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Mycroft Holmes meets Greg Lestrade on what should have been a perfectly ordinary Tuesday.
Of course, Mycroft has learned this past decade that he very rarely has ordinary days anymore; this is partly because of his work and his rapid advancement in Her Majesty’s Service, but more often than not simply due to the fact that his younger brother is Sherlock. This blood bond alone is enough to ensure that Mycroft has long since given up on the idea of living an organized or, Lord forbid, predictable life. Even should he wish it.
It is a good thing that he doesn’t. Wish it, that is. Perhaps due to being a Holmes, or simply some unexplainable predisposition built into his very bones and DNA, Mycroft Holmes is a man who has grown used to dealing with situations that others would recoil from. Whether it is a matter of state security or attempting to wrangle his brother’s latest inspiration into something that will not harm everyone in the surrounding radius, Mycroft is one of a very few people who can be relied on to handle whatever problems are thrown his way.
He doesn’t seek them out by choice. He is not, as many others are or may phrase it, an adrenalin junkie. He is simply a capable man who has learned to use said characteristic to his advantage and perfect it into something others would charitably call a career.
Recently, due to rumours of a promotion coming his way and a few unfortunate encounters ending with Mycroft making a fool of those in high places, others have uncharitably called it anything along the lines of accepted sociopathy to ruthless self-advancement.
Be that as it may, the digs are words only and, at this stage, no threat. Therefore, he barely bothers himself with them and does his best to focus on his work, ensuring it is not only up to the standards of his superiors, but rather, up to his own.
The added attention means more responsibility however, and more situations that others either don’t wish to handle or feel unequipped to deal with ending up in his own lap. It is this increase in his workload that he blames on his lapse in judgement when it comes to Sherlock.
Mycroft has been pondering hiring a personal assistant for a few weeks now. Given the recent surge in demand for his time and skills, his duties have been growing and, much as he resents it, perhaps becoming a bit much for him to bear alone. The part time workers he has organizing a select number of his schedules and correspondence are, to put it mildly, almost completely hopeless.
However, he is Mycroft Holmes, and that means it takes something drastic for him to admit the fact that he is, at times, fallible or unable to handle everything of importance by himself. Therefore, it usually takes a serious and rarely dealt blow for him to accept defeat.
In his mind, not noticing that Sherlock has repeatedly been meeting with (and apparently consulting for) a detective of New Scotland Yard for the past two days counts as something drastic.
He’s made surveillance of his siblings a condition of his employment from his first contract. It had been a fact easily argued on the basis that it was agreed they were both persons of interest to monitor, for a multitude of reasons. There were steady reports on Eurus from those in her facility with her. For Sherlock, Mycroft was forced to exert a bit more effort due to the fact that his brother had no regular acquaintances and was, by all legal definitions, a free person under the law.
The only reason he finds out about Lestrade in the first place is because he scans through the neglected dossier on his brother. Neglected not for lack of interest, but due to the fact that Sherlock has slipped from Mycroft’s purview these past few weeks. A frustrating but not entirely surprising fact. He’s done it twice now, and though Mycroft had found his new place of residence eventually after last time, in this case he’s only alerted by the sticky note one of his office workers has slipped into the file on Sherlock that lands on his desk at nine o’clock in the evening.
There, stuck to a grainy security camera photo of Sherlock standing with a strange man that Mycroft doesn’t recognize, is the note with the question written on it. Sherlock?
Mycroft sighs. He’ll have to fire Trembley. The man truly is useless, and though Mycroft had hoped after a month that he’d have improved, it’s clear that is not to be the case.
Everyone in Mycroft’s office knows Sherlock because Mycroft has made it their prerogative to pass any information they find on him directly his way. The picture may be pixelated, yes, but it is clearly Sherlock in the photo, and Trembley should be able to recognize that.
Once again Mycroft considers the benefit of a personal assistant. One person for him to delegate tasks like this to, of keeping track of Sherlock for him when he doesn’t have the time to do so himself.
However, that is an issue for another time, and Mycroft flips through the pages in the file he has.
A few pictures of Sherlock and the other man- spanning over 24 hours. Mycroft frowns at that, noting the change of clothes in the Detective Inspector- for he’s clearly law enforcement and, Mycroft surmises from a few shots including other officers, has some rank. A flip to the next page includes a standard background check and information on him, confirming he’s passed his necessary exams to earn him the title of Detective.
Mycroft runs his eyes over the summary of Gregory Lestrade’s life. Orphaned at eight, in the care of public homes until he was fostered at twelve, his grades in school were abysmal in all subjects except history and physical education. He joined the police force immediately after school, married at 24 and then passed his Detective exams only a few years later.
He seems, to Mycroft’s eyes, entirely ordinary.
So why has Sherlock not only remained in his company for longer than fifteen minutes, but also come back to meet with him again?
Mycroft taps his index finger to his lips and stares at the ID photo of the DI paper clipped to the folder. Though attractive, that would hardly matter to Sherlock; his brother has shown very limited personal interest in others for the purpose of love or sex. Mycroft can’t name a single person who’s made any sort of lasting impact on him in that way. It is one of the many ways he and his brother differ.
No, where Mycroft’s eye might have been caught by Greg for his appearance, Sherlock’s almost definitely was not.
Which is when he then flips the final page to find a report from a recently closed murder investigation. Body found in a sauna but the woman had actually been killed by hypothermia.
Ah.
Mycroft’s lip curls slightly as he scans the report, signed by one Detective Inspector Lestrade and dated from only an hour ago. He reads the notes quickly, knowing before he sees it there in Gregory Lestrade’s handwriting that the ex-boyfriend was the murderer.
These notes have Sherlock written all over them. Not the wording, or the writing itself- Mycroft can hardly imagine his brother deigning to do anything so medial as offering up statements for a police investigation- but in the deductions and speed with which they were done. These leaps of logic reported here were not made by the officers on the case: they were made by Sherlock.
Which raises the question not only of how Sherlock managed to gain access to this crime in the first place (the why, of course, is obvious, given his penchant for puzzles such as these), but also why this officer chose to let him remain.
He flips back to scan DI Lestrade’s crime solving rate again. It’s actually quite high and Mycroft frowns further.
An attempt to help his career is possible as an explanation, Mycroft supposes, but now seems far less likely. The man seems to have one of the best records in his division.
What then, Mycroft muses? Lestrade is married and clearly heterosexual, so him having any personal interest in Sherlock is easy to rule out.
He flicks back to the photos as he texts to have a car ready in five minutes. Sherlock’s clothes are dirty and hang limp from his frame in the first. He looks skinnier than his usual weight and his eyes are wide and dark, his hair a nest.
Mycroft doesn’t allow the lurch in his stomach at the fact that Sherlock is using again to reflect in his face. Instead, he purses his lips, closes the file to bring with him on the drive, and ponders the new question of why a police officer would let a junkie like Sherlock on a case with him as he gathers his things and makes his way from the office to the waiting car.
“To Scotland Yard,” he instructs the driver before raising the partition screen. Then, the file lying open in his lap with the face of Gregory Lestrade staring up at him in black and white from it, Mycroft looks out the window and thinks.
He makes it there in just under half an hour and hopes he’s right in assuming the man he’s here for is still present. The report had been signed and submitted an hour and a half ago, but it is late, and the Detective is married. He is likely also exhausted after two days of dealing with a murder case and Sherlock; there’s a high chance he’s long since left for home.
Yet when Mycroft walks into New Scotland Yard, exuding authority, and with the proper calls having been made to clear his way, he finds the Detective Inspector sitting in what Mycroft now knows to be his office and looking forlornly at a bagel and cup of coffee that have clearly come from the staff room.
Mycroft’s grip tightens on his umbrella as he lifts his other hand to rap sharply once on the open door.
The man looks up sharply, gaze taking a moment to focus. When he finally seems to see Mycroft it takes him a moment to blink and then frown in confusion.
Which is beneficial because Mycroft finds himself stilling in surprise at the sudden feelings of attraction that wash over him at the sight of the detective.
Grainy photos and one greyscale driver’s license picture have not done him justice. There are lines around the man’s eyes, clearly from laughter, and a recent tan to his skin. His hair is in the middle of going grey but is clearly healthy and thick, and Mycroft has to swallow at the sudden inexplicable urge to run a hand through it and feel its texture.
What on earth.
He then blinks, breaking himself out of the momentary reverie that hopefully had gone unnoticed, and shifts his weight to release some of the sudden energy buzzing under his skin.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade?”
It takes only a modicum of effort to pitch his voice to be enquiring. Despite the fact that he obviously knows who the man is, Mycroft has learned over the years how to act clueless. It comes in handy in encouraging people to lower their guard and has smoothed over many transactions. Where Sherlock sees such a thing as debasing, Mycroft doesn’t mind it; he always ends up with the upper hand in the end, and by the time whoever he’s speaking to has worked out they’ve been duped it’s far too late for them. The appearance of weakness is not the same as weakness itself.
“Yeah?” Gregory’s Lestrade voice is hesitant and laden with west end vowels. “Can I help you?”
“I believe so.” Mycroft makes his way further into the office and scans it quickly. Some papers lay on the man’s desk, beside the sad bagel and coffee, and his computer is whirring softly. There is a filing cabinet and two simple chairs for guests. After a moment Mycroft takes one. “Earlier this week you met a man by the name of Sherlock Holmes.”
He watches closely, and so he sees the flicker of surprise replaced by bewilderment and then suspicion fill the man’s expression in a span of a second. Then, surprising Mycroft, his face goes blank except for the sharpness of his eyes that stare right back at him in a new appraisal.
Mycroft isn’t concerned with that. There are only three people in the world who can read him well, and they are all related to him by blood.
“Who are you?”
The Detective’s voice is flat now, even and closed off. Mycroft lays his umbrella in a straight line across his knees and then spreads his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Simply a concerned party.” He replies with a slight smile, intending to be reassuring. “I learned of Sherlock Holmes’ involvement in your most recent case.” Concern flickers in those brown eyes. Mycroft’s lips form a slight smirk. “Rest assured I am not about to inform your superiors you allowed a civilian to assist you so heavily. I simply require a report on the matter and shall then be out of your way.”
It takes a moment for the other man to respond. “Excuse me?”
Mycroft blinks at the low simmer of anger he picks up on from his tone. Had he not heard him say that he wasn’t going to report Lestrade to the Chief Intendent?
“A simple report, Detective Inspector-”
“Look, mate,” the dismissive and furious way he spits the moniker makes it clear that he and Mycroft couldn’t be further from friends, “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but if you think you can just waltz in here and demand a report on a classified case off me-”
“Oh, I have the necessary clearance.” Mycroft tries to assure, though he is feeling rather offput by the Inspector’s response. “In fact-”
“-as if you’re my boss- and interrupting me is not helping, ta very much,” the Detective Inspector continues, making Mycroft’s mouth snap shut and his spine straighten as he feels, for the first time in many years, like he’s on the receiving end of a dressing down from someone who is not his mother. “You have another thing coming. Now tell me who the bloody hell you are or I will forcibly remove you from my office and throw you in a cell for sticking yourself where you don’t belong.” Lestrade then blinks, glancing outside. “Hang on, how in God’s name did you get in here in the first place?”
Mycroft ignores this last question and instead takes a deep breath, forcing himself to remain civil. He debates a softening of his tone or instead dropping all pretenses and using every ounce of authority he possesses. Surprisingly, he chooses the former. “Detective Inspector, there has been a misunderstanding.”
“Clearly.” The Detective crosses his arms. “If we’re letting any old nutter wander into our precinct then I’d say there’s been quite a few.”
That makes Mycroft lose all attempts at civility and his voice grows cold. “I find myself growing tired of your insults and this pointless wasting of time. Now, I will explain, you will listen, and then you will give me the report I have come for and I will be on my way.” Rage makes Lestrade open his mouth but Mycroft gives him his most quelling look and continues to speak before he can say a word. “Thank you. My identity is not relevant; all you need to know is that I am an interested party in Sherlock Holmes and that I have the necessary clearance to know any and all details pertaining to his association with you these past days. If you need to know more than that then simply consider me a… caretaker, of sorts.”
The other man snorts. “Right, and I became a DI by just blindly believing everyone when they say they’re allowed to see case files. Look, I don’t know what Sherlock Holmes has gotten himself mixed up in but you should just leave the bloke alone, alright? He could probably make something of himself if he was given the chance, and I’m not about to make things worse for him by talking to you. If you want information on him then talk to him yourself, otherwise, get the hell out of my office.”
Surprise makes Mycroft stumble, and instead of replying scathingly, as he would in any other situation, he simply stares. “I could easily place a call to your Chief Super Intendent and get him to order you to disclose the information to me.”
Lestrade’s eyes narrow. “That would be easier than talking to Sherlock directly?”
Mycroft sighs, lamenting the fact that it undoubtedly would be. “I’m sure Sherlock would vastly prefer it.”
That answer seems to throw Lestrade and he loses some of his bluster, taking Mycroft in again with new eyes and fresh curiosity as something seems to occur to him. Mycroft senses the momentary softening and leaps on it.
“I sense that you believe I intend some ill harm to befall Sherlock.” Mycroft says. “I assure you, that is not the case. I meant it when I said I care for him.”
Still Lestrade hesitates. It makes something stir in Mycroft and it takes him a moment to identify the feeling as pleasant surprise and respect.
“You show remarkable loyalty towards someone you met only two days ago.” He notes in the silence, making the officer roll his eyes.
“Yeah, well,” he replies, appearing slightly uncomfortable. “Like I said, if he could actually manage to get sober and give himself a chance… well, he could be bloody brilliant.”
“I quite agree.” Mycroft says quietly and Lestrade meets his gaze again. A moment passes between them before the detective nods.
“Brother.” He says abruptly, making Mycroft blink. Evidently his surprise shows because Lestrade grins. “I’m right, aren’t I? You’re his brother. Older, I think.”
“Very impressive.” Mycroft replies, and he means it. There isn’t much of a physical resemblance to hint at a familial connection and many would have stuck with Lestrade’s first impression of Mycroft being a threat to Sherlock rather than a relative. “What gave me away?”
“Protective older sibling?” Lestrade shrugs. “Not that uncommon. Though most don’t threaten me with calling my super just to get information on each other.” He hesitates. “I guess you and Sherlock aren’t close.”
“On the contrary, I’m the closest thing he has to a friend- though admittedly in his mind he thinks of me as his archenemy.” He cocks his head slightly. “Closest thing to a friend until two days ago, that is.”
“Oh, I’m not friends with him.” The detective hastens to say. “We only just met.”
“I know.” Mycroft replies, making Lestrade blink. “But he seems to like you. That in itself is a first.”
The cop stares at him before clearing his throat. “You know what, I actually bloody believe that.”
“You should. I rarely lie.”
That makes the man grin. “He says while lying.”
Mycroft feels caught and doesn’t quite know how to react. Lestrade lets out a full on laugh then. “I might not be as smart as your brother but I am a detective,” he points out.
“Fair enough.” He dips his head and then forces himself to return to his usual attitude, not having noticed himself relaxing and slipping into something almost like banter until now. “Detective Inspector, I apologize for giving the wrong impression. A man in my position must be careful in what I say and do. I simply wish to know how my brother came to be working with you and whether the arrangement is likely to continue. I am hoping that you find it in yourself to trust me.”
Lestrade loses his cheer quickly as well. “I can’t tell you anything classified. Nothing about the case.”
“I have all of the necessary details on the case already.” Mycroft waves this off, ignoring the other man’s shock, and then speaks again before Lestrade can reply. “It is my brother I’m interested in.”
The officer hesitates before shaking his head. “I won’t betray Sherlock’s trust by talking to you about him behind his back. Not without speaking to him first. Christ, you might not even be his real brother.”
Mycroft sighs, knowing exactly what that would entail. Sherlock will hardly be happy to give Lestrade permission to share details with him.
“What if I pay you?” He asks but then winces immediately, seeing Lestrade’s face darken and knowing it was the wrong suggestion. “I see. No need to answer that then.”
“Do people often go about ratting out Sherlock to you for money?”
“Many don’t get the chance.” Mycroft admits. “I usually give them a large enough sum that they keep their distance afterwards, having proven they can’t be trusted.”
Lestrade blinks and frowns unhappily. “So this was a test?”
Mycroft gives a small and insincere smile. “Congratulations.”
“Bloody hell.” He picks up his now lukewarm coffee and seems to down it in one go. Mycroft grimaces in sympathy as he watches the man make a face. “Look, if you want to leave your number or something I can probably get back to you after talking to Sherlock-”
“Thank you, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft rises smoothly, allowing his umbrella tip to rest once more on the carpeted floor. “I simply have one question to ask, one which does not breach my brother’s privacy in any way.”
“Sure, alright then.”
“Do you plan to continue your association?” Mycroft poses. “Has he… given any indication he might wish to be a part of future investigations?”
The detective assesses him again, eyes not missing a detail, before their gazes lock. Mycroft swallows discreetly.
“He asked to come back and help some more, yeah. I told him if he can manage to get himself sober then I might see what I can do and get him access to some cold cases, if nothing else.” The officer looks at him warily. “He told me he’s taking heroin.”
“Yes.” Mycroft’s lips thin as he tries to hide his displeasure. “For several months now.”
The other man shifts in his chair. “You said you were his caretaker. You’re just… going to let him?”
Mycroft’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes in any way as he feels the other’s judgement. “Believe me, Detective Inspector, I have long ago resigned myself to the fact that my brother is one area in life I do not tend to have success in.” Then he blinks, berating himself for having said anything along those lines at all.
It must be the late hour, he thinks. He’s tired and his conversation with the detective has left him wrongfooted.
“Thank you for speaking with me.” He says and then hesitates, considering. Finally, he decides to trust his instinct and reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a card with his number printed on it and nothing else. “Should you ever decide Sherlock could do with a family influence, even mine, feel free to call. Until that day…” He shrugs. “Have a nice evening.”
“Sure. Ta. Oh, wait!”
Mycroft turns in the doorway.
“Erm, you never said your name.”
Mycroft simply smiles thinly. “I’m sure Sherlock will inform you. Good night, Detective Inspector.”
Lestrade blinks a final time. “Right then. Night Mr. Holmes.”
Mycroft hears the man’s low mutter of “Christ” under his breath before he’s out of earshot and then he leaves the precinct quickly, sliding back into the back of his car with his mind busy contemplating this new development.
Somehow, he does not believe it’s the last time Lestrade and his paths will cross.
Not two days later Mycroft gets a text from Gregory Lestrade’s number.
Your bother says I’m an idiot for not taking the money you offered and splitting it with him.
A few moments later the phone vibrates again.
Though seeing as he calls me an idiot any time we talk for longer than two minutes I didn’t take it too much to heart.
Mycroft’s lips actually twitch in amusement. There’s no need to save the number under a new contact, as he did so immediately upon finding out Lestrade even existed, and instead he quickly types a reply from where he’s sitting at his desk.
Detective Inspector, hello. Can I be of assistance in any way?
Hello to you too, Mycroft Holmes. And no, not unless you have a magic trick for stopping your brother putting his foot in his mouth.
Followed a second later by: Actually, do you? Being his brother and all, you must have a way?
Mycroft finds his amusement grows rather than dissipates. Whoever can come up with that, Detective Inspector, will be a very wealthy person indeed.
Ha, from everyone buying it out, you mean?
I alone will pay highly for the entire first batch of whatever this magical solution may be.
After pressing send Mycroft has to take a moment and evaluate himself. When was the last time he’d fallen into joking with anyone like this? And through text messages, no less.
He clears his throat and straightens himself in his chair, quickly sending another message and laying his phone aside, wondering if Lestrade has been as surprised as himself, thus causing the delay in his response.
I assume there is a reason you got in touch?
Yeah, just wanted to let you know that Sherlock’s told me he wants to continue working with me on cases. Said he’ll get clean to do it.
A very interesting development and not an unwelcome one. Mycroft stares at the words on the screen for so long that the phone dims. His mind races.
Would this be a beneficial route for Sherlock? On the one hand, it would hopefully occupy him enough to provide the stimulation he craves from drugs. Yet on the other, such an extreme atmosphere might only propagate so much of what Sherlock already struggles with. It will hardly provide him with normalcy.
Then again, normalcy has never been what Sherlock- or, Mycroft has to admit, himself- has craved.
Mycroft weighs it all in his mind and concludes that even if it doesn’t work out in the long run, it’s better than any other solution he can come up with. Sherlock needs to discontinue his drug use and this is the first thing that’s made him admit to it being a roadblock in any way. Surely whatever havoc he might wreak on Inspector Lestrade and his career are worth it for the chance of Sherlock taking this step.
It might even work out in the long run, Mycroft considers, eyeing Lestrade’s name in their text chain. He doubts it, as he’s never been delusional or much of an optimist, much preferring realism, but there is a chance. The inspector had seemed… interesting. Mycroft had found him surprising in more ways than one. Enough to take him seriously in this and to extend this bit of trust when it comes to Sherlock.
I let him know if he can stay clean for a month then I’ll give him a cold case to start. Just wanted to give you a heads up.
Mycroft jolts out of his thoughts at the message and raises an eyebrow. This consideration is more than he’d expected, and he doesn’t stop himself from showing his appreciation.
Thank you, Detective Inspector. Please inform me if there is anything you believe I can help with.
Ta.
Strange, Mycroft muses as he sets his phone aside again, begrudgingly turning back to the latest report from the British ambassador in Russia. So very strange.
Nonetheless, he’s grateful for Lestrade’s information when only three days later he comes home from work to find Sherlock sitting in the living room of his flat.
Mycroft sighs as he closes the door behind him and flicks on the light, helping his eyes as they scan the open room until he spots Sherlock in Mycroft’s usual armchair by the floor to ceiling windows.
“Hello, Sherlock.”
Already his younger brother is pouting. “How did you know?”
“My security does get paid for doing more than stand around.”
“Who was it that saw me? I slipped by Maxwell.”
“Leeds.” Mycroft answers, making a mental note to have Maxwell spoken to. His security knows to let Sherlock in without fuss, but his brother always provides a good test for them with his determination to sneak in anyway. It’s a good system- if Sherlock Holmes finds himself unable get through without detection then Mycroft knows anyone else who may pose a threat will find it impossible, with only a few exceptions. Even those scant few would be hard pressed, and those seconds of time can be valuable.
“He didn’t try to stop me.”
“I thought you might come by soon.” Mycroft replies as an answer, finishing hanging up his coat and umbrella and then moving to sit on his hardly touched sofa couch, placing his briefcase at his feet.
Sherlock scans his face before rolling his eyes. “Lestrade told you.”
Mycroft inclines his head ever so slightly and voices the more surprising thing about the situation. “You gave him permission to.”
“I told him he should try and get money off you.” Sherlock corrects, but he shifts before looking back at him again, assessing. After a moment he then looks disappointed. “He didn’t.”
“No.” Mycroft confirms. “I suspect you may have found one of the few honourable police officers in London, Sherlock. Congratulations.”
“Hmph.” Sherlock waves him away, clearly growing bored with the subject. “Are you going to pester him if he works with me?”
“Will I need to?”
An old familiar glare is turned his way. Mycroft receives it stoically, well used to it.
“You could try not meddling in my life.” Sherlock says after a moment, clearly biting back something more scathing. He clearly wants something from Mycroft, though what remains yet to be seen. “Most siblings find it easy.”
“We are not most people.”
Sherlock doesn’t reply, turning to look out of the window to the green stretch of park behind Mycroft’s building. “I’m stopping the drugs.”
Mycroft simply hums, waiting for what will be coming next. He knows Sherlock’s stopped, that had been clear from the sight of him. He still looks unhealthy and sallow, but his skin has a slight sheen of sweat and his hands are shaking. Clear signs of withdrawal.
“It’s been… unpleasant.”
“You could have called me.” Mycroft says then. “To help through the worst of it.”
Sherlock grits his teeth. “This is the worst of it.” He gestures at himself. “Now I’m done with most of the physical symptoms the challenge is gone. My mind wanders.” His hand twitches. “I…”
“You have cravings.” Mycroft supplies. “Naturally.”
“Which is why I need something to do. Until Lestrade’s ridiculous one month deadline passes and he allows me to do his job for him.”
Mycroft raises an eyebrow at Sherlock’s uncharitableness. He’s not surprised, but it would help his brother to be kinder to those he wants something from.
Yet he knows better than anyone that Sherlock has never understood as much.
“Which is?”
For the first time Sherlock seems to hesitate, taking a moment to gather himself. Mycroft knows how much Sherlock loathes having to ask him for anything, but the very fact that he is asking is a more encouraging sign than anything he’s seen in the last few years.
“I need access to a morgue.”
Mycroft sits back, considering. That he had not been expecting. “For what purpose?”
“Experiments. Gathering data. Lestrade works in homicide and so the more I know the better.”
“Many might argue that it makes more sense to study the living. However,” Mycroft holds a hand up, “I see your point. Still, it will look odd, Sherlock. Many will be… unnerved by your interest.”
Sherlock shrugs. “Find me a batty morgue attendant then. There’s got to be a few out there. Someone who won’t bother me.” He adds pointedly. “I don’t want anyone buzzing around and pestering me when I’m trying to work.”
In Mycroft’s opinion it’s quite charitable of him to resist pointing out the irony of Sherlock’s request, but he does, simply thinking over the idea instead.
“I will do my best.” He says. “There are a few possibilities.”
Sherlock doesn’t exactly perk up, but he does straighten. “Where?”
“Perhaps St. Thomas.”
Sherlock considers. “That would work.”
Mycroft purses his lips. “Leave it with me. I will get back to you.”
“Good.” Sherlock stands up then, prompting Mycroft to do the same, watching his brother tug the shirt sleeves of his thin woolen jumper down his arms. “Seeing as you and Lestrade have teamed up to put me in this state it’s the least you can do.”
It makes Mycroft sigh. “Hardly.”
“Well.” Sherlock sniffs and then turns to head to the door. “Let me know.”
“Yes.” Mycroft speaks again when Sherlock touches the handle. “Where are you staying?”
Sherlock stills for a moment. “I’m looking for somewhere. Away from… distractions.”
Removing himself from temptation, Mycroft surmises. Well. That is something.
He would offer his own guest room. Many times in the past he has. Or to pay for Sherlock to stay somewhere, seeing as he’s in charge of Sherlock’s funds and has been for several years. Yet they both know that if Sherlock had wanted him involved he would have asked- or rather, demanded- and that any attempt on Mycroft’s part will end in failure.
It is disappointing but, then again, so many things are when it comes to his relationship with Sherlock.
“You will let me know if you need anything else.” He says, and it’s a question framed as an instruction.
Sherlock hesitates, still turned away, before nodding ever so slightly. Then he leaves quickly and without another word.
Things settle after that.
Sherlock finds a place in a better part of town to stay in, though his flatmate certainly leaves something to be desired. Mycroft buys him off within ten minutes, leaving his brother cross and Mycroft contemplating whether he could manage to get past Sherlock by somehow arranging a new candidate to send his way. In the meantime, it still ends up being Mycroft who pays for the majority of Sherlock’s rent- an offer freely made, he must admit- until he can find something better. Eventually he does find a candidate that seems normal and iron-willed enough to stay with his brother, but Sherlock discovers Mycroft chose her within the week and has her kicked out within the hour before making a vitriolic phone call to Mycroft’s voicemail telling him to keep his spies away.
That failed attempt combined with Mycroft paying his bills makes Sherlock grow more resentful of him by the day.
Even when Mycroft arranges for him to work in St. Thomas’ morgue, then Guy’s (once Sherlock upsets too many of St. Thomas’ attendants), their personal relationship only seems to fracture further as the months go on. Mycroft gets his promotion, and then another shortly after, where he ends up being the head all of the secret service branches in an unofficial capacity. He also gets an assistant who proves to actually be capable, after the first six don’t work out. Anthea is observant and brilliant; in fact she’s downright witty and seems to know when to push and impress him and when to quietly observe without a word, and Mycroft knows that now that he has her in his employ he will do everything he can to ensure that she stays with him. Her old life will stay buried and forgotten and she will remain Anthea Bridgestone for so long as she chooses, as far as he’s concerned.
Mycroft becomes busier than ever, and though he still keeps tabs on Sherlock, or has Anthea do it, he finds himself worrying less and less these days. His experiments at the morgue are keeping him occupied, and even if they weren’t, there is always Lestrade.
Gregory Lestrade, who kept to his word and allowed Sherlock to work with him. The Detective Inspector had started his brother out on cold cases, from what Mycroft understands, as a way to test his capabilities. Once Sherlock proved that the first case was no mere fluke and helped with several unsolved ones from years ago, all while remaining sober, Lestrade has been offering him any cases that might interest the younger Holmes.
When he thinks of the man Mycroft finds himself in the position of feeling unusually grateful and trusting. Two things that he does not often associate with other people and Sherlock. When his parents call, typically his mother, Mycroft no longer feels the urge to lie quite so heavily when she asks what Sherlock has been getting up to.
There is a stretch of time where Sherlock goes to America to help an old family acquaintance, ensuring her husband’s conviction in a trial, and when he returns his skin actually has some colour to it; a fact that Mycroft gets to observe firsthand since Sherlock actually deigns to get in the car with Mycroft when he pulls up to idle alongside him on the pavement.
He sees the hesitation in his brother’s face when he glances over to see who’s following him, and the unpleasant twist to his mouth that accompanies it, but when Mycroft orders Lee to stop the car Sherlock does pull the door open with a huff and gets in.
“What, Mycroft?”
“Aren’t you looking tan.” Mycroft comments, taking in the barely there shade of colour Sherlock has managed to achieve.
Obviously taking the words as sleight, Sherlock glares. “And you’re looking pudgy. Been an easy time at work, has it? No stress to stop you gaining the few pounds you’ve managed to put on?”
Now Mycroft glares. “It’s only two,” he replies icily. “And I suppose time away from you did wonders for my workload, yes. Alas, back to routine now.”
Sherlock crosses his arms in the ridiculous red, white and blue hooded jumper he’s wearing and looks mutinous. “No need anymore. I’m sure you know I have some money now. I’m going to start my own business.”
Mycroft scoffs. “Are you? Doing what, exactly? Not every woman will end up wanting their husband convicted to death row, Sherlock.”
“You’d be surprised.” Is the reply before Sherlock shakes his head. “I’m going to be a Consulting Detective.”
He can’t resist the snort that escapes him at Sherlock’s pronouncement. “There isn’t such a thing.”
“Well now there will be.” Sherlock says. “Lestrade’s always offering to pay me a consulting fee anyway, and Mrs. Hudson was more than happy to give me something for helping her. Others might too.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mycroft dismisses, watching as Sherlock’s eyes shutter slightly. “You’ll get nothing of interest from anyone but the deranged and police officers who are too lazy to do their jobs themselves.”
His brother’s face and voice are ice cold when he replies. “Don’t be so quick to throw around words like deranged, brother. More than a few people have said that about us over the years.” Mycroft rolls his eyes at Sherlock’s purposeful misunderstanding. “I’ll tell Lestrade what you said about him too, shall I? See how much he likes reporting back to you then.”
“DI Lestrade does not report to me.” Mycroft corrects him irritably. “And you know very well I didn’t mean him.”
“Ah, ah, you already said it.” Sherlock is already turning to pull at the door handle and make his escape and his next words are a clear dismissal. “Next time you want to check up on me, Mycroft, send Anthea. She’s far more pleasant to talk to.”
“As I have been told several times.” Mycroft responds, lips pursed to disguise the sting of hurt Sherlock’s words have inspired. This conversation has not gone as he’d hoped and, as always with Sherlock, he struggles to pin down where exactly he went wrong. He can’t resist saying one last thing, despite the tension between them.
“Sherlock.”
His brother bends down to look in the still open door, eyes piercing through him.
“I’m glad your trip went well.”
A complicated look crosses his brother’s face before he simply steps back and slams the door shut in his wake, closing Mycroft off from him and the outside world.
He swallows before pressing the button to speak up front. “The Mayfair office, Lee, if you would.”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes.” His driver answers, leaving the partition up between them so that when Mycroft turns to stare unseeing outside the back window he at least feels he can compose himself in private.
There’s a particularly troublesome business in continental Europe that Mycroft has to deal with over the next few weeks, so the next he hears about Sherlock is a text from Gregory Lestrade.
Sherlock’s at hospital with concussion. Slight. Involved himself in a perp chase, the berk.
Then:
He’s fine. Just thought you should know, seeing as he told me he wasn’t going to let you know himself.
Mycroft is dialing before he fully realizes it.
“’lo?”
“Which hospital?” Mycroft demands and he hears Lestrade make a small surprised noise.
“Oh, it’s you. Your number came up as Private-”
“Which hospital, Detective Inspector?” Mycroft’s voice is clipped. He loathes having to repeat himself.
“Bart’s.” Lestrade replies. “But he’s fine. Been looked over already and let go with orders to rest and relax for a few days. I told him I’d bring him home but I had some questions to ask first- a friend of mine works in the morgue here, Molly Hooper, and she’s got a body for me- anyway. She’s letting him look around a bit- apparently he’s still just as brilliant when he’s concussed.” Mycroft hears a sudden exclamation over the line, a muffled voice that is distinctly Sherlock.
At the sound of his brother’s voice Mycroft relaxes a bit, willing to believe that a slight concussion is truly all there is to worry about. Where is Anthea? She should have reported this to him immediately.
“I see. I will be there shortly.”
Greg sounds surprised. “You don’t have to. I’ll see him home.”
“My brother is currently living alone with nobody to care for him.” Mycroft informs the detective. “I would prefer he be watched in the next 24 hours.”
He can hear the man’s frown. “He told me he had a flatmate?”
Mycroft would roll his eyes if he were another man. As it is, he can’t reply, because Sherlock’s voice sounds, coming across tinny and choppy across the line.
“Is that Mycroft?”
“’Course it is, seeing as I told you I’d call him to let him know how you were.” Greg sounds mildly irritated as his voice grows a tad quieter and muffled; clearly he’s moved away from the speaker. “He wants to watch you for the next wee while, make sure you don’t do anything else stupid.”
“Oh for-”
There’s a few strange noises, the sounds of the mobile being fought over for a few seconds of a tussle, and Mycroft hears Lestrade’s angry, “Sherlock!” before his brother’s voice sounds on the other end of the line.
“Don’t concern yourself, I’m fine.”
Mycroft has sat through this match of wills patiently but now bites the inside of his cheek. “Apparently you have a concussion.”
“A mild one.” Sherlock whines. “Even you’ve seen worse and you spend most of your time at a desk. I’m fine.”
“Sherlock-”
“I don’t want or need you to baby me, Mycroft.”
“Someone has to.” He snaps, losing patience.
Sherlock’s quiet a moment before he suddenly announces, “I’ll stay with Lestrade.”
“What?” Now Greg is the muffled voice on the other end of the line. Mycroft idly wonders if the friend, Molly Hooper, is still there listening to them, and if so, what she makes of her first meeting with his brother. “Now hang on, I said I’d get you home-”
“So it’s all sorted and there’s no need for you to take time off from ensuring Britain’s national security.” Disdain drips from Sherlock’s every spoken letter even as Mycroft hears another struggle and knows Greg and Sherlock are once more tussling for the phone. “I know how difficult leaving your office is for you.”
Mycroft grits his teeth. “Please put the Detective Inspector back on the line.”
“Gladly.” Sherlock says, and then, voice more distant from being away from the speaker, Mycroft hears him say, “If he offers you money this time, take it.”
He sighs.
“Hello?” Greg comes back on the line sounding irritated and defeated all at once. Mycroft is dreadfully familiar with the combination.
“Detective,” he murmurs, allowing his own frustration to leak through. “I do so hate to ask this of you-”
“But at least you’re bothering to ask, unlike this bloody brother of yours.” Lestrade sighs. “I’ll have to let the wife know, but I’m sure it won’t be a bother. Long as he’s house-trained.”
Mycroft wisely does not admit that his brother doesn’t exactly fit that qualification, given his tendency to keep things of questionable origin and smell in his own living space. However, for only one night… surely even Sherlock can manage to stick to the bounds of propriety.
“Thank you.” He’s still speaking a tad quietly and clears his throat. “I appreciate it. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you-”
“A bottle of good scotch wouldn’t go amiss.” Lestrade answers, and though Mycroft is fairly sure the man is joking he makes a mental note to fulfill the request anyway. “Nah, it’s fine. Someone has to watch him and you’re…”
Unwanted. Not an option.
“…busy.” He settles on finally, and Mycroft is grateful for his tact even as he hears Sherlock snort in the background. Greg ignores it, which makes Mycroft’s gratitude grow.
“Thank you.” He repeats. “Let me know if there is any trouble and I will be there immediately, whether Sherlock wishes it or not.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Might be good to threaten him with.” Lestrade jokes, but Mycroft doesn’t smile. A woman’s voice comes faintly down the light, light and airy, concerned, and Lestrade says, “Yeah, everything’s fine Molly, thanks.”
Mycroft clears his throat to regain the man’s attention. “I will let you go. Thank you, Detective, for informing me. I appreciate it.”
“’Course. I’d want to know if it were me.” Lestrade replies. “Have a good night, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock makes a disparaging noise in the background and both Mycroft and Greg seem to realize he’s losing patience at the same time.
“You as well. Good night.” Mycroft replies. “Do thank your wife for me as well.”
“Oh, sure. Yeah. Will do.”
Mycroft disconnects the call then and places the phone down on his desk, off to the side, before he rests his elbows on the desk’s surface and rubs his temples lightly. The tension that had washed over him throughout the conversation slowly leaches away, though his mind continues to race.
When he gets up to investigate, he finds Anthea snapping into her own phone, clearly losing patience with whoever is on the other end of it. Mycroft raises an eyebrow and Anthea makes a face at him as she moves to put the phone on speaker, revealing her conversation partner to be the Prime Minister’s Principal Private Secretary.
“I’ve been on with him for 45 minutes,” she stage-whispers to Mycroft as the man drones on about requiring Mycroft’s attention on the two latest proposed security bills.
Ah. Her annoyance becomes crystal clear, as does her temporary distraction in monitoring Sherlock.
“Mr. Rogers,” Mycroft cuts in smoothly, taking great satisfaction from the way the man stumbles and then stops at his sudden interruption. “I feel the need to remind you that your boss and I have already discussed this matter and I told him in no uncertain terms that it was highly unlikely these bills would make it past the House, given the recent division in Parliament. Particularly due to their subject, which should have been obvious, as your party’s recent dealings with security are now forcing your boss into a resignation due to unpopularity.”
Rogers squawks indignantly, but Mycroft does not let up.
“Now, given that his resignation over the Iraq War has also led to you being replaced, and the fact that said transfer of position is to happen in the next two weeks, I fail to see why you are both wasting your remaining time trying to push these through when you undoubtedly have much more important things to concern yourself with. I have pointed out the numerous issues of the suggested bills to Mr. Blair, and I will do the same to whoever succeeds him if they try to proceed with this as well. My answer has not changed in the three days since I spoke to him and will not change no matter how much you bother my employees. Now, unlike you, we have some urgent matters to deal with and if you do feel the need to waste time in the future I suggest you do not involve myself or my department. Have a wonderful evening, Mr. Rogers.”
And Mycroft hangs up the phone.
Anthea is staring at him. “I thought we’d agreed on the soft approach, sir?”
Mycroft rubs a hand over his face and breathes out slowly before meeting her gaze. “When the chosen course of action proves fruitless one must change tactics.” He advises. At her continued look he sighs. “And I find myself losing patience with them.”
To her credit, she’s not slow. Immediately she straightens. “What’s happened?”
“My brother.” Mycroft waves her away as her eyes widen slightly and she spins to check her computer, clicking away on the mouse rapidly before looking up from hunching over her seat, eyes curious. “A minor concussion, hardly anything to worry about.”
“I apologize for the delay, sir, I was preoccupied.”
“As I see.”
She frowns then. “How did you learn of it?”
“Detective Inspector Lestrade phoned me.” At Anthea’s surprised look Mycroft smiles thinly. “I met him before you began your work here. We have… an understanding, I believe.”
“Of what kind?”
“He will keep me informed of major developments with Sherlock that he believes I need to know.” Mycroft informs her. “Of course, there are many developments that he either remains ignorant about or that he deems I do not need to know. Hence your instructions.”
“Understood.” Anthea nods briskly, straightening again. “Again, I apologize for the delay. It won’t happen again.”
“Today it was something of no consequence,” Mycroft agrees. “Next time…” The possibility hangs between them. “See that it doesn’t happen again, no matter who is on the phone. It could be the Queen herself, and I’d still want news like this concerning my brother on my desk within seconds.”
“I understand.” Anthea looks back at him calmly. He appreciates that about her.
“Good. Now go home, you’ve finished your work for the night.”
She glances at a pile of papers on the left-hand side of her desk. “Sir-”
“I know what you have left to do and it can wait until tomorrow morning.” Mycroft tells her. “Go home, Anthea. I will see you at seven-thirty.”
She hesitates a moment before nodding, gratitude faint but clearly present in her expression. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
He dips his head and turns to head back into his own office. He has several more tasks to complete before he can leave as well- in fact, he may end up spending the night.
“Have a good evening, sir.” She says to his back, and then she walks steadily from the room, her heels muffled on the carpeted floor.
Mycroft returns to his desk. It is several hours later that he finishes his work for the evening, and the last thing he does before settling onto the uncomfortable couch in his office is to make sure there’s a bottle of extremely nice scotch placed with on Gregory Lestrade’s office chair for him to find at work tomorrow.
Then, with his shirt sleeves unbuttoned and belt and shoes removed, Mycroft Holmes stretches out on the too short couch and tries to sleep, at least for a few hours.
After that the communication becomes… not regular, but not unexpected either.
Your brother left before I got up this morning.
Anthea has already informed Mycroft of this and he has been following Sherlock on surveillance camera footage since. He is currently visiting Mrs. Hudson and so Mycroft is not alarmed.
I am aware. He’s fine. Visiting an old friend of his.
He has friends?
Mycroft smiles but before he can answer Lestrade messages again.
Sorry, that was rude. Still, he’s never mentioned anyone except you and flatmates before. Plus you said he didn’t go in for that sort of thing, so I assumed…
You assumed correctly. Friend is perhaps too strong of a word- she is an old acquaintance that he helped recently. They keep in touch.
Ah, gotcha.
Then, after twenty minutes have passed: I was joking about the Scotch.
Be that as it may.
Really, watching him was no bother. He was good, actually. Nice to Linda. She likes him, oddly enough.
Mycroft isn’t sure why the idea makes him frown. So do you.
Yeah but it was weird. He was charming. Like he is when he’s trying to get something out of a difficult witness or suspect.
Ah.
Anyway, I checked on him every hour through the night and he was fine. Gone when I got up to head in this morning though.
He is still fine, in large part due to you. Thank you again for taking care of him, Inspector. Let me know if you ever require anything more than a nice bottle of drink.
He receives a simple Will do in response and assumes the conversation will end there.
But no.
A week later Lestrade texts him one evening to say, Your brother jumped into the Thames today.
Again, Mycroft has already learned this from Anthea and then from visiting Sherlock himself at his flat. His brother had been irritable from his visit to the hospital to make sure he hadn’t ingested anything foul enough to kill him from the water and so the visit had been quick. Enough to ascertain he was, in fact, fine, and no more than that.
Still, Lestrade’s message makes Mycroft smile. Something about the wording and the tone he imagines Lestrade would use if he had spoken it to him aloud in person.
I heard. I would apologize but I understand he actually managed to recover the necklace in question.
I know. Never had a murderer kind enough to bag the evidence in advance for us but there’s a first for everything. Bloody idiot didn’t realize it was full of air and would float when he tossed it, apparently.
Mycroft winces at the stupidity of the unknown criminal. Dear lord; and society allows people of that IQ to just roam the streets unsupervised.
Anyway, thought you should know in case you didn’t. I’d say watch out for him turning into some kind of swamp monster or something but… well. Personality’s halfway there sometimes already, isn’t it?
Mycroft snorts and then immediately looks up to ensure no one is around to have heard him. When he confirms, unnecessarily, that he is still alone he finds himself answering with a grin firmly playing at the corners of his lips.
Indeed. He agrees, not feeling the least bit guilty about poking fun at his brother when he isn’t there to defend himself. Mycroft feels he’s earned it after a lifetime of having to manage him, and Lestrade in his months of working with Sherlock, has certainly earned it as well.
He thinks that will be the end of it but then Lestrade texts again, barely five minutes later.
So what are you up to?
He frowns, pausing in surprise, before typing quickly back.
Work.
Nice to know it’s not just me. Lestrade replies quickly. Mycroft finds his puzzlement growing as their conversation seems dangerously close to veering into small talk. Anything interesting?
Then, after a few seconds, What is it you do anyway? Sherlock keeps making out like you’re some kind of puppet master running the country or something.
Mycroft blinks. He is exaggerating.
Figured that. So, what is it then?
I hold a minor position in government.
Ah, civil servant then?
Quite.
Elected? Then, after a moment, Can’t be, I looked you up. You work in the Department of Transportation?
Yes.
What’s that like?
Mycroft can practically feel the hesitance in Lestrade’s texts and it makes him smile again. He dislikes discussing work with anyone unaware of his true role, finding the façade tiresome, but Gregory’s obvious attempts at polite inquiry are somewhat endearing despite his obvious disinterest in the job personally.
The few records on Mycroft that are available to those with access to certain databases, such as police officers, are entirely invented and there to satisfy curiosity, as their absence would only raise more questions. It is difficult to explain to someone who knows of his person why there is no record of said existence. His fake documents are flimsy but enough to satisfy anyone who bothers to look. Lestrade is not likely to see through them.
Very dull, as it sounds.
So why do you do it?
Someone has to.
Fair enough. Still, I wouldn’t have pegged you as a minor official.
Why is that?
Come on.
Mycroft frowns. What?
You must know what you’re like. First time I met you you’d managed to barge your way into my office without making a fuss and clearly have access to information that’s off limits to most. You said you had high clearance. Plus, after getting to know your brother and knowing what he’s like, and hearing him talk about you, I just thought… well, I didn’t believe him saying you run the country but I thought something high up.
Ah, you believed I was a secret agent of some sort.
Something like that.
Such a life would be far too dangerous for me, I believe. I prefer deskwork. Of a sort, he amends in his head.
In truth, Lestrade is entirely correct. Mycroft had gone through a brief stint in both MI5 and MI6, working as a field agent for a total of seven years. However, his superiors had fast tracked him through the usual career stops when his aptitude in strategy and diplomacy became apparent. He’d been shuffled throughout several departments and surged through ranks before the handful of the most powerful people running the country had not only listened to his proposal of creating a new department for him but had ended up agreeing to it.
When Sherlock tells people that Mycroft is the secret service and runs the country he is being hyperbolic- such a thing is impossible for one person, obviously. However, when assigning responsibility for said tasks it would be true that the majority of the accountability belongs to Mycroft.
Have to agree to disagree there. I have a pile of paperwork here that’s driving me up the wall.
Mycroft contains his smile to one corner of his mouth. Then I must let you get back to it, so that it is over quickly.
Ta. The sarcasm comes through the glowing letters on the screen. I’ll remember that next time I try and use you as a distraction.
Mycroft stares. Is that what this conversation has been? Lestrade was bored at work, trying to work through a long evening of reports and files, and thought to try and text Mycroft to distract himself?
It is true the Sherlock jumping in the river had happened hours ago. If Lestrade had really thought it was something he needed to know he probably would have informed Mycroft earlier.
Strange, he thinks, reading back that last text again. What is he meant to reply to that? Is he meant to answer at all? The conversation seemed near an end.
He decides to leave it, never one to make a mistake due to uncertainty. Still, the conversation lingers, never far from his mind as he wraps up his own workload.
Next time, Lestrade had said.
It seems Lestrade had been truthful.
Your brother doesn’t like pizza. Please tell me he was dropped on his head as a child to explain this.
Mycroft replies without hesitation, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. I would place a very high wager and say that it’s not that Sherlock dislikes pizza but that he has never tried it.
You’re joking.
I am not. We were never fed it growing up and he has never been adventurous with food.
Lestrade’s incredulity has turned into uncertain disbelief. Have you ever had pizza then?
No.
Unbelievable. It’s like you two really did come from another planet. I don’t think I ever want to meet your parents- don’t know if I could take a whole family of Holmesness.
That is not an adjective.
Don’t bloody start.
Mycroft actually smiles. This is strikingly close to some of the bullying and ridicule he and Sherlock had suffered as children (and, occasionally, as adults) but the fact that it is Lestrade saying it feels… softer, somehow. His defenses remain lowered and he allows that this may be what some consider friendly teasing.
Very well, I won’t. As it is, it may surprise you to learn my parents are exceptionally normal. Very smart, in different ways, but also extremely social and well adjusted.
Mycroft does not say that he and Sherlock have often commiserated over just how true that statement is. Both of them have been frustrated with their parents at times, in different situations, but always because they simply cannot keep up. Because their rules when it comes to family and visitors and behaviour are so common and insist on getting in the way of things Mycroft and Sherlock know are more important.
You’re right, that does surprise me. Explain Sherlock then.
Mycroft hesitates. So many topics he must avoid here. He words his answer delicately. Sherlock and I were quite isolated growing up and so much of his younger years were spent in my care. If there is any blame then I suppose it must rest with me.
Lestrade takes a long time to answer and his confusion is clear. You raised him?
Largely.
Where were your parents?
Mycroft closes his eyes. He remembers snippets of memories, things he is normally so adept at pushing away and ignoring. A housefire at Musgrave, Sherlock’s screams. Redbeard the dog, Victor, Eurus’ pale face staring at him, so young and with eyes so wide and black they might seem innocent if not for the emptiness in them-
They were very busy dealing with other matters. Sherlock’s day-to-day activities largely fell to me to supervise. Sometimes we were left in the care of our uncle as well.
I see. Lestrade’s filtered response is screaming at him from the screen and Mycroft wonders what the man is thinking. He would shut down this conversation usually, but the thought of Lestrade ever asking Sherlock- making Sherlock think back to their childhood in any way and wonder at the cause of their parents’ absence…
No. He will do what he can to avoid that.
So I’ll blame you for him then. Lestrade sends quickly and Mycroft wonders if he is attempting to alleviate the awkwardness or make him feel more comfortable by bringing in humor and changing the subject. Perhaps, though why the man would feel he owes him that Mycroft isn’t sure. Good to know. Doesn’t explain you though.
Ah, well, you must remember, I am unique.
Mycroft stares at the message in panic as it sits there waiting to be responded to.
What is he doing? He thinks. That… verges on flirtatious and is entirely inappropriate.
He clenches his hand around his phone, breathing deeply. Clearly lines have been blurred and Mycroft’s capacity for holding this conversation is compromised.
I apologize, Detective Inspector, but I have to go. Have a lovely day.
He reads Lestrade’s response as soon as it arrives (Oh right, you too, Mycroft), internally notes the heightened familiarity from Lestrade addressing him by his first name, and then determinedly exits the conversation and puts the detective far from his mind.
Or at least attempts to.
The conversations continue but Mycroft is careful to maintain control of what he says, and so he is able to convince himself that they are nothing remarkable.
Sherlock seems, if not unaware, then at least unconcerned the few times they see each other in person. Mycroft keeps waiting for him to remark on it, to order him to keep himself out of Sherlock’s business, or to leave his friend alone. His younger brother has always been so possessive of his things and never did enjoy sharing. Unfortunately, that transfers to people he cares about as well.
And Greg, somehow, has become a person that Sherlock cares about.
But Sherlock says nothing and neither does Mycroft. What Greg thinks about their brotherly relationship Mycroft couldn’t know, as he hasn’t done anything but text the man sporadically over the last year.
Until he gets the phone call.
It’s been a trying few weeks. Mycroft has been away in the Koreas and has only landed an hour ago when his phone rings from his jacket pocket. He stops with one foot in his front door, sees the caller, and frowns.
“Gregory?”
As soon as the Inspector’s name leaves his mouth he curses. He blames the lapse on the fact that his sleep schedule is entirely off at the moment and that he is running on two hours of rest in the last thirty hours.
Also, his nerves are on high alert, given that Greg usually only calls him in the case of emergency.
“Sherlock’s in hospital. You need to get here.”
Mycroft freezes for a moment, breath catching, until the sound of Anthea’s heels hurrying up the pavement to his door makes him remember himself.
He swallows, eyes closing, regaining his bearings, before adopting his familiar mask of expressionless calm and turning to her.
“Sir-” She begins, the slightest hint of panic in her voice and eyes just a tad too wide.
“Which hospital?” He asks, only to startle when two voices answer him simultaneously.
“Royal London.”
Mycroft nods and begins to stride back towards the car that luckily had not yet driven off. He thanks Lee for his habit of waiting until Mycroft is safely inside before leaving.
Anthea follows him, walking just sightly behind his side, and he feels her eyes on him keenly.
“Thank you, Detective Inspector.” He says. “I will be there momentarily.”
Then he hangs up, slides into his seat, and instructs Lee to take them to the hospital as soon as Anthea has shut the door behind her.
He turns his attention to her and she wastes no time.
“He overdosed.” She informs him right away, and he’s glad she’s managed to regain control of her expression and tone in the walk back to the car. Her voice is nothing but polished and professional, and she leaves nothing out. “Detective Lestrade is the one who found him- he was performing CPR when the paramedics arrived and went with him to the hospital.”
Mycroft does not panic. He does not.
“His heart stopped?”
Anthea’s lips press together only for a moment. “It seems so, sir. He arrived at the hospital only minutes ago. I believe,” she glances down at her phone in her hand but doesn’t turn it on to read whatever notification has arrived, “that they will have to pump his stomach.”
“Is he stable enough for that?”
A long moment passes. “We will have to hope so, sir.”
“I see.” Mycroft feels very, very cold. “Thank you, Anthea. Is there anything else?”
“Would you like me to arrange a room at-”
“Yes and put them on standby. He will not be able to be moved until he’s stable and it is safe to do so, which may take over a day. But ensure we have the room and the proper people on call.”
“Absolutely.” And then she ducks her head down to look at her phone and hastens to do just that.
It is not privacy, not at all, but it is the best Mycroft is going to get to ready himself for whatever he Is about to see.
They pull up to the doors of the hospital smoothly and Mycroft slips out of the car immediately, trusting Lee and Anthea will take care of details he does not have the time for. His exhaustion has been put aside momentarily as adrenalin replaces it in his veins, and his stride is purposeful and strong as he makes his way to the receiving desk.
To her credit, the tired blonde twenty-something woman does not waste time and takes in his suit and expression quickly as Mycroft strides up the short line of four people to interrupt the conversation taking place.
“Mycroft Holmes,” he announces as soon as he is within earshot of her. “I’m here to see my brother, Sherlock Holmes, who was brought in for a drug overdose.”
Her mouth purses as she glances at the unhappy people in the line in front of the plexiglass. Mycroft quells their indignant noises and protests with a glower that has proven extremely effective in the past and does not fail him now. Whether it’s that or something else about Mycroft that tells her it’s easier to indulge him, the woman quickly spins to type something into her desktop computer before nodding and meeting his gaze again.
“He’s currently being operated upon, Mr. Holmes. They’ve had to pump his stomach. There’s already someone with him, a police officer-”
“I know.” He interrupts shortly. “I think you’ll find he has special permission to allow two visitors to wait on him. If you simply tell me where my brother and DI Lestrade are then I will be on my way.”
She frowns and glances back at whatever is on her screen, but true to form Anthea is capable at her job, and so the blonde woman simply nods. “Through there, bed five,” she murmurs, and then presses a button at her desk to allow the doors to Urgent Care to open and admit him.
He nods at her, hooking his umbrella over his arm again as he grips his briefcase and heads deeper within the hospital, ignoring the beeping of heart monitors and the smell of antiseptic that assaults him.
Mycroft does not linger nor falter. It’s a matter of moments to find the correct bed, which has a curtain drawn around it and people speaking within the enclosed space. However, he can tell it’s Sherlock’s because Gregory Lestrade paces beside it with his hands running through his hair.
The man looks up at Mycroft’s footsteps, seeming to pick them out among the bustle of the hospital patients and staff alike, and Mycroft couldn’t say what it on his expression but it’s enough to make Lestrade blanch and stop pacing.
“Mycroft,” he says, and he sounds relieved. Mycroft does not allow himself to dwell on that, instead taking in the myriad of minor tells and clues about the detective’s current state.
Long day at work, stress lines in his face- obviously, Mycroft thinks- that make him look more tired than he likely is, he’s been trying to get in touch with Sherlock all day and grew suspicious when Mycroft’s brother didn’t answer…
Ah.
“Where did you find him?” Mycroft asks, coming to a stop in front of Lestrade, close enough to smell the last vestiges of the cologne he’d had on this morning. Something… tangy that he can’t help but sniff at subtly to try and determine the brand.
Tonight had been date night but Lestrade had been forced to cancel because of this, Mycroft surmises. His wife isn’t happy, they’re already fighting over the amount of hours he spends at work, it’s causing strain in their marriage.
Well at the moment Mycroft couldn’t care two pence about the state of the man’s marriage except to be grateful that he made the choice to find Sherlock when he did.
“His flat.” Lestrade takes a moment to answer him, face haunted. “He’d given me a key- lucky thing too, or else I might have- I could’ve-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Mycroft can guess.
Without the key Lestrade might have walked away, not deeming Sherlock ignoring him urgent enough to break and enter. It’s a miracle the man decided to go inside anyway, even with the key. Many wouldn’t have.
For the first time Mycroft realizes that he’s still holding onto his briefcase and that his hand is hurting from how hard he’s squeezing the handle.
Lestrade sniffs, clearly making an effort to compose himself. It works ever so slightly. “Found him in the living room, on his couch. Needle was still in his arm. I called 999 but he started…” Here his gaze refocuses on Mycroft and it’s clear he’s unsure whether he should be describing the details.
“Please.” Mycroft says simply, voice hoarse, and Lestrade’s face does something complicated, going soft for a moment, before it hardens once more and he continues.
“He was convulsing and then went still. I started CPR and was still doing compressions when the paramedics showed up.” Lestrade’s eyes are shadowed. This is a man who sees murdered corpses regularly, who has to deal with some of the grisliest and most monstrous criminals that walk the streets of London; the fact that this is difficult for him is clear, but him managing to be as clear and composed as he is…
Mycroft finds himself grateful for the other man’s strength, as he is rapidly losing his own.
Lestrade rolls his shoulders back, shifting on his feet. Mycroft’s eyes have not moved from his face. “His heart stopped. Twenty-seven seconds by my count. Started again before the ambulance arrived and I think, I think, it’s been steady since.”
Mycroft’s eyes drop to Lestrade’s hands. More weathered than his own, and with a fine dusting of thin, barely-there hair on the tops of them.
Hands that felt his brother’s heart stop underneath them. Hands that saved him.
“They’re pumping his stomach now. Made me wait out here.” Lestrade pauses but Mycroft doesn’t look up, unable to tear his gaze away from the detective’s fingers, which are fidgeting slightly now under the scrutiny. “Shouldn’t be long and then we can wait with him. Pretty sure they’ll keep him sedated for a while.”
His wedding ring glints slightly in the ugly hospital lighting.
“Thank you.” Mycroft says finally, after far too long a silence has elapsed. His adrenaline has worn off slightly now that he has information to work with and a loose chain of events to follow. It will have to be enough.
He is not only thanking Lestrade for explaining so thoroughly and knowing not to hold anything back, but also for the fact that this man saved Sherlock from doing such a horrendously stupid thing as ending his own life. Thanking him for being there when Mycroft was not.
God Mycroft’s exhausted.
“You don’t have to thank me for this,” Lestrade replies, uncharacteristically solemn. “Believe me, I’ve seen enough addicts to know…”
He doesn’t finish the thought but Mycroft’s attention is momentarily piqued and he seizes the distraction. “Someone you know?”
Lestrade shrugs, apparently realizing he’s opened himself up for personal scrutiny and finding it slightly uncomfortable. For a man who’s usually so open this must truly be a touchier subject then. “I, er, grew up in homes. Saw a lot of different types. Pretty much unavoidable to get to know at least one person on the drugs.”
Mycroft takes him in, the tense corners of his eyes and mouth, the stiff way he’s holding himself, and reaches the correct conclusion. “They died.”
The policeman winces.
“I apologize.” Mycroft feels a tinge of regret and guilt at his carelessness, but somehow only a trace of it enters his voice. He still feels remarkably cold, and his voice is fairly flat without him meaning it to be. “That was incredibly thoughtless of me.”
“You’re right. He did.” Greg scans him quickly and Mycroft sees the shadows leave his eyes as he somehow scrapes together a kind and reassuring smile and switches to the role of comforter instead. He goes to offer another apology but the detective stops him. “Don’t worry about it. Really. I’ve been in shock enough times to know you can’t blame a man for speaking without thinking at times.”
“Then I’m sorry for your loss.” Mycroft says instead and Lestrade seems to swallow at that before nodding in thanks.
“Ta. He was… well, he was one of the only good things about that place, unfortunately.” Then he seems to realize just what he’s said and gives himself a shake. “Christ, look at me going on, that can’t help anything. Besides,” Lestrade reaches out and rests his hand lightly on Mycroft’s shoulder, “Blake didn’t make it to a hospital. Sherlock’s already starting off better.”
“Thank you, that’s kind.” Mycroft replies after a moment, finding himself tiredly leaning into the man’s touch, ever so slightly.
They end up standing like that for a few minutes before the curtain is pulled back and a tired looking doctor with hazel hair stands before them. Mycroft expects Greg’s hand to drop but it doesn’t.
He looks behind the doctor to see a few nurses milling around the hospital bed as they carefully adjust the ventilator that is pumping air to Sherlock’s lungs through the tube in his mouth.
Mycroft feels a quell of horror in his chest at the sight of it and blinks twice in quick succession.
“Detective,” the doctor begins before catching sight of Mycroft and stopping. “Who are you?”
Mycroft takes a step forward on legs that feel far too weak, breaking the contact between him and Greg, his eyes still on Sherlock’s pale and prone form on the bed. His dark hair is a shock against the covers and his skin.
“I’m Sherlock’s older brother and his emergency contact. How is he?”
The doctor takes him in before looking past him, presumably towards the detective. To Greg’s credit, whatever response he gives seems to be the right one, because the doctor shifts to address both of them instead. “Mr. Holmes, Detective Inspector, the patient is incredibly frail. His heart stopped earlier tonight and has been weak since. We have managed to remove most of the toxins and waste from his system but his body has gone through something quite traumatic, and-”
“I understand the effects of drugs and forced expulsion on a system, Doctor.” Mycroft interrupts. “Will he live?”
“Given that he’s sedated and stable now, I believe chances are high. It’s rare for any bouts of shock or seizure to come on this delayed, but we will be closely monitoring him through the rest of the night and the next day. I advise he be kept asleep for that period as well.”
“And the ventilator?” Lestrade asks what Mycroft had been about to, making him grateful. “How long will he need that?”
“His lungs are my greatest concern at the moment. We’ll try taking him off the ventilator just before he regains consciousness. However, there are many times it’s required for longer.”
“I understand.” Mycroft replies while his eyes stare unseeing at Sherlock and his mind races. So one day here is ensured, perhaps two. After that Sherlock will hopefully be able to be moved safely.
Mycroft breathes with a guilty sense of relief at that. Two days where Sherlock can be watched and taken care of by people other than himself. He will have the time and freedom to make the necessary arrangements.
Another hospital employee comes up to speak with the doctor and Mycroft’s attention is finally brought back to those around him instead of his brother. Something moves at his side and when he glances over he sees that it’s Greg, who’s come up to stand right behind him, a comforting presence.
The grey-haired man gives him a soft look in response to whatever he sees on Mycroft’s face, making him swallow before he turns back to the doctor with more control over himself.
“If you step back a moment there is a more private room ready for Sherlock.” The man tells them both. “Please allow me and my team to get him up there and settled and then you can both join us. Lindsay will be able to bring you.”
The blonde nurse who just arrived turns to them with a warm expression while the doctor retreats and begins working with the two nurses left by Sherlock’s bed. They begin unhooking a few things and raising the rails on the side of the moveable cot.
Mycroft finds it all terribly exhausting.
Lindsay, to her credit, doesn’t mince words. “Just let us ready this space for our next patient and then I’ll be happy to bring you. Ten minutes is all it should take, so feel free to grab a cuppa, use the restroom or wait in the sitting area down the hall there.”
It’s a clear dismissal and Mycroft turns to Greg. His briefcase is still gripped tight in his hand.
“I appreciate you staying Detective Inspector.” He says. “Your continued assistance with Sherlock is…” He trails off, unable to finish. “If you think you need remain out of any obligation then please let me assure you that you do not. I will continue to update you as you have me if you wish to go home.”
Lestrade looks at him in surprise. “Oh. I- well, actually, if it’s not too much trouble would you mind if I stayed just a bit longer?” Now Mycroft looks at him in surprise. “I’d like to see him settled in his new room. And to be honest…” he hesitates but soldiers on, “I’d like to know there’s someone with you too. You look like a strong wind could knock you down.”
It takes a long stretch of moments for Mycroft to parse that. “I am fine, I assure you.” At Lestrade’s disbelieving look Mycroft clenches his hand tighter around his case handle. He is unused to being seen through so easily or doubted, though he supposes this situation warrants it. “Really.”
“Even if I believed you, I’d want to stay. Call it the copper in me.” Lestrade bumps his shoulder lightly. “I’ll go if I’m intruding. But if you wouldn’t mind then I’d rather stay.”
And Mycroft…
…feels a sense of relief at that.
He doesn’t actually want to be alone, not really.
“That would be most welcome.” He murmurs. “Thank you.”
Before either of them can say anything else Sherlock’s done being transferred to the wheely bed and is being taken away to a lift down the hall to wherever his new room is to be, his team of medical professionals surrounding him like a cloud.
Greg stays with them through the night.
If it were anyone else Mycroft would have asked them to leave. Anyone else and Mycroft would have felt like there wasn’t enough air in the hospital room for them all to breathe. He’s been here with Sherlock before, he knows what it’s like to see his brother sleeping for hours on end because his body doesn’t have the energy to stay awake. It’s like he sucks up all the oxygen in the immediate vicinity and usually Mycroft can’t stay with him without feeling like he’s suffocating, the weight on his chest just too much.
This time it’s like that but manageable, somehow. Greg is there and he seems to have recovered from the stress of finding Sherlock. It’s like he sees how desperately Mycroft needs something to ground him and is pushing himself to fulfil normal human actions and roles because nobody else is. It would make Mycroft feel guilty, pushing a man whose experienced a range of trauma and a high-tensity situation in regards to someone he knows and cares about to then pretend to be alright for the sake of himself, but at the moment Mycroft thinks he could barely tie his own shoes, and he’s not exactly wonderful at regular human interaction and emotion when he’s fully functioning.
They wait for hours, neither speaking. Mycroft is lost in thought, very definitely only half present of what’s going on in the room, and he has no idea what Greg is thinking to occupy himself, but thankfully, the detective has been quiet, polite, and unobtrusive. Anthea is the only other person Mycroft has found that he can spend so long with without causing him some level of annoyance (mild) to anger that would make him tear his (quickly depleting) hair out of his own skull. And in a situation like this as well, it’s almost unthinkable.
Yet that’s exactly what’s happening and whenever Mycroft does remember Greg is here in the room with him he feels another strong and overwhelming wave of gratitude, made even worse due to the fact that it’s entirely unexpected.
There’s no change, of course, despite them waiting hours, and finally Greg cracks.
“I should really be heading out.”
“Of course.” The response takes Mycroft a moment but when he does he sounds perfectly in control, as if he’s merely been waiting for Greg to vocalize such a thing. Part of him has. “I appreciate you waiting, Detective.”
“Anytime. And call me Greg, really. Not on duty now anyway.” He tries to speak lightly, but the worried pinch at his mouth when his eyes repeatedly dart back to Sherlock bely his true feelings. “Anyway, I’ll come back tomorrow if that’s alright with you.”
“Oh, there’s no need-”
“It’d do me the world of good.” Greg interrupts him easily, not put off at all by his deferral. “If you’re alright with that.”
Mycroft has faced down country leaders and monarchs of dynasties that have held thrones for hundreds of years and never once floundered in telling any of them no when he had to. But here, now, in this hospital room, he looks at Greg and he finds himself helpless to stick with his initial instinct of wanting to be alone in dealing with this situation. Instead what comes out of his mouth is, “Of course. Greg.”
For a moment the detective stops, as if the sound of his name from Mycroft’s mouth startles him, despite him being the one to ask for its use. Still, Mycroft can understand- it feels… weighty for him to use such a familiar address for Lestrade as well.
Their eyes meet and Gregory’s smile is small and tired, but genuine. Sadly, it might be the most genuine smile Mycroft’s received in weeks.
“Night then.”
“Good night. Thank you again.”
The man nods, hesitates as if he’s about to say something else, and then just ends up nodding again before leaving quietly. Mycroft finds himself staring at the spot he disappeared for a few moments before slowly he returns to himself and faces Sherlock again.
The tears don’t come immediately. First it’s the ball of panic and despair that forms in his gut and works its way up his throat, near choking him. Then it’s the thought of his parents and what they’ll say- not only their concern and worry for Sherlock but also their frustration and accusations towards him for not taking better care of his brother.
Usually Mycroft doesn’t inform his parents of Sherlock’s riskier plights; partially because Sherlock long ago begged him not to but mostly because in the beginning, when things were bad, their responses always just caused more hassle for Mycroft to deal with. It went from him trying to arrange care for Sherlock to him trying to juggle taking care of Sherlock and his parents’ distress, along with having to explain what could have possibly led Sherlock to doing such a thing. The fact that they never liked and dismissed the answers Mycroft always gave was just another layer to the headache- so in the end informing them did nothing useful, and merely worried more people who would have been happier living in ignorance.
Sherlock hardly phones home or visits anyway, Mycroft knows- another thing his parents nag at him to rectify, despite the fact he can hardly force Sherlock to maintain contact with them. What few times Sherlock does agree to see them when they visit London are hard enough to coerce out of him to begin with.
All that is to say, Mycroft isn’t entirely sure it’s worth informing their parents of this. It might end up causing more trouble than it’s worth.
And yet: a small, boyish part of him, the part that knows the arguments and deepening hatred that will occur between Sherlock and himself because of this, the part that wants, fruitlessly, fancifully, that someone else in his life could just handle one problem and save him from having to do it, wishes that he could tell his parents and that they might respond with something more useful than suggesting Sherlock come stay with them for a few weeks to get back on his feet.
As if removing Sherlock from London and isolating him with only their parents for company is ever a viable long-term solution.
No, Mycroft knows, this will be left for him. Only he can remove emotion enough to be logical. Sherlock needs help, true help, and this means the coddling and hand wringing are done. It’s time for action.
The fact that Sherlock will grow to hate him further over it is unavoidable no matter how Mycroft approaches it. For the sake of his well-being and recovery the sacrifice will have to be made.
Mycroft knows that for a fact. It does not stop him from feeling as if he’s suffocating in the horrible hospital room with only an unconscious Sherlock for company.
So he sits, hunched in his uncomfortable chair, head in his hands, and works to simply breathe through the tears that fall unseen from his eyes.
Greg returns at dawn, a mere quarter hour after Mycroft himself has woken from where he fell asleep in that horrible visitor’s chair.
The faint knock at the door makes him startle, and when Greg peeks in Mycroft blinks in surprise. He’d expected Anthea, if anyone- though she’ll likely only arrive in a half hour with a change of clothes and a few other essentials.
“Sorry,” the policeman offers an apologetic grimace as he steps in, seeming relieved to find Mycroft already awake. “I know it’s early but I wanted to come back and check on everything, you know.” His eyes dart to Sherlock, lingering, and a sad look crosses his face as the door closes quietly behind him. Finally he drags his gaze back to Mycroft. “How is he.”
“The same. Good, according to the doctors.” Mycroft swallows, suddenly aware of the fact he has not brushed his teeth yet. “It’s before visiting hours.”
“Yeah, I know. I flashed my badge.” Greg glances back at him again. “I can leave if you want. I only wanted to check in, see how you were both doing.” Mycroft notices Greg’s attention on the skin around his eyes and hopes, perhaps uselessly, given his pale complexion, that his emotional outburst from last night is not plain to see written all over his face. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Some.” Mycroft answered stiffly after a moment. He’s still sitting down and feels uncomfortable at being caught so off guard, with his tie and jacket discarded beside him, while Greg stands a few feet away. The space between them feels glaring.
“Right.” Greg also seems a tad uncomfortable and he shifts. It makes the bag in his hand crinkle. “Oh! I brought some food. Figured you might not have left the hospital but this is better than what they have, I promise.”
He hands over the white paper bag and Mycroft looks inside to see a scone and fruit cup. He looks back up at Gregory in surprise.
“Wasn’t sure what you liked but I figured this was a safe bet. Who doesn’t like scones and jam, eh?” Mycroft barely has time to speak before the detective turns sheepish. “Erm, I would have brought something to drink, but I didn’t know what you’d want. You’ll have to deal with the hospital stuff. Or I could run out and-”
“This is more than thoughtful, thank you.” Mycroft’s voice croaks slightly and he winces, clearing his throat. Slowly he reaches in to take the scone, noting the red spread in the middle and smelling the raspberry of the jam.
He’s not hungry in the slightest and in fact normally doesn’t eat breakfast at all. However to not eat would be rude, and though normally Mycroft doesn’t overly bother with such things, he also knows it’s been quite a while since he has eaten and he really should have something while he has a chance.
“Don’t worry about it.” Greg smiles at him, seemingly relieved at not having been shouted down for his efforts. “It’s one of my favorite places to nab something quick- I had a chocolate croissant. Wasn’t sure if you liked sweets in the morning but they’re delicious.”
Yes, Mycroft thinks as he glances at the faint, barely visible smudge of chocolate at the corner of Gregory’s mouth. The detective seems to have had not just one croissant, but two.
Truthfully, Mycroft would have liked a croissant just as much, though the fact that Greg chose differently for him is better for his diet.
“That also sounds lovely, but this is more than enough, thank you.” He checks the name of the bakery on the bag while he takes his first bite, absently licking away some of the jam from his lower lip. “Maria’s? I’ve never been.”
“Hm?”
When Mycroft looks back up Gregory’s attention seems to be somewhere around his chin, making Mycroft curse the fact he hasn’t had a chance to shave today either. His shadow is always patches and leaves much to be desired.
Still, he hides his discomfort. “The bakery? I haven’t heard of it.”
“Oh yeah,” Greg’s face breaks into a small smile. “Really good. I know the owner- there was a while there I was a bit of a regular. Anyway, she’s lovely and has the best recipes. I nab in there whenever I can now.”
“You will have to give her my compliments when you visit next, this is delicious.” And indeed it was- Mycroft has wolfed the scone down embarrassingly quickly, and makes short work of opening up the fruit. He offers some to Lestrade, who shakes his head.
“Oh no, I got it for you-”
“Please, Detective, by all rights this whole breakfast is yours. Take some if you like.”
After a moment Gregory grabs a piece of pineapple.
Mycroft tries to hide a smile, but Greg catches it. “What?”
“You’ve saved me from choking down the one fruit I truly despise.” Mycroft says before popping a pear into his mouth. “Sherlock adores pineapple. I’ve always been rather against it.”
Greg raises an eyebrow, though his mouth quirks. “Really?”
“Really.”
For some reason Lestrade chuckles at that, making Mycroft the curious one now. “Why is that amusing?”
“Nothing, I just- well, pineapple is a posh fruit, isn’t it? I mean, years ago it was a sign of wealth to have one. Just funny that you wouldn’t like it when you’re the poshest person I know.”
Mycroft cocks his head and quietly admits his surprise at Lestrade knowing such a thing. “When they had to be imported, yes, the pineapple was a sign of wealth and title. The invention of greenhouses has since made them lose said status.” Then Mycroft frowns. “The poshest person you know?”
“You know, you’re all…” Greg gestures at him with a loose hand.
Mycroft raises an eyebrow.
Gregory’s mouth opens, unsure, before he seems to see something in Mycroft’s face and he grins, a bit of humorous ire coming into his voice. “Ah, you bastard. You know what you’re like.”
“Yes, I do.” Mycroft smiles to himself, picking through the fruit to grab a strawberry. Lestrade reaches over to snag a bit of melon, their hands brushing. Mycroft speaks again before he can think better of it. “Though the truth is hardly so impressive, I assure you.”
Greg chews slowly before asking, “What do you mean?”
Mycroft gives him a sideways look. “I work in government, Gregory.” He says. “Believe me, I know the power of appearances.”
“Ah,” understanding makes Greg nod. But then he frowns. “Yeah, but you are posh though. I’m not just basing that off of you, you know. He,” he jerks a thumb at Sherlock, “is too, though I doubt he’ll ever be able to admit it.”
Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Truly?”
“Oh yeah.” Greg rolls his eyes. “I know he lives in squalor now and wears the rags of the day, but believe me, some of the demands he makes and the attitude he has, like he expects everything he asks for-”
He cuts himself off abruptly, as if remembering just how perilous Sherlock’s current state is.
“Well.” He finishes, slightly apologetic now. However, Mycroft doesn’t mind; instead, he finds himself rather enjoying the fact that he can discuss Sherlock frankly, his good traits and bad, with somebody who still seems to care for him. “Let’s just say that’s a posh person’s attitude. The rest of us working class know better and take our losses where we need to.”
“Or perhaps you simply need to demand for more.” Mycroft murmurs, catching the policeman’s attention again. However, not wishing to offend, he adds, “Though you’re right. Sherlock and I are… rather well off. Our parents have done well.”
“Yeah, I know.” Mycroft turns to look at him and Greg smiles, holding up his hands in surrender. “I looked up your mum. Quite an impressive woman.”
Surprise blooms in his chest and Mycroft sets aside the empty fruit cup after Greg takes the last bit of cantaloupe. “Indeed.”
“Mind you I didn’t understand the titles of half the papers she’s written, but it seems quite the collection.” The other man says. “Sweet how she dedicated all of her books to your dad.”
“Yes.” Mycroft is thrown at Gregory’s thoroughness and the insight he’s gleamed into his parents’ relationship. “They’re very… well suited.”
“Yeah.” For a moment the policeman’s voice turns wistful. “Nice that.”
Once more Mycroft’s gaze drops down to Gregory’s hand with the wedding ring and absurdly he opens his mouth, wanting to ask if the man knew about his wife’s infidelity, only for a knock at the door making the impulse vanish entirely.
“Come in.” He calls, voice becoming cool and crisp, and Anthea walks in easily, heels soft on the floor as she takes in the room quickly. Her eyebrows lift ever so slightly at the sight of Greg sitting in the chair beside him, but in a moment even that sign of surprise is gone as she holds the suit bag out to him. “Fresh clothes, sir, along with toiletries.”
A plastic bag joins the suit in his hands when he stands to take them from her. He slips the bag onto his wrist deftly and then takes the last item from her easily.
“And tea, sir.” Her eyes fall to the bakery bag and the empty plastic cup that once held the fruit, before meeting his eyes again. Bless her, she says nothing except, “I do hope I haven’t forgotten anything.”
“This is wonderful, Anthea, thank you.” He replies, feeling Gregory stand beside him.
Oh well, nothing to avoid it, he supposes.
“Anthea, this is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Detective Inspector, this is Anthea.”
Gregory shakes the hand Anthea offers firmly and politely, an eyebrow raised as he glances between her and Mycroft. “Just Anthea?”
“Anthea Bridgestone.” She replies pleasantly, a polite smile fixed firmly on her face. Her gaze betrays none of the curiosity that Mycroft is certain she has at finding the man here so early this morning. In fact, after their introduction she glances behind Greg to Sherlock. “How is the patient, sir?”
Though Greg seems intrigued at her clinical way of asking Mycroft barely bats an eye. “Stable but no change from last night. Mostly due to the sedative.”
“Of course.” She nods.
For a moment Mycroft debates how to proceed, but his full bladder suddenly making itself known and the clothes in his arms remind him of his next step. “If you’ll both excuse me a moment.”
Anthea steps aside to allow him to use the small toilet in Sherlock’s room. Changing into his suit in there is cramped, and the tap takes far too long to produce hot water with which to wash his face- he was correct in suspecting the redness around his eyes, which makes him unhappy. He does not like the thought of either Greg or Anthea knowing he’d been crying last night. Still, needs must, and he supposes there could have been worse people to find him in said state.
He brushes his teeth and freshens up quickly before returning to where Greg and Anthea have fallen into what can only be deemed as incredibly polite small talk.
“Much better now, Anthea, I thank you.” Mycroft says into the silence that falls when he rejoins them, and his assistant nods, taking the bag now full of yesterday’s clothes. “I’ll be much more comfortable getting work done like this.”
“Of course, sir.”
Gregory shifts and clears his throat slightly. “Well you had to go and mention work, which reminds me I should probably get going.” He looks at Sherlock again and sighs heavily, a tired sigh that Mycroft is far too familiar with. Then he turns to Anthea. “It was nice to meet you. Too bad it was under the circumstances, but, you know.”
“I agree. Have a good day at work, Detective Inspector.”
“Thank you.” Greg doesn’t tell her to call him by his first name, Mycroft notes, and then chides himself for being ridiculous when the detective turns to him. “You’ll let me know how he’s doing?”
“Of course.” Mycroft assures him. “I’ll try to have him get in touch as soon as he’s able.”
“That’d be nice, thanks.” Greg nods. “I, um, don’t know if I’ll be able to come back after work…”
Again Mycroft wonders how much Greg knows about the true state of his marriage.
“…but I’ll let you know. Won’t just barge in.”
“You hardly barged.” Mycroft murmurs, despite the fact that Greg did pretty much exactly that. “Besides, you brought breakfast, so I can hardly complain.”
Anthea makes a small noise off to the side in the chair Mycroft recently vacated. He ignores her.
“Right, yeah.” Greg’s eyes fall to the small table holding Mycroft’s drink from Anthea. “Tea for next time. I’ll have to remember that.”
There are those words from him again, Mycroft thinks. Next time.
“Anyway, take care, Mycroft. Remember to give yourself a bit of a break too, eh?”
“Of course.”
“Right.” He glances back at Sherlock again, noting no change, before nodding decidedly. “Well, see you around, I suppose. Let me know what happens.”
“I will. Best of luck at work.”
“Ta.” Greg replies before nodding one last time at Anthea and then leaving, seeming to take all of the warmth and comfort in the room with him as silence descends in his wake.
Anthea clears her throat after about a minute. “He seems nice.”
“He is. Very nice, in fact,” Mycroft replies, lost in thought for a moment before snapping back to the present. In a moment he’s straightened up and taken the seat beside her, reaching down to retrieve his computer from where it’s sat all night in his bag. “Now, how secure have you made the room? Can we deal with our third priority matter today?”
And just like that they’re off, mind turning to other things as Sherlock lies in recovery beside them.
Sherlock recovers and is released from the hospital after several days. He grumbles and complains as soon as the drugs leave his system and he regains consciousness, throat raw from the tube that had been in it until recently.
Mycroft, thankfully, is there, the doctors having informed him that Sherlock would be waking up today, and so he is ready with a cup of water to hand him as soon as the doctors leave.
Sherlock’s eyes go from lost to resentful in an impressive amount of time, but all of it is overshadowed by the shame in them that even he cannot hide. Their hands brush as Mycroft takes the empty cup back.
“Do you want more?”
His younger brother shakes his head, avoiding his gaze. Several seconds go by, Mycroft electing to play this out with patience instead of the anger that is thrumming under his skin.
Sherlock’s voice is still a scratchy croak. “Who found me?”
“Lestrade.”
Mycroft takes a bit of solace from the way Sherlock flinches at that. At least there is some amount of guilt there.
“He performed CPR on you until the paramedics arrived. Fifteen minutes.”
Nothing.
“He saved your life, Sherlock. Your heart had stopped.” As the doctors had mentioned to him.
His brother turns his head to glare at him weakly. “What do you want me to say, Mycroft?”
He meets the look, searching, but all he finds is that his brother is even more lost than he is in this moment.
Mycroft sighs, bone-tired and weary, and puts the cup down on the nearby side table, sinking to sit at the chair by Sherlock’s bed. It had been placed there in case Mycroft had wanted to hold his hand as he woke and, until now, has remained unused today.
“What happened?”
Sherlock scoffs.
“You just tried to kill yourself, Sherlock.” Mycroft voices it aloud for the first time, hearing the pain in his own voice and noting the way Sherlock freezes. “If you tell me why… I can fix it.”
Sherlock’s eyes slip closed, almost in disappointment. “You can’t fix me, Mycroft. I’m not one of your problems.”
“No, you’re my brother.” Mycroft snaps back. “Which makes you-”
“What?” Sherlock interrupts, eyes burning with a bit of their old spark. “What does that make me?”
Important. Necessary. Unlosable.
“My responsibility.” Mycroft settles on, knowing it’s the wrong answer even as the words leave his mouth.
Sherlock’s face falls, so clear for him to see. It makes Mycroft’s stomach churn, his throat thicken, and for a moment he considers saying it: the words that he has not said in so long.
You’re my brother. I love you. I will not lose you. I need you to take care of yourself.
I’m tired, I’m tired, I’m tired.
But he thinks of the last time he expressed familial sentiment to Sherlock and how his brother laughed and spat it back in his face, riding off the high of one of his solved cases.
He pushes those memories away and refocuses the conversation instead. “What can I do to help?”
“Nothing.” Sherlock shakes his head. “I was bored, the drugs were around, it happens.”
“Around? What do you mean around?”
“Forget it.” Sherlock snapped. “That was it, they’re gone now. It was a moment of weakness, Mycroft, that’s all. You don’t need to concern yourself.”
“Sherlock-”
“I said forget it.” This time Sherlock’s voice sounds nearly back to normal, and the vitriol in it makes Mycroft reel. “Look, don’t you have somewhere to be? You’ve seen I’m alive, I’m awake- you can go now, right?”
Mycroft feels the words like a blow. He scrambles for something- anything- to continue the conversation. His mind searches for something to ground himself again.
“Lestrade wanted to visit when you woke.” Somehow his voice is calm and cool. “Would you allow that?”
“Fine, whatever.”
Mycroft nods. “Then I will let him know you’re available.”
Sherlock says nothing.
Mycroft opens his mouth, words there on the tip of his tongue. Finally, he settles on what he can.
“I’m glad you’re alright. I will return tomorrow.”
Again, those eyes look up to meet his, and Mycroft sees something flickering there in them. “Sure. Not like I’ll be anywhere else.”
He is unable to take it anymore. Mycroft accepts the words and nods before turning away. He finds his umbrella and jacket and then leaves the room as quickly as he can without it looking like a retreat.
In his car he takes several deep breaths before taking his phone out to text Greg.
Sherlock awake. He’s up to having visitors today if you have time.
The reply is nearly immediate. How is he?
I am sure he will be very happy to see you. Mycroft answers while avoiding the question. I will visit him again tomorrow.
Ta, Mycroft.
Tucking his phone away Mycroft tries to pull his thoughts from Sherlock to focus on anything else instead.
Sherlock is released from the hospital and Mycroft has a moment of panic about where to take him. Obviously he can’t go back to his flat. Perhaps-
“I can see you worrying.” Sherlock is actually in a good mood today. Probably because he’s finally getting some freedom back. “Mrs. Hudson came to visit me. She’s letting me rent upstairs.”
Mycroft frowns. “Alone?”
Sherlock shrugs. “She said she’ll give me a few months leeway until I can find someone to flatshare with.”
Still, he hesitates.
“I won’t get much better than that, Mycroft. It’s a good location. Baker Street.”
That is true at least. Away from some of the drug dens and poorer neighbourhoods Sherlock has frequented these past years. Besides, Mycroft is trying to be more considerate and patient with Sherlock now. He and Greg have both decided to play things safe until Sherlock really does seem back to his old self and stable again.
“That is very kind of her.”
“I thought so too.” Sherlock says flippantly. “So you can just drop me off there.”
So to Baker Street they go, and while Martha seems delighted to see Sherlock, she is less enthusiastic for Mycroft’s arrival. Her lips purse, her eyes narrow ever so slightly, and her cheeks go from warm to fixed in a forced expression.
“Mycroft Holmes,” she announces, very in contrast to the maternal tenderness she’d given Sherlock. “My, my, it has been a while. What are you up to these days?”
“Mycroft runs the country, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock states while he is already craning his head up the stairs. “Is it the first door?”
“Second floor Sherlock, that’s right. The third bedroom is just upstairs.”
“Wonderful.” He brushes past to move up and take stock of his new living quarters, leaving Mycroft and Martha below at the landing.
“The government is it? Awful job they’ve been doing lately, wouldn’t you say?” Mrs. Hudson suggests inquiringly.
“Sherlock exaggerates.” Mycroft defers in response. “I hold a minor civil position. Minister of Transport.”
“As if I believe Mycroft Holmes would be stuck doing such a thing.” Martha laughs as if he’s being ridiculous, making him smile tinnily in discomfort.
“Shall we see what Sherlock is getting up to?”
“Oh I do hope he likes it,” Mrs. Hudson begins to fret immediately. “You go on ahead, I’ll be a moment. Bad hip, you see.”
“Of course.” Mycroft replies, taking the offered exit gladly as he strides rather quickly up the stairs and turns to see an open doorway with his brother standing in the middle of the empty room within.
Mycroft takes in the space quickly, eyes darting, noticing the dark wallpaper, the cracked window, the old curtains and worn-in-places carpet.
Sherlock turns to look at him and for once he actually seems pleased.
“What do you think?”
Mycroft prefers wooden floors and lighter coloured walls. More light in the living room and a bigger kitchen, despite the fact that he rarely cooks.
But this flat is not for Mycroft.
“I think it could suit you nicely.”
“I agree. There’s plenty of space for a couch and armchair, maybe two, and the fridge is a good size.”
For his experiments, Mycroft thinks absently as he moves to peek his head in the bedroom. “This is a bit small.”
Sherlock waves an errant hand. “What does that matter?”
Fair enough. It’s not as if Mycroft’s brother will be spending much time in there. That, he is rather sure of.
“You’re certain then?”
“Yes.” Sherlock pauses a moment, eyes going from the fireplace mantle to him, betraying a hint of uncertainty. “Why? You don’t like it?”
Mycroft gets a pang at the thought that his opinion could have any sway over what Sherlock thinks. If anything, Mycroft saying he didn’t like it would likely only encourage him to take it.
But Sherlock is right: the location is suitable and the space will be enough for him. The separation from the third flatmate should provide a good buffer so that they don’t live in one another’s pockets or need to overlap too much of their lives. Also there is something reassuring about Mrs. Hudson being just downstairs, despite the fact that Mycroft doesn’t personally like the woman much. He just hopes she won’t tire of Sherlock’s ways or grow too irritated with him.
He masks his thoughts however, instead nodding calmly in response to the question. “It has a certain charm.”
For a moment he thinks Sherlock might smile, only his brother turns around to look down at the street before Mycroft can be sure. At that moment Mrs. Hudson’s footfalls sound and she appears in the doorway.
“So? What do you think Sherlock?”
“I’ll take it.”
“Wonderful!” She beams, looking between the two. “When would you like it for?”
Sherlock looks at Mycroft and he sighs, interpreting the gaze correctly before he pulls out his phone to make a call. “I’ll arrange for your things to be dropped off.”
The confirmation makes Sherlock look back to Mrs. Hudson. “I should be settled by tonight.”
Mrs. Hudson’s surprise at the quick pace is easily ignored as Mycroft steps out to call Anthea and have her arrange everything to Sherlock’s standards.
221 B Baker Street, he muses after hanging up the call. There is a kind of ring to it, he supposes.
It will do for now.
Sherlock has a new address.
Thanks, yeah, he actually let me know. Had me round last weekend to discuss him coming back to consult. Decent enough place.
It seems to suit his purposes.
Ah, you don’t like it then?
I did not say that.
Didn’t have to. Should I even guess what your place looks like? Standalone house, columns at the front door, marble countertops?
Hardly. He allows a few seconds to pass. The countertops are white granite.
Course they are.
Mycroft does not mean to let his interest in Greg become overly significant in his life in any way. He is good at reining himself in and cutting his ties, both for the sake of his work and because it is simply too much. He does not do well socially, not for extended periods of time. He knows how to manipulate a conversation so that he can attain the information he needs from somebody, and he knows the norms of social interaction, but his only prolonged relationships are clinical working ones.
And family. Yet another reason that having personal relationships is out of the question. The thought of subjecting anybody to his family- or vice versa- is a horror he is long past contemplating.
But Greg met Sherlock first and has stuck around. He is easy to talk to. He has principles that Mycroft respects and isn’t afraid to be, God forbid, unserious with him. Their conversations always seem to start with Sherlock before moving on to such a wide range of topics that Mycroft can no longer catalogue them all in under five minutes.
It’s an impressive and unprecedented feat.
They communicate through texting. Occasionally they run into one another at Sherlock’s and linger on the doorstep conversing until the time they spend there becomes impossible to ignore. It’s Greg who suggests they just go to the chip shop next door and sit down for a coffee after the fourth time it happens, which makes Mycroft’s chest do rather strange things.
It should be awkward, he thinks, but somehow it refuses to be. Greg is comfortable, and Mycroft might appreciate that about him more than anything. Soon they have their drinks (coffee for the Detective, tea for Mycroft) and he finds himself on the end of yet more humour.
“No Bond movies for you then?” Greg teases, making Mycroft level him with an unimpressed look. Where many others would look cowed or unnerved it instead only serves to make Greg laugh, and Mycroft feels a strange thrill at the fact. “Yeah, didn’t think so somehow.”
It makes Mycroft relent ever so slightly. “I have seen a few. Sean Connery was… passable.”
“Ah, a fan of the originals.” Lestrade nods knowingly. “Man after my own heart.”
Mycroft purses his lips to hide his instinctual reaction to Gregory’s words. “Though I confess after a couple I grew quite weary of them. After a while the plots become somewhat bland.”
“Bland.” Greg rolls the word around in his mouth as if tasting it and Mycroft tries to time how long he allows his eyes to drop to the man’s lips so as not to be too obvious or cause any discomfort. “Not a word I’ve heard to describe James Bond before, that’s for sure. You mean repetitive?”
The question makes Mycroft lift one shoulder slightly. “If you like.”
“Suppose I could see that.” The other man muses. “Anyway, so you’re telling me that they’re not actually accurate?” The teasing in his eyes makes Mycroft relax ever so slightly.
“Detective Inspector, I hold a-”
“-a minor position in the British government, yeah, heard that one before.” Greg grins at him, eyes sparkling. “Theoretically then. Say I asked you to put that brain of yours to work and hypothesize whether there was anything to the films when compared to real life.” He leans forward, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly. “Indulge me.”
Any further protestations on Mycroft’s part die away.
“I suppose, hypothetically,” Mycroft adds pointedly, making Greg’s grin grow wider, “that one might say the films are plotted largely for dramatic value and to make use of special technological effects and not to document anything accurately. If you were to ask somebody who would know.”
“’S what I thought,” Greg sits back with a bit of a sigh, though he hasn’t lost his good humour. “Teenage me’s crushed. Still, had to ask.”
“Of course.” Mycroft tilts his head ever so slightly, lips twitching at the reaction. Greg, spotting it, smiles back.
“Can’t be surprised really.” He offers. “It’s the same with all the copper shows on tele. Total tosh.”
Mycroft actually does smile at that. “I’m sure the lack of proper procedure etiquette must be frustrating.”
“Ah, so you’ve noticed too?” Greg exclaims. “Complete bullshit all that. I’d lose my job in a day if I pulled even one of the stunts they did.”
“I suppose accuracy has never been the aim of the entertainment industry.”
“Too right.” Greg reaches into his pocket to pull out his wallet and throw a note onto the table. “Suppose I should be off now, I’ve actually stayed later than I was meant to. They’ll be wondering where I am at work. Still, this was fun.” Greg gives another smile and Mycroft’s surprised to find the man actually means it. “Let me know if you ever want to discuss Sherlock in person again. Or discuss anything else, really. Far be it for me to deny someone in the Ministry of Transport.”
With that last parting jibe and a wink Lestrade is gone, leaving Mycroft sitting stunned after blinking once in complete surprise.
Even later, when he’s back in the office and should be listening to Anthea going through his schedule for tomorrow, Mycroft’s mind is still half on the Detective Inspector, trying to fathom the unexpected turns of their conversation.
“Sir?”
Anthea’s question makes him snap back to complete attention in taking in the present situation.
“Repeat that last bit again, Anthea.”
She does so, continuing on smoothly when he nods at her to indicate he’s following along, and the moment happily passes without remark. Mycroft’s estimation of her rises several by several ticks.
The matter of Gregory Lestrade is set aside. At least momentarily.
John Watson somehow manages to change everything. Or, perhaps more accurately, John changes Sherlock and Sherlock-
-is a force that changes everything.
There are gang members, terrorists, secret spies, and the revelation of Eurus. In that time Sherlock falls in and out of a depression, John gets married and widowed, Lestrade gets divorced and Mycroft-
-utterly falls apart.
He had been meant to hold his family together, keep the balance, and maintain order. Instead he had watched Sherlock nearly die too many times, been threatened and outmaneuvered himself, and has now been left entirely alone.
Sherlock refuses to speak to him over his betrayal. John goes along with want Sherlock wants because in this case he believes it is in Sherlock’s best interest.
At this point, Mycroft cannot even entirely doubt it.
He thought he’d had control of the situation and instead Eurus had nearly managed to kill everybody that Sherlock holds dear. Even their parents are keeping their distance, maintaining that it’s simply too hard for them to speak about what’s happened with him just yet.
Mycroft has taken leave from work, something he has never done before. It leaves him adrift, unmoored and without a tether, but at this point he just doesn’t trust himself to make a decision about which grocer to stop at, never mind matters of national importance.
It’s been a week and he’s just as exhausted now as he had been that day. His chosen method of recuperation- isolating himself and attempting to relax, to think through the actions of the last five years and determine where exactly he went wrong and what he could have done differently- has proved fruitless. He is just as lost now as he had been when his parents told him to leave them alone, give them time to process, and to think about the severity of what he has done to their family.
Mycroft still can’t understand what the error was. His attempts to extract what he could from Moriarty? His refusal to see Eurus as anything but a psychotic and calculating murderess? Was it when he revealed his hand after Magnussen’s death, showing his weak spot for all the world?
(Sherlock. It always, somehow or other, came back to Sherlock. Whether it’s his parents, Eurus, Moriarty, John Watson, or Mycroft himself. Sherlock was the one they all honed in on.)
Was it one error that exponentially multiplied? Or just a repeated set of mistakes that Mycroft failed to see over and over again?
Does it matter?
Either way he failed. His responsibility. His legacy.
No. Not it doesn’t matter. Either way, Mycroft is finished. A catastrophe of this scale is not one that can be overlooked. He can no longer be trusted by anyone or the institution that he’s spent over half of his life serving. He’s finished.
Agatha has taken his order of radio silence seriously. His week off has been interrupted by nothing. Mycroft has had his horrible wish of lonely introspection granted.
Another mistake, if he is to be honest. It’s accomplished nothing but making him more unmoored and melancholic than before.
Today he has dragged himself out of bed at 11 after lying on the mattress staring at the roof of his four-poster bedframe aimlessly for over an hour. He does not wash or shave the beard growth that is accumulating after five days. He spits out mouthwash, ignores the look of himself in the mirror- haunted eyes, sallow skin and ginger bristles will be what greets him- and trudges in slippers to the kitchen to force himself to eat something.
Normally eating regularly is not the problem Mycroft suffers when it comes to food, but this week he has been anxious to the point of nausea, and more than a few bites of anything at a time turns his stomach.
He has been drinking regularly though. Wine slips down easily when one wishes to sleep without dreaming.
Mycroft surveys his closed office door, his living room couch and the open doorway of his home gym. Should he attempt something new today? His own pathetic behaviour is beginning to wear at him, and though it only compounds the self-loathing he’s felt all week, he is ready to make some small effort at reducing it.
Placing his half-eaten tangerine back in his fridge he takes a glass of water and moves to his home gym. He takes a deep breath and looks around at the neglected equipment, eyes settling on the rowing machine.
It takes five minutes for him to change into a loose fitting old t-shirt and gym shorts. Socks and shoes on his feet, Mycroft takes his unused phone and turns it on for the first time in days to set himself a timer.
Half an hour, he tells himself. If he can exercise for half an hour then he will consider it a job well done.
It’s a conscious decision to ignore the notifications on his screen. No, he sets the timer, leaves his phone on weight bench with his glass of water, and gets in the rowing machine.
An hour later Mycroft slows down the treadmill and wipe the sweat from his face with the bottom hem of his shirt. His skin is damp and flushed and his heart is pounding. For the first time in days his mind feels clearer, more like his usual self. He has migrated from the rowing machine to the weights, shutting off his timer when it went off in annoying interruption. He then moved to the treadmill finished his usual fifteen minute run.
He downs the remainder of his water and does a few half-hearted cool down stretches. Then, deciding to utilize his newfound motivation, he grabs the empty glass and his phone and goes to his bathroom to drink a few more gulps of water from the sink and shower.
Half an hour later he’s in the middle of shaving the monstrosity from his face when his phone rings. Mycroft freezes, caught off guard at the noise. He’s lived in near silence for the past few days and he curses himself for having forgotten to turn the thing back off.
His eyes dart over to the screen and a complicated feeling comes over him when he sees that the caller is Lestrade.
Part of him had hoped for his parents. A smaller, more naïve part, had wondered against his better judgement if it might be Sherlock.
He isn’t surprised to see Greg’s name come up however. The fact that he and the Detective Inspector have become friends is one he’s long owned up to. The idea that they are close, even, is one Mycroft allows.
There’s been some moments, this past year, that have made him wary in Gregory’s presence, but none that are the fault of Greg himself. Late night phone calls that are lightly layered with a flirtatious tone Mycroft isn’t entirely sure is on purpose on Greg’s part. Social drinks at a pub that Gregory enjoys for reasons Mycroft is still unable to fathom. The socializing began as an easy way to discuss Sherlock and have evolved into just… discussion. Enjoying each other’s company.
It's only become more frequent since Greg’s divorce.
Truthfully, the thought of calling Gregory has occurred to Mycroft many times over these past few days. He’s always found reason to talk himself out of it.
And now he’s forgotten to turn off his blasted phone.
Slowly he lowers the razor and reaches to pick the offending object up. Just before the call is set to ring out, he answers it.
“Hello?”
The intake of breath on the other line is enough to make Mycroft feel like he’s losing air. The sound of Greg’s voice after does enough damage to leave him feeling sucker punched.
“Why the hell have you not been answering your phone?”
Mycroft carefully places the razor by the sink. “I’ve been away from it for a few days.”
“You what?” The disbelief in Greg’s voice serves to make Mycroft realize that cutting himself off from all communication without warning after what happened may have been rather thoughtless of him. “Christ, Mycroft, I’ve been ringing you for three days. The only reason I knew you were fine is because Sherlock told me to leave you alone.”
“Sherlock said that?”
“Told me to ‘leave you to rot in your own self-pity’ were his exact words I think.” Lestrade quotes, perhaps not realizing how sharply their pierce Mycroft when he hears them, only for Gregory’s following statement to make him feel far better. “To which I told him that it’d hardly be fair to leave you to it when I’m not doing the same for him. Both of you are as bad as each other, I swear. John agrees.”
The surprise at Lestrade’s defense is perhaps uncharitable, but Mycroft is grateful for the DI’s words all the same. “How is Sherlock?”
“I’ll tell you after you’ve told me what you’ve been up to.”
Mycroft perks up slightly at being able to tell the truth without embarrassment. “If you must know you’ve caught me in the middle of shaving.”
This time yesterday he’d been lost in a daydream on his couch, but Greg doesn’t need to know that.
“Oh- sorry about that.” Greg’s surprise is evident. Mycroft takes the opportunity to brag further. If he can purport the idea that he’s doing fine then perhaps the pressure to be just that will get him back on his feet.
“And I just finished a workout as well, if you must know. So you can report to Sherlock that I am, in fact, fine.” Not that he would know, Mycroft adds internally with a touch of bitterness.
“Good to hear.” Lestrade gives Mycroft only a moment before he springs the trap by saying, “I suppose you won’t mind me stopping by later with dinner then? Unless you have other plans?”
For God’s sake.
Mycroft had recognized years ago that Lestrade was extremely capable and smart enough to put up with Sherlock and him, even if he couldn’t keep up with them at times. To have those smarts used against himself is less than ideal, however, especially in these circumstances.
Can he admit to not being in the mood for company after stating that he’s fine and there’s nothing to worry about? Or perhaps he can fall back on work as an excused-
“And before you try to say anything about working, I know from Sherlock that you’re on leave. Which would have been nice to hear from you, you know.”
Mycroft bites the inside of his cheek. “I haven’t told anyone.”
“Yeah, I figured. John seemed as surprised as I was to hear. But that means you’re free tonight?”
He sighs. “Gregory…”
But of course Lestrade cuts through his willpower with his typical earnest sentiment. “Mycroft, look: I’m worried about you, alright? So is John and so is Sherlock, though he’s being his typical self about it. I don’t have to stay long but I want to bring you some food and make sure you really are doing alright so I can go back to worrying about my own life and not the ridiculous Holmes brothers. Sound fine?”
He breathes in and out slowly, calculating. He exercised and showered this morning. He’s mid-shave, and he’s been sleeping nonstop, so it’s not as if he looks haggard now that he’s clean. It won’t be much to get dressed for when Greg arrives and then he’ll look decent enough, if not completely up to his usual standards.
But Greg has seen him drunk before. Greg’s walked him home late from a night out when he was tired, and stayed up on the phone to hear him yawning, and see him yell and snap and bark when worried for Sherlock. Greg has followed Sherlock on mad adventures as a favour to Mycroft and pulled his brother from the Thames and restarted his heart.
If there is anyone Mycroft feels he can trust to see him now, it’s Gregory Lestrade.
He’s taken too long. Gregory sighs over the line. “Look, if it’s that much of a-”
“Come.” Mycroft interrupts him, unable to even wince at himself as he does because suddenly he does want to see Greg desperately. “Please.”
The sharp, surprised intake of breath makes Mycroft’s heart lurch. “Okay. I’ll be round at 7.”
“See you then,” Mycroft says, crisp and clear, before hanging up the phone and staring at himself in the mirror.
Then he goes back to shaving.
Greg shows up in faded jeans and a dark hoodie with Chinese takeaway and a bottle of liquor and Mycroft immediately knows that this evening is more than he’s signed up for.
“Last I checked I’m a grown man perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” Mycroft greets him as he takes the offered plastic bag of Chinese food.
“That might be more convincing if you didn’t have a fresh nick of a razor on your face. Forgotten how to do it properly?”
Reflexively Mycroft’s hand lifts, hovering over the tiniest of cuts at the side of his neck. “How-”
“Please. I’m divorced, Mycroft, I remember how it goes. You made me go and wash my hair more than once back when you dropped by on my days off.”
Ah, yes. Well, that is true, Mycroft supposes, and he had, perhaps uncharitably, always made a point of mentioning to Greg that he was glad to see him clean and up and about.
Touché, Detective Lestrade, touché.
“And I didn’t see anything, actually, just took an educated guess. Don’t worry about it, Mycroft, you look great.”
Even with everything, the compliment sends a burst of warmth through Mycroft and he finds himself having to clear his throat and change the subject. He and Gregory have been toeing flirtatious waters for a while now, but today Mycroft finds himself mor flustered than usual. Perhaps the lack of socializing recently.
Yes, that must be it.
“That smells rather good,” he says, jerking his chin at the bags of food in Gregory’s hands. “I’ll get plates, shall I?”
He’s already moving away to do so when Greg says behind him, “Or we could dare to eat them right from the boxes?”
Mycroft wrinkles his nose and turns to give Greg a disapproving look, making the detective laugh. “I knew you’d do that.”
“Because it’s the correct and appropriate response to such a suggestion.”
Greg waves him off, making himself at home at Mycroft’s kitchen counter by removing the boxes from the bags and laying them out nicely in a row. “Now I got the usuals but I splurged on the lemon chicken because I’ve had a craving for it all day.”
Mycroft’s stomach actually grumbles as the smell of the food hits him at that exact moment. He stills, two plates in his hand, but at Gregory’s low and smooth laugh he swallows his embarrassment and smiles back. “Apparently I like the sound of that.”
“Knew you’d see it my way.” Greg grins, reaching around him to grab a couple of glasses from Mycroft’s shelf. “I brought the good stuff by the way. Figured tonight called for it, if you’re alright with me staying a while.”
“Of course I am,” he murmurs, a tad quietly, and ignores the weight of Greg’s eyes in response. Mycroft accepts first the bottle of scotch to pour himself a generous amount and then, when he gulps a few rather full mouthfuls, to top up his glass as the warm liquid pools in his empty stomach.
Greg watches him do so closely but without judgement, eyes dark with something that might be worry until he sees Mycroft looking at him looking. Then he just smiles and raises his own glass in a silent toast, taking a drink himself, though marginally smaller than Mycroft’s own, and turns to dish the food.
They settle in at Mycroft’s dining room and eat slowly but peacefully. Mycroft adjusts to having someone in his space again and quickly settles into the feeling of companionship again, made all the easier because it’s Greg he’s with. He takes in the way Greg uses chopsticks deftly, with no need of a fork, and how his lashes skim the very tops of his cheeks when he concentrates on his food. Mycroft recatalogues the grey in his hair, the soft sounds of him chewing, and the shape of Greg’s lips. It’s calm and reassuring and Mycroft feels marginally less alone by the end of their meal even though they hadn’t actually said anything throughout most of it.
There’s just- something about Gregory.
Mycroft rolls his eyes internally at himself. As if he hasn’t known that for a while now.
He takes the last bite off of his place with surprise. Part of him hadn’t thought he would manage to eat the full serving Greg had insisted he take; although, with the amount of drink he’s got left in his glass it’s probably better off that he has, because he’ll need the food to soak up as much of that as possible.
“Delicious, Gregory, thank you.”
A snort is his response. “I can hardly take credit.”
Mycroft shrugs, sliding a hand over the table to grab Greg’s empty plate. That wasn’t all the thank you was for. “Done?”
“Definitely, I’m stuffed. But I’ll do those, I’m the reason for the mess.”
“Absolutely not.” Mycroft says, rinsing the plates before sticking them in the dishwasher. He’s been having sad lonely meals for so long that he’s gotten in the habit of washing up in the sink, but with Greg here he may as well run the dishwasher again.
“Ta then.” Greg stands beside him Scotch in hand before passing Mycroft’s back to him when he’s finished with the cleaning up.
They take a drink at the same moment, eyes happening to catch and hold while they do. It’s a prolonged moment, heavy and taut, almost as if something could snap and break the tension that’s appeared between them. When Gregory lowers his glass his tongue darts out to catch a stray drop at his lip and Mycroft finds his eyes drawn and holding there.
Which is why he notices when Gregory’s mouth parts and his expression lifts in something that could be anticipation, if Mycroft were feeling more charitable towards himself. At the moment he’s not, however, and his cowardice rises back up in time to break the mood that’s built.
“Shall we sit?”
Greg blinks, swallowing visibly, but then Mycroft is brushing past him to lead the way to the sofa. He considers the armchair briefly but it’s too late, he’s aiming for the couch and Greg would notice if he suddenly averted out of nerves of sitting beside him.
He’s not a blushing teenager, for heaven’s sake. Time to get ahold of himself. It’s hardly the first time they’ve sat drinking on his couch.
They sit with the middle cushion between them and after a few seconds of settling in and finding coasters for their drinks Gregory breaks the silence.
“Are you going to tell me how you’ve been doing? Really?”
Mycroft sighs, swirling his drink in his class before looking up at his companion. “How much has Sherlock explained to you?”
“The bare bones of it. I pieced some other bits together. But I’d like to hear it from you.”
The request makes Mycroft’s grip tense and his hand still, and he stares into the liquid, dim in the lamplight of his living room, and mentally tries to calculate what’s safe to tell.
And then he realizes- he’s exhausted with that.
The calculations and weighing probabilities. Judging risk, outcomes, fallout one way or another. If he reveals it all then who does that endanger, what secrets does it reveal?
But that’s what had led him into this mess to begin with. Secrecy, lies, trying to be in control of everyone and everything.
So instead Mycroft looks up into Greg’s eyes and tells him everything. Years of history and memories comes out- the isolated feeling of being alone and responsible for a family that was reeling from tragedy. His parents unable to handle the fallout of Eurus, Mycroft sheltering Sherlock and trying to decide what was best for him, what would make him recover and heal from the damage their sister had wrought. Then the way he’s had to continue the charade and management ever since. His brother’s keeper. All because he hadn’t told Sherlock the truth when he was a child and he’s watched his brother subconsciously self-destruct ever since.
Now here they are.
“So Sherlock has decided, rightfully so, that I cannot be forgiven.” His glass is empty now and Mycroft looks down into it forlornly before setting it in front of him on the coffee table. His slippers feel constricting around his feet and he toes them off, feeling the carpet and taking a breath in. “My parents are not speaking to me except to ask questions about Eurus’ care and habits that they should be familiar with for visitation. I am unable to focus on work and, as Sherlock said, wallowing in self-pity since that night. So, Gregory, that is how I’ve been doing.”
To his credit Greg doesn’t avert his gaze. When Mycroft finally glances over he finds Greg already looking at him, steady and calm, and Mycroft is unable to look away from him.
Until Greg says, “This is so typical of you Holmeses.”
It makes him blink. Ask, “What?”
“You, Mycroft. And Sherlock.” Greg shakes his head. “Even- Christ, even Eurus. So just to recap- your sister killed Sherlock’s childhood best friend and then rigged a maximum security holding center to mess with you both and John before suffering some sort of delusion, experiencing an extreme shift in personality, and remaining in Sherrinford?”
“Also-”
“Oh yes, she also burnt down your uncle’s mansion.” Greg shakes his head. “And Sherlock feels sorry for her?”
“Yes. I think- partially.” Mycroft shakes his head. “But he’s also upset with me for lying about all of it.”
“You said you tried to get through to him, but he blocked Eurus out.”
“That’s right.”
Greg shakes his head. “But you feel guilty anyway.” He mutters. “Of course you do. Because how could Mycroft Holmes not break through his brother’s repression?”
“Well-”
“And where were your parents through all of this?” Greg asks.
“They were- grieving. Wrapping their minds around it all as well. It was easiest if I dealt with the unsavory details.” Mycroft sighs. “Or so I thought.”
“Mycroft,” Greg leans forward, glass sitting forgotten on the table beside his own, and lays his hand on Mycroft’s knee. “God I knew- I knew when I arrived that night and Sherlock asked me to- Christ. This is not your fault.”
Mycroft stills.
“Are you listening? Because I really need you to hear this.” Greg searches his face, ensuring Mycroft can’t look away. “This whole thing is insanity. Beyond it, more than anything I’ve ever heard of before. But since it’s your family, I believe it.” He shakes his head, “Mycroft, there is no person alive on this planet that could have successfully navigated this.”
“Eurus-”
“Listen, I admit I don’t know her, but I know one thing- nobody is infallible. She is responsible for the things she did; and if the positions were reversed then I doubt she could have done any better than you.”
“That’s not true.”
“No?”
“She’s brilliant, Gregory. Terrifyingly brilliant.”
“And yet she’s spent the majority of her life locked up because she never learned how to play right with others.” Mycroft goes to protest but Greg beats him to it. “No, look, Mycroft, I’d say I’m sorry because she’s your sister but honestly, with what you’ve just said about her, she doesn’t seem to deserve it. You don’t have to be obligated to her just because she’s blood. That’s not how it works.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” The word is certain. “I don’t owe my biological parents anything just because I came from them. Do I?”
“Well I suppose not, but that’s different-”
“And believe you me, I’ve seen a lot of brilliant criminals. It’s not all school dropouts you know, though even some of them would surprise you. No matter how smart someone is, it doesn’t give them the right to toy with other people. I though you would understand that better than anyone- isn’t that what we’ve tried to get through to Sherlock?”
Mycroft blinks.
“At least one of the things. Anyway,” Greg dismisses that, “it’s also the difference between someone like you or Sherlock against Moriarty. And now between the two of you and Eurus.”
Mycroft feels a glimmer of something at Greg’s word- something light and hopeful and kind for the first time since Sherrinford. But still, he has to ask, “But where does that leave things?”
“What do you want to do going forward? Ignoring the rest of your family, and John, and anyone else that might try and have a say in it- what do you want to do, Mycroft?”
He considers. It doesn’t take long. “I don’t want anything to do with her.”
It’s amazing, how light the words make him feel, the admission of it. This is the true secret, the true weight he’s been carrying; that after all this time, after he’s messed it all up, Mycroft doesn’t want to have to deal with Eurus anymore, or the mess they’ve both made of things.
He wants to just dust his hands of all of it. To be rid of her for real.
Greg raises his empty glass in a toast. “Good for you.”
“But Sherlock. My parents.” This is what stops him from walking away. “They won’t give up on her.”
“Fine. Doesn’t mean you can’t.”
“Greg-”
“Mycroft.” Greg squeezes his knee, leaning in, and somehow they’ve moved closer together. “Your family needs you. They care about you. There’s room for both you and Eurus in their lives, even if they have to split their time. You’re what matters, and if you need space from Eurus and Sherrinford then I don’t see why they can’t give you it.”
“What if they can’t handle it- her- by themselves?”
Greg gives him crooked smile. “This is where you need to get over yourself a bit too. Mycroft, your family are all adults. They can make their own choices.”
“But-”
“Mycroft, why is Sherlock mad at you?”
“I know,” he snaps, irritated at the condescension. The controlling, the lying, the manipulating and betrayal of trust. Mycroft knows. “But-”
“He needs to make his own mistakes.”
He can’t help but swallow nervously at that, the remembrance of Sherlock lying in a hospital bed with a tube in his throat and his stomach freshly pumped fresh in Mycroft’s mind. “You and I both know what that can lead to.”
But Greg shakes his head. “Do you really think so? Now that he has John? And Rosie?”
Mycroft rubs his brow.
Perhaps. Maybe that is true- though Mycroft knows that Sherlock has used since meeting John, maybe with Mary out of the way things will go back to what they were between Sherlock and John, back when they were more… them. Maybe that’s all Sherlock needed to learn how to be happy with himself. Just to find somebody.
And Mycroft?
What does he have?
The hand on his knee squeezes gently, making him look back at Greg, getting caught in those brown eyes.
Who does he have?
He’s been so alone this past week. Alone and sad and guilty. Doesn’t that tell him something? Maybe it isn’t just Sherlock who needs somebody else. It’s been a long time since Mycroft started turning to Gregory first and others after. How many times has he leaned on the other man for help? Used him as a sounding board when it comes to particularly tricky problems, issues that Greg didn’t (and couldn’t) know the details about, but still helped Mycroft puzzle through just by being there to listen? The level of comfort that Mycroft gets from just speaking with Greg and being with him is a high indicator that there is more here than mere friendship, at least on Mycroft’s part.
For years Mycroft has privately believed his brother was foolish for pining after John Watson for so long. Perhaps it’s time that he take a closer look at himself in that regard as well.
Or, more accurately, that he gathers the courage to do something about what he’s very well known for quite some time now.
“Greg.” He whispers, and maybe Gregory hears it just from his voice, everything he’s thinking and feeling. Maybe he feels it all too. “I-”
But Greg’s eyes shutter. His hand squeezes on Mycroft’s leg again, one last tantalizing bit of pressure, before he withdraws completely, moving back slightly on the couch. “Mycroft, don’t.”
Immediately he’s mortified. Mycroft can feel it, the way his face flames red, his pale and pasty complexion giving him away immediately as his mouth parts in reflex, his hurt likely written all over his expression.
Gregory is shaking his head. “We shouldn’t-”
“Of course, Gregory, I do apologize. It won’t happen again-”
“Not while you’re in this state.”
Mycroft stills.
Had he heard that correctly? Are those the words of a disgusted heterosexual man? Definitely not. Perhaps the sentiment of a friend trying to let another friend down easily?
Not in this state.
No. No that, Mycroft thinks, is not an outright rejection.
He takes another close look at Greg. Breathing elevated, eyes shifty (uncertain but not necessarily uncomfortable), the slightest stain of colour working its way up from his collar.
Mycroft’s eyes dart back to meet Greg’s only to find them blinking.
His courage bolsters. “What do you mean by that?”
Greg groans, hands lifting to rub his face in consternation. “Mycroft, come on. Look, let’s just… forget it, alright? You don’t need to humour me and honestly, all things considered right now, I’d rather you didn’t.”
“That’s the last thing I’m doing.” Mycroft leans in this time, many years of interrogation experience working to his advantage as he catches the Detective’s gaze and refuses to let it go. “Gregory. What did you mean?”
Greg’s lips part, tantalizing once more, before he looks away again. “It’s not funny, Mycroft.”
Frustration make him frown. “I assure you I’m not trying to be.”
“Well whatever you’re trying, quit.” Greg snaps. “I’m not here to take advantage, alright? I really did come over here because I was worried about you and wanted to make sure you were doing okay. And I know you’re feeling… all the things you’re feeling, and your family has momentarily cut you off, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use me and my feelings for you as some type of distraction from all that, okay? That’s not- not what I’m after.”
Now Mycroft is the one who blinks.
“Your feelings for me?”
“Christ.” Greg groans. “Enough, alright? Hell, normally you’re not as bad as Sherlock-”
“Gregory, stop for a moment.” Mycroft reaches out to catch his hands, holding them in his own in a brief and selfish second to get Greg’s attention back and quiet him so that Mycroft can speak. He takes a breath. “I’m sorry if you thought I was making fun. I’m not.”
Greg squints. “You’re not.”
“No.” Mycroft shifts, grip on Greg’s hands tightening slightly. “I am surprised however.” His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. “You see, I was under the assumption that the only one here with feelings for the other was me.”
The other man’s features go looser. “You?”
Mycroft says nothing. He just sits, allowing himself to be analyzed; he lets Greg think, gives him the few seconds of time he needs, before he seems to recalibrate with a quick head shake. His hands ease out of Mycroft’s easily, but before the sting of another rejection can hit he says, “But you’ve known for years that I fancy you.”
Now it is Mycroft whose mouth falls open.
“I have not.”
Greg laughs nervously. “’Course you have.”
“Gregory.” Mycroft keeps his tone deadly serious, knowing that if there is any time in his life he should tread carefully, Moriarty and Eurus and Magnussen and global terrorists included, it is this one. “I realized how I felt for you years ago. Do you truly believe that if I had realized you felt similarly I would not have done everything in my power to ensure we had this conversation immediately after your divorce?”
Greg blinks.
Mycroft cocks his head.
“Years ago?”
“Yes.” Mycroft sits calmly. “Quite a few now.”
“But- you’re a bloody Holmes brother. You’re Mycroft.” Greg says, making a thrilling rush run down Mycroft’s spine at the tone he uses. “How could you not have known- I always felt so bloody obvious. Every time we talked I walked away thinking about what a complete tit I made of myself.”
Mycroft laughs. “Greg, you were nowhere near as foolish as I was. I’ve been tripping over myself around you since you cut your vacation short to go and watch Sherlock at Baskerville but it’s been clear to me for a long time that my feelings for you began well before that.”
The confession hangs between them, making Greg have a small intake of breath. “That long?”
He asks it softly, voice full of care, and if Mycroft were a man who shrugged bashfully then now would be the time for it. As it is he simply bites the inside of his cheek for a brief moment. “It certainly did not just come over me tonight, I can tell you that much.”
“Oh.” Realization settles over them both, but Greg especially seems to be nonplussed. “And now here I’ve gone and confessed everything in stupid fashion.”
“I’m glad you did.” Mycroft offers. “At the rate we were going then who knows how long things might have taken otherwise.”
“Seems like you were going to do something about it before I went and put my foot in my mouth.” Greg gives him a rueful smile. “Here I’ve been waiting for years for this too and all.”
Mycroft blinks and a hint of his old confidence rears its head. “I’ve failed to pick up on this for years?”
“Now, now, don’t be too embarrassed. Only one of us is an actual certified detective, remember. This isn’t exactly the greatest look for me either.”
That makes Mycroft smile, and upon catching it Greg smiles too. Their expressions soften, the air between them mellowing, and Mycroft fully lets himself appreciate the weight of tonight.
Not only are his own feelings out in the open, they’re reciprocated. They have been for years.
What a fool he’s been.
“Gregory,” he murmurs, thought hitting him as Greg begins to lean in again.
“Yeah?” The Detective replies, voice pitched slightly lower, making Mycroft’s stomach tighten.
“This may make things awkward,” Mycroft begins, “but I wouldn’t be comfortable without saying it.”
Greg pauses his movement but doesn’t retreat again. In fact he looks almost amused as he raises an eyebrow and says, “Alright.”
“I don’t participate in one-night stands.”
Humour lights Greg’s eyes, making them shine. “No?”
Mycroft frowns at the mocking but perseveres. “No.” He repeats firmly. “Nor am I an easy person to engage in a relationship with. But I must let you know, before anything further happens, that a relationship is what I would want. To have.” He clears his throat. “With you.”
A few seconds go by, but it seems that this is when Greg has finally decided to fall quiet. Years Mycroft has known this man, heard him rambling drunkenly at a pub and ranting on the phone and lapsing on about this or that over a meal or in Greg’s office; but this is the moment Greg chooses to be silent.
Disappointment thickens his throat and Mycroft begins to pull back. “You don’t feel the same.”
“What? No. No, Mycroft.” Greg catches his wrist to hold him in. “That wasn’t me saying no. I was just… processing.”
Mycroft bites back his sting of disappointment. “I see.”
“We’re not all as quick as you, alright? I’ve pictured this quite a bit over the years you know, just give me a second.”
His sunken hopes disappear just like that and Mycroft resumes his earlier position. “Please. You can have all of the time you need.”
“Ha ha,” Greg replies, rolling his eyes. “You know, if you really do want to be with me then you’ll have to learn to put up with someone that doesn’t have an IQ as high as Sherlock.”
Mycroft purses his lips, slightly hurt. “Have I not?”
Greg’s features soften immediately at that and their hands slip to hold one another, Greg’s thumb brushing against the curve of Mycroft’s. “No, you have. That was just- a stupid joke.”
“You’re not an idiot, Greg.” Mycroft says. “Though I bemoan many people in this world who cannot seem to hold a rational thought or prolonged conversation about anything more interesting than what is on their Instagram feed, you have never been one of those people. And you never will be.”
He may have spoken with Sherlock about how dull others are but Mycroft has long accepted that Gregory is, and always will be, different. A league of his own from near day one.
“I know that.” Greg says firmly. “Really, I do.” He offers a bashful smile. “But as long as we’re confessing areas of concern, that’s one. You’re smarter than I am, Mycroft, we both know it. At least on paper,” he hurries to say as Mycroft opens his mouth to offer platitudes. “That’s fine. But you’ve never made me feel stupid in the past. If you can avoid doing it now too then that’s all I ask.”
“I should hope so.”
Greg rolls his eyes. “Alright, well I just thought I’d put it out there. Seeing as we’re airing things.”
Mycroft takes the hint. “I apologize. It’s not terribly romantic.”
“Eh,” Greg shrugs. “Depends on your idea of romance I suppose. Me? I’ve been married and divorced already and since then you’re the only one I’ve thought of in any kind of serious way. I’ve had the reckless rush of relationships in the past and look where they got me. It might not be a bad idea to go headfirst into this one. Especially because it’s not something I’d want to mess up.”
Mycroft swallows. “Nor me.”
Greg smiles, warm and kind, before his eyes fall to Mycroft’s lips. “That being said though, I would still really like to kiss you.”
There’s something about the dark look in his eye and stroke of his thumb over Mycroft’s hand that makes his breath grow shallow. Greg shifts, drawing Mycroft’s attention down to his thighs in his pants, stretched against the denim, and he has to quickly look up again as his gut stirs.
He’s by no means a young man anymore, but he’s not dead either. Lestrade’s effect on him has always been pronounced and if there’s one area Mycroft isn’t afraid of it’s this one.
“You’re no longer worried about my emotional state?”
Rolling his eyes, Greg huffs a laugh and closes the gap between them. “Shut it, you. I’m trusting you can handle yourself.”
Despite his words, their first kiss is soft. Tentative. Greg has been divorced a long time, and while Mycroft knows that he’s by no means been celibate in that period, he also isn’t sleeping with someone every night. And Mycroft, well. Years is an understatement.
Still, it doesn’t take a genius to understand the basics of kissing, and even if it did, Mycroft doesn’t think a genius would be necessary when it came to kissing Gregory.
It may be soft but it’s a kiss. Long and lingering, a brush of lips that makes Mycroft react involuntarily, pulse and mind racing ahead of themselves as he pushes in, seeking more almost without conscious permission. Greg’s hands move to rest on Mycroft’s thighs, Mycroft’s lift to grasp his forearms and he opens his mouth just a little bit and then all is lost.
Not even a small part of Mycroft is upset about it.
Gregory stays the night and the morning after is, surprisingly, just as pleasant as the evening before.
Physically everything has changed. Greg, it turns out, is quite tactile. He is constantly seeking out ways for the two of them to press against one another, to bumps hips, tangle legs, steal kisses. Their talk seems to have gotten rid of any and all reticence he may have felt.
Mycroft can’t say that he minds.
The rest though- their joking, their conversation, their differences- all of that remains, just as it ever has.
And that, Mycroft realizes, is a blessing.
It’s all of those things that Mycroft truly appreciated about Greg to begin with. The way his sense of humour pierces Mycroft unerringly, able to make him laugh even in bed when things might have grown quiet and awkward. Or Greg sharing his complaints about work, about London cabs, about Sherlock. It’s all so wonderfully familiar that Mycroft wonders at how his mood has changed so drastically in the span of a day simply due to Gregory Lestrade.
There’s the rest too, of course. Greg has always been one of the only people able to look past Mycroft’s frosty exterior and gain access to the main beneath, and so after they’ve had sex, after the teasing and the laughter and the exhilarated bliss, when calm has descended, Greg asks again about how he’s been doing. And Mycroft tells him honestly.
There’s no judgement from the man holding him in his arms, but there is concern, and as he listens he offers soft kisses along Mycroft’s bare shoulders and spine.
Their goodbye the next day is languid and easy- he’s uncertain which of them first suggested it but Mycroft is happy that Greg will be coming back later that day nonetheless. Clearly his company has been a good thing.
In the meantime, Mycroft goes about getting a bit more back to normal. He the areas that he’s been idling in, mainly the kitchen, living room and bedroom, and it’s the most he’s really cleaned in years, used to having a government service come in and do it for him. He exercises again for an hour and organizes his laundry to be sent away at the end of the week, a service he refused last week; thankfully he’s barely changed clothes this week so the pile isn’t too excessive yet.
He ventures outside and actually takes a moment to breathe in the outdoor air and allow it to really wake him up. Mycroft grabs a few essentials for groceries and, after a moment’s hesitation, a bottle of the bodywash that Gregory favours. He’s allowing himself to be optimistic.
Once all that is said and done he debates reaching out to his parents, or Sherlock, but in the end decides against it. Time, Greg had suggested, may be the best course of action here. Much as Mycroft dislikes it, he can think of nothing better. Previous overtures have gotten him nowhere.
Instead, he keeps himself busy until Greg comes back, freshly shaved, changed, and freshened up.
A waste, really, considering how Mycroft just makes a mess of him nearly immediately.
And so it goes.
They continue the next few days like that, seeing one another off and on. No official labels are applied, but Mycroft speaks to Gregory at least once a day, even if only through text, and sees him more often than not. Another week goes by, then two, and they fall into an easy and comfortable routine. It feels like a natural progression from their friendship and Mycroft is more reassured by that than anything else.
A month passes and Mycroft finally allows himself to return, slowly, to work. Greg’s encouragement is a large part, but also the extreme boredom that had descended over his life without it.
He’d been afraid that he was a workaholic and unhealthily attached to his job, using it as a substitute for human relationships and connection. Turns out, the truth is far more simple than that: Mycroft simply loves his job. He gets pleasure out of it and he’s good at it. Once he allows himself to feel confident in that again, actually returning to the office and slowly picking things up again is remarkably simple.
Anthea, bless her, doesn’t remark on his absence except for a heartfelt and polite, “Happy to have you back, sir.”
Mycroft returns the sentiment. Then he listens to the verbal checklist of disasters that seem to have occurred in his absence and feels himself slip back into his old role easily, mind already working to do damage control.
One month becomes two, three and then five.
Then, after five month trips into six, Sherlock texts.
You can stop by after work.
Mycroft takes it as the olive branch it clearly is. I will see you then.
“So.” Sherlock presses the tips of his fingers together before resting his chin on top of them, eyebrow quirked disarmingly, trying to distract from the intensity of his gaze on Mycroft. “Lestrade.”
His brother looks good. Hair grown out ever so slightly, the haggard and jaunty skinniness disappearing from his frame to be replaced with more muscle, a light in his eyes that belies his intelligence. Mycroft has taken in the flat, noting the signs of cohabitation between his brother and John, the numerous tells of Rosie’s presence, the mark on Sherlock’s collar bone that he though he shifted to hide before Mycroft could see, and worked to deduce as much as he could about what he’s missed.
He could play dumb about Sherlock’s inquiry. Gregory is likely the main reason Sherlock has agreed to see Mycroft after all, having played intermediary and promising to try to help broker peace between them. He’s been telling Mycroft that he’s spent the last months dropping hints and pestering Sherloock about making up. In general, just being a nuisance.
“It’s fun though, after all those years of Sherlock pestering me for things.”
That could be what Sherlock means.
But they both know better. Of course they do.
So instead Mycroft’s hands tighten on the handle of his umbrella where he is leaning forward in Sherlock’s chair in the flat. “Indeed.”
He refuses to say anything else. This is not a topic he is willing to entertain with his brother, for all of his other indulgences.
Sherlock’s eyebrow flattens out as his eyes narrow, assessing further. Frustration and impatience pull at the corners of his mouth and Mycroft does his best to ensure a completely neutral expression. Silently the two of them have a conversation, as they’ve been doing since Sherlock was six years old.
That’s new for you.
Not particularly. I’ve never been as unwilling to indulge as you.
But it’s not just sex, Sherlock’s sharp chin juts out. It’s companionship.
According to whom?
Both of you, of course. It’s written all over you.
Be that as it may, it’s hardly worth this fuss.
Sherlock’s eyes harden ever so slightly. I’ve known Lestrade a long time, Mycroft.
I’m well aware.
Frustration makes Sherlock’s forehead crease lightly. I don’t enjoy seeing him hurt.
And why, dear brother, do you suppose I’ll be the cause of such a thing?
Sherlock frowns fully now, still taking note of every change in Mycroft, every hint that will help him understand. A few seconds pass between them before he finally voices what seems to truly be bothering him. “You know he’s in love with you.”
Mycroft doesn’t move an inch except to say, very neutrally, “Yes.”
He should have known, of course, that would give the game away. Too little emotion is just as dangerous as too much- both indicate an extremely high level of care.
Of course Sherlock would figure it out. Mycroft has forgotten, in a crucial moment, just who he’s talking to.
“Oh.” Sherlock’s hands finally fall to his lap as he sits back, eyes slightly widened in surprise and tone losing all pretense of haughty pretension and boasting- he’s genuinely shocked.
Mycroft winces. “Sherlock-”
“You love him?” Sherlock asks incredulously.
“That,” Mycroft rebukes sharply, and a tad desperately, “is not up for discussion.”
“You’d deny it if it weren’t true.” Sherlock shoots back, seeming a mixture of triumphant, shocked, and upset. “The fact that you’re not-”
“I can lie to you as well as anyone else, brother mine.”
“You think you can.”
Mycroft stares back at him, feeling a flicker of surprise as he realizes that Sherlock is telling the truth.
Well then. Damage control.
“It’s nothing, I assure you.” He murmurs, eyes shifting to the side, finally unable and unwilling to take part in the game any further. Not considering the subject matter. “We haven’t discussed it. His feelings will undoubtedly pass and then he will be all yours once more. There’s no need to be jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
Mycroft smiles thinly. “If I can’t manage to lie to you what on earth makes you think you can with me?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Fine. But I’m not upset.”
“No?” Mycroft’s eyebrow lifts, unimpressed. “Weren’t you thinking just a few seconds ago something childishly along the lines of his being your friend first?”
“Well he was.” Sherlock’s defensive tone betrays him, making him pout slightly. “Just because you kidnapped him two days after he met me-”
“An unforgivably long interlude,” Mycroft murmurs to himself at being reminded of just how much time he’d allowed to elapse between Sherlock and Gregory’s first meeting and Mycroft’s interception. Thankfully he hasn’t been that inefficient in quite some time. “And I did not kidnap him.”
“Oh right, it was John who got that treatment. I suppose you should give yourself some credit, Mycroft, seeing as you didn’t have the tools and influence you do now back when I met Lestrade. You actually deigned to seek out the detective yourself.” Sherlock sniffs. “I suppose now we both know why.”
Mycroft rolls his eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Am I?” Sherlock grows entirely serious. “Finally found yourself a goldfish then, have you Mycroft?”
Mycroft’s gaze shoots back to him at that, neither giving an inch in the ensuing stare down. He’d like Sherlock to feel chastened at his prying into a subject that doesn’t concern him, but Mycroft rather suspects that between the two of them, it’s him losing this battle of wills. His brother has found a weak spot and is scrupulously exploiting it.
Well, fair is fair he supposes.
“Do you really want to discuss one another’s personal lives, Sherlock?” He fakes a smile, pointedly darting his glance to a stuffed toy of Rosamund’s, John Watson’s cardigan hanging over the arm of the chair Sherlock is currently in, and the framed photo of him with John and Rosie in pride of place on the mantel of the fireplace instead of the usual clock. “Would you like to hear what I’ve deduced about the recent development between you and Dr. Watson?”
To Sherlock’s credit he hesitates before falling back into John’s chair with a sigh, a dawning expression of comprehension on his face. “Oh.” He muses. “So that’s what everyone means when they say it’s annoying.”
“Quite.” Mycroft agrees, settling back into Sherlock’s chair a bit more easily at the apparent ceasefire. “This is where the personal aspect enters in the concept of personal lives.”
“Privacy a valued commodity,” Sherlock blinks and Mycroft suspects he’s thinking back to the many telling offs he’s received over the years from people like Seargent Donovan and Gregory himself. “Who would have guessed?”
“It’s not such a recent revelation for most of us,” Mycroft informs him drolly. “Now. Are we finished?”
He’s obviously unhappy about it, but for the sake of peace and the privacy of both him and Dr. Watson, Sherlock seems willing to give in, at least for now. With a nod Mycroft stands and begins to head toward the door.
“Mycroft.”
He turns back around to see Sherlock standing uncertainly in the middle of his own living room, fingers of both hands fidgeting. “It’s a good thing. You and Lestrade.”
Mycroft raises an eyebrow but it’s only to cover the surprising warm swell of emotion in his chest at his brother’s words.
“I mean,” Sherlocks shifts on his feet, dressing gown fluttering around him softly. “You both seem well. Good. So. It’s good.”
It takes several seconds but finally, with effort, Mycroft swallows. “Thank you.” He replies, entirely sincere. After a moment he adds, “My congratulations to you and John, Sherlock.”
His brother’s flush usually makes Mycroft feel smugly victorious, but now all he feels is contented happiness at the sight of it. Their complexions have never done either of them any favours in that regard.
“I’ll see you soon.”
It takes Sherlock a moment to adopt his usual long-suffering expression, but even when he does there’s a new fondness in his eyes that Mycroft treasures, making an effort to commit the sight to memory. “If you must.”
With one last smile and bow of his head, Mycroft turns to begin to make his way down the staircase of 221B Baker Street.
Home to where Gregory is waiting for him.
Epilogue
This case was a long one and it’s all Greg can do to give the final sign off on his report before he files it away to submit tomorrow and stands to begin collecting his things to head home.
His visitor refuses to show that he’s noticed. Of course this would be the one day that Sherlock chooses to linger instead of rushing home to John and Rosie, Greg thinks, the one day that he and Mycroft had actually made plans to go out for a meal to eat.
“-though what really gave it away was the height of the arterial spray on the water can-”
“Sherlock,” Greg sighs wearily, “it’s nearly eight o’clock. I’m knackered. Can you please get the hint and go home already?”
The detective stills from where he’s been pacing back and forth, wearing a patch into the carpet in Greg’s office. “Why? Somewhere to be? You never used to leave the office before nine on a good day.”
Greg gives him a withering look. “Clearly you already know.”
The victim of his stare remains unperturbed. “You’re going out.”
“Yes.”
“On a date.”
Greg rolls his eyes. “Yes.”
“With Mycroft.”
“Sherlock-”
“My brother. Whom you’ve been seeing for the past year now.” Sherlock’s eyes are probing. “Mycroft.”
Greg makes an effort to soften his expression. Mycroft had mentioned Sherlock might, at some point, try to speak with him about this. When Greg had asked why Sherlock would try to talk to him and not his older brother, Mycroft had simply laughed and told Greg once again that Sherlock was very fond of him.
If Greg wasn’t so fond of him himself then he might have been more confused, but at this point he’s gotten a fairly decent grasp on the Holmes brothers, or so he likes to think. John, for what it’s worth, agrees with him, and they congratulate each other for it over drinks once a month.
“I don’t understand,” Sherlock says after a moment, in the same tone he always uses to say those words. A mixture of grudging reluctance and distaste.
“What?” Greg asks tiredly. He’s willing to wait and have this conversation but he really does want to make it home in time to eat something at a still-reasonable hour. “I don’t have all day today, Sherlock, the quicker the better.”
“Mycroft. He says he loves you.”
Greg sighs, not in the mood for dealing with the Holmes brothers’ feud. “And you don’t believe him?”
“No.” Sherlock’s brow furrows, giving proof to his genuine confusion. “He was completely sincere. Which is why I don’t understand.”
For a moment Greg stares and then he purses his lips, crosses his arms, and falls back on an old refrain for when Sherlock isn’t being clear enough. “Explain it in small words, Sherlock.”
“He’s always said sentiment was a weakness. He doesn’t indulge it for anyone except me. Even our parents…” Sherlock’s nose wrinkles. “Well, you know what happened with Eurus.”
Greg tenses. “Let’s avoid discussing her, please.”
“And then there’s you.” Sherlock says, half accusing even as he looks bewildered. “So protective of him. You do realize he’s the most powerful man you’ve ever met, don’t you? He has more safety measures in place for the protection of his person than anyone in this country except the reigning monarch and prime minister. He doesn’t need your protection, Lestrade.”
It makes Greg sigh again and look off as he works out how best to explain. “That’s the thing about love, Sherlock. When it comes to things like that, about caring for other people… it’s not always about need.” He turns back and lifts an eyebrow, gesturing vaguely. “Don’t you know that by now? With John?”
That makes his friend still.
“You and John don’t have each other’s backs because you need to.” Greg stresses. “It’s because you care, yeah? Because you want to make sure he’s taken care of and okay. That he comes home at the end of the day and that he’s happy.”
“So?”
“So,” Greg gives Sherlock a look, “your brother isn’t actually a robot you know. He can feel those things too.”
“But he doesn’t. Hasn’t. Until now.”
Greg shrugs. “That’s fine. Long as he does now then I don’t mind one way or the other.”
Sherlock takes him in, that head-to-foot survey that makes Greg feel about two inches tall but that he knows is inevitable. “You really do love him back, don’t you?”
“Sherlock.”
“It’s fine, you don’t have to admit it, it’s plain as day.” Sherlock dismisses him with a wave of the hand. “Huh.”
Finally Greg pauses near the door, fully willing at this point to just leave Sherlock in his office and risk coming back to the carnage tomorrow. Still, he takes the moment to look at his friend, making the effort to catch his eye. “I do though. You know that too, yeah?”
Looking visibly uncomfortable, Sherlock shifts. “Yes.”
And, well, better late than never Greg supposes. They might as well have this conversation out loud at some point, seeing as clearly he and Mycroft aren’t changing their minds anytime soon. “And you’re okay with that?”
“Would it matter?”
Greg almost misses it, the slight note of uncertainty in Sherlock’s voice. For a sentence that was supposed to come out dismissive and uncaring it instead lands as achingly vulnerable.
It makes Greg’s heart tug and he’s once again reminded of just why he cares so much about Sherlock Holmes.
“It would, yeah. To me. And to Mycroft.”
Sherlock latches onto Mycroft’s feelings for him as Greg knew he would. The two brothers have resumed talking again but things remain slightly frosty between them and the distance that Eurus had created has never entirely gone away. It eats at both Holmeses, Greg knows, and he’s ready for the day they can finally move past everything.
“He wouldn’t care. He’d stay with you even if I didn’t want him to.”
“Maybe.” Greg says, because he promised not to lie to Sherlock a long time ago. “But it would be hard, Sherlock. He would hate it. We both would.” When Sherlock opens his mouth Greg beats him to it, “Let’s not waste time pretending he doesn’t care about you more than anyone else on this planet, alright? We both know the truth.”
Sherlock’s mouth shuts and his expression is surprised for a second before his lips quirk, ever so slightly, and his look turns conspiratorial. “You’re on the receiving end of that too now, you know.”
“Yeah,” Greg smiles, “I know.”
Sherlock takes one look at his face and wrinkles his nose. “Ugh, okay fine, go home. Happy anniversary.”
“Thanks.” Greg replies, pleasantly surprised that Sherlock actually said anything. “Tell John and Rosie high for me.”
“Sure.” Greg turns to leave but he’s halted when Sherlock calls out, “Lestrade?”
“Hmm?” He turns.
“You could tell them yourself this weekend. You and Mycroft. When you come round for dinner.”
Greg lifts an eyebrow, giving him a smile. “Yeah?”
“If Mycroft is available, of course.”
He has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m sure he will be. That sounds nice, Sherlock, ta.”
“Don’t mention it.” Sherlock says. “Now hurry, you’re already going to be late.”
“Right. Night then. See you tomorrow morning.”
“And Saturday.”
“Saturday too,” Greg confirms, making a note of it. “Bye Sherlock.”
He doesn’t wait for another response and instead hurries outside only to find a limo sitting a block down from the station in wait.
Grinning, Greg slips inside immediately.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“It’s fine,” Mycroft replies mildly after their kiss, leaning back to take him in, eyes catching on his hands- ink is on his index finger. “All wrapped up then?”
“Yes.”
“Was it the brother?”
Greg sighs. “What gave it away this time?”
Mycroft smiles at him, that small, pleased smile that Greg has come to love, and Greg feels himself settling as the car pulls away and Mycroft’s voice sound, smooth and silky in the backseat.
While listening he reaches out to take Mycroft’s hand in his, opting to tell him about Sherlock’s invitation over dinner, already knowing how happy Mycroft will be, taking it as the solid sign of reconciliation that it is. They’ll decide what drink to bring and what treat for Rosie, and debate how serious Sherlock and John are (Greg sees marriage in their future, Mycroft is skeptical) and they’ll enjoy good food and each other’s company.
But that will be later. For now, Greg is happy just to sit here and enjoy hearing about Mycroft’s day.
More than happy.