A/N: Sorry for the long delay between chapters. As a grad student, real life/classes/work has to take precedence over writing, which is why it took me so long. It shouldn't be this long before the next update, but I can't make any guarantees. Anyway, here's the next chapter!
Mycroft watched the DI enter the rather noisy cafe, striding to the register with a smile and ordering his normal drink. He took a sip of his own drink - coffee, two sugars, allowing for a bit of a sweet tooth - and stayed silent, watching the DI over the rim of the mug. The barista handed the coffee to Lestrade, who turned to grab some sugar. In doing so, he noticed Mycroft in the corner. Their eyes met, and Mycroft's narrowed slightly at the way Lestrade's movements stilled for a brief second. So he felt it too. Felt the tug, the spark - whatever the world chose to call it. Mycroft chose to call it inconvenient. Unnecessary. Unwanted.
All it had taken was a little bit longer. A closer look at the paperwork. A more thorough view of the security cameras. Then he had seen it. Seen it when Lestrade had bent over, checking out a corpse on the floor. Saw the mark on his neck, plain as day. Unlike last time, he wasn't wearing a jacket, so Mycroft could see the bare skin. See the mark that matched his. Lestrade had been reassigned to him. Had become his Second. His Soul Mate.
Unlike Mycroft, who hid his mark with carefully applied makeup, the DI bared his for all to see. He probably didn't think much of it. Seconds had bare skin, until they were chosen, and then the mark appeared on their neck. Those that didn't hide, those that showed everything - Mycroft curled his lips slightly in disdain. The Firsts were seen as outgoing, congenial. Open and warm. The Seconds who didn't hide were seen as desperate. Wanting. A few just didn't care. They didn't have the silvery sheen that made it so difficult for Firsts to hide - theirs were plainer, darker against their skin, like a normal birthmark. A few just didn't care. Mycroft hid his for political reasons. Safety. He didn't want anyone else to have that power over him.
Mycroft looked away, pretended not to notice as Lestrade walked over and sank into the seat. "You again." The voice wasn't friendly, but it wasn't openly hostile, either. Interesting. "What do you want?"
"I was merely enjoying my coffee, Detective Inspector." Mycroft inclined his head slightly.
"And Sherlock is the Tooth Fairy. Do you want to try that again?" The DI leaned back in his chair, his expression conveying his skepticism rather blatantly.
"I meant what I said," Mycroft answered simply. "This is merely a coincidence."
Lestrade sighed. "Alright. I'll inform Sherlock that he is now required to wear a tutu if he wants on my crime scenes."
"No doubt he will be thrilled with such a proclamation," Mycroft muttered sarcastically. He scowled inwardly at his tone, and took a sip of the coffee.
"You're his brother?" Lestrade cocked his head to the side. It was a guess, that much was obvious from the tone, but it was not a leap that Mycroft had expected from the other man.
"Yes."
"Why didn't you just say so, then?" Lestrade asked, his tone a modicum more polite.
"Sherlock would be less than pleased at the thought of me inquiring as to his health, especially in his current state." Mycroft couldn't stop the slight, worried frown that crossed his lips, a lingering reaction to thinking about Sherlock's drug habit. When he refocused, he resumed eye contact, noting the shift in the DI's expression. Pity. Understanding, with a tinge of warmth. It was far lighter than the scorn he had been given, minutes ago.
"Yeah, that I can understand." Lestrade glanced at his watch, grimaced, and drank half his coffee in one gulp. "I have to run. Call me and we can set up a time to chat about Sherlock. No kidnapping, mind you. I have too much paperwork."
Mycroft blinked. And blinked again. The other man was agreeing? "I can offer a substantial sum -" he started.
"No." Lestrade cut him off, gathering his coat, digging through his pockets, searching for something. "I don't want anything. Look, it's obvious that you care, and Sherlock is Sherlock. I know I said I wouldn't tell you anything, but you're his older brother." Lestrade continued staring at him like that should mean something to Mycroft.
In a way, it did. It brought back memories, feelings, flashes. Of times when Sherlock, all bright-eyed and curly haired, would sit in Mycroft's lap, seeking reassurance, security, while Mycroft would spin tales of what their life would be, when they could have a family of their own. Away from the family that did not love them. Did not need them. When the family dog passed away when Sherlock was four, Mycroft held him, like an older brother should. He stood by Sherlock's side, twelve years later, when he lost his own dog. Sherlock was older, then, and didn't show as much emotion, but he gripped Mycroft's arm in wordless thanks.
And then He had entered Mycroft's life and everything that had been promised fell apart.
"Mr. Holmes?" The DI's voice broke him out of his reverie, and Mycroft's eyes snapped to his face.
"My apologies," Mycroft said stiffly. He stood, extending his hand for Lestrade to shake. The DI eyed him warily, but extended his own. The handshake was brief, but still too long. Lestrade's hand was warm and comfortable, his palm fitting perfectly into Mycroft's. He hated it. "I shall contact you soon, to arrange a meeting."
"I look forward to it," Lestrade replied, only the barest hint of sarcasm underlying his tone. Then he gathered his things, drank the last of his coffee, tossed it in the bin, and went out the door. Mycroft watched him go.
It was three days before Mycroft rang the Detective Inspector. He was busy, after all. An entire country counted on him to keep it tidy, in line. He couldn't be expected to drop everything and make a simple phone call. His to do list was just too long. So when he finally ran out of excuses, he sat in his office, staring at the desk phone. There was nothing to it. Lestrade was nothing special, was just another lackey that had eyes on Sherlock.
There was absolutely nothing that made him any different than anyone else.
Mycroft's stomach did an unnecessary flip when he heard the DI's voice. "Hello?" Lestrade sounded tired. Harried. Like someone had been shouting at him all day and all he wanted was for it to stop and for the world to quit moving for one moment.
"Detective Inspector." Mycroft sounded stiff, like starched cotton. He grimaced. The very least he could do was sound warm and personable. Or a vague semblance thereof.
"Ah, Mr. Holmes." Mycroft couldn't see him, but could imagine him leaning back in the chair, tucking the phone to his ear. Could hear the faint smile in his voice. Smile? Was he smiling? Mycroft wished he had a camera in Lestrade's office. He obviously needed to assess whether or not the police man had gone mad. "How can I help you?"
"I am calling to schedule the aforementioned meeting to discuss Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft said icily. Distance. He wasn't going to let him any closer than he had to. Mentally he wrestled control back from the part of him that wanted to get to know the DI, that wanted to be kind, friendly - make Lestrade like him. That was absurd. It was unacceptable. Closing his eyes briefly, he shed his insecurities, slid into the politician persona he had perfected. "I am free tomorrow afternoon, Wednesday evening, or Saturday."
There was faint scrabbling noises, like Lestrade was moving paper around, grabbing his diary, flipping it open to the correct page. "Wednesday evening looks good for me," he said easily. "About 7?"
"That shall be satisfactory. I shall have my driver pick you up." He heard Lestrade start to protest, and shook his head. "I do insist."
"Well, alright," Greg said, long-suffering, like he was used to fighting losing battles with a Holmes. Mycroft realized with faint amusement that he likely was, as Sherlock never gave up without a fight. No. Mycroft frowned at the phone. He was not supposed to be amused. He was not supposed to be smiling slightly. None of that.
Without saying good-bye, he hung up the phone. Stared at it. Realized his hands were shaking. That he had been holding his breath. His cheeks were flushed. He felt too warm. Part of him wanted to grab the phone, dial the DI's number again, and listen to his lovely, soothing voice. No. He slammed the phone for good measure, drawing the attention of his assistant, who poked her head in the door. "Sir?"
"Pencil in a meeting with the DI. Seven PM, Wednesday night." Mycroft's voice was tight and controlled. Alie - Anthea this week, apparently - merely nodded and shut the door, leaving him to his devices. He placed his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. Trying to shut it all out. Everything. Delete all extraneous pieces of information regarding the Detective Inspector. He regretted ever learning about his symbol. Learning who he was.
It brought back memories of Jack. Of the way he would lean into Mycroft's side. Kiss his head, Ruffle Sherlock's curls, bring that bright grin to his face. The warmth and security he provided. The first time, after years of uncertainty, that Mycroft had felt safe. Wanted. Like he mattered. Then the words had turned cruel, slowly but surely. What had been endearments quickly turned less affectionate. Jack had grown bitter. Hateful. Mycroft had taken all of it, because that was what he did.
And then Mycroft had came home from work, just as a junior member of the government, and discovered Jack - Him, Mycroft dubbed the man in question - stretched out on the bed. A gun in his hand. A note on the nightstand. Mycroft was still standing there, eyes wide with shock, when Sherlock found him. Then everything had fallen apart.
Mentally he shook his head, clearing out the cobwebs, the old memories. He had to focus. Carefully he unlocked his top drawer, pulling out the confidential files contained within. There was plenty to do before Wednesday. Hopefully enough to distract him from what lay ahead. Settling back in his chair, he read.
Wednesday rolled around far too soon. Mycroft had gotten four hours of sleep the night before (the most in two weeks), and felt relatively well rested. However, the country had been unusually obedient, and there was little for him to do in terms of busywork. He did not even have any meetings scheduled until Thursday afternoon and all preparation had been done earlier in the afternoon. His eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. Time was moving agonizingly slow.
He smoothed his lapels, readjusted his cuffs, fidgeted with his cufflinks. Leaned backward in his chair, picked up the remote, and pushed the button, watching the monitors flicker to life. He zoomed in on one. It was a crime scene, and Sherlock was arguing with the DI - Lestrade, Mycroft reminded himself. The long, spindly limbs were flying about as he shouted and rolled his eyes and spoke in what Mycroft could imagine was an exaggerated, sarcastic tone.
Sherlock looked - marginally healthier. He didn't look high. His pupils were normal size, and although he jerked about, it wasn't as sharp as it was when he was intoxicated. Lestrade stood his ground, rolling his eyes in response and trying to placate Mycroft's irritated younger brother. They were gesturing over a body in front of them, Sherlock obviously agitated over something the DI had missed. Mycroft leaned forward slightly, his eyes sweeping the scene. Based on posture, movement, and what he could read from their lips, he guessed that Sherlock had solved the case and Lestrade was arguing with him to ensure he explained some of the more nebulous findings. Sherlock had not yet perfected his clarity when explaining deductions, not to normal people
He watched as Sherlock stormed off, leaving Lestrade behind. One monitor was set to track Sherlock's movements, but his eyes did not leave the crime scene. He stood, and walked closer to it, watching the silver-haired man give orders to his team. Lestrade wasn't harsh, he wasn't domineering. He was the right mixture of order and chaos, control and disarray. The DI seemed to have a knack for knowing who to tell what, in order to get everyone to obey and work cohesively.
Mycroft didn't realize he was touching the monitor until he caught sight of his fingers splayed out against the screen, as if he could feel Lestrade's face through the pixels, through the LCD lights. It was a picture of what could be, if Mycroft wanted to reach out and take it. Something within his grasp. Happiness. He let out his breath, a slight sigh. It wasn't worth it. It never was. "Sir?" Anthea's voice was quiet, unobtrusive, and Mycroft jerked his hand back as if he had been burned.
"Yes?" He turned slightly to look at her, his face sharp, guarded.
Her eyes flickered to the clock, and Mycroft's gaze followed. He had not realized how long he had been watching the CCTV. "It is time for you to leave for your meeting with the Detective Inspector," she said simply.
"Yes, alright." Mycroft cleaned off his desk, locked up what needed to be taken care of, and followed her out of his office.
