Mystrade fic on the subject of "hope"
Title: More Than A Little Hope
Prompts Used: Words--beginnings, daring, decisions, garden, growth, rebirth
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Word Count: 617
Lestrade looked brightly around the lovely room and nodded appreciatively. "Can't thank you enough for the invite. Well enough, now that case is over, I feel like I got a new lease on life."
Mycroft smiled as lightly as he could, having been told by Anthea in the past that the lizard-like grimace was fine for tricky negotiations but not so pleasant in a social situation. "A play on words, Detective Inspector, I wouldn't have thought it of you."
Lestrade stared for a moment, then a grin spread across his face. "Because it was the Baptism Killer? Didn't mean it, but it is rather good,right? I mean...not the killings themselves, no, but as we saw in the press, the modus operandi does give rise to no end of joking references. Not to mention the bastard being named Hope. New Hope and LIfe Church, right. No Hope more like." He grimaced slightly, not one to take any type of murder lightly. "Even more so, it's a relief to get out from under that one. Wouldn't admit it, but I was starting to feel hopeless." He took a quaff of ale and raised his glass. "Thanks to you and your brother, I can start tomorrow with a clean slate."
Mycroft looked across the table at his dinner companion, raised his wineglass, and, with a lightness that belied his inner unease, said, "To new beginnings, then, Detective Inspector.'
"Greg, please, call me Greg." With a bit of daring, Lestrade essayed a rogueish grin. 'I mean, we're off duty." He waved a hand around the elegant dining room. "If we get to work together again, I guess we'd best go more formal."
Mycroft goggled slightly across the table, uncharacteristically rendered speechless by the glorious grin. "Ah well, yes, officially. Must maintain our decorum, as befits a man making difficult decisions."
"But off duty..." again the rogue appeared, "We can be a bit informal. Social-like, right? Do what we want." He waved his glass in a friendly manner, downed the last swallow, and ran a finger across his lips. In the silence that followed, he looked searchingly at Mycroft, who realized belatedly that he had been staring. Again uncharacteristically, he stumbled into speech. "Il faut cultiver son jardin," he blurted, then mentally kicked himself for introducing a snobbish note.
Lestrade's eyes lightened. "Ah, oui, mais pas seul, j'espere," he responded.
"You speak French, Det--er, Gregory. You are a man of unexpected talents."
"More'n you know, mate, but that one's no credit to me. Raised to it, summers in Avignon with the grands growing up. But anyway, cultivating your own garden is fine, but a garden's a lovely thing to enjoy with another." He looked steadily at Mycroft, who was aware of a feeling of helplessness, as though he was on sand that was slipping beneath his feet. Could it be, could Gregory be...flirting with him? He felt the growth of a glimmer under his sternum, a flicker of hope. He ran his finger up and down the stem of his wineglass, as the waiter moved forward to refill Lestrade's pint. Taking a deep breath, he raised his glass again, and murmured, "Shall we resume? Another toast, this one to new ventures."
"Ah yes, I do believe I feel a bit of a rebirth coming on. Oh Lord, not again." Lestrade groaned and made a gesture across his forehead. "Will everything stop reminding me of that blasted case!"
Mycroft, emboldened, leaned across the table. "I believe I can offer a distraction, Gregory. Perhaps bring new meaning to the concepts of life and hope." He sat back in his chair, satisfied to see the look of amazement on his companion's face.