I don't own any Sherlock characters, they belong to the writers of the show and Connan Doyle!
Broken Pieces
"Oi, Donovan!" Greg Lestrade yelled from the doorway of his office. The woman poked her head in, her long curly hair swinging around her face. "Have you called Bill about that warrant for Navascar Machiti yet?" Lestrade asked.
"He just told me he didn't have enough probable cause to get one filed. Looks like we have to get more evidence before we can search him." Donovan sighed.
"Shit." Lestrade cussed under his breath. Shaking his head, he gazed out of the window. "He's already killed three men. We need to put a stop to this!" He paused then said, "You know something, Donovan?"
She turned to him, showing she was listing.
"We have been looking for this guy for almost a month now. If… if.. Sherlock were here, then…" Lestrade's words trailed into nothing and he counted to gaze out of the window.
"Come on Lestrade!" Donovan said from the doorway, "Don't do this! It's been almost two years now. You can't still think that the bloody mess with that lunatic was your fault? Come off it!"
"Don't you call him that!" Lestrade spat back, turning to her.
"I'm sorry sir." She raised her hands up in defiance, "But I was right and I knew it all along. He was a fake, and nothing you could have done could have saved him."
"How on earth can you know that Sally?" Lestrade asked, sounding a might desperate.
"Because we were bound to find out sooner or later and then he would have done the same thing. You need to stop this stupid notion that you somehow killed him!"
"But I did!" Lestrade yelled back, "I got that warrant to arrest him and forced his hand. I made him kidnap John and… and… commit his bloody suicide. I killed him! Don't you see?"
"No, I don't!" Donovan shouted, "Because it was the sociopath who did the actual killing, not you. How could you think that, Greg? It's bloody stupid! You need to stop tearing yourself up about this. Or it's going to kill you!" Donovan gazed intently at him for quite some time, then in a softer tone she said, "Look. I know it was hard. I mean, you trusted him and he betrayed you-"
"He didn't bloody well betray me! If I would have just talked to him-"
"Nothing would have changed, inspector, and I know it. None of this would have changed. He still would have flung himself off that bloody building!"
Lestrade flinched at her final words as though they caused him physical pain. Heaving a huge sigh, he sank back into his chair, running his hands through his short and graying hair.
"I'm sorry sir." Donovan said again, "But you know it's true, and there is no use getting all worked up about it. He was just a psychopath, and that's what psychopaths do."
"Don't call him that." Lestrade growled, picking his head up sharply and fixing Donovan with a cool stare, "He was one of the most intelligent, brave, and ingenious people I have ever met. Sure he could be a dick, but who isn't in this line of work? And I can't just turn on and off my guilt like a light switch. It's gonna be with me for a while, and I've accepted that. So don't pretend to know anything about Sherlock or the kind of man he was!" Lestrade didn't realize he was on his feet but he was suddenly shouting again, for what felt like the umpteenth time in this week alone. All of his anger at Sherlock, anger at Donovan, and the yard, even the anger at himself was spilling to the surface.
"Don't you pull that rubbish with me Donovan! You didn't know Sherlock like I did. I knew him for 5 years and you what, two and a half? How could he have been faking all of those crimes for 5 bloody years? Did you ever stop to think that Sherlock was really just that smart? Or were you so jealous that he knew all about you and Anderson shagging that you couldn't get past his ego and see what kind of man he really was?
"Because I did! Sherlock Holmes saw things in people that others didn't even think about themselves, and that's why people hated them, because he told them the truth they didn't want to see about themselves. But he brought out so much good, not just for the yard, but for all of the people he met. I mean, look at John! He cured his bloody limp and made him a good and happy man again. And you know what I did? I killed him. Me! Yeah, sure, he did the actual killing. But in reality, Donovan, it was you and me! We killed Sherlock Holmes. So don't come in here and give me your psychopath speech, because I don't want to hear it. So the next time you darken this doorway, it better be something actually useful and not just a spew of bloody rubbish!"
Lestrade exhaled a deep breath and turned his back on the detective. She huffed loudly and stalked out of the room, shaking her head at passer's by, who's heads followed her out of the room. Out in the hallway, Donovan met Anderson.
"Better not go in there now." Donovan advised the Forensics officer, "He's in another one of his moods." Giving a pointed look at Anderson, she stalked from the room, her boot heals clicking sharply on the tile floor as she went.
Lestrade sat at his desk, head in his hands and whipping a single tear from his eye. He needed someone to talk to, who really understood. Well, he could easily think of the perfect caudate.
Mycroft. But could he risk it here at the Yard, with an open office window and a big phone line? Pulling out his phone, Lestrade dialed in Mycroft's number and flashed him a quick text:
I just had a bit of a row at the Yard. Donovan was having a go at Sherlock again. How do you stand it, Mycroft? People always saying bloody awful things about him?
Not 30 seconds had gone by when the Inspectors phone chimed a new text:
My deepest apologies, dearest Gregory. However, you mustn't let imbeciles such as that lousy Donovan to bash my brother. They are nothing but below people like us.
-M
Chuckling to himself, Lestrade replied:
'People like us?' That makes us sound like royalty. Well, you are, perhaps, but me? Not so much. (Take away tonight?)
And a few moments later:
Well, I elected to date you, so that makes you a type of royalty to me as well. (And as long as we don't get Chinese again, I am quite sufficient with whatever you want, my dearest Gregory.)
-M
Lestrade sent off a quick last text that read:
Why thank you, your highness! (And how about that Pizza place down the street?)
And:
That sounds marvelous! Now, it is most regrettable, but I must take leave of our conversation to go and meet with Her Majesty. Give Donovan a great deal of scuttwork for me. And I shall see you tonight.
-M
Lestrade closed his phone and pocketed it once more. The rest of the day passed by without much avail. In lo of their shouting match, Donovan had steered clear of the DI for the rest of the day, (for which Lestrade was grateful) and when he took a cab home by five, he was thoroughly exhausted and ready to be home. Climbing the stairs to his shared flat, he dug his keys out of his pocket and went inside. Shrugging off his coat and setting it on a nearby chair, Lestrade placed the keys in the tray and headed into the kitchen.
"Mycroft?" He called through the house. A head appeared out from behind the doorway in their bedroom, followed by shoulders, and the legs and torso of Mycroft Holmes.
"Why good evening, dearest." Mycroft simpered, walking over to the DI and planting a kiss on his cheek. Lestrade's mouth pulled into a half smile and he set down his bag by the kitchen table. Grabbing Mycroft's hands, he pulled him into a kiss. They went on like this for some time before the two broke apart and began bustling around the kitchen, putting things away.
"Work was good?" Lestrade asked, filing some old cases into a rusty green filing cabinet sitting in the corner.
"Fairly decent. I have got practically all of my secret service men on the lookout for this hit man by the name of Navascar (you may have heard of him), but he is appearing to be more illusive then we first anticipated."
"Did you say Navascar? Yeah, we've got our people out looking for him. We think we found his place yesterday, but can't get a warrant yet."
Mycroft sighed, "I wish my force were better at working with yours, but it doesn't seem to work out that way, does it?"
"True…" Lestrade sighed, "Well at least your day was filled with tracking hit men and popping in for tea with the Queen. Mine was filled with sitting, shouting, and paperwork."
"Life of a Detective Inspector I suppose…" Mycroft shrugged his sharp shoulders.
"Very true." Lestrade agreed solemnly. "I think I'll get changed into something more comfortable."
"Oh, perhaps I could join you with that." Mycroft smirked, following Greg into the bedroom. Lestrade rolled his eyes but complied all the same. Mycroft began to unbutton Greg's collared shirt, reveling a hairy and muscled chest underneath. After rubbing that for quite some time, Mycroft moved onto the pants. He pulled them off slowly, making Lestrade moan with longing. But Mycroft, apparently, was making him wait, for he got the Detective's pants around his ankles and then stalked off to the living room, shouting behind his shoulder, "Would you like a cupper then Dearest?"
Cursing under his breath, Lestrade slipped into more comfortable jeans and a t-shirt and headed back to the living room, giving Mycroft a scathing look. Mycroft threw his head back and laughed.
"Oh, you are an evil man, Mycroft Holmes." He muttered, but accepted his tea and sank into the couch next to him. The two sat around in their living room with their bare feet propped up against the table, they ordered their take away and were watching a television program on some man with a Police Box.
Lestrade lost interest halfway through and began stroking Mycroft's tie in an almost delicate manor. Mycroft smiled and kissed Lestrade. Lestrade grabbed Mycroft's face and kissed him longer.
After they broke apart, they stared into each other's eyes, blue on deep grey.
"I can't believe it's been almost 7 years." Lestrade muttered, pressing his forehead to Mycroft's.
"Nor can I." Mycroft whispered back. Then Lestrade began to undo Mycroft's tie slowly, allowing Mycroft to lean his head back, hitting the couch pillows. Lestrade's phone buzzed somewhere on the table. Without looking at the text, Lestrade grabbed it and turned it off. Then, he began kissing every bit of Mycroft he undid. First the collarbone, then he undid the buttons on his shirt and kissed the bare skin under that as well. Mycroft shuttered under him as his lips met barley touched skin. Lestrade's lips were touched with a smile as he steadily worked his way down and finally reached Mycroft's belt.
"Do you want me to stop here?" He asked playfully, his forefinger slowly caressing the space just under his belt and making Mycroft's pants bulge. Just then, there was a sharp ringing of the doorbell. Mycroft groaned in protest as Lestrade hopped up and pulled on his jacket, zipping it over his bare chest. He got the pizza, used Mycroft's card to pay, and set the box on the kitchen counter. Lestrade grinned at Mycroft who was still on the couch, with his entire shirt unbuttoned and his tie lay strewn over the couch.
Lestrade grabbed two plates, loaded them up with pizza and headed back to the couch.
"Oh my dearest, you can't just simply be planning to leave me with this, are you?" He gestured aimlessly at the bulge in his pants. Lestrade snorted with laughter and said,
"Good things come to those who wait. And also, karma can be a bloody bitch sometimes."
The both laughed and ate their pizza in comfortable silence, watching as the man with the blue Police Box ran around, with some strange metal object. Mycroft seemed to know much about the show and was trying to explain it to the DI when the elder Holmes' phone rang shrilly. He got up from the couch, talking all the way,
"No, they aren't' statues! They just turn to stone when someone is looking at them!"
He got to the table and his face paled slightly. He held up his forefinger to Lestrade who gave him a questioning look, but Mycroft merely shook his head and headed into the bedroom to take the call.
"Yes brother dear?" Mycroft answered, speaking quietly as to not be overheard.
"Mycroft? Listen to me very closely." Came Sherlock's voice from the other end.
"What is it this time? I haven't heard from you in a while" Slightly annoyed, Mycroft heard his brother say,
"I have been in America for almost 10 months, Mycroft, of course you haven't heard from me!" Sherlock spat back. Resisting the urge to reply back, Mycroft stayed silent.
"I am completely rid of all American contacts to Morarity, save one. Navascar Machiti. He escaped just when I had him. He is very clever and I don't expect any normal policemen to catch him. He has already killed three men in London and I think he is gunning for a fourth. I am not quite sure who yet, but I am working on that. That is why I am taking at the airport now, taking the next flight back to London."
"Alright, Sherlock, slow down. Let me tell you that I have got my men tracking him now. There should be no trouble on that front. But I am pleased to her you will be back in the country" Mycroft said, his tong soft.
"Fine. Yes." Sherlock replied scathingly, "However your men are lousy at real police work, I would be surprised if they could tell a murder from the victim."
"Very funny." Mycroft said sarcastically. "How are you in other respects?"
"Such as?"
"Such as health, dear brother," Mycroft replied patiently.
"That is not of importance." Sherlock replied, "How is John?"
At this, Mycroft glanced over at the stalk of tapes in the bedroom closet that had all of John's goings on, from sleeping, to drinking tea aimlessly in the flat, piled in that shelf.
"He is…" Mycroft chewed his words, thinking his next move through carefully. The truth was, John, who should have been improving, was steadily getting worse and worse as time without Sherlock passed. He was becoming a lot less social in the past few months and Mycroft had to send Greg over almost three times a week to do all of John's shopping and even taking away the alcohol from his flat. But how on earth was he supposed to tell his manic-depressant brother, bordering on a mental breakdown that his one and only friend was slowing killing himself without him?
No. Mycroft thought, lying was the only possible solution.
"He is improving. Not perfect, by any means, but he seems to be moving on a bit."
"A bit?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, you know. These things take time." Mycroft said. Then to change the subject, he said, "I must get back to my dinner. I am glad to hear you are doing well."
Sherlock scoffed at the word 'well' and ended the call with a snap.
Sighing, Mycroft headed back into the living room, where Lestrade sat, his head lulling onto his shoulder and his plate laying slack in his hand. Smiling to himself, Mycroft took the plate out of his lover's hand and placed it quietly on the table. Then, cradling Lestrade's legs and head, Mycroft hoisted him into his arm and carried the man to the bedroom, turning off the lights as he went. Then he laid him down and climbed in after him. Pulling the covers over Lestrade and himself, Mycroft settled in, allowing his brain to cool down and his body to relax.
There is nothing quite like it. Mycroft thought, snuggling closer to his loved one, having someone there beside you. It makes life a little easier to manage. What would I do without him?
And with this thought, Mycroft closed his eyes and allowed the grips of sleep to take hold of him and pull him under.
The day dawned in a cool misty chill the next morning. Lestrade woke up to a clock that read 5:45 to sounds of Mycroft bustling around in the kitchen. Yawning, Lestrade placed his bare feet on the carpeted floor and set off down the hall to the kitchen. Mycroft stood amongst a cloud of smoke, a pan in one hand, and a spatula in the other.
"Mycroft?" Lestrade asked, walking into the kitchen.
"Why good morning, Gregory!" Mycroft greeted him in clad pajamas and sleep ruffled hair.
"Are you cooking, or trying to burn up the house?" Lestrade asked, walking over to the coffee pot and filling it up in the sink.
"If you should know, I am cooking." Mycroft grinned at him, then turned back to his hissing pan on the stove.
"Ok then. If you insist." Lestrade set the pot in the coffee maker and flicked it on. "What have you got going today, honey?"
"Oh don't call me that." Mycroft shuttered at the word 'honey' but flashed a smile at him. "And it you must know, sweet cakes, that I am going to meet up with the CIA about our favorite hit man. And I have a top secret meeting scheduled with higher ups… all very boring." Mycroft said, turning off the stove and dumping scrambled eggs onto two plates. "And how about you?"
"Oh the usual." Lestrade shrugged, pouring two cups of coffee and the two men sat down at the table. After a few silent minutes of eating their breakfast, they finished up and Lestrade whipped his hands, saying,
"I'm going to hop in the shower." Then turning around, "and what time do you have to leave?"
"In just a few minutes. So I'll be gone when you get out. I'll see you tonight."
"Ok." Lestrade said, smiling to Mycroft before heading off to the bedroom.
Lestrade took a cab into town to the center of Scotland Yard, paid the cabbie, and walked up to his office. He was to distracted to hear the mutterings and whisperings that followed him. People's heads turned here and there as he passed and when he got to his office, he found four new messages on his work phone.
"When did these come in, Jackie?" Lestrade asked his secretary, poking his head around the corner.
"Um… Must have come in this morning, I think around 5 or 6am."
"Thanks." Lestrade turned back to his office and shut his door. He picked up his answering machine and dialed the voicemail.
You have four new messages.
Came the cool female answering machine voice:
First message:
"Hey Greg" Lestrade was startled to hear John's voice on the phone, "I know your probably not at work right now, so I thought this was the best way to do it. Um… listen. You have been great to me. Really. You have. You have helped me through some really tight spots. So um." John paused in the message and Lestrade felt his heart rate picking up, what was John trying to tell him.
"Sorry. I'm having a little trouble focusing right now… because well… I-"
The answering machine cut off and Lestrade hit the next button.
Next message:
"Sorry. That was a long message. So why don't I make this quick." He paused again, "I don't think I can keep doing this. I really can't. Without, um... without Sherlock. Because… well this may sound dumb, but I-I loved him. And now that he's… he's gone… there isn't really a point…"
Once again, the message was cut off for being to long.
Next message:
"Anyway, this call is to say goodbye." Lestrade heard John chuckle lightly, "Oh God, I'm starting to sound like him. But I figure, Sherlock did it this way, so maybe I should too… so, um… I don't want you to worry about me. Ok? Because if you do, you'll blame yourself, and I never want that, because you are so good to me. So thanks. I really appreciate what you have done for me. But now you don't have to worry. So…"
The woman's voice interjected again,
Last unheard message:
"Thanks. But this is my last goodbye."
Lestrade heard the message cut off and his blood turn cold. Hands shaking, he quickly dialed Mrs. Hudson's number. He heard the phone ring out on his head,
"Come on, come on! Pick up." Lestrade muttered into the phone. His hands were now shaking so violently that he felt like they may fall off. What if John had done what he said he was going to do? What, if anything would the Detective Inspector do to fix this? What if John was dead?
"H-h-hello?" Came the shaking voice of Baker Street's landlady.
"Mrs. Hudson! Where's John?"
"Oh Lestrade!" She cried, "Why didn't you answer your mobile? I've been calling for ages! They just got done shipping John off to the hospital. I couldn't go with him because I'm not family. Oh Greg." She sobbed into the phone.
"Please, tell me what happen?" Lestrade said, feeling his stomach drop to somewhere at his feet. He had turned off his phone last night, and now look what had happened.
"Oh it was so dreadful! I found him on the floor, a bottle of pills all split on the floor. And he wasn't breathing! The medics just came and got him. Oh Greg…" She cried harder, "What will I do if-if."
"Shhhh." Lestrade said, feeling his breath quickening, what mattered now was being there for the old woman who had been like a mother to John. "Please don't think about that. I know those medics. They are good people, he is in good hands."
"Oh I know, I know." Mrs. Hudson sniffed, "But I'm just so, so, w-worried." She hiccupped and her cries subsided slightly. After telling her to get a cup of tea and that he would meet her over at the hospital a little later, Lestrade hung up and sank into his desk chair.
John in the hospital…. Attempted suicide…. How was any of this possible? Lestrade thought, feeling tears prick the corners of his eyes. He decided to let Mycroft know.
Pulling out his phone, he sent a text to Mycroft:
Just found out that John is in the hospital. He left me a message this morning saying 'Goodbye.' And then he tried to OD. It was my fault. I turned off my phone last night and Mrs. Hudson has been trying to call me. What do I do? What if John dies?
Feeling even more empty then before, Lestrade sat at his desk, hearing people bustle around outside of his office, marveling that they thought this was a normal day, when somewhere, John was dying.
Unable to stand it any longer, Lestrade headed out of his office and ran into Donovan half way down the hall.
"Sir." She said, with false politeness.
"Listen, I need you to take over this case today. See if you can get more clues about Machiti."
"Why?" Donovan asked.
"Because I just found out that John is in the hospital." Lestrade said sadly.
"Oh." Was Donovan's only response.
"And I'm going to go make sure that he's ok. Do you have a problem with that?"
"No, sir, I just think that your emotions are taking priority over things that are really important. We need you on this case."
"And you have me, but first I need to make sure my friend is alright." Lestrade growled back, and headed onto the street once more.
The day was a dark and gloomy one, with promise of rain lingering in the black clouds above. Lestrade took a cab down to a much to familiar road, and he finally pulled up to Bart's Hospital. When he got out, his phone was buzzing in his pocket. After paying the cabbie, he pulled out his phone and saw a text from Mycroft.
I just got this text. I am sorry. Shall I meet you over there?
Lestrade didn't have time to respond before he stopped at the reception area, trying not to remember the time had had come to see Sherlock's lying dead on a slab. Shaking the image from his mind, he asked the receptionist where the patients floor was and which room John was in.
"2nd floor, room 6." The man said, with a bored expression. Lestrade nodded his thanks and headed to the elevator. He sent back a text to Mycroft:
Don't bother.
Lestrade knew it was stupid, but he was angry with Mycroft for letting John slip like this. What with the camera's he knew the elder Holmes brother had placed all over the flat, Lestrade thought that he could try and prevent things like this from happening.
Reaching the 2nd floor, labeled ICU- he walked down the hall until he found room 6. The door was closed and the hall around him was quiet. Lestrade was almost afraid to look in; he didn't really want to see what lay beyond. But just then he heard the clip-clack of heals behind him and turned sharply to see Molly Hooper striding toward him.
"Hello Molly." Lestrade nodded curtly to her. She half smiled, half grimaced back at him.
"Hi Greg. You want to go in? He's sleeping now, but it would be nice to have some company."
"Where's Mrs. Hudson."
"The nurses sent her out because she was crying to much." Molly shook her head sadly, then pulled open the door. Lestrade followed her into the room, and a horrible sight met his eyes. John Watson lay on the hospital bed; IV's poking onto his skeletal form, looking as though he was completely surrounded in them. His face was a ghostly pale and there were dark rings of fatigue under his eyes. Not to mention the oxygen mask that obscured half of his face. There was a soft beep of the heart monitor and the light whoosh of air that sent oxygen into the doctor's lungs. The putrid smell of bleach greeted his nostrils as he closed the door softly behind him.
"I think this is the most sleep he's gotten in weeks." Molly whispered to Lestrade, pulling him a chair by John's bed, next to her vacant one. He sat down and turned to her.
"What happened? Mrs. Hudson said he was taking pills?"
"He tried to overdose." Molly whispered back, "but Mrs. Hudson came home early from her shopping and found him on the ground… p-p-pas-sed out…" Molly sniffed loudly, pulling a tissue from John's bedside table. She blew her nose loudly and then looked up at Lestrade, her eyes sparkling with tears.
"What are we going to do?" She sounded now desperate.
"I… God. I have no bloody clue." Lestrade heaved a sigh and leaned back into his own chair.
The two sat there for a good three hour, watching John's heart monitor keep pace with his beating heart, enhancing few words and going on coffee runs. Hours passed and nurses came in, changing out IV bags or simply checking John's pulse.
Lestrade's phone buzzed at around 5pm. He picked it up and saw a text there from Donovan:
Just got a break. It looks like Machiti has been hiding out in a flat in Bristol. I set some special ops guys over there, but he was already gone when they got there. But it was defiantly him. Were examining these files that we found at his flat. Were heading over to Bart's now. Do you care to join us?
Lestrade rubbed his eyes and sent a reply:
Glad to hear about your break. I'm already at Bart's, so I might as well.
Standingup and stretching, Lestrade looked at Molly, who was dozing lightly in her chair. He took off his coat and placed it over her, as a makeshift blanket. Then scribbling a quick note to Molly, telling her he was going, and would stop back in tomorrow. He took one last glance at John, squeezing his hand and whispered,
"Everything will be fine."
He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Back in the hallway, Lestrade headed down to the basement, meeting up with Donovan and the others.
"Let me go!" Sherlock Holmes growled, pulling at Mycroft's hold on him.
"No. Sherlock, you can't. You know perfectly well the reprocutions of going in there."
"Does it look like I care?" Sherlock hissed back, "John is in there and it's all my bloody fault! I am sick and tired of this. I can not keep doing this to him!"
"He will die!" Mycroft nearly yelled back. "if you go storming into that hospital now, John will die."
"He is already killing himself! Attempted suicide! And where in the hell were you, Mycroft?!" He rounded on his brother, his eyes popping, "I told you to look after him! You told me hew as doing, oh how did you put it? 'He is improving.' What is so much more important that you can't check a bloody surveillance tape now and again?"
Mycroft didn't respond. Of course he had checked the tape, (it was part of his morning routine) but he didn't have one on every part of the flat. He preferred to give as much privacy as a man with surveillance could have. John had taken a glass of water into the bedroom and that was it. He didn't have a tape in the bedroom.
Mycroft knew Sherlock just needed to get those words off of his chest, so he counted to listen to Sherlock's shouts,
"Do you even understand what is it like to see someone in so much pain but not be able to do anything about it?"
"Yes, I do." Mycroft muttered quietly, for he did know. He saw the self blame that Greg put himself in everyday. "I completely understand, brother, and that I why I know that if you go up there again, Moran will kill John."
"He'll have to get to me first." Snarled Sherlock.
"And what good would it do John to see you die all over again?" Mycroft reasoned, still holding down Sherlock's arms. However, his struggle became less and less until he slumped forward and sank down to the pavement. Rain was just beginning to fall as the two Holmes brothers stood in an alley across from Bart's Hospital. Mycroft sank down next to his brother, not caring if his suite got dirty.
"Listen." Mycroft began, Sherlock's head in his hands. "John didn't die. And the hospital will have him under observation for quite a while." Sherlock didn't look up so Mycroft counted, "This means that you will have more time to hunt down Moran and kill him. I have got all my men working at it, (save the ones looking for Machiti). And you will kill him, and then you will come back to John."
Sherlock still didn't reply. He merely sat on the cool pavement, cradling his head between his knees. Sighing, Mycroft patted Sherlock on the shoulder and stood, Sherlock, slowly but surly, followed suite. The two walked down the alley and down a smaller road. As to not draw attention to themselves, they took a cab instead of one of Mycroft's usual black cars. Mycroft dropped Sherlock off to a rent out flat some twenty minutes later, and then headed back into town.
It was around 8oclock when Mycroft finally got back to his and Lestrade's flat. When he got inside, it came, as somewhat of a surprise to see that Greg still wasn't home. Sighing, Mycroft called for dinner and took a shower. Greg was still not home when he got out of the shower and it was only after the take away got to the flat and was getting cold when Mycroft heard the key turn at the door. In came Lestrade, his tie askew and drenched from head to toe in rainwater.
"Hello dearest." Mycroft got up from his place on the couch and walked over to him. Lestrade glanced at Mycroft then turned to hang his things up.
"I am so sorry about John. Is he well?" Mycroft already knew the answer to this, but he thought it curiosity to ask Greg first.
"Yes. Well for a man who just tried to commit suicide." Lestrade spat back, still not looking at Mycroft.
"I didn't mean it like that I just-"
"Well, you know, right now, I couldn't care less what you meant." Lestrade now turned to Mycroft, his face flushed with an angry red. Mycroft was taken aback.
"You know what, Mycroft? John almost died today. He almost died today, because of you, and because of me. We nearly killed him." Lestrade said, as though stating them as facts.
"Greg-"
"Don't you even talk to me." Growled Lestrade, "I am sick and tired of your excuses. Weren't you supposed to be doing everything in your power to help John get better? Or was that just one of the many things you delegated to others so you don't have to do the dirty work?"
"What are you talking about-?" Mycroft asked, his eyebrows arching in confusion.
"You sent me over every bloody week to clean up John's mess. That poor man could hardly pour tea without me or Mrs. Hudson there to help him. I did all of that dirty work for you, didn't I? So what, you didn't have to face him yourself? Were you to embarrass about what your brother did to your reputation to see that, John is suffering. Well, new flash for you Holmes, John is suicidal. All because of you."
These words hit Mycroft like a blow to the chest. It was one thing when his own brother insulted him, but when a man like Lestrade, whom he loved and cared… Did he really think that low of him? Did he really think that he had done those things to John? The dark pit at the bottom of his stomach he had had when he was holding back Sherlock came on stronger now, as each word tore at Mycroft.
"Greg, listen, please-"
"You are unbelievable. I thought you were supposed to love your brother. But you treat the things and people he loved like shit. I don't see why anyone could be around you. All you care about are results. You just want everyone to be as good as you, but don't you see? You're below us! You are nothing compared to those kind, selfless, and amazing people out there. Look at John! Do you see what he did for Sherlock when he was alive? I don't know how he put up with him, but he seemed to love him and I thought I could love a Holmes brother like he could. But it's impossible. You are to selfish to see past your own life, and help others." Breathing heavily, Lestrade glared at Mycroft for quite some time.
Mycroft was at a loss for words. He had never heard Greg Lestrade so angry in his seven years of knowing him. It scared Mycroft how the pure hatred was not filling Lestrade's eyes.
"I'm going to bed." He hissed, "Don't bother sleeping there tonight."
And with that, Lestrade stalked out of the room and slammed the door shut. Mycroft stood in the empty living room for a few shocked moments before things really started to sink in. His shoulders hunched, he put the take away in the fridge and grabbed blankets from the hall closet and laid them out on the couch, his mind whirling all the while.
Was he truly that horrible? Sure, emotions were always somewhat of puzzlement for him, but he had hoped, that with his time spent with Lestrade, he would begin to understand them. Shaking his head, Mycroft flicked off the lights and walked blindly over to the sofa, plopping down, thinking that only 24 hours ago, Lestrade and Mycroft had sat in this exact place, kissing each other with such love. But now, Mycroft thought miserably, that might never be the case again.
Mycroft was already out of the house by the time Lestrade woke up the next morning. It didn't take long for Lestrade to get dressed and grab all of his things before he was off to work. The day today was a little less gloomy, but there were still ominous clouds lingering in the pale blue sky. Lestrade took a cab, all the while thinking of the look on Mycroft's face as he had left the room last night. It seemed to be haunting him, and bad though Lestrade felt, he was also still very angry with the elder Holmes brother. Hoping that maybe they could work it out tonight, Lestrade went into work.
It was a busy morning and by the time it was time for his lunch break, Lestrade was exhausted. He decided to go and visit John during his break, but he was still asleep when he got there.
"How is he?" Lestrade asked Molly as he entered the room, lowering his voice to a whisper.
"He's improving slightly. They get to take off his oxygen mask today, but they said it could be a few more days before he actually wakes up."
Lestrade spent the rest of his hour break sitting next to John and making hushed conversation with Molly across John's bed.
There was a weak sun that poured onto the pavement as Lestrade walked the rest of the way back to the Yard. Once inside, his phone began to ring shrilly.
"Lestrade here."
"Hi Detective Inspector." Came the reedy voice of Anderson.
"Oh, hi Anderson."
"So listen, I've been talking to Sergeant Donovan and we were thinking about going over the case file of Machiti again. We think there's something that we might have missed."
"Ok…" Lestrade paused, "Why are you telling me this? Couldn't Donovan just have brought it up to me?"
"Well, yes. But I thought I should let you know, and maybe we could try fingerprinting it again."
Sighing, Lestrade responded, "I would love to, Anderson, but we already did fingerprints on all of Machiti's stuff and there's nothing. This guy is good, he left absolutely not trace of fibers anywhere."
"Yeah." Agreed Anderson, "well. If that freak Holmes was here he would probably pull out some horse shit about there being a stain on one of the files that pointed it right to him…"
"Is it just me, or does it sound like your missing him?"
"Missing him?" Anderson scoffed, but his voice didn't sound to confident now, "how could I miss a weirdo like him?"
"Oh, forgive me, I must have been mistaken." Lestrade chuckled and then ended the call.
After going over all of their hit man's files for the umpteenth time, Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson sat in the conference room, stalks of paper littering the desks. Lestrade combed his hands through his hair in frustration.
"There is nothing here!" He threw down the file he was holding and leaned back in his chair.
"I was sure there would be some kind of give a way, there's bound to be something…" Donovan muttered. Shaking his head, Lestrade stretched and began strengthening out piles of paper in front of him. Just then he heard a soft knock on the door and his secretary, Jackie, poke her head in.
"Lestrade? There's just been a 911 call about a shooting in Central London. A few shots were fired; some civilians and a government official have been shot and critically injured. It only happened about a minute ago. They suspect it's another one of Machiti's shootings. The MO is the same."
"Oh God. Yeah, I'll be right over." As Lestrade threw the flies down, Donovan and Anderson followed suite.
Lestrade's police car zoomed down the street, followed by two ambulances. They weaved in between cars until they finally pulled out in front of an official looking office building with the name Wayward Industries plastered on the front. Lestrade ran out, followed by the forensics team. The scene was chaos. There was a great deal people, who were looking around frantically as the police approached. He saw the forms of three or four bodies lying, covered in blood, some ten feet away, with a large ground surrounding each. Grimacing, Lestrade ran forward, yelling instructions as he went.
"Set up a perimeter! Get statements from witnesses," Lestrade walked up to the biggest crowd that was surrounding a single man. He pushed past them saying,
"Make way for the paramedics. Come on, get out of-"
Lestrade froze. His blood seemed to turn cold in his skin, making him shiver and shake. There, lying on the pavement and covered in blood, was Mycroft Holmes. Time seemed to slow down as Lestrade's eyes grew wide and his knees gave out under him. He fell to Mycroft's side and took his hands in his face.
"Mycroft? Mycroft? Can you hear me?" Lestrade's voice came out cracked, but he didn't care.
Mycroft's eyes fluttered and fixed on Lestrade. A slight smile stretched on his face as he looked into Lestrade's eyes.
"What. You. D-d-doing h-h-he-here?" Mycroft spluttered, blood pooling from his mouth as he did.
"Shhhh." Lestrade said urgently. "Hush now, dearest. I'm here."
Lestrade assed the situation; There was blood gushing from two large holes in Mycroft's suite, one in his chest, the other in his stomach. Lestrade tore off his coat and pressed them onto the wound, feeling warm blood slip from under his hands. Mycroft shuttered under him and his eyelids fluttered again.
"Out of the way sir." Came a gruff voice from behind Lestrade. He jumped, completely forgetting that anyone was around. He got shakily to his feet and watched with shaking hands as the paramedics loaded Mycroft onto a stretcher and into the back of the ambulance. He followed them blindly, forgetting complete about his police work, or that he wasn't supposed to be dating Mycroft.
"Lestrade? Where on earth are you going?" Donovan's voice came from behind him. But he ignored her and went up to a paramedic and said,
"I'm his boyfriend, you've gotta let me ride with him."
The EMT nodded and Lestrade hopped in the back, ignoring Donovan's protesting shouts. The sirens wailed as the ambulance speed of down the street once more. Lestrade looked on at the face of his lover, his eyes were closed and blood was still flowing easily from his wounds.
"I need some gauze."
"Lets start a central line."
"We need to get a handle on this bleeding," Said a man, "he's loosing quite a lot."
Lestrade felt his breath quickening and his chest constricting. What if he died? What if the only person he ever truly loved died? Feeling tears pool at the corners of his eyes, Lestrade buried his head in his hands.
What if the last thing that Lestrade said to Mycroft was telling him how horrible he was? What if those were the last words that he had heard coming from him? Through the corners of his eyes he saw people still bustling around the ambulance, trying to keep Mycroft alive. One man was pounding on his chest, keeping his breathing.
Finally, the ambulance came to a halt outside of Bart's. The hurried Mycroft's body out of the vehicle and still oozing with blood. Lestrade ran with them as they rolled him down the hallway, shouting for people to get out of the way. A doctor held out an arm to stop Lestrade from going past the swinging doors that they just moved Mycroft through.
"I'm sorry, but you can't go past this point. You can wait in the side room while we work on him." The doctor lowered his voice and continued, "I should warn you that he is in quite a condition, and you may want to prepare yourself for the worst."
With that, the doctor followed Mycroft and the others through the double doors. Lestrade watched his retreating back and then sank into a chair in the waiting room. His hands were now shaking so violently that he had to clasp them together in his lap. Tears were pricking the corners of his eyes once more and he let out a shaking breath, allowing his mind to wander, anywhere away from this nightmare.
His brain kept showing him images of the very first time Lestrade and Mycroft met:
….
Lestrade was walking down a central street in London, shielding his eyes from the glaring sun. When walking, he saw a large black car pull up beside him. Not making much of it. He continued to walk. But then he heard his name being called and turned. There stood a tall figure, dressed in an expensive suite and tie, slightly balding, and leaning on a black umbrella. This man looked very peculiar since in wasn't raining outside.
"Inspector Lestrade I presume?" The tall man asked.
"Um… yeah." Lestrade replied, however, he didn't step forward.
"Perhaps you would like to come with me." The man replied, smiling sourly.
"Perhaps not." Lestrade countered.
"That's wasn't a request." The man growled.
"Is that a threat? Because I am a cop and-"
"Fine. Very well." The man replied, "Then at least let us talk in this café."
Lestrade hesitated, glancing at the café in which the man was pointing. Although wary about his man's intentions, he was somewhat intrigued.
"Alright." Lestrade agreed. They walked in together, Lestrade keeping his hand close to his gun, and the other man still clutching his umbrella. Sitting down opposite each other, Lestrade got a chance to finally look at the man properly. He had very defined features, particularly around the jaw line that made Lestrade sit up higher in his chair.
"I have been informed that you have recently been engaged with a man called Sherlock Holmes." The man began.
"That's true. Yeah." Lestrade agreed. He had had the (pleasure wasn't the word, more like misfortune) of meeting him a week ago, when he showed up to a crime scene and deduced the entire place before solving the crime under two minutes.
"And do you plan to call upon his services again?" The man inquired, quirking his eyebrow in a way that made Lestrade's stomach lurch.
"Well. Maybe. What's it to you if I do?"
"It appears that he will be coming to more of your crime scenes in the future."
"Ok..." Lestrade was totally lost.
"And Sherlock is not what we call…" The man was fishing for the right word, "A normal man, is he not?"
"Very true." Lestrade chuckled drily.
"And he may be a bit of a danger the police officers of the yard and yourself."
"A danger? Do you mean the drugs? Because I saw a bunch of needle marks on his arms and things… it looked pretty bad."
"Good deduction." The man praised. Lestrade felt himself smiling at his words and quickly turned that smile into a mildly curious expression… what was wrong with him?
"Thanks, but um… what are you saying."
"I am merely saying, that you look like a man who wants to keep the people he cares about, safe. And Sherlock, a genius though he may be, can be sometimes…" he paused, "Reckless. And if you were wanting some extra money… I could pay you to keep an eye on him for me."
"Wait." Lestrade began, taken aback, "You want me to spy on that man? For money?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I care about what happens to him and don't want him doing anything rash."
Lestrade leaned back in his seat, running his hands through his hair.
"Who are you anyway? You seem to know a lot about me, and I know absolutely nothing about you. You could be some nutter."
"I am a man with many connections. And if you would do this for me, I could get you a higher up position in the yard. Perhaps even Detective Inspector."
Lestrade raised his eyebrows, "What are you, some kind of mob man?"
It was the man's turn to laugh, "No, no. Not quite. I occupy a minor position in the British Government."
"Ohh, a Government man. I see." Lestrade was slightly impressed. "Why do I need to spy on Sherlock Holmes?"
"Because I am a man who cares about him, like I told you. So, would you do it?"
"Yeah." Lestrade shrugged, "After you tell me more about yourself."
"I'm afraid I can't do that." The man replied.
"Why?" he asked again.
"Well… I shall call it… top secret."
Lestrade rolled his eyes in spite of himself. "Oh really." He said, "Well in that case, I won't help you." As Lestrade got up to leave, the man grabbed his hand. Lestrade looked back at him, feeling as though electricity had crackled off the two of him with that one touch.
"Sit. Please. I'll tell you what I can…."
…
And that was the beginning. Lestrade was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of his name begin called. Looking around, he saw Molly Hooper walking toward him, hugging a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. Today she wore a bright yellow dress with her hair up in a messy bun.
"Greg?" She said, surprise and sadness etched in her voice, "What are you doing out here all along? You could come in; there is plenty of space in John's room. He still hasn't woken up but-" She stopped short at the look on the Detective Inspectors face. "What's happened?"
Lestrade looked into Molly's eyes, wondering whether he should tell her or not. But before he could make that decision, he burst into tears. He had tried to suppress them for so long, but no longer. They flowed freely down his face as he buried it in his hands.
"Greg?" Molly asked again, sitting down next to him and touching his back tentatively.
"I s-sorry." Lestrade inhaled a deep breath and seeped the wave of tears to look up at the corner.
"It's Mycroft… he's been s-shot, and he might d-die, and" Lestrade hiccupped and pushed away the tears welling at his eyes again, "And it's all my f-fault."
"What?" Molly asked, clearly confused. "What happened? Why are you so worried? You don't know Mycroft that well, do you?" She reasoned.
Lestrade nearly laughed at those words. "I've known him for 7 years! We moved in together two years ago."
"Oh." Molly said, taken aback. "That's nice." She said sweetly. Then she took Lestrade's hands and turned him to face her.
"He is going to be fine." She said, looking him straight in the eye.
"You c-can't know that." Lestrade mumbled, "and you know what the last thing I said to him was, I yelled at him for being selfish and said that no one could love him. But that was a complete lie! I have loved Mycroft for 7 years, unconditionally. So what in the bloody hell can I do? What if, what if…" Lestrade couldn't bring himself to say those words, 'what if he dies?' out loud. But Molly seemed to understand. She shook her head and replied in a soft whisper,
"Listen to me, Greg. You need to believe that he is going to be ok. That is what you hold on to; the thought of seeing him again, and holding him again, and kissing him again. All of those things will keep you going. They did for me." She said, a shadow crossing over her face. Lestrade nodded, still the knot of worry tight in his chest.
Hours passed as though they were days. Lestrade felt his phone buzz in his pocket at least 10 time, but he didn't bother to check it. What importance was there if Mycroft died? Molly sat with Lestrade for a very long time, until sun was setting through the windows, leaving squares of sunlight on the floor around them. Lestrade didn't speak for the rest of the time, although Molly tried to make conversation. Lestrade was on his fourth cup of coffee when a doctor came into the waiting room, still with his scrub cap on.
"He is going to be ok." The doctor said, watching as Lestrade splashed hot coffee all over himself in relief, "He had quite a lot of blood loss and were going to have to keep him on intubation for a couple of days, but he should be ok."
"Oh thank God." He mumbled, standing up to shake the doctors hand.
"It was a long process and the full recovery may take a few months, but we should have him up and walking in about 2 weeks." Said the doctor.
Lestrade let out a shaky breath of relief and then hugged Molly. The doctor smiled and walked back the way he came. The trees and setting sun now looked much brighter now that he knew Mycroft would pull through. Around 10 minutes later, a nurse was guiding them to a back room. Lestrade pulled open the door and for the second time in a week, he looked upon the bed of an injured man. However, this was Mycroft, not John.
Mycroft lay limp looking on the bed, white as a sheet and an IV sticking out of his arm. He wore a flowery dressing gown and had a large intubation tube sticking out of his throat and up to his mouth. Lestrade's closed his eyes. It was almost worst seeing him this way, so broken and sad. Lestrade pulled up a chair and took one of Mycroft's cold hand in his. Molly watched him for a minute then whispered, "I'm glad he's alright."
Lestrade nodded in agreement and Molly spoke again, "Listen, if it's alright, I'm going to go check on John again. Mrs. Hudson has been with him, but I'd better go check."
"No problem." Lestrade smiled at her, "thanks for everything."
"Of course." She smiled, "And you two are very sweet together." And with that, she left. Shaking his head, Lestrade quickly pulled out his phone and saw 8 text's and two messages from Donovan there. He shot her a quick text telling her to take him off this case due to personal reasons and shut his phone again. Then he stared back at Mycroft, settling in for what he knew would be a long night.
There was a faint beeping overhead. It was coming from far away, as though his head were under water. Slowly but surely, Mycroft Holmes opened his eyes. He was greeted with the sight of a dim looking room with dark shades on the windows and an awful smell of hospital bleach. There was also a figure sitting next to his bed that he couldn't make out. He also felt a warm hand enclosed around his. Mycroft blinked a few times, trying to clear his obnoxiously foggy brain.
"Mycroft?" He heard a voice from overhead. That voice. He thought vaguely, it was such a smooth voice that was so gorgeous and so familiar to him. But what was he doing here?
"Can you here me?" Came the voice again. Looking around, his eyes finally fixed on Greg Lestrade's. He felt a warm smile prick the corners of his mouth. It was so good to see that face again. He tried to move his head, but was greeted by immense pain once more. Grimacing, he closed his eyes again.
"It's fine. Don't try and move to much." Whispered Lestrade, somewhere around his left ear, "You were shot. You lost a lot of blood. I thought I was going to loose you."
Mycroft opened his eyes at this interesting intake of news. He locked eyes with Lestrade and began to study his face, his brain somewhat slower due to the drugs. Lestrade's eyes had dark circles around them, and he was a ghostly pale. He also had lost a lot of fat around his cheekbones, making them more pronounced.
"How." Mycroft swallowed his throat dry and tried again, "how long have I been unconscious?"
"Three days."
"And you have not slept in that amount of time?" Mycroft questioned.
"No." Lestrade answered plainly, "How could I? I would hate if you woke up and I was asleep."
"I wouldn't have minded." Mycroft replied, clearing his throat.
"Well I would have." Countered Lestrade. Mycroft frowned deeply as Lestrade shook himself, trying to stay awake.
"And listen." Lestrade began, "those things I said. Before you got shot… I was being completely stupid. You shouldn't listen to anything I say. Because I was wrong and I misjudged you and I love you with all my heart. And I want you to know that, because you were dying and what if I never saw you again and you didn't know these things, because you need to understand. And-"
"Hush." Mycroft said softly, putting his fingers to Lestrade's lips. He caressed them for a second before responding, "You are an amazing man, Greg Lestrade, and I know. You don't have to apologize to me."
"Yes I do! I was being a bloody prick, and-"
"And so was I." Mycroft finished for him. "But that is neither here nor there. We shouldn't worry about it now. What matters is that you are here."
Lestrade still looked desperate and had the tell tail signs of self-loathing that Mycroft knew so well. He beckoned Lestrade to lay his head down, and he complied. Mycroft and Lestrade spent the next few minutes in silence, with Mycroft stroking his hair gently and looking around the room. He spotted a large bouquet of flowers sitting on his bedside table.
Sherlock. He thought to himself. Only Sherlock would give him a bouquet of his least favorite color's (Orange and Black) and arrange them in the shape of an SH. It was his way of saying 'I'm sorry'. Mycroft chuckled at his brother's statement and then looked back down at Lestrade, who was sleeping soundly on his lap. Beaming wildly, Mycroft watched Lestrade's chest rise and fall for a while. Thinking about the amazing man in front of him. The man who would stay awake waiting for him for three whole days. The brilliant man who would spy on his brother, not for the money, but simply because he liked the tie that Mycroft had been wearing on that particular day. Greg Lestrade, who would jump through hoops and take any criticism thrown at him just to prove his love.
Closing his eyes, Mycroft let his head fall back onto his pillows. Greg Lestrade was the love of his life, and he wouldn't change a thing.