Yours is the only ocean [3/4] - part 1
Title: Yours is the only ocean [3/4] - part 1
Fandom: Sherlock
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock nor am I earning any money from this work.
Pairing/Characters: Greg Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes; Sally Donovan, Philip Anderson, John Watson, Original Characters
Word Count: 10,608
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sherlock jumped from the roof of Barts and Greg is left to try and help Mycroft. They are together and they are happy but will it last?
Chapter Summary: “I know what you said, Mycroft. I know it’s not easy for you. It’s never easy for the rest of us either but you shouldn’t just give up, make excuses. Yeah, it’s not always easy street but we were happy.”
“It was not a question of happiness, Greg.”
Greg huffs. “What was it a question of then? Think being happy is most important.”
Author Notes: This is the Sequel to When the sun shines, we'll shine together.
I caved and decided to keep going on this track. I hope you enjoy seeing how these boys do. I may have also made two fanmixes that will follow this whole series if you need a musical add on: Please, please please part 1 and Please, please, please part 2
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Cross posted to AO3.
Greg opens the door to his parents’ house without knocking, the sounds of children and activity coming from inside. He closes the door behind him as he hangs up his coat. Walking through the empty hall, he steps into the door of the living room. Kate and John sit side by side in front of the Christmas tree searching through the presents underneath.
“You still have till tomorrow, you know,” Greg says.
They whirl around at the same time through a blur of red hair, credit to their father, and flash him matching grins.
“We’re just looking for our names,” Kate says.
“No harm in that,” John finishes.
Greg walks over and crouches down, Kate and John eyeing the large paper shopping bag in his right hand. They look up at his face, down to the bag, and back up again.
Greg shrugs. “Oh, probably nothing for you in here.”
“Aw!” Kate cries at the same time John moans, “Uncle Greg!”
Greg smiles and slides the bag to them. “Put them out under the tree for me and you can shake them all you want.”
“Deal!” Kate and John chorus.
Greg stands up straight again as the two of them tear into the bag. He breathes in slowly and puts his hands into his pockets. He glances around the room. David’s son Edward sits in the corner absorbed in his mobile with knees pulled up to his chest. As Greg turns toward the door to the back room, and the kitchen, David's youngest Timothy suddenly slams into Greg’s side, wrapping him in a hug.
“Hi, hi, hi, hi,” he chants as he clings to Greg’s waist, still only coming up to the middle of Greg’s chest, not quite hit his puberty growth spurt yet.
Greg touches the top of Timothy’s head. “Hello Timothy, happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas!” He looks up at Greg with a grin. “Did you bring me presents?”
Greg smiles and points toward Kate and John. “Best check.”
Kate turns where she sits and holds up a small box. “Found your name!”
Timothy gasps, detaches himself from Greg and plops down on the floor beside his cousins. Greg watches them for a moment as they shift presents around, check tags, and Kate nearly crawls completely under the tree. He looks the tree up and down, a red and gold theme to the decorations. He reaches out and touches one gold ornament, shiny and reflective. He pulls his hand back and swallows once. Then he blows out a breath of air and turns toward the kitchen.
Greg knocks on the door frame as he walks in. “Hello, family.”
“Greg!” Claire, David, and Jane all cry together.
Jane waves a hand, wet from the dishes she is washing in the sink while Claire across from her waves the knife in her hand where she cuts vegetables onto a hors d'oeuvres palter. Greg does not see Colin in the kitchen at the moment. David steps forward and pushes a beer into Greg’s hand.
“Join the fun.” He shrugs. “Or at least fun for the adult crowd. My oldest son is outside with Colin because apparently he is the cool uncle.”
“What does that make me?”
“The fuzz.”
Greg cracks a small smile. “Well, Rory is eighteen now.”
“Unfortunately.” David glances behind Greg, peering through into the living room, then back again to Greg. He waits but when Greg does not say anything else he just smiles. “So, you going to save dinner now?”
“By that, you mean start it?”
“It’s started!” Claire snaps, prompting a snort and chuckle from Jane. Claire shoots a glare over her shoulder Jane does not see.
Greg nods as he hands David his beer back and slips off his suit jacket. “I am here to save the dinner.”
David takes Greg’s jacket and gives him back the beer. “Good because I want to eat the best chicken for Christmas, not Claire chicken.”
“Oi!”
Jane laughs again, flipping her blond hair and smiles at David. “You’re going to be in real trouble at this rate.”
“He already is,” Claire grumbles and pops a cucumber slice into her mouth.
David slides across the kitchen floor, kisses Claire on the cheek then kisses Jane on the lips. “Ladies, you cannot deny the superiority of Greg Lestrade, the Copper Chef.”
At that Claire and Jane both laugh out loud.
Greg takes a sip of his beer and sighs. “Want me to cook or leave you starving?”
David bows low with Greg’s suit jacket still over his arm. “I apologize. Please save our lives.”
“He is in rare form,” Claire mutters and wipes her hand on her apron.
“Top form,” Jane echoes.
David grins. “It is Christmas.”
“All right.” Greg puts his beer down and steps forward. “Let’s get going.”
Greg spends the next several hours in the kitchen, Claire assisting and taking out new plates of appetizers. Jane, Colin, and David entertain the children most of the time, though they tag out in turns to help Greg in the kitchen, even if helping sometimes just means chugging a new beer. Occasionally bursts of singing will come from the other room until it devolves into whines and arguments. At one point Greg hears David’s three sons start a debate about current bands versus The Cure followed by which of them has the more sophisticated taste in music overall. David reads the card sent by their parents, away on some cruise for the month, in the kitchen and the living room to ensure the grandparent love is received by all. Anne makes a short appearance to drop off presents and say hello before she moves on to her own family function. (Greg avoids saying hello). Jane’s brother Michael and his wife also arrive followed by Rory’s girlfriend twenty minutes later, much to his parents’ surprise. Pass the parcel happens at least once from what Greg hears and Jane even forces the kids to play some board game.
Greg stays exclusively in the kitchen chopping and stirring things in pots on the hob and marinating and shoving pans in the oven. He focuses on the food and let’s everything else just happen around him, breathing in and out.
Once the dinner is cooking on its own, half an hour before everything will be done, Greg picks up his glass of beer and sneaks away upstairs. He stops for a moment on the second floor, glancing down the long hall at the three bedrooms in a row. However, he keeps going up the narrow stairs to the attic.
The attic in Greg’s parents’ house is half set up as a guest room and half for storage. His parents are highly organized people with every item, apart from furniture, in plastic bins labeled on the outside. The bins line the left wall of the attic, two high and two wide, with a few chairs at the far end and an old wardrobe.
When Greg walks in, the one, circular window across from Greg makes a spot of light from the setting sun on the wardrobe, nearly on the ceiling by now. Greg stands still near the door for a moment, watching the window. He can only see the sky through it from this height. He breathes slowly through his nose and puts his free hand in his jean pocket. Then Greg steps over to the right. The right of the attic has a queen bed with two small side tables. The one on the left has a lamp while the one on the right has a box of tissues; always ready for guests. Greg sits down on the end of the bed, takes his hand from his pocket to slide it up into his hair and stares at the floor. He takes a sip of his beer and wonders if he could get away with staying up here forever.
The attic door opens and David peeks in, just his head through the doorway. “Hide out time?”
Greg looks up, not overly surprised David came to find him, and drops his hand to his knee. “That’s what attics are for.”
David grins and steps in, closing the door behind him. He walks over and sits beside Greg on the bed.
“Cheers.” David clinks his glass against Greg’s.
“Happy Christmas,” Greg says as he takes a drink.
David takes a quick gulp of his beer and tilts his head. “You don’t look so happy.”
Greg clears his throat. “Yeah…”
“Hey!” Claire suddenly pops through the door, snapping it closed quietly behind her. “You two can’t hide out without me, I cooked!”
“You helped,” Greg corrects.
“I cooked too!” David says with only slight indignation.
“You chopped peppers,” Claire says as she sits down on Greg’s other side.
“And made the salad.”
“Colin made the salad.”
David scoffs. “So he says.”
“I saw him do it.”
Greg sighs loudly and lies back on the bed, drink held on top of his chest. David and Claire lie down beside him two seconds later. Greg hears David put his drink down on the side table as they all stare up at the pointed ceiling and exposed beams. After a minute, David nudges his head against Greg’s and Claire begins fiddling with Greg’s shirt cuff.
“I notice Mycroft didn’t come,” Claire remarks.
“Did we invite him?” David asks.
“I assumed Greg would.” Claire turns her head slightly toward Greg. “You did, didn’t you?”
“But you were hosting, Claire,” David insists.
Claire waves a hand in the air above them. “At mum and dad’s.”
“But you were in charge.”
“Greg knew Mycroft was welcome!”
“Actually, we’ve split up,” Greg says quietly.
Claire and David abruptly jolt up on either side of Greg to gaze down at him. David stares in fury while Claire gapes as if she did not hear him correctly. Greg purses just his lips with an accompanying shrug.
“What do you mean ‘split up’?” Claire asks finally.
“What it usually means.”
“But why!”
“Claire!” David snaps.
She jerks her head up and gapes at instead David. He shakes his head and furrows his eyebrows at her.
“Look, it’s okay,” Greg says, touching both their arms in turn. “All right? Is what it is.”
“So… he dumped you?” Claire asks. David sighs. “Well!” Claire runs a hand through her hair, extra curly today. “Never know! Mycroft could have done something.”
“I’d say he did.”
Claire sighs. “You know what -”
“He hurt our brother.”
“Calm down, David,” Greg says knocking his knee against David’s.
“Hey.” David looks down at Greg again. “It is my job as older brother to be enraged on your behalf.” He looks up at Claire. “And plan revenge schemes.”
“No.”
David’s eyes switch back to Greg. “Why not?”
“Because Mycroft is National Security or something even more secretive, and he could probably have you killed without repercussions.”
“But would he?”
Greg cocks his head against the pillow. “I think it’s likely.”
David and Claire frown at each other. Claire clears her throat. “He’s kidding right?”
“Not sure.”
Greg smiles. “I think I’m not.” He looks up at them and raises his glass. “So, no revenge, please. I don’t need to go to another funeral this year or next.”
David sighs and digs his nails into the fabric of his gray sweater. “So when did this happen?”
“Uh, about two weeks ago.”
“Two weeks!” David and Claire snap together.
“You two really need to calm down.”
“But…” David scoffs. “Two weeks…” David frowns. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“Or me,” Claire adds.
David and Claire glance up at each other then back to Greg. He sighs. “Look, it was only two weeks ago and we’re not teenagers in rooms next door anymore.” He frowns. “What do you want me to say? It’s not like it was a divorce! Just a break up. Nothing more. Okay, are we done?” He sighs heavily as he stares hard at the ceiling.
“Oh honey,” Claire whispers, “it hasn’t hit you yet, has it?”
“Fucking hell, Claire!” Greg shouts, jerking up and sliding toward the end of the bed.
David grabs Greg’s elbow just as his feet hit the floor. “Greg.”
Greg stops moving. He looks at the light blue bins across from him, ‘clothes’ written in black sharpie on at least three of them. He sighs and his shoulders sag. He takes a big gulp of his beer until the glass is empty then let’s it slip from his fingers to roll across the floor. He feels Claire scoot forward over the bed behind him. Then her arms wrap around his stomach and she rests her head on his shoulder, hair against his neck and her nose at his back. David slides forward and swings his legs out over the end of the bed beside Greg. Greg glances at David and David puts his hand over Greg’s.
“You don’t have to tell us anymore.” He smiles. “It’s Christmas.”
Greg laughs once dryly. “Because that makes sense.”
David nods. “It does.”
Greg turns away but still threads his fingers with David’s. David squeezes Greg’s hand once and Claire rubs a circle over Greg’s back. They sit in silence for several minutes. Then Greg breathes out a slow, shaky breath and whispers, “I miss him.”
----------
Greg stares at his desk, two case files and information for a press release he needs to finish writing so it can be approved. He’s only written three sentences of the press release and hasn’t even opened either case file. One case is Donovan’s so at least there he can be sure every ‘T’ is crossed.
Instead, he keeps staring at a note on his desk. It is a note about a Sherlock case: conclusively not committed or perpetrated in any way by Sherlock, only solved by him. It is not the Sherlock part that is bothering him though. Whoever wrote the note, whoever he had put on to review this case - probably Peters - wrote out ‘Sherlock Holmes.’ Greg can’t stop staring at the ‘Holmes.’
“Greg!”
Greg jerks in surprise and looks up. Donovan stands in his doorway with a frown on her face.
Greg clears his throat. “Yes?”
“I said your name three times.”
Greg glances left then right then back to Donovan. “Sorry. Just…” He clears his throat again and sits up straighter. “What is it?”
“Have you looked at the Roberts case?” She holds up a paper in her hand. “Evidence is in and I think we have enough for an arrest.”
“Uh…” Greg picks up the two files on his desk and squints at the labels. He opens the top one and scans the page. “I have… they found hairs?” He looks up again.
She grins. “More than one.”
Greg reads a few sentences, jumps ahead to names then nods. “Well, Happy New Year. Get to it.”
“Right. You coming?”
Greg closes the case file. His eyes drag over the ‘Holmes’ on the piece of paper near his right hand then up to Donovan again. “Uh, no… I - you don’t need me and I've got a press release to write.”
“On this?” She frowns. “Already?”
He shakes his head. “No, on the Dawson murder suicide.”
“Ah.” She nods. She tilts her head and flicks her eyes up and down him once. “You all right? You look…”
He raises his eyebrows at her. “Tired?”
“Like you got raked over the coals.”
Greg chuckles mirthlessly and nods. “Ah yeah.”
She watches him but when he does not elaborate she shrugs lightly. “All right. I will keep you informed about this case.”
“Call if you get shot at.”
Donovan snorts as she turns out of the doorway. “Funny.”
Greg sighs. “Not really.”
He picks up the forensics report for his press release and clicks a few keys on his laptop. The document he has started is still open on his desktop looking very weak and empty. He rubs a hand over his face and types a bit more, one eye trying to wander over his desk. Greg clicks enter for a new paragraph and turns over a page on his desk. As he turns back to his laptop, his eyes hang on the ‘Holmes’ for what must be the twelfth time.
He sighs and grits his teeth. “Bloody ridiculous.” Greg snatches up the note and tears it into four pieces.
“Sir?”
Greg frowns, the pieces of paper still in his hand, and slowly pulls his eyes up to his doorway yet again. It is Peters. “Peters?” Peters holds up two paper travel cups, one with the string of a teabag hanging against the side. Greg’s frown twists. “Tea?”
“And coffee,” Peters adds. “I didn’t know which one you’d like at the moment.”
“You brought me coffee and tea?”
“Yes.”
Greg drops the pieces of paper onto his desk. “You know you’re not my errand boy, right Peters?”
Peters cracks a smile. “Just looked like you needed it.”
“Why is everyone saying things like that today?”
Peters steps in and puts both cups down on Greg’s desk clear of any paper work or his laptop. Then Peters stands up straight again. He clears his throat a little awkwardly, glances over his shoulder then turns back to Greg. Greg furrows his eyebrows in confusion.
“It looked to me like… well, like things weren’t going too well.”
Greg huffs. “We do work with crime, Peters.”
“No, I meant…” He clears this throat again. “With you; with you and… with your… well, with you.”
Greg stares at Peters and blinks. He knows what Peters means. “Oh?”
“I’m sorry. Not trying to over step.” He bites his lip and waves a hand. “If I was wrong or shouldn’t have or if I, uh -”
“Thank you, Peters.” Greg cuts Peters off then smiles in a thin line. “They are both just fine.”
Peters relaxes visibly and nods back at Greg. “Right. Well, uh, good luck, sir.” Then he turns and hurries out of Greg’s office.
Greg stares at the two cups. They should be labeled ‘charity case Detective Inspector Lestrade.’
Greg has no idea how Peters knew and he has no idea what his face looks like right now but, apparently, he is a mess.
----------
Greg paces back and forth across his living room floor. He taps his fingers on the entertainment center then walks across to his coffee table again. He picks up the James Bond book, still not finished, then drops it back on the table. He twists his mobile around in his right hand, pinched in the center and flipping it in circles. He paces back and forth and shakes his head at himself. He stops in the center of the room and stares at the blank screen of his mobile.
“Fine.”
He clicks it to life and chooses Mycroft’s number. It takes four rings but Mycroft answers.
“Greg?”
“Hi, uh… hi.”
“Can I help you?”
Greg frowns. “Help me?”
“Was there something you needed?”
“I… no, I mean yes, but, no, I…” Greg sighs and squeezes his eyes closed. “I just wanted to talk to you, all right?”
“If there is nothing specific you need there is work I should be doing.”
“It’s after seven.”
“And aren’t you lucky to be home, Greg. Good bye.”
“Oi! Wait.” Greg pauses but when he does not hear the line cut off he breathes in again. “Can we talk? Just a minute, please.”
Mycroft sighs. “I will time you.”
Greg sighs right back. “You know what I meant by a minute.”
“Fine, Greg, what is it?”
Greg stares at his couch, remembers Mycroft sitting beside him, leaning against him, lying under him, laughing, smiling. “I think you need to give us another chance.”
“Pardon?”
“I know what you said, Mycroft. I know it’s not easy for you. It’s never easy for the rest of us either but you shouldn’t just give up, make excuses. Yeah, it’s not always easy street but we were happy.”
“It was not a question of happiness, Greg.”
Greg huffs. “What was it a question of then? Think being happy is most important.”
Mycroft laughs harshly. “Ah yes, you would think that, but those of us who think a bit quicker have different priorities. Or did I not make that clear enough at my home?”
Greg grits his teeth together. “Don’t play your ‘I’m a genius game.’ It won’t work.”
“’Won’t work?’ Greg, it is not a matter of games. It is who I am and my priorities are of far greater importance than letting some ill-conceived romance continue to play out toward come cinematic ending.”
“Stop.”
“Did you expect some ride off into the sunset?”
“Please, stop. You’re trying to make it not real. It was real.” Greg flings his arm out in the air. “It is real!”
Mycroft sighs. “You are beginning to give me a headache.”
“Mycroft, you start -”
“Yes, yes, I know what else you will say,” Mycroft interrupts. “I started this, etcetera. Well, I suppose it was a Sherlock-like experiment but it ran its course.”
“I said, stop it!” Greg snaps, smacking a hand on his entertainment center. “That’s not true. I know it’s not.”
Mycroft sighs again, full of condescension. “It is surprising you cannot hear how ridiculous you sound.”
“I sound ridiculous?”
Mycroft sighs yet again. “D.I. Lestrade, I suggest you find yourself a drink and calm down.”
“Don’t call me that.” Greg fists his hand in his hair. “You’re not letting me talk!”
“There is nothing you need to say to me.”
“But you haven’t hung up yet.” Greg huffs and blows out a breath. “Just… can we get dinner, lunch, something? Please, I know you want to blame it on work and your big brain but you spent almost a year with me.” Greg breathes deeply, in and out, waiting for Mycroft to fill in the pause but he stays silent. “I know you were happy,” Greg continues. “I know you were, even when you told me to leave.”
“No.”
“No you weren’t happy?” Greg looks down at the floor.
“No, I do not wish to have dinner or lunch with you.”
Greg’s head jerks up again as if Mycroft were standing in front of him. “Mycroft, I don’t understand why you are pushing me away!”
“This has gone on long enough. Good bye.”
“Wait -” But this time the line cuts off before Greg can say any more. “Shit.”
Greg drops the mobile from his ear then violently kicks his coffee table again. It skids back into the couch with a crack, nearly everything on top falling to the floor. “Dr. No” bounces once when it falls and slides toward the window, landing face up. Greg stares at the book and wants to rip out every page.
----------
“What is this?” Mycroft snaps as soon as Greg answers his mobile.
Greg sighs. “What is what?”
“You know exactly what.”
“No, I don’t, Mycroft. I’m not there.”
“This package.”
Greg’s lip twitches and he frowns. “You could always open it.”
Mycroft sighs. “I have.”
“Then you know what it is. Why are you asking me?”
Greg hears Mycroft inhale slowly and click his tongue. “I am asking you why.”
“Are you?”
“Don’t be obtuse!”
“Well, maybe you should be more specific in your questions then.”
Mycroft makes a growl sort of noise. “Why are you sending me the gifts I gave you?”
“Have you never been in a break up before?”
“Relationships end, Greg, it does not require some sort of reparations agreement or division of perceived shared property, at least not in this case.”
“So, no?”
Mycroft sighs. “You are being petty.”
Greg scoffs. “Petty? Now that’s a word choice.”
“You don’t send back gifts.”
Greg starts to crumple up a random piece of paper on his desk. “Yes, you do.”
“They were gifts!” Mycroft knocks something in the background. “You don’t send them back!”
“People do.” He hits the new ball of paper off his desk.
“I am not a store you can return items to for the cash equivalent.”
“Who said anything about cash?”
“Greg!”
Greg drums his fingers on his desk and shrugs even though Mycroft cannot see him. “I don’t want them anymore.”
Mycroft scoffs. “Surely a French press will not bring up unwanted nostalgia for you.”
“You don’t know that,” Greg snaps.
Mycroft sighs. “Really, Greg, these things are yours; the coat, the watch. They have not lost their usefulness now that we are no longer together.”
Greg huffs and stabs his pen into a folder on his desk. “Think what you like, Mycroft.”
Mycroft groans. “This is childish!”
“This just isn’t as clean as you’d like and, well, that’s just too bad. Goodbye.” Greg hangs up before Mycroft can say anything else.
Greg drops his mobile and pen onto his desk almost immediately then rubs his hands over his face. He breathes in sharply then pulls his hands away. Leaning back in his chair, Greg frowns at the blinds of his office window.
“Fucking idiot…” He grits his teeth and glances at the back of his office door, old black coat hanging there. “I am such…” He sighs again then fists his hand, sits up straight, and picks up his pen.
----------
Greg stands in the doorway to the interrogation room for six minutes before Anderson notices him. Anderson jolts with surprise then freezes just as quickly, staring at Greg. Finally he glances down at the piles of papers, transfer case files, and maps in front of him.
“Anderson, I’ve already given you two written warnings and suspended you once.”
“It was twice.”
Greg crosses his arms. “This is affecting your work.”
“This is important.” Anderson waves a hand over the papers. “I know there is a plan in here somewhere. He has to have some sort of plan of where he is going, where he is going to end up. If I can figure out the plan I can figure out where he will be and then -”
“Anderson, you are obsessed with a fantasy!”
“Fantasy!” Anderson cries and suddenly jumps up from his chair. “Fantasy? The fantasy was what happened at St. Barts. That was a beautifully crafted fantasy.”
Greg steps into the small room and closes the door behind him. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop? At this rate, it could cost you your job!”
Anderson makes a derisive noise. “My job that caused the whole situation in the first place?”
“Anderson -”
“You don’t understand. You have to give it a chance. If you really see!” He picks up what looks like a twice copied newspaper clipping. “If you could see the signs. So many in Russia alone!”
“You have case work, real case work you need to be doing. I know you care about -”
“About this!” Anderson smacks the table. “About proving the truth.” He points violently at Greg. “Proving to you that Sherlock is still alive! He has to be!”
“Anderson, enough!” Greg shouts. “Pack it in and back to your real work. I’m not saying it again!” Greg turns, yanks open the door and marches out before Anderson can spout off once more.
He walks swiftly down the hall straight toward the kitchen. In the kitchen, He picks up the coffee pot and pours the dregs from the morning out in the sink. He thinks about his old French press, Mycroft handing him a cup of coffee in his office, Mycroft pressing him back against his kitchen counter before he leaves in the morning. Greg sighs and has to put the pot down on the counter.
He rubs a hand quickly over his face. “Damn it. Get out of my head.”
Greg reaches into the cabinet and pulls out the can of coffee. He frowns without thinking when he sees the cheap brand. He then instantly wishes Mycroft was here so he could punch him in the face.
“Can’t even have coffee anymore.”
“Greg?”
He turns around to see Donovan behind him. He smiles automatically. She glances at the coffee can in his hand and the empty pot beside him.
“You going to make some or not?”
He frowns and puts the can back in the cabinet. “Not.”
“Could nip out and get one instead?”
Greg sighs and turns around to face her. “No. It’s not really necessary.” He cracks a smile. “Shouldn’t over caffeinate, right?”
She nods. “Guess not.” She clicks her teeth then clears her throat. “So, I just wanted to say sorry.” Greg cocks his head and frowns. “About that relationship of yours not working out.”
Greg crosses his arms and narrows his eyes at her. “Oh?”
“Peters told me.”
Greg sighs heavily. “How the hell did he know anyway?”
Donovan shrugs. “He’s more perceptive then we give him credit for. Hasn’t told anyone else I don’t think, so don’t fire him yet.”
Greg chuckles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I also figured out who it was.”
Greg blinks in surprise and his jaw clenches. “Did you?”
“He rarely came here before, only when it was a really serious case we had Sherlock around on. Then you’re seeing someone new and suddenly he’s in the office every other week? Plus, he’s government like you told us at the pub.”
Greg snorts quietly. “Should make you detective.”
“Yeah. So…” She raises both eyebrows and gives him a searching look. “Really? I mean… I think I only ever spoke to him twice but he was always… Isn’t he Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy or something?”
Greg huffs a laugh. “Uh, I guess you could say that.”
“Sherlock’s brother? Is that some miss directed guilt thing?”
“What? No.” Greg uncrosses his arms and rubs his forehead. “Are you trying to be a psychologist or something? No. It was just a normal relationship.”
“Normal? With a Holmes?”
Greg rolls his eyes. “Because you and Sherlock were such mates you know it all.”
She sighs. “Fine. Sorry.”
“This is why I don’t talk about my personal life,” Greg snaps. He frowns. “Win some other department bet with this, would you?”
She purses her lips and only looks slightly apologetic. “Looks like it’s too late now.”
PART 2
Fandom: Sherlock
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock nor am I earning any money from this work.
Pairing/Characters: Greg Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes; Sally Donovan, Philip Anderson, John Watson, Original Characters
Word Count: 10,608
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sherlock jumped from the roof of Barts and Greg is left to try and help Mycroft. They are together and they are happy but will it last?
Chapter Summary: “I know what you said, Mycroft. I know it’s not easy for you. It’s never easy for the rest of us either but you shouldn’t just give up, make excuses. Yeah, it’s not always easy street but we were happy.”
“It was not a question of happiness, Greg.”
Greg huffs. “What was it a question of then? Think being happy is most important.”
Author Notes: This is the Sequel to When the sun shines, we'll shine together.
I caved and decided to keep going on this track. I hope you enjoy seeing how these boys do. I may have also made two fanmixes that will follow this whole series if you need a musical add on: Please, please please part 1 and Please, please, please part 2
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Cross posted to AO3.
Greg opens the door to his parents’ house without knocking, the sounds of children and activity coming from inside. He closes the door behind him as he hangs up his coat. Walking through the empty hall, he steps into the door of the living room. Kate and John sit side by side in front of the Christmas tree searching through the presents underneath.
“You still have till tomorrow, you know,” Greg says.
They whirl around at the same time through a blur of red hair, credit to their father, and flash him matching grins.
“We’re just looking for our names,” Kate says.
“No harm in that,” John finishes.
Greg walks over and crouches down, Kate and John eyeing the large paper shopping bag in his right hand. They look up at his face, down to the bag, and back up again.
Greg shrugs. “Oh, probably nothing for you in here.”
“Aw!” Kate cries at the same time John moans, “Uncle Greg!”
Greg smiles and slides the bag to them. “Put them out under the tree for me and you can shake them all you want.”
“Deal!” Kate and John chorus.
Greg stands up straight again as the two of them tear into the bag. He breathes in slowly and puts his hands into his pockets. He glances around the room. David’s son Edward sits in the corner absorbed in his mobile with knees pulled up to his chest. As Greg turns toward the door to the back room, and the kitchen, David's youngest Timothy suddenly slams into Greg’s side, wrapping him in a hug.
“Hi, hi, hi, hi,” he chants as he clings to Greg’s waist, still only coming up to the middle of Greg’s chest, not quite hit his puberty growth spurt yet.
Greg touches the top of Timothy’s head. “Hello Timothy, happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas!” He looks up at Greg with a grin. “Did you bring me presents?”
Greg smiles and points toward Kate and John. “Best check.”
Kate turns where she sits and holds up a small box. “Found your name!”
Timothy gasps, detaches himself from Greg and plops down on the floor beside his cousins. Greg watches them for a moment as they shift presents around, check tags, and Kate nearly crawls completely under the tree. He looks the tree up and down, a red and gold theme to the decorations. He reaches out and touches one gold ornament, shiny and reflective. He pulls his hand back and swallows once. Then he blows out a breath of air and turns toward the kitchen.
Greg knocks on the door frame as he walks in. “Hello, family.”
“Greg!” Claire, David, and Jane all cry together.
Jane waves a hand, wet from the dishes she is washing in the sink while Claire across from her waves the knife in her hand where she cuts vegetables onto a hors d'oeuvres palter. Greg does not see Colin in the kitchen at the moment. David steps forward and pushes a beer into Greg’s hand.
“Join the fun.” He shrugs. “Or at least fun for the adult crowd. My oldest son is outside with Colin because apparently he is the cool uncle.”
“What does that make me?”
“The fuzz.”
Greg cracks a small smile. “Well, Rory is eighteen now.”
“Unfortunately.” David glances behind Greg, peering through into the living room, then back again to Greg. He waits but when Greg does not say anything else he just smiles. “So, you going to save dinner now?”
“By that, you mean start it?”
“It’s started!” Claire snaps, prompting a snort and chuckle from Jane. Claire shoots a glare over her shoulder Jane does not see.
Greg nods as he hands David his beer back and slips off his suit jacket. “I am here to save the dinner.”
David takes Greg’s jacket and gives him back the beer. “Good because I want to eat the best chicken for Christmas, not Claire chicken.”
“Oi!”
Jane laughs again, flipping her blond hair and smiles at David. “You’re going to be in real trouble at this rate.”
“He already is,” Claire grumbles and pops a cucumber slice into her mouth.
David slides across the kitchen floor, kisses Claire on the cheek then kisses Jane on the lips. “Ladies, you cannot deny the superiority of Greg Lestrade, the Copper Chef.”
At that Claire and Jane both laugh out loud.
Greg takes a sip of his beer and sighs. “Want me to cook or leave you starving?”
David bows low with Greg’s suit jacket still over his arm. “I apologize. Please save our lives.”
“He is in rare form,” Claire mutters and wipes her hand on her apron.
“Top form,” Jane echoes.
David grins. “It is Christmas.”
“All right.” Greg puts his beer down and steps forward. “Let’s get going.”
Greg spends the next several hours in the kitchen, Claire assisting and taking out new plates of appetizers. Jane, Colin, and David entertain the children most of the time, though they tag out in turns to help Greg in the kitchen, even if helping sometimes just means chugging a new beer. Occasionally bursts of singing will come from the other room until it devolves into whines and arguments. At one point Greg hears David’s three sons start a debate about current bands versus The Cure followed by which of them has the more sophisticated taste in music overall. David reads the card sent by their parents, away on some cruise for the month, in the kitchen and the living room to ensure the grandparent love is received by all. Anne makes a short appearance to drop off presents and say hello before she moves on to her own family function. (Greg avoids saying hello). Jane’s brother Michael and his wife also arrive followed by Rory’s girlfriend twenty minutes later, much to his parents’ surprise. Pass the parcel happens at least once from what Greg hears and Jane even forces the kids to play some board game.
Greg stays exclusively in the kitchen chopping and stirring things in pots on the hob and marinating and shoving pans in the oven. He focuses on the food and let’s everything else just happen around him, breathing in and out.
Once the dinner is cooking on its own, half an hour before everything will be done, Greg picks up his glass of beer and sneaks away upstairs. He stops for a moment on the second floor, glancing down the long hall at the three bedrooms in a row. However, he keeps going up the narrow stairs to the attic.
The attic in Greg’s parents’ house is half set up as a guest room and half for storage. His parents are highly organized people with every item, apart from furniture, in plastic bins labeled on the outside. The bins line the left wall of the attic, two high and two wide, with a few chairs at the far end and an old wardrobe.
When Greg walks in, the one, circular window across from Greg makes a spot of light from the setting sun on the wardrobe, nearly on the ceiling by now. Greg stands still near the door for a moment, watching the window. He can only see the sky through it from this height. He breathes slowly through his nose and puts his free hand in his jean pocket. Then Greg steps over to the right. The right of the attic has a queen bed with two small side tables. The one on the left has a lamp while the one on the right has a box of tissues; always ready for guests. Greg sits down on the end of the bed, takes his hand from his pocket to slide it up into his hair and stares at the floor. He takes a sip of his beer and wonders if he could get away with staying up here forever.
The attic door opens and David peeks in, just his head through the doorway. “Hide out time?”
Greg looks up, not overly surprised David came to find him, and drops his hand to his knee. “That’s what attics are for.”
David grins and steps in, closing the door behind him. He walks over and sits beside Greg on the bed.
“Cheers.” David clinks his glass against Greg’s.
“Happy Christmas,” Greg says as he takes a drink.
David takes a quick gulp of his beer and tilts his head. “You don’t look so happy.”
Greg clears his throat. “Yeah…”
“Hey!” Claire suddenly pops through the door, snapping it closed quietly behind her. “You two can’t hide out without me, I cooked!”
“You helped,” Greg corrects.
“I cooked too!” David says with only slight indignation.
“You chopped peppers,” Claire says as she sits down on Greg’s other side.
“And made the salad.”
“Colin made the salad.”
David scoffs. “So he says.”
“I saw him do it.”
Greg sighs loudly and lies back on the bed, drink held on top of his chest. David and Claire lie down beside him two seconds later. Greg hears David put his drink down on the side table as they all stare up at the pointed ceiling and exposed beams. After a minute, David nudges his head against Greg’s and Claire begins fiddling with Greg’s shirt cuff.
“I notice Mycroft didn’t come,” Claire remarks.
“Did we invite him?” David asks.
“I assumed Greg would.” Claire turns her head slightly toward Greg. “You did, didn’t you?”
“But you were hosting, Claire,” David insists.
Claire waves a hand in the air above them. “At mum and dad’s.”
“But you were in charge.”
“Greg knew Mycroft was welcome!”
“Actually, we’ve split up,” Greg says quietly.
Claire and David abruptly jolt up on either side of Greg to gaze down at him. David stares in fury while Claire gapes as if she did not hear him correctly. Greg purses just his lips with an accompanying shrug.
“What do you mean ‘split up’?” Claire asks finally.
“What it usually means.”
“But why!”
“Claire!” David snaps.
She jerks her head up and gapes at instead David. He shakes his head and furrows his eyebrows at her.
“Look, it’s okay,” Greg says, touching both their arms in turn. “All right? Is what it is.”
“So… he dumped you?” Claire asks. David sighs. “Well!” Claire runs a hand through her hair, extra curly today. “Never know! Mycroft could have done something.”
“I’d say he did.”
Claire sighs. “You know what -”
“He hurt our brother.”
“Calm down, David,” Greg says knocking his knee against David’s.
“Hey.” David looks down at Greg again. “It is my job as older brother to be enraged on your behalf.” He looks up at Claire. “And plan revenge schemes.”
“No.”
David’s eyes switch back to Greg. “Why not?”
“Because Mycroft is National Security or something even more secretive, and he could probably have you killed without repercussions.”
“But would he?”
Greg cocks his head against the pillow. “I think it’s likely.”
David and Claire frown at each other. Claire clears her throat. “He’s kidding right?”
“Not sure.”
Greg smiles. “I think I’m not.” He looks up at them and raises his glass. “So, no revenge, please. I don’t need to go to another funeral this year or next.”
David sighs and digs his nails into the fabric of his gray sweater. “So when did this happen?”
“Uh, about two weeks ago.”
“Two weeks!” David and Claire snap together.
“You two really need to calm down.”
“But…” David scoffs. “Two weeks…” David frowns. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“Or me,” Claire adds.
David and Claire glance up at each other then back to Greg. He sighs. “Look, it was only two weeks ago and we’re not teenagers in rooms next door anymore.” He frowns. “What do you want me to say? It’s not like it was a divorce! Just a break up. Nothing more. Okay, are we done?” He sighs heavily as he stares hard at the ceiling.
“Oh honey,” Claire whispers, “it hasn’t hit you yet, has it?”
“Fucking hell, Claire!” Greg shouts, jerking up and sliding toward the end of the bed.
David grabs Greg’s elbow just as his feet hit the floor. “Greg.”
Greg stops moving. He looks at the light blue bins across from him, ‘clothes’ written in black sharpie on at least three of them. He sighs and his shoulders sag. He takes a big gulp of his beer until the glass is empty then let’s it slip from his fingers to roll across the floor. He feels Claire scoot forward over the bed behind him. Then her arms wrap around his stomach and she rests her head on his shoulder, hair against his neck and her nose at his back. David slides forward and swings his legs out over the end of the bed beside Greg. Greg glances at David and David puts his hand over Greg’s.
“You don’t have to tell us anymore.” He smiles. “It’s Christmas.”
Greg laughs once dryly. “Because that makes sense.”
David nods. “It does.”
Greg turns away but still threads his fingers with David’s. David squeezes Greg’s hand once and Claire rubs a circle over Greg’s back. They sit in silence for several minutes. Then Greg breathes out a slow, shaky breath and whispers, “I miss him.”
----------
Greg stares at his desk, two case files and information for a press release he needs to finish writing so it can be approved. He’s only written three sentences of the press release and hasn’t even opened either case file. One case is Donovan’s so at least there he can be sure every ‘T’ is crossed.
Instead, he keeps staring at a note on his desk. It is a note about a Sherlock case: conclusively not committed or perpetrated in any way by Sherlock, only solved by him. It is not the Sherlock part that is bothering him though. Whoever wrote the note, whoever he had put on to review this case - probably Peters - wrote out ‘Sherlock Holmes.’ Greg can’t stop staring at the ‘Holmes.’
“Greg!”
Greg jerks in surprise and looks up. Donovan stands in his doorway with a frown on her face.
Greg clears his throat. “Yes?”
“I said your name three times.”
Greg glances left then right then back to Donovan. “Sorry. Just…” He clears his throat again and sits up straighter. “What is it?”
“Have you looked at the Roberts case?” She holds up a paper in her hand. “Evidence is in and I think we have enough for an arrest.”
“Uh…” Greg picks up the two files on his desk and squints at the labels. He opens the top one and scans the page. “I have… they found hairs?” He looks up again.
She grins. “More than one.”
Greg reads a few sentences, jumps ahead to names then nods. “Well, Happy New Year. Get to it.”
“Right. You coming?”
Greg closes the case file. His eyes drag over the ‘Holmes’ on the piece of paper near his right hand then up to Donovan again. “Uh, no… I - you don’t need me and I've got a press release to write.”
“On this?” She frowns. “Already?”
He shakes his head. “No, on the Dawson murder suicide.”
“Ah.” She nods. She tilts her head and flicks her eyes up and down him once. “You all right? You look…”
He raises his eyebrows at her. “Tired?”
“Like you got raked over the coals.”
Greg chuckles mirthlessly and nods. “Ah yeah.”
She watches him but when he does not elaborate she shrugs lightly. “All right. I will keep you informed about this case.”
“Call if you get shot at.”
Donovan snorts as she turns out of the doorway. “Funny.”
Greg sighs. “Not really.”
He picks up the forensics report for his press release and clicks a few keys on his laptop. The document he has started is still open on his desktop looking very weak and empty. He rubs a hand over his face and types a bit more, one eye trying to wander over his desk. Greg clicks enter for a new paragraph and turns over a page on his desk. As he turns back to his laptop, his eyes hang on the ‘Holmes’ for what must be the twelfth time.
He sighs and grits his teeth. “Bloody ridiculous.” Greg snatches up the note and tears it into four pieces.
“Sir?”
Greg frowns, the pieces of paper still in his hand, and slowly pulls his eyes up to his doorway yet again. It is Peters. “Peters?” Peters holds up two paper travel cups, one with the string of a teabag hanging against the side. Greg’s frown twists. “Tea?”
“And coffee,” Peters adds. “I didn’t know which one you’d like at the moment.”
“You brought me coffee and tea?”
“Yes.”
Greg drops the pieces of paper onto his desk. “You know you’re not my errand boy, right Peters?”
Peters cracks a smile. “Just looked like you needed it.”
“Why is everyone saying things like that today?”
Peters steps in and puts both cups down on Greg’s desk clear of any paper work or his laptop. Then Peters stands up straight again. He clears his throat a little awkwardly, glances over his shoulder then turns back to Greg. Greg furrows his eyebrows in confusion.
“It looked to me like… well, like things weren’t going too well.”
Greg huffs. “We do work with crime, Peters.”
“No, I meant…” He clears this throat again. “With you; with you and… with your… well, with you.”
Greg stares at Peters and blinks. He knows what Peters means. “Oh?”
“I’m sorry. Not trying to over step.” He bites his lip and waves a hand. “If I was wrong or shouldn’t have or if I, uh -”
“Thank you, Peters.” Greg cuts Peters off then smiles in a thin line. “They are both just fine.”
Peters relaxes visibly and nods back at Greg. “Right. Well, uh, good luck, sir.” Then he turns and hurries out of Greg’s office.
Greg stares at the two cups. They should be labeled ‘charity case Detective Inspector Lestrade.’
Greg has no idea how Peters knew and he has no idea what his face looks like right now but, apparently, he is a mess.
----------
Greg paces back and forth across his living room floor. He taps his fingers on the entertainment center then walks across to his coffee table again. He picks up the James Bond book, still not finished, then drops it back on the table. He twists his mobile around in his right hand, pinched in the center and flipping it in circles. He paces back and forth and shakes his head at himself. He stops in the center of the room and stares at the blank screen of his mobile.
“Fine.”
He clicks it to life and chooses Mycroft’s number. It takes four rings but Mycroft answers.
“Greg?”
“Hi, uh… hi.”
“Can I help you?”
Greg frowns. “Help me?”
“Was there something you needed?”
“I… no, I mean yes, but, no, I…” Greg sighs and squeezes his eyes closed. “I just wanted to talk to you, all right?”
“If there is nothing specific you need there is work I should be doing.”
“It’s after seven.”
“And aren’t you lucky to be home, Greg. Good bye.”
“Oi! Wait.” Greg pauses but when he does not hear the line cut off he breathes in again. “Can we talk? Just a minute, please.”
Mycroft sighs. “I will time you.”
Greg sighs right back. “You know what I meant by a minute.”
“Fine, Greg, what is it?”
Greg stares at his couch, remembers Mycroft sitting beside him, leaning against him, lying under him, laughing, smiling. “I think you need to give us another chance.”
“Pardon?”
“I know what you said, Mycroft. I know it’s not easy for you. It’s never easy for the rest of us either but you shouldn’t just give up, make excuses. Yeah, it’s not always easy street but we were happy.”
“It was not a question of happiness, Greg.”
Greg huffs. “What was it a question of then? Think being happy is most important.”
Mycroft laughs harshly. “Ah yes, you would think that, but those of us who think a bit quicker have different priorities. Or did I not make that clear enough at my home?”
Greg grits his teeth together. “Don’t play your ‘I’m a genius game.’ It won’t work.”
“’Won’t work?’ Greg, it is not a matter of games. It is who I am and my priorities are of far greater importance than letting some ill-conceived romance continue to play out toward come cinematic ending.”
“Stop.”
“Did you expect some ride off into the sunset?”
“Please, stop. You’re trying to make it not real. It was real.” Greg flings his arm out in the air. “It is real!”
Mycroft sighs. “You are beginning to give me a headache.”
“Mycroft, you start -”
“Yes, yes, I know what else you will say,” Mycroft interrupts. “I started this, etcetera. Well, I suppose it was a Sherlock-like experiment but it ran its course.”
“I said, stop it!” Greg snaps, smacking a hand on his entertainment center. “That’s not true. I know it’s not.”
Mycroft sighs again, full of condescension. “It is surprising you cannot hear how ridiculous you sound.”
“I sound ridiculous?”
Mycroft sighs yet again. “D.I. Lestrade, I suggest you find yourself a drink and calm down.”
“Don’t call me that.” Greg fists his hand in his hair. “You’re not letting me talk!”
“There is nothing you need to say to me.”
“But you haven’t hung up yet.” Greg huffs and blows out a breath. “Just… can we get dinner, lunch, something? Please, I know you want to blame it on work and your big brain but you spent almost a year with me.” Greg breathes deeply, in and out, waiting for Mycroft to fill in the pause but he stays silent. “I know you were happy,” Greg continues. “I know you were, even when you told me to leave.”
“No.”
“No you weren’t happy?” Greg looks down at the floor.
“No, I do not wish to have dinner or lunch with you.”
Greg’s head jerks up again as if Mycroft were standing in front of him. “Mycroft, I don’t understand why you are pushing me away!”
“This has gone on long enough. Good bye.”
“Wait -” But this time the line cuts off before Greg can say any more. “Shit.”
Greg drops the mobile from his ear then violently kicks his coffee table again. It skids back into the couch with a crack, nearly everything on top falling to the floor. “Dr. No” bounces once when it falls and slides toward the window, landing face up. Greg stares at the book and wants to rip out every page.
----------
“What is this?” Mycroft snaps as soon as Greg answers his mobile.
Greg sighs. “What is what?”
“You know exactly what.”
“No, I don’t, Mycroft. I’m not there.”
“This package.”
Greg’s lip twitches and he frowns. “You could always open it.”
Mycroft sighs. “I have.”
“Then you know what it is. Why are you asking me?”
Greg hears Mycroft inhale slowly and click his tongue. “I am asking you why.”
“Are you?”
“Don’t be obtuse!”
“Well, maybe you should be more specific in your questions then.”
Mycroft makes a growl sort of noise. “Why are you sending me the gifts I gave you?”
“Have you never been in a break up before?”
“Relationships end, Greg, it does not require some sort of reparations agreement or division of perceived shared property, at least not in this case.”
“So, no?”
Mycroft sighs. “You are being petty.”
Greg scoffs. “Petty? Now that’s a word choice.”
“You don’t send back gifts.”
Greg starts to crumple up a random piece of paper on his desk. “Yes, you do.”
“They were gifts!” Mycroft knocks something in the background. “You don’t send them back!”
“People do.” He hits the new ball of paper off his desk.
“I am not a store you can return items to for the cash equivalent.”
“Who said anything about cash?”
“Greg!”
Greg drums his fingers on his desk and shrugs even though Mycroft cannot see him. “I don’t want them anymore.”
Mycroft scoffs. “Surely a French press will not bring up unwanted nostalgia for you.”
“You don’t know that,” Greg snaps.
Mycroft sighs. “Really, Greg, these things are yours; the coat, the watch. They have not lost their usefulness now that we are no longer together.”
Greg huffs and stabs his pen into a folder on his desk. “Think what you like, Mycroft.”
Mycroft groans. “This is childish!”
“This just isn’t as clean as you’d like and, well, that’s just too bad. Goodbye.” Greg hangs up before Mycroft can say anything else.
Greg drops his mobile and pen onto his desk almost immediately then rubs his hands over his face. He breathes in sharply then pulls his hands away. Leaning back in his chair, Greg frowns at the blinds of his office window.
“Fucking idiot…” He grits his teeth and glances at the back of his office door, old black coat hanging there. “I am such…” He sighs again then fists his hand, sits up straight, and picks up his pen.
----------
Greg stands in the doorway to the interrogation room for six minutes before Anderson notices him. Anderson jolts with surprise then freezes just as quickly, staring at Greg. Finally he glances down at the piles of papers, transfer case files, and maps in front of him.
“Anderson, I’ve already given you two written warnings and suspended you once.”
“It was twice.”
Greg crosses his arms. “This is affecting your work.”
“This is important.” Anderson waves a hand over the papers. “I know there is a plan in here somewhere. He has to have some sort of plan of where he is going, where he is going to end up. If I can figure out the plan I can figure out where he will be and then -”
“Anderson, you are obsessed with a fantasy!”
“Fantasy!” Anderson cries and suddenly jumps up from his chair. “Fantasy? The fantasy was what happened at St. Barts. That was a beautifully crafted fantasy.”
Greg steps into the small room and closes the door behind him. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop? At this rate, it could cost you your job!”
Anderson makes a derisive noise. “My job that caused the whole situation in the first place?”
“Anderson -”
“You don’t understand. You have to give it a chance. If you really see!” He picks up what looks like a twice copied newspaper clipping. “If you could see the signs. So many in Russia alone!”
“You have case work, real case work you need to be doing. I know you care about -”
“About this!” Anderson smacks the table. “About proving the truth.” He points violently at Greg. “Proving to you that Sherlock is still alive! He has to be!”
“Anderson, enough!” Greg shouts. “Pack it in and back to your real work. I’m not saying it again!” Greg turns, yanks open the door and marches out before Anderson can spout off once more.
He walks swiftly down the hall straight toward the kitchen. In the kitchen, He picks up the coffee pot and pours the dregs from the morning out in the sink. He thinks about his old French press, Mycroft handing him a cup of coffee in his office, Mycroft pressing him back against his kitchen counter before he leaves in the morning. Greg sighs and has to put the pot down on the counter.
He rubs a hand quickly over his face. “Damn it. Get out of my head.”
Greg reaches into the cabinet and pulls out the can of coffee. He frowns without thinking when he sees the cheap brand. He then instantly wishes Mycroft was here so he could punch him in the face.
“Can’t even have coffee anymore.”
“Greg?”
He turns around to see Donovan behind him. He smiles automatically. She glances at the coffee can in his hand and the empty pot beside him.
“You going to make some or not?”
He frowns and puts the can back in the cabinet. “Not.”
“Could nip out and get one instead?”
Greg sighs and turns around to face her. “No. It’s not really necessary.” He cracks a smile. “Shouldn’t over caffeinate, right?”
She nods. “Guess not.” She clicks her teeth then clears her throat. “So, I just wanted to say sorry.” Greg cocks his head and frowns. “About that relationship of yours not working out.”
Greg crosses his arms and narrows his eyes at her. “Oh?”
“Peters told me.”
Greg sighs heavily. “How the hell did he know anyway?”
Donovan shrugs. “He’s more perceptive then we give him credit for. Hasn’t told anyone else I don’t think, so don’t fire him yet.”
Greg chuckles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I also figured out who it was.”
Greg blinks in surprise and his jaw clenches. “Did you?”
“He rarely came here before, only when it was a really serious case we had Sherlock around on. Then you’re seeing someone new and suddenly he’s in the office every other week? Plus, he’s government like you told us at the pub.”
Greg snorts quietly. “Should make you detective.”
“Yeah. So…” She raises both eyebrows and gives him a searching look. “Really? I mean… I think I only ever spoke to him twice but he was always… Isn’t he Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy or something?”
Greg huffs a laugh. “Uh, I guess you could say that.”
“Sherlock’s brother? Is that some miss directed guilt thing?”
“What? No.” Greg uncrosses his arms and rubs his forehead. “Are you trying to be a psychologist or something? No. It was just a normal relationship.”
“Normal? With a Holmes?”
Greg rolls his eyes. “Because you and Sherlock were such mates you know it all.”
She sighs. “Fine. Sorry.”
“This is why I don’t talk about my personal life,” Greg snaps. He frowns. “Win some other department bet with this, would you?”
She purses her lips and only looks slightly apologetic. “Looks like it’s too late now.”
PART 2