Title: Collision
Disclaimer: The usual. Sherlock belongs to BBC and ACD, I do not profit except for having lots of fun writing it.
Pairings: Mycroft/ Lestrade, Sherlock/John
Word Count: 1658
Rating: T (later possible M content)
Warnings: None, for this chapter
Summary: When the high society world of Mycroft Holmes collides with the down to earth life of Greg Lestrade (thanks to the help of Sherlock), they initially loathe each other. Then things change.
Author's Notes: Hi everyone! I had some trouble wrestling with this chapter, so it might not come out as smooth as the previous one. :( On the bright side though, Chapter 4 came out pretty well, so it'll be uploaded within the next few days, if I can.
Greg was on his fifth cigarette of the day, and Sherlock was very, very chipper. The detective shot the consulting detective a glare, knowing Sherlock too well by now to know that he was plotting something. Sherlock turned to Greg, oblivious, or pretending to be, saying, "House Hunting is incredibly entertaining, Lestrade."
Greg briefly wondered if a death threat would send Big Brother and his sycophants over to drag him to a maximum security holding cell in the middle of nowhere, then said it anyway. "If you keep doing that, I will murder you, Holmes." Sherlock had insulted every house and potential landlord over the last few weeks of house-hunting, and Greg was at his wits' end.
Sherlock gave him a wide-eyed look, "You wouldn't, Greg." Greg scowled. Sherlock was silent, giving him another innocent expression. "If you did, no one would solve your cases for you."
Greg tossed his cigarette and stomped it out with a growl.
"And your involvement would be painfully obvious to my brother too." Sherlock continued, with a smirk.
"If you continue to be quite so trying on my patience, I might even assist Inspector Lestrade." That velvet purr sounded behind Lestrade, and Greg turned.
"Mr Holmes." Greg muttered in greeting, with a sullen note of resent. And rightly so, he felt, since Mycroft had left him house-hunting with Sherlock.
"Detective Inspector." Mycroft inclined his head in return, a smile making him look quite pleasant, but Greg was having none of it.
"Since you're here, take your brother to see this flat. It's the last one on your list anyway." Greg said, folding his arms, resolute.
"Of course, Inspector. It was my intent to do exactly that." Mycroft said, his eyes landing on Sherlock, who was now deducing everyone who walked past. "Sometimes I forget that not everyone can put up with my brother." There was a note of disappointment in his words.
Greg bristled, both at the tone and in defense of Sherlock. This arrogant berk standing before him was really in need of a punch to the face. Greg took a deep breath; punching diplomats like Mycroft Holmes wasn't exactly the best way to earn a promotion. "What the hell do you mean by that?"
A look of consternation crossed Mycroft's face, and uncertainty hovered for a moment, "I mean that my brother must be a nuisance. I didn't intend any insult-"
"Your brother is the way he is because you don't let him grow." Greg's voice was quiet, firm and brimming with a dangerous anger. "He has hardly any knowledge of the way society works because you've always solved his problems for him. Now you've created a person who will always be reliant on you to solve problems for him. He deletes knowledge of society, social norms and etiquette because Mycroft will always be there. If you don't stop with that over-protective bullshit now, he'll be in serious trouble when and if anything happens to you. Are we clear on this?"
Both brothers were silent, eyes wide, staring at him; Sherlock in a strange mix of horror, indignation and awe, and Mycroft… Mycroft was staring in stunned respect. It seemed as though no one had ever spoken to Mycroft in such a way before, and the politician didn't quite know how to react.
"Yes." Mycroft said, "Yes, sir."
Greg snorted loudly and grumbled, "Don't pull that rank shit on me. We all know who the highest ranking non-official official here is. It's Greg, or Lestrade."
"Very well, D-Gregory." Mycroft murmured, his eyes still fixed on the police officer, as though examining a new anomaly. Greg felt uncomfortable under that scrutiny, but bore with it. After all, Sherlock had scanned him with the same intensity several times before (and embarrassed him, but Lestrade wasn't that petty to bring it up now). Mycroft suddenly smiled, "If I'm to address you as Gregory, you must call me Mycroft."
"Yeah, uh- sure, Mycroft." Greg said, a little thrown off by this shift in their usually hostile relationship.
Mycroft gave that smile again, that slightly shy smile that made him look years younger, before he turned to Sherlock, "Come along now, brother."
Sherlock was examining them like some fascinating new strain of bacteria under a microscope with his bright blue eyes; and Greg folded his arms in defense, wanting some form of ward against those eyes. The younger Holmes snapped out of it when Mycroft called him, and turned to Lestrade, whining slightly, "You can't be leaving me with him."
"Of course I am. Family bonding time, everyone needs it, even Holmeses." Greg grinned. He had his perfect revenge now, both on Sherlock and on Mycroft. "Have fun." He turned away and strode off, trying to keep the laughter in.
The abandonment of Sherlock to the clutches of his elder brother had of course, come with repercussions. The first was that Sherlock had finally found himself a flat, thanks to Mycroft's threat of having Sherlock move back into his apartment, or forcibly sent back "home", wherever that was for the two alien brothers. Needlessly, neither Mycroft's apartment ("dull, Mycroft locks everything up") nor "home" ("dreadfully boring, there are never any murders to investigate unless one kills someone themselves") appealed to the younger Holmes, and he found somewhere willing to take him that Mycroft approved of.
Greg found himself feeling unexpectedly like a relieved parent when he was helping Sherlock to move out. Both he and Mycroft fussed over Sherlock in their own ways, Greg helping with the actual moving process (because heaven forbid Mycroft Holmes do any hard labor; why, he might even break a nail, and that would be devastating to Britain) and finally discovering the thing that was causing the horrendous stench in his flat- "That's my experiment on the decomposition rates of eyeballs in anaerobic, dark conditions." He yelled at the younger man a little, then reminded him to never conduct experiments in his new flat. Of course, he could see from the way Sherlock's eyes glazed over that the younger man was practically deleting it before his eyes, and resigned himself to keeping a room free for the troublemaker.
The second repercussion was that Mycroft was being significantly nicer to Greg, for some reason. That kept the Detective Inspector on edge for weeks, not knowing when the elder Holmes would deign to take his revenge for yelling at him in front of his younger brother. Knowing the Holmes brothers, revenge could be served very cold (and in Mycroft's case, on a poisoned silver platter), and in the most creative and unexpected manner possible. So for weeks, Greg was exceedingly careful, causing Sally to wonder if her boss had "Finally gone 'round the bend, then?"
It was getting semi-outrageous. It had started with a thank you note.
Dear Gregory,
Thank you for allowing Sherlock to temporarily lodge at your apartment despite the obvious health and sanitation risks. I have paid for a full cleaning of your apartment in lieu of Sherlock's moving out. Please feel free to contact the number on the attached business card.
Thank you for your assistance in helping Sherlock search for an apartment as well. I am aware of how trying he can be, and your patience is much appreciated.
Yours,
Mycroft Holmes
Next, Greg would find himself with warm coffee done exactly to perfection on his table whenever he had a long day. That was pleasant as well, and Greg relished the warm cups of coffee when tackling his paperwork, especially on days with Sherlock-worthy cases.
After that, he would find meals on his table along with the coffee. Whoever who got it for him knew exactly what he was craving as well, which was mildly creepy.
The next week, it escalated into meals being bought for his entire team, in his name. Packets of hot, steaming, savory Chinese take-out were delivered to the office, and his people fell ravenously upon it. He only found out when the cheering had gotten so loud that he was about to step out, only to be smacked by his door when Sally pushed it open to give him his favorite sweet-and-sour pork fried rice. Groaning and tearing up, he grabbed the packet and set it down, clutching at his nose. Sally was grinning, "Sorry, Greg."
"Yeah, 'kay. Hurts like fuckin' hell though." Greg mumbled.
"Yeah. You strike lottery or something? That was quite a spread you got for us, and all our favorites too." Sally asked, casually.
"Wha-?" Greg stared at her, "Me?"
"Yeah, the delivery people said you ordered and paid for it." Sally shrugged.
"I'll get back to you later." Greg said hurriedly, then ushered her out and called Sherlock.
"What is it now, Lestrade?" Sherlock's deep drawl spoke of boredom and scorn, the same two ingredients that kept most of the world far, far away.
"Do you have Mycroft's number? I need to speak to him about something." Lestrade asked, briskly, to hide his awkwardness at asking Sherlock for his elder brother's number like some love sick stalker.
"Certainly." Sherlock replied, and set something down, glass upon glass.
"Are you doing experiments at your flat?" Lestrade asked, frowning.
"Of course I am, do you think they'll let me into Bart's for the whole night?" Sherlock shot back. "In any case, why do you want Mycroft's number?"
"I want to discuss something." Greg said, leaning back against his seat and resting his feet on a pile of papers carefully so they wouldn't topple.
"Sounds very… personal." Sherlock accentuated the last word.
Greg felt himself flush, and said, "Just give it to me, will you?"
"Why should I?" Sherlock said.
"If you don't give it to me, no cases for you, for a month." Greg said, firmly.
"You wouldn't." Sherlock's voice was a low growl.
"Oh, try me, Sherlock." Greg said, smirking. Sherlock hung up on him, and a text message arrived with Mycroft's number.
Lestrade – one, Sherlock – nil.