Written for the Mystrade Valentine Calendar 2018, organised by the wonderful Mottlemoth on Tumblr

"You'd date me a second time, wouldn't you?"

The abrupt question, coming just as John Watson had taken an overly healthy mouthful of beer, caused him to spray it straight back out again, all over his glass, the table, and the person sharing the table with him who'd asked the question. Greg Lestrade grimaced and wiped his sleeve over his face as John coughed and spluttered.

"You may not have noticed, mate," John wheezed, once his lungs were mostly clear again, "but I haven't even dated you a first time, never mind a second!"

"Yeah, but if you had," Greg persisted. "You'd consider me for a second one, yeah?"

"Uh, well, it depends," said John, awkwardly. This was edging towards territory he really didn't want to consider. "I mean, some people just don't click, you know…"

Greg scowled as he took a drink of his own beer. "Sure, so the first person who said that they'd thought it over and just didn't feel it, I could understand. But when the second one said they were too busy washing their hair—"

He was interrupted by John's startled burst of laughter. "People actually say that?!"

"This one did," agreed Greg. "The third one said they'd suddenly become engaged to an ex-girlfriend. The fourth one said they'd realised they needed time to 'find themselves'. The fifth one said they were going back to college . . . in Nebraska."

"Well, if they were American," began John, only to halt at the sight of Greg shaking his head.

"English as you and me, mate," Greg said.

John reached out to pat his friend on the shoulder. "Well, I'm sure you'll find someone—" he began, but was interrupted again. "You won't?" he asked, surprised.

"I hadn't finished the list," said Greg, glumly. John raised his eyebrows. "Where was I? Oh, yeah, the Nebraska college one. Well, the sixth person suddenly remembered that their family was very old-fashioned and had actually arranged a marriage for them. The seventh one answered the phone, found out it was me, screamed hysterically, and hung up on me. The last one said they were moving house."

"People do," John agreed, cautiously.

"To Venus?!" exclaimed Greg.

"Er, no, perhaps not," said John. He took another gulp of his drink.

"So back to my question – you'd go on a second date with me, wouldn't you? And if not, please tell me why." Greg leant forward over the table, earnestly staring at John. "'Cause this is really beginning to bug me, mate."

Warily, John leant back. "I can see that," he agreed. It did seem very strange, though, that so many different people had come up with so many different – and not even plausible – excuses. It was almost as if they were scared. . . . The thought took root in John's brain. "You haven't seen a black car around whenever you were on a date, have you?" he asked.

Greg looked pointedly through the window they were seated beside to where three of the famous London black cabs were parked at the roadside, and two more were creeping past. "Nope, none at all," he dead-panned.

"Not a black cab, a black CAR," John clarified, shaking his head in exasperation. "I mean a really fancy one, like a government car."

There was a pause.

"You think the government is spying on my dates?!" Greg asked, finally, his eyebrows flying up to meet his hairline.

Well, when he put it like that. . . . "Er," said John. "Yes."

Greg's eyebrows drew down into a frown. "Why would the government be interested in me?" he wondered. "I'm just a DI; no-one special."

"They've probably been watching you since you met Sherlock," John informed him.

"Sherlock?" Greg's eyebrows flew up again. They were really getting a workout tonight! "Do I want to know why the government's interested in Sherlock to that degree?"

"It's not what you're thinking!" said John, hastily, then reconsidered that. "Probably. It's just Sherlock's older brother works for the government, so he tends to . . . watch over . . . Sherlock."

Greg looked at him, dubiously. "What, Big Brother's literally watching?" he asked. "He does know we're not actually in '1984', doesn't he?"

"Of course; we're in 2018," said a calm and cultured voice from beside them.

John, who had just taken another mouthful of beer, promptly sprayed it out again for the second time that night, although this time the only victim was the floor, as John jerked sideways and almost fell out of his chair.

Greg, however, had been in the process of raising his glass, and the jolt he gave caused his arm – and the glass – to jump, resulting in a small tidal wave of beer that landed squarely on the sleeve of the man now standing beside their table.

For several long moments, punctuated by John coughing and wheezing in the background, Greg and the man both studied the stain; Greg with horror, and the man in bemusement. Finally, the man looked up at Greg and raised a haughty eyebrow.

Greg's brain finally kicked itself into gear again. "Oh, God!" he exclaimed, and began casting around for napkins or something that he could use in place of one. "I'm so sorry, mate! Didn't see you standing there—"

"Please tell me that my sleeve is decorated in something at least slightly better than what I believe is referred to as 'on tap'," the man said.

"Sorry, mate," Greg said again, with a wince.

The man sighed. "I'm sure my dry-cleaner will delight in the challenge," he said, dryly.

John had finally stopped trying to hack up a lung, and he straightened in his seat, regarding the strange man warily. "Mycroft," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"I was just passing and decided to see if the Detective Inspector required a lift home, since I believe he may be just slightly over the legal limit," the man said. John didn't look any more appeased, Greg noticed.

"Just passing . . . right," he said, dubiously. "And do you often 'just pass' through pubs?"

Greg frowned. "Hang on," he said, before the posh bloke could open his mouth again. "I may be slightly drunk – or plan to be by the time we leave here – but that doesn't mean I'll be drunk enough to let a complete stranger who seems to know a lot about me take me home!"

The man sighed and shook his head. "Younger brothers are a heavy burden to bear," he said, to nobody in particular.

"Oi!" John objected, scowling fiercely. "I'm a younger brother!"

"And your older sister is an alcoholic, is she not?" the man replied, pointedly.

John spluttered in indignation. "That's – she isn't – nothing to do with—"

The man turned back to Greg, apparently ignoring John. "My name is Mycroft Holmes," he said. "I believe you have dealings with my little brother."

"You're Sherlock's big brother?" asked Greg.

"To his everlasting dismay," Mycroft agreed. "There was a period when he was young where he was convinced I was adopted; or he was. He was quite . . . annoyed, when he had to finally accept that neither was true, no matter how much he wished. Mummy simply despaired."

Greg blinked at Mycroft, as did John. "Right," he said finally, slowly. He was at a bit of a loss as to what else to say.

An awkward silence descended, as John and Greg self-consciously sipped at their pints, and Mycroft remained standing beside their table, casually glancing around the pub as though examining something he'd never seen before – which was actually a distinct possibility.

The third time John sneakily glanced at his watch, and the fifth time Greg had to suppress an urge to do the same, they exchanged glances, silently acknowledging that their night out was apparently over.

"Ready to go?" Mycroft asked, politely.

Greg sighed, and finished his drink in one last swig. "Sure," he said, suppressing a hiccup as he got to his feet. "John, if I don't turn up again, you can at least point Sherlock in the right direction to look in, yeah?"

Mycroft frowned. "I would never be as careless as that," he said.

"No, you'd get someone else to do it," John pointed out, then turned back to Greg. "Don't worry, mate. If you do disappear, I'm sure Sherlock will solve it quickly."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Thanks, mate," he said. With a wave of his hand that had a few less fingers up than necessary, he made his way toward the door of the pub, where Mycroft was already waiting.

"My car is being brought round," Sherlock's brother informed him as soon as Greg was in hearing distance.

"Right. You know, you really don't have to drive me home. I can easily get a cab." Greg peered outside at the black cabs that were still parked there. One even had its light on. "See? One right there."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You object that much to a free ride, Detective Inspector?" he queried, and although his tone was as smooth and neutral as it'd been all night so far, Greg thought that maybe – just maybe – he might have hurt the other man's feelings.

He sighed. "No, of course not," he said. "Sorry. I'm just not used to . . ." He hesitated for a moment. "Things like this," he finished, awkwardly.

"'Things like this'," Mycroft repeated. "And what 'this' do you think is happening, Detective Inspector?"

Yep, definitely hurt feelings! Greg thought with a wince at the biting tone that had crept into Mycroft's voice. "Look," he began, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, "you said yourself; I'm a bit over the limit at the moment, so how about we forget anything we've already said and start over? Hi, I'm Greg Lestrade." He stuck his other hand out to Mycroft.

Mycroft stared at the hand as though it might bite him – or fly up to punch him on the nose – before gingerly taking it. "Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother," he said. "Would you like a lift home, Greg?"

"Yes, I would, ta very much," Greg replied, and grinned. He felt much more pleased than he should be that Mycroft appeared to have forgiven him so easily. Then again, maybe Mycroft was just used to bulldozing over Sherlock's objections over everything, and just needed reminding sometimes that there were actually people with manners out there.

Mycroft smiled back, and they lapsed into a comfortable silence for the two seconds it took for the posh black car to arrive.

Greg spent the journey watching the world go by through his window. It hadn't escaped his notice that Mycroft's driver hadn't needed any other instruction than "We're taking the Detective Inspector home, Philip." He wondered if everybody Sherlock interacted with got this treatment, or if it was just him.

As they pulled up outside his building, Greg turned to Mycroft for the first time since getting into the car.

Just in time to see Mycroft leaning towards him with the obvious intention of kissing him.

Greg barely managed to get a hand up in front of his face before Mycroft actually reached him, so the other man ended up kissing his palm instead. "Whoa there, sunshine!" he said, even as Mycroft reared back, looking affronted. "I never kiss before a first date."

"I see." Mycroft suddenly looked amused. "So you don't consider having conversation in a pub and then being taken home a 'first date'?"

"I—" Greg blinked several times, then laughed. "I guess I do, at that," he agreed. "Alright, how about, I don't kiss until the second date."

"I'm sure we can arrange that," murmured the other man, as he opened his door and slid out of the car, allowing Greg to slide across the seat and exit on that side as well. He very carefully didn't ask whether Mycroft meant they could arrange the second date, or the kiss.

"Well, thanks for the ride," he said instead.

"Believe me, it was—" was as far as Mycroft got, before a sound alerted them to the fact that they weren't alone on the pavement. A young man was staring at them in abject horror. With a start, Greg realised it was one of the people who'd refused a second date with him.

"Julius?" he asked, taking a step towards the frozen man. Surely it wasn't the sight of him standing so close beside Mycroft that had the man acting like that; considering Greg had dated Julius himself, it was fairly obvious where his interests lay.

With a shrill scream, Julius turned and ran back down the road. Greg stared after him in confusion. And then his beer-soaked brain finally realised what John had been implying with his conversation about black government cars.

He turned back to face Mycroft, and folded his arms over his chest, raising his eyebrows.

"Ah," said Mycroft. "You've figured it out, then."

"That you've been scaring off my dates? Yeah. Just not quite got why," Greg replied.

Rather than look embarrassed at being caught out, Mycroft just looked smug. "Really, Detective Inspector, if they couldn't stand up to a little friendly questioning, then they really weren't suited for life with a police officer."

"So you were just . . . what? Looking out for my best interests?" asked Greg, trying his best not to let his expression relax into amusement.

"Of course," Mycroft agreed, smoothly. He slid gracefully back into the car but didn't shut the door. "My assistant will send you the details for our next date. I'll ensure you're free that night."

Shaking his head, Greg finally let his grin show on his face. "Isn't that an abuse of your high and mighty position?" he asked.

Mycroft shut the car door firmly, then slid the window down. "Really, Gregory," he said as the car slowly began to move off, and Greg thrilled at the sound of his name in the other man's silky-smooth voice. "You know I'm only a minor government official."