Chapter Text
“So, Greg… what’s it like being married to Mycroft?” John takes a sip of his beer and looks around at the comfortable yet expensive furnishings in what Greg calls ‘the cave’. “Besides the obvious perks, that is.”
Greg gives the match playing on the telly a long look, then shrugs at John. “Same as being married to any other bloke, I suppose.”
“That’s a terrible answer,” John laughs.
“It’s all I’ve got, mate.” Greg sighs. “There are so-called perks, like a gigantic telly, being able to watch any match I’ve a mind to, and my favourite beer always on hand, but I don’t see what the big deal is, honestly. I met a chap, fell for him, married him. End of.”
“End of, my arse. You were married to a woman -”
“Bi-sexuality is a thing, John.”
“Yeah, cheers, I know that. I’m just saying, one day, you’re married, then divorced, and you were spending weekends in Dorset, getting a leg over with some bird who ran the beach hotel, then you show up in Baskerville, and the next I hear, you’ve married Mycroft! I mean… kidnapping, all-seeing, all knowing, creepy Mycroft Holmes. Married to him, Greg. Living in this… mansion with him, and all that. Not just shagging him at the weekend.”
With a grin, Greg downs the rest of his beer, and stands up. “I do shag him at the weekend. And during the week, when I get a chance. Want another?”
“God, yes, since you’re really giving too much information,” John says, handing over his empty bottle. “And when you get back, you’re going to tell me how you, who never met a bird you didn’t want to shag on the first date, ended up married to Sherlock Holmes’ powerful, pain-in-the-arse brother.”
“Yeah, fine, fine… but I guess I’d better offer you something to eat, because it’s a long story, and the way you’re going on, you’re going need some food so you don’t swoon. You like shepherd’s pie? Or are you good with the crisps?”
John frowns. “You made shepherd’s pie?”
With a blush, Greg ducks his head. “No, ah… the, ah… housekeeper made it in case I got hungry while watching the match.”
“Housekeeper,” John repeats.
“Yeah, well… You want some or not? It’s really good. She’s from Devon, the housekeeper – name’s Gail, and she’s been with Mycroft for a bit, but now that we’ve married, she doesn’t come round to cook as much, just on weekends to make Sunday roast, but when she-”
“Greg,” John cuts in, “it’s all fine. Really. I’m not judging you… I’m just… well, you have to admit this is a bit of a turn up, you marrying Mycroft Holmes, having a housekeeper, and living in a bit of luxury. I’m just curious to know how it came about. That’s if you don’t mind telling me…?”
“Of course not,” Greg replies, and lets out a breath of relief. “Just didn’t want you to think it’s about all this.” He waves a hand at the room. “It’s good and all, but not why I’m here, you know?” At John’s nod, he smiles. “So, I’ll dish up some food, and tell you all about how me and Mycroft got together. And just so you know, it was Sherlock who put us on to each other. I don’t think he really meant to, but on some level, I think he figured that we’d be good for each other, despite our… differences. Yeah… your little consulting detective is a pretty good matchmaker, when he puts his mind to it.”
***
I jog up the steps at Baker Street, case file in hand. Sherlock promised to look over the details to see what I’ve missed, which is everything important, according to him. He’s bored because John’s off at a conference, or his latest girlfriend’s flat or something for a few days. And since a bored Sherlock makes me nervous, I figured I’d keep London safe by offering a case to keep him busy.
At the top of the steps, I see Sherlock sitting on the sofa, frowning at his brother, who is seated in John’s chair.
“Ah, here you are, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, and he sounds like he’s trying not to break out in to laughter. “Fate has provided a solution to your problem.”
Mycroft looks over at me like I’m something he’s stepped in. “I beg your pardon?”
Sherlock groans and flings a hand in my direction. “You are in need of a man. Gaylord is a man.”
“Really, Sherlock?” I sigh, and drop the case file on the table near his cup of… something that looks like tea, but is probably piss or something just as foul. I know better than to ask, though. “Gaylord is the most ridiculous name you've come up with so far. Now… you said if I got here in twenty minutes, you would look at the case and give me your opinion. I made it in fifteen.”
“I don’t have ‘opinions’; I deal in facts.” Sherlock grabs the file, and looks through it. “I suppose I can assist you, Lestrade. But first, my… brother (and he says it like he’s just smelled something off) would like to ask you something.”
“And he can’t speak for himself?” I turn to Mycroft. “Mr. Holmes?” And yes, I call him that. It’s not like he’s ever invited me to call him anything else. (Though when I’m in the shower having a wank, he’s Mycroft. Hopefully, he’s not got my shower bugged, and will never know.)
***
“Wait one second.” John sets down the forkful of shepherd’s pie that was headed to his mouth, and gapes at Greg. “You’ve had a wank in the shower while thinking about Mycroft? Before you married him?”
“Yes,” Greg says with a shrug. “Have you seen him?”
“Mycroft Holmes? I have seen him. He’s…”
“My husband, so watch it.”
“No, no… it’s… he’s… you had a wank?”
“You’re very interested in me having a wank, John…”
“I’m not!” John rubs at the back of his neck, feeling the heat of the blush that’s creeping up his collar. “I mean, you’re not a bad looking man, but I’m just… Mycroft?”
“Yes, Mycroft. Long, long legs, pretty freckles… you’ve only seen him kitted out in suits, but let me tell you, he’s got the greatest arse! Round and pert, and bouncy when I-”
John holds up his finger in warning. “No.”
Greg shakes himself, and focuses on John. “Sorry. Are you going to let me finish or not?”
“Go on, then,” John sighs, “but not too many details about wanking, or Mycroft’s… whatever, yeah?”
“Don’t be a prude, John. You were in the army…you mean to tell me you’ve never had a wank thinking about some of those hot new recruits?”
John blushes. “Nope.”
“Liar.”
“Just go on, and leave off about Mycroft’s arse.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing…” Greg lets out a lascivious chuckle, then clears his throat at John’s stern look. “Right. So as I was saying…”
***
“Detective Inspector.” Mycroft’s tone is crisp and formal, as ever. “How are you this evening?”
“Fine. And it’s Greg. In case you’ve deleted my first name as well.”
“I would never do anything as trite as delete something,” he sniffs. “I am well aware of your name, Gregory.”
Of course the pompous git would say my name like that. Reminds me of those snooty toffs from fifth form, with their bullying one minute, wanting you to suck their cocks in the cleaner’s cupboard in the next. “Just Greg, thanks.”
“Your parents named you Gregory,” he says with a tisk. “Gregory Allain Francois Lestrade, in fact. Named for your mother’s favourite film star, your maternal grandfather, and your father’s brother, a former police constable in Surrey, who was wounded in the line of duty.”
“Oh, great… you’ve done your homework. But if you don’t mind moving it along bit – I’ve got a case, and need to get back to it.” It’s rude of me, but him being all-knowing and smug really grates on my nerves.
“Ah… already put out?” His tone has shifted from crisp and formal to sleek and oily, and I hate that tone even more. “What have I done to earn a place of dishonour in your Holmes hierarchy?”
“Well, for one, you’re being insincere. I’m not as sharp as you lot, but I’ve interviewed my fair share of suspects, and know bullshit when I hear it.” I take a quick, deep breath, and let it out slowly. “So, let’s just cut to the chase, shall we? What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”
Sherlock snorts, but thankfully doesn’t comment.
“While I am insulted to be put in league with your ‘suspects’,” Mycroft says with a primness I don’t think any other bloke could pull off, “I won’t belabour our interaction, since you are obviously in a snit. I was wondering if you had plans for Friday evening.”
I open my mouth, then snap it shut. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t him asking that. Maybe I misheard him. “What?”
“I find repeating myself so very tedious.” Mycroft looks at Sherlock, and shakes his head. “Goldfish.”
“Best of a bad lot, really.” Sherlock chucks the folder back on the table, and throws a smirk Mycroft’s way. “And you can’t afford to be picky at this late date, can you?”
“Stating the obvious, Sherlock.” Mycroft studies his nails for a moment, then looks at me again. “I am in need of a companion on Friday evening, Gregory. Would you like to accompany me to dinner?”
“You what?” I feel a flush creeping up my neck at the… shit. Mycroft Holmes just asked me on a date. “You want me to go out with you? Seriously?”
“‘Go out’ is such a childish term, and is far from what I’m asking,” he huffs. “Are you free?”
Oh, hell. Shower wanks aside, Mycroft Holmes is far off from the type of bloke I’d go after. Not that I didn’t feel a bit of a tug toward him from our first meeting, but I’m not stupid enough to think he’d be up for getting hot and sweaty between the sheets. At least not with me.
At that first meeting, there was just something that made me want him, even though I was cuffed to a chair, and he was being menacing and all. It was a bit hilarious, because we both knew that he had no intention on harming me, despite him threatening to do just that. I was sold as soon as the blindfold was taken off, and I saw him. Might have been the power, or the icy demeanor that got me, but I try not to analyse it too much. I do love a challenge, and can only wish that I could be the one to unleash all that passion hiding under those expensive suits, but he’s way out of my league. I can hardly see him hanging out in the pub, or watching a match, so I’ve put him firmly in the ‘no’ category.
Doesn’t stop me from thinking him more than I probably should. Imagining him, with his pale, freckled skin, and long, long legs stretched out on a soft bed with dark, silky sheets, watching me with those intense blue eyes really gets me going. I think about this a lot, but I know better than to think he’d be interested in me in that fashion. He’s probably not truly interested in anyone, for that matter, since he enjoys toying with people, and wouldn’t know how to have a real relationship if it slapped him on the arse. And I’m no glutton for punishment, so… “No.”
“No?” How he manages to frown and lift his eyebrows at the same time is a mystery.
“Thank you for asking, though.” I figure a bit of politeness will go a long way toward him not kidnapping me, and leaving me tied up in a dark, dank warehouse near Battersea. “I’m flattered. Really.”
Sherlock snorts again. “Strike one.”
“Hush, Sherlock,” Mycroft admonishes, then to my surprise, he smiles at me. “Gregory, I haven’t mentioned any details.”
“You haven’t,” I shrug. “But we’ve been dealing with each other for seven years, and in all that time, you’ve never given me the time of day, except when it suits your purposes. So, you asking me to go somewhere with you is not a good thing. Not at all.”
“And why would that be?” he demands.
“Well.” I take a deep breath, and mentally kiss my arse goodbye. “You’re… well, ah… you’re a bit creepy, Mr. Holmes, and – you smiling like that is rather sc -”
“Mycroft.”
“What’s that?”
“My name,” he says. “If you’re going to break my faults down to the lowest common denominator, we should be less formal, don’t you think?”
I duck my head in shame, because it isn’t my intention to offend him, just… “Mister… Mycroft… it’s not my intention to insult you. All I’m saying is that it’s a bit out of the blue, you asking me to go somewhere with you. You’re a bit… much, with the kidnapping, CCTV watching, damp warehouses in the middle of the night, ominous phone calls, and all sorts of insanity. It’s no wonder you can’t get a date.”
“I beg your pardon.” Mycroft straightens in the chair, and gives me the haughtiest look I’ve ever seen. “I can ‘date’ anyone I choose, should I deign to do so.”
“Right.” Sherlock laughs, and takes up the file again. “Strike two.”
“I’m asking you,” Mycroft continues, “because you’ve already been thoroughly vetted, and I've been advised that you have an amazing capacity for pretending, which will come in handy in acting as my… ah, boyfriend.”
“Your what? Oh, no... I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Well, if I’m to convince my mother to stop trying to marry me off, I should be in a steady relationship, correct?”
“But-“
“It’s not as if you’re seeing anyone right now. Well, not since the shocking discovery that the woman you’d been communicating with through the, ah, Cuddles for Coppers dating website was actually a man. Not that it bothered you in that sense – just the deception, right? Seems that you would be eager to be wined and dined, since the man in question turned out to be wanted for forgery.”
“Oh, you can just sod off,” I snap, embarrassed that my business is so easily accessible by this family of nutters. “I’ve got work to do, so if we’re done here…I hope not to talk to you any sooner than I have to.” I turn to Sherlock, whose shoulders are shaking as he laughs behind the folder. “Sherlock, are you done with the file?”
“Wait.” Mycroft gets to his feet smoothly, and takes a few steps toward me. “Please.”
“What?”
“This is… well, to be honest, I didn’t expect to be turned down.”
“After an invitation like that?” I laugh, sharp and loud. “Who wouldn’t want to go out with you?”
He ducks his head, and manages a sheepish look. “Apologies. It’s… I’m out of practice.”
“Practice?” Sherlock scoffs. “Strike three. I do believe you’re out, brother mine.”
Mycroft ignores him and raises his eyebrows at me. “You were saying..?”
“Rudeness aside,” I say, “you have to admit that this is all a bit…” I wave a hand in the air. “Surreal. A man I’ve never even had a coffee with is asking me to go on an outing with him. On Valentine’s Day. By basically calling me a loser. Very flattering, that.”
“Valentine’s Day?” Mycroft says, and his voice has gone up at least two octaves. “That’s even worse. Mummy will… oh, dear lord… Lestrade… Gregory, you must help me. I’ll make it well worth your while.”
Best to keep it simple. “No, thank you.”
“I haven’t mentioned a figure. Or any type of recompense for your time.”
“You’re an important man, Mr. Holmes. I’m sure there’s a name or two in your black book that is on standby should you need her. Or him. Them.” Shit. I clear my throat again. “Whoever. I'm not judging.”
“It sets a bad example for me to abuse my...ah, position in such a fashion. It would make me vulnerable, and I do try hard not to mix business with my personal affairs.”
“There’s no one from that odd club you frequent that would go with you?” I ask, feeling a bit sorry for him.
“Heavens, no,” he laughs. “I would be in your debt should you consent to do this favour, Gregory.” He frowns right after he says it, like it left a bad taste in his mouth. “There aren’t many who can say that I am in their debt, mind you.”
“Probably had them killed,” I mutter, then shake my head to move it off that train of thought. Mycroft Holmes owing me a favour is tempting. I mean, despite him protesting that his position in the government is minor, I know it’s not, and he knows I know. “Not saying yes, but what sort of date are we talking about?”
“Oh, god…” Sherlock groans, and turns to press his face against the back of the sofa.
“Nothing you’d feel uncomfortable with,” he says, and the oily smile is back. “Just… well. It’s rather hard to explain…”
“Use small words, and stop smiling like a villain.” I fold my arms across my chest and wait.
“My parents are in town, and once again, to appease my mother, I’ve promised to take them for dinner and dancing at The Ritz. It did not occur to me that it was Valentine’s Day, as such things hold no weight with me, but my mother obviously knew, and has threatened to invite a date along for me because she is an evil, evil woman.”
“Mrs. Connor’s niece?” Sherlock turns back to face us, smirking at his brother. “She must be about sixty now, and still can’t manage to complete a word search.”
“Yes,” Mycroft sighs. “I assured Mummy that I did indeed have a date because I assumed Andrea – that’s Anthea to you, Gregory – would be free.”
“On Valentine’s Day?” I laugh. A woman that good looking probably has dates to spare. “Please.”
“Again,” Mycroft says, “I didn’t realise it was Valentine’s Day, or that my assistant had a… boyfriend.” He wrinkles his nose as though the very idea of his assistant daring to have a life is offensive. “If you accompany me, Gregory, I can kill two birds with one stone. Appease my mother, and let her know that I am not interested in… “
“Women?” I supply helpfully.
“Mrs. Connor’s niece.” He’s blushing, and it’s rather sexy, that. “And, well, yes...that is, I have never discussed my…preferences or any such thing with my parents, but I’m certain they are aware.”
“Maybe not, with the setting you up with a woman thing.” I sigh. “So, you’re asking me to be your pretend boyfriend, double date with your parents, and you’re going to come out at the same time. On Valentine's Day. You’re ballsy, I’ll give you that.”
“That it is Valentine’s Day is irrelevant.” Mycroft says firmly. “And I’m not ‘coming out’. Who I choose to bring to dinner is not a statement regarding my sexuality.”
“What sexuality?” Sherlock says to no one in particular.
“Oh, do shut up, Sherlock.” Mycroft looks at me. “Greg… Gregory, if you would just listen to reason, you’ll see that it is in your best interest to agree to assist me.”
“In my best interest? Right. You don’t even like me,” I remind him. “You shoo me away like a fly every damned time I have to trudge to your office. Very insulting, considering I’m the one you trust to look after your pain in the arse brother. And now you need me, you’re all honey-voiced and on best behaviour.”
“Yes, well…” He lets out a small sigh, and tries to look contrite. “I’m just not all that comfortable around… people. I find them dull and uninspiring.”
Like that’s not oozing from every pore in his body. “So you understand why I’m going to pass then, yeah?”
Mycroft Holmes standing there, blinking rapidly in confusion has to be the highlight of my day. I don’t suppose many people refuse him.
“You only get three strikes, if memory serves.” Sherlock flops back on the sofa and puts the file folder over his face. “See yourselves out, please. I’ve got experiments to complete.”
“Bugger,” Mycroft huffs. “I don’t mean that I find you dull or uninspiring, Gregory. I could have asked anyone; that I’m asking you should be a sign, correct?”
“Of the apocalypse, yes.” I take up my file. “Well… this has been quite the visit, but I’ve got to go. Thank you for the invitation, Mycroft. I’ll talk to you later, Sherlock.”
Mycroft’s firm hand on my arm keeps me from walking past him. “Gregory… you’re an intelligent man, and I’m sure you’re an excellent conversationalist if the subject is kept to things within your ken. Father will adore having someone to talk to.”
I peel his hand off my arm, and give his shoulder a pat. “You don’t even know you’re doing it, do you?”
“Doing what?”
“You’re very insulting, Mycroft. You might do well to be set up with some mindless bird. Might teach you some manners.”
“Oh, rubbish,” he says. “I’ve got manners to spare. And I don’t care if Mummy brings Miss Universe. I’ll date who I see fit.”
“Brave words, Mikey.” Sherlock laughs. “Our mother calls him that. And he can’t stop her because she is not one to be refused.”
Mycroft looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. “As you say, Bunny-boy.”
“Oh, this is priceless,” I say. “Little Mikey and Baby Bunny. I should be recording this.”
“No one has ever recorded me and lived to tell the tale,” Mycroft says ominously.
“And here I was feeling sorry for you.” I can manipulate with the best of them. I am a copper, after all.
“Gregory…” Mycroft sighs again. “I do apologise.”
“I wish I could help you, really. But I can’t imagine trying to pretend to be your date around your parents. Aren’t they… well, like you and Sherlock?”
Mycroft’s laugh is a bit hollow. “Heavens, no. My parents are frightfully ordinary. Well, Mummy has an extraordinary capacity for figures, and has written a book or two on the subject, but she doesn’t like to talk about that. And Father is… well, he’s just… kindly and is a good listener, and he, ah, is utterly besotted with my mother. My parents love plain food, dancing, horrid theatre, action films, and all those things that ordinary persons enjoy doing. I do believe you will have a good time, should you consent to going.”
That their parents are ‘ordinary’ surprises me a bit, and I wonder if they’re adopted, or government experiments, or… worse. And that they both seem a bit embarrassed by having ‘ordinary’ parents piques my curiosity. “Well, I am interested, if for nothing more than to meet your parents. What’s in it for me?”
“Dinner, dancing, and a date on Valentine’s Day. Better than how you spent it last year, I’m sure. ”
That I spent it getting a leg over with my nephew’s art teacher in the school’s cleaning cupboard while chaperoning a Valentine’s Day dance is not exactly a secret (she was shrieking so loudly, one of the students thought she was being murdered and came to help her), but I don’t like him using it against me. “Yeah, well… just because that ended badly…”
“Badly hardly covers it,” Mycroft says with amusement. “You were banned from attending school activities, and Ms. Harris was put on suspension for a week. Your nephew was able to use your prowess to his advantage, so no harm there, but honestly, Detective Inspector, you are nothing short of a disaster when it comes to relationships. You should be jumping at the chance to move up the dating ladder, so to speak.”
“Now look, you pompous arse… just because there have been a few missteps doesn’t mean I need any fucking charity from the likes of you,” I say, adding a bit of icy venom to my tone, “so you can take your offer and shove it up your-“
“And that’s you told, Mycroft,” Sherlock cuts in. “You are horrid at this, no doubt because you spend so much time sitting silently in that mausoleum you call a club that you’ve forgotten how normal people interact.”
Mycroft purses his lips, then ducks his head. “Apologies, Gregory,” he says softly, looking up at me through his long lashes. “That was quite rude of me. Please forgive me. I suppose I am rather hopeless at this. It is, as Sherlock says, new to me.”
And damn if it’s not so sexy and coquettish, that I can’t help but smile in response. “It’s… well, it’s not all right, but I’m going to give you a pass this time.”
Sherlock makes a strangled noise, and flops back against the sofa cushions.
“Please tell me what I can do to convince you to accompany me, Gregory?”
I know he’s playing me, but damned if it’s not the sexiest thing, him focusing those blue eyes on me, almost begging me to do him a favour. “What’s on offer if I go with you?”
“My resources are unlimited,” he says with a bright smile. “The world shall be your oyster.”
“Well…” I hedge. “It is short notice, and I may have to work…”
“Oh, for god’s sake, Lestrade!” Sherlock growls. “You’ve already made up your mind to do, so please stop this back and forth… flirting, and just say yes. He won’t let up until you do. He will interrupt your insipid football matches with messages, CCTV cameras will follow you everywhere, and trust me, he will re-programme you car’s computer system to beg you to give in. Your GPS will drive you to places he specifies. Do you want that?”
I turn to Mycroft. “Really? That sounds a bit… ah, mental.”
He has the good graces to look embarrassed. “My brother is prone to exaggeration, Detective Inspector. You are free to say no without fear of recrimination or stalking. I do wish you would give it careful consideration, though.”
“I suppose I could do worse than spend an evening with a handsome bloke on Valentine’s Day.”
“You need your eyes examined, Gawain.”
“It’s Gregory, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s cheeks are tinged pink, but he manages to smile at me. “I appreciate your willingness to accompany me.”
“Yeah, yeah…” I need to have a drink. Maybe a few drinks. And the sooner I can get away from these two nutters, the sooner I can pull myself together. “When, where, and what to wear?”
“On second thought, no, Mycroft.” Sherlock sits up and fixes his brother with an icy stare. “This will not end well. He’s the only DI that will work with me. And if you hold true to form… and one need only to point to the incident with the cellist from the –“
“An unfortunate incident,” Mycroft cuts in sharply, “but hardly my fault. It was a long time ago, and I have come to learn how to treat my things.” He grimaces and clears his throat. “That is, no harm will come to the Detective Inspector.”
“Just can’t stop yourself, can you?” I shake my head. “I’m not a thing, or Sherlock’s personal DI. So you know.”
“Of course not,” Mycroft soothes over Sherlock’s snort of dissent. “And I do apologise for the insinuation. My assistant will provide the details, and as an apology for insinuating that you are of no value, I’ll send over an assortment of clothing from which you can choose.”
“I have clothes.”
“Yes, I’ve seen them. I’ll be in touch, Detective Inspector.” He takes up his umbrella, and is down the stairs before I can say anything else.
“And I thought you were bad,” I say to Sherlock.
“He must like you.”
“What?”
“That was him being sociable. And he seems to be oblivious to the fact that you fancy him. I was certain he knew.”
“I don’t fancy your brother.” And I know he knows I’m lying. “Well, not like you think.”
“I could point out the obvious facts, but I find it nauseating to think of you and my brother in any context, so take your file, and go and question the husband’s brother. If he owns a ping hammer, you have your man.”
“We already questioned the brother,” I protest. “He has an alibi.”
“Provided by the blind aunt, who may or may not have heard him come home before Coronation Street aired. Rubbish alibi. You will regret this, Gary. And I’m going on record to state that I will not be attending your wedding, or civil ceremony or whatever he convinces you to do.”
“It’s Greg, damn it, and I’m not…” I frown at him, and draw in a breath to say a few choice words, but decide leaving is best. “I’ll let you know what happens with the brother, yeah?”
***
“Oh, god,” John groans as he eats the last bite of shepherd’s pie. “That was the best thing I’ve ever eaten. You think Mycroft would send her over to Baker Street on occasion?”
“You have Mrs. Hudson.” Greg pushes his plate away and smiles. “She makes a good stew.”
“Fine, be selfish,” John laughs. “I can’t believe you agreed to Mycroft’s proposal.”
“Having Mycroft Holmes owe you a favour is not to be taken lightly, John.” Greg pops a chip in his mouth, and chews it thoughtfully. “Besides, I already admitted I found him attractive. I was hoping I could get a leg over.”
“With Mycroft.”
“Yes. Why are you having such a hard time with me being attracted to him?”
“I… well, you are married to him now, and this is going to sound a bit… well, isn’t he… ah, cold? Fake? I get the impression that he’s very odd – odder than Sherlock – and that he’s all ice.”
“Part of the attraction, I suppose.” Greg smiles fondly. “And he’s not all ice, John. Or fake. It’s just… it’s like Sherlock, saying he’s a sociopath. You know he isn’t, despite appearances. They do it because it’s safer.”
“Yes, but he kidnapped you, cuffed you to a chair, and threatened to hurt you.” John frowns. “You’re married to a berk.”
“He cares about Sherlock is all,” Greg reasons. “He didn’t do that to you?”
“No. He did a trick with the CCTV, and some ringing phones, and then a car picked me up. Took me to some wet warehouse, and there he was, looking like John Steed, with his bloody umbrella. Only good thing about that was meeting Anthea.”
“She wasn’t anywhere around when I met him. I suppose he knew I wouldn’t get in a car, so he had his henchmen snatch me up on my way home from a mate’s stag do. Still mad about the jacket they ruined, the bastards.” Lestrade laughs. “I think that’s when all my lusting started. Maybe I like role-playing, or being roughed up, but-“
“Greg, please,” John huffs. “There are some things I just do not want to know about you. Or Mycroft.”
“You asked for the story of how I came to be married to Mycroft. It’s not all deductions and chasing murdering cabbies, John.”
“Yeah, yeah… I know, but I don’t want to think of you and Mycroft and role-playing. It’s just…”
“Yeah, all right,” Greg sighs. “You could be a bit more open-minded, you know. Might loosen you up a bit.”
“I’m loose as a goose.” John downs a healthy swallow of beer, and smiles. “I am glad that you’re comfortable enough with me to share all the salacious details, though.”
“It’s just payback for all the details you’ve provided whenever you’ve gotten a leg over with one of your women, yeah? I mean, you’re a good bloke, for the most part. Didn’t see how you put up with Sherlock on a daily basis until I married Mycroft, so I’ve got to tip my cap to you.”
“The Holmeses are an insane lot,” John agrees. “But Sherlock isn’t as civilised as Mycroft, I’m sure.”
“ Mycroft's a decent chap, all in all. But when it comes to dating… he’s all about the control.”
“Well, yeah, I figured.”
“You have no idea, John. And neither did I…”