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Greg was in A Mood. Slap a trademark on it. Register it and call it a day.
Not only had it been pissing down rain for days, meaning he’d stepped in an ankle-deep puddle and soaked his shoes and socks, but he’d spilled coffee on his shirt, tie and jacket. Greg had been forced to swap to the alternate set of clothing he kept in his office for emergencies; although sadly he didn’t have extra shoes. Unfortunately said clothing was from when he was a good ten pounds lighter. The snugness of his shirt was adding insult to injury. He felt like Sherlock--one deep breath away from busting his buttons all over the place.
Their court date for the Evans case had been rescheduled again. Donovan had a raging head cold and was grouchy and irritable, clearly spinning her wheels until she could go home. She’d been glancing at her mobile all day, reaching for it to try and text surreptitiously under her desk. Dimmock had apparently been shot down once more by a clueless Molly Hooper and was moping around the place like a wet weekend. Human Resources had sent round a packet a good two inches thick which he needed to read, absorb, notate and disseminate to his team. It was a day which called for extra caffeine, and sugar.
When he went to the coffee shop to pay for a much needed doppio and a slice of cake, there was not only no cake left, but he discovered that Sherlock had nicked his warrant card. Again. Steaming with barely suppressed irritation, Greg returned to his office, intent on splurging. Fuck it all, he was ordering in lunch for the team. He needed serious calories, fast. A drink would be better, but it was the middle of the work day.
Greg was not emotionally prepared to walk into his office and find Sherlock’s elder brother sitting patiently waiting in the chair opposite his desk. Proud that his steps didn’t falter, Greg raised an eyebrow at him, dropping into his creaky old chair. “To what do I owe the honour of a visit, Mr Holmes?”
Mycroft had asked him several times to please call him by his first name. Greg, feeling wildly contrary the first time, annoyed that not only had this high-handed posh boy in the thousand pound suit swooped in to whisk his brother away but to also abscond with Greg’s case, had refused. The time after that it had been a feeling of delayed guilt. Given how much of an arse he’d behaved, he didn’t think it was right to be on a first name basis. Mycroft had stopped asking after that. A certain coolness had been erected between them, and Greg had subsequently been aware of the bitter tang of regret on his tongue. If he’d handled it better, he might now be on friendly terms with him. Mycroft was...compelling. As it was, Mycroft Holmes tended to earn his moniker of Ice Man when they were forced to interact.
“Good morning, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft greeted him, not standing. Even though he knew past actions had earned him the slight, Greg felt a pulse of annoyance. Just once he’d like one of the Holmes brothers to view him with a little respect. Just once. Was that too damn much to ask? “I’m afraid it’s a matter of business.”
“As if it’d be anything else,” Greg muttered.
“Pardon?”
“I said, uh, anything I can do?” Greg cleared his throat and buried his nose in his cup, feeling the top of his ears warm, betraying him. Mycroft regarded him with a faint look of skepticism.
“Yes. It’s come to my attention that you’ve resorted to kicking my brother out of your crime scenes twice in the past month--”
Irritation boiling over into outright anger, Greg slammed his cup down, hot espresso slopping over his hand. He hissed, but it didn’t stop him. “Look, Holmes, I’ve had about enough of this! I don’t have to let your sodding brother onto my crime scenes at all! He is a consultant. He has no official capacity to be there at all. I’ve put up with a lot of shit from him over the years but I’m not standing for him abusing my team or me any longer.”
Mycroft was regarding him with startled eyes. He stood, and only then did Greg realize that he’d jumped to his own feet and was braced on his desk, snorting like an enraged bull. He caught sight of his team, gaping at them through the blinds, and a tiny voice urged caution, but Greg had had enough.
“He mocks and disrespects trained professionals, who are trying to find the truth. To serve justice. People who lose sleep, miss out on time with loved ones to do this job. We can’t just swan in and look at things, make deductions and sail off again! We have to collect the evidence--hard, factual evidence-- and document the case, follow the leads, testify in court. Not just fanny around in a coat, sneering at every one.”
“Detective I-”
Completely carried away now, vaguely aware that he might be growing hysterical, Greg points a finger at him. “No! Shut it!” In any other circumstance he would have been both horrified by his lack of manners, as well as amused by Mycroft’s gape-mouthed shock. Probably no one had ever treated the man like an errant toddler. “Sherlock’s stolen my warrant card again. The caff is out of cake. My socks are wet, the entire team looks like they’ve seen their puppy kicked in front of them, the courts are rescheduling me yet another bloody time! And here you come, whinging to me because I’ve kicked your brother out of my crime scene--rightfully!--and you, you--” Inarticulate with rage, Greg sputtered to a stop, suddenly aware that he’d probably stepped in it. Massively. Mycroft Holmes knows people. People like the Chief Super, among others. Fuuuuuck.
Adjusting his grip on his umbrella, Mycroft reached for his coat, which was hanging on the hook by Greg’s open office door. There was a breathless silence on the other side of that door, not even the clatter of keyboards, and Greg knew that everyone out there was listening for the fallout. “Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said with soft courtesy, “I came to apologize to you for my brother’s behavior. But I see that today is not a good day. My sympathies on what is, clearly, a very bad time for you. Good morning.” Nodding, he exited.
Stunned, Greg stared after him, face going red as his words rushed back to him. God. He’d just, just verbally crapped all over Mycroft Holmes. Who had, apparently, been here in some sort of humanitarian effort to apologize for his damnable brother. “Oh... fuck me up.” Could this day get any worse?
Drawing on every ounce of his dignity, Mycroft proceeded at a calm, unhurried pace through the office, nodding politely at a few of the DIs and DSs he recognized. Face inscrutable, he entered the lift, held the door politely for an older woman with her arms loaded with files, and rode down in silence. Back in his chauffeured car, he instructed the driver to return him to Whitehall.
“Not to Daphne’s, sir?”
“Er, no. Thank you. The Detective Inspector was not able to join me for lunch.” Mycroft was proud of how steady his voice sounded. Not nearly as forlorn as he felt. Good practice for when he returned to the office and had to face Anthea’s disappointment in him. After four years of wordless yearning over Greg Lestrade, he was finally to have made a friendly overture. The first year, Greg had been married. Unhappily, true, but married nonetheless. The second year he was involved in an on-again-off-again separation with his unfaithful and indecisive wife. The last two years had seen him break cleanly from that toxic and unhappy relationship, and receive his divorce.
Mycroft had waited, wanting to give the man time to recover from seeing his seven year relationship end. He’d waited, admitting that he was nervous. His own romantic history was erratic at best, and ancient, at worst. Despite Anthea’s less than gentle urging, he’d waited. Today, the day after the two year anniversary of Greg’s divorce decree, he’d come, using the valid but flimsy pretext of Sherlock’s atrocious behaviour as a reason for meeting the DI face to face. He’d finally been ready (mostly ready) to make an overture. To move their relationship from vaguely combative to, hopefully, friendly.
As one was prone to do when confronted with a difficult Sherlock--and really, was his brother ever anything else?--Greg had not been terribly receptive to Mycroft’s attempts to establish a friendly rapport between them. In the early days he’d asked that Greg call him by his first name, but it had been made abundantly clear that it was the last thing Greg wanted. Recognizing it best to retreat, Mycroft had withdrawn his tentative attempts at friendliness and instead maintained a civil approach on the occasions in which he needed to step in.
Today had been meant to be a fresh start. Sighing, he gathered his composure, hurried-without-hurry into the building and through security, and braved Anthea in her den. She looked up, saw him, narrowed her eyes and let her hands relax from their typing position on her keyboard. “Sir,” she said evenly.
“Anthea.” He smiled blandly, “As you can see, circumstances required me to return before times. I’ll be in my office, should you need me.”
Of course she followed him. Of course. I’m glad no one knows that ‘the most powerful man in Britain’ is cowed by his PA, he thought, despairing. Seating himself behind his desk, he snapped open his laptop, scarcely glancing up. “Was there something you needed?”
She closed the door behind her, clasped her hands at her waist, and regarded him with more disappointment than Mummy when he’d confessed that he would never be providing her with grandchildren. “Sir.”
“Anthea.”
They stared at one another. He began to sweat, lightly.
“I went to a great deal of trouble to secure the best table. Chef was going to make a special dish.”
“Your efforts are, as always, much appreciated.” He smiled. She did not. “Unavoidably, the Detective Inspector was unable to attend lunch.”
She glanced at the slim vintage Patek Phillippe watch on her wrist, arched a brow. “You were not gone for very long. I’m quite surprised you didn’t use your considerable powers of persuasion.”
“Some things are beyond even my abilities,” Mycroft said, more sadly than he’d intended. He sighed, “I do believe, Anthea, it is time to give up. The Detective Inspector’s perception of me is irreparably damaged.”
She snorted richly and rose, leaving the room without another word. Oh lord.
Crap. His day had gotten worse, and to top it all off, Greg not only felt the beginnings of a cold--thank you, Donovan--but he’d also been dealing with guilt. He’d...probably been more of an arse than Mycroft deserved. Okay, he’d definitely been more of an arse. Just because the man’s brother was insufferable didn’t mean that Mycroft was.
In fact, Greg had seen evidence to the contrary, more than once. Enough that if things had been different, he might have given in to the demands of his teeny, tiny crush and asked him to coffee. Having effectively shot that notion in the foot, his boat taking on water, his hopes sinking--his metaphors mangled--Greg had spent the rest of the day in an even more foul mood. Being able to leave at four hadn’t helped much in the grand scheme of things. But at least he was home now, in his comfiest pyjamas and thickest socks. Following a scalding hot shower, he’d downed an entire glass of orange juice almost without pausing for breath, and was now wrapped in his duvet on the sofa.
Trying to decide between pizza (faster) and scorchingly hot Indian (maybe it would kill the germs invading his body?), Greg started when his buzzer went off. Frowning, he shed his blanket and padded over to the door, pressing down the button for the intercom. “Yeah?”
“Got a delivery for a Greg Lestrade?”
Weird, he didn’t think he was expecting anything. He pressed the button, “Be right down.”
The delivery was definitely for him, couriered over, addressed properly and everything. Glancing at the sender, Greg felt his eyebrows rise. Back upstairs, he wrapped himself back in his duvet and struggled to open the envelope. Bemused, he stared at the items inside. His warrant card. A gift card for an extremely fancy patisserie. A business card with M. Holmes on the front. On the back, handwritten, a phone number and a brief message. Please call so that I may apologize.
Greg sat for a long time, considering the card, considering the morning. Tapping the card against his bottom lip, he weighed his options. He could ignore it, continue to act the obstinate ass. He could leave it until Monday. He could...he could call, issue his own apology.
Decided, he reached for his mobile, keying the number in before he could second guess himself. Frowning, he swallowed uncomfortably, aware that his throat was still irritated despite the juice. Ugh. He didn’t want to spend his weekend sick.
The ringing stopped abruptly and that smooth, cultured voice answered, cautious and polite, “Hello?”
“Mycroft?”
“Greg?”
He smiled a little. Mycroft had called him Greg. “Yeah, it’s me.” There was a little silence. Oh. Right. “I, erm, I’m calling to tell you that you don’t need to apologize. It’s on me! I was a dick today. I was having a bad day, but that’s no excuse. Thank you for the gift card. This patisserie looks well outside my pay grade.”
“You’re...welcome?” Mycroft seemed off-kilter somehow. “Um. I must protest, however. I assuredly owe you an apology. I know that sometimes my methods regarding my brother can be...heavy-handed...but it is only ever out of concern for his welfare. Not a reflection on you or your team.”
“Mycroft, I know, I get it--”
“Please, let me finish.”
He subsided.
“Today I was truly coming to offer my assistance in dealing with Sherlock’s recent transgressions. I know that he is hardly likely to listen to me, but I did want to assert that you were well within your right to have him escorted off of your crime scene.”
“Oh.” Christ, now he felt like even more of a heel. “Mycroft, wow. I’m genuinely sorry now that I blew up at you. I was having the worst day, but that’s no excuse.”
Mycroft made a commiserating sound, which was inexpressibly comforting. “I trust it is better now? Since the weekend has arrived.” He sounded tentative, and friendly. It made Greg’s heart ache a little, in a way he didn’t fully understand. He wondered if Mycroft was still at the office, at, god, seven, or if he too was home. Maybe similarly clad, ready to unwind and embrace the weekend.
“Sort of? I mean, I think I might be getting Donovan’s cold, and I’m a little bitter that it’s going to ruin my weekend. But I’m in my jim-jams, ready to order in, so that’s good. Gonna crack open my Hammer Horror Films box set.”
Mycroft made a faint noise, almost sounded like envy. Greg grinned, “You a horror fan?”
“I...confess a weakness for horror films, yes. The-the campier the better.”
“Me too,” Greg said happily, wriggling down on the sofa a little. He realized he was smiling at the ceiling. “Now I just gotta decide--pizza, or curry?”
Mycroft sucked in air, serious, considering. “Hmm. That is a dilemma. A nice hot curry might open your sinuses however, should they be in danger of blocking.”
“See? That’s what I was thinking. But. Cold pizza for breakfast.” Realizing after he spoke, that Mycroft had probably never eaten something so pedestrian in his life, he winced.
“I’ve never had cold pizza for breakfast,” Mycroft confessed. He cleared his throat, “Why should it be better than reheated pizza?”
Greg scoffed, “Reheated pizza? Ugh, the texture. It’s either soggy or tough. But cold pizza. Mm...delicious. Like cold Chinese food.”
“Good lord , sir,” Mycroft truly sounded shocked, “You eat unheated Chinese leftovers?”
“Um, yeah. The noodles are the best. Mm, flavour concentration.”
“Heathen.” But Mycroft sounded as if he were smiling. “Well...I, I’ve taken enough of your time. I should let you decide on your dinner and see to my own.”
“Oh. Yeah. ‘Course.” Greg cleared his throat, “Sure. Listen, thanks again for--well, for coming to apologize and then for still apologizing after I bit your head off.”
“It is truly of no moment,” Mycroft said, a trifle stiffly. He was silent, and Greg hesitated, not sure how to end the call.
“Alright then...have a good weekend.”
“You as well, Greg.”
Hanging up, Greg realized he was smiling again. Well, if nothing else, he was no longer Detective Inspector.
Hanging up, Mycroft banged his head against his refrigerator door, muttering. Aware he was going to brain himself, he stopped, forehead pressed against the cool stainless steel. “Anthea,” he muttered. Curse the woman! She couldn’t help but interfere.
Although...it wasn’t a terrible thing. Greg had apologized! He had allowed Mycroft to apologize! There had been banter and even a comradely laughter. Had Mycroft been a different man he might have done a celebratory jig. As it was, he opened the freezer, took out the small container of high-fat peanut butter and ganache gelato he had stashed in the back and dug out a large spoonful. Dessert before dinner, tonight. Just a small celebration.
Sending off a tart text to his PA, Mycroft wandered into the lounge. Perhaps he would dig out his own box set of Hammer films and indulge in an orgy of calories and horror. He very nearly texted Greg to let him know, but stopped himself. Pleasant though their interaction had been, they were not the sorts of people who texted one another.
Settled, he savoured another spoonful, and placed an order for dinner, wondering what Greg had chosen for himself. Again, he nearly texted, but refrained. An hour later, gelato tucked back in the freezer, plate of lamb shawarma on his lap, Mycroft glanced absently away from the telly when his phone pinged. Most likely Anthea, or perhaps work. Sighing soundlessly, he paused the film and reached for his mobile, preparing himself for a return to duty.
To his immense pleasure, it was an image from Greg Lestrade. A picture of a slice of pizza draped on a plate next to a heap of what appeared to be a chicken curry. A moment later a message came through. Couldn’t decide. Got ‘em both. Had your dinner yet?
Mycroft wiped his fingers on his napkin, nervously licked at the garlic sauce on his lips and then considered a reply. Friendly, but not effusive. Something to encourage a reply. When in doubt, go for both. I opted for shawarma and chips. He attached a picture of his half eaten shawarma, paused, sent another, before he could second guess himself. Care to hazard a guess as to which Hammer film I’m currently watching?
Looks great! was closely followed by Oooh...you’re a man who likes order. So? The Curse of Frankenstein.
Guilty as charged. I DO like order and reason.
Nothing wrong with that! I’m watching The Mummy right now.
Ah, Mycroft absently took another bite of his food, nibbling on a chip, always an excellent choice. He fiddled with his phone, unsure what to say next. The problem was taken out of his hands as a series of texts came through from Greg. Smiling in relief, he pressed play on the DVD and tapped back a reply; he might be somewhat awkward at conducting a friendship, but luckily Greg appeared to have things well in hand.
Greg felt physically crappy when he woke up; a late night hadn’t helped his burgeoning cold. But he was still feeling pretty good, all things considered. All because Mycroft Holmes had spent hours texting with him. Shuffling into his kitchenette, seeking coffee and painkillers, Greg realized he was smiling. After washing down the pills with a full glass of water, he poured himself some coffee and stretched out in his recliner, wishing for a cigarette. Flicking through his phone, Greg found he was smiling even more broadly; it had been a pretty fun night, and made him wish he wasn’t under the weather. Otherwise he would have been tempted to invite Mycroft to join him for a pint later today.
He couldn’t do that, but he could open lines of communication. Second cup of coffee finished, Greg loaded a plate with pizza slices and snapped a quick picture. Sending it off to Mycroft, he grinned, wondering what kind of reaction it would get him.
He didn’t expect an immediate reply, nor did he get one. About a half hour later his mobile alerted him to the arrival of a new message, and Greg snatched it up. He laughed out loud. A close up of an arched eyebrow above four words.
You are a heathen.
Maybe, Greg replied, sending back a picture of him taking a ferocious bite of pizza, but i’ve got a great brekkie.
How are you feeling this morning, Greg?
Eh. not great. But i’ll live. My plan is lots of naps & pills, maybe switch to hot soup after this.
If I have any in the house.
Crap, looks like i dont. No lemsip either.
Fuuuck i dont wanna go to the store (yes, im whining)
Mycroft’s reply came quickly. Can I perhaps help you by arranging a delivery to your home?
Naw you don’t have to do that. Thanks though. Think I’ll have a hot shower and venture out in a bit.
If you’re quite sure.
Yeah, but thanks.
Warmed by Mycroft’s kindness, Greg finished his pizza and then headed to take that shower. The hot water would help, as his sore throat was passing but his head was beginning to become congested.
A hot shower did help, and he lingered for longer than normal, resting his forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall and letting the scalding water pound against his head, neck and shoulders. As he toweled off, Greg kicked himself for not taking Mycroft up on his offer, or at least having the sense to place his own grocery order before he spent half an hour in the bath.
Dressed in joggers and a soft t-shirt, he composed a list. Soup, more tea bags, milk, cereal, lemsip, lozenges, tissues, Gatorade. Maybe some crisps and sweets, as he always got snacky when he was sick. Blowing his nose, Greg was searching for socks when his buzzer rang. He had to clear his throat before he could get his voice to cooperate, “Yeah?”
To his immense surprise, he heard Mycroft tentatively announcing himself. Stuttering out an answer, Greg buzzed him in and hastily finished scrubbing at his wet hair with the towel, hoping he didn’t look like a lunatic. At least he was clean, with freshly brushed teeth. Plastering on a smile, he opened the door and watched Mycroft, bags in hand, mount the stairs. “Come in.”
Mycroft passed him, smiling awkwardly. “Good morning.”
“Hey.” Greg realized he was staring, and shut the door. “Not that I’m not glad to see you-- I am --but what are you doing here?”
Fiddling with his scarf, Mycroft hemmed, “Oh, I erm, well. You mentioned you hadn’t anything in and I really did feel the need to apologize for the misunderstanding--”
Greg interrupted him, even though it was rude, “Mycroft! I told you last night that you didn’t need to.”
“Nevertheless.” He held out two reusable canvas bags, “Soup, lemsip, painkillers, and a few sundries I thought might come in handy.”
Greg peered into the bags, looked up at Mycroft with round eyes, “You...you didn’t have to do this!”
Mycroft flushed, “It truly was no trouble.”
“Just had all this lying around yours, did you?” Greg asked skeptically.
“It was but a quick stop at the store.”
Hard to imagine him in Tesco’s, wandering the aisles. But then, Mycroft was like Sherlock in that he could probably find himself on his feet wherever he went. “Thanks, mate.”
“You’re welcome.” Mycroft shifted, seemingly ill-at-ease. “I-I should get out of your hair.”
“Couldn’t make it look any worse than it does,” Greg joked, plunging a hand through it.
“Pardon?”
“It’s a bit of a mess,” Greg shrugged, smiling. He didn’t imagine the warm skim of Mycroft’s eyes over him, the way they lingered over his face and hair. His breath came a little short, and it had nothing to do with his burgeoning cold.
“On the contrary, it is...quite charming.” Mycroft blushed and Greg echoed him. They stood, warm with blushes, glancing at one another and away. “Well, as I said, I should be going…”
“You could stay,” Greg offered recklessly. “I have a fresh pot of coffee made and I don’t know about you, but I didn’t finish the box set last night.”
Mycroft looked a trifle bowled over. “That is most kind of you, Detective Inspector.”
“Come now, we were doing so well,” Greg smiled. “It’s Greg, remember.”
“Greg, yes. Well, as I was saying--”
“I’m a sick man,” Greg said pitifully, pulling out a fake cough, rounding his eyes. “You wouldn’t deny a sick man, would you?”
Mycroft smiled helplessly, “You, Greg Lestrade, are a dangerous man.”
“I was under the impression that you are the most dangerous man in London,” Greg teased.
In some manner which he had not yet grasped, Mycroft found himself, shoes and coat off, sitting on Greg’s sofa, drinking coffee and binge-watching horror films. Greg dozed off a few times, snug under his duvet. Mycroft turned the sound down each time, sitting quietly, aware of Greg’s slightly rough breathing, the intimacy of sharing space with a sleeping person. He felt that he should have left, but didn’t want to disturb the other man.
Every time Greg woke he apologized but told Mycroft he needn't leave. Given that he didn’t really want to, Mycroft acquiesced easily. When Greg’s stomach grumbled, Mycroft offered to heat up some of the soup. He toasted bread and arranged it on a plate with grapes and sliced apples. Greg was very thankful, and Mycroft imagined that, like himself, he would be grateful to have someone do little things for him when he was under the weather.
Lunch digested, Greg fell asleep once more, and he napped so long that Mycroft didn’t queue up another film, but instead slipped into the kitchen to wash the dishes and clean out the coffee carafe. Tidying the kitchenette, he decided he’d just place an order for the list of items Greg had jotted on a page on the refrigerator. Having seen, while preparing lunch, a few things running low, he took the liberty of adding those as well. When he heard Greg stirring, he ventured back out to the lounge, announcing that it was time for him to leave.
Despite Greg’s flattering protest, his eyes were heavy and Mycroft stood firm. He confessed, in a fashion most cowardly, via text, after he had left, that Greg could expect a delivery. Greg fussed at him for being too generous, and Mycroft blushed with pleasure. It was rare that his efforts on behalf of others were verbally appreciated--or appreciated at all. Sherlock considered him an interfering sod, except when Mycroft’s influence was to his benefit. His parents took his efforts for granted. The government, those of them who knew who he was at all, considered it all Mycroft’s duty.
It was quite nice to be looked at as a saviour and a “star” and not a plod, shadow or ‘just Myc.’ The mere fact of it put him in such a good mood that he didn’t even reprimand Anthea for sending his card to Greg. Look what wonders had come of it.
The gentle glow of Greg’s approbation carried Mycroft through the weekend, as did the gentle texting between them. He actually returned to work Monday feeling rather refreshed and ready for the challenges of the day. While that feeling dimmed rather quickly, getting a text from Greg after lunch telling him he was back at work and feeling nearly normal made him smile.
By teatime he was grumpy. Work was miserable, everyone he encountered was an idiot, and he suspected he was sickening for Greg’s cold. By bedtime he was certain of it.
Mycroft struggled through Tuesday, growing steadily worse. Anthea finally sent him home at the end of the day, insisting he remain at home, threatening him with dire consequences if she caught his cold. As she was the only one who knew the shop with the really tasty sandwiches he indulged in once a month, Mycroft prayed she remained symptom free.
Normally Mycroft balked at being told what to do, but he was feeling most wretched. This day he was all too grateful to return home, where he could shamble into a shower, slither into his pyjamas and crawl into bed. Waking, hours later, from a nap, he lay in his darkened bedroom, blinking sleepily at the ceiling, trying to decide if his needs were urgent enough for him to leave his cozy mattress. Deciding that they were not, he rolled over and had nearly drifted back off when his mobile vibrated on the bedside table. Heaving a sigh from his toenails, Mycroft rolled back over, grudgingly picked up his phone and checked his messages.
His heart bounced alarmingly inside him when he saw the message was from Greg. Blinking away his drowsiness, Mycroft sat up so quickly it made him dizzy.
Hey Mycroft, hope you’re feeling alright. I called by your office earlier to ask you to dinner but Anthea said she’d sent you home with your marching orders. Really sorry if I got you sick :(
Mycroft’s fingers shook a little as he typed a reply, finding that he had to back up and correct his spelling and spacing more than once. Good heavens. Heavens, don’t apologize. I was the one who thrust myself upon you when you were home ill. If it is anyone’s fault, it is mine.
Still. Feel bad. Can I make it up to you by bringing you anything?
That isn’t necessary.
You sure? Be happy to bring you anything you need. I’m a pretty good delivery boy :)
A smile! Mycroft willed his desire for Greg’s company to shush. Heavens, his desire for Greg, full stop. I believe I have everything I need here. Except you, he thought, but didn’t add.
Even company? Told mine is pretty good ;)
It actually took a moment for Mycroft’s brain to process the symbol. A winky face? What did it indicate?! Curse his unfamiliarity with modern texting etiquette. Was this normal? Did friends wink at one another? Was he blushing for naught?
I couldn’t ask that of you.
You didn’t! I offered! :D
Good God! A grin. Greg was--he was, yes, he was flirting. With him. With Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft’s butt may possibly have done a little wiggly dance of happiness. It’s undocumented, unverified information and he’s not telling.
It would be churlish of me to refuse.
Dare he?
;)
It appeared he dared.
It was not a fever or fatigue which left Mycroft floating on air when he returned to the office two days later. He’d had a wretched cold, but spent it most enjoyably, if Anthea’s sources were correct, in company with the winsome DI Lestrade.
The company of said Lestrade seemed to agree strongly with Mycroft, who was smiling as he topped off his tea cup. Anthea, sniffling discreetly, hid a smile in her lace-trimmed hankie. Truly, it was glorious to see the dear man so unrestrainedly happy. She firmly intended on making sure he remained so. Come hell, high water...or this blasted cold!
Mycroft freshened her cup and nudged it closer. “My dear, I do wish you would go home. You’re clearly sickening for the same cold.” He frowned, taking away the delightful new light in his eyes, “I’m heartily sorry to have infected you.”
Anthea swallowed past the irritation in her throat, which had worsened since that morning, weakening. “Well…perhaps I will leave early.”
“An early start to the weekend will do you good,” her boss fussed, looking relieved. He really was a sweetie, under his prim exterior. “Don’t worry that I shall call upon you this weekend, either. I, erm, have plans.” He went delightfully pink, and Anthea repressed a girlish squeal, fingers itching to send off a flurry of excited, confirming, texts.
“Oh?” She tidied her files, tamping down her excitement, “I didn’t see anything on your calendar, sir.”
He went pinker still, “No...it’s...personal.”
Personal. The man had a personal life, at last. Anthea jammed a metaphorical steel boot on the yelping puppy inside her and smoothed her expression. “I’m glad to hear it. Let us hope for both our sakes that the world at large behaves itself.”
His expression was severe, “It had better, if it knows what’s good for it.”
Riding in the chauffeured car home, Anthea permitted herself to ease off her pumps and lay her head against the seat back. Deciding against a text, she massaged her forehead while waiting for the call to ring through.
“Donovan.”
“It’s me." Anthea felt the smile rise out of her like a balloon, released to the air. "It worked. They have plans together this weekend." She laughed, suddenly free to express her delight. "Sally, it worked!"