I know there are some who might think it's wrong, but I don't care about anyone else. When I see you, it's like wrong becomes so right, and my whole world turns upside down.

-MH

Greg read and reread and re-reread the text message and he still hadn't the faintest who it was from. Even though being bisexual theoretically doubled your chances of a date on a Saturday night, the DI didn't find it to be the case for him. It seemed to halve it. Still—someone was most definitely interested in him, and he was most definitely interested in someone.

Molly Hooper. Shy, sweet Molly, who looked so beautiful at the Christmas party… where… he said he was getting back together with his wife. Sherlock had said that she was sleeping with the PE teacher. He had neglected to mention she was sleeping with the Tai Chi instructor and tennis coach as well. Perhaps Sherlock was developing some tact after all. Perhaps it was time for Greg to take sports more seriously. He stopped to buy a box of chocolates and headed to St Bart's with a hopeful heart.

"Hello, Molly."

"Hello, uh, Greg..."

"You look lovely"

"Thank you. I put on lipstick. It makes my mouth look bigger."

"Yes. Yes it does." Greg took a deep breath and went for it. "Would you like to go out for coffee?"

"No, I'll just get it here. If someone restocked the milk in the fridge, that is. If they didn't, I think there's still some creamer. I think Sherlock steals the milk when he comes in. He doesn't even take milk in his coffee, but it always seems to be missing on the days he stops in. But creamer is fine. If we are out of creamer, I think I will just skip it, because I am not that big a coffee fan anyway. Of course I'm a bit busy at the moment, hands in a corpse and all." She smiled awkwardly.

"Well, I suppose we could just, chat a bit, eh?"

She nodded.

"Uh, my wife did leave me."

"Was it the PE teacher?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. I hope you two can work it out. That is, if that's what you both want. Or maybe you will both find someone else. Though, I guess she already did."

"OK… well, goodbye, Molly."

"Did you need something, then?"

"Uh, no, no it turns out it wasn't here."

He stifled a sigh and headed out the door. Thankfully, Molly never even noticed the chocolates.

Mycroft noticed them right away.

"How can I help you, Detective Inspector?" he said, his gaze travelling up from the box to meet Greg's eyes.

Greg was nervous. He had only met Mycroft Holmes in a few high level meetings, and he was always a commanding presence. Something about him made Greg want to do whatever the man told him to. Perhaps not always, but a good percentage of the time. Maybe about 80 percent. There was an uncomfortable silence.

Mycroft smiled. "You have something you wish to ask me, Detective Inspector?"

"Yes- I mean, no. I mean, I have a text and I was wondering if you sent it. It says 'MH', and I do only know a few 'MH's, so I …"

"I can tell you with absolute certainty I did not text you, but perhaps someone in my employ?" He held his hand out, palm up, to view the message on his mobile.

Greg looked down and away rather sheepishly and handed the phone over.

Mycroft read it with great interest, then looked at the number it was sent from. He frowned slightly, pressed a button on his desk and said… "Anthea, have you sent any texts to Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade?" Judging from the complete lack of expression on Mycroft's face, Greg assumed the answer was no. "Has Miss Hestia? Has Mademoiselle Hermes? Has Mike Hunt? Mister Hole? Melanie Humps? Micah Honas?" He placed the phone down. "I'm sorry, Detective Inspector. The text's point of origin was not this office. If I can be of other assistance to you, please feel free to stop by at any time." A wider smile this time.

Greg decided to leave the chocolates with Mycroft, who made a few suggestions as to his next stop on the MH train. Maybe it was just his imagination, but it seemed to Greg as if he was staring at his arse a bit on his way out.

He thought about Mycroft's advice… that he should concentrate on the 'H', since first names may vary, or someone might use a nickname. 'MH'. Maybe the first name could be a nickname. There was Mrs. Hudson. Of course her first name wasn't 'Mrs.', but maybe it did start with an 'M'? Well, this could be interesting. Here was an attractive older woman whom he had met several times while visiting Sherlock. She always seemed to be kind to him. Friendly. Offered to do his colors for him once. Perhaps there was more to that passing invitation? Greg stopped by a florist to pick up a bouquet. He wondered why Mrs. Hudson might think someone would disapprove of their theoretical relationship, and concluded she perhaps felt awkward about being older than him. This didn't bother Greg at all… older woman knew their stuff. If that was her concern, wondering what people might think, he would fix that misconception right away. He rang the bell at 221 Baker Street.

"Oh, Detective Inspector, what a surprise! Sherlock's at home… I'll just let him know you are here…" she said, rather louder than was necessary.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm not here for Sherlock, I'm here to see you."

Her voice returned to normal level. "Oh. Ohhhh. Well, Detective Inspector, they're just herbal soothers. I was told this particular formula is perfectly legal, though I suppose Mrs. Turner might have been mistaken. I do think…"

"No, Mrs. Hudson, no, it's not about the soothers. And please, feel free to call me Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. And might I call you… Mrs. …"

"Martha Hudson."

Greg smiled.

After tea and a bit of sympathy, Martha Hudson had explained that the text was not from her, and, poor dear, don't give up the search, because a fine gentleman like you should have no trouble finding a nice lady friend… or gentleman friend… and perhaps Sherlock could help you figure out who the text was from as he was good at that sort of thing and to not give up hope, because if there was one thing she learned from being Sherlock's landlady, and not his housekeeper, it was "once you've taken away all the people that can't possibly have written it , I suppose the only person that's left, even though it seems really weird, must be the person that did write it, in fact!"

"Thank you for your words of wisdom, Mrs. Martha Hudson," said Greg, giving her the flowers anyway. He reluctantly knocked on Sherlock's door.

Greg looked at Sherlock carefully, trying to channel all he'd learned from the consulting detective. He slowly assessed his posture, pupil dilation levels, breathing rate, asked if Sherlock had a watch with a second hand on it (his was digital, and it was hard to count the blinking colon thingy) and grabbed his wrist so he could accurately measure his pulse. He looked Sherlock up and down, from head to toe, while Sherlock did the same. They locked eyes.

"Lestrade, when I find myself approaching Gray-A territory, or Grey-A territory if you prefer, let me assure you… it is not you I have in mind."

"I'm… insulted, yet, relieved." It wasn't that Greg didn't find Sherlock attractive, (particularly in his early year as a gorgeous, strung-out teenager, I mean who wouldn't go for that) it was just that he honestly didn't think he could handle the violin playing and days on end without speaking. That was just too much to ask of a person. He couldn't see how John could stand it.

"It is not an issue of my respecting the lingering negative social mores regarding non-heternormative sexuality. Labels are for bespoke suits, not people."

"Yes, I know."

"It's just, I find the thought of you and I in … well, let's just say I have another person of interest. In any case, you're not doing this because you want a relationship with me, that much is clear. You are attempting to assess my level of interest in you." He paused. "Oh. I was not aware of any other 'Sherlock' in existence. Maybe, if I can find enough of us, we can petition to get a mini license plate for our bikes added to the spin rack at Disneyland…" his gaze drifted off. "I would very much like that," he said, longingly.

"You're quite right. No other 'Sherlock's. I don't know what edition of 'Name Your Baby' that was in."

"So, I take it there is some other 'SH' in your acquaintance… besides Mrs. Hudson. There is pollen on your right thumb, and I wouldn't think the flowers were meant for me. What is her first name, by the way?"

"Martha."

"And you were expecting an S?" It was a question, but not a question, so authoranon has no idea whether to put a question mark there or not.

"No, actually, I was expecting an 'M'."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "You mean…"

"Yes. I have a text message from a sort-of-secret admirer that was signed 'MH'. I thought I would see if it was Mrs. Hudson, by some chance. I also went to see Mycroft. He offhandedly suggested I not forget to check with Ma Chere Louque."

"Propositioning you would have been disturbing enough. Propositioning you with my childhood nickname would have been a new level of tastelessness. I shall remember to thank Ma Crotte for disclosing Grandmere Vernet's penchant for unusual and somewhat insulting nicknames. May I see the text?"

"I've checked every person I know with those initials… and a few that had first names that might be considered a variation. I tried a girl I met in an online chat room named Amanda Hugnkiss, who could have gone by Mandy. I tried reversed combinations… 'Majesty, Her', for example. I considered 'Moriarty in Hell', but I don't think he'd get good enough reception for a text. Unless he's not really dead, that is.

"Been done already. Twice, actually. Dull," Sherlock said. "Have you tried Mummy Holmes?"

"I haven't even met her," Greg sighed.

"Do you think never having seen each other can stop true love?" Sherlock said with a smirk. "You're safe though. Mummy Holmes does not use a mobile phone. Like everyone over 70, she is convinced it causes cancer. Now. Phone." The younger Holmes brother held his hand out in exactly the same manner as the elder.

Greg offered his phone to Sherlock, who took it, stared at it, and began slapping on nicotine patches. At patch number thirteen he collapsed, dropping the phone to the floor. As Greg picked it up, grabbing it upside down and watching the letters on the screen quickly right themselves, he smiled.

"I'm sorry, I was so vague. I was… well… pretty sober at the time. I think better when I'm drunk."

"The bit about being upside-down. I admit, it took me a while, but it was charming."

"John is always telling me how me detectives like a challenge."

"These are for you, Harriet Watson," Greg said, presenting her with both chocolates and a bouquet.