Though I Walk Through the Valley (2/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title: Though I Walk through the Valley (2/38)
Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Beta: imagined_away
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Warnings: None for this chapter
Author's Notes: Just so you're all aware, this chapter is unbetaed so all mistakes are even more mine than usual. Due to a long series of health complications, imagined_away is having trouble getting through all the chapters for this. If anyone feels like sticking up their hand to help her beta read it would be much appreciated, I'm sure.
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“So back from overseas then.” Greg speared a piece of the incredibly succulent steak with his fork. The meat practically melted in his mouth.
“Yes.”
Pity it tasted like ash and despair. Since their...since it had happened Mycroft had started selecting fancier and fancier restaurants for ‘his shout’. It had been his shout almost every week. Tonight was undoubtedly five star and there was no way Greg would have been let in if Mycroft’s PA hadn’t met him at the door and escorted him to the table. As it was Greg had caught the Beta Sub waiter mentally reviewing the cutlery numbers twice and suspected that only the flagrant insult that it would be to Mycroft was going to stop them searching him on the way out.
The clatter of knives and forks and the soft murmur of conversation blended with the delicate strains of music being produced by the string quartet in the corner. Every time they finished a piece Greg had to stop himself clapping. They were clearly only meant to be background, despite their skill, and he didn’t need to draw more attention to himself when he already stuck out like a sore thumb.
“How was work?”
Mycroft’s return volley. This was how their conversations were now, verbal tennis matches with neither side admitting defeat. Greg wasn’t sure why they were against each other when the mutual, but unspoken opponent was Discomfort.
“You know, the usual.”
Once he flattered himself that Mycroft would have known intimately everything Greg had done in the day, keeping track of Greg only partially as a way of keeping track of Sherlock. Now Greg wasn’t so sure.
There was silence as both took a bite.
“Dug some cold cases out. Sherlock came by to grab them.” Greg continued once he’d finished chewing.
As he seemed to be more and more these days, Sherlock was their safe, and almost only, topic of conversation.
“He was thrilled I’m sure.” Mycroft’s voice was just the slightest bit warmer at the mention of his brother.
“Not so much.” Greg’s lips twitched and he used the help to create a not entirely fake smile at the memory.
Mycroft’s head tilted upwards in what was, for him, extreme surprise.
“He had to fight Sally for them.”
“Ah.” Curiosity appeased another bite of steak made its way to Mycroft’s lips, the polite way of not saying anything.
The restaurant was definitely something. Large and spacious it managed to create an intimate air with small tables and soft candle light. No harsh fluorescents here, the ambient light level was at that perfect setting to provide maximum flattery to one’s appearance. The patrons were a mix of sombre black and jewel bright splashes of colour. There were more than a few dinner suits among the crowd, and the collars around various Subs’ necks were crusted with glittering jewels and made of velvet, lace and highly expensive looking leather. In his usual grey three piece suit, blue tie, and pale blue shirt Mycroft was among the least well dressed in the room. Greg could have been wearing his best suit, which of course he wasn’t, and he still may as well have been wearing the table cloth as far as the patrons of this place were concerned.
The table cloths themselves were delicate linen, the silverware appeared to be real silver, and the salt salver had been revealed as crystal when Greg had clumsily banged it with his fork... of which he had four.
He had already enjoyed a creamy pumpkin soup with nutmeg and sour cream and some sort of entree with bacon that he really should have been able to identify thanks to his uncle, but he hadn’t had a clue. There had been a salad course and now there was this mouth-watering sawdust steak that probably cost a month of Greg’s wages. It left him wondering what the last fork was for. Dessert?
To the outside observer this probably looked like a good thing, as if Mycroft was courting Greg, taking him out for fancy meals and romantically doing all the ordering ahead of time. Predicting what Greg would feel like eating was child’s play to a Holmes and the man certainly had the money to spend. To the average person the ambient atmosphere with its candles and live classical music screamed date, date, date.
Greg knew otherwise.
When Mycroft had first barged into Greg’s life in his overly protective of Sherlock way, Greg had seen more than a few of these places. At first it had been warehouses and power stations as Mycroft tried to intimidate answers about Sherlock’s life out of Greg by force. Then Greg had a bad day at the Yard - Budget meetings, a murder scene, Sherlock in a bad mood, Sally in a worse mood, paper work, a nasty phone call from his ex-wife - and unable to take it he’d stormed into the waiting black car and upon arriving at the water pump station had sworn at Mycroft until he was blue in the face. The Dom had stood there as implacable as ever, but apparently what Greg had said about being tired and hungry and not having time to be continually and randomly kidnapped struck a chord. After that Mycroft’s car only appeared for him on Thursdays after work and it was an equal, but random divide as to whether Mycroft was in the car and it took Greg home with interrogation en route, or whether Mycroft was waiting at the fancy restaurant du jour.
Greg may not have enjoyed office politics, but he still knew how to play them well enough to recognise more subtle power plays when he saw them. He’d had to learn a lot of the signs in order to successfully masquerade as a Dom, especially one in what was still an overly Dominant dominated workplace. Subtle insults and ego tweaks were standard Dom tactics for intimidation, provocation, standing, and the constant power play that was everyday interaction in a society where half its members were driven to a greater or lesser extent to demand they be the top dog. Outright intimidation had failed, so the more insidious ‘look at the power I wield, the money I have’ messages were Mycroft’s next move.
It had taken six months and several meals where Sherlock was never even mentioned before Greg changed the route home on a Mycroftian lift from the office to go via the local, entirely casual, Chinese. The next week, the calibre of restaurant Mycroft was waiting in dropped by several zeros on the bill.
Now they were back again, eating amazing food and talking about nothing. Only this time, Greg wanted to talk about something, even Sherlock, and Mycroft was barely saying anything.
“I do hope it wasn’t too much of a problem for you.” The silence must have gone on too long. Time for the return play.
For a moment Greg had the sinking feeling Mycroft meant coming to dinner and fumbled receiving the ball, scared that Mycroft was going to propose cancelling Thursdays, but then he belatedly remembered Sherlock and Sally.
“Huh, oh, no. It was...” He paused to think of the word.
‘Good’ was his first inclination, followed by ‘helpful’, because the fight had been very useful for pulling him out of his head and forcing him back into the real world, but considering Sally had had to be restrained, Sherlock had been kicked out, and a window had suffered an unplanned demise courtesy of a flying telephone, neither word seemed socially acceptable.
“Eventful.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, the picture of innocent curiosity. Greg knew he had probably already read the report. Mycroft knew that Greg knew, but he always made Greg say it. Over time Greg had come to appreciate this give and flow, the way Mycroft allowed him to pass on the things he found important in his own way and let them actually have a conversation, but now it just felt like another power play with Mycroft forcing Greg to give up information to prove he could. It was a stupid feeling, but one he was having trouble fighting given the other subtle intimidation tactics which had mysteriously reappeared since Christmas.
He sighed. “Let’s just say John was a valuable aid to returning order.”
Instrumental even. All 5ft 7’’ of pissed off, oatmeal jumper wearing, Alpha Dom had done what Greg couldn’t and floored the whole bullpen, Sherlock and Sally included. He’d then taken his, with assurances that Sherlock would be disciplined, and left Greg to yell at the rest.
He’d rather enjoyed that. It had definitely released a great deal of built up tension and he intended to deliver a similar speech to Sherlock, at volume, to remind him he helped the Yard on sufferance as soon as John was done with him.
He also intended to tell him to take some time away from the Yard. Sally’s face after the required punishment strokes had been administered as discipline suggested that their relationship may actually have reached murderous and unstable around Sherlock or not she was a good Sergeant, and maybe even a friend, and he did not want to have to go to her funeral.
Mycroft undoubtedly knew all this given how closely supervised he kept his brother, though he’d become significantly better at not interfering with Sherlock’s life unless it was really truly needed. Greg had previously speculated that part of Mycroft’s over protectiveness was actually guilt. He had been inadvertently responsible for Sherlock’s general lack of respect for Doms and the ‘natural order’ and so tried to bridge the gap between his baby brother and the rest of the world as best as possible. Unfortunately, being the source of, and thus sharing, many of Sherlock’s attitudes and opinions behind his much politer and better adjusted exterior, Mycroft had generally failed miserably. John, to Mycroft’s expressed pleasure, was doing a much better job, today’s behavioural relapse to the contrary.
Once he would have shared this train of thought with Mycroft whose long suffering relationship with his brother had led him to a surprising sympathy for Sergeant Sally Donovan. Now Greg couldn’t even force the words out. Once bitten, twice shy.
“And how is Sergeant Donovan?” Mycroft gave Greg an entirely natural looking smile. Bloody mind reader.
Greg couldn’t help smiling back. It was the first glimpse of his actual friend he’d had all meal. Mycroft always had been able to make him smile with nothing more than a twitch of his own lips.
“Well, angry now.”
Their eyes met and they shared a gentle humour filled glance before Mycroft suddenly broke it and looked down at his plate to select another mouthful.
Greg closed his mouth regretfully. Why had it been open? Had he been going to say more? It didn’t matter now anyway.
“Still waiting for that, what was Sherlock’s turn of phrase-”
“Please don’t.”
No matter which of Sherlock’s insults Mycroft chose to describe Anderson, it would not be particularly polite and Greg did have to work with him tomorrow. It was always harder to face Anderson after hearing one of Sherlock’s creative references, especially as Greg agreed with a lot of them.
“Yeah, she’s still waiting for him to leave his Sub.”
“Pity.”
There was something off about Mycroft’s voice. It probably sounded perfectly natural, but Greg knew Mycroft and his expressions intimately. He hadn’t changed that much (or at all) since they met, though Greg had briefly seen a different side of him, and he knew Mycroft’s diplomat voice when he heard it. It had been a few years since it had been directed at him, but he could still recognise it.
“The two of you are quite compatible and, problem with Sherlock aside, I’m sure she’d make quite a satisfactory intimate partner for you.”
Wine went down the wrong way and Greg ended up coughing and spluttering as it sprayed everywhere. On the linen tablecloth. Red wine on the white linen tablecloth. Greg was too busy staring at Mycroft to feel the glares from the staff. That suggestion was just wrong on so many levels. Utterly unconcerned Mycroft delicately patted the corner of his mouth with his napkin and took a mouthful of his own wine.
“You’re kidding right?” Greg finally managed to choke out. “I mean you, of all people should know... Jesus Mycroft, it’d be like, like...” Greg cast widely for a suitable comparison, “like you sleeping with whatever she’s calling herself at the minute - Katrina!”
“It’s Karina.” A sudden flash of guilt crossed Mycroft’s features.
Greg sat heavily back in his chair. That look... Oh God.
“Oh, oh, so it’s, um, like that is it?”
Mycroft didn’t say anything, lowering his eyes and raising his wine glass to his lips in silent acquiescence.
The world had moved strangely out of focus. Distantly he heard a voice ask “How long?” and belatedly regained control of his mouth.
He didn’t want to know. If it dated back further than December, before them, and had survived then it was serious and he hadn’t known. As his friend Mycroft should have told him and it brought home how little he just might mean to the Dom, something he had only started doubting in the dark of the night since then. The alternative, that Mycroft and ‘Karina’ had started seeing each other, having sex Greg forced himself to think, since them...the idea that Mycroft had so quickly and easily moved on...with, with...
He was glad when Mycroft didn’t answer.
The rest of the meal passed in small blocks of inane conversation from Karina’s current name (due to change to Violet tomorrow apparently, and that had been awkward, but Greg felt obligated to be polite and prove to himself and the world that he was okay with this, even if he wasn’t) to the weather (the weather!!!). Greg declined dessert unable to stomach the thought of any more food sitting like a lead ball in his stomach and put up his usual token resistance to Mycroft footing the bill (he won every now and then, but only when it was a meal he’d chosen). The whole thing was full of stale words and robotic gestures as they each played their roles.
Outside Greg refused a ride home citing grocery shopping to avoid prolonging the uncomfortable evening. Mycroft merely accepted his rather lame excuse, shook his hand, and left without looking back.
It struck Greg as he watched the inconspicuous black car pull away how loud his heart was. His chest felt hollow as it thudded behind his ribcage, no faster than usual, just very, very loud.
He knew of course, why.
Friends.
Just friends.
He could do just friends. He had to, as Mycroft had made it very clear that there was no other choice, but, he swallowed as he felt tears prick his eyes, they weren’t friends, just friends. Everything friendly between them was gone leaving two people clinging desperately to keep something that no longer existed. They weren’t fighting the real enemy, they were fighting each other while Loneliness looked on and cheered - the master watching his slaves fight for his entertainment.
His fingers convulsed in his gloves. God, he needed a cigarette.
He wondered how long until they acknowledged things were over, that their friendship was empty with nothing left. He wondered who would stop fighting for the scraps first.
And what would be left of his heart when they did.
***
She sat there pretending to work on her Blackberry in order to give him space to think. It was perfectly clear from his posture that he needed the space and time, as he did after every meeting with the Detective Inspector these days.
She held back a sigh with very little effort. After five years working for Mycroft Holmes she barely needed to think to control her instinctive reactions. It wasn’t that long ago she resented anything to do with DI Gregory Lestrade - a text and Mycroft would be distracted for ten minutes replying and smiling to himself over the exchange; a phone call and he wouldn’t be able to concentrate for half an hour after they hung up; and Thursdays, do not get her started on Thursdays! Between the gleeful anticipation all day and the practically giddy Dominant who came back after (if he even did), the whole day had been a write off.
The figure across from her was not grinning, gleeful, giddy, glad or any other word to describe ‘a happy and excited state’. Legs crossed at the knee, elbow resting on thigh, chin balanced on the back of his hand, Mycroft was cool, collected and calm.
She missed gleeful, giddy and grinning.
“You can ask.” He murmured, still facing out the window.
She never could fool him.
“How was dinner, Sir?”
Mycroft sighed and collapsed back against the car seat. “Fine. It was fine.”
Fine. Of course it was fine, ’fine’ and ‘okay’ being the universal descriptions for ‘awful but I’m trying not to say that.’
“Only fine, Sir? Should I arrange a different type of cuisine next time?”
“No, no, the food was more than adequate.” Mycroft’s hand waved dismissively in her direction before returning to support his head.
Well of course it was more than adequate. She knew that. The Red Shield was a five star restaurant with an eight month waiting list (which she bypassed by grace of Mycroft’s position and purse). What she didn’t know was what had gone wrong to change the unusually close and affectionate relationship the two Doms had shared into the tense artificial thing it was currently.
“It’s nothing, my dear.” He still wasn’t looking at her.
She mentally took a fortifying breath. Lord save her from uncommunicative Holmeses. “DI Lestrade looked distracted.”
And exhausted, stressed, upset, in desperate need of a smoke despite quitting almost four years ago, etc.
Mycroft signed and closed his eyes. “He has a lot on his plate right now.”
She knew that wasn’t true. She had, after all, been the one to hand Mycroft the report on the day’s incident at NSY. She was sure that the cold cases were demanding so much of Lestrade’s attention, and he had nothing else on at this time.
“As always, Sir. I’m sure he was pleased to see you. It’s been awhile since the two of you spoke, given we were overseas last week.”
For most people a week was no time at all. For these two a week used to mean intense international negotiations for Mycroft, and even then she knew he bent his own rules and snuck out the occasional text message, unable to not talk to Lestrade for that length of time, though he always denied it.
Mycroft flinched. If she hadn’t been watching for it she would never have seen, he had exceptional control, but she was looking and knowing him so well it was clear as day to her.
“I’m sure.”
She returned to her Blackberry and made a mental note to start digging and find out exactly what was going on. The security cameras at NSY would be a good place to start.
She would find out. If she had to watch every minute of DI Lestrade’s routine for the last six months, she would and she’d use every camera in London to ensure she didn’t miss a thing.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
More on Wednesday x
Previous - Next
Title: Though I Walk through the Valley (2/38)
Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Beta: imagined_away
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Warnings: None for this chapter
Author's Notes: Just so you're all aware, this chapter is unbetaed so all mistakes are even more mine than usual. Due to a long series of health complications, imagined_away is having trouble getting through all the chapters for this. If anyone feels like sticking up their hand to help her beta read it would be much appreciated, I'm sure.
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“So back from overseas then.” Greg speared a piece of the incredibly succulent steak with his fork. The meat practically melted in his mouth.
“Yes.”
Pity it tasted like ash and despair. Since their...since it had happened Mycroft had started selecting fancier and fancier restaurants for ‘his shout’. It had been his shout almost every week. Tonight was undoubtedly five star and there was no way Greg would have been let in if Mycroft’s PA hadn’t met him at the door and escorted him to the table. As it was Greg had caught the Beta Sub waiter mentally reviewing the cutlery numbers twice and suspected that only the flagrant insult that it would be to Mycroft was going to stop them searching him on the way out.
The clatter of knives and forks and the soft murmur of conversation blended with the delicate strains of music being produced by the string quartet in the corner. Every time they finished a piece Greg had to stop himself clapping. They were clearly only meant to be background, despite their skill, and he didn’t need to draw more attention to himself when he already stuck out like a sore thumb.
“How was work?”
Mycroft’s return volley. This was how their conversations were now, verbal tennis matches with neither side admitting defeat. Greg wasn’t sure why they were against each other when the mutual, but unspoken opponent was Discomfort.
“You know, the usual.”
Once he flattered himself that Mycroft would have known intimately everything Greg had done in the day, keeping track of Greg only partially as a way of keeping track of Sherlock. Now Greg wasn’t so sure.
There was silence as both took a bite.
“Dug some cold cases out. Sherlock came by to grab them.” Greg continued once he’d finished chewing.
As he seemed to be more and more these days, Sherlock was their safe, and almost only, topic of conversation.
“He was thrilled I’m sure.” Mycroft’s voice was just the slightest bit warmer at the mention of his brother.
“Not so much.” Greg’s lips twitched and he used the help to create a not entirely fake smile at the memory.
Mycroft’s head tilted upwards in what was, for him, extreme surprise.
“He had to fight Sally for them.”
“Ah.” Curiosity appeased another bite of steak made its way to Mycroft’s lips, the polite way of not saying anything.
The restaurant was definitely something. Large and spacious it managed to create an intimate air with small tables and soft candle light. No harsh fluorescents here, the ambient light level was at that perfect setting to provide maximum flattery to one’s appearance. The patrons were a mix of sombre black and jewel bright splashes of colour. There were more than a few dinner suits among the crowd, and the collars around various Subs’ necks were crusted with glittering jewels and made of velvet, lace and highly expensive looking leather. In his usual grey three piece suit, blue tie, and pale blue shirt Mycroft was among the least well dressed in the room. Greg could have been wearing his best suit, which of course he wasn’t, and he still may as well have been wearing the table cloth as far as the patrons of this place were concerned.
The table cloths themselves were delicate linen, the silverware appeared to be real silver, and the salt salver had been revealed as crystal when Greg had clumsily banged it with his fork... of which he had four.
He had already enjoyed a creamy pumpkin soup with nutmeg and sour cream and some sort of entree with bacon that he really should have been able to identify thanks to his uncle, but he hadn’t had a clue. There had been a salad course and now there was this mouth-watering sawdust steak that probably cost a month of Greg’s wages. It left him wondering what the last fork was for. Dessert?
To the outside observer this probably looked like a good thing, as if Mycroft was courting Greg, taking him out for fancy meals and romantically doing all the ordering ahead of time. Predicting what Greg would feel like eating was child’s play to a Holmes and the man certainly had the money to spend. To the average person the ambient atmosphere with its candles and live classical music screamed date, date, date.
Greg knew otherwise.
When Mycroft had first barged into Greg’s life in his overly protective of Sherlock way, Greg had seen more than a few of these places. At first it had been warehouses and power stations as Mycroft tried to intimidate answers about Sherlock’s life out of Greg by force. Then Greg had a bad day at the Yard - Budget meetings, a murder scene, Sherlock in a bad mood, Sally in a worse mood, paper work, a nasty phone call from his ex-wife - and unable to take it he’d stormed into the waiting black car and upon arriving at the water pump station had sworn at Mycroft until he was blue in the face. The Dom had stood there as implacable as ever, but apparently what Greg had said about being tired and hungry and not having time to be continually and randomly kidnapped struck a chord. After that Mycroft’s car only appeared for him on Thursdays after work and it was an equal, but random divide as to whether Mycroft was in the car and it took Greg home with interrogation en route, or whether Mycroft was waiting at the fancy restaurant du jour.
Greg may not have enjoyed office politics, but he still knew how to play them well enough to recognise more subtle power plays when he saw them. He’d had to learn a lot of the signs in order to successfully masquerade as a Dom, especially one in what was still an overly Dominant dominated workplace. Subtle insults and ego tweaks were standard Dom tactics for intimidation, provocation, standing, and the constant power play that was everyday interaction in a society where half its members were driven to a greater or lesser extent to demand they be the top dog. Outright intimidation had failed, so the more insidious ‘look at the power I wield, the money I have’ messages were Mycroft’s next move.
It had taken six months and several meals where Sherlock was never even mentioned before Greg changed the route home on a Mycroftian lift from the office to go via the local, entirely casual, Chinese. The next week, the calibre of restaurant Mycroft was waiting in dropped by several zeros on the bill.
Now they were back again, eating amazing food and talking about nothing. Only this time, Greg wanted to talk about something, even Sherlock, and Mycroft was barely saying anything.
“I do hope it wasn’t too much of a problem for you.” The silence must have gone on too long. Time for the return play.
For a moment Greg had the sinking feeling Mycroft meant coming to dinner and fumbled receiving the ball, scared that Mycroft was going to propose cancelling Thursdays, but then he belatedly remembered Sherlock and Sally.
“Huh, oh, no. It was...” He paused to think of the word.
‘Good’ was his first inclination, followed by ‘helpful’, because the fight had been very useful for pulling him out of his head and forcing him back into the real world, but considering Sally had had to be restrained, Sherlock had been kicked out, and a window had suffered an unplanned demise courtesy of a flying telephone, neither word seemed socially acceptable.
“Eventful.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, the picture of innocent curiosity. Greg knew he had probably already read the report. Mycroft knew that Greg knew, but he always made Greg say it. Over time Greg had come to appreciate this give and flow, the way Mycroft allowed him to pass on the things he found important in his own way and let them actually have a conversation, but now it just felt like another power play with Mycroft forcing Greg to give up information to prove he could. It was a stupid feeling, but one he was having trouble fighting given the other subtle intimidation tactics which had mysteriously reappeared since Christmas.
He sighed. “Let’s just say John was a valuable aid to returning order.”
Instrumental even. All 5ft 7’’ of pissed off, oatmeal jumper wearing, Alpha Dom had done what Greg couldn’t and floored the whole bullpen, Sherlock and Sally included. He’d then taken his, with assurances that Sherlock would be disciplined, and left Greg to yell at the rest.
He’d rather enjoyed that. It had definitely released a great deal of built up tension and he intended to deliver a similar speech to Sherlock, at volume, to remind him he helped the Yard on sufferance as soon as John was done with him.
He also intended to tell him to take some time away from the Yard. Sally’s face after the required punishment strokes had been administered as discipline suggested that their relationship may actually have reached murderous and unstable around Sherlock or not she was a good Sergeant, and maybe even a friend, and he did not want to have to go to her funeral.
Mycroft undoubtedly knew all this given how closely supervised he kept his brother, though he’d become significantly better at not interfering with Sherlock’s life unless it was really truly needed. Greg had previously speculated that part of Mycroft’s over protectiveness was actually guilt. He had been inadvertently responsible for Sherlock’s general lack of respect for Doms and the ‘natural order’ and so tried to bridge the gap between his baby brother and the rest of the world as best as possible. Unfortunately, being the source of, and thus sharing, many of Sherlock’s attitudes and opinions behind his much politer and better adjusted exterior, Mycroft had generally failed miserably. John, to Mycroft’s expressed pleasure, was doing a much better job, today’s behavioural relapse to the contrary.
Once he would have shared this train of thought with Mycroft whose long suffering relationship with his brother had led him to a surprising sympathy for Sergeant Sally Donovan. Now Greg couldn’t even force the words out. Once bitten, twice shy.
“And how is Sergeant Donovan?” Mycroft gave Greg an entirely natural looking smile. Bloody mind reader.
Greg couldn’t help smiling back. It was the first glimpse of his actual friend he’d had all meal. Mycroft always had been able to make him smile with nothing more than a twitch of his own lips.
“Well, angry now.”
Their eyes met and they shared a gentle humour filled glance before Mycroft suddenly broke it and looked down at his plate to select another mouthful.
Greg closed his mouth regretfully. Why had it been open? Had he been going to say more? It didn’t matter now anyway.
“Still waiting for that, what was Sherlock’s turn of phrase-”
“Please don’t.”
No matter which of Sherlock’s insults Mycroft chose to describe Anderson, it would not be particularly polite and Greg did have to work with him tomorrow. It was always harder to face Anderson after hearing one of Sherlock’s creative references, especially as Greg agreed with a lot of them.
“Yeah, she’s still waiting for him to leave his Sub.”
“Pity.”
There was something off about Mycroft’s voice. It probably sounded perfectly natural, but Greg knew Mycroft and his expressions intimately. He hadn’t changed that much (or at all) since they met, though Greg had briefly seen a different side of him, and he knew Mycroft’s diplomat voice when he heard it. It had been a few years since it had been directed at him, but he could still recognise it.
“The two of you are quite compatible and, problem with Sherlock aside, I’m sure she’d make quite a satisfactory intimate partner for you.”
Wine went down the wrong way and Greg ended up coughing and spluttering as it sprayed everywhere. On the linen tablecloth. Red wine on the white linen tablecloth. Greg was too busy staring at Mycroft to feel the glares from the staff. That suggestion was just wrong on so many levels. Utterly unconcerned Mycroft delicately patted the corner of his mouth with his napkin and took a mouthful of his own wine.
“You’re kidding right?” Greg finally managed to choke out. “I mean you, of all people should know... Jesus Mycroft, it’d be like, like...” Greg cast widely for a suitable comparison, “like you sleeping with whatever she’s calling herself at the minute - Katrina!”
“It’s Karina.” A sudden flash of guilt crossed Mycroft’s features.
Greg sat heavily back in his chair. That look... Oh God.
“Oh, oh, so it’s, um, like that is it?”
Mycroft didn’t say anything, lowering his eyes and raising his wine glass to his lips in silent acquiescence.
The world had moved strangely out of focus. Distantly he heard a voice ask “How long?” and belatedly regained control of his mouth.
He didn’t want to know. If it dated back further than December, before them, and had survived then it was serious and he hadn’t known. As his friend Mycroft should have told him and it brought home how little he just might mean to the Dom, something he had only started doubting in the dark of the night since then. The alternative, that Mycroft and ‘Karina’ had started seeing each other, having sex Greg forced himself to think, since them...the idea that Mycroft had so quickly and easily moved on...with, with...
He was glad when Mycroft didn’t answer.
The rest of the meal passed in small blocks of inane conversation from Karina’s current name (due to change to Violet tomorrow apparently, and that had been awkward, but Greg felt obligated to be polite and prove to himself and the world that he was okay with this, even if he wasn’t) to the weather (the weather!!!). Greg declined dessert unable to stomach the thought of any more food sitting like a lead ball in his stomach and put up his usual token resistance to Mycroft footing the bill (he won every now and then, but only when it was a meal he’d chosen). The whole thing was full of stale words and robotic gestures as they each played their roles.
Outside Greg refused a ride home citing grocery shopping to avoid prolonging the uncomfortable evening. Mycroft merely accepted his rather lame excuse, shook his hand, and left without looking back.
It struck Greg as he watched the inconspicuous black car pull away how loud his heart was. His chest felt hollow as it thudded behind his ribcage, no faster than usual, just very, very loud.
He knew of course, why.
Friends.
Just friends.
He could do just friends. He had to, as Mycroft had made it very clear that there was no other choice, but, he swallowed as he felt tears prick his eyes, they weren’t friends, just friends. Everything friendly between them was gone leaving two people clinging desperately to keep something that no longer existed. They weren’t fighting the real enemy, they were fighting each other while Loneliness looked on and cheered - the master watching his slaves fight for his entertainment.
His fingers convulsed in his gloves. God, he needed a cigarette.
He wondered how long until they acknowledged things were over, that their friendship was empty with nothing left. He wondered who would stop fighting for the scraps first.
And what would be left of his heart when they did.
***
She sat there pretending to work on her Blackberry in order to give him space to think. It was perfectly clear from his posture that he needed the space and time, as he did after every meeting with the Detective Inspector these days.
She held back a sigh with very little effort. After five years working for Mycroft Holmes she barely needed to think to control her instinctive reactions. It wasn’t that long ago she resented anything to do with DI Gregory Lestrade - a text and Mycroft would be distracted for ten minutes replying and smiling to himself over the exchange; a phone call and he wouldn’t be able to concentrate for half an hour after they hung up; and Thursdays, do not get her started on Thursdays! Between the gleeful anticipation all day and the practically giddy Dominant who came back after (if he even did), the whole day had been a write off.
The figure across from her was not grinning, gleeful, giddy, glad or any other word to describe ‘a happy and excited state’. Legs crossed at the knee, elbow resting on thigh, chin balanced on the back of his hand, Mycroft was cool, collected and calm.
She missed gleeful, giddy and grinning.
“You can ask.” He murmured, still facing out the window.
She never could fool him.
“How was dinner, Sir?”
Mycroft sighed and collapsed back against the car seat. “Fine. It was fine.”
Fine. Of course it was fine, ’fine’ and ‘okay’ being the universal descriptions for ‘awful but I’m trying not to say that.’
“Only fine, Sir? Should I arrange a different type of cuisine next time?”
“No, no, the food was more than adequate.” Mycroft’s hand waved dismissively in her direction before returning to support his head.
Well of course it was more than adequate. She knew that. The Red Shield was a five star restaurant with an eight month waiting list (which she bypassed by grace of Mycroft’s position and purse). What she didn’t know was what had gone wrong to change the unusually close and affectionate relationship the two Doms had shared into the tense artificial thing it was currently.
“It’s nothing, my dear.” He still wasn’t looking at her.
She mentally took a fortifying breath. Lord save her from uncommunicative Holmeses. “DI Lestrade looked distracted.”
And exhausted, stressed, upset, in desperate need of a smoke despite quitting almost four years ago, etc.
Mycroft signed and closed his eyes. “He has a lot on his plate right now.”
She knew that wasn’t true. She had, after all, been the one to hand Mycroft the report on the day’s incident at NSY. She was sure that the cold cases were demanding so much of Lestrade’s attention, and he had nothing else on at this time.
“As always, Sir. I’m sure he was pleased to see you. It’s been awhile since the two of you spoke, given we were overseas last week.”
For most people a week was no time at all. For these two a week used to mean intense international negotiations for Mycroft, and even then she knew he bent his own rules and snuck out the occasional text message, unable to not talk to Lestrade for that length of time, though he always denied it.
Mycroft flinched. If she hadn’t been watching for it she would never have seen, he had exceptional control, but she was looking and knowing him so well it was clear as day to her.
“I’m sure.”
She returned to her Blackberry and made a mental note to start digging and find out exactly what was going on. The security cameras at NSY would be a good place to start.
She would find out. If she had to watch every minute of DI Lestrade’s routine for the last six months, she would and she’d use every camera in London to ensure she didn’t miss a thing.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
More on Wednesday x
Previous - Next