Mycroft and Greg again: this time very pre-Mystrade/pre-friendship. Ingoing supposition is that Mycroft and Greg have worked together going on a decade, but entirely professionally so far. Now, post "Vow", life is changing, in some hard ways...for everyone.
One of my moody little character pieces.
Work Text:
The message came to Mycroft through one of his more closely guarded IM accounts.
Talk soon? G.
What need? M.
Would not be asking for meeting if I wanted to talk this way. G.
Very well. 8:00, car park rendezvous? M.
January, you tit. Is it too much to meet someplace warm? G.
Fine. Meet me here at mine. Babylon-on-Thames. See if I care if someone makes the connection. M.
Let them. I really can't be arsed about it. 8:00, your office. G.
Any hints? M.
Yeah. Start looking for my replacement. G.
Mycroft blinked, then pounded out a response.
Excuse me, but you're seconded to me until I determine your assignment is concluded. M.
Tra-la-la. Not listening. G.
Don't make me get creative in my threats, Lestrade. M.
La-la-la. 8:00, yours. Look up regs on extent of authority over civilians while you wait. G.
You're not a civilian. M.
That's one thing that's at my discretion, not yours. Laters, Guv. G.
Mycroft stared at the texts printed out on his computer screen. He scrolled up and down, feeling a chill break out. He didn't miss things like this coming. He just didn't.
Sherlock was back, after all. Yes, Lestrade had suffered setbacks in the aftermath of Sherlock's apparent death, but between one thing and another he'd weathered them. A bit of help from Mycroft and MI5/6 had not hurt there, not the private revelation of Sherlock's espionage activities to a very few ranking administrators in the Met. They'd even managed that without giving away Lestrade's own activities as an embedded agent. The man had pulled through. He'd served well during the years of Sherlock's absence, even if he had pined a bit for the action and excitement of previous times—and Sherlock was back, now. Lestrade's life had picked up. His meetings with Mycroft had confirmed that fact.
What the hell was he doing threatening to resign now? Now, of all times, with Dr. Watson married to "Mary," and a baby coming, someone playing Moriarty Puppet-head games, and worst of all Sherlock in an emotional tail-spin.
Sherlock had committed murder, damn it. If ever Mycroft needed a steady, experienced hand to stand by his baby brother, it was now.
The thought of Sherlock without that daft Army doctor or the far less impressionable, far more sensible Lestrade at his side terrified Mycroft. And without Lestrade…how was Mycroft to keep any sense of Sherlock's status without Lestrade? John Watson had always been unwilling to help in anything less than a catastrophe. Lestrade, if only as a result of being seconded to MI6 at Mycroft's request, had at least provided ongoing updates on Sherlock's well-being and overall stability. Mycroft had always appreciated what Lestrade added to his understanding of London's anti-terrorist efforts, but that added level—that he was someone Sherlock liked and trusted, even knowing that Lestrade reported back to Mycroft? That made him invaluable.
What was he going to do without either man at Sherlock's side? And now, of all times, when Sherlock was once again involved in drug use? When he'd just committed murder? Gone off the reservation and committed treason in an attempt to defeat an enemy out of his league and out of his proper territory?
He would have to convince Lestrade otherwise. There was no other answer…nothing else even remotely tolerable.
Mycroft went home after work and dressed for battle. He ate a light dinner, showered, shaved, and slipped into his preferred battle armor—the sleek charcoal pinstripe so conservative and clean-lined it was to a suit what a cobra was to venomous serpents: an elegant and instantly recognizable classic able to strike terror into the human heart at fifty yards. It was the sartorial equivalent of fighting "gloves off" in the ring. Or, no—it was nothing so barbaric. It was the equivalent of a Borgia poison ring designed by Benvenuto Cellini: beautiful and lethal and silent.
Once dressed, he reviewed his legal options. Then he reviewed his extra-legal options. Mycroft was perfectly willing to descend to blackmail, bribery, and coercion in this situation. He put together a file made up of printouts of CCTV footage, reports on Met cases, reviews by Lestrade's MI5 superiors. He even sank to a quick summary of options for interfering with Lestrade's divorce settlement—for all it was a full year since the divorce had been finalized, it wasn't too late to meddle, if meddling was what it took.
Just before leaving to return to his office, he stood in front of his mirror, checking to be sure he was ready for the fight to come. He was slim…or, at least, slim enough, he thought, with a gloomy sigh. He was fit…for his age, he supposed. He was at the height of his power…if just beginning to lose ground in his intellectual abilities, a fact that hurt in ways he couldn't articulate, and tried to cover with wry irony. He was free of any emotional encumbrances beyond Mummy and Father, who, bless them, were seldom any trouble….
And Sherlock…who more than made up for his parents' lack of ambition in that area.
He doubted he would ever be in better fighting trim again in his life—fit to take on nations. Why was he, then, so frightened to face down one aging man slipping past his prime? A man who, looked at in perfect dispassion, was a skilled undercover agent and a capable DI—but not exceptional? A good man, but not ever a great one?
He tugged the hem of his suit jacket, switched the chain of his pocket watch from the double-wide to the more elegant single stretch, and stroked the gold ring on his finger. He gave a final glance to the silvery necktie, with the delicate little blood-red Lancaster roses, and the matching pocket square. He was as ready as he would ever be, and the time of the meeting was fast approaching. He collected up his file and called for the car.
Lestrade was late. Not very late-just the sort of half-arsed, can't-be-bothered lateness that set Mycroft's teeth on edge. When he did arrive he was dressed in his usual sagging, off-the-rack suit—not even the one he wore for court days. His coat was years old. Mycroft would have said it was years out of fashion, had it not been a lie: that coat had never been in fashion in the first place. He walked calmly up to the desk, eyes meeting Mycroft's, and put a single white envelope on the polished surface, before stepping back and clasping his hands in front of his fly.
"Resignation letter," he said.
Mycroft, standing behind the desk, looked down at the envelope much as he'd have looked at a cockroach. "Unacceptable, Lestrade. You've wasted your time and your limited typing skills."
"Yeah, well. Even hunt-and-peck will do for this. I'm done."
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "I've been reviewing your record. You realize that there are ways I could present this as dereliction of duty?"
"Could." Lestrade didn't sound as though he gave a damn…or perhaps it would be more correct to say he was pissed at the attempt to coerce him, but not inclined to give way.
"A number of issues ride on that," Mycroft pointed out. "Pension benefits. Retirement funds. Or… were you planning on continuing with MI5 or with the Met? Any reckless decision to stop working on our little project would impact those plans."
Lestrade shrugged. "If you want to be a petty arsehole, you can fuck with my bennies. Wipe out my retirement. Strip me of my job. Won't change my mind….and anything that would change my mind wouldn't actually change the situation. I'm done, Holmes. Burned out. Finished with this. I've been working with you and your berk of a brother for going on a decade, now, and you know what I finally figured out?" He didn't wait for Mycroft to answer. "I figured out that it's the wrong job, for the wrong people, with the wrong goals. All I'm doing is helping you screw up your brother with the best of intentions for the worst of outcomes. Meanwhile I'm letting him screw up my work for the Met, and all of it screw up my life, and watching both of you make a mess of your own lives. I'm tired of it. I want…" He sighed, then. "Even if you play every dirty trick in MI5 and MI6's playbooks, even if you invent entire new ones just for me, it's not enough to make me care anymore. I've passed fifty, Holmes, headed for sixty. Fifteen more years serious professional life if I'm lucky…No marriage. No family. Damn few friends, between working for the Met, MI5, and you, and dealing with Sherlock-Destroyer-of-Social-Networks. Down to one last hobby—playing footie on the weekend. At my age that's a losing proposition." He unclasped his hands, and flicked his fingers at the envelope. "I resign."
Mycroft grimaced, unsure what to say. He had a strong suspicion that if he pointed out that Lestrade was no worse off than Mycroft in any of those areas, Lestrade would only consider it confirmation he was making the right choice. "Honor suggests men not set aside duty to take uphobbies," he said, voice scathing. "Shall you set the needs of the nation aside for flower arrangement? Stamp collecting? Little Theater? Will I next hear of you as the backup fiddle player for the Met line-dancing club?"
The speech didn't have the effect he'd hoped. Lestrade gave a soft, weary chuff of laughter. "Oh, give over, Holmes. It's not duty to my nation that has your knickers in a twist. You're worried without me you can't keep Sherlock safely on his lead. And you're right. You can't. Once I'm gone all you'll have left between Sherlock and complete chaos is John—and John was never half so effective as you needed even before he got married. Now he's an outright problem." He cocked his head, then gestured to the wide metal armchairs set out for guests. "Look, do you mind if I sit down? If we're going to talk about tis, well…I don't work for you anymore. I'd as soon talk this out man to man."
Mycroft frowned. "As opposed to?"
"Master and minion? Fuhrer and flunky? Dom and dupe?" He quirked a grin—the first grin that evening, crammed with mischief and charm. "Come on, Holmes. You've always drawn the line, and drawn it a good few yards out. Kept your distance. Fair enough—you're an important man in a dangerous position. But I don't work for you now. I can walk out of here. Or I can stay and talk to you about what I think's gone wrong. If I stay, though, it's as a free man."
"I'm hardly your slave master," Mycroft snapped.
"Har-de-har-har. Says you," Lestrade snorted. "Or at least… Did you know Sherlock calls you the British Government?"
"It had come to my attention, yes," Mycroft said. He didn't say it amused him, and made him want to give Sherlock a quick hug, just as it had once charmed him to hear Sherlock speak of him as "My Brother Mycroft," with all the capital letters somehow sounding in his brother's adolescent voice.
"Yeah, well. If you're the government, consider me a good yeoman demanding to be heard, yeah? Got some things to say. Some things I've been thinking about."
Mycroft considered fighting. He considered simply turning the man out of his office. He considered…
He considered that he was at the end of hope. Lestrade might, possibly, be coerced. He wouldn't, though, serve willingly any more, and what Mycroft had always most needed him for could only be done by the willing. He waved the man to take a seat. "Very well." He considered, then said, quietly. "Scotch? Or tea? I make a reasonably good pot of tea, if I do say so."
"What, got a kettle in your office loo?"
"Boiling water tap, actually," he said with a smile. "My protégé will make tea as a matter of high theater, when I have people in. She's got quite a bit to say, though, about being expected to brew me up a cuppa during work hours, at the rate I go through it. You could say the British Government is kept afloat on a constant river of Assam."
"Keeps the kidneys working, according to the desk sergeant," Lestrade said. "Tea, then. I've never had tea made for me by the British Government. I'll count it as a landmark event."
"Hardly that," Mycroft said. He considered using the good Sevres tea service, but decided for his nerves and for Lestrade's comfort it would probably be best to stick with the fat brown nursery teapot he kept hidden in the loo, along with the matching brown mugs. He ran the boiling water, rinsed the pot properly, dumped in "one per cup and one for the pot," then ran the water and capped the pot quickly. He took the pot and cups out to his desk, the handles of the cups both threaded on the fingers of one hand. Lestrade looked and his face lit up.
"Now there's a sight I never thought to see here," he said, fondly. "That pot's the very spit of the one my Gran had in her kitchen. Kept it on the hob to stay warm, always had a bit of a brew-up to serve her neighbor, along with a tin of biccies."
"I'm afraid the cups are chipped," Mycroft said.
"Wouldn't be proper cups if they weren't now, would they?" Lestrade watched Mycroft retrieve a box of sugar cubes from behind a legal reference, and a pint of milk from a hidden mini-fridge. "All right and tight and cozy, aren't you?"
"I spend more hours here than I do at home," Mycroft said. "Far more hours, if you don't count sleep time. Even I find it needlessly ascetic to do without a few small comforts." He got out a packet of Jaffa cakes, and slit them open with the desk letter opener, offering them to Lestrade.
The older man snaked two out immediately, then doctored his tea—milk, three sugar, a formula of which Mycroft approved, though he himself had long since resigned himself to black tea in the interests of his waistline. Mycroft poured himself a mug of tea, and slipped behind the desk again, sinking into his executive chair.
Both men sipped from their mugs. The room was silent, barring the faintest murmur of London traffic from the streets beyond, and the even fainter hum of ventilation, running mini-fridge, and similar utilitarian devices. As usual, the room was dim, lit only by carefully focused lighting.
Lestrade glanced around. "Always wondered how you got that effect," he said, glancing at a spear of light stabbing down through the shadows.
"A matter of how the light is hooded, if I understand correctly," Mycroft said. "Rather like the old thieves' lanterns of the Victorian era. Narrow-focused beam fed through a comparatively long cover."
"And…why?"
Mycroft shrugged. "Migraines, actually—but I find the effect impresses, also, and have been happy enough to take advantage of it. But I keep the room dim with little reflective glare for the most mundane of reasons. It cuts down on the number of headaches I endure."
Lestrade studied him, something amused about his air. "Bloody hell. Never thought of anything that simple. Makes sense, though."
Mycroft gave a sardonic grin. "Most things about me do. I'm a rather simple man, when all is said and done."
Lestrade snorted. "You're a Holmes. 'Simple' doesn't even appear in the glossary for Holmeses."
"All smoke and mirrors," Mycroft assured him. "The world is complex. We ourselves are simple. Often painfully so." He sipped at his mug again, then said, softy, "Sherlock, for example, is almost exquisitely simple. A hunger for admiration, a certain failure to accept his own mortal limits, a drive to prove himself. That and a strong mind, coupled with an almost complete indifference to issues such as social cause and effect account for the vast majority of Sherlock's more prominent behaviors."
Lestrade considered, then said, "And you don't believe a word of that yourself. Not really."
"Excuse me?" While a wide array of foreign dignitaries attempted to contradict Mycroft regularly, it was rare that those who'd worked with him as subordinates attempted it—and when they did, they were usually prepared to defend their position to the death with entire computer databases of supporting evidence. Lestrade showed no sign of even a mini-tablet…though he might have a smartphone in his pocket, Mycroft thought.
Not that he used it.
He simply said, "You think he's the most fascinating thing since Sudoku." His brown eyes were calm, even compassionate. "Such a mixed up man."
"Him or me," Mycroft snapped.
Lestrade quirked a little grin. "Both." Then he put his mug down. "It's time to let him go, Mr. Holmes."
"What?"
"I don't mean abandon him, exactly," Lestrade continued, not pausing to backtrack. "But it's time to step away. Let him sink or swim, and stop trying to save him from himself. It's not like it's really working anyway, is it?" He leaned back in the big metal armchair, and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, before running restless fingers through his hair. He shook his head and stared wearily out the mirrored glass window that looked out on the Thames. "I've been thinking about it ever since he killed Magnussen. All your effort, and there he is: a gun in his hand, at the wrong end of one more crazy Sherlock adventure. Nearly got John killed or jailed. All that trouble you've been to over the years. Bringing me in. Settling back and giving John Watson a fair shot at saving him…then getting him out of John's hands when you got him away from Moriarty, too."
"Excuse me?"
"You're going to wear that out, if you keep saying it," Lestrade said. Then, "Yeah. I do know you were happy enough to get Sherlock away from John. Can't say I blame you, either: for every good thing John accomplished with Sherlock, for every good effect, there was a counterpoint. John Watson's done more singlehandedly to puff up Sherlock's ego than anyone in all the years I've known him—and more to egg him on in dangerous stunts. And let's not talk about the fact that John's unable to deal with just how badly he scrambles Sherlock's heart up. So, yeah. I understand why you were happy enough to see him decide to chase after Moriarty's people on his own and leave John here. Hoped he'd lose interest, yeah?"
Mycroft stared at him, shaken, unable to comment. He'd never expected anyone to be able to spot that dream. He licked his lips, nervously.
Lestrade shook his head. "Relax. It might even have worked, if you'd been lucky. John falls in love, meanwhile Sherlock chases criminals and terrorists and gets used to living without his blogger. Could have worked." He sighed. "Didn't. Instead Sherlock ginned himself up the minute he realized he had direct competition—and then realized he was going to lose. And then lost. And then sucked down misery to the dregs. Poor tosser. Bad enough if Sherlock was just plain gay and knew it. Instead he's whatever. Not sure he even knows what he wants out of John, besides to be the center of John's life. I don't think he wants to shag him. Not really. Doesn't want love talk or sentiment. Just wants John to worship him from sunup to sundown, and write about it, and follow him around like a puppy. And John can't be counted to do that forever. Not when the chance at playing Normal Happy Families is out there."
Mycroft closed his eyes. "One has some difficulty not wanting to deal with Dr. Watson rather directly, sometimes."
"Is that Big Brother-ese for 'I'd dearly love to deck the bastard who keeps screwing with my baby brother's heart?'"
Mycroft grimaced. "It might be. Along with "the idiot who keeps telling my brother he's amazing, then forgetting him for his latest date.' And the fool whose response to 'Let's steal state secrets and go attempt to use them to entrap a world-class blackmailer my brother's warned me to avoid,' is 'Yes, of course, Sherlock, let me get my gun.' And…" He made himself stop, saying only, "He's not a complex thinker, our Dr. Watson, is he? Thinks with his biases and his loyalties, rather than with his brains, much of the time."
"He's a good enough sort," Lestrade said. "But, no: not a reliable check on Sherlock's crazier quirks and crusades."
"He was steadier with you."
"No. He wasn't. He doesn't care as much what I think of him, and he doesn't think as much about me as I care for him." It was said with a trace of regret—a faint note of bitterness. "I'm a colleague. One he grudgingly admires. In my place. But he loves it when 'my place' is at his feet, and hates it when it's the other way around. And between events, I'm no one at all, a lot of the time. Teamed with John, before everything went to hell, we were almost enough. Since Sherlock came back, though? No. It's just not working."
"And that's why you're resigning?"
"Among other things. It's time, though. Just like it's time for you."
"To…what did you say? 'Let him go?' You realize without John or you, I'm all Sherlock has left?"
"No. Because he won't go to you. He'll fight you tooth and claw every time you try to bring him in—and the only way that will change is if he breaks. All you can do is be a negative goad until he gets himself in too deep—and half the time he'll get in too deep just to spite you, the way he did with that Magnussen. Holmes, I know you love your brother. Hell, I've seen it. But you're destroying each other. He's no field agent—not anymore. He's turning into something that almost is that 'sociopath' he likes to pretend to be. He might make it if he went back to the detective work again. But you can't get him to do it, and you keep wanting to get him back in your game—and it's bad for him. Hell, you've seen what he was when he came back from the last round. Worse than ever. You've got to let go: between you you're like two men fighting over a steering wheel in a hurricane on black ice. It's time to let go, Mr. Holmes."
"He'll destroy himself," Mycroft snarled. He leaned forward, gripping the edge of the desk so hard his fingernails turned white. "You've already seen what he does to himself when he's out of control. The drugs. The recklessness. The pointless gambles. He. Will. Destroy. Himself."
"And you can't do a thing to stop it even if you hang on. But if you let go—if you really let go—he might finally realize he's got to save himself. And if he doesn't—one of you survives. At the rate he's pushing I wouldn't bet on that if you keep hanging on."
"It will destroy us both, either way," Mycroft whispered. "At least this way I go knowing I tried."
Then he couldn't bear it any longer. He jetted up out of his chair and paced to the window, needing to burn up energy—needing to look away from those calm brown eyes.
Silence fell between them. After awhile, Mycroft was able to say, more calmly, "There's very little in this world I care about besides honor, duty—and Sherlock. Of those three, Sherlock's the only one who actually needs me, Lestrade. And at this point I may be the only person left who actually needs Sherlock. It's a very small universe we share, we two. But it is also the only universe either of us has left. What you suggest would leave us both with…nothing."
"Sometimes you have to rip your life down to nothing—to absolute bedrock—before you can rebuild."
"And is that what you're doing? Ripping your life to bedrock with a single envelope and an evening spent telling the British Government to do the one thing you know he can't bear to even consider?"
He heard Lestrade get up. "The envelope? Maybe. Not much left to try to preserve. Might as well as rip it down to the foundations and see what I can build fresh." Mycroft could hear him straightening his clothes, and shifting uneasily, preparing to leave. After a moment he said, "The advice, though—maybe I just want to save you seeing it all fall apart. He's almost forty. Old enough to know what he has to do to survive, if he ever accepts the challenge. Right now he mainly doesn't because it hurts you….and anyone else who loves him. Maybe if he's not got that option he'll start asking how it hurts him, instead of how effective it is at hurting you. God knows, I don't think he's taking drugs these days because he's fool enough to think it's good for him, or for the 'Work.' He takes them to hurt you, and me, and John Watson, and to make it easier to pretend he doesn't hurt. Take away his victims and an audience to pretend to, leave him alone with his own self-destruction, and—well. He's smart enough to change. The only real question is if he's brave enough to change."
"I can't abandon him."
"Maybe not. But you can stop trying to steal his life out of his hands. Give him the dignity of his own damnation, if that's what he chooses. But give him that, at least. At some point, if a man doesn't have his own life and his own death, he's got nothing, poor bastard."
"If I let go, there's nothing left," Mycroft said. "Nothing but honor, and duty."
"More than some people have."
Mycroft nodded, then, in surrender. "Yes." He straightened, refusing to look back at Lestrade. "I'll…take it under consideration. It's a valid argument, in any case. As for your resignation—I'd prefer you to remain with us, on anti-terrorism in London. I'll understand, though, if you refuse…and I won't take action against your choice."
Lestrade cleared his throat. "That's…very good of you, Mr. Holmes."
"You can see yourself out?"
"Yes."
Mycroft waited.
Lestrade hovered. Mycroft could see him reflected in the glass of the window—a solid man, but graceful. He ducked his head, glanced toward the desk and the envelope—then turned away and let himself out the door.
Mycroft released breath he hadn't known he held. He ached.
He walked back to his desk. He poured himself a cup of tea from the big Brown Betty teapot—a pot so big the tea was still warm. He cradled the brown mug in his palms, letting it leach away the small aches of early arthritis. The room remained as it always was: dim and shadowed, stricken through with shafts of light that illuminated nothing of any importance. Silent. Empty. Isolated.
He reached over and clicked the line to Anthea's desk voice messaging. "Anthea, my dear, please come see me tomorrow. It's time to make long-term plans regarding Sherlock's independence. For his sake and the sake of the service, we need more daylight between me and my brother. Say—come in after lunch with a first-attempt list of withdrawal strategies and firewalls?"
He closed the connection, fighting back a shiver. He drank another sip of tea, staring through the thicket of light and shadow to the far wall of the office. He lowered his face into his hands.
Who would he be, if he stopped hovering over Sherlock? Not that hovering seemed to work—last time out it had just left him yards over Sherlock's head, watching both their worlds come apart. But who would he be? He was not, somehow, Mummy and Father's boy, nor had been for time out of mind. He was no one's beloved. He had no friends. If he couldn't even be Sherlock's guardian angel, the big brother who loved his wayward sibling, who was he?
The British Government…a false title for a hidden role with no great reward in pay, in glory, in respect. He didn't mind the nature of the job—but it was suddenly quite hollow and meaningless, if there was no Sherlock to care for, promote, protect, provide for, direct, and… He grimaced. No Sherlock to show off for.
Such petty pleasures…and even those would be denied him. Or he would deny them to himself, one more virtuous sacrifice, one more self-discipline, like the sugar and milk missing from his tea, like the hours spent on the wretched exercise machines, like the decades spent in offices like this, alone. But—Lestrade was right, damn him. He and Sherlock were engaged in an endless fight over who would live Sherlock's life—Mycroft or Sherlock. That was a doomed battle from the start. Time to surrender Sherlock the wheel, and simply pray that at thirty-seven his brother had at least some ability to steer his way intact through pirate waters and deadly shoals to safe harbor.
He stood, and smoothed down his battle armor. He would, he thought, perhaps wear it a second day. Tomorrow might be difficult to face without it.
There was a tap at the door.
"Come in?"
The door opened. Lestrade stood, silhouetted. "I decided I'd at least think about the anti-terrorism gig. Thought I'd hold the envelope till I made up my mind."
Mycroft drew in a breath, and nodded. "Yes. Please, do, by all means."
Lestrade came forward, leaving the door open. The light poured in behind him, flooding the room, lighting the desk and forming a path across the floor. He picked the envelope up and put it in his breast pocket.
"I…made an appointment with my PA to start planning how to step out of Sherlock's life," Mycroft said.
Lestrade nodded. "That's…that's good. Not easy. But good."
"One tries."
"I know. You're a good man, you know. A great one—I know people know that. But you're a good one, too. It's the right thing. And—you don't have to abandon him. Just…"
"Stop trying to live his life for him?"
"Yeah." Lestrade grinned. "Got your own to live, right?"
"Such as it is."
Lestrade snorted. "Sonny Jim, if you're talking about your life that way, it means you'd damned better start living it, instead of Sherlock's. Right?"
"From scorched bedrock. But…yes."
"So. Maybe we can find a way to do scorched bedrock by the buddy system."
Mycroft blinked, then nodded, uneasily.
Lestrade cocked his head, apparently considering whether to say more, then shrugged. "On my way, then. Thanks for letting me have the envelope back. Ta."
"Ta for the advice," Mycroft responded, mimicking the Estuary accent gently.
"Yours for the asking—or even without," Lestrade said, and turned to go.
He'd just reached the door when Mycroft risked the question he'd held for long seconds.
"Inspector Lestrade? The…buddy system. Was that—an offer of friendship?"
Lestrade stopped, then glanced over his shoulder, grinning. "Daresay it was. And was that an acceptance?"
"Almost certainly."
They both smiled. "That's good, then," Lestrade said. "We always did work well together. And if Sherlock does get in over his head, well—best we're both there to catch, yeah?"
"Yeah," Mycroft said. "Lestrade? Thank you."
"Yeah. Well. Ta, then…"
"Ta," Mycroft said...then, suddenly, added, "Let me give you a lift. I'm going home myself; I'm tired, and I'm ready to rest."