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Mycroft Holmes had his driver circle the block on the off chance that he’d gotten the address wrong, or on the even more remote chance that the squat, dim shop to which he’d been directed would magically change into a tall, high-windowed architectural marvel. Or, barring all of that, would at least transform into a building whose windows looked as if they might have been washed since John Major’s tenure.
When he was foiled on all counts, Mycroft sighed, rapped on the partition and felt for his umbrella as the car stopped to discharge him from its depths. Mycroft stood staring critically at the little coffee shop for a moment before shrugging his shoulders and striding inside. At the very least, the sandwich board right outside the door that advertised its specials had everything spelled correctly. That had to count for something.
The interior was so much more inviting than the outside that it was almost startling. Mycroft took in the clean wooden tables, smooth granite floor and pendant lighting with an admiring eye. A mysteriously complex machine weighed down one end of a long reclaimed-wood counter. In the middle sat an array of pastries displayed under glass domes.
On the far end was the register and a pretty, young lady smiling eagerly at him, her hands poised to key in his order. Mycroft reckoned that business had been slow. In that location and with that drab exterior, business was likely always slow.
Clearly the owner of – Mycroft looked up at the chalkboard menu to refresh his memory on the name of the place, and made a face when he found it – Java Love had inherited the building and had opted to sink money into improving the interior. Possibly it was a bad business move, but who could tell. It was London. The proliferation of Starbucks and McDonald’s proved that people would literally eat almost anything almost anyplace.
“Bugger! I was hoping to beat you here.”
Mycroft turned, eyebrows high. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was smiling at him, but he sounded a little out of breath. His cheeks were faintly pink and his hair looked a bit mussed. Otherwise, the DI looked largely as he always did, in Mycroft’s estimation – dishier than should have been allowed by law.
“Not at all, Detective Inspector,” said Mycroft evenly. “I only just arrived myself. We could have met somewhere closer to New Scotland Yard. This is a bit of a walk for you, yes?”
“It's not too far from the Yard, and the exercise’s good for me. Plus I really fancy the iced coffees here. Brenda always fixes me up right.” Lestrade looked over his shoulder and gave the barista a broad wink.
Mycroft glanced at the area of the register and nearly did a double-take. The friendly young girl who had been so ready to serve him was now bright red and giggling into her collar, looking as if she was going to squirm right out of her apron under Lestrade’s sunny grin.
“Always for you, Inspector Lestrade,” Brenda said, still blushing and not quite able to meet Greg’s eyes. “A venti then, like usual? Extra sweet, regular milk?”
“You got it. No whipped cream this time. Need to watch this.” Lestrade patted his stomach. “I’m at the age where it starts to creep up.”
Mycroft could tell by Brenda’s expression that she didn’t seem to find anything to be wrong with Greg’s midsection. And he had to agree – it and the area immediately above and below – seemed to be in fine shape from what he could discern.
“What’ll you have?” Greg looked up at Mycroft. “And don’t give me that ‘nothing for me, thank you, Detective Inspector’ bilge. I hate drinking alone. Besides, everything this place makes is ace, but the iced coffees are the best in London.”
“With such an endorsement, then I think I’d better have an iced coffee,” said Mycroft after scanning the menu. “Just as you usually have it, Detective Inspector, and also without whipped cream.”
Mycroft allowed himself to fret briefly on how he’d have to pay for this indulgence with a long jog on the treadmill later, but what the hell. He was meeting with one of the most delectable men in London in a poky, out-of-the-way shop over … something-or-other. Downing a highly caloric beverage would round off the utter strangeness of the situation rather nicely.
While he was ruminating on this, Lestrade sneakily paid the tab with his charge card, earning a sharp glare from Mycroft, who insisted on leaving a rather overgenerous tip in return. Brenda took a brief break from ogling Lestrade to give Mycroft a warm smile in thanks, but her attention snapped back to the Detective Inspector when their drinks were ready and he collected them with a breezy parting remark and another wink. The girl’s cheeks flamed such a bright red that Mycroft was half-certain her face was going to melt down her neck.
Seemingly unaware of the crimson, sighing admirer he was leaving behind, Greg led Mycroft to a table toward the back. It was well away from the windows, which Mycroft realized, had shades drawn over them to keep out some of the sun. So it just looked dingy from the outside.
Mycroft also noted, with no small amount of amusement, that they were now out of the direct sightline of young Brenda. He didn’t think Greg was being deliberately cruel to the girl – likely he thought it best if she were able to concentrate on her duties without any … distractions.
“Thanks for meeting me,” said Lestrade as they settled in. “Sorry for the late notice, though.”
“Not at all.” Mycroft took an exploratory sip from the sweating plastic cup. His brow webbed as he took longer one. And then another. He was not unaware of Greg’s keen gaze on his face, trying to gauge how he liked the drink and not quite able to come to any conclusion.
“Well? Did I tell you wrong?”
Mycroft glanced up. Swallowed.
“No. Not at all. It is quite good. It’s obvious that they use filtered water here. And the beans are roasted right before grinding. Trademarks of a coffee connoisseur. Whoever owns this business knows his or her product.”
Greg smiled and took a long pull on his own drink.
“Yeah,” he said, after a few moments. “I love this place. Discovered it on the way home one day. I’ve steered a few others from the Yard here, and they all are hooked on the iced coffees. Bloke who owns this place isn’t really concerned about turning too much of a profit, though. His daughter wanted to go to uni for business and he thought it’d be easier and better for her if she had practical experience actually running a business.”
“Ah.” Mycroft smiled suddenly. “The young lady at the counter is the daughter?”
“Yep. She’s doing a nice job, too. Muffins’re always fresh, the coffee’s good, and she always has a smile for the customers.”
“Especially certain customers, I noticed.”
Greg’s brow furrowed and then he grinned, ducking his head a bit.
“I’m older than her dad, probably.”
“That might be more of a bonus than you could imagine, Detective Inspector.”
Lestrade chuckled at that. “Ah, she’s too young for me, then. Way too young. Mind, I’m not opposed to dating someone younger than I am, but I think I draw the line at anyone who wasn’t even born in the same bleeding century that I was!”
“Fair enough.” Mycroft eyed his rapidly disappearing drink and pushed aside with a little reluctance. It was delicious, but he had the feeling that he would do well to pace himself.
“Now, Detective Inspector, in your message, you said you had some good news for me?”
“Well … I don’t know if I’d classify it as good, exactly,” said Lestrade. “Interesting … it’s definitely interesting news.”
“Hmm. Interesting? Something, no doubt, that touches on my brother?”
“Yeah.” Greg hesitated a moment. “It definitely has to do with Sherlock.”
“Of course.” Mycroft couldn’t quite keep the sigh out of his voice. “Is it of a nature that will require me to get out my chequebook?”
“Nope. The opposite actually.”
“Oh?”
“Yep.” Greg punctuated that illuminating statement with another long sip of his iced coffee.
Mycroft looked over at the nearest windows, watching the vague outlines of passersby silhouetted against the windowshades. After a moment, he turned back to Greg and pulled his drink a bit closer.
“Please continue, Detective Inspector. Already this is a much more intriguing conversation than I had this morning with my comptroller over what he considers to be an appallingly low amount in this quarter’s budget allotted to office supplies for my department.”
“I wouldn’t think you’d have to do with something so … so … uh …”
“Mundane? Inconsequential? Negligible?”
“I was going to say ‘normal,’ but those work, too.” Greg smiled faintly. “Well, I can guarantee you I didn’t ask you here to talk about biros or file cabinet separators. I wanted to talk to you about the pool.”
Mycroft stared. “The pool?”
A smile that was far too ingenuous for Mycroft’s liking curved Greg’s lips.
“Uh-huh. The pool. I’m gonna assume you know the one I mean?”
Mycroft silently weighed the benefits and consequences of feigning ignorance, bolting the rest of his drink, and excusing himself with profuse apologies and a manufactured excuse involving a far-flung locale with a tetchy political climate that would fall into ruin if he did not make a series of phone calls at precisely the right moment.
Lestrade was quietly watching him over the lip of his cup, and Mycroft decided against putting an escape plan into motion – at least for the moment.
He also decided against pretending he didn’t know what Lestrade was talking about. His participation was, in retrospect, possibly ill-advised, and he’d always supposed he’d have face the music sooner or later. Though he had hoped that Sherlock’s ‘miraculous’ return from the dead would buy him a bit more time.
“Yes, Detective Inspector,” said Mycroft, forcing a smile. “I do know the one you mean. And I also know that no winner can yet have been declared in that particular wager.”
“Wrong. It –” Lestrade started to shake his head, but stopped. “Well, okay, you’re not wrong exactly. It’s s’why I wanted to see you – there’s kind of a situation, and I reckoned that you’d be the best person to talk to about what ought to be done.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” said Mycroft. "Perhaps we’re talking about different things after all.”
“No, we aren't.” Greg was smiling again. “It’s just that something’s come up that nobody could have expected and as it shakes out, I need your opinion.”
Mycroft swiped his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. It tasted of cream and sugar and the mellow acidity of very high-quality Honduran coffee beans. Mycroft pushed his drink just out of reach. The urge to order another “for the road” was rising, and that was the last thing he and his waistline needed. So, to distract himself from the temptation, he prodded his brain to surface the memory of that night. That party. That conversation.
And the pool.
It actually had been more an impromptu gathering of Sherlock’s Scotland Yard “colleagues” and related admirers than a proper party. Held at a nondescript pub right off Baker Street, it had been a celebration of Sherlock’s rapid ascendency into the public eye. Thanks to his remarkable brain and John Watson’s equally remarkable blog, Sherlock – and John, by extension – had become a London tabloid celebrity, gaining sycophants and skeptics almost in equal measure, along with a rather curious attachment to a deerstalker cap.
Mycroft had not planned to attend, despite being secretly pleased that Sherlock’s “profession” was bringing him out of his shell a bit. He had, in fact, responded to Lestrade’s texted invitation with a “No, thank you.” Things concerning the Bond Air mission had been in full swing at that time and required his complete attention.
But he’d chanced to read John’s blog that day and had ruminated over his write-up of a case that seemed much too closely related to one of the Bond Air “passengers.” Mycroft believed in coincidences. He knew that they happened every day. But he didn’t entirely trust coincidences, especially where his brother was concerned. And so he’d turned up at the pub after all, intending to have a short talk with his brother, but had abandoned the plan when he saw Sherlock surrounded by so many well-wishers, all singing his praises, even as inebriated as some of them were.
But a good amount of ribbing had come along with the plaudits. Lestrade’s amusing recital of some of the more incredible headlines and related articles had been extremely amusing, for example, and just about everyone there seemed to be able to contribute a story or two about Sherlock’s in-the-field exploits. There had been several times during the night that Sherlock looked as if he were considering self-immolation, but John had been having a nice time, laying a comforting hand on Sherlock’s thin shoulder when the good-natured jokes hit a bit too close to home.
Surrounded by people he knew – some of whom he even … well, if not exactly liked, respected – and with John’s hand anchoring him, Sherlock had seemed to shed the persona of the dour, odd, angular man that stalked crime scenes in a whirl of dark curls and expensive wool, slipping effortlessly into the mien of The Celebrated Hat-Detective whose intriguing methods and deadpan charm were taking London by storm.
It was strange for Mycroft to look back on that night and recall the rush of pride occasioned by the sight of his baby brother finally at the center of positive attention. Considering all that happened almost immediately afterward – the unforeseen stresses brought on by the Bond Air mission … and the entrance into their lives of The Woman and the bleak farce that ensued as a result – Mycroft wondered if that night at that poky little pub had been the last time his brother had been truly content.
Mycroft knew he could never quite be sure on that point, but he did know that Sherlock had a reasonably enjoyable evening. As for himself, he’d had a gimlet or two and mixed as best he could with the crowd. When Sherlock, finally weary of the attention had swanned out with John and a few others on his heels, Mycroft had opted to remain with some of the other officers.
Another gimlet might have entered the picture at that juncture. He was still a bit fuzzy on certain points of the evening actually – not that he’d been impaired, of course. There were just some details of the evening that had, after the festivities were complete, not come back into focus.
But Mycroft did recall what had gone on with Detective Inspector Jones.
Athelney Jones was a competent enough police officer, but was something of a bully and not quite able to submerge a penchant toward heavy drinking. And, as such, the whole thing had come out because he’d had a bit more to drink than was advisable.
That he’d been in attendance at the gathering at all had surprised Mycroft quite a bit. Jones and Sherlock were like oil and water – Jones often spoke of his opinion that Sherlock Holmes was “half a nutter” and Sherlock found the good DI Jones to be little more than a “loutish imbecile” who managed his cases like a bull in a china shop and was often saved from ruin by his head sergeant, a quiet man called Tuson.
Some time after Sherlock, John and some of the crowd had departed, Jones, firmly in his cups, had solemnly “advised” Lestrade “to get what he could” out of Sherlock Holmes while there was still time, because now that he was Internet Famous, he’d likely have other suggestions on how he could spend his time that would beat any offer from New Scotland Yard.
“His name’s all over the place,” Jones had said a bit too loudly for a confidential conversation. “He’ll be up to his eyeteeth in prime gash now. Could probably pick and choose a new one for every day of the week, the lucky tosser. He’ll be too busy getting a leg over to do any sort of detective work.”
Mycroft had been having a fascinating conversation about the renewed conflagration in Iraq with DI Stephanie Hopkins, one of the brighter lights of New Scotland Yard who was currently heading up the Specialist Intelligence Service, when he’d overheard Jones’s piece of “advice.” DI Hopkins had simply rolled her eyes and remarked that it was getting late and she had a very early meeting in the morning.
Bidding DI Hopkins farewell had caused Mycroft to miss Jones’s next remarks, but he did remember briefly meeting Lestrade’s gaze. Mycroft had felt rather bad for the man. It had to be difficult to deal with an idiot like Jones during working hours – to also be in his presence in his free time seemed almost intolerable.
Mycroft remembered being stunned, however, at what he saw in Lestrade’s expression. It wasn’t anger or discomfort, but rather remorse and embarrassment. Mycroft had wondered over the clear apology he could discern in Greg’s eyes until he realized that Jones was, in effect, having a very impudent discussion about his younger brother, and Lestrade likely thought he was not pleased about it.
In fact, Mycroft had been rather amused. Jones obviously did not know Sherlock at all if he thought that notoriety and a fanbase would turn him into Baker Street’s version of Hugh Hefner.
Smiling, he approached the still chattering Jones, shaking his head when Lestrade had sought to quiet the man. Oh, no. He wanted to hear this.
“… The short one’ll probably a nice bit of minge coming his way, too,” Jones was saying. “Just, you know, by proximity. And he’s the one writing every ruddy thing down. But Holmes, he’s the star. So mark it, Lestrade. Holmes’ll be on the pull from now on. Shame I can’t change my pick in the pool – I’d take the field and win the lot.”
Mycroft’s ears had pricked up at those words.
“Pool? Do you mean a betting pool?”
All activity seemed to freeze. Mycroft could remember Jones quickly turning around, startled.
“Where the hell’d you come from?”
He’d then stopped to study Mycroft more closely. “Wait … don’t I know you from someplace?”
“Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft hadn’t thought it advisable to offer his hand, considering where Jones’s had recently been. He’d wondered if the DI also didn’t trouble to wash his hands after using the facilities at NSY.
“We’ve crossed paths a few times, Detective Inspector Jones, but I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”
“Mycroft Holmes? As in …”
“… Sherlock Holmes’s brother.” Lestrade had been in the foreground, massaging the bridge of his nose as if he were trying to work it off his face. “Christ, Al. Can’t you keep your gob shut a minute?”
“His …? Oh, sh …” Jones had tried for a smile. “Right. Well, ah, nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. Brilliant hat Sherlock’s wearin’ these days. Family heirloom?”
“I am very interested in this … pool, Detective Inspector Jones.”
Mycroft hadn’t wanted to scare the man, so he didn’t trot out his full-toothed smile, the one that Anthea said reminded her of python just before its jaws came up over your head.
“This has something to do with my brother’s … love life?”
Mycroft had been faintly amazed and a little proud that he’d been able to get the question out with a relatively straight face.
“It’s … well …” Jones had given Lestrade a swift, panicked look. “Just something the lads at the Yard came up with. A bit of fun, you know? We don’t mean anything by it … and … and it wasn’t even my idea!”
He’d pointed a bony finger toward a balding, stubby man standing near the bar. “It was Bradstreet! He started the bloody thing!”
Detective Inspector James Bradstreet had roused himself to give Jones a dark glare. “It was a ruddy joke, you enormous twat! Started off that way, anyway. It’s not like I told people to throw money at me!”
That had resulted in DIs Bradstreet and Jones carping at each other in loud, outraged voices. Mycroft had been rather impressed at Bradstreet’s roster of insults having to do with body orifices, and was filing some away for future reference when he’d noticed Lestrade motioning with his head toward an unoccupied corner.
Mycroft had followed him somewhat reluctantly – the argument was reaching its climax and he had a feeling that Bradstreet was saving up his best material for the finale.
“Yes, Detective Inspector?”
“Sorry about that. You weren’t supposed to know anything about, uh –”
“Detective Inspector Lestrade, it’s quite all right. I’m assuming Sherlock doesn’t know about this?”
“If he does, he hasn’t said anything. You won’t tell him, will you? It was stupid but no one meant anything by it –”
“I won’t breathe a word. And if anyone should ask me, I shall deny its very existence – though I think Sherlock would be more intrigued than appalled.” Mycroft had hoped his expression was appropriately solemn. “Now, what, exactly, is the pool?”
Lestrade had gone on to explain that shortly after the events of the case referred on John Watson’s blog as “A Study in Pink,” Sherlock had been working with Bradstreet on a series of jewel shop robberies and had been spotted having an animated and rather warm conversation with an attractive young Constable.
The odd phenomenon of Sherlock being something other than taciturn and stroppy had prompted Bradstreet to remark that they may have all read Sherlock Holmes wrong, that he might fancy solving crimes, but that his real motive for coming around the Yard as often as he did was because he fancied someone. Jones had overheard and chortled that even if that were true, the Constable in question would not fall to his charms. Bradstreet had disagreed, vehemently, and he and Jones had gone at it, throwing argument and counter-argument at each other.
It had gone on and on until Bradstreet had said he’d bet money that Sherlock and the Constable would be snogging in a panda car within a month. Jones said it would never happen, and just because it would never happen, the time period could be open-ended, because he was that sure.
And that was how the bet had been born.
The pool had come about later, according to Lestrade. Jones couldn’t keep his mouth shut, and several of his colleagues had opted to ante up, each of them putting up 20 pounds for the privilege of guessing who Sherlock Holmes might get off with in or out of New Scotland Yard.
Lestrade had ended the story by saying that he’d heard about the pool not through Jones, but through Donovan, who had joined the pool in part to break up the all-male clubbiness of the thing and also because she didn’t think Sherlock Holmes was capable of any sort of relationship and so the whole thing was ludicrously funny in her opinion.
“When she told me who she’d picked, I told her to pick someone else,” Lestrade had said. “I didn’t want her throwing her money in the skip and I knew that she didn’t have any chance of winning, not with that choice.”
Mycroft recalled replying that it was quite sporting of Lestrade to do so. Greg had looked a little uncomfortable, saying that he’d joined because Sally had talked him into it, but he’d largely forgotten about the pool until now.
“It sounds interesting. And just how many of Scotland Yard’s finest have money on my brother’s sex life?”
Once Lestrade had scraped his jaw off the floor, he had managed to stammer out the list: Bradstreet, Jones, Detective Inspectors Gregson, Patterson and Youghal, himself, and from within his division, Donovan, Anderson, and Detective Inspector Dimmock had opted to join to the pool as well, after working with Sherlock on that Chinatown case earlier in the year. But he’d assured Mycroft that while much of the Yard might have some vague knowledge of the pool, there were only nine active participants.
“Incorrect, Detective Inspector. There are ten,” Mycroft had said, unearthing his billfold. “Twenty pounds, did you say? Count me in.”
Lestrade had seemed beyond speech at that point, and anyway, as it was Bradstreet’s pool, it was to him Mycroft had to appeal. The little man had squinted up at Mycroft suspiciously as he’d made his pitch. He’d enter under an assumed name, would abide by all set rules, and would say nothing to Sherlock about it.
Bradstreet hadn’t seemed very enthusiastic about the idea of Mycroft’s entry.
“You’re his brother, yeah? Seems like you’d have an unfair advantage. Could have … er … prior knowledge, and all. Or you could pick somebody you know you’ll be able to sell him on.”
Mycroft had felt just the slightest twinge of sadness when he informed DI Bradstreet that while the first might be true, in theory, Sherlock had proven to be unpredictable, even to him – and as for the other, Sherlock had never been “sold” on anything he’d tried to peddle, and he doubted it would be any different in this situation.
Bradstreet still hadn’t been convinced, but Jones, elbowing his way to the fore, had clapped Mycroft on the shoulder with a large grin.
“Aw, let him in, Jim. So what that he’s his brother? He practically lives in Lestrade’s arsehole these days, and you let him in.”
There had been some laughter at that, but definitely not from Greg’s corner. In fact, Jones had held up his hands protectively when he saw a glaring Lestrade, fists bunched at his sides, heading his way.
“C’mon, Greg, figure of speech! I just mean that you two are mates. You’d probably know more than any of us what he’d fancy. I don’t mind if his brother has a go. I’ve got confidence in my choice, even though now I wish I’d taken the field.”
“That would have been a mistake, Detective Inspector Jones,” Mycroft had said coolly. “My brother is many things, but a lothario has never been one of them.”
“Maybe not before, but he probably didn’t have birds falling all over him like he does now.”
“It would make no difference,” Mycroft had said. “It’s also unlikely that he would go on the pull from the … charming invitations he receives from those who typically write into the blog. I believe my brother to be fervently sapiosexual.”
“Sapiosexual …?” Bradstreet had looked puzzled. “What, is that some fancy way of saying he swings both ways? I reckon we knew that already. We are bloody detectives, you know!”
“What? How many of those have you had, Jim?” Jones had eyed his colleague’s empty ale tankard. “That’s not what it means. I think it’s those people who fancy dressing up as animals before they go at it. Trust Sherlock Holmes of all people to be a kinky bugger!”
It was at that point that Lestrade had interjected to change the subject.
“Jim keeps all the money, and track of the guesses.” He’d still looked a little uncertain as Mycroft handed over the fee. “Oh, and Bradstreet forgot to mention that we decided that no two people can have the same guess. Says it makes it more fun and interesting that way.”
Mycroft had hesitated just the slightest moment. That was something of a disappointment, but he supposed that fair was fair. And he had agreed to abide by the rules. Still, it was a little disheartening, because that likely meant that his first choice had been picked by someone else.
“So … who’re you putting your money on?”
Mycroft had thought Lestrade sounded and looked a bit anxious as he asked the question. Bradstreet and Jones were leaning forward with their mouths open. Waiting.
“I had wondered … has anyone yet chosen John Watson?”
“It still puzzles me that no one selected Dr. Watson before I did,” said Mycroft, emerging from his memories. “I would have thought John would be the odds-on favorite. “
Greg slowly stirred the remnants of his drink. “A bit too obvious, I think. They lived together, worked on cases together, there was the blog …”
“You’re rather proving my point, Detective Inspector.”
“Right, but no one really knows what John fancies, or if he’d be … open to that.” The tips of Lestrade’s ears turned faintly pink. “He’s always got a girlfriend, or is on his way to chatting up some woman. Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be interested in a bloke, but I guess no one seriously considered it – besides you.”
Mycroft was quiet. John Watson had, by his estimation, engaged in at least one same-sex affair. It had been less than a relationship but more than a fling. John seemed drawn to those he met “on the job,” as it were. Mycroft reasoned that if his deductions were correct, John could only have engaged in said affair while serving his in Afghanistan, and so his lover could only have been a fellow soldier –
“Looks can often be deceiving,” said Mycroft in a light voice. “I was making a judgment call. Though, I suppose that it’s a moot point now, considering Dr. Watson’s romantic status.”
“Right. And that’s what we have to reckon out, you and me.” Greg took a last pull on his coffee. “Not sure if you’ve heard, but Jones transferred. Liverpool. He’s not from there, but he has family there. His dad’s sick and he wants to be close by right now. We had a bit of a piss-up for him last night and somebody brought up the pool. He said he was conceding defeat.”
“Really?” Mycroft was somewhat surprised. He’d assumed the only way a man like Jones would leave NSY was by retiring – if he weren’t RIF’d first. “Well, good on Detective Inspective Jones for being a model son, but why would he concede defeat now? Surely if he were to emerge victorious, you’d have no issues with sending the winnings to him, even in Liverpool.”
“Wasn’t about that,” said Lestrade. “He said that any bloke who could swan off the roof of Bart’s, and not only not die, but manage to stay hidden for two years and come back and just about the first thing he does is put on that bleeding ear hat, might not go for a Fingerprint Lab Tech after all.”
Mycroft thought about that a moment. If pressed, he wouldn’t have classed his brother as one overly obsessed with a person’s job or status. In fact, he was generally utterly impressed with such things. This was a man who counted a “network” of homeless denizens among his closest friends, after all.
“I didn’t think Sherlock interacted much with your forensic personnel aside from Dr. Anderson.”
“I think this bloke was helping us in the Jennifer Wilson case – you know, the, er, “Pink Lady” from those cabbie murders? He’s a good lad – well, a bit more than a lad, I guess. Ben has to be about 35 now.” Greg frowned as he attempted to remember.
“And I think he might’ve been around during that time Jones made a cock up of a murder case and arrested the poor bloke’s entire family by mistake,” continued Lestrade. “Actually, I know he was, because he started getting assigned to details with me more and more after that, wanting to distance himself from Jones’s mistake, I guess. Any road, I guess Jones thought Sherlock and Ben might have some sort of ... connection.”
“You disagree?”
“Actually, when Jones made the pick, I thought it wasn’t bad,” admitted Lestrade. “Ben is a lot like Sherlock in some ways. Even resembles him a bit. Ben’s heavier, I think, and doesn’t have the hair. Oh, and I looked up ‘sapiosexual.’ I wasn’t sure what it meant, either, but I knew it couldn’t be what Jones thought it was.”
“Thank heavens for small favors,” muttered Mycroft. Greg grinned at him.
“Ben would fit the bill. He’s a pretty clever bloke, but … I don’t think Sherlock’s even spoken to him in awhile. And anyway, Jones says he’s out, so that’s that.”
Mycroft nodded. “So it would appear.”
“Right. So, after that, I got to thinking about the pool. Hadn’t thought about it in a good while, actually,” said Lestrade, “but when Jones said he was conceding and didn’t want his 20 quid back, I thought I might take a look at the list and see where everyone stood. That’s when I noticed that interesting thing I mentioned earlier.”
Greg shifted to balance himself on one hip as he pulled something out of his trouser pocket. Mycroft watched with faint curiosity as he put a folded piece of paper on the table in front of him and unfolded it with great care. It was a yellowing sheet of paper that had changed hands a number of times –
Fewer than 10, but more than 4. The Detective Inspector is the last to have handled it. It has been in his wallet … hmm … perhaps 3 years. Maybe less. Two and a half …
… and so the dark creases in the paper marred the writing somewhat. Mycroft didn’t have to study the faded blue-inked scribbles long to be able to tell that they had been written with a NSY-issue pen and all in the same hand – save for the last entry.
On the far left side of the page was a list of names, and there was also a list on the far right, with an arrow drawn between that linked one name to the other. There was a thick red line drawn through one name – Mycroft had to assume that had been Detective Inspector Jones’s entry.
He’d developed something of a knack for being able to read documents that were upside down from his vantage point – a little talent came in handy during certain types of budget negotiations – and so could see that the final entry on the list consisted of his name, an arrow and JOHN WATSON written on the other edge of the page. Mycroft recalled Greg’s sloping signature on the charge slip he signed for their drinks and so had no problem deducing who had written in that final entry. He could only assume that this was the original list of the pool’s participants.
“I’m somewhat amazed Detective Inspector Bradstreet allowed you to take this.” Mycroft nodded at the paper. “Not that you and the others aren’t people of your word, but he has entrusted to you the only tangible proof that pool exists and the choices of everyone therein.”
“Jim? But … oh.” Greg’s face brightened. “I guess you’ve been a bit busy to keep up with what’s going on down at the Yard. Jim retired not that long after the, er, Richard Brook thing got resolved. Planned on going into business with one of his brothers to open up a chippy in Skegness. As far’s the pool’s concerned, he sort of passed the torch to me.”
Greg smoothed his hand over the creased paper. “So, we’ve got Jones – out.” He tapped the red-marked area. And Bradstreet’s out, too. He’d picked Linda Gedrick.”
Mycroft thought about that for a moment, trying to place the name.
“Oh yes. The constable with whom Detective Bradstreet thought my brother might have been … intrigued.”
“Yeah. I don’t know how intrigued or not Sherlock might have been, but Gedrick was a promising officer,” said Lestrade. “Didn’t work with her too closely, but I heard good things about her here and there.”
“And she was attractive, too, I’d gathered?”
“Uh. Maybe.” Lestrade’s face was blank. “I never really noticed, tell the truth. She was on Bradstreet’s detail most of the time. I was as surprised as everyone else when Jim said he saw Sherlock chatting her up. I’d never noticed him talking to anyone, really. Well, not having what you’d call a conversation, anyway. A normal one, that is.”
Mycroft thought it probably best not to press that point.
“I have the same question as regards Detective Inspector Bradstreet that I had about Detective Inspector Jones. Why exit the pool when he still has some chance of winning?”
“He doesn’t. That’s the thing,” said Lestrade. “Gedrick left the Yard almost a year ago. Decided to study to be a barrister –”
“That still doesn’t necessarily preclude –”
“– in Canberra.”
“– Ah.”
Mycroft reflected on the two years Sherlock spent out of John Watson’s sphere. Two years in which he attempted no letters, no phone calls, nothing in code. No kissogram, not even a carrier pigeon. He was sure Sherlock had wanted to communicate with the Army doctor, but he’d refrained, likely more for John’s safety and sanity – such as they both were – than his own.
“Yes, well, that’s an altogether different situation. My brother isn’t really into … long-distance relationships.” Mycroft’s voice was wry. “Unfortunate for Detective Inspector Bradstreet.”
“Yep.” Greg ran his finger across the second red-lined entry. “The other day, I went down the list, wondering who else could be weeded out, and realized a funny thing.” He looked swiftly up at Mycroft. “Almost everybody in the pool is out of the running.”
Mycroft glanced at the sheet of paper. “Really?”
“Really. There’s Jones and Bradstreet – out,” Lestrade said. “And then there’s Donovan. She wasn’t too happy when I told her she should change her original pick, so she was in a bit of a strop when she settled on Jones.”
“Detective Inspector Jones?” Mycroft’s eyes widened. “Perhaps Sergeant Donovan was operating under the ‘opposites attract’ theory?”
“No, she wasn’t picking Al,” said Lestrade. “She meant Peter Jones. He and Sherlock worked that funny case a while back about that bloke who was targeting those rich, society widows who were natural blondes, robbing ‘em blind while they were at his so-called all-expenses paid ‘health spa’?”
“Oh, yes. I do recall that odd little incident. The adventure of the Gilt-Haired Brigade.” Mycroft nodded. “It’s a shame that happened before Dr. Watson came into the picture. He would have had a field day writing that case up for his blog.”
“Sherlock thought Pete was a hard worker, but dumb as a fence post,” said Lestrade. “He just stumbled onto the bloke’s game and Sherlock handled the rest. He’s the last person Sherlock would want anything to do with, romantically or otherwise. I don’t even think he talked to poor Pete after that case wrapped up, and I know he wanted to work with him again.”
Taking a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, Lestrade drew line through another entry.
“And then there’s Anderson. He picked himself.”
“Did he? Interesting. I wonder what his wife would have had to say to that?”
“Well, he wasn’t really making too many decisions with her in mind back then,” said Greg. “I thought he was taking the piss, like Donovan. But after the way he took on after Sherlock, uh, went away …” He trailed off with a shrug.
“I always thought Dr. Anderson’s hostility toward my brother was a cover for some other emotion,” said Mycroft. “Perhaps not that emotion, but … something quite the opposite of enmity. He is clever, at any rate. I’m sure Sherlock was rather flattered that he’d go to so much time, expense and risk of incarceration just to fake a crime scene for his benefit.”
“Yeah, Anderson’s a romantic.” Greg rolled his eyes. “Don’t ask how I know.”
“Somehow I think that you didn’t glean that bit of intelligence from Mrs. Anderson.”
“Yeah. No.” Greg coughed. “Er, anyway, Anderson’s taken himself out of the running. He’s trying to work things out with Sylvie. She stuck by him through all of the … fallout, and I guess he wants to give it another go.”
Mycroft thought Lestrade’s expression indicated that he didn’t expect Anderson to have a lot of success there.
“I see. I think Sherlock would be a smidge disappointed, actually. If he were ever to hear about this.”
“Are you sure he still doesn’t know anything about it?”
Mycroft shook his head. Not that they’d had a lot of time for idle chit-chat while he was smuggling Sherlock out of Belgrade, but he was certain that if his brother had known about the pool, it would have inevitably come up during that incredibly rigged game of Operation he’d talked him into playing at his flat.
Greg then quickly went through the rest of the list. Detective Inspector Youghal’s pick had a boyfriend. DS Patterson’s choice had a girlfriend. And Detective Inspector Gregson’s selection had taken a vow of celibacy – literally – opting for the priesthood after 10 years in the Metropolitan Police Service.
“Dimmock talked up Stephanie Goodam. She’s a Comms Officer,” said Lestrade, squinting at the page. “None of us could figure out why he picked her. I think in all the time he’s been around the Met, Sherlock talked to one Comms Officer, and that was before Goodam’s time.”
“Detective Inspector Dimmock picking a dark horse candidate?” asked Mycroft. “He seems the type.”
“It was a mystery to us all ‘til Donovan said she saw Dimmock talking to her outside in the car park one day. She said his tongue hanging out so far it could’ve been used as a red carpet.” Greg looked bemused. “That’s when we reckoned out that he had her on his mind because he fancied her himself. He finally found his pair and asked her out. They’ve been together a couple of months now.”
“Hmm. The subconscious mind can make fools of us all, at times.”
“Dimmock didn’t need too much help doing that, but okay.” Greg drew a line through Dimmock’s name with a flourish. “So that leaves just two people in the pool.”
Mycroft stared for a moment, a small smile lifting his lips.
“So it appears. Yourself … and myself.”
“Exactly.”
Lestrade again smoothed his hand over the paper, which was now a mess of cross-outs and inkblots. The very last entry and one toward the middle were the only ones unsullied.
“You picked John Watson.”
“Correct. And you chose Molly Hooper.”
“Right.” Lestrade was eyeing his cup. “Let me finish this. The ice’ll melt away the last, best part if I don’t. D’you mind?”
Mycroft held up a hand in response, bidding Lestrade to finish his drink. Greg’s lips seemed to close around the straw in slow-motion, and Mycroft, wriggling a bit decided to distract himself by ruminating on Greg’s selection.
On the face of it, it was an easy pick to make. Almost too easy. Mycroft was sure that half of New Scotland Yard knew of Molly Hooper’s tender feelings toward his brother. Sherlock was almost openly friendly with her – mostly – and to some that might have qualified as Sherlock’s being madly in love. Moreover, Molly was an intelligent, attractive, engaging woman, with much more to her than met the eye.
Mycroft recalled his first realization of that, her calm, cool, professionalism in Bart’s morgue as Sherlock had prepared to identify the “body” of Irene Adler. Mycroft had been aware before that time of Molly’s “crush” on his brother and had dismissed her as a person of little consequence. That night was the first time Mycroft realized he’d misjudged her, just as he’d realized that night that he’d misjudged his brother’s capacity to care for another human being.
He remembered that Molly’s professional mask had slipped only once – when Sherlock had been able to identify “Adler” by … not her face. Mycroft remembered the anguish in the young woman’s eyes when she’d turned to him. He hadn’t had one, his mind already flashing a warning, knowing he had to enlist John Watson in watching over Sherlock. He’d been berating himself for bringing The Woman into Sherlock’s life, but Mycroft was cognizant of Molly’s professional demeanor snapping back into place as she prepared to confront another grieving family there to identify a departed loved one.
But he still remembered her eyes and how they seemed to speak the words Molly would or could not: Why her? Why not me?
Mycroft hadn’t had an answer. And as Molly Hooper became his and Sherlock’s confederate in the Lazarus Operation, providing cover for Sherlock’s “death,” and offering him safe harbor until he could be spirited out of England, Mycroft found himself wanting to ask Sherlock the same question.
He knew that his own selection of John Watson had been somewhat whimsical. While Mycroft was certain that John had taken male lovers in the past, he also knew that the Army doctor craved what he’d never quite had – a “normal” life. Domesticity. A nice little private practice in a quiet suburb with a quietly supportive spouse and clean, well-mannered children. Hard work until a well-deserved retirement where he could sit in a tastefully appointed den and shake his head over the poor play of Tottenham and await Christmas visits by the children and grandchildren.
That desire to create that idyllic existence for himself would drive John, Mycroft knew, even if doing such a thing would go against his own self-interest, and possibly his own deeply-seated inclinations toward a chaotic, adrenaline-driven existence. Nevertheless, it would take a very unique person to prompt John to give up the dream he’d held on to since childhood. Sherlock was nothing if not unique.
Mycroft further knew that Sherlock was besotted with John. He would have termed it ‘hero worship,’ as he had genuinely believed that his brother had no concept of romantic love. But after the adventure with The Woman, Mycroft had admitted that he’d misjudged Sherlock. He did have the capacity to love in that manner, to hunger for companionship of that nature, and, after experiencing it, to lament its loss. Mycroft was not in doubt that his brother loved John Watson. He was almost as certain that Sherlock was in love with John Watson and if given a choice, would choose him above all others – even if The Woman were still alive. Which, of course, she wasn’t.
Greg finished up his drink with a slightly noisy slurp, wiped his mouth and looked at Mycroft.
“Yeah. You had John and I was in for Molly. I reckon you know what that means.”
Mycroft stared back at Lestrade as the pieces fell into place in his mind’s eye. When it all crystallized, he smiled wide.
“Yes, I think I do know what it means.” He extended a hand. “Congratulations, Detective Inspector. You are the ‘last person standing,’ as it were, and as such, you have won the pool.”
Mycroft kept the large smile on his face, hoping it masked the confusion he felt. Was that it, then? Lestrade had wanted to meet him in this moderately traveled corner of London over highly caffeinated beverages simply to call his attention to the fact that he’d won a 200 pound bet?
He didn’t seem like the sort who would gloat about such a thing, and yet Mycroft couldn’t quite figure out another motive for Greg’s having summoned him.
And indeed, for someone who had just won a tidy sum of money, the Detective Inspector didn’t seem very happy at all. His eyes seemed troubled and he was frowning heavily.
“Wait a minute – me? The winner?” Greg appeared stunned. “I … how do you reckon that?”
“You have just enumerated the ways in which most of the pool’s participants have been disqualified,” said Mycroft slowly, still not able to decipher the sudden shift in Greg’s mood. “As John Watson is now engaged to be married to the intrepid Ms. Mary Morstan, that obviously precludes him from making a … love connection with my brother. And, so, yours is the only viable entry left.” Mycroft smiled gently. “It is a win by default, true, but –”
“No, that’s not …” Greg quickly shook his head. “I mean – Molly’s engaged, too!”
Mycroft opened his mouth, but as Lestrade’s words sunk in, he closed it again. Greg watched him for a moment before he spoke again. His words came out in a rush, as if he wanted to take advantage of Mycroft’s uncertainty while he could.
“You knew that didn’t you? I mean, I know you weren’t there at the engagement party. Sherlock said you were out with your parents at a show?”
Mycroft shuddered in revulsion as the refrain of Do You Hear the People Sing echoed in his mind. The worst part was that he’d caught himself humming Empty Chairs at Empty Tables later that week during a cabinet meeting. Anthea had just managed to keep hold of herself.
“Nice bloke. Molly’s fiancé, I mean. He’s, uh … well, he favors Sherlock a good bit.” Greg smiled to himself. “They seemed happy. Molly said she’d moved on. From Sherlock, that is. Anyway, when I was going over the list, Donovan was in my office and she said it was a bit of a shame Molly was taken because she reckoned I might have won. That got me thinking that you’d actually won – but then I saw John’s announcement on his blog that he was getting hitched, too. So Donovan said she reckoned neither of us had actually won. She was all for starting a new pool.”
“Quite astute of Sergeant Donovan,” said Mycroft. “And is that what you wished to ask me? If I would concede and consent to entering a newly formed pool?”
“No. Because it dawned on me that Donovan didn’t have it completely right, either,” said Greg. “It might be true that under the rules, neither of us won. But I don’t think either of us lost.”
Mycroft rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure I follow, Detective Inspector.”
Greg sighed. “We both made our picks before … uh … well, before what happened on top of Bart’s roof happened.”
“The same could be said for every person in the pool.”
“Right, but when you look at it, none of those other choices had too much of a chance of actually happening,” said Lestrade. “Ours did. And maybe, if … what happened at Bart’s hadn’t happened, one of ours would have. It’s not like we had anything down saying that we were picking with the idea that Sherlock wouldn’t swan off Bart’s rooftop and fake his death for two years.”
“That would have been a rather extraordinary proviso.”
Greg snickered. “Anyway, I feel that maybe if Sherlock had been here all this time … Molly might not be engaged. And maybe John wouldn’t be, either.”
Mycroft quietly pondered the morsel of truth in that statement. He couldn’t speak for Molly Hooper. He had the sense that she had almost certainly decided that her life had to go on, with or without Sherlock, that long-ago night in the morgue, when Sherlock had identified a dead body by … not her face.
John Watson, however, was another story. Perhaps. Mycroft had the feeling that he and Mary Morstan would have found their way to each other no matter what else happened, but Lestrade was right. He could not be sure. Neither of them could ever be sure.
“So, I figure it’s a draw,” continued Greg. “Between you and me. Not a win, not a loss.”
“A … draw,” repeated Mycroft, somewhat warily. “A veritable ‘tie,’ in other words.”
“That’s how I see it,” said Lestrade. “Sherlock being, er, ‘dead,’ skewed the potential results – for us, anyway. I reckoned that maybe, in that case, we could split the winnings down the middle.”
“While that is kind of you, Detective Inspector, I think that it is unnecessary,” Mycroft said. “It is very doubtful that Dr. Watson and Dr. Hooper became engaged to their respective spouses-to-be at the exact same moment. It would be fairly easy to ascertain who actually became engaged first. Then we would have a definitive winner.”
“Trust you to think of the logical thing rather than the practical one.” Greg sounded mildly annoyed. “Do you want to be the one to ask Molly and John the exact moment they got engaged to their groom- and bride-to-be and then explain why you want to know?”
“It wouldn’t have to come to that, I’m sure,” said Mycroft. “In fact, I can tell you that I had tried to discourage Sherlock from his little charade at the Landmark Hotel because I knew that Dr. Watson was going to … pop the question that night. Therefore, I think I can safely say that he was the first to go off the market.”
“But Sherlock did interrupt,” said Lestrade. “John and Mary told the whole story at the engagement party. They didn’t actually make it official until afterward. When Sherlock and Molly came round to look at that phony crime scene, I noticed her ring right away. Hadn’t heard she was seeing anybody so I didn’t ask, but then she brought round her bloke, so they could have gotten engaged before John and Mary.”
“That is true,” said Mycroft, his eyes narrowing. “Though if we factor in intent, possibly it can be said that Dr. Watson had it in his mind to propose –”
“Wait a minute.” Greg put up a hand. “I know you’re good, Mr. Holmes, but I think that mind-reading might even be a little past what you can normally do, yeah?”
Mycroft heard the teasing lilt in Greg’s voice and smiled a bit reluctantly. “Only ‘just,’ Detective Inspector. I am, after all, expected to anticipate the whims and fancies of many of the world’s leaders. But I do suppose this situation may fall outside my area of expertise.”
“Refreshing to know something does.” Greg was smiling again.
“You’d be surprised how much that category comprises,” murmured Mycroft. “Still … I can’t countenance splitting the pot. I don’t think it … sporting. If it comes to that, I will simply concede defeat as Detective Inspectors Bradstreet and Jones did.”
Greg studied Mycroft’s face for a long moment. “All right, well … maybe it won’t come to that then. I have a Plan B.”
“Oh?” Mycroft’s eyebrows inched upward. “I’m all ears, Detective Inspector.”
“I’ll accept your, uh, concession on two conditions,” said Lestrade. “The first is that you’ll let me donate the half you would’ve gotten to the Benevolent Fund. In your name.”
“Anonymously, if you please.”
“Not a chance. I could do a ‘M. Holmes.’”
“I might accede to initials, but nothing more.”
Greg blew out a long breath. “You might be the hardest bloke I’ve ever tried to give 100 quid to, did you know?”
“I always did enjoy standing out from the crowd.” Mycroft smiled. “Do we have a deal?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Mycroft’s smile widened. “I believe you said you had a second condition?”
“I do.” Greg stared at him intently. “My second condition is that I take my half and use it to take you to dinner.”
Mycroft laughed lightly. “That’s very kind of you, Detective Inspector, but quite unnecessary. The donation is generous enough – I don’t need a further … consolation prize.”
“Conso … bloody hell! It’s not a consolation prize. I’m asking you on a bloody date!”
Mycroft’s laughter trailed off abruptly. His eyes snapped open and he could feel his neck growing warm. Staring into Lestrade’s eyes he saw no hint of dissimulation or insincerity, but he still couldn’t quite grasp what was happening.
“You … what?”
Greg shrugged. “I reckoned it would be a good use of the money. And a ready excuse to finally stop nittering about and ask you out already.”
“You … me?”
Lestrade grinned. “Didn’t think it was possible to reduce Mycroft Holmes to two words or less. I have to say I like the long, flowy sentences and brilliant words and all. It makes me feel clever listening to you, especially when I can reckon out what you’re saying.”
Mycroft blinked. “I … er. I’m not sure I understand, Detective Inspector.”
“Okay, first off, it’s Greg. Anybody who can take me for 100 quid gets to be on first-names with me,” said Greg. “Second, I’ll keep it plain: I fancy you. Have for a long time.”
“I … oh.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “You do? You have?”
“Bloody hell. You really didn’t know?” Greg sounded incredulous. “I thought I was wearing it like a neon sign anytime I was around you! I’m shocked Sherlock didn’t start up his own pool. And why did you think I told Sally to change her first choice?”
“You explained that earlier,” said Mycroft, still feeling a bit dazed. “You stated that you didn’t want Sergeant Donovan to waste her money on a pick that had no chance of winning.
“Right. And how would I have been sure? That sure?”
“Well, I suppose …”
Mycroft broke off with a sharp breath. Good lord. What the hell had been in those coffees that had rendered his brain to mush?
“Of course. How stupid of me not to have seen it sooner.” Mycroft’s voice was soft. “Sergeant Donovan’s initial pick … was you.”
“Could’ve knocked me over when I saw. Thought she was having a laugh, but she said she reckoned I must have some sort of feelings for Sherlock to let him get away with all that he’s managed over the years.” Greg’s mouth quirked into a grin. “And I told her that Sherlock was a bit of all right,, but it wasn’t like that at all. If I had my pick of Holmeses … it wouldn’t be him.”
“I see.”
But Mycroft wasn’t sure he “saw” at all. Sherlock was, despite his other faults, a beautiful man, as well as a brilliant one, and when the situation allowed, a kind one. Greg Lestrade was also an almost painfully beautiful man.
And he was … just himself. Mycroft Holmes. The British Government, perhaps, but simply a ‘man’ for all of that, and not an especially beautiful one, in his own eyes.
It seemed impossible that a man like Greg Lestrade would be interested in a man like himself, and yet now that all had been laid before him, the signs were unmistakable. Mycroft couldn’t imagine how he could have, for so long, gotten things so completely wrong.
“So, will you have dinner with me, Mycroft Holmes?” Greg sounded almost bashful. “We don’t have to stick to a 100-pound budget, by the way. I can do fancy. I scrub up pretty nice.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” Mycroft paused for a moment. “This is all very … sudden. I had wondered if I might have some time to think over your offer?”
“I suppose.” Lestrade sounded pensive. “D’you want me to ring you later in the week or something like that?”
“You could do that, if you liked.”
“Er, okay.” Greg moistened his lips. “Don’t suppose there’s anything I could do to sort of … tip the scales in my favor, is there?”
Mycroft tilted his head, thinking. “Perhaps.”
“Yeah?” Greg sat up a little straighter. “What’s that?”
“You could, I think, buy me another one of these?”
Mycroft picked up his empty cup and shook it, rattling the remaining ice slivers within.
“I might regret it in the morning, but they are quite good. Perhaps you could ask the charming young lady about the model of steamer she utilizes? I’d like to get one for the office.”
“She’ll either think I’m chatting her up or trying to steal her secrets.” Greg shook his head sadly. “You drive a bloody hard bargain, you know.”
Mycroft pulled out his filthiest grin and, folding his hands, leaned close.
“Oh, you’ve no idea how hard a bargain I can drive, when I’m given … incentive.”
Lestrade was on his feet so quickly that he nearly toppled his chair.
“Venti, extra sweet, regular milk, no whipped cream, yeah?”
Mycroft had the decency to wait until Greg was out of earshot before he began laughing.
___
I was in the wrong place
At the wrong time
For the wrong reason and the wrong rhyme
On the wrong day
Of the wrong week
Used the wrong method with the wrong technique
The wrong mix
In the wrong genes
I reached the wrong ends
By the wrong means
It was the wrong plan
In the wrong hands
The wrong theory for the wrong man
The wrong eyes
On the wrong prize
The wrong questions with the wrong replies
- Depeche Mode, “Wrong” (Songs of the Universe)