Making your acquaintance (fem!mystrade <3)
Mycroft blinks in surprise at her sister’s text:
You’re too early. Drive around in a circle a few more times. -S
Oh, she will do no such thing. Mycroft raps on the glass divider.
“Stop the car.”
She has hardly opened the door when the realisation hits her, just why Sherlock was trying to avoid her again. Yellow tape. Police. Cars. And Sherlock, standing in the middle of it all, in typical rant mode, hands flying every which way.
Mycroft rolls her eyes. “Oh, Jesus Christ.” She storms forward. “Arrested, sister mine?”
Her voice is deliberately loud, and Sherlock cringes as she spots her.
“I told you to wait,” she replies.
“You are being ridiculous. Utterly-” Mycroft takes a deep breath. “Come on. We’re going.”
But, before she’s even considered how to persuade Sherlock to actually get into the car, an even louder voice bellows across to them.
“Oi! Just who the hell do you think you are?”
Mycroft does a double take as another young woman joins them, striding across with confidence, white shirt sleeves rolled up in a way that could only suggest outrage.
“Well?” the woman says, hands on hips now.
Mycroft clears her throat and vaguely wonders why she fears becoming tongue-tied. “I am Sherlock’s sister.”
It’s the woman’s turn for a double take, now. She gapes at Sherlock. “You never told me you have a sister!”
Sherlock shrugs. “Evidently. Must have slipped my mind.”
And the woman is glancing between them, back and forth, with the beginnings of a smirk. “Actually, I can see the resembl-”
“Oh God, please don’t-”
“Excuse me,” Mycroft cuts across them. “If I could just clarify exactly what damage my sister has wrought and I’ll be able to pay a sum of-”
“Eh?” The woman is staring at her, and Mycroft feels odd- as if she’s in some sort of spotlight. “God, don’t you know? Your sister’s a genius. She’s working on a case for me. Got the lads bloody clueless, let me tell you, don’t know what we’d do without her.”
Mycroft blinks in confusion again. Of course, Sherlock’s genius is not a surprise, but the fact that she is actually… well. She’s doing very well indeed.
Mycroft clears her throat. “Men are idiots, anyway.”
The woman laughs. Mycroft likes the sound- un-apologetically raucous. “Too right. And a nightmare at work. At everything, really.”
Mycroft smiles. “Always.”
“Oh, what line are you in?”
She considers, and studiously ignores Sherlock’s grin. “Politics,” she replies, which is true as it stands.
The woman grins. “Ooh, hark at you. Right, dear,” she nods at Sherlock. “Are you free to go over that with me one more time?”
Sherlock actually hesitates, and Mycroft internally winces. She decides to say nothing, and she heartens at her sister’s confident reply when she realises Mycroft will not interrupt her:
Mycroft has already began to step back when the woman looks earnestly at her, and she freezes.
“We’ll only be another ten minutes, that alright with you?”
Once more, Mycroft blinks. “…I suppose I can go on a short drive.”
“Cracking.” The woman sticks out her hand. “Georgia Lestrade. But, don’t call me that. George works.”
Mycroft shakes her hand. “Mycroft Holmes.”
“You never told me your name,” Sherlock says indignantly.
George (George, Mycroft’s mind echoes) tuts. “You cheeky beggar, you’ve stolen my ID, how can you not know…”
Ten minutes later, Mycroft promptly returns. She opens the car door and slides out to give Sherlock room, only to nearly trip on the kerb at the sight of George Lestrade standing there.
Sherlock shuts the car door. They both ignore this.
George runs a hand through her hair. “Listen, Mycroft, can I ask you…”
Her heart is categorically not in her throat. “Yes?”
George grins. “Why are you carrying around an umbrella like that in summer?”
Mycroft blushes. To tell the truth, she almost forgets that it’s hooked over her forearm. “It goes with the image,” she lies.
“So I see.” George winks at her. “Maybe.. explain more at a… well, don’t know if you do pubs.”
“Fish and chips,” Mycroft says quickly, and feels her face growing even hotter.
“Uh- alright, then. Fish and chips. Sounds perfect.”
There’s a laugh in that, but it’s not mockery, which Mycroft appreciates. It could even pass as… fond.
She shakes George Lestrade’s hand one last time, and braces herself for a teasing car journey with Sherlock.
(tags with folk interested under the cut! This is my first try at fem mystrade, but I’d love to do more <3)