"It wasn't your fault,"

Mycroft sat with his back to the police inspector, hands together on the newspaper. The headline burned under his palms, his brother's bloodied face top story.

"Look, you can't keep running away to this place. I miss you, the girls miss you." He reached forward, hand on Mycroft's shoulder.
Mycroft raised his hands off of the offending headline, placing one over his lovers. Still he did not turn around.

"Have you spoken to him?"

"No," Lestrade admitted, happy for the physical contact. "Not since the investigation. Mrs Hudson helped him move, but…" He didn't continue.

"Has he received any compensation?" Mycroft asked, stroking the image with his free hand.

"No, they were never official. He had a will though."

"I know. I made him write it."

"He didn't leave you anything." Lestrade pointed out, frowning.

"Oh I wouldn't say that." Mycroft smiled, his tight little smile seeming heart-breaking.

"You didn't make him jump." Lestrade told him, tightening his grip on the man's shoulder.

"I might as well have."

"I'll be home soon," Mycroft assured him, turning around and kissing the rough hand that held him. Lestrade opened his mouth to object but Mycroft stood, facing him and placing a light kiss on his cheek. "I need to finish up here. Tell the girls to pick out something for me to read."

"Alright," Lestrade melted, giving him the sharp look that only a police officer can manage. "But If you are late I'm coming back with the handcuffs." Mycroft's lip twitched, eyes brightening for a moment.

"Now now Gregory, I do have to work here,"

"Then don't be late,"

He waited until his lover had gone before moving to the drinks cabinet. He poured himself a glass. Then he poured another.
Thin white hands picked up the glass delicately.

"You know I don't like Bourbon." His younger brother commented, sniffing it with distaste. Mycroft did not rise to the jibe. Instead sipped his own silently.

"Will you tell him?"

"Gregory? No." Mycroft assured him, sitting back down.

"John?"

Mycroft looked down at the dark liquid, watching it swirl and sink. "No."

"Thank you." Sherlock placed the glass down, untouched. "You don't want to be late. I think Lestrade was serious."

"I was rather hoping he was, yes," Mycroft agreed, finishing his drink.

"I hardly think police issue handcuffs would present you with an issue," Sherlock scoffed.

"It's not me who is intending to be detained," Mycroft responded coolly, earning him a raised eyebrow that clearly said - 'Lestrade? Really?'

"Now, if you are quite finished. I have a family to get home to." Mycroft told him. "So do you, if you want to."

Sherlock did not reply. Mycroft passed him in silence, stopping only to empty Sherlock's glass.

"He's better off without me," Sherlock told him.

"You fool," Mycroft said, fist clenched. "You poor, poor fool."

"Don't patronise me." Sherlock spat.

"He needs you," Mycroft replied, picking up his umbrella.

"He has Mary,"

"He needs you," Mycroft repeated, emphasising the last word. "His limp is back,"

"Obviously,"

"Come back Sherlock! What is there possibly to gain by this self-gratuitous torture?"

"Honey." Sherlock snarked, his brother knowing about his recent acquisition of bees.

"I'm going." Mycroft opened the door, "And if you have any sense you'll do the same."

"Send Lestrade my love." Sherlock said, adding "Make sure you don't break him." in a taunting call.
Mycroft didn't rise to it, he was already gone. Sherlock sat down in the room, flicking through the tabloid. A small piece of paper fell into his lap. It contained an address and four words:

He kept your coat.