New story! Yay! Written because of writer's block on my other story (Meant to Be). I thought I'd start a series of one-shots of Mystrade meeting at different times and places than they really did (a story series borrowed with permission super awesome from writer Atlin Merrick). So, this started as a 1,000 word one-shot and ended as a 9,000+ word, 5+ chapter story. I hope you all enjoy, please review!


Rating: K+ or T (it's clean except for some bad words)

Warnings: Language

Characters: Gregory Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, OC

Prompt: "sharing a high school school textbook and leaving each other notes and answers in page corners au" I saw it on tumblr and ran with it.


Mycroft hates his literature class. It's not even remotely interesting, not when the science lab is only a door down. The faint chemical fumes (none harmful) spill through the vents and just make him ache. He'd do anything to have science class seven hours a day, none of this literature nonsense, definitely not the art class he needs to take.

Mycroft sighs as his teacher instructs the class to turn to a certain page. A room away, they're adding sulfur to a solution. Mycroft can smell it.

He has the same book every single day, it just being habit (or compulsion) to grab book #15. He honestly hates this book. Every single day he has the same daydream of flinging book #15 out of the second story window he stares out. He quickly flips the pages, not caring when one rips.

Mycroft really had no idea that anyone else ever used this book (he always put it a shelf below everyone else's), so he's surprised when he finds a paper stuffed into the spine of the page they're supposed to be reading.

Confused, he unfolds the paper.

"Hi."

Mycroft glares at the page.

Hi?

Hi?

The word mocks Mycroft. "Hi" is such a pleasant greeting, to think that anything could be pleasant in this room is a joke.

He stuffs the paper back into the page and continues reading, trying but failing to ignore the note.

He doesn't know why it irks him this much. The note, the simple "hi" has made him so angry that he can't focus on the work he's supposed to be doing (not that he ever has ease working in this class).

Finally, the distraction overcomes him. He unfolds the paper, forcefully scribbles "Hello?" on the line next to the "hi", folds the paper again, and puts it right back where it was.


The next time, Mycroft tries to look for any signs that his book was moved, but there are none. Whoever has his book before (or after) him is very good at putting it back exactly where it was.

Mycroft eagerly takes the book back to his seat and finds the paper again.

"How are you?" the note says today.

Mycroft is annoyed again. After all the buildup (he really couldn't stop thinking about that stupid note), that's all he gets?

Mycroft decides to give more than the simple question wanted to know.

"How am I?" he writes. "Unhappy, in fact. Bored. I hate this class. I hate reading poetry, I hate analyzing stupid pointless words when I could be doing something so much more useful."

Mycroft finds his little rant adequate, so he folds the paper up and puts it back.

Right before the bell rings, he quickly writes, "How are you?" below all of that, finding himself worried about seeming rude to not ask back.


After literature is lunch, thank goodness. The quiet of the courtyard just outside the lunch room is absolute bliss after a class like literature. And the solitude always gives him a chance to prepare his brain for science and math, which is what his afternoon is packed with.

Mycroft sets his tray of food down on the bench before shucking off his backpack and sitting next to it. He pulls a book from his bag, then begins to read while blindly reaching for the sandwich on his plate and bringing it to his mouth. The world around him disappears, just the way he likes it.

He reads peacefully for a few minutes, getting eighteen pages further in his book and halfway done with his sandwich, before his book is violently punched out of his hand from behind. He looks to his right, where the punch came from, at the same time his sandwich is yanked out of his left hand.

Mycroft just sighs as another boy steps around to face Mycroft in the front.

"What? You're not going to say anything?" the sandwich thief asks.

"Am I going to fight you over a sandwich? No, I'm not."

The boy laughs and steps on Mycroft's book, then kicks it feet away.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "I really can't believe that you have nothing better to do than to torment me, Gregory."

Greg laughs. "Surprisingly, I have nothing better to do."

Mycroft gets up and walks over to retrieve his book. "And where is the rest of your bonehead posse?"

Greg shrugs. "I don't know. Flirting with half the school by now, I bet." He lifts his leg onto the bench, resting his foot on Mycroft's backpack.

"And you're above all that," Mycroft says. It's not a question.

"I like older girls," Greg replies with a smirk.

Mycroft chooses not to point out that the fact could be that he isn't interested in girls at all, frankly because Mycroft doesn't care. Anyway, he knows that trying to taunt someone with homosexuality isn't a joke, it's nothing to tease someone with.

"I'm sure," is all Mycroft says, not in a suggesting tone at all.

Greg drops the last bite of Mycroft's sandwich back onto his tray, then picks up the apple still there.

"You're an animal," Mycroft mumbles, disgusted.

Greg grins and chomps down on a large clump of apple, the juice squirting out of the sides of his mouth and through his teeth. Mycroft rolls his eyes.

"Please leave," Mycroft says. "Now that you've successfully ruined my lunch in more ways than one."

Greg takes another bite of apple, then takes his foot off of Mycroft's backpack. "It's always a pleasure, Holmes," he says, opening Mycroft's backpack and dropping his half eaten apple into the bag.

Mycroft glares as Greg wipes his hands on his jeans.

"See you around, loser."

Mycroft huffs. "See you around, arsehole."

Greg laughs loudly, then wanders back into the building.


The next day, Mycroft is happy to find an answer on the piece of paper.

"I'm fine," it says, "I don't particularly love this class either, but it's something we have to do, you know? What's your favorite class?"

Mycroft doesn't know why, it's not like he's having a real conversation with a person, but he's glad to actually talk to someone at school. He never talks to anyone except for the stupid bullies (Lestrade and his friends), so this is nice.

"Science and math," Mycroft writes. "I like actually thinking. What about you?"