Greg Lestrade was no fool. He might not be quite as smart as the Holmes brothers, but he still had a keen eye for details.
It took him about three minutes to decide that Sherlock had definitely inherited his mother's temper, while Mycroft owed most of his quiet and reserved disposition to his father. Mrs Holmes was definitely an extraordinary woman, and yet he found himself wondering about the inconspicuous man that was Mr Holmes the senior.
A gentle creature, almost shy if compared to his wife; and yet his eyes sparkled with pixie-like delight when Greg asked for a cigarette, his fingers brushing against Mycroft's for a bit longer that would be ordinarily deemed as appropriate. His smile was distinctly reminiscent of the one that lit up Mycroft's features in his most unguarded moments.
Later on he was sitting in front of the fireplace nursing a glass of punch when the old gentleman wandered into the room, his hands thrust in his pockets.
"I'm glad you decided to join us for dinner," Mr Holmes offered after a moment. "Though it's probably a bit dull for a police officer like you."
"It's nice, actually. Cosy. Nothing like Christmas in London."
Mr Holmes paused, considering his words. "You're good for him, you know," he mused as if between himself. "I haven't seen him that happy in longer than I can remember."
Greg wasn't taken aback at the apparent non sequitur; he was well into the Holmeses' peculiar logic by now.
"One does try," he said noncommittally, and was rewarded with a smile that reached the other man's eyes.
He could easily imagine how Mycroft would be in another thirty years or so, and the thought stirred a strange rush of affection deep inside his chest.