Silly Meme-Thing
The first TEN people to comment in this post get to request that I write a drabble of any pairing or character of your choosing. In return, you are challenged to post this in your own journal, regardless of your ability level- or not as you wish
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If Lestrade had not wandered into Sherlock’s life, he never would have paid him mind. Lestrade was one of the little people, the normal people; the people who went about their lives without seeing the threads that surrounded them, connected them, and trapped them in cages they were not even aware of. Detective Inspector Gregory Samuel Lestrade, born May 21, 1963 to Richard Dennis Lestrade and Susanna Caroline Lestrade (nee Perry), would go about his life, do his job, make his small impact on the people directly surrounding him, and die. And Mycroft would not know or care.
Except that DI Lestrade had crashed into one of the people in London who actually did matter. An argument with a black haired junkie over the body of a street person had changed Lestrade’s entire life. It had secretly given him meaning on a larger scale, and made him marginally more important than the general huddled, quivering masses of humanity that filled the streets like clots in otherwise orderly veins. Greg Lestrade began to matter to the country, and as with all things that mattered to the country, he began to matter to Mycroft Holmes.
At first, Mycroft watched him to see which way his interactions with his younger brother would go. Mycroft had tried for years to draw the poison out of Sherlock, once even going so far as to lock him in a room for weeks until he had detoxified. But even with all of his cameras, he could not follow the younger man all the time, and it seemed imprudent to keep him a permanent prisoner. But Lestrade could offer Sherlock something more valuable than any bribe or enticement Mycroft could manage: Lestrade could offer him a challenge: a chance to test his skills against the evils of society, to press his mind against other humans and see which would crack first. But Lestrade would only work with a clean detective. So Sherlock became a clean detective. In his own bumbling, blind way, Gregory Lestrade had done what a greater man could not.
If pressed on the issue (and if he had something to gain from the admission), Mycroft would admit that he had come to respect Lestrade for his actions. The numbers corresponding to the cameras that directly surrounded Lestrade (the ones by the Yard, the courthouse, his flat) found a way into Mycroft’s personal memory bank, the carefully controlled bit of his mind that he set aside for otherwise un-sortable thoughts. He told himself that it was because of the emotional link to Sherlock; the association painted Lestrade with the same familial brush. He also knew that he was lying, and that lie was tucked away into the same folder.
He kept his associations with Lestrade to an absolute minimum. The occasional meeting to gauge how Sherlock was doing. The rare job specifically for him, something too emotionally and politically messy to send one of his own men to do. He kept a cool and official distance while talking to this man who had dragged the drugs out of his little brother’s arms. A cold professionalism and the odd passing mention of extreme power and influence stopped Lestrade from developing any sort of familiarity. It was better for Mycroft that way, and as with all things that mattered to Mycroft, better for the country.
He remembered the number for every camera that followed Gregory Lestrade through his daily life. He did not check them any more than he did any other camera in the city, but it comforted him to remember they were there. His own personal eye on a little, tiny, insignificant man who just happened to be more important than he had any right to be.
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