Chapter Text
“When you really want love, you will find it waiting for you.”
De Profundis
Greg returned home after an evening spent with Mycroft.
He didn't have many friends, not as a young man, not as a police officer, not as a married man, not as a divorced man. Having John Watson as his best friend explained everything, he thought with a self-deprecating smile. After meeting Mary their already rare outings became lesser until they stopped altogether. Then Sherlock came back and the, how would Mycroft say it? tragedy began. Greg felt it to his bones but he watched it from the outskirts.
That was him, always outside looking in.
But after Sherrinford, and fulfilling Sherlock's request, he offered Mycroft a steady shoulder to lean on, a friend to support him as the worst of the trauma healed.
And now, months later they still met each other regularly, at least once a week to talk and spend time together.
It was a calming evening, watching a movie, black and white that had everything, romance, amnesia, world war I, and then they talked about it.
And the lead actress' long legs were apparently a thing.
Greg unlocked his door with a smile. He hadn't drunk anything but a beer, and Mycroft's expression at his request was one he'd remember for a long time.
“Beer, Lestrade, really? When you could have…”
“Yes, Holmes, beer. Do you have any?”
“I’m not sure, I shall look it up.”
“Do that, then.”
Mycroft came back with a bottle of beer and a glass. Greg did him a favour and actually used it.
“How nice of you!”
“Isn’t it though?”
Mycroft’s laugher was peaceful, friendly, and Greg loved to see him like that.
He closed the door behind him and as he reached down to remove his shoes, he saw an envelope. Standard white, he took it in his hands, thick paper, expensive. He took an evidence bag and put it inside so he could have it examined the next day.
Nothing was found, dangerous or otherwise. It had a card inside it, also safe.
"Clever, Detective Inspector.
I just want to talk to you,
read the message next time,
it’s not dangerous, it’s interesting,
Yours"
With no signature and no name to identify the sender, and typed instead of handwritten, he had no idea by whom it had come from. Greg threw it inside a drawer in his desk and forgot about it.