...

I know, I know! I'm sorry! I'll try really hard to get these up weekly, but I get seriously distracted, so feel free to yell at me via PM if I don't, ok?

This is Mycroft's POV! Maybe it makes up for the long update?

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you?"

Her voice was shrill and angry; it annoyed me immensely.

I pinched the bridge between my nose and turned away from the window. "Detective Lestrade, how kind of you to join me -"

"You can't just kidnap people!" she shouted, waving her arms about. She looked ridiculous. "Especially not detectives at the NSY!" I motioned for her to sit. She didn't. I sighed and sat at my desk.

"I wished to talk with you about your progress with -"

"Talk?! That's what phones are for!"

"Phones can be tapped, and it is easier to mistake intent whilst on a phone. I wished for something more-"

"Have you never heard of going for coffee? Dinner? Meeting somewhere like a normal person? Hell, you could have said, 'Hey, Gracie! I want to meet you when convenient! Here's my address! What time is good for you?'"

"I don't wish to give you my address," I told her calmly and slowly, as one taking with a child - she certainly was equally as hard on the ears. "You had nothing going on today - I checked your schedule," I told her. Obviously, I wouldn't pick a time in which she was required somewhere else.

She made a strangled/sighing noise. "That's not the bloody point!"

I replayed her exact words. "You wish that I would have met you in a public setting? Doesn't that defeat the purpose of a private meeting?"

"I don't like being kidnapped, Mycroft."

"That is unfortunate, but this is my preferred method of meeting. I do promise to inform you in the future before 'kidnapping' you, as you so delicately put it," I conceded. She sighed, but sat down.

"Whatever. Fine. Talk." She glared at me with angry eyes, and I could see all the troubles of the day written on her features:

Coffee - spilled her coffee on the Tube -

Vomit on her shoes: a victim -

Blood in her hair...falling into blood at a crime scene - slipped and fell backward -

Chased down a suspect, short fist fight -

Broken computer -

Red eyes - no sleep, or - crying. She had been crying, and then -

I stood and walked to the corner of the room. Her eyes followed me. I poured two fingers of my favorite Jack Daniels and held it out for her. She blinked twice, and lifted her hand slowly, as if she feared I might pull it away at the last second. I merely smirked.

"You needn't fear, Detective. While taking candy from a baby seems highly amusing, neither of us are infants, and this is most certainly not candy," I told her, though my damn mind classified it as 'sneering.' She blinked and we toasted silently. I relished the taste sliding down my throat, hissing as it burned, but she downed it in one gulp and didn't even wince. She looked up at me again, and her eyes had softened slightly. I smirked again. Goldfish.

"Now, about Sherlock..."

She was brought to an empty cafe next time. I was waiting in the back corner, my tea in front of me, her coffee waiting across the table. She slid into the booth, an eyebrow raised. "Coffee," I explained, and the corners of her mouth quirked upward.

"I thought the creepy office was your 'preferred method of meeting,'" she lifted the cup to her mouth without hesitation. Fascinating.

"I was referring to the 'kidnapping.'"

"Ah," she nodded. "So, what do you want - oh my god this is fabulous!" She gestured wildly to her coffee. ADHD? I wondered briefly, before making a note to delete the rubbish 'mental illness' from my brain at the next convenient chance. She was still speaking, grating against my ear drums. "It's like a caffeine orgasm straight from the rain forest - with chocolate body shots!" I had to raise an eyebrow at her colorful metaphor.

"Please tell me that was meant to be taken figuratively."

She frowned and ignored my question, focusing her attention back on the coffee.

"Do you still think that my brother is wrong in his suspect?" I asked, getting to the point of our meeting. She looked up, nodding vigorously as she shoved her hand into her bag and pulled out a stack of files. Files that I knew were supposed to remain at NSY. I felt my respect for her grow slightly, and so kept my mouth shut. Perhaps she will be an intelligent goldfish.

"Peterson just doesn't have any motive, you know?"

"He doesn't have an alibi," I pointed out. She nodded again, flipping through the files enthusiastically. "Yet, you prefer Cecil King, who does have an alibi."

"Yes!" she exclaimed, sliding the file in front of me and jabbing at a paragraph. I read through it quickly. "His alibi is circumstantial at best, and he has no way of proving he was actually there, because no one seems to remember him!"

I nodded - her suspect was correct, but I needed to know her logic. "What would his motive be?"

She leaned forward with a grin, apparently delighted I had asked that question. "To get Peterson's job! Peterson messed up when filing the insurance claims, and Casey's mysterious business partner - I think it's King - will get a huge pay out, Peterson will be fired, or demoted, and King is a shoo-in for his job!"

I allowed myself to reward her with a smile. She was right, of course - I had known instantly, and was very disappointed in Sherlock. He was much more experienced than Detective Lestrade, and here she had solved the case.

Her face fell, however. "But I can't prove it, and there's this stupid rule that says you can't convict criminals on completely correct theories without evidence. I'll just have to wait until Sherlock gets over his whole 'Peterson is guilty!' thing."

It took Sherlock two days. I scolded him, and Detective Lestrade didn't give him a case for a week.

He showed up at a crime scene at the close of that week - honestly, I was surprised it had taken him that long - with his new flatmate: a small, limping man in a sweater, of all things. I, of course, already had John Watson's information downloaded onto my phone, and the way Detective Lestrade glared at the CCTV when he showed up indicated that she expected it as well, and by the end of the day.

I sent it with pizza at precisely 11:59 p.m. (dreadfully cliche and horribly reminiscent of a goldfish, but it served my purpose, reminded the detective to eat, and encouraged comradeship within the station). I almost lost my meal with that realization, after which I did not speak to Detective Lestrade for 6 days.

It didn't matter; our goals were similar, and we worked in sync to punish Sherlock and scare John Watson away.

Unfortunately, he did not scare. He was at Sherlock's side on cases repeatedly, praising and gaping at Sherlock. It was disgusting. Sherlock, of course, reveled in the obvious adoration that John had somehow contracted.

Anthea sent me an audio file from the station that went as follows:

"Detective."

"Mr. Watson! It's lovely to see you."

"John, please."

"Alright. Call me 'Gracie,' then."

"Gracie."

"Would you like to join me for a terrible cup of Earl Grey?" Short, amused laughter. Gracie. I rolled the name around in my head, but it remained foreign and awkward.

"Yes, alright."

They proceeded to talk about boring, goldfish things. I was composing a scolding text to Anthea for wasting my time when I heard the change in Gracie's - Lestrade's - voice. I recognized it as apprehension.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

Pause. "Why do you stay? With - with Sherlock, I mean?"

Another, more tense pause. "He gives me a good rate on the flat -"

Gracie - Lestrade - snorted at the same time I did. "Please. Flatmates don't follow each other to work."

"I'm sorry, but I don't think this is any of your business -"

"- He's dangerous, you know." Gracie's voice interrupted, agitated once more. "They both are."

"They? You mean Mycroft?"

"Well, yeah."

"I'm not scared of them, Gracie."

"Oh, no! I'm not either, I just - they're jerks! Manipulating people to their will and - Well, you just seem like such a nice guy, John. I don't want you to get caught in this."

"Are they hurting you?" John's voice was hard and firm. The hero ready to save the princess, my mind sneered. "Are they threatening you?"

"What? No! Well, I mean, sort of. Indirectly, I mean. But I'm not scared, John. I just think you should get out while you can."

Pause. "This isn't a gang, Gracie. I'm not going to be beat up for finding a new flatmate. And for all they seem to think, they don't control everything. Besides, you hired Sherlock, so they can't be that bad, right? I'll see you later, okay?"

Gracie sputtered. "John! That's not the point! John!"

Interesting. Gracie - Lestrade (oh, hell. GRACIE, then.) - seems to either be frightened by Sherlock and I, or surprisingly protective of John Watson. Curious. I revised my scolding text to a mildly encouraging text, and Anthea thankfully didn't reply.

I figured we needed a meeting, so I broke my 'warning-before-kidnapping' promise and had Anthea fetch Gracie after her shift, but I returned to the cafe with the orgasmic coffee to perhaps calm her inevitable fury.

She glared a lot, but thankfully sat without a word.

"I wish to discuss John Watson."

She raised an eyebrow, but did not seem surprised. "Yeah?" Her lips touched the rim of her cup and her eyes fluttered closed.

"Are you sexually attracted to him?"

.

.

I learned to never ask Gracie a questionable question while she has liquid in her mouth.

That was my favorite tie.

'Coffee' became a regular occurrence (weekly, for 3 weeks) until Gracie informed me that I was "messing up my sleep schedule, shoving glorious caffeine down my throat just as I need to crash!"

We returned to my office for 2 of our weekly meetings, but both expressed our dislike of the location, though her words were more colorful than mine.

She suggested lunch, but I reminded her that neither of us took lunch breaks.

We settled on dinner, and it conjured up memories of the dates I laughed at in college, when I skipped the 'courting' process and wasn't obliged to speak with any of those women again. Gracie looked equally put out by the idea.

.

I had my driver pick her up at her flat, an hour after she got off of work. I was texted her arrival at 8:07, and I planted the frown on my face in anticipation.

She stepped out of the car in black heels and a flowing black dress that could pass for casually dressed-up, or dressed-up casual. My retort died in my throat. How did she - Intelligent goldfish. She smirked at the restaurant. "I knew you'd pick something ridiculously over-priced. You're buying," she told me flippantly.

I frowned, but held out my arm. "Don't raise suspicion," I warned.

She snorted. "Please. I've been undercover before."

I pulled her to a stop just inside the doors. "I am serious, Gracie. If you can't be discreet, you will be eliminated."

She rolled her eyes, and pursed her lips. I frowned at her lack of response. Her hand darted up suddenly, surprising me. It hooked around the back of my neck and yanked my head down violently, and a feather-light kiss was pressed to my cheek (where the hell had that metaphor come from?). She smiled sweetly as she loosened her arm slowly, allowing me to straighten, but drawing little circles on the back of my neck. I frowned at her.

"We both know you aren't going to 'eliminate' me, don't we, darling?" she asked, her voice sickeningly sweet, and my stomach twisted (these sayings, honestly! Where did they come from?).

"Mr. Holmes. This way, if you're ready."

Well? Do you like Mycroft POV? Or do you like Gracie POV better?

Leave me a review guys!