Written for the Numerology Challenge on the Harry Potter Challenge Forum. (Yes, I realize that this is not HP related, but the challenger was cool with that)

This short uses my OTP (one of them) Mystrade, in which Greg Lestrade is a redhead lady named Gracie. If this makes no sense, check out my story Grace, which is still in progress.

My number:

Two- The Feminine, write about someone with secret strengths: woman, shadow, intuition, words, sensual: "You must be mistaken" "Do I look like I'm joking?"

Come to the Manor immediately.

What?

"Lestrade! Is that personal?" Gregson's face was red and bloated after his conference call with The Government. Which, of course, meant that I shouldn't tell him I was texting my Politician.

"Uh, no, Sir. Elsa has the bullets identified. She wants to see you in her lab." It wasn't a lie. She had texted me before Mycroft had.

"And Flynn is done with the autopsy," Alfie chimed in.

"Well get your arses down there!" He yelled.

"Yessir!"

"On it, Boss!"

My phone chimed again as we left Scotland Yard.

At your convenience, of course.

Smartass.

Gracie.

Oh. Right. Mycroft. Our text conversation was as follows.

Me: I am at work. You know this.

Him: Jeanne will pick you up at your current location in 5 minutes.

Me: No.

Him: I require your presence.

Me: Why?

Him: I have a client.

Me: You do not take clients.

Him: The client is for you.

Me: I don't take clients either. I'm a detective, Mycroft, not a private-eye. Call your brother.

Him: I do not require his presence. I require yours.

Me: You can solve the case yourself, Mycroft.

Him: Yes, but I do not have the time.

Me: You've solved it already, haven't you? I'll fill out the paperwork when I return home. AFTER WORK.

Him: I have not solved it.

Me: Then stop texting me and solve it.

Him: That is valid, however, I enjoy texting you more than I would enjoy the legwork required.

Him: Besides, you are more athletic than I.

Me: You are not a Hedonist. Your physical pleasure has never mattered to you.

Me: And I am sure one of your minions would be acceptable.

Him: That is true.

Him: You are more reliable than one of my "minions," as you call them.

Me: Noted, but I will once again suggest that you give the case to Sherlock.

Him: I will once again deny your suggestion.

Me: I cannot leave work, and you know this. I will be home when I am finished.

Him: Our clients are currently at the Manor.

Me: Take care of it, Mycroft.

Him: Done.

He is obviously being very affectionate. He only does that when he is apologizing...

The clients.

Shit.

"Mycroft!" I yelled, throwing open the door. The smell of cigarette smoke followed me inside. Two women in skimpy outfits were pressed against the wall of the hallway, snogging. They didn't even looked up as I passed. Into the kitchen and yet another woman was there, casually pouring coffee into - my mug.

"MYCROFT!" I positively screamed this time. The woman turned to me smiling, her makeup smeared down her face.

"Are you looking for Mr. Suit? He's in his office - it's through that door, down the hall, and the -"

"I KNOW WHERE THE BLOODY OFFICE IS! HE IS MY BLOODY HUSBAND AND WE FUCKING AGREED NO -"

"Ahem." I spun around, livid. He stood in the doorway, his head tilted quizzically and his eyebrow quirked in that scolding manner he has and how dare he -

"NO. DON'T YOU DARE GIVE ME THAT LOOK." Was I still yelling?

He opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.

"No," I threatened, settling for a menacing hiss whilst stalking towards him. "We agreed: no prostitutes in the house. Have your orgy some place else!"

"You must be mistaken."

"It was in our contract, Mycroft!" At least his neck straightened. "My house, my rules."

"Our house," he reminded me. I acknowledged that fact with a slight dip of my head.

"Our rules," I conceded. "We had a freaking contract, Mycroft."

"Actually, the contract did not mention prostitutes at all. It merely banned sexual partners from the manor. None of these women are my sexual partners, excluding the lovely lady smoking on the front porch. But as I just mentioned, she is outside the manor."

I clenched my jaw. "Then what they hell are they doing here?"

"They are your clients." I searched his face for signs that he was joking, but he appeared to be quite serious. I gaped. He raised an eyebrow.

"Go to hell, Mycroft," I spat, and stormed out of the kitchen. He followed me up the stairs, sticking his shoe between the door and the frame when I attempted to slam it shut. He pushed his way inside and sat on my bed, silently watching me put my work stuff away. I'd finally had enough. "What?! I'm not helping your whores, Mycroft."

He frowned. "I've already explained that they are, in fact, not my whores."

"Still. Do it yourself. You obviously have the time, and they obviously adore 'Mr. Suit.'"

He watched me change out of my work clothes for a while, and then snorted belatedly. "Don't tell me you are jealous, Gracie."

I glared at him. "I'm not jealous, Mycroft," I spat, dragging out his name in a mocking tone, while throwing my shirt at him.

"You are being aggressive for no particular reason and -"

"I just - I'm just tired of this!"

"'This?'" He raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, this!" I gestured around me vaguely.

"You are tired of your room." I slapped my forehead. "We have many rooms in the Manor, Grace. You are free to change the location of your bedroom at anytime. You know this -"

"Mycroft!" I finally screamed.

"Yes?"

"Do I look like I am joking?!" I put on my best I-am-not-joking face. He frowned.

"No."

"That's because this isn't a joke! If it was, I'd be laughing! Do I look like I'm laughing?!"

"No..."

"No." I fumbled with my bra clasp for a while before giving up with something that sounded suspiciously like a sob. I plopped down on the floor and sat with my knees pulled to my chest and my head in my knees, not facing him. I swallowed hard and wiped my tears on my bare knees.

I heard him walk up behind me and groan as he sat down. He tugged at my shoulders until I leaned back, my head now in his lap. He ran his fingers through my hair quietly, and I knew he wouldn't ask, that even this was a stretch for him.

"You just - you gotta stop." I tried. His hand froze. "No, no. Not that - that feels nice. It's just - Gregson doesn't - he doesn't seem to understand that I have nothing to do with what you do! I don't even know what you do! How is it my fault?!"

He frowned down at me, tracing the shell of my ear. "I do not understand."

"Whenever you do something - or, sometimes, it's not even you! - when the government does something against him or Scotland Yard, anything from returning a phone call two days late to making new laws on traffic quotas, he gets so mad!"

"He should not be working for the government if he has such anger against us."

"Exactly! But - you know -since I'm practically married to the Government himself, he thinks I have some say over what you do! Like I choose all laws and when people return phone calls and what bloody stationary they use and the quarterly budget and -"

"You do not choose any of that."

"Well, I know that!"

"So your captain blames you for decisions that you are not remotely involved in?"

"Yeah."

"What does he do?" he traced the freckles on my cheeks with his forefinger and I closed my eyes.

"He just yells at me a lot, and sends me out on all the shifts no one wants." I felt him tense.

"I was under the impression that you requested those shifts."

I frowned. "Of course not. As much as it may seem like it sometimes, I don't have a death wish."

"He shall be terminated immediately -"

"What? No! Mycroft! I don't want you to fire him - or kill him! He's a good man! A good captain - and a hell of an officer! And he's a friend. 'Member what we discussed about friends?"

"This 'friend' lacks all the qualities you mentioned."

"He's just going through a hard time -"

"His wife left him two years ago. Just because he chose to tell you last month does not mean that is when it happened."

I gaped at him.

"If you will not let me take action, then you must."

"What do you want me to do though? What can I do?"

"You must...tell him your feelings." Mycroft grimaced. I snorted.

"I don't think braiding each other's hair and taking about our feelings is going to cut it. He's made it clear that he doesn't care."

"Well then you must be more harsh," he told me happily.

"You mean...yell at him."

"Yes." He smirked.

"What if he fires me?"

"He will not fire you. You are very valuable to him."

"But what if he does?"

"Then you will have a job in my office," he informed me in what he meant to be a comforting voice. I snorted.

"Oh yeah, 'cause that's what every girl wants: to work for her husband."

He frowned. I smiled and reached up to touch his cheek. "Thanks anyway, baby. I'll work up the courage to yell at him somehow."

He raised an eyebrow. "You've never had a issue with courage in the past. I believe you will be fine." He nudged at my shoulders, and I pushed myself into a sitting position. He brushed my hair over my left shoulder and his fingers were warm on my skin as he undid my bra clasp.

"I will inform our clients that you will be down shortly," he told me. I stood up and pulled him to his feet, rubbing his neck soothingly until the pain faded from his face. I kissed his cheek and he smiled (tried to. He's getting better at it though!).

I flung my bra at his head when he reached the doorway. He froze, pulling it off his head, and stared at it. He turned around to me with an eyebrow raised in exasperation. I stuck my tongue out at him and he rolled his eyes as he disappeared.

So...that was kinda weird. Sorry. It started out as a case, but I'm too lazy to actually make up the case so I just had Gracie be whiny.

(Maybe she's pregnant hmmm?)

(Kidding.)

(Or am I?)