FIC: Impact. 2/3 Mycroft/Lestrade
Title: Impact 2/3
Author: Elf
Summary: Impact: The action of one object coming forcibly into contact with another.
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: NC17
Length: 4660, this part. 21,700 overall.
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: They're not mine. Or yours. But we'll share, right?
Author's Note: Massive 'thank you' to randomly_rusted for long chats into the night and beta-reading. Also thank you to yminga for the translation work. I'm nothing without them.
Also, this part contains some French. The English is underneath each line, in white, so you need to highlight it for the translation (unless you're forcing a style which has a coloured background, in which case you'll get it anyway.)
Chapter One is here.
Holmes stared at his 'phone. It wasn't often he didn't know what to do. Usually he wasn't even aware of any 'wrong' options - he was confident in himself, his decisions, his knowledge. But now…now he wished that dating (and exactly when it had turned into 'dating', rather than a formal business arrangement in his mind, he wasn't quite sure) was simply a matter of asking your secretary to phone their secretary and put everything into place.
Not that Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade had a secretary, which was the first stumbling block.
He did, however, have a fair record with the Metropolitan Police. His arrest and conviction rates were consistently at the high end of the scale, although this was slightly marred on occasion by a temper that he struggled to keep in check. It seemed as if someone at the Yard had taken him in hand, though, and the recent years showed a decline in reckless behaviour. Not that Holmes could blame him for wanting to dole out some rough justice, as he read about some of the cases Lestrade had dealt with as part of one of Scotland Yard's Murder squads.
He showed absolutely no signs of corruption. He worked hard, smoked too much, didn't take good enough care of himself, and perhaps cared a little too much, but Holmes couldn't really fault him for such things. He was aware of his own failings in such directions, too.
Holmes hadn't allowed himself to delve into the man's personal life. All he was doing, he told himself, was checking him out for the security aspect. Nothing else. He would not allow himself to abuse his power for personal gain.
Somehow though, that knowledge made it harder to lift the phone, because he knew there was nothing stopping him except for his own mind. Still, Mycroft Holmes was not a quitter. He wouldn't allow a little thing like nerves to stand in his way. He could face down world leaders, his hand had hovered over red buttons without trembling, so no damn mobile phone was going to stop him.
He picked it up and dialled. The harsh ring sounded in his ear. Of course, he told himself, it was sensible to try the work landline first. It wasn't that he didn't expect there to be an answer at eight in the evening on a Friday. It wasn't…
"Yes? Lestrade." The voice was angry, abrupt, unwelcoming. It shocked Holmes out of his thoughts.
He cleared his throat. "Um, Sergeant Lestrade? It's Mycroft Holmes. I'm terribly sorry to call so late…"
"Mr Holmes."
And Holmes thought he detected a softening of the tone.
"I'm sorry, I thought…never mind. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
And Holmes could imagine Lestrade stretching out on his cheap office chair, head tilted back to ease the cramped neck, brought on by too many hours hunched over a desk.
"I…I wanted to apologise. The insurance is taking slightly longer than I had hoped. It's…procedures, you understand? I assure you there won't be a problem."
"I understand. Just hope it doesn't take them as long as it did to get my tax rebate. I'll be needing a mobility scooter then, not a bike."
Holmes couldn't help but smile, imagining Lestrade's own grin. He leant back in his comfortable leather seat, swinging around a little to regard London from his window, the lights just beginning to flicker on across the city. He found himself trying to pick out the exact direction in which Scotland Yard lay.
"I wondered if, by way of an apology, you might allow me to buy you dinner tonight," he said. "I can pick you up shortly, if you have the time, that is…"
There was a pause, a slight sigh and Holmes worried, for a moment, that he might be about to be turned down.
"That would be nice, yeah," Lestrade finally said. "Would you rather I just met you somewhere?"
"No, no, especially as you currently are without transport. Please, I shall be there in my car shortly."
"Same driver?" And there was a hint of amusement in the tone.
He gave a low chuckle. "No, I have a new one. He's very good. Hasn't claimed a single victim all week."
There was a laugh from the other end of the line.
"I shall be with you directly."
Holmes ended the call, smiling. It hadn't gone nearly as badly as he thought. Lestrade even seemed rather…happy…about hearing from him, if the tone of his voice was to be trusted. He had certainly ended the conversation sounding a good deal happier than the rather abrupt answer had left Holmes hoping for. He stood and pulled on his jacket, carefully adjusting his collar and then cuffs so they sat just so. As he walked out of the door he picked up his umbrella and swung it as he made his way out of the office, to the waiting car.
~~~~~~~~~~
Lestrade stood on the steps of Scotland Yard, sheltering from the pouring rain. He smoked a quick cigarette as he waited. The air was warm, but the rain was welcome - the city had been parched for too long. It was typical, though, that he had been forced to wear his decent clothes for a court appearance that morning, and was now going to get soaked.
The black car - or, he corrected himself, a black car, without any dents - pulled up to the kerb nearby. He turned his collar up and was about to step out into the weather when the driver of the car emerged, unfurling an umbrella and jogging across to Lestrade. He smiled - he should have known better.
"Here, Sir, sorry I couldn't park closer," he said, holding the umbrella above them both and walking back to the car, opening the door for Lestrade, who climbed inside and sat back on the expensive leather seats, not even damp around the edges. And there was Mycroft Holmes, immaculate in a three piece suit and looking smarter than Lestrade ever had in his life. Lestrade smiled.
The door closed with an expensive sounding 'thunk', the driver climbed in, shaking the umbrella out and starting the car with the purr of a powerful engine.
"Good evening, Sergeant," Holmes almost purred.
"Good evening, Mr Holmes," Lestrade replied. "And it's Lestrade. Or Greg, if you want…but hardly anyone calls me that."
"Indeed. And Mycroft, please."
Lestrade shifted slightly, already feeling under-dressed, especially, he was beginning to realise, as they were probably going to go somewhere achingly posh for dinner. He didn't even have a tie - it had been consigned back to his desk drawer the moment he got back to the Yard. He wondered if he should ask if Mycroft had a spare one. Hell, the man probably had an entire spare wardrobe.
"Good day?" Lestrade asked, to break the silence.
"Yes, excellent. Some…situations, which I believed could cause us problems have been neatly dealt with. And as such, I found myself free this evening. And yourself?"
Lestrade wondered who exactly 'us' was - the Government, or the population at large. "Um, yeah, fine. Was in court this morning, then paperwork and things, another kid got himself knifed earlier."
"You didn't seem in the best of spirits when I rang?" There was a caring tone to Holmes' voice, and Lestrade couldn't help but smile, remembering his annoyance at the phone ringing yet again, earlier in the evening, when he should have been long gone.
"Oh, just…y'know, dealing with pointless killing. It just…he was only fifteen…sorry, I was pretty rude, huh?" Lestrade fiddled with the edge of his jacket.
Holmes waved a hand as if it were nothing. "That must indeed be difficult to cope with. Have you any leads?"
Lestrade nodded. "We'll work it out - everyone's being a bit quiet at the moment - misplaced loyalty, gangs and all. But we'll get there."
The car pulled up in a quiet side-street, and Holmes opened the door without waiting for the driver. He opened up his umbrella, so Lestrade also clambered out, the heavy rain immediately soaking into his jacket. He looked up at the impressive building they had parked outside, the rain falling in his face…and then his heart almost stopped. A Freemason's Lodge. He'd avoided that sort of shit his entire career, he wasn't about to be dragged into it just because he was lusting after Holmes. It stood for everything he didn't. But it explained a lot - the young man, in such a powerful position, the money.
And then the umbrella was above him, and Holmes was standing close - close enough for Lestrade to feel the heat of his body through his own thin cotton shirt.
"That will be all for now, Ackers. I shall call when were ready to leave," Holmes called to his driver.
Lestrade wondered how he could get out of the situation - hell, if it came to it he'd just have to say he wasn't interested and walk away, literally. He may have been willing to drop his trousers for the man, but not roll up one leg of them.
And then arm which held the umbrella was almost around Lestrade's shoulders, their bodies nearly touching…Lestrade had no idea if he was reading far too much into the situation or not. And he was gently turned around, away from the lodge and guided across the street and under the awning of what looked to be a busy yet cosy restaurant. The interior was lit by candles and gentle lighting, the walls were dark and had black and white photographs in rustic wooden frames. The tables were the same chunky rough-hewn wood.
It allayed some of Lestrade's fears about finding himself in The Ivy or The Ritz or something. And, glancing across the road, he realised he really didn't know what he was getting himself into.
Holmes shook out the umbrella as Lestrade pulled open the door. Lestrade gestured Holmes to go first, and his cock twitched slightly in his trousers as he remembered the last time they had done this, albeit with positions reversed. He looked appreciatively at the cut of the suit, which accentuated Holmes’ figure perfectly.
Holmes stepped inside, and immediately a waiter was by his side, gesturing to a table after a few soft words were spoken.
Lestrade followed the two of them to a table near the back of the room, tucked into a corner. Lestrade watched as the waiter took Holmes' umbrella and then stepped forward to ease Lestrade's jacket from his shoulders.
"How are your injuries?" Holmes asked, as they sat down.
"What? Oh, fine, thanks." Lestrade's hand slid unbidden to his side, touching the fabric which concealed the large graze and impressive array of colours from the bruising. At Holmes' disbelieving look he gave a small shrug. "Bit bruised, that's all."
"I must admit, I've never had the opportunity to ride on a motorcycle," Holmes said. "Although it seems a sensible choice, in the city these days."
Lestrade smiled, then waited as Holmes ordered wine, looking at him quizzically, to check the choices were all right, although all Lestrade could do was shrug and nod, as he didn't really have much of a clue. "Yeah, fastest way to get around. And with the congestion charge nowadays, the cheapest, too. You should try it sometime - it's a lot of fun."
"Until someone knocks you off," Holmes murmured.
"Well," Lestrade shrugged. "Even that has proved to be quite a lot of fun."
Holmes smiled, a polite, almost embarrassed smile, and it made Lestrade's chest clench slightly, finding it endearing that this man with everything could still seem so vulnerable when it came to talking about more personal things.
"And you'd had that motorcycle for some years?" Holmes asked.
Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, second hand - but only just. Got it from a friend - his missus got pregnant, made him sell it for a sensible car. Good run around - good for the city."
"Ah, I see. Yes, I can imagine it wouldn't be ideal, for a family."
"It was perfect for me though - my other half didn't want me getting one, even though I've been riding for years. Thought it was too dangerous," Lestrade looked up at Holmes and swore he could almost see the barriers coming down - like when he had a suspect in the interview room and threw them a piece of irrefutable proof of their guilt. Holmes leant back in his seat, adjusted the front of his waistcoat, fiddled with the knife on his side plate. Lestrade frowned, wondering what he'd said…oh.
Just as he realised the waiter returned, fresh sliced bread in one hand a bottle of white in the other - condensation running from it. The waiter went through the pantomime of showing the bottle, uncorking, offering a taste to Holmes - who sniffed it, swirled it, drank a little, contemplated and finally nodded his approval. Lestrade waited until both their glasses where charged, then picked his up and held it to Holmes. "Cheers," he said, sipping it. Then continued. "Glad I bought it, though - cos he left me a few weeks later. Couldn't cope with the job, y'know? All the late nights, phonecalls in the early hours, that stuff."
And there was a visible relaxation, not just because of the excellent wine, either. Lestrade couldn't help but feel they were now engaged in a dance - each one trying to work out where the other was going to step, advancing and retreating, trying not to stumble. He was usually reasonably confident, but Holmes' was not his usual type. If he had been they'd have been in the pub right now, and dinner would be a kebab on the way home, followed by the possibility of some hot sweaty sex on the sofa. He wasn't entirely sure Holmes was capable of sweating - he looked calm and cool in his three-piece suit, whilst Lestrade could feel a slight dampness on his own body, despite just wearing his shirt.
"I can recommend the venison and the quail. Or the lamb. Well, to be quite honest, I could recommend anything here," Holmes gestured at the single white sheet of paper - the menu was beautifully simple - Lestrade had been worried he wouldn't understand half of it. "The chef is very highly skilled. And everything is fresh."
Lestrade nodded, reading down the list. He agreed that the venison and quail did sound amazing. He glanced around to see other people eating and drinking, the odd waiter gliding around with plates of what seemed to be good honest food - no frilly pointless tiny portions.
Occasionally a huge piece of meat would be served, on a block, and Lestrade watched as up to four people would share it out. The people were a good mix, too - from people dressed more casually to those clearly in the restaurant either straight after work or for a more formal occasion. Although the hot weather was encouraging everyone to dress down. Lestrade was glad he had been in court, though - he would have felt very slightly out of place in his battered, frayed jeans and a t-shirt.
When the food arrived it was delicious, a world away from the limp salad he'd eaten for lunch at his desk. They discussed food for a while, and Holmes insisted that Lestrade try the duck he had ordered, although refused some of Lestrade's in return.
Lestrade found himself relaxing, enjoying Holmes' company. The other man also seemed to be relaxing a little - laughing more readily, allowing some small details about himself to slip into the conversation. Lestrade gathered that he had travelled extensively, although he also guessed it was mainly for work, rather than pleasure.
A waiter arrived to collect their plates and Holmes smiled up at him.
"Ah, Thierry, c’est bon de vous revoir."
"Ah, Thierry, how nice to see you again."
"M. Holmes, tout le plaisir est mien. Avez-vous apprécié votre premier plat?" the waiter replied, efficiently stacking the plates.
"Mr Holmes, nice to see you too. Did you enjoy your first course?"
"Oui, merci, c’était délicieux. Comment se déroulent vos études ? Bien, je suppose?" Holmes dabbed his lips with his serviette.
"Yes, thank you, delicious. How are your studies going? Well, I trust?"
Lestrade felt his eyebrows lifting in surprise. Just another talent, he supposed. He wondered if there was an end to them.
"Oui, merci M. Holmes, très bien. Je m’amuse beaucoup."
"Yes, thank you Mr Holmes, very well. I'm enjoying myself a lot."
"Et vous trouvez également le temps d’apprécier Londres, j’espère?"
"And finding time to enjoy London, too, I hope."
"En effet, merci. C’est une bien belle ville."
"Yes, a lot, thank you. It's a wonderful city."
The waiter nodded to Lestrade and walked away. Holmes turned back to Lestrade. "I'm sorry, I do come here often enough to know some of the staff. I didn't intend to be rude."
"Vous n’étiez pas malpoli. Je suis heureux qu’il se plaise à Londres. Qu’étudie-t-il?" Lestrade answered, and for a moment he enjoyed the look of utter surprise on Holmes' face.
"You weren't rude. I'm glad he likes London. What's he studying?"
"Mon père était français," Lestrade explained. "Bien que je ne le parle plus beaucoup."
"My Father was French," Lestrade explained. "Although I don't speak it often now."
~~~~~~~~
Holmes attempted to keep the shock from showing on his face. He imagined he failed, from the very slightly embarrassed look on Lestrade's face.
"I see. I suppose I should have guessed, from the name," he said. "I didn't mean to imply…He studies history, at Kings."
Lestrade waved a hand, and Holmes watched as the hand then found its way to the second button on his shirt and undid it, unselfconsciously exposing more skin.
"And…do you have family there? Visit often?"
Lestrade looked away, and Holmes immediately realised the question was a poor one. "Um, no, well, not really. I try to visit friends, sometimes."
"I'm sorry, I didn't intend to pry," Holmes said.
"No, it's fine, it's just complicated. Both my parents died when I was young, that's all," Lestrade's hand waved as if it were nothing, but his eyes told a different story.
"I see, I am sorry," Holmes nodded. "And yet you still speak French, with a slight Parisian accent, I think?"
Lestrade gave a small grin. "Yeah. Grandparents, and friends. I don't speak it often enough though - I still sound like a teenager, I'm afraid. It's a bit embarrassing, really." And the smile shone out again, finally.
Holmes swallowed, and considered removing his jacket, feeling as if the temperature in the room was rising.
"It is rather warm, isn't it?" he said softly, standing and shrugged out of his own jacket, smiling in thanks to the waiter who appeared to take it from him.
He took a moment to adjust his cuffs and tug his waistcoat down smoothly and glanced at Lestrade to see something like hunger in the brown eyes. He gave a small smile as he retook his seat.
Lestrade was, he was certain, the subject of more than a few stolen glances in the room. And as the other man excused himself to use the toilet, he confirmed his suspicions by watching the other patrons - mainly women, though - track his progress through the room until he disappeared down the stairs. He sat back, pulling the wine from its ice bucket and recharging both their glasses. The evening was, he thought, going very well. Yet he was still unsure of how it might end. Some part of him hoped he would be able to entice Lestrade back to his house, and…get to know him in the flesh, for want of a better phrase. However, even the thought of it made his pulse rate increase. If he invited the man back then that was a clear signal - and one he wasn't sure he was ready to give. But it would be very awkward - not to mention rude - to then try to eject Lestrade if he didn't feel ready. However, he could offer Lestrade a lift home, and then perhaps…he could always leave, he told himself, if he felt things were going in a direction with which he wasn't comfortable.
He didn't know if he regretted not being more experienced at this sort of thing, or if he was glad that he'd never spent the time worrying about it, to the detriment of his other activities. He had known people at university who spent almost every evening pursuing, catching or getting over one sexual partner or another. It had all seemed, to him, to be a frightful waste of time and energy.
By the time their desserts arrived on the table he was even more unsure about his course of action. Watching Lestrade eat a crème caramel was ensuring that Holmes wouldn't be able to stand up without some embarrassment for a short time, at least. And Lestrade's insistence that he try some - leading to him holding out a small spoonful and feeding him was most definitely unhelpful to the fit of his trousers. He was glad the large white napkin was bunched up on his lap.
He ordered a dessert wine, as a finishing touch, despite Lestrade's assurance that it wasn't necessary. And he enjoyed every second of watching the man sip the sweet Ice Wine, surprise evident on his face and the inevitable questions about it. He remembered when he had been introduced to the sweet, nectar-like substance, and how amazed he'd been by the taste.
When the bill arrived he placed his credit card on the silver plate without even looking at it.
"Hey, come on, I should pay half," Lestrade insisted.
"Absolutely not - it's really the least I can do, having put you through so much pain and trouble," he picked up the plate as Lestrade reached for it.
"Yeah, but that doesn't mean…I mean, you don't need to do this," Lestrade held out his hand.
"I insist." Holmes gestured to the waiter and put the plate safely into his hands, not allowing Lestrade any further chances to grab it.
Lestrade sat back in his seat, and Holmes felt a small victory.
"Besides, it was I who invited you to dinner, and it would be incredibly rude of me to allow you to pay for anything," he finished, putting his PIN into the machine the waiter offered him.
Even so, he ensured that Lestrade wasn't looking when he slipped the banknotes into Thierry's hand as a tip when he was offered his coat by the boy. He did so dislike vulgar shows of wealth.
They stood outside the restaurant, watching the unrelenting rain as it poured from the awning, ran in torrents down the gutters and soaked unprepared Londoners. Lestrade rolled and lit a cigarette - a picture of relaxation, with his jacket slung over his arm, leaning back against the wall, as Mycroft called his driver.
"That was very kind of you," Lestrade said, as Holmes slipped his 'phone back into his pocket. "And really delicious."
He smiled. "I'm glad it was to your taste. I do try to come here quite often - their menu changes each day."
"Yeah, really nice. Not often you get really decent food that's not all poncy - y'know, a few sticks of carrot glued to a snail or whatever."
He couldn't help but smile. "Indeed. I must admit that so-called 'nouvelle cuisine' is not to my taste."
"Well, guess I should get going," Lestrade said. "I guess I'll…be in touch? About the bike?"
"Oh, please, you must allow me to give you a lift home," Holmes said. "I am, after all, the reason you're without transport of your own. And in such weather, too…"
Lestrade gave a lopsided smile. "Are you sure? I mean, it's not really on your way - well, it's past your way, by quite a bit. I live up in Kilburn."
"All the more reason I should give you a lift and not consign you to public transport," Holmes answered.
The car slid up to the kerb and Holmes unfurled his umbrella as Lestrade stamped on the butt of his cigarette. He ushered Lestrade into the car, waiting for him to slide over before climbing himself - a move that left Lestrade closer to the middle of the seat, his leg touching Holmes' own as he sat in an unselfconscious sprawl. Holmes felt a small amount of envy at anyone so comfortable in their own skin. He always had the sharp tones of various aunts, nannies and school teachers in his ears, telling him to sit up straight and square his shoulders.
"If you tell Ackers your address then we'll have you home in a moment," he said.
Lestrade leant forward and gave his address to the driver, and Holmes took the moment to enjoy the shirt pulled tight over strong shoulders, dipping down to the creases where it was tucked into the waistband of Lestrade's trousers, a worn leather belt just allowing a slight gap to appear between the two fabrics. He yearned to reach out and run his fingers down the smooth curve of Lestrade's spine, to feel the warmth - then to wrap his hand around the soft skin of his sides - the slight tautness of flesh between rib and hip that his fingers remembered so well from applying the cream when they first met.
And then in a swift motion Lestrade was leaning back, even closer to him than before, a gentle smile on his face.
"When I get a new ride, I'll return the favour," Lestrade said, his grin broadening. Then he pulled the seatbelt around his waist, and his fingers brushed against Holmes' hip, and Holmes' could swear he could still feel the touch long after it had gone.
The ride through the London streets was far shorter than Holmes would have liked - purely because he didn't want the night to end.
As they pulled up outside a block of flats Holmes once again reached for his umbrella.
"Don't worry, I can run in from here," Lestrade said, his hand catching Holmes', skin warm, touch gentle yet firm.
"Nonsense, I insist, please," Holmes climbed out of the car, and watched as Lestrade exited from his own side, splashing through the puddles as he walked around the car to reach Holmes, his shirt soaked even walking the few metres. Holmes shook his head in mock exasperation, then began walking to the entranceway.
Lestrade opened the main door and stepped inside, gesturing Holmes in after him.
"Well, I shall be in touch, regarding the motorcycle," Holmes said, his gaze wandering from the sparkling droplets of water caught in Lestrade's softly-spiked hair to the wet, clinging fabric of the shirt on Lestrade's muscular shoulders.
"Yeah," Lestrade ran his hand through his hair, and glanced up the stairwell, looking almost nervous, to Holmes. "And, um…it'd be nice if you…you know, were just in touch anyway. I mean, for a start you've got to let me buy you dinner, next time."
Holmes couldn't help but smile. "Yes, quite. I shall…or you're quite welcome to call, too, of course."
Lestrade nodded, and then seemed to make up his mind, glancing out of the door into the gloom of the night and then closing the gap between them. His hands rose up and he gently bunched Holmes' lapels into his fists, then kissed him, body pressing against his, warmth blanketing him from knee to chest.
Holmes closed his eyes, and this time, unlike last, opened his own mouth slightly, inviting further exploration. He found his hands sliding around Lestrade, fingers catching on belt-loops, pulling him closer, increasing the pressure between them.
And then Lestrade pulled away, very slightly, and brought his hand up further, gently running his fingertips along Holmes' jawline, leaving a tingling wake of sensation. "Will you come up?" Lestrade asked, in a husky whisper.
"I…" and Holmes was tempted. But for the new driver, waiting outside, and the knowledge he had a videocall in the morning which he couldn't postpone, and the fear that whatever happened in the flat wouldn't be on his terms, and would inevitably lead to little or no sleep. "I can't. Not now. But…"
He was silenced by another kiss, and a slight shift in the warm body pressing against his made his eyes widen as a definite hardness pressed against his thigh.
Lestrade broke the kiss again, and Holmes knew he should close his mouth and pull himself together - but he also knew that his own penis was rapidly growing heavy and hardening in his briefs, and somehow it precluded all sensible thoughts.
"But…maybe next time?" Lestrade asked, softly, deep chocolate-brown eyes searching his.
He managed to nod. "Yes, yes. Maybe," he said, feeling ridiculous for sounding as if he was panting. "And…thank you, for the company and the…just, thank you."
Lestrade moved away, his gaze raking Holmes' body, and an obvious hunger in his eyes. He nodded, once, then released the door locks, pulling it open.
"Soon?" he asked, as Holmes stepped out into the rain.
"Yes!" Holmes answered, smiling. "Yes, soon."
TBC...
Chapter 3a
Author: Elf
Summary: Impact: The action of one object coming forcibly into contact with another.
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: NC17
Length: 4660, this part. 21,700 overall.
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: They're not mine. Or yours. But we'll share, right?
Author's Note: Massive 'thank you' to randomly_rusted for long chats into the night and beta-reading. Also thank you to yminga for the translation work. I'm nothing without them.
Also, this part contains some French. The English is underneath each line, in white, so you need to highlight it for the translation (unless you're forcing a style which has a coloured background, in which case you'll get it anyway.)
Chapter One is here.
Holmes stared at his 'phone. It wasn't often he didn't know what to do. Usually he wasn't even aware of any 'wrong' options - he was confident in himself, his decisions, his knowledge. But now…now he wished that dating (and exactly when it had turned into 'dating', rather than a formal business arrangement in his mind, he wasn't quite sure) was simply a matter of asking your secretary to phone their secretary and put everything into place.
Not that Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade had a secretary, which was the first stumbling block.
He did, however, have a fair record with the Metropolitan Police. His arrest and conviction rates were consistently at the high end of the scale, although this was slightly marred on occasion by a temper that he struggled to keep in check. It seemed as if someone at the Yard had taken him in hand, though, and the recent years showed a decline in reckless behaviour. Not that Holmes could blame him for wanting to dole out some rough justice, as he read about some of the cases Lestrade had dealt with as part of one of Scotland Yard's Murder squads.
He showed absolutely no signs of corruption. He worked hard, smoked too much, didn't take good enough care of himself, and perhaps cared a little too much, but Holmes couldn't really fault him for such things. He was aware of his own failings in such directions, too.
Holmes hadn't allowed himself to delve into the man's personal life. All he was doing, he told himself, was checking him out for the security aspect. Nothing else. He would not allow himself to abuse his power for personal gain.
Somehow though, that knowledge made it harder to lift the phone, because he knew there was nothing stopping him except for his own mind. Still, Mycroft Holmes was not a quitter. He wouldn't allow a little thing like nerves to stand in his way. He could face down world leaders, his hand had hovered over red buttons without trembling, so no damn mobile phone was going to stop him.
He picked it up and dialled. The harsh ring sounded in his ear. Of course, he told himself, it was sensible to try the work landline first. It wasn't that he didn't expect there to be an answer at eight in the evening on a Friday. It wasn't…
"Yes? Lestrade." The voice was angry, abrupt, unwelcoming. It shocked Holmes out of his thoughts.
He cleared his throat. "Um, Sergeant Lestrade? It's Mycroft Holmes. I'm terribly sorry to call so late…"
"Mr Holmes."
And Holmes thought he detected a softening of the tone.
"I'm sorry, I thought…never mind. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
And Holmes could imagine Lestrade stretching out on his cheap office chair, head tilted back to ease the cramped neck, brought on by too many hours hunched over a desk.
"I…I wanted to apologise. The insurance is taking slightly longer than I had hoped. It's…procedures, you understand? I assure you there won't be a problem."
"I understand. Just hope it doesn't take them as long as it did to get my tax rebate. I'll be needing a mobility scooter then, not a bike."
Holmes couldn't help but smile, imagining Lestrade's own grin. He leant back in his comfortable leather seat, swinging around a little to regard London from his window, the lights just beginning to flicker on across the city. He found himself trying to pick out the exact direction in which Scotland Yard lay.
"I wondered if, by way of an apology, you might allow me to buy you dinner tonight," he said. "I can pick you up shortly, if you have the time, that is…"
There was a pause, a slight sigh and Holmes worried, for a moment, that he might be about to be turned down.
"That would be nice, yeah," Lestrade finally said. "Would you rather I just met you somewhere?"
"No, no, especially as you currently are without transport. Please, I shall be there in my car shortly."
"Same driver?" And there was a hint of amusement in the tone.
He gave a low chuckle. "No, I have a new one. He's very good. Hasn't claimed a single victim all week."
There was a laugh from the other end of the line.
"I shall be with you directly."
Holmes ended the call, smiling. It hadn't gone nearly as badly as he thought. Lestrade even seemed rather…happy…about hearing from him, if the tone of his voice was to be trusted. He had certainly ended the conversation sounding a good deal happier than the rather abrupt answer had left Holmes hoping for. He stood and pulled on his jacket, carefully adjusting his collar and then cuffs so they sat just so. As he walked out of the door he picked up his umbrella and swung it as he made his way out of the office, to the waiting car.
~~~~~~~~~~
Lestrade stood on the steps of Scotland Yard, sheltering from the pouring rain. He smoked a quick cigarette as he waited. The air was warm, but the rain was welcome - the city had been parched for too long. It was typical, though, that he had been forced to wear his decent clothes for a court appearance that morning, and was now going to get soaked.
The black car - or, he corrected himself, a black car, without any dents - pulled up to the kerb nearby. He turned his collar up and was about to step out into the weather when the driver of the car emerged, unfurling an umbrella and jogging across to Lestrade. He smiled - he should have known better.
"Here, Sir, sorry I couldn't park closer," he said, holding the umbrella above them both and walking back to the car, opening the door for Lestrade, who climbed inside and sat back on the expensive leather seats, not even damp around the edges. And there was Mycroft Holmes, immaculate in a three piece suit and looking smarter than Lestrade ever had in his life. Lestrade smiled.
The door closed with an expensive sounding 'thunk', the driver climbed in, shaking the umbrella out and starting the car with the purr of a powerful engine.
"Good evening, Sergeant," Holmes almost purred.
"Good evening, Mr Holmes," Lestrade replied. "And it's Lestrade. Or Greg, if you want…but hardly anyone calls me that."
"Indeed. And Mycroft, please."
Lestrade shifted slightly, already feeling under-dressed, especially, he was beginning to realise, as they were probably going to go somewhere achingly posh for dinner. He didn't even have a tie - it had been consigned back to his desk drawer the moment he got back to the Yard. He wondered if he should ask if Mycroft had a spare one. Hell, the man probably had an entire spare wardrobe.
"Good day?" Lestrade asked, to break the silence.
"Yes, excellent. Some…situations, which I believed could cause us problems have been neatly dealt with. And as such, I found myself free this evening. And yourself?"
Lestrade wondered who exactly 'us' was - the Government, or the population at large. "Um, yeah, fine. Was in court this morning, then paperwork and things, another kid got himself knifed earlier."
"You didn't seem in the best of spirits when I rang?" There was a caring tone to Holmes' voice, and Lestrade couldn't help but smile, remembering his annoyance at the phone ringing yet again, earlier in the evening, when he should have been long gone.
"Oh, just…y'know, dealing with pointless killing. It just…he was only fifteen…sorry, I was pretty rude, huh?" Lestrade fiddled with the edge of his jacket.
Holmes waved a hand as if it were nothing. "That must indeed be difficult to cope with. Have you any leads?"
Lestrade nodded. "We'll work it out - everyone's being a bit quiet at the moment - misplaced loyalty, gangs and all. But we'll get there."
The car pulled up in a quiet side-street, and Holmes opened the door without waiting for the driver. He opened up his umbrella, so Lestrade also clambered out, the heavy rain immediately soaking into his jacket. He looked up at the impressive building they had parked outside, the rain falling in his face…and then his heart almost stopped. A Freemason's Lodge. He'd avoided that sort of shit his entire career, he wasn't about to be dragged into it just because he was lusting after Holmes. It stood for everything he didn't. But it explained a lot - the young man, in such a powerful position, the money.
And then the umbrella was above him, and Holmes was standing close - close enough for Lestrade to feel the heat of his body through his own thin cotton shirt.
"That will be all for now, Ackers. I shall call when were ready to leave," Holmes called to his driver.
Lestrade wondered how he could get out of the situation - hell, if it came to it he'd just have to say he wasn't interested and walk away, literally. He may have been willing to drop his trousers for the man, but not roll up one leg of them.
And then arm which held the umbrella was almost around Lestrade's shoulders, their bodies nearly touching…Lestrade had no idea if he was reading far too much into the situation or not. And he was gently turned around, away from the lodge and guided across the street and under the awning of what looked to be a busy yet cosy restaurant. The interior was lit by candles and gentle lighting, the walls were dark and had black and white photographs in rustic wooden frames. The tables were the same chunky rough-hewn wood.
It allayed some of Lestrade's fears about finding himself in The Ivy or The Ritz or something. And, glancing across the road, he realised he really didn't know what he was getting himself into.
Holmes shook out the umbrella as Lestrade pulled open the door. Lestrade gestured Holmes to go first, and his cock twitched slightly in his trousers as he remembered the last time they had done this, albeit with positions reversed. He looked appreciatively at the cut of the suit, which accentuated Holmes’ figure perfectly.
Holmes stepped inside, and immediately a waiter was by his side, gesturing to a table after a few soft words were spoken.
Lestrade followed the two of them to a table near the back of the room, tucked into a corner. Lestrade watched as the waiter took Holmes' umbrella and then stepped forward to ease Lestrade's jacket from his shoulders.
"How are your injuries?" Holmes asked, as they sat down.
"What? Oh, fine, thanks." Lestrade's hand slid unbidden to his side, touching the fabric which concealed the large graze and impressive array of colours from the bruising. At Holmes' disbelieving look he gave a small shrug. "Bit bruised, that's all."
"I must admit, I've never had the opportunity to ride on a motorcycle," Holmes said. "Although it seems a sensible choice, in the city these days."
Lestrade smiled, then waited as Holmes ordered wine, looking at him quizzically, to check the choices were all right, although all Lestrade could do was shrug and nod, as he didn't really have much of a clue. "Yeah, fastest way to get around. And with the congestion charge nowadays, the cheapest, too. You should try it sometime - it's a lot of fun."
"Until someone knocks you off," Holmes murmured.
"Well," Lestrade shrugged. "Even that has proved to be quite a lot of fun."
Holmes smiled, a polite, almost embarrassed smile, and it made Lestrade's chest clench slightly, finding it endearing that this man with everything could still seem so vulnerable when it came to talking about more personal things.
"And you'd had that motorcycle for some years?" Holmes asked.
Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, second hand - but only just. Got it from a friend - his missus got pregnant, made him sell it for a sensible car. Good run around - good for the city."
"Ah, I see. Yes, I can imagine it wouldn't be ideal, for a family."
"It was perfect for me though - my other half didn't want me getting one, even though I've been riding for years. Thought it was too dangerous," Lestrade looked up at Holmes and swore he could almost see the barriers coming down - like when he had a suspect in the interview room and threw them a piece of irrefutable proof of their guilt. Holmes leant back in his seat, adjusted the front of his waistcoat, fiddled with the knife on his side plate. Lestrade frowned, wondering what he'd said…oh.
Just as he realised the waiter returned, fresh sliced bread in one hand a bottle of white in the other - condensation running from it. The waiter went through the pantomime of showing the bottle, uncorking, offering a taste to Holmes - who sniffed it, swirled it, drank a little, contemplated and finally nodded his approval. Lestrade waited until both their glasses where charged, then picked his up and held it to Holmes. "Cheers," he said, sipping it. Then continued. "Glad I bought it, though - cos he left me a few weeks later. Couldn't cope with the job, y'know? All the late nights, phonecalls in the early hours, that stuff."
And there was a visible relaxation, not just because of the excellent wine, either. Lestrade couldn't help but feel they were now engaged in a dance - each one trying to work out where the other was going to step, advancing and retreating, trying not to stumble. He was usually reasonably confident, but Holmes' was not his usual type. If he had been they'd have been in the pub right now, and dinner would be a kebab on the way home, followed by the possibility of some hot sweaty sex on the sofa. He wasn't entirely sure Holmes was capable of sweating - he looked calm and cool in his three-piece suit, whilst Lestrade could feel a slight dampness on his own body, despite just wearing his shirt.
"I can recommend the venison and the quail. Or the lamb. Well, to be quite honest, I could recommend anything here," Holmes gestured at the single white sheet of paper - the menu was beautifully simple - Lestrade had been worried he wouldn't understand half of it. "The chef is very highly skilled. And everything is fresh."
Lestrade nodded, reading down the list. He agreed that the venison and quail did sound amazing. He glanced around to see other people eating and drinking, the odd waiter gliding around with plates of what seemed to be good honest food - no frilly pointless tiny portions.
Occasionally a huge piece of meat would be served, on a block, and Lestrade watched as up to four people would share it out. The people were a good mix, too - from people dressed more casually to those clearly in the restaurant either straight after work or for a more formal occasion. Although the hot weather was encouraging everyone to dress down. Lestrade was glad he had been in court, though - he would have felt very slightly out of place in his battered, frayed jeans and a t-shirt.
When the food arrived it was delicious, a world away from the limp salad he'd eaten for lunch at his desk. They discussed food for a while, and Holmes insisted that Lestrade try the duck he had ordered, although refused some of Lestrade's in return.
Lestrade found himself relaxing, enjoying Holmes' company. The other man also seemed to be relaxing a little - laughing more readily, allowing some small details about himself to slip into the conversation. Lestrade gathered that he had travelled extensively, although he also guessed it was mainly for work, rather than pleasure.
A waiter arrived to collect their plates and Holmes smiled up at him.
"Ah, Thierry, c’est bon de vous revoir."
"Ah, Thierry, how nice to see you again."
"M. Holmes, tout le plaisir est mien. Avez-vous apprécié votre premier plat?" the waiter replied, efficiently stacking the plates.
"Mr Holmes, nice to see you too. Did you enjoy your first course?"
"Oui, merci, c’était délicieux. Comment se déroulent vos études ? Bien, je suppose?" Holmes dabbed his lips with his serviette.
"Yes, thank you, delicious. How are your studies going? Well, I trust?"
Lestrade felt his eyebrows lifting in surprise. Just another talent, he supposed. He wondered if there was an end to them.
"Oui, merci M. Holmes, très bien. Je m’amuse beaucoup."
"Yes, thank you Mr Holmes, very well. I'm enjoying myself a lot."
"Et vous trouvez également le temps d’apprécier Londres, j’espère?"
"And finding time to enjoy London, too, I hope."
"En effet, merci. C’est une bien belle ville."
"Yes, a lot, thank you. It's a wonderful city."
The waiter nodded to Lestrade and walked away. Holmes turned back to Lestrade. "I'm sorry, I do come here often enough to know some of the staff. I didn't intend to be rude."
"Vous n’étiez pas malpoli. Je suis heureux qu’il se plaise à Londres. Qu’étudie-t-il?" Lestrade answered, and for a moment he enjoyed the look of utter surprise on Holmes' face.
"You weren't rude. I'm glad he likes London. What's he studying?"
"Mon père était français," Lestrade explained. "Bien que je ne le parle plus beaucoup."
"My Father was French," Lestrade explained. "Although I don't speak it often now."
~~~~~~~~
Holmes attempted to keep the shock from showing on his face. He imagined he failed, from the very slightly embarrassed look on Lestrade's face.
"I see. I suppose I should have guessed, from the name," he said. "I didn't mean to imply…He studies history, at Kings."
Lestrade waved a hand, and Holmes watched as the hand then found its way to the second button on his shirt and undid it, unselfconsciously exposing more skin.
"And…do you have family there? Visit often?"
Lestrade looked away, and Holmes immediately realised the question was a poor one. "Um, no, well, not really. I try to visit friends, sometimes."
"I'm sorry, I didn't intend to pry," Holmes said.
"No, it's fine, it's just complicated. Both my parents died when I was young, that's all," Lestrade's hand waved as if it were nothing, but his eyes told a different story.
"I see, I am sorry," Holmes nodded. "And yet you still speak French, with a slight Parisian accent, I think?"
Lestrade gave a small grin. "Yeah. Grandparents, and friends. I don't speak it often enough though - I still sound like a teenager, I'm afraid. It's a bit embarrassing, really." And the smile shone out again, finally.
Holmes swallowed, and considered removing his jacket, feeling as if the temperature in the room was rising.
"It is rather warm, isn't it?" he said softly, standing and shrugged out of his own jacket, smiling in thanks to the waiter who appeared to take it from him.
He took a moment to adjust his cuffs and tug his waistcoat down smoothly and glanced at Lestrade to see something like hunger in the brown eyes. He gave a small smile as he retook his seat.
Lestrade was, he was certain, the subject of more than a few stolen glances in the room. And as the other man excused himself to use the toilet, he confirmed his suspicions by watching the other patrons - mainly women, though - track his progress through the room until he disappeared down the stairs. He sat back, pulling the wine from its ice bucket and recharging both their glasses. The evening was, he thought, going very well. Yet he was still unsure of how it might end. Some part of him hoped he would be able to entice Lestrade back to his house, and…get to know him in the flesh, for want of a better phrase. However, even the thought of it made his pulse rate increase. If he invited the man back then that was a clear signal - and one he wasn't sure he was ready to give. But it would be very awkward - not to mention rude - to then try to eject Lestrade if he didn't feel ready. However, he could offer Lestrade a lift home, and then perhaps…he could always leave, he told himself, if he felt things were going in a direction with which he wasn't comfortable.
He didn't know if he regretted not being more experienced at this sort of thing, or if he was glad that he'd never spent the time worrying about it, to the detriment of his other activities. He had known people at university who spent almost every evening pursuing, catching or getting over one sexual partner or another. It had all seemed, to him, to be a frightful waste of time and energy.
By the time their desserts arrived on the table he was even more unsure about his course of action. Watching Lestrade eat a crème caramel was ensuring that Holmes wouldn't be able to stand up without some embarrassment for a short time, at least. And Lestrade's insistence that he try some - leading to him holding out a small spoonful and feeding him was most definitely unhelpful to the fit of his trousers. He was glad the large white napkin was bunched up on his lap.
He ordered a dessert wine, as a finishing touch, despite Lestrade's assurance that it wasn't necessary. And he enjoyed every second of watching the man sip the sweet Ice Wine, surprise evident on his face and the inevitable questions about it. He remembered when he had been introduced to the sweet, nectar-like substance, and how amazed he'd been by the taste.
When the bill arrived he placed his credit card on the silver plate without even looking at it.
"Hey, come on, I should pay half," Lestrade insisted.
"Absolutely not - it's really the least I can do, having put you through so much pain and trouble," he picked up the plate as Lestrade reached for it.
"Yeah, but that doesn't mean…I mean, you don't need to do this," Lestrade held out his hand.
"I insist." Holmes gestured to the waiter and put the plate safely into his hands, not allowing Lestrade any further chances to grab it.
Lestrade sat back in his seat, and Holmes felt a small victory.
"Besides, it was I who invited you to dinner, and it would be incredibly rude of me to allow you to pay for anything," he finished, putting his PIN into the machine the waiter offered him.
Even so, he ensured that Lestrade wasn't looking when he slipped the banknotes into Thierry's hand as a tip when he was offered his coat by the boy. He did so dislike vulgar shows of wealth.
They stood outside the restaurant, watching the unrelenting rain as it poured from the awning, ran in torrents down the gutters and soaked unprepared Londoners. Lestrade rolled and lit a cigarette - a picture of relaxation, with his jacket slung over his arm, leaning back against the wall, as Mycroft called his driver.
"That was very kind of you," Lestrade said, as Holmes slipped his 'phone back into his pocket. "And really delicious."
He smiled. "I'm glad it was to your taste. I do try to come here quite often - their menu changes each day."
"Yeah, really nice. Not often you get really decent food that's not all poncy - y'know, a few sticks of carrot glued to a snail or whatever."
He couldn't help but smile. "Indeed. I must admit that so-called 'nouvelle cuisine' is not to my taste."
"Well, guess I should get going," Lestrade said. "I guess I'll…be in touch? About the bike?"
"Oh, please, you must allow me to give you a lift home," Holmes said. "I am, after all, the reason you're without transport of your own. And in such weather, too…"
Lestrade gave a lopsided smile. "Are you sure? I mean, it's not really on your way - well, it's past your way, by quite a bit. I live up in Kilburn."
"All the more reason I should give you a lift and not consign you to public transport," Holmes answered.
The car slid up to the kerb and Holmes unfurled his umbrella as Lestrade stamped on the butt of his cigarette. He ushered Lestrade into the car, waiting for him to slide over before climbing himself - a move that left Lestrade closer to the middle of the seat, his leg touching Holmes' own as he sat in an unselfconscious sprawl. Holmes felt a small amount of envy at anyone so comfortable in their own skin. He always had the sharp tones of various aunts, nannies and school teachers in his ears, telling him to sit up straight and square his shoulders.
"If you tell Ackers your address then we'll have you home in a moment," he said.
Lestrade leant forward and gave his address to the driver, and Holmes took the moment to enjoy the shirt pulled tight over strong shoulders, dipping down to the creases where it was tucked into the waistband of Lestrade's trousers, a worn leather belt just allowing a slight gap to appear between the two fabrics. He yearned to reach out and run his fingers down the smooth curve of Lestrade's spine, to feel the warmth - then to wrap his hand around the soft skin of his sides - the slight tautness of flesh between rib and hip that his fingers remembered so well from applying the cream when they first met.
And then in a swift motion Lestrade was leaning back, even closer to him than before, a gentle smile on his face.
"When I get a new ride, I'll return the favour," Lestrade said, his grin broadening. Then he pulled the seatbelt around his waist, and his fingers brushed against Holmes' hip, and Holmes' could swear he could still feel the touch long after it had gone.
The ride through the London streets was far shorter than Holmes would have liked - purely because he didn't want the night to end.
As they pulled up outside a block of flats Holmes once again reached for his umbrella.
"Don't worry, I can run in from here," Lestrade said, his hand catching Holmes', skin warm, touch gentle yet firm.
"Nonsense, I insist, please," Holmes climbed out of the car, and watched as Lestrade exited from his own side, splashing through the puddles as he walked around the car to reach Holmes, his shirt soaked even walking the few metres. Holmes shook his head in mock exasperation, then began walking to the entranceway.
Lestrade opened the main door and stepped inside, gesturing Holmes in after him.
"Well, I shall be in touch, regarding the motorcycle," Holmes said, his gaze wandering from the sparkling droplets of water caught in Lestrade's softly-spiked hair to the wet, clinging fabric of the shirt on Lestrade's muscular shoulders.
"Yeah," Lestrade ran his hand through his hair, and glanced up the stairwell, looking almost nervous, to Holmes. "And, um…it'd be nice if you…you know, were just in touch anyway. I mean, for a start you've got to let me buy you dinner, next time."
Holmes couldn't help but smile. "Yes, quite. I shall…or you're quite welcome to call, too, of course."
Lestrade nodded, and then seemed to make up his mind, glancing out of the door into the gloom of the night and then closing the gap between them. His hands rose up and he gently bunched Holmes' lapels into his fists, then kissed him, body pressing against his, warmth blanketing him from knee to chest.
Holmes closed his eyes, and this time, unlike last, opened his own mouth slightly, inviting further exploration. He found his hands sliding around Lestrade, fingers catching on belt-loops, pulling him closer, increasing the pressure between them.
And then Lestrade pulled away, very slightly, and brought his hand up further, gently running his fingertips along Holmes' jawline, leaving a tingling wake of sensation. "Will you come up?" Lestrade asked, in a husky whisper.
"I…" and Holmes was tempted. But for the new driver, waiting outside, and the knowledge he had a videocall in the morning which he couldn't postpone, and the fear that whatever happened in the flat wouldn't be on his terms, and would inevitably lead to little or no sleep. "I can't. Not now. But…"
He was silenced by another kiss, and a slight shift in the warm body pressing against his made his eyes widen as a definite hardness pressed against his thigh.
Lestrade broke the kiss again, and Holmes knew he should close his mouth and pull himself together - but he also knew that his own penis was rapidly growing heavy and hardening in his briefs, and somehow it precluded all sensible thoughts.
"But…maybe next time?" Lestrade asked, softly, deep chocolate-brown eyes searching his.
He managed to nod. "Yes, yes. Maybe," he said, feeling ridiculous for sounding as if he was panting. "And…thank you, for the company and the…just, thank you."
Lestrade moved away, his gaze raking Holmes' body, and an obvious hunger in his eyes. He nodded, once, then released the door locks, pulling it open.
"Soon?" he asked, as Holmes stepped out into the rain.
"Yes!" Holmes answered, smiling. "Yes, soon."
TBC...
Chapter 3a