A/N: Welcome to the lengthy AU Mystrade I started writing four months ago! And it's just now seeing the light of day. As usual, you can find me at my tumblr (same username) for updates/previews/ramblings!
"Sod it all," Gregory Lestrade muttered, his palms digging into his forehead. He could feel his pulse throbbing in a vein on his forehead and he cringed. Anger did not become him. Running a hand through his rapidly silvering hair, he slumped back in the reclining chair, staring blankly at the laptop in front of him. The email from his agent detailing his latest novel's ongoing date with the bestseller chart was looking back at him. Any other author would be pleased at the news. Greg just wished that the ground would open up and swallow him.
He was good at anything he tried. Midas's touch, his Mum used to joke. When Greg had landed his first acting role at thirteen, he had been catapulted into instant stardom. He took bigger and bigger roles, finally starring in a long-running detective series that lasted twelve seasons before it petered out. It was (according to the ever-present tabloids) due to two of his costars having an affair with the director - at the same time. He rolled his eyes. His performance, of course, had been acclaimed. Constantly.
Greg had taken a break when he was twenty nine to write novels, figuring he could avoid the public at least a little that way. How wrong he was. If anything, his first novel had propelled him even farther into the spotlight, to the point he had several paparazzi perched permanently on his doorstop. It wasn't logical and he didn't understand it. Then again, what the paps did was rarely logical. Sally had insisted on having a gate installed and his entire home walled off. Greg had insisted on having a secret exit installed.
How his consultant from the police force could make it undetected past the army of paparazzi, he had no idea. How he managed it with his blogger hidden behind him, Greg couldn't even begin to fathom. Sherlock Holmes was a mass of contradictions. Completely ignorant of all decent social customs (unless it suited him otherwise), Sherlock was otherwise brilliant, even if he did make everyone he met want to punch him. That's what John was for. John Watson (former army doctor, current blogger) was just as much of a mystery. He had dropped into Sherlock's life six months ago and had become a constant presence. John didn't have Sherlock's intellect, but he often added the human aspect that Sherlock's tales were missing.
The phone rang, causing him to jump. He glared at the number, recognizing it as Sally's, before roughly thumbing the answer key and pressing the mobile to his ear. "What?"
"You should be happy!" she retorted. He rolled his eyes, knowing she couldn't see him and delighting in the break from her sarcasm.
"What, you mean thrilled over more paparazzi camping out on my doorstop?" His fingers drummed roughly on the desktop, the phone between his ear and the crook of his neck. "You wouldn't be calling for nothing. What do you want?"
"Your next book proposal, of course. When do you meet with the Freak?" Sally's voice dripped with disdain on the last word and Greg rolled his eyes. Her dislike of Sherlock was well-known around the publishing office after he deduced her affair with the married assistant in another department.
"I don't know. I'll text him later. Don't know if I'll be able to leave without getting smothered for the next week, though." Greg craned his head to see out the window, looking at the people hovered at the end of his driveway in front of the gate.
"Oh, they'll leave eventually," Sally crooned, her voice falsely reassuring. "Or you'll do something interesting and they'll be all over you again."
"You mean like exist?" Greg snorted. "I'm going to go for a walk or something."
"Don't forget glasses."
"Like I would. I'm not some naive pop star, Sally." Standing, Greg walked over to the table, where his sunglasses were perched, waiting to be picked up. "G'bye." Hanging up the call, Greg tucked the mobile into his trousers pocket and slipped on the glasses. Although he preferred to work in his pyjamas, when he went out he wore casual, nondescript clothing. Jeans and some kind of loose, forgettable shirt.
Slipping out the secret door he reserved for these occasions, he shuffled off. Learning how to be nondescript and escape attention was something any popular figure mastered quickly. It didn't always last long (eventually the paparazzi figured out who he was) but it would allow him an hour or two of peace. Pulling out his phone, he sent a text to Sherlock. 'Anything new? - GL' Slipping the mobile back in his pocket, he continued on his way. Although he wasn't able to get out often, he enjoyed going to the local park and spending some time in its quiet surroundings. It was one place the paparazzi generally didn't breech.
Lost in his thoughts, Greg didn't notice the sleek, unmarked black car idling by the pavement. It continued forward, drawing even with his movements. Greg stopped after about three metres and frowned. Slowly the window rolled itself down, and a dark-haired, attractive (if you liked women, which Greg didn't - not after his ex-wife, anyway), leggy woman sat staring at a phone held in her hand. "Hello," she said, her voice bored. He paused for a second, and then continued walking. Paparazzi he could handle. Cars stalking him? Not so much. Although this definitely wasn't a typical paparazzi. For one, the woman was too bored and not nearly interested enough in Greg. This was something entirely new.
His mobile pinged and he jumped. In any other creature, the noise the woman could have been termed a snort. It just didn't seem right for her. 'Get in the bloody car. SH' Greg sighed. What had Sherlock gotten up to this time? However, Greg needed the bloody wanker for his intelligence and his ability to help Greg with plot holes when his novel took a turn for the unexpected. Sherlock had not steered him wrong before, so reluctantly Greg opened the door and sat inside, ignoring the smirk the woman shot his way.
'You didn't get involved in the mafia or something, did you? GL' Greg's mind was working furiously. It would very much be part of Sherlock's nature to end up involved with some type of organized crime. Although if Greg was being kidnapped, it was so far a very nice kidnapping. Paparazzi free. He thought he could possibly get used to such a thing. "You wouldn't happen to be able to tell me where we're going, would you?" The brunette rolled her eyes and shook her head, and Greg decided to enjoy the ride while he could and relaxed into the seat, watching the city go by as the car drove. If he was going to die, hopefully it'd be over quickly. Otherwise he needed to get back to either the park or his apartment. Preferably the park.
'Boring. SH' Greg rolled his eyes at the text. Everything was boring to Sherlock, with the exception of some particularly devious murders. Which was good news for Greg, at least. The more complex the better, and Sherlock was a vast resource of crimes and criminal behavior. Greg's fingers tapped nervously on his knees and he stared out the window. The car slowed to a halt in front of a rather dingy looking warehouse. Greg was pleased to see the first building he'd been to in ages without any paparazzi lurking around outside.
"Go inside now." The brunette looked up from her mobile and looked pointedly towards the entrance. Greg nodded and sauntering into the warehouse. His mind was conjuring various scenarios, from a serial killer (but a stylish one) to an overzealous fan. This was the first non-scripted suspenseful moment he had encountered - well, except that one truly exceptional time with that one truly determined stalker and why was he thinking about that now when he was going into this creepy building on the advice of one completely insane Sherlock Holmes? Shaking the spare thoughts from his head, he forced himself to focus. He continued down the hallway.
"Ahh, Gregory Lestrade." The voice sent chills down Greg's spine and he looked up. All he saw was a posh bloke in a suit that probably cost as much as his relatively expensive flat did in a month. The man was tall - taller than him by a couple inches - and lean. He was like one long line from his head - auburn hair, slightly thinning - to his toes. Piercing blue eyes bored into Greg's. He wondered if they could read his mind.
"Are you part of the mafia?" Greg asked before he could stop himself. A slight smile twisted on the other man's face and he leaned on the umbrella held in his right hand.
"No, of course not. Nothing as…plebeian as the mafia." The other man seemed amused at such an idea. Greg leaned back against the wall, attempting to appear unconcerned about his kidnapping. There were no guns, no cameras – really, the warehouse seemed to have been selected as the site due to its ability to be discrete.
"So, what can I do for you? I'm guessing you had me kidnapped for a reason, or you just like borrowing people off the streets in the middle of the day. Better not keep me long, or my agent will have a stroke." Greg smiled his cheeky grin, imagining Sally's reaction to her star author simply disappearing. As if summoned, his phone went off. 'Where the bloody hell are you? Are you with the Freak?' Greg read the text and resisted the urge to roll his eyes, tucking the phone back in his pocket as he did so.
"You came voluntarily, Mr. Lestrade." The man's smile was plastered so firmly on his face that Greg was convinced if he poked the expression, it would be made out of plastic. Greg fought to stop the giggle that wanted to escape from his lips. He watched the other man's eyes narrow slightly as if reading his thoughts, and Greg forced a casual, unaffected look back on his face.
"Voluntarily. Sure." Greg rolled his eyes. Being followed by the car for a block, Sherlock's texts - something was off. However, Greg did enjoy a bit of excitement in his life. Maybe things were getting boring. It was almost like being on TV again. If he had to admit it to anyone, he'd admit it to himself - he did miss acting, if only a little. There was something exhilarating about seeing a character you loved come to life. Or hated. There were some of his film credits that he didn't watch much anymore. Hell, he didn't watch like anything of his, and he wasn't the only actor he knew that did that.
"I'm curious as to the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes." The man's voice was crisp and ice-cold. Greg snorted.
"Why? What do you want to know?" Greg watched as the auburn-haired man twirled the umbrella in his hand before resting its tip against the concrete floor. He took the time to visibly relax, leaning against the wall and appearing nonchalant. If he was going to be kidnapped, held prisoner, and asked random questions, he might as well enjoy the freedom from the outside world for a bit. Besides, he could definitely use it in his next novel. Bad guy kidnaps detective for interrogation. A laugh escaped Greg's lips and he froze, watching the other man's eyebrows rise a slight amount. Greg forced a smile. "Sorry."
"I want to know where the ideas for your last novel came from." The ice-blue eyes narrowed slightly and Greg's body language stiffened in response.
"Is that a threat?" he inquired mildly. "Besides, I don't even know who you are. I'm pretty sure my agent and publisher would kill me if I divulged some of that information. Sherlock certainly would."
The taller man smirked just a bit - Greg could see it starting at the corner of his lips. "So Sherlock is your informant, then."
"Possibly." Greg scuffed his shoe, seemingly uninterested in the conversation. It was a verbal sparring match, and it was delightful. "Your name, good sir?" The taller man inclined his head – Greg figured that it was how he showed surprise. His eyes narrowed and the focus Greg was under became even more intense. The scrutiny made Greg itch, but he forced himself to hold still.
"Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes." The man tasted the words as he said them, grimacing as if they were not to his taste. So it wasn't information he gave up often, then.
"Are you related to Sherlock?" Greg asked, his voice mildly deceptive as if the information wasn't important to him at all. The smug look came back on the other man's face and Greg swore inside. Apparently this man - Mycroft, Greg told himself - was as good at reading people as his relative. Sherlock had relatives? Inwardly, Greg cringed at the mental picture, and then stifled a laugh. Attempting to picture such a household made Greg want to laugh further. He straightened up and shoved the thoughts back again.
"I'm his older brother." Greg absorbed this tidbit of information while he examined his nails, looking as if he had all the time in the world.
"And? If you want to know about him, or rather, my relationship with him, why don't you ask him?" He looked up and met Mycroft's gaze solidly with his own. If he was going to play the game of intimidation, Greg was going to win. He'd learned from the best, after all. When filming his detective show Greg had spent more time with real detectives than he had with the other actors.
"Do you have an older brother, Mr. Lestrade?" He leaned on the umbrella for support, his eyes boring into the older man. "Ah, no. I see you don't." Greg felt his eyebrows quirk slightly. "You're also single, live alone, and prone to isolating yourself for long periods of writing. Well, except for the cat," Mycroft amended.
"Are you sure about the cat?" Greg tilted himself forward, smiling slightly. He saw a slight shift in Mycroft's face before it tightened back into the fake smile, guarding any and all of his emotions that he might want to display.
"I assure you, Mr. Lestrade. I'm sure. The small hairs on your shirt sleeve indicate a cat - a tabby, short haired, calico in colour. Most likely yours. Possibly an acquaintance's, but since you live alone, that kind of intimate acquaintance is unlikely. Your clothing is tidy. Casual and nondescript, designed to hide from the paparazzi. Since you are a novelist and work at home, it's unlikely you dress up to write at your desk. Your body language is casual. Possibly you write in your pyjamas. Thus, you were dressing comfortably for a walk around the park, as indicated by the direction you were walking in." Mycroft tilted his head, his gaze cocky.
Greg threw a smirk at the man. "Close. The cat's not mine - he stays at Sally's office. Was there yesterday." The two stood in silence for a few moments. Greg watched Mycroft intently. It didn't look like he was going to end up dead from this encounter. That was a positive. Mycroft appeared to be staring at him as if he was a bug that would not fit properly under the microscope. Greg adored it. He loved being able to ruffle the tightly-wound feathers of the intense posh blokes. This one, he felt, was probably one of the most difficult to crack. He was the Ice Man.
Greg didn't flinch when his phone beeped, although he saw Mycroft's gaze narrow. Completely ignoring Mycroft for the moment, he pulled out his phone and opened the appropriate app. He almost laughed when he saw the text. 'If my boring brother is done kidnapping you, I have some case files you want. If he's not done, come anyway. SH'
Mycroft sighed. "He did always have a flair for the dramatic, Sherlock." Greg couldn't bite back a laugh as he used the hand holding the mobile to gesture to the abandoned warehouse. The corner of Mycroft's lips curved up in the ghost of a smile. Greg snorted, watching Mycroft adjust his grip on his umbrella. "We will meet again, Mr. Lestrade."
"Greg," the silver-haired man offered. If he was going to get kidnapped on a regular basis, he might as well be friendly with his kidnapper. It made things a lot less awkward. Maybe next time they would meet somewhere else. Although the abandoned warehouse certainly had its appeal. Mycroft examined him closely, eyes intent. Greg grinned cheerfully back. He had avoided answering really anything that had been asked and had thrown Mr. Fancy Pants for the loop. It'd been a delightful verbal match and he was just about ready to get back to the work he was supposed to be doing.
"Gregory." Mycroft inclined his head, twirling the umbrella as he turned around and walked off. Greg watched him go, torn between amusement and disbelief. What had just happened? Carefully he replayed the whole situation in his head. Had he been - flirting? With the Ice Man?
"This way." Brunette appeared at the entranceway, her focus on the mobile phone held in her hand.
"I don't suppose you'd give me your name, would you?" Greg flashed her his most winning smile. The woman stared at him, her gaze remarkably similar to Mycroft's. Greg wondered if it was a side effect of working with the other man for so long.
"You may call me…Anthea," she said.
"Is that your real name?" Greg asked, walking out to the unmarked car and getting in without a fuss. She merely looked at him and raised an eyebrow before returning her attention to the phone. "Well, yes, I suppose that was a dumb question." Anthea didn't even pretend to roll her eyes at him that time, instead tapping furiously away at the delicate keys.
The drive back to Greg's back door was silent and uneventful, Greg staring out the window as Anthea steadily ignored him. He was dropped off where they had picked up him. It was not long before he was back in his home. He was thankful that Anthea had avoided dropping him at his front door - he couldn't even fathom what would have happened if he had been dropped off at his front door in an unmarked black car with an attractive woman in it. The thought made him cringe.
"Well that was interesting," he said to no one. Walking over to the window, he glanced outside and was relieved to see far fewer paparazzi than he had that morning. Flipping on the news, he discovered why. Some popular young starlet had wrecked a car or something ridiculous about twenty minutes away. Hopefully photos of the wreck paid better than photos of him.
'Come if convenient. SH' Greg stared at his phone, chuckling ruefully. Sherlock had perfect timing. His phone buzzed again. 'If inconvenient SH' Greg raised his eyebrows at the half-finished text. That was unusual for Sherlock. His phone buzzed for a third time, and this time Greg rolled his eyes before opening the text. 'Sorry. Took his phone. If you're free, we should get a drink. I can chain him to the wall. JW' The mental image sprang unbidden to his mind, although it was easily banished. It wasn't the first time that Greg had realized he did not want to know the true nature of John's relationship with Sherlock. He doubted it would be the last.
'Heading your way. Meet at the usual place? GL' John's confirmation came moments later, and for the second time in a day Greg found himself slipping out his secret exit incognito. The walk was a short one, the location familiar to both parties. It was a club that catered solely to the exclusive - the Diogenes. Greg had to pay an arm and a leg to maintain his membership, but it was worth it. For one, it kept him in contact with John and his tall, leggy stalker. Although the rules of the joint were strict, they also allowed for absolute privacy, something Greg rarely enjoyed. No paparazzi would follow him around, shouting at him and snapping photos. Here, speech was expressly forbidden in more locations than it was allowed, and royalty and the high income intermingled.
It didn't take Greg long to spot Sherlock standing in a corner, a sullen look on his face. John was in front of him, his darker blue eyes stern and his arms crossed in front of his chest. The two seemed to be having a conversation that solely involved eyebrow movements, as Greg watched as eyebrows went up and down in turn, eyes being added for extra effect. He snorted silently. Pausing, he reviewed his encounter with Mycroft earlier in the day, looking for any sort of familial resemblance between him and Sherlock. Greg wasn't able to come up with any, having spent the better part of two minutes looking Sherlock up and down. He was thankful that he was not in public, because only God knew what the tabloids would make of him standing and staring at another man.
John looked over Sherlock's shoulder, his face breaking out into his expressive smile when he caught sight of Greg. Shooting Sherlock a glare so rapidly that Greg could have sworn it didn't happen, John gestured for Greg to come over. Greg walked over just as Sherlock strode off officiously. John rolled his eyes and followed, waiting for Greg go before he continued into one of the rooms they would be able to commander for their conversation.
John bolted the door behind them, making sure it was locked securely before he sat down at the comfortable table. "Been a while, Greg! How are things?" He reached out and shook Greg's hand, a pleasant smile on his face.
"Sally told me I'm on the best seller's list again." Greg rolled his eyes, startling a chuckle out of John. "The bloody paparazzi won't leave me alone."
"How'd you manage to sneak out here, then?" John relaxed against the back of the chair, lounging. The corner of his eyes crinkled as he looked at Sherlock. The tall man had his long limbs practically dangling off the edges of the comfortable armchair he was in, obviously bored by the small talk.
"Believe it or not, my house has a hidden exit -"
"Out through the second bedroom on the right side. Exits above the gated garden. Boring." Sherlock huffed and sank farther into the chair when John rolled his eyes. "What did my brother want?"
"So he is your brother, then?" Greg shifted slightly in his chair, avoiding John's curious glance. "You two look nothing alike." John snorted at this. Greg shrugged. "They don't."
"You're avoiding the question. Interesting." Sherlock's icy eyes narrowed and Greg resisted the impulse to roll his eyes.
"There's avoiding the question and there's stating a fact. I was doing the latter, Sherlock." Greg settled further into his armchair, rolling his eyes as Sherlock snorted. "What do you want?" Sherlock's body had changed - this was his focused face. His body was relaxed, elbows on the arms of the chair with his fingers steepled under his chin. Sherlock's eyes were piercing, like they could see all that Greg kept hidden
The sad thing was that the sod probably could. Sherlock read people like books, no matter what they attempted to hide. It was a rather depressing thought. "He asked me about you, is all. Oh, and the idea for my last novel," he shrugged, slumping back in the chair as he did so. "Relatively harmless."
"And?" Sherlock prompted.
"And?" Greg shot back.
"You lower the IQ of the whole room when you resort to repetition, Lestrade." Sherlock shook his head minutely and leaned back, seemingly satisfied by what he had saw. Greg shot a somewhat pleading glance at John. The bastard sat there grinning smugly at Sherlock. Once Greg was safe and away from the Holmes of the world, he was going to take John down to a bar and punch him for looking so smug when Greg wanted to run away. It wasn't right.
"Good thing it's only you and John, eh?"
"Oi!" John protested. Sherlock smirked.
"How'd you know he was meeting me, anyway?" Greg blinked, the thought not having occurred to him.
"I was hacking the security camera feeds. Obviously." Sherlock shrugged as if it was obvious. To him, it was. What was a little cyber stalking between friends, right?
"Bit not good." John's voice was quiet, a reminder between the two, and Greg's eyes flicked between the two briefly before deciding it was another thing that fell in the realm of Did Not Want To Know. Soon that particular estate would need a whole new wing.
"You have some new material for me?" Greg settled back in his chair, steepling his own fingers under his chin. In his haste to leave he had left his notepad at home, but Sherlock didn't need to know that. Not that he really thought it had escaped Sherlock's attention. That thought was confirmed when John handed over a large legal pad with Greg's favorite type of pen resting on the tab at the top. "Thanks," he murmured to John, rough fingers smoothing over the crinkly newness of the unmarked paper. He loved opening new legal pads - or reams of paper - anything. It was ridiculous and something he shared with precious few, but it was true.
The next few hours passed so fast that when Greg left the Diogenes, his head was still spinning with the details of the cases Sherlock had thrown at him. The deductions were superb and the cases tight-knit and fascinating, with several plot twists that had left Greg wanting more. Few believed the cases in his novel actually had basis in fact. Even fewer knew that there was a single person who was the source of his ideas.
In a way, Greg loved Sherlock Holmes. The man was absolutely, utterly brilliant. If Greg had to be absolutely shallow, he was also fantastic looking in a leggy, cheekbone sort of way. However, an absolute lack of social skills (and a persistent blonde blogger) quickly and happily put to rest any sort of attraction Greg might have ever harbored for the man. Mycroft, though. Greg pondered this thought momentarily. The walk back to his flat was short and it wasn't long before he was back inside, his thoughts still firmly on the other man.
Mycroft was most definitely his type. Taller than he was. Handsome in a classic sort of way, not conventionally so. A tall, lithe frame, exuding power and confidence and charisma that even the bravest person seemed to lack. The icy demeanor that couldn't seem to sink its hooks into Greg - how everything Mycroft had tried had not succeeded. Greg grinned at the thought. Conventional looks were not what he desired. The raw power that Mycroft exuded, however, was almost as deadly as sex appeal. Worst case, he mused, it most definitely wouldn't be a bad idea to run into him again. Maybe next time Greg could have a surprise for him.
Greg sat down in front of his laptop, typing up the notes that he had recorded from his meeting with Sherlock and John while the ideas were still fresh in his mind. The more he remembered, the more likely he'd be able to utilise all of the details he had been given. None of his stories were completely based on what Sherlock told him - Greg was an author, after all. And a good one, despite all of his attempts otherwise.
Greg thought for a few seconds before pulling up an Internet window and opening it to a search engine. Typing 'Mycroft Holmes' into it gave him a few results relating to Sherlock - although no mention of them being brothers - and very little else. Greg tapped his fingers against his chest. There was something about Mycroft that he couldn't ignore, something that seemed to draw him to the other man. It was the first time in a while he had even considered dating. After his wife of three years left him for another man, Greg had counted himself out of the game.
Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, Greg sent his outline to the printer. It was time to start marking things up the old fashioned way. Sherlock could provide the notes - the crimes, the inspiration. It was Greg's job to pull it all together in a way that made sense to normal people. John provided the bits that Sherlock couldn't, and Greg tied them together into an elegant, surprising storyline.
Sending a rapid text to Sally, indicating the success of his meeting with Sherlock, Greg got up and grabbed his outlining clipboard. He pulled the printed papers from the printer and settled down, a pen held loosely in his dominant hand.
It wasn't long before Greg got a crick in his neck. Standing up, he set the outline down next to him and walked to his bedroom, trading slightly more professional wear for a pair of beaten cotton pyjamas - Greg's favorite, and his designated outlining clothes. It was a matter of moments before he was settled back down on his couch, the outline on his lap. The tip of the pen was in his mouth and he chewed on it, pondering the plot point he was stuck on.
There was a knock at his door. Greg looked up, still absentmindedly worrying the tip of the pen between his lips. No one ever knocked on his door. Sally had long passed the knocking stage - well, she would still knock, but she would barge in - and no one else ever came as far as his door. That's what security was for. Setting aside his outline, and conscious of the fact that he was in his pyjamas, Greg walked to the door.
He glanced through the peephole and froze. On the other side was - was Mycroft. Dressed in a three piece suit. Greg looked down at his tattered pyjamas and then back up at the peephole. He watched as Mycroft checked his watch, sighed, and rang the doorbell again.
"I know you're in there." Greg jumped as Mycroft's voice came floating through the thin barrier of the door.
"Isn't that a bit stalkerish?" he asked, deciding to open the door. Greg stood there with it half open, staring at Mycroft. He had changed. This suit was a pale navy, the tie an elegantly styled light blue, flecked with a variety of contrasting colours that suited the overall look. The umbrella was dangling from Mycroft's right hand - why did one need an umbrella in dry weather, anyway?
"I do not do 'stalkerish', Gregory." Carefully Mycroft walked inside. Greg shut the door behind him, feeling almost chided. It was a strange feeling, especially in his own home.
"I'd ask how you knew where I lived," he started, running a hand through his hair, "but I doubt I'd really like the answer." The contrast between their appearances - his casual and relaxed, and Mycroft's straight-backed professionalism - was enough to make Greg wonder why changing into pyjamas was a good idea in the first place. Especially if he had to plan for attractive posh blokes randomly appearing at the door to his flat.
Mycroft looked just the slightest bit smug at Greg's comment. If he was a bird, Greg would have thought to see him preen at the statement. "I hold a minor position in the British government," he said. "Nothing important."
Greg rose an eyebrow and took a half-step back, crossing his arms. He tilted his head, throwing a cocky smile at the slightly taller man. "I might not be a Holmes, but I do know that a 'minor position' wouldn't come with posh black cars and assistants that look like super models that kidnap famous people off the street in the middle of the day." A flash of confusion mixed with irritation was visible for a brief moment on Mycroft's face.
Greg continued, his voice bland. "And neither would said minor official work random hours of the day."
"Sherlock." Mycroft sighed, tapping the umbrella gently against the hardwood floors that made up the majority of Greg's flat. "My little brother never was good at keeping his mouth shut. Frightfully dangerous, sometimes, trusting him with secrets."
"Makes me wonder what secrets he knows." Greg padded farther into the flat, going to the kitchen. "Tea?" The British solution to everything.
"Please." Mycroft walked over to the couch and picked up the outline Greg had been working on, reading over the notes. Greg stole a couple glances over his shoulder once he had poured the boiling water into the mugs and the tea leaves were steeping. It was nothing fancy, probably not up to Mycroft's standards, but going through the motions was something Greg enjoyed. Even if he wasn't really fond of tea. Picking up the mugs, he walked over to the table and plucked the notes out of Mycroft's hands after setting the drinks on the table. Mycroft frowned, displeasure flickering across his face.
Although Mycroft was intimidating and wore power like others wore clothes, it didn't bother Greg. For some reason, it was oddly easy to be casual around a man dressed to impress. Mycroft could intimidate everyone else with a single glance. Greg would give it right back. Well, most of it back. He bet there were several things that Mycroft could do that even as an extremely influential public figure, Greg could get nowhere near.
"You met with him today." Mycroft sipped the tea from the mug, his sharp eyes focused intently on Greg's face. It was a bit uncomfortable, all that deducing ability directed towards him. Sherlock always jumped from topic to topic, only tangentially connected by logic. It was overwhelming for most people. Even Greg and John, who could claim the most time spent tolerably in Sherlock's company, still had trouble following some of the larger logic leaps he would make when he felt particularly inspired. That was, in the storytelling, when it fell to John to explain how Sherlock had come to conclusions that had originally left both of them baffled.
"Yes." Greg sipped his own tea, staring pleasantly right back. Mycroft's left eyebrow rose just a bit. It would have barely been discernible had Greg not been intently studying the man's face for any shift in expression. For once, Greg was thankful for Sherlock. For all that they were different, the two Holmes brothers seemed to share various tells in their facial movements. Although Sherlock's were vastly more aggravated and easier to spot, Greg had a good idea of where to look for facial movements relating to sarcasm and the 'oh you peasant' looks the Holmes brothers seem to have perfected.
Mycroft settled back in his chair, sipping the tea politely, not breaking eye contact. Greg refused to be intimidated and stared back, drinking his beverage. He doubted Mycroft had spent this much time in anyone's company without them freaking out over something. He seemed to be one that inspired fear in normal people. His staff excluded, he amended, thinking of the brunette woman's strange, disconnected behavior in the car
It was a casual, comfortable silence - at least on Greg's part. While Greg hadn't assumed that Mycroft would show up at his home, he had figured that the warehouse would not be the only time he would encounter the mysterious man. Mycroft didn't seem the sort to give up on what he wanted, whether it was information or a person. Sherlock had never been someone for relationships, but he had sank his hooks into his blogger and refused to let him go. John rarely left the flat without Sherlock anymore (except on the constant grocery shopping trips that came along with having Sherlock as a flatmate). The man seemed to destroy anything in his vicinity with his experiments.
Greg took advantage of the silence to give Mycroft a closer look-over. Although the table still obscured parts of his body, Greg was able to discern a few more details that he hadn't seen the last time he met. For one, Mycroft wore a wedding ring on the right finger, yet the wrong hand. Sentiment, Greg thought, likely a family member's, probably a father's, passed down to the eldest son. He was professionally dressed, yet the hands cupped around the tea were soft - no calluses. Dressed well, likely not done any hard, physical work in quite some time. The eyes were sharp - high intelligence. Greg snorted. Wouldn't expect anything else from the eldest of the Holmes brothers.
Letting a slight smile tug at his lips, Greg shifted his body language, sinking back in the chair. He had picked up quite a bit from working so closely with Sherlock these past few years. "Not married, I see." He took a sip of his tea, grimacing at the taste and how cold it was. "You seriously like this crap, though?" Mycroft's eyes widened imperceptibly and Greg hid a grin. He doubted this conversation was going anywhere near where Mycroft originally planned it to. Although he did wonder why Mycroft was so quiet. He had had no difficulty talking during their encounter in the warehouse.
Getting up, Greg walked over to the counter and pulled out his espresso machine. He could feel Mycroft's eyes on him. "Why are you here?" he asked conversationally, tapping down the coffee grounds before turning it on. Most of his focus was on the attractive man sitting at his table. The man who had, hours previously, commandeered a government car to pick him up while he walked to the park and shuffle him off to a random warehouse for a secret meeting. Most people would consider that stalking behavior. Thankfully, Gregory Lestrade was not most people.
Mycroft tilted his head so that he could look down his long nose at Greg. "To talk about Sherlock. The case your novel is based off of." His posture had shifted just a bit, Greg noted. His guard was up, a reaction from Greg's questioning and casual posture. Greg had disarmed him. Inordinately pleased with that, he let the espresso maker do its magic and turned around to face him, his eyes warm and a smile on his face.
"And that's a problem how?" He shifted briefly to assemble his desired cup of coffee - just a bit of milk and a packet of sugar - before putting his hands around the sturdy mug and walking back to sit across from the politician, taking a sip as he did so. He exhaled slowly in pleasure. His father had taught him well.
"Classified information, I'm afraid." Mycroft's hands left the cup on the table to smooth down his suit lapels and Greg cocked an eyebrow. His hands seemed steadier when moving - a nervous habit, possibly. At this rate, Greg was going to have to buy Sherlock something as a gift in exchange for what'd he picked up listening to him. It was vastly less powerful than Sherlock's all-knowing deductive skills, but it was something.
"Yet obviously not classified enough to be kept away from Sherlock," Greg pointed out.
Mycroft looked like he had swallowed a sour lemon at the thought. "It is relatively difficult to keep anything away from Sherlock, Gregory." Greg snorted in agreement, sipping more of his coffee. It had cooled to the perfect temperature. Warm enough to tolerate but still hot enough to burn a little on the way down. "Regardless, I should require any materials you have with confidential information on them."
Greg smiled over his cup. "A ruddy useless precaution and you know it, Mycroft." For a split second Greg could have sworn that there was shock muddled by irritation on Mycroft's face. "I'll just re-write the notes after you leave. Or just have Sherlock nick them." The auburn-haired man's eyes narrowed slightly and Greg merely stared back, his expression as innocent as could be. "I'll modify it and you know it. Someone tipped you off - someone smart enough to put the pieces together, or someone who already knew the pieces. You don't seem the type to read anything I write, nor your leggy assistant. Sherlock tipped you off somehow. Possibly without knowing it."
Mycroft put the tea down and stood, his umbrella over his arm. "Impressive, Mr. Lestrade."
"Oh, back to Mr. Lestrade, am I?" Greg stood in return. His smile was friendly. Disarming. So cheerful he feared he could cure cancer with it. Mycroft stared at him like he was a bug that had trundled off of his microscope and could-he-please-just-go-back-and-sit-there-and-sto p-being-so-strange? It was a delightful, heady feeling, and Greg feared he was addicted already. He didn't normally go for posh blokes, but the way Mycroft wore power like it was twined in his clothing was undeniably sexy.
Mycroft narrowed his eyes, his hand now on the doorknob. "Gregory." It was a threat and a warning at the same time. Greg grinned wider, all disarming and smiles. With a flourish of the umbrella, Mycroft was out his door. Greg went to the window and was startled to see his driveway completely empty, no paparazzi in sight. There was simply a black car idling at the curb. He watched as Mycroft got in the car and it drove off.
Turning away from the window, Greg picked up his legal pad and walked back to the couch. He flipped through the pages of his outline next to him, filling in points that he had not previously explored. It was going to be a long night. Not only did he have to finish the plot, but the addition of Mycroft Holmes had added some - not previously explored dimensions. Greg grinned. It was going to be an interesting outline and an even more interesting night.