Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Inspired by Lestrade's inexplicable appearance in Dartmoor in S2:E2.

This is my first actual Mystrade, so be gentle with me.

Rated K+ for some course language.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was rather alarmed at himself at the current moment. In fact, he was the slightest bit concerned that he had gone completely and utterly mad. It seemed like it, from what his evening had turned into.

First, there was an angry call from the now ex-wife. He'd ignored her adulterous ways, originally, but then the two of them went on holiday and he caught her with the pool boy. To say the least, it was the final straw. They'd only officially split up two weeks ago.

He'd thought it would be better, them being separated instead of him pretending that he didn't know she was sleeping with the bloke from the pub they used to frequent. And the mailman. And their next-door neighbour. As it was, it was actually worse this way. She phoned all the time just to complain about his existence. Tonight, it'd made him so cross that before hanging up on her, he had yelled something rather like, "Well, next time you talk to my mum, why don't you blame her for daring to give birth to a complete failure like me, eh?" He hoped that might keep her from phoning for a day or two, but he somehow doubted it.

So first there was that. He had sat in his flat brooding for a long while before heading out to his second favourite pub. Since his first favourite was where his ex-wife's new boyfriend worked, he'd started to prefer this one. Arty, the owner, knew him well. And Greg knew he was a complete git for thinking it, but as Arty was fat and hairy in all the wrong places while being half bald up top, he was comforted knowing that it was unlikely his wife had gotten around to sleeping with this one.

"The usual?" asked Arty when Greg walked in, rain dotting his long coat and graying hair in sparkling beads.

"Yeah, except make it a pint," grunted Greg.

Arty looked sympathetic, and Greg ignored it. He didn't want Arty's pity, or anyone's. But still, he was getting it from most people. Well, if he was being fair, people were going to be annoyingly concerned as long as he was acting obviously distraught about the whole situation.

Arty came over a few minutes later with a pint for Greg, but another half in his other hand.

"What's the other for?"

"Me," rumbled Arty, taking a heavy seat across from Greg. Greg glanced over to the bar and saw that Lance, Arty's son, had taken over for the night, as he sometimes did when Arty's friends showed up.

"Is this the part where we talk about our feelings, then?" asked Greg dryly.

"Sure, if you want to," Arty said with a smirk. "Or we can talk about the match that's on and get roaring drunk. Which would you prefer?"

Greg turned his attention to the football match on the telly in the corner in order to answer Arty's question.

Several pints later, when Greg was in the tipsy phase, but still far from actually drunk, Lance came over.

"That girl over at the bar, she's asking for you," he said, looking both impressed and jealous simultaneously.

Greg and Arty both looked over to the bar questioningly to see a woman with dark, wavy hair in a black cocktail dress sitting on a stool, her face shoved into her mobile.

"Me?" asked Greg incredulously.

"She said she wanted to talk to a 'Greg Lestrade'. That's you, innit?"

"Well… yeah…"

"Well go on then!" said Arty with a smile. "How better to forget your ex-wife than with a specimen like that?"

"Isn't she a bit… young for me?" asked Greg.

Arty rolled his eyes. "So?"

Greg took a deep breath, surprised that he felt a bit nervous. Then again, when was the last time he flirted with anyone? Especially someone who looked like that? A long, long time. Probably hadn't been since his uni days.

And then he stood and walked over to the bar. She was even prettier up close, in some ways, but she hardly took her eyes off the screen of her phone, which was a bit of a turn-off for Greg.

He also noticed there was a second phone on the bar in front of her. Honestly, how many did a girl need?

"You wanted to talk to me?" asked Greg.

She glanced up, then at the phone again. "Not me, no. Here."

She slapped the phone that had been sitting on the counter into Greg's hand, then promptly got up.

"What the bloody hell is this?" asked Greg.

"What's it look like?" she asked dryly.

"Who are you, then? Will you answer that?"

She looked up and pursed her lips thoughtfully. "How about… Cynthia?"

He blinked at her for a moment. "If you're going to make up a name, you shouldn't make it so obvious."

She shrugged and walked outside, and he picked up the mobile and walked back over to Arty.

"What was that about?" asked Arty.

"No clue," said Greg, looking at the phone inquisitively. "Could be she knows something about a crime and doesn't want to get caught giving the coppers information, but she seemed too… nonchalant for that. And rather rude, actually."

"So she just handed you that phone and walked out?"

Greg nodded, opening up the old flip-phone.

There was a text message. He tilted his head to the side in interest. She gave him the phone. Was he meant to read it, then?

He opened the text.

There is a car waiting for you outside. It would be better if you got in of your own accord.

Greg's mouth fell open. What the hell? He wasn't really sure what to do… so he responded.

Is that a threat? – GL

It doesn't have to be.

Greg found himself extremely irritated. He wasn't in the mood for shit like this. Well, he never liked things like this, but he was even less tolerant of it because of the day's events.

You've got the nerve to threaten ME? Do you know who I am? – GL

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, age fifty, recently divorced because of a cheating wife, frequently employs the assistance of a Consulting Detective named Sherlock Holmes.

This stopped him in his tracks, turning his indignation to discomfort. Most people didn't know why he and his wife split up. It wasn't open knowledge. And bringing up Sherlock… this could be some mastermind of a criminal.

What do you want? – GL

I already told you. Get in the car outside. I promise no harm will come to you. We just need to talk.

And this was the part where Greg thought he'd gone totally crazy. Because he stood up.

"Oi, Arty, something's come up. Gotta run."

He looked worried. "Erm… alright. You… be careful, hear? Get a cab back if you drove here."

"No worries, I won't be driving."

There was a car outside for him, after all.

He was curious, honestly. He wanted to know what the hell was going on. And if this ended up going really badly, he had ways he could contact The Yard without people noticing. He was the damn DI, for Christ's sake. He was capable of getting himself out of trouble.

There was a sleek black car, and the door was standing open. He slid in and not-Cynthia was sitting there, twiddling with her phone.

Suddenly, this whole thing was starting to ring a bell for him. Pretty girl with a phone, black town car, and a mysterious person contacting via phone and sounding threatening. It sounded like a story John told him once, from the day after he met Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't sure if he was now in the same predicament that John was in then, but he'd keep it in mind.

"So now can I know your name?" Greg asked conversationally.

She was quiet for another long moment. "Zelda," she said.

"Oh, come on, that's not even believable."

"Okay then, Katie."

"Fine, I don't need to know."

"Good."

"So who am I going to see?" asked Greg.

"My employer."

"That's specific," said Greg in irritation.

"Hey, you got in the car," said Cynthia/Zelda/Katie. "If you cared about specifics, you wouldn't have come."

"I hoped to get specifics once I agreed to meet your employer."

She gave a dry laugh. "Then you're meeting the wrong person. He quite enjoys being vague."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Great. What does he want with me anyway?"

"Haven't the faintest," she said into her phone screen.

And the rest of the drive was concluded in silence.

He paid close attention to where they drove and they ended up at a long-vacant warehouse in East London. He kept it in mind, in case he needed to call someone. Then again, it was late, so nobody'd be at the office. God forbid he might be forced to call Sherlock, who'd definitely be awake. But he could imagine how that conversation would go. Something like, "And why would I want to help you?" Or maybe, "You were clever enough to pay attention to where you were being driven? Astonishing." Or possibly, "You got yourself into the mess, surely you can manage to get yourself back out of it."

He concluded he'd only call Sherlock if it was life and death. He'd rather call one of his colleagues and risk interrupting Anderson and Donovan not-so-secretly having an affair than call Sherlock. And that's considering that affairs were a pretty sensitive subject to Greg at the moment.

Or… or he could call John. That'd work. He decided to shoot John a text.

Don't suppose you're awake? – GL

John answered quickly enough that he wasn't out of the car yet.

Sherlock's kept me up all night, so yeah. Is something wrong? – JW

Maybe not, but I'm not sure. I'll let you know. – GL

He imagined John would be confused, but he got in response:

Well, I'm not in London, but keep me posted. I'll help if I can. – JW

Well, so much for that. If he wasn't in London, Sherlock wasn't either.

Greg shoved his phone back in his pocket right as Cynthia/Zelda/Katie led him into the warehouse. It was almost entirely empty, other than a man. He was fairly tall, and had a grumpy face and a very posh suit. He was leaning on an umbrella.

Greg miraculously kept from smirking. The umbrella. John'd told him about the umbrella before. He felt better once he knew who this was. Even more so since he was told that, though the man could be irritating, he was mostly harmless. At least harmless to 'friends' of Sherlock.

After noticing his initial appearance, though, Greg noticed more. That his eyes were a pale, keen blue just like his brother's. That he had an actual aura around him, an aura of power that was intimidating even from several metres away. Greg couldn't help but grudgingly respect the man in front of him… even marvel at him a bit.

"Gregory," said the man, stepping forward. "How nice to finally meet."

"I haven't been called 'Gregory' since my Great Aunt Tessie died when I was twelve," Greg said.

"Well then, get used to it again, Gregory," the man said.

"So, should I call you Mycroft then, or shorten it to Myc?"

Greg felt smug at the shocked look on Mycroft Holmes' face. Mycroft was pretending not to be surprised, but wasn't doing a good job of it.

"See, it's not fun when people you don't know seem to know a lot about you, is it, Myc?" asked Greg pointedly.

Mycroft gave a dry smile. "No. I suppose not."

"So what do you want?" asked Greg. "And why all the dramatics?"

"I wanted to keep this just between us."

"Which is hard to do when your brother is Sherlock Holmes," said Greg.

Mycroft sighed quietly. "Admittedly."

"Which means this is probably about Sherlock, then?"

Another sigh.

"Indeed. You see, Sherlock has taken a case today. He and John Watson decided to get in a car and drive off to Dartmoor. Specifically, the Baskerville military research base. I got contacted about my name being used to get into said base today, and as 221B is vacant, and frankly this is just the type of thing Sherlock would do, I figure it must be him."

"Okay. What's this got to do with me?"

Mycroft took a few steps closer, until they were less than a metre apart. Greg noticed again that Mycroft just had this… feel about him. This time more than before, actually. It made Greg just the slightest bit nervous—kind of like he had been when Lance told him a young girl at a bar wanted to speak to him.

"You see, Gregory… I worry about Sherlock. He's constantly getting into trouble, with his social ineptitudes and inability to know what is going 'too far'. John, though he seems sensible enough, is not helpful in that respect. He's brought out more of the heart of Sherlock, that much is unfortunately true, but he doesn't stop Sherlock from doing silly things. He just goes along with them."

Greg soaked all this in. "Sherlock has a heart?" asked Greg dryly.

Mycroft actually gave a smile. "I didn't always think so, but yes. It's caused me a bit of trouble, recently."

"You mean Irene Adler?" asked Greg.

Mycroft again looked surprised.

"I'm not actually stupid, even though both you Holmes' seem to think so," continued Greg in response to the look he was getting.

Another dry, patronising smirk. "On the contrary, I wanted to talk to you specifically because you're quite competent enough to help me out."

"With what?" asked Greg, officially annoyed.

"Alright, I'll get to the point. I need someone to keep an eye on the two of them."

Greg blinked. "What?" he asked blankly.

"Usually, I am quite capable of watching them myself. But this time, they got up and left with no warning at all and I was in a very important meeting with… well, it doesn't matter who, but I have no idea what all they're getting up to, other than sneaking into military bases with my identity, and it worries me immensely."

"So you want me to… watch them?"

"Make like you're there for a holiday."

"Sherlock'll know I just got back from holiday."

"You fancied another."

"That's the best you've got?" accused Greg.

"It doesn't matter if he knows why you're really there or not as long as you keep a close eye on him."

"And why can't you do this yourself?"

"I'm an extremely busy man. I don't have time to pop out to Dartmoor."

"And I'm not busy? I'm the DI, if you weren't aware."

"Quite aware," replied Mycroft. "Which is why you're just the man for the job."

"Because I'm busy?"

"Because you're clever, and because you worry about Sherlock too, I know you do."

Greg jutted his jaw out defensively. "You don't know me."

"I know quite more than you might think, Gregory. And… from what I've seen, you're one of the only genuinely good men left in the world."

He was surprised by the compliment. "Me?" he asked dumbly.

"I'd say you're quite underappreciated," continued Mycroft.

Then Greg rolled his eyes. "You're flattering me because you want something from me."

Mycroft smiled a little. "I'm flattering you because it's the truth. Really, you don't see yourself very clearly."

Greg, being still slightly intoxicated and emotionally fragile since his very recent divorce, spoke without meaning to. "Well, nobody else on the bloody planet thinks I'm worth their time, so don't know why you'd think anything good about me."

Greg was startled then at the look on Mycroft's face. It was… rather sad. "That's quite untrue."

"You don't know me," Greg repeated, but this time it sounded depressed rather than defiant.

Another step closer, and Mycroft was officially breaking the personal space bubble of two people who only just met. And somehow, Greg didn't mind.

"I know that I put a great deal of effort into not caring about things, since I don't believe it's at all advantageous to feel sentiment… and yet I can't help but be fond of you."

"Of me?" asked Greg, and really, he was flattered.

By Mycroft Holmes.

Blimey, what an odd day.

"I haven't mentioned what you get in return for the help," said Mycroft, making Greg wonder if Mycroft had actually meant for the compliment to slip out.

"What do I get in return then?" asked Greg with a little smile. If he was being honest, he was already thinking about what he'd pack, but Mycroft didn't need to know that.

"I considered blackmail against your wife as an option."

"You have that?" asked Greg, pretending not to be interested.

"Oh yes, loads of it, but I have a feeling you are too virtuous to accept it."

Of course, Mycroft was right. How could the DI keep dirt on his wife and not feel like a dirty, rotten hypocrite? "You know me too well," said Greg.

"Then what would you like from me, Gregory?"

"I…" Greg muttered. "I dunno."

Mycroft gave another tiny smile. "But you do. I can tell."

Yes, Greg did know, but it didn't make any sense to him. Not at all.

But, it was just the two of them here. He needn't be ashamed with nobody there to judge him.

"Well… how about dinner?" He blurted it out before he meant to.

Mycroft, for the third time, looked shocked, and Greg had a feeling Mycroft wasn't used to being startled so many times in one night. "Dinner?"

"You're being so secretive. You're going to tell me something about you. Since you seem to know so much about me."

"Am I?"

"Plus, Sherlock would be furious if he heard I was going to dinner with you, and that would be hilarious."

Mycroft smiled again, but tried to hide it. "Fine then. Dinner it is."

"Good. That all then?"

Mycroft was quiet for a moment, his pale eyes penetrating Greg in a way that again made him nervous.

"Thank you, Gregory. This means a great deal to me. I shall not forget it in the future."

"Erm… uh… you're welcome," stammered Greg, quailing under the force of Mycroft's eyes—maybe even more so than he would if it were Sherlock, and that's saying something. It always made him feel ridiculous, the way that Sherlock could make him, a grown man, genuinely fearful just with his gaze. Or at the very least extremely nervous. So the fact that Mycroft was worse... Greg felt vaguely like a frightened five-year-old suddenly. Or maybe a sixteen-year-old girl talking to a cute bloke. Either way.

And Mycroft began to walk away, for some reason farther into the warehouse instead of towards the exit, swinging his umbrella. And Greg just watched, for more than ten seconds, still not knowing why he was so intrigued by the man. He just wanted to know more.

"Hey, Myc?" Greg called.

Mycroft turned. "Gregory?"

"You seemed surprised that I'd want to go to dinner with you," he said.

"I was," admitted Mycroft.

"Then maybe you don't see yourself clearly either. It should be obvious why someone'd want to go to dinner with you."

And before Mycroft could say anything else, Greg made for the exit and shut the door to the warehouse, smirking as he walked to the car at the thought that he'd just surprised him for the fourth time in one night.

He was halfway to the car, walking with Cynthia/Zelda/Katie in the rain, when Mycroft came into stride with him.

"Yeah?" asked Greg.

"Well… I just thought maybe we could ride in the same car. Just to chat."

Greg couldn't stop himself from smiling, though he didn't know why. "Sure."

Wordlessly, Cynthia/Zelda/Katie walked back into the warehouse—Greg didn't bother to wonder how she was getting home—and the two of them slid in, and the car pulled away from the warehouse.

And right then Greg realised that, for the first time in two weeks, he hadn't really thought of his ex-wife in the past hour, since his whole thing started. It was a relief to get her off his mind. And what seemed to get her off his mind was…

He looked over to Mycroft.

"Yes?" asked Mycroft.

Greg couldn't figure out why he couldn't stop staring. "Er… nothing."

And the two men just continued to stare at each other, as if they thought the other was the most interesting thing they had ever seen, as the car drifted back into the centre of London.

"How about dinner now?" asked Greg suddenly.

Mycroft smiled once more, but this time it seemed genuine rather than patronising.

"That sounds… nice."

"Good. Then let's go."

And Greg smiled, really smiled, for what felt like the first time in a long time. Maybe he didn't understand what was going on, but he wasn't sure he cared. At the moment, he felt content, and that was all that really mattered.

Hey, I hope you liked it. Please review. And if you like Johnlocks, that's what I primarily write, so go take a look at my profile. Thanks!

Oh, and if people are interested, I could do a second chapter, maybe. Not sure.