Disclaimer: I do not own anything, of course. A.N. This month's prompt was first time (barring loss of virginity) and I honestly thought it would be a Mystrade piece. I even had a sort-of pun title ready. Besides, it seems Mycroft always finds his way into this series of mine. But Sherlock pouted, said that Graham was *his* colleague, and shoehorned himself into the story. Oh well. I've learned not to argue with him. The story is not about the A study in pink case, but about the first time Greg had to deal with the Holmes brothers, like John in ASIP, so it seemed fitting.

A study in silver

Greg Lestrade was used to dealing with whatever life decided to throw at him. One didn't become a policeman – much less raised among the ranks – by panicking when something unexpected happened. If he'd wanted peace and routine, he would have found a job as an accountant, or something equally boring.

Maybe Lea would have preferred it that way, knowing when he would be home, knowing – above it all – that he was safe, but Greg would have gone barmy if he was trapped in an office all the long, long hours of his work. She understood that – or at least, he hoped so.

Meeting the occasional junkie was par for the course, when one worked on the streets. As long as you were careful and talked soothingly, and their trip wasn't making them lash out violently, the poor dudes – and gals, of course – were nothing more than heartbreaking.

Mostly, these poor sods were a danger only to themselves, unless they were in need of a fix and saw you as an easy source of cash. The worst was that you couldn't help them. Addiction was an ugly beast, and there was a whole different range of professionals involved in fighting that battle.

The places to dump a dead body and the places these one bad hit away from becoming one young people ended up holing in were often not that far apart, so the newly minted Inspector was used to the company. But however used to crossing path with drugged-up blokes Greg was, he wasn't used to them doing his work for him.

Then one day, a thin-as-a-rail boy (fine, man, he was almost certainly past his twenties, but he exuded a vulnerable aura that had Greg wanting to protect him on sight), pupils clearly dilated by cocaine, had stumbled on his crime scene and started to blabber about what 'obviously' happened there.

Sally hadn't let him end the second sentence before handcuffing him and pushing him against the wall. "Caught him!" she crowed in victory.

The inspector relieved her of the burden, allowing the boy to take a few wobbling steps – not that anything that happened managed to shut him up, the drug's song too potent for him to be quiet. "… And yes, she might have caught me, and I have broken a few laws about drugs, but the killer you want is obviously the victim's lover, but you can't blame him, he was being blackmailed with exposure of their relationship," the junkie ends his long-winded exposition.

"And we have motive," Donovan remarked. "Thank you for the confession, by the way."

"What?" their prisoner yelped, glaring. "No, I'm not…are you all fucking blind?"

Well, it was true that the young man had never used the word 'I', and honestly, his brain-mouth filter was clearly fucked up enough by the cocaine that Lestrade didn't think he would have the presence of mind to talk about his crime in third person. So he replied, voice calm and placating, "Don't worry about her. If you're a witness, we'll be grateful for your help. Just tell me the lover's name, or description, and you're free to go home."

The DI fully intended to bring him to a hospital, to be checked, but he didn't say so, should the idea agitate him. He should search the young one for drugs, but Lestrade had seen his share of junkies, and this one looked like the kind you'd never catch for possession unless you found him during an exchange with a dealer, because they immediately took whatever they could get their hands on.

Donovan scowled but, thank God, had enough sense not to question her immediate superior. She wasn't a bad officer, but she was prone to looking for the easiest solution. He'd have to train that out of her. If the culprits were always obvious (like, in this case, the high junkie recounting the murder blow by blow) there would be little need for them to hold their job, after all. Any angry mob would do.

"Witness? Of course I'm not!" the junkie protested, loudly. Later, Greg will learn his name was Sherlock, and yes, it was on his documents, not a fake identity, no matter how ridiculous it sounded. The Inspector didn't believe him – too many details were slipping from his lips for Sherlock not to have been present – but, to his shock, he had to recognise that the young man was saying the truth.

Yes, the solution of the murder was exactly what Sherlock had expounded. When they did go to talk to the culprit, the man had a nervous breakdown and confessed fully. But for all the things the young junkie knew, he did not know some details – like the colour of the murderer's hair and eyes – which a true witness would have remembered. Drugs would not scramble his memory – not if he could still recollect the crime in detail.

With a bit of cajoling, Lestrade managed to get the reasoning out of him, all the 'deductions' – as Sherlock said – that made him solve a case he'd just stumbled upon. He needed them to fill his report, and it gave him an excuse to visit him. 'Brilliant,' he wanted to say, but he toned that down. "You have a keen eye," he praised instead. "Really, I wish that we had more lads like you in the force. Why would you waste such a sharp brain?"

"Bored," Sherlock drawled, pouting from his hospital bed. Apparently, he'd done so many drugs that the doctors didn't feel at ease releasing him just yet. Suspicion of attempted suicide hovered on him, which was why he was being watched at the moment. "Besides, it's not your business what I do with my life. You didn't even need to bring me here, strictly speaking. I could have come down in a cell just as well."

"True. Well, sorry for giving a shit about you, lad. Your family should be involved, though. Someone I can call that would help you? Your parents, a sibling?" Lestrade replied, shrugging.

"Don't you dare," Sherlock hissed angrily, eyes narrowing. "Just because I have been burdened with the most overbearing, annoying, high-and-mighty brother anyone ever had, it doesn't mean he has any right to control what I do."

The inspector laughed. "Fine, fine, I won't call him. But have you considered that maybe he cares about you?"

"You don't know him," Sherlock chided.

"No, I don't. And honestly, I don't think I ever will. But I do know someone cares about you, Sherlock Holmes."

"And who?" the young man challenged angrily.

"Me," Greg replied simply.

"You don't know me," Sherlock pointed out sternly.

"Not nearly enough. But I do know you've the best brain I've ever seen, and I wish I had even one man like you in the force. I won't tell you to get clean and enrol in the police – if you're weak against boredom, you'd go mad after the first paperwork. But – if you do get clean, you see – I would love your cooperation. As a … consultant of a sort," the inspector offered. It was a spur of the moment idea that would probably get him eventually demoted, but this man had solved a murder after stumbling on the crime scene fucking high. Wasting his talents would be a sin.

The young man's eyes shined excitedly. "And I would get to catch murderers?" he queried.

"I'd catch murderers, Sherlock. That's my work. But you would be an invaluable help," Greg pointed out.

"But you would listen to me," Sherlock remarked, something like a mix of distrust and awe in his voice.

Greg suppressed the instinct to hug him. If someone had listened to what this boy had to say – which was a great deal, he had no doubt – maybe he wouldn't be wandering high in back alleys. Well, no, not a boy, but still, fifteen years younger than him, and God, was he feeling paternal now. He'd never had children – Lea said it would be the worst idea ever, and he believed her. But sometimes – like right now – the policeman wondered. Instead, he reassured, "Of course. That's the point. But – you have to be clean for that. I can't allow junkies on my crime scenes. Much less high junkies. And I would look forward to your help, Mr. Holmes."

"Nah – that's my father. Or perhaps even my pompous asshole of an older brother. Just Sherlock, Detective Inspector," the young man demanded. "Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. That sounds nice."

"I'm looking forward to seeing you again, but remember – I'll need a sober consultant. And of course, an alive consultant – I'm not much into that whole séances thing. So no drugs anymore – especially not in amounts that might lead to overdose," Greg lectured, handing over one of his business cards. "When you're clean – or, if you need someone to listen, even, you can call me."

Why the fuck had he said that? The DI wasn't an expert on getting people clean of drugs. He'd probably invited a lot of trouble. He should have known better than get involved with a junkie. But fuck it all, Sherlock was brilliant and could be such an asset to the Met and… to the world, honestly. Leaving him to overdose and die like a stray dog – this time, or the next – wasn't an option.

The only reply the Inspector received was a tired, "I prefer to text. Don't you have criminals to catch, anyway?"

Greg nodded, allowed himself a put-upon sigh, and left. To his surprise, he received lots of texts in the following weeks. Sherlock had willingly turned himself in to a rehab centre (fine, maybe not the best choice of words, he wasn't a criminal, but the inspector was used to certain speech patterns) and demanded to be entertained. If his future employer didn't want his brain to rot and leak in a melted blob before the consulting detective could consult even once, he better provide some form of stimulation.

Lestrade should have been annoyed, really. God knew his colleagues and the wife were – because the young man need for distraction did not know boundaries of appropriate timing. At any moment of day or night, a frustrated and upset Sherlock was likely to reach out. Well, the boy always said just 'bored', but Greg hadn't become detective inspector by being stupid or not being able to read through the lines.

Lea chided him, and ultimately exiled him to the guest room, hissing about how this random junkie wasn't even a relative, and Greg should have got his priorities straight and ridden himself of his bloody saviour complex. Wasn't working as a policeman helping the world enough?

Lestrade – very calmly, soft-spoken, as he was trained to be – had explained that no, it wasn't enough. He loved her – really loved, and wanted her to be happy. But there was a boy out there who could do the work of his whole squad with a glance. If Greg proved to him that yes, everyone lied, and nobody gave a shit about what happened to him, Sherlock's next relapse might be enough to properly send him into overdose and destroy that brilliant brain in a last blast. The officer refused to have that on his conscience.

Greg's principles won over – not only his grudging wife, but Sherlock, too. When he was finally released from rehab, the DI kept his word, and started bringing him in on cases. And Greg started feeling more paternal than ever, because the kid had the tact of a bulldozer with his new colleagues – and often, even with witnesses and victims. The consulting detective was practically asking for bullying, and it was the inspector's job to make people swallow his presence, and make sure that whatever happened didn't escalate or caused anyone to file an official complaint.

It didn't help that Sherlock's go-to technique to deal with people was deducing them to an ounce of their lives and air all their skeletons out of the closet no matter who was present. And yet, Greg couldn't help but breathe easier because of his new protégé's inexistent brain-mouth filter. With the sleuth's almost preternatural ability to unearth people's secrets, he would have made the most successful of blackmailers if he was so inclined.

The young man shielded himself with a psychological (psychiatric?) diagnose Greg had never heard of, and honestly, he hoped that the consulting detective really did not care as much as he purported to. The officer was way too busy to delve into the actual research Sherlock suggested, though.

If asked about that, Lestrade would have sworn that meeting Sherlock would have been the most peculiar event of his year, and most probably, of his entire life. He didn't expect to have to eat that belief only a week after having Sherlock on his first official case.

Well, he supposed it was his consultant's fault too, indirectly. But of course, while it happened he hadn't realised what was going on. He'd been… baffled, honestly. You see, one thing was to face criminals. But people trying to intimidate him out of the blue, well, that had never happened in his career.

He didn't even have a case ongoing at the moment – there had been one this morning, but he'd called Sherlock in after the sleuth had texted about being too bored to function – and the last three hours had been spent on paperwork. When he left the Met, someone flanked him before he arrived at his car. In front of New fucking Scotland Yard. Whoever these two blokes were, they had guts.

They didn't threaten him, per se. Didn't need to. Their aspect was enough to imply they were perfectly trained to fight, and possibly armed. If he didn't call for help, it was exactly because of how unreal it all seemed. He was in the Homicides, not even Organised Crime, and there had been no murder yet. It all seemed more like a scene from an action movie. That was not like how real life worked.

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade?" the one on his right asked, even politely.

"Yep. And you boys are?" he asked nonchalantly.

Instead of replying, the man passed him a mobile phone. Oh well. He half expected to be asked to be an extra in a movie. Maybe they were already filming? If so, they were well hidden. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. It's a pleasure to hear you. One of my cars is going to pull to the kerb soon. If you were so kind as to accept a lift, you would hear something that would turn to your benefit," a posh, nonchalant voice remarked.

"And if I refuse?" Greg bit back.

"Then I'm afraid my friends would need to insist. But I would so regret if that had to happen. I am looking forward to the pleasure of your company, Detective Inspector." The unknown man's voice was such an odd mix of polite, implicit threat and…almost purr, that the officer was more weirded out than anything. Had he fallen asleep in his cubicle? Was he dreaming?

Well, if he was, he might as well play along. Try to see if he managed lucid dreaming. When a black limo stopped in front of him, he replied, "I'm looking forward to meet you too, Mr…"

Instead of introducing himself, the man hung up. He hadn't pegged him for someone rude. He gave the mobile phone back to Goon on the Right, and took a step to get in the car. Goon on Lhe left moved to open the door and got in before him. Oh. So he was supposed to sit between them. He'd already agreed to come along, what did they expect him to do, throw himself out of the car while it moved? Should he want to?

When it finally stopped, he was guided into an abandoned warehouse. If this was a dream, he'd watched too many movies lately. His imagination should be able to come up with something better! Right Goon and Left Goon stayed back, gesturing him in, and he went, affecting confidence. Why shouldn't he? If it was a dream, there was nothing to fear. If it was not, letting these people know he was uneasy would be like bleeding in front of a shark.

There was a folding chair clearly waiting for him, but he ignored it. And then, finally, appeared the man who had to be the Big Boss. He was surprisingly young, but even before he opened his mouth, Greg knew it was the one who talked with him on the phone. The ginger, who couldn't be older than thirty five, if that, simply exuded poshness from the top of his hair to his shining shoes. The impeccable suit and rather incongruous umbrella – it was a sunny day – completed the ensemble.

"I am glad that you accepted my invitation, Detective Inspector," the brolly guy said, still oh so polite, voice carefully modulated.

Lestrade snorted loudly. He didn't point out he wasn't given much choice. Instead, he replied, shrugging, "I was curious. But I have to say that you have me at a disadvantage here, Mr…" Let's see him get out of offering some sort of name now. It would be fake. Never mind. If the man had used it before in some sort of shady dealings, it could have been recorded.

Instead, the posh asshole waved his concerns away. "Details, details, Detective Inspector. You shouldn't be asking who I am, but what I can do for you. Please, take a seat."

"I'm fine," Greg ground out, annoyed. The other man allowed himself a subtle, fleeting smirk. The officer felt… appreciated, oddly, rather than mocked. He'd learned to trust his reading of a situation. There were a few seconds of silence, and he wondered what they were waiting for… until he realised it. He was tempted to let the quiet stretch until this stranger was frustrated enough to talk, but honestly, if it wasn't a dream, he wanted to get back home as soon as possible. So he caved in. "What can you do for me?"

The smug smile on the other's face clearly said, "Good boy." Before he could snap at it, though, Mr X was talking (but not answering), "Your wife has refined tastes, Detective Inspector. One just has to look at her Amazon wishlist to know that. Designer clothes, jewellery…"

"I'm pretty certain my wife's wishlist is private. She works in IT, and berated me to change my settings as soon as I made an account," Lestrade pointed out calmly.

He didn't receive a reply, just a look that let him know how little the other man thought of him. "Your wife is not what I wish to talk about, anyway. Just something you would do well to remember." The bastard twirled his brolly.

"Are you threatening my wife? Seriously?" the inspector blurted, more amazed at the arrogance of the man than scared.

The bloke answered, "Of course not. It never crossed my mind. No, the point I was trying to make was opposite. I want your wife to be a happy woman, Detective Inspector." He looked appalled at the insinuation, the very picture of slandered innocence. Greg barely refrained from rolling his eyes. "Anyway, it's not her I'm interested about," the stranger continued, cool as a cucumber. "Sherlock Holmes."

"What about Sherlock?" Lestrade queried sternly. Maybe it wasn't a dream, after all. Maybe this bastard was a previous dealer? Or maybe Sherlock had taken a private case – he'd set up a blog and told him he would expand his job – and got himself into a thorny situation?

"What is your relationship with him?" Ginger asked.

"Not your business, but if you need to know, we're friends," the DI growled. Let him know that Sherlock was protected. Well, of course he was supposed to protect anyone, but point out that he had a personal investment on making sure a case involving Sherlock did not end in the unsolved pile could not hurt.

The stranger sneered at him. "Friends? When he can't even remember your first name, Gregory? Or maybe you prefer Graham, and asked him? If so, I would be delighted to indulge you."

"Detective Inspector is fine," Greg groused, glaring, "or Lestrade, if you must."

"Of course, Lestrade," the man agreed, picking the simpler and slightly most familiar choice to irk him, no doubt. "My point is, you might consider Holmes a friend, but he clearly doesn't reciprocate the feeling. It doesn't surprise me, honestly. Sherlock has never managed to make friends." The last word was practically spit. "So I would suggest that you shouldn't make sacrifices for someone who wouldn't do the same for you."

"I'm not making sacrifices, honest," the DI replied, shrugging. "If anything, I'm getting some nice benefits."

"Right – his cooperation in your work will ensure you a spotless record and, probably, a quick career. I can see why you would maintain contact with him. But you would be making a huge sacrifice, if you refused my proposal," Ginger stated, leaning slightly back.

"For all your talk, I've not still heard any sort of offer. I would have thought your time was at least as precious as mine. I don't want the wife to harp at me for arriving late, you see," the officer quipped.

"If you accept, I'm sure she'll forgive you. Women are sensible to nice gifts," the man claimed. "And you would be able to afford a lot of precious gifts for a precious woman…for nothing more than a few messages."

"Messages about Sherlock?" Greg asked sternly.

"So your career isn't entirely due to your consultant," the bastard sneered. "You can make some deductions of your own."

"Not a great leap. What do you want to know? And why?" the DI replied, frowning.

"Nothing you would feel uncomfortable sharing. I want to be updated about what cases Sherlock is involved with, and if he should experience any sort of troubles. As for the reason…let's just say I worry about him. Constantly," the man explained, rolling his brolly in his hands.

"You. Would pay me. To know about the cases I decide to bring my consultant in," Greg repeated, slowly.

Gingerman nodded, and before he could – undoubtedly – mention a figure, he found himself subdued and handcuffed in the blink of an eye. It didn't matter if it was a dream, a candid camera, or the most show off, ridiculous, Godfather-addicted actual criminal. It was the only course of action Lestrade would take in any universe.

"You're under arrest for attempt to corrupt an officer," he declared. He was using the man as a human shield, but he would probably still get gunned down – it wouldn't surprise him if the man had people on the lookout in a circle formation, if he wasn't entirely an idiot. Oh well, he was just doing his job.

Instead of a bullet in his back, he saw his prisoner smile smugly, and yell, "Everyone stand down!" before stating, "This is all a big misunderstanding, officer."

"Try one I've not heard a million times," Greg growled.

"Really, if you would just take my business card – it's in my right pocket, thank you – I am sure that we can come to an understanding," his prisoner insisted, voice suddenly rougher.

Well, this he could do. He would need to identify the secretive bastard sooner or later anyway. One hand still keeping the man firmly trapped, he found the card with the other. And suddenly Greg let the man go, still with his hands locked in cuffs. "Mycroft fucking Holmes? Are you a relative? The pompous asshole of an older brother, maybe? The overbearing jerk?"

"I imagine Sherlock would describe be like that, yes. My little brother can be such a drama queen," Mycroft agreed, turning to offer him a three-quarter profile.

Well, that was rich coming from the man who'd organized this whole scene. Lestrade snorted loudly. "So you are concerned about him."

"Didn't I say so?" Mycroft replied, a little quirk of a smile twisting his lips.

"And it didn't flit through your head to, I don't know, invite me for a pint and ask me to keep an eye on your sibling instead of this whole charade? Not that I don't already look out for him out of my own free will," Greg bit back, raising an eyebrow.

"How could I know that you were to be trusted with my little brother's safety if I didn't test you?" the elder Holmes queried, and managed to sound like a perfectly reasonable man, despite the craziness he'd involved them all in. "If anything happened to Sherlock, my parents wouldn't be blaming you," he added pointedly.

"If all the times he bolts away after some clue are any indication, your brother is perfectly able to get himself into trouble by himself. You can't really be considered liable for what he does," Lestrade remarked. He politely ignored the drug problem. Let's pretend that his consultant's only problem was his impulsiveness. If he realised that they believed this, maybe Sherlock would not disappoint them.

"I'm his big brother. I'll be responsible for him until I'm dead," Mycroft declared, with a resigned sigh. "Not everyone is lucky enough to be an only child, Detective Inspector."

"Greg is fine," the officer replied, with a smile. "And anyway, the only way to keep Sherlock out of trouble is to handcuff him too and let him tied to a post twenty-four hours a day. Not that I would advocate that, obviously."

"I wouldn't expect anything else from you. By the way, you're largely underestimating my brother. He would pick his own locks in an hour at most. He's developed a certain expertise in the subject," Holmes revealed, with an almost proud, fleeting smirk.

"I thought his talents were limited to pickpocketing. Are we sure that your brother isn't on the wrong side of the law?" Greg quipped, chuckling.

"He won't be, until he has interesting cases to work on," Mycroft assured, blank faced. At the policeman's raised eyebrow, he added, "I'm joking, of course. Sherlock wouldn't hurt anyone on purpose."

"I think so too, but it's good to know family agrees," the DI replied, with a sigh. After all, the man knew Sherlock better than he could ever boast.

"Unlike my brother, I'm not an expert on escapism, so if I'm not still under arrest…" the ginger man trailed off, looking sharply at him.

"Right, sorry. It's your own fault, though," Greg said, hurrying to free him. He massaged the pale wrist, and a choked sort of sound left the other's man lips. "Something wrong?" he asked, ashamed both at this giant cock-up and because the noise was absurdly arousing. He didn't dig dudes, much less colleagues' brothers, and he was a married man, for Pete's sake! What was wrong with him?

"Just the opposite, Greg," Mycroft…purred? He didn't know the posh idiot could purr.

Call him a coward, but Lestrade knew when things were going to south too quickly, and when to opt for a tactical retreat. And this could only end in utter chaos. "Right, then, if nothing's wrong, I'll have to go. As I said, the wife is going to be annoyed if I'm not home soon," he rushed in a breath, taking a few quick steps back.

The other man went suddenly rigid. He didn't want to hurt him, but…Greg had morals. This is what he was being tested for in the first place, wasn't he? What if this was just another test? "Of course. You'll have a lift back to your car immediately, Detective Inspector. It's the least I can offer," Mycroft stated, oh so very polite.

"Thanks," Greg replied nervously, "and if you still want to know what your brother is up to… without any sort of compensation… the offer of a pint someday stands." Why had he said that? He didn't mean to say that! What the fuck was wrong with him? Was he trying to flirt now? Hadn't he just mentioned his wife?

"You're kind, but I think we're both much too busy men for this to be probable," Mycroft declared coldly. So someone still had a working brain. Thank God. Home, now. Before the Holmes brothers became the utter ruin of one Greg Lestrade.