"No, damn it! How many times do I have to tell you to flick your bloody wrist!"

"I am flicking!"

"No, you're jerking. Flicking and jerking are not the same. You're going to bugger up your arm doing that."

"Why can't I just use my wand, again?"

"It's more intimate if you use your hands."

"But I don't care if it's more intimate."

"Stop whining!"

"I'm not whining! I'm simply stating my difference of opinion, which is not the same as whining."

"HA. HA. Shut up! Put away your bloody wand and get to flicking that wrist or I swear, I will pinch your nipples."

"Oh, that really makes me want to get close enough to snog."

"Is that my bra?"

The attention of both men snaps to source of the voice -- the petite redhead standing in the den's doorway with a baby in her arms and an expression that's a mix of amusement and confusion on her face.

"Hey, sweets," Brand says nonchalantly as he adjusts the shoulder straps of the pink paisley brassier stretched over his white T-shirt. With a sigh, he turns back to Mycroft who's gone flush with embarrassment. "All right, Mikey, let's go. Strip it off me."

After listening to Arthur and Moody bicker for over an hour about what is best for Gleny and Tristan, Sturgis takes his leave from the kitchen and goes to find Gideon's widow. He doesn't have to travel far; Gleny is in the sitting room, alone. She's perched on Arthur and Molly's old couch; hunched forward with her face in her hands. Sturgis pauses in the doorway and considers his options.

It'd be easier to let her be and go outside to check on Tristan. (Alice is watching Gleny's son with the help of Molly's boys.) He wouldn't be intruding on Gleny's quiet moment and he could use some fresh air. It would also likely save him from saying something stupid and being overwhelmed by the melancholy atmosphere of the day. Yes, going outside would be the smart thing to do.

Sturgis walks into the sitting room. He doubts his presence will do any good, but it's heartbreaking to see her grieving alone. He winces when the floor creaks with his steps. There's no reaction from Gleny; she's likely lost in her own thoughts -- another reason why this is probably a bad idea. He crosses to the couch and maneuvers around a squat table to slowly take a seat next to Gleny. The couch sags with his weight, but several seconds pass before the widow lifts her head.

Gleny's face is flushed and her eyes are strained and swollen but there are no tears. Sturgis wonders if she's wept herself dry. The expression on her face is utterly blank; her eyes are dark with mourning and anger. She looks exhausted, but there's no weakness in her posture. Gleny holds Sturgis's concerned gaze and says nothing. Folding her hands in her lap, she looks around the room and draws in a shaky breath.

Each movement sends another pang of ache through his chest. "Gleny--" Sturgis clamps his mouth shut. The name snuck out with an earnest crackle in his voice. His expression softens with compassion when she turns to him and blinks back fresh tears. Her lashes are soon wet. Sturgis slowly shakes his head. No words are coming to him and his dark gray eyes are starting to well-up.

"I'm so sorry, Gleny," he edges out.

Gleny's moves toward him and Sturgis meets her embrace half-way. Her arms go around his lower ribs and squeeze as her chin digs into the back of his shoulder. Sturgis wraps her smaller frame with his arms and bites down on his lower lip to keep himself from gasping in grief. He pulls her in tighter when she shivers and begins to weep. Gleny draws her chin back and presses her mouth to the shoulder of his dress robes. Sturgis wants to say more, but can't find a voice as hot tears roll down his cheeks.

"It's going to be okay, Gleny," Sturgis says in a hoarse whisper when Arthur appears in the doorway with a solemn look of defeat on his face. "Different...but okay."