Title: "Let's Build a World Together"
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade (Mystrade)
TV Show: BBC Sherlock
Word Count: 3,477
Rating: PG

A/N: HEY! This is my headcanon Mystrade story! I'd love to have this happen to my pairing, to hear how they met. And this is how I would envision it. Not much else to say.

ENJOY!

x x x x x x x x x x

Whenever it rained, it poured entirely around him. He never was once hit by a raindrop, especially since the rain was part of their world, the world around him. It encompassed and encircled his life, but he hated it; he would rather stand under his umbrella and stay within the confines of his world. In his world, everything slowed down and sped up again, as if time had no meaning. All the details would be sprawled across the pavement, the walls, wherever he was, and he could tell a person their life story by the way their knuckles wrapped around their steering wheel. Then when he was done investigating, he would see the world back to normal.

People called him crazy for seeing such things. They saw nothing; they would never think for themselves. He would list everything in a matter of seconds about one car and how that car drove through the mountains maybe days ago, and the rest of the world would just stare down at him, wondering whether or not he was imagining things. But whenever a person walked up to him, everything slowed down, magnified, and he would know their story in one minute, maybe less. It was never more. When he was done talking the long speech that followed his investigation, the people would never approach him again; they were offended that he knew about their life more than they knew about it themselves.

This was the life of little Mycroft Holmes.

He was not very old, not old enough to venture out and make a difference in the world, but he knew his rights and wrongs, what was deemed insane and sane. And he was in his usual spot on the corner of the street, watching the world fly by and slow down on a whim, underneath his umbrella. He was in his suit (he wore nothing else; normal clothes did not suit him well), one that his mother bought him for Christmas, and listened to the sound of the rain drop against the concrete below. He could probably tell others where a raindrop exactly hit on the ground, if others were around.

Children were on the opposite side of the street, walking home—some had no umbrellas, others had them and shared with those without one. He clutched his umbrella; there was no room in his world. And the children of his school knew only this about him. All of them could not stand him, nor the life he lived. Whenever he told them about what they had done yesterday—the children would make up some fantastical journey they had with their parents, when in fact they were merely at home watching the telly—the children would call him nasty names. But just so, he would get his way around the schoolyard and reigned supreme; no one dared touch him, or some dastardly plan to ruin that child would come about.

And Mycroft had no problem with this. The schoolyard was his; he knew everything going on at every minute of the day inside the school as well. If there was a problem in one classroom, it would be dealt with in a matter of minutes. Those that headed the offices had no idea about these situations, either. They were left in the dark. The administrators had no news about this infiltration, too, but Mycroft knew how to get inside the walls and plant information into their heads. No one questioned his ability; no one ever should.

He glanced down at his small pocket watch; his ride was to arrive at any moment. He wished his ride would be there the moment the school bell rang, but his mother was never the kind to remember the exact time his school let out. She would probably have to deal with Sherlock's constant bickering and investigating before actually leaving the house.

Sherlock would probably beg her to stay home and do experiments, because he always needed a volunteer for them (she never refused). He snapped his watch shut and shoved it back into his little pocket; how he found his brother to be a nuisance. He wanted to rid of his brother the moment he started to talk and think like him, but Mycroft noticed the others around picking up similarities between the brothers, and how their intelligence was significant. He also noticed some of those that helped around the house talk poorly about his brother, how he was hated in their eyes. A part of him realized that his brother was the only thing in the world he cared about the most, even if his brother cared nothing about his well-being.

Mycroft closed his eyes and listened to the rain again. More cars dashed by and slowed down, just at the thought of them being in front of him. Even then, he could tell a person's occupation by the sound of their tires, but he couldn't figure out anymore. So he just let time flow at its normal pace and held onto his umbrella.

A few people came and went as he stood there, including those that have tried to bully him day in and out at school. They didn't say anything to his face as they walked by, but he could hear the whispers. "There's that weird kid again," one would say. He knew their eyes were on him. "He's nothing but a freak." The other kids around would laugh, and he sighed. Tomorrow, he would deal with their nonsense by getting rid of their social abstracts and cutting them deals, one that would ultimately place them on a watch list for the rest of their lives. But until then, he just stood there, waiting for his ride.

He was used to people talking about him like that. He tried to fit in, tried to be one that was normal, but it was boring. He liked to mess things up a bit, see what would happen if fire played with more fire. For the most part, this drama entertained him, because the world needed to add more to its own story. Others would call him borderline creepy, perhaps insane, because he spied on everyone that walked in and out of the building. He knew everyone's name, but no one knew his. They just called him freak or creep. Some didn't have a name for him; he'd just be that one kid no one liked. It was either liked or afraid of; he never understood some of their terminology.

He didn't need friends; he needed people on the inside. He had acquaintances, yes. But no one to "play" with, or someone to go to the swings and play at the playground; that was idle time wasted. These acquaintances he had were people that trusted him and his work, people that understood why he was doing such things inside and outside the school (he never tried to explain it in its entirety; that'd be too much work). These people acted within the crowd, and no one except himself knew about their dirty work. Everyone else thought of them as friends (Mycroft listened to the group of boys walk away and distinctly heard one of his men within this group. He only smiled).

He opened his eyes. It was lonely, though, inside his dry, little world. How he wished to have someone there to watch it all with him, to watch everything unfold. He could describe the details to someone and have them be amazed, without them be terribly upset at his actions. The person didn't have to see the world like he did, on the contrary. He wanted someone that was the opposite, someone that was naïve to believe there was still a dull moment in everyday life. Everyone else wouldn't matter. As long as this one person was there under his umbrella, he would need no one else. His acquaintances would stay in their position, and this one person would be above all of them in an instant.

But Mycroft trusted no one, not at the school or at home. Perhaps that was the reason why he investigated on every single person for a week, digging through their files to understand why each person was how they were. Perhaps that was why he had surveillance hidden in the walls of the school, had people watching every move at every moment everywhere, and even spied on his brother (for his well-being) and mother (for her safety). All he had were his lackeys and umbrella—and the umbrella was just his world. He didn't want to think of life outside of his own world, but how he wished they would collide.

Mycroft heard someone running toward him, perhaps trying to get out of the rain, or maybe catching a bus down the street (they would not get there in time at the pace they were going; the bus was already closing its doors). He turned to look at the person; he had not recognized them from afar, but the specks of glossy gray hair gave him away. Mycroft had never once had a problem with this child, nor had he ever encountered him on the playground. He scanned him.

He gathered information at the pinpoints. The child was in distress, obvious by the way the child ran at such speeds. He had not been running for long, since the school was only a block away, but it would seem the child had been standing outside for quite some time. His coat was drenched, his hair was started to cling to his face and head, and his shoes were soaked. The boy was not out of breath, but the way he ran made it seem like it was a struggle (his feet would stomp against the concrete and create a massive wave of water splash in the open air). Mycroft wanted to learn more, but something happened, something he never expected or anticipated. His surveillance was not strong enough and his world hit a wet spot.

His world was invaded.

Mycroft did not move from where he stood (he'd be damned if he had rain hit him) and just watched the boy catch his breath under his umbrella. They were quick breaths, all requiring the same amount of air. But Mycroft couldn't focus and just stood there, watching the boy. He couldn't think straight, couldn't see straight—it was the first time someone was there with him, and his mind was going a mile a minute. "Sorry, sorry," the boy rasped out after a few moments to himself. "It'll only be a minute more..." the boy glanced up at Mycroft and smiled. He just stood there, wondering about how to solve this problem.

But there was no solution in sight. He couldn't slow time and figure out the boy's status in the world; he couldn't figure out his life or his background; he was the first mystery Mycroft encountered. The boy straightened up and let out a large sigh. He noticed that the boy had caught his breath and had no problem breathing again. He also noticed how the rain dripped off of him and hit the ground below, as well as his own shoes. But he couldn't feel it—what did the rain feel like? The boy wiped his hand against his pant leg and flicked some of the drops away before turning to Mycroft.

Enter: "Name's Lestrade." Mycroft knew his name. Lestrade was the type of fellow that got along with everyone and played these mystery dramas with everyone (a board game called "Clue" was his favorite). Mycroft stared down at the hand and examined the boy's skin. It looked smooth, with a bit of roughness near the knuckles—Lestrade was a fighter. He knew this, too (his mind was playing tricks on him and hiding the information he already knew); he always saw him fighting with another boy every once in a while. His most recent fight was with a bully Mycroft knew, one that bullied him.

He was afraid to touch Lestrade's hand, but he didn't want to be crude. He had mannerisms programmed into his life; he knew when to be polite. "Mycroft," he whispered. When he touched the boy's hand, it was wet and cold. Why was the rain cold? It was warm a little while ago, but this boy seemed to be freezing. Did the rain do this to people? Maybe that was why people drove in cars when it rained. Lestrade's grip was firm, strong, while Mycroft's was weak.

Lestrade kept a grin on his face. "I know about ya, I just didn't know your name," Mycroft was afraid. How much did this boy know? And why was he saying it to his face? Wouldn't it be better to keep it all a secret? "You're the one that likes to keep an eye on people, don't you?" Ah. Mycroft sighed a bit of relief and released his hand from Lestrade's—now his hand was cold.

Mycroft grinned. "I suppose you could say something like that."

Lestrade just nodded. "How long have you been doing something like that, then?"

"My entire life." Mycroft didn't hesitate. It was true, though. Ever since he could remember, he could tell people what they ate before even saying a word. Some people found it fascinating; others found it deplorable. Sometimes, Mycroft loved the way his mind worked. Other times, he wished he had a different mind, a different life. Perhaps a normal life, but normality was still boring in his mind.

Lestrade was interested, far more interested than anyone had been. It was apparent in the way he smiled and leaned just a little bit into Mycroft's presence. No one ever really stood this close to him to talk about his world, except his acquaintances. "So, what kind of stuff do you see?" Lestrade asked. Mycroft felt his eyes widen a bit; his grin was gone. Lestrade took it as a warning sign, and shook his head. "Never mind, forget I asked. I didn't mean to offend." But Mycroft wasn't offended. He was far from that. He was surprised, shocked that someone like Lestrade was interested in what he did at school.

Mycroft wanted to answer, but Lestrade wouldn't hear it; he just talked. "That girl is wearing an ugly dress." Mycroft raised an eyebrow and looked across the street. He knew exactly which girl he was talking about, the only girl on the block in a quarter-mile radius. The other girls were long gone. She was from a rich family, but Lestrade probably didn't want to hear that. Instead, he chose the simple route.

"She wears it frequently, it must be her favorite." Lestrade frowned.

"I don't like the color." Mycroft agreed.

"The color could be better, yes."

"It doesn't look good on her either."

"She wears the dress for herself." Lestrade shrugged.

"I know, but all the other girls are cute."

"Girls are not in my area." Mycroft froze. He didn't mean to say something like that; it just blurted out. He was interested in the inner-workings of a female, but they always came up to him, thinking he was cute. He just wanted them for information, not because he liked them. He rather liked the guys; they were something.

Lestrade turned around. "Really?" Mycroft looked down to the ground. The only other person he told was his mother, and his mother didn't care one bit. Lestrade smiled. "Me neither. They're gross." Mycroft lifted his head and saw Lestrade looking out at the world, at the rain around them. "I wish it would stop raining. Just once I'd like to see the sun for an entire day." He noticed how the boy looked around and stared at the streets and cars rush by. Mycroft found it absurd that people found weather to be a starting point to a conversation. It never interested him, nor did it have any purpose to his life. Then Lestrade turned back to Mycroft. "Wouldn't you like to see the sun?"

"We don't 'see' the sun," he pointed out. "If we 'saw' the Sun, then we would go blind. If you mean to have the sunlight brighten the town and have a chance to go outside and appreciate nature, then yes, I would much rather see that. If you mean otherwise, no, I would most certainly not like to see the Sun," Mycroft stopped talking. It was not meant to be arrogant or crude; it was the way he saw the world. He wanted to correct everything and set everything right. He frowned; he expected Lestrade to call him weird, like everyone else, and start running again, without looking back.

But the next thing he heard was laughter. Mycroft froze; was he laughing at him? "Yes, yes, I suppose that would do. Who would want to go blind? Terrible thing," Mycroft just stared. How he wished he could figure out who Lestrade was, to go deeper into his background. But he was clouding his mind; he couldn't do anything. Mycroft then felt Lestrade's hand on his shoulder and felt the water seep into his clothes. He looked down at the hand touching him; the grip was not strong, but more of an acknowledging grip. "You'd be awesome at Clue," Mycroft could still hear the lightness in his voice.

But this hand, he was more interested in that. Before he could say a word, the hand was gone. "Ah, I'm babbling on." Mycroft watched little droplets of the water drip down his suit and cause a wet streak run down the stripes. "Look, Mycroft," Lestrade turned to face him, but noticed him staring at his suit. He didn't know whether to continue on or not, but he shrugged. "I better be off," Mycroft let his eyes flicker up to the boy.

No was his first thought. He didn't understand why. "You ought to stay out of the rain. It's dangerously cold out there." How people could stand walking in the rain was beyond him. Lestrade smiled and popped up his small collar, to brace him against the wind.

"Nonsense, it's good to feel the rain once in a while!" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"But you had just ran from the school underneath my umbrella to get out of the rain." Lestrade looked right into his eyes; Mycroft felt his world collapsing. Who was this man, and why was he infiltrating his world like this? He couldn't speak.

"Well," Lestrade shrugged. "you don't want to get totally drenched; you'd get sick. But," Lestrade stuck a hand out from under the umbrella and caught the water. Mycroft thought it was the most fascinating thing in the world, and he had seen many things in the world. How the water held in his palm, how a waterfall spurted after collecting so much of the water, everything. "it's refreshing, don't you think?" Mycroft couldn't think. He could only nod.

"Yeah," he responded. It was the first time he was speechless, the one time he was awestruck.

Lestrade opened his hand and let all the water splash against the ground, into a puddle Mycroft never realized was there. How he was keen on detail, yet missed this one. Lestrade started to laugh again and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Thanks for letting me use your umbrella-"

"Hardly, you barged under it for protection." Lestrade's smile grew.

"I suppose that's true, isn't it? You're an interesting fellow, Mycroft," Lestrade nodded his head a little and started to move once more. Mycroft watched him run away into the rain; time slowed down. His back was turned to him, his backpack full of books he didn't need to bring home but did. But that was all he could see; everything else was clouded. Time sped up again and life moved on. Mycroft couldn't handle the mystery; it frightened him.

So he turned and faced Lestrade's back. "Who are you?" He called out. He didn't know why he suddenly called out to Lestrade; he already knew his name. What was the sense of asking someone who they were when he knew them inside and out? But, he was puzzled by Lestrade. He was the first mystery he had not solved in less than a minute. He was still stuck, and Lestrade was withholding evidence. It was the first time anyone ever heard that booming voice of his. Lestrade stopped and quickly spun around. The water danced around his body when he turned, and it bounced off his shoulders when it hit him. Mycroft wondered if the rain did that all the time.

Lestrade just smiled. "To you, I'm nobody! But my name is still Lestrade! Pleased to meet you!" He turned back around and ran off. Mycroft stood there in the rain, under his umbrella, in his world again. He heard a car pull up; it was his mother. But he just watched the little boy run off, this nobody run off, wondering if he'd see him again. He held out his hand and felt the raindrops slowly hit his fingertips; Mycroft pulled his hand back. It was still very cold, but he was more fascinated at the findings of his mystery—it really was refreshing.

"Mycroft?" He heard his mother call to him. He brought his wet fingertips to his lips and turned away.

The pleasure was all mine.