No Special Favours - Standalone (Dad 'verse)
Title: No Special Favours
Author: Pic Akai
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock
Summary: Lestrade has to explain to Mycroft that just because he can use his influence, doesn't mean he should.
Word count: ~1,300
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the people, characters, situations etc in these works of fiction, except for the ones I have created. They are written for entertainment purposes and no infringement or specific comment on any person is intended.
Status: Finished.
Notes: This is just a quick scene in what I have imaginatively dubbed the Dad 'verse. It probably won't make much sense unless you've read Dad first.
Lestrade was a damn good copper. Scratch that, he was a damn good detective. He'd been in the force for more than a decade before Mycroft was even an adult, and he'd worked his way up the ladder using both hard work and skill. No matter what Sherlock said, he knew he was good at his job, or at least as good as the other DSs.
That was why he got so annoyed when Mycroft tried to do things like this.
He greeted his son with a warm hug. Mycroft never seemed to enjoy physical contact, per se, but he did tolerate it. Greg tried to hold back on it for his sake, but he felt it wrong somehow not to at least give hugs hello. It was part of the way he showed Mycroft he cared about him. Still, even that was starting to peter off, now Mycroft was getting older. It didn't mean Greg cared about him any less, just that they'd met each other once while both working and it had been a very weird experience. Definitely not the sort of situation for hugs, no matter what kind of relationship they had.
Sherlock was home for the weekend, but these days he was drifting further and further away from Mycroft not only emotionally, but physically. He was fifteen, so Greg supposed it was normal, but he couldn't help but worry. It had started after Laura's death - or was it before? - and things in general with Sherlock seemed to be going more and more wrong as the months passed. Well, no, not wrong exactly, Greg thought. Difficult. That was it. Sherlock was still within the sphere of normal, for him, but he was...difficult.
"Good evening, Greg," Mycroft greeted him after stiffly receiving the hug. He followed Greg into the living room after hanging up his coat and umbrella - Greg made a note to ask about that later; it hadn't rained in a month and a half - and sat down on the sofa. "Sherlock," he said, eyes on his brother.
Sherlock, curled up in an armchair, didn't respond.
"Sherlock," Greg admonished. "You're being rude."
"I know," Sherlock said.
"Stop it." There was a warning note in his voice which Greg was already tired of hearing. Sherlock had only been home three hours.
The boy exhaled loudly. "Good evening, Mycroft," he said, sounding terribly put upon.
"I appreciate the warm welcome," Mycroft sniped back. When Sherlock looked up over the edge of his book with raised eyebrows, Greg wanted to say, "You started it," but that would have been childish, so instead, he shot a reproachful look at Mycroft. Mycroft looked suitably chastened. Sherlock smirked.
His boys were back.
They talked for a short while about how Mycroft's new job was going. He'd never actually explained what it was, but then Greg suspected it didn't have an actual title, and probably didn't actually officially exist. Mycroft hadn't applied for it; he'd just been 'recruited' straight out of Cambridge. Well, technically, he was still there when they began sending him assignments. Sherlock joined in the conversation only occasionally to pass some negative comment, except for one point where he asked what seemed to be a genuine question. Unfortunately, Greg must have looked openly surprised and maybe a little pleased at that, because as soon as it was out of his mouth, Sherlock scowled and took his eyes firmly back to his book, even while Mycroft answered it.
"Right, now that we're settled in," Greg said, once he felt they were, "we've got to talk about this." Mycroft had his creepy blank face on, which Greg ignored as he always had done. There was no point his trying to work either of the Holmes boys out if they didn't want to be worked out. "Why have I had three new transfers to my team in the last month?"
"I presume they requested to move?" Mycroft replied, looking and sounding for all the world like he was hazarding a guess.
Greg's eyebrows came down. "You know very well they didn't," he said. "All right, maybe one of them. But two of them - and yes, I asked - said they'd just suddenly been told they had to move, had no choice in the matter. And even more interestingly, all of them were the best of their respective teams, if not their entire areas."
Mycroft did not reply.
"Oh, meddling in the police now, is it?" Sherlock spoke up, sounding gleeful. "Better be careful, you don't want to-"
"Sherlock," Greg interrupted him, "not now. I'm trying to talk to your brother."
"You told me I had to stay downstairs!" Sherlock protested, over-the-top, like what he'd actually been told to do was chain himself to a lion. No, he'd probably like that...have a week with no books, then. It was true, Greg had, and he passed a hand across his forehead. But he'd done it for a very particular reason; even though Sherlock put across that he hated enforced company and really just wanted to be left alone in his room the whole time, Greg knew that wasn't true. Granted, he only knew because Laura had explained it to him, many moons ago, but he knew. Sherlock would never ask for some things, especially not companionship. But he still wanted it, and often needed it just to stop from going round the bend. So if Greg had to order him into it, so be it.
"Feel free to start dinner, then," he said instead of pointing all this out. "That's still downstairs. Or you can be quiet for a moment, read your book, and let me talk to Mycroft."
Sherlock scowled and went silent, as Greg had been fairly sure he would. Greg turned back to the older brother.
"So," Greg continued, "where did they all come from? And we both know I don't mean literally."
Mycroft didn't look uncomfortable, which meant that he was. "Are they not useful assets for your team?" he asked.
"Between them, the closed case rate's gone up six per cent," Greg replied. "But that's not my point. Mycroft, you can't go meddling in my job. It's not right."
"Gregory," Mycroft said, thus clearly imploring, "you do an important job. I merely wanted to ensure it was as successful as you wish it to be. What's the harm?"
"I got where I am through hard work and good brains - not. A. Word, you - and I want it to stay that way. I know you're only trying to do something good, but what it really does is throw me off completely. Imagine how the solved rates of the teams those people left have changed? Mine isn't the only important job out there. And I don't want...special favours, or anything. I'm really proud of you, Mike. I am. I know you're doing well in your job, as you should be, and I couldn't be more pleased for you. But focus on what you're meant to be doing, not me. I'm all right." He sat back a moment while Mycroft though this through; not that Mycroft needed the time to formulate a reply, just to pick the one he thought Greg would like the best. "I don't want anything else coming from you unless I ask for it, right?" he said, to make things absolutely clear.
"How about Christmas presents?" Mycroft asked.
Greg smiled gently. "Promise me," he said. "I don't want to get a promotion and have to be wondering if I got it because I was good or because my son buttered somebody up."
Mycroft inclined his head. "I promise," he said.
"Good," Greg declared. "Now, what do we want for dinner?"
"Would it trouble you too much," Mycroft began hesitantly, "If I were to use my influence to procure some takeaway? Only," he looked a little apologetic, "I have to be up at six tomorrow, and I'm not sure I can risk home-cooked food."
Pic
This entry was originally posted at http://ficofpic.dreamwidth.org/47620.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Author: Pic Akai
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock
Summary: Lestrade has to explain to Mycroft that just because he can use his influence, doesn't mean he should.
Word count: ~1,300
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the people, characters, situations etc in these works of fiction, except for the ones I have created. They are written for entertainment purposes and no infringement or specific comment on any person is intended.
Status: Finished.
Notes: This is just a quick scene in what I have imaginatively dubbed the Dad 'verse. It probably won't make much sense unless you've read Dad first.
Lestrade was a damn good copper. Scratch that, he was a damn good detective. He'd been in the force for more than a decade before Mycroft was even an adult, and he'd worked his way up the ladder using both hard work and skill. No matter what Sherlock said, he knew he was good at his job, or at least as good as the other DSs.
That was why he got so annoyed when Mycroft tried to do things like this.
He greeted his son with a warm hug. Mycroft never seemed to enjoy physical contact, per se, but he did tolerate it. Greg tried to hold back on it for his sake, but he felt it wrong somehow not to at least give hugs hello. It was part of the way he showed Mycroft he cared about him. Still, even that was starting to peter off, now Mycroft was getting older. It didn't mean Greg cared about him any less, just that they'd met each other once while both working and it had been a very weird experience. Definitely not the sort of situation for hugs, no matter what kind of relationship they had.
Sherlock was home for the weekend, but these days he was drifting further and further away from Mycroft not only emotionally, but physically. He was fifteen, so Greg supposed it was normal, but he couldn't help but worry. It had started after Laura's death - or was it before? - and things in general with Sherlock seemed to be going more and more wrong as the months passed. Well, no, not wrong exactly, Greg thought. Difficult. That was it. Sherlock was still within the sphere of normal, for him, but he was...difficult.
"Good evening, Greg," Mycroft greeted him after stiffly receiving the hug. He followed Greg into the living room after hanging up his coat and umbrella - Greg made a note to ask about that later; it hadn't rained in a month and a half - and sat down on the sofa. "Sherlock," he said, eyes on his brother.
Sherlock, curled up in an armchair, didn't respond.
"Sherlock," Greg admonished. "You're being rude."
"I know," Sherlock said.
"Stop it." There was a warning note in his voice which Greg was already tired of hearing. Sherlock had only been home three hours.
The boy exhaled loudly. "Good evening, Mycroft," he said, sounding terribly put upon.
"I appreciate the warm welcome," Mycroft sniped back. When Sherlock looked up over the edge of his book with raised eyebrows, Greg wanted to say, "You started it," but that would have been childish, so instead, he shot a reproachful look at Mycroft. Mycroft looked suitably chastened. Sherlock smirked.
His boys were back.
They talked for a short while about how Mycroft's new job was going. He'd never actually explained what it was, but then Greg suspected it didn't have an actual title, and probably didn't actually officially exist. Mycroft hadn't applied for it; he'd just been 'recruited' straight out of Cambridge. Well, technically, he was still there when they began sending him assignments. Sherlock joined in the conversation only occasionally to pass some negative comment, except for one point where he asked what seemed to be a genuine question. Unfortunately, Greg must have looked openly surprised and maybe a little pleased at that, because as soon as it was out of his mouth, Sherlock scowled and took his eyes firmly back to his book, even while Mycroft answered it.
"Right, now that we're settled in," Greg said, once he felt they were, "we've got to talk about this." Mycroft had his creepy blank face on, which Greg ignored as he always had done. There was no point his trying to work either of the Holmes boys out if they didn't want to be worked out. "Why have I had three new transfers to my team in the last month?"
"I presume they requested to move?" Mycroft replied, looking and sounding for all the world like he was hazarding a guess.
Greg's eyebrows came down. "You know very well they didn't," he said. "All right, maybe one of them. But two of them - and yes, I asked - said they'd just suddenly been told they had to move, had no choice in the matter. And even more interestingly, all of them were the best of their respective teams, if not their entire areas."
Mycroft did not reply.
"Oh, meddling in the police now, is it?" Sherlock spoke up, sounding gleeful. "Better be careful, you don't want to-"
"Sherlock," Greg interrupted him, "not now. I'm trying to talk to your brother."
"You told me I had to stay downstairs!" Sherlock protested, over-the-top, like what he'd actually been told to do was chain himself to a lion. No, he'd probably like that...have a week with no books, then. It was true, Greg had, and he passed a hand across his forehead. But he'd done it for a very particular reason; even though Sherlock put across that he hated enforced company and really just wanted to be left alone in his room the whole time, Greg knew that wasn't true. Granted, he only knew because Laura had explained it to him, many moons ago, but he knew. Sherlock would never ask for some things, especially not companionship. But he still wanted it, and often needed it just to stop from going round the bend. So if Greg had to order him into it, so be it.
"Feel free to start dinner, then," he said instead of pointing all this out. "That's still downstairs. Or you can be quiet for a moment, read your book, and let me talk to Mycroft."
Sherlock scowled and went silent, as Greg had been fairly sure he would. Greg turned back to the older brother.
"So," Greg continued, "where did they all come from? And we both know I don't mean literally."
Mycroft didn't look uncomfortable, which meant that he was. "Are they not useful assets for your team?" he asked.
"Between them, the closed case rate's gone up six per cent," Greg replied. "But that's not my point. Mycroft, you can't go meddling in my job. It's not right."
"Gregory," Mycroft said, thus clearly imploring, "you do an important job. I merely wanted to ensure it was as successful as you wish it to be. What's the harm?"
"I got where I am through hard work and good brains - not. A. Word, you - and I want it to stay that way. I know you're only trying to do something good, but what it really does is throw me off completely. Imagine how the solved rates of the teams those people left have changed? Mine isn't the only important job out there. And I don't want...special favours, or anything. I'm really proud of you, Mike. I am. I know you're doing well in your job, as you should be, and I couldn't be more pleased for you. But focus on what you're meant to be doing, not me. I'm all right." He sat back a moment while Mycroft though this through; not that Mycroft needed the time to formulate a reply, just to pick the one he thought Greg would like the best. "I don't want anything else coming from you unless I ask for it, right?" he said, to make things absolutely clear.
"How about Christmas presents?" Mycroft asked.
Greg smiled gently. "Promise me," he said. "I don't want to get a promotion and have to be wondering if I got it because I was good or because my son buttered somebody up."
Mycroft inclined his head. "I promise," he said.
"Good," Greg declared. "Now, what do we want for dinner?"
"Would it trouble you too much," Mycroft began hesitantly, "If I were to use my influence to procure some takeaway? Only," he looked a little apologetic, "I have to be up at six tomorrow, and I'm not sure I can risk home-cooked food."
Pic
This entry was originally posted at http://ficofpic.dreamwidth.org/47620.html. Please comment there using OpenID.