02-07-13: Picked through, etc, the usual, blah blah blah
While Mycroft's mum wasn't entirely thrilled with Greg's unannounced presence, she wasn't against it. She did, however, seem to like the short brunette boy a lot more when he offered to help her and Mycroft with dinner. It was nothing extremely special, just pasta and garlic bread, but Lestrade proved himself apt in the kitchen. Both Holmeses were impressed.
"So, Greg..." Lucie started when they were all seated at the table. Her hazel eyes connected with Lestrade's as he took a polite bite out of his bread. He was seated between Mycroft and Sherlock, and across from her. Mr Holmes' chair remained empty. Mycroft looked between the two, feigning disinterest, though he was very interested in where this was going. "How did you and Mycroft become acquainted?"
Lestrade offered one of his grins, swallowed, and rinsed his mouth with a sip of water. "Um, I first saw him at the library, then we met again properly at school. He's in my chemistry class. We share a lunch period too."
"Mm. How long have you known each other?"
From under the table, Mycroft could see his friend counting with his fingers the exact number of days. "Four- six if you count me seeing him briefly behind a bookshelf last Saturday." Sherlock smirked behind Greg at his brother. Mycroft made a small face back.
Lucie nodded, taking a drink and setting her glass down carefully. "Would you consider yourselves close?"
"Mother," Mycroft pleaded, wondering why in the name of holy hell she would bother asking. Lestrade, bless him, shrugged, then nodded.
"Yeah, I would say so. Why?"
A smile spread across her lips like a bruise. "Mycroft hasn't had a friend before. I was just wondering if this would be his last."
Lestrade frowned. "I should hope not." Mycroft felt a tick in his jaw as he watched the things unsaid floating above the other boy's head.
'Am I not good enough for her?', 'Am I not good enough for him?', 'Is she trying to say we won't last?', 'Well she can just watch and see what happens...'
Lucie's smile brightened slightly. Apparently his response satisfied her. "Good," her expression said.
The next five minutes were spent in relative silence. The remainder of dinner involved Mycroft's mother telling Greg practically every embarrassing thing he had ever done in his time on God's green earth, Lestrade smiling - one part politely, two-parts because he was holding in his laughter on behalf of his friend, Sherlock pursing his lips trying not to laugh himself (though he failed), and her eldest son wanting to disappear in a hole. The red-head sat up in his chair, back straight and tense, glancing between his mum and friend as the conversation progressed. Sherlock would make little gestures and chuckle when the timing was appropriate, making him grimace.
"You mean he really-?"
"That was Mycroft. He never wanted to wear clothes-"
"Mother."
"-he'd just run about the house and we'd find a trail of trousers and shirts-"
"Mother."
"leading wherever he pleased, normally the-"
"Mother."
To make a long story short, he was more than relieved when Lucie asked him to help clear the table. Greg suggested she have a break, that he and Mycroft could handle cleaning everything up. Sherlock took that as an excuse to leave himself, offering one last jeer to his brother before he bounded upstairs. Taking his mother's glass, he quickly decided that she was definitely not allowed to drink wine should he have Greg - or any other friends - over ever again.
"So, you liked to run about with your-"
"Greg, please."
Lestrade smiled, running warm water into the sink and over the dirty dishes. "Don't worry mate, your secrets are safe with me. I'd never tell another soul." Mycroft was about to thank him, when he interrupted. "It would take all the fun out of it. And then there's the price of blackmail..."
Refraining from saying, Oh God, the red-head instead went to work on the dishes. Lestrade leaned against the counter with a towel, watching him with a friendly smile.
"Hey, don't take it like that. If you weren't my friend I wouldn't mess with you." When Mycroft chanced a glance at him, he winked. The Holmes smirked back. "But seriously, mate. It's all fine. Though you will hear all about it from me later." Another wink. Another smirk.
The sun was far past set when Greg finally mentioned, sitting comfortably back in Mycroft's room, on his bed this time, that maybe he should go home. Mycroft, truth be told, was thinking the same thing. But that didn't mean he wanted his friend to leave.
"You sure?"
Greg nodded. "Yeah. No one may be home, but I should get back just in case."
Mycroft sighed. "Alright."
"Well, it's nice to see that you chose today to wear pants, at least Mycroft," Lestrade remarked as they meandered towards the stairs.
"And it's nice to see that you chose today to keep your hands out of your pants, at least Greg," the red-head replied nonchalantly, hand on the railing as he descended the first few steps. When there wasn't a body beside him, he stopped and turned. His friend was standing at the top of the steps, looking like most do when they've been found out, and the outcome isn't going to be a good one.
"Pardon?" he asked, feigning innocence.
Mycroft had the sudden feeling that maybe he had made a misstep. "When you were younger, you tended to keep your hand in your-"
"Alright, yeah, would you quiet-" Lestrade started to interrupt, then interrupted himself. "Who told you?"
"No one told me-"
"Anderson, I'll bet it was Anderson, or maybe that other bastard-" Greg began, his grip tightening, knuckles turning white.
"Greg, honestly, no one told me... it was a simple deduction."
This time the other boy paused, as if he hadn't quite heard right. "What?"
"Um, a simple deduction..." Mycroft started, the fact that the word "um" had never left his lips before never crossing his mind. "It's easy to see by your mannerisms and..." he trailed off. Greg just stood there, frowning, then offered a grin. It looked strained.
"I see," he said, then trotted down the remaining steps. He ignored the coat Mycroft had given him, offered another smile, and stood, hands in his pockets, by the door. Personally, Mycroft didn't quite understand the whole situation, but he felt like a child who said one too many wrong things at the wrong time. That much he did understand. So he quietly said goodbye when Greg murmured "laters", then turned on his heel and headed back towards his room.
Greg was cold. His hands were cold, his nose was cold, his ears were cold. The late-november wind wrapped around him like a cloak. He had just begun to wish that he had taken his coat, but he forced the thought from his mind. It was too Mycroft for the moment - the way it looked, the feel of the fabric, the smell. The boy wasn't quite sure just where his anger had come from - he had made a sudden leap from embarrassed and red-eared to angry and red-eyed, and even he couldn't trace it to any individual happening. He considered going back, but he had no idea what he would do. So instead the brunette continued to trudge on his way home. However, when he reached the door of his small house, he realised one crucial fact. Well, two. Okay, three.
One, the door was locked and bolted tight.
Two, he didn't have his keys.
Three, the windows were all locked. Even the back door wouldn't give. He noticed with rising panic that there was a shiny new doorknob and steel reinforcements. It made sense, after the near-break-in a few weeks ago, but that meant bad news for Greg. Unless he was breaking a window, or the new door, he was locked out. And his family wouldn't be back until late Sunday night.
Trying the front door again, he felt something clench in his middle. It was solid, barely even jiggled. Just his luck.
After ten minutes of failed problem-solving, Lestrade plopped onto the front stoop and sat there, defeated. No where to go now, he had no close friends and no family for miles. Well, there was Mycroft, but there was no way he was going back now. He had acted like a dick, and he wouldn't make it worse by asking to stay for two nights because he had forgotten his damn keys like an idiot.
Staring at the velvet sky, he noticed that the thick grey clouds had rolled away, leaving nothing but blackness and pinpricks of light flickering above him. There was no moon. He thought suddenly of Molly - she liked the moon.
Molly, he chuckled to himself quietly. She was a funny girl. He supposed they used to be friends. Never close, but friends nonetheless. She was the quiet sort that was into all the things you would never expect out of a sweetheart like her. Corpses and murders were her specialty. An anatomy book was always at her side. She was very much into science and biology, and she could never start a conversation. It was just something she wasn't good at. Then again, he supposed Mycroft wasn't necessarily apt at starting or holding conversations. He did seem apt at reading people, though, that was obvious enough. But how did he do it? Greg hadn't had the chance to ask the Holmes, since he didn't "deduce" much. At the very least, he didn't aloud.
Ha, here he was, trying to avoid thinking about the red-head, focusing as hard as he could on Molly of all people, yet voila! The thought of Mycroft bounced back no matter how much Greg tried to kick it away. He huffed, mildly irritated with himself. As always, he grinned, this time at his shoes. His toes were numb.
"Greg!" a familiar voice called from down the road. His head snapped up immediately - what the hell did they want with him? Lo and behold, it was that damned ginger, waving a coat and a backpack over his head. "What the bloody hell are you doing?" Greg smirked. Mycroft had been watching his language less and less thanks to him. Oops.
"Ah. Hey Mycroft..." he murmured, rising to his feet. "What are you doing here?" He didn't mean for that to come out so harsh, and he bit his tongue for it.
Mycroft looked momentarily like he expected Greg to blow up or hit him, or something, when he held out the coat and pack. "Well, you forgot your things. I figured you might need your bag at least for schoolwork. And it's freezing. You need a coat..." Here came the obvious question. "Why are you sitting outside?"
Greg waited a long moment, glaring back at his front door. "...Because I'm locked out..." at a funny look, he added, "Forgot my fucking keys this morning, wasn't thinking right..."
"Tsk, Greg, all you had to do was come back. No one will be here until Sunday, right?" Mycroft tutted, and Lestrade hated himself a bit more for earlier. He shrugged, having no reply. Mycroft inspected the front door. "If I would have known, I would have brought my lockpicks..."
This caught the brunette's attention. "Lockpicks?" The other boy looked at him as if he were asking if the earth went around the sun.
"That is what I said, yes?" Greg offered another shrug. Sighing, the red-head gestured to the pavement. "Come on. Let's go."
"Where?"
"Where do you think? I'm not leaving you here until Sunday."
02-07-13: Can you tell this could double as a Johnlock story? Not because of John and Sherlock, but because I'm noticing Mycroft and Lestrade are startlingly similar to how I write Sherlock and John. Joy. Oh well.
