Fanfic: How do you Solve a Problem like Sherlock
Title: How do you Solve a Problem like SherlockBeta: jupiter_ash
Rating: PG13
Characters/Pairings: Lestrade/Mycroft, mentions of Sherlock & John
Original Prompt: Bygomusing here And more Lestrade/Mycroft please? Perhaps an established relationship for the two and they decide to set up Sherlock and John?
Russian Translation by sige_vic
Chinese Translation by himawarivy
How do you Solve a Problem like Sherlock?
Mycroft Holmes almost never got drunk. He prided himself on his ability to host important meetings with refreshments and get the attendees just tipsy enough to be agreeable while only appearing to match them drink for drink. He would only let himself indulge during his evenings with DI Lestrade. Then he would open a bottle of wine, always an excellent specimen of a rare vintage, and they would spend the evening relaxing together. They would curl up on the sofa discussing nothing of importance or, sometimes, nothing at all. They very rarely finished the bottle before one of them grabbed the other by the collar and dragged him into the bedroom.
Tonight they were on the second bottle and still in the living room. They were also very drunk.
It had started when Lestrade had shown up on the doorstep practically fuming. Mycroft had taken one look at him, sighed and asked,
“What has Sherlock done this time?”
Sherlock, it turned out, had solved the murder of an art critic. At the same time he had managed to make it almost impossible for the police to pursue a conviction.
Hearing this, Mycroft had pushed a glass of wine into Lestrade’s unresisting hands and had sat back on the sofa.
Edgar Britton, well known in certain circles for being a bit of a soft touch (he would tell you you had no talent and that your life’s work was ridiculous, but he would give you a hug afterwards), had been murdered at his studio in Soho. He had been turned into an art exhibit by way of a paralysing drug and been left with a permanent and ghastly grin.
Sherlock had started with badgering the woman who found the body - Britton’s assistant - until she had lost it and attacked him, throwing the crime scene into complete disarray. He had then stolen a paintbrush found at the scene and burnt off all the bristles in an attempt to prove it contained the poison. It did, but once Sherlock had finished with it there was no way of proving that it had.
Finally, Sherlock had rounded it all up by breaking into the flat of Gary Waller, Britton’s nephew, stealing more evidence then declaring Waller to be the killer in front of Britton’s wife. She had immediately called the press and Lestrade had been forced to start fielding calls from the newspapers about the arrest of Waller before they had even arrested him.
Lestrade had paced as he had ranted, punctuating every declaration of Sherlock’s interference with a wide sweep of his hands that splashed wine across his wrist.
At first Mycroft had merely tutted and occasionally whipped a towel around to clean up the spills. But by the third glass he had felt himself being pulled in and had responded by telling Lestrade how Sherlock had managed to annoy him the last few days. How Sherlock had slammed the door in his face when he had gone round for a little chat, then reprogrammed all his listening devices so they seemed to record fine but whenever you played anything back it would only play ‘Come On Baby Light My Fire’.
Lestrade had responded with his own story about the flour bomb Sherlock had set up in Anderson’s locker. Mycroft had then found himself sharing childhood anecdotes and opening another bottle.
He was just pouring out the dregs from this second bottle when Lestrade hit upon the idea.
“You know what?” Lestrade, now seated next to Mycroft on the sofa, twisted towards him so his back was against the armrest and his leg was pressed against Mycroft’s. “He’s like a puppy. A little puppy that needs to be trained to play properly with the other puppies. Dogs can’t speak dog straight from birth you know. You need to put them with other dogs. Socialise them.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and leaned towards Lestrade. Lestrade’s jacket was thrown haphazardly over the arm rest behind him where it had been joined by his own jacket and tie somewhere around the fourth glass. He had kept on his waistcoat though. He knew how much Lestrade liked taking it off himself. “Sherlock needs to be socialised?”
“Abso-bloody-lutely he does.” Lestrade said with a firm nod. “Trouble is, you can’t trust him with people right now. He gets up everyone’s noses.”
“He needs to be supervised,” said Mycroft with a mournful sigh. Almost unconsciously he started to trail his fingers in circular patterns across Lestrade’s thigh, a motion guaranteed to both sooth and tantalise when there was less cloth in the way. “At all times. If only to make sure he eats.”
Lestrade seemed too caught up in his irritation to notice the caress. “Did I tell you he collapsed in the middle of a case two months ago? Right in the middle of him boasting about how wonderful his brain was and wham!” Lestrade brought his hand down hard on the coffee table, knocking over one of the empty bottles and freezing Mycroft’s hand mid stroke. “Out like a light.”
“You told me.”
If Lestrade heard the slight disappointment in Mycroft’s voice he didn’t acknowledge it. “Hadn’t eaten for six days. Six days. Who does that?”
“He needs taking care of.”
“But does he let you do it? No. Even though you have his best interests at heart.”
“I do, you know.”
Lestrade smiled and laid a hand gently on top of the one Mycroft had left hovering above his knee and tucked his thumb underneath to caress the palm. “I know you do. It’s not your fault you have a bloody annoying brother.”
Mycroft turned his hand so he could curl his fingers around Lestrade’s and for a moment they gazed at each other, their eyes dancing with unspoken possibilities of where to take this next. Then Lestrade sighed and, letting go of Mycroft’s hand, picked up his glass and downed the last of it.
“If there was just someone to stop him when he’s being so self-destructive he might actually be a good member of the team.”
Mycroft decided this conversation needed another bottle.
By the end of that one they were quite giggly. The discussion as to what Sherlock needed had continued and at around two thirds into the bottle Mycroft had fetched a notepad and pen. The list currently went like this:
Tell him when he’s being insensitive
Remind him cases involve real people
Feed him
Stop him getting Help him if when he gets hurt
Cover his back
Remind him to sleep
Entertain him when he’s bored
Distract him with non-crime stuff
Be his assistant at crime scenes (so no one else has to)
Listen to case stuff (so he doesn’t have to talk to skull)
Persuade him to take on cases that actually pay
Stop him being rude Apologise for him
Keep him off the drugs
Give him something to care about
“He needs a friend,” Mycroft said at the end.
“He needs a good shag,” Lestrade said.
Mycroft choked on his wine and burst out laughing.
“He does,” said Lestrade without a hint of shame.
“My dearest, Gregory,” Mycroft said once he could talk again. “I’m only laughing because you are absolutely right. You have done me the world of good and Sherlock needs that too. But… maybe a friend first?”
“Where on earth would Sherlock find a friend?” Lestrade put his feet up on the coffee table and addressed his comments to the ceiling. The two of them were now side by side in the middle of the sofa, facing forward and leaning slightly into each other as if for support. “Someone who could put up with him for two minutes.”
“Someone caring so they would want to look after Sherlock.” Mycroft spoke softly, thoughts racing with every word, fighting through the slowly descending alcoholic fog. “A doctor perhaps or… someone with medical knowledge. To help with Sherlock’s cases, as well as patch him up after incidents.”
“They’d have to live with him though.” Lestrade sounded as though he doubted that that was physically possible. “Twenty-four seven. Gotta keep an eye on him. Else he’ll get in trouble. Sherlock. Bloke’ll have to be there to get him out of trouble. And Sherlock’s place is only big enough,” Lestrade stretched his arms out as if trying to show how big it was, “for one.”
“Immaterial. These things can be arranged.”
“Mycroft.” Lestrade stopped speaking to the ceiling and gave Mycroft a serious look. Mycroft couldn’t help thinking how tempting he looked when he tried to be firm. “You’re not genuinely thinking about this, are you? I mean,” Lestrade waved his hand in a random fashion, “this is just a joke, right?”
“Why should it be? If we could find the right candidate based on these specifications, someone who has just left the military perhaps. With my brother’s… escapades they’d need to hold their own in a fight.”
A smile spread across Lestrade’s face. “You really could do it, couldn’t you? You could just pick someone out,” he raised a clenched fist, “and drop him,” he opened his fist and, dropping his head, traced the decent of an invisible item until it hit the floor. For a long moment he stared at where he seemed to think it had landed before looking back up and refocusing on Mycroft’s face. “Into your brother’s life.”
Mycroft shrugged and snuggled further down into the comfortably yielding sofa. “A mutual friend here,” he indicated to the left with his glass, “a coincidental meeting there,” a tip to the right gently sloshing the liquid but not enough to spill, “these things can be arranged. It would seem like,” he paused to take a sip, “serendipity.”
“You couldn’t just pick anyone though.” Lestrade scrunched up his face in an unappealing manner. “Even if they did… meet the… yeah. I mean, if the perfect person just…” Lestrade’s hand gestures were getting more fervent now as he appeared to use them in his frontal attack for the right words. “Walked into his life he’ll… be… suspicious. It would… It would have to seem like his idea somehow.” Lestrade leaned forward in his seat. “You know what, it would have to seem like… a case. Someone who he could figure out. Who had hidden… depths. Someone a bit broken maybe, who Sherlock could fix.”
Mycroft smiled as he took another sip of wine. “Sherlock likes them short.”
“What?”
“Sherlock likes them short. It’s his type. Short and fair because he’s tall and dark. He likes to be different.”
Lestrade giggled. “So what we’re looking for is a short, fair, ex-military doctor who’s looking for a place to stay, is a bit broken- Ooh what’s that… the thing… with the explosions… soldiers get it… flash thingies… post… um…”
“PTSD,” said Mycroft shaking his head. “Too serious. Wouldn’t last a day in Sherlock world. Hmm. Something similar perhaps.”
“Good point. So has something like PTS… yeah. Is willing to be dragged around on cases and talked at about endless deductions- No. Enjoys having endless… thrown at him. If he just put up with it he’d never stick around.” Lestrade looked thoughtful a moment. “How are you supposed to find this guy? He’s mad.”
“I’m sure I can find something.”
Lestrade placed his empty wine glass on the table. “I’ll try to look surprised when you do.”
Mycroft reached for the bottle to fill the glass up again. Grabbing his hand, Lestrade gave him a wicked smile.
“While you’re at it,” the Detective Inspector said, eyes dropping to look at the buttons on Mycroft’s waistcoat, “you can find someone for me. Tall… handsome…” Fingers reached out to drunkenly walk up the buttons. “Umbrella… ridiculously snappy dresser….”
Mycroft looked down to find his waistcoat buttons slowly being worked undone.
“…Patience of a saint…”
One button.
“…Cunning of a devil…”
Then two.
“…Great kisser…”
Three.
“… and sexy.”
The final one came loose and he felt a warm hand slid under the material and round to his side.
“Think of anyone?”
Mycroft leant in suddenly desperate for more of that warmth.
“I think I know just the person,” he whispered and planted a kiss on the edge of Lestrade’s jaw.
He felt rather than heard the laugh, but working upwards, took the opportunity to caress the line of his lover’s ear with his tongue, his lips and occasionally his teeth, in a way that was usually guaranteed to get a moan of pleasure. For a moment the giggling turned into something far more promising until suddenly, Lestrade’s head, which had been leaning gently against his shoulder, lolled to one side and the other man’s entire body went limp in his arms. Within seconds Lestrade was drooling down his sleeve.
Mycroft sighed and began to prise himself out from under Lestrade’s weight. He gently lay the detective inspector down on the sofa so he was on his side. Mycroft didn’t think Lestrade would throw up but he fetched a bowl from the kitchen just in case. Finally he tidied up the glasses and empty bottles and threw a blanket over the other man.
Lestrade started to snore. Loudly. Each sloppily sucked in breath was met with a crescendo of noise like a lawnmower eating a rosebush.
Mycroft silently cursed Sherlock, blaming his younger brother entirely for ruining a lovely evening. He violently snatched up his mobile and, not entirely trusting himself not to slur his words over the phone, texted the list of specifications to his assistant. He asked for a selection of files to be on his desk by the morning. The sooner an acceptable candidate was found the sooner Sherlock would be off his and Lestrade’s hands. Then maybe they could actually enjoy their time together without his brother inadvertently making a company into a crowd merely by existing.
~~~
“I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is clear to you.”
Mycroft turned off the microphone and leaned back in his chair. On the screen in front of him John Watson obediently got into the car.
Mycroft’s phone rang.
“You could have warned me.”
Mycroft smiled. It was strange to think that such abrupt words spoken as soon as he’d pressed the answer button could have caused his heart to flutter so delightfully. It wasn’t the words of course, it was the person speaking them.
“My dearest, Gregory,” Mycroft said warmly. “There simply wasn’t time. An opportunity presented itself and I had to move quickly. My brother moved quicker still - he only met the man yesterday. Besides, you’ve been caught up with this serial suicides business. May I say you looked delicious on television yesterday?”
There was a pause and when Lestrade spoke again it was obvious he was smiling but trying not to. There was also less background noise suggesting the Detective Inspector had found somewhere with fewer potential observers.
“Well, you certainly picked a good one. Blond, short, doctor.”
Mycroft idly typed at the keyboard in front of him, flicking through the other Brixton cameras. “How was he with Sherlock?”
“Told him he was fantastic.”
Mycroft chuckled. “I bet he loved that.”
“Maybe not that much. Sherlock just abandoned him when he ran off on one of his leads. Poor bloke didn’t even know where we were according to one of my officers.”
With a final click Mycroft located the camera currently pointed in Lestrade’s direction. The man was leaning against the side of a police van which was parked outside the abandoned house that contained his crime scene.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Mycroft, adjusting the camera for a better angle and zooming in. “I’ve sent one of cars to pick him up and bring him to see me.”
“What? You can’t meet him. What if he tells Sherlock?”
“My dearest, Gregory.” Mycroft allowed the words to roll over his tongue. He loved those words almost as much as he loved who they referred to. “You were exactly right the first time we discussed this. If the perfect person simply walks into my brother’s life he is bound to be suspicious. He is likely to conclude that I have placed this person there to spy on him. So I am inviting Doctor Watson to a private meeting to ask if he would be so kind as to spy on him.”
There was a pause. Mycroft watched the man on the video screen lean his head against the van behind him.
“I will never stop being turned on by how your mind works.”
Mycroft smiled. “I should be done in about half an hour. You could meet me here. Empty warehouse. Lots of space. No one around to hear us…”
On the video feed Lestrade bit his lip then shook his head.
“I can’t. I’ve got a case on. Actually I’ve got a suitcase on. Sherlock shouted something about the victim’s suitcase being important before he ran out the door.”
“Give him a couple of hours then use the key I dropped off to get into his flat. The suitcase should be there by then.”
“Thanks. Tuesday?”
“I have a lovely Merlot I want to try out on you.”
“Won’t that stain the sheets?”
“You wicked man.”
On the screen Mycroft saw Lestrade grin and hang up. He then turned to look right down the camera and blew a kiss before walking out of shot.