Chapter Text
Lestrade wanted to shoot his desk. Get a weapon, unload a full clip directly into each of the stacks of papers littering his workspace, reload, do it again and then set everything on fire. And that was exactly what the young constable saw in the man’s eyes when he quietly knocked and presented another small stack of folders that required immediate attention.
Since Sherlock’s bloody swan dive and miraculous return, there had been two camps at the Yard. Those that blamed him for the dive and those that blamed him for the return. Either way, someone blamed him for something. But, all agreed on one thing – he’d done his job. He’d done his job properly and he’d done it well. And he continued to do that, not giving the bastards one reason to bring him in front of a desk to hand him a dismissal slip. Not that anyone was actually angling to put him on the street. This was the paranoia and anger that always seemed to creep out of the dark corners of his brain lately when he was tired, overwhelmed, thought about the gorgon that posed as his ex-wife… Truth be told, the job went on as it always did and it was getting easier to forget that bleak period when there wasn’t a pompous git racing in and out of his office with his one-man cheering squad in his wake.
There he went again. John was no one’s cheering section. It was only now that John was beginning to smile with any real light behind it. He’d been a broken man for so long and the bones were slow to mend, but it was happening. He’d never been Sherlock’s sycophant, either. Lestrade needed a pint. Maybe two. Or eight. A pint, a carton of very greasy Thai food and a good match on the telly. Oh wait, he had something much better. Paper. Lots and lots of paper…
And now the phone was ringing. The phone, which was really just another piece of paper except it talked. Another problem, complaint, case, order or other burden laid on his desk to go with the eternity of others. He’d take this message with a blue pen. He’d used a black one for the last few, so it was time to get a little crazy about things.
“Lestrade.”
“Ah Detective Inspector, how good that you are available to take my call.”
Well, that was just the hand of God punching him in the gut, wasn’t it? Mycroft Holmes…
“What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”
“I find myself in need of a small favor, if you would be so kind. Nothing that will occupy an undue measure of your time, but it is something of importance to me and I would be very grateful for any assistance you can provide.”
Favor? A favor for Mycroft Holmes? Normally, granting a favor was something Lestrade didn’t mind doing since he’d be owed one in return. However, he had a strong suspicion that doing a favor for Mycroft Holmes would find him owing four more to the man and entering into an agreement to take a bullet for him without the benefit of Kevlar. But refusal would probably find him naked, bound, gagged, coated in honey and dropped off in the middle of the Amazon on top of a mound of army ants. Why on earth did he even like this man?
“I’ll help if I can. I presume this is confidential.”
“Actually, no. This is a favor of a more personal nature. I would ask you to reach out to your colleagues in the Fitton area and politely request that they intensify their search for a particular person and vehicle.”
“I’m confused. Can’t you do that?”
“Without question, however, I find that in some situations a hand extended in friendship by a colleague can produce faster and more successful results.”
“So, it’s time sensitive.”
“I fear so…”
It was a rare thing that Mycroft Holmes found himself hesitant to take an action, but there were times even he second-guessed himself.
“Are you perhaps free, Detective Inspector? I would rather discuss this matter in person, if that is at all possible. Do not hesitate to refuse if you are otherwise occupied.”
On one hand, a face-to-face with the one person in London that Lestrade knew he’d never be able to completely read and on the other… paper.
“I can get away for bit. Our normal spot?”
“That would be most acceptable. I will meet you there. Good day, Detective Inspector.”
“See you, Mr. Holmes.”
__________
Lestrade thought back on the first time he’d met Mycroft Holmes at the tiny café. It had been raining, cold and the man sitting across from him seemed even colder. It was a long time before Lestrade realized that the icy exterior covered something warmer, at least for certain things such as his infantile brother. And there were the few times when a true monster evaded the Queen’s justice only to end up floating in the Thames within a week. Monsters Lestrade had complained of during one of his occasional meetings for tea with the elder Holmes.
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
The man moved like a jungle cat.
“Not at all. Just enjoying a spot of tea and watching the people. Nice thing to do when I’m not worried about arresting any of them.”
“Quite. And how have you been? I apologize that we have not been able to meet for tea for some time.”
“Work comes first. You don’t have to tell me that. Now, what’s this favor you’re asking about?”
Mycroft waved over the server and ordered a cup of the tea that Lestrade didn’t need to know was kept behind the counter for his personal use.
“It has come to my attention that someone in whom I have an interest has not been seen at their home or place of work for several days. Their vehicle is also missing and, apparently, the local authorities do not consider their disappearance a high-priority matter. I would like you to change their opinion about that.”
Someone in whom I have an interest… there was no reason for Lestrade to feel a cold lump grow in his gut, but another swallow of hot tea did little to make the lump go away. He really needed to get laid. It had been far too long…
“Missing person, huh? Man, woman, child, adult?”
“Male, adult.”
Of course.
“History of mental disease or violent tendencies?”
“None of which I am aware.”
But maybe not that committed.
“Yeah, that would put it down at the bottom of the ladder. What makes you think this person didn’t just go off on a little holiday?”
“That could very well be the case; however, he did not inform his employer about any upcoming time away from his job. And this particular individual would not be careless about such a thing.”
Committed enough that he knew the man took his job seriously, though.
“Ok, well, I do know a few blokes on the job out that way who might be willing to take a closer look at things. Give me what you know and I’ll pass it along.”
Mycroft felt himself relax a little at Lestrade’s agreement. He had calculated that the man would offer his assistance, however, the Detective Inspector had defied his carefully-prepared analyses on more than one occasion.
“Excellent. You have my sincere gratitude for this, Gregory.”
Gregory… now that made the cold lump thaw quite nicely. Lestrade wondered if there were any numbers in his old black book that might be interested in a hook up with a broken-down old copper. One thing was for sure, the man sitting across from him wouldn’t be.
“His name is Martin Crieff, an airline pilot.”
Mycroft reached into his inner pocket, drew out a slip of paper and passed it across the table.
“That is the information I currently possess that may prove relevant.”
Lestrade looked over the information and wasn’t surprised to see it was concise and to the point. Name, address, physical description, vehicle registration and other pertinent facts. The only thing missing was who Mycroft was to this Martin Crieff.
“He is my cousin.”
Damned family of mind readers! But this was very interesting. A cousin. Another member of the great Holmes dynasty. No wonder Mycroft was looking into this himself. If his devotion to his brother was any indication, Mycroft Holmes took family very seriously. And it meant that Martin wasn’t anyone else…
“Ok, good to know. And… I’m sorry. I don’t know what it’s like to lose family like that but…”
“They do seem to keep vanishing, don’t they?”
Lestrade had enough experience with Mycroft’s facial expressions to know that this smile was not even remotely close to genuine. Few people would know or understand how deeply Sherlock’s situation had affected Mycroft, and Lestrade most certainly did not count himself in that group, but he at least realized that the man was affected, which was more than most people would credit.
“Well, let’s see what we can do to get this one back. Any photos?”
“Nothing recent. However…”
Mycroft reached into his pocket and drew out a wallet that Lestrade suspected cost as much as the suit he was married in. He watched as Mycroft withdrew a small photograph from the very back and handed it over.
“You’re kidding me?”
“How fortunate that your burning curiosity about what Sherlock would look like as a ginger has been satisfied. Though you must deduct a number of inches in height. A goodly number of inches.”
“I’ll… uh… can I hold onto his? I’ll fax it around with the rest of the information.”
Lestrade noticed the slight reticence before Mycroft nodded his assent. Another look confirmed that it was an original picture, not a copy. And an old one. No recent ones, though…
“We have not been close of late.”
“That’s more than a little annoying, you know.”
“I would think you would appreciate the efficiency, Detective Inspector.”
“I appreciate talking to someone who can’t peer into my immortal soul and see all my sins laid out like potatoes at vegetable stall.”
“Potatoes? Your sins are far more tomato-like, if I am to render judgment.”
Vibrant, firm, juicy, succulent… Lestrade wished his sins were tomato-like. But he couldn’t hold back the grin that crept up the corners of his lips.
“Well that made my day.”
“Such was my intention.”
It wasn’t a particularly pleasant day, but sharing a chuckle with Mycroft Holmes seemed to chase away at least some of the clouds.
“Count it as a win, then.”
“I shall. One’s, as they say, ‘win column’ should be as robust as possible. Now, unfortunately, I must take my leave. Things to do, as I’m sure you understand.”
“Not a problem. I should probably get back, myself. There be paper dragons that only my sword can slay.”
That little smirk was genuine.
“The best of luck to you, Detective Inspector, on your noble mission. I trust you will keep me informed about the progress on my little matter?”
“Absolutely. I’ll get right on this when I’m back at my office.”
“I should make you aware that Sherlock is already investigating Martin’s disappearance. Do inform your colleagues not to hold him for too long if he is arrested. Sherlock is a terrible nuisance when in custody.”
“Don’t I know it. Yeah, I’ll pass that along. Good to know he’s out there looking.”
“Yes… yes it is.”
Mycroft’s gaze turned inward and Lestrade had no idea what the man was looking at. In the next moment, the placid smile was back on Mycroft’s lips and he was making his final goodbye, stepping outside to the car that was waiting at the curb. Lestrade looked again at the photo in his hand and marveled at the similarity between Sherlock and the man pictured. He left the cafe wondering what else about them was similar.
__________
Lestrade made a flurry of calls when he got back to his desk, reaching out to colleagues and calling in small favors he’d garnered through years of cooperation with other houses. Assured that Martin’s disappearance would at least not fall between the cracks, he called Mycroft, leaving a voice message when the wheels were in motion. And that was the last contact he had with the man for a couple of days until he received notice that Martin’s van had been found, empty, and towed from a behind a row of half-built shops. A double-check that the numbers matched and he was on the phone to Mycroft, again leaving a voice message. After an hour with no word and with the clock indicating that his day ended two hours ago, Lestrade gathered his coat and returned to his flat.
A quick scramble and toast, then a bottle of beer and a run-through of the channels and finally Lestrade was able to begin to wind down from the day. Of course, that was the moment his mobile had to ring.
“Lestrade.”
“I must offer you my deepest apologies, Detective Inspector. I was not able to respond to your message until now and I do not want you to think that your efforts were unappreciated.”
That was strange. Mycroft Holmes beginning a conversation with an apology. Lestrade looked out of his window to see if any signs of the Apocalypse were manifesting outside on the street.
“It’s not a problem, Mr. Holmes, but thank you. The boys got a call about a brawl and when they got a constable out there, the only thing left was the van.”
“Yes… I’ve already had that taken care of.”
“Any news on your cousin?”
“Actually, there is news. Sherlock located Martin. I’m afraid the ‘brawl’ was the result of that happenstance.”
“Sherlock and Martin?”
“Quite. There is a bit of history behind my brother and my cousin that does not bear repeating at this time, but let us say it was not the most joyful of reunions.”
“Bad luck, mate… I mean, Mr. Holmes.”
“You need not stand on formality when I interrupt your off-duty time, Detective Inspector.”
“Detective Inspector?”
“Ah… I have had a trying day and perhaps am not at my best.”
“Is everything… are things alright?”
“At the moment, they are as ‘alright’ as they can be and I have hopes that improvement will be soon in coming.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Not at this time. It’s in John’s hands now.”
John’s hands? That didn’t sound good.
“Is someone hurt?”
For some reason, that drew a quiet laugh from the man on the other end of the call.
“If pride counts, then Sherlock is gravely injured. Cousin Martin is apparently more skilled in hand-to-hand combat than his stature would indicate. However, there are no physical injuries with which to concern yourself.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Lestrade heard Mycroft draw in a deep breath and swore to himself that he had heard that particular labored intake before.
“Martin has apparently acquired a problem with substances of an illicit nature.”
Christ. The lad was on drugs. Now Lestrade knew where he’d heard that tired and frustrated sigh before. He’d heard it many, many times when Sherlock had his own run-in with drugs.
“I’m sorry about that. I am very, very sorry about that. I know it must be especially difficult for you.”
“I admit that I was not expecting this situation; however, perhaps there is comfort in the fact that none of what will follow will be a surprise.”
That it wouldn’t. Mycroft had not shied away from any of the horrors of Sherlock’s problem. Lestrade remembered the times he’d arrived at whatever cupboard Sherlock was using as a flat and found Mycroft cleaning up after his brother’s bouts of sickness, bathing his emaciated body when Sherlock was too strung out to even notice, trying to force any bit of food into his brother’s mouth to attempt to keep him alive for another chance to put his life back on track. Lestrade wondered if Sherlock had ever thanked his brother for any of that… or if he even remembered any of it.
“Well, it isn’t for me either, so if you need any help… I hope you let me know. I’m serious, Mr. Hol…. Mycroft. If there’s something I can do, just phone.”
Having his given name used casually was not something Mycroft was used to but… in very, very rare moments of weakness… he had hoped that the DI would become comfortable enough with their association to dispense with ‘Mr. Holmes.’ This was perhaps not the circumstance in which he hoped the name would be uttered, but it eased something inside him, nonetheless.
“I am very grateful for that… Gregory. And I do assure you that if your assistance is required, I will not hesitate to inform you. I shall, however, take no more of your time tonight. Enjoy your evening, Det… Gregory.”
“You as well… Mycroft. Thanks for calling.”
Lestrade set aside his phone once he heard the call terminate and stared a few moments at the images on the program he’d been watching. Poor bastard… Mycroft had gotten Sherlock straightened out and now he had another young Holmes to tend to. But this time they did have John at the ready. A talented and dedicated doctor on site would have been a great help during Sherlock’s black period, but Lestrade knew that the detective would have pushed away anyone who tried to help him, much as he pushed away Mycroft. There was never any discussion, any conversation about that time between himself and Sherlock, so Lestrade had no idea why when Sherlock pushed at him, it was weak and, he suspected, only for show. One day, perhaps, he’d find out why Sherlock had let him help, but now was certainly not the time to dredge up that old mud.
Lestrade got himself another beer and wondered what Mycroft was doing right now. Was he in a vast and ornate office saving Britain from enemies of the state or doing much as he was… relaxing in front of the telly, in crap clothes, with a beer in his hand. The image of Mycroft in casual garb, laying on a couch, sipping a beer, with his immaculate hair softened and tossled… it was officially now time to turn off his brain and let the telly do its job to mindlessly entertain him. Fantasizing about a man like Mycroft Holmes was not going to be a good idea. He already had a painful case of blue balls… being a dead man with blue balls wasn’t really an improvement.