Authors Note: Hey guys, just a quick note before you start. I'm an Aussie, so I'm afraid that as my first fic, this is unbritpick'd, and unbeta'd, but hopefully still enjoyable. Please feel free to let me know if I should change the rating, or any suggestions for improvement for my future fics. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. Thanks for reading.
Beauty in the Storm
There was a distinct smell in the air that wasn't coming from the body that had been surrounded by rose petals, and left lying face down in the field. No, this smell was different. This smell could only mean one thing... Storm's coming. Greg glanced up to the sky, hoping that the crime scene guys get here soon to set up the tent that will preserve the scene. If they don't do it soon, he knows that a lot of the potential evidence will be washed away along with the hope of catching the killer.
The scene was elaborate. It looked as though it was set up as a romantic picnic. Candles, a blanket, rose petals scattered all around, expensive wine and with what looked like it would have been a delicious spread of fine cheeses and other delicacies before the blood from the victim encased it. There was so much blood, but there are no visible wounds from the position in which she is currently laid. Greg didn't want to turn the body before the crime scene techs had taken photos, but it left him wondering why the un-sub would turn the body over. Was it an attempt to hide what they had done? Was it remorse, not able to look at her face? Did they just want her face shoved into the dirt?
Greg was left to ponder his thoughts as the techs set up to protect it all from the impending rainfall. While this was being done, Greg's attention was drawn to the consulting detective and his ever faithful blogger striding across the open field. Sherlock screaming at the forensics team that they better not be messing up his crime scene with all their stomping around, and John shaking his head behind Sherlock at his rant, but the Inspector could see the small fond smile that he was trying to hide. Sherlock was now prancing about the scene, coat billowing around him, barking at officers left and right like he owned the place. Wait... How had Sherlock known to come? Greg hadn't even texted him yet. He didn't have time to contemplate this thought when he noticed the sleek black car hovering on the edge of the crime scene. When had that arrived? What the hell is it going on here?
Greg was once again pulled out of his thoughts when the back door swung open and in an extremely graceful movement, a very tall and very handsome (if Greg was being honest with himself) stranger exited the expensive vehicle. He was wearing an exquisite bespoke three piece suit in a charcoal grey, a crisp white shirt and a midnight blue tie. He also had an umbrella elegantly hooked in the crook of his elbow. His posture was perfect, his presence demanded respect, and he exudes power and mystery. Greg is awestruck. He doesn't know who this man is or why he is here but he cannot bring himself to look away. His gaze flicks down to the shine of his strangers shoes, and slowly climbs up the length of the body, appreciating the cut of the suit, accentuating the fit specimen in front of him in all the right places. The taller man looks around the scene, and does a double take, eyebrows raised in surprise when he spots the Inspector staring at him so intently that it almost borders on indecent, noticing how the policeman's eyes seem to be drinking in the sight of him.
Greg's eyes finally reach the face of the man only to find that the man is staring directly back at $him and he flushes red at the realisation of being caught out ogling this stunning man, yet they still don't break eye contact. There is something familiar in the gaze from those steely eyes, something of a stormy bluish grey, much like the clouds threatening to open up and rain down from the heavens. He senses that he's being dissected by this intense gaze and all his secrets being laid bare, yet for some reason he doesn't mind. As a small twitch of the mouth reveals a small smile on the mysterious strangers features, he feels a warmth spreading across his chest and a jolt of electricity running down his spine. The spell is broken by an impatient growl to Greg's left.
"Are you even listening to me Lestrade! Or did you and your team miraculously become less idiotic and more observant since I last saw you? If that's the case, why don't you tell me why the killer cut out her heart and stop wasting my time." Sherlock's voice is dripping with condescension and his eyes bore into Greg clearly stating his displeasure and frustration. Sherlock once again starts to rattle off his deductions, all the while muttering his annoyance with repetition, but Greg doesn't hear it as he is too busy thinking about the mystery man and then he catches Sherlock's eye and the sense of familiarity hits. He instantly turns to look between the two, with a look of curiosity present on his tired features, not really understanding what he is seeing. This breaks Sherlock out of his deductions yet again as he follows Greg's gaze and Sherlock's features turn to one of fury as he stalks off towards the man shouting obscenities.
Greg is frozen in place, shock firmly fixed in his expression as John sidles up next to him. It isn't until Greg notices that John is rolling his eyes and looking somewhat bemused that Greg snaps out of it and manages to find his voice to speak. "Um, do they... do those two know each other, or is Sherlock losing it ata potentially important figure?"
This elicits a chuckle from John. "You mean he's never kidnapped you before?"
Greg's head snaps towards John at that. "Kidnapped? Why the hell would he have kidnapped me? Wait, he kidnapped you?"
"Yeah, during the first case I tagged along with Sherlock with the pink lady. He had phones ringing that were following me through the streets. When I finally answered, he started manipulating all the CCTV cameras around me and told me in no uncertain terms to 'Get in the car Dr. Watson'. Then this black car pulls up, not that one mind you, god only knows how many different one he has, and then I'm driven to this deserted warehouse with this hot girl in the back seat. Don't tell Sherlock that, he still gets jealous and a bit paranoid that I'm going to find some random woman and leave him." John turns to see Greg's expression at that. It makes Sherlock sound so human. Who would have thought it, although a lot seems to have changed since John entered the picture.
"Don't look at me like that," John continued. "He is most certainly human so you can wipe that shocked look of your face. Anyway, so I get to this warehouse. Its completely dark, except for the headlights of the car illuminating this tall intimidating looking figure leaning on a bloody umbrella. I swear he takes that thing with him everywhere. Wonder if its hiding a sword, the way he's so attached to the thing. He then tells me all this stuff about me, including notes from my private file with my therapist and offers me money to spy on Sherlock. Tells me Sherlock calls him his 'arch-enemy' but wouldn't tell me his name. You can probably tell from Sherlock's reaction that he isn't overly fond of his 'arch-enemy', or at least he pretends not to be." Greg notices that John can't help but smile as he says this. That fond smile is back on his face, with a hint of something else that he isn't telling. "I didn't take the money if you were wondering and I didn't find out until later that night after the case was over that the man Sherlock referred to as 'the most dangerous man you'll ever meet', was in fact his brother."
Greg splutters in shock at this. "Brother?! Sherlock has a brother? Never really thought of Sherlock having siblings, or parents for that matter. Sorta assumed someone dropped this manic man child off in a basket one day on the steps of the yard, and he kinda stuck." It only then occurs to him that maybe John isn't the right person to say that to, but John just chuckles and Greg feels a little tension slip from his shoulders. Sherlock has a brother... A handsome brother... A 'looks positively fuckable in that delectable suit' brother... I should probably stop thinking right about now. I wonder if he is like Sherlock? I wonder what he does? Does he have a weird name like Sherlock?
"Mycroft." Just one word that John speaks as if that explains everything. At Greg's confusion, he elaborates. "His name, it's Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes."
"How the hell did you know I was thinking that?"
"Oh come off it Greg." John laughs, with a mischievous grin. "I spend a lot of time with Sherlock. Some things rub off I guess, no pun intended... But it was kind of obvious. You've basically been devouring him with your eyes since you saw him. Of course you were wondering what his name is, unless you're into the whole no names thing," which was accompanied by a suggestive eye waggle.
"Of course I'm not one of those people. Hold on, did you say Sherlock called him 'the most dangerous man you'll ever meet'? What the hell does that mean? What does he do?" Greg's almost a little afraid to hear the answer. He's only just seen the man, hasn't spoken a word to him, yet his stomach is doing a weird flip and his whole body is tying itself in knots, hoping to hell that he doesn't do something illegal, some sort of powerful drug lord or crime boss. Can't be a bloody Detective Inspector for New Scotland Yard and be in a relationship with a criminal mastermind. Wait, relationship? What the hell? I don't even know the guy and I'm thinking about a relationship? Fucking hell.
"Well he would say he 'holds a minor position in the British Government'." Greg snorts at this. All that presence and power, and minor just don't add up. John acknowledges Greg's scepticism and continues. "Sherlock however says that he IS the British Government, when he's not being busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis." Greg has to admit that even with the little he's observed, that does seem more likely, although intimidating as hell. What would a guy like that want with an old greying copper like me? What am I even thinking. He's a Holmes. He's probably as insane as Sherlock. But then John looks pretty happy. Maybe there's more to Holmes' than meets the eye. I'd sure like to see more of this one. Specifically what is under all those layers. God, I want to unwrap him like its christmas. The things I want to do... The things I want him to do... Dammit Greg, get a hold of yourself, what the buggering hell? Why am I so fixated on this guy I've never met?
"John!" Sherlock shouts as he makes a beeline back towards John and Greg. Greg's heartbeat starts to speed up as he notices Mycroft following behind, still trying to talk to Sherlock, only to have Sherlock throw childish insults back at him. Man, Sherlock looks pissed. It gave Greg a strange satisfaction to see the great consulting detective a little ruffled. It's not a sight he often gets to see, or well ever really. Greg wonders if Sherlock knows about the small smile gently playing across Mycroft's face. Like he's secretly enjoying the verbal sparring, but Greg decides not when Sherlock glances back at his brother, only to see a mask of indifference that Mycroft has quickly put up. Oh god, he's even more gorgeous up close. Those eyes. Dear god, those fucking beautiful eyes. Get a grip Lestrade. You're sounding like a fucking teenager crushing on that twilight guy and for the love of god, stop staring. But Greg finds he can't stop staring.
Sherlock is fuming, violently pacing at this point. John is trying to placate him, and it appears to be working to a degree, however not even the mighty John Watson seems to be able to get a handle on the detective at this point. Mycroft on the other hand looks completely calm, the epitome of politeness and control. What I would give to see him lose control. At this point Greg is flushing again hoping that Mycroft can't actually read minds as his kissable lips pull into a slightly suggestive smirk before turning into a pleasant smile.
"Good evening Dr. Watson," Mycroft directs to John in a voice as smooth and rich as chocolate that sends a jolt of pleasure coursing through Greg's body. That voice starts again, but this time directed towards Greg and he can't help but think he sounds like pure sex. "Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother, and you must be Detective Inspector Lestrade." Mycroft extends his hand to him, who immediately takes it craving contact from this man. They both linger on the handshake a little longer than what would be considered normal between two people meeting for the first time and as they lock eyes again, Greg finds his mouth has gone dry.
There is a small cough beside them, and they spring apart as if they were teenagers caught snogging on the couch. John looks amused, while Sherlock's mouth just hangs open in a look of horror. "NO!" Sherlock shouts like a petulant child once his brain seems to come back online. "NO NO NO! MYCROFT, NO! PISS OFF AND DONT EVEN THINK ABOUT IT."
"Now now Sherlock, calm down. Go play with your corpse and do try to play nice with the other officers. You know how you have a habit to rub those the wrong way sometimes." Mycroft kept his polite smile in place at this, Sherlock looked venomous, John gently trying to soothe him by lightly stroking his back while Greg tried hard not to burst out laughing. He was not so successful at that and Sherlock scowled and stormed off in a flurry of movement, coat flapping behind him, collar flipped up just as the first clap of thunder signalling the start of the storm that has been threatening the scene. John hurries off after him with a wave, and a promise to get Sherlock to text him with his deductions.
"He always has had a flair for the dramatic," the velvety baritone from beside Greg remarks. It is at this point, as Greg looks over to see a smiling face looking back at him that he realises he has yet to speak. His mind seems to be fumbling along, trying to think of something, anything to say, as Mycroft looks at him a little expectantly.
"H-hi." Hi? Hi! Oh my god, that was the best you could come up with Greg. Hi? Really? And with a fucking stutter? He clears his throat and tries again. "Yes," he says with a little more certainty, remembering the elder Holmes address to him. "I'm Greg Lestrade. It's nice to meet you ah Mr. Holmes. I wasn't aware Sherlock had a brother."
"That doesn't surprise me. I'm not exactly Sherlock's favourite person and please, call me Mycroft."
Greg was positively giddy at this. Mycroft. 'Call me Mycroft'. I wonder if anyone has mentioned to this 'Mycroft' that he is in fact a demigod. "Ok Mycroft, in that case you must call me Greg." Greg is relieved to hear that his voice has steadied a bit.
"Short for Gregory, watchful, alert. How very befitting a name for such an esteemed officer. Very well then Gregory, I think I can manage that."
Greg had to suppress a shiver as he heard the way that Mycroft said 'Gregory'. He normally wasn't too fond of the use of his full name, reminding him of horrible teachers from his youth. But when coming from between those delectable lips, it was almost as though it was something special, as if he was tasting the syllables as though they were a fine wine. Greg found he liked this very much, and rather embarrassingly, he found that his cock seemed to like it too, and just hoped that twitches would go unnoticed. So focused on trying to prevent the stirrings from progressing into something that certainly would be noticed, not to mention highly inappropriate in the middle of a crime scene, Greg didn't register that they had lapsed into silence some minutes earlier, until taking in Mycroft's thoughtful expression, showing just a hint of a knowing smirk while his eyes sparkled with amusement. Shit, shit, shit! This is not going well. Not well at all.
Greg was just about to speak, wondering how the hell he could get past the awkwardness he had likely just created when the Adonis before him delicately cleared his throat and announced his departure due to a pressing matter that he must attend to. Greg's thoughts started to flounder, wanting to keep the connection with this beautiful man going, but unable to form coherent speech. Within seconds he felt a delightfully warm hand grasping at his, giving it a firm shake before withdrawing it and turning to head back to the black vehicle still hovering on the border of the crime scene. "Until next time Gregory," Mycroft called out over his shoulder as Greg was left watching his retreating back and perfectly sculptured arse before it was hidden away from sight and into the departing car.
As the heavens finally opened up, Greg quickly secured the business card that Mycroft had skilfully relinquished into his hand during that parting shake into his inner jacket pocket to protect it from the elements and he felt a warmth spread through his chest at the thought that this hunk of a specimen had given him his number. He finally was able to turn back to the scene, barking orders left, right and centre at his subordinates but found it impossible to wipe the cheesy grin that had taken up residency on his face, perplexing many an officer at how one (that isn't Sherlock Holmes that is) could look so bloody chipper standing in the middle of a brutal crime scene.
After 17 hours, a sulky consulting detective whining about lazy fat arsed interfering brothers, a murderer in custody with a signed confession and paperwork finally filled out, Greg was able to take out that little piece of cardboard from its safe place in pocket. It was an exceptionally good quality card, with nothing but the name 'Mycroft Holmes' and a number below it centrally located. There was no job title, nothing. The card was as much of a mystery as the man himself. However, as Greg started to fantasise about all the ways in which he could find an excuse to contact what he considered to be the unattainable prize, he flipped the card over to reveal a beautifully penned message in a very elegant hand.
Gregory, Dinner this Friday. My car will pick you up from the yard at 8. - M
At this point, his heart rate sky-rocketed and he giggled like a bloody school girl. I have a date. A date with a handsome, mysterious and intelligent man! How is it that I'm smitten already? It wasn't until Friday was drawing closer, as Greg spent hours pouring over every detail of their first meeting that he realised Mycroft never once drew a pen from his pocket. That he must have written on that business card before he even stepped out of the the car. Those bloody Holmes', they truly will be the death of me. Had he been looking in a mirror, he might have noticed that he was wearing the same fond smile that John reserved for Sherlock. Those Holmes boys indeed, and Greg couldn't wait.