Perseverance (3/7)
BBC Sherlock
Rating 15 (swearing, implicit slash)
Summary: Greg gets an unexpected proposition from Mycroft
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. There are spoilers for Scandal and Hounds in later parts.
Betaed by the wonderful Small Hobbit.
Part 1, Part 2
him'>Greg couldn't help wondering if Mycroft would phone him; for the next few days, he felt his body tensing every time his mobile rang. But there was nothing. Mycroft had seen sense, obviously. Which was what Greg wanted. In fact, if it hadn't been for the new shirt, he'd have started to wonder if he'd imagined the whole car ride.
He waited for Sherlock to say something, but he never mentioned his brother. Still, Greg didn't claim to understand how Sherlock's mind worked. Perhaps he was just trying to forget about Mycroft. Perhaps Greg should ask him how to do that. Though as the months went by, Greg found that all he could really remember clearly was Mycroft's smooth voice and grey eyes that could shift abruptly from analysis to desire.
***
Christmas was tough; Paul still abroad and Angela in a particularly unhappy mood. January was worse, when a dead cabinet minister landed Greg with a set of serial suicides, which made no fucking sense. He ended up desperate enough to call in Sherlock, against the wishes of his whole team.
It worked - well, sort of. Sherlock caught the serial killer the following night. And then had him killed. Greg might not quite be letting Sherlock get away with murder, but it was a pretty close run thing. But as he watched Sherlock walk away from the ambulance to meet his "flatmate", Greg had a sudden realisation of who Dr Watson really was. It was hardly a surprise when five minutes later, just as he was wondering how long before they could wrap up for the night, he spotted a tall, elegant figure walking towards him.
What was a surprise was the glamorous brunette smiling at Mycroft as she walked beside him. Mycroft hadn't said he was married, Greg thought, his stomach clenching stupidly, and then told himself not to be ridiculous. You'd hardly drag your wife along to an FE college in the middle of the night to be briefed about a murderous cabbie.
"Can I have a word in private, DI Lestrade?" Mycroft asked, and the glossy woman with him - good legs, Greg couldn't help noticing - smiled again and walked past him to ask DS Donovan something. He looked up at Mycroft. If he was 'Lestrade' again, it was obviously something professional.
"What do you want to know?" he asked, and it came out too belligerently, like Mycroft owed him something.
"A cabinet minister was killed three days ago," Mycroft said smoothly. "I was hoping you could tell me that no more of them were likely to die. Gordon has enough problems as it is."
"We got the serial killer, if that's what you mean. Well, when I say got, he's dead. But it was clearly him who was forcing the victims to kill themselves." He paused and then decided he had to get something straight with Mycroft, at least. "That's why I looked the other way when your bloke shot him."
"I'm sorry?" Mycroft was all suave innocence tonight, and Greg had had enough of that from Sherlock.
"Oh don't be a bloody pain," he protested, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You decided Sherlock needed a bodyguard and brought in Dr 007. I must admit, he had me fooled; he looked pretty harmless. Though I suppose it was a bit of a fucking giveaway when he suddenly wasn't limping any more."
Mycroft was smiling now, the patronising smile that Greg had carefully forgotten about:
"Dr Watson isn't an employee of mine, I assure you, Inspector."
"What? Christ, have I just let Sherlock go off with some random bloke with a handgun?" Until about quarter of an hour ago, he'd been hoping Dr Watson might be a good influence on Sherlock. But if he was some kind of vigilante, or a criminal...
"Please don't worry," Mycroft replied carefully. "I've had initial checks run on the man. He is an army doctor, as he claims, and - apart from a certain reckless disregard of the laws on firearms - relatively sane. I had nothing to do with him turning up at Baker Street, but I do hope he'll remain there. Sherlock could do with a friend."
"Can't see him knowing what to do with a friend," Greg said. Bet you're the same, he couldn't help adding in his head. His own heartbeat suddenly sounded loud, so why did Mycroft have to be so bloody calm?
"It is difficult for a man in my position to maintain friendships." Mycroft's voice was full of polite regret and it was all suddenly too much on not enough sleep.
"Don't answer things I haven't fucking said," Greg roared, and then shook his head and said more slowly. "Sorry. I'm tired and I can do without you playing mind games."
"I understand," Mycroft said and he looked down, fumbling with the umbrella he was holding. "And you have every right to believe that I am as deficient in social skills as Sherlock, in my own way. At our previous meeting, my behaviour was undoubtedly ...inappropriate."
Inappropriate. Not 'stupid' or' wrong', nothing about the sudden overwhelming desire to grab what you wanted. But the bland jargon of a bureaucrat, putting the whole thing neatly back in a box.
"That's one way of putting it," Greg muttered. He didn't want there to be anything more, of course he didn't. It would be so much bloody simpler if they could both pretend nothing had happened. "Just a rush of blood to the" - his tired brain finally caught up with his mouth - "head."
He could feel himself blushing and hoped it was too dark for Mycroft to notice. Why the hell could the man reduce him to this? And then Mycroft's eyes finally met his, and there was pain there, not simply embarrassment.
"I should not have done what I did, Greg," Mycroft said quietly. "I was attracted to you from the first time we met and I had my suspicions about your own...history. So I manipulated the situation in the car to try and confirm them. I had not thought through the consequences. If you were not only used to being desired by other men, but also found me desirable."
"Well, now you know," Greg said. He kept his hand in his pockets, so he wasn't tempted to reach out and touch Mycroft. "And you know it's not going to happen. Yeah, I've been with blokes in the past, but not since I've been married."
"That's undoubtedly the right decision, given our positions."
Our positions, Greg thought, and the penny dropped. Should have thought of that, shouldn't I, that he's with someone as well? Ring on his right hand...
"My father's ring," Mycroft said, holding up the hand depreciatingly. "I'm sorry, I didn't explain myself clearly. Excessive secrecy is an occupational hazard of my trade. I am not in any kind of relationship currently, nor have I been for some time."
"Then what the fuck are you talking about?" Maybe he was actually asleep and dreaming all this. It might make more sense.
"You've worked with Sherlock on a number of cases - very effectively, I might add - and as you are aware, he and I are on bad terms. He would probably resent any kind of closeness between us. He might refuse to work with you any more."
"Then he can just work with some of the other DIs," Greg replied promptly.
"You can't mean that...Sherlock would be furious..."
"I'm not having him deciding who I can and can't talk to." Greg shook his head, tried to focus, to say something so straightforward that not even a Holmes could find a double meaning in it. "Look, it's not the first time ever I've met someone I fancy. Like my Nan used to tell me, you can't help who you fall for, you can help what you do about it. We're both grown-ups - we're gonna keep our hands off each other and it'll be OK. You don't have to avoid me, if that's what you've been doing. Understand?"
"Completely," Mycroft replied, and there was a hint of relief there. "I should have contacted you as soon as Beth Davenport died, but under the circumstances..."
His voice died away and his face fell again. Then he said tentatively, "But are you saying you're no longer prepared to work with Sherlock?"
"No," Greg replied firmly. "But it is about time he tried working with some of the other teams at the Yard again. And that's got nothing to do with you and me, and everything to do with him learning to grow up."
"Sherlock finds relating to unfamiliar people difficult."
"That's obvious," Greg said. "But at the moment, if I copped a bullet or won the lottery, he'd be left out in the cold. Gregson won't work with him again, and you know what happened to Jonah Gabriel."
"So what are you suggesting?"
"Next time he brings something in to us, he'll get DI Dimmock assigned to him. He's a bright lad, just got promoted. He'll be willing to take a chance on Sherlock if it means solving a big case."
Mycroft frowned. "I don't know whether Sherlock would be able to...behave."
"Maybe his new flatmate will teach him some manners," Greg said. John Watson had seemed a polite enough bloke, for a trained killer. "Look, we give it a try, and if it doesn't work, it doesn't work. But I think that Sherlock can change, and that it's about time he did. And I hope that whatever happens, you and me can get along OK. Coz I suspect at some point we're gonna need each other's help again, Mycroft."
***
February was cold and rainy and miserable, and Greg didn't care. They were counting down the days now till Paul got back and Angie had been in a good mood for weeks. Not just about that; her school had finally got a couple of their vacancies filled and she reckoned the new teachers were promising.
"Miss Weaver's got a lot of new ideas for teaching phonics and we've finally got a male teacher," she said. "Mr Trench is a keen footballer, as well, so all the boys who want to be Van Persie or whatever his name is can pester him, not the rest of us."
"Sounds good," Greg said. "I'm gonna sort out some leave for when Paul gets back, twist Donovan's arm so she covers for me." Sally's personal life was still a mess, of course, but Greg felt suddenly sorry for her. Yes, it was stupid to get involved with someone married, but even clever people could make stupid mistakes sometimes. Look at Mycroft...
No, he wasn't thinking about Mycroft. Him and Sherlock were someone else's problem for once.
***
A month later, DI Dimmock came into Greg's office and smugly started explaining how the previous night he'd smashed an international smuggling ring. Greg listened, and heard the Sherlock-shaped hole in his story and smiled surreptitiously. It didn't matter if Dimmock was eager to grab the glory; Sherlock had never been interested in fame.
He didn't expect to have Mycroft turn up later that day, wandering in unannounced at the end of Greg's shift and closing the door to his office behind him. Mycroft was trying to project his normal air of control, but there was a tautness about his mouth that made it look an effort.
"I need to talk to you, Greg," he said.
"Down the pub OK?"
"I would prefer that no-one overheard us," Mycroft said quietly. "It's a delicate matter."
Oh fuck, Greg thought, this is something personal, isn't it? Did Mycroft still not realise that he wasn't interested? But his own body was already tensing - nervousness, excitement? - at the thought of Mycroft here at the Yard.
"Sit down then," he said. "But I want to get off soon. Angie's going out to keep-fit tonight, so I've got to ferry the kids around this evening." Probably best to remind Mycroft - remind himself - where his priorities lay.
"It's about the General Shan case," Mycroft said. "The Black Lotus smuggling ring."
Greg let out a breath. Stupid of him to imagine Mycroft might have been thinking about anything else.
"Sherlock sorted that out pretty effectively, didn't he?" he said. "At least, Dimmock didn't say it was him, but I could read between the lines."
"It depends what you mean by effectively," Mycroft's voice was bleak now. "Shan escaped. A young woman who was helping Sherlock was murdered. John Watson and a female friend of his were also nearly killed."
"DI Dimmock said something about a fight in a disused railway tunnel," Greg said, sitting down opposite Mycroft. Trying to act like he was a serious professional and not some complete idiot.
"John and his companion - Dr Sarah Sawyer - were captured by the gang. Sherlock tracked them down, but he was almost too late. He had overlooked a vital clue in a photograph given to him by DI Dimmock. A clue that Dimmock had also overlooked."
"And?"
"If you had been working with Sherlock you might have spotted it," Mycroft said, staring at Greg. "Or Sherlock might have paid more attention when you gave him the evidence, been willing to discuss the photo with you. An innocent woman would not have come within inches of an extremely unpleasant death. And we might have been able to capture Shan and get valuable information from her."
Lestrade scowled across at him. Surely Mycroft knew that second-guessing cases was a mug's game?
"Probably wouldn't have made any difference," he said. "Sherlock ignores me half the bloody time, you know that. Dimmock's a bright kid - better educated than I am - they'll get used to each other."
Mycroft was silent now, and then he said thoughtfully, "Sherlock doesn't need someone clever to work with."
Thanks a bunch, Greg thought. "So that's my advantage, is it? That I'm thick?"
"That you're unimpressed by cleverness," Mycroft replied smoothly. "DI Dimmock has been dazzled by Sherlock; he'll be happy now to do whatever he says next time. And I believe he hopes Sherlock might become his friend. I don't need that. I need someone who knows when to trust Sherlock. And when not to."
It was hard work with Sherlock, sometimes; was it unfair to want to spread the load a bit? But it didn't bear thinking about if Dimmock was going to follow blindly after Sherlock. He could wreck his career that way almost before he'd got started. Greg looked down at his desk, wondering what he ought to say.
"I have no right to ask you this," Mycroft went on, "but what I would like to arrange with your superiors is that from now on you oversee all Sherlock's liaison with the police. Both here at the Yard and when he works with other forces."
"You think that's necessary?"
"Sherlock's working on bigger and bigger cases. His name has been kept out of the limelight so far, but it may not be forever. Especially since his flatmate fancies himself as a blogger."
"Dr Watson has a blog?" Greg demanded, and automatically picked up a pen to scribble a note to check it. It was not going to go down well with the high-ups if John Watson started talking about Sherlock's cases.
"It's harmless enough stuff. Well, it is by the time my contact at John's ISP has amended it as necessary. It even has a certain inarticulate charm. But if Sherlock's public profile were to become higher-"
"-sooner or later, someone's gonna cut up rough about amateurs helping the police," Greg finished the sentence for him. "I've told my Super that Sherlock's an informant. He must know that he's doing more than that, but he's been prepared to turn a blind eye so far..." Oh fuck, he thought as it hit him. That's what this is about, isn't it?
He glared across at Mycroft, who looked away and shifted slightly in his chair. All this time he'd just been playing Greg for a sucker, hadn't he? Trying to soften him up, pretend he was interested in him, before sliding him this poisoned chalice.
"That's what you really want me for, isn't it?" Greg demanded. "This isn't about liaison; this is about me being a fall guy. So if - when - Sherlock cocks things up, I take the blame, and the rest of the Met are in the clear."
"I see I need to explain myself," Mycroft said, and his grey eyes finally met Greg's. "After our last talk, I thought you were right, that someone else who could work effectively with Sherlock might be useful insurance. I investigated Dimmock, as well as a few other officers here at the Yard."
"And?" It was hardly news that Mycroft spied on people. It didn't mean Greg had to like it.
"There was no-one else I could find who I felt I could rely on." It wasn't fair that a devious bastard like Mycroft could look so sincere sometimes. "Do you remember what you told me at our first ever meeting? That when you see a crime, you want to nail the person who did it. However important they might be."
"Yeah, well that was a stupid thing to say, wasn't it?" Greg growled. "Because I didn't arrest Oberstein or you when it came to the crunch."
"Should you have done?"
Greg ticked the points off on his fingers. "No solid evidence to charge Oberstein once you'd walked off with the files he'd received. If Sherlock gets a criminal record, my team are going to be even more unhappy working with him. I could have arrested you for burglary, but it'd have stopped you dealing with Oberstein's contacts. Including sorting out the bastard who was blackmailing Phelps and selling Her Majesty's secrets. I know Phelps' sort. He wouldn't have been prepared to testify, so there'd be nothing doing with that end either."
"So you decided it was better to let me deal with Mr Smith. Balancing justice and pragmatism?"
"More like making a fucking idiot of myself, in the hope you knew what you were doing," Greg said. "That's what I have to do with Sherlock, quite often. For a brilliant detective, he's pretty bloody hazy sometimes on what counts as a crime."
"If anyone in the Metropolitan Police Service can keep Sherlock out of trouble, it's you, Greg," Mycroft replied warmly. "But the other reason I want you in charge of Sherlock is that if the worst does come to the worst, one man is easier to protect than half a dozen."
"What do you mean?"
Mycroft leaned back and folded his arms, back to his normal superior self.
"My department has contingency funds. If you ever need payments from them - for replacement warrant cards, destroyed shirts, legal expenses - they are at your disposal. If for any reason you were unable to complete thirty years of service in order to collect your full pension, we could also cover any shortfall."
"And I'm sure you'll give me a nice send-off if Sherlock gets me killed," Greg added sardonically. "I take it this is danger money, not just a bribe?"
"It's ensuring that you - and your family - aren't put at financial risk from your association with Sherlock. If you do agree to keep on working with him, of course."
Greg shrugged. No choice really, when you came down to it. The Yard needed Sherlock, however much of a pain he was. And it did give him a reason to stay in contact with Mycroft...
Oh shit, he realised. This is a man who can read my bloody mind and I'm thinking that?
"I'll do it," he said. "But I'm not...it's because I need Sherlock. For the work, I mean...I mean I'm not planning to be anyone's friend. "
The statement didn't make sense even to him, but Mycroft didn't seem to worry. Instead, he said softly, "Thank you." Then, fishing in his pocket, he pulled out yet another of his business cards and put it down on the desk.
"I suggest you don't destroy it this time," he said. "Someone will always be available on this number. Just tell them what you need."
Greg looked down at the card and then up at Mycroft, who was watching him, deducing him. What if I said I needed you? Stupid thing to think, he told himself, shaking his head. He had responsibilities; they both had. But he picked up the card anyway.
"I'll keep it for emergencies," he said, and Mycroft smiled briefly, and then got up without a word and left Greg's office.