Fic: Five Times James Lester and Mycroft Holmes Met (And One Time They Saved the World)
Title: Five Times James Lester and Mycroft Holmes Met (And One Time They Saved the World)
Author: velvet_midnight
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock and Primeval
Summary: Six snippets in the perhaps not-too-surprising frienship of one James Lester and one Mycroft Holmes.
Notes: This is rife with my own personal headcanon. Nothing specific about Lester or Mycroft’s personal lives is taken from the show; for example, Lester makes reference both to kids-plural-and his wife, but no names and his wedding ring appears and disappears throughout the seasons. Beta'd by the inimitable snugduff.
The first time James Lester and Mycroft Holmes met, it was less than cordial. There had been another incursion they almost couldn’t take care of, so James Lester was in no mood to play nice. He swept into the understatedly posh office with a frown creasing his face and a crumpled paper in his hands.
“Ah, Mr. Lester,” began the man sitting behind the polished wood desk. Mycroft rose, anticipating a bureaucrat who understood politicking. He should’ve expected the fierce face he encountered; the Minister had spoken of James Lester.
“I was expecting to speak to the Minister, not his secretary.” His voice was clipped and cool, at odds with his impatient demeanor.
“I assure you, I can fulfill whatever duties you would ask of the Minister.”
“With all due respect,” sarcasm fairly dripped in a way that indicated, emphatically, that Lester thought quite the opposite, “I don’t believe you can. This is a very sensitive issue, complete with a body count and a countdown.”
“I am very capable, Mr. Lester.”
“Do you even know who I am, apart from my name?”
Mycroft Holmes raised an eyebrow and very slowly walked around his desk, keeping his eyes calmly on James Lester.
“Mister James Lester, head of the ARC-that is, the Anomaly Research Centre-formerly of the Home Office. Divorced then remarried his wife Amelia and fathered two children with her, Olivia and Benjamin. Takes his job very seriously; in fact, resents Philip Burton and his research for Prospero, finding both the man and the work intrusive. Enjoys a more than comfortable status, but occasionally at the cost of his personal life. Cares more about the people who surround him than he lets on.” Mycroft let his eyes refocus, clearing his sight and mind of the extraneous details that leapt out, unbidden.
James straightened up almost imperceptibly, his frown thinning into a line. Surprised, but not entirely disapproving. In fact, if Mycroft was reading him right-and, leaving off modesty, he most assuredly was-James looked a little impressed.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Lester?”
“James,” he said shortly, clearing his throat. Mycroft inclined his head, leaning back against his desk.
The phone rang before James could continue.
“Ah, hello, Minister. Yes, he’s here.”
Both men went right to work, all tension forgotten as the events of the day took precedence. They did, however, swap email addresses and phone numbers. Just in case this sort of thing happened again.
- - - -
The second time James Lester and Mycroft Holmes met, it was under better circumstances and set up by correspondence.
“Sir,” Becker said, sticking his head in. “Mr. Holmes is here.”
James beckoned him in, still snarking into the phone. Mycroft lowered himself quietly into a chair, quite content to twirl his umbrella and observe the stark, bright office. It was a far cry from his own, with its muted colours and dearth of artificial light.
“Bureaucrats,” James spat as a swear. He slammed the phone down. “Sorry,” he directed at Mycroft with a smirk. He smoothed and buttoned his jacket.
“It’s quite alright,” Mycroft said with a responding smile.
“Do you want to get to business first or take the guided tour?”
Before Mycroft could respond, there was a knock on the door and Jess poked her head in.
“Yes?”
“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Connor wants to see you in his lab. Sounded urgent.”
“Well, I suppose you don’t have any choice in the matter,” Lester said to Mycroft as they both hurried from the room.
James strode authoritatively, sparing curt nods only for the few who curried favour, while he pontificated about the facility. Mycroft noticed how he used choice sound bites, smooth and slippery with preparation and practice. He frowned to himself; was he merely a political visitor? This was all in the not-very-confidential version of the file.
James must’ve seen something on Mycroft’s face because he smirked again.
“I should know better than to use the company line on you. I expect you want to see the exciting parts?”
Mycroft smiled, a bit of honesty slipping into the expression, because dinosaurs were every little boy’s dream.
“Connor needs my attention first-honestly, he’s worse than my son,” he said as they stepped into the lift. “How do you feel about mammoths?” he asked as the lift descended.
Mycroft had to admit he came down in favour of them.
- - - -
The third time James Lester and Mycroft Holmes met was almost a social call. They hadn’t quite progressed to friends, but the invitation from James to Mycroft for lunch was as close an admission of fondness as he would allow.
People in this field didn’t make friends with each other. For one, they were often too busy for fun. For another, James liked his expensive suits free of holes due to a knife in the back. But the two men were of a kind-powerful, exhausted, and far smarter than their peers-and they gravitated to each other.
They met at an upscale restaurant at noon; it was one of those rather haughty affairs, with tiny portions and garnishes of colours not found in nature. Mycroft saw it as bad news for his taste buds, but good news for his waistline; James had heard it was the sort of place high-class men met for a business-slash-social meeting.
They spent the first few minutes asking the usual questions, but both tired of social niceties quickly, so they fell into a comfortable silence.
If asked later, James would not be able to pinpoint what made him begin ranting about incompetence in the system, but when Mycroft joined in-in that soft, quiet way that was almost more cutting than James’ cold sarcasm-he relaxed. He relaxed back into his chair, into his mind, into the conversation; which was moronic, he knew, sitting across from quite possibly the most dangerous-and most powerful, though don’t let the Minister hear him say that-man in all of England, but he was comfortable.
And not comfortable in the way he was comfortable with his employees; he’d known them for years and, may God strike him down in they heard this, felt protective of them. This was comfortable in a way he wasn’t normally. Suddenly, he realized: Mycroft Holmes was a peer. James wasn’t used to having peers, not least ones he could talk with easily.
“My assistant is the only one I trust implicitly. She’s capable,” Mycroft said, taking a delicate bite of his salad.
“Sounds like Jess. My team can manage emergencies, but she’s the one who makes it all run smoothly.”
“You regard her highly.”
“Yes, I suppose I do.” He looked over the rim of his glass sternly. “She’s never to know.”
Mycroft chuckled. “Of course.” They were silent a moment. “They could take us apart, your Jess and my-assistant.”
“I don’t doubt it. Women in power,” James shook his head, but it was all in jest. He took a sip as he thought on something Mycroft said. “You never mention her name, your assistant.”
“Mmm. I don’t know exactly how to refer to her. She changes her name on a fortnightly basis. Sometimes even weekly.”
“Witness Protection?” James guessed.
“A woman’s prerogative,” Mycroft replied. James laughed and Mycroft smiled that wide, fake smile.
They chatted about work-harder to do in public than one might think-and the weather; the food-not the best, but the presentation was nice-and recent books read. They split the check and were stretching in their chairs when James said something else he couldn’t explain.
“So, same time next week?”
If this forward question took Mycroft by surprise, James couldn’t see it. Instead, he seemed faintly pleased.
“Mm. My pick.”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I shall see you next week.” Mycroft stopped at the door of the black car that had pulled up. “If not before then.”
“Let’s hope not,” James said. Mycroft nodded and slid into the backseat. James caught a glimpse of a brunette woman sitting beside him before the car sped away. He got into his own black car just as his mobile rang.
- - - -
The fourth time James Lester and Mycroft Holmes met was at a gala for some foreign official or another. James didn’t really care who it was, to be honest, and Mycroft had had enough dealings with the Hungarian government for a lifetime. As a result, they happened to run into each other getting refills at the free bar; and they were both deathly bored.
“Oh, do excuse me,” Mycroft said as he accidentally bumped into James. His polite smile lost some of its rigidity when he saw who it was. “Good evening.”
“Fancy seeing you here,” James said, holding out his hand for a shake. Mycroft took it.
“Mm, indeed.” He swept a look over James. “Waiting for an important call?”
James looked confused for half a second before looking down; he’d immediately put his hand back in the pocket with his mobile-just in case. It’d been nearly week after a particularly messy incursion and they still hadn’t fully recovered; not to mention, Philip was pestering him every chance he got and was being more secretive than ever. He'd even had to cancel the lunch arrangements with Mycroft. More social and political responsibilities, like the gala, were very low on his list that night.
“My ticket out of here,” he muttered into his glass of wine. Mycroft’s eyes lit with understanding, though his face retained all of its practiced focus.
“How is the ARC faring?”
“It’s still standing and hasn’t been made into a complete zoo quite yet. Which is a victory in my book.”
“Yes, I heard what happened. How are your people?”
James took another drink. “They haven’t run away screaming.” And another. “They can handle it.”
They stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the black-tie-clad crowd mill. In one corner was a group fawning around the guest of honour; in another, a group who wanted nothing to do with him.
“Do you want to get out of here?” As soon as James said it, he realized how like a line it sounded. He cringed, but Mycroft was already putting his glass down on the bar without questioning James’ sexuality.
“I’d like nothing more. What do you suggest?”
“I’ve just bought Dr. Strangelove on Blu-Ray,” James shrugged, downing his wine.
“I’ve not seen that in quite a long time.”
“Oh, it’s just as good as you remember.”
“I don’t seem to remember it being all that good.”
- - - -
The fifth time James Lester and Mycroft Holmes met, they were both in high temper.
“Do you honestly not realize how much of an imbecile you are?” James spat at Connor. The scientist hung his head, his hair greasy and matted. There was a splash of blood above his right eyebrow. James’ eyes softened as Connor sat there and took his rage. He sighed and waved the attendant away, taking the ice pack from her hands and placing it gingerly to the back of Connor’s head.
“Here to berate me, Mycroft?” Sherlock was saying from his place next to Connor. But where Connor was bent under exhaustion and James’ disapproval, Sherlock seemed vibrant and utterly alive. John Watson-doctor, soldier, Sherlock’s friend and confidante; not only had Mycroft told him, but he also read the man’s blog. Fascinating stuff, if a bit trite-stood between the two brothers, ragged and dirty like Connor but exhilarated like his friend.
Mycroft merely stared at his brother, hard eyes scanning Sherlock’s face. “How are you, John?” he asked the man, though his gaze was still on Sherlock.
“Uh, I’m alright. I’ll have a bit of a nasty bruise, but nothing I can’t take.”
“Good. That’s good.” His stare finally slid to the shorter man. “Do look after him, John. He does so hate to take care of himself, especially after an-altercation.”
“He was brilliant,” Connor said, head jerking up to stare at Sherlock. “I mean, I would be-if he hadn’t-if they weren’t-”
“Be quiet,” James ordered, not unkindly.
“Connor!” There was a desperate shout and Connor tried to hop down to follow the voice, but winced when he moved even an inch.
“Over ‘ere!” he called in answer. Abby rushed up, short and blonde and concerned-and angry. She touched his face and took over ice pack duty from James.
“He’ll be okay. Let him rest and then we can both describe, in detail, how idiotic he was. I’ll bring the pie charts.” And after taking one last look to make sure Connor was okay, James walked away, hands in his pockets. He blew out a breath and closed his eyes briefly.
“I wouldn’t worry if the paperwork on this-incident happens to be a little late,” Mycroft said at James’ elbow. He started and turned, but Mycroft’s attention was focused on his brother, who was expounding at length on how they ended up in their predicament. “That would be easy to…take care of.”
“I just might take you up on that.”
“Take me up on what?” Mycroft’s neutral face was almost convincing. In fact, James was sure it was plenty convincing, but he could see past it; he laughed. Mycroft broke the mask long enough to smile with him.
“I need scotch,” James said.
“I just might take you up on that,” Mycroft quoted. They each spared a look at their respective men before walking off into the brisk evening.
- - - -
James Lester and Mycroft Holmes had saved Queen and country, nay, the entire world from countless threats time and time again.
“And no one will ever know,” James said, slurring slightly as he downed another glass of stinging alcohol. He grimaced and hissed. “Oh, that’s perfectly awful.”
“Were I a different sort of man, I would suggest-” Mycroft hiccupped, placing a proper hand over his mouth. “I would suggest we team up for our own gain.”
“You mean, take over the world?”
Mycroft laughed and took another sip. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
“That’s rich,” James snorted.
“Look at us. We’re rich, powerful, and we know this system like the back of our hand. Hands.”
“It’s not enough to keep our land safe from the inside and out, you want to take it over?”
Mycroft waved a hand. “No. I merely want to keep it safe.”
“You should be in charge.”
“You act as if I’m not.”
James stared suspiciously at Mycroft and Mycroft stared neutrally back. After a beat, James just shook his head and stood up a little unsteadily.
“Another round?”
Mycroft nodded his assent. It had been a long, hideous, and tiring day; and he hadn’t even been in the field. James, on the other hand, had picked up a gun and dove right in, his usually immaculate suit ripped and bloodied by the time he came away. Mycroft had been impressed, something he was not used to being in the slightest. He disliked when someone sneezed in the vicinity of his suit; he was particularly displeased when someone bled on it. But James Lester-leader, brilliant scientist, hot-headed bureaucrat-had worn his torn and dirty jacket with the same pomp he always did.
In fact, a cheer had gone up from both camps when the two men stepped up to the front; James’ people were by far the most exuberant, a combination of personality and loyalty to their leader. The crowd deserved their own applause. The people they’d chosen had done their job and done it well, though Mycroft prided himself on picking the right person for the right job, so it wasn’t that much of a surprise.
The applause, however, was a surprise. Mycroft was not used to being recognized for his work; one look at James-pompous and self-assured as he acted-had said the same. They’d left the crowd behind after being assured no one needed them just now and had sought out a pub in which to get completely and thoroughly smashed.
And that is exactly what they were doing. James sat down heavily, putting a full glass in front of Mycroft.
“We really did well today,” James said. He raised his glass to Mycroft. “To us, and our damned good talent at picking employees.” Mycroft raised his own glass and inclined his head.
Their mobiles rang simultaneously, a clash of sounds. Mycroft regarded the Caller ID with professional disapproval; James sighed dramatically.
“Time to save the world. Again.”
Author: velvet_midnight
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock and Primeval
Summary: Six snippets in the perhaps not-too-surprising frienship of one James Lester and one Mycroft Holmes.
Notes: This is rife with my own personal headcanon. Nothing specific about Lester or Mycroft’s personal lives is taken from the show; for example, Lester makes reference both to kids-plural-and his wife, but no names and his wedding ring appears and disappears throughout the seasons. Beta'd by the inimitable snugduff.
The first time James Lester and Mycroft Holmes met, it was less than cordial. There had been another incursion they almost couldn’t take care of, so James Lester was in no mood to play nice. He swept into the understatedly posh office with a frown creasing his face and a crumpled paper in his hands.
“Ah, Mr. Lester,” began the man sitting behind the polished wood desk. Mycroft rose, anticipating a bureaucrat who understood politicking. He should’ve expected the fierce face he encountered; the Minister had spoken of James Lester.
“I was expecting to speak to the Minister, not his secretary.” His voice was clipped and cool, at odds with his impatient demeanor.
“I assure you, I can fulfill whatever duties you would ask of the Minister.”
“With all due respect,” sarcasm fairly dripped in a way that indicated, emphatically, that Lester thought quite the opposite, “I don’t believe you can. This is a very sensitive issue, complete with a body count and a countdown.”
“I am very capable, Mr. Lester.”
“Do you even know who I am, apart from my name?”
Mycroft Holmes raised an eyebrow and very slowly walked around his desk, keeping his eyes calmly on James Lester.
“Mister James Lester, head of the ARC-that is, the Anomaly Research Centre-formerly of the Home Office. Divorced then remarried his wife Amelia and fathered two children with her, Olivia and Benjamin. Takes his job very seriously; in fact, resents Philip Burton and his research for Prospero, finding both the man and the work intrusive. Enjoys a more than comfortable status, but occasionally at the cost of his personal life. Cares more about the people who surround him than he lets on.” Mycroft let his eyes refocus, clearing his sight and mind of the extraneous details that leapt out, unbidden.
James straightened up almost imperceptibly, his frown thinning into a line. Surprised, but not entirely disapproving. In fact, if Mycroft was reading him right-and, leaving off modesty, he most assuredly was-James looked a little impressed.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Lester?”
“James,” he said shortly, clearing his throat. Mycroft inclined his head, leaning back against his desk.
The phone rang before James could continue.
“Ah, hello, Minister. Yes, he’s here.”
Both men went right to work, all tension forgotten as the events of the day took precedence. They did, however, swap email addresses and phone numbers. Just in case this sort of thing happened again.
- - - -
The second time James Lester and Mycroft Holmes met, it was under better circumstances and set up by correspondence.
“Sir,” Becker said, sticking his head in. “Mr. Holmes is here.”
James beckoned him in, still snarking into the phone. Mycroft lowered himself quietly into a chair, quite content to twirl his umbrella and observe the stark, bright office. It was a far cry from his own, with its muted colours and dearth of artificial light.
“Bureaucrats,” James spat as a swear. He slammed the phone down. “Sorry,” he directed at Mycroft with a smirk. He smoothed and buttoned his jacket.
“It’s quite alright,” Mycroft said with a responding smile.
“Do you want to get to business first or take the guided tour?”
Before Mycroft could respond, there was a knock on the door and Jess poked her head in.
“Yes?”
“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Connor wants to see you in his lab. Sounded urgent.”
“Well, I suppose you don’t have any choice in the matter,” Lester said to Mycroft as they both hurried from the room.
James strode authoritatively, sparing curt nods only for the few who curried favour, while he pontificated about the facility. Mycroft noticed how he used choice sound bites, smooth and slippery with preparation and practice. He frowned to himself; was he merely a political visitor? This was all in the not-very-confidential version of the file.
James must’ve seen something on Mycroft’s face because he smirked again.
“I should know better than to use the company line on you. I expect you want to see the exciting parts?”
Mycroft smiled, a bit of honesty slipping into the expression, because dinosaurs were every little boy’s dream.
“Connor needs my attention first-honestly, he’s worse than my son,” he said as they stepped into the lift. “How do you feel about mammoths?” he asked as the lift descended.
Mycroft had to admit he came down in favour of them.
- - - -
The third time James Lester and Mycroft Holmes met was almost a social call. They hadn’t quite progressed to friends, but the invitation from James to Mycroft for lunch was as close an admission of fondness as he would allow.
People in this field didn’t make friends with each other. For one, they were often too busy for fun. For another, James liked his expensive suits free of holes due to a knife in the back. But the two men were of a kind-powerful, exhausted, and far smarter than their peers-and they gravitated to each other.
They met at an upscale restaurant at noon; it was one of those rather haughty affairs, with tiny portions and garnishes of colours not found in nature. Mycroft saw it as bad news for his taste buds, but good news for his waistline; James had heard it was the sort of place high-class men met for a business-slash-social meeting.
They spent the first few minutes asking the usual questions, but both tired of social niceties quickly, so they fell into a comfortable silence.
If asked later, James would not be able to pinpoint what made him begin ranting about incompetence in the system, but when Mycroft joined in-in that soft, quiet way that was almost more cutting than James’ cold sarcasm-he relaxed. He relaxed back into his chair, into his mind, into the conversation; which was moronic, he knew, sitting across from quite possibly the most dangerous-and most powerful, though don’t let the Minister hear him say that-man in all of England, but he was comfortable.
And not comfortable in the way he was comfortable with his employees; he’d known them for years and, may God strike him down in they heard this, felt protective of them. This was comfortable in a way he wasn’t normally. Suddenly, he realized: Mycroft Holmes was a peer. James wasn’t used to having peers, not least ones he could talk with easily.
“My assistant is the only one I trust implicitly. She’s capable,” Mycroft said, taking a delicate bite of his salad.
“Sounds like Jess. My team can manage emergencies, but she’s the one who makes it all run smoothly.”
“You regard her highly.”
“Yes, I suppose I do.” He looked over the rim of his glass sternly. “She’s never to know.”
Mycroft chuckled. “Of course.” They were silent a moment. “They could take us apart, your Jess and my-assistant.”
“I don’t doubt it. Women in power,” James shook his head, but it was all in jest. He took a sip as he thought on something Mycroft said. “You never mention her name, your assistant.”
“Mmm. I don’t know exactly how to refer to her. She changes her name on a fortnightly basis. Sometimes even weekly.”
“Witness Protection?” James guessed.
“A woman’s prerogative,” Mycroft replied. James laughed and Mycroft smiled that wide, fake smile.
They chatted about work-harder to do in public than one might think-and the weather; the food-not the best, but the presentation was nice-and recent books read. They split the check and were stretching in their chairs when James said something else he couldn’t explain.
“So, same time next week?”
If this forward question took Mycroft by surprise, James couldn’t see it. Instead, he seemed faintly pleased.
“Mm. My pick.”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I shall see you next week.” Mycroft stopped at the door of the black car that had pulled up. “If not before then.”
“Let’s hope not,” James said. Mycroft nodded and slid into the backseat. James caught a glimpse of a brunette woman sitting beside him before the car sped away. He got into his own black car just as his mobile rang.
- - - -
The fourth time James Lester and Mycroft Holmes met was at a gala for some foreign official or another. James didn’t really care who it was, to be honest, and Mycroft had had enough dealings with the Hungarian government for a lifetime. As a result, they happened to run into each other getting refills at the free bar; and they were both deathly bored.
“Oh, do excuse me,” Mycroft said as he accidentally bumped into James. His polite smile lost some of its rigidity when he saw who it was. “Good evening.”
“Fancy seeing you here,” James said, holding out his hand for a shake. Mycroft took it.
“Mm, indeed.” He swept a look over James. “Waiting for an important call?”
James looked confused for half a second before looking down; he’d immediately put his hand back in the pocket with his mobile-just in case. It’d been nearly week after a particularly messy incursion and they still hadn’t fully recovered; not to mention, Philip was pestering him every chance he got and was being more secretive than ever. He'd even had to cancel the lunch arrangements with Mycroft. More social and political responsibilities, like the gala, were very low on his list that night.
“My ticket out of here,” he muttered into his glass of wine. Mycroft’s eyes lit with understanding, though his face retained all of its practiced focus.
“How is the ARC faring?”
“It’s still standing and hasn’t been made into a complete zoo quite yet. Which is a victory in my book.”
“Yes, I heard what happened. How are your people?”
James took another drink. “They haven’t run away screaming.” And another. “They can handle it.”
They stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the black-tie-clad crowd mill. In one corner was a group fawning around the guest of honour; in another, a group who wanted nothing to do with him.
“Do you want to get out of here?” As soon as James said it, he realized how like a line it sounded. He cringed, but Mycroft was already putting his glass down on the bar without questioning James’ sexuality.
“I’d like nothing more. What do you suggest?”
“I’ve just bought Dr. Strangelove on Blu-Ray,” James shrugged, downing his wine.
“I’ve not seen that in quite a long time.”
“Oh, it’s just as good as you remember.”
“I don’t seem to remember it being all that good.”
- - - -
The fifth time James Lester and Mycroft Holmes met, they were both in high temper.
“Do you honestly not realize how much of an imbecile you are?” James spat at Connor. The scientist hung his head, his hair greasy and matted. There was a splash of blood above his right eyebrow. James’ eyes softened as Connor sat there and took his rage. He sighed and waved the attendant away, taking the ice pack from her hands and placing it gingerly to the back of Connor’s head.
“Here to berate me, Mycroft?” Sherlock was saying from his place next to Connor. But where Connor was bent under exhaustion and James’ disapproval, Sherlock seemed vibrant and utterly alive. John Watson-doctor, soldier, Sherlock’s friend and confidante; not only had Mycroft told him, but he also read the man’s blog. Fascinating stuff, if a bit trite-stood between the two brothers, ragged and dirty like Connor but exhilarated like his friend.
Mycroft merely stared at his brother, hard eyes scanning Sherlock’s face. “How are you, John?” he asked the man, though his gaze was still on Sherlock.
“Uh, I’m alright. I’ll have a bit of a nasty bruise, but nothing I can’t take.”
“Good. That’s good.” His stare finally slid to the shorter man. “Do look after him, John. He does so hate to take care of himself, especially after an-altercation.”
“He was brilliant,” Connor said, head jerking up to stare at Sherlock. “I mean, I would be-if he hadn’t-if they weren’t-”
“Be quiet,” James ordered, not unkindly.
“Connor!” There was a desperate shout and Connor tried to hop down to follow the voice, but winced when he moved even an inch.
“Over ‘ere!” he called in answer. Abby rushed up, short and blonde and concerned-and angry. She touched his face and took over ice pack duty from James.
“He’ll be okay. Let him rest and then we can both describe, in detail, how idiotic he was. I’ll bring the pie charts.” And after taking one last look to make sure Connor was okay, James walked away, hands in his pockets. He blew out a breath and closed his eyes briefly.
“I wouldn’t worry if the paperwork on this-incident happens to be a little late,” Mycroft said at James’ elbow. He started and turned, but Mycroft’s attention was focused on his brother, who was expounding at length on how they ended up in their predicament. “That would be easy to…take care of.”
“I just might take you up on that.”
“Take me up on what?” Mycroft’s neutral face was almost convincing. In fact, James was sure it was plenty convincing, but he could see past it; he laughed. Mycroft broke the mask long enough to smile with him.
“I need scotch,” James said.
“I just might take you up on that,” Mycroft quoted. They each spared a look at their respective men before walking off into the brisk evening.
- - - -
James Lester and Mycroft Holmes had saved Queen and country, nay, the entire world from countless threats time and time again.
“And no one will ever know,” James said, slurring slightly as he downed another glass of stinging alcohol. He grimaced and hissed. “Oh, that’s perfectly awful.”
“Were I a different sort of man, I would suggest-” Mycroft hiccupped, placing a proper hand over his mouth. “I would suggest we team up for our own gain.”
“You mean, take over the world?”
Mycroft laughed and took another sip. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
“That’s rich,” James snorted.
“Look at us. We’re rich, powerful, and we know this system like the back of our hand. Hands.”
“It’s not enough to keep our land safe from the inside and out, you want to take it over?”
Mycroft waved a hand. “No. I merely want to keep it safe.”
“You should be in charge.”
“You act as if I’m not.”
James stared suspiciously at Mycroft and Mycroft stared neutrally back. After a beat, James just shook his head and stood up a little unsteadily.
“Another round?”
Mycroft nodded his assent. It had been a long, hideous, and tiring day; and he hadn’t even been in the field. James, on the other hand, had picked up a gun and dove right in, his usually immaculate suit ripped and bloodied by the time he came away. Mycroft had been impressed, something he was not used to being in the slightest. He disliked when someone sneezed in the vicinity of his suit; he was particularly displeased when someone bled on it. But James Lester-leader, brilliant scientist, hot-headed bureaucrat-had worn his torn and dirty jacket with the same pomp he always did.
In fact, a cheer had gone up from both camps when the two men stepped up to the front; James’ people were by far the most exuberant, a combination of personality and loyalty to their leader. The crowd deserved their own applause. The people they’d chosen had done their job and done it well, though Mycroft prided himself on picking the right person for the right job, so it wasn’t that much of a surprise.
The applause, however, was a surprise. Mycroft was not used to being recognized for his work; one look at James-pompous and self-assured as he acted-had said the same. They’d left the crowd behind after being assured no one needed them just now and had sought out a pub in which to get completely and thoroughly smashed.
And that is exactly what they were doing. James sat down heavily, putting a full glass in front of Mycroft.
“We really did well today,” James said. He raised his glass to Mycroft. “To us, and our damned good talent at picking employees.” Mycroft raised his own glass and inclined his head.
Their mobiles rang simultaneously, a clash of sounds. Mycroft regarded the Caller ID with professional disapproval; James sighed dramatically.
“Time to save the world. Again.”