The New Scotland Yard building in London was sold some time ago and the officers of the MET will move to the Curtis Green Building located at the Victoria Embankment in April 2016. This is a fact!
The idiom "table a motion" has several meanings but one, as my "Dictionary of English Idioms" a Penguin Reference book told me, is "to put forward a proposal for debate".
Greg ran the palm of his hand over the cool, smooth surface of his desk. All the boxes were packed, filled with pens, folders, legislative textbooks but also a few framed pictures, his favourite coffee mug and all sort of knick-knacks that had found their way into his office over the past decade.
Everything would be moved into his new office over the course of the night. All he had to do was go home one last time from New Scotland Yard on Broadway and come back to Scotland Yard in the Curtis Green Building on Victoria Embankment the following morning. He already knew what his new office looked like. It was quite a bit smaller than this one but provided an actual view because it had an honest to god window. The walls in the building had been freshly painted and they had been given new computers and furniture. Still, he wished he could at least bring his old desk.
The desk's surface was slightly scratched, there were marks the heels of his shoes had left when he had put his feet up and a few coffee stains that even the strongest cleaner couldn't remove anymore. Those tell-tale signs of usage were usually covered by papers anyway so in Greg's opinion they didn't matter.
He walked around the table to look at the small indention in the surface. It was only visible at a certain angle and he let his fingertips fondly caress the imperfection. Glad that most of his colleagues had already left Greg smiled while he remembered how his life had changed the day the desk had received the dent, about a month after Sherlock Holmes had come back from the dead.
oOo
Two years ago
He had been reinstated in his position as a DI some months before but he carried around too much guilt and there were still moments when he expected Sherlock to flounce into his office and tell him that he was an idiot.
Greg smiled when he reread a text on his phone from John Watson, telling him he had bought a ring and would propose to Mary Morstan. He planned to call him the following day, wanting to know how the evening had gone. The policeman wanted to buy Mary the biggest bunch of flowers available in the whole of London because he knew that without her, John Watson would have killed himself. The doctor had never gotten over Sherlock's suicide.
Greg was happy for John and Mary, he really was, but there was also this shadow of envy he couldn't completely push aside as he wished there was someone equally important in his own life. The last time he had felt wanted, desired and understood had been a very long time ago.
If he was honest, it hadn't been all that long really. For quite some time Sherlock's older brother Mycroft had shown interest in him, a fact that had flattered and scared the DI in equal measures. This elegant, ridiculously intelligent man was very much out of his league. Not to mention that so far Greg had had only female partners.
The day Greg had finally acknowledged his own bi-sexually and decided that he wanted more that the odd chat with Mycroft over a cup of coffee or lunch, Sherlock had jumped off St Bart's, killing himself and every hope Greg might have harboured to become more than a convenient watch-dog for Mycroft. His own actions had implemented Sherlock's suicide and although inadvertently he had done his deed to rob the man he had come to secretly long for of his beloved baby-brother, Greg couldn't bear to look him in the eyes anymore.
Instead he had endured the disciplinary beating and crawled into a hole to lick his wounds. He was back in office but the guilt he still felt was crushing. Mycroft hadn't reached out to him either so there was no indication that the elder Holmes had forgiven him or would do so in the foreseeable future.
All the more reason for Greg to be extremely surprised when one day, shortly after his afternoon run he found the incarnation of the British government at the doorstep of his flat. Clad in socks, sweatpants and a t-shirt, Greg opened the door before he even had had his shower, expecting the postman or a neighbour; anyone really, except Mycroft Holmes.
"Good day, Detective Inspector. There is something very important I need to tell you," Mycroft said by way of greeting and walked inside without waiting for a reply.
Greg closed the door and followed Mycroft who had already walked into the living-room like he owned the place. Wearing a pin-stripe suit that emphasized every physical feature Greg ever had admired and longed for, the man radiated power that made the hairs at the DI's neck stand up.
"Perhaps it'd best if you sat down," Mycroft told him.
Not knowing what to expect Greg nodded and plonked down onto the sofa. So far he had not uttered a single word but the government official apparently was neither offended nor did he seem to expect him to speak.
"I came back from Serbia a few days ago. I went there," Mycroft paused for a moment, "to bring my brother home."
Greg blinked. "I thought he was buried here in London." Confusion was evident in his voice.
"I didn't say I brought my brother's body home," Mycroft replied softly. Suddenly awash with visible compassion he sat down next to the DI and, to Greg's great shock, took his hands and held them during his next words.
"Gregory, Sherlock is alive. His suicide was a fake, necessary to protect the few friends Sherlock has, one of them being you."
What followed were a lot of shouting, a couple of spilled tears, in anger as well as relief, many questions on the DI's part and a plenty of explanations on Mycroft's. The latter got him a glass with a shot of single malt whisky from a cabinet to sooth Greg's frayed nerves.
The DI went back to work two hours later. He hoped that for the next couple of hours nothing would happen that would demand he left his office. There was the whisky he had drunk, something he never did when he was supposed to work, but also the news he tried to digest.
For once the gods seemed to smile at the DI for there was no need for him to leave his office and his colleagues left him mostly alone. When he finally went to the car park to drive home, Sherlock showed up. Although Mycroft had warned him his brother might do just that, it was a bit of a shock, to put it mildly. The DI called Sherlock a bastard but then hugged the living daylight out of him. Only later he would be puzzled by the fact that the younger Holmes hadn't struggled and even smiled at him before he had disappeared in the dark.
Nearly a month passed before, one morning, Greg Lestrade woke up to discover that the anger he had felt upon Mycroft's lie was gone. The hurt had finally dissolved. Perhaps they could start over again.
As if he had felt the absolution Mycroft showed up in the DI's office the following day. It wasn't really that much of a surprise because the night before they had finally caught a high-ranking drug-dealer who had murdered a rival. Sherlock had led them to the drug-lord's den where they not only had arrested the man with surprisingly little hustle but also had discovered almost twenty-five pounds of cocaine of the highest quality. The reporters were informed that Sherlock Holmes, the hat-detective, had played a major role in solving the case. Although the freshly re-instated Consulting Detective threw a tantrum worthy of a whole group of small children, Greg dragged him in front of the camera to tell the journalists and the rest of the world about their joint operation and following success.
The DI was busy finishing the rest of the paperwork when Mycroft Holmes strolled into his office. Although perfectly capable of small-talk, Mycroft usually went straight to the topic at hand, once he had bestowed the appropriate, good day, Inspector. Today though he initiated what could be considered a standard greeting in Britain but a rather abnormal one where the politician was concerned. Inquiring after Greg's health or talking about the weather were part of a conversation the elder Holmes usually forwent.
Eventually Mycroft took the offered chair and the DI told him how Sherlock had helped to solve the case and that he had stuck like glue to the younger Holmes' side the whole time, making sure that not even the smallest amount of cocaine would find its way into one of the Belstaff's many pockets. The drug dogs who had carefully sniffed the highly offended consulting detective afterwards had also cleared him.
Once Greg had finished his report Mycroft could have left. Instead the man had got up and was now standing in front of the desk, fiddling with his ever present umbrella and looking at the tips of his shoes. Greg couldn't help but take pity in him.
"You are forgiven, you know."
The almost imploring look from Mycroft's pale eyes showed clearly how desperately the man wanted those words to be true.
"I can only repeat that I'm terribly sorry, Gregory. Hurting you has never been Sherlock's nor my intention. If there is something... anything I can do to make it up to you, please, tell me."
The Inspector's smile was slowly changing from soft to predatory. He stood up, walked around the desk and stepped right behind the elder Holmes. Standing so very close that his own chest had the slightest of contact with Mycroft's suit-clad back, his breath tickled the politician's ear.
"Why don't you come to my flat tonight to show me how sorry you are. Bring a bottle of posh wine and perhaps an assortment of cheese from La Cave à Fromage."
Although distracted by a cluster of tiny freckles at the side of his neck and the scent Mycroft emitted, Greg heard the man's breath hitch.
"I don't know at what time I'll be able to leave the office today, Gregory," Mycroft croaked.
Crowding him even further against his desk, Greg pulled a spare key from his own pocket to place it carefully inside one of Mycroft's trouser pockets by sliding his hand inside.
"Then perhaps it's best I give you a key to my place, in case I'm in the shower when you arrive."
The pad of Greg's thumb rubbed once over the politician's thigh and with only the silk of the pocket's inner lining for a barrier, he felt Mycroft tremble upon the touch. The man's long, elegant fingers were curled so tightly around his umbrella's handle, that his knuckles were almost white and the hard wood of the umbrella's handle was grinding against the table-top while Mycroft fought for control, both mentally and physically.
"Yes, I shall be there." The mental image of the attractive Inspector under the shower made it difficult to breathe.
For a moment Greg wondered if he had gone too far but then Mycroft was grinding his bottom firmly against the DI's crotch. The politician's eyes were dark when he turned the moment Greg took a step backwards.
"I'm going to call you before I'll leave the office. That should give you plenty of time to... ah... prepare for my arrival."
"See you tonight, Mycroft."
"I'm looking forward to it, Gregory," Mycroft replied, leaving the office and its mischievously grinning but blushing occupant.
Elegantly Mycroft had turned the table, leaving it for Greg to decide if he would be greeting his guest fully dressed or wearing only a towel.
oOo
The Present
"Gregory!"
The DI turned and found Mycroft standing at the door. "Oh, is it six already?" Greg walked away from his desk, where he had been standing while being lost in his thoughts. He kissed his partner quickly on the lips before he looked at the desk one last time.
Following Greg's line of sight, Mycroft saw of the slight dent in the table-top and immediately knew what the man he loved had been thinking about when he had entered the office. The corners of his mouth curled upwards. The politician despised apologies but the apology that had followed their encounter, that had led to the dent had been most pleasant and made him happier than he had ever thought possible.
Switching off the office-light one last time, Greg followed Mycroft outside the building. A limousine was waiting which would bring them home, where Greg had time to shower and change for a reception at the Spanish embassy.
Greg arrived at the Curtis Green building at eight o'clock sharp. He went through the usual routine of greeting the officers at the entrance before he went upstairs to his new realm. Looking around the large open-space office most officers now had to make do with, he spotted Sally Donovan unpacking a cardboard box at her new desk. They all would get used to the layout of the building eventually and at least his division hadn't been moved to Putney.
"Good morning, boss!" Sally greeted him. "Tell me, who did you piss off this time?"
"Pardon?" Greg had no idea what she was talking about?"
For an answer Sally nodded towards his new office before she busied herself by pulling folders from the box and spreading them out on her desk.
"Oh!" Greg exclaimed, when he had walked to his new office and discovered his old desk in the midst of the otherwise new furniture.
A smile appeared on his face. Pulling the mobile from his pocket he sent a quick text to Mycroft.
That was your doing, wasn't it? GL
What's the point in having a little influence unless I'm using it once in a while? MH
Little influence my ass. What did you do? And more important when? GL
Language, Gregory! Last night when you were taking your shower I tabled a motion to move a table. MH
That's a terrible pun! GL
But you love me anyway? MH
With all my heart! Thank you! :-* GL
Greg put the phone away and began unpacking his own boxes. As he was staking his papers on his desk, that had been the silent witness of some memorable moments in the past, he was hoping there would be more just as happy ones in the future.
I'm certain that Mycroft has enough power that his proposals for debate could mean no-one would vote against him if he asked if one piece of furniture from NSY could be moved to Scotland Yard instead of being thrown away (or given away or would just be left behind).