Fic for kedgeree11: Opposition Party - Part 1
Title: Opposition Party
Recipient: kedgeree11
Author: mydwynter
Characters and/or pairings: Greg Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes
Rating: Explicit
Warnings, kinks & contents: Spoilers for Hound, slightly unreliable narrator, mild abuse of power; ACD canon references, first time, frottage, references to exhibitionism and semen play.
Length: 22,209
Author's note: For Kedgeree11, who I hope won't be sad to recieve a substantial first-time story with snarkiness and sexytimes. Thank you to Mazarin221B for the quick beta and for putting up with my affection for in-character Mystrade.
Summary: "Well. I'm flattered and insulted. Just another afternoon with Mycroft Holmes."
"I do so like to be consistent."
There were any number of reasons why this was a terrible idea-not the least of which was that Mycroft seemed to think that making Greg angry amounted to a sort of charm.
I need you to go on holiday.'
Greg Lestrade sighed and scrubbed his hand across his eyes. He looked wistfully at the luggage full of dirty clothing he'd set down on the floor of his new flat to answer his mobile. "Hello to you too, Mycroft. How's things?"
"Inspector, this is important. I need you to go to Dartmoor."
"Dartmoor?" Greg pulled a face. "Why the hell do you need me to go to Dartmoor? No wait-I know exactly why you need me to go to Dartmoor."
"Yes, I'm afraid Sherlock is making friends with the locals as usual, and I'd appreciate your supervision."
"I'm not your brother's keeper, Mycroft."
"No, but your bonhomie with the local constabulary might be beneficial for this situation. Give them the 'Lestrade charm', I believe you might say?"
Greg sighed again. "Leave it to you to make what should be a compliment into something...garish. Fine, Mycroft, I'll go. Where and when?"
"I'll have my assistant text the details to your phone. Thank you, Inspector. I do so appreciate it."
"Right. Yes, sure, whatever. Goodbye, Mycroft."
Mycroft rang off and Greg stood there holding his mobile in his hand wearily. He'd just walked in the door. And he was never going to get used to the flat at this rate; he hadn't even finished unpacking yet. Greg threw himself full length on the sofa and placed his mobile on his sternum to wait for the text. This was going to be a very long night.
Greg grinned into the bright Devonshire sunshine. It was good to get London out of your lungs, but it was also good to get free of the bitterness of the holiday; the south of France was, as usual, a lovely place to visit, but it was certainly better without the end of his marriage hanging over his head. The plan for him and his (ex)wife to sign their divorce papers on holiday, to wash themselves clean of their marriage in the sea, had been a good one in theory but horrific in practise. He suspected his wife had been messing about with at least two of the resort staff by the end of it. The quicker he got used to the idea of being alone, the better off he'd be; thus, this second holiday and his inability to say no to bloody Mycroft Holmes when he sent Greg on a chase to babysit his younger brother.
He left the boys to it back at the pub and wandered around the building, spying a map posted with the local hillwalking features. He stood idly in front of it, not really reading.
"A trek through the wilderness doesn't seem quite up your street," said a familiar voice behind him. Greg spun in astonishment to see Mycroft Holmes himself standing there, cool and looking almost unrecognisable in a blue blazer and pristine white trousers. "If you don't mind me saying."
Greg closed his jaw before he caught flies in it. "What are you doing here?" He realised, belatedly, that he sounded a bit too much like Sherlock for comfort.
"Oh, just...checking in." Mycroft waved a hand lazily, as if it were the commonest thing of all for him to put on casual-wear and be there personally. The closest to it Greg had ever experienced was being kidnapped halfway through a case to explain something. Perhaps this was a strange version of that.
Greg looked at Mycroft dubiously. "Checking in, hmm?"
"How is my brother doing, anyway?" Mycroft cast his eye about as if he didn't know exactly where his brother at any given moment, ever. It was one if Mycroft's creepiest qualities. Oh, let's be reasonable, Greg thought to himself: it was Mycroft's creepiest quality. The rest could be chalked up to some public-school-public-servant affectation that made Mycroft not seem to approve of any of your choices without specifically indicating which made him smile that wan, tight-lipped smile the least. Greg had known Mycroft for years, and didn't once think he'd seen his genuine smile.
He decided to play along with whatever Mycroft's game was. "He seems to be fine. Didn't know my name is Greg. Or he deleted it." Greg rolled his eyes.
"Yes, my brother can be very forgetful when it comes to the details of his friends' lives."
"Friends?"
"It can be most tiresome."
Greg wanted to roll his eyes. "Whereas you don't forget a thing."
Mycroft pinned him with a look. It felt shockingly intimate. "Naturally."
Greg found it was difficult to look away, but eventually he managed to. "Mycroft, what are you really doing here?"
"As I said," Mycroft replied, raising an eyebrow. "I'm merely checking in."
This was ridiculous. "I have never known you to leave your office or club unless it's to go home," Greg said. "Or to go annoy your brother. So I can only assume this is a more extreme version of the latter. I just can't tell why you dragged me into this."
"Did I drag you into this?" Mycroft asked. This time both eyebrows went up.
Greg sighed. "That's it. I need my tea." He walked toward the car park. "Are you coming?"
He heard more than saw Mycroft splutter and follow him. "Inspector-"
"If we stay here your brother is going to see you, and I know you don't want that. I figured your next move was to whisk me off somewhere, so I'm just heading that off at the pass."
He glanced sideways during Mycroft's shocked silence and smothered his own amusement. "Come on," he said as he unlocked his car. "Get in, I'm starved."
Mycroft looked very out of place in Greg's practical, mid-sized sedan. He took up more space than a weedy toff ought to, his head nearly reaching the ceiling, and he looked so uncomfortable sitting there buckled in safely with the seat pushed all the way back that Greg actually chuckled. He snuck a peek at Mycroft from the corner of his eye as he pulled out of the carpark. "Which way?" he said. "I bet you know a good restaurant around here. You know everything."
"As flattering as that is, Inspector, I don't-oh. Well. There is a lovely little establishment which operates as an adjunct to a hotel I've visited in the past. That should suffice."
Greg chuckled. Of course Mycroft knew a place.
Mycroft directed them for about ten awkward minutes before they drove into an idyllic hamlet tucked up against a woodland on one side and a large hill on the other. Quaint shops lined the road, signs of a sleepy tourist trade, and Mycroft pointed to a large, white-fronted building with an old fashioned sign hanging out front.
Greg parked on the street, peering up at the unmistakable sight of a 19th century-style inn.
"Don't underestimate the establishment by the look of the facade," Mycroft said as they got out. "It's exactly as old as you think it is, but the character is stunning. As is the food, as a matter of fact."
When they cleared the doors to the foyer Greg understood what Mycroft had been talking about. It was classically beautiful inside, a little bit Romanesque, a little bit Gothic, clearly renovated and toned down for modern tastes but still lovely. Greg had thought the building a simple one-up one-down shopfront, but instead the entire front covered the large foyer and a wide staircase which led a stately path up to the first floor. Presumably the rest of the inn spread left and right from this central staircase. It was huge.
Greg turned to look at Mycroft and found the man already watching him. "Wow," Greg said in undisguised amazement, and Mycroft appeared gratified.
"Wait until you taste the bisque," Mycroft said, flashing Greg a tiny smirk before leading him to a large dining room down the corridor on their left.
They spoke little as they got settled and put their drinks orders in. Greg was overly aware of the poshness of this place and felt a strong pull to gaze around them at the decor, but the idea of appearing overawed was repellent so he kept his eyes front. This meant that he was forced either to stare at his menu or at Mycroft.
While Greg felt a bit outclassed, Mycroft looked right at home. He sat up straight, neck long, poring over the menu like a lord. Which, as far as Greg was concerned, was as near the truth as made no difference. Greg sipped at his tonic water and tried not to feel like someone's country cousin.
"As I said, the seafood bisque is a delight, as is the salmon and grapefruit ceviche," said Mycroft, eyes on his menu.
Greg scanned down the row of starters to find anything that sounded vaguely familiar. "Bruschetta?" he said, looking up at Mycroft.
He received a small smile. "A simple choice, but delicious nonetheless."
"Some have said the same about me," Greg said to his menu, not expecting any response, but to his surprise Mycroft actually chuckled. He looked up to find an unfamiliar light dancing in Mycroft's eyes. Greg couldn't help but smile back.
"I doubt anyone calls you simple," Mycroft said.
"Not to my face." This made Mycroft chuckle again. Greg wasn't sure what was going on, and it made him internally squirm.
It took some rapid decision-making, but when the waiter came to take their order Greg was ready. He ordered the bruschetta and something with pork, and Mycroft went with the bisque and a chestnut-stuffed chicken monstrosity. He pointedly didn't flinch when Mycroft ordered their wine for them, however he was beginning to wonder how many meals of cheap risotto he was going to have to eat over the next month to justify paying for this. Splashing out on an expensive meal was not what he had in mind when he suggested this excursion. Then he looked up at Mycroft and realised he knew exactly who was going to be paying for this meal-this meal which he wouldn't be eating if Mycroft hadn't grabbed him by the metaphoric ear and dragged him across the country to play nursemaid.
The starters were excellent.
Lestrade wasn't sure how crusty bread and tomato managed to taste that good, and the spoonful of bisque was fantastic even if Lestrade didn't really enjoy seafood.
"...So I was outside the building waiting for my friend to be finished, knocking a football about," Greg was saying, "when this guy came pelting down the stairs and out onto the pavement. He pushed me down, and while I was getting up another guy came down yelling that the first guy had stolen something. So kicked the football at the guy's head and hit it, bang on. He stumbled and fell." Greg grinned. "One in a million chance. I didn't have to buy a round for weeks."
"Is that when you decided to become a police officer?" Mycroft said, finishing his bisque.
"No." Greg pulled a face that indicated that was laughable. "That's when I decided never ever to stop playing football."
Mycroft's mouth quirked. "Seems wise. You never know when it could come in handy."
"This is what I keep telling my teammates."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You have a team?"
"Yes. 'Team' sounds more official than, 'a group of people who get together and ruin themselves on the pitch every couple of weeks.'"
Mycroft gave Greg a small, insincere smile, and Greg suddenly wondered just how much of a bore he was being. He fumbled for a new subject just as the waiter brought their mains.
"So," he said, and cleared his throat. "Do you have an adventure story that happened at university?"
Mycroft talked while Greg started in on his meal. He tried the pork and was transported into another place, a world of earthly pleasure and meat and...nngh. It made his eyes roll back into his head. He made a noise in his throat that he just barely stifled, and Mycroft gave him a strange look.
"Sorry," Greg said, remembering his surroundings. "Go on." He'd vaguely been paying attention to the story; it was something about stealing the hat off some porter and how it made the rounds through a college. It didn't sound particularly like an adventure to Greg, but perhaps that was just a matter of definitions.
He tried to pay attention this time when Mycroft spoke. "So I finished delivering that poor man's hat and went back to my studio."
"I'm sorry," Greg cut in. "Your studio?" He couldn't for the life of him imagine what Mycroft was talking about. Had he missed something?
"Yes," Mycroft nodded, a note of amusement in his voice. "My art studio." Greg stared at Mycroft, dumbfounded. "Surely, Inspector, you don't imagine my brother is the only one with what our mother called, 'art in the blood'."
"I..." There seemed no diplomatic way to answer that. Luckily, he didn't have to. Mycroft just continued his explanation.
"I carved out time while I was at university to paint. It helped me think."
"Do I detect past tense?" Gregory ate a rogue bit of endive, which gave him a chance to chew and contemplate the amusing mental image of Mycroft in some sort of smock, painting still-lives of newspapers and leaded-glass brandy snifters and expensive pens.
"Alas," Mycroft said. "You do. I rarely have time to paint anymore."
"You should make time."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and Greg wondered if that might not have been a bit presumptuous. Who was he to suggest what Mycroft do with his time? As far as Greg knew, the entire world would fall to pieces if Mycroft took an afternoon off to paint.
To his surprise, Mycroft dipped his head in assent. "I probably should, yes." He frowned into midair. "I was indeed happier then."
Greg felt like he was intruding on this introspection, and tried to steer the conversation onto more familiar ground: needling a Holmes. "So, are you ever going to tell me what you're doing here in Dartmoor?"
Mycroft's eyes zeroed in on Greg's face, which would be alarming if he hadn't been terribly, dully inured to that sort of look. "As a matter of fact, Inspector, I am not."
Greg took a bite of his pork. "Fair enough." And he gave him a cheeky smile.
Mycroft blinked, a caricature of bemusement, then he wiped his mouth with very precise movements and stood. "If you'll pardon me a moment, I have a call to make."
Greg excused him with a nod and continued eating. He wouldn't be surprised to find that Mycroft's "call" was purely a contrivance to make Greg uncomfortable, but if so Mycroft was underestimating Greg's nerve. He was nearly finished with his meal by the time Mycroft returned.
"My apologies," Mycroft said.
"No problem."
"Where were we?"
"I was being nosy and you were trying to make me uncomfortable, if memory serves." Greg tamped down the smile quirking the corner of his mouth and went on before giving Mycroft a chance to respond. "So what's good for pudding?"
Mycroft, it turned out, was rather fond of a fruit tart, a fact which Greg was sure to laugh sophomorically over with John as soon as they were able. Greg ended up ordering a slice of walnut-encrusted chocolate cake that almost made the whole venture worthwhile.
"Well, Inspector, this was an unexpected pleasure. Thank you for the suggestion."
Greg looked up from his cake and wondered what Mycroft's game was. "I hope it justified your trip all the way out here to...?"
"Check up on things," said Mycroft, and ate a bit of tart.
"Of course," Greg said, and did not roll his eyes in the slightest.
When the bill came, he slid it across the table to Mycroft's elbow. "I have been home less than an hour in two-and-a-half weeks," he said. "You pulled me out here, and I don't even know why because you're out here too. So you can pay."
To Mycroft's credit, he betrayed not one lick of surprise. He smoothly took out his wallet. "Of course," he said. "That does seem equable. Thank you again for interrupting what I'm sure would be a most invigorating session of unpacking and laundering to come out to Dartmoor and roam around the moor in your own personal Blyton-esque adventure. That does sound most dull."
Greg was surprised Mycroft managed not to drip sarcasm on his tie. "As a matter of fact, I had been looking forward to some down time before I went back to work."
"Oh, Inspector. Surely you can mourn the death of your marriage in slow moments while hunting a ravaging animal across the English countryside."
Greg boggled, and then he fumed. "Excuse me? What do you know about it?"
"Enough." The diners at the tables around them cast Mycroft curious glances, but Mycroft ignored them. He lowered his voice. "I know enough."
"You don't get to bring up my wife. Ever."
"Ex-wife." Mycroft blazed quietly at Greg, and Greg stared at the muscle twitching in Mycroft's jaw. "Your idiot of an ex-wife, who cheated on you for nearly two years. With whom you went on holiday to sign the divorce papers. A rather foolish idea don't you think, Inspector? Trapped in an island resort with a woman who even then was having sex with one of the resort staff several cabins over? Futilely hoping she'd see the error of her ways and come back to you?"
Greg stood. "I'm done here." His heart raced, and his vision was starting to swim with fury. "Call your assistant," he said. "She can take you home." Greg walked out to his car, leaving Mycroft sitting at the table with the bill and his wallet and a complex expression on his face.
Greg had sat in his car for a good ten minutes, just trying to breathe and fighting to clear the red from the edges of his vision before he could drive off. Luckily Mycroft didn't appear, or the murderous rage was likely to rise his gorge again and Greg wasn't sure he'd be able to keep from tearing the insufferable, presumptive, arsehole limb from limb.
He took a deep breath as he put the car into gear. Simply leaving and heading back to London was an appealing idea, but his luggage was at the inn and, truth be told, a rebellious part of him really was looking forward to scrubbing himself clean of the hellish holiday with a good bit of detecting and a tromp through the woods.
Damn Mycroft. Damn the man.
A PC walked up to Lestrade as he bent by one of the flags SOCO had left. "Sir, there's a call from the Chief Super. He'd like you to call him back."
"Why didn't he just call my mobile?" He peered at her.
She shrugged and wandered off. "He didn't say, sir," her voice trailed back to him.
He stood with a grunt and snapped off one of his gloves so he could fish his phone out of his pocket. Twenty feet away, Sherlock was bending over to examine the trunk of a tree while John pretended he wasn't examining him. Business as usual, then.
The phone rang out only once before it was snatched up and a brisk male voice answered. "Ah, Greg. Good. I was just on the phone with Tracey. He says that the body belongs to the woman who was sent the ears last week?"
"Yeah. At this point we're treating it as a related inquiry."
"Good. Listen, there's a reason I told Tracey to have you phone me. We've just had a call in. I know this sounds odd, but there will be a car to pick you up in a few minutes and take you to a meeting at Whitehall." There was a distinct sinking feeling in Greg's stomach. "I've tried to explain that you're in the middle of a case, but apparently the case is why you're being sent to this meeting, so..."
"Don't worry about it, sir." Greg sighed. "I suspect I know exactly what this is about."
As soon as he stood at the trailhead to wait for the car, he dialled Mycroft. "Why are you doing this?"
"I don't know what you mean, Inspector."
"The hell you don't. Explain to me why I'm being sent away from my own damn crime scene just to report to you."
"Because my brother won't do it."
The black car pulled up and the driver opened the door. "I'm sorry," Greg said, "but that's not a good enough reason for me."
"Then why are you getting into the car?"
Greg scowled at the driver as he closed Greg's door and walked around the front of the car to get back behind the wheel. "You've won this round, Mycroft. But you'd better have a pot of tea waiting. I've been out in the woods for the better part of the morning."
"With Garibaldis?"
Greg huffed at him.
Mycroft sounded smugly cheerful as he said, "I will see you in twenty minutes, Inspector."
It wasn't the first time by a long shot that Greg had been to Mycroft's office-his real office, not the official one in Whitehall-but it never ceased to impress him. On its face, it was a nondescript office building several streets away. But inside was all Mycroft's: the heart of his own little empire, the place where his army of assistants and un-spies and security staff surveilled and evaluated and created elaborate reports. Greg didn't really know exactly what they did, but he wasn't stupid, and he sure as hell wasn't unobservant.
As usual, he stepped into the lift in the deceptively-empty foyer, and it immediately took him to the proper floor. Every time he visited Greg tried to discern just to what floor the lift took him, but he could never quite decide. Was it the third? Or the fourth? There were no lights or buttons on the elevator that indicated, only one menacing button with a label that specified it was to be pressed only in case of life-threatening emergencies. Lestrade leaned back and stared at the mirrored wall and caught himself posing as a fine specimen of a human male for whomever was watching the security camera behind the mirror.
When the door slid open, Greg stepped into a small corridor that led to the outer office.
"Good..." The assistant's eyes flicked to the clock at the corner of her monitor and back to whatever she was typing. "...afternoon," she said.
Greg looked at his watch. 12:03. "Technically afternoon, yes, I suppose. But I'm not really inclined to agree that it's a good one," he said, and thought he caught a hint of a smirk at the corner of her well-formed mouth.
"Mr. Holmes is expecting you. Please have a seat."
Mycroft was going to make him wait, now? Out here in the uncomfortable silence, being ignored by a pretty young woman and several awkwardly-placed-yet-well-tended pot plants? Greg sat and propped his hands on his knees, then blew out a breath. A wave of lethargy hit; he really hadn't been sleeping well, and it was beginning to catch up to him. There was a beep from the phone on the assistant's desk, and after she picked it and listened she put it right back down again without saying a word.
"He's ready to see you now," she said, and Greg sighed internally. This all felt decidedly like Mycroft demonstrating his control over the situation. Greg got the picture.
By the time Greg was sat in front of Mycroft's large and lacquered desk, he'd already had enough of the smug git's face. He looked down at the array of biscuits and tea set in front of him. "Why do you always think you can bribe me with food?"
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Can't I?"
"No."
"Then with what shall I bribe you?"
Greg rolled his eyes, unwilling to mask his annoyance. "Listen, Mycroft, this isn't how it works. You don't get to use me as an emissary between you and your brother. Stop being children."
"Inspector, if you did not volunteer to intervene, he would have made your life difficult throughout the..." Mycroft tipped open a folder from his desk and scanned it. "...Vinelli case. Don't you agree?"
Sitting back in his chair, Greg folded his arms and peered at him. "If I don't comply, you don't get his help."
Mycroft quirked his head and stared evenly at him. "That is true."
"So perhaps you ought to treat me a little better. I could walk any time. You think I'm afraid of Sherlock in a sulky fit? Who do you think picked up the pieces after the case with the cryptogryphs? Who do you think talked him down because he didn't translate the dancing men correctly? Who kept him from relapse?" Greg hadn't moved. He delivered this entire screed reclined back in his chair, holding Mycroft's gaze.
"You did. Of course you did, Inspector. Why do you suppose I continue to ask for your assistance?"
"Because you like having me as a whipping boy."
"Trust me, Inspector Lestrade. If I wanted you for my whipping boy you would know it."
Long seconds ticked over as they stared at each other. Greg staunchly refused to squirm. Then there was a brief twitch in Mycroft's eye, and Greg relaxed.
"Well," he said. "Perhaps we should get on with it?" Greg raised his eyebrows at Mycroft, who nodded briefly and pressed a button on his phone.
"Please send in those files."
After a few moments, the attractive assistant entered and handed Greg a folder which showed that the corpse in the woods, Susan Bishop, worked within Mycroft's organisation in an uncertain capacity. Many of the paragraphs were blacked out with marker pen.
"So you see," Mycroft said, "I'd appreciate being kept current on the investigation."
"It's an active investigation. Even as her employer, you don't have the right to-"
"Oh, I'm not sure that term adequately categorises our relationship." Greg's head snapped up. Was Mycroft saying they two had been... "No no," Mycroft said, looking a bit disappointed at Greg's assumption. "The relationships formed within my organisation often transgress across traditional and expected boundaries, but not in that...manner." There was a look of distaste on his face. "I cannot explain why, but you must trust me."
"I don't trust you."
Mycroft pinned him with a glance. "I am aware of that, Inspector."
"What makes you think I'm going to, then?"
"Amy Richards."
Greg blinked. How did Mycroft-oh, of course. "That's in my file?"
"Not your official file, no. But the one I have, yes."
Amy been a brilliant young PC, sharp as a tack, going places, and Greg had operated as her mentor and her support, being almost fatherly in his interactions. She had been killed in the line almost five years ago, but Greg still remembered how much it had devastated him to have someone who held much of his hope and care cut down so young and in such a brutal way. Was it possible the corpse in the woods was Mycroft's Amy?
No. Mycroft? Impossible.
"So how do you know about Amy, then?"
"More tea?"
Mycroft wanted to play it this way? Fine. "I really need to get back to the crime scene."
"Sherlock will be long gone by now."
"...You do know I have other duties than caretaking your brother?"
"Yes. I do." Mycroft was staring at Greg with a steely gaze.
Greg huffed out a laugh. "Why do I get the feeling you know more about what I do than any civilian ought to?"
"That's assuming I'm a civilian."
Greg held up a hand. "I don't...want...to know."
Mycroft broke the tension by getting up and peering out the window. "That's a relief to me, since I couldn't tell you regardless."
"Or you'd have to kill me?"
"No no, Inspector." He turned around. A trace of humour quirked Mycroft's mouth. "Or I'd have to have you killed."
"I appreciate the distinction."
"That's something I appreciate about you."
"I'm glad to know there's something."
"Please," Mycroft said. "Do not underestimate me."
"How could anyone? You never give them a chance."
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "Because I show them exactly what I'm capable of?"
Greg looked around at the pristine and spacious office set in an edifice which seemed more like a well-dressed fortress than any listed building described as such. "Yes," he said. "You make your capabilities perfectly clear."
"Good. That's good." Mycroft gave Greg a wan smile, and they just looked at each other for a moment.
Greg sighed. "Fine. I'll keep you up-to-date on the case. But don't tell anyone I'm doing it," he pointed. "Don't get me in trouble."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Inspector."
With the fact that Susan Bishop had worked for Mycroft, Greg had been expecting the case to involve twelve governmental agencies, a cover-up, and probably a secret lab somewhere. However, it turned out to be a simple matter of revenge and passion and anger, and the expression on Mycroft's face when Greg reported this was...complex. They were sat at opposite sides of Mycroft's desk once again, and Greg had been talking so long the tea had gone cold.
"So the ears had been meant for her sister," Mycroft said.
"Yes. It was all a case of mistaken identity."
Greg watched the curious sight of Mycroft slumping in his chair and scrubbing a trembling hand over his features for a moment. He felt as if he were intruding on something private, something he wasn't meant to see.
"You know what it's like, Inspector. To be given that sort of gift, for someone to... It's more than emulation. It's..." Pain flashed over Mycroft's face, and though he'd tried to conceal it by looking down at his desk, it was plain as day to Greg. He didn't quite know how to respond to this. It was more than a little unnerving.
So he simply said, "Yes. I know what it's like."
Mycroft sighed, and it looked as if he was putting all his pieces back together, bit by bit, reassembling himself into the stark and gracefully dangerous man Greg had always known. Mycroft looked up at Greg. "Thank you, Inspector."
"For?"
"Understanding."
Greg swallowed. "You're, er. You're welcome."
Mycroft pressed his mouth into a line. "I also believe I owe you an apology."
"Do you."
"Yes." Mycroft looked out the window. "I believe I was a bit brusque when we were at the restaurant outside Dartmoor."
Oh. "Brusque is not exactly the word I would use."
"What would be more appropriate?"
"You were an arsehole, Mycroft."
Mycroft's mouth twitched. "I think that's probably true." He turned to Greg again. "Will you accept my apology?"
There were many things that differentiated the Holmes brothers, and this appeared to be one of them. "I suppose. You owe me, though."
Mycroft blinked at him. "Do I."
"Yep."
"The fact that I was forced to make my own way back to the inn is..."
"Doesn't matter. You were an arsehole, and you owe me." Who knows. This could be fun, having Mycroft owe him a favour. And besides that, the words he'd thrown out about Greg's (ex)wife still stung, flying round and round in his head like angry bees. Even now as he thought about them he became angry again.
"Very well. I owe you for my indiscretion at the restaurant," Mycroft said, and Greg was suddenly sick of the sight of him.
He drank a mouthful of cold tea. "Apology accepted," Greg said, and used the excuse of paperwork to get out of there soon after.
"Sherlock is working on something," Greg said into his mobile as he sat in his car. Rain pelted down onto the roof and made it difficult to hear. He thumbed the volume control.
"I have no doubt. He is often working on something," Mycroft's smooth voice said over the line.
"It's related to this case," Greg said. "I know it. He's withholding information again."
"Why don't you use your usual chicanery to get the information from him?" Mycroft said sardonically.
Greg bristled. "Like you're one to talk. My methods don't involve spies."
"Nor do mine."
"Well that's utter bullshit, Mycroft. Do you think I'm an idiot? Oh never mind, of course you do."
"I do not, Inspector. I'm simply objecting to the terminology."
Greg snorted. "Listen, can you just get him to tell me what's going on?"
"Why don't you ask John?"
"My powers of kidnapping aren't nearly as good as yours."
"I do not kidnap."
"Objecting to terms again?"
"John refused to tell you too, didn't he?"
"Of course he fucking did. Of the two of us, which one do you think has more of John's loyalty?"
"I know precisely how much loyalty John has toward my brother."
"Because of your spies?"
There was silence for a moment. "No," Mycroft said, then cleared his throat. "There will be a car over the road in two minutes, Inspector. Do be ready for it."
"I'm always amused when your kidnapping involves a warning. Glad, don't get me wrong. But amused."
"Please be there," Mycroft said. "I don't like to be kept waiting." Then he rang off.
True to his word, the black car pulled up to the kerb two minutes later. When the driver opened the door, Greg slid in and was shocked to find Mycroft sitting there instead of one of his assistants. Mycroft took in Greg's dripping hair and rain-spattered jacket, and raised an eyebrow.
"Not everybody carries a damn umbrella everywhere they go, Mycroft."
"Surely you had one in your car."
"I didn't want to be bothered with it for a twenty second walk over the road." He was so annoyed he didn't even register that the car was moving.
"And you didn't feel waiting under an overhang was prudent?"
"Jesus christ, Mycroft, just... Leave it alone, will you? What the hell do you care?"
Mycroft flashed a disapproving scowl, but thankfully changed the subject. "You wish to know about the case my brother is investigating."
Greg wanted to roll his eyes at the theatrics. "Yes, Mycroft, that's why I'm here."
Mycroft settled back against the seat, then reached into his jacket to retrieve a handkerchief. He handed it across to Greg, who snagged it to dry his face. He finished, then scrubbed it across his hair as Mycroft continued. "The case involves a senior minister and a very secret, potentially-dangerous document which has disappeared from his home. If word spreads that the document is missing, or worse, the contents of the document come to be known, it could cause widespread war. This is a very, very important document."
"So am I right? That has to do with the Lucas murder?"
"I do not know, Inspector. I suspect so, but I am not in possession of all the facts."
Greg furrowed his brow. "Why are you telling me this, then?"
"I am hoping you might easier find the document if both of you have as much information as possible."
"You really want this document to be found, don't you?"
Mycroft's face was a blank. "Desperately."
"War, huh?"
"Indeed."
"And you wouldn't be exaggerating for effect, would you?"
"Not in this, no."
Which indicated that other times he did."Fine." Greg blew out a breath. "Okay. No pressure."
"A great deal of pressure, as a matter of fact."
Greg rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mycroft, I know. I was being sarcastic."
"I am simply underlining the importance of this situation."
The world out the window was wet, dim, and nowhere near where they started. "Wait. Where the hell are we?"
"I wish you success, Inspector."
"Mycroft, my car is how far away?!"
"Perhaps you might continue your queries at number eleven on this street."
"Mycroft you insufferable prat."
"Have a nice day, Inspector."
Greg scowled at him. "I cannot believe you."
"Would you like to borrow my umbrella?"
"Would I like to- You know what? Yes. Give me the damn thing." Greg pitched the sodden handkerchief at Mycroft and was pleased when it splatted on his nice, pristine trousers, then he snatched up the umbrella from where it had fallen sideways onto the floor. The car pulled up to the kerb and Greg pushed out before the driver could open the door for him. "Thanks but no thanks, Mycroft," Greg said, and snapped open the umbrella. "You still owe me a favour."
"I relish it," Mycroft said, and Greg slammed the door in his smug face. He looked around at his surroundings and scowled. Bastard. Fucking bastard.
Greg walked down the road to number eleven.
Mycroft was right. Which made it all the worse that one of his PCs could be turned by a pretty face and was now facing disciplinary action, and that a second smuggler went down before they found the document-in the clutches of the minister's wife, who had been spying for Georgia before emigrating to the States, and who had been planning to use the document as leverage to keep her family safe from a gang of Russian Mafia who had discovered her identity and were threatening blackmail and murder.
When Greg reported this over tea a few days later, Mycroft didn't look as relieved as Greg had expected. In fact, he looked worried.
"What?" Greg asked.
Mycroft shook his head slightly. "Nothing, Inspector. Everything is fine."
"You're worried about the Russia angle, aren't you."
For a moment Mycroft didn't answer, and Greg hadn't expected him to. But then, to Greg's shock, Mycroft twitched a nod. "This complicates things in a way I cannot explain, I'm afraid." He gave Greg a weak smile. "But thank you, Inspector."
"Out of the frying pan into the fire?"
Mycroft shrugged with one eyebrow and a tilt of his head. "It could be. Solve one problem and another arises." He stared into the middle distance for a moment, then blinked back to the present. He looked at Greg. "Thank you," he said, then stood. "I need to make a few phone calls. You can see yourself out?" And without waiting for a response Mycroft walked out of his own office, leaving Greg sitting there confused and just a little bit worried.
If Mycroft, the picture of implacability, looked concerned about something, who knew how deep the trouble truly ran?
Greg scoured the papers for a few days, looking for clues. He saw very little until midway into the next week, when there was a small sidebar about a Russian ambassador and a Palestinian leader that had Mycroft's fingerprints all over it. Greg ate his cereal and chewed thoughtfully before putting on his trainers and heading out to the municipal field.
An hour later, his team were making a pathetic push across the pitch when a familiar sleek black car pulled up to the kerb.
"Hold up, guys," he said, letting Cordoba and Kirkpatrick defend their side against the other three for a little while. No one was dedicated for goal this afternoon, and both the teams' scores showed it. Greg was glad to take a break from the beating as he trotted over to the side of the field, wiping sweat from his brow with the shoulder of his t-shirt.
Mycroft Holmes stepped out of the car, looking tall and cool and not-at-all-sweaty in a pale grey suit, and Greg felt suddenly like a dirty potato just pulled from the ground. He surreptitiously wiped his hand on his shorts and extended it as he crossed the last ten feet. "Was that your handiwork I saw in the papers this morning?" he said.
Mycroft took Greg's hand and, yes, it was just as dry and cool as he was. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."
Greg snorted, and shoved his fists in his pockets. Why had he just shaken hands with the man? "I'm going to take that as a yes."
If he hadn't been playing close attention, he'd have missed the twitch at the corner of Mycroft's mouth. "Inspector, I have a case I'd like you to look at."
Greg quirked his head. "You know that's not how it works. I've explained this. You need to talk to the Chief Superintendent."
"I'm talking to you," Mycroft said, a pointed eyebrow raised in his direction. Greg would have been uncomfortable if it hadn't already become a familiar expression.
"And I'm saying that I can't just investigate whatever case I pick up during a game of football. I have accountability."
Mycroft's eyes scrubbed over the field, Greg's coworkers, and then Greg himself: the sweat, the dirt, the graze on his knee from when Barrad had turfed him. Greg fought to remain still under the scrutiny.
Apparently he passed muster because when Mycroft's eyes finally met his again, they were filled with a strange light. "Very well," Mycroft said, capitulating far more easily than Greg would have expected; he had thought he'd have to fight it out far longer than this. "I will speak to Pitts this afternoon." He turned, and Greg was hit with a delicious smell: clean cotton and aftershave and cologne, subtle enough not to be noticed unless Mycroft's suit coat hadn't wafted it in his direction. He smelled amazing. A thrum of desire blazed in Greg's gut for a moment before he remembered his circumstances and just who the hell this man was, and that shock of realisation was like a cold shower. He stepped back and watched Mycroft retreat to his car, noting the way Mycroft was making a fist and then opening it repeatedly as he made his way back. He was probably trying to restrain himself from physically making Greg get in the car and take the case, Greg thought. Good. It was satisfying to make a Holmes go through the normal channels for once, and as Mycroft drove off again and Greg walked back to his game, a peculiar curl of happiness sat in his gut. Good.
Greg understood why Mycroft had wanted him to take the case, but couldn't understand why he'd initially wanted to use the back channels to do it. Unless...
"Did you know Milverton?" Greg asked, watching the man being wheeled out in a body bag. Perhaps Mycroft thought Greg had missed him startle at the question, but Greg knew he was not an idiot, no matter what the Holmes brothers thought.
Mycroft very nearly preened next to him, settling his ruffled feathers. "Milverton was nothing but a petty blackmailer," Mycroft said. Greg made a quiet noise in assent and watched Sherlock across the way gesticulating to one of the PCs, wondering to himself just how much of Milverton's information Sherlock had stolen or destroyed before he'd called in backup. Greg supposed he should at least ask, but he'd do it later. After fewer people were in earshot, at least. Someday one of these arseholes was going to cost Greg his job-he was sure of it.
"I took your advice," Mycroft said smoothly next to him. Greg's brain spun as he tried to fit the sentence in with their conversation, but came up empty.
"What advice?"
Mycroft turned to him. "I've started painting again."
Greg looked at him in shock. "I thought you were just...I don't know. Placating me."
"I was not," Mycroft said, amused. "I've set up one of the spare rooms as a studio. You were right. It is most...effective."
"Effective?"
"For thinking. I've completed two paintings already, in the evenings."
Greg blinked and spoke before he had time to think it through and quell his curiosity. "I want to see."
The pleasure that spread across Mycroft's face was gratifying, however, and he didn't seem to be annoyed at all at Greg's boldness. "Perhaps you will. Some day."
Greg peered at him. "Good."
"Excellent," Mycroft said, looking a bit smug as he turned forward again to watch Sherlock bully one of the paramedics, and Greg took that as an excuse to break from the conversation to help John step in and prevent the second murder that night.
Opposition Party - Part 2
Recipient: kedgeree11
Author: mydwynter
Characters and/or pairings: Greg Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes
Rating: Explicit
Warnings, kinks & contents: Spoilers for Hound, slightly unreliable narrator, mild abuse of power; ACD canon references, first time, frottage, references to exhibitionism and semen play.
Length: 22,209
Author's note: For Kedgeree11, who I hope won't be sad to recieve a substantial first-time story with snarkiness and sexytimes. Thank you to Mazarin221B for the quick beta and for putting up with my affection for in-character Mystrade.
Summary: "Well. I'm flattered and insulted. Just another afternoon with Mycroft Holmes."
"I do so like to be consistent."
There were any number of reasons why this was a terrible idea-not the least of which was that Mycroft seemed to think that making Greg angry amounted to a sort of charm.
I need you to go on holiday.'
Greg Lestrade sighed and scrubbed his hand across his eyes. He looked wistfully at the luggage full of dirty clothing he'd set down on the floor of his new flat to answer his mobile. "Hello to you too, Mycroft. How's things?"
"Inspector, this is important. I need you to go to Dartmoor."
"Dartmoor?" Greg pulled a face. "Why the hell do you need me to go to Dartmoor? No wait-I know exactly why you need me to go to Dartmoor."
"Yes, I'm afraid Sherlock is making friends with the locals as usual, and I'd appreciate your supervision."
"I'm not your brother's keeper, Mycroft."
"No, but your bonhomie with the local constabulary might be beneficial for this situation. Give them the 'Lestrade charm', I believe you might say?"
Greg sighed again. "Leave it to you to make what should be a compliment into something...garish. Fine, Mycroft, I'll go. Where and when?"
"I'll have my assistant text the details to your phone. Thank you, Inspector. I do so appreciate it."
"Right. Yes, sure, whatever. Goodbye, Mycroft."
Mycroft rang off and Greg stood there holding his mobile in his hand wearily. He'd just walked in the door. And he was never going to get used to the flat at this rate; he hadn't even finished unpacking yet. Greg threw himself full length on the sofa and placed his mobile on his sternum to wait for the text. This was going to be a very long night.
Greg grinned into the bright Devonshire sunshine. It was good to get London out of your lungs, but it was also good to get free of the bitterness of the holiday; the south of France was, as usual, a lovely place to visit, but it was certainly better without the end of his marriage hanging over his head. The plan for him and his (ex)wife to sign their divorce papers on holiday, to wash themselves clean of their marriage in the sea, had been a good one in theory but horrific in practise. He suspected his wife had been messing about with at least two of the resort staff by the end of it. The quicker he got used to the idea of being alone, the better off he'd be; thus, this second holiday and his inability to say no to bloody Mycroft Holmes when he sent Greg on a chase to babysit his younger brother.
He left the boys to it back at the pub and wandered around the building, spying a map posted with the local hillwalking features. He stood idly in front of it, not really reading.
"A trek through the wilderness doesn't seem quite up your street," said a familiar voice behind him. Greg spun in astonishment to see Mycroft Holmes himself standing there, cool and looking almost unrecognisable in a blue blazer and pristine white trousers. "If you don't mind me saying."
Greg closed his jaw before he caught flies in it. "What are you doing here?" He realised, belatedly, that he sounded a bit too much like Sherlock for comfort.
"Oh, just...checking in." Mycroft waved a hand lazily, as if it were the commonest thing of all for him to put on casual-wear and be there personally. The closest to it Greg had ever experienced was being kidnapped halfway through a case to explain something. Perhaps this was a strange version of that.
Greg looked at Mycroft dubiously. "Checking in, hmm?"
"How is my brother doing, anyway?" Mycroft cast his eye about as if he didn't know exactly where his brother at any given moment, ever. It was one if Mycroft's creepiest qualities. Oh, let's be reasonable, Greg thought to himself: it was Mycroft's creepiest quality. The rest could be chalked up to some public-school-public-servant affectation that made Mycroft not seem to approve of any of your choices without specifically indicating which made him smile that wan, tight-lipped smile the least. Greg had known Mycroft for years, and didn't once think he'd seen his genuine smile.
He decided to play along with whatever Mycroft's game was. "He seems to be fine. Didn't know my name is Greg. Or he deleted it." Greg rolled his eyes.
"Yes, my brother can be very forgetful when it comes to the details of his friends' lives."
"Friends?"
"It can be most tiresome."
Greg wanted to roll his eyes. "Whereas you don't forget a thing."
Mycroft pinned him with a look. It felt shockingly intimate. "Naturally."
Greg found it was difficult to look away, but eventually he managed to. "Mycroft, what are you really doing here?"
"As I said," Mycroft replied, raising an eyebrow. "I'm merely checking in."
This was ridiculous. "I have never known you to leave your office or club unless it's to go home," Greg said. "Or to go annoy your brother. So I can only assume this is a more extreme version of the latter. I just can't tell why you dragged me into this."
"Did I drag you into this?" Mycroft asked. This time both eyebrows went up.
Greg sighed. "That's it. I need my tea." He walked toward the car park. "Are you coming?"
He heard more than saw Mycroft splutter and follow him. "Inspector-"
"If we stay here your brother is going to see you, and I know you don't want that. I figured your next move was to whisk me off somewhere, so I'm just heading that off at the pass."
He glanced sideways during Mycroft's shocked silence and smothered his own amusement. "Come on," he said as he unlocked his car. "Get in, I'm starved."
Mycroft looked very out of place in Greg's practical, mid-sized sedan. He took up more space than a weedy toff ought to, his head nearly reaching the ceiling, and he looked so uncomfortable sitting there buckled in safely with the seat pushed all the way back that Greg actually chuckled. He snuck a peek at Mycroft from the corner of his eye as he pulled out of the carpark. "Which way?" he said. "I bet you know a good restaurant around here. You know everything."
"As flattering as that is, Inspector, I don't-oh. Well. There is a lovely little establishment which operates as an adjunct to a hotel I've visited in the past. That should suffice."
Greg chuckled. Of course Mycroft knew a place.
Mycroft directed them for about ten awkward minutes before they drove into an idyllic hamlet tucked up against a woodland on one side and a large hill on the other. Quaint shops lined the road, signs of a sleepy tourist trade, and Mycroft pointed to a large, white-fronted building with an old fashioned sign hanging out front.
Greg parked on the street, peering up at the unmistakable sight of a 19th century-style inn.
"Don't underestimate the establishment by the look of the facade," Mycroft said as they got out. "It's exactly as old as you think it is, but the character is stunning. As is the food, as a matter of fact."
When they cleared the doors to the foyer Greg understood what Mycroft had been talking about. It was classically beautiful inside, a little bit Romanesque, a little bit Gothic, clearly renovated and toned down for modern tastes but still lovely. Greg had thought the building a simple one-up one-down shopfront, but instead the entire front covered the large foyer and a wide staircase which led a stately path up to the first floor. Presumably the rest of the inn spread left and right from this central staircase. It was huge.
Greg turned to look at Mycroft and found the man already watching him. "Wow," Greg said in undisguised amazement, and Mycroft appeared gratified.
"Wait until you taste the bisque," Mycroft said, flashing Greg a tiny smirk before leading him to a large dining room down the corridor on their left.
They spoke little as they got settled and put their drinks orders in. Greg was overly aware of the poshness of this place and felt a strong pull to gaze around them at the decor, but the idea of appearing overawed was repellent so he kept his eyes front. This meant that he was forced either to stare at his menu or at Mycroft.
While Greg felt a bit outclassed, Mycroft looked right at home. He sat up straight, neck long, poring over the menu like a lord. Which, as far as Greg was concerned, was as near the truth as made no difference. Greg sipped at his tonic water and tried not to feel like someone's country cousin.
"As I said, the seafood bisque is a delight, as is the salmon and grapefruit ceviche," said Mycroft, eyes on his menu.
Greg scanned down the row of starters to find anything that sounded vaguely familiar. "Bruschetta?" he said, looking up at Mycroft.
He received a small smile. "A simple choice, but delicious nonetheless."
"Some have said the same about me," Greg said to his menu, not expecting any response, but to his surprise Mycroft actually chuckled. He looked up to find an unfamiliar light dancing in Mycroft's eyes. Greg couldn't help but smile back.
"I doubt anyone calls you simple," Mycroft said.
"Not to my face." This made Mycroft chuckle again. Greg wasn't sure what was going on, and it made him internally squirm.
It took some rapid decision-making, but when the waiter came to take their order Greg was ready. He ordered the bruschetta and something with pork, and Mycroft went with the bisque and a chestnut-stuffed chicken monstrosity. He pointedly didn't flinch when Mycroft ordered their wine for them, however he was beginning to wonder how many meals of cheap risotto he was going to have to eat over the next month to justify paying for this. Splashing out on an expensive meal was not what he had in mind when he suggested this excursion. Then he looked up at Mycroft and realised he knew exactly who was going to be paying for this meal-this meal which he wouldn't be eating if Mycroft hadn't grabbed him by the metaphoric ear and dragged him across the country to play nursemaid.
The starters were excellent.
Lestrade wasn't sure how crusty bread and tomato managed to taste that good, and the spoonful of bisque was fantastic even if Lestrade didn't really enjoy seafood.
"...So I was outside the building waiting for my friend to be finished, knocking a football about," Greg was saying, "when this guy came pelting down the stairs and out onto the pavement. He pushed me down, and while I was getting up another guy came down yelling that the first guy had stolen something. So kicked the football at the guy's head and hit it, bang on. He stumbled and fell." Greg grinned. "One in a million chance. I didn't have to buy a round for weeks."
"Is that when you decided to become a police officer?" Mycroft said, finishing his bisque.
"No." Greg pulled a face that indicated that was laughable. "That's when I decided never ever to stop playing football."
Mycroft's mouth quirked. "Seems wise. You never know when it could come in handy."
"This is what I keep telling my teammates."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You have a team?"
"Yes. 'Team' sounds more official than, 'a group of people who get together and ruin themselves on the pitch every couple of weeks.'"
Mycroft gave Greg a small, insincere smile, and Greg suddenly wondered just how much of a bore he was being. He fumbled for a new subject just as the waiter brought their mains.
"So," he said, and cleared his throat. "Do you have an adventure story that happened at university?"
Mycroft talked while Greg started in on his meal. He tried the pork and was transported into another place, a world of earthly pleasure and meat and...nngh. It made his eyes roll back into his head. He made a noise in his throat that he just barely stifled, and Mycroft gave him a strange look.
"Sorry," Greg said, remembering his surroundings. "Go on." He'd vaguely been paying attention to the story; it was something about stealing the hat off some porter and how it made the rounds through a college. It didn't sound particularly like an adventure to Greg, but perhaps that was just a matter of definitions.
He tried to pay attention this time when Mycroft spoke. "So I finished delivering that poor man's hat and went back to my studio."
"I'm sorry," Greg cut in. "Your studio?" He couldn't for the life of him imagine what Mycroft was talking about. Had he missed something?
"Yes," Mycroft nodded, a note of amusement in his voice. "My art studio." Greg stared at Mycroft, dumbfounded. "Surely, Inspector, you don't imagine my brother is the only one with what our mother called, 'art in the blood'."
"I..." There seemed no diplomatic way to answer that. Luckily, he didn't have to. Mycroft just continued his explanation.
"I carved out time while I was at university to paint. It helped me think."
"Do I detect past tense?" Gregory ate a rogue bit of endive, which gave him a chance to chew and contemplate the amusing mental image of Mycroft in some sort of smock, painting still-lives of newspapers and leaded-glass brandy snifters and expensive pens.
"Alas," Mycroft said. "You do. I rarely have time to paint anymore."
"You should make time."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and Greg wondered if that might not have been a bit presumptuous. Who was he to suggest what Mycroft do with his time? As far as Greg knew, the entire world would fall to pieces if Mycroft took an afternoon off to paint.
To his surprise, Mycroft dipped his head in assent. "I probably should, yes." He frowned into midair. "I was indeed happier then."
Greg felt like he was intruding on this introspection, and tried to steer the conversation onto more familiar ground: needling a Holmes. "So, are you ever going to tell me what you're doing here in Dartmoor?"
Mycroft's eyes zeroed in on Greg's face, which would be alarming if he hadn't been terribly, dully inured to that sort of look. "As a matter of fact, Inspector, I am not."
Greg took a bite of his pork. "Fair enough." And he gave him a cheeky smile.
Mycroft blinked, a caricature of bemusement, then he wiped his mouth with very precise movements and stood. "If you'll pardon me a moment, I have a call to make."
Greg excused him with a nod and continued eating. He wouldn't be surprised to find that Mycroft's "call" was purely a contrivance to make Greg uncomfortable, but if so Mycroft was underestimating Greg's nerve. He was nearly finished with his meal by the time Mycroft returned.
"My apologies," Mycroft said.
"No problem."
"Where were we?"
"I was being nosy and you were trying to make me uncomfortable, if memory serves." Greg tamped down the smile quirking the corner of his mouth and went on before giving Mycroft a chance to respond. "So what's good for pudding?"
Mycroft, it turned out, was rather fond of a fruit tart, a fact which Greg was sure to laugh sophomorically over with John as soon as they were able. Greg ended up ordering a slice of walnut-encrusted chocolate cake that almost made the whole venture worthwhile.
"Well, Inspector, this was an unexpected pleasure. Thank you for the suggestion."
Greg looked up from his cake and wondered what Mycroft's game was. "I hope it justified your trip all the way out here to...?"
"Check up on things," said Mycroft, and ate a bit of tart.
"Of course," Greg said, and did not roll his eyes in the slightest.
When the bill came, he slid it across the table to Mycroft's elbow. "I have been home less than an hour in two-and-a-half weeks," he said. "You pulled me out here, and I don't even know why because you're out here too. So you can pay."
To Mycroft's credit, he betrayed not one lick of surprise. He smoothly took out his wallet. "Of course," he said. "That does seem equable. Thank you again for interrupting what I'm sure would be a most invigorating session of unpacking and laundering to come out to Dartmoor and roam around the moor in your own personal Blyton-esque adventure. That does sound most dull."
Greg was surprised Mycroft managed not to drip sarcasm on his tie. "As a matter of fact, I had been looking forward to some down time before I went back to work."
"Oh, Inspector. Surely you can mourn the death of your marriage in slow moments while hunting a ravaging animal across the English countryside."
Greg boggled, and then he fumed. "Excuse me? What do you know about it?"
"Enough." The diners at the tables around them cast Mycroft curious glances, but Mycroft ignored them. He lowered his voice. "I know enough."
"You don't get to bring up my wife. Ever."
"Ex-wife." Mycroft blazed quietly at Greg, and Greg stared at the muscle twitching in Mycroft's jaw. "Your idiot of an ex-wife, who cheated on you for nearly two years. With whom you went on holiday to sign the divorce papers. A rather foolish idea don't you think, Inspector? Trapped in an island resort with a woman who even then was having sex with one of the resort staff several cabins over? Futilely hoping she'd see the error of her ways and come back to you?"
Greg stood. "I'm done here." His heart raced, and his vision was starting to swim with fury. "Call your assistant," he said. "She can take you home." Greg walked out to his car, leaving Mycroft sitting at the table with the bill and his wallet and a complex expression on his face.
Greg had sat in his car for a good ten minutes, just trying to breathe and fighting to clear the red from the edges of his vision before he could drive off. Luckily Mycroft didn't appear, or the murderous rage was likely to rise his gorge again and Greg wasn't sure he'd be able to keep from tearing the insufferable, presumptive, arsehole limb from limb.
He took a deep breath as he put the car into gear. Simply leaving and heading back to London was an appealing idea, but his luggage was at the inn and, truth be told, a rebellious part of him really was looking forward to scrubbing himself clean of the hellish holiday with a good bit of detecting and a tromp through the woods.
Damn Mycroft. Damn the man.
A PC walked up to Lestrade as he bent by one of the flags SOCO had left. "Sir, there's a call from the Chief Super. He'd like you to call him back."
"Why didn't he just call my mobile?" He peered at her.
She shrugged and wandered off. "He didn't say, sir," her voice trailed back to him.
He stood with a grunt and snapped off one of his gloves so he could fish his phone out of his pocket. Twenty feet away, Sherlock was bending over to examine the trunk of a tree while John pretended he wasn't examining him. Business as usual, then.
The phone rang out only once before it was snatched up and a brisk male voice answered. "Ah, Greg. Good. I was just on the phone with Tracey. He says that the body belongs to the woman who was sent the ears last week?"
"Yeah. At this point we're treating it as a related inquiry."
"Good. Listen, there's a reason I told Tracey to have you phone me. We've just had a call in. I know this sounds odd, but there will be a car to pick you up in a few minutes and take you to a meeting at Whitehall." There was a distinct sinking feeling in Greg's stomach. "I've tried to explain that you're in the middle of a case, but apparently the case is why you're being sent to this meeting, so..."
"Don't worry about it, sir." Greg sighed. "I suspect I know exactly what this is about."
As soon as he stood at the trailhead to wait for the car, he dialled Mycroft. "Why are you doing this?"
"I don't know what you mean, Inspector."
"The hell you don't. Explain to me why I'm being sent away from my own damn crime scene just to report to you."
"Because my brother won't do it."
The black car pulled up and the driver opened the door. "I'm sorry," Greg said, "but that's not a good enough reason for me."
"Then why are you getting into the car?"
Greg scowled at the driver as he closed Greg's door and walked around the front of the car to get back behind the wheel. "You've won this round, Mycroft. But you'd better have a pot of tea waiting. I've been out in the woods for the better part of the morning."
"With Garibaldis?"
Greg huffed at him.
Mycroft sounded smugly cheerful as he said, "I will see you in twenty minutes, Inspector."
It wasn't the first time by a long shot that Greg had been to Mycroft's office-his real office, not the official one in Whitehall-but it never ceased to impress him. On its face, it was a nondescript office building several streets away. But inside was all Mycroft's: the heart of his own little empire, the place where his army of assistants and un-spies and security staff surveilled and evaluated and created elaborate reports. Greg didn't really know exactly what they did, but he wasn't stupid, and he sure as hell wasn't unobservant.
As usual, he stepped into the lift in the deceptively-empty foyer, and it immediately took him to the proper floor. Every time he visited Greg tried to discern just to what floor the lift took him, but he could never quite decide. Was it the third? Or the fourth? There were no lights or buttons on the elevator that indicated, only one menacing button with a label that specified it was to be pressed only in case of life-threatening emergencies. Lestrade leaned back and stared at the mirrored wall and caught himself posing as a fine specimen of a human male for whomever was watching the security camera behind the mirror.
When the door slid open, Greg stepped into a small corridor that led to the outer office.
"Good..." The assistant's eyes flicked to the clock at the corner of her monitor and back to whatever she was typing. "...afternoon," she said.
Greg looked at his watch. 12:03. "Technically afternoon, yes, I suppose. But I'm not really inclined to agree that it's a good one," he said, and thought he caught a hint of a smirk at the corner of her well-formed mouth.
"Mr. Holmes is expecting you. Please have a seat."
Mycroft was going to make him wait, now? Out here in the uncomfortable silence, being ignored by a pretty young woman and several awkwardly-placed-yet-well-tended pot plants? Greg sat and propped his hands on his knees, then blew out a breath. A wave of lethargy hit; he really hadn't been sleeping well, and it was beginning to catch up to him. There was a beep from the phone on the assistant's desk, and after she picked it and listened she put it right back down again without saying a word.
"He's ready to see you now," she said, and Greg sighed internally. This all felt decidedly like Mycroft demonstrating his control over the situation. Greg got the picture.
By the time Greg was sat in front of Mycroft's large and lacquered desk, he'd already had enough of the smug git's face. He looked down at the array of biscuits and tea set in front of him. "Why do you always think you can bribe me with food?"
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Can't I?"
"No."
"Then with what shall I bribe you?"
Greg rolled his eyes, unwilling to mask his annoyance. "Listen, Mycroft, this isn't how it works. You don't get to use me as an emissary between you and your brother. Stop being children."
"Inspector, if you did not volunteer to intervene, he would have made your life difficult throughout the..." Mycroft tipped open a folder from his desk and scanned it. "...Vinelli case. Don't you agree?"
Sitting back in his chair, Greg folded his arms and peered at him. "If I don't comply, you don't get his help."
Mycroft quirked his head and stared evenly at him. "That is true."
"So perhaps you ought to treat me a little better. I could walk any time. You think I'm afraid of Sherlock in a sulky fit? Who do you think picked up the pieces after the case with the cryptogryphs? Who do you think talked him down because he didn't translate the dancing men correctly? Who kept him from relapse?" Greg hadn't moved. He delivered this entire screed reclined back in his chair, holding Mycroft's gaze.
"You did. Of course you did, Inspector. Why do you suppose I continue to ask for your assistance?"
"Because you like having me as a whipping boy."
"Trust me, Inspector Lestrade. If I wanted you for my whipping boy you would know it."
Long seconds ticked over as they stared at each other. Greg staunchly refused to squirm. Then there was a brief twitch in Mycroft's eye, and Greg relaxed.
"Well," he said. "Perhaps we should get on with it?" Greg raised his eyebrows at Mycroft, who nodded briefly and pressed a button on his phone.
"Please send in those files."
After a few moments, the attractive assistant entered and handed Greg a folder which showed that the corpse in the woods, Susan Bishop, worked within Mycroft's organisation in an uncertain capacity. Many of the paragraphs were blacked out with marker pen.
"So you see," Mycroft said, "I'd appreciate being kept current on the investigation."
"It's an active investigation. Even as her employer, you don't have the right to-"
"Oh, I'm not sure that term adequately categorises our relationship." Greg's head snapped up. Was Mycroft saying they two had been... "No no," Mycroft said, looking a bit disappointed at Greg's assumption. "The relationships formed within my organisation often transgress across traditional and expected boundaries, but not in that...manner." There was a look of distaste on his face. "I cannot explain why, but you must trust me."
"I don't trust you."
Mycroft pinned him with a glance. "I am aware of that, Inspector."
"What makes you think I'm going to, then?"
"Amy Richards."
Greg blinked. How did Mycroft-oh, of course. "That's in my file?"
"Not your official file, no. But the one I have, yes."
Amy been a brilliant young PC, sharp as a tack, going places, and Greg had operated as her mentor and her support, being almost fatherly in his interactions. She had been killed in the line almost five years ago, but Greg still remembered how much it had devastated him to have someone who held much of his hope and care cut down so young and in such a brutal way. Was it possible the corpse in the woods was Mycroft's Amy?
No. Mycroft? Impossible.
"So how do you know about Amy, then?"
"More tea?"
Mycroft wanted to play it this way? Fine. "I really need to get back to the crime scene."
"Sherlock will be long gone by now."
"...You do know I have other duties than caretaking your brother?"
"Yes. I do." Mycroft was staring at Greg with a steely gaze.
Greg huffed out a laugh. "Why do I get the feeling you know more about what I do than any civilian ought to?"
"That's assuming I'm a civilian."
Greg held up a hand. "I don't...want...to know."
Mycroft broke the tension by getting up and peering out the window. "That's a relief to me, since I couldn't tell you regardless."
"Or you'd have to kill me?"
"No no, Inspector." He turned around. A trace of humour quirked Mycroft's mouth. "Or I'd have to have you killed."
"I appreciate the distinction."
"That's something I appreciate about you."
"I'm glad to know there's something."
"Please," Mycroft said. "Do not underestimate me."
"How could anyone? You never give them a chance."
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "Because I show them exactly what I'm capable of?"
Greg looked around at the pristine and spacious office set in an edifice which seemed more like a well-dressed fortress than any listed building described as such. "Yes," he said. "You make your capabilities perfectly clear."
"Good. That's good." Mycroft gave Greg a wan smile, and they just looked at each other for a moment.
Greg sighed. "Fine. I'll keep you up-to-date on the case. But don't tell anyone I'm doing it," he pointed. "Don't get me in trouble."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Inspector."
With the fact that Susan Bishop had worked for Mycroft, Greg had been expecting the case to involve twelve governmental agencies, a cover-up, and probably a secret lab somewhere. However, it turned out to be a simple matter of revenge and passion and anger, and the expression on Mycroft's face when Greg reported this was...complex. They were sat at opposite sides of Mycroft's desk once again, and Greg had been talking so long the tea had gone cold.
"So the ears had been meant for her sister," Mycroft said.
"Yes. It was all a case of mistaken identity."
Greg watched the curious sight of Mycroft slumping in his chair and scrubbing a trembling hand over his features for a moment. He felt as if he were intruding on something private, something he wasn't meant to see.
"You know what it's like, Inspector. To be given that sort of gift, for someone to... It's more than emulation. It's..." Pain flashed over Mycroft's face, and though he'd tried to conceal it by looking down at his desk, it was plain as day to Greg. He didn't quite know how to respond to this. It was more than a little unnerving.
So he simply said, "Yes. I know what it's like."
Mycroft sighed, and it looked as if he was putting all his pieces back together, bit by bit, reassembling himself into the stark and gracefully dangerous man Greg had always known. Mycroft looked up at Greg. "Thank you, Inspector."
"For?"
"Understanding."
Greg swallowed. "You're, er. You're welcome."
Mycroft pressed his mouth into a line. "I also believe I owe you an apology."
"Do you."
"Yes." Mycroft looked out the window. "I believe I was a bit brusque when we were at the restaurant outside Dartmoor."
Oh. "Brusque is not exactly the word I would use."
"What would be more appropriate?"
"You were an arsehole, Mycroft."
Mycroft's mouth twitched. "I think that's probably true." He turned to Greg again. "Will you accept my apology?"
There were many things that differentiated the Holmes brothers, and this appeared to be one of them. "I suppose. You owe me, though."
Mycroft blinked at him. "Do I."
"Yep."
"The fact that I was forced to make my own way back to the inn is..."
"Doesn't matter. You were an arsehole, and you owe me." Who knows. This could be fun, having Mycroft owe him a favour. And besides that, the words he'd thrown out about Greg's (ex)wife still stung, flying round and round in his head like angry bees. Even now as he thought about them he became angry again.
"Very well. I owe you for my indiscretion at the restaurant," Mycroft said, and Greg was suddenly sick of the sight of him.
He drank a mouthful of cold tea. "Apology accepted," Greg said, and used the excuse of paperwork to get out of there soon after.
"Sherlock is working on something," Greg said into his mobile as he sat in his car. Rain pelted down onto the roof and made it difficult to hear. He thumbed the volume control.
"I have no doubt. He is often working on something," Mycroft's smooth voice said over the line.
"It's related to this case," Greg said. "I know it. He's withholding information again."
"Why don't you use your usual chicanery to get the information from him?" Mycroft said sardonically.
Greg bristled. "Like you're one to talk. My methods don't involve spies."
"Nor do mine."
"Well that's utter bullshit, Mycroft. Do you think I'm an idiot? Oh never mind, of course you do."
"I do not, Inspector. I'm simply objecting to the terminology."
Greg snorted. "Listen, can you just get him to tell me what's going on?"
"Why don't you ask John?"
"My powers of kidnapping aren't nearly as good as yours."
"I do not kidnap."
"Objecting to terms again?"
"John refused to tell you too, didn't he?"
"Of course he fucking did. Of the two of us, which one do you think has more of John's loyalty?"
"I know precisely how much loyalty John has toward my brother."
"Because of your spies?"
There was silence for a moment. "No," Mycroft said, then cleared his throat. "There will be a car over the road in two minutes, Inspector. Do be ready for it."
"I'm always amused when your kidnapping involves a warning. Glad, don't get me wrong. But amused."
"Please be there," Mycroft said. "I don't like to be kept waiting." Then he rang off.
True to his word, the black car pulled up to the kerb two minutes later. When the driver opened the door, Greg slid in and was shocked to find Mycroft sitting there instead of one of his assistants. Mycroft took in Greg's dripping hair and rain-spattered jacket, and raised an eyebrow.
"Not everybody carries a damn umbrella everywhere they go, Mycroft."
"Surely you had one in your car."
"I didn't want to be bothered with it for a twenty second walk over the road." He was so annoyed he didn't even register that the car was moving.
"And you didn't feel waiting under an overhang was prudent?"
"Jesus christ, Mycroft, just... Leave it alone, will you? What the hell do you care?"
Mycroft flashed a disapproving scowl, but thankfully changed the subject. "You wish to know about the case my brother is investigating."
Greg wanted to roll his eyes at the theatrics. "Yes, Mycroft, that's why I'm here."
Mycroft settled back against the seat, then reached into his jacket to retrieve a handkerchief. He handed it across to Greg, who snagged it to dry his face. He finished, then scrubbed it across his hair as Mycroft continued. "The case involves a senior minister and a very secret, potentially-dangerous document which has disappeared from his home. If word spreads that the document is missing, or worse, the contents of the document come to be known, it could cause widespread war. This is a very, very important document."
"So am I right? That has to do with the Lucas murder?"
"I do not know, Inspector. I suspect so, but I am not in possession of all the facts."
Greg furrowed his brow. "Why are you telling me this, then?"
"I am hoping you might easier find the document if both of you have as much information as possible."
"You really want this document to be found, don't you?"
Mycroft's face was a blank. "Desperately."
"War, huh?"
"Indeed."
"And you wouldn't be exaggerating for effect, would you?"
"Not in this, no."
Which indicated that other times he did."Fine." Greg blew out a breath. "Okay. No pressure."
"A great deal of pressure, as a matter of fact."
Greg rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mycroft, I know. I was being sarcastic."
"I am simply underlining the importance of this situation."
The world out the window was wet, dim, and nowhere near where they started. "Wait. Where the hell are we?"
"I wish you success, Inspector."
"Mycroft, my car is how far away?!"
"Perhaps you might continue your queries at number eleven on this street."
"Mycroft you insufferable prat."
"Have a nice day, Inspector."
Greg scowled at him. "I cannot believe you."
"Would you like to borrow my umbrella?"
"Would I like to- You know what? Yes. Give me the damn thing." Greg pitched the sodden handkerchief at Mycroft and was pleased when it splatted on his nice, pristine trousers, then he snatched up the umbrella from where it had fallen sideways onto the floor. The car pulled up to the kerb and Greg pushed out before the driver could open the door for him. "Thanks but no thanks, Mycroft," Greg said, and snapped open the umbrella. "You still owe me a favour."
"I relish it," Mycroft said, and Greg slammed the door in his smug face. He looked around at his surroundings and scowled. Bastard. Fucking bastard.
Greg walked down the road to number eleven.
Mycroft was right. Which made it all the worse that one of his PCs could be turned by a pretty face and was now facing disciplinary action, and that a second smuggler went down before they found the document-in the clutches of the minister's wife, who had been spying for Georgia before emigrating to the States, and who had been planning to use the document as leverage to keep her family safe from a gang of Russian Mafia who had discovered her identity and were threatening blackmail and murder.
When Greg reported this over tea a few days later, Mycroft didn't look as relieved as Greg had expected. In fact, he looked worried.
"What?" Greg asked.
Mycroft shook his head slightly. "Nothing, Inspector. Everything is fine."
"You're worried about the Russia angle, aren't you."
For a moment Mycroft didn't answer, and Greg hadn't expected him to. But then, to Greg's shock, Mycroft twitched a nod. "This complicates things in a way I cannot explain, I'm afraid." He gave Greg a weak smile. "But thank you, Inspector."
"Out of the frying pan into the fire?"
Mycroft shrugged with one eyebrow and a tilt of his head. "It could be. Solve one problem and another arises." He stared into the middle distance for a moment, then blinked back to the present. He looked at Greg. "Thank you," he said, then stood. "I need to make a few phone calls. You can see yourself out?" And without waiting for a response Mycroft walked out of his own office, leaving Greg sitting there confused and just a little bit worried.
If Mycroft, the picture of implacability, looked concerned about something, who knew how deep the trouble truly ran?
Greg scoured the papers for a few days, looking for clues. He saw very little until midway into the next week, when there was a small sidebar about a Russian ambassador and a Palestinian leader that had Mycroft's fingerprints all over it. Greg ate his cereal and chewed thoughtfully before putting on his trainers and heading out to the municipal field.
An hour later, his team were making a pathetic push across the pitch when a familiar sleek black car pulled up to the kerb.
"Hold up, guys," he said, letting Cordoba and Kirkpatrick defend their side against the other three for a little while. No one was dedicated for goal this afternoon, and both the teams' scores showed it. Greg was glad to take a break from the beating as he trotted over to the side of the field, wiping sweat from his brow with the shoulder of his t-shirt.
Mycroft Holmes stepped out of the car, looking tall and cool and not-at-all-sweaty in a pale grey suit, and Greg felt suddenly like a dirty potato just pulled from the ground. He surreptitiously wiped his hand on his shorts and extended it as he crossed the last ten feet. "Was that your handiwork I saw in the papers this morning?" he said.
Mycroft took Greg's hand and, yes, it was just as dry and cool as he was. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."
Greg snorted, and shoved his fists in his pockets. Why had he just shaken hands with the man? "I'm going to take that as a yes."
If he hadn't been playing close attention, he'd have missed the twitch at the corner of Mycroft's mouth. "Inspector, I have a case I'd like you to look at."
Greg quirked his head. "You know that's not how it works. I've explained this. You need to talk to the Chief Superintendent."
"I'm talking to you," Mycroft said, a pointed eyebrow raised in his direction. Greg would have been uncomfortable if it hadn't already become a familiar expression.
"And I'm saying that I can't just investigate whatever case I pick up during a game of football. I have accountability."
Mycroft's eyes scrubbed over the field, Greg's coworkers, and then Greg himself: the sweat, the dirt, the graze on his knee from when Barrad had turfed him. Greg fought to remain still under the scrutiny.
Apparently he passed muster because when Mycroft's eyes finally met his again, they were filled with a strange light. "Very well," Mycroft said, capitulating far more easily than Greg would have expected; he had thought he'd have to fight it out far longer than this. "I will speak to Pitts this afternoon." He turned, and Greg was hit with a delicious smell: clean cotton and aftershave and cologne, subtle enough not to be noticed unless Mycroft's suit coat hadn't wafted it in his direction. He smelled amazing. A thrum of desire blazed in Greg's gut for a moment before he remembered his circumstances and just who the hell this man was, and that shock of realisation was like a cold shower. He stepped back and watched Mycroft retreat to his car, noting the way Mycroft was making a fist and then opening it repeatedly as he made his way back. He was probably trying to restrain himself from physically making Greg get in the car and take the case, Greg thought. Good. It was satisfying to make a Holmes go through the normal channels for once, and as Mycroft drove off again and Greg walked back to his game, a peculiar curl of happiness sat in his gut. Good.
Greg understood why Mycroft had wanted him to take the case, but couldn't understand why he'd initially wanted to use the back channels to do it. Unless...
"Did you know Milverton?" Greg asked, watching the man being wheeled out in a body bag. Perhaps Mycroft thought Greg had missed him startle at the question, but Greg knew he was not an idiot, no matter what the Holmes brothers thought.
Mycroft very nearly preened next to him, settling his ruffled feathers. "Milverton was nothing but a petty blackmailer," Mycroft said. Greg made a quiet noise in assent and watched Sherlock across the way gesticulating to one of the PCs, wondering to himself just how much of Milverton's information Sherlock had stolen or destroyed before he'd called in backup. Greg supposed he should at least ask, but he'd do it later. After fewer people were in earshot, at least. Someday one of these arseholes was going to cost Greg his job-he was sure of it.
"I took your advice," Mycroft said smoothly next to him. Greg's brain spun as he tried to fit the sentence in with their conversation, but came up empty.
"What advice?"
Mycroft turned to him. "I've started painting again."
Greg looked at him in shock. "I thought you were just...I don't know. Placating me."
"I was not," Mycroft said, amused. "I've set up one of the spare rooms as a studio. You were right. It is most...effective."
"Effective?"
"For thinking. I've completed two paintings already, in the evenings."
Greg blinked and spoke before he had time to think it through and quell his curiosity. "I want to see."
The pleasure that spread across Mycroft's face was gratifying, however, and he didn't seem to be annoyed at all at Greg's boldness. "Perhaps you will. Some day."
Greg peered at him. "Good."
"Excellent," Mycroft said, looking a bit smug as he turned forward again to watch Sherlock bully one of the paramedics, and Greg took that as an excuse to break from the conversation to help John step in and prevent the second murder that night.
Opposition Party - Part 2