Pulling the Trigger (3/?)
John shocked awake, surprise nearly making him tumble over. He blinked owlishly for a second before realizing what had caused his sudden awareness: Sherlock had bolted off him in one move, storming through the small flat to his bedroom, and slammed the door shut. John swayed for a moment, stretching limb by limb, cracking his sore back before standing. Just as he set the kettle, a fully dressed and renewed (if still smelling of fear-sweat) Sherlock snatched it away from him, setting it down on the counter and shutting off the stove. “We’re going,” the detective told him without consideration. “We’ll grab something on the way if we really must. Change.”
“Can I at least get a shower in?” he asked, irritated.
“We won’t be gone long,” Sherlock snapped, already pulling on his coat, picking sweets wrappers out of his pocket and staring disdainfully at them before tossing them behind him. He continued on this vein as John watched, sighing. Sherlock shot him a hard glance, freezing in his movements to emphasize the expression.
Fine, then, John thought. At least the man wasn’t panicking anymore. He moved to the bedroom upstairs, dressing at a reasonable rate. Sherlock barged in just as he finished buttoning his shirt, awkwardly puppeteering John into his jacket as the doctor tried to put on his shoes. After a frustrating minute of nothing getting done except for a few accidental swats to the shoulders and neck, John threw Sherlock off him, bellowing “would you settle down!”
The lanky male sat at the end of John’s bed, petulantly kicking his feet against the carpet as John finished getting dressed. They left in silence, each staring out opposite windows as their cab rumbled down London streets.
////
“Expecting a hard day?” Mycroft asked over raspberry jam and toast, gaze flickering towards the worn thumb rubbing rhythmically over an unseen mark on the back of Lestrade’s neck. The detective grumbled something against the polished marble of Mycroft’s breakfast island, his other hand tapping restlessly against the edge of the bowl of oats the man had made but not eaten.
“You shouldn’t worry so much; you’ll raise your cholesterol.” Mycroft smiled, diverting his eyes when Lestrade peered up at the words, knowing brown eyes narrowing. Domesticity was really an underrated beauty. He certainly wouldn’t mind the other things that word typically implied, but one took what one could. If it meant Gregory Lestrade giving him a look when he poked fun, he was absolutely fine with that.
Lestrade gathered his hands under him, pushing off until he was sitting up again, pulling his plate back under himself. He stared blankly at the drab mush for a minute before liberally pouring in milk, throwing in a handful of blueberries and walnuts, stirring resolutely. Mycroft smiled against his cup of tea and detoured his attention to the morning paper.
////
Sherlock rushed out of the cab the moment it stopped moving, leaving John to pay as he stomped through New Scotland Yard.
He stormed into the Chief Inspector’s office like an angry god, slamming his hands down on the desk and leaning perilously close. He seemed rather unperturbed to find a man crashing into his space, hovering threateningly over him, and glanced past to see how people outside were reacting.
“Take him off the case.” Sherlock’s voice was hot with anger and urgency, ignoring John as the other man came in behind him, having followed the trail of unnerved or irritated constables. John merely leaned against the wall behind Sherlock, arms crossed as he watched the two men.
The CI slumped into his chair, staring up at the tall man with a narrow squint. “Sorry?”
“Take him off the case,” he repeated in a deathly quiet hiss, fingers white where he gripped the edge of the desk.
The inspector rolled his eyes- Sherlock nearly leapt across the wood, itching to wrap his fingers around the man’s throat until he got a proper reaction.
“Listen, son, there’s hardly ever one case going on at a-“
“Lestrade. Soho. Take him off the case!”
The policeman sighed- just before Sherlock could reach out and hit him, a knock against the doorframe distracted him. He straightened up in a flurry, glancing back to identify the intruder while straightening his coat.
Dimmock stood in the doorway, staring at the pair with reluctant curiosity. Making eye contact with Sherlock changed his expression to one of surprise- he blinked rapidly. Sherlock looked away first, stepping away from what might be considered threatening distance. The young detective inspector exchanged glances with John, who merely flashed a grim smile.
Dimmock shot him another strange look before moving to face the chief inspector, clearing his throat. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Assignment for you,” the man said coolly, pushing a folder towards the younger man. “You’ll be working with Sally Donovan on this one, since she was present on the crime scene. And this one, apparently,” the man scoffed, gesturing at Sherlock.
Dimmock glanced between them. He cleared his throat and flipped the folder open- promptly went white at the image of two pale, bruised, scarred men bound one beside the other, blood on the wall.
Sherlock stepped backwards, startled- made a hasty exit. Of course Mycroft(1) would’ve thought of it. Stupid. Embarrassing.
He half-ran out of the New Scotland Yard, collapsing into himself once he slid into a cab, forehead pressed against the seat in front of him. Relief made him weak.
John managed to slip in at the last second, casting a watchful gaze over Sherlock’s hunched shoulders.
/////
“Sally.”
“Sherlock.”
John glanced between them, tense. Their expressions were identical, unhappy with the forced partnership but ready to see it through despite mutual dislike. He could already envision it, escalating arguments devolving into shouting matches tending towards physical, the other officers cowed, leaving John to play arbiter.
They stared at each other silently until John sighed heavily- they both stared at him, then, expressions carefully blank. He gritted his teeth, smiling edgily. “Well?”
Sally cleared her throat, turning to look at Sherlock, who merely quirked an eyebrow at his flatmate before turning his attention to the woman.
Dimmock marched in, then, head buried in the case files. He froze when he looked up, glancing rapidly between the two clashing characters before settling his gaze on John, clearly questioning. The doctor only shrugged.
“Thoughts, then?” Dimmock asked, moving forward and slapping the folder down on the corner desk. He refused to involve himself in the silent conversation; it wasn’t relevant, after all.
Sally leaned back against the wall, gesturing at Sherlock to start. He stared for a moment, apparently surprised, before launching into a diatribe.
“The style of knotting and the image of the crane suggest an Eastern leaning: either a familial bond or simply one of interest. Despite the reasoning behind it, it’ll show in his area of residence, probably spill into his workplace. The crane represents health and happiness; clearly not the victims’ happiness. Combined with the scars placed in ideal position for organ surgery, he is likely to be using them for trial experiment.” He started to pace, clearly upset with the thought, hands gripped together behind his back while he moved, increasingly agitated.
“That leads to my next point. Most likely this character is involved in a medical institution. We should look into any pharmaceutical company that have been coming out with new treatments in the last few years without a visible research or trial testing trail.”
“Most of them are like that,” John interjected hollowly. “A lot of money is involved in drug development; they guard their research jealously from other companies.”
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders like he was trying to shake off something, tossing his head as he increased his speed. “He’ll probably be ranked higher up: executives have much freer schedules, harder to notice anomalies. A branch head, at the very least, so that higher ranks don’t wonder where the research comes from. He must have some place to keep his ‘guests’, but I’ll need a closer look to determine where. Could be in his home, could be in a lab. Unlikely, since he would have to be sure no other employees or cleaners would discover what he was up to- unless, oh,” and where normally his eyes would have lit up, he looked furious, “he’s got a whole team with him.” An image of the dead men, streaked with fluids, blazed through his mind. He slammed his fist against the wall. No one reacted.
“Regardless, those are the facts. Research head, Pharmaceutical company, some sort of attachment to the Orient, male, older, at least two subjects kidnapped from Soho. Do we have the files on the victims yet?”
Sally shook her head. “We haven’t placed them, yet.”
Sherlock nodded abruptly, grinding his knuckles against his temples.
“Why is this a man?” Dimmock asked casually, arms crossed as he half-sat on his desk.
Sherlock stared hard at him, as though he didn’t comprehend the question, as though the sheer stupidity of the detective inspector’s words had shut his mind down.
Dimmock blinked, glancing at John and Sally. They were both staring back at him with the same blank expression. He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, fine. I know. I was just checking.”
////
“Were you in Soho?”
Lestrade lifted his head, rubbing his fingers over his short hair as he peered up at Sherlock. “Beg your pardon?”
“I have to know,” Sherlock said breathlessly, swallowing. He seemed to teeter back as Lestrade watching him. “Were you in Soho when you were taken?”
Lestrade swallowed, rubbing his thumb over his lips as he thought. He would kill for a cigarette right about now- something else to concentrate on. “Yeah, I was in Soho.”
“How did nobody-“ Sherlock hissed, his eyes wide and uncharacteristically exposed as he drove forward, fingers clenching the edge of the inspector’s desk.
“Deep cover,” Lestrade interrupted, tone flat.
Sherlock looked about to speak again, so he shrugged and spoke further. He didn’t really want to hear the man try to pick his past apart; he didn’t like that it had been revealed at all. He’d been dreading this day for years. “Only met with my handler every second week. They started looking the moment I missed my second consecutive check-in, but there weren’t many leads. I was released when the police started getting too close for his comfort.”
Sherlock looked lost, somehow, the muscles in his arms shivering with tension. “But why didn’t you tell anybody?”
“I couldn’t afford to,” he answered tightly, dark eyes flickering away to fix on his paperwork; anywhere but at the other man, at the crowd of people milling just outside his door.
Sherlock threw himself across the desk, closing his arms around Lestrade’s shoulders, pressing his cheek against the other man’s stubble.
The Detective Inspector went absolutely still, holding his breath, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘Just Sherlock,’ he thought frantically, burying his instincts as far as he could. ‘Just Sherlock and look at him, he’s terrified, he’s just a boy somehow, he doesn’t know how to deal with this he can’t know he’s making it worse, he’s just a boy, for god’s sake it’s just Sherlock.’ He counted as he breathed against the squeezing of his lungs, nails biting into his palms as he fought against tremors.
“I’m sorry.”
He nearly jumped at the sudden words, abruptly pulled back into the present. “What for?” he asked, fighting for casual. Lestrade curled his fingers around Sherlock’s wrists, pulling the man’s hands away from his back, down to the desk. He didn’t let go, thumbs pressed against tender skin where veins shone blue. He held on to ground the man, yes, but more to keep his expressive hands from flying about- who knew where they might land?
“Not seeing,” he answered hollowly. “I should’ve gotten rid of this bastard a long time ago,” he spat, livid again. Mood swings, he hadn’t seen them this bad since Sherlock had disappeared into rehab for three months. “Destroyed him before-” he ground to a half, staring at Lestrade with big guilty eyes.
“Don’t worry about it,” Lestrade answered with a genial, practiced smile, patting Sherlock’s elbow. “You can do it now.”
Sherlock looked ready to say something but bit it back when Lestrade’s smile turned obviously strained. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll just be- ” He jabbed a thumb towards the door behind him. Lestrade sagged a little with relief, nodding curtly.
Sherlock tried a smile but, despite his typically fantastic acting skills, it came out lopsided and distressed. Lestrade cocked an eyebrow; Sherlock gritted his teeth and spun on his heel, leaving the way he’d come, snapping the door closed behind him.
Lestrade sagged, shuddering minutely. He swallowed, reaching for the lukewarm coffee on his desk, swishing it through his teeth, throat suddenly, unbearably dry.
/////
Mycroft stared blankly at the screen in front of him, forcing down the cry of distress trying to claw its way up his throat. He followed the line of Lestrade’s thumbs as they ruffled short silver strands, thinking of how dark they’d looked, shaping circles against Sherlock’s pale skin. He knew, distantly, that his breathing had no business being this quick and shallow; he hadn’t had a panic attack since four-year-old Sherlock had nearly drowned himself in the pond behind the family home.
Sherlock.
He’d never been jealous of Sherlock, not really. The boy was braver where he was more cautious, excitable where Mycroft was merely curious and yet... Mycroft was smarter, quicker. He knew it frustrated his brother to no end: not because he was smarter but because Sherlock considered ‘mere’ government work to be a complete waste of Mycroft’s talents, found it absurd a man so clever would refuse the ‘interesting’ life out of laziness. Despite being a heap of trouble, Mycroft had never really had anything but the deepest love for Sherlock. Occasionally he felt a little irritated by him, but never envious. The boy was far more handsome, of course, always slim, tall, dark-haired, gray-eyed, pale-skinned, with a nose and cheekbones stolen from a Greek statue and hands like a painting.
Contrastingly, Mycroft thought his nose to be a little long for his face- his features, while not necessarily ugly, were certainly not worth particular notice. He was bony when he wasn’t a little plump, cheated unattractive lines with well-cut suits. His chest caved in, fingers knobby, arms weak, features locking together awkwardly.
Sherlock had a loveliness to notice, but Mycroft had always thought that effusive beauty would be a hindrance in his line of work; he could not afford for anyone to look too hard at him, to try too hard for his attentions or affections.
That feeling of inferiority hit him now, full-forced, a great ugly thing roaring with need.
Greg holding himself perfectly still with Sherlock’s long, graceful arms folding around his torso, coiling his fingers around the youngling Holmes’ white wrists.
Lestrade flinching away from his touch.
Mycroft gasped against the searing in his throat, fingers shaking as he reached for his mobile phone.
/////
When Lestrade finally managed to find his way to Mycroft’s flat, he was greeted only by Anthea, the woman flashing him a cool, professional smile.
“Good evening, Inspector.”
“Evening,” he muttered back, glancing past her- the place seemed empty. “Is Mycroft..?”
“Mr Holmes regrets the short notice, but his assistance was urgently required in Korea. He will return shortly, and wishes that you help yourself to his accommodation during his absence.”
He gaped at her; never in his memory had either Mycroft or Anthea been so coldly professional to him. It felt like a rebuffing.
“I see,” he stammered with a shiver, gripping the doorframe when she breezed past him, careful not to brush up against him. “Thanks.”
She nodded curtly, flashing another meaningless smile before vanishing through the exit.
Lestrade went straight to bed, curling tightly against the other man’s pillow.
It was looking to be a long week.
/////
(1) Underestimating Sally, he is.
Continue to Chapter 4
“Can I at least get a shower in?” he asked, irritated.
“We won’t be gone long,” Sherlock snapped, already pulling on his coat, picking sweets wrappers out of his pocket and staring disdainfully at them before tossing them behind him. He continued on this vein as John watched, sighing. Sherlock shot him a hard glance, freezing in his movements to emphasize the expression.
Fine, then, John thought. At least the man wasn’t panicking anymore. He moved to the bedroom upstairs, dressing at a reasonable rate. Sherlock barged in just as he finished buttoning his shirt, awkwardly puppeteering John into his jacket as the doctor tried to put on his shoes. After a frustrating minute of nothing getting done except for a few accidental swats to the shoulders and neck, John threw Sherlock off him, bellowing “would you settle down!”
The lanky male sat at the end of John’s bed, petulantly kicking his feet against the carpet as John finished getting dressed. They left in silence, each staring out opposite windows as their cab rumbled down London streets.
////
“Expecting a hard day?” Mycroft asked over raspberry jam and toast, gaze flickering towards the worn thumb rubbing rhythmically over an unseen mark on the back of Lestrade’s neck. The detective grumbled something against the polished marble of Mycroft’s breakfast island, his other hand tapping restlessly against the edge of the bowl of oats the man had made but not eaten.
“You shouldn’t worry so much; you’ll raise your cholesterol.” Mycroft smiled, diverting his eyes when Lestrade peered up at the words, knowing brown eyes narrowing. Domesticity was really an underrated beauty. He certainly wouldn’t mind the other things that word typically implied, but one took what one could. If it meant Gregory Lestrade giving him a look when he poked fun, he was absolutely fine with that.
Lestrade gathered his hands under him, pushing off until he was sitting up again, pulling his plate back under himself. He stared blankly at the drab mush for a minute before liberally pouring in milk, throwing in a handful of blueberries and walnuts, stirring resolutely. Mycroft smiled against his cup of tea and detoured his attention to the morning paper.
////
Sherlock rushed out of the cab the moment it stopped moving, leaving John to pay as he stomped through New Scotland Yard.
He stormed into the Chief Inspector’s office like an angry god, slamming his hands down on the desk and leaning perilously close. He seemed rather unperturbed to find a man crashing into his space, hovering threateningly over him, and glanced past to see how people outside were reacting.
“Take him off the case.” Sherlock’s voice was hot with anger and urgency, ignoring John as the other man came in behind him, having followed the trail of unnerved or irritated constables. John merely leaned against the wall behind Sherlock, arms crossed as he watched the two men.
The CI slumped into his chair, staring up at the tall man with a narrow squint. “Sorry?”
“Take him off the case,” he repeated in a deathly quiet hiss, fingers white where he gripped the edge of the desk.
The inspector rolled his eyes- Sherlock nearly leapt across the wood, itching to wrap his fingers around the man’s throat until he got a proper reaction.
“Listen, son, there’s hardly ever one case going on at a-“
“Lestrade. Soho. Take him off the case!”
The policeman sighed- just before Sherlock could reach out and hit him, a knock against the doorframe distracted him. He straightened up in a flurry, glancing back to identify the intruder while straightening his coat.
Dimmock stood in the doorway, staring at the pair with reluctant curiosity. Making eye contact with Sherlock changed his expression to one of surprise- he blinked rapidly. Sherlock looked away first, stepping away from what might be considered threatening distance. The young detective inspector exchanged glances with John, who merely flashed a grim smile.
Dimmock shot him another strange look before moving to face the chief inspector, clearing his throat. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Assignment for you,” the man said coolly, pushing a folder towards the younger man. “You’ll be working with Sally Donovan on this one, since she was present on the crime scene. And this one, apparently,” the man scoffed, gesturing at Sherlock.
Dimmock glanced between them. He cleared his throat and flipped the folder open- promptly went white at the image of two pale, bruised, scarred men bound one beside the other, blood on the wall.
Sherlock stepped backwards, startled- made a hasty exit. Of course Mycroft(1) would’ve thought of it. Stupid. Embarrassing.
He half-ran out of the New Scotland Yard, collapsing into himself once he slid into a cab, forehead pressed against the seat in front of him. Relief made him weak.
John managed to slip in at the last second, casting a watchful gaze over Sherlock’s hunched shoulders.
/////
“Sally.”
“Sherlock.”
John glanced between them, tense. Their expressions were identical, unhappy with the forced partnership but ready to see it through despite mutual dislike. He could already envision it, escalating arguments devolving into shouting matches tending towards physical, the other officers cowed, leaving John to play arbiter.
They stared at each other silently until John sighed heavily- they both stared at him, then, expressions carefully blank. He gritted his teeth, smiling edgily. “Well?”
Sally cleared her throat, turning to look at Sherlock, who merely quirked an eyebrow at his flatmate before turning his attention to the woman.
Dimmock marched in, then, head buried in the case files. He froze when he looked up, glancing rapidly between the two clashing characters before settling his gaze on John, clearly questioning. The doctor only shrugged.
“Thoughts, then?” Dimmock asked, moving forward and slapping the folder down on the corner desk. He refused to involve himself in the silent conversation; it wasn’t relevant, after all.
Sally leaned back against the wall, gesturing at Sherlock to start. He stared for a moment, apparently surprised, before launching into a diatribe.
“The style of knotting and the image of the crane suggest an Eastern leaning: either a familial bond or simply one of interest. Despite the reasoning behind it, it’ll show in his area of residence, probably spill into his workplace. The crane represents health and happiness; clearly not the victims’ happiness. Combined with the scars placed in ideal position for organ surgery, he is likely to be using them for trial experiment.” He started to pace, clearly upset with the thought, hands gripped together behind his back while he moved, increasingly agitated.
“That leads to my next point. Most likely this character is involved in a medical institution. We should look into any pharmaceutical company that have been coming out with new treatments in the last few years without a visible research or trial testing trail.”
“Most of them are like that,” John interjected hollowly. “A lot of money is involved in drug development; they guard their research jealously from other companies.”
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders like he was trying to shake off something, tossing his head as he increased his speed. “He’ll probably be ranked higher up: executives have much freer schedules, harder to notice anomalies. A branch head, at the very least, so that higher ranks don’t wonder where the research comes from. He must have some place to keep his ‘guests’, but I’ll need a closer look to determine where. Could be in his home, could be in a lab. Unlikely, since he would have to be sure no other employees or cleaners would discover what he was up to- unless, oh,” and where normally his eyes would have lit up, he looked furious, “he’s got a whole team with him.” An image of the dead men, streaked with fluids, blazed through his mind. He slammed his fist against the wall. No one reacted.
“Regardless, those are the facts. Research head, Pharmaceutical company, some sort of attachment to the Orient, male, older, at least two subjects kidnapped from Soho. Do we have the files on the victims yet?”
Sally shook her head. “We haven’t placed them, yet.”
Sherlock nodded abruptly, grinding his knuckles against his temples.
“Why is this a man?” Dimmock asked casually, arms crossed as he half-sat on his desk.
Sherlock stared hard at him, as though he didn’t comprehend the question, as though the sheer stupidity of the detective inspector’s words had shut his mind down.
Dimmock blinked, glancing at John and Sally. They were both staring back at him with the same blank expression. He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, fine. I know. I was just checking.”
////
“Were you in Soho?”
Lestrade lifted his head, rubbing his fingers over his short hair as he peered up at Sherlock. “Beg your pardon?”
“I have to know,” Sherlock said breathlessly, swallowing. He seemed to teeter back as Lestrade watching him. “Were you in Soho when you were taken?”
Lestrade swallowed, rubbing his thumb over his lips as he thought. He would kill for a cigarette right about now- something else to concentrate on. “Yeah, I was in Soho.”
“How did nobody-“ Sherlock hissed, his eyes wide and uncharacteristically exposed as he drove forward, fingers clenching the edge of the inspector’s desk.
“Deep cover,” Lestrade interrupted, tone flat.
Sherlock looked about to speak again, so he shrugged and spoke further. He didn’t really want to hear the man try to pick his past apart; he didn’t like that it had been revealed at all. He’d been dreading this day for years. “Only met with my handler every second week. They started looking the moment I missed my second consecutive check-in, but there weren’t many leads. I was released when the police started getting too close for his comfort.”
Sherlock looked lost, somehow, the muscles in his arms shivering with tension. “But why didn’t you tell anybody?”
“I couldn’t afford to,” he answered tightly, dark eyes flickering away to fix on his paperwork; anywhere but at the other man, at the crowd of people milling just outside his door.
Sherlock threw himself across the desk, closing his arms around Lestrade’s shoulders, pressing his cheek against the other man’s stubble.
The Detective Inspector went absolutely still, holding his breath, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘Just Sherlock,’ he thought frantically, burying his instincts as far as he could. ‘Just Sherlock and look at him, he’s terrified, he’s just a boy somehow, he doesn’t know how to deal with this he can’t know he’s making it worse, he’s just a boy, for god’s sake it’s just Sherlock.’ He counted as he breathed against the squeezing of his lungs, nails biting into his palms as he fought against tremors.
“I’m sorry.”
He nearly jumped at the sudden words, abruptly pulled back into the present. “What for?” he asked, fighting for casual. Lestrade curled his fingers around Sherlock’s wrists, pulling the man’s hands away from his back, down to the desk. He didn’t let go, thumbs pressed against tender skin where veins shone blue. He held on to ground the man, yes, but more to keep his expressive hands from flying about- who knew where they might land?
“Not seeing,” he answered hollowly. “I should’ve gotten rid of this bastard a long time ago,” he spat, livid again. Mood swings, he hadn’t seen them this bad since Sherlock had disappeared into rehab for three months. “Destroyed him before-” he ground to a half, staring at Lestrade with big guilty eyes.
“Don’t worry about it,” Lestrade answered with a genial, practiced smile, patting Sherlock’s elbow. “You can do it now.”
Sherlock looked ready to say something but bit it back when Lestrade’s smile turned obviously strained. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll just be- ” He jabbed a thumb towards the door behind him. Lestrade sagged a little with relief, nodding curtly.
Sherlock tried a smile but, despite his typically fantastic acting skills, it came out lopsided and distressed. Lestrade cocked an eyebrow; Sherlock gritted his teeth and spun on his heel, leaving the way he’d come, snapping the door closed behind him.
Lestrade sagged, shuddering minutely. He swallowed, reaching for the lukewarm coffee on his desk, swishing it through his teeth, throat suddenly, unbearably dry.
/////
Mycroft stared blankly at the screen in front of him, forcing down the cry of distress trying to claw its way up his throat. He followed the line of Lestrade’s thumbs as they ruffled short silver strands, thinking of how dark they’d looked, shaping circles against Sherlock’s pale skin. He knew, distantly, that his breathing had no business being this quick and shallow; he hadn’t had a panic attack since four-year-old Sherlock had nearly drowned himself in the pond behind the family home.
Sherlock.
He’d never been jealous of Sherlock, not really. The boy was braver where he was more cautious, excitable where Mycroft was merely curious and yet... Mycroft was smarter, quicker. He knew it frustrated his brother to no end: not because he was smarter but because Sherlock considered ‘mere’ government work to be a complete waste of Mycroft’s talents, found it absurd a man so clever would refuse the ‘interesting’ life out of laziness. Despite being a heap of trouble, Mycroft had never really had anything but the deepest love for Sherlock. Occasionally he felt a little irritated by him, but never envious. The boy was far more handsome, of course, always slim, tall, dark-haired, gray-eyed, pale-skinned, with a nose and cheekbones stolen from a Greek statue and hands like a painting.
Contrastingly, Mycroft thought his nose to be a little long for his face- his features, while not necessarily ugly, were certainly not worth particular notice. He was bony when he wasn’t a little plump, cheated unattractive lines with well-cut suits. His chest caved in, fingers knobby, arms weak, features locking together awkwardly.
Sherlock had a loveliness to notice, but Mycroft had always thought that effusive beauty would be a hindrance in his line of work; he could not afford for anyone to look too hard at him, to try too hard for his attentions or affections.
That feeling of inferiority hit him now, full-forced, a great ugly thing roaring with need.
Greg holding himself perfectly still with Sherlock’s long, graceful arms folding around his torso, coiling his fingers around the youngling Holmes’ white wrists.
Lestrade flinching away from his touch.
Mycroft gasped against the searing in his throat, fingers shaking as he reached for his mobile phone.
/////
When Lestrade finally managed to find his way to Mycroft’s flat, he was greeted only by Anthea, the woman flashing him a cool, professional smile.
“Good evening, Inspector.”
“Evening,” he muttered back, glancing past her- the place seemed empty. “Is Mycroft..?”
“Mr Holmes regrets the short notice, but his assistance was urgently required in Korea. He will return shortly, and wishes that you help yourself to his accommodation during his absence.”
He gaped at her; never in his memory had either Mycroft or Anthea been so coldly professional to him. It felt like a rebuffing.
“I see,” he stammered with a shiver, gripping the doorframe when she breezed past him, careful not to brush up against him. “Thanks.”
She nodded curtly, flashing another meaningless smile before vanishing through the exit.
Lestrade went straight to bed, curling tightly against the other man’s pillow.
It was looking to be a long week.
/////
(1) Underestimating Sally, he is.
Continue to Chapter 4