When the sun shines, we'll shine together, Chapter 3 - Genuinely
Title: When the sun shines, we'll shine together, Chapter 3 - Genuinely
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: 9,596
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: You simply surprise me sometimes, Greg.”
“That I might miss you if you are gone for a long time?”
Mycroft glances down at his hands on the table. “Will you?”
Greg brushes a hand over his hair, breathing out slowly. “Oh, I think I might.”
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
Chapter 2 - Earnestly
Cross posted to AO3.
It only takes three weeks for Greg and Anne to have paperwork drawn up and sent to the courts for all the legal parts of divorce to be set in motion. The solicitor tells Greg it will still take four to five months for the whole process to finalize, the various steps, division of property and mandatory waiting periods.
"Just send me the papers when they are through and I will sign them."
As far as Greg and his pension are concerned, he is divorced. He just wishes he did not have to wait for the courts to see it all be truly final. Anne, after all, is already off shagging someone else.
David, Greg's rugby mate Chris, and John help Greg move the lion's share of his things from the house to his flat when Anne informs him she will be out. Greg packs up clothes and shoes, all his suits and t-shirts and shorts he hasn't worn in years, every scrap of cloth that is his. He finds CDs, albums in the basement and the turn table he only used twice. He takes all the DVDs he bought, even Sense and Sensibility, the books only he reads and maybe a few they'd shared. He picks two matching chairs from the living room, the standing lamp from the bedroom, and half the dishes from the kitchen.
"I should take the lawn mower."
"You know your flat doesn't have a lawn, right?" Chris asks.
"Yep."
"Got your files," David says as he comes down the stairs with boxes in his arms. "You sure you don't want the cabinet they were all in?"
"It's a plain metal filing cabinet, nothing special."
David shakes his head and walks out the front door to the truck they rented. Chris follows after carrying the stereo with Greg's football balanced precariously on top by his chin. Greg looks around the living room and puts his hands on his hips. Pictures still hang on the walls, sit in frames on shelves and Greg knows exactly where each photo album is, including their wedding album. He knows he should be taking things like mementos, reminders of Christmases and trips and nights alone but right now even the snow globe from Paris on the mantel Anne bought with her last Francs in the third year of their marriage screams betrayal.
"Greg?" He turns to John standing beside him now. "Look, I'm -"
"Don't give me sympathies, John."
John nods and purses his lips. "How about I keep Sherlock off you for a while?"
Greg chuckles quietly. "Yeah, that is a help."
John grins. "I do what I can." He waves a hand around the room. "Anything else in here?"
Greg frowns and sweeps his eyes over his life then points at the small mahogany end table beside the couch.
John clicks his tongue. "You sure you just want to take it?"
"I'm sure. Put whatever is in it on the coffee table."
"Yes, sir."
David walks back into the house a second later, wiping his hands on his jeans. His eyes lock on Greg then he jogs down into the living room, hooks his arm around Greg's, and pulls him away. He leads Greg into the kitchen then lets him go and stands right in front of him.
"So, all packed, stole come chairs... You okay?"
"Yeah."
He puts his hands on Greg's shoulders. "Really?"
Greg glares at him. "Look, I just want over and out of here, yeah?"
"You want to burn the house down?"
Greg sighs.
David shrugs and waves a hand above their heads. "We could do that right now. No problem. I have matches. Maybe even a lighter!"
Greg cracks and laughs despite himself. David grins and lets go of Greg's shoulders. "There we are. Come on." He claps Greg on the back. "Let's get the fuck out."
Everything ends up in a pile in the middle of his flat between the TV and the coffee table still in boxes. The files he takes to the office. Most of them are copies of cases of his which had either gone cold or he became directly entangled in. He steals one of the empty filing cabinets from the basement and shoves it in a corner of his office. He'll probably take them back to his flat at some point but for now it is one less thing to find a place for.
The day after Greg's big move of possessions from house to flat, a card appears on his desk at work. Greg stares at it for five minutes until he picks up the envelope and takes out the 'MH' embossed card.
Condolences.
-M. Holmes
Greg rips the card in half, crumples it and the envelope into a ball between his hands then throws it across his office so it hits the blinds and rebounds into the corner behind his door.
----------
A week later, Greg comes back from a budget meeting to find a box topped with a light blue card on his desk. Greg throws his papers onto the floor and turns two steps back into the division room. He scans the room quickly then sees a back he does not recognize walking away.
"Oi!" He shouts.
Half a dozen people jump at their desks, Gupta gasps high, and Donovan almost crashes right into Peters when he skids to a halt in front of her. By the far exit door, visitor pass on his lapel, the stranger stops in surprise.
"You!" Greg points across the room.
Avery and Bradford point to themselves but Greg waves a dismissive hand at them. "No, no, you! The suit."
Greg sees the man swallow even from the other side of the room and his fingers wrap around the door handle. Greg shakes his head and points at the floor right in front of him. The man looks very much as though he wants to run.
"Now!" Greg shouts.
"Sir..." he says, clearing his throat, "I have to -"
"Get back over here now."
The man drops his hand from the door and heads across the room toward Greg. Every police officer in the division watches him walk back. Once he is within arm's length, Greg grabs his shoulder and pushes him into his office. He crosses to his desk, picks up the box and holds it out.
"Take it back."
"I don't think..."
"Take it back, I said!"
"Inspector Lestrade, it is only a present!"
"And I don't want it. So take it back."
The man runs a hand down his tie. "He said -"
"I don't care what he said. Take it back."
"I can't!"
"Why? Because you'll be arrested?"
The man opens his mouth then shuts it again, eyes darting around the obvious police officer office. He steps forward and takes the box from Greg's hand.
He pulls the card off the top. "Can I leave the -"
"No!" Greg snaps. "Out."
The man turns and scurries out of Greg's office. Greg stares at his empty doorway then sits down in his chair. A minute later, Donovan walks in and closes the door behind her.
"What was that?"
Greg only shakes his head then picks up a pen, clicking the end, and pulls a case file off of one of his stacks.
"Sir!" She insists.
"What?" He snaps back.
She sweeps a hand through the air. "What is wrong with you?"
Greg holds the pen on the page, digging slowly into the paper until it starts to blot like a fountain pen. He drops the pen and leans back in his chair.
"Nothing." He rubs a hand over his face then crosses his arms. "I'm fine."
"Fine? So fine you're shouting at couriers?"
Greg flings his hands up in the air. "Maybe I'm high strung."
Donovan rolls her eyes at his sarcasm. "No, you're not." She steps closer to his desk and folds her arms together. "Is this about your wife?"
"Donovan…"
"Maybe you need some time off to -"
"I'll ask you to stay out of my personal life, Sergeant," Greg snaps.
Donovan's mouth click closed and she nods. "Sir." She glances at the closed door then back to him. "What should I tell them?"
Greg picks up his pen again. "Let them think what they want."
She nods and turns on her heel, opening the door then closing it behind her. Greg looks back down at the case file in front of him. He reads the same line three times before he drops the pen once more and puts his hands over his face.
----------
Greg kneels on the floor of his apartment pulling books from a box. The standing lamp is in his bedroom while the two chairs are in opposite corners of the living room. He hasn't decided on the side table yet. Greg picks up books and puts them on the bookshelf in no particular order. The book shelf already had a few books and CDs on it, so Greg will have to reorganize eventually he supposes. He should probably get some kind of CD rack, though at the moment the stereo is just on the floor.
Greg leans back on his heels and stands up with the box still half full at his feet. He strides over to the coffee table, picks up his bottle of beer then collapses onto the couch. He takes a big swig then glances around the flat, walls empty minus the furniture leaning against them. It may not be a huge flat but it is fine. Thank God he didn't break off the lease right away when Anne suggested he move back in.
Greg glances at his beer and sighs. "Typical, Lestrade."
He puts one foot up on the coffee table, knocking against something. He peers around his socked foot and sees "Dr. No." Greg breathes through his nose slowly and takes another drink of his beer. Then, as if Mycroft has a tap into Greg's brain, his mobile begins to buzz. Greg stands up from the couch and walks over to the box of books which his mobile lies next to. He crouches down, picks it up and indeed sees 'Mycroft' on the caller ID.
"Get out of my head," Greg whispers and lets it buzz until it changes over into voicemail.
Greg puts the mobile in his trouser pocket and kneels down again beside the box. He started this one so he should finish it tonight. How hard is it to put books on a bookshelf? Half of his books are biographies - he has always been interested in people, that is why he does the job he does - while the other half are non-fiction books related to crime or toxicology or the law. Thus, most of his books are pretty thick and with this old bookcase he is a bit concerned about breaking a shelf. What better way to find out then by filling it up?
Greg puts his beer down, picks up "Evidence: Text and Materials" by Gregory Durston, and places it on the second shelf.
"Let's see how much you can take," Greg says to the shelf.
His pocket starts to vibrate. Greg sighs and pulls his mobile out: 'Mycroft.'
"What?" Greg grumbles and answers this time. "What?"
There is a pause then, "Hello, Greg."
Greg stands up and paces across the wood floor. "What do you want?" He says softer.
"I am sorry you did not like the gift."
"I didn't open it."
"So I heard."
Greg stops pacing and glances back at his beer on the floor. "Did you fire that bloke?"
"I am not so petty, Detective Inspector."
"We're back to title now?"
"Well, you seem to be attempting to push our relationship back from the progress we have made."
"What progress? And we are not in a relationship, Mycroft."
"Hmm." Mycroft clicks his tongue. "There are various interpretations of that word."
"Oh, shove your semantics, Mycroft!"
Mycroft sighs. "I recall a conversation not long ago where you stated I could not be angry with you. I would remind you of that sentiment now."
Greg frowns. "It was appropriate then."
"As it is now."
"Whatever you want to think."
"Greg..."
Greg rubs a hand over his eyes. "I'm hanging up."
"Please, don't."
Greg drops his hand and presses 'end' on the touch screen.
He knows he's being ridiculous, stupid, out of character; he knows that none of this is Mycroft's fault. Mycroft did not break up his marriage or send Anne into the arms of some PE teacher or whomever. Mycroft isn't trying to make things worse or really doing anything wrong but, damn it, if Greg doesn't just want someone to blame.
He stares at the box, a few books on the floor beside it and his half empty beer. He squeezes his mobile then turns and tosses it onto the couch. For a minute, he just stares at it where it landed. Nothing happens so he crouches down to pick up his beer. Greg walks out of the living room, into the kitchen, and drops the beer into the sink so the liquid slowly seeps out down the drain.
----------
The next day they get the bodies of two dead children in a traffic collision, their father with nothing but a broken nose, and Greg wonders why the hell is he so angry? If he stays angry - at Anne, at the universe, at Mycroft, at himself - he will just grow old and bitter. There is no way Greg will turn into that man.
So he lets go.
----------
"Hello Molly."
Molly takes off her plastic goggles as Greg walks in the door. "Hi." She points at the body on her table. "Are you here for her?"
"Yep, give me."
Molly turns to the table beside her and picks up her clip board. "Looks like just what they said at the scene, died of the stab wound. The toxicology is still being run but pretty sure it looks like cocaine in her system too."
"Glorious."
"Also." Molly puts down the clip board and clears her throat. "During the postmortem I found out she was pregnant."
"Pregnant?" Greg snaps.
"Only about a month. It is possible she might not have known."
"Or she did and there is our motive."
Molly shrugs. "I just cut them open." Greg raises his eyebrows and Molly puts up her hands. "Sorry, sorry."
Greg shakes his head. "No, it's fine."
"I'm not quite done with the paper work." Molly points over her shoulder at the clip board. "Do you mind if I bring it up later? I can bring it when the official toxicology comes back."
Greg nods. "Yeah, fine. Thanks, Molly."
As Greg turns to leave, Molly clears her throat. "I, um..." Greg turns back to her. "I wanted to, to well..."
Greg raises his eyebrows. "What?"
"I just wanted to say sorry." Molly clasps her gloved hands together. "About your wife."
Greg nods. "Yeah, thanks."
"Are you... you okay?"
Greg blows out a puff of air, feeling oddly calm. "Uh, yeah." He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels. "It was a long time coming."
"Really?"
Greg laughs once. “Yeah, just took me awhile to see that. Really, I knew it was over, just didn’t want to admit it. Holding on to hope.”
Molly nods. “But now you can move on, right?”
"Supposedly. That's what they say at least," Greg murmurs, glancing around the morgue.
"Sometimes you need something bad enough to push you out." Greg's jerks around and he stares at Molly. She smiles thinly. "You keep telling yourself 'this is all right' until you realize it hasn't been for a while, until something big enough knocks you to your senses, right?"
"I..."
"Straw that breaks the camel's back?" She laughs a bit awkwardly.
Greg smiles. "Yeah, I guess so."
"It's just... well, you can't keep clinging to something or someone because of time." She looks away for a moment. "Because you deserve something more."
She looks back at him and somehow Greg feels better than he has in weeks.
"Anyway, I know you'll be fine, Inspector," she adds as she pulls her plastic gloves off her hands.
Greg tilts his head. "You do?"
"You've handled Sherlock for more than five years."
Greg breaks into laugher, Molly following a moment later. He grins and shakes his head at her. "Thank you, Molly, really."
While many things can be said of Molly's occasional awkward conversation skills, her insight is more that even she probably knows.
Out in the hall, Greg stops before opening the door to the stairs. He pulls his mobile out of his pocket and selects Mycroft's number into text:
[3:21] I was wrong. I'm sorry.
----------
It is only a few days after Greg spoke to Molly and texted Mycroft that the same woman who brought the rose gift walks through his office door. This time she wears a black dress and red heels, blackberry in one hand and white card in the other.
"Hello." He peers around her out into the hall just in case then back again. "No box this time?"
She smiles and holds up the card. "Just this."
"You're my only repeat courier."
She cocks her head. "I am not a courier."
Greg's brain runs off with a variety of ideas but for some reason 'personal assassin' ranks highest on the list. "Then what are you?"
"Well, I have been called Anthea by a friend of yours, so how’s that?"
"Is Anthea a name or a profession?"
She just smiles and holds out the card. Greg reaches out and takes the card from her. Anthea backs up two steps but she does not leave. He glances up at her then looks down at the card. This one is actually sealed. Greg pulls his letter opener - Claire gave it to him one year - from his desk and slits the envelope open. He pulls out the card, the same 'MH,' and opens it.
Would you accompany me to dinner tomorrow night, as a date?
-M. Holmes
Greg closes the card and puts it down on his desk. Crossing his arms, he leans pack in his chair and stares at the card. The way his heart beats and his arms tingle makes him feel fifteen years younger in a somewhat awkward way.
Anthea clears her throat and Greg looks up at her. "I'm to take back your reply."
"What, now?"
Anthea nods.
“Really?”
She only raises her eyebrows.
"I don't know if I can decide right now."
Anthea holds up a finger. "He thought you might say that." She reaches into the top of her dress and pulls out a smaller card.
"Keep a lot in there?"
She chuckles. "Take it."
He plucks the card from her hand which turns out to be a single piece of fine, white card stock with one word on the front:
Please.
Greg stares at the card. He remembers months ago when Mycroft asked Greg to call him by his name, when Greg asked Mycroft to have coffee, when Mycroft called the other night and Greg hung up.
Anthea leans forward slightly. “Just why are you resisting?”
Greg purses his lips. He flips the card over, picks up a fine point sharpie from the mug on his desk then writes on the back of the card one word:
Yes.
He holds up the card to Anthea. She smiles, takes it with two fingers, then turns on her heel and walks swiftly from his office.
----------
The next evening Greg leaves work at exactly five PM. He stares at his closet for several minutes and tells himself that Mycroft would never expect him to be as impeccably dressed as Mycroft always is. Greg owns exactly zero three piece suits. A regular suit will have to do; the only question is tie or no tie? Whenever he wears a tie it makes him feel like an admin copper which is not anyone’s idea of a fun date. A tie might be more formal but Greg has a small semblance of self-awareness which reminds him that he looks better when not wearing a tie. Gray suit and black shirt it is.
At seven fifteen Greg’s mobile vibrates showing a blocked number. When he answers, the voice on the other end only says, ‘your car has arrived.’ Downstairs, in front of the building of Greg’s flat, a car waits parked at the curb. The driver leans against the car but stands up straight once he sees Greg and opens the back door of the car.
Greg stares at him. “Are you serious?”
“Sir.” He nods toward the open door.
“All right.” Greg shrugs and climbs in.
Greg stares around the inside of the car, leather seats and more foot room than seems fair. He wonders if Mycroft has a garage somewhere filled with a dozen black cars ready for his disposal at any time.
When the car stops again, Greg opens the door and steps out before the driver makes it around in time. The driver gives him a halfhearted glare then closes the door behind Greg. The establishment appears to be a French restaurant, dark wood on the outside with large windows. He walks inside and stops at the host podium.
The woman smiles at him and cocks her head, “Greg Lestrade?”
“Yes?”
She indicates a staircase in the back left corner, “Second floor sir."
Greg weaves around a few occupied tables and walks back to the stairs, more dark wood, white table cloths, and some chandeliers which make Greg think of theaters. Up the stairs, the restaurant suddenly becomes quiet. Around the corner, the floor looks empty for a moment then Greg sees one table on the far side in front of the floor to ceiling windows with Mycroft seated at it. Greg smiles and watches Mycroft, one hand on the table, looking out the window, and legs crossed completely still. His suit is a three-piece black pinstripe with a white shirt underneath and a red tie. Greg can see the gold glint of a tie pin and a pocket watch chain near Mycroft’s hip. The scene looks like a page from GQ.
Greg licks his lip once, straightens his jacket, tugs his shirt cuffs down then walks forward across the empty floor. Mycroft turns his head when Greg is a few paces away. He moves to stand but Greg waves a hand at him. Mycroft drums his finger tips on the table once but stays seated. Greg stops right next to the table so Mycroft has to look up at him.
“You rented out the whole floor?”
Mycroft only smiles.
Greg nods, looks at the shinning chandeliers and diamond patterned carpet, then turns back to Mycroft. “Pulling out all the stops now?”
“I believe it never hurts to impress.”
“You already have.” Greg steps back and slides into his seat across from Mycroft.
Mycroft glances across the restaurant and a waiter appears, menus and a bottle of white wine in hand. He hands a menu to each of them then puts the wine down on the table, label toward Mycroft. Mycroft touches the bottle then nods. The waiter pulls a corkscrew out of his pocket and opens the wine, pouring some into their glasses.
“Please take your time,” he says then takes the bottle and walks back across the floor.
Mycroft picks up his glass of wine and holds it out toward Greg. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”
“Well, you said please.”
Mycroft takes a sip of his wine and nods. “I did.”
Greg opens his menu, notices there are no prices beside any of the items. He stares at the page for a minute, classy font and a tint to the paper so it appears vintage. Greg glances over the top of his menu at Mycroft, back down at the page then closes the menu.
Mycroft frowns. “Are the options not to your liking?”
“I’m pretty sure everything they serve here is amazing.”
Mycroft opens his menu, eyes moving up and down the pages quickly. “But?”
Greg sighs. “Look, I want to apologize.”
Mycroft glances up again from his menu. “Apologize?”
“I feel I was leading you on when it came to all your gifts and then I was angry at you after everything with my wife when it wasn’t your fault and had nothing to do with you.” Greg touches the stem of his wine glass and twists it. Mycroft watches him silently. “So, I’m sorry.”
Mycroft purses his lips. “While you may consider your actions ‘leading,’ I would have to disagree as we are here now.” Mycroft circles a hand in the air indicating the restaurant around them.
Greg chuckles. “True.”
“And if we are talking of errors, you could fault me for pursuing a married man.”
“Separated man.”
Mycroft smiles slowly. “Semantics.”
Greg smiles back at him. “I guess we’re even then.”
They pick up their wine glasses at the same time and drink. Greg normally sticks to beer but he likes this wine. He wonders, perhaps, if Mycroft knew his taste but that seems a bit too far into impossible or paranoid even for Mycroft. Greg puts his wine down and flips open his menu again. Half of the choices are in French and the descriptions only seem to partially elucidate what they are. He took French in secondary but hell if he remembers it. Something says fillet and that has to include beef so he wagers it’s a good bet.
Greg looks up at Mycroft, his eyes somewhere near the bottom of his menu. Greg closes his menu, picks up his wine and leans slightly back against his chair. Mycroft’s eyes tick up.
“You said to me a while back that I needed to give you the opportunity to get to know you better.”
Mycroft closes his menu. “Yes.”
“Well.”
“Well?”
“As you said, we’re here now.”
Mycroft folds his hands together then slides them apart again. He sits up straighter in his chair and touches his wine glass, though he does not pick it up. Greg takes a sip of his wine and waits. Mycroft clears his throat, looks out the window then turns back to Greg.
“I suppose you already know much of my time is spent with work.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“The price of the civil servant.”
“Something like that.” Greg tilts his head. "So?"
Abruptly, the waiter returns, halting the conversation. He takes their orders in such a swift and precise manner that Greg wonders if perhaps Mycroft trained him in the art of professionalism. He takes away their menus, adds more wine to their glasses then disappears again. Mycroft rubs a hand along the table cloth but does not say anything.
“So,” Greg continues instead, “we were talking about you?”
“I…” Mycroft smooths a hand over his tie and Greg wonders how much time Mycroft actually spends talking to people outside of work situations. “I confess, I am not sure what you would wish to know.”
Greg chuckles. “About you, what you enjoy, what you do outside of whatever mysterious office you have.”
Mycroft frowns. “I visit my club often.”
“Club?”
“The Diogenes.”
“Like a sports club?”
Mycroft laughs with obvious surprise and shakes his head. “Oh no. More a place to relax, read, a quiet place away from distraction.”
“Sounds a little Victorian.”
"Perhaps it is." Mycroft smiles. “It allows absolutely no talking inside the walls and I imagine the décor would inspire an idea of old fashioned tastes.”
Greg laughs. “And is that all?”
“What more would you like?”
Greg sighs and puts his wine down. “You’re somewhat resistant to talking about yourself, aren’t you?”
“I don’t…. hmm.” He smiles. “Perhaps.”
“Might stem from having Sherlock as your bother, all that talking he does?”
Mycroft laughs and smiles, quiet and maybe a little surprised with himself. “Childhood was an interesting experience, I will admit.”
“I think everyone’s is in some way. Try being the middle child.” Mycroft cocks his head and Greg realizes Mycroft has not, in fact, stalked all of his life and history. “I have an older brother and younger sister.”
Mycroft nods. “And they figure in your life in a positive way?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, quite a luxury.” Greg watches Mycroft’s face, sees him shrink for a moment before he snaps back to composed and present. He picks up his wine glass and sips some. “But your siblings are not your interests or activities outside work, at least not wholly.”
“I used to play rugby with some old uni friends once a month but it fell apart when two of my mates started having children. Takes up time…” Greg purses his lips and shrugs. “I like to cook.”
“Cook?” Mycroft says with surprise.
Greg nods. “I learned when I was younger, would try and make new things for David and Claire, usually burning something. I melted a pot on our stove once.” Mycroft chuckles. “Right through the bottom and we kept the blob of melted metal in the kitchen window for ages after. But I’ve kept it up. I would always cook for Anne or my mates. It’s just…” Greg glances out the window and smiles. “I find it calming, recipes to follow or to go with your instincts, to properly use smell and taste. I don't do it enough.”
“I bake on occasion.”
Greg looks back. “Bake?”
Mycroft nods and clears his throat. “Sherlock preferred his chemistry set to the kitchen. Thus, the kitchen was mine. Baking was more to my temperament and preferences that other types of cooking. However, I have not baked in some time.”
“Still sounds like something in common.”
“Yes.”
“Well, if we ever make a meal together, I’ll handle the main course and you can take dessert.”
“We should.”
Greg picks up his wine again and wonders what Mycroft’s kitchen looks like. “So is that it? Work, club, and baking?”
“I paint.”
Greg blinks with surprise. “Paint?”
“As in with a brush and canvas.”
Greg snorts. “Thank you for the clarification.” Greg flicks his glass of wine so it makes a clinking noise. “Quite the renaissance man. You’ll have to show me sometime.”
“Will I?”
“Please?”
Mycroft purses his lips until it melts into a smile. He props an elbow on the table and rests his head on two fingers. “Maybe.”
Greg suspects not many people have cared or tried enough to get past Mycroft’s wall of three piece suits. Watching the changes in his smile from polite to real, Greg wants to slip right past that wall of propriety and see who Mycroft is underneath.
After dinner, they stand outside for one minute. Mycroft touches Greg’s hand and says, “good night,” before turning away. Greg watches Mycroft as he walks to his car, no umbrella today, and it is not until Greg no longer sees the car in the distance that he moves.
The same car which brought Greg to the restaurant waits to drive him home again. They make one quick stop along the way so Greg can run into a shop. Once they reach his building again, he hands the card he bought to the driver.
“Could you give this to him?” The driver glances at the card then takes it without comment. “Thanks.” Then Greg climbs out and back to his flat.
The light blue card, no picture or embossed letters on the front, reads:
Thank you. I loved it. We should do it again.
- G. Lestrade
----------
Greg sits behind his desk, case file in hand, with Donovan sitting in a chair on the other side of his desk. His coffee has gone cold now after his drinking only half.
“So the one witness, Brian, recanted.”
“Already?”
Sally shrugs. “Surprised he talked in the first place in that sort of neighborhood.”
Greg nods. “Yeah, try any pressure?”
“Please.”
Greg chuckles. “All right, have to cross our fingers for evidence coming up with something then. Any luck on the next of kin?”
“Nothing so far except for a brother who is serving five years.”
“For?”
“Drugs.”
Greg rubs his forehead. “Fabulous.”
Greg’s phone rings, making Sally jump in surprise. Putting down his pen, Greg picks up the receiver. “Yeah?”
“Delivery for you sir.”
“Is it a box with a card?”
“Uh, no, sir.”
Greg taps his desk and sighs. “Send it up.” Then he hangs up the phone.
Sally crosses her arms. “You expecting something?”
“No, but lately that means nothing.”
“Your wife?”
Greg sighs. “If the delivery is paperwork then yeah.”
“If not?”
Before Greg can respond, a woman appears in his doorway holding what is definitely not paperwork but instead a vase with a bouquet of flowers.
“Damn!” Sally says.
“For Greg Lestrade?” The woman asks.
Greg waves at her and she walks over, putting the flowers on an empty corner of his desk. “Thank you.”
Sally stands up to inspect the white and purple array of flowers, buds, and leaves. Greg plucks the card off, however, before she gets to it. She stands up straight as the delivery girl leaves and eyes the card in his hand.
“Is this the same ‘someone else’ that was sending you boxes and coffees before?”
“I’ll send you my notes on the case file in a bit, Donovan.”
She frowns. “Flowers now?”
“Good bye, Donovan.”
She ‘hmms’ then turns and walks out of his office. Greg flips open the card,
You are welcome.
-M. Holmes
Greg grins and sticks the card back into the flowers. He pulls out his mobile and selects Mycroft’s number. Mycroft answers after only one ring.
“Greg.”
“So, how do I send you things without having to rope one of your drivers into it?”
“What do you want to send me?”
“I couldn’t ruin the surprise.”
“Ah, so a theoretical question.”
“Are you not going to tell me? Not exactly fair, is it?”
“I did not say I would not tell you.”
Greg rocks his chair from side to side. “Well then?”
“If you insist.”
Suddenly, Greg’s mobile vibrates once. He pulls it away from his ear and sees that he has a text from Mycroft. It is an address. He puts the mobile back to his ear.
“Is this your office?”
“Seems only fair, does it not?”
Greg chuckles and touches a purple petal of one flower in the vase beside him. “Thank you.”
“Good day, Greg.” Then as though he wasn’t sure whether to say it or not, “it was good to hear your voice.”
----------
The next time they go to dinner together, Greg picks the restaurant. The restaurant is in fact more like a pub and he ensures Mycroft has a beer instead of wine.
"A good beer never disappoints."
"I tend toward whiskey."
Greg chuckles. "That sounds right. I can see you with a cigar and tumbler sitting by a fire, top hat in the corner, tails hanging over a chair."
"Perhaps not the cigar."
"You own a top hat and tails?"
Mycroft sips his beer and smiles. "You'll have to find out."
Their date ends up cut a bit short, however, when Sherlock texts Greg and John texts Mycroft about the same case, a murderer at large in London, and, yes, Sherlock does need Lestrade right now and, sorry Mycroft, but Sherlock's probably about to break some laws, thought you'd want to know.
"This is going to be a recurring thing, isn't it?" Greg says as they both text back to Sherlock and John.
Mycroft sighs. "If so I may need you to find a reason to jail Sherlock."
"We can all have dreams."
When they get up from the table, money left behind, Mycroft puts his hand on the small of Greg's back as if Greg needs encouragement to walk forward. Mycroft waits with Greg while he hails a cab back to the Met. Mycroft's hand, never moving, burns a spot through Greg's jacket onto his skin that seems to last for hours later.
----------
Greg meets Mycroft on a Wednesday afternoon at a café between their two offices. Mycroft insisted it needed to be a quick lunch as he had a flight to catch to, ‘well, let’s say somewhere east.’ They manage to get a table near a wall and stick to simple sandwiches. It gives Greg a small amount of amusement every time to see Mycroft eating something normal and not Zagat rated.
“I’ve decided,” Greg says as he fishes through his basket of chips for one of suitable size, “since you sent me so many gifts that were clearly too expensive -“
“Too expensive?”
“That I am going to send you the cheapest things I can find.”
Mycroft raises his eyebrows, sandwich frozen midair. “Oh?”
Greg nods and picks up his roast beef. “Yep, hideous things, like plastic cats or floral ties.”
Mycroft’s mouth twitches and he puts his sandwich half down. “Much can be said for a good floral tie.”
“Not if the fabric is something like 1970s couch or dreaded polyester.”
Mycroft breaks and starts laughing. He puts a hand over his mouth and shakes his head. Greg notices Mycroft’s nose scrunches up a little right when he starts laughing. Greg needs to instate a new rule to make Mycroft laugh at least once every time they see each other.
“Well,” Mycroft says, “should you buy me such a tie, I promise to never wear it.”
Greg picks up his sandwich and takes a bite. “That is all I could hope for.”
Pulling out his pocket watch, Mycroft clicks it open then makes a displeased face. Greg’s eyes flick to Mycroft’s watch then back to him.
“How long will you be gone?”
Mycroft looks up as he closes the watch. “It is undetermined as of now.”
“Days? Weeks?”
“Oh, surely not weeks.” He tilts his head. “Maybe one.”
Greg grins. “Good.” Mycroft gives him an odd look, as though he doesn’t quite believe Greg. “What?”
“You simply surprise me sometimes, Greg.”
“That I might miss you if you are gone for a long time?”
Mycroft glances down at his hands on the table. “Will you?”
Greg brushes a hand over his hair, breathing out slowly. “Oh, I think I might.”
“Ah.” Mycroft looks up again.
“Are you going to call me at all from this place somewhere east?”
“No.”
“Worse for me.”
“Is this an aspect of your character you’ve been holding back?”
Greg frowns. “What?”
“Teasing.”
Greg laughs once. “Maybe, we’ll see.”
“Speaking of, it is time I was off.”
Instantly Greg's thoughts say, ‘no, stay.’ He breathes in slowly and wonders if he’s starting to fall hard or if the descent was already long begun without him noticing. “All right. I’ll walk out with you.”
They throw away the wrappings and remnants of their lunch before walking back out into the chill afternoon. Mycroft’s car waits at the curb, engine running.
“I don’t know where you’re going,” Greg says, “but I hope you’ll be safe.”
Mycroft smiles. “I would worry more for you staying here.”
Mycroft moves to turn away toward the car but Greg abruptly grips his hand. Mycroft turns back, closer just into Greg’s personal space. So Greg kisses him. Mycroft tenses in surprise but relaxes a moment later, kissing Greg back. With his lips on Mycroft’s, Greg decides he likes that Mycroft is a little taller than him.
He pulls back, kisses Mycroft quickly once more. “Bye.”
Mycroft smiles, thumb rubbing the back of Greg’s hand. “Good bye.”
----------
Greg, David, and Claire sit on the floor of Greg's flat surrounded by pieces of wood, screws, pegs, and an instruction packet that seems frighteningly long for just an entertainment center.
"Would we really call it an entertainment center?" David asks with his nose almost touching the paper. "It's only going to hold your TV and stereo."
"It has the shelves for DVDs and CDs too, David." Claire sticks two pegs into the end of the base piece. "Don't you think that counts?"
"But a center?" He pulls the instructions down from his face. "That makes it sound like there should be three different types of DVD players and two telly screens and something that spins."
Greg frowns and picks up a vertical piece to fit onto his side of the base. "You're reading too much into this. Plus, I have my turn table too which is something that spins."
"So vintage." Claire shoves a random piece of wood out of her way with her foot.
"Is this IKEA?" David mutters flipping the pages.
Claire and Greg glance at each other.
"You sure you should have asked him to come?" Claire asks.
"We're family bonding."
"Speaking of bonding." David presses the instruction pages between his hands. "What is going on with you and Mycroft?"
Greg grins automatically then coughs to cover his ridiculous face. Claire and David beam at him, clearly not believing his 'cover' for a second. They give each other a long look.
Greg sighs. "What's the next part of the directions, David?"
"So, you are seeing this Mycroft?" Claire picks up her side piece and fits it on the pegs. "And is it now a thing?"
"Oh, it is a thing." David grins and flashes a page of the instructions at them. "Put the B piece on the C piece."
Claire steals the instructions from David while still looking at Greg over the partially assembled furniture. “You haven’t dated a guy in a long time.”
“I’ve been married.”
“What kind of excuse is that?” David snaps with mock anger.
“When was the last one?” Claire asks David.
“Before Anne.”
“Obviously.”
“And before Jackie.”
“Oh, I remember Jackie!” Claire laughs. “That hair.”
Greg puts a hand over his eyes. “Oh God.”
“It was Shawn.” David flutters his eyelashes at Greg. “With the dreamy blue eyes.”
Greg rolls his eyes at David, “All right, all right.” Then he picks up two screws and tosses two more to Claire. “Also, I wouldn’t necessarily say that we’re ‘dating.’”
“No?” Claire asks, catching the screws.
"We haven't talked about it." Greg nods at Claire and they turn their pieces so they can add the screws to the ends to reinforce the pegs.
"Is that a thing people still need to do?" David asks and steals the directions back from by Claire’s hip. "Especially when they're pushing 50?"
"I'm not pushing it."
"You're reaching."
"Says the man who is forty-nine."
David frowns. "I am all too aware of that."
"Dear God," Claire groans, "at this rate this thing won't be put together by morning!"
David raises his eyebrows. "Do you have somewhere to be?"
"Yes, home with my children and husband."
"Psh!"
"I can finish this if you guys need to leave," Greg offers.
Claire narrows her eyes at him. "I think maybe you just want to get out of talking about your Mycroft developments."
"Plus, these instructions say you need two people," David adds, pointing at the cover.
Greg stares at David then looks back at Claire. "There are no developments."
"None?" She sticks her screw driver into place and turns. "Nothing at all?"
"They went on at least one date. Posh restaurant. Didn't you guys get lunch a few times too? And there was flowers." David flips a page in the instructions. "Are you done screwing?"
Claire raises her eyebrows. "And he says no developments? I call those developments."
"He dragged it out of me. I swear he's a stalker."
David nods. "I am trying to escape my children."
"Hmm." Claire stands up and puts the screwdriver in the tool box. "I think we need beer and then I want to hear about this date, the multiple dates. Those of us still married have to live vicariously through you, Greg."
“Joy to me,” Greg mutters.
Once Claire walks out into the kitchen, David puts down the instruction packet and turns to Greg. "So, you do like him?"
Greg smiles. "Yeah, I think I do."
----------
Mycroft and Greg stand in Trafalgar Square around eight PM after Greg finally escaped from work. Greg watches the colors change on one fountain, the yellow looking more like white and the blue like sea.
“You know the last time I was here I don’t think they had those.” Greg points at the water then turns to Mycroft. “In fact, not sure the last time I was here at all.”
Mycroft chuckles. “As it is usually awash with tourists, I find it best to avoid this area.”
Greg smirks. “But it is so rich with history.”
“Yes, many a statue with plaques for visitors to read and promptly forget.”
“Not one for the touristy bits, are you?”
Mycroft shakes his head. “I know London, I do not need to visit those areas which tourists frequent to see it.”
“So what you’re saying is, you prefer the CCTV view?”
Mycroft laughs once and brushes his fingers briefly over the front of Greg’s jacket. He shakes his head at Greg but does not ‘confirm or deny.’ They look up at the fountain, the LED lights change to purple and blue again. A child attempts to climb up onto the edge of the fountain before his mother grabs him around the middle and pulls him back.
“I trust your work was not too trying today?” Mycroft asks.
“Don’t you already know?”
“I do not stalk your every move, Greg.”
Greg raises his eyebrows. “I have a number of gifts and cards that would beg to differ on that count.” Mycroft frowns so Greg nudges him with his shoulder. “My day was fine, mostly paperwork.”
“That I certainly understand.”
They walk side by side away from the fountain, avoiding various clusters of people either taking photographs or staring at maps. There appears to be an event going on over at the National Gallery as a red carpet snakes up the center steps with various people in black tie and diamonds walking up.
“Benefit?” Greg asks.
“One I am blissfully not involved with in any way.”
Greg chuckles. “Me either.”
They turn around the fountain, fortunately not many pigeons anymore to block their way, toward Nelson’s Column. Mycroft swings his umbrella just a little in his far arm, occasionally tapping it on the street. Their hands brush now and then as they walk. Greg thinks corny things about holding Mycroft’s hand and has to remind himself that he is in fact forty-seven years old. Another part asks him who puts an age limit on affection?
“Mycroft?”
“Hmm?”
“Are we a couple now?”
Mycroft stops walking and stares at Greg. “Are you asking me to define our relationship?”
“Yes.”
Mycroft opens his mouth then quickly closes it again. He bites his lip briefly then clears his throat. “What would you wish it to be?”
“I am the one that asked if we are a couple or not.”
“Which implies that is what you would wish to be?”
Greg smiles. “Yes, Mycroft. When I am talking to my sister and she asks, I want to be able to say that I am actually seeing you.”
Mycroft taps his umbrella on the ground once then reaches out and touches Greg’s hair above his forehead. “Do you know how lovely your hair is?”
Greg blinks. “What?”
His fingers brush slowly back through Greg’s hair until his hand nearly cups Greg’s cheek. “Silver, lush. It is lovely.” Then his thumb drags along the length of Greg’s hair line until he pulls his hand away.
Greg has to swallow once before he speaks. “Is that how you say yes?”
“I suppose so. Yes.”
“Yes?”
Mycroft smiles. “Yes.”
Greg glances to the side, at the tall column and guarding stone lions. He looks back to Mycroft and thinks if Mycroft were the tower, high above them all, then maybe Greg would be the lion, guarding at the base.
“Okay.” Greg touches Mycroft’s empty hand, his smooth nails and curve of bone. He touches Mycroft’s finger tips and Mycroft’s fingers curl around Greg's. “Good.”
Greg steps forward and kisses Mycroft once. He pulls back, nose still touching Mycroft’s. He feels Mycroft start to smile then Mycroft squeezes Greg’s hand and kisses him again, faint stars above their heads and a city full of lights around them.
----------
Sherlock paces back and forth in Greg’s office, voice going a mile a minute. Donovan keeps trying to make him stop walking, slow down, and just how are you making these jumps? John pipes up every now and then with a clarification or a well-placed ‘fantastic.’ Greg sits at his desk just watching the drama for the moment. He knows that Sherlock will stop eventually giving him the opportunity to say, ‘so what does it all mean then?’ or something of the like. Sherlock will probably give him that ‘idiot’ stare but Greg cares not that much at all. The murder case has been languishing for over a week and the pressure to ‘close’ has been high. If Sherlock can solve it, Greg and the victim’s family will not care who it was or exactly how they leapt to the right answer.
“John!” Sherlock suddenly stops walking and points at the door. “Mobile, out on the desk.”
John stares. “What?”
“Mine, by your coffee, get it.”
John groans and walks out without another protest. Donovan rolls her eyes at Sherlock. “Really?”
“Sally, get me the last witness statement.”
She glares very hard at the side of Sherlock’s head then looks at Greg. He mouths ‘please?’ She sighs heavily and stomps out the door.
“I take it you’ve got something?” Greg asks.
Sherlock turns and flashes his ‘I am so brilliant’ grin. “Of course, weren’t you listening?”
“I was waiting for the summary.”
“As usual.”
Greg bites his lip and stands from his desk. “Look, Sherlock, I should tell you something.”
“Is it related to the case?”
Greg frowns. “No.”
Sherlock waves a hand, “Not interested.”
“Sherlock?” John walks in the door and hands Sherlock his mobile. “Use your pockets, eh? You have about a dozen with your coat.”
“I do use them.” Sherlock peers around John. “Where is Donovan?”
“Getting coffee,” John answers.
“What?” Sherlock and Greg say together.
John’s eyes widen. “What?”
“Your staff needs to focus on their jobs more than their caffeine intake,” Sherlock snaps at Greg. “Perhaps you would be able to solve cases then.”
“Oi, you don’t need to -“
“Not again you two!” John interjects. “Relax, I’ll get her.”
John walks out of Greg’s office again, muttering something under his breath about ‘absolute children’ and ‘bloody insanity.’ Greg turns to Sherlock to see the man already clicking away on his mobile.
“Sherlock?”
“Hmm.”
“I mentioned I needed to tell you something?”
“And I mentioned my lack of interest.”
Greg sighs. “Well, I’m telling you anyway. I’m seeing your brother.”
“I know.”
“Seeing as in - wait, you know?”
Sherlock looks up. “Of course.”
Greg chuckles. “Should I even ask how or when you realized this?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “The coffee.”
“Coffee?”
“Several months ago the smell of your coffee changed and was remarkably familiar to a favorite brand of Mycroft’s. It was not difficult to see the signs beyond that.”
"Signs?"
Sherlock points to Greg’s coat on its hook behind his office door.
“Ah.”
Sherlock drops his hands and tilts his head. “I would suggest you be careful but perhaps you already know that.”
Greg breathes slowly through his nose and crosses his arm. “Look, Sherlock, he may be your brother but -“
“No need for the ruffled feathers, Lestrade.” Sherlock pulls his mobile up, clicks it twice more, and then slips it into his pocket coat. “I think you could be very good for him.”
Greg’s mouth drops open. Before he can speak again John appears in his doorway.
“Hey, Donovan gave me this and…” He looks back and forth between them, file folder in hand. “What’s going on? Sherlock?”
Sherlock plucks the file from John’s hand. “We are going to interrogate this witness.”
“We are?”
Sherlock turns to Greg again. “Perhaps you can bring him down off that ‘queen and country’ horse of his a bit, relax those tight suits.”
Greg can’t stop a laugh and he shakes his head. “I don’t know about that.”
Sherlock just smiles.
John clears his throat. “Um, what now?”
Sherlock spins around and grabs John by the shoulder. “Come, John.”
----------
Greg sits on his couch, Friday night, DVD player fighting with him so he's stuck with the telly but he really would prefer to avoid the news. He was interviewed yesterday unexpectedly at a crime scene, so, of course, he said something stupid that he has seen replayed at least three times since then on various TV channels. He’ll probably have to do another interview to smooth over his own stupid mouth.
Greg rubs his forehead and takes another bite of his chicken lo mein. “Should just watch Miss Marple…”
The entertainment center, as Claire decided it could be called, looks very nice against the wall. His stereo, TV, turn table, CDs and DVDs all fit nicely and look very organized now. If he tries hard enough he can probably keep it looking just perfect; though the alphabetization that David insisted upon will not last. Greg turns off his TV, just a repeat of Eastenders playing, and reaches for the book Mycroft gave him on the coffee table. He really did mean to read it but he forgot about it, then it was covered by a newspaper, then it fell under the table for a bit too.
However, Greg’s mobile vibrates next to the book just as Greg touches it. Greg ‘hmms’ and picks up his mobile instead. It is Mycroft:
[9:33] I saw your interview of yesterday. Poetic.
Greg double clicks the contact and waits as the phone rings.
“Greg.”
“You had to be sassy?”
Mycroft chuckles. “Your use of the word ‘chav’ was simply endearing. And the way you so nearly said fuck three times gave me a desire to applaud.”
Greg sighs. “Thank you.”
“I am sure it is on youtube by now. I could save it for all posterity.”
“Since you’d need youtube for that.”
Mycroft ‘tsk tsks’ but says no more. Greg imagines a wicked grin on the man’s face. He wishes he was wherever Mycroft is to kiss it off.
“What are you doing?” Greg asks.
“Over viewing strategy proposals for diffusing an internal Labour Party dispute.”
Greg sits up straighter. “Wow.”
“What?”
“You actually answered.”
“What did you expect?”
Greg blows out a puff of air and shifts the mobile to his other ear. “I don’t know, something like ‘matters of import?’”
Mycroft chuckles. “The same.”
Greg shifts around so he lays length wise on his couch. He puts his arm behind his head and looks up at the ceiling. He can hear a faint clicking in the background through the phone, probably Mycroft’s fingers on computer keys.
Greg chews the edge of his lip. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Why me?”
He hears the clicking stop. “Pardon?”
“In the five years, I guess six now, I have known your brother I saw you a handful of times. I never got any indication you were attached to anyone or even trying to be. You were always work and Sherlock. Obviously I didn’t know anything about your personal life then but… well, you’ve known me the same amount of time. So why now? Why me?”
“Why not you?” he clears his throat. “We know each other better now..."
“No.” Greg points at the air. “That’s not it. You started all of this before knowing me any better at all.”
Mycroft sighs.
“Well?”
“I… hmmm.” Mycroft is silent for a moment and Greg imagines he has that ‘don’t reveal classified information’ expression on his face. “Though it behooves me to admit it, it is because of Sherlock.”
Greg frowns. “What?”
“My brother has always been the terror he is. Always the same arrogance and self-assured righteousness, that is until he met John. Now, well, he still retains all that but he… he is better. Sherlock found the perfect, and perhaps only, friend in John who could bring out what most of us felt he did not have inside. Sherlock now has moments of restraint, of reality, of actual care. John has made him a better man.”
“What does that have to do with us?”
“I thought you could do the same for me.”
Greg breathes in and forgets to breathe out.
Mycroft sighs. “I do not equate myself with Sherlock in terms of complete lack of social normities but I am also aware of my personal defects and detachment from much of human interaction.”
“And?” Greg whispers.
“I have always found you appealing, Greg, but it has been until recently I felt it worth my effort and time to attempt to change our surface, casual acquaintance.” Mycroft makes a small pleased sound. “You are a good man, Greg. You are the kind of man who… Well, one wants to be better for you.”
Greg laughs once quietly. “Ah.”
“I thought you could be someone who could make me… different. I thought if my younger, insufferable brother could actually make such a connection then… Well, then I should try.”
The other end of the phone falls silent. Greg remembers to breathe in and out, his eyes still on his plain white ceiling.
“And,” Mycroft says, “I have desired to kiss you for a rather extended period of time.”
Greg sits up. "Mycroft?"
"Yes?"
"Come over."
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: 9,596
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: You simply surprise me sometimes, Greg.”
“That I might miss you if you are gone for a long time?”
Mycroft glances down at his hands on the table. “Will you?”
Greg brushes a hand over his hair, breathing out slowly. “Oh, I think I might.”
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
Chapter 2 - Earnestly
Cross posted to AO3.
It only takes three weeks for Greg and Anne to have paperwork drawn up and sent to the courts for all the legal parts of divorce to be set in motion. The solicitor tells Greg it will still take four to five months for the whole process to finalize, the various steps, division of property and mandatory waiting periods.
"Just send me the papers when they are through and I will sign them."
As far as Greg and his pension are concerned, he is divorced. He just wishes he did not have to wait for the courts to see it all be truly final. Anne, after all, is already off shagging someone else.
David, Greg's rugby mate Chris, and John help Greg move the lion's share of his things from the house to his flat when Anne informs him she will be out. Greg packs up clothes and shoes, all his suits and t-shirts and shorts he hasn't worn in years, every scrap of cloth that is his. He finds CDs, albums in the basement and the turn table he only used twice. He takes all the DVDs he bought, even Sense and Sensibility, the books only he reads and maybe a few they'd shared. He picks two matching chairs from the living room, the standing lamp from the bedroom, and half the dishes from the kitchen.
"I should take the lawn mower."
"You know your flat doesn't have a lawn, right?" Chris asks.
"Yep."
"Got your files," David says as he comes down the stairs with boxes in his arms. "You sure you don't want the cabinet they were all in?"
"It's a plain metal filing cabinet, nothing special."
David shakes his head and walks out the front door to the truck they rented. Chris follows after carrying the stereo with Greg's football balanced precariously on top by his chin. Greg looks around the living room and puts his hands on his hips. Pictures still hang on the walls, sit in frames on shelves and Greg knows exactly where each photo album is, including their wedding album. He knows he should be taking things like mementos, reminders of Christmases and trips and nights alone but right now even the snow globe from Paris on the mantel Anne bought with her last Francs in the third year of their marriage screams betrayal.
"Greg?" He turns to John standing beside him now. "Look, I'm -"
"Don't give me sympathies, John."
John nods and purses his lips. "How about I keep Sherlock off you for a while?"
Greg chuckles quietly. "Yeah, that is a help."
John grins. "I do what I can." He waves a hand around the room. "Anything else in here?"
Greg frowns and sweeps his eyes over his life then points at the small mahogany end table beside the couch.
John clicks his tongue. "You sure you just want to take it?"
"I'm sure. Put whatever is in it on the coffee table."
"Yes, sir."
David walks back into the house a second later, wiping his hands on his jeans. His eyes lock on Greg then he jogs down into the living room, hooks his arm around Greg's, and pulls him away. He leads Greg into the kitchen then lets him go and stands right in front of him.
"So, all packed, stole come chairs... You okay?"
"Yeah."
He puts his hands on Greg's shoulders. "Really?"
Greg glares at him. "Look, I just want over and out of here, yeah?"
"You want to burn the house down?"
Greg sighs.
David shrugs and waves a hand above their heads. "We could do that right now. No problem. I have matches. Maybe even a lighter!"
Greg cracks and laughs despite himself. David grins and lets go of Greg's shoulders. "There we are. Come on." He claps Greg on the back. "Let's get the fuck out."
Everything ends up in a pile in the middle of his flat between the TV and the coffee table still in boxes. The files he takes to the office. Most of them are copies of cases of his which had either gone cold or he became directly entangled in. He steals one of the empty filing cabinets from the basement and shoves it in a corner of his office. He'll probably take them back to his flat at some point but for now it is one less thing to find a place for.
The day after Greg's big move of possessions from house to flat, a card appears on his desk at work. Greg stares at it for five minutes until he picks up the envelope and takes out the 'MH' embossed card.
Condolences.
-M. Holmes
Greg rips the card in half, crumples it and the envelope into a ball between his hands then throws it across his office so it hits the blinds and rebounds into the corner behind his door.
----------
A week later, Greg comes back from a budget meeting to find a box topped with a light blue card on his desk. Greg throws his papers onto the floor and turns two steps back into the division room. He scans the room quickly then sees a back he does not recognize walking away.
"Oi!" He shouts.
Half a dozen people jump at their desks, Gupta gasps high, and Donovan almost crashes right into Peters when he skids to a halt in front of her. By the far exit door, visitor pass on his lapel, the stranger stops in surprise.
"You!" Greg points across the room.
Avery and Bradford point to themselves but Greg waves a dismissive hand at them. "No, no, you! The suit."
Greg sees the man swallow even from the other side of the room and his fingers wrap around the door handle. Greg shakes his head and points at the floor right in front of him. The man looks very much as though he wants to run.
"Now!" Greg shouts.
"Sir..." he says, clearing his throat, "I have to -"
"Get back over here now."
The man drops his hand from the door and heads across the room toward Greg. Every police officer in the division watches him walk back. Once he is within arm's length, Greg grabs his shoulder and pushes him into his office. He crosses to his desk, picks up the box and holds it out.
"Take it back."
"I don't think..."
"Take it back, I said!"
"Inspector Lestrade, it is only a present!"
"And I don't want it. So take it back."
The man runs a hand down his tie. "He said -"
"I don't care what he said. Take it back."
"I can't!"
"Why? Because you'll be arrested?"
The man opens his mouth then shuts it again, eyes darting around the obvious police officer office. He steps forward and takes the box from Greg's hand.
He pulls the card off the top. "Can I leave the -"
"No!" Greg snaps. "Out."
The man turns and scurries out of Greg's office. Greg stares at his empty doorway then sits down in his chair. A minute later, Donovan walks in and closes the door behind her.
"What was that?"
Greg only shakes his head then picks up a pen, clicking the end, and pulls a case file off of one of his stacks.
"Sir!" She insists.
"What?" He snaps back.
She sweeps a hand through the air. "What is wrong with you?"
Greg holds the pen on the page, digging slowly into the paper until it starts to blot like a fountain pen. He drops the pen and leans back in his chair.
"Nothing." He rubs a hand over his face then crosses his arms. "I'm fine."
"Fine? So fine you're shouting at couriers?"
Greg flings his hands up in the air. "Maybe I'm high strung."
Donovan rolls her eyes at his sarcasm. "No, you're not." She steps closer to his desk and folds her arms together. "Is this about your wife?"
"Donovan…"
"Maybe you need some time off to -"
"I'll ask you to stay out of my personal life, Sergeant," Greg snaps.
Donovan's mouth click closed and she nods. "Sir." She glances at the closed door then back to him. "What should I tell them?"
Greg picks up his pen again. "Let them think what they want."
She nods and turns on her heel, opening the door then closing it behind her. Greg looks back down at the case file in front of him. He reads the same line three times before he drops the pen once more and puts his hands over his face.
----------
Greg kneels on the floor of his apartment pulling books from a box. The standing lamp is in his bedroom while the two chairs are in opposite corners of the living room. He hasn't decided on the side table yet. Greg picks up books and puts them on the bookshelf in no particular order. The book shelf already had a few books and CDs on it, so Greg will have to reorganize eventually he supposes. He should probably get some kind of CD rack, though at the moment the stereo is just on the floor.
Greg leans back on his heels and stands up with the box still half full at his feet. He strides over to the coffee table, picks up his bottle of beer then collapses onto the couch. He takes a big swig then glances around the flat, walls empty minus the furniture leaning against them. It may not be a huge flat but it is fine. Thank God he didn't break off the lease right away when Anne suggested he move back in.
Greg glances at his beer and sighs. "Typical, Lestrade."
He puts one foot up on the coffee table, knocking against something. He peers around his socked foot and sees "Dr. No." Greg breathes through his nose slowly and takes another drink of his beer. Then, as if Mycroft has a tap into Greg's brain, his mobile begins to buzz. Greg stands up from the couch and walks over to the box of books which his mobile lies next to. He crouches down, picks it up and indeed sees 'Mycroft' on the caller ID.
"Get out of my head," Greg whispers and lets it buzz until it changes over into voicemail.
Greg puts the mobile in his trouser pocket and kneels down again beside the box. He started this one so he should finish it tonight. How hard is it to put books on a bookshelf? Half of his books are biographies - he has always been interested in people, that is why he does the job he does - while the other half are non-fiction books related to crime or toxicology or the law. Thus, most of his books are pretty thick and with this old bookcase he is a bit concerned about breaking a shelf. What better way to find out then by filling it up?
Greg puts his beer down, picks up "Evidence: Text and Materials" by Gregory Durston, and places it on the second shelf.
"Let's see how much you can take," Greg says to the shelf.
His pocket starts to vibrate. Greg sighs and pulls his mobile out: 'Mycroft.'
"What?" Greg grumbles and answers this time. "What?"
There is a pause then, "Hello, Greg."
Greg stands up and paces across the wood floor. "What do you want?" He says softer.
"I am sorry you did not like the gift."
"I didn't open it."
"So I heard."
Greg stops pacing and glances back at his beer on the floor. "Did you fire that bloke?"
"I am not so petty, Detective Inspector."
"We're back to title now?"
"Well, you seem to be attempting to push our relationship back from the progress we have made."
"What progress? And we are not in a relationship, Mycroft."
"Hmm." Mycroft clicks his tongue. "There are various interpretations of that word."
"Oh, shove your semantics, Mycroft!"
Mycroft sighs. "I recall a conversation not long ago where you stated I could not be angry with you. I would remind you of that sentiment now."
Greg frowns. "It was appropriate then."
"As it is now."
"Whatever you want to think."
"Greg..."
Greg rubs a hand over his eyes. "I'm hanging up."
"Please, don't."
Greg drops his hand and presses 'end' on the touch screen.
He knows he's being ridiculous, stupid, out of character; he knows that none of this is Mycroft's fault. Mycroft did not break up his marriage or send Anne into the arms of some PE teacher or whomever. Mycroft isn't trying to make things worse or really doing anything wrong but, damn it, if Greg doesn't just want someone to blame.
He stares at the box, a few books on the floor beside it and his half empty beer. He squeezes his mobile then turns and tosses it onto the couch. For a minute, he just stares at it where it landed. Nothing happens so he crouches down to pick up his beer. Greg walks out of the living room, into the kitchen, and drops the beer into the sink so the liquid slowly seeps out down the drain.
----------
The next day they get the bodies of two dead children in a traffic collision, their father with nothing but a broken nose, and Greg wonders why the hell is he so angry? If he stays angry - at Anne, at the universe, at Mycroft, at himself - he will just grow old and bitter. There is no way Greg will turn into that man.
So he lets go.
----------
"Hello Molly."
Molly takes off her plastic goggles as Greg walks in the door. "Hi." She points at the body on her table. "Are you here for her?"
"Yep, give me."
Molly turns to the table beside her and picks up her clip board. "Looks like just what they said at the scene, died of the stab wound. The toxicology is still being run but pretty sure it looks like cocaine in her system too."
"Glorious."
"Also." Molly puts down the clip board and clears her throat. "During the postmortem I found out she was pregnant."
"Pregnant?" Greg snaps.
"Only about a month. It is possible she might not have known."
"Or she did and there is our motive."
Molly shrugs. "I just cut them open." Greg raises his eyebrows and Molly puts up her hands. "Sorry, sorry."
Greg shakes his head. "No, it's fine."
"I'm not quite done with the paper work." Molly points over her shoulder at the clip board. "Do you mind if I bring it up later? I can bring it when the official toxicology comes back."
Greg nods. "Yeah, fine. Thanks, Molly."
As Greg turns to leave, Molly clears her throat. "I, um..." Greg turns back to her. "I wanted to, to well..."
Greg raises his eyebrows. "What?"
"I just wanted to say sorry." Molly clasps her gloved hands together. "About your wife."
Greg nods. "Yeah, thanks."
"Are you... you okay?"
Greg blows out a puff of air, feeling oddly calm. "Uh, yeah." He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels. "It was a long time coming."
"Really?"
Greg laughs once. “Yeah, just took me awhile to see that. Really, I knew it was over, just didn’t want to admit it. Holding on to hope.”
Molly nods. “But now you can move on, right?”
"Supposedly. That's what they say at least," Greg murmurs, glancing around the morgue.
"Sometimes you need something bad enough to push you out." Greg's jerks around and he stares at Molly. She smiles thinly. "You keep telling yourself 'this is all right' until you realize it hasn't been for a while, until something big enough knocks you to your senses, right?"
"I..."
"Straw that breaks the camel's back?" She laughs a bit awkwardly.
Greg smiles. "Yeah, I guess so."
"It's just... well, you can't keep clinging to something or someone because of time." She looks away for a moment. "Because you deserve something more."
She looks back at him and somehow Greg feels better than he has in weeks.
"Anyway, I know you'll be fine, Inspector," she adds as she pulls her plastic gloves off her hands.
Greg tilts his head. "You do?"
"You've handled Sherlock for more than five years."
Greg breaks into laugher, Molly following a moment later. He grins and shakes his head at her. "Thank you, Molly, really."
While many things can be said of Molly's occasional awkward conversation skills, her insight is more that even she probably knows.
Out in the hall, Greg stops before opening the door to the stairs. He pulls his mobile out of his pocket and selects Mycroft's number into text:
[3:21] I was wrong. I'm sorry.
----------
It is only a few days after Greg spoke to Molly and texted Mycroft that the same woman who brought the rose gift walks through his office door. This time she wears a black dress and red heels, blackberry in one hand and white card in the other.
"Hello." He peers around her out into the hall just in case then back again. "No box this time?"
She smiles and holds up the card. "Just this."
"You're my only repeat courier."
She cocks her head. "I am not a courier."
Greg's brain runs off with a variety of ideas but for some reason 'personal assassin' ranks highest on the list. "Then what are you?"
"Well, I have been called Anthea by a friend of yours, so how’s that?"
"Is Anthea a name or a profession?"
She just smiles and holds out the card. Greg reaches out and takes the card from her. Anthea backs up two steps but she does not leave. He glances up at her then looks down at the card. This one is actually sealed. Greg pulls his letter opener - Claire gave it to him one year - from his desk and slits the envelope open. He pulls out the card, the same 'MH,' and opens it.
Would you accompany me to dinner tomorrow night, as a date?
-M. Holmes
Greg closes the card and puts it down on his desk. Crossing his arms, he leans pack in his chair and stares at the card. The way his heart beats and his arms tingle makes him feel fifteen years younger in a somewhat awkward way.
Anthea clears her throat and Greg looks up at her. "I'm to take back your reply."
"What, now?"
Anthea nods.
“Really?”
She only raises her eyebrows.
"I don't know if I can decide right now."
Anthea holds up a finger. "He thought you might say that." She reaches into the top of her dress and pulls out a smaller card.
"Keep a lot in there?"
She chuckles. "Take it."
He plucks the card from her hand which turns out to be a single piece of fine, white card stock with one word on the front:
Please.
Greg stares at the card. He remembers months ago when Mycroft asked Greg to call him by his name, when Greg asked Mycroft to have coffee, when Mycroft called the other night and Greg hung up.
Anthea leans forward slightly. “Just why are you resisting?”
Greg purses his lips. He flips the card over, picks up a fine point sharpie from the mug on his desk then writes on the back of the card one word:
Yes.
He holds up the card to Anthea. She smiles, takes it with two fingers, then turns on her heel and walks swiftly from his office.
----------
The next evening Greg leaves work at exactly five PM. He stares at his closet for several minutes and tells himself that Mycroft would never expect him to be as impeccably dressed as Mycroft always is. Greg owns exactly zero three piece suits. A regular suit will have to do; the only question is tie or no tie? Whenever he wears a tie it makes him feel like an admin copper which is not anyone’s idea of a fun date. A tie might be more formal but Greg has a small semblance of self-awareness which reminds him that he looks better when not wearing a tie. Gray suit and black shirt it is.
At seven fifteen Greg’s mobile vibrates showing a blocked number. When he answers, the voice on the other end only says, ‘your car has arrived.’ Downstairs, in front of the building of Greg’s flat, a car waits parked at the curb. The driver leans against the car but stands up straight once he sees Greg and opens the back door of the car.
Greg stares at him. “Are you serious?”
“Sir.” He nods toward the open door.
“All right.” Greg shrugs and climbs in.
Greg stares around the inside of the car, leather seats and more foot room than seems fair. He wonders if Mycroft has a garage somewhere filled with a dozen black cars ready for his disposal at any time.
When the car stops again, Greg opens the door and steps out before the driver makes it around in time. The driver gives him a halfhearted glare then closes the door behind Greg. The establishment appears to be a French restaurant, dark wood on the outside with large windows. He walks inside and stops at the host podium.
The woman smiles at him and cocks her head, “Greg Lestrade?”
“Yes?”
She indicates a staircase in the back left corner, “Second floor sir."
Greg weaves around a few occupied tables and walks back to the stairs, more dark wood, white table cloths, and some chandeliers which make Greg think of theaters. Up the stairs, the restaurant suddenly becomes quiet. Around the corner, the floor looks empty for a moment then Greg sees one table on the far side in front of the floor to ceiling windows with Mycroft seated at it. Greg smiles and watches Mycroft, one hand on the table, looking out the window, and legs crossed completely still. His suit is a three-piece black pinstripe with a white shirt underneath and a red tie. Greg can see the gold glint of a tie pin and a pocket watch chain near Mycroft’s hip. The scene looks like a page from GQ.
Greg licks his lip once, straightens his jacket, tugs his shirt cuffs down then walks forward across the empty floor. Mycroft turns his head when Greg is a few paces away. He moves to stand but Greg waves a hand at him. Mycroft drums his finger tips on the table once but stays seated. Greg stops right next to the table so Mycroft has to look up at him.
“You rented out the whole floor?”
Mycroft only smiles.
Greg nods, looks at the shinning chandeliers and diamond patterned carpet, then turns back to Mycroft. “Pulling out all the stops now?”
“I believe it never hurts to impress.”
“You already have.” Greg steps back and slides into his seat across from Mycroft.
Mycroft glances across the restaurant and a waiter appears, menus and a bottle of white wine in hand. He hands a menu to each of them then puts the wine down on the table, label toward Mycroft. Mycroft touches the bottle then nods. The waiter pulls a corkscrew out of his pocket and opens the wine, pouring some into their glasses.
“Please take your time,” he says then takes the bottle and walks back across the floor.
Mycroft picks up his glass of wine and holds it out toward Greg. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”
“Well, you said please.”
Mycroft takes a sip of his wine and nods. “I did.”
Greg opens his menu, notices there are no prices beside any of the items. He stares at the page for a minute, classy font and a tint to the paper so it appears vintage. Greg glances over the top of his menu at Mycroft, back down at the page then closes the menu.
Mycroft frowns. “Are the options not to your liking?”
“I’m pretty sure everything they serve here is amazing.”
Mycroft opens his menu, eyes moving up and down the pages quickly. “But?”
Greg sighs. “Look, I want to apologize.”
Mycroft glances up again from his menu. “Apologize?”
“I feel I was leading you on when it came to all your gifts and then I was angry at you after everything with my wife when it wasn’t your fault and had nothing to do with you.” Greg touches the stem of his wine glass and twists it. Mycroft watches him silently. “So, I’m sorry.”
Mycroft purses his lips. “While you may consider your actions ‘leading,’ I would have to disagree as we are here now.” Mycroft circles a hand in the air indicating the restaurant around them.
Greg chuckles. “True.”
“And if we are talking of errors, you could fault me for pursuing a married man.”
“Separated man.”
Mycroft smiles slowly. “Semantics.”
Greg smiles back at him. “I guess we’re even then.”
They pick up their wine glasses at the same time and drink. Greg normally sticks to beer but he likes this wine. He wonders, perhaps, if Mycroft knew his taste but that seems a bit too far into impossible or paranoid even for Mycroft. Greg puts his wine down and flips open his menu again. Half of the choices are in French and the descriptions only seem to partially elucidate what they are. He took French in secondary but hell if he remembers it. Something says fillet and that has to include beef so he wagers it’s a good bet.
Greg looks up at Mycroft, his eyes somewhere near the bottom of his menu. Greg closes his menu, picks up his wine and leans slightly back against his chair. Mycroft’s eyes tick up.
“You said to me a while back that I needed to give you the opportunity to get to know you better.”
Mycroft closes his menu. “Yes.”
“Well.”
“Well?”
“As you said, we’re here now.”
Mycroft folds his hands together then slides them apart again. He sits up straighter in his chair and touches his wine glass, though he does not pick it up. Greg takes a sip of his wine and waits. Mycroft clears his throat, looks out the window then turns back to Greg.
“I suppose you already know much of my time is spent with work.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“The price of the civil servant.”
“Something like that.” Greg tilts his head. "So?"
Abruptly, the waiter returns, halting the conversation. He takes their orders in such a swift and precise manner that Greg wonders if perhaps Mycroft trained him in the art of professionalism. He takes away their menus, adds more wine to their glasses then disappears again. Mycroft rubs a hand along the table cloth but does not say anything.
“So,” Greg continues instead, “we were talking about you?”
“I…” Mycroft smooths a hand over his tie and Greg wonders how much time Mycroft actually spends talking to people outside of work situations. “I confess, I am not sure what you would wish to know.”
Greg chuckles. “About you, what you enjoy, what you do outside of whatever mysterious office you have.”
Mycroft frowns. “I visit my club often.”
“Club?”
“The Diogenes.”
“Like a sports club?”
Mycroft laughs with obvious surprise and shakes his head. “Oh no. More a place to relax, read, a quiet place away from distraction.”
“Sounds a little Victorian.”
"Perhaps it is." Mycroft smiles. “It allows absolutely no talking inside the walls and I imagine the décor would inspire an idea of old fashioned tastes.”
Greg laughs. “And is that all?”
“What more would you like?”
Greg sighs and puts his wine down. “You’re somewhat resistant to talking about yourself, aren’t you?”
“I don’t…. hmm.” He smiles. “Perhaps.”
“Might stem from having Sherlock as your bother, all that talking he does?”
Mycroft laughs and smiles, quiet and maybe a little surprised with himself. “Childhood was an interesting experience, I will admit.”
“I think everyone’s is in some way. Try being the middle child.” Mycroft cocks his head and Greg realizes Mycroft has not, in fact, stalked all of his life and history. “I have an older brother and younger sister.”
Mycroft nods. “And they figure in your life in a positive way?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, quite a luxury.” Greg watches Mycroft’s face, sees him shrink for a moment before he snaps back to composed and present. He picks up his wine glass and sips some. “But your siblings are not your interests or activities outside work, at least not wholly.”
“I used to play rugby with some old uni friends once a month but it fell apart when two of my mates started having children. Takes up time…” Greg purses his lips and shrugs. “I like to cook.”
“Cook?” Mycroft says with surprise.
Greg nods. “I learned when I was younger, would try and make new things for David and Claire, usually burning something. I melted a pot on our stove once.” Mycroft chuckles. “Right through the bottom and we kept the blob of melted metal in the kitchen window for ages after. But I’ve kept it up. I would always cook for Anne or my mates. It’s just…” Greg glances out the window and smiles. “I find it calming, recipes to follow or to go with your instincts, to properly use smell and taste. I don't do it enough.”
“I bake on occasion.”
Greg looks back. “Bake?”
Mycroft nods and clears his throat. “Sherlock preferred his chemistry set to the kitchen. Thus, the kitchen was mine. Baking was more to my temperament and preferences that other types of cooking. However, I have not baked in some time.”
“Still sounds like something in common.”
“Yes.”
“Well, if we ever make a meal together, I’ll handle the main course and you can take dessert.”
“We should.”
Greg picks up his wine again and wonders what Mycroft’s kitchen looks like. “So is that it? Work, club, and baking?”
“I paint.”
Greg blinks with surprise. “Paint?”
“As in with a brush and canvas.”
Greg snorts. “Thank you for the clarification.” Greg flicks his glass of wine so it makes a clinking noise. “Quite the renaissance man. You’ll have to show me sometime.”
“Will I?”
“Please?”
Mycroft purses his lips until it melts into a smile. He props an elbow on the table and rests his head on two fingers. “Maybe.”
Greg suspects not many people have cared or tried enough to get past Mycroft’s wall of three piece suits. Watching the changes in his smile from polite to real, Greg wants to slip right past that wall of propriety and see who Mycroft is underneath.
After dinner, they stand outside for one minute. Mycroft touches Greg’s hand and says, “good night,” before turning away. Greg watches Mycroft as he walks to his car, no umbrella today, and it is not until Greg no longer sees the car in the distance that he moves.
The same car which brought Greg to the restaurant waits to drive him home again. They make one quick stop along the way so Greg can run into a shop. Once they reach his building again, he hands the card he bought to the driver.
“Could you give this to him?” The driver glances at the card then takes it without comment. “Thanks.” Then Greg climbs out and back to his flat.
The light blue card, no picture or embossed letters on the front, reads:
Thank you. I loved it. We should do it again.
- G. Lestrade
----------
Greg sits behind his desk, case file in hand, with Donovan sitting in a chair on the other side of his desk. His coffee has gone cold now after his drinking only half.
“So the one witness, Brian, recanted.”
“Already?”
Sally shrugs. “Surprised he talked in the first place in that sort of neighborhood.”
Greg nods. “Yeah, try any pressure?”
“Please.”
Greg chuckles. “All right, have to cross our fingers for evidence coming up with something then. Any luck on the next of kin?”
“Nothing so far except for a brother who is serving five years.”
“For?”
“Drugs.”
Greg rubs his forehead. “Fabulous.”
Greg’s phone rings, making Sally jump in surprise. Putting down his pen, Greg picks up the receiver. “Yeah?”
“Delivery for you sir.”
“Is it a box with a card?”
“Uh, no, sir.”
Greg taps his desk and sighs. “Send it up.” Then he hangs up the phone.
Sally crosses her arms. “You expecting something?”
“No, but lately that means nothing.”
“Your wife?”
Greg sighs. “If the delivery is paperwork then yeah.”
“If not?”
Before Greg can respond, a woman appears in his doorway holding what is definitely not paperwork but instead a vase with a bouquet of flowers.
“Damn!” Sally says.
“For Greg Lestrade?” The woman asks.
Greg waves at her and she walks over, putting the flowers on an empty corner of his desk. “Thank you.”
Sally stands up to inspect the white and purple array of flowers, buds, and leaves. Greg plucks the card off, however, before she gets to it. She stands up straight as the delivery girl leaves and eyes the card in his hand.
“Is this the same ‘someone else’ that was sending you boxes and coffees before?”
“I’ll send you my notes on the case file in a bit, Donovan.”
She frowns. “Flowers now?”
“Good bye, Donovan.”
She ‘hmms’ then turns and walks out of his office. Greg flips open the card,
You are welcome.
-M. Holmes
Greg grins and sticks the card back into the flowers. He pulls out his mobile and selects Mycroft’s number. Mycroft answers after only one ring.
“Greg.”
“So, how do I send you things without having to rope one of your drivers into it?”
“What do you want to send me?”
“I couldn’t ruin the surprise.”
“Ah, so a theoretical question.”
“Are you not going to tell me? Not exactly fair, is it?”
“I did not say I would not tell you.”
Greg rocks his chair from side to side. “Well then?”
“If you insist.”
Suddenly, Greg’s mobile vibrates once. He pulls it away from his ear and sees that he has a text from Mycroft. It is an address. He puts the mobile back to his ear.
“Is this your office?”
“Seems only fair, does it not?”
Greg chuckles and touches a purple petal of one flower in the vase beside him. “Thank you.”
“Good day, Greg.” Then as though he wasn’t sure whether to say it or not, “it was good to hear your voice.”
----------
The next time they go to dinner together, Greg picks the restaurant. The restaurant is in fact more like a pub and he ensures Mycroft has a beer instead of wine.
"A good beer never disappoints."
"I tend toward whiskey."
Greg chuckles. "That sounds right. I can see you with a cigar and tumbler sitting by a fire, top hat in the corner, tails hanging over a chair."
"Perhaps not the cigar."
"You own a top hat and tails?"
Mycroft sips his beer and smiles. "You'll have to find out."
Their date ends up cut a bit short, however, when Sherlock texts Greg and John texts Mycroft about the same case, a murderer at large in London, and, yes, Sherlock does need Lestrade right now and, sorry Mycroft, but Sherlock's probably about to break some laws, thought you'd want to know.
"This is going to be a recurring thing, isn't it?" Greg says as they both text back to Sherlock and John.
Mycroft sighs. "If so I may need you to find a reason to jail Sherlock."
"We can all have dreams."
When they get up from the table, money left behind, Mycroft puts his hand on the small of Greg's back as if Greg needs encouragement to walk forward. Mycroft waits with Greg while he hails a cab back to the Met. Mycroft's hand, never moving, burns a spot through Greg's jacket onto his skin that seems to last for hours later.
----------
Greg meets Mycroft on a Wednesday afternoon at a café between their two offices. Mycroft insisted it needed to be a quick lunch as he had a flight to catch to, ‘well, let’s say somewhere east.’ They manage to get a table near a wall and stick to simple sandwiches. It gives Greg a small amount of amusement every time to see Mycroft eating something normal and not Zagat rated.
“I’ve decided,” Greg says as he fishes through his basket of chips for one of suitable size, “since you sent me so many gifts that were clearly too expensive -“
“Too expensive?”
“That I am going to send you the cheapest things I can find.”
Mycroft raises his eyebrows, sandwich frozen midair. “Oh?”
Greg nods and picks up his roast beef. “Yep, hideous things, like plastic cats or floral ties.”
Mycroft’s mouth twitches and he puts his sandwich half down. “Much can be said for a good floral tie.”
“Not if the fabric is something like 1970s couch or dreaded polyester.”
Mycroft breaks and starts laughing. He puts a hand over his mouth and shakes his head. Greg notices Mycroft’s nose scrunches up a little right when he starts laughing. Greg needs to instate a new rule to make Mycroft laugh at least once every time they see each other.
“Well,” Mycroft says, “should you buy me such a tie, I promise to never wear it.”
Greg picks up his sandwich and takes a bite. “That is all I could hope for.”
Pulling out his pocket watch, Mycroft clicks it open then makes a displeased face. Greg’s eyes flick to Mycroft’s watch then back to him.
“How long will you be gone?”
Mycroft looks up as he closes the watch. “It is undetermined as of now.”
“Days? Weeks?”
“Oh, surely not weeks.” He tilts his head. “Maybe one.”
Greg grins. “Good.” Mycroft gives him an odd look, as though he doesn’t quite believe Greg. “What?”
“You simply surprise me sometimes, Greg.”
“That I might miss you if you are gone for a long time?”
Mycroft glances down at his hands on the table. “Will you?”
Greg brushes a hand over his hair, breathing out slowly. “Oh, I think I might.”
“Ah.” Mycroft looks up again.
“Are you going to call me at all from this place somewhere east?”
“No.”
“Worse for me.”
“Is this an aspect of your character you’ve been holding back?”
Greg frowns. “What?”
“Teasing.”
Greg laughs once. “Maybe, we’ll see.”
“Speaking of, it is time I was off.”
Instantly Greg's thoughts say, ‘no, stay.’ He breathes in slowly and wonders if he’s starting to fall hard or if the descent was already long begun without him noticing. “All right. I’ll walk out with you.”
They throw away the wrappings and remnants of their lunch before walking back out into the chill afternoon. Mycroft’s car waits at the curb, engine running.
“I don’t know where you’re going,” Greg says, “but I hope you’ll be safe.”
Mycroft smiles. “I would worry more for you staying here.”
Mycroft moves to turn away toward the car but Greg abruptly grips his hand. Mycroft turns back, closer just into Greg’s personal space. So Greg kisses him. Mycroft tenses in surprise but relaxes a moment later, kissing Greg back. With his lips on Mycroft’s, Greg decides he likes that Mycroft is a little taller than him.
He pulls back, kisses Mycroft quickly once more. “Bye.”
Mycroft smiles, thumb rubbing the back of Greg’s hand. “Good bye.”
----------
Greg, David, and Claire sit on the floor of Greg's flat surrounded by pieces of wood, screws, pegs, and an instruction packet that seems frighteningly long for just an entertainment center.
"Would we really call it an entertainment center?" David asks with his nose almost touching the paper. "It's only going to hold your TV and stereo."
"It has the shelves for DVDs and CDs too, David." Claire sticks two pegs into the end of the base piece. "Don't you think that counts?"
"But a center?" He pulls the instructions down from his face. "That makes it sound like there should be three different types of DVD players and two telly screens and something that spins."
Greg frowns and picks up a vertical piece to fit onto his side of the base. "You're reading too much into this. Plus, I have my turn table too which is something that spins."
"So vintage." Claire shoves a random piece of wood out of her way with her foot.
"Is this IKEA?" David mutters flipping the pages.
Claire and Greg glance at each other.
"You sure you should have asked him to come?" Claire asks.
"We're family bonding."
"Speaking of bonding." David presses the instruction pages between his hands. "What is going on with you and Mycroft?"
Greg grins automatically then coughs to cover his ridiculous face. Claire and David beam at him, clearly not believing his 'cover' for a second. They give each other a long look.
Greg sighs. "What's the next part of the directions, David?"
"So, you are seeing this Mycroft?" Claire picks up her side piece and fits it on the pegs. "And is it now a thing?"
"Oh, it is a thing." David grins and flashes a page of the instructions at them. "Put the B piece on the C piece."
Claire steals the instructions from David while still looking at Greg over the partially assembled furniture. “You haven’t dated a guy in a long time.”
“I’ve been married.”
“What kind of excuse is that?” David snaps with mock anger.
“When was the last one?” Claire asks David.
“Before Anne.”
“Obviously.”
“And before Jackie.”
“Oh, I remember Jackie!” Claire laughs. “That hair.”
Greg puts a hand over his eyes. “Oh God.”
“It was Shawn.” David flutters his eyelashes at Greg. “With the dreamy blue eyes.”
Greg rolls his eyes at David, “All right, all right.” Then he picks up two screws and tosses two more to Claire. “Also, I wouldn’t necessarily say that we’re ‘dating.’”
“No?” Claire asks, catching the screws.
"We haven't talked about it." Greg nods at Claire and they turn their pieces so they can add the screws to the ends to reinforce the pegs.
"Is that a thing people still need to do?" David asks and steals the directions back from by Claire’s hip. "Especially when they're pushing 50?"
"I'm not pushing it."
"You're reaching."
"Says the man who is forty-nine."
David frowns. "I am all too aware of that."
"Dear God," Claire groans, "at this rate this thing won't be put together by morning!"
David raises his eyebrows. "Do you have somewhere to be?"
"Yes, home with my children and husband."
"Psh!"
"I can finish this if you guys need to leave," Greg offers.
Claire narrows her eyes at him. "I think maybe you just want to get out of talking about your Mycroft developments."
"Plus, these instructions say you need two people," David adds, pointing at the cover.
Greg stares at David then looks back at Claire. "There are no developments."
"None?" She sticks her screw driver into place and turns. "Nothing at all?"
"They went on at least one date. Posh restaurant. Didn't you guys get lunch a few times too? And there was flowers." David flips a page in the instructions. "Are you done screwing?"
Claire raises her eyebrows. "And he says no developments? I call those developments."
"He dragged it out of me. I swear he's a stalker."
David nods. "I am trying to escape my children."
"Hmm." Claire stands up and puts the screwdriver in the tool box. "I think we need beer and then I want to hear about this date, the multiple dates. Those of us still married have to live vicariously through you, Greg."
“Joy to me,” Greg mutters.
Once Claire walks out into the kitchen, David puts down the instruction packet and turns to Greg. "So, you do like him?"
Greg smiles. "Yeah, I think I do."
----------
Mycroft and Greg stand in Trafalgar Square around eight PM after Greg finally escaped from work. Greg watches the colors change on one fountain, the yellow looking more like white and the blue like sea.
“You know the last time I was here I don’t think they had those.” Greg points at the water then turns to Mycroft. “In fact, not sure the last time I was here at all.”
Mycroft chuckles. “As it is usually awash with tourists, I find it best to avoid this area.”
Greg smirks. “But it is so rich with history.”
“Yes, many a statue with plaques for visitors to read and promptly forget.”
“Not one for the touristy bits, are you?”
Mycroft shakes his head. “I know London, I do not need to visit those areas which tourists frequent to see it.”
“So what you’re saying is, you prefer the CCTV view?”
Mycroft laughs once and brushes his fingers briefly over the front of Greg’s jacket. He shakes his head at Greg but does not ‘confirm or deny.’ They look up at the fountain, the LED lights change to purple and blue again. A child attempts to climb up onto the edge of the fountain before his mother grabs him around the middle and pulls him back.
“I trust your work was not too trying today?” Mycroft asks.
“Don’t you already know?”
“I do not stalk your every move, Greg.”
Greg raises his eyebrows. “I have a number of gifts and cards that would beg to differ on that count.” Mycroft frowns so Greg nudges him with his shoulder. “My day was fine, mostly paperwork.”
“That I certainly understand.”
They walk side by side away from the fountain, avoiding various clusters of people either taking photographs or staring at maps. There appears to be an event going on over at the National Gallery as a red carpet snakes up the center steps with various people in black tie and diamonds walking up.
“Benefit?” Greg asks.
“One I am blissfully not involved with in any way.”
Greg chuckles. “Me either.”
They turn around the fountain, fortunately not many pigeons anymore to block their way, toward Nelson’s Column. Mycroft swings his umbrella just a little in his far arm, occasionally tapping it on the street. Their hands brush now and then as they walk. Greg thinks corny things about holding Mycroft’s hand and has to remind himself that he is in fact forty-seven years old. Another part asks him who puts an age limit on affection?
“Mycroft?”
“Hmm?”
“Are we a couple now?”
Mycroft stops walking and stares at Greg. “Are you asking me to define our relationship?”
“Yes.”
Mycroft opens his mouth then quickly closes it again. He bites his lip briefly then clears his throat. “What would you wish it to be?”
“I am the one that asked if we are a couple or not.”
“Which implies that is what you would wish to be?”
Greg smiles. “Yes, Mycroft. When I am talking to my sister and she asks, I want to be able to say that I am actually seeing you.”
Mycroft taps his umbrella on the ground once then reaches out and touches Greg’s hair above his forehead. “Do you know how lovely your hair is?”
Greg blinks. “What?”
His fingers brush slowly back through Greg’s hair until his hand nearly cups Greg’s cheek. “Silver, lush. It is lovely.” Then his thumb drags along the length of Greg’s hair line until he pulls his hand away.
Greg has to swallow once before he speaks. “Is that how you say yes?”
“I suppose so. Yes.”
“Yes?”
Mycroft smiles. “Yes.”
Greg glances to the side, at the tall column and guarding stone lions. He looks back to Mycroft and thinks if Mycroft were the tower, high above them all, then maybe Greg would be the lion, guarding at the base.
“Okay.” Greg touches Mycroft’s empty hand, his smooth nails and curve of bone. He touches Mycroft’s finger tips and Mycroft’s fingers curl around Greg's. “Good.”
Greg steps forward and kisses Mycroft once. He pulls back, nose still touching Mycroft’s. He feels Mycroft start to smile then Mycroft squeezes Greg’s hand and kisses him again, faint stars above their heads and a city full of lights around them.
----------
Sherlock paces back and forth in Greg’s office, voice going a mile a minute. Donovan keeps trying to make him stop walking, slow down, and just how are you making these jumps? John pipes up every now and then with a clarification or a well-placed ‘fantastic.’ Greg sits at his desk just watching the drama for the moment. He knows that Sherlock will stop eventually giving him the opportunity to say, ‘so what does it all mean then?’ or something of the like. Sherlock will probably give him that ‘idiot’ stare but Greg cares not that much at all. The murder case has been languishing for over a week and the pressure to ‘close’ has been high. If Sherlock can solve it, Greg and the victim’s family will not care who it was or exactly how they leapt to the right answer.
“John!” Sherlock suddenly stops walking and points at the door. “Mobile, out on the desk.”
John stares. “What?”
“Mine, by your coffee, get it.”
John groans and walks out without another protest. Donovan rolls her eyes at Sherlock. “Really?”
“Sally, get me the last witness statement.”
She glares very hard at the side of Sherlock’s head then looks at Greg. He mouths ‘please?’ She sighs heavily and stomps out the door.
“I take it you’ve got something?” Greg asks.
Sherlock turns and flashes his ‘I am so brilliant’ grin. “Of course, weren’t you listening?”
“I was waiting for the summary.”
“As usual.”
Greg bites his lip and stands from his desk. “Look, Sherlock, I should tell you something.”
“Is it related to the case?”
Greg frowns. “No.”
Sherlock waves a hand, “Not interested.”
“Sherlock?” John walks in the door and hands Sherlock his mobile. “Use your pockets, eh? You have about a dozen with your coat.”
“I do use them.” Sherlock peers around John. “Where is Donovan?”
“Getting coffee,” John answers.
“What?” Sherlock and Greg say together.
John’s eyes widen. “What?”
“Your staff needs to focus on their jobs more than their caffeine intake,” Sherlock snaps at Greg. “Perhaps you would be able to solve cases then.”
“Oi, you don’t need to -“
“Not again you two!” John interjects. “Relax, I’ll get her.”
John walks out of Greg’s office again, muttering something under his breath about ‘absolute children’ and ‘bloody insanity.’ Greg turns to Sherlock to see the man already clicking away on his mobile.
“Sherlock?”
“Hmm.”
“I mentioned I needed to tell you something?”
“And I mentioned my lack of interest.”
Greg sighs. “Well, I’m telling you anyway. I’m seeing your brother.”
“I know.”
“Seeing as in - wait, you know?”
Sherlock looks up. “Of course.”
Greg chuckles. “Should I even ask how or when you realized this?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “The coffee.”
“Coffee?”
“Several months ago the smell of your coffee changed and was remarkably familiar to a favorite brand of Mycroft’s. It was not difficult to see the signs beyond that.”
"Signs?"
Sherlock points to Greg’s coat on its hook behind his office door.
“Ah.”
Sherlock drops his hands and tilts his head. “I would suggest you be careful but perhaps you already know that.”
Greg breathes slowly through his nose and crosses his arm. “Look, Sherlock, he may be your brother but -“
“No need for the ruffled feathers, Lestrade.” Sherlock pulls his mobile up, clicks it twice more, and then slips it into his pocket coat. “I think you could be very good for him.”
Greg’s mouth drops open. Before he can speak again John appears in his doorway.
“Hey, Donovan gave me this and…” He looks back and forth between them, file folder in hand. “What’s going on? Sherlock?”
Sherlock plucks the file from John’s hand. “We are going to interrogate this witness.”
“We are?”
Sherlock turns to Greg again. “Perhaps you can bring him down off that ‘queen and country’ horse of his a bit, relax those tight suits.”
Greg can’t stop a laugh and he shakes his head. “I don’t know about that.”
Sherlock just smiles.
John clears his throat. “Um, what now?”
Sherlock spins around and grabs John by the shoulder. “Come, John.”
----------
Greg sits on his couch, Friday night, DVD player fighting with him so he's stuck with the telly but he really would prefer to avoid the news. He was interviewed yesterday unexpectedly at a crime scene, so, of course, he said something stupid that he has seen replayed at least three times since then on various TV channels. He’ll probably have to do another interview to smooth over his own stupid mouth.
Greg rubs his forehead and takes another bite of his chicken lo mein. “Should just watch Miss Marple…”
The entertainment center, as Claire decided it could be called, looks very nice against the wall. His stereo, TV, turn table, CDs and DVDs all fit nicely and look very organized now. If he tries hard enough he can probably keep it looking just perfect; though the alphabetization that David insisted upon will not last. Greg turns off his TV, just a repeat of Eastenders playing, and reaches for the book Mycroft gave him on the coffee table. He really did mean to read it but he forgot about it, then it was covered by a newspaper, then it fell under the table for a bit too.
However, Greg’s mobile vibrates next to the book just as Greg touches it. Greg ‘hmms’ and picks up his mobile instead. It is Mycroft:
[9:33] I saw your interview of yesterday. Poetic.
Greg double clicks the contact and waits as the phone rings.
“Greg.”
“You had to be sassy?”
Mycroft chuckles. “Your use of the word ‘chav’ was simply endearing. And the way you so nearly said fuck three times gave me a desire to applaud.”
Greg sighs. “Thank you.”
“I am sure it is on youtube by now. I could save it for all posterity.”
“Since you’d need youtube for that.”
Mycroft ‘tsk tsks’ but says no more. Greg imagines a wicked grin on the man’s face. He wishes he was wherever Mycroft is to kiss it off.
“What are you doing?” Greg asks.
“Over viewing strategy proposals for diffusing an internal Labour Party dispute.”
Greg sits up straighter. “Wow.”
“What?”
“You actually answered.”
“What did you expect?”
Greg blows out a puff of air and shifts the mobile to his other ear. “I don’t know, something like ‘matters of import?’”
Mycroft chuckles. “The same.”
Greg shifts around so he lays length wise on his couch. He puts his arm behind his head and looks up at the ceiling. He can hear a faint clicking in the background through the phone, probably Mycroft’s fingers on computer keys.
Greg chews the edge of his lip. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Why me?”
He hears the clicking stop. “Pardon?”
“In the five years, I guess six now, I have known your brother I saw you a handful of times. I never got any indication you were attached to anyone or even trying to be. You were always work and Sherlock. Obviously I didn’t know anything about your personal life then but… well, you’ve known me the same amount of time. So why now? Why me?”
“Why not you?” he clears his throat. “We know each other better now..."
“No.” Greg points at the air. “That’s not it. You started all of this before knowing me any better at all.”
Mycroft sighs.
“Well?”
“I… hmmm.” Mycroft is silent for a moment and Greg imagines he has that ‘don’t reveal classified information’ expression on his face. “Though it behooves me to admit it, it is because of Sherlock.”
Greg frowns. “What?”
“My brother has always been the terror he is. Always the same arrogance and self-assured righteousness, that is until he met John. Now, well, he still retains all that but he… he is better. Sherlock found the perfect, and perhaps only, friend in John who could bring out what most of us felt he did not have inside. Sherlock now has moments of restraint, of reality, of actual care. John has made him a better man.”
“What does that have to do with us?”
“I thought you could do the same for me.”
Greg breathes in and forgets to breathe out.
Mycroft sighs. “I do not equate myself with Sherlock in terms of complete lack of social normities but I am also aware of my personal defects and detachment from much of human interaction.”
“And?” Greg whispers.
“I have always found you appealing, Greg, but it has been until recently I felt it worth my effort and time to attempt to change our surface, casual acquaintance.” Mycroft makes a small pleased sound. “You are a good man, Greg. You are the kind of man who… Well, one wants to be better for you.”
Greg laughs once quietly. “Ah.”
“I thought you could be someone who could make me… different. I thought if my younger, insufferable brother could actually make such a connection then… Well, then I should try.”
The other end of the phone falls silent. Greg remembers to breathe in and out, his eyes still on his plain white ceiling.
“And,” Mycroft says, “I have desired to kiss you for a rather extended period of time.”
Greg sits up. "Mycroft?"
"Yes?"
"Come over."