A/N: So, instead of the Merthur fic we said we might throw your way, we're giving you all a Mystrade! This is actually a fairly recent obsession of ours. It started about September of last year... and we've been secretly writing several little fics pertaining to the two men. For all you Mystrade fans, we hope you enjoy our first... DUN DUN DUN! *add fanfare* feature length Mystrade fic! Seriously... we're over 44K words, and we still need to flesh out a few parts.

The ever wonderful Calabash is showing off her mighty writing prowess as she takes on Gregory Lestrade, everyone's favourite detective inspector, while I, Driffta, try my hand at running the British Government while taking on the role of Mycroft Holmes.

Please be kind. It's our first time!

Warnings: Foul language, sex, silly banter, awkward conversation, and one LONG car ride.

He was walking out of the office when he received the call.

The familiar ringtone sang out, and his jacket pocket buzzed, and for a few precious moments, Greg Lestrade gazed about at his team, hustling to lock up their desk drawers, pull on their coats, laughing and making plans to meet up at a local pub for a few drinks before they returned home to their families. Greg did not have to ask or wonder if he was invited; he had a standing invitation. One of the advantages of not being an arrogant twat was that his men actually liked him. Even Sally had her moments of friendly camaraderie with her boss, and as he gazed longingly at their retreating backs, Greg wished fiercely he was going with them. His phone stopped buzzing. He waited a few seconds, thinking that this time, perhaps, he would be left alone to go back to his cold flat, make a cuppa, order something to eat, have a wank, watch telly, take a shower, and go to bed. But as his large feet moved towards the door again, the phone once more began to vibrate and chirp, and he groaned. No rest for the weary. He pulled the mobile out of his pocket, making his way swiftly out of the building towards his car. "Yeah. I'm just leaving now. Where are you?" He sighed, pausing at the front door of his vehicle. "Well... how bad was it?" he asked softly, fumbling for his keys. "Do they need a hospital? I.. No. No. Yeah, all right, I'll talk to John. I can't take time off right now. No, I can't. I... Yeah. Fine, I'll meet you at your office." He snapped the phone shut, and threw himself in the car with a huff.

Damn, he hated being the first line of defence for Mycroft Holmes! Why the hell he thought Sherlock gave a shit what Greg told him to do was completely beyond the inspector's understanding. It was bad enough before the little doctor came into his life, but now... Hell. Now every time John and Sherlock got into a tiff, and beat each other senseless, Mycroft was on the horn with Lestrade. And now, the pair of volatile lovers were holed up in some wretched hotel in Italy on a case, injured, and not answering their phones. They could be dead; they could be making love like wild rabbits, which was Greg's assumption. Bloody hell. Why hadn't he left Sherlock to the drugs years ago? He tore down the streets of London towards Mycroft's office, his eyes narrow.

Mycroft was waiting for Gregory Lestrade in his office at the Diogenes Club. He was seated, as usual, in the chair behind his desk, finishing a few pressing, last minute tasks before he would be through for the day and, if he was lucky, the entire weekend. His brother, of course, had found himself in a rather desperate situation, and this time Mycroft did not see any other way out of the whole fiasco other than going in himself. He sighed and rubbed his forehead with a weary hand. One more problem he did not need. England was never without its difficulties, and oft times, when things were sailing smoothly it was because something sinister was being plotted. He did NOT need his little brother getting stuck in Italy in the middle of a Mafioso turf war. The man groaned and reached for a half empty glass of port that sat near his elbow. It had been a painfully long day, and Mycroft wanted it to end quickly. Gregory would be here soon, and they could be on their way, and that was a blessing. At least he knew he could count on the man to be efficient and discrete. Mycroft wanted to keep this whole situation away from the public eye as much as possible, though that seemed almost impossible when Sherlock was involved. It was why he had quietly tied up all the loose ends here in London, decided to take his own car rather than hiring one, and opted to drive himself instead of have his usual man do it. It was a 19 hour trip at least, and he wanted to make it through the night. With another resigned sigh, Mycroft took a sip of his drink. Waiting for Gregory to show up.

The inspector did not stop to ask directions to Mycroft's office; he'd done that only once at this club, and had been humiliated and infuriated at the results. Now, he simply marched down the carpeted halls, scowling fiercely the entire way, and he pushed a pair of heavy oak doors open, waiting until they clicked shut behind him before he spoke. "Well? What the hell is so bloody important that I have to come with you, eh?" He grumbled all the way to the padded leather chair, falling into its baby soft, welcoming cushion with a petulant grunt. "Can't you go by yourself?"

Mycroft looked up at the irked man and smiled thinly. "I want to keep this quiet as much as possible." He said pleasantly, folding his hands on the desk. "It is a very long drive, Gregory, and I would rather have someone I trust at my back. Sherlock has got himself in a ticklish situation, and I need to extract him." The elder Holmes brother curled his lip slightly at the complete lack of discretion Sherlock had. "He is in the middle of a turf war, as I told you before, and I need someone who is dependable and knows what to do in a hostile situation. Not to mention you will be able to talk my brother out of his hair brained scheme, or at least talk some sense into Dr Watson. They will listen to you." He added a little bitterly. Yes, he and Sherlock had never been close, but good lord, it wasn't as though he didn't have the petulant brat's best intentions in mind! He loved his little brother and did not want him to come to harm, yet Sherlock resented him and would not listen, no matter how much he asked.

"They DON'T listen to me." Greg leaned forward, clasping his hands between his legs. He stared down the elder Holmes brother, meeting those cold, teal eyes with frankness. "They never have. John... John listens, but he makes his own damned decisions, doesn't he? And if it's between me and your brother, he's going to side with Sherlock every time." Greg shrugged, shaking his head. Mycroft knew all this. When they'd caught the two men undermining an investigation that Greg had been working on for months, had they listened to reason? No. Sherlock went along on his merry way, and John skipped along behind, and true, they'd caught Greg's man, but... but it had been damned unorthodox of them, and they'd nearly been unable to put him away, because the jury wouldn't buy the evidence! Had they listened when Mycroft and Greg insisted they stop shagging behind the coffee shop in broad daylight? They'd been caught on tape, for fuck's sake! No. They hadn't, and they never would. He chuckled a bit, rubbing his temples. He was getting a headache. "I've got the weekend, Mycroft, and that's all I can give you. I have to be back Monday morning, sharp." Greg didn't even know why he agreed to this sort of thing. Maybe it was the perplexed, frustrated look in Mycroft's eye. Greg knew what he did for a living. He knew how stressed and anxious the man got. For once, he wished Sherlock would be considerate, and let them breathe for a while.

Mycroft nodded gratefully and rose to his feet. "That will be more than adequate." He picked up his briefcase and indicated that Gregory should follow him. Walking silently through the long hall, Mycroft contemplated exactly how he would manage to extract his brother from the complicated situation he'd placed himself in. It wouldn't be easy, but Mycroft had almost a day to figure it out. He would think of something. He always did. Stepping out through the doors, Mycroft walked swiftly down the pavement until he reached his car. "We have to make a stop at my house first so that I can pick up my necessities, then we will make sure to get your things as well." He did not turn around to look at the man. He didn't need to because he felt the look of surprise on Gregory's face.

Mycroft's car was a beautiful one. It was black and sleek and leapt at a simple touch. Pure perfection on wheels, yet he did not like to use it for business, which was all he seemed to be able to do these days. Normally he preferred to use a different car, a more expendable one, with a driver. Which was why, he knew, Gregory was so surprised. He unlocked the doors and slid in the driver seat.

Greg did not speak as he got in the passenger seat, and he did not speak on the drive to Mycroft's place. He waited in the car, wondering why it felt as if something were missing from this scenario, as Mycroft Holmes glided in his front door, and returned more minutes later with a small, black satchel. He placed it delicately in the back seat, and without a word, they pulled away, rolling. He laughed out loud, lifting his eyebrows and opening the door. "Must be trouble if Anthea's not even here," he mumbled, turning to trudge up the concrete stairs to his flat.

It took him only five minutes to gather the few things he'd need for the weekend. He grabbed an overnight bag, and tossed in a pair of jeans, a few shirts, shorts, socks, his toiletries, and as he was rifling through his medicine cabinet, looking for his new toothbrush, his hands strayed upon the box of condoms he'd kept in there for ages. Greg blinked at them, glancing at his bag, and he rolled his eyes at his own momentary flash of hope. There was no way in hell he'd have a few moments to himself to seduce some raven haired Italian beauty. Not that he'd be able to with the likes of Sherlock fucking Holmes walking about with his cheekbones and his coat and his curly hair and his arrogant smile. Damn him. Greg shoved the condoms back in the cabinet, and he clattered down the stairs again, sighing as he let himself in the car. "All right. Let's go. My rent's due, and I don't have it. Drive before they see me."

Mycroft nodded and took off, making a mental note to pay Gregory's rent. It was the least he could do.

After three hours of driving, Mycroft looked at the clock and then at his companion. It was past 9 o'clock. "Are you hungry?" He asked quietly, his gaze returning to the straight stretch of road. "We'll have to get a hotel, I am afraid. The ferries won't be open by the time we reach them." He wrinkled his nose a little at the thought of staying at a hotel below his usual standards.

"I could eat." Greg stirred from a restless slumber, his face cold where it had been smashed against the window. He rubbed his eyes sleepily, blinking out at the black sky and the endless English terrain. It was raining again. He stretched, and his stomach rumbled. Mycroft glanced at him again, and Greg folded his arms over his chest, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His long legs were cramped, despite the luxurious space. "Starved, actually," he amended, and yawned again. "Need me to drive a while?"

Mycroft nodded silently, pulling over to the side of the road. He was very glad that Gregory had offered, because he would not have asked otherwise. "There will be a hotel near the ferry. The directions are programmed into the GPS." He nodded to the device and unlocked the doors. "Wake me if you need me. It shouldn't be more than three or four more hours driving." Getting out of the car, Mycroft allowed himself a yawn, making sure that he was out of the detective inspector's view first. He was exhausted and in need of a very long rest. Sleep had not been coming easily to Mycroft Holmes as of late, and it was beginning to take its toll on the man. He felt weary all the time.

Greg lifted his eyebrows, surprised at the ease with which Mycroft had relinquished control of his vehicle. He'd always thought of the older brother as a bit of a power addict, as deeply entrenched in his drug of choice, control, as Sherlock had once been in his. The inspector took the keys with a smile, and slid behind the steering wheel happily. He was quite pleased to be driving. He liked cars, and Mycroft's was a beauty. They pulled away from the grassy shoulder, and within minutes, Greg heard soft snores whispering from Mycroft's lips. He smiled again, glancing over at him. Good. The man looked nothing short of exhausted. He needed sleep. Greg turned on the radio very quietly, and found a jazz station. The rain poured down on them, and he drove in silence, listening to the symphony of gentle snores, and a saxophone.

"Mycroft." A gentle shake, and a whisper in the sleeping man's ear jostled him from his slumber. "Mycroft. Wake up."

Mycroft's eyes opened and he stared groggily about, his neck aching from the awkward position it had been held in before. "What?" He blinked rapidly and looked over to find Gregory's face quite close to his. With a slight jerk, Mycroft's heart slammed against his ribcage, flip flopping wildly for a reason what could not be completely explained away by shock. "What is it?" He asked again, licking his lips. How long had he been asleep for? He hadn't expected to zone out that quickly or that thoroughly.

"We're here." Greg was leaning in the passenger side door, and he reached across Mycroft to grab the two bags in the back seat. He straightened, tossing his head towards a small hotel, dark and quiet in the middle of the night. "I checked us in already, but there's no dinner to be had tonight. Come on, let's get some sleep." He turned and shuffled to the modest inn, carrying his own bag, and his companion's.

Mycroft followed at a distance, still trying to rationalise his sudden reaction to Gregory's proximity. Lack of sleep, shock, and disorientation, he finally decided. Those three things could have produced the symptoms in the right situations, even for him. They walked into the small hotel, and he continued to follow Gregory, not saying a word until they reached the room. Then Mycroft frowned. "Just the one room." He said with a lifted eyebrow. There were no signs of another set of keys, and given the lateness of the evening, they had most likely been lucky to even get a room. Still... it wasn't optimal.

"Two beds." Greg dropped the bags on the floor, and without bothering to undress, he threw himself in the closest single bed, his face buried in the fluffy feather pillow. He did like these old places... they may be small and unassuming, but the accommodations were clean, and comfortable. He did not even sit up, but lay there, breathing in the scent of the fresh cotton, and he toed off his shoes and socks. Mycroft still hadn't moved from the door. Greg's hand began to pat at the table next to him, and he flipped off the lamp, groaning. That was better. "Goodnight," he mumbled, letting his bones sink into the mattress.

Shaking himself from the horror of having to share a room, Mycroft crossed the floor and sat gingerly down on the bed, thankful for the near complete dark. On the other bed he could see the outline of Gregory's body, his back rising and falling as he lay face first on the pillows. A tiny, unnoticed smile settled on Mycroft's lips as he removed his shoes, socks, jacket, and waistcoat. It took him only a half a second to decide that no matter how inconvenient it would be, sleeping in pyjamas was the only way to spend a night alone in bed but with another person in the room. He picked up the bag he'd dropped by his bed and rummaged through it, lying out his clothing for the next day before hurrying to the loo to change. Once clad in his favourite pair of white silk pyjamas, Mycroft performed his nightly rituals, keeping his mind off the sound of heavy breathing in the next room. Instead he focused on Sherlock's predicament. How could his younger brother have gotten himself in that situation? The answer, of course, was easily. Sherlock meddled. He shook his head and shut the light off, practically scampering to his bed and crawling under the covers. Sherlock was a foolish man.

Mycroft's hurried scramble to his bed stirred the sleeping inspector, but he only muttered something incoherent, popped his head up blearily, and then was asleep once more. He did not wake again until the next morning, when the phone lying on the table began to buzz loudly. Greg shot up with the panicked, sleepy expression of a man who is unsure where he is, what day it is, and if he'd possibly just missed an important deadline. He grabbed at the mobile, his throat scratchy and dry as he barked out a hasty greeting. "Hello?" He rubbed his eyes furiously, feeling grubby and disgusting. Why the hell hadn't he changed last night? Why hadn't he at least brushed his teeth? Why was he so hungry?

And why the fuck was the man on the other end of the phone bellowing with laughter? "Who is this?" Greg growled, but at that moment, his jeans pocket began to beep: his morning alarm. He stared down at himself in confusion... then his eyes widened. He was on Mycroft's phone. He glanced at the slender man in the next bed, still snoring.

Mycroft vaguely registered the mayhem behind him. With a groan he rolled over and reached a hand out, patting around the table, looking for whatever was making that noise so he could break it and return to his slumber. Then he opened his eyes. Oh yes. That was right. "What are you doing on my phone?" He asked, his voice still thick with sleep. Gregory was staring at him as though he'd never seen him before. What was wrong with the man? Mycroft's eyes narrowed a little. "What?" He snapped, propping himself up on an elbow. He didn't like the way Lestrade was watching him. It made him feel uncomfortably, vulnerable, exposed.

Greg shut his mouth tight before he could ask the question that was burning in his skull. What the hell sort of man slept in white shiny pyjamas? The answer was right in front of him anyway... the sort that ran the bloody country. He handed the phone to Mycroft without a word, his face red as he heard the guffawing continue. Damn. That was no doubt one of Mycroft's assistants, a jovial Irish enforcer. How Mycroft would explain Greg's obviously sleepy presence in his rooms... would be difficult. He stood, grabbing his things and rushing into the loo before he could embarrass himself any further.

Mycroft heard the laughter and rolled his eyes heavenward. Good lord. "Be quiet this instant." He said in a low, dangerous tone. The laughter stopped and his assistant, Morgan, began to talk. Half listening to the conversation, half watching the loo door, Mycroft slowly sat up and tucked his legs underneath him in what was undoubtedly a very undignified position, but a comfortable one never the less. He leaned against the headboard and continued to listen to Morgan's report, his eyes closed. "Yes, that will be fine." He finally said, plucking at the sheets for lack of anything better to do. "And if he doesn't talk that way then use your usual methods. You know I have every faith in you, Morgan. You are one of my best men." In fact... it suddenly occurred to Mycroft that he could have taken Morgan with and been quite fine. But somehow... somehow he much rather preferred Lestrade's slightly stiff and silent company to that of his jovial, talkative Irish assistant. "Do not finish the job. I would like him in good enough condition to hold a semi-intelligent conversation." The Irishman agreed, then there was a pause, as though he wanted to ask what Lestrade had been doing answering his phone. "That will be all, Morgan." Mycroft said firmly, then hung up.

Greg's shower was over far too quickly. He dressed, shaved, and combed his silver hair, and as he did, he listened to Mycroft's quiet, unintelligible murmurs in the next room. Only when he was sure that the man had ended his phone conversation did he venture out once more, freshly washed and in clean, though wrinkled, clothes. "Breakfast?" he asked, stuffing his laundry into his bag without meeting the turquoise eyes. Shit, that had been embarrassing.

"Yes," Mycroft answered, standing up and collecting his things. "I will meet you down in the lobby." Hurrying past the detective inspector, Mycroft darted into the loo and shut the door quietly behind him. Shower, shave, food. He nodded to himself and undressed. This whole trip was becoming more inconvenient than he'd anticipated.

To Mycroft's dismay, the water turned cold before he had time to do anything but wash his hair. It reminded him why he hated staying in such places. Dressing swiftly, the elder Holmes brother looked himself in the mirror and sighed. He had lost weight, yes, that was a good thing, but he looked tired and worn out. It simply would not do. The lines under his eyes were becoming visible, and his skin had taken on the pallor of a sickly person who had not seen the sun in months. He snorted humourlessly and began to comb his hair. It had been a lot longer than a few months since he'd been able to relax in the sun. Hell, he couldn't even remember the last time he'd been able to really relax. The nation would not let him.

Once out of the loo, Mycroft set his bag down on the bed and removed his waistcoat. He wasn't about to wear it on the long journey ahead. They still had at least ten hours in the car, and he would be uncomfortable enough without adding a tie, waistcoat, and jacket.

By the time Mycroft made his way downstairs, Greg was already halfway through a massive English breakfast. He looked up from the table where he was entertaining the rest of the guests with stories of Scotland Yard, and he met Mycroft's bright blue eyes. Greg grinned broadly at the sight of him. Mycroft was wearing linen trousers and a cotton shirt with the first button undone, and for the first time since they'd met, Grey thought he looked human. "Come on!" he called out, gesturing to an empty seat at the table. "Have some breakfast, and hurry! We have to catch the ferry." Greg winked at him, and shoved another spoonful of pudding in his mouth.

Mycroft took the seat opposite Gregory and ordered a croissant and a bowl of fruit. He didn't eat breakfast. Never had the time for it, and over the years his stomach had grown accustomed to the lack of food, so now it would rebel if he tried to eat more than a very light meal. "We should be in Italy by 5 o'clock tonight." He said, accepting the coffee their server brought to them. "I am not sure how long the negotiations will last, but hopefully I will have the problem worked out by 10 which will give us enough time to get back before you work. Maybe you will even be able to sleep in your own bed tomorrow night." He smiled a little at that and dumped milk and sugar into his coffee, stirring it vigorously.

Greg looked down at his black coffee, and back up at Mycroft's mess of saccharine and dairy. "Well. You're going to be fun later," he muttered, polishing off the last of his scones.

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