Fic: Mycroft Learns a Lesson
When trying to avoid hc_bingo, you'll finish up the darndest things, I've found.
Summary: Mycroft learns a lesson. Perhaps not the right lesson, but a lesson nonetheless. Pre-canon; gen with a dollop of Lestrade. Thanks to Tiggy and Blue for betaing.
Lestrade was ... interesting.
Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock found many interesting people. Men in particular were generally dull as rocks, bound by duty or honor or the lack of both. At first appearance Lestrade himself seemed to find devotion to duty his defining trait, but Mycroft noted it didn't stop him from letting Sherlock get away with the most absurd stunts, at least until the drugs got to be too much.
Lestrade had been the one to insist on detox, and more interestingly, Sherlock had listened.
Even Mummy hadn't been able to make him listen.
So the surveillance on Lestrade's apartment was simply logical, a natural precaution. Any man in Mycroft's place would have done the same. He was a bit surprised, though, when Lestrade noticed.
The meeting he'd arranged at one of London’s nicer hotels (Anthea, another one of the few interesting people Mycroft knew, had done most of the arranging) hadn't gone as he'd planned either.
"I'm damned if I know why you brought me here," Lestrade growled when they came face to face, "and damned if I know why you think I'd listen to you. Kidnapping an officer of the law is--"
Mycroft was oddly pleased by this extra attempt at intimidation, but he was well aware of the legal penalties. "We have a common interest," he said simply. "Sherlock Holmes.”
"And who d'you think you are? His guardian angel?"
"He'd probably call me an enemy."
Lestrade appraised him carefully. "Maybe. Maybe not." He dug a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. Mycroft didn't scowl, but only because he didn't want to give Lestrade the satisfaction.
"I need someone to keep an eye on Sherlock," Mycroft continued, "and you're a likely candidate. I can assure you, we both have his best interests at heart--"
"Fuck off," Lestrade growled. "I'm not a spy, I'm a copper. Now let me out of here. I’d appreciate it if you stopped tapping my phone, as well--"
"Do you like your position on the force, Detective Sergeant?"
For the first time, real anger flashed in Lestrade's voice. "Are you threatening me?"
"Of course not," Mycroft said mildly. "But making a few friends might be in your best interest."
"I don't want to be friends," Lestrade said. "Can I go now?"
"Of course, Detective Sergeant. I'm sure we'll see one another again." The hotel clearly wasn’t intimidating enough, Mycroft thought. He’d have to refine his tactics.
"You just take care," Lestrade threw over his shoulder as he left. "Maybe Sherlock's got a guardian angel. But I’ve got something else entirely."
It was another week before Mycroft found out what Lestrade had meant. He'd been walking out of the side door of the Ministry, Anthea at his side, when suddenly Anthea was no longer there. In her place was a man with a familiar, brutish face (an associate of one of the old street gangs, Mycroft believed, from the state of his shoes). "Mr. Holmes," he said, in a rough, East End accent. "A word."
Mycroft prepared to fight, but the man was quicker than he'd anticipated and he hadn't noticed the second man coming up at his left until it was too late. "I wouldn't recommend this," he said sharply, as the stranger’s hold tightened on his wrist. He felt a slight pinprick, and the world began to swim.
"We've got our orders,” the first man said. “Just want a moment. Won't take but a second, once we get where we're going."
"I can pay you more than whomever you're working for," Mycroft said sharply. He was fairly certain they didn’t intend to hurt him, but it was annoying, and an insult. "If you're caught, as you almost certainly will be you will suffer the consequences.”
"The Boss gets what the Boss wants."
It was infuriatingly like something one of Mycroft's own subordinates would say.
They were careful and polite as they woke him in the sedan. The change in the daylight indicated the drugs had incapacitated him for an hour or so, which was suboptimal but acceptable (at least, as acceptable as any of this situation was). They'd secured Mycroft's hands with zip ties, and while Mycroft could likely dislocate a bone or two and get loose, it didn't seem worth the effort for now, especially with the level of scrutiny he was under. At least they hadn’t insulted him with a blindfold, so he could see the large, white building he was being ushered toward.
"There you are, sir," the first man said, with a certain grim amusement, as he ‘helped’ Mycroft into a wooden folding chair. "Sit yourself down and you'll have a nice chat with the Boss. Sorry, but we’re all out of tea."
He didn't have to wait long. "Ah," said a working-class voice from the shadows. "Mr. Mycroft Holmes hisself."
"I'm not sure what you have in mind," Mycroft said archly, "but I'm confident you won't get it."
"Don't be so harsh, Mr. Holmes. I just want a word. See, I’ve noticed you've been speaking with our Gerry."
In a flash, Mycroft comprehended it all; his own foolishness, of course, for not investigating Gerald Lestrade's family ties beyond father unknown. And there that father almost certainly stood, grinning. Jack Jance, leader of the Damned Crew for almost thirty years, with countless murders, thefts and arsons under his belt. If England's anti-racketeering laws had been as strong as those damned Americans they would've put him away years ago; as it was, there was nothing they could pin on him beyond a few penny-ante grifts. His greasy, nicotine-stained fingers were everywhere.
"Took his mother's name, of course," Jance continued, no doubt reading the recognition on Mycroft's face. "Neither of them'll have anything to do with me. Still, a father cares, don't he? Like you and that brother of yours."
Mycroft stiffened slightly before he could control his reaction and hoped Jance didn’t notice.
"Ah, but that's all right. We've all got family, eh?" Jance cast him an appraising look. "No one wants any trouble, I’m sure."
"We could crush you," Mycroft said, and damned his emotions right now.
"You might," Jance said. "But it'd be war. And I don't think you want that, now do you?" Jance nodded at his silence. "Well then. I'll be off, now we understand each other. Hands off my boy, and I'll stay clear of your junkie."
"He's clean now," Mycroft said without thinking it through.
"Yes," Jance answered, and made it a threat.
"I'll kill you," Mycroft said, bringing his emotions back under control.
Jance shook his head. "Nah. You won't.” His voice changed into an abysmal parody of Mycroft’s own accent. “We'll play Happy Families, what? For the boys' sake."
Mycroft calmly counted to ten in his mind, then backward from ten. Damn the man, he was right. Jance’s hold on London’s criminal underground was too pernicious for the kind of retaliation currently playing in Mycroft’s mind. He’d have to move carefully, if he dared move at all. "Is that all?"
"Think so," Jance said cheerfully. "Have a lovely day, then."
Mycroft said nothing as Jance receded into the shadows and the goons returned him to their car. They deposited him, wordlessly, at Downing Street, where Anthea was waiting, her face a bit whiter than its normal shade. "Make a note," he said. "Full family backgrounds on all targets, from now on. Father unknown is not acceptable."
***
Author's note: The Damned Crew, as far as I'm aware, no longer operates, but isn't that a great name?
EDITED because AJ Hall told me some useful bits about the UK legal system. Thanks AJ!
Summary: Mycroft learns a lesson. Perhaps not the right lesson, but a lesson nonetheless. Pre-canon; gen with a dollop of Lestrade. Thanks to Tiggy and Blue for betaing.
Lestrade was ... interesting.
Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock found many interesting people. Men in particular were generally dull as rocks, bound by duty or honor or the lack of both. At first appearance Lestrade himself seemed to find devotion to duty his defining trait, but Mycroft noted it didn't stop him from letting Sherlock get away with the most absurd stunts, at least until the drugs got to be too much.
Lestrade had been the one to insist on detox, and more interestingly, Sherlock had listened.
Even Mummy hadn't been able to make him listen.
So the surveillance on Lestrade's apartment was simply logical, a natural precaution. Any man in Mycroft's place would have done the same. He was a bit surprised, though, when Lestrade noticed.
The meeting he'd arranged at one of London’s nicer hotels (Anthea, another one of the few interesting people Mycroft knew, had done most of the arranging) hadn't gone as he'd planned either.
"I'm damned if I know why you brought me here," Lestrade growled when they came face to face, "and damned if I know why you think I'd listen to you. Kidnapping an officer of the law is--"
Mycroft was oddly pleased by this extra attempt at intimidation, but he was well aware of the legal penalties. "We have a common interest," he said simply. "Sherlock Holmes.”
"And who d'you think you are? His guardian angel?"
"He'd probably call me an enemy."
Lestrade appraised him carefully. "Maybe. Maybe not." He dug a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. Mycroft didn't scowl, but only because he didn't want to give Lestrade the satisfaction.
"I need someone to keep an eye on Sherlock," Mycroft continued, "and you're a likely candidate. I can assure you, we both have his best interests at heart--"
"Fuck off," Lestrade growled. "I'm not a spy, I'm a copper. Now let me out of here. I’d appreciate it if you stopped tapping my phone, as well--"
"Do you like your position on the force, Detective Sergeant?"
For the first time, real anger flashed in Lestrade's voice. "Are you threatening me?"
"Of course not," Mycroft said mildly. "But making a few friends might be in your best interest."
"I don't want to be friends," Lestrade said. "Can I go now?"
"Of course, Detective Sergeant. I'm sure we'll see one another again." The hotel clearly wasn’t intimidating enough, Mycroft thought. He’d have to refine his tactics.
"You just take care," Lestrade threw over his shoulder as he left. "Maybe Sherlock's got a guardian angel. But I’ve got something else entirely."
It was another week before Mycroft found out what Lestrade had meant. He'd been walking out of the side door of the Ministry, Anthea at his side, when suddenly Anthea was no longer there. In her place was a man with a familiar, brutish face (an associate of one of the old street gangs, Mycroft believed, from the state of his shoes). "Mr. Holmes," he said, in a rough, East End accent. "A word."
Mycroft prepared to fight, but the man was quicker than he'd anticipated and he hadn't noticed the second man coming up at his left until it was too late. "I wouldn't recommend this," he said sharply, as the stranger’s hold tightened on his wrist. He felt a slight pinprick, and the world began to swim.
"We've got our orders,” the first man said. “Just want a moment. Won't take but a second, once we get where we're going."
"I can pay you more than whomever you're working for," Mycroft said sharply. He was fairly certain they didn’t intend to hurt him, but it was annoying, and an insult. "If you're caught, as you almost certainly will be you will suffer the consequences.”
"The Boss gets what the Boss wants."
It was infuriatingly like something one of Mycroft's own subordinates would say.
They were careful and polite as they woke him in the sedan. The change in the daylight indicated the drugs had incapacitated him for an hour or so, which was suboptimal but acceptable (at least, as acceptable as any of this situation was). They'd secured Mycroft's hands with zip ties, and while Mycroft could likely dislocate a bone or two and get loose, it didn't seem worth the effort for now, especially with the level of scrutiny he was under. At least they hadn’t insulted him with a blindfold, so he could see the large, white building he was being ushered toward.
"There you are, sir," the first man said, with a certain grim amusement, as he ‘helped’ Mycroft into a wooden folding chair. "Sit yourself down and you'll have a nice chat with the Boss. Sorry, but we’re all out of tea."
He didn't have to wait long. "Ah," said a working-class voice from the shadows. "Mr. Mycroft Holmes hisself."
"I'm not sure what you have in mind," Mycroft said archly, "but I'm confident you won't get it."
"Don't be so harsh, Mr. Holmes. I just want a word. See, I’ve noticed you've been speaking with our Gerry."
In a flash, Mycroft comprehended it all; his own foolishness, of course, for not investigating Gerald Lestrade's family ties beyond father unknown. And there that father almost certainly stood, grinning. Jack Jance, leader of the Damned Crew for almost thirty years, with countless murders, thefts and arsons under his belt. If England's anti-racketeering laws had been as strong as those damned Americans they would've put him away years ago; as it was, there was nothing they could pin on him beyond a few penny-ante grifts. His greasy, nicotine-stained fingers were everywhere.
"Took his mother's name, of course," Jance continued, no doubt reading the recognition on Mycroft's face. "Neither of them'll have anything to do with me. Still, a father cares, don't he? Like you and that brother of yours."
Mycroft stiffened slightly before he could control his reaction and hoped Jance didn’t notice.
"Ah, but that's all right. We've all got family, eh?" Jance cast him an appraising look. "No one wants any trouble, I’m sure."
"We could crush you," Mycroft said, and damned his emotions right now.
"You might," Jance said. "But it'd be war. And I don't think you want that, now do you?" Jance nodded at his silence. "Well then. I'll be off, now we understand each other. Hands off my boy, and I'll stay clear of your junkie."
"He's clean now," Mycroft said without thinking it through.
"Yes," Jance answered, and made it a threat.
"I'll kill you," Mycroft said, bringing his emotions back under control.
Jance shook his head. "Nah. You won't.” His voice changed into an abysmal parody of Mycroft’s own accent. “We'll play Happy Families, what? For the boys' sake."
Mycroft calmly counted to ten in his mind, then backward from ten. Damn the man, he was right. Jance’s hold on London’s criminal underground was too pernicious for the kind of retaliation currently playing in Mycroft’s mind. He’d have to move carefully, if he dared move at all. "Is that all?"
"Think so," Jance said cheerfully. "Have a lovely day, then."
Mycroft said nothing as Jance receded into the shadows and the goons returned him to their car. They deposited him, wordlessly, at Downing Street, where Anthea was waiting, her face a bit whiter than its normal shade. "Make a note," he said. "Full family backgrounds on all targets, from now on. Father unknown is not acceptable."
***
Author's note: The Damned Crew, as far as I'm aware, no longer operates, but isn't that a great name?
EDITED because AJ Hall told me some useful bits about the UK legal system. Thanks AJ!