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Greg’s not 100% sure why he’d been stupid enough to let Sherlock of all people talk him into coming. Especially considering that the famous detective himself was decidedly absent and had obviously been over-looked an invite. Without even being in the room he had officially made Gregory Lestrade look an utter fool in front of not only his brother but a handful of high powered government officials and posh tarts. The wanker wasn’t even there to snivel and gloat about his obvious hoax.
Greg was going to kill him if he made it through the uncomfortable whispers and stares.
It had started a week ago, after listening to Sherlock reel off a list of what he stated were obvious deductions about some back-street drug dealer that had been killed by his high-end client over a missed shipment of Cocaine and a name drop to the wrong person. Anderson and Donovan had already left to detain the suspect when Sherlock turned on his heels without pause and made a show of inviting Greg to Mycroft birthday party the following weekend.
If Lestrade had been a cleverer man he would already have had suspicions over the invite. Although he knew of the elder Holmes they were hardly what one would call friendly with one another. Mainly one off phone calls at the end of each month to check in with Sherlocks state of mind—maybe the odd coffee house meeting when Mycroft had time to spare but their meeting had always been professional. Lasting up to an hour at most and they never spoke of anything outside of Sherlock and John; Greg didn’t consider himself someone that Mycroft would want to be in attendance of his birthday.
To say that the invite had come as a shock would have been an understatement; but Sherlock had done the dramatic over-bearing brother act and sulked and whinged about being forced to invite the Detective inspector on behalf of his brother. It had almost knocked him for six when Sherlock had announced that the theme was fancy dress, Greg couldn’t picture Mycroft Holmes out of his tailored suit and dressed like a pirate or his favourite superhero.
Sherlock had proceeded then to spend the rest of the week dropping hints about what Greg should wear; even calling in the big gun that was John Watson to ensure that Greg didn’t just make an idiot of himself but a full-blown wanker. The sneaky bastards knew full well what they were doing and Greg had stupidly fallen for it at every turn.
Tossers.
The entire cab ride had him fidgeting with the bright orange monstrosity; feeling every inch the fool but under the strict assurance that both John and Sherlock would be dressed in a similar fashion. A group act as John had cheerfully put it after his second pint. To be fair he had probably looked even more ridiculous in college, but he was an adult now and a high-ranking police detective. He’d been married and had a kid for god sake he was a grown man and should have gone with his better judgment and slipped into his safety suit.
Mycroft’s home looked as though he’d pulled up onto the set of Downton Abbey; maybe not that extravagant but compared to Greg’s one bedroom flat with the washing line hooked over the balcony and his bed push right up to the wall just to fit. Mycroft’s home was almost a mansion. He could hear the gentle thrum of classical music and after requiring assistance from the cabby just to get out of the passenger seat Greg had to double check he was in the right place. Especially when the doorman almost choked at the sight of him.
It was then that the true tragedy had struck. Awkwardly shuffling through the crowds of finely dressed attendees and flabbergasted serving staff; a bright blur of colour that drew snickers and sneers from finely tailored individuals and glamourous ballgowns. He received some of the most offending looks he had ever received and he’d been a police officer for half of his life. Some of the perps in holding could learn the true meaning of death-stare from Britons so called high society. Sherlock had played him like a fool and set him up for what was going to be the most embarrassing night of his life.
Kicking himself he had quickly retreated into the kitchen to take cover from everyone else and have a stiff drink. He could hear the whispers and feel eyes staring at him even through the walls—flicking on the light he dived for the first bottle that came to hand and took a hearty swig. It burnt the back of his throat and he growled Sherlock and Johns name around the top as Mycroft’s smooth voice filtered in over the jeers and jabs at Greg’s expense.
He was going to kill Sherlock and John when he saw them next.
When Mycroft stepped into the kitchen and closed the door behind him, Greg watched the older Holmes’ eyes trail across his costume; his brow arched in surprise and his mouth curved into a smile that was part disgust and part amusement. Greg sincerely hoped that Mycroft would see the funny side of Sherlocks gag and if not he wouldn’t hold too much against Greg, he was innocent in all of this at the end of the day.
"Detective inspector, you look... unusual?" Mycroft broached delicately, waving his hand in a manner that alluded to Greg’s choice of evening wear.
"Yeah, you can thank that brother of yours. I feel like a right pillock." Greg grumbled taking another swig from the bottle before Mycroft had chance to take it from him and set it on the counter.
"Yes, quite."
"I'm sorry I shouldn't have come. Sherlock has obviously set me up. I'll see you next month Mr. Holmes." Greg dismissed dipping his head in a farewell before making to move past Mycroft and put an end to his suffering.
"Nonsense Inspector, you’ve come a long way there’s no need to leave. You’ve brought a certain flair to the festivities after all." Mycroft laughed a little, taking two glasses down from above their heads and pouring a generous tipple of scotch into the base of each. “I believe that my brother has set us both up this evening.”
Greg turned back to him; an air of frustration circling over the already puzzled detective. He would never understand the Holmes brothers need to talk in riddles to and about one another. He could hear the party returning to its natural thrum as Mycroft extended the second glass out for Greg to take.
"I look like a bloody idiot."
"I can't deny that." Mycroft sniffed. "But I like it. I must congratulate Sherlock however, very creative if not very subtle.”
"Subtle? I'm dressed like a bloody Goldfish Mycroft." Gregory huffed, a light laugh to his tone at the ridiculousness of the situation. Had he not already been flustered enough, he would almost have recoiled at the way in which Mycroft flinched a little at the use of his name.
He threw his arms out to really highlight the garish orange suit, with its wide eyes and netted scales, orange leggings and two fins that could be manipulated from inside of the suit. It was cheesy and crass and Greg had turned his own nose up at it when it had arrived. The snaps he had sent John had all come back with stunning reviews even from Sherlock who had dubbed it to be ‘highly acceptable.’ Greg wishes that he wasn’t so easily manipulated by anyone. Had he come in his suit he would have flown right under the radar.
The look that Mycroft was giving him however seemed to soften the experience. He may look a total prat but at least he had Mycroft undivided attention.
"Quite." Mycroft smiled. “He’s been moaning for weeks about me having a Goldfish of my own, I hadn’t really given it much thought but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to keep hold of the one he’s provided for me this evening. It’s certainly better than that cupcake umbrella he brought last year.”
Greg flushed furiously at the comment. The bright orange of his costume only highlighting the scarlet creeping up over his throat. "I uh..." He stuttered for a second, shit, Sherlock wasn’t setting him up to make a fool out of him. He was trying to fix him up with his brother, Christ, shit, Jesus. Greg swallowed thickly and coughed to clear his throat and hopefully his stutter. He hadn’t been this nervous since prom.
"How about dinner tomorrow evening?" Mycroft offered, sipping at his scotch and smirking as Gregory fidgeted and grumbled about sneaky Holmes’ and sly army doctors.
Greg could only nod before throwing back the last of his scotch with a broad smile. He’d be mad to let Mycroft’s offer pass him by—even though he had never regarded the government official in that manner the phrase ‘punching above his pay grade’ suddenly rang in his ears, but before he could really panic and call the whole thing off Mycroft had re-filled his glass and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Excellent, come now Gregory let’s find you a bowl of water to sit in.”
Greg could only laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of his evening; perhaps the suit wasn’t all bad and maybe the next time an interesting case came across his desk he’d call Sherlock and not argue with him about protocol; as thanks.
He did kind of owe him now after all.