The seventh change made Mycroft understand that not everything should be taken so seriously…

Beta:OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

Flowers

Monday

Mycroft Holmes was no stranger to getting flowers. He loved them actually. Mummy's gardens were one of his favorite places in his childhood home, after the library of course. Long narrow alleys with long flowerbeds on either side were his most frequently visited places, especially on warm summer evenings.

Later Mycroft learned that flowers also were a very specific and useful way of communication. His so called friends, who in truth were his allies for a short period of time while their interests coincided, as well as his enemies were highly educated people who were aware of such a thing as language of flowers. It came in handy when you wanted to send a threat that only the recipient would understand, and that would not leave any traces the police could find. Flowers were just flowers; you can always claim that you had no idea of the meaning behind them.

That was why when he entered his office and the first thing he noticed was a small bouquet of lobelias on his desk, Mycroft froze, one hand still on the handle of the door he was closing. After a moment that lasted the length of one hitched breath he relaxed, calmly locked the door and came up to the desk. A meaning behind the present was glaringly obvious.

Malevolence.

There was no note and the politician stared thoughtfully at the flowers, attempting to remember who he angered this much lately, which was a difficult task since he made more enemies than friends every day. This was someone clever, though. Very clever, because this person knew an easy and elegant way to express their intentions.

Small blue flowers glared back at him, daring him to answer the challenge, taunting with small white marks in the center. Not taking their meaning into consideration, Mycroft thought that they were beautiful. Unusual and so different from all those posh flowers in their simplicity. As if someone had just cut them from a flowerbed, collecting them with care, and put them into a vase on his table. With a sigh Mycroft took the flowers and threw them into a bin by the desk.

It could have been the most memorable event of that day, had Lestrade not come by around lunchtime. That was an unexpected but pleasant surprise. The DI settled rather comfortably in the chair across from Mycroft, putting his feet on the desk. He lowered them though at one icy glare from the owner of the desk.

"I wasn't expecting to see you until Friday." Mycroft commented, putting away the documents to free some space for two cups of tea his secretary would bring in two minutes. He didn't usually take breaks between work, but since Gregory Lestrade so remarkably intruded in on his life, which the politician in truth didn't mind in the slightest, he had broken so many small rules Mycroft insisted on following that one more small changed habit wouldn't make much difference.

The lunch might have been very pleasant, if less than five minutes after the DI pleasantly announced his arrival, his mood had not shifted from cheerful to gloomy. Mycroft didn't even notice why it had happened.

Tuesday

Next morning another unpleasant surprise awaited Mycroft. He had just returned from an 'unofficial meeting', not much unlike the one he had with John Watson with the only difference been that his opponent this time was so scared of Mycroft he couldn't mumble a single word.

The politician sent his PA away and asked his secretary for a cup of tea and, leaving the two women behind, stepped into his office.

His eyes first fell on Gregory Lestrade, sitting on Mycroft's usual place behind the large desk. The sight brought a smile to his lips, which was quickly wiped away when his eyes focused on a new bouquet.

"Good morning," Lestrade greeted cheerfully, leaning back in the chair and putting his elbows on the armrests.

"Good day," Mycroft greeted and corrected in one sentence. His eyes were glued to a dozen yellow carnations glaring back at him. He frowned as he took a few cautious steps towards them as if every full-blown bud hid a bomb within its petals.

"You don't like carnations?" Lestrade asked with a frown of his own, intrigued with Mycroft's fixated look.

"Not these ones," Mycroft commented off-handedly, reaching for the flowers and throwing them away along with the vase.

Yellow carnations spoke of rejection or disdain. Clearly, Mycroft concluded, his anonymous enemy wanted to express his disdain with Mycroft Holmes's policy. This was almost getting interesting.

"So, lunch?"

He asked as if the last five minutes did not happen. He answered Lestrade's astonished look with his calm one and preferred to ignore the other man's scowl. Nonetheless the DI got up and followed Mycroft out.

Wednesday

That day Lestrade wasn't in Mycroft's office when the politician returned from yet another business meeting, specifically cutting it short to be in time for their lunch together. Andromeda, his creative PA, was clever enough not to comment on it; that was her special skill, a reason he had hired her. Her eyes though, a gaze she leveled him with when he said that she was free until the next meeting, said everything her lips could not – how quickly having lunch together became a new habit for Mycroft and Lestrade.

Frowning, Mycroft looked around, just in case the DI got tired of abusing the politician's desk in favor of Mycroft's favorite sofa. He was not so lucky.

Though with pleasure he noted that there were no flowers that day.

There was a knock on the door, insistent and deliberate, and whoever it was had entered without waiting for permission, as if knocking was merely a notification and not a request.

"Hello," Lestrade greeted with a smile, looking at Mycroft through the half-opened door.

"I thought you were not coming," Mycroft admitted absent-mindedly, not wanting it sound like it was important to him.

"How can I not?" The DI replied and shifted on his feet, looking at the floor. He seemed uncomfortable. "I also got something for you…"

Intrigued, Mycroft came closer to him. He stopped though when Lestrade stepped fully into the office, leaving the shelter of the door. He stood in front of the other man, sheepishly glancing from Mycroft to a small bouquet of flowers in his hand and back again. They were carnations, their petals – a mix of bright red and pure white.

"After your comment yesterday I thought you might like these ones." Lestrade commented tentatively handing the bouquet to him.

Mycroft took them, carefully as if he was afraid that his fingers would boil when they came in contact with the stems. He forced a smile, hoping it looked genuine because he didn't feel like smiling at that moment. Silently he persuaded himself that Gregory Lestrade had no idea what giving a person stripped carnations meant. Because, really, he'd never give Mycroft those flowers if he did.

Refusal. That's what those flowers spoke of.

"Sorry I can'tbewithyou", as it was written in all those old books Mycroft had been forced to read as a student.

"Thank you," Mycroft said tensely, taking the flowers and putting them away on the desk. "Shall we go?"

"Of course," Gregory replied and, with a smile, let Mycroft put his hand on his elbow, leading the other man away from the office.

Thursday

Mycroft was sure he was looking too much into things. Because it just couldn't be that Gregory Lestrade was such a cruel man. His words were telling one thing, but those flowers…But there was a very high possibility that the DI, even though he was an educated man, had no idea about the language of flowers. And Mycroft Holmes, who had that knowledge drilled into him since childhood, was just used to reading small signs, understanding subtle hints and basing his opinion on them instead of on the facts that seemed obvious.

How high was the possibility that the flowers he got two days prior also came from Lestrade? Mycroft decided not to over-analyze that.

Gregory was a good man. An honest man. Mycroft stopped his thoughts there. A small fear of humiliation, somewhere at the back of his mind, still made itself known, making the politician act more cautious than he always did around the DI. That was why, when the awaited knock echoed in the politician's office announcing the arrival of Lestrade, Mycroft was as tense as he always felt when he went to his annual meeting with the queen.

"Ready to go out?" Lestrade asked from the threshold, not bothering to close the door as he expected them to head out immediately.

Lunch together was a new habit for them. But Mycroft didn't move, his mind slowing down and almost coming to a halt.

"Oh, this?" Lestrade addressed the unasked question in the other man's eyes. "This is for you."

And the DI gave Mycroft a single yellow rose.

No, Mycroft though, there was no person on earth who didn't know the meaning of a yellow rose.

'Unfaithfulness. Decrease of love. Jealousy,' – that's how Victorian authors described it. And, Mycroft decided, everyone knew that, even in modern days.

"Lestrade," he called out. It came up a tad stricter than he intended.

The DI frowned.

"Gregory," Mycroft said softer. "What are your intentions?"

"Concerning what?"

"Me." The politician replied, choosing not to elaborate. His eyes didn't leave the DI's face, analyzing every small frown.

"I am taking you out on a date. Tomorrow." Lestrade answered, sounding unsure.

Mycroft nodded, waiting for a continuation. The other man stared back at him, confused at what the politician wanted to hear.

"What's wrong?" He asked instead.

Mycroft waved with the hand holding the yellow flower the other man gave him right before his face. When the DI didn't understand, he pushed the flower into Lestrade's hand.

"You hate flowers?" The DI made a guess. "Hate roses? Does it embarrass you to receive flowers from another man?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. After so many stupid questions coming one right after another he was half-convinced that Lestrade had no idea what he was unintentionally doing. Still he had to make things clear.

"Have you ever heard of the language of flowers?"

"Yes," the DI answered still frowning. "But really, no one pays attention to such things nowadays."

Mycroft looked the other man in the eyes pointedly and lifted his brow deliberately, exaggeratedly. Lestrade looked back at him, not comprehending. The politician watched how, after a moment of confusion, the light of understanding slowly lit up in Lestrade's hazel orbs.

"Oh…"

Mycroft nodded very slowly. Lestrade broke eye contact and glanced at the yellow rose in his hand.

"It's just a flower," he said defensively.

"It's a yellow rose." Mycroft commented; it sounded casual with how quietly it was said but at the same time he stressed every word in the sentence, making his interlocutor realize that what he was saying must be paid attention to.

"I like yellow flowers. I thought you might like it too." Gregory retorted.

"But it means decrease of love and unfaithfulness," Mycroft's voice was laced with exasperation.

"That's just prejudice."

"No, it's a very old and useful way of communication. And the 'messages' I got from you this week were far from friendly."

"Were they?" Lestrade wondered aloud. H carefully put the rose he was holding aside, on top of a neat pile of documents on Mycroft's desk.

"You are not even aware that you rejected and threatened me as well as expressed your disdain towards my persona, are you?"

"But it's just flowers. I didn't want to give some boring red roses. I wanted to find something more original."

"And why is it that while 'looking for original flowers' you come across exactly those ones which are used to declare a war?" Mycroft asked rhetorically, rolling his eyes. He smiled though, showing that he was not angry anymore.

Lestrade sighed, contemplating never again even attempting to make any surprises for Mycroft Holmes.

"I have only twenty minutes left before I have to return to Yard." He said.

Getting the hint, Mycroft went around his desk, took the umbrella that was hanging on the handle of the chair and headed for the exit, Lestrade following behind.

Friday

Mycroft didn't want to admit it but he was feeling nervous. A small nagging feeling started in the morning when he first stepped into his office and evolved into something disconcerting during the day. Lestrade didn't turn up for lunch, but that was fine. Mycroft knew that the DI decided to skip it in favor of dealing with his day's work. They just hoped that no brutal murder would happen that evening, as well as no diplomatic disaster, that would keep either of them from seeing each other that evening.

It had been quite a long time since Mycroft had had a date. Not as long since he had a lover, but that did not exactly require spending a lot of time together and getting to know that person. With Lestrade he actually wanted to get through that tedious routine of going out and acting all uncertain and awkward, wanting to see the other man but attempting not to show it. Mycroft didn't have enough time for this, especially with new elections coming, but 'oh, well you don't need to know about that, do you?'

Still, somehow he found himself canceling his last meeting for the day and even the one he had scheduled for after midnight with the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service about the publicity. Lestrade was stealing a large amount of the politician's precious time. Worst of all – Mycroft couldn't find any sense to mind.

In the evening, when the clock on the wall showed half past six, Mycroft called in his PA. He didn't bother to learn her new name for that day, and went through the day's most important decisions. She didn't stop glancing slyly at him every few minutes when she paused her typing on her Blackberry. She knew why he was giving her an evening off and Mycroft knew she was teasing him even though she didn't say a word about it. Half an hour later it was over and he left the office, willingly subduing the feeling of nervousness during the short car ride to the New Scotland Yard.

Mycroft stepped out of the car as it stopped and noticed Lestrade immediately. The DI came up to him, smiling coyly and, instead of a greeting him verbally, presented Mycroft with a new bouquet of yellow flowers.

"I hope I got it right this time?"

Mycroft smiled sincerely and took the flowers. In Victorian books these flowers were named jonquils, but the older Holmes considered it was safe to just call them daffodils.

"Yes, Gregory. Thank you." Mycroft said and, looping his hand around Lestrade's elbow gently, let the DI lead them away.

"Returnmyaffection" the flowers in his hand said.

Mycroft took one flower from the large bouquet and gave it back to Lestrade.

"Affection returned".

A/N: All the meanings are taken from a website which I'm inclined to believe is trustworthy. Also according to that source jonquils mean 'Return my affection' in later version of Victorian books on flower meanings while in earlier version they mean 'Affection returned'. For the sake of the story I united both versions.

Also I don't know how difficult can it be to get lobelias in London, but they fit nicely in the plot so I decided to use them. My small research showed that jonquils and daffodils are the same flowers, I hope it's right.

This is my favorite chapter of the series so far:)