Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
Title: Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
Summary: When Lestrade breaks off his relationship with Sherlock, Mycroft seizes the opportunity to collect Lestrade for himself. As the most dangerous man in Britain, he can take care of Lestrade and protect him. He just can't understand why Lestrade seems so subdued and unhappy.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Same-sex romantic relationship, mention of a past abusive relationship
Spoilers: Study in Pink, takes place after that episode
Disclaimers: Arthur Conan Doyle's original characters are in the public domain now. Moffat and Gatiss are to doing wonderful things with them, plus adding more supporting cast. We loves them forever!
Word Count: 4189
Prompts: Anon from sherlockbbc_fic has gotten me in trouble again! >.< The original prompt is here, and very well-written. However, I doubted that it could be done, especially by me until I saw this incredibly grim and just plain incredible story by blooms84. Yes, Lestrade's a brave fellow, but he's also a genius at painting himself into corners.
Author's Notes: I had to make completely different assumptions in the story than in all the others I've written, so of course it stands separate from them. Omnipotent!Mycroft is really frustrating to write. Never again!
Editing Notes: This has been neither beta-read, Brit-picked, or med-checked, so Caveat Lector. You have been warned. This is strictly a low-budget production.
“Still no word, sir.” Mycroft's assistant told him. Mycroft Holmes prowled around the office one more time before he checked his pocket-watch: 8:04. He reached for the mobile phone in his pocket, but no, he was definitely not leaving another message on Gregory Lestrade's mobile. If he couldn't trace its GPS signal... Gregory wouldn't have turned it off, would he? But Gregory had vanished completely and absolutely almost three hours before from a crime scene in south London, and his sergeant with him.
Mycroft had only become romantically involved with Gregory six weeks before, but he had made it very, very plain that he worried about Gregory's safety. Disappearing like this was just not on. Especially not tonight.
“You were expected at the Russian Ambassador's reception almost an hour ago,” the assistant, Max or Heinrich, or whatever his name was, reminded him. Mycroft bit back a snarl and checked Sherlock's status again. Sherlock had wandered back to Baker Street an hour before and was updating his web site, using the wireless signal from the sandwich shop below his flat. But... no John Watson. Watson had not found locum work that day and had not returned to the flat with Sherlock...
The assistant's phone rang. “We found Detective Inspector Lestrade, sir!”
Mycroft pulled his mobile out and checked the map application. There was Gregory's GPS signal, loud and clear, broadcasting from a spot near the original crime scene. He slid it back inside his jacket and headed for the door. His assistant pattered after him. The car was waiting in front of the building. Mycroft had no idea how the driver found a space at the kerb in central London, but today, he was in no mood to question this minor miracle. He rattled the address to the driver, who merely nodded. The assistant remained mercifully silent while they sped towards Gregory's GPS signal.
The black car followed a cluster of police cars and pulled over when they did. Mycroft leapt out and ran past them to a small group of people standing beside an open grating in the pavement. There was Gregory's sturdy figure, and beside him was the smaller shape of Sergeant Donovan. Gregory was reaching back towards the grate to help Doctor Watson out. The sergeant took the shoulder of a skinny, dark-skinned man in handcuffs and marched him over to the waiting police cars, not even sparing a glance for Mycroft.
Mycroft stared at Gregory in dismay. He was filthy; they must have chased Sergeant Donovan's prisoner through the sewers for the last three hours. Gregory's jacket was missing and he had probably forgotten to put on a tie this morning. He had not shaved in two days... of course, he had slept in his office last night, if he had slept at all. Mycroft had foolishly not insisted that he come home. There was no hope of bringing him to the Russian ambassador's reception, even with clean clothes: a decent suit, not his usual Marks and Spencer's attire. “Oh, Gregory!” Mycroft groaned in dismay.
Gregory turned away from Watson and looked up at Mycroft with a start, dropping the object he held in his left hand: an evidence bag containing a kitchen knife. Its blade was sticky with red fluid. Gregory stared back at him with an expression of such dismay that Mycroft nearly forgot the knife. “Sorry, My, I meant to call, but one thing happened after another...” His gravelly voice was uncharacteristically faint. Watson frowned at him. Mycroft saw what he was looking for, familiar dark-red stains on Gregory's torn left sleeve. There was something silvery under the ripped fabric. Gregory's arm was bound with duct-tape!
“There's real gauze under there.” Watson assured him. “But I had to make sure the dressing stayed dry and clean, from the outside, at least. It's a very shallow cut.” He gestured at the backpack he was wearing. “I'll put in some stitches as soon as we can get some place civilized. By the way, don't worry, Sherlock's fine. He skived off home after he told Lestrade who did it. Thought the arrest would be boring.” Watson chuckled at this.
Mycroft smiled gratefully at him.
“Sir, the ambassador's reception...” Mycroft's assistant said behind him.
“I'm so sorry, Mycroft,” Gregory began again.
Mycroft patted Gregory's shoulder gingerly. “I don't think that you meant to get stabbed, love. Let's get you to hospital.”
“It's really a scratch!” Gregory insisted. “And I know that you've got work to do at the embassy, and that you've been planning for a while. Go on, I'll be fine.”
Gregory knew more than he should of course, but the Russian Embassy reception offered Mycroft some unusual opportunities. He would be in a position to arrange a couple of important introductions without anyone noticing and to quietly observe some rare interactions. The assistant cleared his throat, but fell silent when Mycroft gave him a baleful stare.
“I'll get him home,” offered Watson.
Mycroft nodded, “You are very kind, doctor.”
Sally Donovan delegated one of the police cars to take John and Lestrade to Mycroft's elegant flat in South Kensington. As they left, she took the evidence and the suspect away to a police station closer to the crime scene.
The sink and vanity in Mycroft's guest bathroom were more than big and clean enough to serve as an emergency surgery. John dragged in a couple of kitchen chairs and decided to administer local anaesthetic before even cleaning out the wound. “Very nice place,” he told Lestrade, whose attention, he noticed, was overly focused on the needle. “But would you rather we had taken you back to your flat?”
“I had to let it go,” Lestrade said softly. “It... um... wasn't very secure, and it took a while to get there from the Yard.”
John looked up, mildly surprised. “Well...” According to what he'd been told, Lestrade and Mycroft had been together for only a few weeks. He was starting to dislike the sudden shifts between the assertive policeman he had been getting to know and this timid, apologetic creature.
“The cut looks clean enough,” he squinted at Lestrade's arm. “I'm gonna keep these stitches small, so you won't have much of a scar to show off. Sorry, but I have a reputation to maintain.” Much to his relief, this actually got a small laugh out of Lestrade. Lestrade seemed to prefer looking anywhere but at his arm as John stitched the wound shut.
“Listen, John,” Lestrade began suddenly. “If Sherlock gives you any trouble...”
“I am quite capable of defending myself. And we are just friends. Sherlock assures me that he's married to his work, although I've heard he was cheating on it with you.” John looked up briefly. If Lestrade was going to bring up his love life anyway, why not ask, especially if it kept Lestrade distracted until John was done with his stitches?
“Yeah, well, it's over. What else have you heard?” Lestrade was studying the ceiling of the bathroom.
“Sherlock claims that you dumped him for Mycroft.”
“He made sure to tell my team as loudly as he could, but none of them care. Actually I dumped Sherlock, and Mycroft... sort of happened a week later.”
John focused on the stitches. “Just tell me to shut up if it's none of my business. Sally says that Sherlock was abusing you.”
“Just getting a little rough. But when I couldn't handle it any more, I broke it off and it doesn't matter. Guess Sherlock needs me even more than I need him. Turns out that he can't stay away from crime scenes even if I won't sleep with him. Wish I'd known years ago that years ago.” Lestrade's voice was flat. John couldn't tell if he sounded bitter or not.
“And Mycroft...” John edged into this dangerous territory as cautiously as he would a mine-field, but still couldn't bring himself to look at Lestrade's face.
“I'm lucky to have him. You've met him! He's gorgeous, brilliant, can do just about anything he wants.”
“Lestrade,” John ventured, “I saw your face when Mycroft came storming up to us. You're afraid of him. I just watched you face down a maniac, well, an idiot, with a knife, without blinking. But the way you looked at Mycroft... I've seen plenty of fear on men's faces, but never on yours before.” John pulled the last stitch through and tied off the thread.
Lestrade hung his head. “I... You don't understand. I can't upset Mycroft. I... need him. For the last five years, he's run interference with the higher-ups in the Home Office and the Yard so I can do what I need to, like bring Sherlock to crime scenes. Mycroft saw to it that I could shut down the serial-suicides investigation after the cabbie was shot. I would have been suspended every bloody month when Sherlock walked off with my warrant card. But Mycroft could replace 'em fast as Sherlock took 'em, no questions asked. He makes sure Sherlock can't use the magnetic strips on 'em either. If Mycroft decides that he doesn't need me or want me any more, half of New Scotland Yard has some questions for me that they're gonna want answered. And that won't go well for me. And if Mycroft doesn't want me trying to answer those questions... I just can't think about that.”
John felt cold, realizing just how far outside the law Sherlock operated, and how far Mycroft could stretch the law to protect him. Of course Lestrade was terrified. Unable to think of a reply, he re-bandaged Lestrade's arm, using surgical tape over the gauze this time. “Don't let the stitches get wet,” he reminded Lestrade automatically.
John accepted Lestrade's offer of a beer and a sandwich. He followed the policeman into Mycroft's well-appointed kitchen and watched Lestrade put the sandwiches together. “Perhaps you should talk to Mycroft about this? He's... well, 'sharp' isn't the word for it.”
Lestrade shrugged, “Talk about what? I'm happy here. Mycroft's very good to me, obviously, never done a thing to hurt me. I should just enjoy it while it lasts. One of these days, he's bound to meet someone else, someone better. If I'd gone to that reception with him, I wouldn't have lasted five minutes among those people. And they know it. They would have been on me like sharks.” He passed John a bottle and a sandwich.
“Mate, you're afraid of your boyfriend, and what he can do, even if he hasn't done it yet. As a cop, shouldn't you be telling yourself to get some help?”
“He hasn't done anything. And this is all my fault anyway. I knew Sherlock was a bloody menace when I took up with him years ago. I'm the one who keeps trampling procedure and telling my team that we'll go back to normal once this case is closed. I've been saying that for years now.” Lestrade took a swig of beer and firmly changed the topic.
The next day started as badly as Lestrade had expected it would. He had fallen asleep on the sofa the night before waiting for Mycroft to return. He barely woke up when Mycroft kissed his cheek on his own way to work. Once he got to the Yard, Lestrade found his team wandering around like lost sheep. Their usual shepherd, Sally Donovan, was nowhere to be found. Fortunately, someone remembered that she had a dentist appointment that she'd already had to put off twice. The evidence from the case that they had supposedly closed yesterday was still being processed. Someone (no one knew who) was still typing up witness statements (but no-one knew where). And the Crown Prosecutor wanted it all yesterday. The suspect that they had arrested in the sewers was apparently involved in one of DCI Gregson's cases, so Gregson wanted to question him as well. Lestrade suspected that Gregson was just being a nosy parker, but the suspect hadn't even seen Sherlock and had not heard Watson's name. So why not let Gregson have at him?
Lestrade signed off on the forms and bummed a cigarette from Gregson's sergeant. If he smoked in his office, he'd have half the team in to remind him he'd quit, and the other half, who' had bet that he would backslide, would be in to collect from the first half. So he collected his lighter from his desk and made his way down to the server room for a nice quiet smoke. There was no point working on another case this morning; by afternoon, they'd have more paperwork to do on this one.
Besides, he needed to think. John was right; Mycroft was going to notice how twitchy he'd become. But what could he say to Mycroft? Perhaps he shouldn't have said anything to John, but he hadn't been able to talk to anyone about this for weeks. Lestrade shouldn't have drawn John's attention to himself. Mycroft had been nothing but kind to him. Bossy and... overbearing (now wasn't that a nice Mycroft-sort-of-word). But Lestrade couldn't remember the last time someone had taken care of him like that.
He'd barely lit his one cigarette when his mobile rang. It was Mycroft. “Gregory, you'd quit! Why are you smoking again?” Flinching, Lestrade looked up at the ceiling. A small camera panned back and forth across the room.
“Gregory, don't!” Mycroft pleaded at the screen. But Gregory had thrown his phone aside and bolted from the room. The offending cigarette burned forgotten in a paper cup next to the phone. I've said exactly the wrong thing. But why? It's been six weeks, and until today, he hasn't smoked a single one. He's even cut back on nicotine patches. Why did he get so upset?
Mycroft's team tracked Lestrade through New Scotland Yard using CCTV cameras, but lost him on Victoria Street. Bother, thought Mycroft, miserably. Should I wait for him to calm down and come back? How angry is he? And why? And then he remembered one of his grammar-school teachers reminding him, “Discretion, Mycroft, is an essential component of intelligence. Just because you know something about someone does not mean that it is appropriate to discuss it either publicly or privately.” Bother.
I've been indiscreet and he's angry. But Gregory, for all his fierce temper, never got angry with Mycroft, never. That was actually a little odd, when he thought about it. No one else was spared the rough side of Gregory's tongue. Gregory had been upset last night, not angry. He had been... miserable actually, even though he had caught the prime suspect for his latest case. Mycroft had been distracted and upset himself or he would have learned why. Something must be wrong, he thought. Something that I don't know about.
There had been two beer bottles in the recycling this morning. John Watson had been at the flat, treating Gregory's injury. It was far more likely that Watson had drunk the second beer than Gregory, who had been exhausted at the time.
It was easy enough to call Watson and simply ask, so he did. “Dr. Watson, this is Mycroft Holmes. When you talked to Gregory last night, did he seem to be particularly upset about anything?”
No reply for a few seconds then Watson's voice came through: “Is he alright? Is everything alright?”
No, definitely not, was what Mycroft to say. Instead, he told Watson: “We seem to have had an argument, on the telephone, but I am not exactly sure what it was about. He's gone for a walk, but he did not bring his cell phone.”
He could hear John sigh. “You could just wait for him to go home. What did he do the last time that you had an argument?”
There had never been one, which did seem a bit strange by this point. Gregory had dragged his feet about moving in with Mycroft; hadn't that been sort of an argument? But of course he had seen sense in the end.
Mycroft had a quick look at the feed from the team monitoring the CCTV cameras. They had lost him. Enough time had passed that Gregory could have travelled some distance, or remained near the Yard, and there were just too many cameras to check. If he were in a crowded area, or avoiding most cameras, they wouldn't see him at all.
“Please let me know if he calls you,” he told Watson hoarsely before he ended the call. There was one possibility... but it made no sense. On the other hand, none of this made sense. And it could not hurt to check. He called his driver and gave him Lestrade's old address.
Lestrade leaned against a brick wall facing his old flat block and shivered, pulling his jacket more tightly around him. It was a lot colder than the previous day, and his coat was on the back of his office chair. God, how he wanted another cigarette.
He recognized the black car out of the corner of his eye, and watched Mycroft's tall figure emerge from the back seat. It was hard to tell if Mycroft were angry without looking at his eyes. It would be easier in some ways if Mycroft were angry with him. But if Mycroft came over and put his arms around him, Lestrade didn't know if he could resist at this point. It would be so much easier to just accept the embrace and to feel warm and safe again, but for how long?
He almost sighed with relief when Mycroft stopped well short of him, but then Mycroft asked, “Gregory, are you alright?” Lestrade's throat closed up and he couldn't answer, so he nodded instead.
Mycroft didn't come any closer. The street was empty, with everyone away at work. Mycroft took a deep breath and said, “I'm sorry. I overstepped. I didn't realize how intrusive you would find my behaviour. I didn't mean to spy on you. I just miss you, when we're at work, and I haven't seen you in some hours. It's comforting even to see a video of you at your desk, doing whatever you are doing, to know that you're alright. I just... forgot that some things are none of my business.”
Just like that, thought Lestrade dully. He'll just make everything alright... for now. He slumped further down the wall.
Mycroft looked up at the flat block. “Why did you come back here? You knew you couldn't stay; Sherlock cannot resist a challenge, and John Watson isn't... quite distracting enough. Aren't you... aren't you happy with me?”
“Yes, of course I am!” The words came out of Lestrade's mouth before he could even think about them. “How could I not be? But what choice do I have?”
Mycroft stared back at him, open-mouthed. Lestrade finished sliding down the wall until he was sitting on the pavement, knees drawn against his chest. His eyes burned. “Mycroft, it's like I'm sleeping with my boss. Not the commissioner, more like the Prime Minister. If I screw up, or you get tired of me, you can destroy me with a word or the touch of a button. Or you could just have me disappear, without a trace.”
“But I would never do that to you!” Mycroft protested.
Lestrade shut his eyes and swallowed back the tears as best he could, pressing his face against his knees.
Mycroft clenched his fists and glared at the pavement. “I... I'll show you. Tonight. Will you meet me for dinner? Half seven?”
Lestrade uncurled a bit and nodded. “Where?”
Mycroft pulled out his notebook and wrote down an address. Lestrade pulled himself back up to his feet as the taller man approached him and held out the torn-out page.
He shivered as Mycroft returned to the car. Guess I'll have my answer, one way or another. Waiting... I couldn't have handled waiting.
It was Middle-Eastern cuisine, but posh. Lestrade had never heard of it. He gave Mycroft's name to the maitre d' and was ushered up a flight of stairs to on a nice, isolated balcony that really wasn't visible from the rest of the restaurant. The stairs creaked audibly, for all that they seemed to be in good repair. Mycroft, already seated, smiled at him. Lestrade all but trembled with relief.
As usual, Mycroft ordered for both of them, but blanched as soon as the waiter left. “S'alright.” Lestrade mumbled, feeling his face go red. “You know I don't know what any of those things are, but they probably taste good.”
“Sorry, I should have asked,” Mycroft managed weakly. “And your case?”
“Got everything to the CPS this afternoon, so we can get back to work on everything else.” Lestrade focussed on his wine glass instead of on Mycroft.
Mycroft passed a flash drive and a briefcase across the table to him. “Here is what I put together this afternoon. This is for you.”
Lestrade looked around to make sure that no-one else could see them before he opened it. He wasn't sure if he were surprised or not. The bulk of it was a stack of bundled U.S. twenty-dollar notes, tens of thousands of dollars worth. Three passports, all with his photo, all from different countries, all with different names. The American one had a matching New Jersey driver's license clipped to it. Lestrade had a terrible suspicion that the police in New Jersey would certify it as valid if he were to check. There were also two CD's. Lestrade slammed the briefcase shut and locked it before he looked up at Mycroft in dismay and bafflement.
“I should have given this to you a month ago,” Mycroft told him. “It's not meant to defend you from me, but from my enemies, but it could work either way. I am a bit more concerned about my enemies. They tried to get to me through Sherlock once, but you and he foiled that little plot. Now, if anything happens to me, and it goes without saying that if I become impossible for you to live with, you need to be able to flee. One of the files on the flash drive is a pair of bank account numbers, one in Switzerland, the other in the Cayman Islands. The cash is simply for travelling expenses. There are also lists of contacts who owe me favours, with relevant information about each. You need to map out a number of potential escape routes yourself, and update your plans frequently. The CD's are just backup copies of what is on the flash drive. You should familiarize yourself with the contents and memorize as much as you can.”
“Not launch codes or anything like that?” Lestrade asked.
“No, no national secrets whatsoever. Blackmail rather, and some of it useful against me. It should be enough to paralyse my more aggressive opponents if they take me out and if they know that you have it. If they come after you, you can buy enough time to escape overseas. But it would be enough to stop me for several days as well. I'm sorry I didn't entrust it to you earlier, love. If you'd meant me harm, you'd have done it long ago.”
Lestrade looked back at him, stricken. “But...”
“It's alright, love. You're safe from me, if you need to be, and it's a relief to me that you will be just a little safer from anyone who would harm you because of me.”
“This is a small fortune! And you've left more in those banks?!”
“Look at the dates on those dollar notes. None of them are younger than 1990. I first put this package together that year for Sherlock, but I could never trust him with it. By the time he was done with his drug habit, it was quite clear that he could take care of himself. But you need it. You needed it some time ago, and I simply forgot to give it to you. I don't have an ordinary life insurance policy, you see. That sort of thing simply doesn't apply in my case.”
Lestrade shoved the briefcase under the table and put his feet on it as the waiter climbed the stairs with their food. He must have been pale. Mycroft patted his hand. “Are you alright?”
He nodded and took a gulp of the wine. The waiter set the steaming plates out with a few practised flicks of his wrists and vanished. Mycroft gave Lestrade a small smile as he tucked into his stew-or-whatever-it-was. “Are you really alright?” He asked again.
“I'm fine, love. Just about ready to go home.”