I do not own Gregory Lestrade or Mycroft Holmes; they belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Rupert Graves and Mark Gatiss, respectively. The plot, Mycroft's valet, Greyson and Simon Bridgewater, however, are mine.
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Simon Bridgewater, footpad and criminal in Whitechapel and, until recently, a bug Mycroft could conveniently ignore, has attacked those that Mycroft loves. He is determined to put a stop to it, once and for all.
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Originally written for a Mycroft Holmes fanbook last year which appears to have fallen through, sadly. It was under the letter K for Knight.
This is the edited, extended version.
For Tryingtomystrade in thanks for that AWESOME Vampire!Mystrade fic you wrote for me some time ago! Hope you like this! :)
Since this is set in Victorian England, I've used British spellings.
Rated T, male/male relationships, Victorian England, Drama/Humour, Mycroft Holmes x Gregory lestrade
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27 October 1889
Whitechapel
East London
England
10:45 P.M.
The night was dark, a thin slice of pale moon hanging low in the velvety black sky, frosty stars shimmering dimly overhead. The city was quiet this evening save for the occasional bursts of activity from footpads, prostitutes, yowling tomcats and the loud and shrill voices of housewives chastising their wayward husbands.
The man in black stood in the corner of the alleyway, his ebony top hat pulled down low over his eyes, his arms lying stationary at his sides underneath his black opera cloak, a gold wolf's head cane clutched tightly in his black gloved right hand. His very posture seemed to speak of casual awareness but a close examination of the man's face would have revealed that to be an erroneous assumption.
He was, in fact, on high alert, his dark blue eyes scanning the pitch black alleyway with slow thoroughness, the corners of his mouth twitching, the fingers of his left hand curling into a hard fist and then relaxing again, his brow furrowing, his head tilting slightly to the right at the slightest sound.
He was expecting someone, a certain someone who had been a thorn in his, and his family's, side for many years. Until recently, he'd been no more than an annoying bug and one that he could conveniently ignore. In the grand scheme of things, Simon Bridgewater hadn't even merited a second glance since there were more dire threats out there from far more dangerous people and organizations than that sniveling weasel.
Mycroft's lips curled into a feral snarl. That is, he was until he'd threatened his mortal lover, Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard-how that miserable cretin had gotten that particular piece of information was, at this present time, unknown but he was determined to ferret out, and eliminate, the source-six months ago and had almost succeeded in killing his younger brother, Sherlock, a month earlier in the very same alleyway where he presently stood.
Yes, my dear fellow, we are about to have a little chat about both of these issues.
Mycroft Holmes, head of the British Government Secret Service for Her Majesty Queen Victoria, was NOT a man to be trifled with. He'd given the offender plenty of stern warnings to leave he and his family alone but, as the latest attack had proved, he wouldn't stop unless Mycroft himself stepped in and did something about it. Which he planned to do.
Permanently.
That was why he was here in this godforsaken place to begin with after a small personal matter had been taken care of for the Prime Minister himself, giving him the perfect excuse to come here. He awaited the arrival of his quarry, whom he knew would be coming by shortly, his eyes flickering to rest upon the sign adjacent to where he stood: The Pig & Whistle Pub and thought what a great irony it was.
It certainly suits him. He chuckled softly and then his head whipped around at the soft, scuffling noise noise he heard slightly off to his left. Without hesitation, and with a low growl, his left hand shot out and grabbed the stout figure by the collar, dragging him over to where he stood, his eyes burning a dark crimson as he lifted him off the ground.
"I think, Simon," he said slowly, a wide smile spreading over his face as the man in his grip struggled, mewling with terror when he saw the protruding canines, the toes of his shoes scrabbling against the cobblestone road, "that it's time that you and I had a little chat."
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11 P.M.
"Funny thing, that," Inspector Lestrade mused almost to himself, scratching his head, his brow creased in confusion. Mycroft stood serenely next to him as Simon Bridgewater was hauled off to jail in manacles, shouting and screaming something about monsters with human faces .
"Oh? And what might that be, Gregory?" Mycroft's voice was pure silk, watching in silence as Constables Donovan and Andersen walked by, Bridgewater struggling in their grip, his eyes widening in terror as they passed by them, his mouth working but no sound emerged, a fact that Lestrade was quick to pick up on. The thief struggled to make words but he was mute as he was dragged away, a shaking finger pointing at Mycroft.
"He was found earlier this evening, screaming something about " human monsters" or something like that and literally begging us to arrest him." His eyes narrowed suspiciously, his arms crossing over his chest, his piercing gaze turning squarely on Mycroft. "And I come to find you in this part of town which, so far as I know, isn't your usual place of either business or residence."
Mycroft chuckled. "It's no secret, Gregory," he explained patiently, "but you are wrong in assuming that I had no reason to be here because I did ." He couldn't repress a grin at the poleaxed expression on Lestrade's face. "The Prime Minister , himself, asked me to take care of a small... matter ... for him in this area earlier this evening and I was on my way home when you and the good Constables arrived."
Lestrade's jaw squared. "Damned funny coincidence, if you ask me."
"Honestly, Gregory, do you truly think that I would have any truck whatsoever to do with a lowlife huckster like Simon Bridgewater?" He sniffed with disdain, his mouth twisting in distaste. " Really ."
I may be a Vampire but even I have standards!
"No..." Lestrade sighed, shrugging his shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck. "I guess not." He looked around, his expression troubled. "It sure is odd , though..."
Dear, dear Gregory...
An uneasy silence reigned between the two men for some time until Mycroft at last smiled, leaning forward and placing a chaste kiss on Lestrade's mouth, his hand finding his and squeezing it.
"My! Please!" Lestrade's cheeks were pink as his eyes darted quickly about before returning the kiss when he saw that they were alone.
"Shall I see you after your shift is over, Gregory?" Mycroft's grin was infectious. "It has been some time since I saw you last."
Lestrade laughed heartily, squeezing his hand affectionately, planting a kiss on the back of his gloved hand before releasing it.
"With bells on."
Mycroft chuckled, giving him another kiss before he stepped away, bowing slightly. "I look forward to your arrival, Gregory, after you've wrapped up things here. Greyson will be awaiting you at the usual place and will show you in."
"Until then." Lestrade smirked, touching the rim of his black bowler hat with his fingertips, grinning broadly as he turned and walked away, Mycroft's dark blue eyes watching him as he was lost to sight.
Oh, yes, Gregory, he thought, whistling a merry tune as he strode off in the other direction, twirling his cane at his side by the handle, you'll be safe now; all of you will be, as I promised. After all, a knight's sworn duty is to protect those they love... with their own brand of justice. He chuckled again. I daresay that our dear Mr. Bridgewater is certainly discovering that the worst nightmares are the fears inside your own mind. Damn handy having that ability, I must say.
His mood, momentarily darkened by the thought, was reflected in his eyes which were glittering with a savage crimson light, his fist clenching momentarily before he relaxed his grip, his eyes slowly returning to their usual dark blue. And he has only himself to blame. If Mr. Bridgewater had left all of you alone, this wouldn't have been necessary. You have nothing to fear from him now, I promise. He'll never t rouble us again...
Mycroft looked up at the night sky with satisfaction, closing his eyes as the pale moonlight washed over him, frosty stars twinkling merrily overhead in the clear, and now cloudless, sky. He opened his eyes, chuckling once before he turned and began to walk down the alley, the darkness gradually, and with exquisite slowness, swallowing him, the soft tapping of his cane against the cobblestones fading into silence.
.:FIN:.