Losing You: fanfic
Fandoms: Sherlock (TV), Doctor Who (TV)
Rating: PG
Warnings: One mention of possible dub-con.
Author's Notes: An exercise in turning fun, sexy prompts into Lestrade angst. Mystrade.
Originial Prompt: Mycroft Holmes/Harold Saxon
Lestrade clenched his teeth, and balled his hand into a fist in his pocket. He was stood in the street watching the country’s new Lord and Master on the big screen. Lestrade made sure to keep his anger hidden; to anybody else he was just another face in the crowd. Nobody else was angry - everybody was completely and happily in love with their new prime minister. Nobody saw the face behind him, following him everywhere with the sickening loyalty of a dog. The face of Mycroft Holmes.
It was about a year since Harold Saxon had first entered the political world. Of course, as an up-and-coming prime minister (and Mycroft had always been able to spot one of those a mile off), a meeting was soon arranged between them. Well, the Mycroft Holmes sort of meeting. The sort that involved abandoned warehouses and cars with blacked-out windows.
The evening after that meeting was Mycroft and Lestrade’s monthly trip to see a classical concert (Lestrade didn’t know anything about classical music, so Mycroft always picked). Mycroft mentioned that the meeting had gone well and he thought Saxon would go far, and then the conversation moved on to other things. When the concert started, Mycroft sat with his eyes closed and a smile on his face, one hand holding Lestrade’s. The other hand tapped an unfamiliar rhythm, out of time with the music, onto the seat in front of him.
That was followed up by another meeting, a pre-arranged one this time. And before Lestrade knew it, they were normal, proper meetings. As if they were a businessman and a client rather than a Prime Minister hopeful and the British Government. Saxon would invite Mycroft to his office, make a scheduled appointment and Mycroft would actually keep it. He’d keep someone else’s appointment, even rearrange his own schedule to keep it. That was the first sign Lestrade got that something was changing.
It got worse though. Mycroft started seeing Lestrade less, making excuses. Always the work, he’d say. And if he did manage to put some time aside, all he ever talked about was Saxon. How a shining age of government was dawning, how the Archangel network would change the country forever, how Harry was going to...
“Harry?” Lestrade almost choked on the expensive wine Mycroft had brought over to his flat. “When did you start calling him Harry?”
“Around the time he started calling me Mikey,” Mycroft replied evenly.
“What? But you don’t even let me -” Lestrade started, but Mycroft interrupted him with a smooth laugh.
“I’m joking, I’m joking. Don’t get possessive, please, Greg.” Mycroft rested his hand over Greg’s on the table. “This is important, getting on the good side of Harold Saxon. You’ll see. This country’s going to be amazing with Harry in charge.”
Lestrade didn’t give a damn about the country. He just wanted Mycroft. But that wasn’t fair, so he curled his fingers around his lover’s and didn’t say anything.
He still didn’t say anything when Mycroft actually started cancelling on him. He sat on the sofa alone and watched the DVDs he’d rented to watch with Mycroft. He rang to cancel the table at the restaurant. He invited Donovan to come to the cinema with him when he had a spare ticket.
Then Mycroft forgot their anniversary, and Lestrade knew that was the end. It wasn’t that Mycroft totally blanked him that day. In fact, he was kind enough to ring Lestrade up and explain politely that he couldn’t make it round for the night in they’d planned and suggest they do something at the weekend, and make it quite clear he had no idea that today was anything special. Lestrade smashed the new glass candle holder he’d bought for the table that night. He couldn’t afford to waste the posh ready meals, though, so he put one in the freezer and ate the other by the light of the TV.
The next week was their monthly concert trip. Lestrade left three messages on Mycroft’s answer phone before Mycroft rang back to arrange time and place. Barely a word passed between them all that evening, apart from the perfunctory greetings and farewells. Lestrade certainly didn’t mention Mycroft’s silence, or his forgetting their anniversary. During the performance, Mycroft tapped that same rhythm, one-two-three-four, onto the seat in front, this time perfectly in sync with the 6/8 time of the piece. His free hand did not hold Lestrade’s.
And that was the last contact Lestrade had with Mycroft. He decided not to ring, just to wait and see how long it would take for Mycroft would make the effort. Mycroft never rang, and Lestrade never saw him again.
Until Saxon started appearing on the TV, on the news and in political debates. At first he was a serious contender for the next Prime Minister, and eventually the only serious contender. Mycroft was always visible, somewhere in the background, watching Saxon with uncharacteristic deference in his eyes, something that came almost close to adoration. Lestrade was pretty sure the two were more than political partners. They were shagging, with or without the wife’s knowledge.
The relationship never officially ended, but by the time Saxon became Prime Minister, Lestrade considered Mycroft well and truly his ex.
~~~
The worst of it all was that he quite liked Saxon. Once he was Prime Minister, he came to visit Scotland Yard one day on an official visit, and Lestrade met him. And he liked him. They talked about - he doesn’t really remember what they talked about. Some was police-related, some wasn’t. It was very informal and very friendly, and it was nice just to listen to Saxon talk. Mycroft was always at his master’s heels, of course, but Lestrade determinedly ignored him. Mycroft, for his part, didn’t seem to notice Lestrade at all. Lestrade watched the two of them carefully, and could have sworn he saw Saxon call his new pet “Mikey”.
The point was, however, that Lestrade liked Saxon. He just seemed like the sort of man you could trust. The man who had stolen his friend and lover, and Lestrade felt he could trust him. There was something strange about Harold Saxon that Lestrade couldn’t quite put his finger on.
So when Saxon turned out to be an alien in league with other aliens in a cunning plan to enslave humanity, Lestrade wasn’t all that surprised.