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“Funny,” Mycroft says, awkward and stilted and very much like a man out of his depth. Sherlock and John are carrying Mary away and Greg has no intention in interrupting that tense silence. “How we keep meeting like this.”
Greg doesn’t see anything funny about this situation at all, more shock and surprise and all of that good stuff, but Mycroft has always struck him as someone with stranger experiences than the average person.
“Your dinner appointment,” Mycroft starts, and Greg’s hit with an extreme case of déjà vu, like the innumberable other times this has happened before.
-
“Lestrade!” Sherlock actually looks delighted to see him—never a good sign, and Greg steels himself for the worst. “Just in time for once.”
“You called me.” He knows he’ll most likely regret asking, but he can’t help his curiosity, “In time for what?”
“To identify this corpse,” John says wearily, walking in to greet Greg in a friendly, civil manner. “Greg.”
Sherlock shoots John that offended glare Greg is so incredibly used to. “Officially identify,” he corrects, and John and Greg share a knowing glance. “With so many identifying characteristics, I’m surprised you couldn’t figure it out.”
John sighs the sigh of a man long resigned to his fate. “Yes, Sherlock,” he says. “You’re very intelligent—a god among mortals. Can we let the good Inspector take a look now, or do you need a little more time to preen?”
Straightening his back and crumping up his coat in a manner not unlike a ruffled bird, Sherlock sniffs haughtily. “There’s no need for sarcasm.” He turns around, coat whipping out around him in a technique Greg’s ninety-nine percent sure he’s practiced. “If you’d follow me, Lestrade.”
John gives him one of those helpless shrugs and Greg laughs. “In a particularly testy mood today, is he?” he asks, clapping John on the back as they follow Sherlock into the house.
“I banned chloroform from the list of allowed chemicals in the flat,” John says, calm and steady even when the subject is honestly alarming. “He was very insistent that his experiments may be useful in the future.”
Greg shakes his head, a little out of surprise, mostly out of sympathy. “Cheers.” John leads him into the house, only to be welcomed by the dulcet tones of Sherlock fiercely having a childish spat with someone. “This is the first decent case I’ve seen in weeks! You’re doing this just to punish me for not going to that stupid function of yours.”
There’s only one person for whom Sherlock stoops to this level, and god, if Greg never has to walk into one of these arguments again his life would be significantly improved.
“I would never co-opt government resources to satisfy a petty personal grudge,” Mycroft says, tone perfectly sardonic. “That’s insulting for you to imply.”
“This is absolutely the pettiness I would expect of you,” Sherlock snipes back. “This case is too much legwork for you, and too smart for your underlings. You’re going to end up throwing it off to me—you just want to see me suffer.”
John pushes in, courageous and infinitely more practiced in these situations. “Gentlemen,” he says pleasantly, and Greg follows in after him. “Let’s not ruin this lovely afternoon.”
“Inspector,” Mycroft says with a bright, fake smile. “Please avert your gaze from the corpse so we may avoid any needless complications.”
“Look at the corpse,” Sherlock argues. “Don’t listen to this prattle.”
They turn to each other to start bickering again when John cuts in. “Gentlemen.” He looks over at Sherlock, “Stop egging him on and maybe he’ll give you the case.” And at Mycroft. “You’re eventually going to give him the case, right?”
Sherlock sulks in the corner while Mycroft sighs and nods. “If the Inspector will kindly pretend this corpse doesn’t exist—it really is something we’d like to keep covered up—I’ll have the file passed along later today.”
“But then he won’t be able to verify the corpse’s identity!”
Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Still seeking adulation from the masses?”
“Do shut up, brother mine,” Sherlock snaps. He pulls at John’s arm, “I’ll leave you to do your thing.” He waves at Greg. “And he’ll be wanting to talk to you, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure,” Greg echoes, looking over at Mycroft. “I swear to never mention this incident ever again?”
Another one of those shiny smiles. “Lovely,” Mycroft says, leaving a very vacant, very pregnant pause between them.
Greg shifts his weight to the other foot. “I’ll just—be going, then?”
“Your dinner date may have a little too much,” Mycroft wrinkles his nose. “Baggage, for you,” he says.
“Um,” Greg says. “How do you—” Mycroft raises an eyebrow and Greg sighs as he shakes his head. “Right, well, we’ll see.”
-
For once, Sherlock’s the one to answer the door, impatiently waving Greg in, and he spots Mycroft sitting in the other chair. He can hear John busying himself in the kitchen, and feels the hair on his back stand on end.
“If you’re busy—”
“Don’t be an idiot, my brother never has anything of substance to say,” Sherlock interrupts.
“This is a case of importance,” Mycroft says patiently. “More important than that dull robbery case the Detective Inspector has brought you.” He smiles at Greg, shiny and brittle. “No offense to your work.”
Sherlock looks over at him with something akin to disappointment. “I thought you’d brought me something good.”
“I have!” Greg says, before he gets his wits about him. “And neither of you have even seen the case I’ve brought, how are you making assumptions already?”
“It’s obviously a hand-me-down from Gregson, who so abhors working with me that he begged you to do it in his stead.” Sherlock sighs. “He’s the only one to use those ugly folder tabs, and his cases are always so incredibly dull.”
Mycroft just shrugs. “I applaud the Yard’s new organizational method with the distinct coloring and labeling.”
Greg sighs. “I’d love to leave—but unfortunately, we really do need your help on this one. There’s a lot of pressure from the upper brass to solve this one.”
Sherlock doesn’t even look at him, too busy in his glaring match with his brother. “Fine, I’ll solve your case,” he says, “On one condition.”
He sighs again. “What is it?”
“My original client is very much absent, so you must substitute as a willing participant in this game between Mycroft and I.” And because he has no choice, Greg nods. “Lovely, now about your current paramour, the sweet blonde magazine writer Sergeant Donovan so happily set you on a blind date with.
“Sherlock,” Greg warns, but he doesn’t get too far when Mycroft intervenes.
“It’s your fifth date and you think it’s getting quite serious,” he says serenely. “You weren't so earnest when Sergeant Donovan first put you up to it—and you still think she’s too sweet, too good for you.”
“You’re going to take her to that nice restaurant you favor in an effort to impress her.” Sherlock tilts his head to the side. “Barrafina, was it?” Greg especially regrets being a man of habits at this moment. “She prefers red wines over whites.”
"She's a kleptomaniac, be careful to watch your cufflinks."
Greg frowns. "She won't be taking off my cufflinks." And then, "I'm not wearing cufflinks!"
"At a restaurant of that caliber?" Mycroft asks, while Sherlock tilts his head to the other side, "Not even on the fifth date?"
They both shake their heads. "You're either a prude or uninterested," Sherlock says.
"The latter," Mycroft confirms, "Notice the quality of shirt."
"I like this shirt," Greg immediately says.
Sherlock just brushes him off, grudgingly agreeing with his brother instead, "Incredibly lackluster, you're right."
"It doesn't matter if you like it if your date does not," Mycroft says gently, and Greg feels very condescended down to. "I would've went with that nice teal sweater you have instead."
Greg doesn't even pay them either a cursory look when he turns on his heel and leaves. Bunches of arses talking shit into the wind, they are. His shirt is perfectly presentable, thank you very much, and he’s sure Charlotte will think the same.
And he’s not a prude if he’s not expecting to spend the night at her place just because it’s the fifth date!
-
Greg’s always found Mycroft’s office—the one that he keeps being brought to, anyway—a little much. There’s nothing wrong with carefully cultivating an intimidating atmosphere, but the overly dim lights and artfully exposed cameras in the corners seem a little overboard.
“You might as well hang the heads of the men you’ve killed from the wall,” he says, and Mycroft looks up at him with a distracted smile.
“Pardon?”
Greg tries copying the pleasantly blank smile he’s seen Mycroft adopt countless times. “You have a unique eye for interior decoration.”
Mycroft blinks, looking around the room like he’s seeing it for the first time, looking almost embarrassed when he says, “Sometimes my assistants can be overzealous in their creativity.”
“Really,” he says dryly, leaning back into his chair. “Anyway, not much to report on Sherlock. He’s behaving himself for once.”
Mycroft hums. “He is, indeed.” He steeples his fingers, lets his head rest on them. “How have you found him adjusting to John Watson’s new relationship status?”
Greg blinks. “You mean to the fact that John’s married?” He shakes his head. “Honestly, pretty well, in some ways even better. Now he has two people he deems quick enough to drag on cases.”
“Exactly as your report says,” Mycroft says. “And how has John Watson’s new relationship status affected you?”
That’s certainly not a question Greg expected, and he splutters a bit. “Me? It hasn’t affected me at all.”
Mycroft looks almost disappointed. “You aren’t a man who is solely fulfilled by casual sex. You need a relationship with emotional substance along with the physical. Dr. Watson’s recent wedding has made you worry about your age, to rethink your desirability. There’s no reason to believe that.”
Greg can’t help the flush crawling up his neck. “Excuse me? I’m not some lothario taking advantage of the vulnerable—casual dating is how things work in this day and age!”
Shaking his head sadly, Mycroft just sighs. “Excuses won’t fill the void in your heart, Lestrade. And none of the people you’re ‘casually dating’ will be pleased to hear about your dalliances with others.”
Greg doesn’t even bother responding when he stands up and walks out, slams the door shut even when he can still hear Mycroft call out behind him, “You deserve better, Greg. You have life in you yet.”
-
Policework is fulfilling, don’t get him wrong, but sometimes Greg wishes he had a more peaceful job. Fortunately, he gets to block out most of the noise and mess inside his office, but that doesn’t make watching the constant stream of bodies outside his window any less hectic.
“Lunch this time, is it?” someone asks, and he nearly jumps out of his chair. He looks at the door, just in time to see Mycroft slip in and take a seat in front of him. “You’ll be late unless you finish the paperwork for those three cases in front of you.”
“Well, one of these is unsolved, so I won’t have to worry about that one for now.” He shuts the folder in front of him, discreetly trying to hide them from Mycroft’s gaze even when he most likely has access to the information in them already. “How can I help you, Mycroft?”
“A schoolteacher this time, I see. But you must be aware he has cats—and you’re allergic. Not the most synergistic match.”
“My love life is none of your concern,” he says. “Or Sherlock’s for that matter. Now what is it you need help with?”
“I had a peek at the case you gave my brother the other day,” Mycroft says instead. “He’s busy puzzling over it right now, I’m sure, but what you think to be a robbery turned into murder is actually two different cases. The groundskeeper did the robbing and the cousin did the killing.”
He smiles pleasantly while Greg can’t help but stare. “How are the online dating applications doing for you?”
“Just fine, thank you,” he says. “And while your tip on the case is very helpful, that still doesn’t explain your presence.”
“Oh, you know,” Mycroft says, and Greg doesn’t know, it’s why he asked the question in the first place. “Some small business with the Commissioner.”
Greg sighs, can’t help the curiosity winning over his sanity. “It’s never small business with you.”
“There’s a missing pearl and Interpol is quite eager to find it,” Mycroft shrugs. “I’m sure you’ve seen the papers and can make your hypotheses, but that’s really all I can say.”
The pearl of the Borgias, beautiful, valuable, and missing for years. “It’s in London?”
Mycroft smiles enigmatically. “Possibly,” he demurs, standing up and letting himself out of Greg’s office. “Good luck with your date, you might want to hide the coffee stain that’s made it onto your collar.”
Greg looks down, and fuck, there’s the coffee stain along with some crumbs leftover from his morning muffin.
-
"Your dinner appointment," Mycroft says, and Greg desperately wishes for the glass around them to crack and allow him the peace of drowning in blissful silence. "They'll inevitably say something both morally repugnant and offensive that will offend your sensibilities."
"How could you possibly know that?" he asks. "You don't even know who I'm going out with, I'm sure of it this time."
Mycroft raises that damned eyebrow. "Really, you doubt me?"
"Yes," Greg emphasizes, "Because I don't have a dinner date tonight, and even if I did, I'd cancel it considering the circumstances."
Mycroft furrows his brow. "Raincheck our dinner until next week, then?"
It takes a moment for Greg to work through the reasoning, but when he does he's a horrified if a little flattered. "You were going to ask me out tonight," he says. "This is incredibly inappropriate!"
"Morally ill-advised and offensive," Mycroft says, and does he sound smug? "Check and mate."
"We're not at dinner." He thinks about that for another moment. "We're not going to dinner."
Mycroft frowns. "I have some incredibly difficult to obtain reservations for tonight."
"Someone just died!"
"Yes, and you can criticize my lack of emotion at dinner," Mycroft says soothingly. He places an unwelcome hand on Greg's back and steers him onto the path out of the aquarium. "Doesn't that sound lovely?"
"No!"
Mycroft sighs. "Next week, then?"
Greg stares. "You're insufferable. This isn't some fake death you and your brother have concocted—"
"You think I lack empathy," Mycroft interrupts, eyes suddenly losing the cold flintiness that Greg had become accustomed, replaced with a stark weariness. "You must understand; in my line of work, sentiment can only be a detriment."
He shakes his head when Greg tries to protest. "What I have found," he says. "Is that it is very difficult to be sentimental, to be sad when you are frustrated." He twirls his umbrella, lets Greg splutter for a few seconds because was this all a distraction? "Neither today nor next week is an appropriate time for a dinner date. You know my number—do call if you ever want to feel frustrated again."
-
Mycroft looks startled when he sees Greg walk in, hurries to stand up and greet with him with a stilted handshake.
“Detective Inspector,” he says, and then, “Lestrade.” His brow furrows. “Gregory.”
“Greg,” he says. “And if you comment on my date or try to make assumptions of my thoughts based on the cologne I chose or the color of my pants or some other shit, I will walk out.”
“Greg,” Mycroft repeats, sits himself back down at the table and gestures for Greg to do the same. “Rest assured, I have no intention of chasing you away.”
“No, just chasing me away from all of my potential dates.” He sighs, almost collapsing into his chair. “Was any of the stuff you said about any of my dates true? Or was all of that soliloquy a farce to keep me single?”
Mycroft shrugs. “I didn’t have the resources to ensure one hundred percent accuracy, but all of my observations were based on fact.”
Greg sighs again. “And now I’m here,” he says. “At dinner.”
Mycroft smiles—something small and uncharacteristically sweet, something that looks heartfelt, by Greg’s measure, anyway. “And now you’re here.”