Author's Note:
This is the beginning of a new series of drabbles and one-shots based around personal head-canons (and head-canons which are now canon). All of these occur in the same universe as my other story 'The Spy in 221B' which has not been abandoned. Therefore, there may occasionally be mentions of characters from other fandoms (mostly Alex Rider) if this troubles you, ignore them.
Please feel free to leave reviews, provided the criticism is constructive. I love hearing what you all think so I can improve my writing but overly harsh or even extremely positive (much as I love them) reviews aren't really very helpful for this. I will address all reviews in the author's notes at the beginning of a chapter. If you have a specific request, leave it in the reviews and I will try to include it.
Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1
Greg Lestrade had never met the man named Mycroft Holmes before he walked into Scotland Yard. He had been promoted to Detective Inspector just over a year ago, had gained the respect of his subordinates for being unafraid of getting his hands dirty when necessary, and was now comfortable in the office at the Yard. Mycroft Holmes disrupted that comfort. He swept in with a dignified grace only seen in nobility and made straight for his office. Greg swallowed nervously. This man meant trouble, he was certain.
The door to his office closed with a sharp 'click'. Greg stood before the man with the pressed suit and held out a hand. "Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr…" He shifted his umbrella to his left hand and shook with only the slightest curl of his lip which didn't quite hide a sneer of disgust. "Holmes, Mycroft Holmes." He had the smooth, elegant voice of a politician and Greg had the distinct impression he was being spoken down to. "I require a long-term favour from your department, Detective Inspector. My brother, Sherlock, needs… stimulation. The best way for that to happen is for you to agree to my terms."
It was laid out clearly, methodically. Greg would, on occasion, allow Mr Holmes's brother to work alongside the Yard on cases. The young man was 'far too clever for his own good', Mr Holmes ("call me Mycroft") had told him in what seemed a rare fit of brotherly compassion. Hesitant to make a decision, Greg chewed his bottom lip and ran a hand through his short hair. Then came the final move. "Do you remember the Delaney Case, about twenty years ago?" Of course he remembered the Delaney Case! Every detective worth his salt knew about the Delaney Case; he'd studied it at Uni, never really got a fix on who had done it (it was unsolved for a reason), but he knew about it. "It was the gardener. Sherlock watched the news reports, deduced what happened and left an anonymous tip at the police station. It didn't do any good in the end: no policeman ever believes the word of a child." He shook his head sadly, as if lamenting the ineptitude of the police force. Greg ground his teeth. "He was ten at the time. Of course now he's in a bit of a rut: cocaine, heroin and the like. But his mind is still just as sharp."
The next week, Greg was contacted for the second time by Mycroft Holmes. Umbrella firmly in his grasp, he requested that Greg come with him to see an old woman living in the high end part of London, on Baker Street. Mycroft explained that his brother would be renting the flat next to hers. Mrs Hudson was a sweet, grandmotherly lady but Greg had the distinct impression that she was much fiercer than she appeared. She also had a stubborn streak a mile wide. Her insistence on the elusive Sherlock having a flatmate was entirely understandable, in Greg's opinion. Mycroft disagreed. He claimed that no one 'normal' would be able to cope with his behaviour. His brother was too abrasive, he claimed, too conceited. He was over-powered eventually by Mrs Hudson's acerbic, fiery temper and the cool, imperious sneer was back. But Sherlock would have a flatmate, Greg would run 'drugs busts' every few weeks, and Sherlock would be allowed on cases the Yard could not solve. Mycroft promised to try and keep him out of trouble if it ever came down to it ("I occupy a minor position in the British government, no matter what my brother says on the contrary") and that was that.
He met the man less than a week later. Straight out of rehab, looking a bit like a floppy-haired spaniel, he came by the morgue while Greg was conducting a murder investigation. He simply pushed poor old Molly aside and told Greg how the man died, who did it, and why without knowing even the bare bones of the case. He saw Molly's barely hidden adoration and groaned inwardly. Mycroft Holmes was going to be the death of him.