Perseverance (2/7)
BBC Sherlock
Rating 15 (swearing, implicit slash)
Summary: Greg's off to the house of a suspected spy with Sherlock and Mycroft. The consequences are unexpected.
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.
Part 1
Mycroft's car dropped them off a couple of streets away from Caulfield Gardens. When they reached it, they found a cul-de-sac full of unremarkable 1920s semis; Greg could see Sherlock's eyes flick around as he considered their next move.
"No obvious way in at the front," Sherlock said. "Well, not without disturbing the widow at no. 11."
"Surely her husband's in a care home rather than dead?"Mycroft replied.
Not even going to ask, Greg thought. "I can call at the house and say we're doing door-to-door enquiries, if you like. Provided I've still got my warrant card."
"Oh, I don't think we need any official presence here..." Sherlock said, heading around to the side of the house. Greg followed him to where a doorway with a wrought-iron gate led onto what was clearly some kind of back garden.
"Just a friendly call on a neighbour to tell him his roses need pruning," Sherlock went on. His gloved hands brushed against the gate, and suddenly he was reaching up. A few deft moves and he was six foot off the ground, climbing over the gate, and disappearing into the garden.
Shit, thought Greg, hastily trying to work out where Sherlock had found footholds. Yeah, it might be possible, he supposed, but it wasn't going to be easy. And then Mycroft came to stand beside him, drawing leather gloves onto his long-fingered hands.
"Do you need a leg-up?" Greg asked, wondering if he could possibly manage to get them both over. Mycroft was tall enough, but he didn't exactly look like the athletic type.
Mycroft gave him an odd, lingering look, as if he wasn't sure exactly what Greg was suggesting. And then he smiled and said, "I prefer not to climb. But sometimes you find that side gates are merely latched, not locked. If you could ring the doorbell, please, Inspector, let Mr Oberstein know he has an unexpected visitor?"
"Call me Greg," Greg muttered, hurrying off to the front door. It seemed tactless to be reminded he was a police officer when they were breaking and entering. Sure enough, when he returned a minute later, the gate had mysteriously given way to Mycroft's touch. Yet another light-fingered Holmes bastard: Greg blamed the parents. Then he heard shouting from the garden.
"Could be a breach of the peace," Mycroft murmured. Greg started to run, because Sherlock himself was practically always a sufficiently real and present threat to the peace to justify being arrested. No surprise, when he got round the corner to find a tall blond man with a beard trying to strangle Sherlock, while Sherlock ineffectively tried to sweep the man's legs from under him. Greg looked round quickly. No-one else visible, so it was three to one. No, two to one, because Mycroft was heading for the back door, ignoring his brother's plight. Up to him to rescue Sherlock, then. He pulled out his handcuffs and ran towards Sherlock and Oberstein - or whoever he was - trying to work out how best to restrain Sherlock's attacker. He reached up for the man's arm...
It was then, of course, that Sherlock finally managed to trip his opponent, whose flailing elbow whumped firmly and painfully into Greg's face.
***
Sherlock got the cuffs on the blond, who was indeed Oberstein; Mycroft dialled 999. Greg told a sulky but unresisting Oberstein his rights, his voice muffled by holding Mycroft's handkerchief to his face. If this bloody nosebleed would just stop...
The problem was, if the nosebleed did stop, he'd then feel obliged to take some notice of the fact that both Holmeses had disappeared inside the house and were probably ransacking Oberstein's papers. He was relieved when Sherlock, at least, soon re-emerged.
"Where's Mycroft?" Greg demanded.
"He left by the front door," Sherlock said. "With the Foreign Office files."
"That was risky."
"No-one ever pays attention to Mycroft when he hasn't got his umbrella with him. He's just a nondescript irritation in a suit. You pass fifty of him on the street every day. Selling solar panels or discussing your tax details."
There spoke a man who was smug about his cheekbones and fancy coat, Greg thought savagely.
"Mycroft said it was up to you what Oberstein was charged with," Sherlock went on. "He seems to trust your judgement."
"You'd better bugger off as well," Greg muttered in reply. He removed the handkerchief cautiously. The bleeding seemed to have stopped now, but he was still a mess. "If you're here when the Croydon boys come around, you'll be sure to get arrested." It was every copper's natural urge within ten minutes of first meeting Sherlock to charge him with something, if only being an annoying git in a built up-area.
Sherlock smiled a self-satisfied smile that probably meant he had nicked something from no. 13 that Mycroft had missed, and wandered off. Greg stood around watching Oberstein, wondering what it was best to do now. Why had Mycroft phoned the police anyhow, if he didn't want Oberstein arrested? Perhaps in case any of the neighbours raised the alarm. But the Croydon police seemed a bit dozy today. Twenty minutes at least since the 999 call had gone in.
"What's the deal?" Oberstein said abruptly, levering himself up from the wall he'd been leaning against. He looked more alert now the Holmeses had gone; Greg hoped he wasn't going to start anything.
"What deal?"
"You're undercover, aren't you? Working with the Security Service?"
"I'm just the poor bloody CID," Greg said.
"I didn't expect to see Mycroft Holmes here. Thought he had bigger fish to fry."
"He's important, is he?" He'd presumed Mycroft was something big, but he hadn't known exactly what.
"Let me off and I'll tell you what I know," Oberstein said.
"You can start by telling me who gave you the files."
"A man calling himself David Smith. There's a contact number on my mobile, but I expect Holmes has walked off with that as well. Smith won't know what's hit him when he gets traced."
Greg thought for a moment and then went over to Oberstein, reaching behind the man to uncuff him. As he did so, he said rapidly, in a low voice:
"I was coming round to talk to the owner of the property. Got here, found the side gate open, and a struggle going on. You and some other bloke having a brawl. He punched me in the face and scarpered when I got here, but I managed to arrest you. It was only at that point that I realised that you were the owner of the property and he was a sneak thief, trying to nick your garden tools."
He gave a long look into the heavy, shrewd face of the other man.
"I'm very sorry about that mistake, Mr Oberstein. You didn't get a proper sight of the thief, did you?"
"He had a grey hoodie on, I could barely see him," Oberstein replied promptly. "Tall, thin, youngish. White, I think. I don't know more than that. I'm sorry, I'm a bit shocked." He sounded alarmingly convincing as a put upon victim. Till he suddenly added, "Officially, Mycroft Holmes is part of the liaison team between MI5 and the CIA."
"And unofficially?"
"From what I've heard, he runs both of them. He practically runs the country. If I'd known he was involved I'd never have touched the files. I don't tangle with the big boys, sir. More than my life's worth."
***
Greg managed to slide away pretty quickly once the local plods arrived; they were obviously glad to see the back of him. He headed in the vague direction of East Croydon station, but he'd only got a few streets away from Caulfield Gardens when a large black car pulled up beside him.
"Do you need a lift?" Mycroft enquired, as the passenger window glided down.
"I thought-"
"I prefer to keep a low profile on these occasions, but you surely couldn't imagine I would abandon you in Croydon."
Greg smiled and climbed into the car.
"Besides," Mycroft added. "I think you might alarm some of your fellow passengers. I have some antiseptic wipes, if you'd be more comfortable with your face clean."
I still look a bloody mess, do I? Greg took the wipes and started to try and get the dried blood off his face. Stupid way to get himself hurt; no heroism in a nose bleed. Though at least it didn't feel like his face had been seriously damaged.
Mycroft pulled out another wipe.
"There's still a bit of blood on your left cheek," he said calmly. "If you'll allow me, Greg?" His hand, patiently rubbing away at a particularly stubborn patch, was warm and oddly soft. "Make you look rather more respectable."
"Yeah, but my shirt's a wreck as well," Greg replied. "And it's a new one. My wife's not gonna be pleased."
Mycroft blinked and his hand stilled for a moment, before resuming its operations.
You must have worked out I was married, Greg thought, you know everything. But up close there was something assessing in Mycroft's dark grey eyes now, as if trying to analyse a difficult problem. Greg found his heart beating just a little bit faster.
"That should do it," Mycroft announced, straightening up. He leant back into his side of the car and then looked across at Greg and said smoothly, "I should probably get you a new shirt as well. Or at least my department should. We have a budget for operational expenses."
Greg looked down, slightly embarrassed. But in his experience, bloodstains never came out of a white shirt properly, and it might make Angie a bit less unhappy if she didn't have to go shopping for a replacement.
"That's from Marks and Spencer, isn't it?" Mycroft asked.
"Yeah," Greg replied. Mycroft was the sort of posh bastard who probably had his shirts handmade. No skin off his nose to fork out for this.
"There'll be one somewhere in Croydon, doubtless," Mycroft said, pulling out his phone.
"Probably shut by now."
"Oh, that can be dealt with."
***
"If you stay in the car, that'll be easiest," Mycroft said, once they got to a very closed-looking Marks and Spencer. "I suspect the manager's a little on edge already. White, size sixteen and a half, short sleeve, regular fit?"
"Yeah," Greg replied with surprise. Mycroft promptly walked off, and Greg sat back in his seat, wondering how he'd got himself into this. A few minutes later, Mycroft got back into the car and handed him a package.
"Supposedly non-iron," he said. "Which might make your wife a little happier."
"Who says my wife irons my shirts?" Greg asked grumpily.
"Your shirt's badly ironed; been allowed to dry out too much and then done in a hurry. You don't worry about looking smart; if it was down to you, you wouldn't bother with ironing. Someone else is therefore doing it, who considers it is necessary for you to look your best, but is not capable of ensuring that. If your wife feels that she has to iron your shirts and yet lacks the ability to do so effectively, of course she is unhappy."
"You know everything, don't you?" Greg said sulkily. "Just like Sherlock."
"We share the same observational ability," Mycroft replied smoothly, and then a wry smile came over his face. "And sometimes the same lack of people skills. I didn't mean to criticize your wife. Ironing a shirt well is by no means a vital component of a marriage." He paused and then said quietly, "I presume you want to go home. Where do you live?"
"Can't you work that out?" Greg joked, and then realised abruptly that Mycroft has taken the suggestion seriously, his brow furrowing in concentration as he gazed at him.
"Outer London rather than inner, given your salary and your wife's probable preference for low-crime areas. South London, rather than north, from some of your speech rhythms. You have one or more teenage daughters, so the schools matter. Sutton, perhaps, or Bromley?"
"Bromley. How the...hell did you know about my daughters?"
There was a hint of triumph in Mycroft's smile this time; Greg was reminded again of Sherlock.
"An incident in the cafe where we met this lunchtime. A gaggle of sixth-form girls came in, looked at the prices and went out again. Most of the customers were affronted, but you were smiling. They reminded you of your own children."
"Cathy's thirteen, going on thirty. Jill's sixteen, wants to be a doctor. And Paul, my eldest, is nineteen and trekking round South America at the moment, on his gap year." Angie had been petrified about Paul going off on his own; Greg reckoned it was no worse than picking up scattered bits of traffic accident victims, which he'd been doing at that age.
"And your wife?"
"Angela. She's a teaching assistant at one of the local primaries." He should say something more about Angie, he thought, but he wasn't sure what. Anything he said might betray him. But then Mycroft could probably already tell from a hundred subtle signs that his marriage was a mess.
"I live on Park Road, Bromley," he said and looked away, out of the tinted windows of the car at the bright lights of Croydon.
He shouldn't let himself get wound up about Angie, he told himself after a bit, made him seem sulky. He looked round and Mycroft was leaning back in his seat, still watching him. Probably trying to deduce yet more of his secrets. Greg felt oddly uncomfortable meeting his gaze now, and he hurriedly turned to stare out of the window again. Why the hell was he feeling so awkward, like he was still a teenager himself? Maybe it was just he wanted to make a good impression on Mycroft, not look like a complete loser in front of a man who practically ran the country.
But could Oberstein really be right? Surely Sherlock would have mentioned it if his brother was so important? Well, maybe not, since they were clearly on bad terms. Greg looked back at Mycroft again, who now had one hand propping up his chin as he stared into the middle distance. Just at that moment he did give off the complacent ruthlessness of a man who could rule the world. But there was something else underneath that. Sometime when Mycroft was talking, a genuine expression came over that mobile face, making him seem human, even attractive. The kind of man you might want to get to know better.
That was a ridiculous thought. It wasn't as if he was likely to see Mycroft, after tonight, even if he was Sherlock's brother. Why would he want to, anyhow?
Mycroft had obviously become conscious of Greg staring at him. He turned his head and smiled a slightly forced smile.
"Please excuse me, Greg. I was just making a few mental notes for myself." Then the smile broadened, becoming even more unconvincing, and Mycroft waved a hand regally at him, and added, "By the way, if you want to check that the new shirt fits, please go ahead. The car windows are tinted; no-one will see you."
Greg stared at him and for a moment wondered if he'd misheard. What the fuck; did he just ask me to undress in front of him? There was a slight shiftiness in Mycroft's gaze now, and yes, he had said it, hadn't he? As a suggestion from a gay bloke to a man he hardly knew it was a bit...off.
Well, no, as a suggestion from a gay bloke like Mycroft to him, it wasn't quite as off as it ought to be. Greg hadn't felt attracted to another man in years, but there was something weirdly sexy about Mycroft, now he came to think about it. He might be nothing much to look at, but a man with that razor-sharp mind could probably work out in about ten seconds flat exactly what turned you on and how to provide it most efficiently.
Greg realised he was still staring at Mycroft, whose smile looked brittle now, as if was expecting the entire Western hemisphere to collapse in disorder. Or at least that Greg was going to cut up rough about him coming on to him. OK, Greg decided, if him taking his shirt off really would give Mycroft a thrill, might as well do it. Though he suspected that Mycroft wasn't going to be that impressed when he actually saw him topless. One of those things probably best left to the imagination; Mycroft was about twenty years too late for seeing his body at its best.
But as Greg took his seat belt off, pulled his stomach muscles in, and started to undo the buttons, Mycroft's fascinated eyes followed the fingers working their way down the ruined shirt. And Greg recognised the way that the other man began subtly shifting in his seat, because his own erection was also starting to make his trousers uncomfortable. God, he'd forgotten what it was like when it was another man, hadn't he? No delicate negotiations, just a spike of lust and take your chance. Next move was his, he reckoned.
"If I told you I didn't need to go home right away," he said, "what would you do?"
"Take you somewhere private," Mycroft said, and his posh voice was suddenly roughened. "Don't worry, my driver's very discreet."
This couldn't be happening, Greg thought, even as he slid the shirt off his shoulders. It was getting hot in the car, wasn't it? He wondered if he should suggest Mycroft undressed a bit as well. Took his tie off, at least. He reached out a hand towards the other man, and then the car abruptly stopped and he nearly toppled over.
"There appears to be some kind of blockage," Mycroft said, peering out of the window.
"Probably the Shortlands bridge," Greg said automatically. "Angie hates that junction."
His stomach lurched abruptly. Angie. His wife. Who was sitting at home waiting for him, when he was just about to... he looked in horror at Mycroft.
"Angela," he said. "She, I...I can't. You must see that."
"I understand," Mycroft said and Greg could see a mask of control going back in place. "Though if you do want to put the new shirt on?"
Greg pulled the packaging off clumsily, fumbled himself into the new shirt. Yes, it did fit, even though it felt stiff, awkward. Almost as bloody awkward as this situation.
"I'm sorry," he said, not looking up.
"Please don't worry about it," Mycroft said, soothingly. "You should be home fairly soon, once we're past this jam."
"I...I might walk the rest of the way if it's OK," Greg said. "It's a nice evening. Could probably do with the exercise. Might even be quicker. And you need to get on, must have things to do."
"I'll let you out here, then. It's been a pleasure working with you, Greg." For a man who'd been hoping to seduce him in the back of a car, Mycroft sounded alarmingly controlled now, though his eyes still couldn't quite meet Greg's. "I'll make sure the Met knows how co-operative - helpful - you've been on the Phelps case. I think it can be officially closed now. Good night."
Greg climbed out of the traffic-locked car, his ruined shirt in his hand. Twenty minutes or so to walk home. Time enough to get himself straightened out before he saw Angie.
***
"What happened to your shirt?" Angela demanded with a frown, about thirty seconds after he got home.
"I was trying to arrest a suspect, he elbowed me and I got a nose bleed," he said. "Wasn't sure it would wash out, so I bought myself a new one. Do you like it?"
"I hope it wasn't too expensive," she replied promptly. "You know we should be saving up for Paul's university fees. That is if he ever gets back to go to university. He hasn't e-mailed today, even though he said he would."
"Might not have been able to find an internet cafe," Greg responded soothingly. "Guess they're a bit hit and miss in Argentina."
"Or maybe something's happened to him. I should never have agreed to you letting him go. But then you both think I'm just a silly woman, don't you? And Cathy was being so unhelpful this morning. I've told her again and again that her school skirt is too short, but she does not listen."
A familiar string of complaints followed: Cathy, Jill, a shop assistant being rude, the couple next door playing their music too loudly, the supply teachers at her school who didn't know how to use teaching assistants properly. When had Angie got like this, he found himself wondering again. The need to find grievances, to have someone to blame for the fact she was unhappy. He hated the misery souring her beautiful face so often. Why couldn't she just take things in her stride, not get so uptight?
"And how was your day, apart from your nosebleed?" she asked, and Greg's mouth suddenly went dry. Because today he'd turned a blind eye to the Holmeses committing burglary and then almost had sex with a virtual stranger. God, what he had been thinking of? He could hardly criticise Angie's faults after that.
"Not much excitement otherwise," he said. "Didn't get the suspect, but the case is probably gonna be closed anyhow. Just a petty criminal getting out of his depth." Oberstein hadn't been the only one doing that, he thought. "Anything on telly tonight?"
"Nothing that appeals to me, but doubtless you and Jill can find something to entertain you," Angela replied. "I was going to go and finish my novel, if that's OK."
"Fine," he said, and wondered if she'd like a cuddle or if suggesting it would just annoy her. Probably best to leave it, he decided. As he wandered into the lounge and greeted Jill, he realised there was something in the pocket of his new shirt. Yet more packaging, he thought, and fished the thing out. Mycroft's business card, like the one he'd shown him in the cafe that afternoon. He must have put it in the shirt before he gave it to Greg. He stared at the phone number on the card.
"You OK, Dad?" Jill asked.
"Yeah," he said. "Sorry, what did you say you wanted to watch?"
"It's an Iranian film," she said. "Got very good reviews."
He sighed and then smiled: Jill always thought he ought to get a bit more cultured. He wondered if that was the kind of thing Mycroft watched. And then he told Jill, "Just gotta go and do something."
He went out to the wheelie bin at the front of the house, tore Mycroft's card to shreds and shoved it in. It didn't matter what Mycroft wanted; he wasn't breaking up his own marriage.