Title: Of torches and graveyards
Author: gothikmaus
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: PG-13
Category: angst, romance, UST
Summary: Sherlock has a sudden epipahny about his brother.
Characters originally created by Arthur Conan Doyle and developed for TV by Moffat & Gatiss. I own nothing. No copyright infringement intended.
He didn't notice it at first. He was too busy solving the Ricoletti case, all his attention focused on finding the second corpse. But the information was there, had been there for who knows how long.
'I saw, but I didn't observe,' he thought as the pieces of the puzzle slotted together to reveal the whole picture. 'Or I simply didn't want to see.'
The epiphany was sudden and unexpected and Sherlock had Scotland Yard to thank – or to blame – for the sudden eye-opener.
"Light!" Donovan shouted from where she was crouched next to what had once been a beautiful piece of antique furniture. "I need light!"
One of the constables, a twenty-something redhead with a face full of freckles, almost tripped over his own feet as he rushed to her side, torch in hand.
"Oi, Wilson! Still carrying a torch for sergeant Donovan?" Someone asked aloud, and the rest of the group burst out laughing.
Sherlock barely spared them a glance, determined to ignore the childish exchange. And then he saw it. A flurry of colours and movement flashed before his eyes, a whirlwind of blurry shapes that crystallised into a single image, perfectly clear and in sharp focus: two men in a graveyard, at night. One flushed and sweaty, shirtsleeves rolled up as he worked a crowbar into the lid of a coffin; the other standing a few feet away, coat neatly buttoned, holding a torch to illuminate the area.
A scene that had never happened outside Sherlock's mind palace, but that suddenly made perfect sense. He wondered if he had ever seen them look at each other like they did in that graveyard (and promptly deleted the information because, frankly, it was something he did not want to think about) or if his mind had conjured the images to drive the message home more effectively.
He left the crime scene without a word.
*****
"How long?" Sherlock asked as soon as he was connected.
"And hello to you too, brother dear," Mycroft replied at the other end of the line. "What can I do for you on this lovely Wednesday afternoon?"
"I bet it's been from the beginning, hasn't it? You're so pathetic, Mycroft."
"May I know what I'm being insulted for this time?"
"Your secret little crush. Well, not so secret any more."
A second of silence. It was all the confirmation Sherlock needed.
"Are you high again, Sherlock? Since when have I been known to develop crushes?"
"That's why it took me so long to figure it out. I didn't think it was possible."
Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock..."
"Are you going to deny it?"
"There is nothing to deny."
"So you admit it."
"Sherlock, you're being ridiculous."
"And you're being pathetic."
"You're repeating yourself, little brother."
"Really, Mycroft, a policeman? How much more cliché can you get?"
"Are you done, Sherlock? I have actual work to do."
"I never thought you were the kind of person to fall for the charm of a man in uniform. Do you fantasise about tying him up with his own handcuffs? Or is it the other way round? I'm sure Les-"
"Enough!" Mycroft cut in loudly. "That's enough," he then added in a more composed tone.
Sherlock smiled. He loved winding up his brother and this new piece of information was pure gold.
"No need to get so worked up, Mycroft, one might think I'm right."
"I'm ending this conversation right now."
"Please do. I wouldn't want to keep you from your actual work for too long."
"Goodbye Sherlock."
Sherlock hung up without replying.
*****
Sherlock watched the firemen walk in and out of 221B. He knew the compound he was working on was extremely volatile; what he hadn't anticipated was that it would explode quite so spectacularly. But no one had died and the building was still standing, so it wasn't too bad. The history of science was full of less than successful experiments, after all.
His train of thought was abruptly derailed by a hard slap to the back of his head.
"What the bloody hell were you thinking? Were you even thinking at all?"
Lestrade looked livid.
"I'm suing you for police brutality" Sherlock said, rubbing the spot Lestrade had just hit.
"Say another word and I'll show you what brutality looks like."
"What are you doing here, anyway? I didn't call you."
"Oh, I know you didn't. But you're not the only one who has an informant network, so to speak."
"Well, you shouldn't have bothered coming, I don't need your assistance."
"I know you don't, you pillock. I just wanted to make sure you're all right."
"What, were you worried about me?" Sherlock asked in a mocking tone.
"Yes."
Sherlock was taken aback by the honest, straightforward answer. He was about to reply, when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
"Oh, great," he whined, rolling his eyes. "Now the family portrait is complete."
Lestrade turned and saw Mycroft approaching quickly, a pinched expression on his face.
"This is one of the most idiotic things you've ever done," Mycroft hissed through clenched teeth. "And I've seen you do a lot of idiotic things."
"Oh, please. I didn't even blow up the building."
"I'm not joking, Sherlock."
Sherlock turned on his heel and started to walk away. After two steps, though, he stopped and turned back, a small smile on his lips. Mycroft stiffened as soon as he saw his brother's expression.
"Actually, while we're all here..."
"Sherlock," Mycroft said, sounding tense.
"... there's something I'd like to discuss with both of you."
"I'm warning you."
"Lestrade, did you know my brother has a crush?"
The detective's eyes were fixed on Mycroft, his smile shark-like as he pronounced the last word with as much contempt as he could.
"Good for him."
Sherlock's head whipped around.
"What?"
"I said good for him," Lestrade repeated. "And if you're going to give him hell for this too, you're an even bigger prat than I thought possible."
Sherlock blinked rapidly, at a loss for words.
"This is all very entertaining," Mycroft interjected, taking advantage of his brother's sudden confusion. "But we have already talked about this and I have nothing more to add. I will talk to you later, Sherlock. Detective Inspector," he added, nodding towards Lestrade before leaving just as quickly as he had arrived.
"What was all that about?" Lestrade asked, watching Mycroft retreat and disappear into his black car.
"Are you really that oblivious?" Sherlock replied, looking at him like he usually did when the DI failed to notice a crucial detail that held the key of a case. "He fancies you."
Lestrade gaped at him. "What?"
"Don't make me repeat myself, you know how tedious that is."
"Your brother... fancies me."
"That's what I said, I see you've been paying attention."
"He considers me subhuman at best, Sherlock."
"Everyone is subhuman compared to Mycroft."
Lestrade shook his head. "If this is one of your attempts to rile him, I don't want to be part of it."
Sherlock sighed. "Do you realise the kind of power you hold over him? I don't know what he sees in you, but he definitely has... feelings for you."
"No need to look so disgusted, Sherlock. We both know you have feelings too."
Sherlock was about to reply that of course he did not, but a look at Lestrade's face made him shut up.
"What are you going to do about it?" He asked instead.
"No fucking idea," the policeman said. "Pretend nothing happened?"
"It's Mycroft. He'll know I told you the next time he sees you."
Lestrade brought a hand to his face and rubbed his temples.
"Great. Thanks Sherlock, I really needed this."
"I'm sure you'll find a way to reject him gently."
"Sometimes I really want to throttle you."
"Police brutality," Sherlock only said.
Lestrade snorted and turned to go. "Go to sleep."
"The firemen won't let me in."
"Not my fucking problem." Lestrade gave him a little wave and walked away.
*****
The next time Lestrade met Mycroft, Sherlock had just been wheeled into A&E with a suspected broken rib and punctured lung. The man was standing in the waiting room, his attention focused on the mobile phone in his hand.
"Mycroft. How is he?" Lestrade asked.
"He'll live," Mycroft replied as he slid the phone into the inner pocket of his coat.
The detective let out a heavy sigh as he sat down in one of the plastic chairs.
"Your brother will be the death of me."
He looked up at Mycroft and wished he hadn't. The conversation from a couple of weeks earlier, which he had pushed to the back of his mind with great effort, immediately resurfaced and he found he couldn't hold the other man's gaze.
"Please spare me the awkward talk," Mycroft said, his voice betraying no emotion. "No matter what my brother told you, I assure you nothing will change in our professional association."
"I... I had no idea," Lestrade mumbled, feeling like the biggest idiot on earth.
"And it was supposed to stay that way. But things rarely go according to plan when Sherlock is involved."
"Is there anything I can..."
"No."
Lestrade shut up. They didn't exchange another word until the doctor arrived to update them on Sherlock's conditions.
*****
True to his word, Mycroft's attitude didn't seem to change in the following weeks: they would sporadically meet to discuss one of the cases Sherlock was working on, Mycroft would be equally polite and threatening and Lestrade would leave their meetings with the familiar feeling of annoyance that always accompanied their "business discussions".
Yet something was different. The detective found himself paying closer attention to Mycroft's words, his body language. He had always assumed the stiffness and formality of the elder Holmes brother were part of his standard professional behaviour, an attitude cultivated over the years and mastered to perfection, meant to be intimidating and show who was in control. Now, though, he wondered if there was something more: what if Mycroft's cool demeanour was a mask to hide his... feelings for him? What if he stoically kept his distance because he was afraid of getting too close?
Lestrade didn't know what to think. Sure, it could just be a case of a posh bloke liking a bit of rough – hell, it wouldn't be the first time he had caught the eye of some filthy rich City boy, even if it had been ages since last time – but what if there was more than that? He had witnessed the intensity of Sherlock's feelings towards John, and tried to imagine what it would be like to have the same intensity directed towards himself.
The thought was more than a little terrifying.
*****
Lestrade was craving a cigarette. It had been a long day, filled with redundant paperwork and forms that seemed to multiply whenever he looked away, endless meetings with his superiors and a key witness suddenly refusing to cooperate. All he wanted to do was go home and sleep for twelve hours straight. Instead he was heading to Baker Street to check on a certain consulting detective.
Sherlock had been strangely scarce, not answering his calls or replying to his messages, even when Lestrade was presenting him with the most peculiar cases he could find. The policeman knew John had been spending very little time with Sherlock since his daughter's birth and he was worried the lack of the doctor's stabilising presence might push Sherlock back to his old habits.
Lestrade stopped for a short chat with Mrs Hudson, graciously refusing tea and biscuits before heading upstairs. As he was about to knock on the door, he heard the high pitched screech of Sherlock's violin and, barely audible over the jumble of notes, Mycroft's exasperated "Sherlock, please."
Lestrade paused. He really didn't need a double dose of Holmes drama, but it was too late to turn on his heel and walk away. He took a deep breath and knocked. All sound stopped.
"Are you done killing that poor violin?" The policeman said as he pushed the door open and entered the flat.
"What are you doing here?"
"And good evening to you too. I thought I'd come over and see if you were still alive, since I haven't been able to get hold of you in weeks."
"I don't have time for your stupid little cases, Lestrade. I thought you could take a hint, but I clearly overestimated your intellectual abilities."
Lestrade stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. "Well, seems I've been worrying for no reason, you're still the same old twat."
He caught Mycroft's lips twitching minutely and just barely suppressed a grin of his own.
"Do we still have penal colonies somewhere? I'm sure a small holiday overseas will do wonders for your brother's attitude towards the authorities."
Mycroft's expression didn't betray a single emotion, but Lestrade could swear his eyes were actually twinkling with amusement.
"That could certainly be arranged."
Sherlock looked quickly between the two of them and rolled his eyes.
"Oh, please. Why don't you two just elope and never come back? My life would improve immensely."
"Careful what you wish for, Sherlock. I may decide to retire early and recommend Donovan for a promotion. I have a feeling she wouldn't be so accommodating with your tantrums."
"You know perfectly well that's never going to happen," Sherlock replied and placed his violin back on his shoulder. "Now kindly go away. Both of you," he added, glaring at Mycroft.
"I'll be in contact shortly," Mycroft said picking up his umbrella. He looked at Lestrade and gestured towards the door. "After you."
Lestrade cast a quick glance at Sherlock, who had turned his back to them and had resumed torturing his violin. He sighed and walked down the stairs, Mycroft following him.
As they stepped back onto the pavement, two young men walked by; one of them, cigarette in hand, left a trail of smoke behind him and the DI had to physically restrain himself from running after them and begging for a fag. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the tantalising scent.
"Here."
Lestrade opened his eyes and saw Mycroft was offering him a packet of cigarettes. His fingers twitched. He could almost feel how wonderful it would be to take one and place it between his lips, light it up and take a long, deep drag. His heart started beating faster just at the thought. He swallowed and shook his head.
"No, thanks."
Mycroft's eyes lingered just a little too long on Lestrade's face, then he slid the packet back into the inner pocket of his coat.
"How is he coping?" Lestrade asked, trying to take his mind off the craving that had assaulted him. "I've tried to keep him busy, but I don't think it's working."
"He is currently working on a... small assignment I handed to him. That should be enough to keep him occupied for a little longer."
"Super secret Government project, huh? No wonder he hasn't been returning my calls, my everyday cases just can't compare."
"Nothing so fancy, Detective Inspector. I'm just a minor Government official after all."
Lestrade snorted, a grin blooming on his face as he looked at Mycroft. Yes, those icy blue eyes were definitely twinkling. For a brief, mad moment he thought the elder Holmes was actually flirting with him. It was over in an instant, though; Lestrade realised Mycroft must have read his thoughts clearly on his face and had gone back to his usual polite distance.
"I will let you know when Sherlock has completed my assignment. Until then, I would appreciate if you didn't distract him with other cases."
Lestrade nodded, feeling a vague sense of disappointment he couldn't quite explain.
"Yeah, sure. Good evening, Mycroft."
As he turned to go, he heard a screeching of tires and saw a car speeding towards them. Lestrade was in motion before the first shot even rang out: he grabbed Mycroft's arm and yanked him down behind a parked car, seeking cover.
"Are you all right?" He asked, mobile already in hand, but before Mycroft could answer, a black car stopped right next to where they were hiding.
"Mr Holmes?" A female voice called out just as the back door opened.
"Over here!" Lestrade replied and turned to Mycroft. "Come on, let's go!"
The other man was pale and panting, eyes shut tight. Lestrade looked down to where Mycroft was clutching his side. Only then did he notice the puddle of blood on the pavement next to him.
*****
Lestrade wanted to scream. He had been trying to get updates on Mycroft for two days, but the man wasn't answering his phone (which was understandable, as he was probably lying in a hospital bed somewhere), Anthea was ignoring his calls and all his contacts at Mycroft's office were stubbornly refusing to tell him anything.
Lestrade was ready to punch a wall when he received a text informing him a car would pick him up at 6 PM in front on Scotland Yard. After a 45-minute ride spent mostly in silence (Lestrade knew better than to try and gather any kind of information from the driver), the car stopped in front of a secluded villa. Anthea was waiting for him at the door, her eyes not glued to her mobile for once.
"Detective Inspector," she greeted him. "Please follow me."
Lestrade didn't bother asking questions; he doubted he would get answers anyway. They stopped in front of a closed door and Anthea motioned him to enter.
"I'll be waiting outside."
Lestrade pushed the door open and stepped inside. And there, right in the middle of the brightly lit room, was Mycroft Holmes. He was sitting in bed, back propped up against several pillows and working on his laptop. The sight filled Lestrade with relief.
Mycroft looked up briefly from the computer screen when he heard the door open, then went back to typing a few more words before shutting the lid of the device.
"Are you even allowed to use a laptop in here?" Lestrade asked as he walked up to him.
"Luckily this isn't a hospital, so yes, I can use whatever electronic device I see fit. Good evening, Detective Inspector."
Lestrade sat down in a chair near the bed and shook his head.
"Good evening, Mycroft. How are you?"
"Not too bad, considering I was shot just two days ago."
"I usually have this kind of conversation with your brother. You're supposed to be the one with the boring desk job."
Mycroft gave a tiny shrug. "Maybe I was feeling adventurous."
"Do you know who did this?"
Mycroft opened his mouth just a fraction, then shut it firmly and placed both hands on top of his laptop.
"Right. You can't tell me."
A few seconds of silence passed between them, then Mycroft spoke again.
"What are you doing here, Inspector?"
"I was worried. No one would tell me anything, I didn't even know if you were still alive."
"Ah, yes. My team was instructed not to... divulge information."
"Trying to fool whoever did this into thinking you're worse off than you actually are?"
A tiny twitch of Mycroft's lips was the man's only reaction.
Lestrade snorted. "You live in a bloody Bond film, Mycroft Holmes."
*****
Mycroft asked Lestrade to avoid all contacts until further notice. The policeman didn't hear from the elder Holmes for two weeks, then one evening, just as he was getting ready to leave the office, he received a text message.
A car is waiting for you. M.
The trip was shorter than the one from two weeks earlier, but equally silent. The driver stopped in front of the Diogenes Club. Lestrade had always felt more than a little out of place there, what with all the shiny marbles and antique furniture and fancy leather armchairs, but the liquor selection was excellent and he usually forgot all about the posh surroundings after the first sip.
He nodded to the porter and walked directly to the room Mycroft used for their business meetings. Mycroft was busy pouring scotch out of a decanter into two tumblers and didn't bother looking up as Lestrade stepped inside.
"Are you officially back amongst the living, Mr. Holmes?"
"I don't know what you are referring to. I have always been amongst the living, Detective Inspector."
Mycroft placed the decanter down onto a tray and picked up the glasses. Lestrade shrugged and took a seat in one of the armchairs.
"I must have misunderstood."
"Yes, you must have. As you can see, I'm perfectly fine," Mycroft replied as he offered him a glass. Only then did he look at him.
'And there it is,' Lestrade thought, catching the same twinkle in Mycroft's eye he had seen the day of the accident.
Lestrade accepted the glass and lifted it slightly.
"Let's have a toast."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
"And what are we toasting to?"
Lestrade grinned.
"To being perfectly fine.
*****
Mycroft didn't reveal much about the "small project" that had caused him to end up in bed with a gunshot wound, but Lestrade wasn't expecting anything different. He was actually quite surprised Mycroft had wanted to share some information at all. Even more surprising was the ease with which they chatted, as if it was normal for them to spend an evening together, talking about nothing in particular and simply enjoying each other's company.
Maybe it was the third glass of scotch making his thoughts blur together, but at some point during the evening Lestrade realised he could get used to that. He thought it would be nice to meet regularly without having to talk about Sherlock and his histrionics, just meet for the sake of it, two friends spending some time together. Did he consider Mycroft a friend? Could Mycroft ever consider him a friend?
As he looked up from his glass, Lestrade could clearly see the moment the spell broke. Something in Mycroft's expression shifted, a tiny but irreversible change. No doubt his thoughts were written in capital letters all over his face and were extremely easy to read for someone as perceptive as Mycroft Holmes.
"My apologies, I didn't realise it was so late," Mycroft said without even glancing at the clock on the wall. He stood up and walked to his desk. "You must be very tired after a long day of work and are looking forward to some much-deserved rest.
"No need to apologise, I was… having a good time."
Lestrade stood up as well.
"Maybe we could… do this more often?"
Mycroft didn't even blink. Lestrade stuffed his hands into his pockets, not quite sure what to do with them.
"You know, a friendly chat, some of that very fine scotch..."
"I'm glad you approve of the scotch. I can have a bottle or two delivered to your residence if you like, so you can enjoy it whenever you like."
Lestrade could practically feel the ice permeate the room.
"Nah, it wouldn't be the same without you," he replied with a smile, hoping it would bring back the warm, easy mood they had shared just a few minutes earlier.
Mycroft sighed.
"What exactly are you trying to do, Detective Inspector?"
The formality of his title brought a sliver of clarity to his brain. What was he actually trying to do? He was just trying to be friendly. It didn't have to be anything more than two friends – two associates – sharing a drink and some small talk. What Sherlock had said about his brother's feelings had nothing to do with it. Had it?
"I was just..." he stuttered, unable to end the sentence.
"I'm afraid you had a little too much to drink, Detective Inspector. Shall I call a taxi for you?"
"No, I… I'd rather walk. Good night, Mycroft."
*****
Lestrade was almost relieved when he saw the new forensic officer cast him a furtive glance and quickly look away, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. She was a thirty-something brunette who had just moved back to London after spending a few years abroad (somewhere in South America, he seemed to remember) and might be just what he needed to take his mind off Mycroft Holmes.
Here, on the familiar territory of flirting and dating, he felt more like himself. He knew how to play the game and played it well. It was still early days and he hadn't really made long-term plans, but he was happy.
Until, of course, Sherlock bloody Holmes planted the tiniest seed of doubt in his mind. He hadn't even met her, for fuck's sake, how could he possibly know she wasn't "the one"? And yet, once the thought was there, it was a constant presence. It was like watching a crack grow on a pristine wall, starting off as a thin line, barely visible at first, but slowly, inexorably turning into a gaping chasm.
He wasn't too sorry when she informed him she was going back to South America soon and didn't know when, or even if, she would come back.
*****
"He's dating, you know," Sherlock mentioned in the middle of a telephone conversation. His nonchalant tone didn't fool Mycroft for a second. "But I'm sure you're perfectly aware of the fact."
The elder Holmes closed his eyes, already feeling a headache forming. "I suppose you're referring to DI Lestrade."
"Back to titles and last names, Mycroft? Who do you think you're fooling?"
"No one, brother mine. No one at all."
As the conversation came to an end, Mycroft put his mobile back on his desk and sighed. Of course he knew Lestrade had started dating that pretty forensic officer. He also knew she had some unfinished business in South America and was planning to leave the country soon, possibly for good, but that didn't make it any easier. Seeing Lestrade's brilliant smile, the way his eyes seemed to brighten when he looked at her was... painful. He was ashamed to admit it, but acknowledging a problem was the first step towards solving it, and he realised he couldn't simply ignore the situation any longer. He had to do something. He just didn't know what.
He was still trying to find a way to finally get over his embarrassing infatuation when Lady Smallwood gave him her private number, implying something his brain could barely process. For a short, maddening moment, he even thought she could be the solution, the antidote that would cure him and turn him back into the old Mycroft Holmes, the Ice Man.
But then Sherlock and John organised that bloody pantomime in his home, his psychotic sister decided it was time to play and all hell broke lose.
*****
"The well!" Sherlock sounded frantic. "The old well near Musgrave Hall. Send someone! He's drowning! He's drowning!"
Lestrade didn't ask questions. He alerted the rescue team and jumped in his car, hoping they would make it in time.
He heaved a sigh of relief when he was informed the doctor had been found and was safe. He demanded to speak to him.
"John. Are you alright?"
"Yeah. Sherlock?"
Lestrade could hear John's teeth chatter. "He's fine, he's the one who told us where to find you."
"Mycroft?"
Lestrade frowned. "Isn't he still in hospital?"
"Ah, well. That's the official version. He was in Sherrinford with us. Eurus sedated us and -"
"Wait, what's Sherrinford? Who's Eurus?"
John sighed. "You'd better call Anthea."
*****
Getting out of the cell was quite easy once Mycroft realised the bullet-proof glass had been removed. The four guards usually residing behind the door were nowhere to be seen and he had no problem reaching the elevator. Still, he moved carefully, stopping at every corner, holding his breath at the faintest sound. He supposed the place was in complete anarchy by that point and he was still at risk of being shot on sight.
He eventually managed to slip into an office. He locked the door and grabbed the phone.
"Hello?"
Anthea sounded guarded. Mycroft was the only one supposed to have that number, but it was the first time he had used a non-secure line to call.
"Anthea. It's me."
"Mycroft! Inspector Lestrade just called, he said they rescued John and wanted to know if you were all right."
"What did you tell him?"
"That you were still in hospital recovering from the explosion."
"Did he buy it?"
"Not a word."
Mycroft smiled. "I'll give him a call. Please send a rescue team to Sherrinford. Special Forces. We lost control of the place."
He ended the call and closed his eyes. He could feel his control slipping, all the feelings unleashed by the events of the last few hours fighting their way out of the remote corner of his mind where he had locked them. He needed to call Lestrade before he had a meltdown. He just had to avoid thinking about the souvenirs Eurus had left in the cell for him: the corpses of the Governor and his wife staring at him with lifeless, glassy eyes.
*****
Mycroft hadn't sounded like himself on the phone. Lestrade decided not to mention it, but Sherlock's comment only cemented the suspicion that something terrible had happened, something too big to process, even for the mighty Mycroft Holmes.
In the following days he used all his resources, called in every favour, made promises he hoped he would never have to keep, but was eventually able to access Sherrinford's CCTV archives. Some parts had been edited, still what he saw left him speechless and horrified. He soldiered on, watching the sick game Eurus had set up for her own brothers, witnessing all the tasks the three men had to face. Until the end, when Mycroft woke up in a cell, the corpses of the two people they hadn't been able to save lying mere feet away from him.
He grabbed his mobile.
"Anthea, I need to see Mycroft."
*****
Mycroft looked up from his laptop and frowned as the doorbell rang. He rarely received visits, and they were usually unannounced incursions by his brother. He closed the lid of the computer and stood up. As he walked towards the entrance, his hand instinctively reached for the umbrella. He had to stop and take a deep breath. An intruder would hardly make himself known and politely ask to enter.
The doorbell rang a second time, startling him. He reached the door and peeked outside.
There, standing on his doorstep, was Detective Inspector Lestrade.
Mycroft was tempted to ignore him. All the lights in the front of the house were out and there was no way Lestrade could see the glow of the table lamp in his studio.
"Mycroft, I know you're home, I spoke to Anthea."
Mycroft narrowed his eyes. He would have a word with his assistant the following day. He composed himself and opened the door.
"Lestrade. I wasn't expecting you."
"Yeah, it was kind of a last-minute decision. Hi," the policeman said with a smile. "Sorry for showing up empty-handed, I wanted to get a bottle of something, but then I thought your liquor selection must be just as good as the one at the Diogenes, it wouldn't make any sense to arrive here with a mediocre scotch, would it?"
Mycroft didn't reply.
"Can I come in?"
Mycroft took a step back and let him in.
"Nice house," Lestrade commented, taking a look around as Mycroft closed the door. "Very… you."
"Thank you." Mycroft walked to the sitting room, not turning to see if Lestrade was following him. "Anything in particular you'd like to drink?"
Lestrade shrugged.
"You know my tastes."
Indeed, he knew. He knew Lestrade's preferred scotch, his favourite beer, how he drank his tea, how much sugar he put in his coffee, even the level of spices in his curry. Mycroft had tried to erase all that useless information from his brain but, unlike Sherlock, who had mastered the art of forgetting just about anything, he seemed incapable of getting rid of it.
He reached the liquor cabinet and poured two glasses of scotch. He handed one to Lestrade and moved away.
"Thanks." Lestrade took a sip and sighed. "Yeah, just as good as the Diogenes." His smiled vanished as he saw Mycroft standing rigidly in front of the window, looking outside and ignoring the tumbler in his hand.
"I came over to see if you were all right."
"You needn't have worried, Detective Inspector. I am perfectly fine."
"Why do you insist on calling me by my title? We've known each other for years."
Mycroft didn't answer. Lestrade walked up to him, setting the glass down on the table on his way.
"I saw the videos, Mycroft. What happened at Sherrinford. No one could be fine after that, not even you."
Mycroft's grip on the tumbler tightened. Lestrade gently removed it from his hand and put it down on the windowsill.
"What do you want, Lestrade?"
"I just wanna help you."
The policeman placed a hand on Mycroft's shoulder and gently turned him around. Mycroft didn't put up any resistance and found himself enveloped in a hug.
He should move away. He should put some distance between himself and Greg. Lestrade, he silently corrected himself. Between himself and Detective Inspector Lestrade. Their relationship was purely professional and professional associates didn't hug. Moving away would be the right thing to do. But he had made a number of spectacularly bad decisions over the last few years, so what difference would it make? Just another item at the bottom of a ridiculously long list of mistakes.
So he stayed. He leaned into the touch and returned the embrace, his arms encircling Lestrade's waist as he pressed the side of his face against the policeman's.
'Just a moment,' he thought, 'then I'll let go. I'll step back. Just a moment longer.'
But his hands seemed to have a mind of their own, grabbing Greg's jacket and pulling him closer. He took in a shaky breath as one of Greg's hand came to rest on the back of his head, fingertips pressing lightly. He found himself shivering and unable to stop.
"Shh," Lestrade whispered directly into his ear, and Mycroft's shivering only got worse. "Let go, Mycroft. If you keep everything bottled up, you'll end up exploding."
He was right, of course he was. But Mycroft didn't trust himself, he had no idea what might happen if he really, truly let go. Something tragically embarrassing, he supposed. So he simply stood there and allowed himself the luxury of being held by Detective Inspector Lestrade. Greg.
"Why are you doing this?" He asked, voice barely a whisper.
"Because you shouldn't face all this on your own, not after everything you went through. And seeing you like this… It breaks my heart."
"You should stop listening to your heart. Caring is not an advantage."
"I know. But sometimes you don't really have a choice, do you?"
'No, you really don't,' Mycroft thought.
It took him a ridiculous amount of willpower to disentangle himself from Lestrade's embrace. Still, he couldn't go very far, as the policeman's arms were still wrapped loosely around him.
"Feeling better?"
He nodded, not quite meeting the other man's eyes.
"You used to be a better liar. But I'll pretend I didn't notice."
Mycroft couldn't suppress a small smile.
"Thank you, Greg."
Lestrade beamed.
"Have you eaten? I'm starving."
Mycroft felt oddly lighter as he walked into the kitchen and grabbed a selection of take-out menus, already knowing what Greg would order.
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June 2018