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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Oct 6, 2011 19:56:40 GMT -5
Gregory Lestrade had always liked cooking. In fact when he was living with his brother in their tiny little flat in San Francisco, it was one of the few things he let himself enjoy besides his work. He loved the way he could produce something so satisfying and somehow useful to humans in a way that’s so simple and un-dangerous, unlike his police work (well, there was that one time he lit the kitchen on fire in a fit of pique, but it was only once...or twice). However there was so little time for doing things like that nowadays, especially because he’d started working full-time again, so Lestrade’d reverted back into his routine of about 15 years ago, wherein he goes to work, gets take out, and crashes on the couch even before he gets to bed.
On this particular occasion, Gregory Lestrade had dropped by a nice Chinese Restaurant he regulars, called “Life Cookies,” even though they don’t serve any cookies there. He waited in the short line in the front of the place's counter, looking around at the tables. Though it was mostly a take-out, there were about six small, rectangular tables set evenly around the room. Lestrade saw two little groups of Asian man chattering and laughing in their native tongue together; most of the costumers here were Asian.
The small, also Asian man in front of him finished up ordering and Lestrade moved forward to order for himself.
“Nǐ hǎo, what you want, eh?” The about 12-year-old boy behind the counter asked.
Lestrade smiled at him, “One eggroll and…a wonton soup please. To go.”
“Yes, thank you, that be 6.49,” the boy answered politely, and scurried off after Lestrade paid to tell his mother, the cook, to make what he’d ordered.
Lestrade waited patiently, continuing to look around at the other costumers. There was only one other person waiting behind him. He looked to be about the same age and height as Lestrade, handsome but noticeably a business man. Lestrade, in his past experiences, didn’t exactly enjoy working with business men; they were generally rude, loud, all to outward and completely bossy.
2 minutes later the boy hurried back with Lestrade’s order in his hands. “Here you are! Want bag?” He asked.
“Er, no thanks,” Lestrade nodded. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for coming!” The boy gave a quick, short bow as Lestrade walked away. As he turned, he realized that the man behind him was a lot closer than he’d thought. Quite a lot closer. So much closer, in fact, that Lestrade ran right into him, dropping the food and splashing the soup all over the man’s right cufflink and the right arm of his jacket.
“Oh my god!” Lestrade cried, not really noticing that the soup was more so all over his own jacket than the other man’s. “I – I I’m so sorry!”
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Post by MYCROFT HOLMES on Oct 7, 2011 16:42:46 GMT -5
"Life Cookies" was a nice Chinese take-out place that was on the way from work. It was small, the people were nice and polite, and the food was actually decent. Mycroft had a taste for Chinese food, especially when he was running late.
Only thing about it was that sometimes, it got busy. And he considers two people in front of him as the place being busy. He didn't want to wait, but the sounds his stomach made told he that it might be worth the wait.
So he fell in line behind a man with peppery hair and grey temples. He was a patient man, smiling when addressed to and apparently not minding that he had to wait for his food. Mycroft sneered and pulled out his phone. The man was a detective. Mycroft had him pinned from the moment he laid his eyes on him. The way he presented himself, the way he spoke, the way he observed everything when he had the chance. It was very obvious, but it wasn't a bad thing.
While Mycroft tapped out a message to his secretary to send an e-mail to his current client, the detective turned around abruptly and collided with him. The soup the man ordered was now dripping off of his sleeve, off of his cuff-links, and down his phone. His new phone.
"What the..." Mycroft whispered, examining the damage. "This is a new phone. A new jacket. And you ruined them." He growled and looked at the detective. "You must be one stupid cop to not see how close you were to someone else. Aren't you people supposed to be observant. I've never seen such incompetence."
Angrily, Mycroft turned on his heels and headed straight for the bathroom, intending to salvage his jacket and dry his phone.
"Stupid son of a..."
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Oct 7, 2011 21:14:18 GMT -5
Lestrade was not an overly sensitive man. He was hardened as a police officer, yes, but he was the type that, when making a mistake, would apologize and apologize and apologize profusely for ages afterwards, to the point of sometimes getting annoying. And then he’d apologize for that. Thankfully he was also the type that people found hard to get angry with in the first place, so he was pretty well off on that side of life. Unfortunately, the man whom he had just spilled soup all over and ruined his phone didn’t know him at all, meaning? Lestrade was in for a very rough time.
He’d never been much of a crier, but Lestrade did feel a embarrassing lump in his throat rise when the man yelled angrily at him, using a few choice words such as 'stupid cop' (he did still have his ID on him, he supposed that’s how the business man had known), 'incompetent', and 'son of a…' well, he’d hurriedly stalked off to the bathroom during that one, looking so angry at Lestrade that Lestrade thought he might just...Well, dying of embarrassment was an overstatement – though all the men in the restaurant were now staring at him – but Lestrade could feel heat burning his cheeks ashamedly.
It took him a few more seconds before realizing that he really should go apologize. Following the angry man into the bathroom, he paused a moment before pushing the swining doors open, readying himself for another string of swears.
“I sorry!” Lestrade cried, sounding a bit more desperate and whiney and completely hopeless than he’d meant to. “I – I really… I didn’t realize you were standing so close, I… I should’ve been watching, I’m really really sorry!” He looked anxiously towards the other guy – they were the only two people in the bathroom – wishing that he’d respond. The whole, ‘Wait-as-long-as-possible-and-make-Greg-feel-guilty’ game had once been some older kids’ favourite pastime when he was in secondary school, but Lestrade really hoped that this man did not have the same mind set as those children.
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Post by MYCROFT HOLMES on Oct 8, 2011 14:23:54 GMT -5
Mycroft muttered the entire way to the bathroom, shucking off his jacket as he did and frowning. The cop was apologizing thoroughly, but he didn't care right now. He just wanted to clean himself up. He didn't want to talk about what happened.
The bathroom was empty to his relief. Mycroft turned on the tap of the farthest sink and held the sleeve of his jacket under it. It was never going to be the same, no matter how many times he took it to the dry cleaners. Not to mention his phone. He tapped the screen impatiently, already seeing the liquid condensing on the inside.
Suddenly the bathroom door opened followed by an, "I'm sorry! I – I really… I didn’t realize you were standing so close, I… I should’ve been watching, I’m really really sorry!" Mycroft groaned. The cop. He repeated his apology over and over, sounding desperate and very much like he was going to start weeping if Mycroft even looked at him. This broken record routine was not appealing for anyone.
Mycroft sighed and looked at the cop. "If you start crying, I'll be forced to punch you in the face. A crying cop is not a good image to give people. So just calm the fuck down already." He scrubbed at the sleeve of his jacket roughly to get rid of the stain that was forming. He didn't really care about the cuff of his shirt - it was an older shirt and he could just as easily throw it away as he could clean it. But the jacket was new, and he cared about that.
"My jacket is stained and my phone has water condensing on the inside of the screen. Both are probably ruined. Luckily for you, the phone can still be used to get information out of it. You're also lucky that the soup was only lukewarm," Mycroft added, shoving the sleeve up his arm and noting the reddening spot on his forearm. "No damage done except for a little heat."
After a few more moments of scrubbing, he stopped and rubbed his palm across his brow. "So, detective. What are you going to do about this situation? Because I'm sure as bloody hell expecting you to do something other than stand there and look like a kicked puppy dog."
He rose his brow, then looked back at his jacket and muttered something about the man being incompetent again.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Oct 8, 2011 22:49:52 GMT -5
Lestrade found it surprisingly easier than he’d imagined to stop feeling bad for the man he’d spilled soup on. Among some swears and insults and rather annoyingly brutal observations, the business man continued to roughly scrub at his sleave.
“So, detective. What are you going to do about this situation? Because I’m sure as bloody hell expecting you to do something other than stand there and look like a kicked puppy.” Lestrade...did start to feel rather more incriminated than he thought was appropriate at this moment. This stranger seemed to be under the impression that he was a baby!
“I do not look like a kicked puppy,” he replied immediately, ignoring the fact that yes, he may have just a bit. “But I will surely pay for the damage done. Again, I apologize.” Lestrade had calmed down a considerable amount by this time, only to start getting once again worked up, this time in mild anger. He wasn’t sure what to say after that, however, and so moved forward towards the sink next to the one the other man was currently washing his sleeve in. He groaned inwardly when he realized not only had he spilled soup all over the man, but he’d also succeeded in getting soup all over himself – more than he'd gotten on the other man too. It soaked his button down, and now that he was over his moment of panic, he realized that his chest…actually did hurt.
“Ow – fuck.” He hissed to himself quietly, most likely inaudible to anyone but himself. He clumsily unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and loosened his tie, looking down at his reddened chest in the mirror. He sighed, and decided he’d deal with that later.
“So your accent,” he mumbled a bit louder, so the other man could hear. “You’re from…England?” It was small talk, and Lestrade was very sure that neither of them really wanted to talk to the other, but the awkward silence was worse in his opinion, and so... painfully dull small talk it was.
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Post by MYCROFT HOLMES on Oct 11, 2011 8:44:46 GMT -5
"You look like a puppy. Deal with it." His brows rose and he tilted his head in a no duh sort of manner.
Mycroft wiped his forehead on the back of his arm, sighing. He was too tired to deal with this right now. All he wanted to do was grab some food and head back to his condo. But no. It was like the entire world was against him sleeping. He stopped scrubbing at his sleeve, leaving the jacket wet and generally unappealing.
The detective hissed beside him, giving an explicative and shuffling beside him. Mycroft looked at him, seeing that he had undone the first two buttons of his shirt. The skin underneath was an angry red color and looked generally painful. Leave it to the detective to care more about a ruined suit than his own injury. Mycroft heaved a sigh, grabbing the buttons of the detective's shirt and working the rest out of their holes.
"Take care of yourself before you worry about other people."
Once most of the buttons were undone, he pushed the fabric aside from the red spot, shirt and tie both. There was a paper towel dispenser beside them, and Mycroft reached over and tugged out a few. He wet them with cold water, then slapped them to the man's chest.
"Hold that there. I'll be right back."
Before he could say something, Mycroft slipped out of the bathroom.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Oct 11, 2011 20:34:15 GMT -5
"You look like a puppy. Deal with it," the man said shortly, and Lestrade decided that he was in a losing battle. Besides, he'd been called worse things before. In reality, puppy was in fact quite desirable in comparison to some of the things convicts had called him!
"Take care of yourself before you worry about other people," the man sighed out, and Lestrade wasn't quite sure whether that was advice or just a general acknowledgment of their current situation.
"Oh I couldn't do that, I'm a stupid cop remember? Doing things like this is in my job description." Lestrade joked, which wasn't exactly true, but often was on a regular basis - the criminal population at large these days were really quite predictable, and therefore took a fancy to using hostages' lives as bait. Lestrade always took that bait. Because, well, the danger of his being stabbed was a lot less crucial than a poor ex-wife's life, or something equally predictable/dangerous.
Lestrade's grimace from his poor excuse for a joke turned into a look of surprise and embarrassment when the business man starter unbuttoning his shirt before Lestrade could really protest.
"H - hey!" he managed to stutter out, but it was weak, and Lestrade knew it was by no means convincing anyone to stop anything. And the guy was swift and efficient too; he had Lestrade’s shirt fully unbuttoned very quickly. Lestrade just let him go ahead – he knew, he really did, that he should be complaining about this. Maybe even saying that the situation should be reversed, without the touching part and more of the concerned (well, helpful) part; he had just ruined the man’s phone after all. There was bound to be at least a few important things on there, even with it being new and all. But he was tired and, well, he wasn’t on duty right now, not really, so…Wasn't it alright? This, letting himself go so pathetically thing?
Lestrade was snapped out of his train of thought when the man slapped a wet paper towel across his bare chest. “Ouch!” He snapped, and suddenly remembered the main reason why it was such a bad idea to be letting this stranger tend to his not-really-that-bad burn. It’d go away soon, he’d had worse. Lestrade watched as the man quickly turned and left.
“Well. That was very odd indeed,” he muttered to himself, not really sure whether or not to stay put or not. But then, yes, he had to, because how else was he going to find out how he was supposed to pay this man back? So he stood still, awkwardly holding the rough but now soothingly cool paper towel against his bare chest, hoping desperately that nobody else would come in.
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Post by MYCROFT HOLMES on Oct 22, 2011 10:08:55 GMT -5
When Mycroft returned, he held a rag and a cup of ice in one hand, and a small bowl of uncooked rice in the other. He had gone straight behind the counter and helped himself, ignoring any of the workers who decided to ask him about what he was doing. It was important. He did not need to explain himself to anyone.
Mycroft placed the items down on the counter, not looking at the detective. He took his phone and removed the battery, placing both parts in to the rice and shaking it to cover them. It would remove any of the excess liquid from his phone and hopefully save the entire thing. Once that was done, he looked at the detective, who looked very confused at the entire situation. Honestly, Mycroft was, too. First he was standing in line, waiting patiently to order, and the next he was in the bathroom treating a small burn on the man who spilled soup on him. He wanted to laugh at the irony, but he bit the inside of his cheek and just grinned.
"Take that off." He gestured to the paper towels.
Mycroft grabbed up the rag and put some ice in it, rolling it up and handing it to the detective. Once the man took it, he grabbed a piece of ice and put it in his mouth, biting down on it. Chewing on ice could stop his stomach from rumbling for a little while.
"You asked me earlier if I was from England, correct?" he asked, grabbing another piece of ice and sucking the water off of it, then nodding and putting the entire piece in his mouth. "I am. And you're from Ireland. But one of your parents was from France. Father, I'm assuming."
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Oct 23, 2011 11:06:41 GMT -5
The business man came back with an odd assortment in his hands; A rag, a cup of ice, a bowl of uncooked rice, and his phone. Lestrade watched as the man popper the battery from his phone and put it into the bowl of rice. Realizing what the man was doing, Lestrade blushed a bit, his embarrassment from before returning. He opened his mouth to apologize again, but stopped himself. ‘Nobody likes that,’ he reminded himself, and shut himself up.
Lestrade watched in confusion at the whole situation as the business man grinned and told him to take the paper towels off. Lestrade didn’t think of complaining, just did. He balled the soggy brown paper in his fist and tossed it into the trash a few feet away. The other man pushed a bit of ice rolled into a rag against Lestrade’s chest again, and he blushed deeper, because this…this doesn’t happen. People do not get impromptu medical assistance from a business man in the middle of a restaurant bathroom!
“I - I can do it, thanks,” Lestrade mumbled slightly, taking the rag from the other, a bit confused as to why the man was eating some of the ice himself.
“You asked me earlier if I was from England, correct?” The man said, and Lestrade gulped when he started sucking on another piece of ice; it was, undeniably, very…pretty. “I am. And you’re from Ireland. But one of your parents was from France. Father, I’m assuming.”
Lestrade looked up from the floor titles he’d been staring at very, very hard. “I, er, yes.” Lestrade wanted to ask ‘How did you know that?’ But for some reason, he didn’t. People were smart, this man obviously was. End of story. “Nice,” he commented, giving a small smile. “I ah, sorry, I haven’t introduced myself yet. Gregory Lestrade, it’s…” He would say ‘nice to meet you,’ but…well, this wasn’t exactly a situation for that sort of term, was it? “Interesting to meet you,” he finished grinning. “And you are…?”
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Post by MYCROFT HOLMES on Nov 3, 2011 9:16:33 GMT -5
The detective gave Mycroft the same look he always got: how did you know that? Mycroft grinned and leaned against the sink, forgetting the ice and crossing his arms over his chest. He loved when he confused people. It made him feel a bit proud of his deduction skills.
"Your accent gave away where you were born. No man can mimic any accent as well as natives speak with it. But I can hear the occasional hint of a French sort of dialect. Babies copy the accent their mother has with some influence from their fathers. Since your accent is predominately Irish, that means your father must have been French, not your mother. She was Irish."
It was quiet simple, really.
The man was introduced as Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft grinned. Wonderful.
"Mycroft Holmes." He met Lestrade's eyes. "I'm not a business man, as you were thinking. Don't ask how I know. I just do. A lawyer, actually. The best lawyer in New York, if you wanted to be accurate. I actually work with the police on many occasions. I keep detectives, not too unlike yourself, out of prison for the stupid things they do."
Mycroft looked at Lestrade's chest where he was holding the rag of ice. The skin around it was a bit red from the cold, but not as much as an angry red as it was before. That was good.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Nov 4, 2011 10:26:41 GMT -5
(wait…isn’t a lawyer a business man?^^’)
Lestrade listened as the man described in surprisingly exact detail how he had seen into Mycroft’s past, just by his accent. “Oh,” he said, a bit surprised. “Well then, someone’s certainly a genius…” ‘I seem to be meeting a lot of those, recently,’ Lestrade thought, amusing himself. ‘Perhaps it is that New York is just full of them.’
“Mycroft Holmes. I'm not a business man, as you were thinking. Don't ask how I know. I just do. A lawyer, actually. The best lawyer in New York, if you wanted to be accurate. I actually work with the police on many occasions. I keep detectives, not too unlike yourself, out of prison for the stupid things they do,” the man – Mr. Holmes, apparently – introduced himself. Lestrade found no point in asking how Mr. Holmes knew what he was thinking, for the man was obviously able to see into many things under very little to work with, so…It was not unlike being with a mind-reader, really.
Lestrade nodded, smiling. ‘Isn’t a lawyer a business man?’ He thought to himself. He saw Mr. Holmes was looking at his chest and took the ice off. Wiping the wet that had come from the ice with the side of his arm, he ignored the prickling feeling he got as pulled his shirt back on.
Then – “Mr. Holmes…” The name was familiar. “Are you related to Sherlock Holmes?”
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Post by MYCROFT HOLMES on Nov 25, 2011 11:54:18 GMT -5
(Mycroft doesn't like being called a business man. He thinks of business men as the guys trying to sell you things or provide a service, like door-to-door salesmen and prostitutes.)
"Are you related to Sherlock Holmes?"
Mycroft frowned. The same question. The same exact question he got every time he said he name. He found it amusing that even though he had been living in New York for some time before his younger brother, people still thought of Sherlock when they heard the name Holmes. It was amusing, and it pissed him off.
"Yes." He grit his teeth a bit and raises his brows. "I happen to be his older brother."
He picked up the container of rice that had his phone in it and shook it around for a moment. Lestrade was buttoning back up, which meant that his chest wasn't hurting like it was earlier. Mycroft's arm was still a bit red, but he didn't care. By this point, he just wanted to get home and get something to eat -- not necessarily in that order. He frowned and shook the container again.
"If you're feeling better, go. I'm pretty sure neither of us want to spend our evening in the bathroom of some Chinese restaurant."
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Nov 26, 2011 17:28:38 GMT -5
(Ah, well then, just a conflict of definitions, then…)
Buttoning his shirt back up, bottom to top as he always did, Lestrade watched as Mycroft’s face took on an…annoyed expression? “Yes,” Mycroft said, “I happen to be his older brother.”
Well, that was new. He’d never heard Sherlock say anything about having an older brother. Then again, he’d never heard Sherlock say anything about anyone very seriously before that didn’t have to do with a case, so it made sense. “Ah,” Lestrade commented. “Nice.” He didn’t have much of a comment on that. Sherlock – the prick – was not exactly a topic he’d like to discuss. Though Mycroft, as far as social manners went, seemed… better.
Finished buttoning his shirt, Lestrade coughed slightly, before nodding to Mycroft’s next comment. “Well, it’s certainly preferable to some other circumstances,” he said good humouredly. “Like paperwork.” Oh paperwork, Lestrade’s forced mistress. He supposed he’d have to get back to her eventually though…
Following suit to Mycroft, Lestrade started walking out of the bathroom. Suddenly he remember that one, Mycroft was a lawyer. Meaning that he’d better watch his tongue around this man. And second, he still had not given Mycroft a way to contact him in order to pay for the damages he’d caused. “Ah, about your suit… Just call the station and ask for Gregory Lestrade.” He gave a quick smile. “That good, yeah?”
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Post by MYCROFT HOLMES on Dec 5, 2011 15:07:42 GMT -5
(Mycroft does that. The prick.)
Lestrade made a small face when the topic of Sherlock was in the air. Mycroft couldn't blame him. Sherlock worked with the police, so Lestrade had to work with him a lot. But Mycroft lived with him. That was worse.
Mycroft grabbed up his jacket and slung it over his arm to carry out. He wasn't about to put it back on. Considering the state of it, that would be unacceptable. He was on his way out, holding the container of rice and his phone, and Lestrade was following him. Talking to him. Saying something about calling the station and asking for him so they could work something out about the suit. It seemed logical.
"I'll get my secretary to do that," Mycroft said. "Or I'll stop by next time I'm down at the station."
At that moment, a long groan came from Mycroft's stomach and he frowned. That was unpleasant. The subject of food was back on his mind. That was why he was in the restaurant in the first place. He wasn't about to buy food from here now, though.
"If you'll excuse me, I'm going to find another place to find something to eat."
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Dec 18, 2011 16:56:07 GMT -5
(Sorry for the late response, I was in a production of A Chorus Line and the last few weeks were the final stretch, but we're finally done now!^^)
"I'll get my secretary to do that. Or I'll stop by next time I'm down at the station." Mycroft said."If you'll excuse me, I'm going to find another place to find something to eat."
Lestrade wondered about that saying, 'I could die from embarrassment.' His thoughts took a rather cliche'd path and wondered if it were true. Yes, he'd spilled things on people before, ruined their days, even broken phones too, but there was something about this particular time, and this particular man, that made Lestrade's embarrassment increase tenfold. He wasn't even going to try to delude himself into thinking that he wasn't very intimidated by Mycroft, actually. "Right, yes, sorry again," he sighed, wondering if he should give the man any money right now, or if that would be stupid. He decided not to.
Tentatively, he pushed and held the door open for Mycroft, as some very small and completely unintentional means of somehow appearing a polite man in Mycroft's eyes. Or rather, not a complete idiot. "But yes, that sounds good," Lestrade said. "Well, I do hope your phone's salvageable," he said apologetically, and gave a small, slightly childish smile. "It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Holmes."
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