“I can hardly ask them to wait for you to finish ‘the case of someone’s chicken going missing in Croydon’, Sherlock –”
“Not one chicken, brother dear, a whole coop full of them! Disappeared!”
John greeting someone at the kitchen door hardly makes an impression on the brothers, staring at one another with ferocious determination.
Somewhere, in the back of Mycroft’s brain, he notes the back-and-forth:
Er – they alright?
Yeah? They’re arguing, I think. Can’t really tell when they get like this –
An exhalation and a low chuckle in the background, something nagging at Mycroft’s attention but he’s not going to break the steel-grey glare he’s sharing with Sherlock –
Perfect, ’s'been a long day actually –
A body in Mycroft’s peripheral vision, a man, dropping down to sit on the sofa, and then his brain says silver-bright hair –
And the gaze breaks, Mycroft wouldn’t say he was the one who broke it, exactly – but maybe he was – and DI Lestrade is wearing a soft, warm-looking charcoal jumper. He’s obviously been home to change after work, because Mycroft’s never seen him in something like that before, and it suits him, doesn’t it, it looks –
His fingers curl on the old, thin fabric of the arms of John’s chair and Sherlock’s eyes are wide, astonished, his surprise too fresh even to form a sneer.
“Alright?” says Lestrade, casual, and a man of Mycroft’s age shouldn’t be tongue-tied, ever, but in the end it’s up to Sherlock to give a dismissive side-swipe of an answer.
Mycroft is grateful to his little brother.