DAY IN THE LIFE
Spoilers: Most of Series Four, especially 'The Final Problem'.
Rating: M for reasons. Mainly sex.
Summary: The aftermath of the aftermath of Sherrinford and Musgrave. From Mycroft's POV.
A/N: I don't doubt that this has been ficced to death, not really surprising when Moftiss give us such incredible feeder lines. This is my take on things. Apologies for the fluff…
I pause to straighten the knocker on the front door of 221B just as Mrs Hudson admits me with a smile.
I can't stay long this time but John insists on putting the kettle on while one of my favourite people in the whole world (believe me, it's a short list) makes her way unsteadily towards me and throws herself into my waiting arms.
She looks behind me but, this time, she is out of luck. There is no one to throw her up in the air and catch her repeatedly until she collapses in hysterics or, as on one memorable occasion, vomits. Instead she sits sedately on my lap while her father makes tea and plays with my watch and chain, cooing softly as the bright links run through her tiny hands.
She finds me fascinating and amusing in equal measure and I adore her.
My brother and I talk. Well, wind each other up, but all of it good-natured. We have finally come to appreciate each other and I worry about him much less now that he is no longer alone. And we both know now who is the stronger of the two of us.
John returns with the tea and I juggle both cup and small child with practiced ease as she refuses to leave my lap, her bright blonde hair a vivid contrast to the navy blue of my waistcoat. John and Sherlock tell me about their most recent case and I try not to spoil it by pointing out the blindingly obvious solution.
Tea drunk I get up to take my leave.
"Goodbye, fair Rosamund," I say and her arms tighten round my neck before she allows me to deposit her on Sherlock's knee. I promise to visit again soon and smile as I reattach my watch and chain to my waistcoat as I walk down the stairs to where my car and driver are waiting.
Not long after the atrocity of Sherrinford and Musgrave, John and his daughter had returned permanently to a newly-refurbished Baker Street at Sherlock's request. After a very sharp lesson in just how short life could be, both he and John stopped kidding themselves about what their actual relationship was.
There may not have been any public declaration of intent but the three of them are a family and their future is together.
Lady Smallwood is waiting for me when I return to my office. She looks well and happy and that pleases me. I fear I treated her rather shabbily, especially when I was discharged from hospital after that fateful night. Telling her, in no uncertain terms, that I was only attracted to my own gender rapidly changed her perception of me as a potential mate. We continue to work well together, however. One must be thankful for small mercies.
Office gossip (yes, thank you, Anthea, as if my brain were not already stuffed with enough trivia) has Lady Smallwood being courted by someone in the Foreign Office. She seems happy enough, may even possibly be falling in love. I recognise the signs, every morning when I look in the mirror.
Our business concluded she leaves me with a smile and an admonition not to work too late. I so rarely do these days, not when I have someone outside of this dreary place with whom I would much rather spend my time.
I keep no photographs in my office, no personal effects at all. It's too risky. All of my colleagues and office staff have had the most stringent of security checks but it just takes one cleaner with an axe to grind or a security man with loyalty issues to put the people you care about under threat.
I keep the photograph I would love to display in my watch. I look at it now and allow myself a smile, knowing I will see the real thing later. It's been far too long already and I am filled with warm anticipation.
How, I ask myself, would things have turned out if I hadn't plucked up the courage to arrange a lunch date before the world as I knew it came to an end?
Badly, I suspected. With me probably detained under the Mental Health Act or dead by my own hand. Life really does turn on a sixpence. And I remember that day so vividly…
His warm smile, his brown eyes twinkling mischievously as he told me how he had managed to deceive Sherlock by way of some chemicals and a hair from a willing accomplice.
I was quietly impressed but, after all, Gregory Lestrade had been a policeman for a very long time and probably had a few tricks up his sleeve that even Sherlock hadn't thought about.
The whole afternoon had been bathed in a golden glow as we ate and talked, Gregory becoming more flirtatious with every sip of wine and, when we had finished, I thought he might be bold enough to try for a kiss.
I was right. I relished the feel of his soft, warm lips on mine.
So, when my deranged sister attempted to get Sherlock to first kill John, then me before attempting to drown Doctor Watson in the well at Musgrave it was Gregory, at my brother's behest, who came to the hospital where I was being, rather forcefully, treated.
He came into a room which held a wide-eyed, hysterical wreck. It is always the same when a dam, self-imposed or otherwise, breaks. It tends to engulf everything around it, and my emotional dam had been shored up for years.
He walked over, took my shaking hands in his and said the three words that freed me.
"Tell me everything."
To my amazement, when I was finally done talking some hours later, he didn't look at me with disgust or contempt. He stayed.
When I told my parents how I had been deceiving them about Eurus for years Gregory was on the side lines, waiting to comfort me after I had been the subject of their wrath.
He was always there for me when I needed him, my first trip back to Sherrinford left me almost mute with pity and despair but Gregory was there to bring me back to myself.
I only realised we had fallen into a pattern of seeing each other when my brother gleefully pointed it out. I had retorted angrily, furious at Sherlock for trying to taint something that made me wake up every morning with a ridiculous sense of excitement. It did make me wonder what was in it for Gregory, however, and how long it would last before he found another lame duck to nurse back to health.
So, I decided to ask him.
He smiled awkwardly, his fingers tightening on the stem of his wineglass. The noises of the restaurant faded into the background.
"I've fallen in love with you, Mycroft."
I realised I was blushing.
"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "I'm a wreck. A Jonah. Everything I do that involves people turns to shit."
He frowned at this.
"Do you know what I see when I look at you? A man trying to fulfil an impossible task. Keeping your parents sweet. Watching over your little brother so he doesn't relapse. Keeping a promise you made to your uncle to keep your psycho of a sister safe and others safe from her. And there's the small matter of you actually running the country."
"And I failed all of them," I said miserably.
"No one on earth could have succeeded at that. "Gregory said firmly. "But you still try. Your house of cards has fallen making you so vulnerable and yet, you didn't hesitate to give me a glimpse of your naked soul. You have given so much, Mycroft. It's time you got something in return. And it's not as if you're indifferent to me, is it? I still get shivers when I think of the first time I kissed you."
I was starting to believe what he had told me. It certainly explained my happiness when I knew I would be seeing him and my misery when I could not. We were not lovers but I had imagined what it would be like if we were, and I blessed my extremely fertile imagination.
"Gregory…" I croaked.
"I don't want to pressure you," he continued. "I just thought you should know. I'm not seeing you out of pity or concern. I'm seeing you because I want to. But if it's too raw for you…"
I looked deep into his eyes. The time for careful handling was long past.
"I burn for you." I told him.
It was enough. He swallowed the rest of his wine and grabbed my hand as it was now imperative we left, and quickly.
Stop-motion images: a long kiss, full of desire and the promise of ecstasy; cotton sheets against my naked skin; his weight on me; his gentle hands clasped with mine; fresh sweat and the wet earth smell of sex as we lay together afterwards, his kiss-crushed lips forming a tender smile as he pressed them to mine.
"I love you," I whispered in the dark.
It's getting dark as I get out of the car and dismiss my driver for the night. This is not my home, but I won't be leaving till morning.
He's waiting for me in the living room of his house. My Gregory. My love, my life. He kisses me and pours me a glass of my favourite wine, his eyes dark with pleasure at the sight of me, something I'm getting used to.
I put my arms around him and hold him close to me, he smells of a day's hard work, cigarettes and vending machine coffee and I inhale it like perfume as his stubble grazes my cheek.
Later we'll talk about what we've been up to since we saw each other last but, for now, this is enough.
The End.