Greg opens the door to his parents' house without knocking, the sounds of children and activity coming from inside. He closes the door behind him as he hangs up his coat. Walking through the empty hall, he steps into the door of the living room. Kate and John sit side by side in front of the Christmas tree searching through the presents underneath.
"You still have till tomorrow, you know," Greg says.
They whirl around at the same time through a blur of red hair, credit to their father, and flash him matching grins.
"We're just looking for our names," Kate says.
"No harm in that," John finishes.
Greg walks over and crouches down, Kate and John eyeing the large paper shopping bag in his right hand. They look up at his face, down to the bag, and back up again.
Greg shrugs. "Oh, probably nothing for you in here."
"Aw!" Kate cries at the same time John moans, "Uncle Greg!"
Greg smiles and slides the bag to them. "Put them out under the tree for me and you can shake them all you want."
"Deal!" Kate and John chorus.
Greg stands up straight again as the two of them tear into the bag. He breathes in slowly and puts his hands into his pockets. He glances around the room. David's son Edward sits in the corner absorbed in his mobile with knees pulled up to his chest. As Greg turns toward the door to the back room, and the kitchen, David's youngest Timothy suddenly slams into Greg's side, wrapping him in a hug.
"Hi, hi, hi, hi," he chants as he clings to Greg's waist, still only coming up to the middle of Greg's chest, not quite hit his puberty growth spurt yet.
Greg touches the top of Timothy's head. "Hello Timothy, happy Christmas."
"Happy Christmas!" He looks up at Greg with a grin. "Did you bring me presents?"
Greg smiles and points toward Kate and John. "Best check."
Kate turns where she sits and holds up a small box. "Found your name!"
Timothy gasps, detaches himself from Greg and plops down on the floor beside his cousins. Greg watches them for a moment as they shift presents around, check tags, and Kate nearly crawls completely under the tree. He looks the tree up and down, a red and gold theme to the decorations. He reaches out and touches one gold ornament, shiny and reflective. He pulls his hand back and swallows once. Then he blows out a breath of air and turns toward the kitchen.
Greg knocks on the door frame as he walks in. "Hello, family."
"Greg!" Claire, David, and Jane all cry together.
Jane waves a hand, wet from the dishes she is washing in the sink while Claire across from her waves the knife in her hand where she cuts vegetables onto a hors d'oeuvres palter. Greg does not see Colin in the kitchen at the moment. David steps forward and pushes a beer into Greg's hand.
"Join the fun." He shrugs. "Or at least fun for the adult crowd. My oldest son is outside with Colin because apparently he is the cool uncle."
"What does that make me?"
"The fuzz."
Greg cracks a small smile. "Well, Rory is eighteen now."
"Unfortunately." David glances behind Greg, peering through into the living room, then back again to Greg. He waits but when Greg does not say anything else he just smiles. "So, you going to save dinner now?"
"By that, you mean start it?"
"It's started!" Claire snaps, prompting a snort and chuckle from Jane. Claire shoots a glare over her shoulder Jane does not see.
Greg nods as he hands David his beer back and slips off his suit jacket. "I am here to save the dinner."
David takes Greg's jacket and gives him back the beer. "Good because I want to eat the best chicken for Christmas, not Claire chicken."
"Oi!"
Jane laughs again, flipping her blond hair and smiles at David. "You're going to be in real trouble at this rate."
"He already is," Claire grumbles and pops a cucumber slice into her mouth.
David slides across the kitchen floor, kisses Claire on the cheek then kisses Jane on the lips. "Ladies, you cannot deny the superiority of Greg Lestrade, the Copper Chef."
At that Claire and Jane both laugh out loud.
Greg takes a sip of his beer and sighs. "Want me to cook or leave you starving?"
David bows low with Greg's suit jacket still over his arm. "I apologize. Please save our lives."
"He is in rare form," Claire mutters and wipes her hand on her apron.
"Top form," Jane echoes.
David grins. "It is Christmas."
"All right." Greg puts his beer down and steps forward. "Let's get going."
Greg spends the next several hours in the kitchen, Claire assisting and taking out new plates of appetizers. Jane, Colin, and David entertain the children most of the time, though they tag out in turns to help Greg in the kitchen, even if helping sometimes just means chugging a new beer. Occasionally bursts of singing will come from the other room until it devolves into whines and arguments. At one point Greg hears David's three sons start a debate about current bands versus The Cure followed by which of them has the more sophisticated taste in music overall. David reads the card sent by their parents, away on some cruise for the month, in the kitchen and the living room to ensure the grandparent love is received by all. Anne makes a short appearance to drop off presents and say hello before she moves on to her own family function. (Greg avoids saying hello). Jane's brother Michael and his wife also arrive followed by Rory's girlfriend twenty minutes later, much to his parents' surprise. Pass the parcel happens at least once from what Greg hears and Jane even forces the kids to play some board game.
Greg stays exclusively in the kitchen chopping and stirring things in pots on the hob and marinating and shoving pans in the oven. He focuses on the food and let's everything else just happen around him, breathing in and out.
Once the dinner is cooking on its own, half an hour before everything will be done, Greg picks up his glass of beer and sneaks away upstairs. He stops for a moment on the second floor, glancing down the long hall at the three bedrooms in a row. However, he keeps going up the narrow stairs to the attic.
The attic in Greg's parents' house is half set up as a guest room and half for storage. His parents are highly organized people with every item, apart from furniture, in plastic bins labeled on the outside. The bins line the left wall of the attic, two high and two wide, with a few chairs at the far end and an old wardrobe.
When Greg walks in, the one, circular window across from Greg makes a spot of light from the setting sun on the wardrobe, nearly on the ceiling by now. Greg stands still near the door for a moment, watching the window. He can only see the sky through it from this height. He breathes slowly through his nose and puts his free hand in his jean pocket. Then Greg steps over to the right. The right of the attic has a queen bed with two small side tables. The one on the left has a lamp while the one on the right has a box of tissues; always ready for guests. Greg sits down on the end of the bed, takes his hand from his pocket to slide it up into his hair and stares at the floor. He takes a sip of his beer and wonders if he could get away with staying up here forever.
The attic door opens and David peeks in, just his head through the doorway. "Hide out time?"
Greg looks up, not overly surprised David came to find him, and drops his hand to his knee. "That's what attics are for."
David grins and steps in, closing the door behind him. He walks over and sits beside Greg on the bed.
"Cheers." David clinks his glass against Greg's.
"Happy Christmas," Greg says as he takes a drink.
David takes a quick gulp of his beer and tilts his head. "You don't look so happy."
Greg clears his throat. "Yeah…"
"Hey!" Claire suddenly pops through the door, snapping it closed quietly behind her. "You two can't hide out without me, I cooked!"
"You helped," Greg corrects.
"I cooked too!" David says with only slight indignation.
"You chopped peppers," Claire says as she sits down on Greg's other side.
"And made the salad."
"Colin made the salad."
David scoffs. "So he says."
"I saw him do it."
Greg sighs loudly and lies back on the bed, drink held on top of his chest. David and Claire lie down beside him two seconds later. Greg hears David put his drink down on the side table as they all stare up at the pointed ceiling and exposed beams. After a minute, David nudges his head against Greg's and Claire begins fiddling with Greg's shirt cuff.
"I notice Mycroft didn't come," Claire remarks.
"Did we invite him?" David asks.
"I assumed Greg would." Claire turns her head slightly toward Greg. "You did, didn't you?"
"But you were hosting, Claire," David insists.
Claire waves a hand in the air above them. "At mum and dad's."
"But you were in charge."
"Greg knew Mycroft was welcome!"
"Actually, we've split up," Greg says quietly.
Claire and David abruptly jolt up on either side of Greg to gaze down at him. David stares in fury while Claire gapes as if she did not hear him correctly. Greg purses just his lips with an accompanying shrug.
"What do you mean 'split up'?" Claire asks finally.
"What it usually means."
"But why!"
"Claire!" David snaps.
She jerks her head up and gapes at instead David. He shakes his head and furrows his eyebrows at her.
"Look, it's okay," Greg says, touching both their arms in turn. "All right? Is what it is."
"So… he dumped you?" Claire asks. David sighs. "Well!" Claire runs a hand through her hair, extra curly today. "Never know! Mycroft could have done something."
"I'd say he did."
Claire sighs. "You know what –"
"He hurt our brother."
"Calm down, David," Greg says knocking his knee against David's.
"Hey." David looks down at Greg again. "It is my job as older brother to be enraged on your behalf." He looks up at Claire. "And plan revenge schemes."
"No."
David's eyes switch back to Greg. "Why not?"
"Because Mycroft is National Security or something even more secretive, and he could probably have you killed without repercussions."
"But would he?"
Greg cocks his head against the pillow. "I think it's likely."
David and Claire frown at each other. Claire clears her throat. "He's kidding right?"
"Not sure."
Greg smiles. "I think I'm not." He looks up at them and raises his glass. "So, no revenge, please. I don't need to go to another funeral this year or next."
David sighs and digs his nails into the fabric of his gray sweater. "So when did this happen?"
"Uh, about two weeks ago."
"Two weeks!" David and Claire snap together.
"You two really need to calm down."
"But…" David scoffs. "Two weeks…" David frowns. "And you didn't tell me?"
"Or me," Claire adds.
David and Claire glance up at each other then back to Greg. He sighs. "Look, it was only two weeks ago and we're not teenagers in rooms next door anymore." He frowns. "What do you want me to say? It's not like it was a divorce! Just a break up. Nothing more. Okay, are we done?" He sighs heavily as he stares hard at the ceiling.
"Oh honey," Claire whispers, "it hasn't hit you yet, has it?"
"Fucking hell, Claire!" Greg shouts, jerking up and sliding toward the end of the bed.
David grabs Greg's elbow just as his feet hit the floor. "Greg."
Greg stops moving. He looks at the light blue bins across from him, 'clothes' written in black sharpie on at least three of them. He sighs and his shoulders sag. He takes a big gulp of his beer until the glass is empty then let's it slip from his fingers to roll across the floor. He feels Claire scoot forward over the bed behind him. Then her arms wrap around his stomach and she rests her head on his shoulder, hair against his neck and her nose at his back. David slides forward and swings his legs out over the end of the bed beside Greg. Greg glances at David and David puts his hand over Greg's.
"You don't have to tell us anymore." He smiles. "It's Christmas."
Greg laughs once dryly. "Because that makes sense."
David nods. "It does."
Greg turns away but still threads his fingers with David's. David squeezes Greg's hand once and Claire rubs a circle over Greg's back. They sit in silence for several minutes. Then Greg breathes out a slow, shaky breath and whispers, "I miss him."
––––––––––
Greg stares at his desk, two case files and information for a press release he needs to finish writing so it can be approved. He's only written three sentences of the press release and hasn't even opened either case file. One case is Donovan's so at least there he can be sure every 'T' is crossed.
Instead, he keeps staring at a note on his desk. It is a note about a Sherlock case: conclusively not committed or perpetrated in any way by Sherlock, only solved by him. It is not the Sherlock part that is bothering him though. Whoever wrote the note, whoever he had put on to review this case – probably Peters – wrote out 'Sherlock Holmes.' Greg can't stop staring at the 'Holmes.'
"Greg!"
Greg jerks in surprise and looks up. Donovan stands in his doorway with a frown on her face.
Greg clears his throat. "Yes?"
"I said your name three times."
Greg glances left then right then back to Donovan. "Sorry. Just…" He clears his throat again and sits up straighter. "What is it?"
"Have you looked at the Roberts case?" She holds up a paper in her hand. "Evidence is in and I think we have enough for an arrest."
"Uh…" Greg picks up the two files on his desk and squints at the labels. He opens the top one and scans the page. "I have… they found hairs?" He looks up again.
She grins. "More than one."
Greg reads a few sentences, jumps ahead to names then nods. "Well, Happy New Year. Get to it."
"Right. You coming?"
Greg closes the case file. His eyes drag over the 'Holmes' on the piece of paper near his right hand then up to Donovan again. "Uh, no… I – you don't need me and I've got a press release to write."
"On this?" She frowns. "Already?"
He shakes his head. "No, on the Dawson murder suicide."
"Ah." She nods. She tilts her head and flicks her eyes up and down him once. "You all right? You look…"
He raises his eyebrows at her. "Tired?"
"Like you got raked over the coals."
Greg chuckles mirthlessly and nods. "Ah yeah."
She watches him but when he does not elaborate she shrugs lightly. "All right. I will keep you informed about this case."
"Call if you get shot at."
Donovan snorts as she turns out of the doorway. "Funny."
Greg sighs. "Not really."
He picks up the forensics report for his press release and clicks a few keys on his laptop. The document he has started is still open on his desktop looking very weak and empty. He rubs a hand over his face and types a bit more, one eye trying to wander over his desk. Greg clicks enter for a new paragraph and turns over a page on his desk. As he turns back to his laptop, his eyes hang on the 'Holmes' for what must be the twelfth time.
He sighs and grits his teeth. "Bloody ridiculous." Greg snatches up the note and tears it into four pieces.
"Sir?"
Greg frowns, the pieces of paper still in his hand, and slowly pulls his eyes up to his doorway yet again. It is Peters. "Peters?" Peters holds up two paper travel cups, one with the string of a teabag hanging against the side. Greg's frown twists. "Tea?"
"And coffee," Peters adds. "I didn't know which one you'd like at the moment."
"You brought me coffee and tea?"
"Yes."
Greg drops the pieces of paper onto his desk. "You know you're not my errand boy, right Peters?"
Peters cracks a smile. "Just looked like you needed it."
"Why is everyone saying things like that today?"
Peters steps in and puts both cups down on Greg's desk clear of any paper work or his laptop. Then Peters stands up straight again. He clears his throat a little awkwardly, glances over his shoulder then turns back to Greg. Greg furrows his eyebrows in confusion.
"It looked to me like… well, like things weren't going too well."
Greg huffs. "We do work with crime, Peters."
"No, I meant…" He clears this throat again. "With you; with you and… with your… well, with you."
Greg stares at Peters and blinks. He knows what Peters means. "Oh?"
"I'm sorry. Not trying to over step." He bites his lip and waves a hand. "If I was wrong or shouldn't have or if I, uh –"
"Thank you, Peters." Greg cuts Peters off then smiles in a thin line. "They are both just fine."
Peters relaxes visibly and nods back at Greg. "Right. Well, uh, good luck, sir." Then he turns and hurries out of Greg's office.
Greg stares at the two cups. They should be labeled 'charity case Detective Inspector Lestrade.'
Greg has no idea how Peters knew and he has no idea what his face looks like right now but, apparently, he is a mess.
––––––––––
Greg paces back and forth across his living room floor. He taps his fingers on the entertainment center then walks across to his coffee table again. He picks up the James Bond book, still not finished, then drops it back on the table. He twists his mobile around in his right hand, pinched in the center and flipping it in circles. He paces back and forth and shakes his head at himself. He stops in the center of the room and stares at the blank screen of his mobile.
"Fine."
He clicks it to life and chooses Mycroft's number. It takes four rings but Mycroft answers.
"Greg?"
"Hi, uh… hi."
"Can I help you?"
Greg frowns. "Help me?"
"Was there something you needed?"
"I… no, I mean yes, but, no, I…" Greg sighs and squeezes his eyes closed. "I just wanted to talk to you, all right?"
"If there is nothing specific you need there is work I should be doing."
"It's after seven."
"And aren't you lucky to be home, Greg. Good bye."
"Oi! Wait." Greg pauses but when he does not hear the line cut off he breathes in again. "Can we talk? Just a minute, please."
Mycroft sighs. "I will time you."
Greg sighs right back. "You know what I meant by a minute."
"Fine, Greg, what is it?"
Greg stares at his couch, remembers Mycroft sitting beside him, leaning against him, lying under him, laughing, smiling. "I think you need to give us another chance."
"Pardon?"
"I know what you said, Mycroft. I know it's not easy for you. It's never easy for the rest of us either but you shouldn't just give up, make excuses. Yeah, it's not always easy street but we were happy."
"It was not a question of happiness, Greg."
Greg huffs. "What was it a question of then? Think being happy is most important."
Mycroft laughs harshly. "Ah yes, you would think that, but those of us who think a bit quicker have different priorities. Or did I not make that clear enough at my home?"
Greg grits his teeth together. "Don't play your 'I'm a genius game.' It won't work."
"'Won't work?' Greg, it is not a matter of games. It is who I am and my priorities are of far greater importance than letting some ill–conceived romance continue to play out toward come cinematic ending."
"Stop."
"Did you expect some ride off into the sunset?"
"Please, stop. You're trying to make it not real. It was real." Greg flings his arm out in the air. "It is real!"
Mycroft sighs. "You are beginning to give me a headache."
"Mycroft, you start –"
"Yes, yes, I know what else you will say," Mycroft interrupts. "I started this, etcetera. Well, I suppose it was a Sherlock–like experiment but it ran its course."
"I said, stop it!" Greg snaps, smacking a hand on his entertainment center. "That's not true. I know it's not."
Mycroft sighs again, full of condescension. "It is surprising you cannot hear how ridiculous you sound."
"I sound ridiculous?"
Mycroft sighs yet again. "D.I. Lestrade, I suggest you find yourself a drink and calm down."
"Don't call me that." Greg fists his hand in his hair. "You're not letting me talk!"
"There is nothing you need to say to me."
"But you haven't hung up yet." Greg huffs and blows out a breath. "Just… can we get dinner, lunch, something? Please, I know you want to blame it on work and your big brain but you spent almost a year with me." Greg breathes deeply, in and out, waiting for Mycroft to fill in the pause but he stays silent. "I know you were happy," Greg continues. "I know you were, even when you told me to leave."
"No."
"No you weren't happy?" Greg looks down at the floor.
"No, I do not wish to have dinner or lunch with you."
Greg's head jerks up again as if Mycroft were standing in front of him. "Mycroft, I don't understand why you are pushing me away!"
"This has gone on long enough. Good bye."
"Wait –" But this time the line cuts off before Greg can say any more. "Shit."
Greg drops the mobile from his ear then violently kicks his coffee table again. It skids back into the couch with a crack, nearly everything on top falling to the floor. "Dr. No" bounces once when it falls and slides toward the window, landing face up. Greg stares at the book and wants to rip out every page.
––––––––––
"What is this?" Mycroft snaps as soon as Greg answers his mobile.
Greg sighs. "What is what?"
"You know exactly what."
"No, I don't, Mycroft. I'm not there."
"This package."
Greg's lip twitches and he frowns. "You could always open it."
Mycroft sighs. "I have."
"Then you know what it is. Why are you asking me?"
Greg hears Mycroft inhale slowly and click his tongue. "I am asking you why."
"Are you?"
"Don't be obtuse!"
"Well, maybe you should be more specific in your questions then."
Mycroft makes a growl sort of noise. "Why are you sending me the gifts I gave you?"
"Have you never been in a break up before?"
"Relationships end, Greg, it does not require some sort of reparations agreement or division of perceived shared property, at least not in this case."
"So, no?"
Mycroft sighs. "You are being petty."
Greg scoffs. "Petty? Now that's a word choice."
"You don't send back gifts."
Greg starts to crumple up a random piece of paper on his desk. "Yes, you do."
"They were gifts!" Mycroft knocks something in the background. "You don't send them back!"
"People do." He hits the new ball of paper off his desk.
"I am not a store you can return items to for the cash equivalent."
"Who said anything about cash?"
"Greg!"
Greg drums his fingers on his desk and shrugs even though Mycroft cannot see him. "I don't want them anymore."
Mycroft scoffs. "Surely a French press will not bring up unwanted nostalgia for you."
"You don't know that," Greg snaps.
Mycroft sighs. "Really, Greg, these things are yours; the coat, the watch. They have not lost their usefulness now that we are no longer together."
Greg huffs and stabs his pen into a folder on his desk. "Think what you like, Mycroft."
Mycroft groans. "This is childish!"
"This just isn't as clean as you'd like and, well, that's just too bad. Goodbye." Greg hangs up before Mycroft can say anything else.
Greg drops his mobile and pen onto his desk almost immediately then rubs his hands over his face. He breathes in sharply then pulls his hands away. Leaning back in his chair, Greg frowns at the blinds of his office window.
"Fucking idiot…" He grits his teeth and glances at the back of his office door, old black coat hanging there. "I am such…" He sighs again then fists his hand, sits up straight, and picks up his pen.
––––––––––
Greg stands in the doorway to the interrogation room for six minutes before Anderson notices him. Anderson jolts with surprise then freezes just as quickly, staring at Greg. Finally he glances down at the piles of papers, transfer case files, and maps in front of him.
"Anderson, I've already given you two written warnings and suspended you once."
"It was twice."
Greg crosses his arms. "This is affecting your work."
"This is important." Anderson waves a hand over the papers. "I know there is a plan in here somewhere. He has to have some sort of plan of where he is going, where he is going to end up. If I can figure out the plan I can figure out where he will be and then –"
"Anderson, you are obsessed with a fantasy!"
"Fantasy!" Anderson cries and suddenly jumps up from his chair. "Fantasy? The fantasy was what happened at St. Barts. That was a beautifully crafted fantasy."
Greg steps into the small room and closes the door behind him. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop? At this rate, it could cost you your job!"
Anderson makes a derisive noise. "My job that caused the whole situation in the first place?"
"Anderson –"
"You don't understand. You have to give it a chance. If you really see!" He picks up what looks like a twice copied newspaper clipping. "If you could see the signs. So many in Russia alone!"
"You have case work, real case work you need to be doing. I know you care about –"
"About this!" Anderson smacks the table. "About proving the truth." He points violently at Greg. "Proving to you that Sherlock is still alive! He has to be!"
"Anderson, enough!" Greg shouts. "Pack it in and back to your real work. I'm not saying it again!" Greg turns, yanks open the door and marches out before Anderson can spout off once more.
He walks swiftly down the hall straight toward the kitchen. In the kitchen, He picks up the coffee pot and pours the dregs from the morning out in the sink. He thinks about his old French press, Mycroft handing him a cup of coffee in his office, Mycroft pressing him back against his kitchen counter before he leaves in the morning. Greg sighs and has to put the pot down on the counter.
He rubs a hand quickly over his face. "Damn it. Get out of my head."
Greg reaches into the cabinet and pulls out the can of coffee. He frowns without thinking when he sees the cheap brand. He then instantly wishes Mycroft was here so he could punch him in the face.
"Can't even have coffee anymore."
"Greg?"
He turns around to see Donovan behind him. He smiles automatically. She glances at the coffee can in his hand and the empty pot beside him.
"You going to make some or not?"
He frowns and puts the can back in the cabinet. "Not."
"Could nip out and get one instead?"
Greg sighs and turns around to face her. "No. It's not really necessary." He cracks a smile. "Shouldn't over caffeinate, right?"
She nods. "Guess not." She clicks her teeth then clears her throat. "So, I just wanted to say sorry." Greg cocks his head and frowns. "About that relationship of yours not working out."
Greg crosses his arms and narrows his eyes at her. "Oh?"
"Peters told me."
Greg sighs heavily. "How the hell did he know anyway?"
Donovan shrugs. "He's more perceptive then we give him credit for. Hasn't told anyone else I don't think, so don't fire him yet."
Greg chuckles. "I'll keep that in mind."
"I also figured out who it was."
Greg blinks in surprise and his jaw clenches. "Did you?"
"He rarely came here before, only when it was a really serious case we had Sherlock around on. Then you're seeing someone new and suddenly he's in the office every other week? Plus, he's government like you told us at the pub."
Greg snorts quietly. "Should make you detective."
"Yeah. So…" She raises both eyebrows and gives him a searching look. "Really? I mean… I think I only ever spoke to him twice but he was always… Isn't he Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy or something?"
Greg huffs a laugh. "Uh, I guess you could say that."
"Sherlock's brother? Is that some miss directed guilt thing?"
"What? No." Greg uncrosses his arms and rubs his forehead. "Are you trying to be a psychologist or something? No. It was just a normal relationship."
"Normal? With a Holmes?"
Greg rolls his eyes. "Because you and Sherlock were such mates you know it all."
She sighs. "Fine. Sorry."
"This is why I don't talk about my personal life," Greg snaps. He frowns. "Win some other department bet with this, would you?"
She purses her lips and only looks slightly apologetic. "Looks like it's too late now."
––––––––––
Greg sits at the pub with John beside him. They do not usually go to the pub together, different schedules, different haunts and one big empty chair between them. Yet, for some reason they managed it tonight. It feels more like old acquaintances meeting up and, in the end, most of their time spent together before was over dead bodies.
"Not with your sister any more, are you?"
John huffs. "God, no. I could barely stand the few weeks I was."
"New place then?"
"Yeah, it's…" He frowns, takes a drink of his beer and shrugs. "It's all right."
Greg nods. "Know what you mean. I miss having a house sometimes."
"You didn't exactly try for it though, did you?"
Greg shoots him a glare. "You get divorced then talk to me."
John shrugs, glances up at the news program playing above the bar then down again. He takes a long drink of his beer and looks over at Greg. "You know, it's Valentine's Day."
Greg frowns in surprise. He glances around the pub, sees bunches of couples and one man carrying a bouquet of flowers. He looks back at John. "Oh."
John raises his eyebrows. "Shouldn't you be on a date or something?"
Greg sighs and takes a swig of his beer. "Take it you heard?"
John nods. "Yeah."
"It's…" Greg clears his throat. "Well, it is."
John points at Greg with his glass. "Didn't I warn you?"
"Fuck off, John!" Greg snaps.
"Oi! All right!" John snaps back indignantly then he deflates a moment later, shaking his head. "All right, I shouldn't have said… anyway."
"Yeah..."
John drinks the rest of his glass then knocks it back down on the bar. "This mean we're on a date then?"
Greg cracks and laughs once hard. He shakes his head. "Wouldn't that be some kind of incest by proxy?"
"God, Sherlock and I were not a couple!" John groans.
Greg laughs again. "I didn't say that."
John rolls his eyes and waves his hand at the bar tender trying to get his attention. The bar tender comes back over and John orders another for the both of them.
"Look." John turns back to Greg. "You're better off."
"What?"
"The Holmes's were and are insane."
"John…"
"Seriously." John picks up his glass, realizes it is empty then puts it down again. "Look at them. One of them jumps from a building for we don't really know the reason and the other can control CCTV cameras then kidnap you to empty warehouses like that!" John snaps his fingers.
"Had a bad day did you?"
John just snorts. "Bad year."
The bar tender puts two new pints down in front of them and takes John's empty glass away. Greg holds up a finger, downs the last gulp of his first glass then passes it off. "Cheers." Then he turns back to John. "It hasn't been that long."
"Feels like it," John says quietly.
"Look, you're all right. New flat, back at a job, you're all right."
John shakes his head. "Can we not talk about me? Let's talk about you."
Greg sighs. "That's okay."
"I insist. He drop you or you drop him?"
"Come on, John."
"Humor me. My life is a black hole."
"Bit dramatic, aren't ya?"
John laughs with a hollow sound. "Right. So, Mycroft?"
Greg clicks his teeth and turns his beer around slowly on the bar top. "I don't know, it's…" He huffs. "The man's just a…"
"Tosser?"
Greg snorts. "Yeah. Right one too."
"Guess you need to get back on the pull then?"
Greg sighs. "Oh yeah, hot commodity I am and all."
John huffs. "If you say that then I have to too."
"You on the pull right now? Should I be swooning?"
John laughs once. "Just saying, I'm not officially tagging out which means neither are you."
"Right, tell me that when you hit fifty."
John frowns. "You're fifty?"
"Close."
"Then stop complaining."
"I will when you do."
They look at each other then turn back to their beers. They pick up their glasses at the same time and take big gulps before putting them back on bar top.
Greg stares at the rows of liquor on the back of the bar, neat in rows like the matching bottles at Mycroft's house. He knows it's been two some months since Mycroft broke up with him but it still seems to linger with him every day, still there at the back of his mind, still a tingle in his fingertips, a desire. It is driving him mad.
––––––––––
Greg pulls his lien basket out of his wardrobe, picking up a pair of socks off the floor and throwing them in as well. He glances around his bedroom to make sure no rouge t-shirts are hiding in plain sight on a chair or something. It appears Greg has been clean lately as the only item out of place would be his blinds hanging off kilter, one edge hitting the window sill while the left side is still slightly open.
Greg turns around and carries the basket into the kitchen. He crouches low in front of the washer then realizes he needs washing powder. He sighs, puts the basket down then stands up again. He walks back into the hall, glancing into the living room. The couch has a few case file copies on it. Also a book lies on the floor near the window.
"Bloody book…" Greg walks into the living room and picks up the book from where it fell when he knocked it there weeks ago.
He turns it over and looks at the front, "Dr. No" in white letters with the black form of a woman standing among leaves in the background. The inside cover informs Greg the book is a first edition when he flips it open.
Greg scoffs. "You would buy a first edition of a James Bond book. Have to be impressive." He closes the cover again.
Greg walks back across the room, dropping the book on his coffee table as he goes. He stops part way then looks back again, something catching his eye. A red tie sits on the coffee table. It makes him think of three pieces suits and perfect Windsor knots.
He shakes his head hard. "It's my tie. Not his." He rubs his forehead and steps back once, stooping to pick up the tie. He stares at it, thinks about dancing, wearing a bow tie and Mycroft in his arms.
Greg turns sharply and walks back into the hall. He stops in front of his hall closet. Throwing the tie back toward the bedroom, he opens the closet and looks around for the washing powder. He is fairly sure he still has some. If he doesn't then the washing is just going to have to wait because he does not want to go out and buy any now.
Mycroft would say something about being 'unprepared' or 'why not just send your washing out?' Greg smiles and knocks his head gently against one shelf. He wonders if Mycroft actually does send his washing out to be done professionally; with all the suits he wears one would think he would have to.
Greg finally finds the washing powder, pulls it off the shelf then closes the door. He walks back to his kitchen and crouches down in front of the washer beside the sink again. He slides his linen basket to the side and opens the washer door.
Greg tosses in pants and shirts, bundles of socks. Greg lets his hands move, picking up clothes, and thinks maybe it is all his fault. He opens the powder and scoops out what is probably enough, adding it to the pile in the washer and thinks he must have pushed too hard. Door shut and powder box closed, he pushes the linen basket to the side and thinks maybe he was too domestic, too normal, too boring. He turns the dial to setting two, hits the start button and thinks he did not listen enough, he did not try hard enough, he just did not bloody understand. Greg puts the powder box inside of the basket, stands up straight with the basket in hand and thinks it was all his fault. He walks out of the kitchen, back down the hall, and knows he is thinking too much, blaming everything where it should not be. He opens the hall closet, puts the powder back in, and knows he cannot rationalize everything, cannot explain everything, cannot really know what went on inside Mycroft's head. Greg walks back into his bedroom, puts the basket back into his closet and thinks it is still all his fault.
Greg stares at his closet door and shakes his head. "Ridiculous, Greg. You're an adult. Snap out of it."
His brain keeps repeating though, no matter what he says out loud. Greg walks over and sits down on his bed. He pulls his mobile out of his pocket and stares at the blank screen. He sighs and shakes his head, stares at the wall instead. Then he pulls up his mobile in front of his face again, clicks it to life. He texts Mycroft one word:
[11:12] Why?
Mycroft does not text him back.
––––––––––
Fingers moving quickly over his keyboard, Greg finally finishes entering the last witness statements into the system from his most recent case. He hits enter and flips a page in the hard copy. He has two more forms to input and then he can put the official 'closed' stamp on the case. The case was a kidnapping which somehow ended with no fatalities. Since their department normally deals with murder, having a case with no body count is a rare blessing. He has another case to enter as well as check up with forensics on a current open murder. It seems likely the boyfriend is the culprit but they need the hard evidence first. They have the boyfriend under surveillance just in case.
Greg keeps typing, glancing quickly back and forth between the papers and his laptop screen. A buzzing sound comes from the far drawer of Greg's desk. He stops typing and glances at the drawer. His jaw clenches and he looks back to his screen, typing again. He needs to finish this busy work then solve an open murder. He needs to focus and keep typing and follow up with forensics. The drawer buzzes again. Greg sighs and turns over another page in the case file. He picks up a pen and makes a note about needing the images from the scene.
"Unless they're in..." Greg bites his lip and searches in the system. The digital age does help with getting the crime scene photos into the computer far quicker than when he first started with the force.
He finds the applicable files and makes sure they are all attached to his case record. He glances at the case again, typing another line. A buzzing noise comes from Greg's drawer for a third time.
He smacks a hand on his desk. "Damn it!"
Greg slides his chair to the left and opens the drawer. He pulls out his mobile and clicks the screen to life. Three texts from his mate Chris:
[10:01] Thinking rugby and pub tonight, you in?
[10:01] Might be football and pub instead, you in?
[10:02] Maybe just pub. You in?
Greg sighs heavily, "of course not…" and puts his mobile back in the drawer without answering. "Prat."
Greg rubs his chin – he needs to shave – and forces himself to breathe in slowly. "Okay." He opens his eyes wide and turns his chair back to his laptop.
Then someone knocks at his door. He looks up to see Gupta. He raises both eyebrows.
"Max Summers, the boyfriend, looks like he's on the move."
Greg nods. "Right, stay on him. I'll call forensics."
"Then we take him!" Gupta finishes with a grin. Greg gives her a look and she clears her throat. "Sorry. I'll call the squad car."
Greg picks up his desk phone and rings down to forensics. Anderson picks up on the second ring, "Hello, yes? Hello?"
"Anderson, where are you on the Miller case?"
"Miller?"
"The murdered girl, probably her boyfriend?"
"Uh…" Greg hears some glass clink then something metal clangs loudly. "Bugger. Ah… that, yes, that…"
"Anderson?"
"I will get on that as soon as I can."
"You were supposed to be on that yesterday. Why –"
"Well, you see, I've made a break!"
Greg frowns. "A break in the case?"
"Yes! I sent ahead some photos to a police department in Hong Kong. I know not everyone knows what he looks like and he could be in disguise but, one sergeant I spoke to there seemed to recognize him from a case of theirs; hard to tell a bit with the language barrier."
"Anderson, are you talking about Sherlock?"
"Of course!"
Greg picks up a pencil from his desk and snaps it in half. "Anderson! You have a real case that we need the DNA matched on now, today, five minutes ago! Have you worked on it at all?"
"Of course I have!"
"Well then?"
"Well… that is I haven't actually run the –"
"Anderson, what do you think your job here is? You need to work on your cases here, on real cases, on deaths which need to be solved!"
"Lestrade, this is important –"
"Go mad on your own time, Philip! You have that forensic data for me in half an hour or I'll suspend you again!"
"But I –"
Greg hangs up the phone. "Bloody mother fucking wanker Christ hell." Greg hits his forehead on his desk once then snaps upright again with his eyes scrunched closed. "I'm going to kill him. I am going to kill him. Kill. Him."
Greg pushes his chair back then stands up. He opens his top drawer and picks up his mobile. He pulls up Mycroft's number and starts to text then stops half way through 'I may kill a coworker today.' He stares at his mobile, blinks twice then erases the text. He stares at Mycroft's name and wonders if he should just delete the number all together.
"Sir?" Gupta pops her head in his door. "He's running."
Greg snaps back to life and shoves his mobile in his pocket. "Right. Let's head out."
––––––––––
Greg paces back and forth in the Met garage, cigarette half smoked in his hand. It is his second one since coming down here but at least his mobile has not rung with someone from upstairs needing him. They have not had any fresh murders today but the pile of open cases is not exactly small either. So Greg paces, cigarette in one hand and mobile in the other. He did not plan on starting to smoke again and certainly not regularly. People fall back into familiar patterns when under stress or as a result of trauma; they fall back on the familiar.
Greg huffs to himself and takes another drag of his cigarette. "Trauma, right…"
He keeps looking at the screen of his mobile, counts the days, the weeks since he's spoken to Mycroft. It should not be like this. Greg should not keep thinking about him. He should stop. He clicks on the screen of his mobile. Yes, he does get service in here and isn't that just some sort of fucking sign? He dials Mycroft's number, flicking ash off his cigarette.
"Yes?"
Greg's eyebrows fly up at the mere fact that Mycroft answered. "Mycroft."
They are both silent for two beats then Mycroft clears his throat. "You do realize you called me, yes?"
Greg frowns and takes another drag of his cigarette. "I do, just surprised you answered."
"Well, I answered. How much of my time do you now plan to take up with shouting?"
"I'm not shouting!" Greg snaps.
Mycroft grumbles, "Predictable."
Greg bites his lip and represses the urge to shout again. He shakes his head, paces to the right two steps then back again. "I am not shouting."
"What do you want?"
"I…" Greg glances back toward the metal door to the stairs and rapidly flicks the end of his cigarette. "I texted you."
"And?"
"And you didn't."
Mycroft scoffs harshly. "Dear God, D.I. Lestrade are you investigating the absence of text messages now?"
"All right!" Greg snaps. "Don't have to be an arse about it. I just…" He sighs and takes another quick sucks of his cigarette. "I know I hung up on you when we last spoke…"
"I have had no sleepless nights over it, I can assure you."
"That's not the point! We…" Greg bites the edge of his lip and shakes his head. "We should be able to talk like normal people."
"Why exactly, D.I. Lestrade? There is no more connection between us and no need for us to talk, normal or otherwise."
"If you call me D.I. Lestrade again I will drive over to your house and smash a window!" Greg barks suddenly.
"Then you would be forced to arrest yourself," Mycroft replies dryly.
"I'd let myself off on a technicality."
"Based on insanity?"
"I'm just trying to talk to you, Mycroft, come on!"
He hears Mycroft breathe in and out. "Greg, there is nothing to talk about."
"Yes, there is, I think there is!"
"Stop. Need I say it yet another time? Have you not dragged this along enough?"
"Mycroft, I just…" Greg sighs and knows he is going to have a third cigarette down here. "I'm not saying take me back but I want –"
"Do you know how many other nationally important things I should be attending to now over speaking to you?"
"You can't just expect to drop someone out of nowhere and have no repercussions, Mycroft! Haven't you ever been in a break up before of are you really that thick?" Greg regrets it the minute he says it.
The line is silent for a minute then Mycroft speaks in his 'angry with my brother' tone. "Do you know the kind of repercussions I am capable of initiating, Detective Inspector, simply for wasting my time? Do not test my patience."
Greg tosses his cigarette onto the pavement. "Don't pull your hush, hush government crap with me, Mycroft! Are you going to have me shot for being angry you broke up with me? I thought I was supposed to be the petty one, not you?"
"You are the one who is constantly calling."
"It's been weeks!"
"Who insists on calling to talk of nothing?"
"Oh? Nothing?"
"You are acting like a child, like some ridiculous adolescent."
"I am acting hurt, that is how I am acting, Mycroft. There is a difference!"
The line falls silent again. Greg's hand twitches near his pocket but he does not reach in to pull out his pack of cigarettes yet.
"The point to all this is simple, Greg, I do not care," Mycroft says – voice low and quiet and like he was talking to any police constable that happened to step in his way. "I have work of national security and international terrorism to be doing which requires far more of my undivided attention and care than one man with a wounded heart."
Greg cannot breathe. "You bloody bastard."
The line clicks off. Greg drops his arm and his mobile slips out of his hand onto the cement. He does not pick it up again until he finishes a third cigarette.
––––––––––
"You're up to a pack a day again, aren't you?"
Greg rolls his eyes. "No and I never have been, thank you."
"But it's more than the one a month because you had that extra pint at the pub, right?"
"Obviously if you're smoking too."
Claire giggles and flicks ash off the end of her cigarette. "True. So…" She turns her hand holding her cigarette around, inspecting it like crime scene evidence. "Four or five a day then? One in the morning, two around lunch and then the evening depends?"
Greg shrugs. "Sounds right."
"I'm trying to keep it at three."
"What's your excuse this time?" Greg blows out a sharp line of smoke. "Kids? Work?"
"My kids are acting like suspicious angels and we just closed a new contract to make a print ad for Sony so work is on the upswing."
"You're going to blame me, aren't you?"
She shrugs. "Every time you start smoking again so do I."
"It goes both ways. Remember when the twins hit one year old? That was you."
Claire snorts. "You'd think we were the twins."
"With three years in between."
Claire takes a drag of her cigarette and crosses her arms. "You're going to have to start us on the quitting train again, you know. It's your turn."
Greg shrugs. "Kind of enjoying the regular reasons for isolation."
"Oh god, you're going maudlin. You must be in the depressed phase of your break up." Greg frowns but says nothing. Claire turns to him and points with her cigarette hand. "You have to. You're the older sibling who needs to set good examples." She takes another drag. "And I am not getting lung cancer."
"Take David's example then. When's the last time he smoked?"
"Nineteen."
"Exactly."
Claire sighs. "Come on, my back garden is not exciting enough to visit daily."
Greg cocks his head and points at the large tree near the edge of the property. "Even without the tire swing, you have to admit your tree is good for climbing."
"I'm not the one climbing it."
"You could."
"You're hilarious."
"Sometimes."
Claire sighs again then steps up to the half wall around the edge of her deck and stubs out the rest of her cigarette in the porcelain ashtray. "Greg, come on, you didn't drive over here just to banter."
"I wanted to see you."
"I don't doubt that but you can have a dual purpose." She stands up straight again and turns to look at him as she pushes curls out of her eyes. "If you want to talk about him we can."
Greg slides his free hand into his trouser pocket and smokes some more of his cigarette. "Nothing to talk about."
Claire snorts. "Right."
Greg shrugs. "What's there to say? He's an arse. I'm single and smoking again."
She raises one eyebrow and takes two steps closer to him. "You know, you talk to David when you're in your relationships and you talk to me when you come out of them."
"You saying we haven't talked in a while?"
"I'm saying you have a pattern."
"Thank you."
"If you don't want to talk, we don't have to. We could just go get lunch somewhere and down five pints."
Greg cracks a smile. "Trying to be David, are you?"
"Isn't he the cool one? I can be cool."
Greg smirks, takes another drag then blows the smoke out. "Sure, Claire."
She purses her lips. "I'm plenty cool."
"I think after forty most people are no longer 'cool.'"
"Oh dear, the cynic Greg returns." She makes a 'tsk tsk' noise and shakes her head. "How much of a number did Mycroft do to you?"
Greg glances down at the wood of the deck – dark brown and in need of a pressure wash – then up again. "I was really happy."
Claire presses her lips together then says quietly, "yeah, you were."
Claire puts her arm around Greg's back and leans her head on his shoulder, just the right height for her. Greg rubs his hand over her back once then drops his arm again. Claire pulls her head up and kisses Greg on the cheek.
"You'll be happy again."
Greg laughs once. "I know, know I will. Just need to get past," he waves his cigarette hand in the air, "all this."
"You know, they say that you take the length of the relationship and half that time is how long it's supposed to take you to get over the relationship afterward. Wouldn't that put you at four, five months for the recovery period?"
"By that logic it would take me six years to get over Anne."
Claire bites her lip. "My point is, it's just March now. You've had about two and a half months. Just two more and you should be good!"
Greg laughs once. "I'd rather it be quicker."
"Then make it quicker. Get over him."
"I'm trying."
"Are you?" Greg gives her a sharp look but Claire does not flinch away. She pulls her arm off of his back and crosses it over her other arm. "Twelve year marriage and then right into another serious relationship?" Greg opens his mouth but Claire puts up a hand to stop him. She reaches out again and touches his arm. "Maybe some time alone is just what you really need."
––––––––––
"Right, so we have Megan Hobbs, Diane Blake, and Christopher Smith." Greg turns around and points at Bell. "Change up?"
"I know, not just women."
"We sure?" Brooks asks.
Clipton and Avery laugh at the same time and Bell rolls her eyes. Anderson holds up his forensics report. "Quite sure. Go ask Hooper if you want to be certain, she did the autopsy."
Brooks frowns. "I believe you."
"The point is, if it is a serial murderer, we'll need a new MO."
"I don't think it is," Bell says waving a hand toward the board. "There has to be a connection between them. Christopher and Megan worked in the same shop after all. Maybe there's some personal relationship in there."
"I still have some friends and family to interview," Brooks says.
Greg nods. "Right, get on that. Take Avery." Avery makes a 'score' motion with his hand and jumps up to follow Brooks. Greg nods toward Bell, "You and Anderson go over the reports from the crime scenes, see what matches up." He turns to Anderson. "Have you run the finger prints?"
"Yes, a few matches we should look into."
Greg raises his eyebrows but resists praising Anderson for actually doing his job properly for once in too many weeks. Instead he nods. "Good, you two get on that. And Clipton, you're on CCTV video."
Clipton only frowns a little as he stands up. "I'll go to records."
"Thank you. Send me any witness statements left and if the press calls give the usual 'no comment.'"
Anderson trots up to Greg as Bell and Clipton walk out the door, Bell waiting just outside, craning her neck to see why Anderson walked the wrong way. Anderson holds out a blue folder to Greg.
Greg frowns and takes it. "What's this?"
"Just open it."
Greg flips it open and sees the words, 'Empty Hearse Society Bi–Monthly Report.' He snaps it closed again. "My God, Anderson, what?"
"Now, now." Anderson holds up his hands. "I know you haven't been so receptive but just give it a chance. It's not just me looking into this now. I have supporters."
"Supporters? You on Britain's Got Talent?"
Anderson gives Greg a withering look. "No need for sarcasm, Lestrade." Greg's mouth drops open in surprise but Anderson keeps going. "Read it and you'll see the number of foreign cases that seem to imply outside assistance or intervention. There are also a number of theories on the death faking, some more plausible than others, of course. There are also some tenuous sightings. But, but –"
"But you've finally cracked." Greg rubs the bridge of his nose. "Thought that you seemed better but it's worse." He drops his hand. "You've cracked."
"Cracked? Pft!" Anderson shakes his head. "I couldn't be clearer! I know I am getting closer and closer to the truth. He doesn't make it easy, of course, man as smart as Sherlock never would. Plus, I think his older brother is helping him. You know, the scary one that's some government figure?"
Greg swallows slowly. "Mycroft."
"Yes, that's it. Mycroft Holmes!" Anderson grins and gives Greg a pat on the shoulder like he is a PC who made his first arrest. "I kept wondering how it could be Sherlock got out of the country without someone knowing or seeing or there being some record. He could have had a fake passport of course, but –"
Greg breathes in and out slowly. "Anderson –"
"But his brother is definitely some big shot. You remember how he'd appear every now and then, black cars and the creepy knowledge of everything."
"Anderson, please stop."
"He has to know the truth that Sherlock is alive!"
Greg shoves the blue folder hard into Anderson's chest. "Enough. Get out. Get on to this case." He points at the white board behind him then to the folder. "And keep your fantasy group. I don't want to hear any more."
"But."
"Out. Now. Go."
Anderson turns around and goes. Once the glass door closes Greg breathes out again. For a moment he wonders how Anderson couldn't have known but maybe Donovan and Peters can keep their mouths shut after all. He leans back against one table and crosses his arms.
"The scary one…" Greg mutters to himself. He smiles but it falls back down to flat almost immediately.
Greg pulls his mobile out of his pocket. He pulls up Mycroft's name. His thumb hovers over the call icon.
Suppose he clicks it, dials through, Mycroft answers, Greg says 'I miss you,' says 'I never said I love you,' says 'did you secretly get your fake dead brother out of country and not tell me?' Greg clicks the screen off and taps his mobile against his forehead.
"Crazy as Anderson." He drops his hand and stares around the empty conference room.
If he called, he would say 'I keep thinking of you and I want to stop. Please make it stop.'
Greg shakes his head and stands up straight again, stuffing his mobile back into his jacket pocket. He walks over to the white board and picks up the papers sitting on the desk beside it. He lets his eyes coast over the victim names, the leads, the times and dates. Then he turns and walks out in the direction of his office.
––––––––––
Greg stands in front of his stove with green peppers and onions frying in a pan. He has some chicken and rice waiting to be added as well. He pushes the vegetables around with his spatula so they hiss and pop. From beside the pan, he picks up a slice of lemon he cut earlier and squeezes it over the vegetables so the whole pan hisses again. He puts the squished up lemon down and picks up the plate of chicken instead, tilting the plate over the pan until all the chicken slides in. He puts the empty plate aside while shifting the stir fry around the pan.
Stir fry certainly isn't the height of his cooking prowess but not every night can be a masterpiece. Greg puts the spatula down, end balanced on the edge of the pan. He reaches across the counter and picks up his glass of wine. He takes a quick sip then goes to put it down again. He stops part way, realization dawning, then stares at his hand. He puts his hand down so the glass knocks loudly against the counter.
"Oh my god."
Greg stares at the glass still wrapped by his palm. He opened and poured wine without even thinking about it; wine that has been sitting above his refrigerator for months; wine he would never get himself over beer; wine that Mycroft bought. Greg stares at the glass, the red liquid. He has to breathe in and out slowly but his throat still feels tight. Greg abruptly lets go of the glass, nearly spilling some wine onto the counter. He rubs at his eyes even though no tears have fallen.
"Bollocks." He breathes in deeply. "Bloody daft." He huffs. "It's just wine."
Greg fists his one hand and shakes his head. He considers throwing the glass of wine on the floor so it shatters everywhere. But he is not angry anymore; he is just sad. Greg takes a step back and pulls his mobile out of his pocket. He clicks Mycroft's number.
Mycroft answers after the fifth right with a heavy sigh. "Greg..."
"Don't worry, I'm not going to shout," Greg says right away. "Just calling to apologize."
Mycroft does not answer for a beat, obviously surprised. "Apologize?"
"I know relationships are not your strong suit and I haven't been making our..." He clears his throat. "Well, I haven't made it easy on you now that it's over and well... I'm sorry."
"I..."
"Look," Greg continues before Mycroft can, "break ups are usually a mess, I was rude and irrational and... well, you can have whatever reasons you want."
"Thank you," Mycroft says quietly.
"Nothing wrong with being congenial," Greg adds, forcing his voice into an up space.
Mycroft laughs once politely.
"Though, uh..." Greg looks down at his kitchen floor. "If you'd rather… if you'd rather just cut it off… well, we can."
"I... cut it off?"
"If you never want to talk to me again, Mycroft," Greg says bluntly.
"No! I –" Mycroft stops suddenly for a second then goes on, "no, that is not the case."
"No?"
"No."
"Right." Greg glances at the stir fry, probably close to burning on one side. "So, uh... that's it."
"I... thank you."
"You're welcome, Mycroft." He hangs up without saying goodbye.
Greg decides to move on.
