I'm taking the Greg/Mycroft ship and running with it. In this adaption, Greg is a woman named Grace. Still a detective, still works with Sherlock. This is a WIP and updates will be slow. Thanks for your patience :)

To say that my life hadn't been shaped by the presence of the Holmes brothers would be wishful thinking.

Like it or not, I will be remembered as the detective that Sherlock Holmes could "tolerate." And whatever, I'm not selfish. I can live with that. I liked Sherlock just fine. His straightforward, no-bullshit attitude was refreshing - even comical at times. He put law enforcement in its place and broke rules that I didn't have the courage to break.

And no matter what he says, or how many times he rolls his eyes and mutters, "Obvious," Sherlock Holmes liked me just fine Watson was fantastic. Really a stand-up guy. Kind, compassionate, and incredibly patient with Sherlock's shenanigans.

Mycroft Holmes was a different story. We did not get on. His heartless attitude towards the people he considered "normal" annoyed me to no end.

We met at a gala intended to get the police and politicians on the same page. Attendance was, unfortunately, mandatory. Twenty minutes into the speeches, I ducked into the hall to snog with the guy next to me. He was cute, but dumb as a doorknob. I don't know how the hell he became a detective. Nonetheless, we were both having a good time (well, I was), when from behind him came a loud "Ahem."

We turned around and found a smug politician with an expensive suit and a pointy black umbrella gazing lazily at us. His face contorted into a very frightening falsely apologetic smile. He promptly turned to glare at my snogging partner until he excused himself and walked back to the room, looking over his shoulder, confused. I straightened my dress as I watched him leave. He walked into a wall. The politician smirked.

"Mycroft Holmes," he introduced the minute what's-his-name was out of earshot.

I begrudgingly shook his hand. "Grace -"

"- Lestrade. I know." I frowned. The corners of his mouth curved upward again, and I frowned. His general creepiness was reminiscent of serial killer or a possessed doll. I hardened my jaw and folded my arms in an attempt to not be scared off. I've shot people, for heavens sake. "I have a favor to ask you."

I shook my head immediately. "Sorry, but no. I don't do favors for politicians."

He smiled like a parent does when they give pie to their begrudging child as a peace offering and know they'll take it though it was angrily denied the first time. "You haven't even heard what I'm asking of you."

"And I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you," I shot back.

"It's not," he said, with a look that kept me from walking away. I settled for glaring lightly until he told me his request. "Very shortly, a man with unkept black hair will show up at one of your crime scenes - wearing a trench coat, no doubt. He will solve your case with an unnecessary amount of drama and expect you to be impressed. You will undoubtedly want to arrest this man. I am asking you not to."

I snorted in disbelief. "Let's say this mysterious man does appear to my crime scene and solve the case. He'd certainly be a good suspect."

"Yet he is not a suspect. He won't even be connected to the case at all."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't," he sneered, condescendingly, and I took a step forward in indignation.

"Look, Mr. Holmes, I don't know what are game you are playing at -"

"I assure you, Ms. Lestrade, I have my hand in many games, but this is not one of them." I ran my hand through my hair - and remembered it was slicked back into a bun.

"Let me get this straight. An unrelated man will show up at a crime scene and solve a case. He isn't a suspect, and he's not related to the scene or victims at all, yet is just somehow all knowing."

"Correct. But it will not be just any crime scene - rather, your crime scene." He smiled slyly once more, as if he knew my thoughts and deemed them hilarious.

I said it anyway. "Well, what's so special about my crime scene?"

"Believe me when I tell you I haven't the foggiest. But he chose you, and there was no changing his mind." He did a little head dip, and turned on his heel. "I'll be in touch," he told me over his shoulder.

"Wait!" I shouted, a little too loudly. "What's his name?"

Mr. Holmes stopped, and turned back towards me ever so slightly.

"Sherlock Holmes."