Where Have You Been?

by Somekindofcontraption

Summary:

Greg Lestrade left the met (and London) in search of a more fulfilling life, and becomes a specialist teacher at a Birch Tree Montessori school in Massachusetts.
Mycroft Holmes became a freelance consultant to the British government in order to care for his ten year old brother, Sherlock.
When Mycroft finds himself in the US doing diplomatic work, he enrolls Sherlock in Birch Tree Montessori in hopes of finally finding a school that can engage Sherlock's brilliant mind.

Perhaps Greg is exactly what they both needed.

Chapter 1: Chapter One

“… and what’s more, you’re not even listening to me!”

 

The sleek black town car had passed by an endless array of quaint New England houses as Mycroft considered and prioritized tasks in his head. At the tail-end of a no-doubt spectacular rant, Sherlock’s indignant voice interrupted his train of thought. Mycroft let out a heavy sigh.

 

“Apologies, Sherlock, I was miles away. Please, continue,” He murmured, turning from the window to look at his little brother. Sherlock’s clear, almost colorless eyes were angry underneath his unruly mop of inky black hair. He raised an eyebrow; a move he no doubt learned from Mycroft himself. At times looking at his brother was more like looking in a mirror than he’d like to admit.

 

“I said, it’s ridiculous that I should even have to go to school. It’s not as though we’re going to be here for long.” As if on cue, the vehicle slowed, turning into the long drive of a brutalist-style brick and concrete building. Sherlock unbuckled his seat belt and crawled over Mycroft’s lap to get a better look, nose pressed against the tinted glass. “It’s quite ugly. I don’t like it.”

 

“Sherlock, you’ll wrinkle my suit. Sit down, please.” While he’d never say as much, Mycroft quietly agreed with him. But the school was the best in the area, with a robust support network that would hopefully be able to assist Sherlock with his education and keep him interested enough in the proceedings to stay out of trouble.

 

Sherlock crawled back into his seat as the car pulled to a halt in front of the building. “Now, you will stay here with the driver while I meet with your specialist. Please, do not leave this car. I will not have a repeat of last time.”

 

“Surely if you’re talking about me, I should be there,” Sherlock replied haughtily, wrinkling his nose.

 

“And you will be, but the school requests that the primary meeting be just the parent or guardian,” Mycroft replied. “I will come to retrieve you at the end of the meeting so that we may discuss your prospective studies. I promise, we will not proceed without you present. The point of a Montessori education is that it is centered around you.”

 

Seemingly satisfied at present, Sherlock settled into his seat with his book.

 

Mycroft stopped at the front office for his visitor’s pass, refused accompaniment to the classroom, and with directions he headed in the direction of the specialist’s office.

 

The inside of the building was no more aesthetically pleasing. No doubt designed by a prison architect; entirely symmetrical, and completely devoid of character. Made to corral children from one room to another like perfect inmates, rather than to appeal visually. The ceiling was tiled, worse for the wear, and yellowing in places where rain water leaked through.

 

Ruminating on the state of the ceiling, Mycroft failed to notice his surroundings and collided solidly into a man rounding the corner, falling to the ground in a spectacular mess of paperwork. His shoulder bag spilled its contents; several books, some papers for work, his journal, his favorite pen tumbled from its case.

 

“Bugger!” The man cursed, and Mycroft looked up into the most beautiful pair of brown eyes he’d ever seen. “Sorry about that, mate!”

 

Caught off his guard, the deductions came too fast to stop.

 

Male, approximately thirty, prematurely silver hair, honest face, handsome, East London accent, divorced once, within the last year judging by the pale line on his ring finger interrupting a golden tan indicative of a recent vacation, teacher, probably a specialist of some sort — please god, no.

 

“You’re English,” Mycroft said stupidly. Oh, god, just end me now.

 

“You’re English,” he responded with a sly grin. “Sorry to run you over, I was on my phone and running a little late to meet— well, I’m guessing to meet you.”

 

The man held out his hand. Mycroft took it. It was warm, with wide palms and rough with callouses. “Gregory Lestrade?” Mycroft replied warily as he dusted himself off.

 

“Just call me Greg, thanks. I’m guessing you’re Mycroft Holmes?” Greg flashed him that puppyish grin as he bent over and began gathering up Mycroft’s things. As he carefully replaced Mycroft’s pen in its box, he blurted out, “God, but you’re posh.”

 

They both froze. Mycroft was horrified to feel his face begin to heat. Greg looked up sheepishly. “Sorry. Not making fun, I promise. Only, it’s your accent, and this pen, and the suit — and anyway, I like posh, wasn’t trying to embarrass you or nothing — Oh god. I’ll shut up now.”

 

Mycroft blinked several times. He likes… posh. He likes posh? What does that mean?

 

At the moment he realized with no small amount of embarrassment that he’d watched Greg put all of his things away without raising a finger to help. Greg held his bag out to him; his face was pink, and his expression was still sheepish.

 

“Thank you,” Mycroft said rather more stiffly than he intended. “No harm done, I assure you.”

 

Greg breathed a sigh of relief. “God, thank you. Let’s just… pretend I didn’t just make an ass of myself, yeah?” He cleared his throat, smiled gently, and held out his hand once more. “I’m Greg Lestrade, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

 

“I’m Mycroft Holmes, and the pleasure is mine.”

 

---

 

It was not a long way to Greg’s rather cramped private office. It was largely taken up by a solid antique desk, simple but rather elegant, with two very comfortable and overstuffed office chairs on either side of it. The wall had honeycomb shelves stuffed with pictures, mostly of one particular girl at various ages. A daughter? No, a niece.

 

Greg pulled out his chair for him like a proper gentleman before settling into the more worn chair that was no doubt his own. He pulled some papers out of his desk drawer and looked them over quickly before meeting Mycroft’s eyes with an easy smile.

 

“Well then, Mycroft. It says here your son’s name is Sherlock—“

 

“He’s… not my son. Sherlock is my little brother,” Mycroft interrupted, smiling tightly. “I am his legal guardian at this time.”

 

“Sorry, sorry! Your brother’s name is Sherlock. God, I keep sticking my foot in it. Anyways, he’s quite gifted, yeah? Your recommended list of potential subjects is— extensive, and impressive. Anatomy? Biology? Quite the curriculum for a ten year old.” Greg surveyed him over the paper he held in his hand. “But it also says here that he’s been to three schools in the last year, and that his record for attendance and participation is less than spectacular, not to mention his disciplinary record. But I never trust these things to tell the whole story. So… what’s his deal?”

 

Straight to it, then. Mycroft leaned forward in his chair with steepled fingers. “Sherlock has an incredible mind. I do not mince words, Mr. Lestrade, and I am not prone to exaggeration. He is incredibly intelligent, but unfortunately will only work with teachers and listen to rules that he respects and understands. He needs to be motivated, and finding the right motivation can be a daunting task even for me.

 

“Sherlock does not respond to promises of sweeties or traditional rewards; he likes to do well, he likes to be told he’s done well, but it is knowing things that truly motivates him. He hates the idea that there are things out there that he does not know.”

 

Mycroft surveyed Greg’s face; it was thoughtful, his dark brows drawn together as he gestured for Mycroft to continue.

 

“Sherlock has a very unique skill — one he admittedly learned from me. Deduction. He is skilled at extrapolating information from the things that he sees. However, whereas I know when to curb the impulse to deduce information, or when to keep the information to myself, Sherlock’s desire to perform overrides his good sense.

 

“He is not good at reading social situations. At his first school alone he caused the principal and his specialist to lose their positions in the first week when he deduced that they were sleeping together, loudly, in front of a group of parents and students. At his second school two specialists left the establishment in tears, never to be seen again. I need not go on.”

 

Sherlock will tear this charming man to pieces, I’ll have to go back to the drawing board, explore other applications—

 

“What did you deduce when you first saw me?” Greg asked, smiling genially.

 

“I’m sorry?” What?

 

“No need to look so shocked, Mycroft. And please, call me Greg. I insist.” Greg leaned forward in his chair, resting his chin on his hands and smiling up at Mycroft in a way that most definitely did not make Mycroft’s heart beat just a little faster. “When I ran into you, you were staring. That’s what you were doing, right? So… what did you see?”

 

“How did you know I—?

 

“Call it intuition.”

 

“Greg… people find my ability to deduce very off-putting. I do not wish to—“

 

“Try me.”  Greg seemed resolute.

 

Mycroft took a breath.

 

“You are approximately thirty years of age. You are from London; your accent is muddled, but points to a long period of time during your formative years spent in the East End. You have been in the United States for at least five years but no more than seven. Two months ago you returned from a vacation somewhere much warmer and much sunnier than here.

 

“You have a niece in her teens who you adore, your sister’s child, but no children of your own. You are honest and good-natured and you believe in second chances, sometimes… sometimes to your own detriment. Anyway. I think that’s enough to be going on with, don’t you?”

 

The office was silent.

 

Why could you not keep your mouth shut? What possible reason could you have for trying to show off for this man? He’ll throw you out of his office. Another school, another specialist, and Sherlock will be impossible—

 

“Fuck me up, but that was brilliant!” Greg ran a hand through all that gorgeous silver hair, a smile on his face. “‘Scuse my language, but god. You’re amazing! And Sherlock can do that too? At ten years old? That’s really something!”

 

God, that smile. It was disarming, it made him reckless.

 

“Where,” Mycroft squeaked, stopped, cleared his throat. “Where in God’s name have you been?

 

“Sorry?” Greg’s hair was stuck up on end where his hand had mussed it. It was hopelessly charming. It absolutely made him want to be completely and recklessly honest.

 

“All the time and money I’ve spent on specialists, endless schools that would not and could not appreciate what Sherlock could be. I even attempted homeschooling,” Mycroft shook his head. “We are in the middle of nowhere. The nearest city is an hour away. You should be insulted that I delved so deeply into your personal life without your permission, and all you have to say is that was brilliant?”

 

Greg shrugged. “I asked you to do it. It was brilliant. I don’t mince words either, Mycroft. ‘M honest, and I call it like I see it. Now—“ Greg clapped his hands together. “When can I meet Sherlock?”

 

Mycroft thought he might faint. “He’s… in the car. Allow me to fetch him.”

 

---

 

“Hello, Sherlock!”

 

In Mycroft’s absence, Greg had procured another chair from somewhere for Sherlock. When he sat in it his knobby knees stuck out, feet dangling several inches from the floor. He steepled his fingers much as Mycroft had done; it would have been adorable, if he wasn’t surely about to unleash a stream of all-too-personal deductions on the poor man.

 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock drawled, tapping his fingertips together. Greg smiled at him, eyes twinkling.

 

“Go on, then. Your brother tells me you’re quite skilled in the art of deduction,” Greg said, looking up at Mycroft with a wink, and actual wink. “So why don’t we get it all out now, and then we can talk about your curriculum.”

 

Sherlock looked at Greg with glee. “You’re in your early thirties. You have no children because you doubt your ability to be a full-time father but you love teaching children; your niece is your pride and joy and you spoil her as if she were your own daughter. You were… a police officer? Probably in London, but you left after only a couple of years. Why? You’re divorced — recently. You broke it off because your wife che—“

 

“That’s enough, Sherlock,” Mycroft broke in, panicked, cutting off the deduction before it could land. “I am sorry, Greg, as I told you, he doesn’t have the impulse control to—“

 

Greg held up a hand; he was somehow still smiling.

 

“Now Sherlock, why do you suppose that last deduction might have been too private to share out loud?”

 

“I… don’t know. You’re… oh! You’re embarrassed? Why are you embarrassed? You didn’t do anything wrong.” It was easy to forget how young Sherlock was, but in this moment as he looked up at Greg with his earnest, wide eyes he looked exactly his age. Mycroft was mesmerized by the scene before him. “She was wrong, and you did the right thing. Don’t be embarrassed by doing the right thing”

 

Greg scrubbed a hand through his hair once more. “It’s because what happened between my ex-wife and I is private, and maybe I don’t want everyone to know what happened. I have a right to privacy, and so does everyone, and it’s my choice whether or not to tell people. It’s especially not appropriate for a student to talk about my private life, right? I can’t stop you from seeing what you see, but it doesn’t mean I want everyone else to see it too. Alright?”

 

“…alright,” Sherlock agreed. Mycroft was too stunned to speak. As it turned out, he didn’t need to. Sherlock and Greg discussed a prospective curriculum based on things that Sherlock wanted to explore, including outsourcing texts and lab space from some of the upper grades. At the end of meeting Sherlock said decisively, “you are less of an idiot than most people,” shook Greg’s hand, and waltzed out the door.

 

Greg for his part took it in stride, warmly clasping a stricken Mycroft’s hand in his own. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again soon, Mycroft. Mind how you go!”

 

“Thank you for your time,” Mycroft replied faintly, and left.

Chapter 2: Chapter Two

 

Sherlock was a challenge.

 

There was no way around it, the boy was a goddamn challenge. His first week was a test of Greg’s patience; abrupt, frequently insensitive, but so smart it was shocking. So full of potential, and with this way of looking at you like he sees exactly what you’re about.

 

But no one got past the spiky, sea urchin exterior long enough to what he was like, what he could be.

 

Sherlock was exactly the sort of student that Greg became a teacher to help. While he didn’t quite see the way forward to doing that yet, he was sure he’d figure it out. Smart kid like that; between the two them, they’d come to some sort of understanding. He just needed to be patient.

 

But then there was his unfairly attractive guardian — Mycroft Holmes.

 

Greg lost complete control over his mouth when the man was around. I like posh, he’d said. To the guardian of a child he was meant to be teaching. One good look at that pressed three piece suit and the elegantly coiffed ginger hair and Greg began to all but drool on those perfectly shined Italian leather shoes, taking complete leave of his senses.  ‘I like posh.’ What an idiot, Greg.

 

Mycroft of course hadn’t mentioned Greg’s little slip. But while he was too polite to say anything about it, he’d given Greg a certain deer in the headlights type look, those pale eyes wide and blinking as Greg gathered up his things. He even had a posh pen. The kind that came in a box and was plated in silver. Christ.

 

Now they were in their first weekly staff check-in to go over Sherlock’s progress and Greg could not stop looking at the man. The suit he wore today was navy blue, as was his tie, and it highlighted the red undertones of his hair beautifully. Surely he dyed it, which was a goddamn shame. The shoes today were deep brown, leather, polished within an inch of their life.

 

But more than the way he looked, it was the way he handled the meeting — each question directed to himself, he redirected to Sherlock, allowing him to answer for himself. It was expert, subtle; he only answered when necessary, otherwise trusting that Sherlock had the meeting in hand. Greg had never met anything quite like the pair of them, but as much as he wanted to know more…

 

Nope. Don’t go there, Greg. You cannot 'get to know’ this man.

 

At that moment he realized Sherlock was looking at him strangely. He also realized that all eyes in the room were on him. They were in the teacher’s conference room; the principal, four of Sherlock’s teachers, and Mycroft. Mycroft arched one elegant eyebrow at him, which decidedly did not help him get with the program.

 

“Sorry, I was miles away for a moment there,” he said sheepishly. “What was the question?”

 

“Not to worry, Mr. Lestrade. I was just saying that Sherlock seems to respond well to whatever it is that you’re doing,” Mycroft said softly, turning his gaze to where Sherlock wriggled restlessly in his chair. “He speaks very highly of you. In his own way, of course.”

 

“It’s Greg, remember?” Greg said, teasing. Had Mycroft’s cheeks gone a bit pink, or was it his own wishful thinking at work? He resisted the urge to run his hand through his hair. If he’d put a little more effort into it than usual this morning, it was no one’s business but his own.

 

“We haven’t gotten very far, yet. ‘M a pretty straightforward guy, though. I don’t talk down to him and I’m good at listening. Kids are just like anyone else, really. They know when you’re really listening or not,” Greg said with a shrug, looking over at Sherlock. “How would you say I’m doing?”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him; it was very much like looking at his brother, for a moment. The adultness of it in contrast with the childish, swinging, gangly legs dangling over the edge of his overstuffed armchair was comical. “Lestrade is the only one who will work with me,” Sherlock said, a frown creasing his pale little face. “He facilitates my experiments even if he doesn’t understand them, and he didn’t yell at me for conducting them in the bathroom.”

 

It was as high praise as he could expect from Sherlock, really. The experiment in question was several soaked sandwiches in varying degrees of decay in plastic baggies in the boys’ toilets. Greg had simply insisted that the science laboratory on the third floor was a much better venue for said experiment, and that real scientists wore protective equipment when they worked.

 

Mycroft was shaking his head, exasperated; clearly he’d been made aware of the bathroom mould incident.

 

“There have been some complaints as to Sherlock’s demeanor and how he acts towards his peers,” the principal, Piyali Anand cut in. Principal Anand was a sharp woman with short cropped black hair, deep brown skin, and brown eyes. A very hands-on sort of woman, who was more often seen in the classrooms than in her office.

 

Greg liked her. Respected her a lot. Greg had also very nearly forgotten she was there, that he was in a room full of colleagues, that anyone else was with him besides Mycroft bloody Holmes.

 

“Perhaps… if Sherlock could step out for a moment, so that we may discuss a few things privately?” Principal Ananda said kindly, smiling at Sherlock.

 

“Surely if you’re talking about me, I should be here,” Sherlock said; a challenge in his voice. He looked to Mycroft, questioning, and Mycroft turned his sharp gaze to Principal Anand.

 

“I’m afraid I must insist that Sherlock be present as much is possible. It is part of why I chose this school, after all, that he be able to have some say in his own education. Explore his curiosity, if you will. I’d ask that you address him directly, if you please— he’s perfectly capable of answering questions himself, I am simply here to facilitate.”

 

That was that. If Principal Anand was at all shocked at being put in her place, she took it in stride. She merely smiled, and turned to Sherlock once again. “My apologies, Sherlock. I’ve heard from some of your teachers that you are rarely seen in the company of your fellow students. You don’t participate in group activities, or involve them in your… experiments. Have you made any friends, Sherlock?”

 

“I don’t need friends,” Sherlock said firmly. “Tell them, Mycroft. I don’t need friends.”

 

Mycroft looked sad for a moment. Only a moment, before the look disappeared behind a bland, almost disinterested mask. Greg might have missed it, if he wasn’t staring at the man. Mycroft cleared his throat.

 

“I’m afraid that with Sherlock’s advanced intellect, he finds it difficult to relate to—“

 

“Other children are slow,” Sherlock cut in, crossing his arms over his chest. Mycroft scolded him, and he grumbled but allowed him to continue.

 

“As I was saying, other children are difficult for him to relate to. He has very little in common with other children. I confess that I was similar, at his age. Children don’t always understand the way he sees the world.”

 

“Sherlock made another student cry on his first day,” Kathryn Fields cut in, speaking to Mycroft as if Sherlock wasn’t there at all. Kathryn was a middle aged woman with an orange tan, a brown bob, green eyes, and very large, very shiny teeth. The accent was from somewhere in the midwest, and her personality reminded Greg of his ex-wife; the comparison was not a flattering one. “It’s not that they don’t understand him, he’s just-just… he’s downright mean, is what he is.”

 

No one spoke. Sherlock had this horrible look in his eyes that Greg would never forget. It was gone as fast as it had come, and Greg was reminded of Mycroft, that tamping down of emotions that had occurred moments before. What had they been through, that at the tender age of ten years old Sherlock knew how to put up such convincing fronts?

 

Then he saw it; his face shifted and became that challenging look. The one that said Sherlock was about to let loose a string of very cutting deductions in retaliation. Miss Fields absolutely deserved it, but it would hardly help matters. Greg cut him off before he could start.

 

“Hey Sherlock, why don’t you and I go check on your mould experiment?” Greg smiled, standing. “It’ll be your last chance to collect data until Monday.”

 

“But—“

 

“I know, but I think that Mycroft can finish up here, don’t you?” Greg said, giving Sherlock a meaningful glance that he hoped said I’ll explain later. Sherlock nodded, satisfied, and with one last look around at the adults in the room he hopped off his chair and exited the office.

 

Mycroft gave Greg a tight, grateful smile. Obviously he had seen the disaster that was just averted too. Greg nodded in return, looked around at the stoney faces of his peers, and left after Sherlock.

 

As he closed the door behind him, he caught the start of an apology from Principal Anand, and saw Mycroft’s face, cold and distant and very angry.

 

---

 

Greg caught up with Sherlock in the third floor labs logging observations on the sandwiches, which had been moved from their plastic baggies into various covered beakers. Greg had insisted on the covers, and on keeping the experiment in the corner so that the smell wouldn’t render the lab unusable.

 

The experiment, as it was explained to him, was to test the rate of mould growth on different components of his ham and cheese sandwiches. What Sherlock hoped to learn from this experiment was known only to Sherlock, and Greg only half understood what he was doing to begin with, but he was able to find some peer reviewed articles in the library database on the subject of mould for Sherlock to look through.

 

Sherlock reading comprehension was amazing for his age, and he seemed to take to the articles like a fish to water. But when asked what he ate if he was doing this experiment on his lunch, Sherlock had replied matter-of-factly that eating only slowed him down.

 

“I’m sorry about that, Sherlock. I want you to know that what Miss Fields said was inappropriate. I thought it best if we let Mycroft sort it, I wasn’t trying to cut you out of the discussion or anything.”

 

“It’s fine. I have no patience for idiots,” Sherlock said, more to his ham sandwiches than to Greg.

 

“Should I leave?” Greg joked, cracking a grin. Sherlock looked up at him with that damn raised eyebrow, with a pointed look as if to say Don’t be ridiculous. Greg cleared his throat and said gently, “You can’t call your teachers idiots. It’s not appropriate either. Now tell me, why haven’t you made any friends, Sherlock?”

 

“I just told you I have no patience for idiots, Lestrade—“

 

“Mr. Lestrade, please, I’m your teacher,” Greg cut in sharply. “And you can’t just write everyone around you off as being ‘idiots’. You don’t even know them!”

 

“Mister Lestrade. People don’t like me. I don’t need people to like me. Why adults are so obsessed with whether or not I’m making fri—“

 

“I like you,” Greg cut in again, and at that moment he wished that he could raise a single brow at him in challenge. Since he could not, he cocked his head, crossing his arms over his chest. Sherlock looked him over with that piercing gaze, the one that made Greg feel rather like he was being visually dissected. Whatever Sherlock found made him bark out a sharp laugh.

 

“You’re telling the truth.”

 

“‘Course I am,” Greg shrugged. “Liked you when I first met you, like you now. You’re a good kid, Sherlock. Sometimes you’re a little prickly, but I get the feeling maybe you’re not used to people listening to you. Used to being understimated. By people who aren’t your brother, that is.”

 

“My brother is busy,” Sherlock said, glaring down at his shoes. “Caring is not an advantage, Lestrade.”

 

“Who told you that?”

 

Sherlock never got a chance to answer. The door to the lab opened, revealing a red-faced Mycroft holding his briefcase in front of himself. “Mr. Lestrade— Greg. May I speak with you a moment?”

 

Greg smiled gently at Sherlock. “We’ll talk more later, yeah? You’ll be alright in here while I talk to Mycroft?”

 

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock replied, not looking up from his clipboard.

 

“Good. Make sure you put on the face mask if you open those containers, yeah? Don’t want you getting sick.” Sherlock grunted an affirmative. Satisfied, Greg turned to Mycroft. “Come on, then. We can chat in the next classroom over.”

 

Mycroft stepped aside, letting Greg lead the way to the next classroom. While Greg shut the door behind them, Mycroft placed his briefcase on the heater by window, looking out over the grounds. Silhouetted against the window, he spoke.

 

“The people in that room do not understand my brother in the least,” Mycroft said quietly, back still to Greg. “Furthermore, they have no desire to do so. You’ve given him the benefit of the doubt from the beginning. Why is that, Greg?”

 

“When I became I teacher, I fancied I’d be the sort that kids looked up to, that changes their lives. The one that years down the line they say what an effect I’d had on them.” Greg blew out a breath. “Truth is, you can’t be that to every student. But Sherlock, he just needs someone to listen, and to be straight with him. ‘M happy to be the one to do it. I don’t know if I can help him, but he’s a great kid. Someday I think he’ll be a good man.”

 

Mycroft hummed in agreement. “Sherlock is extraordinary. But he’s also taxing. I can’t thank you enough for giving him a chance. I only hope you do not run out of patience and good will to deal with him.”

“Nah. Full of patience, me.” Greg flashed Mycroft a grin.

 

The man smiled, genuinely, and huffed out a laugh. “Yes, I suppose you must be.”

 

“Listen… he’s not a mean-spirited kid. I don’t buy that at all. What Kathryn said—“

 

“—Was the very same thing that many school children will say about Sherlock. In truth, the same was often said about me, and I was far more ‘well adjusted’ to dealing with my peers than Sherlock is.” Mycroft gave a wry smile. “People often find us cold, or calculating. It is of no consequence, as long as she keeps her thoughts to herself in the future, rather than airing her personal grievances in front of a child.”

 

“I’ll talk to her,” Greg said. “I’ll talk to Principal Anand, too. That was wildly inappropriate. I’ve already let Sherlock know as much, don’t you worry. They can’t talk to him like that. I think if I can just get them to understand what I’m trying to do with Sherlock… anyway, it won’t happen again.”

 

“Thank you, Greg. Your efforts are appreciated, by Sherlock and most of all by myself.” Mycroft smiled that small, shy, genuine smile. Greg’s heart gave a massive thump in his chest. “We are lucky to have found you.”

 

“Careful, you!” Greg said with a wink. “You’ll give me a big head! But for the record Mycroft, I don’t find you cold. Either of you, really.”

 

There was that flush again— it wasn’t a trick of the light after all. “I—thank you, Greg. I must take my leave now. I will see you at the next staff meeting.”

With that Mycroft collected his briefcase, nodded at Greg, and left.

Notes:

NO BETA WE FALL LIKE SHERLOCK.
All mistakes are my own.
Come yell at me on twitter @sko_contraption

Notes:

This is not my first Mystrade story but it is the first one I'm posting. I am quite nervous! Please don't expect regular updates, and god bless anyone who reads uncertain WIPs. This will be long, and I was on the fence about posting it unfinished, but ultimately decided to do so. Like most things I do this is slow burn. :]

For your contextual information, Greg is 30, Mycroft is 29, and Sherlock is 10.