SHERLOCK

THE SIGN OF TWO

Author's Note:

Pairing: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade

Warnings: SPOILERS FOR "THE SIGN OF THREE", fluff, and general... uh, fluff. Also, SPOILERS!

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steve Moffat. The original characters are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing but the plot and make no money from this story.

Mycroft frowned; bright lights, people dancing, and happy couples everywhere he looked. It was like his cousins' weddings all over again. Though, Mycroft supposed, that was where his love of suits had come from; Mummy constantly dressing him and Sherlock up and telling them to behave themselves while around family and friends. Just once of the instances where the Holmes parents had failed at making their sons fit in.

Mycroft let the door shut behind him and stepped deeper into the front room, his umbrella before him, his coat still on; he didn't plan on staying long. He walked to the archway that separated the front room from the main ballroom, and tilted his head as he came to a stop. Yes, lights and people; how ghastly.

He spied Molly Hooper dancing with Mrs Hudson and her boyfriend- Tom, he believed the man's name was. And good Lord, he did look an awfully lot like Sherlock. Poor Molly.

Mycroft scanned the gathered crowd- saw people he recognised, and people he didn't- but didn't spot his brother, or the one man he'd actually travelled all the way here for. And he'd taken his private jet and everything.

Mycroft sighed and leaned against the archway, one leg bent beneath him, weight resting on his umbrella. John and Mary Morstan- now Watson- were in the thick of things, dancing and grinning and... were those tears? Mycroft frowned and ran his eyes over the couple before realising- ah, yes, pregnant already. I wonder if Sherlock deduced that.

'He's not here.'

The voice spoke right into his ear, and a lifetime of training made Mycroft hold in the instinctual shiver that would have been let out at the softly spoken words, the breath against the shell of his ear. He didn't turn as he replied, 'And just where has my dear brother run off to?'

'Well, he solved two murders- attempted murders, really- and then played for John and Mary before disappearing.'

'Mm,' Mycroft hummed. 'One last case before married life sweeps Dr Watson away.'

'Marriage doesn't change people that much.'

'And just look at how yours turned out because of that,' Mycroft commented. He finally turned and met the deep, chocolate-brown eyes of Greg Lestrade, who was giving the elder Holmes a crooked grin.

'Fair enough,' Greg chuckled. He handed over one of the two glasses of wine he was carrying, and Mycroft wrinkled his nose but accepted the glass. 'Go on; one glass isn't gonna hurt you.'

Mycroft thought about the hours he'd spent just that day running on his treadmill; he had had a rare day off- or three, given that Anthea had threatened to actually tie him down if he didn't take some time off- and supposed that Gregory was right. After all, he could always work off the excess weight in... other ways.

'Thank you,' Mycroft said and took a sip. 'So, did Sherlock announce to the gathered guests that Mrs Watson is pregnant?'

Greg choked on his wine and coughed, Mycroft watching with one eyebrow arched. 'Wait, Mary's pregnant?' Greg demanded. Mycroft just stared at him. 'Wow, John works fast,' the DI laughed.

'I thought that Sherlock would have announced it to the room at large,' Mycroft murmured.

'Well, I wouldn't know,' Greg shrugged. 'I was handing the would-be-killer off to the local DIs. Sherlock won't take the credit, and this way I won't have to deal with the paperwork.'

'And I, of course, will have to bridge the gap and make sure all statements and evidence are accounted for,' Mycroft sighed, already pulling out his BlackBerry. He started tapping at the keys with his right hand, but one of Gregory's was placed over the screen, making the genius look up.

'Well, you don't have to do that tonight, do you?' Greg asked.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'And what else would I do tonight?' he queried. 'I only came to make sure that my brother had someone to take his frustrations out on whilst the Watsons were busy being happy. But apparently my wayward sibling has run off, again.'

'Bringing back memories?' Greg grinned.

'You have no idea,' Mycroft sighed. 'I attended twenty-four weddings between the ages of four and twenty-three.'

'Twenty-four?' Greg asked, mouth falling open.

'Mm; Mummy has a rather large family,' Mycroft waved a dismissive hand and took another sip of wine. 'I finally managed to talk myself out of them. Sherlock, of course, has held it against me ever since.'

'Christ,' Greg grunted, shaking his head, 'I don't even wanna imagine Sherlock at another wedding.'

'Was he not a hit, then?' Mycroft asked.

Greg laughed and sipped his wine. 'He was fine,' he eventually settled on saying. 'A bit hit and miss there, but he got through it. In his weird Sherlockian way, of course.'

'Of course,' Mycroft echoed. Both fell silent as they drank, and their eyes drifted from each other to the crowd, but their bodies were now facing each other, almost pressed together. 'So,' Mycroft finally hummed, 'I'm apparently free tonight.'

'Are you?' Greg asked.

'Mm,' Mycroft nodded. His blue eyes, made slightly darker by the lighting, flicked to Greg, who was watching him. 'And I have the next two days off.'

Greg's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. 'Fancy that,' he grinned, 'I do, too.'

'Oh, really?' Mycroft's lips turned up in a smirk, and he abandoned his half-empty glass on the closest table. 'Well, Sherlock's nowhere to be seen; he's probably gotten a taxi back to London.'

'Yeah,' Greg nodded. 'And I carpooled with Molly and her boyfriend. Hey, have you seen-'

'Yes, the poor girl,' Mycroft interrupted. 'The resemblance to Sherlock-'

'It's just really-'

'- is quite striking,' Mycroft finished.

'- freaky,' Greg said at the same time.

The two man looked at each other, and then Greg laughed and finished his wine, while Mycroft smiled and put his Blackberry away. Gregory was right; he didn't have to deal with the police department tonight.

'How'd you get here, then, Mycroft Holmes?' Greg asked.

'I drove, like everybody else,' Mycroft said. Greg held his arm out, and Mycroft stepped away from the crowd, he and Gregory walking through the front room and towards the door. 'Of course, I drove from the local airport, where my private plane is waiting.'

Greg hesitated, door partially open, and stared at Mycroft.

'It even has a bed,' Mycroft smirked and stepped out into the cool evening.

Greg stared at the spot Mycroft had vacated before grinning and shaking his head. He followed the younger man outside, mind already thinking ahead; maybe Mycroft would wear his jogging suit again.

{THE END}

Author's Note: IT'S SHORT BUT I HAD TO DO IT BECAUSE MYCROFT AND GREG STILL DIDN'T APPEAR TOGETHER AND I'M DYING HERE, JUST ONE FRAME, MOFTISS, JUST. ONE. FRAME. IBEGOFYOUPLEASE!

Anywho... hope you enjoyed this random piece of Mystrade :)

Cheers,

{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}