Sherlock Fanfiction: Rue Morgue
Title: Rue Morgue
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: Gregory Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes
Rating: PG
Genre: Slash
Word Count: ~800
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: During the Hiatus, one of the Met’s cases and one of Mycroft’s investigations intersect and Greg’s and Mycroft’s interest in one another develops beyond the professional. The photo didn't help.
A/N: A little vignette which can be read alone or with the other Mystrade stories that are part of the Other Experiments Series. Rue Morgue would be an extra scene from Safer.
Also posted on AO3.
*
Excerpt: “May I?” Mycroft asked.
“Be my guest,” Greg replied. “It’d just disappear off the shelf if I said no anyway.”
Rue Morgue
“It’ll just take me a few minutes,” Greg called from the corridor. Mycroft heard doors and drawers opening and closing. “I’m surprised you let me in your car in this condition. Christ.” The sound of wet cloth hitting the floor was audible in the sitting room.
Mycroft picked up the foot stool by the armchair and set it down in front of the bookcase. “The car’s gone to be cleaned. There will be another waiting for us by the time you’re ready,” he said as he stepped onto the stool. He heard another sodden garment land in the bedroom as he reached up towards the cracked spines of the old paperbacks on the second highest shelf.
“I was reading the file here last night,” Greg said from the bedroom. “If only I hadn’t dropped it back at the Yard this morning.”
“If only,” Mycroft said, leafing through the dog-eared pages of the first book.
“Yeah, I know,” Greg replied, his voice slightly louder as he walked from the bedroom to the bathroom. “If only the damned plank hadn’t slipped. If only the cement hadn't still been wet. I liked that suit.”
Mycroft slipped the book back into place and took down the next. “You caught the fleeing suspect, Gregory. Much more hands-on than most Detective Chief Inspectors.”
“Was that a compliment, Mycroft?” Greg raised his voice over the sound of running water.
Mycroft replaced the second book. “Just factual observations, Gregory,” Mycroft replied. The third book had several frayed slips of paper marking passages. He scanned each before returning the book.
“Five minutes,” Greg said. The bathroom door closed.
The fourth book fell open to a photo wedged between its pages. “Ah,” Mycroft murmured and stepped off the stool.
***
Greg dropped his jacket on the sofa and finished buttoning his shirt. Mycroft looked up from his reading. “I figured you’d be directing world affairs by text from your phone,” Greg said, fastening a cuff.
“The blessing and the bane of modern communication,” Mycroft smiled. “I like to take a break from it occasionally.”
Greg reached for his jacket. “What might I have in my modest collection that would interest you?”
Mycroft closed the book and held it up. Greg groaned and glanced at the gap in the high shelf. “What possessed you to climb up there for that?” Greg leaned forward and swiped at the book.
Mycroft pulled it close to his chest. “Old books have so much character,” he replied.
“Oh, god! You found my scribbling at the back.” Greg sighed and straightened, slipped on his jacket. “I was in fifth form, you know. I can’t be held accountable for it.”
“You continued reading the stories after that. They influenced your decision to join the Met,” Mycroft stated.
Greg smiled. “Somehow I think you know that I joined the City of London Police first.”
Mycroft smiled back. “The lure of ancient tradition.”
Greg turned towards the kitchen. His keys jangled as he swept them off the counter and into his pocket.
“Too little homicide though,” Mycroft continued, following Greg’s motions.
“Too much forensic accounting,” Greg replied. He turned back to Mycroft and gestured towards the door. “Shall we?”
Mycroft stood, book still in hand. “May I?” he asked.
“Be my guest,” Greg replied. “It’d just disappear off the shelf if I said no anyway.”
Mycroft tilted his head graciously.
***
The car stopped in front of the main entrance to New Scotland Yard.
“I’ll try my best not to be waylaid by anyone,” Greg said, opening the door. “Ten minutes, if I succeed.”
“I could send Alistair with you,” Mycroft offered.
“Cute,” Greg said, stepping onto the pavement. “No offense, Alistair,” he called as he shut the door.
Mycroft drew Greg’s book from his inside pocket and switched on the reading light. He spent a few moments re-reading the outline for a fourth case for Auguste Dupin written in faded pencil on the blank back pages before he turned to the photo lodged in the middle of the book. He traced the edge of the picture with his finger, careful not to touch the face of a youthful Gregory gazing out at him.
A few years past university, Mycroft concluded, noting the shadow on the upper lip and chin. He returned to the eyes. He envied the person situated mostly out of the frame, a vague intent forming in his mind to track down whoever it was that Gregory had looked at so soulfully. Mycroft didn’t think it could have been Greg’s ex-wife, but it might have been. The salient fact was that it had not been Mycroft and, rather painfully, it could have been. He would have been nineteen when Greg was twenty-five. He dragged the back of his fingernail across the bare forearm in the photo.
If only I could have known where to find you, he thought. If only…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* Photo source: A Handful of Dust 1988
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: Gregory Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes
Rating: PG
Genre: Slash
Word Count: ~800
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: During the Hiatus, one of the Met’s cases and one of Mycroft’s investigations intersect and Greg’s and Mycroft’s interest in one another develops beyond the professional. The photo didn't help.
A/N: A little vignette which can be read alone or with the other Mystrade stories that are part of the Other Experiments Series. Rue Morgue would be an extra scene from Safer.
Also posted on AO3.
*
Excerpt: “May I?” Mycroft asked.
“Be my guest,” Greg replied. “It’d just disappear off the shelf if I said no anyway.”
Rue Morgue
“It’ll just take me a few minutes,” Greg called from the corridor. Mycroft heard doors and drawers opening and closing. “I’m surprised you let me in your car in this condition. Christ.” The sound of wet cloth hitting the floor was audible in the sitting room.
Mycroft picked up the foot stool by the armchair and set it down in front of the bookcase. “The car’s gone to be cleaned. There will be another waiting for us by the time you’re ready,” he said as he stepped onto the stool. He heard another sodden garment land in the bedroom as he reached up towards the cracked spines of the old paperbacks on the second highest shelf.
“I was reading the file here last night,” Greg said from the bedroom. “If only I hadn’t dropped it back at the Yard this morning.”
“If only,” Mycroft said, leafing through the dog-eared pages of the first book.
“Yeah, I know,” Greg replied, his voice slightly louder as he walked from the bedroom to the bathroom. “If only the damned plank hadn’t slipped. If only the cement hadn't still been wet. I liked that suit.”
Mycroft slipped the book back into place and took down the next. “You caught the fleeing suspect, Gregory. Much more hands-on than most Detective Chief Inspectors.”
“Was that a compliment, Mycroft?” Greg raised his voice over the sound of running water.
Mycroft replaced the second book. “Just factual observations, Gregory,” Mycroft replied. The third book had several frayed slips of paper marking passages. He scanned each before returning the book.
“Five minutes,” Greg said. The bathroom door closed.
The fourth book fell open to a photo wedged between its pages. “Ah,” Mycroft murmured and stepped off the stool.
***
Greg dropped his jacket on the sofa and finished buttoning his shirt. Mycroft looked up from his reading. “I figured you’d be directing world affairs by text from your phone,” Greg said, fastening a cuff.
“The blessing and the bane of modern communication,” Mycroft smiled. “I like to take a break from it occasionally.”
Greg reached for his jacket. “What might I have in my modest collection that would interest you?”
Mycroft closed the book and held it up. Greg groaned and glanced at the gap in the high shelf. “What possessed you to climb up there for that?” Greg leaned forward and swiped at the book.
Mycroft pulled it close to his chest. “Old books have so much character,” he replied.
“Oh, god! You found my scribbling at the back.” Greg sighed and straightened, slipped on his jacket. “I was in fifth form, you know. I can’t be held accountable for it.”
“You continued reading the stories after that. They influenced your decision to join the Met,” Mycroft stated.
Greg smiled. “Somehow I think you know that I joined the City of London Police first.”
Mycroft smiled back. “The lure of ancient tradition.”
Greg turned towards the kitchen. His keys jangled as he swept them off the counter and into his pocket.
“Too little homicide though,” Mycroft continued, following Greg’s motions.
“Too much forensic accounting,” Greg replied. He turned back to Mycroft and gestured towards the door. “Shall we?”
Mycroft stood, book still in hand. “May I?” he asked.
“Be my guest,” Greg replied. “It’d just disappear off the shelf if I said no anyway.”
Mycroft tilted his head graciously.
***
The car stopped in front of the main entrance to New Scotland Yard.
“I’ll try my best not to be waylaid by anyone,” Greg said, opening the door. “Ten minutes, if I succeed.”
“I could send Alistair with you,” Mycroft offered.
“Cute,” Greg said, stepping onto the pavement. “No offense, Alistair,” he called as he shut the door.
Mycroft drew Greg’s book from his inside pocket and switched on the reading light. He spent a few moments re-reading the outline for a fourth case for Auguste Dupin written in faded pencil on the blank back pages before he turned to the photo lodged in the middle of the book. He traced the edge of the picture with his finger, careful not to touch the face of a youthful Gregory gazing out at him.
A few years past university, Mycroft concluded, noting the shadow on the upper lip and chin. He returned to the eyes. He envied the person situated mostly out of the frame, a vague intent forming in his mind to track down whoever it was that Gregory had looked at so soulfully. Mycroft didn’t think it could have been Greg’s ex-wife, but it might have been. The salient fact was that it had not been Mycroft and, rather painfully, it could have been. He would have been nineteen when Greg was twenty-five. He dragged the back of his fingernail across the bare forearm in the photo.
If only I could have known where to find you, he thought. If only…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* Photo source: A Handful of Dust 1988