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Talk Me Into It

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Mycroft settled on a stool at the end of the hotel bar, his book close at hand. The bartender nodded genially at him.

 

“What can I get you señor?”

 

“Cesar salad and a glass of chardonnay.”

 

The bartender moved off to place the order and Mycroft turned to observe the other patrons of the hotel restaurant. There were a smattering of tables still occupied. Mostly couples, but one table sat three people, father, mother and a rather surly looking adolescent. Mycroft felt a stab of pity for the boy.

 

He heard a person pull out a stool next to him. Vaguely annoyed he would need to share the space, Mycroft turned back around to see who dared.

 

“As I live and breathe, Mycroft Holmes?”

 

Mycroft quickly recovered from his surprise. “Detective Inspector Lestrade.” He greeted the man coolly, he hoped. The man was looking delightful and unimaginably handsome in his loose shirt and trousers.

 

“What brings you to sunny Mexico?” The Inspector made himself comfortable and grinned at Mycroft.

 

Mycroft smiled back. “Enforced annual leave. I generally don’t plan anything. My PA thought it would be amusing to send me to Cancun.” Mycroft grimaced slightly. “Not really my cup of tea, but I can read anywhere. I assume you are also on holiday?”

 

“Yeah, my wife booked this trip.”

 

There was an undercurrent of bitterness in Lestrade’s voice. ”But she is not with you.” Mycroft observed. The noted absence of the wedding band on Lestrade’s hand meant Mycroft wasn’t likely to see her.

 

“Nope.” Greg popped the “p” with obvious satisfaction. “We split months back, but I kept the trip. It was already paid for and I wasn’t going to let her enjoy it with the bloke she shacked up with.”

 

“Quite right.” Mycroft agreed readily.

 

“Mind if I join you?” There was a hopeful look in Greg’s eyes.

 

“No, not at all.” Mycroft found himself saying.

 

Greg turned to the bartender, who’d wandered over to check on Greg and deliver Mycroft’s wine. “Chips, salsa and guac and two glasses of your finest sipping tequila.”

 

“Añejo?” The bartender asked.

 

“Sí.”

 

“Lestrade…” Mycroft started.

 

“Greg,” He nudged Mycroft with his shoulder. “We’re on vacation.” Greg’s grin grew even brighter.

 

“Greg.” Mycroft agreed. “Tequila? That stuff is horrid.”

 

“You just need to learn how to drink tequila like a Mexican.”

 

“Drink like a Mexican?”

 

Two glasses appeared in front of them filled with an amber liquid. Greg lifted his glass. “Good tequila is aged—like a good scotch. It's meant to be sipped.” Greg looked pointedly at the glass still on the counter.

 

Mycroft sighed and raised his glass. “Not sure how you talked me into this,” he muttered.

 

“To unexpected friends in unexpected places.” Greg offered gleefully and clinked Mycroft’s glass.

 

Mycroft returned the smile cautiously. “Salud.”