Greg Lestrade stares forlornly at a stale doughnut and a cup of coffee that's somehow managed to go from infernally hot to dismally cold in the blink of an eye. He sighs heavily. He's been leaving the house at an ungodly early hour just to get away from the tense atmosphere between himself and his wife, the separation is not going well. He's even found an excuse to be at work on a Sunday morning, despite himself.
He looks up as his door opens, rubbing his eyes. Framed by the light of the bullpen outside is an immaculately dressed man, carrying a newspaper and an umbrella.
"Good morning, Mr. Holmes. I assume you're here about Sherlock again? Have a seat."
"Please, I've asked you before, call me Mycroft. And sitting down won't be necessary; I'm here on entirely…" he pauses briefly, "personal business."
Perplexed, Greg runs his hand through his hair, further disordering it. He finds himself wishing he'd bothered to shower this morning, or at the very least found a clean shirt. Next to this tall, imposing, handsome man he feels rather grubby and insignificant.
"No, Greg. If I may call you that? My motives here are entirely self-serving." He eyes Greg's sad attempt at a snack with distaste. "I was wondering if you'd like to accompany me to brunch?"