HAART

Greg couldn’t recall ever being as nervous before a date as he was before his first date with Mycroft later that week. He had spent the entire work day cycling rapidly between overwhelming feelings of joy and deep panic. Mycroft had offered to pick him up--for security reasons, he had explained apologetically--and Greg was now pacing his flat, watching the kerb outside for any sign of his date’s posh black car. 

As the clock ticked closer to 7:30, Greg’s nervous pacing was growing frantic. He hadn’t dated since his divorce, and knowing that it had been even longer for Mycroft he was petrified that the date would go poorly. What if they couldn’t think of anything to say to each other, or if they weren’t actually as compatible as Greg thought they were? Thinking rationally, Greg was able to appreciate the fact that he and Mycroft had been friends for years and had passed many pleasant evenings in each other’s company; they had just never called it a date before. Alas, rational thought was far beyond Greg’s current capabilities. 

The moment Greg saw the black sedan he practically flew down his stairs to meet his date at the door before his finger could tap the buzzer. Greg’s heart rate didn’t return to normal until the two were sitting at a nice restaurant sharing a bottle of wine. 

They chatted happily, Greg’s anxieties melting away, until Mycroft’s phone pinged. Greg’s face fell, expecting the man to have to rush off to save the world, as he had during several of their meetings before, but Mycroft simply glanced at the text and rolled his eyes before slipping the phone back in his pocket. 

“World doesn’t need saving?” Greg asked, nervously. Mycroft smiled warmly. 

“Not tonight. Just Michelle thinking she’s funny. She wants me to send her a picture so she can judge for herself whether you’re cute.” A bright smile spread across Greg’s face. 

“You won’t believe this, but my daughter Katie, she’s 12, she asked me to do the same thing.” The two men laughed, all the nervousness gone, and Greg found himself reaching out and holding Mycroft’s hand, not letting it go until their entrees arrived. 

~~~

A few days after their fourth date, Greg found himself making his way into 221B Baker Street to beg Sherlock’s assistance with a murder that had come in that morning with seemingly no evidence. He met John hanging up his coat at the bottom of the stairs, and the two men headed up the stairs together, chatting happily. 

“If you don’t like my corrections, you can get someone else to proofread for you,” the detective’s voice sounded from inside the flat. The two men on the stairs looked at each other for a moment, confused. 

“It’s not that I don’t like them,” a female voice responded, “it’s that I have serious concerns about your grasp of the English language. Some of these notes appear to be written in cyrillic.” Greg shot a glance at John, who shrugged and opened the door leading into the sitting room of the flat. Sherlock looked up as the two men entered. 

 “Ah, Lestrade! What do you have for me today?” the consulting detective asked brightly. 

“Uh, murder, are you busy though? I can come back later.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and gestured for the DI to sit down. The woman, who was young, probably early twenties, and fairly pretty, with dark chestnut hair, was seated in John’s usual chair, holding a pile of papers and staring at Greg. 

“This is Lestrade?” She asked Sherlock suddenly, her voice something of a harsh whisper and her eyes wide and sparkling.

“What?” Sherlock snapped, “Yes. Why are you still here, I have a case?” The young woman laughed, clearly used to Sherlock, and she stood to leave. 

“Thanks for the notes, Uncle Sherlock,” she said with a grin and turned to leave. 

“Uncle Sherlock?” Greg asked, staring at the young woman, “oh my god, you’re Michelle?” The girl’s laugh was sweet and infectious and Greg found himself smiling brightly at her. 

“And you’re the boyfriend!” She said with a laugh, “Figures that I would have to meet you like this, far be it from Dad to just introduce me.” She rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling brightly. She reached into her pocket, taking out a card and handing it to the DI. “This is my number, if you want to have a cup of coffee sometime?” 

“Yeah, that sounds...great.” Greg said, a bit in shock, and he wasn’t able to do much but stare blankly as the young woman stooped to give Sherlock a hug, and then with a final wave at the DI, made her way out the door. 

Immediately after the door closed, Sherlock whipped his head back toward the DI, eagerly awaiting details of the murder, but Greg’s mind was still trying to catch up with what had just happened. 

“That’s Mycroft’s daughter?” He finally managed, met with an exasperated sigh from the consulting detective. “Sorry,” Greg recovered a bit, “she’s just so…” 

“Annoyingly upbeat?” Sherlock offered.

“Friendly.” Greg corrected him. Sherlock actually laughed at that. 

“That’s one word for it.” 

~~~ 

Later that night, after Sherlock had thoroughly embarrassed every member of Lestrade’s   team and caught the murderer, Greg found himself in Mycroft’s office at the Diogenes, sharing a meal. The two were chatting idly about their days. 

“I hear you met Michelle today,” Mycroft remarked off handedly, a smile playing on his lips. 

“Oh, did she tell you?” Greg asked, at which Mycroft chuckled, pulling out his phone. 

“Fifty-three texts about it. She realized at some point that her giving you her card may have seemed like flirting. She wishes for me to let you know that it was not her intention.” He rolled his eyes good naturedly. “She tends to talk faster than she thinks.” 

“It did seem a bit forward,” Greg chuckled, “she’s sweet though, a lot more...outgoing than I would have expected.” 

“She certainly is. She possesses a near endless capacity for cheerfulness. It is exhausting. I believe the only person who finds it more exhausting than I do is Sherlock, a fact that she is well aware of.” Greg laughed, remembering Sherlock’s put upon attitude that morning. 

“Sherlock was proofreading something for her, do you know what it is?” 

“Oh, of course. Her dissertation. She’s getting a Ph.D. in chemistry. She prefers to have Sherlock check over her work, as I find the subject to be dreadfully boring and apparently I complained about that too much.” 

Mycroft practically glowed with pride even as he rolled his eyes. Greg watched his companion, the adoration he had for his daughter so evident on his face. Greg loved seeing this side of Mycroft, the gentle, caring side that he had previously only seen at Sherlock’s bedside after a particularly bad O.D.. It was at the hospital that day that Greg had first realized that he wanted to be with Mycroft. It had taken another eight years for him to get up the courage to ask him out, but he didn’t regret any of it. Mycroft tilted his head slightly, inquiring as to what Greg was thinking about, and Greg tried his best to express what he was feeling. 

“I love you” was all he managed.