Mycroft loved his Sunday mornings, the only free mornings of his week, because if you are Mycroft Holmes you have seven work days a week and every free minute is priceless. Literally, in his case. Sunday mornings were specially reserved for rare moments of sweet laziness. No one was talking about late mornings in bed, relaxing until the sun was too high in the sky to ignore its brightness any longer. Mycroft's definition of laziness was getting up precisely fifteen minutes later than usual and picking up a tie that was a shade brighter than he considered appropriate. By the time he arrived to the office a cup of tea already awaited him, prepared by his secretary just the way he wanted it, slightly more avant-garde than his everyday choice.
Mycroft would sit in his office on a sofa he'd specially ordered for a ridiculously high price. The piece of furniture was worth it though, because on Sunday mornings it felt wonderful to melt into the softness of countless cushions with a cup of tea and delicious pastries, to enjoy the moment of calm. His personal assistant, aware of all his habits, knew not to assign any meetings for that time of a day and a secretary, guarding his door, was eager to keep his peace since her job depended on it.
This was the advantage of being rich. Not expensive cars or giant boats and mansions. Not the popularity, which Mycroft considered counter-productive for any work. Not even the ability to travel to any place in the word the quickest way possible, which he admitted was useful, but he himself preferred to manage his business from the office. But the ability to have a beautiful quiet Sunday morning, a few moments of rest in a constant flow of policy.
Mycroft's life was dominated by his work. Most people would find a lifestyle like that terrifying but Mycroft Holmes was content with it. Like his younger brother, he hated inactivity. He liked feeling needed, liked when his time was occupied with plotting and revealing conspiracies. That way he felt that he actually lived. Unfortunately, the constant tiredness was a downside to his workaholic tendencies. Hence the Sunday mornings – time left only for his pleasure.
No one ever intruded on Mycroft's Sunday mornings. The world could wait, while the most important citizen had his tea under the accompaniment of soft classical music.
It was a usual Sunday morning. Mycroft, already in the office, was relaxing on his favourite sofa, leaning back on the soft cushions, gaze of half closed eyes staring out of the large window at the city waking up. Mycroft breathed in the aroma of his tea, a china cup encircled in his long fingers. He closed his eyes and let out a content sigh. It was worth living for moments like that. Without looking at his watch he knew there were still thirty minutes left for his Sunday morning bliss. Lovely.
Suddenly his mobile phone, which was lying on the coffee table, rang. Mycroft opened his eyes slowly and glanced disdainfully at the gadget. As it continued ringing, the British anthem resonating in the quietness of the office, he lifted one brow and sharpened his gaze as if he'd have done with a stubborn opponent. Unsurprisingly it did not work on an animate object and the melody continued playing, ignorant to the cold stare. Then there was a pause, quietness, and Mycroft relaxed back into the sofa, until in the next moment the melody started over.
If all the people who were important enough to know this number knew not to phone Mycroft at this time of the day, then who was the one who dared to disturb the almighty politician on his Sunday morning? Annoyed, he reached for the phone, very slowly hoping the caller would tire and disconnect. They did not, so he glanced at the screen and frowned at the name written there. The frown disappeared as he pushed a button and lifted the phone to his ear.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he said instead of greeting, every syllable precise. "How nice to hear from you."
The pleasantry in his voice was only half faked, and under the slight tone of irritation there was warmth Mycroft himself was not aware of.
"Hello," the DI replied. "I hope it's not too early for you."
"Not at all," Mycroft answered, leaning back on the sofa. "Is there any important news?"
"Nothing critical," Lestrade reassured. "I was hoping…I mean I thought maybe we could meet. Today? Or some other day?"
The hesitation and nervous stumbling in the other man's words brought an amused smile to Mycroft's face. It was sweet in a way, very different from the way people stumbled on their words in a haste to assure the politician that everything will go the way he wants it.
"To discuss Sherlock's latest case, I mean." The DI added hurriedly, covering his clumsy offer.
Mycroft considered Lestrade's words, remembering that their last meeting had happened a week before and no word of Sherlock was said then. It wouldn't hurt to have another chat with the man, Mycroft concluded. After all, meetings with Gregory Lestrade were nothing but pleasant, especially when they were not work related. The politician glanced at his watch.
"I suppose that can be arranged." He replied. "I'll see you in five minutes."
It was not a long way from the building his office was in to the café they always met in and if Lestrade wanted to meet him, he'd be there on time as well. After all, Mycroft still had twenty minutes left of his wonderful Sunday morning.