It is ten AM, Christmas morning and Gregory Lestrade is sitting in an empty office staring at his mobile phone.
He had 3 unread texts. They were from his family calling him a workaholic and complaining about the empty chair at the family dinner table/. They were skimmed over and immediately deleted.
Greg checked and double checked his inbox to see if there was anything else that may have slipped through without his phone notifying him But there was nothing. He shouldn't feel surprised, he told himself.
After 2 dates, Greg wasn't going to kid himself that his relationship with Mycroft could go much further.
Mycroft was incredible. Impeccably dressed, with never a hair out of line; extremely witty and, while six months ago he would have thought it was impossible; when it came to intelligence and deduction, Mycroft surpassed even Sherlock.
He was similar to his brother, carried himself with the same air of importance and intelligence but had a mature, powerful presence to him - opposed to Sherlock's childlike arrogance. Not to mention his ability to juggle sly politicians and handle national scandals with ease. Greg could never dream that someone like Mycroft would be interested with someone as ordinary as himself.
So he went back to his task of trying to lessen the monstrous pile of paper work on his desk. And tried not to scowl as the house across the road turned up their Christmas carols.