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The Mystrade Valentine's Calendar
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2018-02-08
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Sometimes, The Direct Approach Is Best

Summary:

Mycroft Holmes may be an expert at the subtleties of diplomacy, but when it comes to romance, he’s woefully ill-prepared.
Enter DI Greg Lestrade.

Thanks to mottlemoth for putting this together - it's been fun!

Work Text:

 

February 8th

By the end of the day, Greg had snarled at and/or bitten the head off of everyone in his department at least twice.  Between his usual backlog of paperwork, and the new case that Dimmock dropped on his desk as he was getting ready to head home – two hours ago – his nerves were shot.  He didn’t even have it in him to meet John for pints tonight, his usual stress-release.  So he grabbed his jacket and headed straight home, planning to spend the evening sitting around in his sweatpants, eating ice cream directly from the container, and watching bad telly.

It was after 8 o’clock when he finally walked up to the front door of his flat, and something caught his eye: a single red rose petal by the door mat.  He dismissed it – obviously, his neighbor must have bought flowers for his girlfriend – and entered his flat.

Throwing his keys into the bowl on the entryway table, and hanging his jacket on its coat hook, he slunk toward the living room and turned on the light, and froze.  Sitting in the middle of the coffee table was an absolutely gorgeous floral arrangement of deep red roses – at least two dozen of them.

“What the hell…” he wondered out loud, as he looked at the arrangement.  There was no card, no indication who had sent them, or how they managed to get them into his flat.  Weird.

Greg looked carefully around his flat – nothing else seemed out of place, nothing moved.  He considered calling John, since he had the spare key to Greg’s flat, but remember that John and Sherlock were in Sussex this week, so it wasn’t him.

February 12th

A sleek black car pulled up in front of New Scotland Yard just as DI Lestrade walked out of the building to walk down to the café to grab his usual sandwich and coffee.

“Shite… what does the posh git want now…” Greg grumbled to himself.  He was beginning to get tired of Mycroft Holmes kidnapping him to talk about Sherlock. 

Mycroft’s assistant Anthea stepped out of the car, looking up from her phone momentarily.  “Detective Inspector, Mr. Holmes would like to know if you would care to dine with him this evening.”

“Then why doesn’t he, I dunno, call me – or text, or send an email – like a normal person?” Greg snapped at her.  OK, this is worse than his usual kidnapping routine.

Anthea glanced at her phone, then looked at Greg again.  “Regrettably, he will be tied up in negotiations until 6pm, so he asked me to invite you to meet him at La Trompette at 7pm, if you were amenable.  What shall I tell him?” she asked, her fingers poised over her phone ready to convey his reply.

“Tell him I said I’m not his bloody servant, ready to drop everything whenever he snaps his fingers,” he snarled, pulling his cigarettes out of his coat pocket and stripping one from the pack.  Quietly, he put it to his lips and lit it.  “He can bloody well eat by himself,” he mumbled as he turned and left.  The young woman’s fingers flew across her phone keypad in reply.

Greg had two more cigarettes on the way back from the café and was still annoyed when he arrived at his office, closing the door behind him just a bit too loudly.

A few minutes later, there was a light rapping on his door.  “Come,” he replied gruffly between bites of his sandwich, without looking up from the paperwork in front of him.  Detective Sergeant Donovan opened the door a crack and peeked into the office.  “Hey, boss?” she began meekly, “everything all right?”

“Yeah, fine.  Just… yeah, it’s fine,” he shrugged, tearing another bite out of his sandwich.

February 14th

“You sure you don’t want to get something to eat?” Sally asked as she pulled on her jacket.  It was Valentine’s Day, but since Anderson was spending the evening with his wife, she had no plans. 

“Yeah, thanks, Sally.  Valentine’s Day is a stupid holiday, anyway,” Greg huffed.   Last year, he went all out, buying his wife flowers, a fancy dinner, even jewelry.   She’d reciprocated by giving him divorce paperwork. 

He swung his feet up onto his desk, leaning back in his chair.  “I’m just going to stay here, maybe order take away, and see if I can clear away some of this paperwork.  You go on home – beat the holiday rush to the ice cream aisle,” he winked at her.

Sally laughed.  “Sure, boss.  Should I pick you up a pint of Rocky Road?”

“Nah.  I’ve got some at home.” Greg grinned, waving as Sally headed out of the office, leaving him alone.  He perused a couple of the menus he kept in his desk, and called the Thai place down the street, putting in an order for chicken pad thai and summer rolls, to be delivered in about an hour.

He was making decent headway sifting through case files, when he heard the elevator door slide open.  “Come on in,” he called from his office, not looking up from the file in his hand.  “Just bring it in here.” 

He heard the footsteps stop in the doorway of his office, followed by the rustling of a paper bag, and someone clearing his throat.  Greg looked up, and his eyes got wide.  “Mr. Holmes?” his voice cracked.  “What brings you to my corner of the world?  Sherlock up to no good again?”

“No, Detective Inspector.  This is more of a… a social call.  And please, call me Mycroft.” Mycroft set the take away containers on an uncluttered edge of Greg’s desk. 

“A social call?” Greg asked, his eyebrows raised. 

“Yes.  My previous attempts to attract your attention did not seem to work, so I thought perhaps the direct approach would be more effective.” 

“Previous attempts?”  Greg set down the file in his hand and leaned forward on his desk, his curiosity piqued.

“Of course.  The roses – “

“The roses were from YOU?”

“Yes.”

“There was no card or anything…” Greg grabbed the box of pad thai and took a bite. 

Mycroft looked surprised.  “I don’t know why that didn’t occur to me.”  He reached for a summer roll, taking it when Greg motioned for him to help himself.

“And I don’t even want to know how you got into my flat, do I?”

Mycroft smiled innocently.

“And last week, when Anthea showed up asking about dinner…”

Mycroft blushed, unable to meet Greg’s gaze.  “Tragically, I was unable to get away to ask you myself.”

Greg set his food on the desk and studied Mycroft carefully.  “You seem to forget, Mycroft, I am a detective.  I can spot a lie a mile away,” he said quietly.  “You just didn’t want to ask me yourself… fear of rejection, maybe?”

Mycroft looked up suddenly, about to argue the point, when he saw the look on Greg’s face – soft, kind, accepting.

“You ever consider,” Greg asked, “I might not have said no?”

Mycroft froze. 

“So, ask me out, Mycroft.”

Mycroft just stared blankly at Greg.

Greg grinned.  “Never thought I could render a Holmes speechless…”

“I… well… would you…” Mycroft stammered.

“Let me help,” Greg laughed, reaching over and laying his hand on Mycroft’s.  “Mycroft, would you like to have a drink with me sometime?”

Mycroft swallowed hard.  “I... I would like that.”

“How about tonight?  Right now?”

“Everything will be quite crowded, with the holiday… we haven’t reservations anywhere…”

“Never fear,” Greg grinned, opening the bottom drawer of his desk, and pulling out a flask from the back, pouring some scotch into a couple of clean coffee cups, and handing one to Mycroft.  “Cheers, mate,” he nodded, raising his cup.

“Cheers, indeed,” Mycroft replied quietly, tapping his cup to Greg’s.

“This could be the start of something, you know, Mycroft.  Something good, maybe,” Greg winked.

“Something good…” Mycroft said.  “I hope so.”   His eyes sparkled.