Fic: Power Play (1/5)
Title: Power Play (1/5)
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Relationships/Characters: Mycroft/Lestrade, John Watson, Mummy Holmes, assorted others
Warnings: none
Rating: R to start, NC-17 later on
Summary: Mycroft and Greg play games with each other. The only question is whether or not they’re playing the same game.
A/N: Brit-picked by wendymr and betaed by earlgreytea68, both of whom kicked me incessantly when I stupidly thought this story was only two chapters long. This is not meant to be a sequel to British Government, which I still claim up, down, and sideways to not be Mystrade, but if you’d like to read it as such, by all means, do.
Power Play
Chapter One
Greg Lestrade stopped looking for the black cars on the street about a month after Sherlock jumped. There wasn't any point, after all; Mycroft Holmes was hardly going to order him to do anything anymore. If Sherlock was dead, there wasn’t much Mycroft could ask him to do, other than cut the grass over his grave.
When the black car pulled up to the kerb, Lestrade didn't pay any attention.
When his mobile rang in his pocket, he absently answered it, as if it were just another call.
"Lestrade."
"Please get into the car, Detective Inspector."
Lestrade stopped dead on the pavement. He moved the phone away from his ear, only now looking at the Caller ID, and said the name like it was a curse. "Mycroft Holmes."
"Indeed."
"What do you want?"
"For you to get into the car, of course."
Lestrade swore, this time legitimately. And then climbed in.
Mycroft looked exactly the same. Bespoke dark grey suit, hair neatly combed, calm and vaguely aloof expression on his placid face. Comfortable and cool and instantly annoying. Lestrade, by contrast, felt hot and sticky and his shirt stuck to his back under his suit jacket, required by the Yard but completely ridiculous for July in London. Just looking at Mycroft made Lestrade feel grubby.
"Detective Inspector," said Mycroft by way of greeting. "So kind of you to join me."
Lestrade was tempted to tell the man to stuff it, but remembered just in time that Mycroft was technically in mourning, even if he didn't look it. His surge of anger dissipated as quickly as it had risen.
"Nothing personal. It’s air-conditioned in here.”
“So it is,” said Mycroft smoothly, and then fell silent.
Lestrade sighed. “I didn’t get a chance to give you my condolences for Sherlock.”
Mycroft's jaw tightened. Just a little. Lestrade wasn't sure why he noticed.
“You were only at the funeral a short time,” Mycroft said finally.
“Didn’t feel right,” said Lestrade. “Being there, what with…well, everything. My part in it.”
"You did what you could, Detective Inspector. I do not hold you at fault."
"Well, that makes one of us," said Lestrade briefly.
Mycroft's eyebrows went up; that, Lestrade definitely noticed, and had no doubt that Mycroft intended him to do so. "I take it you do?"
“Don’t tell me you picked me up solely to ensure I’m not blaming myself.”
“I was rather hoping you could tell me how John Watson is coping. He won’t answer my calls.”
“Amazing,” said Lestrade dryly. He glanced at Mycroft. “I don't believe the media reports, you know. I’ve seen what rubbish they write on the best of days, and I know they can’t be trusted on the worst. And Sherlock, everything he did, was as real as I am."
Mycroft’s gaze was soft and piercing all at once. Lestrade stared out the window, unable to meet his eyes. "Have a drink with me."
Lestrade blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Drinks. Tonight. You don't have a previous engagement, do you?"
"I...ah..." Lestrade rubbed his ears to see if they were still working. "Are you asking me out?"
"Yes," said Mycroft. He looked exactly the same as he had when Lestrade had entered the car; quiet, calm, self-assured. Any impression of mourning or regret from him was clearly a figment of Lestrade's imagination.
Lestrade closed his eyes, and opened them. Mycroft stubbornly refused to turn into a random alcohol-based nightmare, however.
"My club is just around the corner, quite discreet, and there's a comfortable corner where we can talk."
"No," said Lestrade.
"Another time," said Mycroft graciously.
"Doubtful," said Lestrade. "Can you stop the car now?"
The car rolled to a halt without so much as a move or word from Mycroft, and Lestrade stepped back out onto the pavement. He was still wondering what the hell had just happened when the car pulled away, and walked back home in a fog.
*
To: Greg Lestrade
From: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Apology
I fear my abruptness took you by surprise last week. May I make it up to you by offering you dinner this evening? I know you have no other engagements.
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Greg Lestrade
Subject: Re: Apology
There are so many things wrong with that email, I don't know where to begin. How can anyone have an unrecognizable email address? How do you know I don’t have things to do tonight? Where was the apology in that email?
To: Greg Lestrade
From: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re: Re: Apology
You did not answer the question.
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Greg Lestrade
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Apology
Good observation. You didn’t answer mine.
To: Greg Lestrade
From: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology
My email address is unrecognizable because it does not conform to the standard. Rest assured that as long as you use the reply function, a response will always reach me. Should you accidentally delete my email, you will find an entry for me in your email system’s Address Book. To pre-empt the next question: yes, I have access to your Address Book. I also have access to your Calendar, which is how I know you are available this evening.
I would still like to know how John Watson is faring.
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Greg Lestrade
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology
Not everyone enters everything into their computer calendar, you know.
To: Greg Lestrade
From: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology
Your ex-wife’s birthday is the 7th of March, your parents’ anniversary is the 11th of June, you had a dental appointment four days ago, you met with friends to see a movie on the 9th, and your dry cleaning is due for collection tomorrow.
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Greg Lestrade
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology
You’re bloody frightening, you are.
To: Greg Lestrade
From: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology
I can collect you at seven.
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Greg Lestrade
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology
NO.
*
It was raining, Lestrade's umbrella was being difficult, the soles of his shoes had cracked which let in the water that pooled on the pavement, there was a man missing from his team, Donovan was determined to pretend she hadn’t asked for a transfer, and there was a black car waiting for him on the kerb.
Lestrade swore, and got inside.
"Surely you could have had a car from the Met take you home in this weather," said Mycroft.
"I'd rather not abuse the privilege," snapped Lestrade. He was tempted to wring out his soaked coat, but a glance at Mycroft's perfectly dry and perfectly fitted suit dissuaded him.
"Saving up for a rainy day?"
Lestrade settled for shaking the raindrops off his useless umbrella. It was nearly as satisfying.
“You’re angry with me,” said Mycroft.
“No,” said Lestrade angrily, and gave his umbrella another shake. "Yes. I don't know. Maybe I'm just angry."
Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "You are angry with my brother."
"Aren't you?"
"Continuously, and never."
Lestrade had a sister. The answer made complete sense, and he let his head fall back on the headrest. "He should have asked for help."
"You know as well as I do that Sherlock was never one to ask for help," said Mycroft.
"No, that was your job, to ask it for him."
"Indeed. If you should be angry with anyone, Detective Inspector, you should be angry with me."
Lestrade snorted. "What, you're omniscient, now? How were you supposed to know that your brother was going to jump-" Lestrade cut the rest of his words off. "I'm sorry."
"It was the only logical outcome," said Mycroft.
"No, it really wasn't," said Lestrade.
“Have you seen John Watson recently?”
“No.”
“He still refuses to answer my calls.”
“That’s his prerogative.”
“Indeed, but I am concerned for him.”
“Oh, now you’re concerned about someone else’s welfare,” snapped Lestrade, and gave a violent shiver as the air conditioning penetrated the layers of wet clothes.
"You'll catch cold wearing those wet clothes," said Mycroft. "I live around the corner. I can light a fire and let you warm up while your clothes dry. Perhaps a nightcap?"
Lestrade stared at him.
Mycroft didn't seem to be bothered in the slightest.
"I think I'll get out of the car now," said Lestrade.
There was a thunderclap from the sky overhead, and the rain intensified. Lestrade could barely see the other cars on the road.
"You won't reconsider?" asked Mycroft smoothly, and Lestrade half wondered if the man could control the weather.
"Fairly certain, yeah," said Lestrade.
The car rolled to a stop. Lestrade paused before getting out.
“It’s not your fault,” he said, without looking at Mycroft. “What Sherlock did. It wasn’t your fault.”
Lestrade slammed the door before the man could respond.
It was only as the car pulled away that Lestrade realized he’d left his umbrella behind, and thought about drowning himself in the rain.
*
Drinks, dinner, a night in by the fire.
Mycroft was getting bolder, and still wasn't taking the hint.
Oh, hell.
*
Lestrade got into work at 8am. He hung his coat up, started his laptop, and went to find the coffee.
By the time he returned, there were two airline tickets waiting on his desk that had not been there ten minutes previously.
Confirmation Code 765XR7U
Passenger (1): Gregory Lestrade
Passenger (2): Mycroft Holmes
British Airways Flight 734
Departs LHR
Arrives CDG
First Class
Round-trip, return same day
Beneath the airline tickets was another envelope, this one containing two tickets for box seats to a performance of Aida at the Paris Opera.
Lestrade had never flown first class. He'd been bumped up to business once, years before, had seen the plush seats that reclined all the way down, the individual entertainment consoles, and had wondered who paid for such luxury.
And on a short flight to Paris, no less.
When the phone rang, Lestrade had no doubt who it was calling.
"I assume you have found the tickets," said Mycroft Holmes.
"I hope they're refundable."
"I have great amounts of confidence in my ability to persuade you to accompany me."
“You could always ask John Watson,” said Lestrade. “Then you could stop pestering me about him.”
“Ah,” said Mycroft, and sounded abashed. Lestrade wondered if he was blushing. “I did not realize you - yes. Of course. I will refrain from using you as my intermediary for John - but I would much rather have you accompany me to Paris.”
Lestrade had no idea what to say to that.
“Detective Inspector?”
“You want me to go to Paris with you.” Lestrade wondered when his voice had gotten so high.
“Just for the day, of course. I wouldn't want to put you in an...uncomfortable situation."
"I'm sorry, what about this situation isn't uncomfortable? You're asking me out for a bloody weekend."
"Hardly. We'd return in the evening, your reputation intact."
"You're honestly worried about my reputation? You already asked me out for drinks, dinner, and a night by your fireplace."
"For warmth only. I have no intention of ravishing you at this stage in our relationship; I am a traditionalist at heart, Detective Inspector."
Strangely, this did not make Lestrade feel much better. In fact, he felt almost dizzy.
"Gregory. Greg." Lestrade had no idea what came over him, but he could hear Mycroft smile over the phone.
"Greg," said Mycroft, and something in Lestrade's stomach flipped. “Are you still angry with me?”
“Are you still angry with yourself?”
There was a pause, and Lestrade could hear Mycroft thinking. “I’m too close to the subject. You’ll have to tell me yourself.”
“Same here, then.”
"I trust I will see you on the flight tomorrow?"
For one brief, lovely, first-class-champagne-opera-filled infinitesimal minute…Lestrade was tempted to say yes.
"No," said the Detective Inspector. Lestrade. Gregory. Greg. He hung up the phone and stared at the tickets before letting his forehead hit his desk.
Bloody hell.
*
Drinks, dinner, a night by the fire, and a day-trip to see the bloody Paris opera.
Traditional!
Lestrade remembered this dance. He had a feeling he knew what came next.
*
The knock at the door was polite, sharp, and entirely too early on a Sunday morning to be anyone but Mycroft Holmes. Lestrade wasn't sure how he knew it was Mycroft Holmes, based purely on the knock, but he wasn't surprised when he opened the door to find the man standing there.
What did surprise him was the suit bag that Mycroft carried. He stared at it, startled enough that Mycroft had ample opportunity to walk straight into the flat without so much as a blink.
"You're dressing me now?" asked Lestrade, still holding his coffee mug.
"I doubt you have anything suitable for luncheon," said Mycroft, peering at the room with a look of mild distaste. "Really, Greg, you should have been showered by this time. We'll be late."
"Late?"
"I'll put this in your wardrobe," said Mycroft, and headed back for the bedroom.
Lestrade tried to make a leap to stop him, realized he was still clinging to the open door, slammed it shut, had to think about letting go of the doorknob, and barely missed grabbing hold of Mycroft's coattails before the man slipped into the bedroom.
"Sodding hell, Mycroft!" he yelled.
Mycroft's sigh was audible. "Honestly, Gregory," he said, disappointment dripping. "I'll send housekeeping in the morning."
Lestrade groaned. "You will not."
"Shower," said Mycroft, returning to the main room.
"Am I allowed to know where you think you're taking me?"
Mycroft looked surprised. "To Mummy, of course. It's high time you met her, and she's quite looking forward to meeting you. We'll need to be on the road soon, it's a bit of a drive to the estate, and Mummy doesn't suffer unpunctuality easily. Close your mouth, Greg. It's rather tempting."
Lestrade's mouth snapped shut, but not for long. "You want me to meet your mother."
"Of course," said Mycroft.
"Were you going to ask?"
"Would you have agreed?"
"No!"
"Then why would I ask?"
"Because that's what you do. You ask, I refuse, it's how this works!"
Mycroft sighed. "Gregory. Please do shower, and dress in the clothes I brought, so that I can take you home to meet Mummy."
"No!"
Mycroft shook his head. "Why must you be so difficult?"
"I'm not being difficult, I'm being rational. There is no reason for me to meet your mother."
Mycroft raised his eyebrow.
“Know what?” asked Lestrade finally. “I think I do know. I am still angry with you. Want to know why? Because you never actually turn up without wanting something from me.”
“That’s what a relationship is,” said Mycroft, and Lestrade thought he knew him well enough to recognize the thin layer of surprise and confusion under the mask. “People always want something.”
“No,” said Lestrade. “First, this isn’t a relationship. Second, that’s not what a relationship is about.”
“Of course it is,” said Mycroft.
“And third,” said Lestrade, wondering which point Mycroft was refuting, but too much on a roll to bother stopping, “people don’t always want something. Because there isn’t anything I want from you.”
There was a brief moment where Lestrade thought he saw Mycroft’s face slide from calm aloofness, to stark shock and disappointment. He turned his back in order to not continue seeing the odd expression on Mycroft’s face. For some reason, it made him feel worse than he already did.
Lestrade left Mycroft in the main room and went into his bedroom. Probably not the wisest of moves - Mycroft wasn’t above putting in cameras or microphones, but then, Lestrade had no doubt that if he’d wanted, those things would have been there long since.
He didn't want to look at the clothes inside the suit bag, but he couldn't help it. Not a suit, but a very nice pair of trousers, a blue shirt that was so soft and smooth it felt sinful, and a brown jacket that wasn't the least bit tweedy. Very respectable, reasonable, and Lestrade had no doubt that they'd fit him perfectly. He almost wanted to try them on, and half wondered what sort of woman actually bore and raised the Holmes brothers. It might have explained a few things, particularly recent events.
Curiosity battled reason for a tense minute.
Lestrade zipped the bag up again, and carried it back into the main room, fully intending to drop it on Mycroft's head.
Only Mycroft wasn't there to receive it.
*
There was plenty about the situation that would appall Sherlock, had he been there to appreciate it. The idea that his brother was pursuing his Detective Inspector (because Lestrade had no doubt that Sherlock thought him his personal property, in a manner of speaking), that would certainly horrify Sherlock.
That Lestrade actually felt guilty about the entire Luncheon-with-Mummy debacle - well, that would have probably rendered Sherlock speechless, or even driven him to do something drastic. Well, more drastic. Not that it could get much more drastic, but Lestrade had confidence in Sherlock’s ability to find a way.
Not that Lestrade felt guilty. Of course not. Who honestly believed that if he showed up on a doorstep, bearing gifts of expensive clothing and a hired car with tinted windows, that the object of his affection would simply fall into line and go home to meet Mummy?
Mycroft Holmes, of course.
(Lestrade decided to ignore the bit about “object of affection”. There was no affection between the objects. He was certainly not an object, nor was he being objectified, and that was all there was to say on that matter.)
(And yes, it was guilt about Mummy. Of course it was guilt about Mummy, who according to Mycroft had been looking forward to meeting him. There was not one shred of guilt about the lie he’d told to Mycroft about not wanting anything. Lestrade wanted plenty from Mycroft. To stop bothering him, for starters.)
Drinks. Dinner. An evening by the fireplace. A day trip to Paris, and meeting the family.
Sodding hell.
*
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Greg Lestrade
Subject: This is what an apology actually looks like.
I’m sorry for what I said the other day.
I’m also sorry if I disappointed your mother.
*
It was a week after he sent the email into the ether when Lestrade came home and found Mycroft Holmes sitting on his sofa.
Lestrade stood in the doorway and stared at Mycroft, and then continued his evening routine as if the man was not actually sitting there. Keys on the table by the door, umbrella thrown in the corner, latch the locks, into the kitchen for a glass of water.
No, scratch that. Beer.
Mycroft was still sitting on his sofa when Lestrade came back out, holding onto the bottle.
"Greg," said Mycroft pleasantly, and raised his eyebrow at the bottle of beer.
“Normal people respond to emails,” said Lestrade. He hoped his bitterness at having been left hanging for a week didn’t show too much.
“Precisely why I am here.”
“Of course you are,” sighed Lestrade. In a normal world, a world in which Mycroft Holmes was not found on his sofa when he came home from work, he would have kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the coffee table. Somehow, he doubted this would go over well with Mycroft Holmes. “So really. Why are you here? My expert opinion on how John Watson is coping? The scores from the latest football matches? Tickets to see the Russian Ballet in Moscow? Tell me, I’m dying of curiosity here.”
Mycroft raised his eyebrow. Lestrade was getting tired of that eyebrow. "Nothing."
Lestrade snorted, and took a pull of beer. And since when did he care what Mycroft Holmes thought about what he did in his own home?
"You always want something."
"So you said last week. I am merely proving you wrong."
Lestrade put his feet up on the coffee table, just to see what Mycroft would do. Mycroft didn't even blink.
"So you're here because...you like my sofa?"
"Believe me," said Mycroft dryly. "I have no particular attachment to this piece of...furniture."
Lestrade grinned. "I'm surprised you're not sitting on a towel."
"The thought had occurred to me," said Mycroft dryly.
"I didn't actually find it in a skip."
"No?"
"Try not to think about it," suggested Lestrade. "The sofa’s much more comfortable that way."
Mycroft made a soft humming sound, and then looked around the room. "The décor is…more minimal than I would have expected."
"Well," said Lestrade, following his gaze around the Spartan room. "I don't really spend a lot of time here."
"I was surprised that you left work as early as you did."
"Me too," said Lestrade, and took another pull.
"You have not..." Mycroft hesitated. "Had difficulties at work, have you? Because of my brother or his somewhat complicated legacy?"
Lestrade wondered how long he could delay his response. Mycroft was fidgeting - fidgeting, who knew the man even knew how to fidget, and for some reason, watching Mycroft be uncomfortable wasn't half as pleasing as Lestrade would have imagined. Lestrade almost wanted the man to continue fidgeting, just until he'd figured out why the fidgeting bothered him so much.
He wondered how much Mycroft knew about Sherlock, anyway.
"A few. It was awkward the first couple of weeks. But no one else wants to believe that Sherlock was really a fake, either. Well, some do. But most don't, and luckily those are the ones in the right places. There’s a task force looking at the back cases. So far, everything’s come up trumps."
Mycroft nodded briskly, and stopped fidgeting.
"Surprised you didn't know that," said Lestrade into the beer bottle. "What with being able to access my email address book and calendar."
"I try to leave you your privacy," said Mycroft, as if granting a boon, and Lestrade nearly spit out his beer.
"We have to discuss your definition of privacy," he said when he finally was able to breathe, and Mycroft looked inordinately pleased, which was almost as bad as Mycroft being fidgety, in an entirely different way, and Lestrade had nearly figured out why when Mycroft spoke.
"Your watch."
"Hmm?" Lestrade looked at his watch. "What about it?"
"A present from someone?"
"Yeah, probably. Who buys themselves watches?"
Mycroft's smile was fleeting. He stood quickly. "Well, I must be off. Pleasure chatting with you."
Lestrade frowned. "Wait, is that it?"
"Yes," said Mycroft briskly, and he adjusted his coat sleeves.
"But...you didn't want anything from me."
"Just a bit of your time and the pleasure of your company," said Mycroft. "Which you gave me, quite freely. Quite a turn-up, wasn't it?"
Lestrade stared at him, unable to believe that Mycroft could actually make a joke.
“That’s a joke. You made a joke. You don’t joke,” he said.
“I joke,” said Mycroft, and had Lestrade not known better, he might have thought Mycroft was hurt, or even insulted. Affronted. Which was really ridiculous, because if there was anything other than joking that Mycroft never did, it was being upset with something anyone would say about him.
"You told me you didn’t want anything," Lestrade repeated, because his brain flatly refused to compute the new information about Mycroft, and Mycroft looked thoughtful.
"And yet you gave it to me. Interesting. I'll keep that in mind."
"Keep what in mind?!?"
"Have a pleasant evening, Greg," said Mycroft, and left the flat, umbrella swinging.
Lestrade went to the window and watched Mycroft walk down the street. He half wondered why he was disappointed to see him go, before interrupting the thought by punching the wall.
*
Four days later, Lestrade found the box sitting on the center of the coffee table. He had no doubt about who left it there and how, and despite his curiosity, didn’t touch it. He even managed not to look at it, mostly because he ate his dinner in the kitchen standing at the counter, ignored the telly, and went straight to bed.
The box still waited for him in the morning, and was still sitting there when he managed to drag himself home at three the next morning after a hellacious case involving no less than four murder weapons, chasing a goose through Kent Gardens, and one of his team falling into a particularly smelly section of the Thames.
It was three in the morning. Lestrade barely undressed before falling into the bed, and as soon as his head hit the pillow, he was wide awake, and couldn’t get his mind off the box on the coffee table.
After ten minutes, he gave up and went to sit on the couch. He stared at the box, contemplating, before he finally gave up on working up the nerve to open it, and just did it.
A watch.
No, scratch that. A Rolex watch.
A really, really nice Rolex watch.
Black face, silver dashes instead of numbers, a silver casing. The silver hands had small bulbs at the end, and when Lestrade held it to his ear, the tick was pleasantly quiet and soothing. The black leather strap was brand new, but the watch itself looked as though it’d seen a few knocks.
Mycroft wouldn’t give just an old Rolex watch to him, especially not with a brand-new strap. Lestrade pulled the watch out of the box and examined it, flipping it over to see the back, which was when his heart stopped beating for a moment.
To CH
-VH
To GL
-MH
Oh.
Oh, no.
Lestrade set the watch back down on the table, stood up, and went back to bed.
Where he stared up at the ceiling until his alarm went off and told him to go to work. He ignored the watch, and went.
*
The watch was still there when he came home. He ignored it.
*
The watch was still there that weekend. He ignored it.
*
On Monday morning, he called John Watson.
“John,” he said. “It’s Greg. Lestrade.”
There was a pause; Lestrade couldn’t even hear John breathing. “I do remember you, Greg,” John said finally, and he sounded fine. Just fine. Monotone, careful, and perfectly well. Lestrade didn’t believe it.
“Haven’t heard from you in a while, mate.”
“Yeah, well. Laying low.”
“Been all right?”
Another pause. “Yeah, fine.”
Lestrade bit back the sigh. “I hate to ask, John. But - those case notes you kept, when you were chasing around after Sherlock - any chance you could bring them over some day?”
*
The next morning, after five solid days of Ignoring The Watch, Lestrade picked it up again.
He slid it out of the box, put it in his coat’s inner breast pocket, and left for work.
*
The watch was a comfortable weight as he walked. Lestrade could feel it bouncing against his chest in time with his steps, a gentle reminder. Or maybe a finger poking him again and again. He wasn’t sure which. It was probably both. But he found that he couldn’t quite take his mind off the watch that morning, more so when John Watson appeared at his office door, bearing gifts in the form of a paper bag containing his case notes.
“John,” said Lestrade, and wondered if Mycroft had bugged his office, too. He absently wondered if Mycroft would just appear for his report on John’s welfare, or if he’d have to send another email. “Coffee? It’s awful.”
“And they say that’s not a selling point,” said John.
It was only while John was racing after him on the way to the murder scene that Lestrade realized that by calling John at all, he had fallen in line with Mycroft’s request. Again.
Bugger.
*
The only silver lining that Lestrade could see was that the weariness which wrapped around John like a blanket seemed to fall away at the crime scene. Even Anderson’s presence couldn’t diminish the way John came alive the moment Lestrade turned to him and asked his opinion. For about ten minutes, it was exactly as if the last few months hadn’t happened; that Sherlock had just up and ran off after a missing piece of information, and the two of them were left to roll their eyes at each other and commiserate.
Lestrade almost didn’t see the figure standing off to the side, but John was busy helping Anderson with the clean-up, and really, Mycroft Holmes at a crime scene was hard to miss.
“So John’s better,” said Lestrade to Mycroft. “Now, at least.”
“Hmm,” said Mycroft. “He was not before?”
“Judging by the sound of his voice over the phone, not really.”
“You should spend some time with him,” said Mycroft, and Lestrade frowned.
“Back to ordering me this way and that, I see.”
“A suggestion.”
“You don’t suggest.”
“A request?”
“You don’t request, either.”
“You aren’t wearing the watch.”
Lestrade blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“The watch. It’s in your breast pocket. Does it not suit?”
“The watch is fine. We’re talking about John.”
“No, we were talking about how we were talking about John. We were not, in fact, talking about John.”
“You had it engraved.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
Mycroft shrugged, and smiled.
Lestrade couldn’t help it. “Who were CH and VH?”
“My parents.”
Lestrade sucked in his breath. “This was your father’s watch?”
“Yes.” Mycroft was still smiling, still standing relaxed and calm. But Lestrade was close enough to see his eyes, and his eyes bore into him, and didn’t blink.
“You…had my initials engraved on your father’s watch.”
“Yes.”
Lestrade ran his hand through his hair. “I….I don’t even know what to do with that, Mycroft.”
“I do. Put on the watch.”
“Why?”
For a moment, Mycroft looked surprised, a bit like he hadn’t expected Lestrade to question the request. And Lestrade wasn’t all that sure he ever had questioned anything Mycroft had asked him to do - he’d always refused immediately. There hadn’t been dithering. Not to Mycroft, at least.
“Because-” Mycroft took a breath. “Because I’d like that. And I would like to know if you would like that, too.”
Lestrade let out a breath.
“You should take John to a pub and buy him a drink.”
It was too much of a switch. “What?” asked Lestrade, confused, and he looked over his shoulder to see John Watson, standing in the middle of the now-cleared crime scene, watching them.
“John. A pub. A pint.”
“It’s eleven in the morning.”
“Yes, but I think you both need it,” said Mycroft.
Lestrade closed his eyes. “I remember when you came over and didn’t actually want something from me. Are you making up for lost time?”
Mycroft chuckled. “Perhaps. You’ll take John for a pint, of course.”
“Because he needs one. Not because you asked.”
“That will do. And…the watch?”
Lestrade couldn’t look at Mycroft. “Tells time. Accurately.”
Mycroft kept looking at him, and then gave a brisk nod. “Good day, Detective Inspector.”
Lestrade watched Mycroft walk away, his umbrella swinging. A deception, of course; he could see a stiffness to Mycroft’s shoulders, something about the way he held his head and didn’t look back. The mask of Mycroft Holmes: cool, careful, careless. Lestrade knew better than to believe it - and then wondered why the hell that was.
“Bloody wanking sodding tossing fucking hell,” he said aloud, just to hear the words, and when he turned to walk back to John, he felt the watch in his coat pocket beat against his chest.
*
In a normal, rational world, Lestrade liked having drinks with John. It had stopped being a normal, rational world about three weeks back. Possibly longer. Maybe Mycroft should have given him a calendar instead of a watch.
His father's watch. Christ.
Lestrade did not want to have drinks with John. It had nothing to do with not wanting a drink (because he really, really did) or spending time with John (because he liked John well enough, and even without Mycroft's prodding, knew that John needed the company). It had everything to do with the fact that they were two blokes sitting in a pub drinking beer and when two blokes sat in a pub and drank beer together, Conversations Occurred.
Lestrade, more than anything, did not want a Conversation.
Luckily, John seemed to feel the same way.
They talked about the weather.
They talked about the football.
They talked about Donovan's transfer, and how, in an odd twist, Anderson was much more cheerful without her around.
They talked about the traffic.
They exchanged rumors and theories about the upcoming Bond film.
And finally, when they'd run out of things, John put down his nearly empty glass and gave Lestrade a look.
"Mycroft," he said.
"Sherlock," countered Lestrade.
"Right," said John, and finished off his beer.
And that was the Beginning, Middle, and End of the Conversation.
John left the pub first, steps steady and head presumably clear. Lestrade, by contrast, felt somewhat foggy, and went into the gents’ to splash water on his face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, leaning on the sink, watching his pupils dilate and contract. Finally, without really thinking about it, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the watch. He switched it with the old one, fumbling a little with the clasp. It was loose, but he wasn't quite sober enough to fix it.
John was long gone by the time Lestrade stepped back outside; the clouds hung low over London, and he could smell the rain in the air. It was a long walk back to Scotland Yard. Lestrade started walking, and felt the watch sliding in circles around his wrist.
*
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Gregory Lestrade
Subject: John
John is coping. We did not discuss your brother.
To: Gregory Lestrade
From: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re: John
Thank you. And you?
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Gregory Lestrade
Subject: Re: Re: John
What about me?
To: Gregory Lestrade
From: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re: Re: Re: John
Have you made a decision about the watch?
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Gregory Lestrade
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: John
Yes.
To: Gregory Lestrade
From: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: John
Are you going to tell me what it is?
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Gregory Lestrade
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: John
You can figure it out.
*
Mycroft waited on Lestrade’s deplorable sofa that evening. Lestrade was not surprised. He put his keys down on the table by the door, walked into the kitchen, grabbed two beers, thought again, put one beer back, and went to join him.
"You don't drink beer, I assume," he said.
"No," said Mycroft, eying the bottle. "And in any case, I have to return to work later this evening."
"Saving the world isn't a nine-to-five job?" asked Lestrade, and sat on the chair opposite Mycroft. He took a pull on the beer, and watched Mycroft's gaze fall on his wrist.
"As well you know," said Mycroft smoothly. He sat up and stretched out his hand. "May I?"
Lestrade held up his arm out of reach, letting the sleeve fall down to show him the watch. Mycroft sighed with impatience, and shook his hand again, a second request.
Afterwards, Lestrade couldn't say why he held his wrist out for Mycroft's inspection. Nor could he explain why his entire body went still at Mycroft's touch. Mycroft turned Lestrade's wrist over and tightened the watch strap one notch, so that it no longer rolled on his arm. The task done, however, Mycroft did not let go of Lestrade's arm. He continued to hold it, without looking at him, and Lestrade let him.
It was while part of the odd tableau that Lestrade began to wonder. He wondered when one of them would move first. He wondered why Mycroft had given him his father's watch. He wondered how long they had been playing their game. He wondered when anyone had been planning on telling him about it. He wondered why he felt so comfortable, sitting next to Mycroft Holmes, hand in hand. He wondered what Sherlock would have said about it, if he’d been there.
He wondered, briefly, if Mycroft had waited until Sherlock's opinion was effectively out of the picture before he started to play in earnest.
Lestrade was about to speak when Mycroft let go of his hand abruptly and stood.
"A pleasant evening, Greg," said Mycroft evenly, as though they had not sat for however long it was, skin touching, breathing the same air.
Lestrade struggled to find his feet, and by the time he stood, Mycroft already had his hand on the door to leave.
"That's it? You’re just going to refasten the watch and go?"
Mycroft didn't look at him. "Yes."
"No." Lestrade stepped over to him. "That - that's not how this works."
Mycroft blinked, but still couldn't look Lestrade in the eye. "That is exactly how this works. I ask, you refuse. Your words, Detective Inspector."
Lestrade wasn't sure what it was, exactly - Mycroft's refusal to meet his eyes, or the use of his rank - but regardless, everything snapped into place.
"Not anymore," said Lestrade, and he lifted his wrist to show the watch. "This changes the rules."
Mycroft swallowed. "They were never my rules to change."
"No," agreed Gregory Lestrade. "I suppose they weren't."
Greg was tall; Mycroft was taller by about three inches. Greg had never kissed anyone taller than himself, but the stretch felt right to him. It was all he could do not to keep stretching, right up to the ceiling, because everything about Mycroft's lips against his felt exactly right. All of his muscles and bones wanted to expand, to feel even better than they did right then, with his lips on Mycroft's.
Only his lips - his hands rested on Mycroft's arms, for balance, or to keep Mycroft from running. Greg, at first, had no doubt that Mycroft would run. He didn't want him to run. Greg didn't want anything more than he had right then, or didn't think he did, until he felt Mycroft's lips under his part, just enough, and Greg knew he wasn't going to run.
Greg smiled into the kiss. No, not smiled - grinned, full and unabashed, and the kiss broke, but that was all right, because Mycroft wasn't going anywhere.
"New rules," he said into Mycroft's mouth.
"I see," said Mycroft, strained, which just made Greg smile wider.
"We're going to have drinks tomorrow."
"Yes."
"And dinner the next night."
"Yes."
"And then the opera. Paris is optional. Or the other way around, your choice."
"I get a choice?"
"And then I'll meet your mother, and you'll meet my sister."
"Together," said Mycroft. "No need to waste time."
Greg nodded. "And then we'll continue where we're leaving off."
But Mycroft backed away. He looked at Greg now, his eyes half-hooded and dark. "No," he said, and stepped through the door, leaving Greg alone.
Chapter Two
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Relationships/Characters: Mycroft/Lestrade, John Watson, Mummy Holmes, assorted others
Warnings: none
Rating: R to start, NC-17 later on
Summary: Mycroft and Greg play games with each other. The only question is whether or not they’re playing the same game.
A/N: Brit-picked by wendymr and betaed by earlgreytea68, both of whom kicked me incessantly when I stupidly thought this story was only two chapters long. This is not meant to be a sequel to British Government, which I still claim up, down, and sideways to not be Mystrade, but if you’d like to read it as such, by all means, do.
Power Play
Chapter One
Greg Lestrade stopped looking for the black cars on the street about a month after Sherlock jumped. There wasn't any point, after all; Mycroft Holmes was hardly going to order him to do anything anymore. If Sherlock was dead, there wasn’t much Mycroft could ask him to do, other than cut the grass over his grave.
When the black car pulled up to the kerb, Lestrade didn't pay any attention.
When his mobile rang in his pocket, he absently answered it, as if it were just another call.
"Lestrade."
"Please get into the car, Detective Inspector."
Lestrade stopped dead on the pavement. He moved the phone away from his ear, only now looking at the Caller ID, and said the name like it was a curse. "Mycroft Holmes."
"Indeed."
"What do you want?"
"For you to get into the car, of course."
Lestrade swore, this time legitimately. And then climbed in.
Mycroft looked exactly the same. Bespoke dark grey suit, hair neatly combed, calm and vaguely aloof expression on his placid face. Comfortable and cool and instantly annoying. Lestrade, by contrast, felt hot and sticky and his shirt stuck to his back under his suit jacket, required by the Yard but completely ridiculous for July in London. Just looking at Mycroft made Lestrade feel grubby.
"Detective Inspector," said Mycroft by way of greeting. "So kind of you to join me."
Lestrade was tempted to tell the man to stuff it, but remembered just in time that Mycroft was technically in mourning, even if he didn't look it. His surge of anger dissipated as quickly as it had risen.
"Nothing personal. It’s air-conditioned in here.”
“So it is,” said Mycroft smoothly, and then fell silent.
Lestrade sighed. “I didn’t get a chance to give you my condolences for Sherlock.”
Mycroft's jaw tightened. Just a little. Lestrade wasn't sure why he noticed.
“You were only at the funeral a short time,” Mycroft said finally.
“Didn’t feel right,” said Lestrade. “Being there, what with…well, everything. My part in it.”
"You did what you could, Detective Inspector. I do not hold you at fault."
"Well, that makes one of us," said Lestrade briefly.
Mycroft's eyebrows went up; that, Lestrade definitely noticed, and had no doubt that Mycroft intended him to do so. "I take it you do?"
“Don’t tell me you picked me up solely to ensure I’m not blaming myself.”
“I was rather hoping you could tell me how John Watson is coping. He won’t answer my calls.”
“Amazing,” said Lestrade dryly. He glanced at Mycroft. “I don't believe the media reports, you know. I’ve seen what rubbish they write on the best of days, and I know they can’t be trusted on the worst. And Sherlock, everything he did, was as real as I am."
Mycroft’s gaze was soft and piercing all at once. Lestrade stared out the window, unable to meet his eyes. "Have a drink with me."
Lestrade blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Drinks. Tonight. You don't have a previous engagement, do you?"
"I...ah..." Lestrade rubbed his ears to see if they were still working. "Are you asking me out?"
"Yes," said Mycroft. He looked exactly the same as he had when Lestrade had entered the car; quiet, calm, self-assured. Any impression of mourning or regret from him was clearly a figment of Lestrade's imagination.
Lestrade closed his eyes, and opened them. Mycroft stubbornly refused to turn into a random alcohol-based nightmare, however.
"My club is just around the corner, quite discreet, and there's a comfortable corner where we can talk."
"No," said Lestrade.
"Another time," said Mycroft graciously.
"Doubtful," said Lestrade. "Can you stop the car now?"
The car rolled to a halt without so much as a move or word from Mycroft, and Lestrade stepped back out onto the pavement. He was still wondering what the hell had just happened when the car pulled away, and walked back home in a fog.
*
To: Greg Lestrade
From: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Apology
I fear my abruptness took you by surprise last week. May I make it up to you by offering you dinner this evening? I know you have no other engagements.
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Greg Lestrade
Subject: Re: Apology
There are so many things wrong with that email, I don't know where to begin. How can anyone have an unrecognizable email address? How do you know I don’t have things to do tonight? Where was the apology in that email?
To: Greg Lestrade
From: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re: Re: Apology
You did not answer the question.
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Greg Lestrade
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Apology
Good observation. You didn’t answer mine.
To: Greg Lestrade
From: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology
My email address is unrecognizable because it does not conform to the standard. Rest assured that as long as you use the reply function, a response will always reach me. Should you accidentally delete my email, you will find an entry for me in your email system’s Address Book. To pre-empt the next question: yes, I have access to your Address Book. I also have access to your Calendar, which is how I know you are available this evening.
I would still like to know how John Watson is faring.
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Greg Lestrade
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology
Not everyone enters everything into their computer calendar, you know.
To: Greg Lestrade
From: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology
Your ex-wife’s birthday is the 7th of March, your parents’ anniversary is the 11th of June, you had a dental appointment four days ago, you met with friends to see a movie on the 9th, and your dry cleaning is due for collection tomorrow.
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Greg Lestrade
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology
You’re bloody frightening, you are.
To: Greg Lestrade
From: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology
I can collect you at seven.
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Greg Lestrade
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology
NO.
*
It was raining, Lestrade's umbrella was being difficult, the soles of his shoes had cracked which let in the water that pooled on the pavement, there was a man missing from his team, Donovan was determined to pretend she hadn’t asked for a transfer, and there was a black car waiting for him on the kerb.
Lestrade swore, and got inside.
"Surely you could have had a car from the Met take you home in this weather," said Mycroft.
"I'd rather not abuse the privilege," snapped Lestrade. He was tempted to wring out his soaked coat, but a glance at Mycroft's perfectly dry and perfectly fitted suit dissuaded him.
"Saving up for a rainy day?"
Lestrade settled for shaking the raindrops off his useless umbrella. It was nearly as satisfying.
“You’re angry with me,” said Mycroft.
“No,” said Lestrade angrily, and gave his umbrella another shake. "Yes. I don't know. Maybe I'm just angry."
Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "You are angry with my brother."
"Aren't you?"
"Continuously, and never."
Lestrade had a sister. The answer made complete sense, and he let his head fall back on the headrest. "He should have asked for help."
"You know as well as I do that Sherlock was never one to ask for help," said Mycroft.
"No, that was your job, to ask it for him."
"Indeed. If you should be angry with anyone, Detective Inspector, you should be angry with me."
Lestrade snorted. "What, you're omniscient, now? How were you supposed to know that your brother was going to jump-" Lestrade cut the rest of his words off. "I'm sorry."
"It was the only logical outcome," said Mycroft.
"No, it really wasn't," said Lestrade.
“Have you seen John Watson recently?”
“No.”
“He still refuses to answer my calls.”
“That’s his prerogative.”
“Indeed, but I am concerned for him.”
“Oh, now you’re concerned about someone else’s welfare,” snapped Lestrade, and gave a violent shiver as the air conditioning penetrated the layers of wet clothes.
"You'll catch cold wearing those wet clothes," said Mycroft. "I live around the corner. I can light a fire and let you warm up while your clothes dry. Perhaps a nightcap?"
Lestrade stared at him.
Mycroft didn't seem to be bothered in the slightest.
"I think I'll get out of the car now," said Lestrade.
There was a thunderclap from the sky overhead, and the rain intensified. Lestrade could barely see the other cars on the road.
"You won't reconsider?" asked Mycroft smoothly, and Lestrade half wondered if the man could control the weather.
"Fairly certain, yeah," said Lestrade.
The car rolled to a stop. Lestrade paused before getting out.
“It’s not your fault,” he said, without looking at Mycroft. “What Sherlock did. It wasn’t your fault.”
Lestrade slammed the door before the man could respond.
It was only as the car pulled away that Lestrade realized he’d left his umbrella behind, and thought about drowning himself in the rain.
*
Drinks, dinner, a night in by the fire.
Mycroft was getting bolder, and still wasn't taking the hint.
Oh, hell.
*
Lestrade got into work at 8am. He hung his coat up, started his laptop, and went to find the coffee.
By the time he returned, there were two airline tickets waiting on his desk that had not been there ten minutes previously.
Confirmation Code 765XR7U
Passenger (1): Gregory Lestrade
Passenger (2): Mycroft Holmes
British Airways Flight 734
Departs LHR
Arrives CDG
First Class
Round-trip, return same day
Beneath the airline tickets was another envelope, this one containing two tickets for box seats to a performance of Aida at the Paris Opera.
Lestrade had never flown first class. He'd been bumped up to business once, years before, had seen the plush seats that reclined all the way down, the individual entertainment consoles, and had wondered who paid for such luxury.
And on a short flight to Paris, no less.
When the phone rang, Lestrade had no doubt who it was calling.
"I assume you have found the tickets," said Mycroft Holmes.
"I hope they're refundable."
"I have great amounts of confidence in my ability to persuade you to accompany me."
“You could always ask John Watson,” said Lestrade. “Then you could stop pestering me about him.”
“Ah,” said Mycroft, and sounded abashed. Lestrade wondered if he was blushing. “I did not realize you - yes. Of course. I will refrain from using you as my intermediary for John - but I would much rather have you accompany me to Paris.”
Lestrade had no idea what to say to that.
“Detective Inspector?”
“You want me to go to Paris with you.” Lestrade wondered when his voice had gotten so high.
“Just for the day, of course. I wouldn't want to put you in an...uncomfortable situation."
"I'm sorry, what about this situation isn't uncomfortable? You're asking me out for a bloody weekend."
"Hardly. We'd return in the evening, your reputation intact."
"You're honestly worried about my reputation? You already asked me out for drinks, dinner, and a night by your fireplace."
"For warmth only. I have no intention of ravishing you at this stage in our relationship; I am a traditionalist at heart, Detective Inspector."
Strangely, this did not make Lestrade feel much better. In fact, he felt almost dizzy.
"Gregory. Greg." Lestrade had no idea what came over him, but he could hear Mycroft smile over the phone.
"Greg," said Mycroft, and something in Lestrade's stomach flipped. “Are you still angry with me?”
“Are you still angry with yourself?”
There was a pause, and Lestrade could hear Mycroft thinking. “I’m too close to the subject. You’ll have to tell me yourself.”
“Same here, then.”
"I trust I will see you on the flight tomorrow?"
For one brief, lovely, first-class-champagne-opera-filled infinitesimal minute…Lestrade was tempted to say yes.
"No," said the Detective Inspector. Lestrade. Gregory. Greg. He hung up the phone and stared at the tickets before letting his forehead hit his desk.
Bloody hell.
*
Drinks, dinner, a night by the fire, and a day-trip to see the bloody Paris opera.
Traditional!
Lestrade remembered this dance. He had a feeling he knew what came next.
*
The knock at the door was polite, sharp, and entirely too early on a Sunday morning to be anyone but Mycroft Holmes. Lestrade wasn't sure how he knew it was Mycroft Holmes, based purely on the knock, but he wasn't surprised when he opened the door to find the man standing there.
What did surprise him was the suit bag that Mycroft carried. He stared at it, startled enough that Mycroft had ample opportunity to walk straight into the flat without so much as a blink.
"You're dressing me now?" asked Lestrade, still holding his coffee mug.
"I doubt you have anything suitable for luncheon," said Mycroft, peering at the room with a look of mild distaste. "Really, Greg, you should have been showered by this time. We'll be late."
"Late?"
"I'll put this in your wardrobe," said Mycroft, and headed back for the bedroom.
Lestrade tried to make a leap to stop him, realized he was still clinging to the open door, slammed it shut, had to think about letting go of the doorknob, and barely missed grabbing hold of Mycroft's coattails before the man slipped into the bedroom.
"Sodding hell, Mycroft!" he yelled.
Mycroft's sigh was audible. "Honestly, Gregory," he said, disappointment dripping. "I'll send housekeeping in the morning."
Lestrade groaned. "You will not."
"Shower," said Mycroft, returning to the main room.
"Am I allowed to know where you think you're taking me?"
Mycroft looked surprised. "To Mummy, of course. It's high time you met her, and she's quite looking forward to meeting you. We'll need to be on the road soon, it's a bit of a drive to the estate, and Mummy doesn't suffer unpunctuality easily. Close your mouth, Greg. It's rather tempting."
Lestrade's mouth snapped shut, but not for long. "You want me to meet your mother."
"Of course," said Mycroft.
"Were you going to ask?"
"Would you have agreed?"
"No!"
"Then why would I ask?"
"Because that's what you do. You ask, I refuse, it's how this works!"
Mycroft sighed. "Gregory. Please do shower, and dress in the clothes I brought, so that I can take you home to meet Mummy."
"No!"
Mycroft shook his head. "Why must you be so difficult?"
"I'm not being difficult, I'm being rational. There is no reason for me to meet your mother."
Mycroft raised his eyebrow.
“Know what?” asked Lestrade finally. “I think I do know. I am still angry with you. Want to know why? Because you never actually turn up without wanting something from me.”
“That’s what a relationship is,” said Mycroft, and Lestrade thought he knew him well enough to recognize the thin layer of surprise and confusion under the mask. “People always want something.”
“No,” said Lestrade. “First, this isn’t a relationship. Second, that’s not what a relationship is about.”
“Of course it is,” said Mycroft.
“And third,” said Lestrade, wondering which point Mycroft was refuting, but too much on a roll to bother stopping, “people don’t always want something. Because there isn’t anything I want from you.”
There was a brief moment where Lestrade thought he saw Mycroft’s face slide from calm aloofness, to stark shock and disappointment. He turned his back in order to not continue seeing the odd expression on Mycroft’s face. For some reason, it made him feel worse than he already did.
Lestrade left Mycroft in the main room and went into his bedroom. Probably not the wisest of moves - Mycroft wasn’t above putting in cameras or microphones, but then, Lestrade had no doubt that if he’d wanted, those things would have been there long since.
He didn't want to look at the clothes inside the suit bag, but he couldn't help it. Not a suit, but a very nice pair of trousers, a blue shirt that was so soft and smooth it felt sinful, and a brown jacket that wasn't the least bit tweedy. Very respectable, reasonable, and Lestrade had no doubt that they'd fit him perfectly. He almost wanted to try them on, and half wondered what sort of woman actually bore and raised the Holmes brothers. It might have explained a few things, particularly recent events.
Curiosity battled reason for a tense minute.
Lestrade zipped the bag up again, and carried it back into the main room, fully intending to drop it on Mycroft's head.
Only Mycroft wasn't there to receive it.
*
There was plenty about the situation that would appall Sherlock, had he been there to appreciate it. The idea that his brother was pursuing his Detective Inspector (because Lestrade had no doubt that Sherlock thought him his personal property, in a manner of speaking), that would certainly horrify Sherlock.
That Lestrade actually felt guilty about the entire Luncheon-with-Mummy debacle - well, that would have probably rendered Sherlock speechless, or even driven him to do something drastic. Well, more drastic. Not that it could get much more drastic, but Lestrade had confidence in Sherlock’s ability to find a way.
Not that Lestrade felt guilty. Of course not. Who honestly believed that if he showed up on a doorstep, bearing gifts of expensive clothing and a hired car with tinted windows, that the object of his affection would simply fall into line and go home to meet Mummy?
Mycroft Holmes, of course.
(Lestrade decided to ignore the bit about “object of affection”. There was no affection between the objects. He was certainly not an object, nor was he being objectified, and that was all there was to say on that matter.)
(And yes, it was guilt about Mummy. Of course it was guilt about Mummy, who according to Mycroft had been looking forward to meeting him. There was not one shred of guilt about the lie he’d told to Mycroft about not wanting anything. Lestrade wanted plenty from Mycroft. To stop bothering him, for starters.)
Drinks. Dinner. An evening by the fireplace. A day trip to Paris, and meeting the family.
Sodding hell.
*
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Greg Lestrade
Subject: This is what an apology actually looks like.
I’m sorry for what I said the other day.
I’m also sorry if I disappointed your mother.
*
It was a week after he sent the email into the ether when Lestrade came home and found Mycroft Holmes sitting on his sofa.
Lestrade stood in the doorway and stared at Mycroft, and then continued his evening routine as if the man was not actually sitting there. Keys on the table by the door, umbrella thrown in the corner, latch the locks, into the kitchen for a glass of water.
No, scratch that. Beer.
Mycroft was still sitting on his sofa when Lestrade came back out, holding onto the bottle.
"Greg," said Mycroft pleasantly, and raised his eyebrow at the bottle of beer.
“Normal people respond to emails,” said Lestrade. He hoped his bitterness at having been left hanging for a week didn’t show too much.
“Precisely why I am here.”
“Of course you are,” sighed Lestrade. In a normal world, a world in which Mycroft Holmes was not found on his sofa when he came home from work, he would have kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the coffee table. Somehow, he doubted this would go over well with Mycroft Holmes. “So really. Why are you here? My expert opinion on how John Watson is coping? The scores from the latest football matches? Tickets to see the Russian Ballet in Moscow? Tell me, I’m dying of curiosity here.”
Mycroft raised his eyebrow. Lestrade was getting tired of that eyebrow. "Nothing."
Lestrade snorted, and took a pull of beer. And since when did he care what Mycroft Holmes thought about what he did in his own home?
"You always want something."
"So you said last week. I am merely proving you wrong."
Lestrade put his feet up on the coffee table, just to see what Mycroft would do. Mycroft didn't even blink.
"So you're here because...you like my sofa?"
"Believe me," said Mycroft dryly. "I have no particular attachment to this piece of...furniture."
Lestrade grinned. "I'm surprised you're not sitting on a towel."
"The thought had occurred to me," said Mycroft dryly.
"I didn't actually find it in a skip."
"No?"
"Try not to think about it," suggested Lestrade. "The sofa’s much more comfortable that way."
Mycroft made a soft humming sound, and then looked around the room. "The décor is…more minimal than I would have expected."
"Well," said Lestrade, following his gaze around the Spartan room. "I don't really spend a lot of time here."
"I was surprised that you left work as early as you did."
"Me too," said Lestrade, and took another pull.
"You have not..." Mycroft hesitated. "Had difficulties at work, have you? Because of my brother or his somewhat complicated legacy?"
Lestrade wondered how long he could delay his response. Mycroft was fidgeting - fidgeting, who knew the man even knew how to fidget, and for some reason, watching Mycroft be uncomfortable wasn't half as pleasing as Lestrade would have imagined. Lestrade almost wanted the man to continue fidgeting, just until he'd figured out why the fidgeting bothered him so much.
He wondered how much Mycroft knew about Sherlock, anyway.
"A few. It was awkward the first couple of weeks. But no one else wants to believe that Sherlock was really a fake, either. Well, some do. But most don't, and luckily those are the ones in the right places. There’s a task force looking at the back cases. So far, everything’s come up trumps."
Mycroft nodded briskly, and stopped fidgeting.
"Surprised you didn't know that," said Lestrade into the beer bottle. "What with being able to access my email address book and calendar."
"I try to leave you your privacy," said Mycroft, as if granting a boon, and Lestrade nearly spit out his beer.
"We have to discuss your definition of privacy," he said when he finally was able to breathe, and Mycroft looked inordinately pleased, which was almost as bad as Mycroft being fidgety, in an entirely different way, and Lestrade had nearly figured out why when Mycroft spoke.
"Your watch."
"Hmm?" Lestrade looked at his watch. "What about it?"
"A present from someone?"
"Yeah, probably. Who buys themselves watches?"
Mycroft's smile was fleeting. He stood quickly. "Well, I must be off. Pleasure chatting with you."
Lestrade frowned. "Wait, is that it?"
"Yes," said Mycroft briskly, and he adjusted his coat sleeves.
"But...you didn't want anything from me."
"Just a bit of your time and the pleasure of your company," said Mycroft. "Which you gave me, quite freely. Quite a turn-up, wasn't it?"
Lestrade stared at him, unable to believe that Mycroft could actually make a joke.
“That’s a joke. You made a joke. You don’t joke,” he said.
“I joke,” said Mycroft, and had Lestrade not known better, he might have thought Mycroft was hurt, or even insulted. Affronted. Which was really ridiculous, because if there was anything other than joking that Mycroft never did, it was being upset with something anyone would say about him.
"You told me you didn’t want anything," Lestrade repeated, because his brain flatly refused to compute the new information about Mycroft, and Mycroft looked thoughtful.
"And yet you gave it to me. Interesting. I'll keep that in mind."
"Keep what in mind?!?"
"Have a pleasant evening, Greg," said Mycroft, and left the flat, umbrella swinging.
Lestrade went to the window and watched Mycroft walk down the street. He half wondered why he was disappointed to see him go, before interrupting the thought by punching the wall.
*
Four days later, Lestrade found the box sitting on the center of the coffee table. He had no doubt about who left it there and how, and despite his curiosity, didn’t touch it. He even managed not to look at it, mostly because he ate his dinner in the kitchen standing at the counter, ignored the telly, and went straight to bed.
The box still waited for him in the morning, and was still sitting there when he managed to drag himself home at three the next morning after a hellacious case involving no less than four murder weapons, chasing a goose through Kent Gardens, and one of his team falling into a particularly smelly section of the Thames.
It was three in the morning. Lestrade barely undressed before falling into the bed, and as soon as his head hit the pillow, he was wide awake, and couldn’t get his mind off the box on the coffee table.
After ten minutes, he gave up and went to sit on the couch. He stared at the box, contemplating, before he finally gave up on working up the nerve to open it, and just did it.
A watch.
No, scratch that. A Rolex watch.
A really, really nice Rolex watch.
Black face, silver dashes instead of numbers, a silver casing. The silver hands had small bulbs at the end, and when Lestrade held it to his ear, the tick was pleasantly quiet and soothing. The black leather strap was brand new, but the watch itself looked as though it’d seen a few knocks.
Mycroft wouldn’t give just an old Rolex watch to him, especially not with a brand-new strap. Lestrade pulled the watch out of the box and examined it, flipping it over to see the back, which was when his heart stopped beating for a moment.
To CH
-VH
To GL
-MH
Oh.
Oh, no.
Lestrade set the watch back down on the table, stood up, and went back to bed.
Where he stared up at the ceiling until his alarm went off and told him to go to work. He ignored the watch, and went.
*
The watch was still there when he came home. He ignored it.
*
The watch was still there that weekend. He ignored it.
*
On Monday morning, he called John Watson.
“John,” he said. “It’s Greg. Lestrade.”
There was a pause; Lestrade couldn’t even hear John breathing. “I do remember you, Greg,” John said finally, and he sounded fine. Just fine. Monotone, careful, and perfectly well. Lestrade didn’t believe it.
“Haven’t heard from you in a while, mate.”
“Yeah, well. Laying low.”
“Been all right?”
Another pause. “Yeah, fine.”
Lestrade bit back the sigh. “I hate to ask, John. But - those case notes you kept, when you were chasing around after Sherlock - any chance you could bring them over some day?”
*
The next morning, after five solid days of Ignoring The Watch, Lestrade picked it up again.
He slid it out of the box, put it in his coat’s inner breast pocket, and left for work.
*
The watch was a comfortable weight as he walked. Lestrade could feel it bouncing against his chest in time with his steps, a gentle reminder. Or maybe a finger poking him again and again. He wasn’t sure which. It was probably both. But he found that he couldn’t quite take his mind off the watch that morning, more so when John Watson appeared at his office door, bearing gifts in the form of a paper bag containing his case notes.
“John,” said Lestrade, and wondered if Mycroft had bugged his office, too. He absently wondered if Mycroft would just appear for his report on John’s welfare, or if he’d have to send another email. “Coffee? It’s awful.”
“And they say that’s not a selling point,” said John.
It was only while John was racing after him on the way to the murder scene that Lestrade realized that by calling John at all, he had fallen in line with Mycroft’s request. Again.
Bugger.
*
The only silver lining that Lestrade could see was that the weariness which wrapped around John like a blanket seemed to fall away at the crime scene. Even Anderson’s presence couldn’t diminish the way John came alive the moment Lestrade turned to him and asked his opinion. For about ten minutes, it was exactly as if the last few months hadn’t happened; that Sherlock had just up and ran off after a missing piece of information, and the two of them were left to roll their eyes at each other and commiserate.
Lestrade almost didn’t see the figure standing off to the side, but John was busy helping Anderson with the clean-up, and really, Mycroft Holmes at a crime scene was hard to miss.
“So John’s better,” said Lestrade to Mycroft. “Now, at least.”
“Hmm,” said Mycroft. “He was not before?”
“Judging by the sound of his voice over the phone, not really.”
“You should spend some time with him,” said Mycroft, and Lestrade frowned.
“Back to ordering me this way and that, I see.”
“A suggestion.”
“You don’t suggest.”
“A request?”
“You don’t request, either.”
“You aren’t wearing the watch.”
Lestrade blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“The watch. It’s in your breast pocket. Does it not suit?”
“The watch is fine. We’re talking about John.”
“No, we were talking about how we were talking about John. We were not, in fact, talking about John.”
“You had it engraved.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
Mycroft shrugged, and smiled.
Lestrade couldn’t help it. “Who were CH and VH?”
“My parents.”
Lestrade sucked in his breath. “This was your father’s watch?”
“Yes.” Mycroft was still smiling, still standing relaxed and calm. But Lestrade was close enough to see his eyes, and his eyes bore into him, and didn’t blink.
“You…had my initials engraved on your father’s watch.”
“Yes.”
Lestrade ran his hand through his hair. “I….I don’t even know what to do with that, Mycroft.”
“I do. Put on the watch.”
“Why?”
For a moment, Mycroft looked surprised, a bit like he hadn’t expected Lestrade to question the request. And Lestrade wasn’t all that sure he ever had questioned anything Mycroft had asked him to do - he’d always refused immediately. There hadn’t been dithering. Not to Mycroft, at least.
“Because-” Mycroft took a breath. “Because I’d like that. And I would like to know if you would like that, too.”
Lestrade let out a breath.
“You should take John to a pub and buy him a drink.”
It was too much of a switch. “What?” asked Lestrade, confused, and he looked over his shoulder to see John Watson, standing in the middle of the now-cleared crime scene, watching them.
“John. A pub. A pint.”
“It’s eleven in the morning.”
“Yes, but I think you both need it,” said Mycroft.
Lestrade closed his eyes. “I remember when you came over and didn’t actually want something from me. Are you making up for lost time?”
Mycroft chuckled. “Perhaps. You’ll take John for a pint, of course.”
“Because he needs one. Not because you asked.”
“That will do. And…the watch?”
Lestrade couldn’t look at Mycroft. “Tells time. Accurately.”
Mycroft kept looking at him, and then gave a brisk nod. “Good day, Detective Inspector.”
Lestrade watched Mycroft walk away, his umbrella swinging. A deception, of course; he could see a stiffness to Mycroft’s shoulders, something about the way he held his head and didn’t look back. The mask of Mycroft Holmes: cool, careful, careless. Lestrade knew better than to believe it - and then wondered why the hell that was.
“Bloody wanking sodding tossing fucking hell,” he said aloud, just to hear the words, and when he turned to walk back to John, he felt the watch in his coat pocket beat against his chest.
*
In a normal, rational world, Lestrade liked having drinks with John. It had stopped being a normal, rational world about three weeks back. Possibly longer. Maybe Mycroft should have given him a calendar instead of a watch.
His father's watch. Christ.
Lestrade did not want to have drinks with John. It had nothing to do with not wanting a drink (because he really, really did) or spending time with John (because he liked John well enough, and even without Mycroft's prodding, knew that John needed the company). It had everything to do with the fact that they were two blokes sitting in a pub drinking beer and when two blokes sat in a pub and drank beer together, Conversations Occurred.
Lestrade, more than anything, did not want a Conversation.
Luckily, John seemed to feel the same way.
They talked about the weather.
They talked about the football.
They talked about Donovan's transfer, and how, in an odd twist, Anderson was much more cheerful without her around.
They talked about the traffic.
They exchanged rumors and theories about the upcoming Bond film.
And finally, when they'd run out of things, John put down his nearly empty glass and gave Lestrade a look.
"Mycroft," he said.
"Sherlock," countered Lestrade.
"Right," said John, and finished off his beer.
And that was the Beginning, Middle, and End of the Conversation.
John left the pub first, steps steady and head presumably clear. Lestrade, by contrast, felt somewhat foggy, and went into the gents’ to splash water on his face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, leaning on the sink, watching his pupils dilate and contract. Finally, without really thinking about it, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the watch. He switched it with the old one, fumbling a little with the clasp. It was loose, but he wasn't quite sober enough to fix it.
John was long gone by the time Lestrade stepped back outside; the clouds hung low over London, and he could smell the rain in the air. It was a long walk back to Scotland Yard. Lestrade started walking, and felt the watch sliding in circles around his wrist.
*
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Gregory Lestrade
Subject: John
John is coping. We did not discuss your brother.
To: Gregory Lestrade
From: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re: John
Thank you. And you?
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Gregory Lestrade
Subject: Re: Re: John
What about me?
To: Gregory Lestrade
From: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re: Re: Re: John
Have you made a decision about the watch?
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Gregory Lestrade
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: John
Yes.
To: Gregory Lestrade
From: Mycroft Holmes
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: John
Are you going to tell me what it is?
To: Mycroft Holmes
From: Gregory Lestrade
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: John
You can figure it out.
*
Mycroft waited on Lestrade’s deplorable sofa that evening. Lestrade was not surprised. He put his keys down on the table by the door, walked into the kitchen, grabbed two beers, thought again, put one beer back, and went to join him.
"You don't drink beer, I assume," he said.
"No," said Mycroft, eying the bottle. "And in any case, I have to return to work later this evening."
"Saving the world isn't a nine-to-five job?" asked Lestrade, and sat on the chair opposite Mycroft. He took a pull on the beer, and watched Mycroft's gaze fall on his wrist.
"As well you know," said Mycroft smoothly. He sat up and stretched out his hand. "May I?"
Lestrade held up his arm out of reach, letting the sleeve fall down to show him the watch. Mycroft sighed with impatience, and shook his hand again, a second request.
Afterwards, Lestrade couldn't say why he held his wrist out for Mycroft's inspection. Nor could he explain why his entire body went still at Mycroft's touch. Mycroft turned Lestrade's wrist over and tightened the watch strap one notch, so that it no longer rolled on his arm. The task done, however, Mycroft did not let go of Lestrade's arm. He continued to hold it, without looking at him, and Lestrade let him.
It was while part of the odd tableau that Lestrade began to wonder. He wondered when one of them would move first. He wondered why Mycroft had given him his father's watch. He wondered how long they had been playing their game. He wondered when anyone had been planning on telling him about it. He wondered why he felt so comfortable, sitting next to Mycroft Holmes, hand in hand. He wondered what Sherlock would have said about it, if he’d been there.
He wondered, briefly, if Mycroft had waited until Sherlock's opinion was effectively out of the picture before he started to play in earnest.
Lestrade was about to speak when Mycroft let go of his hand abruptly and stood.
"A pleasant evening, Greg," said Mycroft evenly, as though they had not sat for however long it was, skin touching, breathing the same air.
Lestrade struggled to find his feet, and by the time he stood, Mycroft already had his hand on the door to leave.
"That's it? You’re just going to refasten the watch and go?"
Mycroft didn't look at him. "Yes."
"No." Lestrade stepped over to him. "That - that's not how this works."
Mycroft blinked, but still couldn't look Lestrade in the eye. "That is exactly how this works. I ask, you refuse. Your words, Detective Inspector."
Lestrade wasn't sure what it was, exactly - Mycroft's refusal to meet his eyes, or the use of his rank - but regardless, everything snapped into place.
"Not anymore," said Lestrade, and he lifted his wrist to show the watch. "This changes the rules."
Mycroft swallowed. "They were never my rules to change."
"No," agreed Gregory Lestrade. "I suppose they weren't."
Greg was tall; Mycroft was taller by about three inches. Greg had never kissed anyone taller than himself, but the stretch felt right to him. It was all he could do not to keep stretching, right up to the ceiling, because everything about Mycroft's lips against his felt exactly right. All of his muscles and bones wanted to expand, to feel even better than they did right then, with his lips on Mycroft's.
Only his lips - his hands rested on Mycroft's arms, for balance, or to keep Mycroft from running. Greg, at first, had no doubt that Mycroft would run. He didn't want him to run. Greg didn't want anything more than he had right then, or didn't think he did, until he felt Mycroft's lips under his part, just enough, and Greg knew he wasn't going to run.
Greg smiled into the kiss. No, not smiled - grinned, full and unabashed, and the kiss broke, but that was all right, because Mycroft wasn't going anywhere.
"New rules," he said into Mycroft's mouth.
"I see," said Mycroft, strained, which just made Greg smile wider.
"We're going to have drinks tomorrow."
"Yes."
"And dinner the next night."
"Yes."
"And then the opera. Paris is optional. Or the other way around, your choice."
"I get a choice?"
"And then I'll meet your mother, and you'll meet my sister."
"Together," said Mycroft. "No need to waste time."
Greg nodded. "And then we'll continue where we're leaving off."
But Mycroft backed away. He looked at Greg now, his eyes half-hooded and dark. "No," he said, and stepped through the door, leaving Greg alone.
Chapter Two