The afternoon had finally dragged itself into evening, though the only sign of it in Mycroft Holmes' office was the miniscule digital display silently marking the minutes at the corner of his screen. He had opted for a black suit upon dressing this morning, a pale purple tie completing the ensemble that had raised more than one eyebrow throughout the day's various meetings. The aim had been to bring him up to speed on the happenings of the Empire (which the world quaintly believed no longer existed, how nice it must be to live in ignorance), yet little enough had occurred during his hiatus to warrant more than a series of brief memos.

As he pondered the origin of his sudden sense of boredom with this work, his mobile chimed. He checked the time: 6:14pm. Sherlock.

He says to tell you 48? - JW

As suspected. Thank you, Dr. Watson.

Following a quarter of an hour and three scathing emails to the imbeciles who had prepared a report on the current state of the staged territorial struggle over the Falkland Islands, a second beep issued from his cell phone.

"Really, Sherlock," he directed to no one, "it was a bloody four. What on earth could you possibly -"

He stopped short as his eyes fell on the lit screen.

If I don't hear from you, I'll expect a mysterious black car to show up outside NSY at 8, yeah?

He swallowed with difficulty, his throat having suddenly gone dry. Another beep.

Probably shouldn't say this, but rather looking forward to tonight. Nothing quite like a first date. Know I'll never be as posh as you Holmeses, just hoping I've dressed to code. ;)

Disregarding the intentional use of an emoticon (It's called an emoji, Mycroft. A trivial detail for which I have no time at the moment, Sherlock.), he found Gregory's messages rather… well, he didn't quite know how he found them, which was unnerving to say the least. He read the final sentence once more, then scrolled through his contacts. Of one thing he was certain - a change of plans was in order.

"Le Gavroche, bonsoir."

"Yes. Mycroft Holmes. Please inform Michel that I will not be needing my table tonight after all."

A muffled whisper through the covered receiver, then, "Oui, Monsieur Holmes. As you wish."

The line went silent, and Mycroft placed his second call.

"Johnston? Holmes. Yes, thank you, and you? Glad to hear it. Listen, need a favor tonight..."

The call complete and his mobile safely nested inside his jacket, he consulted the documents on his screen, deciding hastily that none of them required any further attention or action before morning. He began clearing his desk, and noticed that he had been absent-mindedly drawing on his blotter while on that last call. He tore off the top sheet with practiced precision and studiously ignored the repetitiously handwritten "GL" now sinking into the shredder beneath his desk.

He had texted Molly, and she'd said no. Said it was "spring/summer," whatever that meant. He thought the tan suit would be a good choice, would set nicely against his dark skin (for an Englishman, anyway). Oh well. It'd be the light grey, then. He'd held up the white shirt for a minute, realized Mycroft would almost certainly be wearing a white shirt himself, and traded it for black. Tie, or no tie… He settled for stuffing one into his coat pocket. Of course he would probably have to wear it in the end, but to be honest, it made him feel a bit like a game show host. Looking himself over one last time before leaving the flat, he'd unfastened an extra button at his collar - there. That'll do.

He had succeeded in keeping his focus on cases and admin all day, but once the afternoon sky turned dark and the activity in the cubicles outside his office subsided, he found his own most private thoughts creeping to the fore.

He'd never considered dating a man before. Ok, that's only technically true. There had been a handful of times over the years when he'd noticed other men, though he had not admitted as much to himself until he was safely ensconced behind the veil of marriage. In the rare instances when he'd recalled those moments, lying awake at night, his mind racing after a particularly charged case, he found it nearly impossible to determine whether what he'd felt had been genuine attraction or more of a benign envy - he wasn't sure whether he wanted them, or wanted, somehow, to be like them.

Following the divorce, he had pushed all that aside. Relationships were complicated enough without throwing that kind of wrench into the mix. Yes, he thought, as the fluorescent lights battled the last rays of sunset for prominence in his office, there are still instances. Prolonged glances in the coffee shop queue, casual brushes of hands on the tube... He knew what they were now, knew that he was a willing if rather reticent participant, but none were ever enough. None were worth the effort, the redefinition of self, the potential for reliving a sort of teenage angst.

And then, after years of barely registering each other's existence except on the few occasions when they had come into direct contact, there was Mycroft Holmes. He was anything but ordinary, that was plainly obvious to anyone unlucky enough to fall under his stony gaze. Yet there was something… else. Maybe it was something deeper, or maybe no one else had troubled to look. In this week - hell, it's only been a week! - of evenings spent alone, Lestrade had felt something unexpected that he had been seeking for far too long. Being with Mycroft was, ironically, easy.

A quick glance at his watch told him it was about 6:30. They wouldn't meet for an hour and a half, and he really should use that time to slog through this infinite pile of paperwork. He needed to get his mind off his man of mystery and their evening ahead. He picked up his mobile and prepared to send a text.

It was bloody freezing thanks to the sleety rain that had begun falling as they exited the car. Greg didn't know whether this was a restaurant or an underground casino, but the shabby, rather forbidding brick exterior made him wonder if he'd need to flash his badge before the evening came to a close.

Mycroft, meanwhile, was typically unaffected, and began speaking the moment the rusty sliding eye slat in the door was opened.

"Kang pap bah rey."

I must've misheard that...

"Mang-chung yuh rey bay?"

This is getting weird, even for a Holmes. Well, maybe not for Sherlock...

"Dangshinba."

...which means nothing good can possibly come of -

Within seconds, the two men had been shoved unceremoniously through the door. Distracted by the heavy clanging behind him as it swung shut on sixty year old hinges, the DI was startled by the slightly irritated "Gregory?" from his left. Mycroft had removed his own coat and was holding out an arm to accept his as well.

At least he's behaving like a gentleman, even if he brought me to -

"What is this place?" He hadn't meant it to sound rude, and his cheeks flushed as he caught the brief expression flashing across his companion's face - as though he'd been slapped - which was followed by an unmistakably colder tone.

"Well, Gregory," the name sounded like gravel in his mouth, "if you must know, this place has no name. You either know it's here or you don't. You either know how to gain access or not. I assumed - and given your obvious discomfort in that necktie, I was correct - that it would be a more comfortable atmosphere for you than some of the other establishments I frequent. However, should you prefer to leave, I shall simply require a few minutes to arrange -"

"No. No, I don't want to leave, I…" Greg finally took in his surroundings as they were led to a table against the far wall, with lower lighting and more candles than its neighbors. Strategically falling shadows, plush navy carpeting, ornately carved cherry wood tables and chairs. All around them, conversations in hushed voices that were only a shade too loud to be considered whispers.

He had taken it for granted that Mycroft would have made a reservation at some high end French restaurant. And while it was true that he had anticipated being uncomfortable in a more upscale locale, he had also looked forward to being out in public together - in for a penny and all that. If he were completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that he liked the idea of the world - or at least, upper crust London - seeing him wined and dined by Mycroft Holmes. Not because of the power aspect, he couldn't care less about that, but because the man was so selective. Greg had dared to believe he might be… special. Sound like a schoolgirl, don't I. Talk about desperate.

"Well then," he piped up, trying not to let his disappointment show. "This place. It is quite private."

"Exclusive," Mycroft spoke over the last word. "Oh. Yes. It is that, indeed. Incidentally, Gregory, you may feel free to remove your tie."

"Right." He nodded cheerlessly at the deduction, though his hands were working as fast as they could at the task. "Thanks." He was grateful to see the first course - apparently prearranged - was already headed toward them. When exactly the wine had been delivered and poured, he hadn't the faintest idea.

"So, then," Greg continued, determined to make the most of this evening. "First day at the office, wasn't it? How's it being back?"

Mycroft jerked his head up in alarm, eyes darting wildly around the room.

"Hey, no worries," Greg reassured, both hands held up in a supplicating gesture, "I'm not asking for details. Not my division, anyway." He winked, smiling so genuinely at his own little joke that Mycroft couldn't help but relax. Seeing his date's shoulders drop, he pushed a little further, hoping to coax an answer out of a man who created secrets for a living. "I do know what it's like, though, returning to work after medical leave. No matter how eager you are to get back on the horse, it's never a comfortable feeling to realize things went on without you, even if the standards slipped a bit." At the other's quizzical look, he added, "You don't think of me having a dangerous job, sitting behind a desk most days. Wasn't always a detective inspector though, was I?"

This last statement did indeed give Mycroft pause. Of course Lestrade had worked his way up the ranks in the department like anyone else; he had simply never given it much consideration. Any consideration, to be honest. The DI, before holding that title, had been injured in the line of duty, then, had been forced away from work that likely sustained him day to day, had faced the struggle to readjust and had succeeded. What else about this man have I failed to consider?

"I will deny every word of this should you find it necessary to relate to another person," Mycroft began, "however… yes. I am finding it surprisingly uncomfortable. For as long as I can remember, I have always been -" he stopped speaking as their plates were cleared and a second course was laid before them.

"Indispensable?" Greg suggested as the server moved out of earshot.

"Sounds a tad conceited when you say it," he muttered to his scallops, "but it's true. Having only returned this morning, I cannot yet say whether that is as accurate an assessment of my professional worth as I previously assumed. What I have already noticed, however, is a missing sense of… well, for lack of a better word, I suppose, joy."

It was Greg's turn to look taken aback. While it was clear that the elder Holmes took great pride in wielding what appeared to be a tremendous amount of power, in occupying a position above the law, above the rest of society, perhaps, it had never occurred to him that he would take joy in the work itself. Not the way his younger brother or John, or even he himself, typically did. He had assumed that the job, whatever it was, provided a means to an end. That was far too personal for a first date though…

"You like your job?" He blurted, frustrated by the disconnection between his brain and his vocal chords. "Sorry, I didn't mean…"

Mycroft furrowed his brow for a moment at the question, then a lightness spread across his features beginning in his eyes. To Greg's utter astonishment, and the irritation of some neighboring tables, his companion began to laugh. Not sarcastic, not forced, not even controlled, it was a sound Greg doubted more than a tiny handful of people had heard, and before he was aware of himself, he had joined in.

Both men sat laughing until a stern look from the manager near the kitchen entrance caught Mycroft's eye and he cleared his throat dramatically to indicate the need to end the accidental merriment. He signaled for their plates to be removed and, rallying all his willpower, declined the offer of dessert. Without asking, Greg ordered them each a strong cup of tea, which arrived with unparalleled speed. They remained in comfortable silence, surreptitiously surveying the room through the steam wafting out of sturdy china. When his cup was nearly empty, Mycroft spoke.

"Classic films, then?"

"Sorry?" Greg responded, not taking his eyes from another pair of men four tables away. They were holding hands. One was wearing a wedding band.

"I was asking, Detective Inspector, whether you had any interest in classic films?"

"Oh." The distracted tone lingered as he forced his gaze back to his dinner partner. "Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I enjoy an old movie now and again. Why d'you ask?"

"Perhaps if you were so inclined, we could take in a film together?"

"Sounds good, yeah. I'd like that. D'you know a place that shows them?" His attention had drifted to another couple, a man and a woman whose rings were so obviously mismatched that it didn't take Sherlock Holmes to deduce the nature of the relationship.

"I see I've been remiss in not giving you a full tour of my mans… home. It so happens that I have a private viewing theatre."

"Oh. Right. Course you would. That's…" the DI nodded, too focused on the other patrons to disguise his disappointment, "I guess that's fine."

Mycroft's heart sank. He rarely shared his personal interests with anyone, and he'd hoped the invitation would convey a sense of welcome, of - even thinking the word felt treacherous to his heart - intimacy. Yet Gregory had not only failed to be impressed by this gesture, he had not even deigned to look away from the couple next to them having, by the looks of the man's shirt collar, a poorly concealed affair. It was almost as disheartening as a few minutes prior when he was distracted by the two men at another table, also having…

"Then again," he ventured, standing and moving slowly toward the door, "perhaps you and I have had rather enough privacy for one week, don't you agree?"

"Hm. Wait, what?" Greg jumped up, almost spilling the cold dregs of his tea on his lap and hastening his pace to catch up.

"What would you say -" rapid tapping on mobile keys "- to the BFI Southbank?"

Greg perked up dramatically as they stepped into the icy night air. "Yeah ok, which film?"

"Does it matter?" The light was back in the elder Holmes' eyes.

Greg shook his head, embarrassed at his inability to curb his broad smile. "When?"

A dark sedan pulled up just then. Greg eyed it for a minute, and as his attention returned to his date, they answered simultaneously:

"Tomorrow."