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“What do you know about him?”
“Who?” Greg frowned; the caller needed no introduction.
“The new flatmate.”
“You have a flatmate?”
“Very amusing, Detective Inspector.” Greg could tell Mycroft rolled his eyes.
“I don’t know the poor sod who moved into that hazard Sherlock Holmes calls a flat.”
“Why not?”
“He’s your brother, Mycroft.”
“And you are his…”
“Keeper?” Greg offered.
“My dear Lestrade,” Mycroft said smoothly, “You are his friend.”
Greg laughed.
“Kidnap him,” Greg continued. “It has been some time since you last did so.” Greg shivered despite himself, the memory of the warehouse unpleasantly vivid—cold, damp, and dull. Two hours alone with his thoughts. Waiting.
“I like the sound of that,” Mycroft murmured.
“Of course you do.” Greg rolled his eyes. “Now, if you don’t mind,”
“I shall allow you to return to your work.”
“Good luck with your kidnapping.” Greg ended the call.
Greg glanced up from his phone when the black car stopped.
“You bastard,” he grunted, seeing they were in a warehouse.
The car was waiting for him when he finished work. Assuming Mycroft wanted to talk about the new flatmate—and having nothing better to do that evening—Greg got in. He expected the usual, a nice restaurant, dinner and talk. Not this.
“We’ve arrived, sir,” the driver informed him politely.
“No.” Greg folded his arms. “Absolutely not. I’m not getting out.”
“Mr. Holmes is expecting you.”
“Like hell he is. He’ll leave me here as punishment. Not my fault his brother found himself a flatmate!”
“Sir?” the driver asked, clearly at a loss.
“Take me home,” Greg muttered.
“I’m afraid my instructions were—”
Greg had already opened the door. He stepped out, slamming it behind him.
“Holmes!” he shouted into the empty space.
The familiar click of an umbrella answered him.
Mycroft stepped out from behind a column, immaculate as ever.
“Lestrade.”
“I get that you’re angry,” Greg said, striding toward him. “But it’s not my job to vet your brother’s acquaintances.”
“I am aware.”
“Then why am I being punished?”
“Punished?” Mycroft echoed, faintly puzzled.
Greg gestured broadly at the warehouse.
“I happen to have access to this site until midnight,” Mycroft said mildly. “It seemed inefficient not to make use of it.”
Greg scrubbed a hand over his face. He knew Mycroft long enough to know he was joking.
“Can we leave?” he asked after taking a few deep breaths.
“You dislike it?”
“Yes.”
“I might be able to change your mind. Allow me to show you around.”
“You are completely mental.”
“So I am told,” Mycroft replied, pleased, already turning away. His umbrella clicked softly against the concrete.
Greg followed with a resigned sigh. “Met the flatmate yet?”
“Doctor John Watson. Former army, wounded in service. Recently returned.”
“Did you manage to scare him off?”
“No. Rather the opposite. He appears… fond of my brother.”
“Then there’s definitely something wrong with him.”
“By that logic,” Mycroft said, glancing back, “There must be something very wrong with you.”
“Careful, I might get myself checked in.” he tried to hide his smile. “I do deserve a vacation,” he mused. “Considering what Sherlock puts me through.”
Mycroft allowed himself the ghost of a smile as he opened a door. “After you, Gregory.”
Greg blinked. That was new, Mycroft haven’t used his given name before.
“What?”
He stepped through and stopped.
Tables. Candlelight. People dining as though this were not, in fact, an abandoned warehouse.
“What the hell?”
“A new establishment,” Mycroft said, coming to stand beside him. “I thought you'd find it amusing.”
Then, more softly, “Many happy returns, Gregory..”
Greg looked at him, surprised. “You remembered.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” Greg rubbed the back of his neck. “And...sorry, about earlier.”
“No apology needed."
“You knew she is out of town.” Greg resigned himself to spend yet another birthday alone, forgotten.
“I was aware,” Mycroft inclined his head toward the tables. “Shall we?”
Greg smiled. “Yeah. Let’s.”