A/N: Wow, so. First fic in a while; my first posted in the Sherlock fandom. Not Brit-picked. Also, written as a birthday present for the very bestest person in the world, Kait, who also served as a sort-of beta for this xD

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, making no money, etc.

There are many who would call him impatient. Many who would tell him he was horrible at waiting for things to come, always forcing his hand to move things along as quickly as possible. But then, almost all who said this about him only saw the mask he wore, never truly seeing the man beneath the Iceman.

He would like to say that he is patient, that he can handle things well. Hell, considering the restraint he'd shown on a number of occasions when Greg has teased him… Yes, he has patience. Has it in spades. Considering, too, how long he waited for Greg, would have continued to wait... Well, it may appear he has no patience, but he normally has quite a bit.

He was finding currently, however, that nervousness made his patience almost nonexistent. For the fifth time, he has glanced at his brother, who wears the same infuriating look on his face as he had three minutes twenty seconds ago. The one that says he is taking delight in the fact that, for once, it is Mycroft who is out of control and headed straight for a crash.

At least at the end of this one, Mycroft doesn't have to wonder whether or not he was going to be in a jail cell.

Mycroft hesitates for a moment and opens his mouth to say something, but Sherlock cuts him off with a loud, weary sigh.

"If the question you're thinking leaves your mouth, I will not be held responsible," Sherlock informs him curtly, glaring at him.

Mycroft's lips thin and his eyes narrow.

"Sherlock," he tells his little brother, the warning clear in his tone and in the look on his face. The darker-haired younger of the two continues to look at the older of the pair steadily, a warning on his own face. Then, rather suddenly, his face shifts, his eyes actually soften and if he were to count the incident to any other living soul, Sherlock surely would have denied putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"It's going to be just fine, you know. While I am still confused as to why, Lestrade does love you. He is not the sort to simply walk away from something like this." Sherlock's grip briefly tightens in a reassuring manner, and Mycroft actually finds himself smiling.

"Thank you, Sherlock," he tells his little brother, softly. He is gratified by the pale man's cheeks pinking and his pale eyes turning away quickly to hide the embarrassment.

"Best to hide the sentiment before someone sees; it doesn't suit you," he tells Mycroft gruffly in a clipped tone, but Mycroft knows better. He finds himself smiling a bit, still grateful for the words of comfort from his little brother.

It is then that the doors to the Magistrate's office open and Greg walks through them, followed closely by John.

Everything that he'd been feeling a moment ago instantly fades at the sight of the man he is going to commit to today.

He is slightly gratified, though, at the nervous smile that Greg gives him as he approaches. He holds out his hands and Greg takes them both in his own.

"Ready?" He asks, brown eyes searching Mycroft's face, likely looking for reassurance. Mycroft is more than happy to give it; gives it easily, smiling warmly, squeezing the hands in his own.

He brings them both up to his lips, then, kissing each one gently for good measure.

"If you are, my love," he tells the man, ignoring first the noise of sickness and then the small hiss of pain from Sherlock.

Greg nods, smiling warmly, and the two of them move off.

While nerves had caused him a small measure of impatience, Mycroft would have waited forever for Greg if it had been needed.