London, 4th september

Dear Gregory,

Somehow I find myself sitting here, writing this letter to you. As if made to by a mysterious force. I must, even though I am quite sure that this letter will never be read by you. Alas, so be it.

I enjoy writing letters, always have, as a way of making some sort of sense of what goes on in my life, and writing too you like this makes me feel slightly connected, which probably sounds very peculiar, were you to ever read this. To me it makes the utmost sense.

Yesterday, when we met for coffee in that sweet little place near the park, I was feeling slightly apprehensive at first: had I been too forward to have asked you? You had accepted my invite happily, despite hesitation at first. I felt delighted to receive your text stating that yesterday afternoon would be fine with you. And when the initial nerves went, it seemed to me that we both had a lovely time. I enjoyed talking to you, as I have done so far on the few occasions that my brother or your sergeants weren't an interrupting factor – rather often, to my dismay – and I felt a kind of connection between us both. A connection and a strange fluttering in my stomach…

When you first appeared on the scene, all those years ago, I was unsure of you. For some reason, only known to you then, you had decided that taking on my younger brother was a great idea, giving him the time and the trust he was so desperately seeking, and I found it hard to fathom your intentions. Why Sherlock, of all people? But Sherlock put his faith in you, as he knew that you were a man who could be trusted, unlike any man he'd known in his life thus far. And if he relied on his instinct, his intuition like that, I thought I should give you the benefit of my own doubt. Thinking back on that, I feel slightly silly, to ever doubt you, your objectives, your innate good nature. Maybe I have met too many men that proved this rule, and you, my dear Gregory, are the exception. My deepest, heart-felt apologies I offer you for ever feeling the need to abduct you and question your intentions, like I did on those two occasions. The first time was, I felt, necessary to get an angle on you, to have first-hand knowledge of you as a person, as security cameras can only tell me so much. I very much enjoyed what I sensed, what I saw. The second time was altogether unnecessary, and I feel that you were aware of this, but I never detected much resistance in you, only mild irritation at not being where you should have been – your wife's birthday party in a restaurant in Surrey. But even that irritation was – in my humble opinion – for show.

Again, I so much enjoyed yesterday, seeing you so at ease, laughing like we were old friends, talking about all those things that came to mind – our jobs (how dull), my brother, your wife… And I saw the sadness in your eyes, not for the wife you might lose, as I sensed hardly any sentiment in your voice when you talked about her, but for the loss of a time you have known, the passing of a part of your life that did have its kind and enjoyable moments. It must have done, I noticed the fondness in your voice when you spoke of it. You must have loved your wife, I'm sure of that, but it had gone. And maybe, just maybe, I can do something to ease that sadness in you. It shall be my quest …

I shall leave it at this, as I've run out of feelings to trust to this piece of paper, for which I will find a good place to hide.

Yours, if you want me,

Mycroft Holmes

He reread it three times, just to make sure that he had written down what he had meant to write, then proceeded to fold the paper in half, and over another time, so that he was left with a neat looking document, which he'd put inside an envelope, and put it on his desk. In his handwriting he had put 'Gregory' on it, in elegant, swirly letters. He meant to put away the envelope, but got distracted by a phone call from the Home Office, and left it there.

When he came back from the meeting in Downing Street, he noticed that the letter had gone. It wasn't in one of the drawers in his desk, nor was it in any of the trays that sat on top. He was puzzled, and sat down. Maybe someone had gotten it, and was using it to possibly blackmail him. How silly it was of him to leave it laying there – anybody could've gotten it! Mycroft had no idea what to do next. He placed elbows on the desktop, rested his head in his hands, and sighed. He then folded his hands, as if he was praying, and mumbled: 'Please, just let something good come from this…' after which he found one of his headache tablets and took it with a gulp of water.

At Scotland Yard, in the office of DI Lestrade, the phone hasn't stopped ringing all morning. It feels like his head will explode any minute, and frantically he motions to one of his sergeants to come and see him. Sgt Anderson, the only one who's not busy, wanders over into his superiors' room and nods to make it clear that he's ready for instructions.

'Anderson, great, I need you to tell Marnie that I don't want any phone calls for half an hour, please. Tell her to hold any that don't have to do with death, that I will call them back…' Greg grizzles.

'But sir, you can do that yourself, surely…' the sergeant huffs.

'I know, I just… Can you do that please? Much appreciated,' Greg carries on, not taking much notice of the lack of enthusiasm his sergeant displays for his new role of errand boy.

'Okay…' Anderson answers with great reluctance. 'Anything else, sir, while I'm here?'

"No thanks, that will do.' Greg's attention has moved from the man in front of him to the letter that had been delivered by a courier half an hour ago. It had been sitting on a pile where he'd put it while he was busy on the phone, trying to tell one of his senior colleagues in another department exactly where to stick his procedures, and is now staring at the envelope which has his first name on the front, written in swirls with what seemed like an fountain pen, then a typed sticker with his work address on it underneath. It also carries a stamp saying 'urgent'. Greg rests his head lightly on his folded hands, and his elbows rest in turn on his desk, which is strewn with files, papers, notes and three empty coffee mugs. In the corner on the envelope, bottom left, he notices a family crest, with the letter H intricately in the middle. He can't think of anybody who'd have stationary like that, so it's probably someone to do with a murder case. Maybe it's clues… Maybe it's toxic substance… Maybe he should get another department involved...

Maybe not... Very carefully Greg opens the letter, fully expecting now to have poison spill out onto his desk, and the knife he uses for the purpose of slicing open letters and documents is closely inspected for proof in that direction, but the thing comes out clean, and Greg is now not sure of what to do. He decides to trust his intuition and take out the pieces of paper inside, unfold them, to have revealed to him the handwritten letter, addressed to him, written by… Mycroft Holmes?!

Greg falls back into his chair, confused. He lets go of the letter, leaves in on his desk, and gets up to wander away, to get some lunch in the caf around the corner, unwilling to give this turn of events any more of his time. There's enough going on in his life.