A Villain's Best Friend
One of the top ten cases of You'd-be-dead-if-you-knew-about-it for Mycroft Holmes surprisingly involved a certain Detective Inspector. Of course, Sherlock would have a field-day if he knew about it and he'd never let Mycroft live it down... which is why it was listed in Mycroft's taboo-incidents-to-mention list. For certainly, if Mycroft was honest with himself, he would even be rid of his annoyingly precious younger brother if he knew of it.
The only people who knew how the incident in question came about was Lestrade and Mycroft himself. Which was a rarity in itself, given the fact that Mycroft was constantly shadowed by his faithful assistant.
It happened on one of her rare mornings off, Mycroft remembered. He had, at that time, resolved never to find himself alone in Lestrade's presence again. Mycroft could recall every detail of the incident from the chilly hours of the spring morning to the scuffed, road-worn shoes Lestrade sported.
It was an incident that took place before the involvement of the doctor, John H. Watson. That seemed a very long time ago indeed. It was the time of Mycroft's monthly meeting with the detective and he had tapped in briefly to his 'eyes and ears' over London and tracked Lestrade's vague whereabouts to a rundown flat owned by Sherlock. Lestrade had been careful to avoid the street cameras and he had succeeded in moving about free of Mycroft's supervision. The only reason Mycroft knew where to find Lestrade was by ten full minutes of hard working, extrapolating areas Lestrade skirted and researching which flats were occupied by whom.
By the time Mycroft had moved from his office to his car outside Sherlock's flat, Lestrade was striding out purposefully, having gotten what information he wanted from Sherlock.
He cradled what looked like a plastic container under his arm.
Mycroft nodded at his driver curtly and the man expertly pulled the car up alongside the Inspector. Lestrade startled when he saw the car, but quickly schooled his expression into something resembling grim annoyance.
He stepped forward as Mycroft rolled his window down. "Good morning, Mister Holmes." Lestrade greeted diplomatically, blatantly lacking warmth.
"Good morning to you too, Detective Inspector." Mycroft nodded in a business-like manner. They had only met each other a few times before, Lestrade hadn't even been aware of Mycroft's existance before three months, or so, ago. Although, Mycroft had known about him for alot longer.
"So, how've you been doing?" Lestrade asked him politely, no doubt, hoping for some normalcy to their strained relation. While, Lestrade had agreed to accept money to keep an eye on Sherlock, he had told Mycroft that Sherlock had informed him that Mycroft would know everything even if Lestrade didn't tell him... and that they really were splitting the fee.
Mycroft graciously allowed Lestrade a small smile. "I am doing very well, Detective Inspector, thank you. And I also know that your week has been busy indeed, with that serial arsonist case." Lestrade's eyes narrowed but he didn't comment. "May I ask that you enter the car? I wish to have a word." he requested politely.
Lestrade seemed to glance unsurely at the plastic container tucked under his arm and smiled back, equally as polite. "How about we talk over a cup of coffee?" he suggested.
Mycroft decided on using his I'm-asking-you-but-it's-not-really-your-choice tone. "I really would appreciate if you'd get in the car." he told him, still smiling, but a little more strained.
"Well too bad, not everybody gets what they want." Lestrade shrugged. "There's a cafe just around the corner, pretty small, and not too many customers. I'll be sitting right in there and you can come talk to me in there if you like, okay?" And with that, he turned on his heel and began walking away. "And don't even think about getting your henchmen to drag me off because I've got pepper spray and I'm not afraid to use it!" he joked as he walked.
"You're wrong, Detective Inspector." Mycroft called after him, ignoring the last comment. "I always get what I want." He contemplated telling his driver to go bring Lestrade back, but decided against it. It was still too early to be resorting to childish actions and he needed someone to drive.
Lestrade threw a casual wave behind him, not even looking back. "Get used to disappointment, Mister Holmes!" he yelled over his shoulder.
Mycroft's driver glanced at his employer through the rear-view mirror, wondering what Mycroft's reaction would be. "Jason," Mycroft intoned slowly. "drive around the block a few times, I won't be gone long." And he picked up his umbrella as he exited the car.
"Hello." Lestrade waved at Mycroft when he walked through the cafe's doorway.
"Detective." Mycroft nodded back in acknowledgement as he approached Lestrade's table. Then he noticed a dish filled with milk. "What is this?" he asked curiously.
"Milk, what does it look like?" Lestrade chuckled, gesturing toward the unoccupied chair across the table from him.
"What for?" Mycroft furrowed his brow as he sat himself down.
Lestrade smiled at him, or more, smirked as he gently placed his container on the table. Now, as Mycroft observed it close up, he noted that it must house some living creature. A dog, or something, by the size of it.
"I hope you're not allergic." Lestrade said as he opened it.
Mycroft startled visibly as three newborn kittens tumbled out of the box. Cats! Mycroft near shuddered. While, he enjoyed watching cats, he did not feel comfortable around them. Cats were mostly quiet, independant, cleaned up themselves, reliable, and were one of the few animals that Mycroft found tolerable. But something in those large, deep eyes terrified him to the core. Something about their silky soft fur held ominous powers of lethargy and sentiment that infected their unsuspecting victims by touch. Mycroft frowned at them, knowing that his self-discipline should make him invunerable to their demure charms, but didn't.
"Are you okay?" Lestrade asked almost worriedly at the tight-lipped politician as he gently nudged the kittens toward the milk dish.
"Never better." Mycroft lied, unable to tear his gaze away from the adorable little creatures scampering clumsily over the table's surface.
"You're sure?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows, lifting one of the cubs, a soft-haired Prussian blue with sleepy blue eyes, and watched as Mycroft's gaze followed it. "You don't like cats?"
Mycroft seemed to shake himself from the effects of some kind of spell. "Oh! No, I enjoy watching cats. But I make it a point not to touch them." There was a long pause. "Well...animals in general." He felt the need to clarify.
"They won't hurt you, Mister Holmes." Lestrade told him kindly, picking up a yellow tabby by the scruff of its neck and extending it toward Mycroft, eyes twinkling. "All that cloak-and-dagger drama, you need to throw a cat in there somewhere, sometime."
The corner of Mycroft's mouth twitched as he warily eyed his orange-furred opponent. Lestrade laughed at him and promptly dumped the furball unceremoniously into Mycroft's lap. Mycroft tensed up even more, if at all possible, trying to look everywhere but the mewling kitten on his knees.
By that time, gone was every ounce of mystery and dignity to this meeting, now they were just two blokes sitting in a quiet cafe with cats. Mycroft almost pouted, feeling the rare urge to cry. He usually made it a point to only enter situations where he held supreme power. He dared a peek at the kitten in his lap and found it staring up at him with wide hazel eyes.
Mycroft's heart sank as he felt warmth creep up his face. He was helpless, ...utterly helpless.
Lestrade shrugged and decided, on a sadistic impulse, to let the government agent sweat a little as he dipped a thumb into the milk, wetting it, before offering it to the Prussian blue in his own hold. He accomplished this with so much deftness and confidence that Mycroft guessed he must've owned a cat sometime earlier on in life. He silently catalogued the trivia away in the dark depths of his brain.
Then, with a calming breath, he returned his gaze to the curious tabby in his lap.
The cat and he stared each other down for a prolonged moment before it lashed out and sunk a claw, or two, into Mycroft's tie with a smug look. That is, if cats can look smug. Mycroft decided that they can. Lestrade had to duck his head and cover his mouth to smother his noises of hopeless amusement at Mycroft's responding look. A look of despair, horror, and mild hostility.
"You know what, Mister Holmes," he said, leaning across the table and plucking the hissing tabby from Mycroft's lap. "maybe he doesn't like you."
Then, Lestrade deposited the Prussian blue in the spot the tabby vacated. "Hold her, will you? And don't start a fight." Lestrade smiled at him encouragingly. "She's really gentle."
"Why can't you just put them all back in the box?" Mycroft almost whined.
"They're not yet old enough to feed themselves, someone's got to do it!" Lestrade explained, settling the tabby on the table as he caught the third kitten and plopped it in his lap before feeing the tabby.
The Prussian blue was indeed gentle. In fact, she acted like a regal princess, perched quietly on Mycroft's left knee, quiet, unmoving. Her blue eyes glinting of secret smiles. Mycroft looked at her. If she were a human being, he could imagine her as the pretty wife of a prime minister, or a president's first lady, or a quietly influential courtesan in some exotic country. The little devil whispering in the ears of powerful men, or a contemporary Mona Lisa. She would make a wonderful companion to Irene Adler.
She watched Mycroft's face critically for a long moment, as if studying his micro-expressions, then glanced at Lestrade across the table, sniffed loftily, and moved to curl up against Mycroft's stomache.
Lestrade was in the process of feeding the third kitten, a tan-coloured British shorthair, and smiled at Mycroft, satisfied that he hadn't picked a fight yet. "Where are these kittens from, anyway?" Mycroft asked him, looking up.
"Oh, Sherlock had them, I have no idea why. He didn't say why in the first place, just demanded that I take them off him." Lestrade shrugged. "I didn't have the heart to abandon them." He wiped up a drop of milk from the shorthair's mouth.
"Yes, well, ahem." Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably as he absently began stroking the Prussian's head. "No living being deserves a fate like that."
Lestrade chuckled. "No, I don't suppose so."
"Anyway." Mycroft coughed. "I should be going."
"But you haven't even asked about information concerning Sherlock." Lestrade pointed out with a smile.
"Cats and serial arsonists. If I need more information, I'll put in a call." Mycroft said in a clipped tone.
"Haven't even had tea." Lestrade murmured quietly around his smile.
"I have tea awaiting me at my office." Mycroft shrugged in an attempt to appear casual.
"You'll have to pick the kitten up if you want to move." Lestrade informed him, raising his eyebrows. "Or, you might ask for help." he teased.
Mycroft sent him a weak glare. "I can make life very difficult for you, Detective Inspector." he tried to threaten.
Lestrade just laughed.
Ten minutes later, Anthea walked swiftly into the cafe, eyes scanning the room until they fell on her boss. She let out a startled gasp. Then she took her emotions and expressions and buried them deep down before approaching, expressionless, eyes downcast, frozen on her blackberry. "Mister Holmes."
Mycroft jumped visibly, and just a little bit embarrassed at being caught playing jungle gym for the kittens. (The Prussian was perched high up on his shoulder and attempting to climb down Mycroft's back while the man vainly grasped after it, the tabby was situated on his knees, and the shorthair scampered around his legs underneath the table.)
He deftly plucked the Prussian from his shoulder and offered it carefully back to Lestrade and proceeded to do the same with the two others. Lestrade took them in stride and placed them back in their box with an indulgent smile.
"Ahem, I have a meeting with the prime minister in ten minutes, I did not forget." Mycroft told Anthea when, in fact, he had forgotten. Damn the kittens! He self-consciously brushed himself down, picking lightly at the cat hairs that stuck to his suit. "Excuse me, I shall have to clean myself off." He told them and disappeared into the bathroom.
Only then did Anthea dare to raise her eyes from her blackberry. She stared at Lestrade in awe, sizing him up. "What the bloody Hell have you done to Mister Holmes?" she shook her head in amazement.
Lestrade shrugged at her with a smile. "He seems to have quite the passion for cats. Don't ever mention it, though." He grimaced. "You should probably get a lint roller for him, though."
"I didn't see a thing." Anthea nodded wisely, then in afterthought. "... I hope you've got pictures."
"I'll make sure he gives you a proper day off at least once a week." Lestrade smirked back conspiratorily.
Anthea giggled a little. "I'll be counting on you."
Then, Mycroft returned from the bathroom having brushed down and tidied up. "I've already got someone preparing a new suit, Sir." Anthea told him, quickly reverting to staring at her blackberry.
"Excellent." Mycroft sighed in relief and passed her to get to the door, still shedding cat hairs as he strode away as dignified as possible.
Anthea cast a gaze backward and winked at Lestrade.
Lestrade smiled back and waved, a hand already dipping into his pockets for his phone. I'll make sure to get you a white Turkish Angora, next time. :) -Lestrade
Amusing, Detective Inspector. Sarcasm entirely intended. -MH
Lestrade laughed to himself as he imagined Mycroft sitting imperiously in a stuffed leather armchair, stroking a white cat on his lap and contemplating world domination like some stereotypical Bond Villain.
Now, where could he buy the sort of cat in question?
"What are you thinking of, love?" Mycroft was drawn out of his memories of years ago and looked up to see Lestrade ambling groggily into the sitting room from the bedroom.
"Nothing." Mycroft lied with a smile. "Did I wake you?" Lestrade strumbled onto the couch next to Mycroft, curling up against him and blinking sleepily. It was, after all, two thirty in the morning when Mycroft had finally gotten back from where he usually disappeared to.
"No, you should've, though. Can't get enough time with you." Lestrade yawned, patting down his bedhead and only succeeding in mussing it up more.
Mycroft thought it was unnaturally endearing. "You need your sleep." he murmured to his lover.
"Donovan needs her sleep." Lestrade shook his head ruefully. "Another murder, she's already on her way to the crime scene. I think we'll need Sherlock and John's help on this one."
Well, in situations like this, there was little more that Mycroft could do but help his lover get ready and to see him off at the door with a kiss and a 'get back soon'. Lestrade smiled at him gratefully and squeezed his shoulder comfortingly.
"It's late. I'll probably just stay for the preliminary observations and open the more serious investigations tomorrow morning." Lestrade smiled at him. "Don't run off while I'm not looking." he teased.
Mycroft just smiled after him as he watched Lestrade climb into his car and pull off into the empty streets.
He closed the door and pressed his forehead on it, sighing. He was hoping to get some time in with Gregory - not Detective Inspector Lestrade anymore - Gregory. He despondently dragged his feet into their shared bedroom and smiled a little at the sight inside.
The covers were hanging off one side of the bed, from when Lestrade leapt out at the first noises of his phone stirring, but on them three cats lay curled up, sleeping.
Their Prussian, Astra, lifted her head a few inches and blinked blearily at him in the doorway. Then her gaze sharpened considerably in a possessive way that meant 'This is my bed now, sorry Mycroft, but you've now got competition for ruler of the world and I'm not giving an inch.' before turning away and closing her eyes again as if Mycroft wasn't important enough to hold her attention. Their tabby, Kip, and the shorthair, Serge, did not even stir. Mycroft smiled at them affectionately.
Lestrade had never actually gotten the chance to hand the cats off and nobody's ever reported them missing so they had made a home on Lestrade's sofa. Lestrade couldn't stay with them all the time and his elderly neighbor Nora usually looked after them. But when he moved in with Mycroft, they had agreed to keep them.
Mycroft approached the bed and sat down, stroking Astra's silky fur, eliciting a purr from the cat. Somehow, they always ended up on the bed in the morning. Lestrade always pampered them by letting them stay. Mycroft sighed again, changing into his pyjamas before climbing into bed. He heard a noise and glanced at the door leading to the hall.
A white Turkish Angora crouched shyly in the shadow the door cast on the floor. Mycroft smiled at it and motioned for it to enter and join the rest of them.
"Come on Blofeld."
The End
A/N: Just in case some people don't know, Ernst Stavro Blofeld is the name of the fictional Bond-Villain that popularized the stereotypical 'Evil genius with aspirations of world domination who owns a white cat', villain-type.