Chapter Nine: A Crack in the Cup.

He couldn't even say, in retrospect, that it had not gone according to plan because there had never been a plan. There hadn't even been a thought, it had just sort of happened, out of nowhere like the proverbial bolt of lightening... although perhaps less inspired. And yet, as awful as he felt, Greg Lestrade could not regret what had happened.

x

Greg hadn't heard from Mycroft in a week after returning to London, which was fine – he had a thousand things he needed to do concerning moving house and catching with whatever had been happening at work – but it felt odd, in a peculiar way that didn't quite make sense, He checked his phone every few minutes, he opened his email more regularly than normal, he even rang himself from his landline just in case his mobile had stopped working (it hadn't), and with every message he didn't receive, his stomach gave a little flip of disappointment. Which made no sense.

What was even less logical was the fact that he couldn't just call Mycroft himself. There was no reason for it, the majority of the social cups of tea had been arranged by himself, but every time he picked up the phone and thumbed through until Mycroft's number came up some ridiculous instinct surfaced and made him put the phone down again.

It was only after he had given himself a very stern talking to - telling himself, on no uncertain terms, to man the fuck up – that he managed to finally compose a quick text and send it before his mind caught up with him again.

Greg: Just wondering if you fancied meeting up for a coffee any time soon to say cheers for sorting out the flat and getting she-who-must-not-be-names off my back youre probably busy so dont worry if not but let me know. Cheers. Greg.

Today, 17:43

Lestrade just about managed to distract himself with unpacking his kitchen equipment for a good two hours before the irritation with his silent phone got the better of him. He snatched the offending object up, deftly dialled Mycroft's number and waited impatiently for the dialling tone to give way to a human voice.

'Hello?'

"Hi, it's me. Greg," said Greg, hoping the irrational thumping in his chest was inaudible.

'Yes, I know.' He could hear Mycroft smiling on the other end of the line.

"Obviously. Of course you do...Well, I was just calling because... Did you get my text?"

'I've been in meetings all day, I've only just switched my phone back on. Was it important?'

"No. No, not particularly. Was just wondering if you fancied meeting up for a coffee and a catch up any time soon?"

'Let me just see...'

"It's okay if not," Greg added quickly, pacing around his new living room. "I know you're very busy at the moment, so-"

'I'm in the Diogenes tomorrow from five, you're welcome to join me if you wish?'

A wave of what appeared to be relief flooded through Greg, dousing the irritation that had been growing for the last week. "Yeah, that sounds great. I'll pop by after work."

'Good,' said Mycroft, sounding like he meant it. 'I shall look forward to it. Until tomorrow then, Gregory.'

"Okay, see you, bye. Bye."

One day, Lestrade swore to himself, throwing down his phone in disgust. One day, eloquence would come when he needed it to.


It was as though the last week had never happened – although what it was that had happened, Greg was still uncertain – he sat in his usual chair and watched as Mycroft poured the tea in that precisely elegant way of his, with the curves of the wrist and the flexing of the fingers that Greg has always found more hypnotic than he would care to admit to himself, and chatted on in a seemingly endless ramble of words that weren't quite making sense in Greg's head.

"Are you quite alright?" Mycroft asked with a frown as he passed a cup and saucer over to Lestrade, who was still nodded and making noises of agreement. "I'm afraid you look rather ill and I'm not sure you've been listening to a word I've been saying."

"Sorry," Greg said with a sigh, stirring his tea absently with the little silver spoon. "Things on my mind."

Mycroft cocked his head sympathetically to the side, "Caroline?"

"Hmm? Oh no. Feeling strangely okay about all that, actually..." Greg pondered this for a moment before adding, "Perhaps that's why I'm feeling odd. Twenty years of my life has just been blown to pieces and I'm not a complete wreck, is that even healthy?"

"I'm probably not the right person to ask about such things," said Mycroft with a wry smile, adding a lump of white sugar to his tea. "But surely, logically speaking, to feel good can only be a good thing?"

Greg shrugged, continuing to stir fervently. "I'm not sure 'good' is the right word for it."

"Nevertheless, 'not a complete wreck' is most certainly a more desirable state of mind than 'complete wreck."

He was doing that teasing thing again, where it wasn't quite teasing but it definitely was at the same time. The tea burnt his lips as Greg sipped, to ease the dryness in his throat more than out of desire. Desire... Oh fuck! Is that what it was?

Don't be so fucking ridiculous, Lestrade!

And yet... Greg glanced up, wincing as the newly formed blisters on his lip made contact with the rim of his teacup; Mycroft was looking at him with the oddest expression, as though he had gone green or had started frothing at the mouth, with a single, delicately raised eyebrow and the concerned quirk of one corner of his mouth.

The raised teacup slipped suddenly from Lestrade's fingers and fell to the floor, bouncing once before shattering neatly into three pieces, hot tea splashing up both their trouser legs

"Shit!"

The two men jumped simultaneously to their feet and stared down at the broken cup.

Lestrade was mortified. "I am so sorry!"

"No, no, sit down," said Mycroft, shaking his head. "I'm going to call John. You're clearly ill. Look," he put out a hand to touch Greg's forehead, "you have a ridiculous temperature, Gregory, you ought to be in bed-"

And that was when it happened, the proverbial bolt of lightening.

For the briefest of moments, something made sense; the palm pressing firmly just above his eye line, the slender wrist so close that Lestrade could smell the subtle hint of lavender and vanilla which always seemed to drift three steps behind Mycroft... It was a heady combination which overpowered any sense which still remained.

Lestrade grabbed the wrist and half-pulled Mycroft forward, moving in the remainder of the way himself. In an ideal world, they would have lingered there for a moment – nose to nose in silent negotiation – before continuing.

But this was not an ideal world.

Their lips collided awkwardly, Mycroft's body went rigid in horror and there was barely a second of contact before Mycroft wrenched his hand out of Greg's, stumbling backwards in a rare moment of disconcertment. A brief flash of hurt crossed the younger man's face before freezing into an icy expression of disdain.

Lestrade didn't even give Mycroft the chance to demand a reason – there was none. Snatching up his jacket and draping it over his arm, Greg spun round and half-strode, half-ran from the visitor's room, away from the Diogenes and away from Mycroft.