Detective Inspector Lestrade stared blankly at the road from the passenger's seat of Anderson's car. He had just finished a graveyard shift and had been forced to work all day as well, working on a case which had stumped Scotland Yard. Now, at nine o'clock at night, he was heading to baker Street to ask for Sherlock's help. Greg looked at his phone. A text from Sherlock:
'Come soon. I have new details. –SH'
Anderson dropped him off and wished him a sarcastic good luck before driving away, leaving Greg alone and at peace with his thoughts, for at least five minutes, before he would be forced to plead for help and then listen to Sherlock ramble on, getting to the point of the matter only when it suited him.
Mrs Hudson was walking out as he approached the door, and she let him in and then left to go next door without saying much to him. Lestrade opened the door to 221b, but was met with darkness. He called out, for John first and then Sherlock, before switching on one of the lamps by the comfier of the two chairs in the centre of the living room.
As he shifted to adjust the little patriotic pillow, he thought he heard movement. Staying completely still, he paced his breath and focused on listening to the silence within the flat. Shuffles and creaks echoed through the rooms, but he couldn't pinpoint an exact location. It was probably just the walls and floorboards adjusting to the cool air of the night.
He couldn't shake the feeling though that someone was there with him, hiding in the darkness of the other rooms in the flat, watching him. Greg turned his head swiftly and the side of his cheek caught something solid, forcing him to turn back around quick enough for him to hurt his neck.
"Now, now Detective Lestrade…I'm not sure I want to reveal my identity quite yet."
The voice was strong and almost charmingly guttural, resounding in the back of its owners throat. From the corner of his eye he could see that the long object dictating his ability to turn was an umbrella.
"Who are you…does Sherlock know you're here…or John?" He asked anxiously, not expecting a reply, but trying to seem like he was in control of the situation.
"My dear brother doesn't kno-" Greg cut the stranger's voice off not intentionally, but because he couldn't contain the question.
"Your brother!" Of course, Lestrade had already figured out the stranger was referring to Sherlock. John had talked about his sister Harry a lot to Greg on the many occasions they had been out together for coffee.
"He doesn't necessarily talk about me…there's a small sibling feud between us."
"Oh what, was he the favourite…steal one of your toys perhaps?" Lestrade questioned, jokingly, but warily so…the stranger could be lying to him after all.
"Not quite…although he never was one for sharing. Always playing in his room alone with his little chemistry sets, looking through his books, favouring the macabre whilst I was…the more social of the two."
DI Lestrade was almost convinced of the stranger's identity. That solitary child he described did sound like Sherlock.
"My name is Mycroft Holmes. I hold a…minor position in the British Government. I have been watching you, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade."
"How…how have you been watching me? And what do you mean you're part of the government? Are you one of my bosses?"
"Ha…I suppose I am. In fact, you could say that I'm everyone's boss." Mycroft chuckled and walked around to face Gregg whose nails were digging into the arms of John's chair. The stranger did resemble Sherlock in a way. Tall, mysterious, sharply dressed. However, unlike Sherlock, he held himself with a certain acquired authority as opposed to Sherlock's self-appointed importance. Pinstripe suit, polished pocket watch, pristine shoes, and what looked like a particularly expensive umbrella in his hands. It had been an umbrella then.
"Perhaps I'm being too forward," Mycroft said, in a softer tone, "but I am not one to shirk away from any arising problems…and you certainly are a problem of mine."
"Why me?…How do you even know about me?"
"You converse on an almost weekly basis with my brother, detective, I keep my eyes, and the eyes of thousands of government workers, on you and everyone else who has the misfortune to frequent his company at all times. The more I watch, the more I am intrigued."
"What else do you know about me then?" Greg asked, out of curiosity and fear. He noticed that Mycroft had clearly excelled socially, much more so than Sherlock, and he was so charming. Lestrade could feel himself becoming more and more comfortable in the room, despite his compromising situation.
"I know where you live, I know your favourite place to eat, your coffee order, your workmates, and all the secrets and dislikes that come with them, I know that despite the way you appear frustrated by my brother that you find him to be magnificent, I know that you're gay, I know that you're single and have been for months but you haven't put yourself out there because you're afrai-" once again Mycroft was cut off by Greg's apparent inability to know when it was his turn to speak.
"I'm not gay! Well, I am, but…how did you know…no one knows." At this his head dropped and looked to the floor. Thoughts were spinning and he grew tense again, understanding finally just how weak he was in this situation.
"What do you want from me?" he asked Mycroft, knowing that his acquisition of this information should only mean he was trying to get something from Lestrade.
"I only want one thing detective. You."
At this Lestrade looked up again, his large brown eyes gazing into Mycroft's intense stare with a mix of confusion and instantaneous lust. Truly, Mycroft was most definitely more charming than his little brother.
Gregg was shaken from his thoughts as he felt something against his chest. Looking down he could see the silver tip of the umbrella, tracing up his shirt, and gently prodding his chest. He could feel himself getting more aroused, despite his best efforts to dismiss the charms of Mycroft Holmes. This wasn't what Lestrade did; he wasn't one to come to such terms with strangers, even people whom he'd met a few times before. The last relationship he was in had been four years long, and he'd known Nicholas for 3 years before they committed to each other. His chest pounded and he tried to form the word no…or any word. Only being able to form a pathetic pout before he was knocked reeling from his thoughts.
Mycroft leaned forward faster than Lestrade could react to and pushed his lips against his, tenderly, and yet with a subtle hint of aggression and longing. Despite his previous best efforts to fight his growing arousal, Lestrade gave into the temptation and returned the kiss.
Once both men were fully engrossed in each other's mouths, Mycroft gently licked Greg's lips, trying to push through. Greg parted his lips and gently ran his tongue along the tip of Mycroft's.