THE LONG GAME

Author: Sirius Blue

Rating: Mature for language, angst and non-graphic sex in later chapters.

Spoilers: The Reichenbach Fall, The Empty Hearse.

Summary: Post-Reichenbach John Watson is a mess. Two lonely people take it on themselves to look after him in their own way and in doing so find romance for themselves. Can a relationship started on the back of a lie survive when the truth emerges?

A/N: This is vaguely AU, but not too much. Dedicated to Mystrade shippers everywhere, for we are legion. 😊

Chapter One.

Greg Lestrade was in shock. He was still attempting to process what a paper white faced Sally Donovan had just burst into his office to tell him.

"Off a roof? Fucking hell!"

"Sir, uniform are…" Greg cut her off, suddenly furious.

"No," he snarled "You and Anderson and that stupid journalist drove him to this. Stand uniform down. You," he pointed at Sally who flinched as though his finger might be loaded. "You can go and tell his landlady. We owe her that at least. Take Alice as family liaison and when you get back, stay out of my sight."

"Sir, what about his brother?"

"I'll tell him, "he sighed as he scrabbled on his desk for his phone and car keys. "Why are you still here?" Donovan fled.

The rain had stopped and the sun was peeking out from behind the clouds as Greg drove slowly to where Mycroft Holmes worked. The traffic was light and he arrived far quicker than he would have liked.

Greg had always hated this part of the job. It was bad enough when you didn't know the people whose world you were about to turn upside down, but he knew Mycroft Holmes.

He had materialised in Greg's office one day seven years ago, not long after Greg's first encounter with Sherlock. His appearance had almost caused Greg to choke on his coffee. No civilian was supposed to get near his office without an appointment and yet here was this tall bloke with chestnut hair and blue eyes, dressed like he'd just wandered off the set of Downton Abbey standing in front of Greg's desk.

"Who let you in?" Greg had spluttered.

The man's nose had crinkled in a familiar way before he spoke. He had an upper-class accent with cut-glass diction. The kind of voice used to being obeyed and it made Greg's hackles rise.

Mycroft had introduced himself and spoke of Sherlock, informing Greg that his brother was a recovering drug addict and that crime-solving seemed to be his new addiction. There had been a tangible offer in that conversation. Greg had basically told the man to go screw himself.

His old Chief Superintendent had had a chat with Greg afterwards, clueing him in on a few things and Greg had groaned out loud when he realised he'd told the most powerful man in the country to piss off.

However, Mycroft didn't seem to be the type to hold a grudge and he and Greg had, through Sherlock, become acquainted in a way.

While Greg's personal life had self-destructed, his hair had turned grey and too much beer and too many takeaways had thickened his waistline, Mycroft looked exactly the same. Impeccably dressed, always. A bit less hair, but still handsome with those patrician features, as distant as Neptune sometimes and sometimes twice as cold.

Greg sighed aloud, squaring his shoulders. He couldn't put it off any longer.

His warrant card got him as far as Mycroft's gorgeous assistant. Greg had wondered, just once, how the man got any work done at all with such a distraction.

"He's busy, Inspector." She continued tapping away at her laptop.

Greg leaned over the desk and gently closed the lid. Her eyes widened at his audacity.

"No, he's not. Not for this. Tell him I need to see him right now."

He hadn't meant to raise his voice but if there was ever a conversation he wanted out of the way, it was this one.

Two minutes later he found himself in Mycroft's office with the grey/green walls, portrait of the Queen and the ceiling skylights. The man himself raised one imperious eyebrow at being interrupted.

"Mr Holmes…Mycroft…I'm sorry to have to tell you that your brother is dead."

Mycroft looked utterly stunned.

"Sherlock? How?"

"He jumped off the roof of St Bart's. There was…"

Greg's voice cracked as the immensity of the loss hit him with the force of a tsunami. He felt hot tears running down his face but made no effort to wipe them away. He didn't care if he was being unprofessional, he had just lost a friend and the world had just lost the most brilliant deductive mind, but he was astonished by Mycroft's reaction.

Greg found himself sitting on one of the office chairs with Mycroft's hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Greg wiped his eyes on his sleeve as he drew one shuddering breath after another. He felt Mycroft move away and missed the human contact. There was the sound of glass on glass and a Waterford tumbler half-full of brandy was put into his hands.

"Drink it, Gregory, you've had a terrible shock."

When he was sure he wouldn't choke, Greg took a huge gulp of the spirit and felt tendrils of warmth spread though his whole body.

Mycroft pulled the other office chair over and sat so he and Greg were at eye level. The whole thing had a surreal feeling to it. Whatever maelstrom of emotion was going through his head, Mycroft had managed to retain his inscrutability.

"I'm sorry," Greg's voice was clotted with emotion and brandy. 2 I'm so sorry, Mycroft. I'm supposed to be the one comforting you."

Mycroft's expression suddenly looked strained. He reached over and squeezed Greg's arm.

"I also thought this kind of thing was delegated to uniformed officers. I'm glad that didn't happen. I'm glad it was you, Gregory."

Greg gave a heavy sigh. "I have to go. I need to make sure John is okay."

Mycroft got to his feet. "Bear with me, just for a moment, Gregory."

Greg watched the elegant figure walk over to his computer and press some buttons. He then picked up the phone on his desk, spoke into it briefly, then hung up. Greg felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket as Mycroft reached for a piece of paper on his desk.

It was a text. "REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO D.P.S. ON RETURN TO SCOTLAND YARD."

"Shit."

"What's wrong?"

"I've been summoned. Department of Professional Standards."

"Why are they investigating you?"

"Probably about my time with Sherlock"

"Oh, dear."

"Look, for what it's worth, Mycroft, I never believed your brother was a fake. And I still don't. If I've still got a job after this I'm going to prove it."

"That means a great deal. Thank you, Gregory. Doctor Watson is safe where he is for now. He'll only be discharged into your care, however long it takes. Look after him, Gregory."

"I intend to."

Mycroft handed him the piece of paper he had written on.

"My private number," he explained. "if you or John need anything. I will be in touch very soon regardless." Greg pocketed it.

"Thank you," said Greg, touched. "I should get back and, er, let you, er…"

"Indeed. Goodbye, Gregory."

Once the inspector had left his office, Mycroft sank into the chair behind his desk. He covered his face with his hands, biting his lip to stop the tears from forming.

This was going to be so hard, the hardest thing he had ever done. Whether he acknowledged it or not, Sherlock had touched so many lives. Now, as always, it was his big brother's job to deal with the aftermath. He just hoped he was up to the task.

Back at Scotland Yard they took away Greg's warrant card and escorted him from the premises, pending an official enquiry.

In the accident and emergency department he was informed that John Watson had had to be sedated.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, "said Greg, crossing his fingers in his pocket in lieu of flashing his warrant card. "I've come for Doctor Watson."

"Do you have any idea what he's been through?" demanded the nurse. "he's done nothing wrong!"

"I know, love. "sighed Greg, holding up both hands in a pacifying gesture. "I've come to take him home. By order."

"Who's order?" she asked furiously, riffling through John's chart. "Oh…"

Greg acknowledged her look of surprise.

"The Government's"

TO BE CONTINUED