The inspiration for this story came from the tiny little scene in "The Abomonable Bride" that showed the Holmes brothers as young men.
The story could probably go with a G rating but since drug abuse is mentioned I decided to play it safe.
I thank my great friends Johnsarmylady an Jack63kids for hunting down the silly mistakes I keep making.
Greg Lestrade couldn't decide if the shaking of his body was caused by the icy wind or the fury he felt. The first drops of rain hit him in the face and he cursed. No telephone box to call for help and no money. What a fucked up evening!
Looking around he spotted a run down building across the street whose doorless entrance was only partially nailed up with wooden boards. The building probably housed plenty of individuals who society tried to ignore and politicians denied existed in such a multitude but in his current situation the young policeman couldn't afford to be picky.
As fast as his badly bruised ankle allowed Greg hobbled across the street. More raindrops fell and he tried not to stumble when he picked his way through the dark, slipping on pieces of plastic and other rubbish every so often until he reached the entrance. Ignoring the "Keep out" sign that hung crookedly next to it, he squeezed through the gap which was much tighter than it had looked from further away.
He hissed when a sharp piece of metal ripped through both the material of his jeans and the flesh of his thigh, causing a minor but still painful wound.
He paused in the dark to weigh his options. The house was anything but comfortable but at least he was protected from the rain that began to pour down in earnest now. It was unlikely that the weather would improve soon. The weather forecast had promised rain for the remainder of the night. Perhaps deeper inside the building he would find cover against the cold draft and find a place where he could rest until the morning.
Greg walked slowly through the dark. So far he had neither heard nor seen evidence that indicated the presence of habitation; which surprised him a little because houses like this more often than not attracted drug addicts and homeless people. Although plenty of people thought differently Greg knew that invariably neither group would pose an immediate threat. Still he stopped every few steps to listen for any signs of life. He wasn't keen on startling anyone, causing a possibly violent reaction.
He had walked up a flight of stairs to the first floor when his foot kicked over a tin can that stood next to a wall. The can only rolled for a couple of feet but the bang was as loud as a shot. Greg stopped. He thought that he had heard a surprised cry but that sound had stopped before he felt certain it had been more than a figment of his imagination.
Since Greg had announced his presence already by making so much noise he decided to call out to whoever might occupy the rooms.
"Hello! Anybody here?" He waited for a moment and listened.
"Over here," a voice called out and when Greg turned his head he saw a faint light coming from a room around a corner.
He walked forward slowly, careful not to trip over pieces of rubbish that were littering the floor. The sight that greeted him when he turned the corner and peered into a room which was faintly illuminated by the light of a single candle was rather unexpected. A well groomed man, dressed in what looked like a bespoke suit and a very expensive coat, was sitting on an old mattress. He would have blended in perfectly in the House of Lords but looked very much out of place in this dismal room.
Surprised, the policeman looked at the man who studied him with keen but wary eyes in return. Even in the flickering candle light Greg recognized that the clothes the man wore were of high quality. In the dim light the man's hair looked chestnut brown. It was wavy and gave the slightly chubby face a soft expression. He estimated the man was a bit younger than himself, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three.
Only when he heard a soft groan Greg realized that the man sat next to a figure that was lying motionless on the mattress.
He took a step forward. "Are you... is he all right?"
Greg's voice seemed to startle the man. He could see that the pale eyes glanced at the body that was lying on the mattress before focusing once more on Greg's face.
"He will be in a few hours," the man said in a voice that was as smooth as silk.
Greg took another step forward and introduced himself. "Greg Lestrade," he said. Although he was certain his appearance was anything but inspiring confidence, the man in the expensive clothes had immediately relaxed upon his introduction. He wanted to add that he was a policeman but was interrupted with a wave of an elegant hand.
"You work for the police, most likely Scotland Yard. You have spent the evening with," the man cocked his head to the side for a second before he continued, "a colleague, drinking no more than three pints in a public house. The Red Lion I suppose. Once you left the place you were robbed by at least two perpetrators. You tried to follow the robbers but didn't catch them and now you're seeking shelter from the weather."
Greg felt himself gape at the man's words. Said man closed his eyes for a moment before he lowered his gaze. "That was quite rude of me. My apologies."
The policeman shook his head. "No! No, that was fantastic. How can you know all this? Are you psychic?"
The amused chuckle caused Greg to take another step forward and then crouch down in order not to loom over the men on the mattress. A split second later though he winced when a sharp pain shot through his ankle.
A slim hand steadied Greg who decided to sit on the mattress before he toppled over.
Sitting suddenly very close to the odd pair Greg noticed the scent of an expensive cologne on the man in the coat and the typical odour of a drug-addict coming from the man lying face down on the mattress.
"Mycroft Holmes," the man introduced himself. "I'm not psychic but merely observant."
When the haggard man next to him moaned softly, Mycroft rubbed a hand through the tangled, curly hair. The figure moaned again and turned his head towards Greg who saw only then that what he had thought being a man was merely a teenager, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old.
"A friend of yours?" Greg asked. His suspicion, that the expensively dressed man might have done something untoward to the young lad that had got him in the helpless state he was currently in, was audible.
Instead of being offended Mycroft regarded his counterpart with raising respect. He recognized that protectiveness came natural to Greg Lestrade and that he wasn't browbeaten by clothes that indicated wealth and influence.
"He's my brother," Mycroft told Greg with a nod. "His name is Sherlock."
Upon hearing his name Sherlock cracked an eye open and peered at Greg for as long as two seconds before he closed it again. The youth rolled to his side and hid his face in the folds of his brother's coat.
The way Mycroft caressed the bony shoulder and the hair of the teenager convinced Greg that he cared for his younger brother. The touch was gentle and loving although the skinny youth looked like he was in desperate need of a bath and smelt accordingly.
"How did you know all those things about me?" Greg asked.
Mycroft's eyes shifted again to the policeman's handsome face. "Not too many people would venture into a building like this. You must know how to defend yourself or you would have stayed outside, regardless of the weather. Also your shoes are popular among policemen."
Greg huffed humorously. He knew that lots of policemen were easily identified for what they were. Perhaps it was because of their shoes. Spending plenty of time walking the unforgiving streets of London made one appreciative of solid but comfortable footwear.
"You wanted to tell me that you work for the police," Mycroft continued. "Your right hand twitched, undoubtedly you wanted to show me your warrant-card but then you remembered you don't have it with you. Furthermore the scar at your right hand indicates that you received training with a pistol."
Greg studied the scar that was hardly visible anymore. The initial wound, caused by a pistol's slide during training, had been a painful reminder there was still room for improvement when it came to handling the weapon.
"And the drinks at the pub?" Looking in the intelligent eyes the policeman realized that he very much enjoyed listening to Mycroft Holmes' observations. Such a skill would be quite useful in his own line of work.
"I can smell the beer you drank and your movement indicates that it was more than a pint. Still, your motions are not clumsy so it couldn't be too much alcohol. Taking your body-weight into account no more than three pints." As if on an afterthought he added, "you don't look like an alcoholic."
"The Red Lion is the only pub in the neighbourhood and it frequently exceeds the closing time," Mycroft said. "When it did close however you went into an alley in order to relieve yourself. There you were robbed."
Greg followed the younger man's line of sight and found him looking at the lower end of his trouser legs and his shoes. He saw smudges of dirt that apparently told the tale about how his own bloody
colleague had run like a hare when two sinister looking men had approached them in the alley, demanding their money. He gritted his teeth when remembering that he had decided to tug himself away and get decent instead of running away too. Seconds later his aggravated self had been held by one man while the second had patted him down and taken out his wallet. Without checking its contents the thug had put it inside his jacket and delivered a punch to Greg's face.
It had taken a moment for him to recover and he would have followed the men but when he had hurried in the direction they had left he had slipped and twisted his ankle.
Hitching his trouser leg up and pulling his sock down, Greg perused the swelling. He gave the swollen flesh a careful poke. It hurt but he knew that there would be no ruptured tendon. Playing football since he was a boy he knew what a rupture felt like.
"You might want to put something on that wound, Mr. Lestrade," Mycroft said, indicating the damage and bloodstain in Greg's jeans. "Even a small injury caused by a rusty nail can cause a nasty infection not to mention tetanus."
"Call me Greg, please. Being called Mr. Lestrade makes me feel old."
Mycroft inclined his head. "Very well, Gregory."
"How do you know it was a rusty nail?" Greg asked.
He expected another clever explanation but was amusement when Mycroft showed him a tear in the material of his coat where probably the very same nail had left its mark.
They smiled at each other.
From a plain but expensive looking leather bag that stood nearby Mycroft produced a small box and handed it to Greg. A sticker on its cover declared that it contained first aid material. Opening the box the policeman found a few antiseptic wipes and sticking plasters that would serve the purpose. For a second or two he felt rather self-conscious about lowering his trousers in front of the well-dressed, attractive stranger but retreating into the dark where he wasn't exposed but would be unable to see anything himself wasn't an option. He heard Mycroft swallow and give a small cough when the man was faced with his bottom covered in dark cotton briefs.
It really seemed like a good idea to take care of the small but nasty looking wound right away and Greg was careful to clean it meticulously even though the disinfectant stung like hell. Eventually satisfied with his handiwork he put a plaster onto his injury and pulled up his trousers.
Once he had returned the box to its owner Greg sat down again, noticing only now that he was cold and rather tired.
Seeing his own fatigue reflected in the policeman's face, Mycroft checked his watch. "Ten past two," he announced. Greg nodded. At least another three and a half hours before the big city began to wake up properly. Hopefully the rain would have stopped by then and the young Holmes would have recovered enough to leave the premises.
"This isn't the first time he took drugs, is it?" Greg asked.
Mycroft shook his head. Usually he would be more than reluctant to answer any questions regarding Sherlock and himself but he felt that he could trust Greg Lestrade. For someone who trusted with as much reluctance as Mycroft Holmes the realisation, that he felt no qualms about offering the information, was quite surprising. He promised himself he would examine this unusual occurrence once he was back in his normal surroundings.
"My brother has taken drugs before. He hoped they would quiet his mind."
"And do they?"
Mycroft shrugged. "Sherlock seems to think so."
After regarding the sleeping teenager for a moment, Greg shifted to face the older brother.
"You know already that I work for Scotland Yard. What about you, Mycroft?"
"I occupy a minor position in the government," came the reply.
The policeman chuckled. "I presume you won't remain in that minor position for long."
"I'm certain I don't know what you mean."
The government official and the policeman exchanged smiles, knowing that although the surroundings left a lot to be desired the next hours wouldn't lack interesting conversation.
oOo
It was almost dawn when the younger Holmes woke up properly from his drug induced sleep. The teenager slapped away his brother's hand, struggling to sit up and prop himself against the wall. It took some time but eventually he was alert enough to scrutinize the two men who sat next to him.
Greg felt very much exposed under the silent gaze from the glittering eyes but he still felt the need to force a bit of advice upon Sherlock before they got up to leave the building.
"You are exploring dangerous territory and by caring as much as he does your brother gives you what appears to be a safe framework."
Sherlock did his best to look bored but the policeman saw that he was listening.
"Mycroft is like a safety net for you," he continued, "but there's no guarantee that he'll always manage to get to you in time."
"I know," the teenager replied eventually, "though it seems tonight my brother and I found ourselves a fail-safe."
With tacit approval Sherlock allowed both his brother and the policeman to help him down the stairs but once they left the building he shook off the supporting hands. The teenager still looked somewhat worse to wear but he was walking under his own steam, stubbornly ignoring the slightly worried expressions of the men that accompanied him.
The grey morning light reflected in the puddles the rain had left during the night. Together the three men kept walking until they reached a telephone box.
Greg was fairly certain Mycroft hadn't inserted any coins before he dialled a rather long number and ordered a cab. Within minutes a black cab arrived, driving first to the policeman's home.
"Don't worry about the fare. I have it covered," Mycroft said, once the cab had stopped and he saw Greg's hand twitch to retrieve the still absent wallet.
"Thanks." The policeman scrambled out of the cab. "Goodbye, Mycroft. Sherlock."
Before he close the door, Greg stooped down and looked at the elder Holmes. "Will I see you again?" he asked, feeling foolish the moment the question had left his mouth.
Mycroft smiled and the corners of his eyes crinkled. "Undoubtedly."
The smile that invaded Greg Lestrade's face upon this reply was unguarded. He closed the door and watched the cab drive away, wondering what it'd involve to stay in touch and perhaps becoming friends with Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.
For the young ones: twenty years ago people didn't have mobile phones and were in need of telephone boxes to make calls. ;-)