Title: There's A Sign In The Desert (That Lies To The West)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: PG
Length: 522 words
Content notes: No spoilers. This is a remix of my fic Not All The King's Horses (And All The King's Men).
Author notes: Written for the revision challenge on fan_flashworks.
Summary: His big brother always thinks he's the smart one, but even he can be painfully obvious on occasion.



His big brother always thinks he's the smart one, but even he can be painfully obvious on occasion.

Mycroft claims that caring is not an advantage, and yet that's exactly the mistake he's just made. Sherlock can see it in his slightly hunched back – a sign of defeat if there ever was one – and the way he snaps at his PA for no apparent reason.

A snarky remark is dancing on the tip of his tongue, then he remembers the time his brother didn't talk for a month as he was nursing his first unrequited crush – Sherlock was nine back then, but the thought still hurts somehow – and magnanimously keeps his mouth shut.

That doesn't stop him from observing, gathering precious information in order to deduce who's the lucky man who struck Mycroft's fancy. Well, 'unlucky' would be a more appropriate term, but still.

The answer presents itself as soon as he happens to witness the embarrassingly stilted interaction between his poor excuse for a brother and Inspector Lestrade. And it's even worse than he thought at first, Sherlock decides after so much as a quick glance.

He's not sure he's entirely comfortable with the idea of Mycroft imposing on one of his friends; however, Lestrade is putting on a show of being unaffected, and it's pretty much as painful a sight as it was when the DI broke up with his former wife. That's why one evening he shows up at the pub around the corner from Gary's – Greg's – flat, causing the Scotland Yard man to choke on his pint.

"I'm off duty, Sherlock," Lestrade curtly informs him, as if he fully expects to be dragged to a crime scene or something.

"I know. I need your help on a rather delicate matter."

The other man groans wearily. "What have you done this time?"

"Nothing," he replies smoothly, though he knows well enough it's not completely true. That's not what he came here to discuss though. "My brother is making an utter fool of himself. I was wondering whether there was something you could do to put a stop to that."

Lestrade considers his words for a moment. "I'm afraid you're overestimating my skills."

"Please. Anybody's social skills are better than Mycroft's."

"Or yours, for that matter."

A smirk tugs at his lips. "Point taken. It's still disgusting to see the British government mulling over a tussle with the Met."

"Sherlock, I warn you – I'm in no mood for your particular brand of humour."

"I'm being serious. My pathetic brother is as close to pining as you'll ever see him."

Lestrade huffs in frustration. "You Holmeses just can't deal with emotions like ordinary people, can you?"

"We're anything but ordinary," he points out somewhat proudly. "That's why my esteemed sibling is currently licking his wounds in his private room at the Diogenes Club."

Greg mumbles a particularly colourful expletive, then casts a rueful glance at his beer. "You two will be the death of me," he says, but soon enough he's striding out of the pub and hailing a cab.

Sherlock only shakes his head and walks away into the night.