaimed their hate to each other. For a moment they were like a normal family in which siblings didn't try to stare one another down at every meeting.

"You should try running in the mornings. Maybe then you wouldn't be so weak," Sherlock commented, with one sentence dissolving the seriousness of the atmosphere.

Instead of giving a sarcastic retort though Mycroft let out a dry laugh.

"I'll take that in consideration."

They stayed in silence like that, Lestrade on the ground with Mycroft standing near him, the other man's hand massaging his shoulder, running through his hair and caressing his nape. His gaze was unfocused, staring at the wall across, so it seemed like the action was unconscious. Sherlock was standing a few feet away, keeping an eye on the still unconscious man on the ground; he also willed himself not to look in the direction of the two lovers – the attraction between them was too obvious for his comfort. They all waited for the police.

A light rain had started, grey clouds hiding the morning sun from view. The air grew colder as the heavy drops poured down at them. Mycroft's hand stilled and Lestrade felt a shudder run through his body. He'd love to show his gentlemanly side to the other man, but that was impossible since he himself was only wearing a thin shirt and jeans.

"Didn't you have an umbrella?" He asked, glancing up.

"I suppose I left it at your flat."

"How unfortunate. You'll probably have to come back to my place again to get it."

Mycroft smiled and, tired of holding his body upright when his muscles were screaming from exhaustion, slid down the wall, not caring for the state of his suit for once. He leaned onto Lestrade slightly. So maybe the DI was not as bad at flirting as he let on.

"Yes. I seems like I'll have to," Mycroft smirked, at which Lestrade smiled and Sherlock groaned.

The End

A/N: This was my first time writing a chasing scene and I loved it. So exciting and interesting. I hope I did it well.

I'd be very happy to get a review from you, my dear readers:)