Perseverance (1/7)
BBC Sherlock
Rating 15 (swearing, implicit slash)
Summary: Greg Lestrade is a very patient man. Just as well, when it's so hard to get together with Mycroft Holmes.
This was inspired by Second Skin's Persuasion, and started off as a prequel and remix of that. It has ended up much, much longer...
Note: The chronology of Series 2 is notoriously dodgy. This fic assumes that Scandal takes place in April 2010-Summer 2011, Hounds in Summer 2011 and Fall in Spring-Summer 2012.
Betaed by the wonderful Small Hobbit.
"You can't help who you fall for," Greg's Nan told him when he was sixteen. "You can help what you do about it."
"So?" he asked.
"So if you get caught fooling around with Gary Parker, it'll break your mother's heart. Find yourself a girl to bring home."
"I don't want-"
"You don't know what you want, at your age. You just need to sort yourself out."
***
He wished he'd had the guts to tell her that Gary and he would be together forever. Though he'd have felt bloody stupid if he had, given that a fortnight later he caught Gary having it off with Julie Smith from the Co-op. It was the first time he'd realised that there were people who liked blokes and girls. It wasn't the sort of thing anyone told you about in Weston-super-Mare.
***
"She'll break your heart, Greg," his Nan told him when he was twenty-four, after he'd brought Angela round to see her for the first time. "That sort of girl always does."
"What sort of girl?" he protested. "What have you got against Angie?"
"She had a boyfriend already when you met her, from what I heard," Mrs Lestrade replied, her shrewd brown eyes examining him. God, she was a gossip sometimes, Greg thought.
"She was about to break up with him anyhow. He was horrible to her. I'll look after her properly." They'd look after each other, he thought. Angie had plans for them both.
She sat there looking disapprovingly at him, and he shoved his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and said sulkily, "It's really serious, this time, Nan. We're gonna get married, soon as I pass my detective exams."
"She doesn't really love you, you know. She just thinks if you marry her it'll get her out of Weston. She was saying you might move to Bristol." She made it sound like another continent.
"Angie reckons she can get a job at the Old Vic; start being an usherette and then work her way up. She's always wanted to be in the theatre."
Mrs Lestrade gave an eloquent sniff to that, and said, "She told me her degree was in drama and English and now she wants to sell choc-ices?"
That was what it all came down to in the end, even though she'd never come out and say it. That Angela was being too big for her boots, needed taking down a few pegs.
"She's trying to make something of her life, that's all," Greg growled. "When I meet a girl who wants to stay in Weston, you say she'll never amount to anything. And when I meet someone like Angie you moan about her being stuck-up. Just coz she's been to college, got some ideas in her head."
"I just want someone who'll make you happy," his Nan said, and it was all Greg could do to stop himself from swearing.
***
Given that his Nan disapproved of him getting involved with boys and people with ambitions, it was probably a good thing she was no longer around when Greg met Mycroft Holmes.
***
He met him in the summer of 2009 during the Phelps case. Somebody had stolen files from the Foreign Office and an idiot called Percy Phelps had insisted on contacting Scotland Yard. Where that equally idiotic DS Forbes had recorded it as a crime, which meant something had to be done about it. What that meant, in practice, was dumping it on DI Lestrade, even though it wasn't a murder. Because they were at that point in the year where somebody had noticed his clear-up rate was too high and decided that it needed to be brought down so he didn't make his colleagues look bad.
It was absolutely no surprise to Greg that three hours after the case landed on his desk he got summoned by the high-ups to meet some bigwig in Intelligence. Some upper-class bloke in a fancy suit who was doubtless going to tell him that this mustn't be investigated, that there would be a diplomatic incident if it was. He knew the score by now about the crimes that no-one was allowed to deal with properly.
***
The upper-class bloke in a fancy suit was tall and dark with a beaky nose and no name, and he sat in the Assistant Commissioner's office and asked, with a smug smile, "I wonder if I could talk to you in private, Inspector?"
At least he had the decency to do his strong-arming out of the sight, Greg thought, because this was going to be humiliating enough as it was.
"OK," he said, and waited while the AC enthusiastically did a runner. Greg slouched back in his chair once the door was closed.
"Well?" he asked, staring up at Fancy Suit. He wasn't going to volunteer to take the flak. "What do you wanna tell me?"
"You want to solve this case, don't you?" the man said. "Despite the fact that you know you'll almost certainly not be allowed to talk to the people who matter. That evidence will be concealed from you, that you will be lied to and misled." His voice was smooth, casual.
"I'm a copper, Mr-"
"Mycroft."
"Mr Mycroft. I see a crime, I want to solve it. Nail the bastard who's breaking the law. However important he is."
"That's why I chose you, DI Lestrade. Well, one of the reasons I chose you." The smoothness of the voice had a hint of menace now. The man might be a stuffed shirt, but it was probably stuffed with razor blades.
"Chose me?" Greg asked warily.
"I want this matter dealt with," Mycroft said, folding his arms. "Percy Phelps has been set up to take the blame for this theft. He's an old school friend of mine and I believe he's being blackmailed in some way. You have around forty-eight hours, I estimate, DI Lestrade, to find out who the real culprit is."
Beneath the tone of command, there was something strangely like need there. Greg opened his mouth to say, That's impossible, and somehow, what came out was:
"I'll do my best."
***
The frustrating thing was that it was impossible. Certainly in that kind of time frame. When Greg tried to see the scene of the crime, the bit of the FCO concerned told him to FO. Phelps himself gave the impression of being just about to have a nervous breakdown, and he didn't dare question him for too long. Phelps' boss was no use either. There would be something, he knew it. If he could keep plugging away, he'd crack it eventually. But forty-eight hours had never been realistic. He was going to have to let Mr Mycroft know that as soon as possible.
***
"Have you made any progress?" Mycroft enquired, at lunchtime the next day, in between sips of his latte. They were sitting in some upmarket cafe, where even a cheese sandwich required a three line description on the menu. Greg wondered whether the man didn't have an office of his own or if he simply considered that Greg would lower the tone if he took him there.
"Not much," he said, looking down at his own black coffee. He felt strangely uncomfortable about the whole situation, as if he'd somehow let Mycroft down. "Maybe Phelps is being blackmailed; he's certainly very worried about the theft. But there's nothing obvious he might be in trouble about. No particular financial worries, judging by his bank balance. And his personal life seems straightforward enough. He said he was engaged, and about to marry a woman called Andi Harrison."
There was an almost imperceptible sigh from the other man that brought an odd echo to Greg's mind. It was the way Sherlock Holmes sounded when he was disappointed in you. Sure enough, when he looked up, there was a familiar disdain in Mycroft's eyes. He thinks I'm an idiot, doesn't he? What have I missed? He thought back frantically for what seemed like forever. And then "old school friend of mine" and "Andi Harrison" abruptly collided together in his brain.
"Phelps didn't say he was getting married to a woman," Greg said slowly. "He said he was getting married, but what he meant was a civil partnership, with a man called Andrew Harrison. I got the wrong end of the stick, and he didn't want to correct me. Because he's sort of out, but not entirely." He paused and Mycroft gave a quick nod of his head. "Could he be being blackmailed about that? If some of his family or his colleagues didn't know about him being gay?"
"Percy's been half out of the closet for years," the other man replied quietly, and Greg found himself wondering if he was in the same boat. "It's not a problem in the Civil Service as long as one behaves oneself."
"Then we've got nothing," Greg said in despair. "I mean, we can investigate some of his colleagues, see if any of them are in need of money or have foreign connections, but it'll take weeks, to be honest. And you said this matter was urgent."
"It is. So you have no other suggestions?"
He'd been tested and found wanting. He didn't know why it stung, but it did. Why did he feel the need to impress this politely dismissive, over-clever man? And then he saw what he had to do: because what mattered was solving this problem, not his own ego.
"I can't help you, but I know a man who might be able to," he said. "A private detective."
Mycroft said nothing, just sat there watching him, as if this was some kind of card game and for some reason it was still Greg's turn.
"His name's Sherlock Holmes," Greg went on. "You won't have heard of him, but I can give you his phone number."
"What kind of man is he, this Mr Holmes?"
Greg took a swig of his coffee and tried to think how you could explain about Sherlock. Better give the warnings in advance, he supposed.
"Impossible," he said. "Arrogant, rude, bloody-minded. He's also more brilliant than you'd believe possible. The way he can read people."
Mycroft still just kept on silently looking across the table at him, with an air of calculating something. And somehow - fuck it - Greg hadn't given the right answer. Because doubtless when Sherlock Holmes was involved, two plus two added up to minus six. No, he suddenly realised. I gave the right answer, but to the wrong question.
"You asked what kind of man Sherlock Holmes was," he said slowly. "That's a funny sort of question to ask. The wrong question."
There was a quirk to the other man's full lips now that suggested a smile, but he still said nothing.
"You should have asked how good a detective he was or how much he charged. Or even said that Sherlock Holmes is a strange name. You didn't, because you've already heard of him."
The quirk of Mycroft's lips was definitely a smile by now. An ironic smile, of course, the patronising bastard. Because there was something more, there had to be. With Sherlock's skills and his background - clearly been to a fancy school - once the spooks had spotted him, they'd have wanted to make use of him.
"You tried to recruit him," Greg said. The posture of the man opposite him stiffened, and he added triumphantly, "And he told you to piss off."
"You have a certain instinct, don't you, inspector?" Mycroft reached into his jacket and pulled out a business card, which he slid across the table. On it, there was nothing but a phone number and the name Mycroft Holmes.
"A relative?" Greg asked angrily, wondering if there was some resemblance he should have spotted.
"Sherlock's brother," Mycroft replied, and Greg stood up, glaring across the table.
"Then sod off and stop playing stupid games. I've got a case to solve."
"Sit down, DI Lestrade," Mycroft Holmes replied, picking up his card, and for some reason Greg did so. "I said I chose you for two reasons. The first one is that you don't care whose toes you tread on to solve a case. The second one is that Sherlock's prepared to work with you." Mycroft paused, and then added slowly. "He normally refuses to help me. That's why I'm asking you to act as my intermediary with him."
"He'll guess you're behind this, if the case concerns the Foreign Office." He wondered exactly what Mycroft did. Had he actually said he was working for British Intelligence or had that just been implied?
"I'm not asking you to conceal my involvement," Mycroft replied crisply. "Merely to come with me to Montague Street and talk to Sherlock."
"Then why the fuck didn't you ask me to do that in the first place? Would have saved a hell of a lot of time."
"I hoped I wouldn't need to." Beneath the polish of Mycroft's facade, there was something bleak now. "Sherlock exacts a high price for any advice to me. You may think he's difficult to deal with as a consultant, DI Lestrade. You have no idea how antagonistic he is as a brother."
***
Sherlock leaned back into the few inches between his chair and the piles of paper filling up the floor of his bedsit.
"Percy Phelps is one of your ex-boyfriends, I take it?" he asked Mycroft. "That's why you're interfering in this matter."
"Didn't think you were homophobic," Greg growled.
"Adelphophobic, perhaps," Mycroft said smoothly. "An irrational hatred of brothers. Sherlock resents me having a personal life, in contrast to himself."
Greg sighed. For two such clever men, they went in for some very childish insults. "Mycroft didn't reckon he was being blackmailed for being gay, so I don't see it's relevant."
"You have no idea what may be relevant," Sherlock announced. "So the scene of the crime is blocked off to us-"
"-I am trying to negotiate on that," Mycroft broke in.
"Phelps is in a state of collapse and Lestrade obtained no useful information from him," Sherlock went on. "You have no other suspects and you suspect the stolen files will soon be unrecoverable. Excellent. I like a challenge. How did Phelps contact you, Mycroft?"
"Via e-mail."
"Personal e-mail, of course, he'll have been denied all work access as soon as he came under suspicion. I need his e-mail address, a photo of him and details of all his overseas visits within the last ten years," Sherlock said, pulling out a laptop from underneath a pile of books and plates. He looked up at Mycroft. "Now would be handy. Or whenever you can be bothered to assist with the matter."
***
Greg sat on the hideously uncomfortable sofa, trying to work out where Sherlock had hidden the drugs in this flat, and wondering why he had been brought along. Probably because Sherlock wanted an audience, or would at some point in the afternoon. For now Sherlock was just sitting staring at his laptop muttering incomprehensibly, while Mycroft ran through an entire repertoire of glares at him. Well, most of the time Mycroft was doing that. Every now and then he seemed to be scrutinising Greg rather intently.
He was probably doing that thing that Sherlock did sometimes to show off. Deducing what was on Greg's mind without Greg saying a word. Always slightly unnerving, that. The alternative, which was maybe more alarming, was that it wasn't his mind Mycroft was thinking about. Greg had been checked out by quite a few blokes in his time, but not so many recently, now his hair was started to go grey. Normally it was just a bit of harmless fun, but he wasn't sure that fun and Holmeses really went together. Better concentrate on what Sherlock was up to.
About three-quarters of an hour in, Sherlock looked up from his laptop and exclaimed, "Yes!"
"What you got?" Greg asked eagerly. Mycroft was trying not to look interested.
"In 2000, Phelps was working in Washington and dating a man in Boston," Sherlock said.
"Do I wanna know how you found that out?"
"A man who wants to keep his private life private shouldn't provide links between different user names," Sherlock said. "Phelps returned from the US in 2003, but made several personal trips out there again. The last one was in early 2005. He's not been to the States since."
"Four years ago," Greg said. "So he was possibly involved with this American bloke for a while, but then broke it off."
"Not simply an American," Sherlock said. "A resident of Massachusetts."
"And?" Greg said, wondering if Massachusetts gays were particularly vicious after a break-up.
"Oh, of course," Mycroft said, as if he'd suddenly been switched on. "But surely Percy would have realised the legal position?"
"The marriage wouldn't have been recognised in most of the US. Probably didn't occur to him it was in the UK," Sherlock replied. "So are we looking for Phelps' solicitor? I take it the man himself couldn't have got access to Phelps' office."
"The Foreign Office has its weaknesses, but they don't let random people wander in to their offices. Not even Americans," Mycroft replied, smirking. "I suspect the UKBA are to blame. They normally are."
It was worrying how the brothers were suddenly on the same wavelength, Greg thought. Especially since he had no clue what they were on about.
"Care to explain?" he asked, looking from one posh, clever git to the other. How had he ever missed the resemblance between them?
"Massachusetts was the first US state to legalise same-sex marriage," Sherlock said. "In 2004."
Wonder if he knew that all along, or he's just very good at Googling things, Greg thought, and then it registered:
"So you reckon he married this bloke in Boston and then...he didn't get divorced? He was lining himself up to be the first gay bigamist?"
"He may not have realised that he was already regarded as partnered by English law when he proposed to Mr Harrison," Mycroft replied.
"But then his American husband turned up and started blackmailing him?"
"Of course not," Mycroft said, with a dismissive gesture. "It would have been straightforward for Percy to obtain a divorce if he knew the location of his husband. The problem was doubtless that someone he approached in this country for legal advice saw the opportunity to make him a scapegoat."
"Someone just comes to his office to talk to him about that and then nicks his files while they're at it?"
"They were paper files," Mycroft says. "Standard procedure to print out any valuable document for the archive, means that no administrative assistant can accidentally delete all your data with a single misplaced mouse click. What I suspect happened is that Percy's visitor walked off by mistake with the files as well as their own paperwork, and then realised they'd hit the jackpot. Percy would doubtless be desperate to cover the whole episode up until the divorce was finalised."
"An opportunistic theft. So whoever it is might well be holding onto the files, not knowing who to sell the information to?" Greg said.
"That's a good point," Mycroft said thoughtfully, and Greg couldn't help smiling. "There are only a few men in London who might be willing to pay for such one-off material. Well, a few serious players. There is one young Irish idiot who fancies himself selling secrets, but he's a small fish in a very big pond."
Mycroft started tapping away on his phone and, after a few minutes, announced, "Our best bet is Hugo Oberstein of 13 Caulfield Gardens, Croydon."
"I'll need some evidence to apply for a search-warrant," Greg said.
"No need for that. I think we should pay a little visit on Mr Oberstein," Sherlock said, jumping up and reaching for his coat.
"Croydon?" Mycroft enquired, with the air of a man who clearly regarded anything outside Zone 1 as hostile territory.
"You don't have to come."
"I'm not letting you near confidential papers on your own, Sherlock. I remember about the naval treaty."
"If we all three go," Greg said, "then if we do need to arrest anyone, I can do it. But try not to do anything particularly illegal while I'm watching."
He didn't like the smile he got back from either of the brothers at that.
Part 2