Title: "Part of the Job"
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
TV Show: BBC Sherlock
Word Count: ~1,900
Rating: PG-13

A/N: This actually came to me late at night. Well, the idea's been with me for a week now, but the ending came to me late at night.

I won't be surprised if you guys cry, because it broke my heart writing it, and then a certain part of it made me to just bawl. Well. I'm too invested in my writing sometimes.

If you'd like to leave me a review, please do! Also! If you want to critique me, but you don't think I read reviews (PFF I READ THEM ALL), PLEASE send me a message on my tumblr. My username on there is RockinJanelle, cause I'm creative, so just find my ask and voila! You can also send me prompts. I have a few on my plate right now, but if you want a story done, I've been told my writing is pretty good, and I've been "hired" to write stories for people.

So! Go right ahead. (I do: Johnlock, Mystrade, and I'm just starting to do Sherlock/Moriarty and Moriarty/Molly, so...keep that in mind)

Enjoy!

x x x x x x x x x x x x x

Mycroft never told his biggest secret: his job in the government. He never told a soul. When he was hired, he was hired on one condition: "You speak a word to anyone about your work, you will be terminated." So a soul had never known his title. But it ate at him throughout the night, made him insane, made his voice hate the thoughts running through his head. He never held a minor role in the British government, even that was all a lie. Sherlock thinks he is the head of the government, but that day will soon be true. No, his secret, his one big secret, was being an assassin.

The only other person that knew this was his assistant, who never spoke a word to anyone anyway. It was the perfect match for the two of them, both of them living in secrecy. They would have meetings with diplomats, but those meetings were held behind doors, never seeing the light of day. Some diplomats would never see it, either.

Some days were easier than others. He would go out, search the town, take part in investigating his kill, then some days later, their body would be found by the police. It would never see the news, the body would be shipped to the families (if they had any, but most of the time there was nothing to show), and no one would ask questions. The deed would be done, life would move on.

Other days, they were tough.

Mycroft stood at his desk, staring down at some of the files and pictures of people that were decease. He must've racked over two thousand deaths now, easily. He hardly remembered them: who were they? What did they do for a living? Did their families weep when the body was discovered? Some days, he wished he could stop doing what he did. But life wasn't too easy. Mycroft heard a knock at the door. "Enter," he called out. Turning from his desk, he sees another government official enter the room. The door closes, another file in hand.

"End of the day," he replied. Mycroft couldn't tell you his name—it wasn't secretive, he just didn't know the person. Government officials commonly died, unless they were careful. And Mycroft was very careful. Mycroft held out his hand and took the smooth folder. It felt heavy, but there was only a picture and one sliver of paper inside. He looked at the cover. It always said the same thing: nothing. There was never anything on the top of these files, just a blank cover so the rest of the world would forget.

Mycroft leaned against the desk. "Any other details I must know?" The man stood at attention in front of him, but said nothing. It was usually the case. Mycroft didn't want to open the file, but had no choice. He let his finger slide between the two sides and opened the file. The picture slipped from inside, fluttering to the ground. He leaned forward to pick it up, but the man was first.

"Allow me, sir," he whispered. Mycroft looked at the upside-down picture. A blank sheet—how kind. The man's fingers delicately picked the picture up, never looking at who was there (it was protocol that no other person but the higher authority and Mycroft could see who was being taken out), and held it out to Mycroft. He took the picture, feeling the waxy material stick to his fingers. He gave a small smile to the man, casually thanking him as he flipped the picture over.

Mycroft looked up at the man. "This is not possible. You have given me the wrong file." The man shook his head.

"Negative, sir, for it was given to me by the higher-ups to give to you personally."

Mycroft looked back down at the picture. Calmly, he flipped the file open and scanned the paper. "Offense: Killing a government official."

Who, though? And why was he killed? "How long do I have?" He whispered. The man repeated his words.

"End of the day," Christ, he thought. Why was he killing someone so soon? His thoughts were rampant, but it was not the time to be panicked. It was never the time to be panicked, never once would he crumble. Mycroft nodded; the man left the room. Anthea slipped past the man before the door had closed, but Mycroft was too focused on the file.

This day would be tough. "Anthea," he whispered. She looked up from her Blackberry, her face distorted to concern.

"Sir?" Mycroft wished to tell her the details, but he held out the picture instead. She looked down, then back at him, understanding. "What actions will you take?"

Not a word was spoken.

x x x

Late at night, he could hear the sirens in the distance bounce through the walls and back into the open air outside. The street lights silently buzzed, creating the majestic shadows creeping through the cracks of time. The world was hushed, waiting on their tiptoes on the ground that was to shake at any moment. Meanwhile, the stars above cowered behind the clouds to sparkle another night, one that would sing to the angels.

Mycroft glanced at his partner beside him in the bed. The man he loved, the man he cherished and would cherish for years to come, sleeping peacefully next to him. Mycroft would love to share all the secrets in the world with this man, but the rest would be history. The stars would never see the night sky again. He turned his head away and looked down at the pistol resting on the nightstand. Mycroft insisted his job was dangerous enough to keep a gun by his side at all times.

He felt Lestrade next to him move, but lightly snoring. Mycroft felt his fingers creep toward the rusted metal resting on the oak table, the cold metal shivering through his bones. The minutes ticked away, the seconds rapidly coursing through his brain. Now or never, he thought.

Mycroft grasped the gun around his slender fingers, feeling the heavy item weigh him down. Now or never. He turned back to Lestrade, frowning all the more. He wished he knew, how Lestrade was kept in the shadows though.

Mycroft snaked his way from the blankets, shared by two people who begged for more in this bed, cried for mercy in this bed, slept their dreams away in the same bed. He felt his feet skate across the ground, his hands holding the pistol, his eyes searching the shadows. They all called out to him, these demons of the night. Kill, they said. All you have to do is kill, then you are one of us. Mycroft rose from the bed and turned to Lestrade, the gun pointing at his sleeping body.

"Have you ever killed a man, Gregory?" Mycroft had asked earlier in the night, over dinner. Lestrade swallowed the pasta in his mouth, wondering. Grimacing, he nodded.

"Once," he replied. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, Lestrade continued. "the man took one of my men as a hostage during a robbery, and I had no choice. Quick and clean, as they told me that night. Apparently, the man I shot was part of the government, though, but they said there'd be no investigation. It was messy for a while, but it's been years since it's happened. Why do you ask?"

Mycroft slightly shrugged. "I have been thinking about those I have killed, and had wondered about you," Lestrade nodded.

"Well, you know, if you want to talk about it-"

Mycroft shook his head. "What is done is done. There's no reason to dwell on the past when there is nothing you can do." Lestrade took another bite of the pasta, Mycroft watching him eat in solidarity. "Good pasta, I hope?" Lestrade just smiled with food in his mouth.

"You know how to get to my heart, always," and Mycroft smiled, forgetting the world he had lived in for a brief moment.

Mycroft pulled the safety back. His hands were trembling a little, his eyes darting back and forth between the gun in his hand and the man on the bed. What was right? Was killing another life trying to save another really worth the trouble? Mycroft looked at the sleeping face on the bed, seeing nothing coming. Why did they choose Lestrade, out of all those that deserved to die? Why?

Lestrade suddenly jerked in his sleep, reaching out to where Mycroft had lied before. He slid his hand over the empty air, the sheets moving with his movements. As Mycroft watched his eyes flutter, Mycroft took action and reached out to Lestrade with his free hand. Lestrade had started to mumble in his sleep, as Mycroft slowly crept back into the bed. "Mycroft," he mumbled, snuggling closer to his partner. Mycroft felt the tears in his eyes. A small groan came from his throat, followed by a light snore.

Mycroft let out a small shushing sound, lightly rocking back and forth in the bed. "Do not speak anymore, Gregory," he whispered, "just continue to dream for you and I both. Dream of a world where we're both there, where one of us is not an assassin. Dream for me." A huge weight had lifted off his chest, the secret out to the world that he cared for. Somehow, he wished Lestrade could hear him. Instead, he heard him whisper:

"I love you."

Mycroft slid his fingers between Lestrade's, grasping the hand for dear life. As his left hand held the gun, he slid it under his right arm, holding the gun to Lestrade's temple. He did not wake. Mycroft placed his finger on the trigger, his hand shaking through the pain. He could feel his heart race, his head pound away at the slight silence that caused him horror. Mycroft brought his knees to his chest, the joined hands to his mouth. Closing his eyes, he held onto the hand for all the life he could hold. "I must apologize, for I love you all the more," he whispered, pushing the trigger down.

A silent shot shocked the room. The gun fell to the bed, with a soft thud clinging to the already spreading blood. A small sigh haunted him, the blood surrounding the two bodies. The fingers that held for the life of his lover let go, hanging through the cold wind that spread like wildfire. The rest went limp, rolling into his own body to cling to his nightmares. The shadows of the night kept close their demons, cackling at the work that had been done. Their secret remained safe, at the cost of one losing a life the other one loved. And all the living could do that night was cling to the dead that laid in cold blood, and cry out to the mortals that would not dare listen, because they would never know what had happened in the small room that was once shared by two souls.

The stars did not appear for the rest of the nights that followed.