Title: Surveillance (Chapter 2 of
Seat Assignment: Open)
Author:
saki101Characters/Pairings: Gregory Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes
Rating: R-ish
Genre: Slash, romance, AU
Word Count: ~1.5K
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: Starlight. Conversation. Surveillance tapes.
A/N: Not Series 3 compliant. A continuation of the fic written for
Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 13-Vacation Getaway. Although these two chapters may be read alone, they may also be read as part of the Mystrade set of stories which, more or less, began with an earlier holiday in
We Are Sorry For Any Inconvenience.
Excerpt: The room at the top of the stairs was dominated by a skylight, a huge oval of star-scattered heavens. By the faint light from the landing, Greg saw a few outlines of furniture and more sky out a series of arched windows making up one wall. It didn’t seem very secure, not at all suited to Mycroft. There was a click and the light disappeared, the stars coming into sharper focus.
Also, on
AO3.
Seat Assignment: Open
Chapter 2: Surveillance
The room at the top of the stairs was dominated by a skylight, a huge oval of star-scattered heavens. By the faint light from the landing, Greg saw a few outlines of furniture and more sky out a series of arched windows making up one wall. It didn’t seem very secure, not at all suited to Mycroft. There was a click and the light disappeared, the stars coming into sharper focus. Greg followed the scent of the sea towards an open window. There seemed to be a terrace beyond. It was hard to see.
“Doesn’t it make you ill at ease?” Greg asked.
“The perimeter of the island is a security measure in itself. The reefs beyond render sea landings difficult except in the calmest weather by the most experienced mariners. There are many wrecks beneath the waters,” Mycroft replied, coming closer as he spoke.
“As well as sharks,” Greg added. He set his bag down, nudged it aside with a foot and stepped out onto the terrace.
“As well as sharks.” Mycroft repeated.
Greg shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back. “Never seen some of these constellations.”
“It’s a surprise, the southern sky,” Mycroft said.
Greg craned his neck in a different direction, took a step further away from the doors.
“There are no railings at the edge,” Mycroft said.
“Health and safety,” Greg chided, head still thrown back.
“Well, only I’ve been staying up here.”
Greg’s eyes remained on the sky. “And you’re used to living where safety measures fail.”
“It’s why I have multiple ones,” Mycroft said.
Greg glanced in Mycroft’s direction; he was only a shadow. Greg’s gaze returned to the stars.
Mycroft cleared his throat. “In the postmodern world, physicality so often precedes declarations of intent,” he said.
Greg waited. I got on the aeroplane. Still your turn, Mycroft.
“I believe I presumed,” Mycroft continued. “The physical interest had seemed clear.”
Greg could hear that Mycroft hadn’t moved.
Mycroft’s voice grew quieter. “I might have misjudged.”
Greg rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes following the curve of the sky down to the black line of the horizon. “How likely is that?”
“It’s been known to happen,” Mycroft said.
Greg heard the grit of sand underfoot when Mycroft took a step forward.
“You did not wish to act,” Mycroft said.
“Why, after all the years you've known me? I certainly haven’t changed for the better,” Greg said and realised that wasn’t totally true.
There was a tap on his arm, a lit tablet in Mycroft’s hand. “Come inside and take a careful look at that,” Mycroft said, handing the device to Greg.
Mycroft slid the door to the roof shut behind them. Greg didn’t bother to look for a place to sit. He stared at the screen in his hand. There was a crowd scene, somewhere inside, people with briefcases and suitcases rushing forward. It was a short loop. In the background there were turnstiles. Greg scanned for more details, caught part of a sign on a kiosk. He nodded to himself. Paddington. He checked the top and bottom of the screen, found the date stamp. Last year. After Spain. Greg searched the faces in quadrants. “Am I looking for myself in this mob?” he asked.
“No.” Glass clinked lightly from across the room. "Ice?"
"No, thanks." Greg started again. The resolution was somewhat better than standard CCTV footage. Enhanced. His eyes kept returning to the kiosk. It was the only steady image in the centre of the screen. Most of the people were moving rapidly, heads often down, long hair or hats obscuring profiles or faces turned completely away from the camera. Maybe not a face, then. Greg shifted his gaze to the top corner and worked his way down and across. A silhouette. Part of another. He brought the tablet closer to his face, let the scene repeat a couple more times. He smiled. Sherlock’s hair was longer than he’d ever seen it and lighter, his coat was different, but the length of the stride was familiar. By his side, part of another figure was visible, a shorter one. There you are, John. And then they were gone behind the kiosk. The camera did not pick them up again on the other side.
The screen tinted Greg’s face blue. “It’s them, isn’t it?”
Mycroft nodded, took a glass in each hand.
“You’ve known for months, then,” Greg said. Fever dreams and firelit conversations flitted through his mind with their own form of date stamps.
“I knew they were alive in September, which was enough for a while,” Mycroft said. “Sherlock was able to elude me once he took John on his neverending holiday and subsequent to that glimpse at Paddington as well.”
Greg grinned.
“He’s one of the very, very few who can,” Mycroft clarified, holding a glass out towards Greg.
Greg’s hand closed around the whiskey. Mycroft’s fingers were nearly as cool as the glass. “I’m sure,” Greg said, smile gone. “And that’s why you wanted to keep an eye on me.”
“It’s why I came to your office last summer, yes. You’ve always been helpful with regard to his safety. You trusted that I had his best interests at heart.”
Greg took a sip of scotch. The tablet’s screen went dark.
“Sherlock’s fall changed your view. And between the two of us, you would be loyal to him, and to John,” Mycroft continued.
Greg’s thumb skimmed over the tablet’s screen, tilted it towards Mycroft. He was staring at the floor.
“It isn’t blind, your loyalty. I admire that,” Mycroft said, looking up, face wan in the grey light. “Even if I must demand blind loyalty professionally.” He exhaled, eyebrows raising and stepped forward, arm outstretched. “There’s something else.”
The tablet was out of Greg’s hand and back in it in an instant, the screen bright, a silver gleam to one side. Mycroft’s finger arched over the top of the device and tapped. He withdrew. There was motion on the screen.
Greg peered. There was less detail than in the other clip. The camera was closer. The gleam disappeared. The brightness dimmed, returned fragmented. He shifted the angle of the tablet. Droplets on the lens. Total darkness was followed by a triangle of light at the bottom of the frame, rising to bisect it, an outline against the brightness, an arm, a bent elbow, a bowed head. Greg glanced in Mycroft’s direction. He had returned to the shadows.
The screen was blurred, water sheeting over the lens, streaks of light on a reflective background. A sunny skylight. Tiled walls. Shower. His mind filled in unclear details from the context. Head thrown back, elbows out. Shampooing short hair. A hand raised, adjusting the shower head. Sparkles of light. Figure turning, arching backwards. Shafts of sunlight across the chest. Face obscured by an arm. Male subject. Not strongly muscled. Camera tilting downwards. Live surveillance. Greg drew in a breath. A bit of extra weight around the middle. Lather sliding with the water. Skin lighter below the waist. Aroused male subject. Strong thighs. Greg wished he’d taken his jacket off. A click, a hum, from above, a draft of cool air. His eyes stayed on the small screen where hands slid down the chest to the thighs, moved off screen, returned cupped, lathered over the belly, change of stance, hands between the thighs, leg raised, knee, foot, head coming into view, into the sunlight. The heat shot through Greg. He looked across the room.
“I thought you should know,” Mycroft said.
“Spain,” Greg said and glanced around to find the nearest chair. He sat, took a drink of the scotch. The light from the tablet flickered across his face. He didn’t look down at the scene. He knew what happened next. “I got a good tan there.”
“I thought about it fading,” Mycroft said. “There was no trace of it by the time you were stabbed.”
“You think about that much? Calculate the days?” Greg asked. He finished his whiskey.
“Yes.”
“Christ.” Greg met Mycroft’s gaze across the room. “What am I supposed to make of that?”
“I’ve watched you. And I know that I don’t know you. It’s unsettling,” Mycroft replied. “I’m accustomed to knowing.”
Greg held up his glass. “You got more?”
Mycroft reached behind him for the bottle, came across the room with it.
“Your mystery postcard’s still on my fridge,” Greg said as Mycroft refilled his glass.
“I know.”
“Give me an instance of what you don’t know about me?” Greg asked.
“Why you came today,” Mycroft replied. He sat on the ottoman by Greg’s chair, set the bottle on the floor.
“Because you asked,” Greg supplied. “At least I was fairly sure it was you asking.”
“Could it be as simple as that?” Mycroft said.
“Could be,” Greg replied.
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