Pairing/Characters: Mycroft/Lestrade, Sherlock, Anthea, Sally, Anderson
Summary: At first glance, Gregory Lestrade doesn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary…
Disclaimer: I don’t own it.
Notes/Warnings: Sherlock’s drug use is mentioned.
It was raining, but that was hardly an anomaly, not in England.
Mycroft sat inside of the train station, watching the rain hit the panes of glass. While most men of power avoided common places in society, Mycroft enjoyed people watching, twisting his umbrella in his hands. Anthea had gone to get them tea while scheduling a dinner with the Prime Minister. Sherlock hadn’t caused a riot recently, which meant that he’d reemerge within a week.
The levels of stress that Mycroft dealt with would have killed most men.
He drew in a deep breath and that was when he saw the group of four men who had hidden firearms on them. Mycroft reached for his Blackberry just as a man sat a few feet down from him on the bench.
The man’s hair was starting to go silver at the temples, and his face was quite handsome. It was a shame that Mycroft wouldn’t have time to admire it, not with a heist going down. Mycroft sent Anthea a blank text, their emergency code.
Within three minutes snipers would take out the to-be criminals and Mycroft and Anthea would drink their tea for a job well done. The handsome man and Mycroft may even share a smile, a flirtatious curl of the lips before Mycroft went back to ruling the world from the shadows.
However, nothing went to plan at all because a little girl tripped and fell into the youngest, jittery man, and his gun went off.
Everyone immediately dropped to the floor, bound together in fear. The girl wasn’t hurt, thankfully, but the gunmen grabbed her. Tears rolled down her cheeks and her mother screamed from the masses of people. An older man, no doubt the leader, pressed the gun to the child’s temple.
“Nobody move!” Their accent was subtle, masked with precise practice, but Mycroft picked up on their Albanian origin right away. Mycroft was shoulder-to-shoulder with the silver-haired man. He smelled faintly of cigarettes and stale coffee. Mycroft drew in a steady breath as the man continued. “We’re here for Mycroft Holmes.”
His voice echoed in the station, sending electric chills down everyone’s spines. Mycroft didn’t move, and the man narrowed his eyes as he gazed over the crowd. The little girl hiccupped.
The leader shook her by the hair. The man beside Mycroft flinched, his brown eyes riveted to the sight before them. Mycroft snuck a glance over his shoulder to see Anthea. Her eyes were wide and her face was pale, but they both knew that they could only wait.
A gunshot made Mycroft’s neck snap forward.
The girl was still wriggling in the leader’s arms, still alive. He’d shot at the ceiling. Mycroft could feel his pocket watch ticking down the seconds until the M16 got there. Any second now…
“Come out or she dies.” Mycroft closed his eyes and willed himself silent as the child’s broken sobs floated up into the air. They didn’t know what he looked like, people rarely did. “Going once.” The girl’s breathing swept over all thoughts in Mycroft’s mind. “Going twice----”
“All right, enough.”
Mycroft’s eyes flew open. The silver-haired man stepped forward, his lips pulled into a grim frown. Mycroft tightened his grip on his umbrella his mind buzzing with all sorts of questions, but mainly: Why?
The clock kept ticking as the man let the girl go so she could run to her mother’s open arms. The world seemed to go hollow and cold as the gun leveled with the silver-haired man’s chest. Mycroft had time to breathe before two shots were fired off, hitting the man with fleshy pops. The first shot was quickly followed by four--- four headshots from the snipers who were a moment too late.
Mycroft was at the man’s side, barely managing to catch him. Those beautiful brown eyes were already glazing over, blood dribbling out of his mouth. He blinked, and when he met Mycroft’s eyes all the breath rushed out of his lungs.
“Why did you do that?”
Bits of blood flecked on Mycroft’s fingers as the man coughed, and the wretched, wet shudder of the sound made Mycroft’s throat impossibly tight.
“Someone… had to…”
The whine of the ambulance didn’t register in Mycroft’s world until the man was taken from his arms. He watched, and when the paramedics turned off the siren, he knew that the man was dead.
A mysterious silver-haired stranger had died in Mycroft’s place--- and Mycroft hadn’t even known his name. Anthea was by his side, ever vigilant, and tugged gently at his arm.
“Come on, sir.”
The rain kept hurling itself at the windows. The world kept turning. Mycroft sighed and told himself that people died every day, even handsome men with no name and a moral code much higher than Mycroft’s.
Sherlock resurfaced during the following week just like Mycroft predicted he would. This time he’d meandered onto a murder scene, high as a kite as he deduced that the murderer was actually the daughter and not the mistress. The Scotland Yard was understandably not amused. Anthea clicked through her Blackberry as they drove over. The rain was, again, unrelenting.
“They’re still running his fingerprints through the database. I’m stalling them.”
Mycroft managed a small smile.
“Good.” The car stopped. Mycroft got out first, his umbrella shielding them from the weather. “Who were the first officers on the scene?”
“Sergeant Sally Donovan.” Anthea’s eyes never left her Blackberry as they entered the police station, her thumbs hacking the police files. “Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
Mycroft maneuvered their way past the officers, occasionally having to flash a badge that would make protesting mouths snap shut. They came to a stop at the cell that held a petulant Sherlock whose bloodshot eyes made Mycroft’s teeth grind together. Sherlock grimaced and huffed, turning around on the bed in his cell.
His maturity was astounding as ever. Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek as clipped, irritated footsteps approached from the side.
“I don’t bloody care who you are, you can’t just walk in---”
Mycroft turned, and the practiced speech he’d used countless times died on his tongue when he saw a silver-haired handsome man. The same handsome man that had died a week before.
Anthea’s fingers sent still, and Mycroft was only a bit relieved that he wasn’t the only one seeing a dead man. Sherlock turned at the tense silence to see his brother and Anthea tensely staring at an equally tense Lestrade. Sherlock smirked.
“Why, Mycroft, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Lestrade’s ears went scarlet as Mycroft held up his hand, his cold eyes silencing his little brother.
“Be quiet, Sherlock.’
The Detective Inspector’s lips pulled down into a thin frown.
“So you’re the brother. He said you run the world.”
Mycroft’s automatic response spilled from his lips before he could stop it.
“Just a minor political figure.”
Lestrade’s jaw tightened.
“Right. Get out of my station.” With a fierce twist of his wrist, Lestrade opened the cell, steering Sherlock into Mycroft’s hands. “I don’t want to see either of you again.”
Mycroft let Anthea take Sherlock away for detox, and he leaned in close to Lestrade. He’d shaved that morning, and the smell of cigarettes was still on his clothes. The DI took a step back and his frown softened into an expression that Mycroft recognized. It was a solemn surrender.
It was the same expression he’d worn as his lung shuddered and failed in front of Mycroft. Lestrade’s shoulders sagged, and suddenly he seemed very old and tired.
“Just go. Please.”
Mycroft held Lestrade’s gaze for a long moment before breaking it, walking back out to the rain.
Files were spread out over Mycroft’s desk. This wasn’t unusual, usually all sorts of important deals and laws ended up on Mycroft’s desk. However, all the files on Mycroft’s desk had nothing to do with international law and legislation.
They all had to do with Gregory Lestrade.
He was a hero--- and no one knew. The case files were all carefully constructed to say only enough to be filed away as proper paperwork and gave nothing away. Fortunately, Mycroft was wonderful at reading between the lines.
Gregory, Sally Donovan, or Anderson wrote almost all the files. So the two of them must know. However, the other stray files also didn’t reveal anything. Mycroft frowned, and that was when it hit him.
The paramedics hadn’t turned off the siren because Lestrade had died--- they turned it off because they recognized him.
Mycroft went further and further back--- to the first recorded incident. It was a yellowing newspaper clipping about a horrible fire in Sussex. No one knew what caused it, but no one had died. The police found the family outside, shaken and in shock, but alive.
With them was a teenager with ash on his face by the name of Gregory Lestrade. He was a family friend and, according to the paper, had gone in and led them all out. They called him an angel.
The boy had just wiped off his face with his still smoking sleeve and said, “Anyone else would have done the same.”
Mycroft traced the worn edges of the article with his fingers for a moment or two, trying to picture a young Lestrade standing outside of that burning house all those years ago. Extraordinary… absolutely extraordinary.
He picked up his phone and the other line didn’t get through the first ring before Anthea picked up. Mycroft got out of his chair, pulling on his coat.
“Have a car ready for me.”
Breaking into Lestrade’s flat was child’s play. Mycroft knew that the locks weren’t going to be a challenge. He gently closed the door behind him, taking care not to make a sound as Lestrade paced in the other room.
“I’m moving as fast as I can, Sally. If that nutter was telling the truth about his brother than it might already be too late.”
Mycroft turned the corner to see the Detective Inspector tossing a bag together, stuffing the bare minimum of clothes and money away. The room was a calculated mess. The window was broken from the outside, and the valuables were strewn about the floor. Ah, a break-in.
Lestrade had his cell phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder, his gloved hands breaking everything he could. Mycroft watched as Lestrade took a knife and cut into his own arm, carefully squeezing the blood out onto the carpet.
“Yes, yes, I’ll call once I’m settled.” He cut deeper, a new slash as the other one healed within seconds. He hissed but kept talking. “I have to go, any longer and I’m completely and utterly---”
He turned and when he saw Mycroft leaning in the doorway he dropped the knife to the floor. Lestrade’s phone hit the floor, the battery falling out. Mycroft watched the wound seal itself up, good as new. The older Holmes leaned on his umbrella.
“I believe you were searching for the word fucked, Detective Inspector. Am I correct?”
Lestrade nodded weakly.
“Yes.” He paused, rubbing at his arm anxiously. His blood was still on the floor and the bag was still clutched in his hands. They were three stories up, but a jump like that wouldn’t stop Lestrade. Mycroft could tell by the faint tremble in the man’s fingers that he was thinking of running. “Am I? Fucked, I mean.”
Mycroft almost laughed. It had honestly been the first time someone had asked him that.
“No. I’d ask if you’re all right… but I have a feeling that wouldn’t help you relax.”
A slightly hysteric chuckle fell from Lestrade’s lips.
“Right again.” Neither of them moved. “What do you want?”
The tremble in Lestrade’s fingers had lessened somewhat. Mycroft made sure to keep his posture as non-imposing as possible, which was difficult. He was so used to entering a room and taking control, making all those before him shiver right down to their core. But that wasn’t what this… rendez-vous with Lestrade was about. Mycroft let his shoulders fall to give the impression that he was the one who’d had a trying day.
“Just a conversation.” Manipulation was a second language to Mycroft, and if it got Lestrade to relax and stop eyeing the window than Mycroft was going to exploit every weakness the DI had… mainly: his heart. “Please, Detective Inspector.”
Mycroft was careful to apply the right amount of exhaustion with just a dash of sadness, and it succeeded. The DI’s frown twitched, then melted in defeat.
“Okay, fine. You know, you could have knocked.”
“If I had,” Mycroft motioned to the bag that was still in Lestrade’s hand, “I would have missed you.”
Lestrade’s lips twitched and he finally set the bag down, nodding toward the kitchen.
“Yes, thank you.”
Lestrade led Mycroft to his kitchen. It was… cozy, the shelves cramped and just a bit crooked. The cups had chips on the side and there were a few burn marks on the kettle. There were two chairs, but one was barely used. There were very few pictures on the walls, but there were several plants on the windowsill.
It was homey… and also very lonely.
When the tea was ready, Mycroft let his fingers warm themselves along the side of the cup. He sat at the table with the DI, whose fingers twitched along the side of his cup. He was waiting for Mycroft to talk, and every passing moment of silence was… unnerving. Mycroft decided to move things along. His observations could be sorted out later.
“My younger brother, for the lack of a better description, burns too brightly. He’s in rehab and won’t be out for a while, but when he is I’d like it if you were to use his services.”
Lestrade blinked, and his face slackened in confusion for the briefest of moments.
“Uh--- the police don’t hire private detectives.”
“I believe he prefers ‘consulting detective.’” Mycroft sipped his tea. “And he won’t charge the Scotland Yard.”
Lestrade put his tea down.
“There’s no way that it would work. I’m only a Detective Inspector---”
“Your superiors are not a problem.”
The DI bit his lip but his eyes remained stony.
“Because you’re a ruler of the world.” It wasn’t a question. “He can’t be on drugs, Mr. Holmes.”
“Of course not.” Lestrade crossed his arms, and it didn’t take a genius like Mycroft to hear the unspoken question that was: Why me? “My brother needs to kept out of a state of boredom--- and he attracts danger. While this would be a concern, you’re a wonderful, if not a bit surprising, fit.” Mycroft allowed himself a small smile. “All I need to do is find him a doctor and I may be able to rest easier.”
Again, Lestrade was startled into laughter. He quickly silenced himself and slid a mask of careful indifference over his face.
“Is that it?”
Mycroft stood, his tea left unfinished and cold on the table.
“Yes. For now, Detective Inspector.” Lestrade walked Mycroft to the door, more out of habit than anything else. Mycroft stepped out into the hall and turned before Lestrade could close the door. “One last question. Why did you step forward in the train station?”
Lestrade exhaled and his gaze made the air freeze in Mycroft’s lungs.
“Why didn’t you?”
He closed the door and Mycroft forgot to take a breath.
Six months later Sherlock was out of rehab.
He had managed to lose weight, and his skeletal appearance was unsettling. His clothes hung off him, but his ice-blue eyes never lose their brilliance. That alone was enough to allow Mycroft to feel relief. Sherlock was struggling with the notches on his belt as Anthea came in, typing away on her Blackberry.
“There’s a new case. Detective Inspector Lestrade has been searching your name online, sir.”
Mycroft smiled a bit at that. He put his hand between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.
“Come on, you’ve got work to do.”
They rode to the Scotland Yard in silence. Sherlock no doubt wanted to know how Mycroft managed to convince the entire police force to use him, but he said nothing. Mycroft felt like a father walking his son to school on his first day as the three of them entered the police station.
It didn’t take long for Lestrade to find them. Mycroft watched the DI’s eyed widen slightly before his professionalism returned.
“Yes. Good to see you, Sherlock.” Sherlock just nodded, and Lestrade turned to call out to his officers. “Sally!” A young woman appeared, her eyes hard and wary of Sherlock and Mycroft. “Show Sherlock the case files, get him caught up.”
She eyed Sherlock’s sunken cheeks and civilian clothes.
“Just do it.” With a cut nod, Sally waved for Sherlock to follow her. Mycroft watched his little brother follow quietly. Lestrade’s frown returned, his brown eyes softening. “Good God, he’s barely solid.”
Mycroft nodded in agreement.
“His weight loss is cause for concern, but he’s no longer an addict.” Lestrade grunted in agreement, and Mycroft motioned to Anthea. She handed him a paper bag. Mycroft cleared his throat. “If you could make sure he eats today I’d appreciate it.”
Lestrade took the paper bag… and then he looked at Mycroft and smiled. It wasn’t a grin, not even a full curl of his lips. It was crooked, tired, and surprised. It was gorgeous.
“You packed him a lunch.”
Mycroft felt his cheeks get a bit hot as he smoothed out his suit jacket.
“Sherlock has been a picky eater lately.”
They both watched the young man in question read the notes that Sally had grudgingly given to him. Lestrade tightened his grip on the bag.
“I’ll make sure he stops to eat, Mr. Holmes.”
“Thank you. And you may call me, Mycroft.”
Lestrade just nodded but said nothing more.
Cameras and bugs were installed in Lestrade’s flat, which was only natural and standard procedure. That didn’t stop Mycroft from wanting more. He could only imagine what he could do with a simple blood sample… and a few tests--- it made a hot flush rise to Mycroft’s cheeks.
He could only dream of the things he could learn from Lestrade.
But… even Mycroft had to concede that Gregory Lestrade was a human being, and a genuinely good man. So Mycroft settled for observation.
Lestrade didn’t live the life of an extraordinary man. He would get up when his phone vibrated off the nightstand, and he’d sleep when he fell into bed with his clothes half-off. He barely had enough food to keep himself properly nourished. In fact, Lestrade lived mostly off of bad coffee and leftover takeout.
Mycroft couldn’t get a handle on Lestrade. It was dizzy. It made his chest ache in a way that he’d never felt before.
It all came to a head around the holidays like a clichéd film. The snow made the children’s cheeks rosy and stores had an obscene amount of sales.
Mycroft knew from the beginning that Lestrade had no family. No wife, no kids, and his mother and father had been dead for decades. Still, it was the holidays and people knew to come together. The Holmes family would gather together. Even Sherlock would bend to convention for Mummy’s sake.
Lestrade wasn’t a hermit like Sherlock. His co-workers respected him, and some even revered him. He’d saved all of their lives in some way or another, by just “being there” or literally taking a bullet for them. It was no longer a wonder to Mycroft why the Scotland Yard would protect Lestrade from all the shadowy forces that Mycroft could potentially throw at them.
But admiration and friendship were two completely different things.
Anderson and Sally were his friends. They joked with him and were familiar wit him. However, Anderson had a new wife and Sally had her parents and four rowdy brothers.
On Christmas, when Lestrade was still alone, Mycroft decided that enough was enough. It only took ten minutes for Mycroft to knock on Lestrade’s door, groceries in his arms.
The door creaked as it opened, and Lestrade was still in worn flannel pajamas pants and a black hoodie that was too big. Lestrade only wore it out of comfort, though, the extra sizes made more sense. Lestrade’s mouth was open slightly, his stubble dark and rough on his face. His surprise was palpable and Mycroft had to present him with something familiar. So Mycroft cleared his throat and adjusted the bags in his hands.
“Happy Christmas, Detective Inspector.”
Years of tradition and politeness made Lestrade’s response automatic.
“Happy Christmas, Mycroft.” He blinked a few times then rubbed his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s Christmas.” Mycroft’s lips curled darkly. “I don’t need a reason.”
Lestrade took the side and Mycroft stepped inside, heading straight to the kitchen. He put the bags down as Lestrade leaned in the doorway.
“You do need a reason, actually.” Lestrade stretched, Mycroft could hear his spine popping as he unloaded the groceries. “I don’t care if you really do run the world. What are you doing here?”
Mycroft paused, and when he turned he saw weariness on Lestrade’s face.
“I know I’m alone, I’m always alone---” He stopped, and his expression blossomed into a beautifully cautious sliver of hope, pink dusting his cheeks. “Oh.”
Mycroft moved around Lestrade’s tiny kitchen, and Lestrade didn’t comment on the fact that Mycroft knew where everything was. He made a simple pasta dish and they ate in silence that wasn’t uncomfortable.
Later, they found themselves on Lestrade’s couch, still not speaking. Dust floated in the sunbeams and Lestrade brought his feet up off the floor. Mycroft could feel his Blackberry buzzing with messages from Sherlock demanding to know when he’d arrive at Mummy’s. But Mycroft ignored it all. He ignored it in favor of coffee-colored eyes and slightly chapped lips.
“That was the first time I’d been shot in the heart, you know.” Lestrade turned to Mycroft, his lips in a humorless smile. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to bounce back from that one.”
The ache in Mycroft’s chest returned full force
“Does it hurt?”
Lestrade nodded, grimacing as he rubbed at the skin that covered his heart.
“Yes. Very much.” Silence grew between them for a few moments. “You’re not going to cut me up for experiments, are you?”
Mycroft shook his head.
Sometimes, life was as simple as that. Mycroft didn’t have much time for reflection before warm fingers brushed over his cheek, turning his head so that---
Lestrade’s lips were deceptively soft and Mycroft couldn’t help but lean in closer, his hands brushing over Lestrade’s shoulders. Their knees knocked together and their noses bumped a little before Mycroft pulled the DI closer and then it all fit. The soft whisper of breath and the hints of teeth and tongue made Mycroft helpless.
When Lestrade pulled back, Mycroft’s cheeks still tingled from his stubble. Lestrade was flushed, his eyes deliciously dark.
“You can, uh, call me Greg or Gregory if you like.”
Mycroft smiled and reached for the zipper of Gregory’s hoodie, pulling it down and exposing all that skin.
Mycroft ended up almost missing dinner at Mummy’s, but the consequences were more than worth it.
Dating and conventional romance of any kind was impossible for Mycroft and Gregory. Their jobs simply didn’t allow it. Their more intimate conversations weren’t shared over wine and candlelight… but on the moonlit sheets of their beds.
Watching Gregory’s cheeks turn red and his eyes become glassy was a rush unlike any other Mycroft had ever experienced. Hearing Gregory moan his name, feeling him twitch and writhe under Mycroft’s clever fingers was intoxicating. It was so intoxicating that reciprocation was barely needed. All it took was a few sloppy kisses and squeezes and Mycroft would be finished, surrendering himself to animalistic euphoria.
Mycroft’s fingers were still numb when Gregory let out a low hum of deep satisfaction.
“Keep that up, Mycroft, and you’ll turn me into a nymphomaniac.”
Charmingly rough stubble dragged across Mycroft’s shoulder as Lestrade placed an open-mouthed kiss onto his freckled skin. Mycroft moved his head so he could capture those teasing lips.
“I’ll just have to be more… thoughtful next time.”
They kissed, this time with a hint of teeth.
“Don’t you dare.”
Gregory’s voice was rough and deep. It sent shivers down Mycroft’ spine and he’d have to give his body a stern talking to because he wasn’t a bloody teenager anymore. They lay together quietly, waiting for their bodies to come back down to earth.
Mycroft heard Lestrade’s hands move, and when he looked over the DI’s fingers were over his heart. Mycroft licked his lips--- and he wanted to look away but his gaze was frozen.
“How… how much pain are you in?”
Gregory drummed his fingers over his skin; his exhale curling out of his lips and into the dark.
“Right now, barely any. Sex, uh, helps actually.”
“Yes, but,” Mycroft turned on his side so he was fully facing Lestrade. “After. Is it--- is it like the first time?”
Mycroft couldn’t imagine living day-to-day with the sensation of bullets burning through his heart. Gregory shook his head, his eyes still closed.
“No. It fades, over time, you know.” His fingers kept on drumming. “Eventually it will feel like a bruise.” His dark eyes opened, and they weren’t filled with regret or anger--- just acceptance. “Where are you going this week?”
“Pakistan.” They never told the other to be careful. Mycroft let his own fingers join Lestrade’s on his chest, circling his right nipple absently. “It must be the endorphins that block out the pain.”
Lestrade’s fingers touched Mycroft’s wrist, a gentle warning. Mycroft bit his tongue to stop all the questions. For each one Gregory answered a dozen more would jump up to replace it. Mycroft pinched Lestrade’s nipple, making the older man’s eyes flutter shut, his hips twitching.
Gregory had one more go in him, and Mycroft was all too willing give it to him. With a bit of careful maneuvering, Mycroft straddled Gregory’s hips and kissed him, stealing away the Detective Inspector’s breath. When he pulled back, Gregory’s smile made Mycroft feel warm. Mycroft couldn’t help but smile back.
“Ready for one more go?”
Lestrade’s answering kiss was playful and rich. It made Mycroft want to stop time so they didn’t have to worry about the approaching morning.
“I take it back, you’re becoming a nymphomaniac.”
Mycroft chuckled before trailing his fingers down Gregory’s chest.
“You bring it out in me.”
After that, there wasn’t much time for talking.
Mycroft and Anthea sat in the embassy in Pakistan eating oranges. They both enjoyed peeling the skin off of oranges and other sort of fruits. Mycroft smiled for no particular reason, so he hid it by popping another orange slice into his mouth.
He stood, because it was time for him to move the world. Anthea looked up from her Blackberry and smiled.
“Give them hell, sir.”
Mycroft nodded curtly.
“Always. Keep an eye on England.”
The negotiations went… well, smoothly was not the word he’d choose, but it was hardly his worst dealings with men and women of power. He came out of his dealings with a few more grey hairs, but at least there hadn’t been any broken ribs.
When he entered the hall he imaged that Anthea and him would share a celebratory orange. Instead, Anthea was typing furiously on her Blackberry, her almost-always perfect hair beginning to frizz around the edges. He didn’t even have to ask, she already answered.
“Sherlock.” She grimaced and pushed her hair out of her face. “He’s found out about Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
Mycroft didn’t have to ask for elaboration, he just grabbed Anthea’s wrist and hurried out of the door.
The videos Anthea had ripped off of the Scotland Yard archive were nothing less of what Mycroft had expected of Sherlock. He was brutal and relentless, and he knew exactly how to break Lestrade apart.
It had started with a case--- a dangerous one involving a drug ring. Lestrade had been as cautious as he normally was, but when a kid was in danger he didn’t hesitate to put himself between the child and the barrage of bullets. According to the files, Sherlock witnessed Lestrade get hit by seven bullets.
Sherlock knew that there was no change of Lestrade surviving, and she he’d taken the child and managed to make it out of there alive. All in all, the case was solved and the criminals were apprehended. The real trouble began when Sherlock saw Lestrade climb into a cruiser with Sally.
Mycroft watched his little brother kick in the door to the conference room, making Sally and Anderson draw the blinds all while trying to get their hands on Sherlock. But Mycroft knew that his brother wouldn’t be dissuaded.
“I wondered why my brother kept you for so long.” Sherlock hissed in the video and pushed Sally and Anderson to the side, invading Lestrade’s personal space. “He never bothers himself with one man for long--- I’ve wondered what made you such an exception.”
Sally dug her nails into Sherlock’s shoulders and yanked him away from the DI, her eyes panicked.
“Get out, freak!”
But Sherlock wasn’t done, not when he had something new to sink his teeth into.
“My brother asks you all kinds of questions, doesn’t he?” Even the grainy picture couldn’t hide Lestrade’s flinch. “He’ll want it all, and pretty soon your answers won’t be enough.” Sherlock fought against Sally and Anderson’s grip. “He’ll want answers only science can provide. I know--- because I’d do exactly the same thing.”
Lestrade was silent; the only clue to his true anxiety was his quivering shoulders. He cleared his throat, straightening his spine.
“Is that it?”
Sherlock went still, his face smoothing over into ice.
“You should run. If you go now--- you might have a chance.”
After that, Sherlock left quickly. Sally and Anderson were silent, and Lestrade… he just stood there.
That was over two hours ago.
This time the train station was nearly empty. Mycroft’s footsteps echoed across the ceiling as he walked between the pillars. The screeches of incoming and outgoing trains burned the air and Mycroft could only hope that he wasn’t too late.
He followed the path of the CCTV cameras. There were five blind spots in the train station, and so far the first four spots were empty. Mycroft turned the corner, and sure enough the fifth spot had an occupant.
Gregory Lestrade sat on the bench in the musty corner of the station, a sports bag at his feet. His shoulders were slumped and his face was buried in his hands. Mycroft sat next to him, both of his hands clutching his wooden umbrella handle. The DI didn’t even look up as he spoke, his voice a ghostly shudder in the train station.
“I guess it’s no use running.”
Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to even smile. The lights flickered and he tightened his grip on the handle.
“I was scared.”
Lestrade finally pulled his hands away from his face as he looked up at Mycroft.
Mycroft leaned back against the bench.
“Last time we were here I had several reasons why it would be best for me to not step forward. My importance, my brother, the country… all logical explanations as to why I’d let a child take my place. But, in reality, I was scared.
Gregory’s lips curled a bit.
“Me too.” He sighed, his shoulders slumping even more. “Was he right?”
Mycroft licked his lips.
“Ten years ago, yes.”
The DI raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t care about then. I didn’t know you then. Now is a little more important.”
Mycroft nodded, his lips twitching.
“I’ll always be curious, more than most. In the beginning I would have done almost anything for a sample of your blood. Ten years ago I would have taken that and more.” Mycroft bowed his head. “I’ve since learned that satisfying my curiosity is a hollow pleasure when it includes… delicate matters.”
Lestrade’s shoulders relaxed marginally.
“Well… it’s not like you’re alone in that. I’m sure there will be others who won’t be as considerate.”
Mycroft felt his gaze harden.
“Don’t worry about them, they won’t be a problem.”
Gregory laughed, more out of shock than anything.
“That’s rather possessive of you.”
“One of my weaknesses.” The train pulled into the station. The doors hissed open, and the two men didn’t look away from each other. “You don’t have to go. I don’t want you to… but if it’s what you need I won’t stand in your way.”
Dark brown eyes shone in the dim lighting, and a warm, calloused hand closed over Mycroft’s.
The train left the station just as Mycroft was gently pulled into a kiss, Gregory murmuring against his lips.
“I think I’ll stay.”