Summary: Written for Sherlock BBC Kinkmeme prompt: Mycroft gets roped into participating in a bachelor auction. Terrified that nobody will bid on him, he begs Sherlock via text: 'Please save me from this; bid on me, and I will do anything you ask me to do.' Lestrade receives the text instead.
Warnings: Mycroft in this fic has really terrible self image issues in regards to his weight which might be a bit triggery. Also, as this is leading to a Mystrade first time, the rating will increase for the last chapter. This fic is also as yet unBritpicked and unBetaed. All suggestions welcome.
Disclaimer: I don't own the revisioned Sherlock series for BBC nor am I making any money off of this. Just playing with the characters for a bit.
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Chapter 2:
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"Listen, freak," Donovan's voice came through loud and irate through the closed door to Lestrade's office. "New Scotland Yard isn't your personal playground! You can't-"
"I certainly can and will, Donovan. Do you really think waving that badge at me is going to make any material difference in my actions?"
Lestrade had his window and door blinds closed to reduce distractions; through them the shadows of two figures, one medium height and female, the other tall, lean and obviously Sherlock, made a steady advance. Lestrade closed his eyes. All he wanted was for once to get caught up on his paperwork.
Sherlock threw open the door to Lestrade's office, coat flaring as he crossed the threshold. "Lestrade, how could you!"
Donovan stumbled in a step after. "I'm so sorry, sir! I was just getting rid of him."
"With obvious success," Sherlock said, his eyes not quite rolling, but close enough. He took a step towards Lestrade's desk and said, "I need to speak with you. Alone. It's of the utmost importance."
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade opened his eyes. "I see," he said in his mildest tone. There wasn't any point in winding Sherlock up, especially when Lestrade had no idea what Sherlock was on about, which was more often than not. "If you're here about the body in the dryer, her boyfriend confessed an hour ago."
"Dryer? No! I'm here on a matter of significance."
"Yes," Donovan cut in. "Because dead bodies don't get you off after the murderer is found."
"Dead bodies don't get me off at all, as I'm sure you're more than aware, considering-"
"Donovan," Lestrade raised his voice to cut over the two of them. God, but Sherlock brought out the worst in people. Donovan was a good cop, methodical and detail oriented, and Sherlock was unequivocally brilliant, but together they were worse than Lestrade's brother's two year old twins. Lestrade said, "I'll speak with Sherlock. And please, I know you two don't get along, but I'd appreciate it if you both tried to make an effort."
Both started at the same time, "I don't see why-"
"Thank you," Lestrade said, waving to his spare chair beside his desk. A stack of case files was piled on top of it. "Now Sherlock, please sit down."
"Sir," Donovan said, taking a step back towards the door. She mumbled something under her breath as it shut behind her.
Lestrade said, "Sherlock, how can I help you?'
Sherlock ignored the chair, as Lestrade had expected, instead pacing the three step length of his desk in short, angry steps. "I've been informed that you invited Mycroft to participate in your annual charity auction."
"That's true."
"You chose to auction off Mycroft without even asking me?"
"He's your brother-"
"Archenemy."
"All the more reason for me to be able to consult him without your permission."
"But why didn't you ask me? I would be the far superior choice."
These two took sibling rivalry to new heights. Or lows. Lestrade bit back a laugh, managing to cough it behind his hand. "So you want to participate in the auction. Have you discussed this with John? Are you sure he'll be okay with that?"
"Of course he won't. I just don't understand why I wasn't asked. And what's so amusing? I'm brilliant and certainly attractive enough, especially considering you're resorting to using Mycroft."
"Your brother-"
"Archenemy."
"Mycroft is a fine looking man."
Sherlock screwed his face up in an overly dramatic grimace. "My God, Lestrade, I don't want to hear about your—just, don't put my brother and attractive in the same conversation if you care about my health at all."
"You're the one who brought it up attractiveness," Lestrade didn't bother trying to hide his amusement any longer. "So what brought this on? You've never read the newsletter before, except that one time when you thought the blood spatter analyst might be a serial killer. I'm amazed he didn't sue you for harassment."
"It was a theory, not a conclusion." Sherlock sighed. "Well, there's nothing for it. If Mycroft is going to involve himself, I'll have no choice but to add myself as well."
"No."
"Oh please, it's a five minute process to add a photo using any desktop publishing software." Sherlock reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a USB dive. "I've added a simple mock-up of the altered brochure here."
"Absolutely not."
"You haven't even looked at it."
"I mean, you're not participating. Nobody will bid on you."
"But I'm brilliant and-"
"And you can't open your mouth without insulting someone, and worse, enough people who are attending know this. And even for those hopeless cases for whom tall, dark and confrontational might be a turn on, namely that poor pathologist from Barts, everyone at the Yard has seen the video of you snogging the life out of your flatmate in the interrogation room after that incident with the candlestick. The damned thing would have went viral if your brother hadn't intervened."
"Now who's being insulting? If the people attending your function are too idiotic to recognize-"
"I can't risk you." Or the poor person whose life Sherlock ended up ruining out of sheer boredom between the wine and appetizers, that is if the poor 'winner' hadn't fled for the Continent after John gave him or her a gentle talking to about acceptable and unacceptable expectations for their platonic dinner. What an unbelievable nightmare. "Imagine what it will do to our team if Donovan wins. Or Anderson."
Sherlock's expression froze. "Anderson? He couldn't possibly afford it."
"He's come into some money. His aunt. I'm sure you already knew this. Besides, him and Donovan might pool their resources to have you at their beck and call for a day."
"No, I uhh...your point is well taken."
"You're welcome to attend, of course. Place a bid or two."
Sherlock wrinkled his nose and walked to the chair. He picked up the pile of case files and placed them with surprising care onto the floor, then sat. "That's the crux of my problem."
"You're not obligated to bid."
"My bro—Mycroft is a controlling, self important prat with propensities for world domination. It would be beneficial to have him owe me a favour, for a change."
"I'm not sure what this has to do with the auction."
"Yes, well, you wouldn't be."
"Did you want my advice or not?"
Sherlock's trouser pocket buzzed. He pulled out his phone and tapped at the keys. "God, but he's insufferable."
"Mycroft?" Lestrade ventured.
"You are learning!" Sherlock placed the phone between his palms and leaned towards Lestrade, elbows on knees. He sat like that, staring, studying, for close to fifteen seconds, then his lips turned up in one of his rare (except with John, Lestrade presumed) smiles. "You'll simply have to do it."
"Do what? And I'm not agreeing to do anything."
"Yes, it's perfect." Sherlock jumped to his feet again. Dropping the phone into his pocket, he clapped his hands together. "He'll really owe me for this one. Lestrade, I must be going."
"You're not going to drug him and take his place in the auction, because I can only ignore so much Sherlock."
"You see, but don't observe," Sherlock said with the slightest quirk of a smile. "Tell Donovan I said to piss off."
He waved, and swept out.
Lestrade shook his head as the door fell shut. He didn't know what Sherlock was planning, but Lestrade had no intentions of sabotaging the auction, and certainly not Mycroft's participation in it. He still couldn't believe the elder Holmes had said yes. Briefly, when the man's PA had dropped off the photograph, Lestrade had considered tapping into some of his savings to make a bid. The thought of having Mycroft, enigmatic, powerful, and God help him, so far out of Lestrade's league as to redefine unattainable, at Lestrade's beck and call for a day made his mouth run dry. But he wouldn't have enough money to win, not once the audience got a look at Mycroft and heard him speak—unlike Sherlock, his elder brother had an exceptional command of basic social niceties. It was a bit over-controlled, to be sure, but endearing.
God but why did Lestrade always choose to fixate on the absolute wrong man.
Lestrade pushed the thought out of his mind, letting Sherlock's visit lose itself in the stream of paperwork he had to fill out and reports he had to write. He ordered takeaway Chinese on his way home, and feet propped up on the coffee table, turned on some crap Telly and began to eat.
That's when his phone buzzed with a text.
Fuck, if Sherlock had stumbled across another corpse, Lestrade didn't know, but there'd be cursing involved. More cursing.
Lestrade opened his text messages. Chinese food forgotten, he just stared.
Please save me from this; bid on me, and I will do anything you ask me to do. -MH
The number was blocked, of course. It had to be a trick. Was this what Sherlock meant by insufferable? But it sounded nervous. Unsure? Words Lestrade had no business associating with Mycroft. Why would Mycroft think he needed Lestrade's help in the auction? Maybe he just didn't want to go to a stranger? On the occasions where Lestrade had met with Mycroft, the other man had seemed almost inhumanely reserved.
That was the most reasonable explanation, though with Sherlock being involved, somehow, there was no reasonable explanation.
But if it was real...
Lestrade leaned back on his sofa, thinking, until his eyes grew heavy. When he woke the next morning, a thick crust had formed over his chicken and broccoli, and there was an extra £ 10,000 in his bank account.