When the sun shines, we'll shine together, Chapter 2 - Earnestly
Title: When the sun shines, we'll shine together, Chapter 2 - Earnestly
Fandom: Sherlock
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock nor am I earning any financial gains from this work.
Pairing/Characters: Greg Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes; Sally Donovan, Anderson, Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Original Characters
Word Count: 8,258
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Greg is having problems with his wife, it's tough enough being a copper, and then Mycroft Holmes starts sending him gifts. (In which Mycroft Holmes courts Gregory Lestrade)
Chapter Summary: "If it's not your wife then who is it?"
Greg purses his lips - sees a swish of Anne's hair and hears Mycroft's laugh in his head - then turns away. "Someone else."
Author Notes: So the musical aid to this story is a mix by severussnap. Specifically the song "Umbrella" by The Baseballs, a cover which (in my opinion) surpasses the original and gives this story its title.
Chapter 1 - Sincerely
Cross posted to AO3.
Greg walks along the front of the grocery store passing by aisle after aisle. He does not quite understand sometimes how they organize these places any more. Why in the world does there need to be an aisle dedicated just to soda and water? Greg skips that aisle. He has been getting take away too much lately and, though he's not all that vain, he doesn't want to be the fat copper behind the desk. He knows how to cook so he should do it now and then. The stove in his kitchen needs some attention. Maybe he should get some chicken, do a stir fry?
Greg's mobile starts to vibrate in his pocket, making him almost drop his basket. "Shit." Greg fumbles, finds the right pocket, and taps answer just in time. "Yeah?"
"Hello to you too."
"David, hi." Greg shifts the phone to his other hand. "How are you?"
"Less brusque when I answer the phone."
"True, hit fifty yet?"
"Oh ho ho." David makes a tsking noise. "You jest, brother, but you are not so far yourself."
Greg laughs without humor. "It's clear on the horizon, don't worry. How's Jane?"
"Fine, as usual. She's caning her students now. Need to start that discipline in primary, you know."
"Branch she broke off a tree outside, I bet."
"Of course, but seriously, she’s -" David suddenly groans in pain and shouts faintly, obviously leaning away from the phone. "What did I say? Isn't three times enough!" He sighs loudly. "Sorry, hi."
"This is what happens when you have three of them, right?"
David grumbles and sighs again. "You're lucky you have none."
Greg clears his throat and turns down another aisle, knocking a can of beans into his basket. He looks down at it as soon as it lands and has to close his eyes at the 'bachelor' irony.
"Hey, uh... how's Anne and all that going?"
"Ha..." Greg picks up the can of beans from his basket and puts it back on the shelf. "She brought three boxes of my things to my flat."
"Shit."
"Yes."
David knocks something in the background, probably smacking his hand on the counter like he does when making a point because he thinks he is a judge or something. "It just means she cares."
'"She - what?"
"She came to your flat in person to bring your things. Doesn't that mean she cares or something?"
Greg looks down the aisle, one woman with a trolley and way too much cat food. "Maybe. I don't know. I have Anne starting fights about nothing on the one side and then Mycroft with his -" Greg bites his lip and shakes his head.
"The who, with his what?"
"It's nothing. Look, I should -"
"Who is Mycroft? Is that a name?"
Greg rubs his forehead with his mobile hand then brings it back to his ear. "Yeah, it is."
David is silent but Greg does not fill in the hole. He considers pasta sauce until David says, "So Mycroft?"
"He's been sending me presents."
"Sending you presents?"
“Yeah, to the office.” Greg holds the mobile between his ear and shoulder then picks two jars of sauce, putting them in his basket.
“Like what? Chocolates?”
"Coffee, wine... uh, a coat."
"A coat!"
"It was raining!" David starts to laugh. Greg sighs and walks down the aisle. "All right, all right, stop laughing.”
“A coat.” David snorts. “Are you serious?” David stops laughing and Greg hears something clink in the background. “He does know you’re still married, right?”
“I think he knows pretty much everything. He works for the government.”
“Like parliament?”
Greg stands at the end of the aisle then turns right. “More like ‘hush hush don’t ask’ government.”
“Scary.”
“His brother is worse.”
“Two men are sending you presents? My God, Greg, when did the Met become the place to be?”
“You know you’re not as funny as you think,” Greg says as he turns down another aisle.
“Yes, I am.”
Greg sighs. “If you insist and, no, two men are not sending me presents. His brother is Sherlock.”
“The annoying consulting genius guy Sherlock?”
“That’s the one.”
“You run with a strange crowd, Greg.”
Greg stops walking and glares at the air. “Thank you.”
“All right, let’s -” David makes another yelping noise then shouts something indistinguishable into the background. “And now that I am still alive after yet another toy attack,” he sighs, “Let’s recap. This man, Mycroft, right?”
“Yes.”
“Has sent you coffee, wine, and a coat.” David chuckles once quietly. “Possibly more. He has sent you presents, gifts, tokens.”
“Got it, David.”
“So what you’re telling me is that he’s wooing you?”
“No! I mean, well… “
“Oh, he definitely is.”
“You’re daft.”
“Sounds more like you’re in denial.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Go on then, won’t change the fact that you are being pursued by a shady government -” Greg hangs up.
Greg looks up at the shelf in front of him, rice pilaf in a box staring back. He frowns, picks one box up with his mobile hand, and puts it in his basket.
Greg taps his mobile on the edge of the shelf and sighs. "Fucking ridiculous..." then he slips it back into his coat pocket.
Reaching the end of the aisle, Greg considers a six pack but also thinks that drinking alone in his small flat on his second-hand brown couch feels a bit too stereotypical and sad to make it worth it. He checks his basket - bread, peanut butter, ground beef, cheddar, two jars of sauce, and rice now. He should probably get something from the fruits and vegetables part of the old school pyramid.
Then Greg feels his mobile vibrate in his pocket. He pulls it out, ready for some sassy text from David about Mycroft, but instead sees 'Anne.' He clicks in.
[8:35] I'm sorry about the other night.
Greg stares at the six words and cannot think of what to say back.
----------
The department has a coffee pot and Greg has his Mycroft French press, however, sometimes he needs a reason to get out of the office - a reason which is not a crime scene. Coffee is always the perfect excuse.
Just before Greg enters the coffee shop a street away from New Scotland Yard, he sees Mycroft walking toward a car parked by the curb. Greg touches the door handle of the shop, looks down at it then turns and steps back.
“Mycroft!”
Mycroft starts just slightly then turns his head in Greg’s direction. Greg smiles and they walk toward each other.
“Hi,” Greg says, “what are you doing around here?”
“Minor business at your work place.”
“Oh?” Mycroft only nods and says nothing more. Greg shrugs. “All right then.”
“You do look good in it.”
Greg blinks. “Hmm?”
Mycroft glances up and down Greg once, gesturing with his chin toward Greg then Greg remembers he is wearing the coat Mycroft gave him.
“Oh, I…” Greg laughs awkwardly. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
“Look.” Greg points behind him. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
Mycroft opens his mouth just slightly then closes it again and clears his throat. “That is not necessary, I have other -”
“Please,” Greg insists. “You bought me a coat. Let me get you a coffee.”
Mycroft’s mouth shuts. His eyes tick to the side though not quite looking at the car behind him. Then he looks back at Greg and smiles. “All right.”
Greg turns and waves an arm out for Mycroft to precede him. They walk into the shop and Greg orders an espresso, as requested, for Mycroft and just a regular coffee for himself, cream and sugar. Coffees in hand, they sit at a small table by the window. Mycroft blows on his espresso once then sets it back on the table. Greg gulps some of his coffee and mostly ignores how it burns his throat the whole way down. Mycroft raises his eyebrows but does not comment.
Greg puts his coffee down and leans forward slightly over the table. “Mycroft, about all this.” He touches the collar of his coat.
“Yes?” Mycroft picks up his espresso and blows on it again.
“You need to stop sending me these things.”
“And why is that?”
Greg sits up straight with a faint scoff. “Well, you…” He breathes out and crosses his arms. “You shouldn’t be spending all this money on me,” he says more quietly.
Mycroft sips his espresso. “It is not an imposition to me.”
“But it’s all very one sided, isn’t it?”
“It does not have to be.”
Greg sighs. “You know I’m still married?”
“You are separated.”
“That doesn’t mean ‘not married.’”
Mycroft puts his espresso cup down and cocks his head. “As I understand it, many separated couples see other people while separated.”
“We’re not.”
“Oh?” Mycroft gives him a look.
Greg furrows his eyebrows. “What?”
“Hmm.” Mycroft picks up his espresso again.
“Are you implying something?”
Mycroft sips his espresso then puts it down. “Of course not; I simply mean, perhaps you should consider it.”
“Consider you, you mean.”
Mycroft smiles.
Greg sighs and picks up his coffee again. “I suppose it would mean presents and rides in your company cars, treat me like a queen?”
Mycroft laughs, face momentarily transformed from his usual polite smiles, but he stops suddenly looking surprised. Greg grins and knows right then that Mycroft Holmes does not laugh for real very often. On whatever imaginary score board exists for whatever this is, Greg counts a point to himself.
“I don’t really know anything about you,” Greg continues, back to serious, “other than you are Sherlock’s brother and work for some undisclosed portion of the government.” Greg takes a sip of his coffee. “And that you have expensive tastes, at least in gift giving.”
“Hmm.” Mycroft touches the handle of his espresso cup but does not pick it up. He bites the edge of his lip then looks right at Greg. “Then you need to give me the opportunity to have you learn more.” He picks up his espresso this time and adds, “also, despite what you may think, there are numerous aspects of your life and personality I do not know as well.”
Greg nods then shrugs. “We’re here now.”
Mycroft frowns, tapping his cup back onto the table, and blinks twice. “Now?”
“Why not?”
Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “It is three PM on a Wednesday.”
“And?”
“And we are both employed.”
Greg chuckles. “What’s five more minutes?”
“I have not planned time in my schedule.”
“You need to plan time for coffee?”
“Often.”
Greg picks up his mug then leans back in his chair. Nodding once, Greg takes a sip. “Well, I guess that is something more I know about you then.”
“That I am a busy man?”
“That you schedule coffee.”
Mycroft’s lip twitches and he smiles, that somewhat shy yet real smile which Greg thinks Mycroft is unaccustomed to using. “And that you have more of a sense of humor than I knew.”
Mycroft picks up his cup, slowly drinks the rest of the espresso then puts the cup back down. He pushes the cup slightly into the middle of the table then stands up. Greg sits up straight again but Mycroft holds up a hand for Greg to not get up.
“I apologize, but I cannot stay any longer.”
“Ah.”
“It was a pleasure to run in to you, however.”
Greg nods. “Yeah and remember what I said.” Mycroft tilts his head. “Enough with the presents.”
A slow smile spreads across Mycroft’s face, “Thank you for the coffee, Greg,” then he walks out.
----------
Every year Greg has to write reviews for the staff directly under his command and every year he hates it more. As if it isn't hard enough to be a copper, to be mistrusted, disliked, and constantly under scrutiny by the press and the public, they have this too? Of course most jobs have staff reviews and evaluations and all of that corporate bullshit, but Greg thinks that since they deal with so many other horrible and difficult things, could they not be spared this? No boss likes to tell their hardworking sergeants to work on their positivity or timeliness; at least Greg doesn't.
Greg picks up his phone and dials Donovan.
"Sir?" she answers with more pleasant of a tone than Greg feels.
"You're going to hate me but could you find someone to grab me lunch?"
She scoffs. "Are you asking me to get you lunch?"
"Are you someone?"
"Not that someone."
"Don't we have interns right now somewhere?" Greg turns slightly so no one can see his face through his office window. "Please, I'm drowning in hierarchy right now."
"I'll find an intern; sandwich and some chips?"
Greg sighs happily. "You're a goddess."
"I know." Then she hangs up.
Greg puts the phone back in the cradle and rubs both hands over his face. "Fuck..." He drops his hands and turns back to his laptop. He taps his fingers lightly on the keys but not enough to cause anything to happen. "Okay, okay, better to barrel through."
Then he hears a knock at his door. Greg glances to the closed door, "Come in."
A woman he does not recognize wearing a white blouse and black pencil skirt steps in. "Hello sir, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, I trust?"
He looks her up and down once then locks in on the rectangular box with a red card on top in her one hand. "Oh no."
"Sir?"
He points at the box in her hand. "What is it?"
"A gift from Mr. Mycroft Holmes."
Greg shakes his head. "Oh, and don't I know it. I meant, what's inside?"
She shakes her head. "That I do not know." She holds it out toward him. "May I?"
Greg sighs and waves a hand at her. She steps all the way into the office and comes around his desk. He holds out his hands and takes the box from her. Then he notices her other arm is held behind her back.
He nods his head toward her. "There's more?"
She pulls her hand around and in it is one rose.
"Shit."
She laughs then rests it on top of the box in his hands. Greg feels himself blushing and he thanks fucking Christ that his whole division has been avoiding his office today.
"Tell him this is getting a bit ridiculous," he manages to whisper.
She smiles. "I don't think I will, sir, sorry."
"Please?"
She shakes her head. Then she backs away two steps, turns, and walks out of his office, closing the door behind her.
Drumming his finger tips on the box edges a few times, Greg shifts his chair around again and puts the box down on his desk. He picks the rose off the top and holds it between two fingers. To be honest, he is fairly certain no one has ever given him a rose before. He breathes in slowly the blows it out to calm his heart. Then he puts the rose down on top of some papers and picks up the red card (and isn't that hitting it over the head a bit?). The card reads:
Perhaps you are worth some gifts.
-M. Holmes.
Inside the box is a long, thin glass vase. Greg very clearly hears David's voice in his head, 'so he's wooing you?'
Greg rubs his temple, reads the card again and wonders if Mycroft learned about romance in a book. He bites the edge of his lip to keep from smiling. Then he picks up the vase and stands to get some water.
----------
Greg stands beside Donovan in front of a white board with various photos taped up on it, lines drawn between some of them and notes underneath each one. Donovan writes ‘deceased’ under one of their possible suspects in the original murder.
“Sir?”
Greg turns around to see Anderson behind him. “Report?” Anderson hands him a paper on the toxicology. “So?”
Anderson shakes his head. “Nothing.”
Greg frowns and reads over the report then hands it back to Anderson. “All right, go over the evidence from the scene again. Get Clipton to help you.”
Anderson only nods and heads back the way he came. Greg turns back to the white board, picking up the case file as he does.
“What did you get from the witness statements?” Greg asks.
“Still going over them,” Donovan replies, “not much of a physical description to go on. The killer still sounds exactly like Brian Davis.” She waves a hand at the crime scene picture of the deceased.
“Yeah and a thousand other early thirties white guys.”
“Exactly, and,” she taps the white board then puts her hands on her hips, “no motive.”
“They worked together but…” Greg closes the case file, drops his arm and lets his eyes wander over the photographs. Two murders, two days apart and too many suspects. Neither of the victims were exactly people you’d invite into your home.
“Maybe -“
“Sir!”
Greg and Donovan spin around at the shout and see PC Avery and Sergeant Brooks behind them, both breathing heavily.
“The wife,” Brooks says.
“Which wife?” Donovan asks.
“His,” Brooks points over their shoulders.
Donovan huffs. “Hailey, don’t just -“
“Mark’s,” Avery supplies instead. “The first victim. Mark Cooper’s wife.”
Brooks nods and sucks in a deep breath. “She’s gone. Michael brought her in to get her statement again but she’s gone from the interview room.”
“Gone?” Donovan gasps. “Gone where?”
Avery shakes his head. “Peters is looking but I think -“
“Think she ran!” Brooks interrupts.
Greg groans. “Find her!”
Brooks and Avery spin around so fast Greg fears they might fall over each other as they rush away again, Brooks pulling out her mobile as she goes. Greg turns to Donovan and she shakes her head. She turns around to the white board and puts a star next to the picture of Susanne Cooper.
“This is getting absurd,” Donovan says, still staring at the white board. “She wasn't..." Donovan huffs and shakes her head. "If she's the one, why..."
"Yeah," Greg mutters.
Greg stares at the board, photos that connect but not how he needs and now a wrench in the works, the wife when it appeared to be leaning toward 'business.' Greg is definitely not going to call Sherlock.
After several more tedious hours of searching and witness statements and evidence review, yet again, Greg finally manages to get home to his flat. He considers himself lucky to not have a migraine. Greg walks out of the lift, keys in hand, wondering how many avenues of surprise this newest case is going to take them. The case has Donovan acting like some kind of hunting dog over ever scarp of information. As Greg rounds the corner, he sees the door to his flat and what looks like a small package at the base.
"Mycroft..." Greg whispers.
Once he gets closer, Greg sees the telltale envelope on top of the package, this time a brownish hue. Greg stops and stoops to pick up the small package then unlocks his front door. Once inside, Greg shuts the door behind him, hangs up his coat and keys then carries the package over to the couch. He pulls off the card but decides to go for the package first this time.
"What are you..."
He pulls off the wrapping and finds a hardback book inside. It is "Dr. No" by Ian Fleming. Greg laughs and picks up the envelope again. He opens the flap and pulls out the card.
To take your mind off your work for a while.
-M. Holmes
Greg shakes his head and sets the card on the coffee table in front of him, embossed MH facing him. Greg holds up the book then rests it back down on his knee. He pulls his mobile from his pocket and pick’s Mycroft’s number. He texts, ‘Thank you.’
----------
It is not until after Greg adds the chicken and peppers to his frying pan that he remembers he should probably find his Teriyaki sauce if he wants this to be an actual stir fry. He has some onions chopped up to add to this meal as well but the sauce is first priory. He is fairly sure he bought some but as he looks through the cabinet over the stove he is coming up empty.
“If I were Teriyaki…”
Greg stares at his fridge then opens it and checks the door. Sure enough, the unopened teriyaki sauce sits on the second shelf of the door. Greg shakes his head at himself and pulls it out. He puts the sauce beside the stove then picks up the cutting board with the onions he chopped. Greg slides the onions in then picks up the spatula again, stirring everything around. Greg picks up the Teriyaki and pours some into the pan, leaning back slightly from the hiss of steam and oil.
Across the counter, Greg’s mobile starts to vibrate. He puts down the sauce, stirs once with the spatula then leans over and grabs his mobile.
“Yeah?”
“Hi.”
Greg’s head jerks up. “Anne?”
She chuckles and clears her throat. “Yeah, hi.”
“Hi.” Greg looks down at his stir fry, absently pushing chicken and peppers around. “How are you?”
“I… hmm. All right.”
“Uh huh.”
"Long work day."
Greg laughs once breathlessly. "Yeah, aren't they all?"
“Look, I…" Anne clears her throat. "You’re right.”
Greg puts down the spatula and paces across his kitchen. “About what?”
“We need to keep talking. If it is just space and nothing else then, well, what does that solve?”
Greg smiles and leans against the counter. “Yeah.”
“I’m not saying I want… I mean….” She huffs and he hears a door close. “I just mean, I know it’s not asking so much for me to call.”
Greg chuckles. “Good. That’s good.”
“Or you to call, you know,” she adds. “It works both ways.”
Greg nods even though she cannot see him. “Got it, call and be called.”
"Because we can talk about this, talk through this, right?"
He remembers fights they had, shouting in the living room, marching downstairs to sleep on the couch. But then Anne sneaking down to join him, dancing in the hallway when he got home from work, and the way Anne always said ‘I’m sorry’ as though the world would end if he did not believe her.
"I hope so.” Greg's hand clenches around the mobile. “Don't you think we can?"
"I..." He can hear her breathing deeply and he wonders if she's crying.
"Anne, we will," Greg insists. He imagines her standing in the kitchen like he is now, that yellow dress with the checkered pattern and her smile when he would flick the dish water at her, how hard she laughed when they once bumped into each other and dropped their plates to shatter on the floor at the same time, kissing her against the counter with fingers in her hair. "I don't want to give up yet."
"It's not a guarantee, Greg."
"I know, but we'll... we'll call."
“Right, right.” She breathes in and Greg hears a voice in the background which sounds like one of Anne’s siblings. “Look, I need to go. I just wanted to tell you.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Bye, Greg.” Then the line clicks off.
Greg pulls the mobile away from his ear and looks at the screen. “Bye.”
He breathes in slowly and smiles, tapping his mobile on the palm of his hand. Something like hope sparks and then suddenly he smells burning.
“Shit!” Greg jolts up and rushes back to the stove, turning off the burner before his dinner is completely blackened.
----------
Greg sits at the bar with Patrick and Diane from Drugs Directorate on one side and Donovan on the other. Diane keeps looking up at the football match but it appears her team enjoys making fools of themselves. She keeps sighing and taking large gulps of her beer.
"Just give up," Donovan says to Diane, "what did you expect?"
"Victory. I always expect victory." She takes another drink of her beer then looks across Greg at Donovan. "I'm just going to blame you, that okay?"
Donovan rolls her eyes and holds up her beer. "Whatever makes you happy."
"It does."
"How are things in drugs?" Greg asks Patrick.
Patrick scoffs. "I refuse to discuss work at the pub."
"That bad?"
Diane laughs harshly and shakes her head. Patrick glances at Greg then points at Diane. "That says it all."
Greg and Donovan look at each other and Donovan clinks her glass against Greg's. Then they turn to Patrick and Diane. Diane stares up at the TV screen biting her lip. Patrick rolls his eyes and drinks his beer again.
"Not layoffs, is it?" Greg asks, unable to resist.
"Can we talk about something positive that has nothing to do with the MET?" Patrick insists.
Donovan snorts. "What like kittens and puppies?"
"Yes," Diane and Patrick say together.
Donovan frowns. "I don't have either."
"Oh!" Diane gasps as one player breaks away down the field with the ball.
They all look up for a moment but Greg turns away again almost instantly. It's not his team and he hasn't been keeping track of rankings this season what with his personal life turning upside down anyway. He takes a sip of beer and wonders if he's too old for a pair of shots?
"So?" Donovan asks with a nudge to his arm. "What about you?"
"What?"
"What is with all those presents you’ve been getting?"
Greg twists his glass between his hands. "It's nothing."
"It doesn't look like nothing." She leans closer and whispers. "It have to do with Anne?"
Greg sighs. "No."
"Are you lying to me?"
"Donovan, it's not your business."
She sits up straight. "Come on."
"Should I start asking you about Anderson?"
Donovan flips her hair and shrugs. "Go ahead; it was a mistake, that's over."
Greg frowns and drinks some of his beer. He puts his glass down on the bar top and stares at the bottles of liquor behind the bar. He sees Anne's favorite brand of vodka and he wonders absently what Mycroft drinks. Greg rubs a hand over his eyes.
"So, if it's not Anne then who is it?"
"Who says it's just one person?" Greg looks at her and smiles. "Maybe I have a lot of admirers?"
Donovan crosses her arms. "I think maybe you just don't want me to know that your own wife is trying to win you back."
Greg groans. "Donovan, it is not Anne!"
Beside Greg, Patrick hisses something in Diane's ear, pointing at his watch. She shakes her head and pulls out her mobile, putting it to her ear. Greg suspects they have some sort of sting going on.
Donovan nudges Greg's shoulder again. He looks at her and she holds up her beer. "If it's not your wife then who is it?"
Greg purses his lips - sees a swish of Anne's hair and hears Mycroft's laugh in his head - then turns away. "Someone else."
----------
When Greg’s mobile rings after four in the afternoon, he clicks answer without looking at the name. The day has been too long and too full of paperwork for him to really care.
“Yeah?”
“Hello, Greg.”
Greg sits up straight, eyes checking the window and door of his office as if he expects Mycroft to be standing right there. “Hello.” The line remains silent for a minute. “What’s going on?”
“Going on?”
“Well, you’re calling me.”
“Yes.” Something on Mycroft’s end makes a beeping noise and Greg wonders if Mycroft is in his office - Greg assumes he must have an office - or if he’s in the back of a mysterious black car. “I wanted to thank you for coffee a few weeks ago.”
“You already thanked me, remember?”
“I wished to do so again.”
“It was just coffee, not a date.”
Mycroft laughs, one of the polite ones. “It was rather impromptu.”
“I take it that’s not your usual habit?”
“No.”
Greg leans back in his chair and shifts his mobile around to his other ear. “Did you call me just for that?”
“Do you think it not worth a phone call?”
“Don’t you ever text?”
“I find it simpler to speak than to attempt to convey tone of voice through text.”
“You remember you’ve sent me about a dozen written notes by now, right?”
He hears Mycroft clear his throat significantly through the phone line and Greg smiles instantly.
“I do not believe it is that many,” Mycroft says after another beat.
“Want me to count them?”
“That is not necessary,” Mycroft says somewhat tersely.
“Because you already know how many?”
“You sound as though you are enjoying yourself.”
Greg chuckles. “Maybe and you’re welcome, again.”
“Hmm?”
“For coffee.”
“We shall have to do it again.”
Greg grins and runs a hand through his hair. When he puts his hand back down on the desk his eye catches the glint of his wedding ring in the overhead lights. He pulls his hand off the desk and runs it over his thigh once.
“Yeah,” Greg says quietly.
“I am afraid I must leave you now, Chinese company to bankrupt and a dictator to replace in South America.”
Greg jerks to sitting upright with surprise. “What?”
Mycroft chuckles. “A joke, Greg.”
“Is it?”
Mycroft laughs politely again and the line clicks off. Greg pulls his mobile away from his ear and stares at it for a moment. He puts it down on his desk then threads his fingers together. He rubs a fingertip over the edge of his ring and grits his teeth.
----------
Greg walks in the front door of the hospital and flashes his badge though he’s pretty sure this security guard knows who he is. He strides to the lifts and rides up to the fourth floor. Anne is usually in or around surgery this time of day and, from what Greg can remember of the last time they had a normal conversation, she is breaking in a new trainee anaesthetist.
“Hi Clara,” Greg says as he walks up to the nurses' station. “Anne around?”
Clara smiles and stands, leaning her elbows on the counter. “Popping out of a surgery now I think. How’re you? I hear you two are…” She purses her lips and shrugs.
Greg smiles with teeth as he walks away down the hall, “thank you, Clara.” As soon as Greg turns all the way around way from her, his face falls. “Christ…”
He stops at a T in the hall then looks left and right. He probably should have asked Clara which surgery Anne was leaving. He picks right and then almost runs into Anne as she exits a room.
“Oh! Hi.” She pulls off her hair guard and half smiles. “Hi, uh, what’re you doing here?”
“I had some time and I thought,” he shrugs, “maybe we should try and see if we could talk in person for a small change.”
Anne smiles. “Ah, yes, the difficult task.”
“So, good day?” Greg asks lamely.
“Yes, patient went under just fine, not too difficult a surgery.” She clears her throat. “You? I don’t think I saw anything major in the paper?”
“No, no, calm as it ever gets right now.”
“Good, that’s good.”
Greg looks down at her shoes, flat and comfortable, then up again. “So, you enjoying your space?”
She sighs and gives him a look. Then she blows out a puff of air. “It’s really quiet most of the time actually.”
“I know, me too.”
“It’s just…” She shifts her weight back a little and cracks her knuckles. “It hasn’t been what I expected.”
Greg frowns. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know, clarity? Thought maybe I’d be happier?” Greg’s gut clenches but he does not say anything. Anne shakes her head. “I’ve been thinking maybe you are right that space isn’t what we need?”
"No?"
"I know we've been talking but it's..." She shakes her head and looks away. “Well, I thought maybe…”
“Do you mean you want me to move back in?"
“I, uh…” She clears her throat. “I don’t know.”
Greg swallows and feels his fingers tingle. “What do you know then?”
Anne looks at him, her eyes circling around his face. Then she reaches out and touches Greg’s hair, brushing past his ear. “I don’t want to be alone.” She drops her hand and Greg can still feel her fingers.
“Do you have time for lunch?” He asks.
She nods. “Yeah, I do.”
They turn together back down the hall, Anne's hand brushing against Greg's as they walk.
----------
“Well, Kate and John had another fight about whose side of the room is whose.” Claire rolls her eyes and takes a sip of her wine. “So John has laid down a pair of trousers as the ‘line’ now.”
“Is that a twin thing?” Greg asks waving to the waiter for more water.
“Oh, I don’t think so; didn’t I do that once?” David asks then leans in close to Claire’s ear. “No little sisters allowed?”
Claire puts her palm over his face and shoves him back against the window beside their table. “No annoying older brothers.”
“And you have two.” Anne points between David and Greg with her fork.
“One was enough,” Greg says, “but then, Claire, you would not understand the horror of having a younger sister, would ya?”
Claire rolls her eyes again. “How old are we now?”
“I think I’m at seven,” David says, “which would put you at around two. You’re welcome.”
Claire just sighs. “The point is my children are insane.”
“Keeping up the Lestrade line.” David puts a hand over his chest. “Be still my heart.”
The three siblings chuckle and Anne smiles, taking a sip of her wine. They all fall silent a moment, working on their various meals. Then Greg puts his fork down and leans his elbows on the table.
"Good to see you both now, don't think we'll get the chance round Christmas."
Claire frowns. "You know it's only two weeks away, right?"
"We're going to see my family," Anne says, "I haven't been back there in awhile and they have been asking, so we thought..." She looks at Greg and smiles, "what with things looking better."
Greg squeezes her leg under the table and she gently kicks his shin.
"So..." David holds up with water glass. "No more separation?"
"Well -" Greg and Anne say at once then look at each other.
"I haven't got rid of the flat yet," Greg continues, "but moving things back in now."
"And staying the night," Anne finishes.
David whistles and Claire laughs. Greg rolls his eyes. "All right, all right, keep the sibling nature to a minimum."
"We oldest siblings must give our younger ones a hard time so they grow and learn." David nods sagely. "I read it in a book, so it must be true."
Claire stares at David and shakes her head. She spears a cherry tomato on her fork then turns back to Greg and Anne. "Well, I am happy for you."
"Thank you," Anne says as she places her napkin on the table. "And with that I am running to the ladies room, be right back."
She stands and walks from the table. As soon as she is out of ear shot, David knocks his glass down on the table making Greg and Claire jump.
"What?" Greg snaps.
"Really?"
"David, don't you -"
"Is this really a good idea? You told me you were sleeping in separate rooms for what, three months? And after that she wants even more space so you're in that flat of yours, how long?"
"It wasn't..."
"Also three months," Claire says quietly, "but David, he -"
"No." David waves a hand. "The point is problems for Six months there and It's not as though you two have been seeing a counselor or anything."
"Come on!" Greg hisses.
"So what happened? All of a sudden she's 'move back in, honey'? How do you know this isn't just holiday nostalgia that will fade in a week and you're right back down where she put you?"
"David," Greg whispers to try and make David keep his voice down, "It is my marriage, not yours, and it's not like I am entirely innocent and perfect a husband, all right?"
"Maybe, but you're my brother so I care about you," David whispers right back.
"Okay, okay." Claire puts a hand on both their arms. "Greg can make his own decisions, David, even if they might be wrong or rash." She gives Greg a look then pulls her hands back. "So, calm down."
David picks up his fork and twirls it around in his pasta though he doesn't really get any on the fork. "Fine," he finally mutters then glances at Greg. "What about your Mycroft then?"
"What's a Mycroft?"
Greg sighs and leans back against the booth. "It was never a thing, David."
"It sounded like a thing."
"What's a Mycroft?" Claire insists.
"A who."
"Mycroft is a person?"
"A person who gives Greg presents."
"Presents?"
"Expensive presents."
"Would you both stop?" Greg picks up his water and takes a big gulp. "You're giving me heart burn."
Claire leans forward over the table. "What kind of expensive presents?"
Greg sighs loudly. "Stop being teenagers."
"No," they both say.
Greg puts his glass down. "Look, we weren't seeing each other." Claire gasps quietly but Greg pushes on. "I mean, they might have been a connect...” Greg stops and breathes through his nose. “But it doesn't matter because Anne and I are back together."
David drums his fingers on the table. "Yes, Anne."
"You like Anne."
David holds up a finger. "Somewhat."
Greg frowns. "You're really helpful."
"Shh!" Claire hisses suddenly then Anne appears a few seconds later.
Anne slides into the booth beside Greg and kisses his cheek. She picks up her wine glass. "So, talk about me while I was gone? I hope it was good."
Claire and David only glance at each other while Greg smiles.
----------
Greg stands at the curb outside of 221b Baker Street, snow coming down. Molly stands beside him with her mobile to her ear calling a cab. Sherlock rushed out a few minutes ago after John said Sherlock called his brother, something about ‘the woman.’ John suggested they leave, so now they’re on the curb. How very like Sherlock to have his party ended by a surprise present leading to possible mysterious death, or at least that’s what it all sounded like?
Greg, however, has something more personal to think about and how it most definitely is not true, at all.
Greg pulls his mobile out and texts Anne: Party over. Be home soon. He clicks the screen off, staring at it for a few seconds then puts it in his pocket again.
“Okay,” Molly says suddenly, “cab on its way.”
“Great.”
“What about you?”
“Oh, I’ll…” Greg looks up at the snow and halfheartedly rubs some off his coat. “I’ll call one too.”
Molly nods. “Well, the party was…”
“Oh, it was.”
Molly sighs and holds up her bag of presents. “More parties to stop at before the night is up.”
Greg nods. “Better than that one I hope. Are you… well, strange enough to see him apologize for once.” Molly blushes and turns her head away. Greg bites the inside of his cheek then scratches the back of his head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t -“
“It’s all right. He’ll never really change, not… well, not with us at least.” She looks up at Greg. “Though he is a bit different when John is around.”
“Oh yeah.” Greg glances up at the flat. “Thank god for us.”
"It's just..." Molly's focus shifts off into the snow falling over the street. "I think maybe sometimes we hold out because we're sure someone will change their mind even if they really never will."
"But you can't be sure."
"Don’t you always end up telling yourself you should have known?" Molly asks looking up at him.
Greg shakes his head. "You can't be expected to read minds, Molly."
"Just words." She sighs and she shifts her hold on the bag of presents. "You sometimes think you want something from someone but it was always a fantasy."
Greg stares at her hair, bow near the top of her head and snow making a pattern with the brown. "Or they want something different from you."
Molly looks up at him and opens her mouth to speak but then her mobile makes a quacking noise.
"Oh!" Molly pulls it out of her pocket and her face falls just a little as she reads her text. "They want me to come in?"
"Who does?"
"Work wants me to come in, tonight." A cab pulls up to the curb, the driver pointing at Molly, and she sighs. "Who wants to go to a Christmas party anyway?"
Greg frowns. "Would say you do."
Molly shrugs then Greg opens the taxi door for her. "Thanks, Happy Christmas."
Greg nods and closes the door. "You too."
Greg watches the cab drive away and becomes suddenly aware of how cold he has become standing out here in the snow. Suddenly Greg’s mobile buzzes, as though someone had been waiting for Molly to leave. Greg pulls it from his coat pocket and sees ‘Mycroft.’
Greg turns and puts the mobile to his ear. “Hi, everything all right?”
“As disconcerting as it is to have my brother call me around Christmas time, yes, it should be. We shall see.”
Greg bites his lip and paces a few steps. “Right. Good.”
“How was the Baker Street party?”
“Somewhat awkward but your brother played for us, so not all bad.”
“Charming,” Mycroft says tersely.
Greg frowns and stops walking. “What is it?” Mycroft sighs loudly. “What?” Greg insists.
“I simply wanted to wish you a Happy Christmas in Dorset, you and Anne. Should be chill and snowy by the sea for Christmas. Splendid.”
"Excuse me?" Greg snaps.
"I wish you a wonderful time," Mycroft snaps back.
Greg shakes his head. “Are you bugging Sherlock’s flat?”
“I don’t need to.”
"Yet here you are calling me now."
"The time felt appropriate."
“Are you angry because I am spending Christmas with my wife?” Greg sweeps his arm across the air in front of him and fists his hand. “She’s my wife!”
“Your separated wife.”
“Not anymore.”
“As I have learned.”
“And we are not exactly an item, Mycroft!”
“That is not the point!” Mycroft growls.
“Then what is?”
He hears Mycroft breathe in sharply but then he says nothing. Greg walks forward two more steps. "What do you want from me, Mycroft?"
"You are aware what I..." Mycroft makes a sort of choked off noise then breathes in loudly enough that Greg can hear it. "Sherlock should be at Barts soon. I must meet him."
"You can't be angry with me, Mycroft," Greg says.
"I am not." Then Mycroft hangs up.
Greg drops his hand with an aggravated huff, shaking some snow off his coat.
He stares down at his mobile and thinks about calling Anne, asking her about when they were separated, about now, about who she was with tonight, if there is someone else, a PE teacher, maybe? He thinks about calling Mycroft back, telling him to fuck off, telling him sorry, asking him to please not be angry.
Greg shakes his head and puts his mobile away. Gazing down the road again, Greg waves a hand in the air to try and grab a cab. He does not think about Mycroft or what Sherlock said or doubt or regret.
----------
After the holiday, Greg comes back to work to find a Christmas present from Mycroft. The small box is wrapped in red with a gold ribbon and a gold card. The card only reads:
Happy Christmas.
-M. Holmes
The box opens on a hinge and holds a watch, black leather band with a silver face and no numbers. Greg cannot decide if he should feel guilty about Anne or guilty about Mycroft. He puts the watch back in the box and leaves it in a desk drawer with the gold card underneath.
----------
Anne and Greg sit across from each other in a restaurant embracing the modern, sleek metal style which smacks of New York City high life. Fortunately, the classy look is not only for show as the food reflects the same charm and taste.
"Salmon good?" Greg asks.
Anne nods and points at his plate with her fork. "Yours?"
Greg spears another piece of gnocchi. "Oh yes."
"Good." Anne picks up her water glass, takes a sip then puts it back down again, her eyes wandering around the restaurant.
Greg slides his foot forward and nudges hers under the table. Anne's eyes tick back to him but she pulls her feet back. Greg gives her a rueful look and she rolls her eyes.
"So, how was New Years with the girls?" Greg asks, finishing the last of his beer.
Anne puts down her fork and lays her hands on the table. "Greg..."
"Not so good?" Greg chuckles. "Don't tell me Angela needed to be carried home again? Aren't we all getting old for that?"
"I didn't spend New Years with the girls."
Greg blinks. "What?"
"Greg." She breathes in slowly, clears her throat then breathes out again. "I want a divorce."
His fork hits his plate with a loud clink and Greg fists his hands in on his thighs. "What?"
Anne shakes her head and looks away. "You heard me."
"You can't be serious."
"I just said it."
"You can't be serious!" Greg snaps.
Anne leans over the table and hisses, "Keep your voice down."
"I just moved back in and now you want a divorce?"
"I thought it was changing; I thought I still felt the same for you."
"No." Greg shakes his head and reaches out to take her hand but she pulls it off the table. He breathes in sharply and rubs his palm over the table cloth. "We're trying, Anne. We are working on it."
“It’s a sinking ship, Greg.”
"No, it's not. We have to give us a chance."
She huffs. "Really, you sound like a cliché."
"And you sound like a bitch."
Anne's eyebrows fly up and her mouth falls open. Greg huffs sharply and sits back in his chair, scratching a hand through his hair. Anne drums her finger tips on the table then brushes her hair back over her shoulder.
"You can't mean this," Greg says finally.
Anne nods. “I mean it. We're over, there is nothing left. We’re both married to our jobs more than each other, anyway.”
“But..." Greg shakes his head. "I thought that is what made us work?” Greg insists. “We both knew about the jobs, knew how much we’d both be away and be busy?”
“Well, we were wrong.”
"But you asked me to move back in!" Greg insists again.
"It was a mistake. I was feeling nostalgic." Anne holds up one hand and swipes it through the air.
David's words flash in Greg's head. "Nostalgic?"
"We should just make a clean break now because I am done."
"Done..."
"We barely know each other anymore, Greg." Anne shrugs. "I don't know any of your friends, you don't know mine. We don't really like many of the same things. The only thing we have together is time and that is in the past. I want to move on."
"Move on?"
"Stop repeating everything I say! Yes, move on."
Greg sits up and grips the edge of the table. "Are you seeing someone else?"
"What?" Anne looks away. "Why would you ask me that? This is about us!"
"You didn't spend New Years with the girls." Anne sighs and still does not look at him. Greg crosses his arms and remembers many an interrogation with all the same body language. "So?"
"He's a teacher," she says quietly.
Greg grits his teeth. "PE?"
Her head jerks back to him with a look of surprise and worry. Greg feels nauseous for a brief moment and stares down at the table, their plates mostly finished but her wine glass still half full.
He considers knocking over her wine so the red liquid spills off the table onto her pale green skirt, staining it forever. He wants to be petty, scathing, tell her he had a better offer he turned down because he was married to her. He wants to shout, to knock all the dishes onto the floor, to just call Mycroft and have him send a car, goodbye.
"You want a divorce," he says quietly instead.
"Yes." She looks down at the table and smoothes a hand over her napkin. "I can send your things to your flat or you pick them up when I'm at work."
Greg scoffs loudly. "So fast, are you?"
Anne glares at him. "This has hardly been fast, Greg; it's been coming for years."
Greg uncrosses his arms and buttons his suit jacket. "You want a divorce? Fine." Greg pushes his chair back and stands up. He picks up his coat off of the chair then threads his arms through. He leans down over the table close to her. "You've got it." Then he turns and stalks out.
Fandom: Sherlock
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock nor am I earning any financial gains from this work.
Pairing/Characters: Greg Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes; Sally Donovan, Anderson, Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Original Characters
Word Count: 8,258
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Greg is having problems with his wife, it's tough enough being a copper, and then Mycroft Holmes starts sending him gifts. (In which Mycroft Holmes courts Gregory Lestrade)
Chapter Summary: "If it's not your wife then who is it?"
Greg purses his lips - sees a swish of Anne's hair and hears Mycroft's laugh in his head - then turns away. "Someone else."
Author Notes: So the musical aid to this story is a mix by severussnap. Specifically the song "Umbrella" by The Baseballs, a cover which (in my opinion) surpasses the original and gives this story its title.
Chapter 1 - Sincerely
Cross posted to AO3.
Greg walks along the front of the grocery store passing by aisle after aisle. He does not quite understand sometimes how they organize these places any more. Why in the world does there need to be an aisle dedicated just to soda and water? Greg skips that aisle. He has been getting take away too much lately and, though he's not all that vain, he doesn't want to be the fat copper behind the desk. He knows how to cook so he should do it now and then. The stove in his kitchen needs some attention. Maybe he should get some chicken, do a stir fry?
Greg's mobile starts to vibrate in his pocket, making him almost drop his basket. "Shit." Greg fumbles, finds the right pocket, and taps answer just in time. "Yeah?"
"Hello to you too."
"David, hi." Greg shifts the phone to his other hand. "How are you?"
"Less brusque when I answer the phone."
"True, hit fifty yet?"
"Oh ho ho." David makes a tsking noise. "You jest, brother, but you are not so far yourself."
Greg laughs without humor. "It's clear on the horizon, don't worry. How's Jane?"
"Fine, as usual. She's caning her students now. Need to start that discipline in primary, you know."
"Branch she broke off a tree outside, I bet."
"Of course, but seriously, she’s -" David suddenly groans in pain and shouts faintly, obviously leaning away from the phone. "What did I say? Isn't three times enough!" He sighs loudly. "Sorry, hi."
"This is what happens when you have three of them, right?"
David grumbles and sighs again. "You're lucky you have none."
Greg clears his throat and turns down another aisle, knocking a can of beans into his basket. He looks down at it as soon as it lands and has to close his eyes at the 'bachelor' irony.
"Hey, uh... how's Anne and all that going?"
"Ha..." Greg picks up the can of beans from his basket and puts it back on the shelf. "She brought three boxes of my things to my flat."
"Shit."
"Yes."
David knocks something in the background, probably smacking his hand on the counter like he does when making a point because he thinks he is a judge or something. "It just means she cares."
'"She - what?"
"She came to your flat in person to bring your things. Doesn't that mean she cares or something?"
Greg looks down the aisle, one woman with a trolley and way too much cat food. "Maybe. I don't know. I have Anne starting fights about nothing on the one side and then Mycroft with his -" Greg bites his lip and shakes his head.
"The who, with his what?"
"It's nothing. Look, I should -"
"Who is Mycroft? Is that a name?"
Greg rubs his forehead with his mobile hand then brings it back to his ear. "Yeah, it is."
David is silent but Greg does not fill in the hole. He considers pasta sauce until David says, "So Mycroft?"
"He's been sending me presents."
"Sending you presents?"
“Yeah, to the office.” Greg holds the mobile between his ear and shoulder then picks two jars of sauce, putting them in his basket.
“Like what? Chocolates?”
"Coffee, wine... uh, a coat."
"A coat!"
"It was raining!" David starts to laugh. Greg sighs and walks down the aisle. "All right, all right, stop laughing.”
“A coat.” David snorts. “Are you serious?” David stops laughing and Greg hears something clink in the background. “He does know you’re still married, right?”
“I think he knows pretty much everything. He works for the government.”
“Like parliament?”
Greg stands at the end of the aisle then turns right. “More like ‘hush hush don’t ask’ government.”
“Scary.”
“His brother is worse.”
“Two men are sending you presents? My God, Greg, when did the Met become the place to be?”
“You know you’re not as funny as you think,” Greg says as he turns down another aisle.
“Yes, I am.”
Greg sighs. “If you insist and, no, two men are not sending me presents. His brother is Sherlock.”
“The annoying consulting genius guy Sherlock?”
“That’s the one.”
“You run with a strange crowd, Greg.”
Greg stops walking and glares at the air. “Thank you.”
“All right, let’s -” David makes another yelping noise then shouts something indistinguishable into the background. “And now that I am still alive after yet another toy attack,” he sighs, “Let’s recap. This man, Mycroft, right?”
“Yes.”
“Has sent you coffee, wine, and a coat.” David chuckles once quietly. “Possibly more. He has sent you presents, gifts, tokens.”
“Got it, David.”
“So what you’re telling me is that he’s wooing you?”
“No! I mean, well… “
“Oh, he definitely is.”
“You’re daft.”
“Sounds more like you’re in denial.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Go on then, won’t change the fact that you are being pursued by a shady government -” Greg hangs up.
Greg looks up at the shelf in front of him, rice pilaf in a box staring back. He frowns, picks one box up with his mobile hand, and puts it in his basket.
Greg taps his mobile on the edge of the shelf and sighs. "Fucking ridiculous..." then he slips it back into his coat pocket.
Reaching the end of the aisle, Greg considers a six pack but also thinks that drinking alone in his small flat on his second-hand brown couch feels a bit too stereotypical and sad to make it worth it. He checks his basket - bread, peanut butter, ground beef, cheddar, two jars of sauce, and rice now. He should probably get something from the fruits and vegetables part of the old school pyramid.
Then Greg feels his mobile vibrate in his pocket. He pulls it out, ready for some sassy text from David about Mycroft, but instead sees 'Anne.' He clicks in.
[8:35] I'm sorry about the other night.
Greg stares at the six words and cannot think of what to say back.
----------
The department has a coffee pot and Greg has his Mycroft French press, however, sometimes he needs a reason to get out of the office - a reason which is not a crime scene. Coffee is always the perfect excuse.
Just before Greg enters the coffee shop a street away from New Scotland Yard, he sees Mycroft walking toward a car parked by the curb. Greg touches the door handle of the shop, looks down at it then turns and steps back.
“Mycroft!”
Mycroft starts just slightly then turns his head in Greg’s direction. Greg smiles and they walk toward each other.
“Hi,” Greg says, “what are you doing around here?”
“Minor business at your work place.”
“Oh?” Mycroft only nods and says nothing more. Greg shrugs. “All right then.”
“You do look good in it.”
Greg blinks. “Hmm?”
Mycroft glances up and down Greg once, gesturing with his chin toward Greg then Greg remembers he is wearing the coat Mycroft gave him.
“Oh, I…” Greg laughs awkwardly. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
“Look.” Greg points behind him. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
Mycroft opens his mouth just slightly then closes it again and clears his throat. “That is not necessary, I have other -”
“Please,” Greg insists. “You bought me a coat. Let me get you a coffee.”
Mycroft’s mouth shuts. His eyes tick to the side though not quite looking at the car behind him. Then he looks back at Greg and smiles. “All right.”
Greg turns and waves an arm out for Mycroft to precede him. They walk into the shop and Greg orders an espresso, as requested, for Mycroft and just a regular coffee for himself, cream and sugar. Coffees in hand, they sit at a small table by the window. Mycroft blows on his espresso once then sets it back on the table. Greg gulps some of his coffee and mostly ignores how it burns his throat the whole way down. Mycroft raises his eyebrows but does not comment.
Greg puts his coffee down and leans forward slightly over the table. “Mycroft, about all this.” He touches the collar of his coat.
“Yes?” Mycroft picks up his espresso and blows on it again.
“You need to stop sending me these things.”
“And why is that?”
Greg sits up straight with a faint scoff. “Well, you…” He breathes out and crosses his arms. “You shouldn’t be spending all this money on me,” he says more quietly.
Mycroft sips his espresso. “It is not an imposition to me.”
“But it’s all very one sided, isn’t it?”
“It does not have to be.”
Greg sighs. “You know I’m still married?”
“You are separated.”
“That doesn’t mean ‘not married.’”
Mycroft puts his espresso cup down and cocks his head. “As I understand it, many separated couples see other people while separated.”
“We’re not.”
“Oh?” Mycroft gives him a look.
Greg furrows his eyebrows. “What?”
“Hmm.” Mycroft picks up his espresso again.
“Are you implying something?”
Mycroft sips his espresso then puts it down. “Of course not; I simply mean, perhaps you should consider it.”
“Consider you, you mean.”
Mycroft smiles.
Greg sighs and picks up his coffee again. “I suppose it would mean presents and rides in your company cars, treat me like a queen?”
Mycroft laughs, face momentarily transformed from his usual polite smiles, but he stops suddenly looking surprised. Greg grins and knows right then that Mycroft Holmes does not laugh for real very often. On whatever imaginary score board exists for whatever this is, Greg counts a point to himself.
“I don’t really know anything about you,” Greg continues, back to serious, “other than you are Sherlock’s brother and work for some undisclosed portion of the government.” Greg takes a sip of his coffee. “And that you have expensive tastes, at least in gift giving.”
“Hmm.” Mycroft touches the handle of his espresso cup but does not pick it up. He bites the edge of his lip then looks right at Greg. “Then you need to give me the opportunity to have you learn more.” He picks up his espresso this time and adds, “also, despite what you may think, there are numerous aspects of your life and personality I do not know as well.”
Greg nods then shrugs. “We’re here now.”
Mycroft frowns, tapping his cup back onto the table, and blinks twice. “Now?”
“Why not?”
Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “It is three PM on a Wednesday.”
“And?”
“And we are both employed.”
Greg chuckles. “What’s five more minutes?”
“I have not planned time in my schedule.”
“You need to plan time for coffee?”
“Often.”
Greg picks up his mug then leans back in his chair. Nodding once, Greg takes a sip. “Well, I guess that is something more I know about you then.”
“That I am a busy man?”
“That you schedule coffee.”
Mycroft’s lip twitches and he smiles, that somewhat shy yet real smile which Greg thinks Mycroft is unaccustomed to using. “And that you have more of a sense of humor than I knew.”
Mycroft picks up his cup, slowly drinks the rest of the espresso then puts the cup back down. He pushes the cup slightly into the middle of the table then stands up. Greg sits up straight again but Mycroft holds up a hand for Greg to not get up.
“I apologize, but I cannot stay any longer.”
“Ah.”
“It was a pleasure to run in to you, however.”
Greg nods. “Yeah and remember what I said.” Mycroft tilts his head. “Enough with the presents.”
A slow smile spreads across Mycroft’s face, “Thank you for the coffee, Greg,” then he walks out.
----------
Every year Greg has to write reviews for the staff directly under his command and every year he hates it more. As if it isn't hard enough to be a copper, to be mistrusted, disliked, and constantly under scrutiny by the press and the public, they have this too? Of course most jobs have staff reviews and evaluations and all of that corporate bullshit, but Greg thinks that since they deal with so many other horrible and difficult things, could they not be spared this? No boss likes to tell their hardworking sergeants to work on their positivity or timeliness; at least Greg doesn't.
Greg picks up his phone and dials Donovan.
"Sir?" she answers with more pleasant of a tone than Greg feels.
"You're going to hate me but could you find someone to grab me lunch?"
She scoffs. "Are you asking me to get you lunch?"
"Are you someone?"
"Not that someone."
"Don't we have interns right now somewhere?" Greg turns slightly so no one can see his face through his office window. "Please, I'm drowning in hierarchy right now."
"I'll find an intern; sandwich and some chips?"
Greg sighs happily. "You're a goddess."
"I know." Then she hangs up.
Greg puts the phone back in the cradle and rubs both hands over his face. "Fuck..." He drops his hands and turns back to his laptop. He taps his fingers lightly on the keys but not enough to cause anything to happen. "Okay, okay, better to barrel through."
Then he hears a knock at his door. Greg glances to the closed door, "Come in."
A woman he does not recognize wearing a white blouse and black pencil skirt steps in. "Hello sir, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, I trust?"
He looks her up and down once then locks in on the rectangular box with a red card on top in her one hand. "Oh no."
"Sir?"
He points at the box in her hand. "What is it?"
"A gift from Mr. Mycroft Holmes."
Greg shakes his head. "Oh, and don't I know it. I meant, what's inside?"
She shakes her head. "That I do not know." She holds it out toward him. "May I?"
Greg sighs and waves a hand at her. She steps all the way into the office and comes around his desk. He holds out his hands and takes the box from her. Then he notices her other arm is held behind her back.
He nods his head toward her. "There's more?"
She pulls her hand around and in it is one rose.
"Shit."
She laughs then rests it on top of the box in his hands. Greg feels himself blushing and he thanks fucking Christ that his whole division has been avoiding his office today.
"Tell him this is getting a bit ridiculous," he manages to whisper.
She smiles. "I don't think I will, sir, sorry."
"Please?"
She shakes her head. Then she backs away two steps, turns, and walks out of his office, closing the door behind her.
Drumming his finger tips on the box edges a few times, Greg shifts his chair around again and puts the box down on his desk. He picks the rose off the top and holds it between two fingers. To be honest, he is fairly certain no one has ever given him a rose before. He breathes in slowly the blows it out to calm his heart. Then he puts the rose down on top of some papers and picks up the red card (and isn't that hitting it over the head a bit?). The card reads:
Perhaps you are worth some gifts.
-M. Holmes.
Inside the box is a long, thin glass vase. Greg very clearly hears David's voice in his head, 'so he's wooing you?'
Greg rubs his temple, reads the card again and wonders if Mycroft learned about romance in a book. He bites the edge of his lip to keep from smiling. Then he picks up the vase and stands to get some water.
----------
Greg stands beside Donovan in front of a white board with various photos taped up on it, lines drawn between some of them and notes underneath each one. Donovan writes ‘deceased’ under one of their possible suspects in the original murder.
“Sir?”
Greg turns around to see Anderson behind him. “Report?” Anderson hands him a paper on the toxicology. “So?”
Anderson shakes his head. “Nothing.”
Greg frowns and reads over the report then hands it back to Anderson. “All right, go over the evidence from the scene again. Get Clipton to help you.”
Anderson only nods and heads back the way he came. Greg turns back to the white board, picking up the case file as he does.
“What did you get from the witness statements?” Greg asks.
“Still going over them,” Donovan replies, “not much of a physical description to go on. The killer still sounds exactly like Brian Davis.” She waves a hand at the crime scene picture of the deceased.
“Yeah and a thousand other early thirties white guys.”
“Exactly, and,” she taps the white board then puts her hands on her hips, “no motive.”
“They worked together but…” Greg closes the case file, drops his arm and lets his eyes wander over the photographs. Two murders, two days apart and too many suspects. Neither of the victims were exactly people you’d invite into your home.
“Maybe -“
“Sir!”
Greg and Donovan spin around at the shout and see PC Avery and Sergeant Brooks behind them, both breathing heavily.
“The wife,” Brooks says.
“Which wife?” Donovan asks.
“His,” Brooks points over their shoulders.
Donovan huffs. “Hailey, don’t just -“
“Mark’s,” Avery supplies instead. “The first victim. Mark Cooper’s wife.”
Brooks nods and sucks in a deep breath. “She’s gone. Michael brought her in to get her statement again but she’s gone from the interview room.”
“Gone?” Donovan gasps. “Gone where?”
Avery shakes his head. “Peters is looking but I think -“
“Think she ran!” Brooks interrupts.
Greg groans. “Find her!”
Brooks and Avery spin around so fast Greg fears they might fall over each other as they rush away again, Brooks pulling out her mobile as she goes. Greg turns to Donovan and she shakes her head. She turns around to the white board and puts a star next to the picture of Susanne Cooper.
“This is getting absurd,” Donovan says, still staring at the white board. “She wasn't..." Donovan huffs and shakes her head. "If she's the one, why..."
"Yeah," Greg mutters.
Greg stares at the board, photos that connect but not how he needs and now a wrench in the works, the wife when it appeared to be leaning toward 'business.' Greg is definitely not going to call Sherlock.
After several more tedious hours of searching and witness statements and evidence review, yet again, Greg finally manages to get home to his flat. He considers himself lucky to not have a migraine. Greg walks out of the lift, keys in hand, wondering how many avenues of surprise this newest case is going to take them. The case has Donovan acting like some kind of hunting dog over ever scarp of information. As Greg rounds the corner, he sees the door to his flat and what looks like a small package at the base.
"Mycroft..." Greg whispers.
Once he gets closer, Greg sees the telltale envelope on top of the package, this time a brownish hue. Greg stops and stoops to pick up the small package then unlocks his front door. Once inside, Greg shuts the door behind him, hangs up his coat and keys then carries the package over to the couch. He pulls off the card but decides to go for the package first this time.
"What are you..."
He pulls off the wrapping and finds a hardback book inside. It is "Dr. No" by Ian Fleming. Greg laughs and picks up the envelope again. He opens the flap and pulls out the card.
To take your mind off your work for a while.
-M. Holmes
Greg shakes his head and sets the card on the coffee table in front of him, embossed MH facing him. Greg holds up the book then rests it back down on his knee. He pulls his mobile from his pocket and pick’s Mycroft’s number. He texts, ‘Thank you.’
----------
It is not until after Greg adds the chicken and peppers to his frying pan that he remembers he should probably find his Teriyaki sauce if he wants this to be an actual stir fry. He has some onions chopped up to add to this meal as well but the sauce is first priory. He is fairly sure he bought some but as he looks through the cabinet over the stove he is coming up empty.
“If I were Teriyaki…”
Greg stares at his fridge then opens it and checks the door. Sure enough, the unopened teriyaki sauce sits on the second shelf of the door. Greg shakes his head at himself and pulls it out. He puts the sauce beside the stove then picks up the cutting board with the onions he chopped. Greg slides the onions in then picks up the spatula again, stirring everything around. Greg picks up the Teriyaki and pours some into the pan, leaning back slightly from the hiss of steam and oil.
Across the counter, Greg’s mobile starts to vibrate. He puts down the sauce, stirs once with the spatula then leans over and grabs his mobile.
“Yeah?”
“Hi.”
Greg’s head jerks up. “Anne?”
She chuckles and clears her throat. “Yeah, hi.”
“Hi.” Greg looks down at his stir fry, absently pushing chicken and peppers around. “How are you?”
“I… hmm. All right.”
“Uh huh.”
"Long work day."
Greg laughs once breathlessly. "Yeah, aren't they all?"
“Look, I…" Anne clears her throat. "You’re right.”
Greg puts down the spatula and paces across his kitchen. “About what?”
“We need to keep talking. If it is just space and nothing else then, well, what does that solve?”
Greg smiles and leans against the counter. “Yeah.”
“I’m not saying I want… I mean….” She huffs and he hears a door close. “I just mean, I know it’s not asking so much for me to call.”
Greg chuckles. “Good. That’s good.”
“Or you to call, you know,” she adds. “It works both ways.”
Greg nods even though she cannot see him. “Got it, call and be called.”
"Because we can talk about this, talk through this, right?"
He remembers fights they had, shouting in the living room, marching downstairs to sleep on the couch. But then Anne sneaking down to join him, dancing in the hallway when he got home from work, and the way Anne always said ‘I’m sorry’ as though the world would end if he did not believe her.
"I hope so.” Greg's hand clenches around the mobile. “Don't you think we can?"
"I..." He can hear her breathing deeply and he wonders if she's crying.
"Anne, we will," Greg insists. He imagines her standing in the kitchen like he is now, that yellow dress with the checkered pattern and her smile when he would flick the dish water at her, how hard she laughed when they once bumped into each other and dropped their plates to shatter on the floor at the same time, kissing her against the counter with fingers in her hair. "I don't want to give up yet."
"It's not a guarantee, Greg."
"I know, but we'll... we'll call."
“Right, right.” She breathes in and Greg hears a voice in the background which sounds like one of Anne’s siblings. “Look, I need to go. I just wanted to tell you.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Bye, Greg.” Then the line clicks off.
Greg pulls the mobile away from his ear and looks at the screen. “Bye.”
He breathes in slowly and smiles, tapping his mobile on the palm of his hand. Something like hope sparks and then suddenly he smells burning.
“Shit!” Greg jolts up and rushes back to the stove, turning off the burner before his dinner is completely blackened.
----------
Greg sits at the bar with Patrick and Diane from Drugs Directorate on one side and Donovan on the other. Diane keeps looking up at the football match but it appears her team enjoys making fools of themselves. She keeps sighing and taking large gulps of her beer.
"Just give up," Donovan says to Diane, "what did you expect?"
"Victory. I always expect victory." She takes another drink of her beer then looks across Greg at Donovan. "I'm just going to blame you, that okay?"
Donovan rolls her eyes and holds up her beer. "Whatever makes you happy."
"It does."
"How are things in drugs?" Greg asks Patrick.
Patrick scoffs. "I refuse to discuss work at the pub."
"That bad?"
Diane laughs harshly and shakes her head. Patrick glances at Greg then points at Diane. "That says it all."
Greg and Donovan look at each other and Donovan clinks her glass against Greg's. Then they turn to Patrick and Diane. Diane stares up at the TV screen biting her lip. Patrick rolls his eyes and drinks his beer again.
"Not layoffs, is it?" Greg asks, unable to resist.
"Can we talk about something positive that has nothing to do with the MET?" Patrick insists.
Donovan snorts. "What like kittens and puppies?"
"Yes," Diane and Patrick say together.
Donovan frowns. "I don't have either."
"Oh!" Diane gasps as one player breaks away down the field with the ball.
They all look up for a moment but Greg turns away again almost instantly. It's not his team and he hasn't been keeping track of rankings this season what with his personal life turning upside down anyway. He takes a sip of beer and wonders if he's too old for a pair of shots?
"So?" Donovan asks with a nudge to his arm. "What about you?"
"What?"
"What is with all those presents you’ve been getting?"
Greg twists his glass between his hands. "It's nothing."
"It doesn't look like nothing." She leans closer and whispers. "It have to do with Anne?"
Greg sighs. "No."
"Are you lying to me?"
"Donovan, it's not your business."
She sits up straight. "Come on."
"Should I start asking you about Anderson?"
Donovan flips her hair and shrugs. "Go ahead; it was a mistake, that's over."
Greg frowns and drinks some of his beer. He puts his glass down on the bar top and stares at the bottles of liquor behind the bar. He sees Anne's favorite brand of vodka and he wonders absently what Mycroft drinks. Greg rubs a hand over his eyes.
"So, if it's not Anne then who is it?"
"Who says it's just one person?" Greg looks at her and smiles. "Maybe I have a lot of admirers?"
Donovan crosses her arms. "I think maybe you just don't want me to know that your own wife is trying to win you back."
Greg groans. "Donovan, it is not Anne!"
Beside Greg, Patrick hisses something in Diane's ear, pointing at his watch. She shakes her head and pulls out her mobile, putting it to her ear. Greg suspects they have some sort of sting going on.
Donovan nudges Greg's shoulder again. He looks at her and she holds up her beer. "If it's not your wife then who is it?"
Greg purses his lips - sees a swish of Anne's hair and hears Mycroft's laugh in his head - then turns away. "Someone else."
----------
When Greg’s mobile rings after four in the afternoon, he clicks answer without looking at the name. The day has been too long and too full of paperwork for him to really care.
“Yeah?”
“Hello, Greg.”
Greg sits up straight, eyes checking the window and door of his office as if he expects Mycroft to be standing right there. “Hello.” The line remains silent for a minute. “What’s going on?”
“Going on?”
“Well, you’re calling me.”
“Yes.” Something on Mycroft’s end makes a beeping noise and Greg wonders if Mycroft is in his office - Greg assumes he must have an office - or if he’s in the back of a mysterious black car. “I wanted to thank you for coffee a few weeks ago.”
“You already thanked me, remember?”
“I wished to do so again.”
“It was just coffee, not a date.”
Mycroft laughs, one of the polite ones. “It was rather impromptu.”
“I take it that’s not your usual habit?”
“No.”
Greg leans back in his chair and shifts his mobile around to his other ear. “Did you call me just for that?”
“Do you think it not worth a phone call?”
“Don’t you ever text?”
“I find it simpler to speak than to attempt to convey tone of voice through text.”
“You remember you’ve sent me about a dozen written notes by now, right?”
He hears Mycroft clear his throat significantly through the phone line and Greg smiles instantly.
“I do not believe it is that many,” Mycroft says after another beat.
“Want me to count them?”
“That is not necessary,” Mycroft says somewhat tersely.
“Because you already know how many?”
“You sound as though you are enjoying yourself.”
Greg chuckles. “Maybe and you’re welcome, again.”
“Hmm?”
“For coffee.”
“We shall have to do it again.”
Greg grins and runs a hand through his hair. When he puts his hand back down on the desk his eye catches the glint of his wedding ring in the overhead lights. He pulls his hand off the desk and runs it over his thigh once.
“Yeah,” Greg says quietly.
“I am afraid I must leave you now, Chinese company to bankrupt and a dictator to replace in South America.”
Greg jerks to sitting upright with surprise. “What?”
Mycroft chuckles. “A joke, Greg.”
“Is it?”
Mycroft laughs politely again and the line clicks off. Greg pulls his mobile away from his ear and stares at it for a moment. He puts it down on his desk then threads his fingers together. He rubs a fingertip over the edge of his ring and grits his teeth.
----------
Greg walks in the front door of the hospital and flashes his badge though he’s pretty sure this security guard knows who he is. He strides to the lifts and rides up to the fourth floor. Anne is usually in or around surgery this time of day and, from what Greg can remember of the last time they had a normal conversation, she is breaking in a new trainee anaesthetist.
“Hi Clara,” Greg says as he walks up to the nurses' station. “Anne around?”
Clara smiles and stands, leaning her elbows on the counter. “Popping out of a surgery now I think. How’re you? I hear you two are…” She purses her lips and shrugs.
Greg smiles with teeth as he walks away down the hall, “thank you, Clara.” As soon as Greg turns all the way around way from her, his face falls. “Christ…”
He stops at a T in the hall then looks left and right. He probably should have asked Clara which surgery Anne was leaving. He picks right and then almost runs into Anne as she exits a room.
“Oh! Hi.” She pulls off her hair guard and half smiles. “Hi, uh, what’re you doing here?”
“I had some time and I thought,” he shrugs, “maybe we should try and see if we could talk in person for a small change.”
Anne smiles. “Ah, yes, the difficult task.”
“So, good day?” Greg asks lamely.
“Yes, patient went under just fine, not too difficult a surgery.” She clears her throat. “You? I don’t think I saw anything major in the paper?”
“No, no, calm as it ever gets right now.”
“Good, that’s good.”
Greg looks down at her shoes, flat and comfortable, then up again. “So, you enjoying your space?”
She sighs and gives him a look. Then she blows out a puff of air. “It’s really quiet most of the time actually.”
“I know, me too.”
“It’s just…” She shifts her weight back a little and cracks her knuckles. “It hasn’t been what I expected.”
Greg frowns. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know, clarity? Thought maybe I’d be happier?” Greg’s gut clenches but he does not say anything. Anne shakes her head. “I’ve been thinking maybe you are right that space isn’t what we need?”
"No?"
"I know we've been talking but it's..." She shakes her head and looks away. “Well, I thought maybe…”
“Do you mean you want me to move back in?"
“I, uh…” She clears her throat. “I don’t know.”
Greg swallows and feels his fingers tingle. “What do you know then?”
Anne looks at him, her eyes circling around his face. Then she reaches out and touches Greg’s hair, brushing past his ear. “I don’t want to be alone.” She drops her hand and Greg can still feel her fingers.
“Do you have time for lunch?” He asks.
She nods. “Yeah, I do.”
They turn together back down the hall, Anne's hand brushing against Greg's as they walk.
----------
“Well, Kate and John had another fight about whose side of the room is whose.” Claire rolls her eyes and takes a sip of her wine. “So John has laid down a pair of trousers as the ‘line’ now.”
“Is that a twin thing?” Greg asks waving to the waiter for more water.
“Oh, I don’t think so; didn’t I do that once?” David asks then leans in close to Claire’s ear. “No little sisters allowed?”
Claire puts her palm over his face and shoves him back against the window beside their table. “No annoying older brothers.”
“And you have two.” Anne points between David and Greg with her fork.
“One was enough,” Greg says, “but then, Claire, you would not understand the horror of having a younger sister, would ya?”
Claire rolls her eyes again. “How old are we now?”
“I think I’m at seven,” David says, “which would put you at around two. You’re welcome.”
Claire just sighs. “The point is my children are insane.”
“Keeping up the Lestrade line.” David puts a hand over his chest. “Be still my heart.”
The three siblings chuckle and Anne smiles, taking a sip of her wine. They all fall silent a moment, working on their various meals. Then Greg puts his fork down and leans his elbows on the table.
"Good to see you both now, don't think we'll get the chance round Christmas."
Claire frowns. "You know it's only two weeks away, right?"
"We're going to see my family," Anne says, "I haven't been back there in awhile and they have been asking, so we thought..." She looks at Greg and smiles, "what with things looking better."
Greg squeezes her leg under the table and she gently kicks his shin.
"So..." David holds up with water glass. "No more separation?"
"Well -" Greg and Anne say at once then look at each other.
"I haven't got rid of the flat yet," Greg continues, "but moving things back in now."
"And staying the night," Anne finishes.
David whistles and Claire laughs. Greg rolls his eyes. "All right, all right, keep the sibling nature to a minimum."
"We oldest siblings must give our younger ones a hard time so they grow and learn." David nods sagely. "I read it in a book, so it must be true."
Claire stares at David and shakes her head. She spears a cherry tomato on her fork then turns back to Greg and Anne. "Well, I am happy for you."
"Thank you," Anne says as she places her napkin on the table. "And with that I am running to the ladies room, be right back."
She stands and walks from the table. As soon as she is out of ear shot, David knocks his glass down on the table making Greg and Claire jump.
"What?" Greg snaps.
"Really?"
"David, don't you -"
"Is this really a good idea? You told me you were sleeping in separate rooms for what, three months? And after that she wants even more space so you're in that flat of yours, how long?"
"It wasn't..."
"Also three months," Claire says quietly, "but David, he -"
"No." David waves a hand. "The point is problems for Six months there and It's not as though you two have been seeing a counselor or anything."
"Come on!" Greg hisses.
"So what happened? All of a sudden she's 'move back in, honey'? How do you know this isn't just holiday nostalgia that will fade in a week and you're right back down where she put you?"
"David," Greg whispers to try and make David keep his voice down, "It is my marriage, not yours, and it's not like I am entirely innocent and perfect a husband, all right?"
"Maybe, but you're my brother so I care about you," David whispers right back.
"Okay, okay." Claire puts a hand on both their arms. "Greg can make his own decisions, David, even if they might be wrong or rash." She gives Greg a look then pulls her hands back. "So, calm down."
David picks up his fork and twirls it around in his pasta though he doesn't really get any on the fork. "Fine," he finally mutters then glances at Greg. "What about your Mycroft then?"
"What's a Mycroft?"
Greg sighs and leans back against the booth. "It was never a thing, David."
"It sounded like a thing."
"What's a Mycroft?" Claire insists.
"A who."
"Mycroft is a person?"
"A person who gives Greg presents."
"Presents?"
"Expensive presents."
"Would you both stop?" Greg picks up his water and takes a big gulp. "You're giving me heart burn."
Claire leans forward over the table. "What kind of expensive presents?"
Greg sighs loudly. "Stop being teenagers."
"No," they both say.
Greg puts his glass down. "Look, we weren't seeing each other." Claire gasps quietly but Greg pushes on. "I mean, they might have been a connect...” Greg stops and breathes through his nose. “But it doesn't matter because Anne and I are back together."
David drums his fingers on the table. "Yes, Anne."
"You like Anne."
David holds up a finger. "Somewhat."
Greg frowns. "You're really helpful."
"Shh!" Claire hisses suddenly then Anne appears a few seconds later.
Anne slides into the booth beside Greg and kisses his cheek. She picks up her wine glass. "So, talk about me while I was gone? I hope it was good."
Claire and David only glance at each other while Greg smiles.
----------
Greg stands at the curb outside of 221b Baker Street, snow coming down. Molly stands beside him with her mobile to her ear calling a cab. Sherlock rushed out a few minutes ago after John said Sherlock called his brother, something about ‘the woman.’ John suggested they leave, so now they’re on the curb. How very like Sherlock to have his party ended by a surprise present leading to possible mysterious death, or at least that’s what it all sounded like?
Greg, however, has something more personal to think about and how it most definitely is not true, at all.
Greg pulls his mobile out and texts Anne: Party over. Be home soon. He clicks the screen off, staring at it for a few seconds then puts it in his pocket again.
“Okay,” Molly says suddenly, “cab on its way.”
“Great.”
“What about you?”
“Oh, I’ll…” Greg looks up at the snow and halfheartedly rubs some off his coat. “I’ll call one too.”
Molly nods. “Well, the party was…”
“Oh, it was.”
Molly sighs and holds up her bag of presents. “More parties to stop at before the night is up.”
Greg nods. “Better than that one I hope. Are you… well, strange enough to see him apologize for once.” Molly blushes and turns her head away. Greg bites the inside of his cheek then scratches the back of his head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t -“
“It’s all right. He’ll never really change, not… well, not with us at least.” She looks up at Greg. “Though he is a bit different when John is around.”
“Oh yeah.” Greg glances up at the flat. “Thank god for us.”
"It's just..." Molly's focus shifts off into the snow falling over the street. "I think maybe sometimes we hold out because we're sure someone will change their mind even if they really never will."
"But you can't be sure."
"Don’t you always end up telling yourself you should have known?" Molly asks looking up at him.
Greg shakes his head. "You can't be expected to read minds, Molly."
"Just words." She sighs and she shifts her hold on the bag of presents. "You sometimes think you want something from someone but it was always a fantasy."
Greg stares at her hair, bow near the top of her head and snow making a pattern with the brown. "Or they want something different from you."
Molly looks up at him and opens her mouth to speak but then her mobile makes a quacking noise.
"Oh!" Molly pulls it out of her pocket and her face falls just a little as she reads her text. "They want me to come in?"
"Who does?"
"Work wants me to come in, tonight." A cab pulls up to the curb, the driver pointing at Molly, and she sighs. "Who wants to go to a Christmas party anyway?"
Greg frowns. "Would say you do."
Molly shrugs then Greg opens the taxi door for her. "Thanks, Happy Christmas."
Greg nods and closes the door. "You too."
Greg watches the cab drive away and becomes suddenly aware of how cold he has become standing out here in the snow. Suddenly Greg’s mobile buzzes, as though someone had been waiting for Molly to leave. Greg pulls it from his coat pocket and sees ‘Mycroft.’
Greg turns and puts the mobile to his ear. “Hi, everything all right?”
“As disconcerting as it is to have my brother call me around Christmas time, yes, it should be. We shall see.”
Greg bites his lip and paces a few steps. “Right. Good.”
“How was the Baker Street party?”
“Somewhat awkward but your brother played for us, so not all bad.”
“Charming,” Mycroft says tersely.
Greg frowns and stops walking. “What is it?” Mycroft sighs loudly. “What?” Greg insists.
“I simply wanted to wish you a Happy Christmas in Dorset, you and Anne. Should be chill and snowy by the sea for Christmas. Splendid.”
"Excuse me?" Greg snaps.
"I wish you a wonderful time," Mycroft snaps back.
Greg shakes his head. “Are you bugging Sherlock’s flat?”
“I don’t need to.”
"Yet here you are calling me now."
"The time felt appropriate."
“Are you angry because I am spending Christmas with my wife?” Greg sweeps his arm across the air in front of him and fists his hand. “She’s my wife!”
“Your separated wife.”
“Not anymore.”
“As I have learned.”
“And we are not exactly an item, Mycroft!”
“That is not the point!” Mycroft growls.
“Then what is?”
He hears Mycroft breathe in sharply but then he says nothing. Greg walks forward two more steps. "What do you want from me, Mycroft?"
"You are aware what I..." Mycroft makes a sort of choked off noise then breathes in loudly enough that Greg can hear it. "Sherlock should be at Barts soon. I must meet him."
"You can't be angry with me, Mycroft," Greg says.
"I am not." Then Mycroft hangs up.
Greg drops his hand with an aggravated huff, shaking some snow off his coat.
He stares down at his mobile and thinks about calling Anne, asking her about when they were separated, about now, about who she was with tonight, if there is someone else, a PE teacher, maybe? He thinks about calling Mycroft back, telling him to fuck off, telling him sorry, asking him to please not be angry.
Greg shakes his head and puts his mobile away. Gazing down the road again, Greg waves a hand in the air to try and grab a cab. He does not think about Mycroft or what Sherlock said or doubt or regret.
----------
After the holiday, Greg comes back to work to find a Christmas present from Mycroft. The small box is wrapped in red with a gold ribbon and a gold card. The card only reads:
Happy Christmas.
-M. Holmes
The box opens on a hinge and holds a watch, black leather band with a silver face and no numbers. Greg cannot decide if he should feel guilty about Anne or guilty about Mycroft. He puts the watch back in the box and leaves it in a desk drawer with the gold card underneath.
----------
Anne and Greg sit across from each other in a restaurant embracing the modern, sleek metal style which smacks of New York City high life. Fortunately, the classy look is not only for show as the food reflects the same charm and taste.
"Salmon good?" Greg asks.
Anne nods and points at his plate with her fork. "Yours?"
Greg spears another piece of gnocchi. "Oh yes."
"Good." Anne picks up her water glass, takes a sip then puts it back down again, her eyes wandering around the restaurant.
Greg slides his foot forward and nudges hers under the table. Anne's eyes tick back to him but she pulls her feet back. Greg gives her a rueful look and she rolls her eyes.
"So, how was New Years with the girls?" Greg asks, finishing the last of his beer.
Anne puts down her fork and lays her hands on the table. "Greg..."
"Not so good?" Greg chuckles. "Don't tell me Angela needed to be carried home again? Aren't we all getting old for that?"
"I didn't spend New Years with the girls."
Greg blinks. "What?"
"Greg." She breathes in slowly, clears her throat then breathes out again. "I want a divorce."
His fork hits his plate with a loud clink and Greg fists his hands in on his thighs. "What?"
Anne shakes her head and looks away. "You heard me."
"You can't be serious."
"I just said it."
"You can't be serious!" Greg snaps.
Anne leans over the table and hisses, "Keep your voice down."
"I just moved back in and now you want a divorce?"
"I thought it was changing; I thought I still felt the same for you."
"No." Greg shakes his head and reaches out to take her hand but she pulls it off the table. He breathes in sharply and rubs his palm over the table cloth. "We're trying, Anne. We are working on it."
“It’s a sinking ship, Greg.”
"No, it's not. We have to give us a chance."
She huffs. "Really, you sound like a cliché."
"And you sound like a bitch."
Anne's eyebrows fly up and her mouth falls open. Greg huffs sharply and sits back in his chair, scratching a hand through his hair. Anne drums her finger tips on the table then brushes her hair back over her shoulder.
"You can't mean this," Greg says finally.
Anne nods. “I mean it. We're over, there is nothing left. We’re both married to our jobs more than each other, anyway.”
“But..." Greg shakes his head. "I thought that is what made us work?” Greg insists. “We both knew about the jobs, knew how much we’d both be away and be busy?”
“Well, we were wrong.”
"But you asked me to move back in!" Greg insists again.
"It was a mistake. I was feeling nostalgic." Anne holds up one hand and swipes it through the air.
David's words flash in Greg's head. "Nostalgic?"
"We should just make a clean break now because I am done."
"Done..."
"We barely know each other anymore, Greg." Anne shrugs. "I don't know any of your friends, you don't know mine. We don't really like many of the same things. The only thing we have together is time and that is in the past. I want to move on."
"Move on?"
"Stop repeating everything I say! Yes, move on."
Greg sits up and grips the edge of the table. "Are you seeing someone else?"
"What?" Anne looks away. "Why would you ask me that? This is about us!"
"You didn't spend New Years with the girls." Anne sighs and still does not look at him. Greg crosses his arms and remembers many an interrogation with all the same body language. "So?"
"He's a teacher," she says quietly.
Greg grits his teeth. "PE?"
Her head jerks back to him with a look of surprise and worry. Greg feels nauseous for a brief moment and stares down at the table, their plates mostly finished but her wine glass still half full.
He considers knocking over her wine so the red liquid spills off the table onto her pale green skirt, staining it forever. He wants to be petty, scathing, tell her he had a better offer he turned down because he was married to her. He wants to shout, to knock all the dishes onto the floor, to just call Mycroft and have him send a car, goodbye.
"You want a divorce," he says quietly instead.
"Yes." She looks down at the table and smoothes a hand over her napkin. "I can send your things to your flat or you pick them up when I'm at work."
Greg scoffs loudly. "So fast, are you?"
Anne glares at him. "This has hardly been fast, Greg; it's been coming for years."
Greg uncrosses his arms and buttons his suit jacket. "You want a divorce? Fine." Greg pushes his chair back and stands up. He picks up his coat off of the chair then threads his arms through. He leans down over the table close to her. "You've got it." Then he turns and stalks out.