A/N: I do so love when authors go back to later chapters and rewrite from another characters perspective, so that's what I'm going to do, because I have a feeling that it'll be a lot easier to write from Lestrades POV then Mycrofts.
Greg was the one who found him. He considered it to be his luck, having been the only person on the force that Sherlock even merited a second thought, that he should be the one always told to go "fetch the freak" from his flat in downtown London.
The flat itself was a wreck. Papers and petri dishes thrown about in a way that must have made some sort of sense to the consulting detective but to every other human being looked out right unsanitary. Not only was the flat disorganized, it was small and the walls seemed to sag under a humid age that should have been painted over ages ago. Lestrade figured that Consulting Detective wasn't the highest paying job in the world.
"Sherlock?" He had a key, of course, Sherlock had given it to him for convenience sake. Under any other circumstances, Lestrade would have seen it as a come on but nothing about the pale man who had give him the key had even whispered I'm seducing you.
Sherlock didn't answer, Sherlock was in the bathroom slumped up against the green tiled tub drooling out of one side of his mouth and murmuring vowels in shallow breaths.
"For fucks sake, Sherlock."
For once in his life Lestrade was resenting his choice in vehicle. A motorcycle was, on the whole, a pretty brilliant piece of machinery, however, it wasn't so effective in transporting gangly ODing consulting detectives. So he had to wait for an ambulance, lord knew how long that was going to take, and pray to whatever higher power existed that those fluttering grey eyes wouldn't close.
Finally, after what seemed like hours of gentle (and sometimes not so gentle, Greg had a right to be mad) slapping and half yelled encouragements to keep away from the bleeding light, an ambulance arrived and Greg forced himself inside, ignoring whatever the paramedics said about regulations. He would be damned if he let this idiot die without his permission.
And then it was quiet.
Greg could safely say that it was the first time that he had experienced true silence in the presents of Sherlock Holmes. Instead of being grateful as someone would have thought he would be he hated it, Greg hated ever single second of dull monotone that thudded in that hospital room. He didn't have many memories of hospitals but the few he did have were not happy ones, he supposed that most people didn't have too many memories of hospitals that they enjoyed... other then births.
He sat there for what seemed like hours.
A shuffling noise at the door made him turn around, he hadn't realized just how focused he had been until the tall, slim man standing in the doorway pulled him from his thoughts, it startled him. Not only that, but this man had something about him, the square jawline, the piecing blue eyes, something about the way that he held himself that Greg could only interpret as raw power. This was a man who knew what he was doing.
Greg cleared his throat, hoping his thoughts were not all showing up on his face and stood up.
"Hello," he smiled, hoping it was charming and not completely idiotic. "I'm Lestrade, Greg Lestrade." He held out his hand and the stranger took it, a firm grip and a crooked smirk. The phrase raw power flashed again in Greg's mind and he prayed to god this man didn't notice.
"Mycroft Holmes," the pieces snapped together in Greg's mind and he choked back an "ah ha". The way that Mycroft held himself was rather Holmsian, he supposed, and there was definitely a family resemblance and it certainly explained what he was doing at Sherlocks bedside. But there was something more to Mycroft's demeanor, something that Sherlock lacked. It intrigued Greg to no end. "I do apologize in advance for whatever my brothers done this time." Mycroft let go of Gregs hand and the detective was surprised to find that he immediately missed its presence. Very unusual, especially for Greg.
He tried to cover it up by chuckling in what he hoped was a smooth manner and running his now empty (lonely empty) hand through his hair.
"Yeah, well, there wasn't any thing you could have done," Lestrade looked back at Sherlock on the bed, still sleeping, it was good for him, he hadn't slept in days. The image of Sherlock, slumped on the floor of the bathroom, looking so vacant, as he often made fun of Greg for being... it haunted him. Greg couldn't look at him for too long and focused instead on the unpleasantly green walls, nausea curling into the pit of his stomach in a way he hadn't experienced since he started training. "No one could have seen this one coming."
Eventually, Greg realized that he had left Mycroft standing in silence for a very long time and that he was probably being very weird. He cleared his throat and hopped that Mycroft wasn't too put out by his apperent lack of social skills.
Then he looked over and those deep blue eye bored into his, just for a moment. It was something similar to the way that Sherlock looked at him when he was trying to figure out where the dectective had been, but there was something different about how Mycroft was looking at him now. It was almost as if he was trying to figure out a complex puzzle... and was completely fascinated by it. Greg had never seen anyone look at him like that. He huffed, it was probably all in his head.
But then again...
"He should be getting up soon." Greg tried not to dwell on those blue eyes as he waved a hand at the bed.
"Then I best be off soon." The blue eyes flickered away and Greg felt a small wave of disappointment crash through him for two separate reasons, the absence of Mycroft's eyes and the soon to be absence of the man himself.
Then a look of softness came over the mans face and the absolute exhaustion that had been hiding under the thoughtful and poised surface burst through like moonshine from London cloud cover. And for a brief moment, Lestrade couldn't breathe. The silence that he realized was probably awkward feel back over them but for some reason he couldn't find it in him to break it, he was too fascinated by this man. How did this combination of stern and angled features turn so stunning when open? Greg was sure he didn't know.
And then, all too soon, the moment was over. Sherlock groaned and Mycroft looked back to Lestrade, his eyes unreadable.
"I believe it is now soon." A short sip of tea and Greg couldn't restrain the desperate, untamed thoughts of what I wouldn't give to be a cuppa... wait what?
"It's been nice meeting you, Mr. Holmes." Greg flinched internally, what kind of prat did he want to sound like? Because he was doing an awfully good job at acting like one.
Mycroft huffed, a sound that left a shiver up Greg's arms and legs, funny how that seemed to happen whenever the tall man opened his mouth, a bit annoying too.
"Mycroft, please, I don't look that old, do I?"
Greg rose an eyebrow, hardly knowing what to say next.
Not at all. You're the only person I've found myself attracted to in this degree for the past two years.
Or perhaps Good god no you beautiful man, please take me now.
"No. Not at all, Mycroft."
The name felt like a promise.
