Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir ACD and in this reincarnation Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. We own nothing and are only writing this for fun.
Warning: Violence, murders sexual tensions and relationships between males. Angst, and sexual happenings eventually.
Tales of a Feather.
Chapter Seven.
Sherlock hung his coat up and leaned against the door as he watched John walk to their sofa and settle down with a sigh, the bandage Sarah had applied stark against his dark blond hair and warm toned skin.
"It's really nothing bad, not even a concussion. The bandage is only there because head wounds bleed a lot, you know that so please stop looking at me as if I might drop at any moment." John's voice was nearly pleading. "You know me, made of sturdy stuff I am." The painkiller Sarah had forced down his throat made him a little bit woozy.
Sherlock just walked over, sat down, and proceeded to throw a leg over John's lap as he wrapped his arms around him. "I know." He didn't think John would drop at any moment; it was more the memories flashing through his mind that had him watching him like a hawk. Not just of this time but all the others when John's life had been put in danger, especially the semtex vest.
"I choose this life, want it even so wipe that expression off your face...I would do it again in a heartbeat for you. You lit up my world Sherlock Holmes, colored in all the black and white pages of my life." This time John gave in to his want and leaned against Sherlock. "I'm sorry if I am crossing into soppy here...I think I might be a bit doped up...Not good."
"Don't be sorry. Sarah said you didn't have a concussion so you can sleep it off," he rested his cheek on John's shoulder, "You watch me the same way you know, after a particularly bad one."
"I know, I know I do, I'll keep doing it too." John raised one hand to play with the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck. "I suppose I just never want you to worry, least of all about me. It's a balance, the good with the bad and fuck Sherlock...With everything we've been through the good scale tips the scale every time."
"I am aware but I'm allowed to cling and worry when it comes close to losing the person who matters the most to me. Just like you get to natter away at me about eating more and getting actual sleep. It's supposed to be a couple thing I believe," he pressed a kiss to John's pulse, chaste and purely affectionate.
"A couple thing..." John felt something warm fill him and his heart sped up of its own volition. "I can live with that, yeah...most definitely." He snuggled close to Sherlock and felt his eyelids grow heavier as the effect of the painkillers spread throughout his system.
"Good because you know how possessive and stubborn I am and I am not letting you go." He pitched his voice almost as soft as a whisper but not quite. He wrapped himself more securely around John as if to demonstrate.
John smiled and snuggled closer in return, loving the warmth and comfort that came with having Sherlock so close. "I can be stubborn too and the possessiveness goes both ways. You are mine now Sherlock and I definitely plan on keeping you."
Sherlock made a happy hum and nuzzled his face into the crook of John's neck. It was an interesting reaction the way wrapping John in himself made him feel...safe, safe enough that he relaxed to start drifting into sleep, "No protest."
Still smiling, John let out a very content sigh, pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock's curly head and felt himself drifting off, painkillers or not, John knew that the man wrapped around him would be the reason no nightmares would touch him during this sleep.
oOoOoOo
Lestrade watched Ben Lanning rush away from where he'd been apologizing to John and Sherlock, devastation written plainly across his face and he walked up as John began scolding Sherlock, who looked not the least bit repentant.
"It was true John, he's nine years older, it was his job to protect her from their father's unsavory associates but he couldn't be bothered to even call the police."
Greg's brow lifted at the quiet undercurrent of disdain and pure loathing that Sherlock's tone held and he paused in his step toward them.
John stilled and turned to face Sherlock. "Sherlock, do I have a reason to leave Mycroft with more than a broken face?" His voice was utterly serious. "You can't always count on your older siblings, god knows Harry has never come through but is this more than that?"
Even from where he was standing Lestrade could see the muscle tick in Sherlock's jaw and half expected him to snap at John. That's why he frowned in concern when he spoke softly and without any sort of the usual Sherlock acid when someone pried.
"We'll talk at home? Please John."
The please was accompanied by a flicker of expression that Greg had seen a few too many times back when he was a constable and had to work domestic disturbances for a year. He didn't wait any longer to finish walking to them, no point really. If Sherlock stirred himself to say please sincerely then John would always agree. Greg handed Sherlock a folder, "To cover all our arses that's the paperwork you need to complete for the consultation on this case. Don't argue, I don't care if you think paperwork is the devil, I've got mounds of it still on my desk from the stunts you've pulled since I met you so either you fill out the consultant forms after each case or no more cases from me got it?"
Sherlock pouted but took the folder, "No wonder there are barely any competent people in Scotland Yard, you've all rotted your brains with minutae and paperwork."
John stayed quiet, grateful that Lestrade was just Lestrade and for the tact he displayed here. Something was wrong with his Sherlock and it made John sick to think about it. Sherlock was right though, this was not the place to discuss such things. "I hope you won't mind getting the paperwork back cluttered with all kinds of experiment ideas and results. Sherlock here writes on everything and anything. when the mood strikes." John smiled at his boyfriend and wasn't that the most wonderful word in the world. It didn't cover all that they were but it came closest.
"So long as the right spaces are filled with the right answers I don't care. Now get out of my bullpen. I have files to deliver and then, thank God, I've got an entire twenty-four hours off to get pissed, sleep like the dead, and sober up. Stay out of trouble; I don't care how you do it, just stay out of trouble for one day. Even you should be able to manage one day without blowing something up Sherlock."
"I've not yet blown anything up Lestrade, burned a few things down, spilled a little hydrofluoric acid, but no explosions as of yet." Sherlock quirked a brow at him.
"God I don't want to know. Just go will you?"
"Fine," Sherlock turned and flounced off, coat billowing behind him.
Greg shook his head as John rushed after the pain in their collective arses then grabbed the files he needed to deliver under one arm. With his other hand he pulled out his phone to text Mycroft. 'Just learned something I want to talk to you about. Pick a place with alcohol that I can afford to meet. -GL'
The reply was swift. 'I'm sorry but old McDougal does not sell Moonshine out of the trunk of his car any longer, I know that was all in your price range in this city - M'
Another text followed quickly. 'Bellamy Bar, 8 pm -M'
Greg momentarily lamented the fact that you couldn't flip someone off in a text message before replying that he'd be there then putting his phone away to finish up the 'minutiae' of the day.
Time flew and soon enough he was waiting in a private corner in an affordably posh bar, sipping sparingly at a pint. He'd break out the order for hard liquor later but for now he wanted his wits about him.
Eight pm on the dot, Mycroft strode into the pub, eyes already fixed on the corner where Greg Lestrade said, he walked over and sat down, hanging his umbrella on the back of his chair. "Good evening Detective Inspector, I have to admit that you have made me curious, as I was summoned, so have I come."
"Evening, you have a title or should I just call you Evil Overlord?" Greg shook his head, "You might want to get a drink before I go in to this."
"Alcohol muddles the mind." Mycroft still managed to snag a waiter in record time and soon there was a glass of red wine in front of him. "Evil Overlord works I suppose but let's keep that title under wraps shall we, Mycroft works." Mycroft didn't know why he was here and it made him unsettled, he was usually on top of everything.
"Not too sure EO works since evil overlords are stupid as a rule," Greg sipped his pint then set it down, "Sherlock had a...unique reaction to Ben Lanning when he and John came in to give their statements today. Unique enough that, after he and John talk, I have a feeling a fully functioning lab in 221c won't keep John from clocking you." He met Mycroft's gaze steadily, "Was it beatings or worse?"
Mycroft's face was completely blank, not even a hint of emotion showing. His stance was still elegantly relaxed in his seat and the wineglass stood untouched on the table in front of him. "I imagine that if Sherlock wants you to know DI Lestrade, then he will tell you himself." Mycroft lived his life largely without shame, his line of work demanded it and it wasn't a bother to him. Sherlock's childhood and what had happened to him still made him ashamed.
He had closed his eyes and turned away from the things happening in their house. Their father had never laid a hand on him, that he did abuse Sherlock was something he wanted to pretend didn't happen, after all it didn't make sense and Mycroft very much liked everything to make sense.
"Even if he wanted to tell me he wouldn't and you know it. I'm asking because I need to know what cases I need to keep a weather eye on Sherlock during as well as warning John." Not to mention he needed to know which ones to keep the tightest leash on Donovan and Anderson for. "He's my friend, odd as that seems sometimes, and I can't help look after him if I don't know what needs the most looking after."
"I was seven when Sherlock was born, I don't think my parents had planned on anymore children and Sherlock came a long as a bit of an accident. Sherlock was a beautiful baby, all dark curls, plump cheeks and huge eyes." A shadow of a smile played on Mycroft's lips as he recalled baby Sherlock. "Then something shifted, our father changed." Privately Mycroft suspected that their father hadn't believed that Sherlock was his child. "Sherlock has never been able to hide his intellect or the way he sees the world and the things in it. He feels everything so strongly, always has. Father was not...Appreciative of Sherlock's skills. It started with slaps and quickly went downhill from there. If Sherlock had said something that Father didn't like during the day he was sent to bed without dinner. Father could wake him up in the middle of the night just to shout at him."
Mycroft looked down at his wine. "I didn't want to see it, didn't want to believe it was happening. Father never struck me; I didn't exist in his world except for being the one to carry forth the Holmes legacy. I wanted out and I got out the first chance I got. I left and I left Sherlock behind. So there you have your story."
Greg closed his eyes and shook his head, "That explains a lot about Sherlock," he looked at Mycroft, "and explains why you go all arse-backwards when you try to protect him. You just don't know the right way to go about it. You shouldn't feel so guilty, it's normal for abused children to just want to run away as soon as they can." He met the glare Mycroft gave him and continued, interrupting him when he would have spoken, "Don't try, you were abused too. Not beaten but not cared for and you saw what happened to Sherlock and you had to wonder if you stepped even a toe out of line if you'd face the same. Mental and emotional abuse still counts as abuse." He wasn't speaking with pity or sympathy, just pragmatic honesty. He knew Mycroft wouldn't want pity or sympathy; his pride wouldn't stand for it. Privately though he'd like to find the Holmes patriarch and punch him in the face until he went unconscious, break his jaw maybe. "You were a normal kid...somehow that's a scary thought."
"Normal, well that's something I've never been accused of being before." Mycroft looked puzzled, as if he wasn't sure whether he should be offended or not. "I'm afraid I will always feel guilty though, I did leave for boarding school as quickly as I could and neither Sherlock nor I will ever truly be able to move past that. Sherlock has had a lot of time to build up his shell, his sociopath persona...Thank god for John H Watson. I can't protect Sherlock the way I should but John can. He can protect and love him as he deserves."
"I'll drink to that. Someone should set up a bloody shrine to Mike Stamford for introducing them."
"I am not going to argue with that." Mycroft took a sip of his wine and wasn't able to completely repress his shudder of disgust. You got what you paid for and this could not be called real wine in any sense of the word. "Don't sell yourself short though, you have had a greater impact and influence on Sherlock than you might believe. He respects you, cleaned himself up for you and the chance to work with you on your crime scenes. He likes you."
"I know that. Sherlock Holmes doesn't rescue someone from a bar, listen to them whine like a kid who's been told no to getting a lolly, and help them home unless he likes them." He drank some more of his pint.
"That is true." Mycroft watched Lestrade with curiosity and maybe something more that he wasn't ready to own up to. Caring was not an advantage. "I will only say this once and if I'm ever called on it I will firmly blame this swill called the house red. Thank you for looking out for my little brother, for honestly caring about him. You are an admirable man."
A rush that had nothing to do with alcohol went through him and Greg had to pull hard on the choke chain of his attraction to Mycroft. "What do they put in their wine because if it's got you saying that after only a few sips then it's got to be enough to knock and Irishman on his arse after one glass. Thank you though."
"I told you, alcohol muddles the mind, that does not make what I said untrue though." Mycroft was a lightweight of the highest degree and so he very seldom touched alcohol, he couldn't afford to not be on top of his game.
"Oh I believe you. It's just you admitting to anything like that is equivalent to Sherlock being nice to Anderson, an event so rare that you've a better chance of seeing a unicorn." He smirked and set his empty pint glass down, catching the waiter's attention and ordering a bottle of Scotch and a glass, "Considering that unicorns are mythical..."
"Cut one horn off of a cow and you have a unicorn. Myths are overrated, reality is much more exciting." Mycroft was grinning, not smirking until he realized what he was doing and quickly straightened his features to their normal mask again.
Greg's eyes lit up at the sight of that and he poured himself a glass of Scotch, "Oh now you should do that more often. Looks good on you."
"I assure you that I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about." The scariest thing was that he almost felt the urge to grin again, just to see that expression on the DI's face. Oh this man was dangerous, very dangerous indeed.
"Liar," Lestrade grinned himself as he said it, "I've been wondering something, do you have me bugged anywhere? I'd like to know when or if I'm giving people an eyeful."
"Of course I have you bugged; you are one of Sherlock's important people." There was no embarrassment about admitting to bugging one of Scotland Yard's officers. "Don't worry though, audio only so nothing to worry about."
His grin took on a mischievous edge, "Never said I was worried. Just wondered if it would be for more benefit than just mine to dance my clothes off, give your peepers more incentive than just getting paid." He wasn't ashamed of his body, he knew he had a good one that people liked to look at and he didn't see reason to be modest about it.
"Dance your clothes off as much as you like, unless you sing out of tune while doing it no one will see." Mycroft's mouth was going dry though at the thought of seeing the skin hidden under Greg Lestrade's clothes. He reached out and downed the rest of the wine in his glass and instantly regretted it as the world tilted a little, it felt good though.
The Scotch was already teasing out Greg's playful side because he grinned wider, "Nah, I save the singing for the shower, better acoustics. And I've a very good singing voice I'll have you know."
"Oh I don't doubt it, you might have to show me sometime." Mycroft blinked. "The singing voice I mean, not the showering."
"I might just do that, to either," Greg finished his first Scotch and poured another one, "So, does Mycroft Holmes have any hidden talents?"
"Plenty of them. If I told you about them they wouldn't be hidden now they would they?" Mycroft leaned back in his chair a little, still keeping his gaze on Lestrade.
"Hmm, should I guess then?" Greg tilted his head, "Ventriloquism?"
"If I was into puppets then I would be the person on top of the stage pulling their strings. That's a no by the way." He fell silent. "Any other guesses?"
"Hmm, I'm tempted to be ridiculous," Greg chuckled, "but let me see. I think you might do something with your hands, something musical. You've got the fingers for it, long, narrow, tapered, piano hands my Gran would say." He reach across the table without asking and took Mycroft's dominant hand into his, running his fingers along the palm and insides of Mycroft's fingers, "You've got callouses here," his index finger traced along the space between thumb and for finger, "Not thick, a constant rub but one that you take care to protect yourself from." His brow furrowed in thought, "Horseback riding?"
"Um...Yes, yes, I do enjoy horseback riding. We still have horses at Mummy's house." Mycroft couldn't recall the last time he had stumbled over his own tongue, it just didn't happen, he was better than that. Something about Greg touching him though caused his mind to short circuit. He would blame it on the wine. "You were also right about the piano, I play a little. Are you sure you need Sherlock on your cases? You seem quite skilled at deducing things for yourself."
"I get things after a little while," Greg released Mycroft's hand though he'd have rather held on until Mycroft pulled away, "but usually only after hours or even days going over the same things over and over again. I'm a trained observer, a DI has to be, but Sherlock, it comes naturally to him. His observational skills are like a shark and swimming. I'm more like a dog or cat, toss me in the water and I have to go by instinct but I get there before I drown."
"I see, so have you spent time observing me then?" A single arched brow rose and Mycroft curled his hand closed, still feeling Lestrade's touch there.
"Maybe," Greg sipped at his scotch, "And if I have?"
"Well, then I suppose I have to congratulate you on a semi decent deduction." Mycroft crossed one leg over the other in his seat.
Greg chuckled, "Oh I have more. Think I'll keep them to myself though."
"Please do, I am a man of mystery after all." Mycroft's gaze turned speculative. "I'll give you this though as a parting gift. I danced ballet until I was seventeen...I bend in every way possible for a human being."
And just like that Greg was suddenly, painfully hard. He swallowed and tossed back his scotch desperately. "Tosser," it was rough and husky in tone though it held no animosity.
"We'll see, haven't quite decided whether I shall toss off or not tonight but thank you for the suggestion." The smirk was back in place as Mycroft rose from his seat. "Have a continued pleasant evening Greg, don't get too drunk to get home safely."
Greg's eyes narrowed, "Since we're sharing, I will be tossing off tonight so warn your bug operators that they'll be getting an earful."
"No bug operators tonight, just me listening...Do give me a show and the scales for me tossing off as well might just tip over in the positive. Night night now Detective Inspector." Mycroft sauntered out of the bar.
Greg dropped his head in his hands and groaned, asking himself why he found Mycroft attractive for the hundredth time. The mental image of a very bendy Mycroft wanking off was all the answer he needed as well as impetus to pay his tab and head out to find a taxi. Whether Mycroft was actually going to listen or not, he was tossing off tonight and loudly. Either way whoever was listening was going to get one hell of a concert.
~to be continued...~
