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Mycroft knew Sherlock had spilled some beans, as they said, to DI Lestrade, and whatever it was had intrigued the officer. The last time he and the detective inspector had been in the same location, Lestrade kept looking at him speculatively. Damn his younger brother and his ability to cause trouble. He didn't have time to puzzle out the latest way Sherlock was trying to aggravate him, what with the goings-on in Lichtenstein at the moment. A more direct approach would be required.
Curiously, he'd recently had an unusual update from his brother's security team. Watson and Lestrade had several pub nights where they, for some reason, spent the evening talking about biscuits. That was an unusual enough occurrence that the conversation had been flagged for his attention, in case there was some kind of code involved. Clearly some of his younger agents didn't realize that older men might visit pubs for something other than finding sexual partners, and their resulting conversation might move to the domestic.
Combining the two observations, Mycroft invited Lestrade for tea. If he was interested in biscuits, biscuits he should have. Goodness knows the poor man put up with enough, with few rewards. A black car collected the DI from the Yard during a smoke break, and Mycroft welcomed him into his Diogenes Club office, nodding towards the man as he poured out cups from an antique china pot.
"Good afternoon, Lestrade."
"Tea? Thought something urgent was going on." Lestrade looked puzzled as he seated himself gingerly on the fancy furniture. He was never sure just how clean his coat was after a day at crime scenes. "And it's Greg."
After handing over a cup, Mycroft, with a flourish he couldn't resist, pulled the cover from a variety of biscuits placed attractively in arcs on a china plate. He handed Greg a small dessert saucer and asked, "May I offer you an accompaniment to your tea?"
The arrangement contained bourbons, chocolate fingers, hobnobs, custard creams, ginger nuts, and some kind of chocolate-covered round. Greg selected a bourbon and a hobnob as well as one of the mystery biscuits. Always interested in a new experience, he started by tasting that first.
The flavor burst on his tongue, sweeter and richer than he'd expected, with thick dark chocolate filling. He had to ask, after he swallowed, of course, "What's this? It's amazing."
"Oh," Mycroft preened a bit as he sat across from Greg. He enjoyed this minor display of his reach, his ability to acquire whatever he wished. "Those are Chocolate Olivers."
Greg briefly gaped, before recovering his company manners. "The queen's fave? The one that's impossible to get?"
"Well..." Mycroft drew out the syllable. He didn't need to respond to the question, obviously, as his biscuit tray answered for him. He cleared his throat. "Please, have another."
"Glad to. But you didn't abduct me just for some company, did you?"
"I was hoping, Gregory, that a more social environment might assist in answering a conundrum."
"Wait... aren't you having any?"
"Oh, I couldn't indulge."
Greg set his tea cup down with purpose. "Then neither will I." His stubborn refusal was clear on his face.
Mycroft knew to pick his battles. He formed his features into his polite smile of acquiescence. "If you insist." He rose and circled to the credenza behind his desk. He opened a drawer, took a dessert plate, and placed a small, plain, shell-shaped teacake on it before returning to his seat.
"Oh, you save the special ones for yourself, I see how it is." Greg grinned at Mycroft to take the sting out of his words. "What've you got, then?"
"A madeleine."
"How Proustian of you."
Mycroft took a moment to realize how much of a mistake it was to underestimate the normal-looking man sharing tea with him.
He cleared his throat and recaptured his self-possession. "It's true, they carry memories for me. I was first introduced to them in the country home of my French grandmother. Although simple, the delicate, light taste suited the season and our youth. Those summers were some of our happiest times." His gaze went soft as he looked at nothing, recalling fond moments, before his family hardened and shattered.
Greg let the silence continue for a moment, as he enjoyed another biscuit. Once done, he regretfully thought of the work waiting on his desk. He didn't like to disrupt this fragile mood of contentment between them, but needs must. "You mentioned something you needed my help with?"
"Oh, yes, of course." Mycroft refocused. "A minor thing, really. I have noticed that, after our last encounter, Sherlock revealed something to you, and I must ascertain, for security purposes, you understand, that nothing of significance was inadvertently compromised."
As Mycroft spoke, he noticed that speculative look had returned to Greg's face. Until he reached the end of his little speech, when the other man snickered.
Greg had heard enough Holmes blather in his career to release that they used more words when they were uncomfortable. Mycroft must not like knowing there was something he didn't know.
"'s not important, really, Mycroft, and I don't think you'd like what we were talking about."
"I really must insist."
"Alright, but remember you asked. Sherlock wanted to embarrass me, and you, but mostly you, by telling me... erm... that your collar doesn't match your cuffs, let's say."
Mycroft, with a puzzled expression on his face, turned his hands up and looked at where his shirtsleeves met his wrists.
"Not like that. It's a colloquialism." Greg sighed. "I really don't want to be in the middle of this between you two, but since you're not going to let this go... He said you dyed your hair."
Mycroft froze for a moment before turning away. How like his brother to be so petty and so cavalier with his business. "I see. Thank you for your time today, Detect--"
"No, don't think you do," Greg interrupted. He wasn't expecting this conversation today, nor for it to happen at this bizarre adult version of a tea party, but when would he have another chance? "You have nothing to worry about, but you should know why the subject came up." He swallowed and steeled himself. "He caught me looking."
"Looking at... what, precisely?"
"You."
"My brother has never had the most discretion, particularly when it comes to interpersonal relations, and particularly when it involves me. In short, I apologize for his presumption, and I'm sure he was mistaken." Mycroft stood up, prepared to end the meeting. This handsome policeman clearly didn't understand what he was saying. Although he didn't seem likely to let it go, either.
"Mycroft, listen to me, I'm the one telling you this." Greg didn't think this was going to end well, but he was determined that he wouldn't go out on a misunderstanding. He stood up to face the taller man. "I know what I was doing, and I know what I like."
"I think not." Mycroft wouldn't meet Greg's eyes.
"Look, go ahead, reject me, but I'm not going to let you think something that's not true. Now, thanks for the biscuits." Greg turned to leave when he felt a hand land lightly on his forearm.
Mycroft couldn't let a valuable asset be damaged through Sherlock's inappropriate revelations. He refused to think of what other motive might be involved. "Lestrade... Gregory... we should not part on poor terms. Would you be seated?"
Greg hesitantly sat back down, and Mycroft followed.
"One more biscuit, Mycroft, and then I have to go. Why don't you get yourself one, too?"
Mycroft stayed seated, hands primly crossed on his lap, eyes fixed on Greg's face. One indulgence at a time.
Greg ate a little faster than he should have, eager to leave the now-tense environment. As he took a last sip of tea, Mycroft finally spoke. "You have a crumb, in the corner of your mouth."
Greg's tongue swept across his lips, missing it. "Get it?"
"No..." Mycroft averted his eyes, but said, "Will you allow me?"
Greg nodded, fascinated by what might happen next. A long forefinger reached out, touching the crease at the corner of his lips. Before Mycroft could pull it back, Greg turned his head and kissed it.
Mycroft sat back. "That ok?" Greg roughly forced out. Mycroft nodded, slowly. The brave, foolhardy man deserved better than he, but he could recognize a rare opportunity.
He began pulling at the knot of his tie, loosening it, before undoing the top two buttons of his shirt underneath. He pulled his collar to the side, flashing Greg the sight of a smattering of chest hair. It wasn't particularly thick, but it was definitely auburn. Before Greg could completely appreciate the view, the shirt was rebuttoned and the tie straightened.
"I thought you might wish your curiosity satisfied." Mycroft murmured.
Greg blinked and shook his head before blurting out, "Takes more than that to satisfy me." The impulse to flirt always did get him in trouble.
Mycroft took up his challenge. "Perhaps... another time? Might you be available for dinner on Friday?"
"I'll make it happen," Greg agreed. He stood. "Really should be getting back." He looked at Mycroft, who had busied himself with the tea set. "You alright?"
"Mmmmm," came a hum of agreement. "I think I'll have another madeleine, Gregory. To remember."