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DCI Gregory Lestrade heaved a sigh, although he was careful to mute it in these illustrious surroundings. Clearly, Mycroft Homes' definition of a pleasant evening out differed greatly from his own. Not that he hadn't expected something of the sort, though, when his partner had asked him to don his most formal dinner suit and black tie.
Two years ago, the most formal suits he had owned were comparatively cheap poly blends off the peg that served him well enough for court appearances, most of them from M&S. On the other hand, even a Hugo Boss suit was cheap compared to the sartorial splendour that now inhabited a part of his wardrobe, to his continued bemusement. He still couldn't quite fathom why Mycroft so greatly enjoyed seeing an ageing copper in an assortment of Savile Row's best, and he wasn't talking about ready to wear, either. Each and every piece, even his bloody shirts, were bespoke. But it made Mycroft smile, and sometimes even made his beautiful blue eyes light up in a way that promised the most delightful kinds of mischief, and so Greg was happy enough to oblige. Still, he tended to grumble about fittings, but that was mostly because Mycroft could be convinced to make it up to him, perhaps by taking off a rare half afternoon from his busy work when Greg was off-shift. The last time, they had spent some idle time strolling through the beautiful Kew Gardens, a simple pleasure that neither man had allowed himself for years even though they both lived and worked in London. At another time, he had managed to persuade Mycroft to go to the cinema with him. That had been... funny. Mycroft hadn't been entirely comfortable in the crowd of noisy strangers, and Greg was quite certain that there had been at least three bodyguards disguised among the other viewers, but it hadn't been an utter catastrophe, either. Not like that evening at a crowded pub, which they clearly weren't going to repeat, even though the shockingly informal pair of navy jeans had rather nicely brought out Mycroft's long, long legs and glorious bum. That view, Greg had greatly appreciated, but not his partner's subtle signs of distress in the crowd that Mycroft hadn't managed to hide from Greg in spite of his valiant effort. They had been together for over a year at that time and already knew each other too well for that.
Now, though, the elder Mr Holmes was clearly in his element. All the guests were in formal dinner suits or opulent long evening gowns; jewellery glittered, the parquet gleamed, the chandeliers sparkled, waiters were walking around with glasses of undoubtedly expensive champagne – although Greg wasn't entirely sure it could be rightfully called champagne. For him, everything that wasn't produced in the region of the Champagne with the exacting methods required was nothing but sparling white wine, maybe with the saving grace of a méthode champenoise, but then, he was half French and, at least in matters of food and drink, not an English philistine. In other areas of his life, he was very English, down to the footie team he supported (Arsenal). He even made an exception for ale, although he was still picky and his friends called him a snob. They might have called him a snob now, too, kitted out as he was in his immaculate single-breasted dinner suit with a matching white waistcoat and a silk pocket square. He'd drawn the line at court shoes and was wearing Oxfords, but they were still made-to-order and polished to a high shine.
No-one, in his opinion, looked better in a bespoke suit than Mycroft Holmes, though. The man was elegance, grace and refinement personified. Unfortunately, he was also currently busy conversing with a group of diplomats and bored out of his mind, the poor dear, although Greg was certain that none of the other guests could tell. Mycroft was masterfully projecting a polite attentiveness and giving all the right replies while his magnificent, analytical mind was probably calculating the intricate patterns created by the politicians and diplomats circling the room and conversing. It was, he had once explained to Greg – or tried to explain, because he couldn't really imagine how such a genius brain worked en detail – like a complex, nearly Brownian molecular movement, and if one could spot the divergences from expected patterns, one could extrapolate a wealth of information just from who talked with whom, where in the room and for how long. Plus-ones like Greg sometimes disrupted those patterns and created chaos because they weren't part of the established political or social games and tended to introduce a factor of randomness. Greg thought that he rather enjoyed making the evening a bit less boring for his love, who was just now talking to some sort of middle eastern emissary, and so he claimed a glass of probably-not-champagne from a nearby waiter and joined the fray.
“Is the champagne not to your taste, Mr...?” a cool, cultivated, slightly disdainful tenor spoke from somewhere on his right.
Greg turned, a polite half-smile on his face, one that he had learned from Mycroft. It didn't quite reach his eyes, which tended to disconcert people. He could always let it warm, but not for the posh tosser who was now approaching him. Minor bureaucrat, twenty-seven to thirty years of age, wearing a Savile Row suit conservative enough for his father's generation, ambitious but too arrogant for his own good, self-important and, as Sherlock would undoubtedly say, Bo-ring.
“Lestrade,” he calmly informed the man. “And no. I hate to be a wet blanket, but this... beverage has never seen the Champagne, and is a rather useless vintage besides. I'm not saying that there aren't any perfectly drinkable méthode champenoise sparkling wines out there but this, really, was an uninspired choice. A clear point in case that price doesn't always ensure quality. Don't you agree, Mr...?”
He lifted his iron-grey eyebrows at the whelp, who looked rather shocked and wrong-footed. When indignation began to win out on the younger man's face, Greg gave him a cool smile.
“See that they do better next time, why don't you?” he asked, pushed his nearly full glass into the other man's hand, inclined his head at him and walked away.
“By Jove,” another man said to him, amusement clear in his baritone, “but that was entertaining. I couldn't help but overhear. Grant Standish, pleasure to meet you.”
This time Greg's smile was warm as he took in the tall, white-haired man with a gaze. “Gregory Lestrade, how do you do.”
“You're right about the swill, of course; uninspired is too tame a word, really,” Mr Standish said.
Greg gave him a slightly sheepish smile. “It is, isn't it? I'm usually not that snarky to people I don't know, but that young man just made a bad drink so much worse.”
The older man chuckled, genuinely amused. “That was Charles Duval, aspiring young diplomat, or so he prides himself. He does tend to have a rather unfortunate effect on people, though, so I don't think he'll go as far as he himself undoubtedly believes.”
Greg grinned. “He doesn't seem very diplomatic to me,” he offered, “but then, I'm hardly one to talk. When a sentence has more than three meanings at the same time, I tend to get a headache.”
Mr Standish chuckled again. “A man after my own heart! Speak your mind by all means. You do get used to the multiple meanings, but the headache, I'm afraid, never really goes away.”
“You're a braver man than I, Mr Standish,” Greg replied with a small shudder. “I admit, I can't imagine doing this on a daily basis. I'm just a simple policeman.”
The older man laughed, amused. “Simple, eh? You know your clothes and drinks very well for that.”
“Well,” Greg replied, “food and drink are a matter of family pride. As to the clothes, the things a man does for love, eh?” He said it lightly, with a grin.
Mr Standish chuckled in agreement. “Which goes to show that you, Mr Lestrade, certainly do not lack bravery. I need to continue making my rounds,” he said with a tiny sigh, “but allow me to introduce you to a dear colleague of mine, Mr Fields. I think you might get on splendidly together, and you'd do a good work, saving a decent man from his headache for a while. If nothing else, you can commiserate over the state of the beverages tonight.”
Mr Fields turned out to be a sprightly elderly gentleman very much interested in vintage cars. He had personally restored a beautiful old Bentley Speed Six and kept repairing it himself. It seemed like a lot of effort to Greg, since those repairs were necessary almost on a weekly basis, but the man seemed very happy to be allowed his tinkering, and Greg had to admit that the car was absolutely gorgeous. Mr Fields had pictures on his phone that he liked to share, and although he seemed a very proper and dignified person before they had started talking about vintage cars, he was now showing an almost childlike enthusiasm about his hobby. Greg, who had owned an older bike for many years, wasn't unfamiliar with repairs himself, and so he managed to speak with passable knowledge and some passion of his own.
Somehow, the pair caught the attention of a North African dignitary in traditional dress who had overheard some of the car-related terms and joined the conversation. His English was broken, heavily accented and quite hard to understand, but his French was smooth and fluent, and Greg easily slid into the role of the interpreter before he even realised what was happening. Mr Mouloudji, who was clearly a diplomat but whose actual rank remained unclear to Greg, owned several vintage cars himself, amongst them a Bentley Speed Six that was only a few years younger than Mr Fields'. The three men enjoyed their animated and companionable conversation until, to his visible regret, Mr Mouloudji was reminded by an assistant of his duties and took his leave, although not before exchanging phone numbers with Mr Fields.
“Do you know who that was, Mr Lestrade?” Mr Fields asked with a smile.
Greg collected his thoughts for a moment. “Obviously an upper-class, influential man,” he deduced. “He has the natural, effortless sort of authority of a man born to power. He has no need to be stuck-up or self-important; he knows his own worth and abilities. Based on his name and accent, I'd say he is a Berber, possibly from Algiers but I would guess Morocco, with a few years spent in Paris, probably going to uni. My guess would be either Sciences PO or the Sorbonne. Not the Université Pierre et Marie Curie for engineering, although it interests him; he doesn't use an engineer's technical terms when he discusses cars.”
Mr Fields nodded encouragingly, and Greg went on, “Mr Mouloudji is very aware of his duties and discharges them with grace, but he finds events like this one a bit tedious, at least sometimes. He doesn't drink any of that so-called champagne, which can either mean that he's a devout Muslim or that he's used to better quality. All in all, he seems to be an alright sort of chap. Oh, and if he's still here over the weekend and you want to make him happy, kick one of the stuffier events out of his schedule and take him to the vintage car show in Hampstead instead.”
He might not be as perceptive and intelligent as Sherlock, but he wasn't entirely unobservant, and he did read people's emotions more easily than his partner's brother.
“Impressive,” Mr Fields commented.
Greg's dark brown eyes twinkled. “Thank you, but I know at least two people who could have done better with the observation and deductions, one of them here in the room.”
His reply wasn't overly modest, simply factual.
The elderly gentleman nodded. “But would any of them have made that suggestion of going to the car show?”
“I don't know. One of them certainly wouldn't have, but the other one might,” he thoughtfully replied, his eyes briefly straying across the room to Mycroft. His partner, poised and elegant as ever, seemed to feel immediately that Greg was looking at him, and they exchanged the tiniest of smiles before returning to their respective conversations.
Mr Field cleared his throat. “Of course, Mr Holmes cannot be bothered with such details.”
Greg grinned mischievously. “Yes, and he'd be a right berk about it, too. Luckily, the older Holmes brother is much more civilised.”
The elderly gentleman coughed, trying to camouflage his sudden and unexpected need to laugh, but Greg started chuckling, and then the two of them were laughing – at the posh black tie event, a bit like John and Sherlock at a crime scene. John might have said it was a bit not good, if he weren't too busy snickering himself, that was.
“I was going to try to recruit you,” Mr Fields said when they had finally calmed down again, “but that might not be a good idea after all, would it?”
Greg smiled. “I'm honoured, but you're probably right. I do enjoy my job, except for the increase in desk time and paperwork that seems to progress exponentially with every promotion. Since I've made it to Detective Chief Inspector about three years ago, I'm really not as much in the field any more as I'd like, and supervising the teams is really a bit like herding cats sometimes. For all that I like to complain on occasion, though, I'd miss it terribly.”
“You are refreshingly honest, Mr Lestrade, or should I say, DCI?” Mr Fields replied, still smiling slightly.
Greg smiled back. “That's exactly why I wouldn't make a good diplomat or politician,” he drily replied. “And you really needn't call me by my title, unless you'd like to tell me yours and we can be even.”
“No,” Mr Fields said with a smile, “I agree, that's not necessary.”
“Say,” Greg said with a grin, “is there anything to drink to be had in this place other than this offending stuff masquerading as champagne?”
The older gentleman grinned mischievously. “You've asked the right man,” he said. “Come along. Although I still dearly wish I could offer you employment, if only to increase the quality of the beverages to be had at government functions.”
After brief introductions Mr Fields had to continue on, but Greg found himself in a small but select circle of impeccably dressed gentlemen who were all appreciating a glass of excellent whisky.
“Well, what do you think, Lestrade?” an overweight man in his late fifties or early sixties asked, his voice jovial but his eyes unpleasantly sharp. His fleshy cheeks were flushed, he clearly wasn't on his first glass any more, and there was a certain aggressiveness about him that marked him as a bully.
There was a bottle on the small table, but it was covered, and Greg couldn't read much from this. He only knew relatively cheap whisky bottles, or cut crystal ones that the whisky had been decanted into. Greg was rather glad now that Mycroft had introduced him to the finest whiskies – although, at the time, he had thought it a bit ridiculous to spend positively obscene amounts of money on something so transient – or he might have made a fool of himself now.
“From the Isle of Skye, isn't it?” Greg carefully asked after taking a sip. “It's lovely, nicely aged, smokey, not too peaty and incredibly aromatic, almost fruity. And you can taste a hint of the sea. Talisker single malt?”
He had tasted a similar scotch at the Holmes family cottage, but he was certain that this one wasn't quite as aged as Siger Holmes' fifty-year-old one.
The jovial man clapped him on the shoulder and laughed, which set his jowls quivering. “Had it before, haven't you? Enjoy a good whisky every once in a while?”
Greg smiled politely. “Not this exact age, no, but it was similar enough. And yes, only every once in a while. A whisky like that is meant to be savoured.”
He calmly took another small sip and let the golden liquid roll across his tongue and palate.
“Absolutely,” a stick-thin old man firmly agreed. He had a heavily crinkled face but much younger eyes, adorned with laugh-lines agreed with a genuine smile. Also, he didn't seem to care much for the man who had tried to put Greg on the spot, and the younger man immediately found himself inclined to like him. If the lines on his face could speak, they would certainly have many stories to tell, good ones as well as bad, happy ones as well as sad. Greg saluted him silently with his tumbler, and the old man raised his own in reply.
“I hear you object to the champagne, Mr Lestrade?” another man cheerfully asked. He was of undefinable age and entirely unremarkable looks, his stature, his posture and even his face entirely average. He appeared to be comfortably buzzed, although he seemed to be an amicable drunk. Somehow, Greg didn't buy it. No man could be that harmless and forgettable without putting an effort into it.
Still, he inclined his head at the man, smiling, although his eyes showed a bit of his sudden attentiveness. “That's not what I'd call champagne,” he simply said.
“So, you're not partial to the French bubbly?” the man who was a few stones beyond portly asked in a very jovial voice again, which however didn't quite mask his aggressiveness.
Greg returned his gaze evenly. “When it's a decent vintage,” he calmly replied, “I don't mind it. Admittedly, I do have a weakness for a good wine, though.”
“Your name's French, isn't it?” the overweight man asked in that very same unpleasant tone. “Lestrade?”
“Why, flawlessly deduced, dear sir. Your acuity is exceptional,” Greg replied with a small, bland smile, channelling his partner, although Mycroft could have probably delivered it better.
The thin old man gave a barking laugh. “Good on you, boy,” he cheerfully said to Greg. “I bet that you didn't even feel the knife slip between your ribs, did you, Andrew, you old lump? Now quit being such a bloody tosser, for Christ's sake.”
“Thank you, sir,” Greg meekly replied, his dark brown eyes sparkling with amusement.
The formerly jovial man spluttered indignantly, his jowls quivering. “I say, William!”
“And we heard,” the old man drily replied. “Not that it contained anything of substance, mind.”
“Oh, come on, William, play nice,” the remarkably unremarkable gentleman who was probably just pretending to be mildly drunk said in a mild, peaceable tone. “And you, Andrew, don't be silly. You're not above champagne, either. You already drank a jolly lot of it, and you're not even half French. No good mixing cheap bubbly with good whisky, though. You're getting quite red in the face, old bean.”
Actually, he was, but that seemed more due to a choleric disposition than the previous consumption of alcohol. Andrew, Greg couldn't remember his surname, seemed to have a rather high tolerance, which with a very high probability made him a functioning alcoholic. Sherlock would have burst out with that deduction immediately, and in a properly gleeful tone. Greg prided himself on being more diplomatic than that. Also, it was more fun to lean back into the expensive leather chair, sip his lovely single malt and enjoy the interplay.
“Oh,” Greg said to Mr Unremarkable Man with a grin, “I'm sure the bubbly wasn't cheap, per se. It's just not living up to one's expectations, is it?”
Mr Thin Old William smirked at Greg and discreetly held up his index finger, then extended his middle finger to join it. That was two to nil in favour of Greg, who inclined his head in thanks, amused.
Mr Unremarkable Man grinned at him with a sudden mischievous light in his unremarkable grey eyes. “Touché.”
Overweight Bully Andrew abruptly drowned his whisky, filled his tumbler anew, making it a triple, and immediately started gulping again. The other three men at the table stared at him with barely concealed horror.
“Not like this wonderful scotch,” Greg peaceably continued after a pause. “I must thank you for allowing me to join you, gentlemen, both for the Talisker and the company.”
“Our pleasure, Mr Lestrade,” Mr Thin Old William said with a genuine smile, and Mr Unremarkable Man nodded in agreement.
“Speak for yourselves,” Overweight Bully Andrew muttered, clearly in a state of beginning drunkenness now and, contrary to Mr Unremarkable Man, not the slightest bit pleasant. “Bloody French ponce... probably bent, too...”
Before the others could reply, Greg smiled in a thin, dangerous way. “I fail to see how either could be considered an insult,” he said, his voice utterly calm.
“'Course it's not insulting,” Mr Unremarkable Man cut in, frowning a little with alcohol-induced thoughtfulness. “At least the French know how to appreciate good alcohol, and hold it, too. Though you're not really French, are you? And not really gay, I think, either.”
Greg couldn't help but smile at him, even though he was quite sure now the man wasn't as far gone as he pretended to be. “Nah, I consider myself mostly English, although I do still have close relatives in France, and my parents moved back there after they retired. I don't see it as a conflict. Both countries are pretty multi-cultural these days. No-one would criticise me for favouring a decent gosht korma, padh tai or lasagne, so I don't really see why I should be condemned for a bit of bœuf bourguignon. As for being gay...”
Overweight Bully Andrew snorted, then sneered and emptied the rest of his glass in another large gulp.
“There is not need for you to reply to that,” Mr Thin Old William said, almost gently.
“I wouldn't wish to make you uncomfortable,” Greg replied with a slight smile and a polite incline of his head.
The old man laughed. “Oh, I'm really not. Some young people are so prudish these days, but it doesn't really bother me. Westborough here clearly doesn't mind, and Larson, well, he brought it up in the first place, so he can bloody well shut up and take it.”
Overweight Bully Andrew, apparently Larson, sneered and picked up his tumbler again, only to find it empty. He reached for the bottle again, but Mr Thin Old William firmly put it on the other side of the table. “I think you've had quite enough, Andrew. You're in no state to appreciate my whisky. If you want to get smashed, snag yourself more of that awful champagne,” he said, not unkindly.
Greg gave him a nod of agreement and said, just to see the bully squirm, “Well, I'm bisexual, actually.” Then he added, thoughtfully, “I've been married for over fifteen years, but my ex-wife has sort of put me off women. Of course, all women aren't the same, but some of them I really don't understand, you know. They say one thing and expect you to do the other, but only sometimes and sometimes not. It's like playing Russian Roulette with most of the chambers filled. Either way, you're bound to draw the short straw more often than not, and you'll never know when or why until it's too late. There is all that subtext that I don't really understand, and no predictability because the rules change on a whim and without notification. And then they say that men can't communicate. Well, perhaps we can't, but at least we're all upfront and clear about it, aren't we?”
The other men nodded, even Overweight Bully Andrew Larson, with commiserating looks.
“They want their husbands to advance their careers, because of the increased social status and salary,” Greg went on, getting in the spirit of things, possibly helped along by the fine glass of spirits he was sipping. “But then, all of a sudden, you're never home enough any more, and your work hours are too irregular and your job is too demanding. Of course, that's all your fault, always, and in the end, the only way to get away from the nagging is by working even longer hours, which only increases the nagging.”
Again, the other men commiserated. It seemed to be a common problem in their circles as well.
“And,” Greg added, pausing briefly. His former wife's continued infidelity had been a major point in the divorce, but it wasn't something he liked to bring up. “She had no appreciation whatsoever of fine spirits and vintage cars,” he said instead. She'd also had no appreciation of football, but neither had Mycroft, so it wasn't really fair to make that point.
“Women,” Mr Unremarkable Westborough contemplatively sighed. “Can't live with them, can't live without them.”
“Hah,” Greg contradicted with a cheerful, slightly soppy grin. “That's the beauty of it; I can, and I do. Took me a while to get over the divorce and find the right person, but the last two years have been the happiest of my life.”
“So,” Overweight Bully Andrew Larson said with the overly clear pronunciation of the drunk and a pitifully lopsided sneer, “your solution is to bloody shack up with another bloke, eh?”
“Well,” Greg peaceably replied, “if it's meant to be long-term, and I'm frankly getting too old for anything else, obviously it can't be just any bloke, like it can't be just any woman. It has to be the right person, preferably wrapped in a shape that appeals to you, you know.”
“Of course, the appeal must be mutual,” Mr Thin Old William said, dry as the desert as he looked at the rather unappealing picture a drunk Overweight Bully Larson made.
Mr Unremarkable Westborough and Greg coughed discreetly, trying not to grin as the old gentleman's eyes twinkled mischievously. Greg discreetly lifted his index finger and, on second thought, his middle finger, too. This evening was turning out to be a lot more fun than he had expected; clearly not all people here were boring stuffed shirts.
Overweight Bully Larson stared at him with reddened, hateful eyes. “So, get off on bending over, do you?”
“Now, Andrew!”
“For God's sake, Larson!”
The two other men were indignant, but Greg lifted his hand in a silent request to leave matters to him. He looked at the disagreeable, bitter, outspokenly homophobic man, and suddenly it clicked and everything made sense.
“Christ,” he softly said. Oh, the poor, repressed bastard.
Larson twitched, his eyes widened, startled, and then he loudly blustered, “I don't know what you think you're implying, Lestrade, but you'd better be bloody careful.”
Greg nodded; it wasn't his place to out the poor sod. “Quite right,” he calmly said. “None of my business.”
“Bloody right!” Larson blustered, still looking like a panicked rabbit about to bolt.
The other two men were keen observers, or at least Mr Thin Old William was, and Greg vaguely wondered how on earth Larson had even managed to stay in the closet all those years when he became so easily flustered. Perhaps he just didn't entertain the thought that people actually knew. Well, time to change the subject.
“You mentioned that this scotch is yours, sir,” Greg said to Mr Thin Old William, adroitly changing the subject. “Have you ever visited the distillery on the Isle of Skye?”
He spent another quarter of the hour with the three gentlemen – rather pleasantly, now that Overweight Bully Larson had fallen mostly quiet – and then politely excused himself to the loo.
When he returned, Greg found himself snagged by a group of opulently garbed middle-aged women of different nationalities, probably ambassadors' wives or something of that sort, he guessed. Apparently, they were having a small disagreement about public transportation in Great Britain, of all things, and had decided to bring in an Englishman to settle the dispute. Politely, Greg proceeded to do just that, and seamlessly slipped into the role of the interpreter once again. Once the terminology had been straightened out and a certain amount of additional information had been accessed via his phone, the disagreement turned out to have mainly consisted of cross-cultural misunderstandings, and any remaining ruffled feathers were easily soothed. Then he spent some time showing them some lesser known spots of interest in London, also on his phone and in both French and English, among other things Little Venice, Fulham Palace, the Mithraeum – an ancient Roman temple excavation site preserved under Bloomberg's European headquarters – and the Chelsea Physic Garden, London's oldest botanical garden. The interest was gratifying, and the ladies pulled out their own phones, bookmarked certain pages of interest and arranged to meet at Fulham Palace the following week.
Greg charmingly declined an invitation, citing work as his excuse, left the group in significantly better spirits than he had found it and slowly went looking for Mycroft. He knew that his partner was working, but he also had been promised a pleasant evening out, and he wanted to spend at least a bit of time with the elegant, poised man who wore his dinner suit as if he had been born in it. Even though Mycroft had to maintain his carefully crafted, controlled, icy persona in public, he was still incredibly stunning that way, radiating sheer, intoxicating power, and it made the contrast all the sweeter when they finally returned home. Sadly, though, Mycroft still seemed stuck in a small group of dignitaries, although he briefly met Greg's eyes again in a smile that was indecipherable for anyone else in the room but filled his partner with warmth.
With a small sigh, he sauntered on. Mycroft in his bespoke dinner suit was certainly a magnificent sight, but Greg had had a full day at work and was slowly getting tired, and the atmosphere at a formal soirée was hardly conductive to relaxation, as Mycroft would have put it. Greg would have said, although right now not aloud, that he really fancied the comfortable couch and beamer setup at home with an old episode of Dr Who and a nice glass of Pinot Noir of a decent but not ridiculously expensive vintage, perhaps a small plate of grapes and cheese and most certainly Mycroft in soft, comfortable pyjamas to lean his head on. Other scenarios were very welcome as well, but it wasn't really prudent to think of such things when under scrutiny in a formal environment. He was just beginning to think up a strategy to entice his partner home when he passed a pair of diplomats sounding like aggravated toddlers, or Sherlock and Sally on a bad day. He'd already had that situation earlier that afternoon, thank you very much, and suddenly found himself very much out of patience.
He was close enough to Mycroft now, and they exchanged another glance. His poised, graceful partner actually seemed worried, although the signs were minute. The escalation next to Greg was just beginning, but Mycroft clearly couldn't leave the group he was discussing whichever sort of important treaty or agreement with. Apparently, no-one else was placed to interfere; there were several other men near the quarrelling duo, but they looked either helpless, disgusted or gleeful. No help was coming from that quarter, and Greg hated, hated with a passion, to see his partner worried and overworked and spread too thin.
The two dignitaries – he couldn't quite pinpoint their nationality – had been abusing each other in harshly accented French, accompanied by wide, aggressive gestures, and were now degenerating to small pushes and shoves. Honestly, they were behaving just like little Denise and Claire in the clip Greg's sister had sent him a few days ago, and that thought sparked the sort of feral, frightening smile on his face that would have even made Sherlock and Sally take a cautious step back.
Quickly, Greg took out his phone again and started recording.
When the shoves were starting to become more violent, Greg put away his phone and stepped closer, drawing his authority around him like a mantle. This wasn't affable Greg Lestrade, charming guest any more but DCI Lestrade in an advanced state of Not Amused. He deliberately let the leather heels of his made-to-order Oxfords click on the polished parquet as he advanced like a thundercloud.
“Messieurs,” he said, his voice deep, disapproving and heavy with authority. “Messieurs!”
The two dignitaries turned their attentions on the approaching silver-haired stranger.
“And who would you be?” one of them asked in French in an indignant tone.
“I am,” Greg bluntly replied, switching to French as well, “a man who has had a long day and who has already had to deal with a pair of petulant toddlers today, and the two of you are not improving my mood. Can you not at least pretend to be grown-ups in public?”
“He started it!” the man on the left petulantly cried.
“How dare you insult me! Do you know who I am? This is an outrage!” the other exclaimed.
Greg angled his body towards the first man. His first impulse was to point, but he vaguely remembered that in some cultures that might be taken amiss, and so he simply made a gesture to the left with his left hand.
He sternly said, “Case in point, Monsieur.”
Then he sharply pivoted towards the other man and repeated the stern look and hand gesture on the right side. “And this was not an insult, Monsieur, simply an accurate description of your behaviour. Permit me to demonstrate, please.”
He snapped out his phone again, found the correct clip, held the phone so that both men could see and hit the play button.
The voices that emerged were also in French but much, much younger. They came from the mouths of two little girls who were exceedingly adorable in spite of their squabbling, two little girls with curly blond hair with satin ribbons and cute little summer dresses.
“These are my nieces Claire and Denise, aged three and five,” he said, his voice still forbidding and stern, although his face had softened somewhat at the picture the two little pests with their angelic appearance and devilish temper made. “Please pay attention to their posture, body language and tone of voice.”
“And this, Messieurs, is you,” he continued and called up the clip he had recorded only minutes before. “Again, pay attention to posture, body language and tone of voice, please.”
The similarities were so stunning that the two men froze up in humiliation.
“Now, Messieurs,” Greg continued in his stern voice, “can I trust you to behave like adults, or do I need to send you to separate corners of the room until you have calmed down?”
“This... this is an outrage!” the man on the right repeated, very conscious of the coughs and snickers of the people around him.
“Absolutely,” Greg calmly agreed. “Brawling like in a common tavern, honestly. If I were in charge of the guest lists of such events, I certainly wouldn't invite either one of you back. Fortunately for you, that is not the case.”
Then he swept the bystanders, the people who had done nothing to disarm the volatile situation but now stood there smirking, with a look of mild distaste. “And you, Messieurs,” he coolly went on, still in French, “are you quite done giggling like schoolboys? Seriously, this place needs a nanny.”
He turned back to the two primary offenders. “Now, Messieurs, I suggest you either treat each other with at least rudimentary courtesy for the remainder of the evening, or stay away from each other.”
“Or?” the dignitary on the left sullenly demanded, then wilted under Greg's icy look.
“Are you threatening us?” the other one demanded.
“Or,” Greg gravely stated after an uncomfortable, drawn-out pause as he lifted his phone, “I'm going to send this to the Foreign Office and have it forwarded to your mothers.”
His tone of voice left absolutely no doubt that he was deadly serious.
It was a threat of an entirely unexpected nature, and for a moment, there was only shocked silence.
“However, I trust that there will be no need for that, Messieurs,” Greg calmly added, his dark brown eyes as hard as flint and his smile shark-like.
The other two quickly agreed that no, it would not be necessary, and the knot of people dispersed hastily, the two opponents markedly leaving in two different directions.
Greg watched them go with his calm, stern expression firmly in place, then sighed softly, closed his eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Nom de dieu,” he muttered, restricting himself to the most old-fashioned and mildest in his wide arsenal of curses in respect to his surroundings, then straightened himself again imperceptibly when he realised that someone was walking up to him from the side.
To his surprise, it was Mr Fields, the older gentleman he had been introduced to at the beginning. They had talked about vintage Bentleys and he had joked – or at least Greg thought that he had joked – about recruiting him.
Mr Fields smiled and held out one of two tumblers of what looked very much like Mr Thin Old William's lovely scotch.
“Allow me to congratulate you, Mr Lestrade,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
“Uh, thank you, Mr Fields.” Greg mentally switched back to English, gratefully accepted the cut crystal glass and replied a little sheepishly, “The next time I attend a function such as this, I'll either bring a riot shield or enough teddy bears for everyone to share. As you can see, I'm really not cut out to be a diplomat.”
“I wouldn't say that,” the older gentleman thoughtfully replied as he took a sip of his own single malt whisky. “It was certainly unconventional, but highly effective.”
“Herding cats,” Greg replied with a sigh and a reluctant smile. “As I said, Mr Fields, I get enough of that in my own job, I don't really need any more.”
“Pity. You dealt with those two admirably,” the older man said mildly.
“Well, after regularly keeping Sherlock Holmes and DI Donovan from tearing each other to shreds verbally, there isn't much that can shock me, I suppose,” Greg replied and took a sip of his own. “Ah, it's that lovely Talisker. Thank you. Still, if I yell or swear at my own two miscreants, at least it won't cause an international incident. I'm more of a mallet than a scalpel, I suppose.”
“And both are equally important if one knows when and how to apply them,” Mr Fields said with a genuine smile, “as is the knowledge of one's own limitations.”
Greg laughed, amused. “Well, my limitation is subtlety,” he stated with cheerful frankness.
“But not, apparently, inventiveness,” the older gentleman chuckled. “Might I perhaps trouble you for a copy of that clip?”
“You know, Mr Fields,” Greg gravely said, schooling his face into utter seriousness, “with great power comes great responsibility.”
They looked at each other for a long moment, then both started laughing.
“Oh, what the hell,” Greg said with a mischievous grin as he pulled out his phone. “I'll send it to you. What's your number?”
“And I shall forgive me for quoting Spiderman at me,” Mr Fields replied with a grin when they had exchanged numbers and Greg had sent off the clip. On second thought, he also forwarded the clip of his nieces; the similarities were really quite hilarious, and he trusted Mr Fields to treat it with discretion.
Greg replied, “Actually, I prefer to attribute it to a decree made by the French National Convention on May 8, 1793. “Ils doivent envisager qu’une grande responsabilité est la suite inséparable d’un grand pouvoir,” you know, although of course Spiderman is much more super, as my nieces would say.” [A.N.: literal translation: They [meaning the delegates] must consider that great responsibility follows inseparably from great power.]
“Touché,” Fields laughed and quoted the next sentence, “Ce sera à leur énergie, à leur courage, et sur-tout à leur prudence, qu’ils devront leur succès et leur gloire, Mr Lestrade.” [A.N.: It will be to their energy, to their courage, and above all to their prudence that they shall owe their success and their glory.]
Greg smiled in recognition and inclined his head. “Oh, good, I was afraid you'd be thinking of me as a terrible know-it-all now. Anyway, I always thought that politicians all around the world should have that tattooed on their palms when they assumed office, but unfortunately it probably wouldn't help much.”
“I think he meant you, Gregory, dear,” a mellifluous tenor said to his right. “Take it as a compliment.”
Greg turned with a beaming smile. “Mycroft.”
Oh, he looked even more magnificent when viewed from a closer vantage. Greg sometimes still wondered what this brilliantly intelligent, charming and absolutely stunning man saw in him.
“Mr Holmes.”
“Mr Fields.”
The two gentlemen greeted each other respectfully. Then Mycroft turned towards his partner and returned his smile, though somewhat more cautiously in public. It didn't make the light in Greg's eyes diminish at all; they knew each other too well.
“I take it I have you to thank for the resolution of this unfortunate situation?” Mycroft asked, still with that tiny, warm smile in his eyes.
Greg's own smile became more humorous. “In a nutshell, I told them they were acting like spoilt toddlers and threatened them with their mummies. I figured, if it works on Sherlock sometimes...”
Mycroft chuckled. “At times, Gregory, you are remarkably ingenuous.”
“I have been trying to recruit Mr Lestrade,” the older gentleman said with a humorous moue, “but alas, I seem to be failing dismally.”
Greg grinned at him disarmingly. “It's not you, Mr Fields, it's me,” he said, cheerfully making fun of that overused, trite phrase. “But I can still send you a suitable wine list, if you'd like.”
The two men chuckled and Mycroft's lips twitched in a slight but genuinely amused way that he rarely showed in public.
“Actually, I would appreciate that greatly, Mr Lestrade,” Mr Fields replied, still smiling.
“All right, then,” Greg amicably agreed, “I'll text it to you in a day or two. Mycroft, do you have to go back to those negotiations?”
He did his very best not to make imploring puppy eyes at his partner, although he really wanted to. But he was there to support Mycroft and would do all that was necessary.
“I'm quite done for tonight, Gregory,” Mycroft replied with another tiny smile that was mostly in his eyes, “and I do thank you for your forbearance. For the remainder of the evening, I am entirely at your disposal.”
His beautiful, cultured voice now carried that certain subtle cadence that still made Greg's breath catch and probably always would. He was only glad that he didn't blush easily.
“That sounds... wonderful,” he said, his own voice just a little hint deeper and rougher than before.
Mr Fields excused himself with a small smile and left the two men to enjoy one another's company. Personally, he had never expected reserved, aloof Mycroft Holmes to become attached to anyone at all, but now that it had clearly happened, he wasn't surprised that he had chosen Gregory Lestrade. On the surface, they seemed very dissimilar, cold and warm, highly polished and slightly rough, but he was quite certain that combined, those two were even more formidable than individually. Lestrade was intelligent and cultured enough, charming, amicable and a very attractive man – and remarkably unaware of it – with his ready smile, physical fitness and silver hair, but those traits alone wouldn't have made the Iceman spare him even a single thought. Mr Fields had spoken to several other persons who'd been in contact with the DCI tonight, and they all painted a similar picture of a man who was approachable, polite in an unconventional and refreshingly forthright way, perceptive, humorous but also calmly self-assured and certainly not a pushover. Lestrade also notably lacked the pretentiousness and self-importance that was so common in these circles, and the resentment he drew from shallow, unpleasant people like young Duval or Andrew Larson was a recommendation in and of itself. And he had managed to favourably impress personages as diverse in temperament and cultural background as Izîl Mouloudji, William Bowes-Lyon and Gianna de Massy. Perhaps he shouldn't quite give up yet on the recruitment of one Gregory Lestrade, or at least on a mutually beneficial association.
Mr Fields paused for a moment on the edge of the range of his rather sharp hearing, greeting an Italian consul, and overheard a softly spoken, “On the danger of sounding like a spoilt toddler myself, love, I've had a bit of a long day, I'm a little tired, and, well, can we go home soon?”
There was the softest laugh in reply, and then, “Of course, dearest. Let me just say a few goodbyes and then... I will truly be at your disposal.”
“Hmm. Wonderful. And I at yours.” A quiet, deep chuckle. “That's a lovely suit, by the way. Do you think I can talk you out of it?”
The things a man does for love, indeed, Mr Fields thought and walked away with a smile.