Good day reader.
This is my first Fan Fiction, so there will be a few mistakes – Unfortunately, I have no Beta.
Anyway, this is a Fan Fiction "One – Shot" containing my favourite Sherlock Pairing – Mycroft Holmes and DI Gregory Lestrade.
Warnings:
This Fan fiction well exceeds a fans daily guideline amount Romance, Fluff and cliché plot lines.
It also contains Briting, which is the local term for swearwords which are only / most commonly heard in Britain and its surrounding isles.
Pairings:
Mycroft Holmes / DI Gregory Lestrade [Mystrade]
Sherlock Holmes / Dr. John Watson [Shwatsonlock]
Enjoy!
…
Homicide Dept., New Scotland Yard, London, England, Great Britain
"Why?"
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade rubbed his all ready inflamed temples with a certain annoyance that was all too familiar to the consulting detective in front of his desk.
"Don't ask me, ask John!" complained Sherlock Holmes indignantly, his head snapping to glare at his flatmate and recently turned lover John Watson. The doctor shook his head as if he were in the presence of a child, before turning back to the detective.
"Listen, Greg," John said ", you don't have to come, but we really would like you too"
"John, I don't mind that you're throwing a party – I would have come anyway – but why does it have to be a fancy dress thing?" Lestrade replied, straining the final three words. At that, Sherlock walked around the paper-strewn desk to stand behind the tired and dishevelled detective.
"I agree with Lestrade"
"Oh come on! It's a Halloween party – it's in the rules to dress up!"
"What rules?"
"THE rules!" insisted John. At the sign of a petty fight brewing, Lestrade took control of the situation.
"Hey!" he barked, his fist hitting the desk with a little more force than he originally planned.
"Listen, John. I will go, but don't expect me to come fully kitted out in some cheesy costume"
"Thanks" said John smiling. He leaned over the desk and grabbed the lapels on his lovers' dramatic coat, before pulling Sherlock out of the office.
"I'll text you the details later!" called John over his shoulder, before the door closed on the pair of them. Lestrade waited for a moment, before slamming his head on the desk, its impact dulled slightly by the vast amount of A4 on the surface.
….
In a different part of the world, two figures were crouched behind a thick brick pillar that helped hold up a leaking warehouse roof. The male panted slightly as he pressed his waist coated back against the damp bricks, the female ensuring that she could not be seen by the shady group lurking in the centre of the building.
"Anne-"
"It is Annabelise today, Sir" the woman cut across is a quiet murmur, the male nodding in acceptance.
"My apologies Annabelise, as I was saying, I was wondering if you could push my four o'clock to five – I believe we are going to be a little longer than I first planned." He looked over his shoulder at the group.
"Of course sir" the female replied, whipping out a Blackberry and tapping on the innocent keys with a maddened pace. The male opened a medium sized briefcase and revealed a small variety of artillery. Annabelise watched the other load the two available hand guns with familiar ease, before putting them into the twin holster slung around his torso. He then closed the case, locked it and lent it against the pillar.
"Annabelise..."
"Of course, Sir."
"Thank you."
Ten seconds later, two strangers jumped from behind a pillar, and ran towards a group of infamous terrorists, guns alive and screaming. The bullets hit with deadly accuracy, but they were heavily outnumbered, the group managing to grab weapons of all varieties and returning the attacks.
Two days later, St Bartholomew's Hospital, London, England, Great Britain
Annabelise was led in a hospital bed, the white interior clashing rather tastefully with her dark brown, loosely curled hair and ever present Blackberry. Her fair completion had returned from its earlier grey, and was more than happy enough to carry on her job from her bed – despite her insistence that she could be twice as productive out of the private hospital care. A knock sounded at the door, and her "partner in crime" walked in, umbrella swinging as he approached the bed.
"Good afternoon, Annabelise" he said, sitting on the uncomfortable chair beside her bed.
"Good afternoon, Sir," She replied, her attention not leaving the quietly beeping contraption in her hands. "You have three meetings today, and a private meeting with the prime minister – a car has already been called."
"Thank you" he replied, crossing his legs in a formal manner and twisting the handle on his umbrella. A comfortable silence reigned, until his mobile began to vibrate in his top pocket.
"Holmes" he said, his tone formal and polite.
"It's me" came the slightly bored, yet all too familiar sound of his brother's voice.
"Sherlock." Replied the male, standing up and walking from the chair, his associate's eyes following him before returning to her phone.
"John has demanded that you appear at his Halloween party."
"What?" he said, placing the tips of his fingers on his temples – a headache impending.
"Look, don't ask me, ask John. He's the one inviting every Tom, Dick and Harry to our flat" the consulting detective replied, and a voice in the background yelling
"Sherlock, you were the one who wanted people to come over – I just thought of the Halloween party!"
"Yeah, but you are also the person who told everyone to dress up!"
"Well duh! You can't have a Halloween party without dressing up!"
"HEHEM!" coughed the male, trying to reawaken his brother to the fact that he was being both rude and wasting his time. The doctor yelled to him from the background:
"Mycroft, it's on the 31st, 7:00 pm, our flat, dress up required and your PA can come too. See you then!"
The empty line beep repeated itself to the elder Holmes, before he pulled it away from his ear and raised his eyebrow at it, the expression of familiar irritation. He sighed and put the phone back in his pocket, before resuming his position by his assistant's bed.
"Annabelise, what do I have planned on the 31st, 7:00 onwards?"
The PA looked up from her phone a moment, before she quickly tapped something on the small screen.
"Nothing, Sir. Is there something planned?" She asked, the yearning for information subtle, yet there was nothing that Mycroft could not tell about another's behaviour. He slid a hand through his styled copper hair, before replying with a sigh of exasperation.
"Yes, Dr. John Watson has expressed his desire for us to attend a Halloween Party."
"Us, Sir?" Annabelise inquired.
"Yes, unfortunately you have been roped in too." He said, a flicker of an apologetic smile gracing his face, before it returning to its original stoic expression. A small beep sounded from her phone, and she relayed the message of her employers car was waiting to take him to ten Downing Street. Nodding once, he stood from the uncomfortable chair and walked from the room. As soon as he left, Annabelise sent a text to John.
|Did you invite Mr Holmes to a party on the 31st?
A |
| Mr Holmes? … OH! Sorry, your number is restricted – didn't know who it was for a moment.
Yes, we did
John |
| Very well, would you like us to bring anything?
A |
| No, we have everything – just dress up and have fun.
John |
| Dress up? Mr Holmes never mentioned we had to dress up!
A |
| Well, it is a Halloween party – it's in the rules
John |
| Yes, I suppose it is! Mr Holmes will come dressed up – whether he likes it or not :)
A |
| Is it me, or are you being devious, Miss A?
John |
| I am afraid that is classified :)
A |
| Are you coming as well?
John |
| If the invite still stands and I am not busy, then yes.
A |
| Great, see you there
John |
Annabelise entered the party into the calendar on her phone before leaning back on her pillow.
This was going to be interesting.
Two days later, 221B, Baker Street, London, England, Great Britain.
Lestrade hummed contentedly, sipping from the beer bottle in his hand. 221B looked rather good – considering only one man was working on the whole party (John had banned Sherlock from going anywhere near decorations or food, in case he either decorated using real limbs or just experimented with (read : Poison to see the different effects of) the food.) Sally Donovan and Anderson – dressed as a nurse and a wolf - were chatting in the front room, something about how dinosaurs would have beaten werewolves in a fight. Mrs Hudson – a fairy - was talking to a stranger about himself. 'Must be her new bloke' Lestrade thought, taking another swig. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, his clothes the same apart from a set of realistic fangs leering from his upper lip, was muttering something under his breath, and his lover nodding in agreement. True to his word, Lestrade had come to the party, but he hadn't dressed up. He was wearing a simple t-shirt and jacket, jeans and a pair of red, ankle high converse (his favourite pair of shoes, mainly because they looked like David Tennants when he portrayed The Doctor). He took another swig of his beer, before a nearly silent knock sounded. John stood up and turned down the music slightly (Molly and Mike were chatting happily by the Stereo, and decided it was too quiet for a party, so they put some random songs on) and went to open the door. A was standing alone, her phone in her hands. Her feminine figure was encased in a revealing cat costume, including a chocker with a bell, a tail with a silver bow, black stilettos and cat ears.
"Hello…" said John, not sure as to what her alias was this time.
"Aradia," she said, looking up from her phone to smile ", it seemed more Halloween-y, more gothic." Nodding, John let her in.
"Where is Mycroft?" said John, looking over her shoulder before closing the door behind her.
"Mr Holmes apologises, but he will be late – classified," she said, before leaning to Johns ear and whispering", he is sulking in the car because I forced him to dress up – he'll be up in a second."
"Must be a Holmes trait" said John, before Molly turned the music up again. Lestrade moved from his position by the window and went into the kitchen to lean against the breakfast bar John, himself and a large cup of tea from Mrs Hudson put up only a few weeks ago. When he asked John why he wanted to put on in, John had replied with the answer
"I want to be able to make a sandwich without worrying about what limb or other part of a human's anatomy has been there before."
Lestrade went to take another sip from the green bottle in his hand, but was a bit miffed to discover he had already drunk it all. De-draping himself from the counter top (it was a party, Lestrade didn't need to stand up straight as if he were addressing the Queen) he walked back over to the fridge and opened it. Digging around an opaque Tupperware box (Lestrade glad of not knowing its contents), he pulled a fresh beer, and pulled the metal cap off with the bottle opener that was previously abandoned by the sink.
"Well, this is extremely unfair."
Turning around, Lestrade came face to face with Mycroft Holmes. He had only met Mycroft three times – once when he first 'asked' Lestrade to release his little brother from custody on charges of contaminating evidence, once while watching him at a crime scene, much to Sherlock's chagrin and when he gave him a lift from the Yard to his flat.
Mycroft Holmes - big brother to Sherlock and the power behind Britain (no matter how many times he told anyone differently)
...
At least Lestrade thought it was Mycroft Holmes, but his outfit differed grandly from the half a bar suits he normally wore. On top of his head, a PC flat cap was balancing with perfect precision on his head, the familiar black and white checked band around the middle and loose, rusted copper hair was revealing itself from underneath. His torso was covered by a thin, black, short sleeved, button up shirt that Lestrade knew for a fact that it was a few sizes too small to show off his surprisingly toned body. On his feet, polished black shoes were shining in the Halloween candle light, yet it wasn't this that had Lestrade's attention. On the elder Holmes' legs – or rather replaced his legs - were a pair of skin-tight leather trousers. The tightness of said trousers framed everything, leaving nothing to the imagination, and showing the somewhat muscled calves and shapely thighs. A studded belt hung loosely around his hips, and a second copied its action. A pair of handcuffs clipped to the two belt loops, something in the back of Lestrade's mind telling him they were not the official ones distributed by the Met. Police.
"I was told that the Dress-up was mandatory – I appear to have been duped."
Lestrade's eyes left the handcuffs with an immediate reaction to the posh tones being delivered from Mycroft's mouth. Mycroft mumbled something about annoying siblings, before walking past Lestrade and to the fridge. He reached in without even looking and pulled out a cider, sniffing the apple tang as the cap rolled off and into the bin. After a moment, Mycroft appeared to be satisfied with the beverage, before mentioning that it was not poisoned – somewhat more for Lestrade than his own information.
"What?" said the DI, immediately realising that he was being rude. Mycroft crossed the small kitchen silently (Lestrade was sure that the gob smacking trousers would have made a squeaking noise, leaving him to deduce that Mycroft was either a magician, or had experience with this type of attire... which then left him in the position of not knowing what to do with that information) with a proud and professional stride. He put the cider on the bar, before pulling two fold away bar stools from their original place leaning against the wall. Leaning one next to the cider bottle, Mycroft opened the other and gestured for Lestrade to sit next to him, the Detective thanking him before hopping on the beach wood seat. With only a flourish of his wrist, Mycroft's chair had opened and clicked into itself securely, Mycroft taking a seat with a dignified nod.
"So, how are you, Detective Inspector?" Said the elder Holmes, taking a small swig of the cider.
"Fine… you?" Said Lestrade, only just aware of how dry his throat had become. He took a large gulp of his beer as Mycroft nodded.
"As well as one can be, Detective Inspector" replied the politician nonchalantly. The pair sat in a companionable silence, until Lestrade remembered what the Male had mumbled earlier.
"Sorry, did you say that it wasn't poisoned?" asked Lestrade, his eyebrows dipped in bother. Mycroft looked at the detective with a searching look that he was all to familiar with Sherlock, yet the intensity of the storm grey eyes made Lestrade look away nearly instantly.
"Yes, I did" he said, taking a gulp as if to prove himself.
"Why... may I ask?" He inquired, the returning gaze making him falter slightly.
"I have tried not to take a drink from something other than myself had prepared – so when in company and unable to refuse, I sniff to check for anomalies in the liquid."
"You mean you can sniff and tell if a poison has been put in your drink?" said Lestrade, making no effort to hide the amazement in his voice. Mycroft looked a little surprised at the awed words, but replied with the dignitary and grace one would expect from someone who ran a nation.
"Hmm, indeed." Mycroft leaned his elbow on the table and rested his chin on the back of the pale hand. He twisted his head slightly so he could still address Lestrade, before asking
"So, Detective Inspector, how did manage to wriggle your way out of this dress up lark?" he said, an expression upon his face of comfort and relaxation – a rare occurrence on the politicians features.
"Oh… I just told them I would come and not dress up…" said Lestrade, his words sounding less exciting the more they fell from his lips. Mycroft's eyebrows were raised in curiosity, and nodded in agreement.
"That was probably the wisest cause of action – I unfortunately didn't have that option."
"Huh?"
Mycroft took a swig of his cider whilst still resting his chin on his hand, long fingers holding the bottle. As the glass rim left his lips, he pointed the nearly full bottle in the direction of Aradia, who was currently talking to Sally.
"Aradia wanted to do it."
"And you didn't?"
"No"
Lestrade let a smile appear on his face.
"You're her boss, anything you say goes, right?"
"I owe her. She has not had a holiday in over two years. Just because I have only got my work to keep me company, doesn't mean that she has to drop her private life." Mycroft looked sad for a moment, before a look of utter disbelief appeared on his face. "Did you know that she missed her sister giving birth last year, just because we were in Beijing for a meeting of no importance?"
Lestrade shook his head.
"I shouldn't have told you that." Said Mycroft, but the smile wrapped around his cider looked anything but sorry. Lestrade chuckled quietly before Mycroft returned to his thoughtful face – a rather handsome expression said Lestrade's head, causing the Detective to shake his salt and pepper coloured hair a little.
"Last week, she got shot." That stopped Lestrade's giggling dead. "shot in the stomach when a rouge bullet fired from … well, you don't need to know that part, but the fact is we were working as part of a team, and I –"
"Don't talk like that!"
Mycroft was pulled from his memories with a start. Turning his head sideways, he saw Lestrade looking at him with a face most commonly seen when dealing with criminals.
"You can't talk like that – if you get too hung up in the past, the future is lost for you. You were working as part of a team, so you both shared responsibilities as a team." He said sternly. Mycroft looked at the detective with a gaze that could melt diamonds, but took a swig and carried on.
"And I didn't see it coming. I wasn't blaming myself, Detective Inspector; I had no influence in the matter." He looked out of the corner of his eye, to look at the detective. "But I appreciate your concern. Many good people have wasted years of both a decent life and career doubting their actions and regretting decisions they made, and what you have just said has proved two things."
"Oh?" said Lestrade, trying not to think about how attractive Mycroft looked when looking out of the corner of his grey eyes.
"Yes. It proves you are a brilliant detective." Lestrade blushed slightly, but Mycroft didn't appear to notice.
"And the other?"
"It proves you are a good man."
They sat in silence for a while – Mycroft looking out of the window straight ahead of him, and Lestrade mentally having a breakdown.
'A good man?'
"Yes." Said Mycroft, nodding and not looking at him. Lestrade jumped slightly, unaware he was talking aloud.
"You weren't, but you looked doubtful." Said the politician, turning to his hand to look at him, the chin resting on his hand again. "And that is your flaw"
"I would prefer not to go over all of them."
"You only have one – you don't believe in yourself on a personal level. Not that it affects your career – you have proven yourself against all odds to become a DI, believing in your actions and that is how you catch a criminal. So you needn't worry about that, it is just that you, as Gregory Lestrade, do not believe in your true worth." Said Mycroft, a swig following his nonchalant speech. On hearing not reply he looked down at the bottle in his hand. "My apologies"
Lestrade looked at the politician with an unknown feeling bubbling away in his stomach – not uncomfortable, just a little unusual.
"What are you being sorry for?"
"I used your fore name with out your permission – you are unaccustomed to sharing it with strangers, are you not?"
"… Yeah… but you're hardly a stranger, are you?" Mycroft looked up from his bottle.
"Pardon?"
"Well, we have been aware of each other for over two years – you probably more. So it's not as if we are complete strangers." Lestrade held a hand out.
"Pleased to meet you, I'm Gregory Lestrade" Mycroft looked at the hand for a second, before grasping it in a strong and grand grasp. "Holmes, Mycroft Homes" he said, a smile threatening to break onto his face. They sat in silence again, occasionally making small talk while Lestrade thought. Suddenly, Lestrade Jumped from his seat and turned to Mycroft.
"Well then, Homes, Mycroft Holmes, I am going to go to the toilet, and then I'll be back."
Nodding, Mycroft watched Lestrade disappear from view, and chuckled, shaking his head.
'Such an interesting party.'
Gregory Lestrade had visited 221B many times before, so you would have thought that he wouldn't get lost in such a small flat. Unfortunately, the detective had indeed got lost, and ended up in a room that looked somewhat like a bedroom – mainly due to the bed in the actual room.
A knock sounded, and the door opened to reveal Aradia's head, phone nowhere near her nose.
"Detective Inspector?"
"Hmm?" he said his mind full of thoughts and never achievable possibilities.
"Are you okay?"
At the sound of the curiosity and emotional voice instead of her normally stoic and passive tones, the inquiry of his well being came as a surprise.
"Oh, I'm f-"
"Please don't lie" she said, slowly making her way into the darkened room, closing the door behind her. The light of the full moon fled through the window, making it the only light source in the room. "It's not polite"
"Sorry" he said, rubbing the back of his head "I got lost"
"That's okay" she said, sitting on the bed next to him. A silence fell between them, not an uncomfortable one, just ... silence.
"Did you know he kidnapped me to offer me the job of being a Personal assistant?"
Lestrade's head span quickly round to look at Aradia. She was looking serenely out of the large window, the moonlight reflecting off of her bell.
"Hm Hm," she hummed, nodding ", I was completely lost on Piccadilly, and suddenly two burly men appeared out of nowhere. I didn't have the training I have now, so my attempts to escape were thwarted. They led me to a posh looking car, and opened the door for me. I got in, knowing that any attempt to escape would be daft. When I sat down, the first thing Mr Holmes said to me was: 'You can't possibly be thinking of applying for a job wearing those shoes'." Aradia laughed, a quiet buzz that calmed the night ", I honestly thought he was a Detective from some sort of Fashion police. He was wearing a pair of Italian shoes, a Charcoal three piece and a black shirt. He had a blood red tie on, and a fedora with a red band around it. He looked like he stepped out of an Italian Mafia film. He then told me about a job that he was offering, said it was to be paid well, and offered trips around the world. Then he said what my brain told me to accept the job."
After a moments silence, the enwrapped DI said
"Well...?"
"And he said: I couldn't guaranty you a normal life if you said yes, and I can't guarantee that you will be safe. But what I can guarantee is that you will never be bored."
"Wow" said Lestrade. It wasn't in awe, or in jealousy, but merely the fact that the elder Holmes was that truthful. Ever since he first stepped into Lestrade's office, Lestrade had been injured twice, assaulted several times and been threatened so many times it was hard to remember – he gave up after fifty – and yet he still associated himself with the Holmes with one soul reason.
He would never be bored.
"Mr Holmes is never an easy man to get to know," she said, returning her gaze to the window." He detests people showing feelings because he knows that if he were to do the same, the world would crumble. He once told me that if he were to die, he would see no problem of just giving the power to someone else – yet everyone who knows of him can say without a doubt – If Mycroft Holmes were to leave, then Britain and the surrounding nations would go down with him. Do you know why he has never had a lover? He has had one night stands, of course, but never a lover. Do you know why?"
Lestrade shook his head
"He doesn't have a relationship romantically because he knows he wouldn't be able to keep them. They would enjoy the thrill of a spy like lifestyle for about a month, but that would quickly deteriorate into late nights without him because someone blew up his plane, missed birthday parties because some utter idiot in Russia thinks it would be fine to send a couple of assassins his way and arriving late to an anniversary or two because of the traffic he caused when trying to divert a war. Then they would leave, or worse, cheat. They would sneak around behind his back, slipping into bed with another because they thought he couldn't see them. Of course, Mr Holmes would worry about their safety without him to make sure they were safe, so he had them followed to make sure they were, and he would find out they were cheating. He would just sit there, looking at his partner with a blank face and not talking."
"H... How do you know all this?" asked the DI quietly. Aradia looked sadly up at the greying detective, before smiling sadly.
"Because it happened to me. Mr Holmes was worried about my friends and boyfriend because I hadn't had any contact with them for a while – why, unfortunately, I cannot tell you- so he got an inconspicuous search pair on my boyfriend. He discovered he was sleeping with someone else, and he didn't tell me. When I found out that Mr Holmes had already known about my cheating partner, I was so angry I punched him straight in the face. He said nothing, so I did it again. And again. Then, after about the fifth punch, he suddenly gave me a large hug... and I started to cry. I only realised then that he hadn't told me because it would hurt my feelings, hearing it from someone else and not from myself. He then made sure we were alone when I found out, so that I had a chance to take my anger out on something that wouldn't harm my career and my morals. And then he gave me a hug to show that it was alright. And do you know what?"
"What?" Gregory said, feeling sorry for Aradia, Curious to what she did then, and trying to avoid the fact of Mycroft Holmes was human – probably too human for his own good.
"I have never worn those shoes again."
After a moments silence, Aradia and Gregory started to giggle. When they finally stopped, Aradia asked
"So, how did you meet Mr Holmes?"
"Well, I was sat in my office, nothing new there, and suddenly some random geezer with an umbrella and posh suit turned up. No warning, just appeared!" said Gregory, Aradia nodding
"Yes, he has the ability to appear in silence… I still jump sometimes when he enters a room without making himself aware"
"Anyway, so this bloke walks in, and says that the drugged up man in the cell needs to be released – no questions asked."
"What did you do then?"
"Well… to be honest I laughed at him, told him that no random man can walk off of the street and just order Scotland Yard to do something. Then he said I didn't just 'come off of the street, Detective Inspector, I came in a car.'" Greg said in posh, clipped tones that were a rather surprising likeness to Mycroft's. "That was the first time he ever told me something that made me truly laugh." He sighed and leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hand holding his face.
"Does he make you laugh now?" asked Aradia, obviously curious.
"Of course, his humour is dry and he's the only one who can talk to Sherlock like an impertinent child and still respect him at the same time. He can make me laugh without even trying, mostly at his expense, and can make you fear him with a single word. He can run rings around you with his knowledge and can also be as thick at two short planks. He doesn't let me go a few days without sleep, so he sends a high up to tell me to take the day off, he sends random people to my office with my favourite take away so that I can eat something during a hard case and his sense of fashion is exquisite, yet you wonder if he has ever heard of a pair of jeans – well, his outfit tonight certainly tells me that he has heard of some other... interesting items in his wardrobe" laughed Gregory bitterly, before moaning and falling forward until his face was in his hands.
"What?"
"He doesn't even have the manners to apologise to me..."
Aradia was confused.
"Why should he apologise?"
"BECAUSE HE LOOKS TOO DAMN HOT IN MY UNIFORM!" He yelled, throwing his weight backwards so that he was lying on the mattress. Aradia's face went blank for a moment, before a small smile appeared on her face.
"What do you mean your uniform?" she asked.
Lestrade, who was covering his face with his hands, removed them to look at Aradia. He shook his head and sat back up, running a hand through his hair.
"Not actually my uniform, but I work with Scotland Yard – a police haven, and seeing him... in that... and the hat..." Lestrade growled and licked his lips like a predator, before groaning and hiding his head again.
"So... to sum up, you think that Mr Holmes is fit in his suits and in the police dress up, he makes you laugh, he has knowledge of what you like, what makes you tick and what you don't like, he can be oblivious, he looks after you while expecting nothing in return, and he ensures that the attempts on your life don't go too far-"
"What?" said Lestrade, looking at the now stunned assistant.
"Oh, I wasn't supposed to say that." She said, standing up from the bed and pulling her phone from out of nowhere.
"No, you said, attempts on MY LIFE! I THINK THAT IS SOMETHING YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO SAY!" Lestrade stood and advanced anger in his brown eyes.
"Farewell, Detective Inspector" Aradia said, before she left quickly, her tail swinging from side to side with a speeded pace. She left the room, and Lestrade quickly followed. He opened the door, and walked back into the actual party room.
"MYCROFT!"
The whole party froze to look at the heavy breathing detective, the roar still echoing in the silence. He stormed into the Kitchen, and looked at the note that the elder Holmes left on the counter.
Dear Gregory Lestrade,
My apologies for leaving without a proper goodbye – unfortunately it seems that even in my minor position, I am unable to have one evening off.
I hope you understand, and yet again, my apologies for not saying farewell in person.
Yours truly,
Mycroft Homes.
Lestrade snarled grabbed the note in a devilish grip and stormed out of the room.
Outside 221 Baker Street, London, England, Great Britain, United Kingdom
Outside, Mycroft was about to get into a car. The night sky was a dark and beautiful blue, the feint traces of wispy clouds mingling beautifully with the stars. On a night like that, Gregory would normally forget taking a taxi or a bus home, and walk, taking in the beautiful scenery and the feint hum of police cars in the distance and the occasional dog howl. It was nice to look up at the sky at night and feel the stress of his ever demanding job and thoughts of sociopathic consulting detectives wash away from him. But that night, under the beautiful sky, an angry and confused detective inspector was storming towards The British Government, making no attempt to quell his anger.
"MYCROFT BLOODY HOLMES!"
Mycroft looked up suddenly to see an angry DI storming towards him with a look of pure rage painted on his face.
"Yes, Gre-"
"DON'T CALL ME THAT! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!"
Mycroft stayed silent, a look of stoic passiveness braided into his features.
"WHY ARE YOU HIDING THE FACT PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO KILL ME?" To be fair to the elder Holmes, the shock was barley registered before it vanished, leaving the poker faced expression that he bore when talking to shouting people.
"I have no idea wh-"
"NO! DON'T START THAT WITH ME, HOLMES! YOU KNOW FULL WELL THAT PEOPLE HAVE BEEN OUT TO GET ME, AND YOU HAVN'T EVEN HAD THE DECENCY TO AT LEAST WARN ME TO CHECK BEHIND THE BLOODY SHOWER CURTAIN FOR KNIFE WEILDING MANIACS!" Lestrade screamed, stomping his foot on the ground. After a moments silence and the echoes of the DI's maddened screaming had flown to the stars, Greg's head fell forward, and his shoulders began to shake slightly.
"You didn't even tell me I would be in danger." He said quietly, his voice thick with what Mycroft could tell were the near outbreak of tears. He looked up and Mycroft felt himself die a little inside. Gregory's eyes were brimming with salted water, and his mouth was trying to hold onto rasping breaths. "Is all a game to you? The all powerful British government playing with people's lives and emotions, is it all just a way to stop the passing boredom?" Gregory shook his head like a child hearing that Santa Clause wasn't real, sending tears flying off of his face and to glint in the night's moonbeams. He tried to control his breathing, as more tears streamed down his cheeks. He then laughed sadly, shaking his head again. He sniffed and looked away from Mycroft, who had yet to show any reaction.
"You know, I really thought that you and me... that we..." Gregory tried, but his uneven breathing was making it hard to talk. He whipped his head around to glare at Mycroft, the tears weakening its attack. "I guess I was wrong."
"No."
"What?" he growled, tear soaked larynx gurgling.
"I couldn't ever think that you would be anything else but real. The only reason that I didn't tell you is that the only people that would want to take you is that you would be used as a bargaining chip – they would use you to try and get to me." Mycroft took a tentative step forward, so small, yet Gregory still took a large step back. "They would use my attraction to you so that I would do what they say, and I would have. They aren't like TV show hostages, but you already knew that – that's why I couldn't tell you. They told me that if I told you, they would kill... your family. I couldn't allow that." Greg was shocked to see the raw emotion covering Mycroft's face, tears beginning to scale pale cheeks. "You aren't married to your wife, yet you would still protect her if she was in trouble – especially if the children got involved. They... they said that if word got to you that you were in danger, then they would get them." Gregory Lestrade stood there, and watched the British government fall apart. "I...I...I... I didn't know what to do! In one hand I wanted to tell you to be careful, yet in the other I wanted ... I wanted you to be happy, and you are at your happiest when with your family!" The last sentence was strangled with pure emotion, the Detective unable to tell the mass variety apart. By this point, Mycroft was shaking, his normally moon silver eyes darkening to a very pale blue. He looked at the ground, his polished shoes seeming to glimmer as an occasional tear soaked he polished leather surface. His pale hands were gripping then releasing the palms, his nails digging into flesh. Greg could do nothing but stare at the most powerful man in the northern hemisphere, if not the world, crying in front of him.
"I'm sorry." He whimpered, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to control his breathing, to no avail.
"Oh, sod it Mycroft!" yelled Gregory.
Mycroft raised his head quickly to see Gregory give a small smile, before hugging the taller man, his head in the crook of Mycroft's neck.
"It's really hard to be angry with you when you are being that cute." He whispered in pale ears.
"Cute?" Mycroft said, somewhat offended. Gregory nodded, which in turn caused Mycroft to pout.
"See! Your face is too cute for your own good!" said Greg, laughing. Mycroft blushed. He then reached out a pale, long fingered hand, and wiped the stray tear from Gregory's face.
"You don't suit the crying look" he said quietly, his hand cupping the DI's cheek. He leaned forward to the slightly red lips of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and –
"BROTHER! JUST SHAG ALREADY SO YOU CAN STOP SPYING ON ME!" yelled the ever annoying voice of Sherlock Holmes. Greg sprung back (he had also seen where that move was heading, and was in no way against kissing Mycroft) but was held firm by Mycroft's arm around his waist, the result of Mycroft pulling the Detective to his front as he yelled
"AND MY I ASK, BROTHER DEAREST, WHAT ARE YOU DOING WATCHING ME?" He yelled back, but his voice held a certain quality to show that he was only too used to shouting.
"BECAUSE THE LIKELY HOOD OF YOU ACTUALY GETTING IN LESTRADES BED TONIGHT IS RATHER SLIM, SO I WANTED TO MAKE SURE MY BET WON!" He replied.
Mycroft's rather bored face suddenly twisted into a look most commonly seen on a man who had concocted a brilliant scheme to get back at his ex for cheating.
"Aradia, your phone, please" he said through gritted teeth, not looking away from his grinning brother in the open window. As the Blackberry settled in the palm of Mycroft's hand, he let go of Lestrade's waist, ran forward and threw the phone in a perfect Cricket styled pitch. The phone sailed through the night air and straight towards Sherlock's head in the open window. Sherlock ducked, and returned as the phone flew into 221B.
"HA! YOU MI-"he started, but a sudden smash of glass from inside caused him to stop and turn around.
"NO! NOT MY EXPERIMENT!" he yelled, and his upper body vanished into the flat to save his experiment. Meanwhile, back on the cold pavement, Mycroft turned back to Gregory and Aradia with a cat like smile, swinging his umbrella with a carefree manner.
"My brother forgets that while I may not be a fan of doing sport, when I did partake in it, I was the best." He said, the smile turning to Cheshire grin as he put his arm back around Lestrade's waist. "Aradia, I will buy you a new phone, I do apologise for throwing it without your knowing consent."
"Oh… oh, thank you sir…" she said, the assistant rather stunned. While, of course, she knew that Mycroft Holmes was no lay about – his action in the field was evidence enough – she never knew he played sport.
"Well, I will be escorting Gregory home, you may retire for the night, Aradia" said Mycroft, before grabbing Lestrade's hand and pulling him away down the dark road, the DI only able to splutter in indignation. Aradia watched them vanish for a moment, before shaking her head and getting back in the car, the bell around her neck twinkling heavenly.
Alleyway, Baker Street, London, England, Great Britain
Mycroft pushed Gregory against the bricked wall, and seized his lips in a passionate embrace. Gregory squeaked, which gave Mycroft access to Greg's mouth. The hot, wet cavern was just as Mycroft had imagined- the DI's tongue slow and tantalising against his own. He let his mouth go with a rather embarrassing sound, but the two men didn't care.
"App... apologies' for not ... asking you before – I ... have wanted ... to do that ... for... so long." panted Mycroft, resting his head in the crook of the stunned DI's neck. Not that the DI was listening, he was too busy trying not faint. 'Oh my god, Mycroft just kissed me! Oh my god, Mycroft just kissed me! Oh my god, Mycroft just kissed me! Oh my god, Mycroft just kissed me!' He was pulled out of his stunned reverie by a gentle hand on his cheek.
Mycroft was looking at him which a look of both desperate uncertainty and a sort of loving gaze that made Greg melt.
"Are you okay? I honestly didn't mean to offend you."
"Shut up" he growled, and pulled Mycroft's tight shirt towards him. The two males continued to kiss into the night, the occasional car not diverting their attention from each other's mouths.
*Click Click*
Mycroft quickly removed himself from Gregory's personal space, but was tethered to Gregory's wrist by the fake handcuffs that were previously attached to his waist.
"Wha...?" started the Politician, but the lust eyed DI soon eradicated any complaints.
"How far away is your house?" said Gregory heavily; nuzzling the pale flesh under Mycroft's ear, which in turn elicited a moan from the taller.
"Five minutes if we ruuuu-"started Mycroft, but Greg had started to bite lightly on his earlobe, which short circuited any sensible thought.
"Okay, let's go!" groaned Greg, before tugging Mycroft away from the alleyway.
The End
Yes, I have no excuse for not writing a sex scene, but I didn't really want the first thing I uploaded to be smut... but now that's over and done with, let the kinks, fetishes and unceremonious amount of fluff run free!
Anyway, thank you for reading and I apologise that it may not make sense – I really should plan more, seeing as this was created by my mind being let loose on a key board. Reviews aren't important, as I personally think that it is what I believe that counts, but if you want to leave me a message about your opinion on the story, or maybe even some hints and tips, feel free,
~Asheanex