AN: Prompt- How Lestrade first met Mycroft Holmes: When Lestrade was a police sergeant he talked a young man (mid 20s) out of jumping off Tower Bridge. That man was Mycroft Holmes.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or the British Broadcasting Corporation.
Greg Lestrade thought he was probably the unluckiest man alive.
His day had been going badly enough. It was always a bad day when he was on the same case as the Detective Inspector; the man just seemed to have a vendetta against him for God knows why. It had gone quickly downhill after Anderson had accidentally set fire to the dead man's kitchen (Greg had had a tough time sorting out the mess- he'd picked the team, after all, so he was responsible in the DI's mind.)
Anyway, it was well into the small hours of the morning when Greg, nearly collapsing from exhaustion, had staggered from his office and begun the long walk home. Goddamn paperwork. Goddamn boss. Goddamn Anderson. Sometimes Greg wondered how any crimes in London were solved, when he worked with such imbeciles.
"You're a bloody idiot yourself, Lestrade," he muttered to himself. He'd taken the bus to work that morning, fully intending to get one back home in the evening. But the buses don't run at half three in the morning, do they? He could've gotten a taxi, but every single one he saw was occupied and his phone was dead, the battery drained after a day of near constant phonecalls. So, he'd begun to walk.
Luckily for him- the only lucky thing that had happened to him so far- London in the middle of summer has very few hours of total darkness. He was chilly, but not completely cold, and there was already a hint of light in the air. Another thirty minutes and dawn would be upon the city.
The morning was when London was at its best, in Greg's opinion. Still awake, with cars and horns and sirens going off in all directions, but more peaceful. In a few hours the rush hour would be at its peak, millions of people rushing to work. Thank Christ Greg had been given the day off.
He stopped, as he always did, at Tower Bridge. As a child he'd always longed to be allowed to stay on the bridge as the bascules were being raised. Despite everything, he smiled to himself as he gripped the fencing and peered over. Greg's smile turned to a grimace when his gaze was met by the sight of the muddy brown waters of the Thames, chugging along below him. The smell wasn't that great either. His thoughts wandered back to two previous cases that had involved bodies being fished out of its depths. He shook his head. He didn't particularly want to think about any bodies that might be being swept past him at that exact moment.
With a sigh, Greg looked up- yes, dawn was definitely close; he should probably get a move on if he wanted to- wait. There was something… Greg squinted. The walkways were a long way above his head, but something was, what? Hanging off? No, not something. Someone.
Greg stared. He wasn't sure if he was right. In fact, he was almost certain he wasn't right; staying up for this long after a stressful day at work was probably making him delirious. He blinked hard and stared again. He wavered. Was there someone, wasn't there? They were just so bloody high up! Actually, very high up… Greg didn't even know how a person would get out there- all the windows on the high-level walkways were sealed off.
For a moment, Greg considered walking away. Genuinely thought about continuing as if nothing had happened. And seeing it on the news the next day, or the day after, that some poor bastard's body had been scooped out of the river…
"I'm not even on fucking duty!" Greg said loudly, making himself jump. He wasn't cold, but he was shivering. He had to force himself to take a few deep breaths, squared his shoulders, and marched off to the entrance of the staircase that would lead him to the walkways. He wasn't surprised to find them open and with no attendant, but he was sickeningly disappointed. It felt wrong to be there- the previous time he'd been there tourists had surrounded him and it had been the middle of a bright afternoon.
It was pitch bloody black, as well. Greg tripped about a dozen times and swore at least twice as many. At least he wasn't out of breath by the time he neared the top- a consequence of being a police sergeant: he was fit. He paused before turning a final corner.
"Shit," Greg whispered. What was he supposed to say? He was fairly certain the words 'Don't jump!' ought to be involved somewhere, but other than that he was at a loss. 'You have your whole life ahead of you?' Well, maybe if they were young… 'It gets better?' But he didn't know what 'it' was, and how was either of them supposed to know if 'it' would get better? The only thing that kept him from running back down the stairs was the thought of this person jumping while Greg was still hesitating.
He turned the corner.
Greg didn't know how the glass had been smashed- that stuff was tough- and he also didn't know how the man could be so calm when he was so close to falling to his death.
The man in question- a young man, Greg's age or a bit younger maybe, with auburn hair and a subtly expensive suit- was on the opposite side of the metal barriers, sitting calmly with his legs dangling over the edge, swinging them like a little boy, his hands clasped in his lap. He looked at Greg with steely grey eyes.
"Hello," he said, smiling tightly. He waved a hand in front of him. "Lovely view, isn't it?"
Greg stared out the glass. The sky had taken on that pink haze, and he could see for miles. "Yeah," he agreed cautiously. "Stunning."
He didn't dare move closer to the man, worried that he would push himself off at any minute. His throat felt too tight to talk. He bit his lip.
"You're not doing a very good job of talking me out of it, you know," his redheaded companion remarked.
"What?" Greg once again found himself trapped in a piercing stare.
"Well, I'm supposing that's why you're here. Unless you have some kind of habit of watching people commit suicide." He paused thoughtfully. "Or you could've came here to join me, I suppose. Have you?"
"I- no!" Greg said, agitated. He took a deep breath. Just start with the bloody basics, Lestrade! "What's your name?"
"Mycroft."
"Reason enough to jump off a bridge, I suppose."
The man- Mycroft- let out an unexpected laugh, and shot Greg an appreciative glance. "Well, it's been a long time since I've heard anyone joke about my name. I forget how awful it is, sometimes."
"I didn't mean- it's not- it's, um, unusual. That's what I meant." Greg cringed internally. "I'm Greg," he added hastily.
"Greg," Mycroft repeated. He had turned his head back to look down at the river. Greg felt suddenly uneasy again.
"So, Mycroft," he began hesitantly, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "What brings you here?"
Oh, God. He wanted to sound like he was talking the man out of suicide, not chatting him up! Greg had to grit his teeth to hold back from shouting abuse at himself.
Strangely enough, however, his words brought a smile to Mycroft's face again. "I thought that would've been fairly obvious. What are you doing wandering around at nearly four o'clock in the morning? London's a dangerous place if you're not careful, you know."
"I can handle myself, thank you very much. I'm a police officer," Greg said indignantly, not missing how Mycroft seemed keen to switch the conversation away from himself.
"I know. A sergeant, I suppose?" Mycroft asked idly, now examining his fingernails. Greg stared.
"How the bloody hell could you tell that?" Greg asked. He wasn't in his uniform, for Christ's sake!
"Doesn't matter." Mycroft was starting to sound impatient. "Are you going to be long, Greg? I hate to be rude, but I'd rather get this over with."
His short temper flared up immediately. "I'll be as long as I need be! If you think I'm just going to walk away and leave you to jump off this effing bridge then you're a bloody idiot!"
"Why would you bother? You don't know me; you can't care if I live or not," Mycroft said quietly, still not looking at Greg.
"If I want to care about whether you kill yourself or not, then I'll bloody care, all right?" Greg was getting desperate. He said the first thing that came to his head. "Of course I care if you do! You know what I see when I look at you?"
"What would that be?"
"A young bloke that can't see he's got his whole bloody life ahead of him!" Greg shouted, remembering the phrase he'd thought of earlier. He paused in an effort to regain control of his voice. "What age are you, Mycroft?"
"Twenty two," he answered, wide eyed.
"And what's happened that's so bad?"
"I don't-" Mycroft looked away.
Greg kept pressing him. "Your job?"
"I… suppose," Mycroft said vaguely.
"What do you do?"
"I'm, ah… a lawyer."
"And you don't like it," Greg supplied, but he frowned, wondering if he was being lied to.
"No," Mycroft said, sounding strangely guiltily. Yes, almost definitely a lie.
"Quit it."
Mycroft stared at him, something akin to horror in his eyes. "I can't quit my job."
"Why not?" Greg asked incredulously, folding his arms stubbornly.
Taking a shallow breath, Mycroft said, "My- parents-"
"Fuck your parents, Mycroft!" Greg was shouting again. "Who gives a toss about what they want? You're a big boy now; you don't have to listen to them anymore! What else is there?"
"Nothing!" Mycroft said quickly, clasping his hands tightly together.
"Really?" Greg asked sceptically. "So you'll come in here and back down with me, then?"
Mycroft didn't answer. Greg took a deep breath.
"Mycroft," he said, hoping that he sounded reassuring. "If you're worried about resigning or something, I'll help you out if you need... Well, I mean, you don't look like you need money. But you can't let one stupid thing ruin your life just because your parents want you do it."
"It's not just that," Mycroft muttered, resolutely staring away from Greg.
"Is there no one you can talk to about what you're, um… feeling?" Greg asked, not looking at Mycroft either. "Not your parents, I get that… But friends, family, a therapist, anyone?"
"There's not really anyone I would call my friend, honestly." Greg noticed how Mycroft ignored the rest of his suggestions. He took the hint.
"Course there is. Me."
Mycroft finally looked at Greg. His expression was blank, but he asked, "Really?"
"Yes."
"You don't know me."
"I could get to."
"You won't like me."
"I hope you won't mind if I don't take your word for it."
"You have no idea if we share the same interests or behavioural traits to render us compatible in a friendship!" Mycroft threw out, speaking so fast that Greg could barely catch the meaning.
"And you have no idea if we don't!" Greg's mind raced, trying to figure out what he and Mycroft would most likely have in common. He settled on, "Reading! Do you like reading?"
"Well, of course, but-"
"That's fantastic! So do I," Greg said loudly over him, waving his hands in the air to try and convey his enthusiasm.
"Greg! Stop it!" Mycroft shouted even louder. He was gripping his hair in both hands, anguish clear both in his posture and in his voice. Greg stopped talking, and Mycroft went quiet for a long time. Greg, fearful of what Mycroft would do if he spoke again, did too.
"I just- I don't want to feel-" Mycroft said, but then stopped just as abruptly. His position still hadn't changed. Greg waited for as long as he could bear, but when Mycroft's silence drew on he spoke as softly as his voice would allow.
"What don't you want to feel, Mycroft?"
"Anything!" he said through gritted teeth. "Emotions, I can't stand them- completely worthless-"
"I can think of a few worth having," Greg interrupted quietly, unable to stop himself. "And without feeling the bad ones sometimes, you'd never know when you were feeling the good ones."
"And what are some emotions worth having, then?" Mycroft asked coldly.
"Well," Greg paused, knowing full well he was sounding like the world's worst therapist, but he pressed on regardless. "It's always nice being happy… and, um, having fun with people who you… care about-"
"Caring is not an advantage. You will always be let down."
"That's…" Greg shook his head, wincing, not wanting to imagine what had left the young man in front of him with such a belief. "Not true. That's not true at all."
"Not from my experience."
"It sounds to me as if you've been caring about the wrong people."
"You don't understand-"
"You're not letting me understand!"
Mycroft stared at him furiously for a second, before turning away again. Greg waited for what were probably the tensest minutes of his life, until Mycroft moved.
Greg made to dart forward, a cry of 'Don't jump!' on his lips, but then the fact that the younger man was shifting backwards into the walkway sank in, and Greg froze. Have I done it? Really? Mycroft had by now successfully managed to pull himself off the ledge, landing somewhat ungracefully on the floor. Luckily the glass was shatterproof (Greg had to remember to ask how he'd managed to break it) and so had broken into small square pieces with non-sharp edges, so he didn't cut himself on it.
Greg rushed forward to help Mycroft up. God, he was tall, taller than Greg and that was saying something. He was also shivering. "Here," Greg said quickly, shedding his jacket and handing it to Mycroft. "You must be bloody freezing."
"Thank you," Mycroft murmured as he slipped the jacket on over his own. He wouldn't meet Greg's eyes.
"Come on, then. I'll walk you home." It felt strange now that Mycroft was safely inside. Greg found that he'd apparently forgotten how to hold a normal conversation. He swallowed thickly.
"Oh, you needn't bother about that-" Mycroft intervened quickly.
"Says the man who was about to leap of Tower Bridge!" Greg exclaimed. "I'm walking you home and if you don't like it then tough."
Mycroft stared at Greg with an unreadable look on his face. "Nothing I say is going to change your mind."
"Right in one." Greg waved a hand. "After you, Mycroft."
They both managed to make it down to the road alive- Greg refused to think of how ironic it would've been for him to have talked Mycroft off the ledge, only for him to trip and break his neck going down the stairs.
They paused briefly. "Still feel the need to walk me home?" Mycroft asked.
"Yes." Greg sighed. They resumed walking.
Mycroft was good at talking. No matter how hard Greg tried to get him talking about himself, the subject always landed on Greg.
"You should be a politician," he commented. Mycroft only smirked.
Greg really shouldn't have been surprised to find out that Mycroft lived in a big, fancy white house in Belgravia. He'd been right to think that Mycroft didn't have to worry about money. He glanced at the house number, committing it to memory, before walking Mycroft right up to the front door.
"Have you got some paper on you, I'll give you my phone number and address-"
"Were you being serious, then?" Mycroft broke in, voice laced with surprise.
"Well…" Greg scratched the back of his head. "Yeah."
"I have some inside," Mycroft said, fishing about in his pockets for keys. It was only as he went to unlock the door that his eyes narrowed. "It's open," he said, sighing.
Greg grabbed Mycroft's arm as he made to go inside. "They could still be in there," he warned.
"Hm. In fact, I'm almost certain you're right." Mycroft shook off Greg's hand and walked in unhurriedly, flicking the light switch. Greg frowned in alarm and followed.
"Be careful," he hissed. Neither of them had moved beyond the foyer. Mycroft peered at him for a moment before a look of realisation appeared on his face. He rolled his eyes.
"Oh, it's just my brother." Mycroft looked up to the landing at the top of the staircase. "I hope you have a good excuse for this!"
"Well if you would just give me a key then I wouldn't have to- who's that?" Greg started at the sudden voice behind him. He locked eyes with a teenage boy in a school uniform, with a mop of tangled black hair, and found himself being scrutinised. After a moment, his pale eyes widened in horror. "Oh God, tell me he's not your secret boyfriend or something, Mycroft-"
"No, Sherlock!" Mycroft said, adopting an exasperated quality to his voice.
"Oh, well- you're wearing his jacket!" Sherlock said defensively, scowling. Mycroft scowled in response, shedding Greg's jacket and handing it over.
"I was cold," he muttered venomously.
"And you were out in the middle of the night- what were you doing, then?" Sherlock asked quickly, raising an eyebrow. Mycroft's face tightened. Greg looked from one to the other worriedly, trying to think of an excuse, but before he could speak Sherlock's face cleared. "Oh." He stared at his older brother blankly. Mycroft's scowl deepened and he turned away, heading over towards a small table tucked in a corner. It had a telephone and a notepad, and Mycroft snatched up the latter.
"Here," he said, holding it out for Greg.
"Oh yeah, thanks," Greg took out his pen and scribbled down his home address and phone number, and added his work address and number just in case. In case of what, he didn't want to think about. "If I don't here from you every single day, your brother's not going to be the only one breaking into your house," he said sternly, handing back the notepad. Mycroft's sigh turned into a growl of frustration as Sherlock peered at the writing.
"Get away," Mycroft complained, turning back to return the notepad to its place on the table. But Sherlock's eyes had widened and he stared at Greg unnervingly.
"You're a policeman!" he said, the corners of his mouth starting to edge up. Mycroft heard him.
"Sherlock, no!" he hissed, striding over and attempting to push the teenager towards the stairs. "Greg has to leave!"
"Right," Greg said, not even bothering to be worried about the brothers' behaviour. "You're going to be alright?" he directed at Mycroft. The younger man nodded. Greg hesitated. Were you meant to leave someone who had been about to kill himself a mere two hours ago alone? Although, Mycroft had the apparently unexpected company of his little brother… Greg headed back towards the front door. "I'm expecting you to phone later," he said over his shoulder.
"I will," Mycroft promised. He didn't smile, but his expression wasn't unfriendly either.
Just before he could shut the door behind him, he heard Sherlock say, "But Mycroft, he works at the Yard- you have to keep him-" Greg closed the door with a click, silencing Mycroft's heated retort.
The sun was up, albeit wan. Regardless, it would be a hot day. The street was empty but the omnipresent sound of traffic was nearby. Greg was so tired he seriously considered finding the nearest bench and collapsing on it. But he walked with a strange energy powering him, almost like exhilaration. Replaying the past few hours in his head, it seemed like more of a bad TV drama than real life. Not his life, anyway.
Greg was too afraid to imagine what he would've done if Mycroft hadn't came back down with him. Images came, unbidden, of going to work and being sent to a crime scene where Mycroft's body had been pulled out of the Thames. Sherlock waiting in Mycroft's house, until he realised his brother wouldn't be coming back. He took a deep breath. It seemed that he wasn't so unlucky, after all.
AN: So. You can read into Lestrade and Mycroft's relationship however you want to, I suppose. I like to imagine them as good friends.
Fairly obvious after reading this, but I've never been to London and I have no idea how one would go about leaping off Tower Bridge. Please forgive the god-awful descriptions.
Did you know, reviews are very nice after your first ever fanfiction? :) Have a nice day. X
PS- Sorry for the ridiculously long delay, Sherlock2040. Actually, sorry barely begins to cover it. Also, I'm not sure what you wanted. Or what you expected. I'll shut up now.