A man was standing in a large abandoned warehouse with no one around in sight. His shadow was sprawled across the gloomy concrete and was shifting slowly back and forth with its master. The man did not find the building favorable or to his taste, but he somewhat rather enjoyed the sound of nothing but the air coming from a vent, and the odd trickle of water spilling itself on the ground far, far behind him. Mycroft Holmes swung his umbrella round and round. It made small pleasant gusts which in turn flapped his pant legs back and forth. He stopped and crushed the tip of the apparatus into the ground.
What I am doing here? He thought abstractly. He had no place to sit, to be at ease, or even any one to have a conversation with. He was not entirely sure what brought him to such a strange and uninhabited place.
Mycroft leaned against his umbrella fondly. It was the only thing he found familiar and he relished in its simplicity. All of a sudden he was so very tired. Perhaps the warehouse symbolised his never-ending quest for silence and peace. It was completely separated from civilization, as well as his brother and that troublesome roommate of his; however, that also meant he was away from his post of observation. He was away from everything that mattered, and placed inside a large ostentatious empty room of all things.
He decided to trash the explanation entirely and unveiled the truth to himself. He wanted to be away from everything because everything was so bloody complicated. His brother Sherlock Holmes was complicated, as well as his complicated roommate John Watson, and that brought upon complications in the outside world which were consequently complicating the lives of every single being the complex duo decided to get involved with. Oh, and of course. There was that stupid detective inspector that got in his nerves.
The odd thing about that… he had never really spoken to the man for long periods of time (not even ten minutes in total with each meeting). Mycroft Holmes was standing in the large abandoned warehouse because of a man who, perhaps through Sherlock, knew only little about his personal being. They barely saw each other a handful of times, and that was enough for him to get annoyed at the little things that made up Lestrade.
That man was greying considerably, but not aging as fast as his hair was. He holds a goofy smile when prompted by amusement, a satirical frown when he is stuck on a particularly hard problem and his face shows the vestiges of insanity when Sherlock decides to be particularly difficult. He wears looser clothing; plain. He held himself rather lazily, but with solidity. Detective Inspector Lestrade felt like a very foreign entity to him, which was odd because he was never really familiar with anybody so he could not make such a comparison without contradicting himself.
The horrible thing about his dislike is that it was very much unfounded. They got on fine for a couple seconds they ever talked, and it wasn't like him to hate a man for his choice in attire. His personality was quite pleasant if not a bit brief, and harboring a type of intensity he never really saw in anyone else.
He separated himself from his mind for a few seconds to do some quality thinking. It was something that Sherlock never mastered, with his head dabbling in everything from a piece of garbage on the ground, to his infernal deliberate violation of crime scenes. He imagined Sherlock never really got any rest with his head buzzing with facts constantly.
Mycroft used his umbrella to make shapes on the ground. It scraped against the concrete and created ghosts of lines when he moved it across piles of dirt. When his mind returned to him, he stopped his umbrella in its tracks and looked up.
God forbid.
Was he lingering on that man because he liked him? Was that possible?
Was he going to allow it to be possible?
Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. It was probable… He wanted to test his theory, but implementing anything was difficult, especially with Sherlock meddling in everything and being obnoxiously suspicious. He wished his dear little brother calmed down sometimes.
Mycroft opened his eyes and scanned his neat office. Nothing was out of the ordinary and that drove him up the wall considerably. He loved normalcy, but day after day he wanted something else. He wanted variety, difference, and a sense of groundlessness. He wanted Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade to come in and taunt him with his imperfect image. He wanted him.
He had a very hard time coming to terms that not only could he not have everything he wanted at any given time, he also wanted a normal man to come into his big important office to play. Such a thought disgusted him, and also lead to thoughts of self-depreciation. All the whys and hows and 'what is wrong with me?'s swam in his head like soggy alphabet soup being stirred by a toddler. It was funny to him how that comparison brought him back to thoughts about his brother, and then, not very surprisingly, back to the man that haunted his thoughts.
Perhaps he could ask the man to spy on his little brother. It would be the most convenient way of making contact with him. Perhaps even provide dinner and the whole fare as acknowledgment for the favor. Favors… his mind became uncontrollable.
He closed his eyes and the flashes of skin became more tangible; groans from exertion, gasping from the lack of air, and the odd sounds of slapping… slap slap slap… as flesh hit flesh. It was so very vivid in his mind.
"Mr. Holmes…" his imaginary Lestrade mumbled.
"Call me Mycroft," his imaginary-self whispered suavely.
And back to reality in a stuffy office.
It had gone on for weeks. He had kept his image up well, and he was never really fazed by anything. He did his duties to the t, and in all honestly, he was quite surprised at himself for lasting this long. He found it quite amusing, seeing as he barely remembered the last time he had any real encounters.
These days he would visit Sherlock and his flatmate. Sometimes they were away, or one of them would be there, and the other out on some sort of errand. There was a brief moment where he saw Lestrade run out and get into a cruiser, rushing away with Sherlock and John not quite far behind. Oh Gods, he wanted him so badly. He really wanted to find out if they were in any way compatible. Would they get along at all, and how did his body look underneath his clothing.
His imagination had gone all the more wild with each passing week. He had started counting the number of times he imagined himself violating the detective inspector with his umbrella. Maybe taking him to an interrogation room and having his way. He felt a bit nauseated by the graphicness of his own mind.
He should say something.
But he couldn't.