Fever

professional

When it rang at Greg's apartment door, he had jumped off the sofa like lightning and rushed to the door, despite the fact that he was still not really well.
He opened it with a vengeance and... and looked into the business-like face of Mycroft's assistant, Anthea.
"Oh, good afternoon," he stammered. "Come in, please."
Anthea shook her head.
"No," she said. "I've got to run along. I've brought you this on behalf of Mr Holmes."
And she handed him a bag with more juicy oranges in it.
"Also, he asked me to ask if there is anything else you require."
Greg shook his head.
"No, thank you..."
But then he swallowed and started again.
"Would you ask Mr. Holmes... would you tell him I'm going to have to..."
He needed a moment. Then he went on quietly.
"...that I would be delighted to see him?"
He looked at Anthea rather uncertainly.
She smiled.
"I will," she said. "And get well soon."
And off she was, gone down the stairs again.

Greg shuffled over to his kitchen and put the oranges into the fruit bowl. Then he took the small juicer from the kitchen cupboard and a glass. He cut two oranges open and squeezed the juice out of them. He disposed of the peels, wiped over the kitchen table and went back to the living room with the glass in his hand.
While he drank the vitamin-rich drink in small sips, he felt the disappointment overpowering him.
Yes, Holmes had thought of him and continued to give him his care in the form of oranges. But he had not come himself.
And that, Greg had to admit, hurt him. He was hoping, wishing, perhaps Mycroft had enjoyed his visit a little bit... Aw man, the more he thought about it, the more he had to admit he hoped for more than just the other man's care.
He wished... oh, damn it.

Greg was stretched out on the couch.
He wondered if he should try the TV show again.
He turned the TV back on and got stuck with a movie.
An old one, just right for slipping back into sleep.

...

Mycroft Holmes was sitting over some files again and tried to concentrate and as so often in the last time he did not succeed. And like every time, a certain DI was to blame for this.
A certain DI, who unknowingly distracted him from his work.
Mycroft wondered if it had been right to burst in on Lestrade yesterday.
He had got the impression that the man was completely overwhelmed by his presence.
He hadn't turned him out, but on the other hand he hadn't been too happy about it either, had he? Well, as a matter of fact, he hadn't said much. More a bit of a stammer.
But on the other hand, he had a fever, too, and maybe that's why he hadn't been in control of his senses.
Mycroft, who was a master in deducing his fellow human beings, and who was so keen on his knowledge of human nature, had to realize that in this case he could not even assess the situation.
Even though he usually did not allow feelings to get to him, he was worlds ahead of his brother Sherlock in recognising and assessing the feelings of his fellow human beings.
But in this particular point his abilities to do so obviously failed completely.

This was probably simply because he himself was emotionally involved. Yes, whether he liked it or not, he knew that he could not get out of it either. And, what was even more serious, he didn't want to.
He liked the DI.
He liked him a lot.
No, that wasn't true.
Okay, Mycroft, he thought, get to the point and be honest with yourself. You're on the verge of falling in love with him.

Well, then the question was, did he want it to be more than that? Did he want it to be... a relationship?
Oh, my God, yes. It had been forever since he had last loved, and it had ended painfully. But still.
For some reason, he trusted the DI. Gregory. Trusted him not to hurt him.

Yes, he did.
Right, so the next question.
Was there any chance that Gregory Lestrade would want something similar?
And this was the point where he just didn't know what to do.
He was now annoyed at having chickened out and sent Anthea to him instead of going to him himself.
He sighed.

There was a knock at the door of his office.
"Come in?"
Anthea entered the room.
"Mr Holmes," she nodded at him. "I'm back and at your disposal again."
"Good."
In his eyes were a thousand questions.
He wondered if she noticed.
He took a breath, and at least he asked one question.
"How is he?"
"He seems exhausted. A cold like this is hard on the body and mind. He was pleased with the oranges."
"Did you ask him if he needed anything else?"
"Yes, I did."
Mycroft waited. What was wrong with her, it wasn't like you had to pull every word out of her one by one.
"Well, Anthea?"
She smiled.
"No, he doesn't need anything," she said, "Just..."
"Yes? Anthea, come on, speak up."

"He said he'd be delighted if you came and saw him."