Sherlock: 1. Impolite Burglary (Mycroft/Lestrade)
Title: Impolite Burglary
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Disclaimer: No money is being made and no infringement is intended.
Characters: Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: PG
Summary: “Who the hell are you and just what do you think you're doing in my flat?”
Words: 1175
A/N: Part 1 of the Home Invasion 4+1 series. Part 2 here.
To say Greg had a bitch of a day was an understatement. He was tired. No… exhausted. He was bloody exhausted. The type of exhaustion that felt bone deep, made one feel like their own blood was running too fast in their body, like blinking or even breathing, was far too much to ask.
He fumbled with his keys, taking three tries before he found the right one for his flat, and two more to actually get the key in the keyhole and turned to unlock the door. He practically fell into his flat, stumbling over the doormat with a curse and falling against the door to close it. He toed his shoes off, dropped his work bag where his stood, along with his coat and jacket and shuffled his way into his living room without bothering to turn on any lights. With a deep sigh he closed his eyes and fell facedown onto his sofa uncaring of the back and neck pain he would surely suffer in the morning.
At least he had the next two days off.
Greg was fully committed to doing nothing but falling into oblivion for the next 24 hours, so the click of the lamp coming on and the sudden recognition of light behind his closed eyes came as something of a surprise.
He stood up, defensive reflexes kicking in, to face his would be attacker, adrenalin sharpening his senses and readying his body for a fight. He went in for a lunge, barely stopping himself when he realized that his burglar wasn't lunging at him, or even looking surprised or scared of him. In fact he didn't even look like a burglar, sat as he was in his three piece suit, one leg over a knee, casually leaned back, eyes sharp and scrutinizing but revealing nothing.
Then there was the posh accent and smooth voice when he said, “Detective Inspector, you're late.” As if Greg was the one who'd inconvenienced him.
“Who the hell are you and just what do you think you're doing in my flat?” Greg growled.
The man sighed as if bored with the proceedings already and waved a hand languidly at Greg. “Sit down, Detective Inspector. The adrenalin is soon to wear off and with how exhausted you are, you'll want to be sat down when the rush is over.”
Despite his lazy posture and movements, the burglar's tone carried the weight of silk covered steel. Clearly, this was a man unused to disobedience and Greg's career-honed response to chain of command almost compelled him to sit down.
Almost.
“Look here, you have about five seconds to answer my question.” He warned, remaining standing and on the defense. The man did not seem to be carrying a weapon, but Greg couldn't be sure that it wasn't concealed in that suit, besides that, there was something about this man that felt like he didn't need any weapons to begin with.
The man spoke, still in that steely tone, “Oh, very well. To the point, if it will speed this up. I've had a trying day as well, and have no patience for your dramatics.”
Giving him another bored look, this time with some irritation mixed in, he continued, “My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I'm here because you seemed to have developed a disturbing influence over one Sherlock Holmes." The man's gaze suddenly hardened. "Just why do you think that dragging a civilian onto serious crime scenes is a good idea, Detective Inspector? Answer carefully, as if your career depended on it.”
Greg barely heard the last sentence, still stuck on the first. Holmes, as in probably related to the gangly recently arrived and ever-increasing (but useful, he had to admit) pain in his arse. Because of course, Sherlock had to be related to some toff named Mycroft who probably worked in the security services and was going to have Greg quietly disappeared for letting him help with investigations.
Well, not so quietly, Greg decided.
“Who are you to him then? Father? No...” Greg narrowed his eyes, “Brother, elder too, I'm sure. And I don't drag Sherlock anywhere, he comes on his own, barges in more like.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Are you so incompetent, Detective Inspector, that you can't manage the security of your own crime scenes? Not to mention what it says that you need drug addicts to help your do your job, I fear for the safety of the city if you are an example of your rank.”
Greg wanted to punch him.
Luckily he wasn't so tired as to be entirely stupid, after all the man was only using his words, and one did not throw fists at members of the security services, especially after they told you what had to be their real name (who would pick Mycroft as false name and oh God, Greg was probably going to end up in a deep hole somewhere).
His exhaustion came back with a rush and he fell back into the sofa. “Look what do you want? I'm too tired for this shit.”
“You haven't answered my question, Detective Inspector.”
Greg sighed, already feeling finished with the conversation but belligerent enough to not give way too much. The unexpected rush of protectiveness that rose up in his chest at hearing Sherlock being disparaged helped too. “Listen, if you were any kind of big brother, you'd realize that I have very little to do with Sherlock coming to crime scenes. More than that, the investigations keep him distracted from the drugs, you tosser.”
Greg twisted his mouth up in derision as he said that last. “I made a deal with him, he only shows up to my scenes clean, and stays that way through the end of the investigation. We also have a couple of plans to get him on the way to some more long-term sobriety, but the way I see it, that's none of your business and if you want to know more, how about you drop by your little brother's flat, if you even know where he lives, and ask him!” Greg finished. He was shouting a little towards the end but he couldn't bring himself to care. He pushed himself up and rose wearily to a standing position and gave a last look to his well-dressed and impolite burglar.
Yes, definitely finished with this conversation.
“Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go catch some very well-deserved sleep. I'm sure you can see yourself out, seeing as how you saw yourself in.”
Without another look toward the man in his living room, Greg used the last of his strength to walk himself to his bedroom and fell down flat on top of his bed covers, deciding that if he was being deported to some hellhole in the middle of nowhere, he might as well be rested for it. He’d take inventory of the very many bad choices he had just made when he woke up next.
That is if Mycroft Holmes didn’t fucking murder him in his sleep.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Disclaimer: No money is being made and no infringement is intended.
Characters: Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: PG
Summary: “Who the hell are you and just what do you think you're doing in my flat?”
Words: 1175
A/N: Part 1 of the Home Invasion 4+1 series. Part 2 here.
To say Greg had a bitch of a day was an understatement. He was tired. No… exhausted. He was bloody exhausted. The type of exhaustion that felt bone deep, made one feel like their own blood was running too fast in their body, like blinking or even breathing, was far too much to ask.
He fumbled with his keys, taking three tries before he found the right one for his flat, and two more to actually get the key in the keyhole and turned to unlock the door. He practically fell into his flat, stumbling over the doormat with a curse and falling against the door to close it. He toed his shoes off, dropped his work bag where his stood, along with his coat and jacket and shuffled his way into his living room without bothering to turn on any lights. With a deep sigh he closed his eyes and fell facedown onto his sofa uncaring of the back and neck pain he would surely suffer in the morning.
At least he had the next two days off.
Greg was fully committed to doing nothing but falling into oblivion for the next 24 hours, so the click of the lamp coming on and the sudden recognition of light behind his closed eyes came as something of a surprise.
He stood up, defensive reflexes kicking in, to face his would be attacker, adrenalin sharpening his senses and readying his body for a fight. He went in for a lunge, barely stopping himself when he realized that his burglar wasn't lunging at him, or even looking surprised or scared of him. In fact he didn't even look like a burglar, sat as he was in his three piece suit, one leg over a knee, casually leaned back, eyes sharp and scrutinizing but revealing nothing.
Then there was the posh accent and smooth voice when he said, “Detective Inspector, you're late.” As if Greg was the one who'd inconvenienced him.
“Who the hell are you and just what do you think you're doing in my flat?” Greg growled.
The man sighed as if bored with the proceedings already and waved a hand languidly at Greg. “Sit down, Detective Inspector. The adrenalin is soon to wear off and with how exhausted you are, you'll want to be sat down when the rush is over.”
Despite his lazy posture and movements, the burglar's tone carried the weight of silk covered steel. Clearly, this was a man unused to disobedience and Greg's career-honed response to chain of command almost compelled him to sit down.
Almost.
“Look here, you have about five seconds to answer my question.” He warned, remaining standing and on the defense. The man did not seem to be carrying a weapon, but Greg couldn't be sure that it wasn't concealed in that suit, besides that, there was something about this man that felt like he didn't need any weapons to begin with.
The man spoke, still in that steely tone, “Oh, very well. To the point, if it will speed this up. I've had a trying day as well, and have no patience for your dramatics.”
Giving him another bored look, this time with some irritation mixed in, he continued, “My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I'm here because you seemed to have developed a disturbing influence over one Sherlock Holmes." The man's gaze suddenly hardened. "Just why do you think that dragging a civilian onto serious crime scenes is a good idea, Detective Inspector? Answer carefully, as if your career depended on it.”
Greg barely heard the last sentence, still stuck on the first. Holmes, as in probably related to the gangly recently arrived and ever-increasing (but useful, he had to admit) pain in his arse. Because of course, Sherlock had to be related to some toff named Mycroft who probably worked in the security services and was going to have Greg quietly disappeared for letting him help with investigations.
Well, not so quietly, Greg decided.
“Who are you to him then? Father? No...” Greg narrowed his eyes, “Brother, elder too, I'm sure. And I don't drag Sherlock anywhere, he comes on his own, barges in more like.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Are you so incompetent, Detective Inspector, that you can't manage the security of your own crime scenes? Not to mention what it says that you need drug addicts to help your do your job, I fear for the safety of the city if you are an example of your rank.”
Greg wanted to punch him.
Luckily he wasn't so tired as to be entirely stupid, after all the man was only using his words, and one did not throw fists at members of the security services, especially after they told you what had to be their real name (who would pick Mycroft as false name and oh God, Greg was probably going to end up in a deep hole somewhere).
His exhaustion came back with a rush and he fell back into the sofa. “Look what do you want? I'm too tired for this shit.”
“You haven't answered my question, Detective Inspector.”
Greg sighed, already feeling finished with the conversation but belligerent enough to not give way too much. The unexpected rush of protectiveness that rose up in his chest at hearing Sherlock being disparaged helped too. “Listen, if you were any kind of big brother, you'd realize that I have very little to do with Sherlock coming to crime scenes. More than that, the investigations keep him distracted from the drugs, you tosser.”
Greg twisted his mouth up in derision as he said that last. “I made a deal with him, he only shows up to my scenes clean, and stays that way through the end of the investigation. We also have a couple of plans to get him on the way to some more long-term sobriety, but the way I see it, that's none of your business and if you want to know more, how about you drop by your little brother's flat, if you even know where he lives, and ask him!” Greg finished. He was shouting a little towards the end but he couldn't bring himself to care. He pushed himself up and rose wearily to a standing position and gave a last look to his well-dressed and impolite burglar.
Yes, definitely finished with this conversation.
“Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go catch some very well-deserved sleep. I'm sure you can see yourself out, seeing as how you saw yourself in.”
Without another look toward the man in his living room, Greg used the last of his strength to walk himself to his bedroom and fell down flat on top of his bed covers, deciding that if he was being deported to some hellhole in the middle of nowhere, he might as well be rested for it. He’d take inventory of the very many bad choices he had just made when he woke up next.
That is if Mycroft Holmes didn’t fucking murder him in his sleep.