(no subject)
Title(s): Sobriquet
Author: julia_dreamer
Fandom(s): Sherlock
Pairing(s): Lestrade/Mycroft
Length: 2129 words
Summary: Lestrade allowed himself the time to take in the nice suit, the condescending expression, the umbrella the man was leaning on with practiced calm. Whoever he was, he seemed quite certain that he had chosen the right person to answer his question.
Prompt: : Mycroft keeps insisting on calling Lestrade 'Inspector' because he's shy. And every time he refuses to call him by his first name, Lestrade feels a pang of disappointment. 'Why is he still calling me Inspector? Aren't we even friends yet? Are we? Am I just another poor copper babysitting his brother to him? Is that it?'
Note: Written for sherlockbbc_fic
Feedback: Always appreciated.
First Meeting, St Bartholomew’s Hospital
“How is he?”
Lestrade allowed himself the time to take in the nice suit, the condescending expression, the umbrella the man was leaning on with practiced calm. Whoever he was, he seemed quite certain that he had chosen the right person to answer his question.
The longer he took to speak, the thinner the man’s lips got. He was nervous, Greg realized, although he was quite good at hiding it.
“I’m sorry, you are…?”
“Mycroft Holmes. How is he?”
“They said he’ll be fine. Few stitches, bit of rest, that’s all he needs.”
“Good. That’s good. Thank you, Inspector.”
“I’m sorry, how did you-?”
“Sherlock’s told me about you.” The man smiled, expression still tight with worry. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“It was nothing,” he murmured, looking down. He should have done more. He should have stopped Sherlock from taking on a criminal mastermind by himself and nearly getting himself and John killed.
When he looked up, the man was simply gone.
--
Fourth Meeting, Blackfriars Tube Station
That was it, case closed. Lestrade sighed as he got off the phone with the Yard, letting them know where to come to clean up the last crime scene. The squad car was already pulling away with their criminal in the back seat, silent and staring.
He could see that Sherlock was still muttering and pacing by the door to the station, while John leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and watched him.
“Don’t worry about him.”
Greg almost jumped. It had been a long night.
“Mr. Holmes, how can I help you?” He already knew better than to suggest the other man shouldn’t be at a crime scene. It would have been silly to try and keep him away.
“Oh, no, I was just passing by and thought I’d check on him, but it seems he’s wrapped this case up for you, Inspector.” Mycroft’s smile was warmer than his tone, pleased that his brother had something to do.
At least, that was how Lestrade chose to interpret it.
“Well, he does come in handy.”
“Very true. I’ll just be going along now. Oh, and Inspector?”
“Yes?”
“Mycroft, if you please. ‘Mr. Holmes’ shall always be my father.”
He smiled, and nodded. “As you like.”
--
Seventh Meeting, 221B Baker Street, London NW1 6XE
“-and Sherlock, if you would just answer your cell- …oh. Sorry.”
Mycroft smiled calmly at him from John’s usual chair, both hands clasped over the handle of his ever-present umbrella. “No need to apologize, Inspector. I assume you believed my brother to be home?”
“Well, I saw the light, and uh… Mrs. Hudson’s out, so I couldn’t ask her…” He didn’t usually feel like such a bumbling fool.
“Naturally. He’s not answering your calls either?”
“…no. Been ignoring me all day.”
“Hm. That is unusually vexing, even for him.”
“I’ve gone days without hearing back from him, I’m sure it’s-”
“Certainly, but he does not usually ignore us both.”
That stopped him, because how would Mycroft know that?
“I’m sure you haven’t the time to wait about for him. Shall I tell him you dropped by?”
“…yes, please. Tell him we’ve got a case, could use his help.”
“I shall pass along the message, Inspector. Have a good evening.”
“You too… Mycroft.”
If he wasn’t mistaken, out of the corner of his eye as he stepped out the door, he could swear he saw the man blush.
--
Interlude, Scotland Yard: A Phone Call
”I’m-sorry. For calling you like this. I only wanted to say… to apologize. Not, not for the call, for… I’m so sorry, Mycroft, I am. I didn’t think it would go this far. I swore we’d catch him before something like this-I never imagined anything like this could-”
Stop. A deep breath, let out slowly. Someone is talking in the background, too distant for the words to be distinct. Someone else is sobbing, loud and undignified but strangely far away in the recording.
”I’m so sorry for your loss, Mycroft. For what we’ve all lost.”
Click.
--
Twentieth Meeting, City of London Cemetery
“You come here quite often.”
He had never seen Mycroft there. How could he know? “I try to… visit, when I have time.”
“You need not worry about him, Inspector.”
“Call me Greg- wait, not worry about him? He’s d-I’m not.”
Mycroft’s smile was a tired as it had been for the past three months. It reminded him of John for a moment - hollow-eyed and staring, going about his daily routine because otherwise what was he to do? - but then he noticed the distinct difference in it. Mycroft did not seem upset. Only worn - perhaps more than he had been before, but still nothing that could not be explained by a government official’s hectic schedule.
He remembers the man looking similarly tired at the funeral. Nothing more.
“Are you watching me?” It’s not the question he wants to ask.
Mycroft raises an eyebrow, calm as ever. “Now, why should I do that, Inspector?”
Lestrade frowns as he walks away. He wants to be angry but he can only manage tired. And over the confused buzz of questions is one louder than the rest.
Why won’t Mycroft call him by his name?
--
Interlude, The Diogenes Club: A Phone Call
“Inspector, I imagine I’m too late to give the news myself. Suffice it to say, my brother has been fine these past few months. I want to apologize for the pain it’s caused you. I assure you that if I could have revealed my brother’s secret without concern for his or your safety, I would have done so. I would like to…”
Quiet. Or, mostly. The quiet clink of glass against wood, and what he could swear was the sound of someone typing in the background.
“My most humble apologies, Inspector.”
Click.
--
Twenty-Second Meeting, The King Charles I, Kings Cross
“Inspector, you’ve chosen a very, ah… interesting place to meet.”
“Yeah, well, I figured I’d be less likely to pop you one if we were in public.”
Mycroft had the grace to look abashed. “I did apologize.”
“So did he. Profusely. Hard to explain how bad it was, though, what he did.”
“You’ve had a few, I take it?”
“More than… hm. What’ll you have, Mycroft? My treat, for dragging you out here.”
He smiles that smile and it’s not tired anymore, it’s warm and calm and drives him just a little mad.
“I shall be fine without, Inspector.”
“Why d’you call me that?”
“You are the Detective Inspector. Should I not?”
“I’ve asked you to call me Greg. More than once.”
He gets to see the blush again, close up this time. It’s much nicer than the smile he hides behind.
“It seemed inappropriate.”
“But I call you Mycroft. You told me to.”
“…I did.”
“So call me Greg.”
Mycroft says nothing, hands moving anxiously along the handle of the umbrella.
“We’ve known each other for, what… a year and a half now? Well, months of which you were party to a most outrageous and terrible deception… perpetrated on innocent and much aggrieved…”
“Which I did apologize for.”
“Yes. That. It stands, however, that we’ve known each other long enough for you to call me Greg. Unless I’m just… the detective who gives your brother something to do. Some rubbish babysitter. Then I s’ppose you could still call me ‘Inspector.’”
He seems to contemplate that, lips pressed in that thin line Lestrade remember from the hospital, from their first meeting.
“Let me get you home, Greg.”
It’s loud in the pub, but they’re sitting quite close together, shoulders almost touching - touching now that he thinks about it and leans closer, unable to judge the distance - but he hears it and sees the way Mycroft looks at the floor, at the umbrella, not at him.
So he lets him.
--
Twenty-Third Meeting, 221B Baker Street, London NW1 6XE
“I believe he’s doing this on purpose.”
Lestrade looked up from his phone in surprise. It had been over a month since the night Mycroft had driven him home, more than a little drunk and certainly rambling. They had not seen each other since.
“Doing what on purpose?”
“Ignoring us both. This is the fifth time this month.”
He frowns, watching Mycroft take John’s customary chair as if it were his own. Sherlock had been ignoring his phone quite often lately, and clearly forcing John to do the same. But he had not seen Mycroft here on any of the occasions that he’d come to look for Sherlock.
This possibly meant that the other man was avoiding him, but perhaps just meant he was still being watched. Sometimes he wondered.
“Why would he do that on purpose?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, Inspector.”
Lestrade grimaces. “Greg.”
“Ah, yes. You remember.”
“I do remember. And don’t try to tell me you don’t know why Sherlock’s doing anything. There’s never been a thing he’s done that you haven’t understood.”
“…I suppose that’s true.”
“So tell me, Mycroft, why is your brother ignoring us? For science?”
Mycroft almost laughed. “No, not for science. Although I suppose it is an experiment, of sorts. I believe he is, ah… trying to get us alone together.”
It was without thought that he sat in Sherlock’s chair, across from the man who seemed unduly interested in the lay of the fabric of his umbrella.
“Why would he be doing that?”
“I… mm. I believe he thinks that we… It’s hardly appropriate.”
Normally, he would have been frustrated by this sort of dancing around the subject. But Mycroft was blushing again, just slightly, and it was quite charming.
“‘Appropriate’ isn’t really the issue. I can’t keep chasing him about London when there’s work to do, so let’s just… get this over with so he’ll stop. What is it?”
“…I simply can’t.”
It doesn’t seem wise to push him. “Well. We’re trapped, then.”
“Pardon?”
“Stuck cogs in the experiment. Alright, I’d best get back to the crime scene. He’s probably ambled in by now.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Have a good afternoon, Mycroft.
“…and you, Greg.”
--
Disruption, Queen Anne’s Gate: A Conversation
“You are diverging drastically from my projected data.”
“I’m sorry-what?”
“Ask my brother out to dinner. You’re free tonight. He won’t say no.”
“Sherlock, what are talking about?”
“Don’t be daft. You and Mycroft enjoy each other’s company, you find each other attractive, you’re quite well matched. I approve. Stop dithering about.”
“I’m not dithering, I hadn’t even thought of-”
“Lying counts against you.”
“Fine. Perhaps I’ve considered it.”
“There, you see?”
“What makes you so sure he’d even want to?”
“He’s my brother; I know everything important about him.”
“…right. Of course.”
“You’ll ask him?”
“This is all for the sake of your ‘projected data,’ Sherlock?”
“Certainly not. If Mycroft’s distracted with you, he won’t have nearly as much time to bother me. I am simply impatient for the reprieve.”
“…I’ll ask him.”
“Oh? Good.”
“I know you wouldn’t want me to unless you thought it’d make us happy.”
“Nonsense, Inspector. I would never be so blinded by emotion.”
“Oh, certainly not.”
“Good day.”
“Right. I’ll call you when there’s work.”
--
End of First Date, The Car
“Did you have a nice time, then?”
Mycroft isn’t blushing now, but he has so many times tonight that Greg keeps watching him, curious. The blush and the smile together are his favorite expression so far. It is nice to consider that there will be others.
“I quite enjoyed it.”
“You’re very tense.”
“Did you-did you enjoy it? Greg?”
Lestrade smiles easily, even when Mycroft fidgets and glances away.
“I had a very nice time, Mycroft. Thank you for coming with me.”
“It wasn’t-I mean to say, I didn’t…”
He takes a chance and reaches over, lays his hand gently on top of Mycroft’s. His skin is soft and warm. But he doesn’t relax. Greg gives his hand a little squeeze.
“It was perfect,” he says, and he means it.
Mycroft gets that wide-eyed look, and Lestrade understands suddenly that the man was worried that he’d ruined it somehow, perhaps that this was their first-and-only date, and he finds he wants very much to dissuade him of that notion.
The kiss is short but sweet, a gentle touch of lips that promises many more to come.
Author: julia_dreamer
Fandom(s): Sherlock
Pairing(s): Lestrade/Mycroft
Length: 2129 words
Summary: Lestrade allowed himself the time to take in the nice suit, the condescending expression, the umbrella the man was leaning on with practiced calm. Whoever he was, he seemed quite certain that he had chosen the right person to answer his question.
Prompt: : Mycroft keeps insisting on calling Lestrade 'Inspector' because he's shy. And every time he refuses to call him by his first name, Lestrade feels a pang of disappointment. 'Why is he still calling me Inspector? Aren't we even friends yet? Are we? Am I just another poor copper babysitting his brother to him? Is that it?'
Note: Written for sherlockbbc_fic
Feedback: Always appreciated.
First Meeting, St Bartholomew’s Hospital
“How is he?”
Lestrade allowed himself the time to take in the nice suit, the condescending expression, the umbrella the man was leaning on with practiced calm. Whoever he was, he seemed quite certain that he had chosen the right person to answer his question.
The longer he took to speak, the thinner the man’s lips got. He was nervous, Greg realized, although he was quite good at hiding it.
“I’m sorry, you are…?”
“Mycroft Holmes. How is he?”
“They said he’ll be fine. Few stitches, bit of rest, that’s all he needs.”
“Good. That’s good. Thank you, Inspector.”
“I’m sorry, how did you-?”
“Sherlock’s told me about you.” The man smiled, expression still tight with worry. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“It was nothing,” he murmured, looking down. He should have done more. He should have stopped Sherlock from taking on a criminal mastermind by himself and nearly getting himself and John killed.
When he looked up, the man was simply gone.
--
Fourth Meeting, Blackfriars Tube Station
That was it, case closed. Lestrade sighed as he got off the phone with the Yard, letting them know where to come to clean up the last crime scene. The squad car was already pulling away with their criminal in the back seat, silent and staring.
He could see that Sherlock was still muttering and pacing by the door to the station, while John leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and watched him.
“Don’t worry about him.”
Greg almost jumped. It had been a long night.
“Mr. Holmes, how can I help you?” He already knew better than to suggest the other man shouldn’t be at a crime scene. It would have been silly to try and keep him away.
“Oh, no, I was just passing by and thought I’d check on him, but it seems he’s wrapped this case up for you, Inspector.” Mycroft’s smile was warmer than his tone, pleased that his brother had something to do.
At least, that was how Lestrade chose to interpret it.
“Well, he does come in handy.”
“Very true. I’ll just be going along now. Oh, and Inspector?”
“Yes?”
“Mycroft, if you please. ‘Mr. Holmes’ shall always be my father.”
He smiled, and nodded. “As you like.”
--
Seventh Meeting, 221B Baker Street, London NW1 6XE
“-and Sherlock, if you would just answer your cell- …oh. Sorry.”
Mycroft smiled calmly at him from John’s usual chair, both hands clasped over the handle of his ever-present umbrella. “No need to apologize, Inspector. I assume you believed my brother to be home?”
“Well, I saw the light, and uh… Mrs. Hudson’s out, so I couldn’t ask her…” He didn’t usually feel like such a bumbling fool.
“Naturally. He’s not answering your calls either?”
“…no. Been ignoring me all day.”
“Hm. That is unusually vexing, even for him.”
“I’ve gone days without hearing back from him, I’m sure it’s-”
“Certainly, but he does not usually ignore us both.”
That stopped him, because how would Mycroft know that?
“I’m sure you haven’t the time to wait about for him. Shall I tell him you dropped by?”
“…yes, please. Tell him we’ve got a case, could use his help.”
“I shall pass along the message, Inspector. Have a good evening.”
“You too… Mycroft.”
If he wasn’t mistaken, out of the corner of his eye as he stepped out the door, he could swear he saw the man blush.
--
Interlude, Scotland Yard: A Phone Call
”I’m-sorry. For calling you like this. I only wanted to say… to apologize. Not, not for the call, for… I’m so sorry, Mycroft, I am. I didn’t think it would go this far. I swore we’d catch him before something like this-I never imagined anything like this could-”
Stop. A deep breath, let out slowly. Someone is talking in the background, too distant for the words to be distinct. Someone else is sobbing, loud and undignified but strangely far away in the recording.
”I’m so sorry for your loss, Mycroft. For what we’ve all lost.”
Click.
--
Twentieth Meeting, City of London Cemetery
“You come here quite often.”
He had never seen Mycroft there. How could he know? “I try to… visit, when I have time.”
“You need not worry about him, Inspector.”
“Call me Greg- wait, not worry about him? He’s d-I’m not.”
Mycroft’s smile was a tired as it had been for the past three months. It reminded him of John for a moment - hollow-eyed and staring, going about his daily routine because otherwise what was he to do? - but then he noticed the distinct difference in it. Mycroft did not seem upset. Only worn - perhaps more than he had been before, but still nothing that could not be explained by a government official’s hectic schedule.
He remembers the man looking similarly tired at the funeral. Nothing more.
“Are you watching me?” It’s not the question he wants to ask.
Mycroft raises an eyebrow, calm as ever. “Now, why should I do that, Inspector?”
Lestrade frowns as he walks away. He wants to be angry but he can only manage tired. And over the confused buzz of questions is one louder than the rest.
Why won’t Mycroft call him by his name?
--
Interlude, The Diogenes Club: A Phone Call
“Inspector, I imagine I’m too late to give the news myself. Suffice it to say, my brother has been fine these past few months. I want to apologize for the pain it’s caused you. I assure you that if I could have revealed my brother’s secret without concern for his or your safety, I would have done so. I would like to…”
Quiet. Or, mostly. The quiet clink of glass against wood, and what he could swear was the sound of someone typing in the background.
“My most humble apologies, Inspector.”
Click.
--
Twenty-Second Meeting, The King Charles I, Kings Cross
“Inspector, you’ve chosen a very, ah… interesting place to meet.”
“Yeah, well, I figured I’d be less likely to pop you one if we were in public.”
Mycroft had the grace to look abashed. “I did apologize.”
“So did he. Profusely. Hard to explain how bad it was, though, what he did.”
“You’ve had a few, I take it?”
“More than… hm. What’ll you have, Mycroft? My treat, for dragging you out here.”
He smiles that smile and it’s not tired anymore, it’s warm and calm and drives him just a little mad.
“I shall be fine without, Inspector.”
“Why d’you call me that?”
“You are the Detective Inspector. Should I not?”
“I’ve asked you to call me Greg. More than once.”
He gets to see the blush again, close up this time. It’s much nicer than the smile he hides behind.
“It seemed inappropriate.”
“But I call you Mycroft. You told me to.”
“…I did.”
“So call me Greg.”
Mycroft says nothing, hands moving anxiously along the handle of the umbrella.
“We’ve known each other for, what… a year and a half now? Well, months of which you were party to a most outrageous and terrible deception… perpetrated on innocent and much aggrieved…”
“Which I did apologize for.”
“Yes. That. It stands, however, that we’ve known each other long enough for you to call me Greg. Unless I’m just… the detective who gives your brother something to do. Some rubbish babysitter. Then I s’ppose you could still call me ‘Inspector.’”
He seems to contemplate that, lips pressed in that thin line Lestrade remember from the hospital, from their first meeting.
“Let me get you home, Greg.”
It’s loud in the pub, but they’re sitting quite close together, shoulders almost touching - touching now that he thinks about it and leans closer, unable to judge the distance - but he hears it and sees the way Mycroft looks at the floor, at the umbrella, not at him.
So he lets him.
--
Twenty-Third Meeting, 221B Baker Street, London NW1 6XE
“I believe he’s doing this on purpose.”
Lestrade looked up from his phone in surprise. It had been over a month since the night Mycroft had driven him home, more than a little drunk and certainly rambling. They had not seen each other since.
“Doing what on purpose?”
“Ignoring us both. This is the fifth time this month.”
He frowns, watching Mycroft take John’s customary chair as if it were his own. Sherlock had been ignoring his phone quite often lately, and clearly forcing John to do the same. But he had not seen Mycroft here on any of the occasions that he’d come to look for Sherlock.
This possibly meant that the other man was avoiding him, but perhaps just meant he was still being watched. Sometimes he wondered.
“Why would he do that on purpose?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, Inspector.”
Lestrade grimaces. “Greg.”
“Ah, yes. You remember.”
“I do remember. And don’t try to tell me you don’t know why Sherlock’s doing anything. There’s never been a thing he’s done that you haven’t understood.”
“…I suppose that’s true.”
“So tell me, Mycroft, why is your brother ignoring us? For science?”
Mycroft almost laughed. “No, not for science. Although I suppose it is an experiment, of sorts. I believe he is, ah… trying to get us alone together.”
It was without thought that he sat in Sherlock’s chair, across from the man who seemed unduly interested in the lay of the fabric of his umbrella.
“Why would he be doing that?”
“I… mm. I believe he thinks that we… It’s hardly appropriate.”
Normally, he would have been frustrated by this sort of dancing around the subject. But Mycroft was blushing again, just slightly, and it was quite charming.
“‘Appropriate’ isn’t really the issue. I can’t keep chasing him about London when there’s work to do, so let’s just… get this over with so he’ll stop. What is it?”
“…I simply can’t.”
It doesn’t seem wise to push him. “Well. We’re trapped, then.”
“Pardon?”
“Stuck cogs in the experiment. Alright, I’d best get back to the crime scene. He’s probably ambled in by now.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Have a good afternoon, Mycroft.
“…and you, Greg.”
--
Disruption, Queen Anne’s Gate: A Conversation
“You are diverging drastically from my projected data.”
“I’m sorry-what?”
“Ask my brother out to dinner. You’re free tonight. He won’t say no.”
“Sherlock, what are talking about?”
“Don’t be daft. You and Mycroft enjoy each other’s company, you find each other attractive, you’re quite well matched. I approve. Stop dithering about.”
“I’m not dithering, I hadn’t even thought of-”
“Lying counts against you.”
“Fine. Perhaps I’ve considered it.”
“There, you see?”
“What makes you so sure he’d even want to?”
“He’s my brother; I know everything important about him.”
“…right. Of course.”
“You’ll ask him?”
“This is all for the sake of your ‘projected data,’ Sherlock?”
“Certainly not. If Mycroft’s distracted with you, he won’t have nearly as much time to bother me. I am simply impatient for the reprieve.”
“…I’ll ask him.”
“Oh? Good.”
“I know you wouldn’t want me to unless you thought it’d make us happy.”
“Nonsense, Inspector. I would never be so blinded by emotion.”
“Oh, certainly not.”
“Good day.”
“Right. I’ll call you when there’s work.”
--
End of First Date, The Car
“Did you have a nice time, then?”
Mycroft isn’t blushing now, but he has so many times tonight that Greg keeps watching him, curious. The blush and the smile together are his favorite expression so far. It is nice to consider that there will be others.
“I quite enjoyed it.”
“You’re very tense.”
“Did you-did you enjoy it? Greg?”
Lestrade smiles easily, even when Mycroft fidgets and glances away.
“I had a very nice time, Mycroft. Thank you for coming with me.”
“It wasn’t-I mean to say, I didn’t…”
He takes a chance and reaches over, lays his hand gently on top of Mycroft’s. His skin is soft and warm. But he doesn’t relax. Greg gives his hand a little squeeze.
“It was perfect,” he says, and he means it.
Mycroft gets that wide-eyed look, and Lestrade understands suddenly that the man was worried that he’d ruined it somehow, perhaps that this was their first-and-only date, and he finds he wants very much to dissuade him of that notion.
The kiss is short but sweet, a gentle touch of lips that promises many more to come.