Disclaimer: Sherlock does not belong to me.
Beta: OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles
A/N: The story takes place before the start of the TV show. The characters are years younger here, both a little impulsive and expressive, inexperienced. So they are in some way different from the way we are used to seeing them.
I guess I took liberties with Lestrade's duties and credentials as the DI. Sorry about that.
Working with Sherlock Holmes was difficult enough, but saving Mycroft Holmes's life and fighting his attraction to the man was a near impossible task. Still, DI Lestrade decided that he had nothing to complain about.
~ To Get Mr. Holmes ~
Chapter 1. Getting Dirty With Mr. Holmes
Sergeant Donavan cringed, pressing one hand to her mouth, but did not look away from the body. Anderson was crouching over it, one knee in the dirt, examining fierce bloody wounds impartially. Lestrade observed them from the side so that he could still have Sherlock Holmes in the line of his vision. The man was more like an insolent child and, since a couple of cases ago, Lestrade's personal problem. It was problematic to keep him away; he was near impossible to control and difficult to deal to with. On the upside though, his input was invaluable, any mystery was a game to him, a puzzle to solve to pass the time. It was irritating and admirable at the same time how easy it was for him; when others struggled to understand he only needed a glance, a second to think and he already had the answer. After all, if not for his intervention they'd still be fruitlessly looking for the missing restaurant critic, who as it appeared was murdered by the owner of the establishment that was shut down after his negative article. They finally found the body, rotting away in the middle of the abandoned construction, the half-finished building towering over the field of brown dust. Lestrade wondered how the body wasn't found yet with all the free space and open view, but that mystery was beyond his competence.
"Sherlock!" He shouted for the consulting detective, stopping his not very subtle retreat from the crime scene. "I still need you for a questioning!"
"You can't even question the suspect without me? That's pathetic, Detective Inspector."
"You are the one who's going to be questioned."
"How about later? I've lots of other cases. Unlike you." This was thrown over the shoulder as Sherlock Holmes stormed away, skillfully ducking under the tape enclosing the crime scene.
Lestrade's previous irritation was growing and gradually turning into anger; he frowned. It was starting to rain; light drizzle was getting into his eyes, making him squint to see properly. He followed Sherlock's path to one of the cars, a plain black one, with suspicion watching him get inside. He could only make out the figure of a man on the backseat before the door was slammed closed. The car didn't move which probably meant that the two men were talking; it might have been Sherlock's new client, a wealthy man in need of a private investigator. With that conclusion Lestrade disregarded the matter completely.
"Anderson, how much more time do you need?"
"I'll be done in a minute," the medic commented, not looking up from the body.
With nothing left to do the DI continued examining the surroundings. The rain was getting heavier with every minute, turning dirt into mud and covering all traces of the murderer – it was a good thing they didn't need them anymore. His gaze stopped on the unfinished building, all empty windows and plain brick walls, making him wonder when it would finally be demolished. He turned away, nothing interesting there, and then turned quickly back. In the rain it was easy to make a mistake but he thought he saw a figure of a man in one of the windows. There was no reason for anyone to be in that building. Knowing what to look for this time, his gaze moved slowly from one window to another, starting with the highest floor.
Nothing. It must have been just the play of shadows.
His gaze lowered and his attention caught something more entertaining.
"Hello," he said, his voice low, as he approached a beauty that had no place at the crime scene. He stopped on one side of the tape separating him from the object of his interest.
The young woman, clad in a tight black suit that subtly but seductively accented her curves, wavy dark hair falling in her face as her head was bowed, eyes on the screen of the blackberry in her hands, paid no attention to his greeting. He decided on a different tactic. Ducking under the tape he stepped closer to her.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he introduced himself and she finally tore her eyes from the screen and looked at him. Her expression was neutral if not slightly bored; the woman stared at him impassively. "What's a cutie like you doing at the crime scene?"
"This is not the crime scene," she said calmly, lowering her eyes as if to indicate on the spot of ground she was standing on. Technically she was right. He was not going to voice it though.
"What's your name, Miss?" He asked in his business voice instead, making it sound like an order.
She appeared thoughtful for a moment, looking away, and when her eyes settled back at him, she replied. "Aurora."
Lestrade was suspicious that the woman might be fooling him, he but ignored it and simply played along, hoping it'd get him the needed result. For a moment his eyes skimmed over the black car, just a few feet away from her – the one Sherlock disappeared into – but the tinted glass made it impossible to see what was inside.
"Is there anything you want, Detective Inspector?" Was there mocking in the way she addressed his position?
The words 'Your number would be lovely' died in his throat – and not because they were too crude; Lestrade was never good with flirting. But as she waited impatiently for an answer, his gaze momentary focused on the building behind her and he saw a figure in the window. Again. Now it was two windows to the left from where he'd first noticed it but disappeared as quickly.
"Detective Inspector?" Aurora called, frowning at him. She turned her head and followed his gaze in an attempt to understand what had caught his attention.
"Sorry," he said distractively, still searching with his eyes.
Then the door of the car opened, Sherlock storming off with his large coat billowing behind him from the sheer forcefulness of his stride. Lestrade didn't have time to make a guess about what had angered the consulting detective this much, as after a second the door on the other side, closest to the DI, was opening as well and a man stepped out. He felt Aurora stiffen beside him, facing the man.
"Sherlock!" The man called out; his voice was soft but heavy with authority of a person who was used to his orders been carried out immediately. He was ignored, which didn't sit well with him, if the tightness of his jaw and narrowing of his eyes was anything to go by. His sharp features turned into a cold unimpressive mask, only dark blue eyes radiating annoyance.
Sharply the man slammed the car door closed.
"Anne, find the surveillance record from yesterday. By the evening those as well as the ones from today have to be on my desk."
"Yes, sir." 'Aurora' replied readily.
Somewhere in the back of his mind Lestrade registered that he was right about her name not been Aurora, but a simple Anne; and this man, acting with such familiarity with Sherlock was actually her boss, and probably he should have trusted his instincts more and sent someone to check the building because now he had solid proof that this was not a shadow but a man. A man with a gun in his hand. All of that was going on in the background. The forefront of his thoughts was a blur of the sound of bullets hitting the dust and screams; and his body was reacting on impulse, rushing ahead, colliding with the mysterious man with sharp features and commanding voice, their combined weight prompted by lack of balance sent them both to the ground. The rain of bullets stopped as they were hidden behind the car now, out of the view of the murderer.
"Donavan!" He shouted from their impromptu cover, pinning the man with his weight to the ground because from the moment his back touched the dirt he started struggling, trying to get free. "Send people in! Find him! Get him!"
There was a commotion as a group of constables, led by the female sergeant, ran to the building. Lestrade knew they wouldn't find anyone there – it had been too long already, too much time wasted, too much time gifted to the murderer to get away. He still kept the man, the one who the hit man was after pinned to the ground, one hand on his chest pushing with force, and the other on the ground, holding himself from crushing the man. Lestrade felt the mud under his fingers, felt the droplets of rain, which grew even stronger, sliding underneath the collar of his shirt – all of it was unpleasant, but it was fine, he went to the Metropolitan Police because that's what he wanted.
The struggling under him stopped and Lestrade looked down to find the reason why. The man had given up on his fruitless attempts to throw Lestrade off of him and was calmly lying there, staring defiantly at the DI.
"Hello," Lestrade's voice croaked, his throat going dry and body heating up in a second despite the chilling rain.
Blue eyes, sapphire blue his idiotically romantic mind supplied, bore into his hazel ones, clear irritation and a command in that insistent gaze. They caught his attention, drove him in, didn't let him look away. The man was probably the same age as him, maybe one or a few years younger, but the regal air around him, even lying in bloody dirt, made even older people feel inferior. His features, sharp and aristocratic, schooled into an expression of indifference – do not mistake it for obedience – were handsome. Dark sandy hair carefully styled and slicked back were wet from the rain with an unruly strand escaping and curling on his right temple. Both his hands for the lack of better place were bent at the elbows and lying palms up on the both sides of his head, the mud staining white cuffs. Lestrade vividly remembered them gripping his shoulders as they fell.
"Detective Inspector?" One eyebrow rose in a scandalized manner – a clear demand to get off. "Do you mind?"
But Lestrade wasn't listening; yet again he got distracted but this time he had a pretty good reason for it. There was something pointy poking him in his thigh. His gaze slid down from the man's face, slowly following the line of his neck, absently noting the whiteness of the skin, then down his side, past his waist and to…
"Oh, an umbrella," he muttered.
"Detective Inspector," the man insisted.
Lestrade, with one last glance down at him, stood up carefully and offered him a hand. Ignoring it and instead relying on the umbrella, the man lifted himself, every movement smooth and regal.
"Sir? Do I need to call the ambulance?" The woman, obviously his PA, inquired worriedly.
"No, thank you. I'm not hurt physically. Just suffered mental abuse." He narrowed his eyes, looking Lestrade up and down, then made a futile attempt to dust off his clothes. Wet with rain and brown sticky mud they resisted his insistent brushing. "And a rude invasion of personal space."
"I saved your life," Lestrade replied, impressed and annoyed by the cold attitude.
"I hardly think my life was in any danger," the carelessness in his voice made wonders for riling the DI. "The killer was obviously an amateur. A professional wouldn't have needed more than one shot. And," he made a pause for Lestrade to complete his eye roll. "It's not necessarily me he was after."
Lestrade snorted, "Yeah, because he started the fire once you stepped out of the car and precisely at the spot you were standing at."
The man looked at him flatly, regarded the DI with something akin to disdain, though it seemed like he was trying to contain it as well as let Lestrade feel it – which made the DI think that the disdain was mostly feigned.
"Anne, we are leaving," he turned to the PA who nodded eagerly and went to circle the car to reach the door on the other side.
"No you are not," Lestrade announced, grabbing the man's wrist. His fingers smeared the dirt all over his coat, which he smirked at in silent satisfaction.
"Excuse me?" Now it was two eyebrows rising in inquiry and Lestrade's mind happily supported an unneeded thought – the scandalized look suited this man.
"Someone has just made an assassination attempt. You were the target. Still are since the assassination was unsuccessful." Lestrade's voice had risen and his gesticulation had grown hectic as if he was talking to an insolent child.
"Thank you for your input, Detective Inspector, but I assure you that I have the situation under control."
"No you don't," the DI scoffed. "I'm taking this case. We'll find this hit man but until then you are under my personal protection."
The banter was over; Lestrade, serious in his element, readjusted his hold on the man's wrist and walked them to the police car. The man didn't protest, didn't struggle, just followed in silence. He's probably glaring daggers at the back of my head, Lestrade thought but didn't bother to check.
"Sir?" The confused voice of Anne was heard from where she still stood by the car.
"Cancel the meeting this evening. Take care of the paperwork. I'll give you further instructions later." The man replied. He didn't sound angry or even irritated, he didn't sound anything at all – his voice was emotionless but pleasantly polite.
His grip on the wrist less firm, as Lestrade knew now that the man was following if not willingly than compliantly, he led them to the car, opened the backdoor and with a hand on the back of his neck he guided the man inside. A moment later he got in the driver's seat, acting ignorant to Donavan with her report on the search of the abandoned building – he knew they had not found anything. Her confused glances went past him as well.
As he drove through London streets he let himself glance at the rear view mirror. His passenger was staring right back at him as if he had spent the whole ride waiting to meets his eyes; he was silent and waited for Lestrade to speak first.
"You didn't oppose to me taking you away," he commented, eyes returning to the road.
"I did. It fell on deaf ears."
"At first. Then you just kept quiet."
"I gathered it would be foolish of me to waste my energy on persuading such a… stubborn person as yourself." The pause in the sentence was a clear indication that 'stubborn' wasn't the word he originally wanted to use but his upbringing overpowered the mere annoyance.
"Good then," Lestrade shrugged; strangely he was fine with it. If the man wanted to mock him, let him, Lestrade was an all-sufficient person and the opinion of the others didn't matter to him much.
"So, Detective Inspector Lestrade," the man drawled the name with a smirk. "Where are you taking me?"
"My place for now. The hit man must know where you live, so you need to stay away for some time. We'll find him soon and you'll be free to go your own way."
"Soon?" The man repeated with a chuckle, radiating disbelief.
"Yes, soon." Lestrade affirmed with force.
They lapsed back in silence, the man's eyes watching the DI.
"Detective Inspector?" The man inquired after a moment of silence. His tone, with a teasing lurking behind politeness, made Lestrade half turn, looking at him from the corner of his eye. "Aren't you overlooking an important detail?"
"I might. Care to tell me which exactly?" The DI said lightly. They stopped at a red light and he turned fully to observe his passenger. The man just looked at him, waiting for Lestrade to figure it out himself. Lestrade smiled. "Who are you? I figure you'd be reluctant to answer, since you are obviously an important man and all that…"
"Mycroft Holmes at your service," the man extended his hand over the car seat.
Lestrade stared at the hand in silent astonishment. The last name ringed in his ears, repeating like a broken record. Holmes. He recovered, not as quickly as he wanted and surely not as quickly as good manners required.
"Gregory Lestrade."
They shook hands and the man, not a stranger anymore, Mycroft, leaned back on the seat, relaxing and looking out of the side window. The car behind them honked, urging him to turn around and continue the drive to his home. Oh well, that must be interesting, Lestrade concluded. And if he was bringing this man to his home just for the sake of taking him home, so be it.
A/N: Next chapter will be in a week. For now, leave me a review, please:)