Not a Goldfish, but a Shark

Mycroft assumed love would be his downfall.

It ended up being his salvation.

…

Greg's heartline breaks halfway across his hand. Before the break, it's shallow, barely visible against the calloused surface of his palm. After the break, it's deep and steady, curving elegantly up under his middle finger.

He's been told this means he'll have his heart broken badly, but then repaired and made stronger, and the rest of his life will pass by with him being consistently, head-over-heels in love and having amazing sex every day. (He hopes that last part is true.)

When Greg meets his future wife, he knows their relationship won't last. Her heart line is broken too, and in the exact same place it is. The future doesn't look good for the couple. Still, Lestrade tries. They get married, have kids, and he can't help falling madly in love with her.

He isn't surprised when she cheats on him with the P.E. teacher. He can't help being a little disappointed, though.

…

Mycroft Holmes is very happy in his life, thank you very much.

He's happy with his diet, and he's happy with his job, and he's happy with his club, and his cigarettes, and his PA, and his brother. He's happy with the long hours and grueling work schedule. He's happy with coming home alone. He's happy with his empty mansion, and his quiet office, and private cars. He's happy with his meddling and his secrets and his plans and his schemes.

Yes, Mycroft Holmes is 100% happy in his life.

(Most of the time.)

…

Mycroft sits across from his brother, an sardonic grin masking exasperation. "If you seem slow to me, Sherlock, imagine everyone else. I'm living in a world of goldfish."

Sherlock smirks, leaning back in his chair. "Yes, but I thought perhaps you'd found yourself a… goldfish."

Downstairs, Greg Lestrade sits awkwardly on Mrs. Hudson's purple couch. He hates having his future read, but he can't resist Mrs. Hudson's persistent nagging to come in for a tea-leaf reading.

He drinks the tea (chamomile?) and sets the cup down, careful not to spill the leaves as he turns the handle towards himself. Then, carefully, he picks the cup up, leaving a pattern only discernible to the older woman.

Mrs. Hudson takes the cup early. Her eyebrows shoot up.

"What is it?" Lestrade asks eagerly.

Mrs. Hudson frowns. "Well, it's just sort of… It looks almost like a shark."

"Is that good?" That doesn't sound good.

"Depends, do you like sharks?"

They're okay, I guess. Lestrade frowns, taking the cup from her to examine.

It does sort of look like a shark. Not really a shark, but it has a sort of sharkiness to it.

Meanwhile, upstairs.

"I'm not lonely, Sherlock," Mycroft lies.

Sherlock squints at him, a ridiculous hat atop his head. "How would you know?"

Mycroft gets up to leave, but Sherlock stops him in the doorway. "There' s a perfectly good goldfish downstairs…"

Mycroft smiles nervously. "Yes, thank you for your consideration. But the last thing I need is you setting me up on a date."

As Mycroft leaves the flat, he hears Sherlock mumbles something that sounds vaguely like, "This isn't a date; this is fate."

Oh, hell. "Well, um, thanks." Lestrade gets up to leave, careful not to knock over the coffee table as he stumbles up.

"I can do it again if you like!" she yells, but Lestrade doesn't hear. He's too busy running to the front door and in to a brick wall of a man standing there, smoking.

The man doesn't even seem remotely phased that Lestrade ran into them. He just takes a slow, bored puff of his cigarette and starts talking. "Exasperating, aren't they?"

Lestrade nods. "You have no idea. I just had someone tell me I was a shark."

The man smiles, then, randomly, starts laughing.

Lestrade starts to worry that this man might be a bit off his rocker. "What's so funny?"

In between laughs, the man gasps, "They're trying to set us up together!"

Lestrade looks at this man, this oddly attractive man who looks a handsome, formally dressed version of the Penguin from Batman, and starts laughing as well.

They stand together laughing like a couple of mad men for the next minutes.

When he can't laugh anymore, the man stomps his cigarette into the pavement and holds out his hand to shake. "Mycroft Holmes," he introduces. "Would you like to go to dinner?"

Lestrade accepts at once.

…

I was wrong. MH

Oh, really? How so? SH

He isn't a goldfish. MH

He's a shark. MH

Thank you. MH

...

Notes:

OH MY GOD THIS IS SO CUTE I CAN'T EVEN DEAL AND I WROTE IT.

MYSTRADE FOREVER.

I DON'T CARE IF THEY'VE BEEN ON SCREEN FOR A TOTAL OF 0.02 SECONDS.

SHIP IT TO THE MOON AND BEYOND THE STARS.

I hope you enjoyed!