(( Hello, everyone! Sorry this is a tad late, I completely forgot to upload it on this site! :D Hope you enjoy it, and have two for your trouble!))

Mycroft didn't have time for luxuries.

Luxuries, of course, included friends and boyfriends alike, but also hobbies, crafts, and hell, even going out. If Mycroft were to go out, he would only waste the time thinking that perhaps he could be working. When Sherlock got home, Mycroft had to focus entirely on him. The boy was an old twelve, but Mycroft worried constantly. Mycroft knew that he was teased, he was vulnerable, and he was so prone to doing stupid things.

His last proper friend had been about four years ago, in Uni. She was very dear to him, and if Mycroft hadn't been entirely homosexual, he felt as if he would have loved her. Of course, he did love her, in the way that friends do. After Uni, they had parted ways. They had kept in contact right up until the night and now Mycroft wondered how she was doing.

The last proper boyfriend had been just a few months ago, but that was entangled in the thing and moving out and that night and everything that Mycroft wanted to shove away into a nice, neat little box.

Mycroft's mind worked as a filing system. If he needed something, he would just pull it up. It wasn't difficult in the slightest, though not as glamorous as Sherlock's ridiculous Mind Palace. That being said, there were certain boxes that Mycroft had thrown in a corner and never intended to look at it again. The boyfriend and the thing and the night were all in that box, and Mycroft never thought about it.

In that sense, he thought about it every waking moment. It was too much thought, in essence – he already had to worry about his little brother and his life and his job and his future.

He did let himself relax once in a while, though. He didn't hate his job as a waiter, no. In fact, he was quite fond of it on occasion. It was one of the things that enabled him to be a top-notch observer. His coworkers were decent, although all terribly dull, and the tips got him through the week. Plus, there was him.

Crushes were stupid and idiotic. They were things felt by schoolchildren. They were things that Mycroft desperately hoped Sherlock was feeling because, by God, it would be the first normal thing that that child ever went through.

And yet, Mycroft had a crush on a regular.

It was something out of a poorly-written romance novel, but there it was. The man would sit at a table, alone, and order the same thing every day. A black coffee with a pastry. Never sugar, never milk. Occasionally he would be wearing a Yarder jacket, or occasionally he would have a spot of shaving cream just behind his ear. That told Mycroft that the man was a police officer and lived alone, which gave Mycroft a bit of senseless hope. After all, he told himself desperately, if he did have someone, wouldn't he bring her along one day?

Even if he was single, there was no guarantee that the regular was gay. Then again, there was no guarantee that the regular was straight, either. Or something in-between.

Mycroft didn't know why he hoped such fanciful things. It wasn't as if he'd ever do anything so brash as to sweep up to the man, introduce himself, and ask for his number. God, no. Mycroft wasn't shy in the slightest, but he also didn't need anyone. His life was hectic and overwhelming enough, and he had more baggage than any traveler. He didn't need to put the lovely Yarder through that, but by God, was he handsome.

His name was Gregory. Gregory Lestrade, if memory served correctly. That was the name in the Yarder's mobile, regardless. On one rapturous day he had left his mobile on the table and Mycroft had ran out in the rain to deliver it back. With Mycroft absolutely drenched, Lestrade had given him the warmest smile and had let Mycroft come under his umbrella. He thanked him profusely, gave his elbow a squeeze, and then walked him back inside.

It was such a small action, in honesty. However, that one small squeeze on his elbow – the large fingers grasping the cloth of his uniform, feeling the warmth through his skin, and the brilliant closeness of it all – completely shut down his mind process. He could only stare at Lestrade like a fish before the man began leading him back inside the shop. God, Lestrade probably thought him an idiot.

That was funny, really, because Mycroft fancied himself the most brilliant man in London.

Granted, a brilliant man who acted like a slightly average one in front of a man he fancied.

It was a difficult situation and, not for the first time, Mycroft wished he was just living a normal life. Then, he could just stroll up to the man, strike up a conversation, and things would go easily. However, Mycroft reasoned, all relationships ended in heartbreak – even if he had a 'normal' life, who said this would be any different?

He laid his head on his arms and groaned. There'd been a quick change in the back-room into his uniform, and then he had started to prepare the shop for opening. As always, a few people came in exactly as it opened. Mycroft, if nothing else, knew how to deal with people. Polite and courteous was always fine, yes, but on occasion, flattery was ideal. Sometimes, Mycroft spoke as little as possible and left the person well enough alone. It all depended on the customer.

He contented himself with human psychology for a few hours, but he couldn't fool himself. His neck kept craning in the most obnoxious fashion towards the front door. Lestrade didn't miss a day of getting coffee, and Mycroft would always volunteer to service him.

It was the most pathetic thing, really. Mycroft knew he'd never, ever ask him out. It wouldn't happen. Perhaps he was good-looking enough, and intelligent enough, but Sherlock had told him that he had a personality like ditchwater. Besides, as Mycroft thought before, he certainly didn't have the time to do anything so rash. And, God, what if Lestrade turned out to be a bad man after all?

There he was.

Mycroft let out the most feminine sigh.

His colleagues didn't understand his living situation, how poor he was, or even that he had a brother. They merely saw a lovesick, asocial idiot. As such, they tried to shove Mycroft towards Lestrade as much as they could without causing a scene.

"Ah- hello. The usual, Lestrade?" Mycroft asked him with a slightly terrified smile. Lestrade had the strangest way about him, and Mycroft supposed that was what drew him towards him. When he smiled, they could have been the only two in the room. He looked into Mycroft's eyes as he talked, and he leaned ever so slightly towards Mycroft, and hell.

"That'd be fantastic. And I've seen you dozens of times, you can just call me Greg." Deep brown eyes looked up at him and gave him another one of his smiles. To hell with it all, Mycroft thought irritably – he was a twenty-four year old man, he should have been being reckless and foolhardy. And at the end of the day, wasn't it sad that he thought just asking a man out was being reckless and foolhardy?

"I'm afraid they'll get quite irate at me for that. Familiarity, you know. Though…I imagine Gregory shan't go amiss." Mycroft quipped at him, staying at his table for a few seconds longer than necessary. He tried to match his smile, but it was impossible. At his core, Mycroft was a politician – true emotion was a tad foreign to him. Expressing it was even harder.

"Gregory it is, then. I fancy this place, honestly. Gives me a good start to my day." Greg answered back, and Mycroft realized that they were having a conversation. That immediately put all sorts of pressures on Mycroft that he didn't initially realize. His work was not a place to make friends and allies. His work was just a way to make money. He didn't socialize.

"Really? I understand that you work in the NSY, but what do you do?"

A gentle, if a bit confused, smile from Greg's side. "Just a bobby. Foot patrols, you know. How did you know I work there?"

"Easy enough to witness from your jacket, Gregory. And I daresay that I could have guessed your foot patrols by the bearing on your shoes, but I didn't want to seem presumptuous in front of a customer." Mycroft rattled off, feeling massively pleased with himself. When he had been younger and had shown a gift for observation, he was…well, teased or ignored for it. So he hadn't wanted to show it off. Now, though? He wanted Lestrade to be impressed with him.

"I'll be damned." Greg reported cheerfully. There was a few minutes of awkward silence, before Greg cleared his throat. "Um, sorry. Coffee and a pastry?"

"Right! Yes, of course – apologies." Mycroft stuttered out and disappeared behind the counter. God, how could one man (who just knew his name!) reduce him to a little pile of goo? It was so unlike him. While Mycroft's heart was fluttering, though, he knew there was a massive amount of danger. Consort with this man too much and Mycroft might be tempted to ask him out, and then it would be all over.

The best case scenario was if Lestrade turned out to be a wonderful man, and offered to help. Mycroft wouldn't accept help. From anyone. That philosophy stemmed entirely from the night, but Mycroft was determined to hold it. The worst case scenario was if Lestrade called the police.

Technically, he wasn't the legal guardian of Sherlock. He had a feeling Sherlock knew this, but Sherlock never brought it up. That made Mycroft guilty, but he tried not to think about it.

"Er, coffee and a pastry to table four. If you wouldn't mind taking it over?" Mycroft murmured to his nearest coworker, who shook her head vehemently.

"Sorry, Mycroft, I'm working kitchen."

Damn.

It took him a little longer than usual to prepare the meal, and he took a deep breath. Polite and professional. No excess conversation, and soon, Lestrade would just be a memory. Mycroft supposed that it was only to be expected – he hadn't properly fancied someone in ages.

"Thanks, Mycroft." Lestrade told him fondly, before taking a glance around the coffee-shop. Lestrade was one of the few people there, and certainly the only one in Mycroft's section. "You know, you serve me my coffee every day, and I've never had a proper conversation with you. Would your manager be upset if you took a little sit-down? I don't have to be at work for a good while-"

"Yes!" Mycroft squeaked, backing away. He had known what Lestrade was going to offer before he offered, and Mycroft's heart simultaneously flinched and jumped. "I can't- he would be very - ah!" Before he managed to escape the area, he had tripped over a chair. He fell down and sat there, dazed, for a few seconds. The next thing Mycroft was aware of was Lestrade on his knees next to him, putting one hand on his shoulder.

"Hey. You okay?" Lestrade asked him, the smile gone from his face. One hand was on Mycroft's shoulder. It was a pleasant, warm weight.

Mycroft stared at him for a few seconds before nearly jumping up. With the most pomposity he could, he brushed himself off and strode back into the kitchen. As soon as he was out of Lestrade's eyesight, however, he took a deep breath and pushed his hands through his hair.

He could think of a few biological reasons for his reaction. After all, he was put under so much damn stress. His job, money, his future, and most importantly, Sherlock. That would have made him desperate for a sense of release, a relaxing time, and his subconscious sought that out in Lestrade. Besides, he was a normal twenty-four year old who had sexual urges and unexplained emotions, despite his attempts to stifle them.

As soon as he calmed himself down, his manager came out and gave him a mild tongue-lashing for knocking over a chair and acting like a fool in front of a customer. Mycroft took it complacently, staring down at his shoes and stuffing his hands in his pockets. If he did anything else, his manager would likely fire him. And, God, what would Mycroft do then?

When he had first moved out with Sherlock, Mycroft hadn't had a job. It was really a miracle that he had managed this one. Back then, though, he was desperate. Begging would be…unthinkable. Not to mention that he would get arrested so easily. He had grudgingly thought about prostitution. It would be a horrible blow to his pride, but hell, if it meant his brother living –

Thank God he had gotten a job before he figured out whether he'd go through with it or not.

Still, Mycroft walked on egg-shells at his job. Customers often complimented him on his politeness, and he worked with speed and accuracy. This was, in essence, the only error he had made. Yet another reason to stay away from Gregory Lestrade.

Even as he made the decision to stay away from him, Mycroft's mind was also going in an entirely different direction.

He was a foot officer, was he? That meant, if Mycroft found out his schedule, he could 'accidentally' bump into him and start a conversation. Perhaps even acquire his mobile number. Perhaps even ask him out somewhere. Perhaps even-

No. Nonononono.

Lestrade would have to be avoided.

Hell, he probably thought Mycroft an idiot, anyway, for behaving so stupidly. Mycroft let out a large sigh once his manager had vacated, and he went out to the front to continue working.

Lestrade was no longer there, and some money was on the table.