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Saturday morning Mycroft sat in the backseat of the car being driven towards his office. He held his blackberry in his hand, twisting it around, debating how exactly to word the text he had been planning on sending for the past hour.
It was silly really – it was just dinner. A dinner that had already been agreed no less (though only by a single text a week ago). Certainly not a date, nothing to be nervous about, just a good old-fashioned meal to say thanks.
After much to-ing and fro-ing he had decided on a lovely French place on the Strand to take the detective inspector. He’d been there a couple of times for business lunches and it seemed like the perfect spot – classy but not fussy, and not inclined to dark romantic lighting. He had already made enough of a fool of himself last week without the other man thinking this was Mycroft’s pathetic attempt at a date. In truth Mycroft would not have been at all opposed to this being a date but that was neither here nor there.
Determinedly, he began texting on his phone, though progress was slow as he was quite unpracticed.
Still on for tonight? M
He pushed send and sat back in the chair. This was silly, the man had probably forgotten all about last week and likely had better things to be doing on a Saturday evening. Thirty seconds later he received a reply.
Sure thing. When/where/how?
Relieved, Mycroft replied.
Lovely French place on the Strand. I can collect you from the yard when convenient? M
As soon as he hit send Mycroft cringed as he realized how that sounded.
Off at 7? Ok for you?
Certainly, see you then. M.
He dropped the blackberry on the leather seat beside him. Anthea, who had been sitting across from him, glanced up.
“Might be better to leave the texting to me in future,” she said with a slight smile.
“I’ll consider it,” he said as they pulled up at the office.
---
Later that evening, at precisely seven pm, Mycroft was sitting in the same car (minus Anthea), and in the same seat waiting outside Scotland Yard. Ten minutes later Gregory Lestrade emerged and made his way over to the car and waved in the window. He opened the door and slid in across from Mycroft.
“Sorry I’m late, paperwork,” he said, groaning and rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. His face then broke into a big smile directly towards himself.
Mycroft pushed away thoughts regarding Lestrade’s hair and eyes and instead concentrated on extending his hand.
“Delighted you could make it, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he said.
Lestrade stared at his outstretched hand for a moment before grasping it.
“Er, thanks.”
“It’s been rather a dull day, has it not?” he said, gesturing outside.
“I suppose,” said Lestrade, “Haven’t been out much today.”
“I see.” Mycroft was aware that the weather was not the most scintillating of conversation but his usual skill with words had seemingly failed him for the moment.
There was silence for a few more seconds before Mycroft quickly launched into a further discussion about the weather that lasted the ten-minute journey to the Strand.
“This really has been the worst August in years,” he punctuated as they stepped out of the car.
When they entered the restaurant they were shown to a small table at the back of the establishment, rather darker and more private than Mycroft had envisaged and they were handed a menu each.
“What’s good here?” asked Lestrade, setting his menu down in front of him.
“It’s all quite good,” replied Mycroft. He then went on to describe a number of the main courses and the pros and cons of each compared to others he had eaten. As he finished up with a description of the lobster he realized he was likely boring Lestrade to tears. However, to his surprise, the other man appeared to be listening with interest.
“You know a lot about food. You almost sound like a food critic,” Lestrade remarked.
Mycroft flushed slightly at the complement. He had always been fond of cooking – a hobby that had unfortunately contributed to the size of his waistline in previous years.
“I- thanks, cooking’s a bit of a hobby of mine,” replied Mycroft.
“Any good?”
“Not bad.”
“I suppose that means world class chef then,” said Lestrade, chuckling.
“Wine?” asked a voice to his right. He looked over and saw a waitress standing next to him with a bottle of red in her hand. Remembering last week’s debacle, he declined.
“Not tonight,” he said. He looked across at Lestrade who was trying to suppress his laughter.
“Cheers,” said Lestrade and held out his glass. When the server was gone, suppressed laughter became actual laughter.
“Sorry,” he gasped, “I’m being terribly rude.”
Mycroft was rarely the subject of ridicule nowadays (except Sherlock of course) but he found he did not mind too much. Lestrade had stopped laughing and was now grinning at him good-naturedly. Mycroft smiled back at him.
“Don’t trouble yourself, it’s the least I can offer after the damage I must have caused your back. On a more serious note I must apologize-“
“Really it’s fine,” Lestrade interrupted, “no more apologising,”
“As you wish.”
The rest of the evening passed in pleasant conversation and before Mycroft knew it they were in the car outside Lestrade’s flat in Camden.
“Cheers, and thanks for dinner,” said Lestrade as he stepped out of the car.
“You’re welcome,” Mycroft replied, “the pleasure was all mine.” And it had been. Mycroft had feared that their common camaraderie of the previous night had been purely alcohol fuelled but he had found Lestrade uncommonly easy to converse with. The man was charming and funny and had made Mycroft laugh several times during dinner. Their conversation had spanned many topics - literature, film, theatre, sports (that hadn't lasted long). He was also quite intelligent and the two had engaged in a heated political debate for most of the dessert course. (He thought it had been a draw but Lestrade insisted that Mycroft’s backpedalling regarding Maggie Thatcher had cost him a victory) In short, Mycroft found himself somewhat smitten with the detective inspector, as much as he loathed to acknowledge it.
---
Monday morning found Mycroft where he usually could be found, behind his desk on the phone with British Intelligence.
“I don’t care how many tunnels are in the city, I want him found,” said Mycroft, hanging up the phone. Revolutions were so tedious.
There was a knocking at the door and Anthea walked in and handed him a pile of letters.
“Anything interesting?”
“Not really,” she said, “the usual correspondence. Some invitations. A few tickets.”
“Tickets?”
“To one of the West End shows, Wizard of Oz I think. Boris sent them over to thank you for that mess you straightened out last week.”
Mycroft’s throat started to go dry. Saturday evening Lestrade had mentioned wanting to see the Wizard of Oz but not being able to as the tickets were nearly always sold out. Maybe this would be a good opportunity – no, no he told himself, this was ridiculous. It was too much really, he would just offer Lestrade the tickets and he could take whomever he liked. A date perhaps.
He picked up his blackberry and put together a message.
My assistant just handed me two tickets to The Wizard of Oz, would you be interested in having them? M
Really? I’d love to go, when are the tickets for?
This Wednesday, 7:30pm. M
Great, see you then!
Mycroft stared at the text. Lestrade had gotten the wrong idea he hadn’t meant… he’d meant for him to have the tickets himself.
Though the prospect of another evening in Lestrade’s company was certainly appealing. He supposed another evening wouldn’t be too unseemly.
---
That Wednesday found Mycroft standing outside the theatre making good use of his umbrella as the rain poured around him.
“Hey,” he heard as Lestrade dashed underneath his umbrella. The man was drenched, water poured off his trench coat and his hair was dripping in clumps. Still, Mycroft was struck with the urge to stand a bit closer to the man and perhaps even to run a hand through his hair (to help dry it, of course).
“Jesus, I’ll never make fun of that umbrella again,” he said.
“Were you making fun of it before?” Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Er... well maybe that was to John,” said Lestrade, innocently, “lets get inside.”
He grabbed Mycroft’s arm and pulled him towards the theatre entrance. Mycroft ignored the tingling feeling he felt through his raincoat.
A few minutes later they were seated in a box and Lestrade was looking around gaping.
“I’ve never had seats like these,” he said, “this is brilliant.”
Mycroft flushed, glad that he was the cause of the other man’s obvious pleasure.
“Do you go to many shows?”
“Not lately,” replied Lestrade, “used to a lot when I was younger. I was mad into theatre in uni.”
“Did you perform?” Mycroft could picture the other man up on the stage – he had the easy charm (and the good looks) to pull it off.
“Yeah I was in the drama soc – we used to act, write, direct, all of it really. Though I mostly stuck to the acting, I was a pretty shit writer.”
“Did you pursue it after?”
“God no,” said Lestrade chuckling, “Lord I was just about passable. I had a hell of a time though.”
Conversation ceased once the show started. Mycroft was more an opera aficionado than a lover of musicals but he had to admit the production was well done and he found himself enjoying it more than he’d suspected he would.
After the show he walked with Lestrade to the tube (he’d offered him a lift - he’d declined – “tube practically drops me off on the doorstep”).
“Thanks, that was great,” said Lestrade when they got to the station. He squeezed Mycroft’s shoulder, turned, and descended the steps to the underground. Mycroft stared after him (decidedly not at his bottom but… elsewhere). As soon as he disappeared Mycroft rang for his driver and smiled the whole way home.
---
Friday, Mycroft was sitting in on a cabinet meeting when he received a text.
Wrath of Khan / Search for Spock on telly tonight. Marathon at my place?
Mycroft’s pulse started to quicken. Lestrade had invited him over to his home. People didn’t invite him over. Even his own brother didn’t invite him over. People invited him to restaurants for business dinners; they invited him to country clubs, to the Diogenes, to their office. They didn’t invite him over to watch Star Trek.
The text stared at him, black on white. He had enjoyed Lestrade’s company both at dinner and at the theatre. He felt comfortable with the other man, something that was quite rare for him. Usually, he was a solitary sort of person. Oftentimes he was quite lonely but he had accepted his life as it was and any potential upheaval made him slightly apprehensive. However, the thought of spending an evening with Lestrade made his chest feel slightly tight and his heart race again. Before he lost his nerve he text back.
That could be arranged. Time? M
Movie’s at 8. Here at 7:30? We can order in.
That evening Mycroft nervously lifted his hand and knocked on the door to Lestrade’s flat. The other man opened the door and grinned in greeting. He was wearing a rugby shirt and a pair of sweatpants, no shoes, and his hair was damp.
“Mycroft!” he said, and ushered him inside. He pointed him towards a plush sofa in the middle of the door and handed him a pile of well-thumbed take away menus.
“What do you fancy?” he asked.
“Don’t mind,” replied Mycroft.
“The Indian’s good, does that suit?”
“Certainly,” said Mycroft. He was generally not one for takeaway, much too high in fat, but he kept silent on the matter. Perhaps one day he would invite Lestrade around and cook him some food that wouldn’t cause hardening of the arteries.
“How was work? Any governments collapse?” asked Lestrade plopping down on the sofa next to him.
“Only a couple,” replied Mycroft, “and nothing bloody.” Lestrade grinned.
“Not anywhere I’ll be going on holidays I hope?”
“If you inform me of your holiday plans I can postpone any coups until after your stay,” said Mycroft.
“Great,” said Lestrade, “I knew there’d be a benefit to being friends with you.” He winked at Mycroft and pulled out his phone and dialed the curry house.
Yes, I suppose there is, thought Mycroft and smiled.