Mycroft hadn't slept.
Of course he hadn't slept. After he had told Sherlock the good news and he had sent Sherlock to bed, he had just collapsed on the sofa. From there, he had proceeded to just stare at the ceiling for the rest of the night. There were no panic attacks, thank heavens - but he had just worried himself to near-death for hours on end.
In the end, he had to tell himself that the job interview was more important. Getting that job meant more money, and more opportunities for advancement. Perhaps he could get Sherlock out of this godawful flat they were living in, perhaps he could make sure Sherlock ate a proper meal every day. That would be heavenly. Lately he had been feeling like he hadn't adequately taking care of Sherlock, that perhaps he was better off where he had come from, back where the night and the thing
No.
No, Sherlock was more loved and better off here.
Still, that job interview would be everything.
If the interview was more important, than why on Earth was Mycroft more excited for the date?
The thought of actually being with Lestrade, snuggling up next to him in some booth in some diner somewhere in London, sharing flirty jokes, laying his head on the policeman's shoulder – it filled the emotionless man with such energy that he momentarily forgot that he was supposed to be remaining indifferent to the softer emotions of life. The best part of all was that he didn't have to hide his excitement from Sherlock – Sherlock just thought that he was excited for the interview. He went about his morning, humming and sprucing himself up a bit more than usual.
Sherlock didn't need to use the bathroom, thank heavens. Mycroft made sure that he had brushed his teeth and had brushed his hair, and then had sent him along to the kitchen to make breakfast. He did so with a song in his heart and a whistle in his tongue. Just minutes later, he was joining Sherlock in the kitchen.
"What are you planning on doing today, Sherlock? Please try not to get into trouble. If you must leave, only do so when absolutely necessary and do not get in trouble in the neighborhood. I would much rather you entertain yourself around here, but I fear that may be too much to ask." Mycroft babbled on and on as he spread butter on toast, and then placed it in front of Sherlock. Sherlock looked at it distastefully before biting into it with a grim expression.
Speaking around his toast (which made Mycroft wince and chide him for doing so), Sherlock shook his head. "Just staying inside today. I nicked the newspaper from the bin-" That brought cries of 'Sherlock, that's unsanitary!' from Mycroft' – "And I'm going to look through the crime section. See what I can deduce. "
That was something, certainly. Mycroft wasn't sure how he felt about Sherlock's fascination with crime, but it certainly kept the boy occupied. Either way, it wasn't something that Mycroft had to deal with today. Sighing, he pushed his toast away from him and stood.
It was the only suit he owned. And, yes, he had taken it from the old house. It was…well, fantastic. The best money could buy, really, which was why Mycroft was so anxious about wearing it out of the house. If things really became tight, Mycroft figured, he could always sell it and get a pretty (although temporary) penny.
He had slicked his hair back and styled it. As he looked in the mirror, he still wasn't satisfied. The suit fit him poorly, since he had lost so much weight after leaving. Still, if Mycroft stood a certain way, it was really quite difficult to tell – or perhaps that was only in Mycroft's mind. He continued alternatively slouching and straightening his shoulders in the mirror when he felt two tiny arms wrap around his waist from behind.
The words were said in a rush.
"IhopeyougetthejobandIhopethattheextramoneymakesyou happyandIhopeyou'rehappieringeneral." Sherlock mumbled into his shoulder blades, and Mycroft broke into a brilliant smile. It was the sweetest thing that he had ever heard Sherlock say, and Mycroft was excited. This day was turning out wonderfully. Turning around, he gave Sherlock a familial peck on the top of the head and left.
A half hour of walking later, Mycroft was sitting in a room that reminded him sickeningly of the Holmes Manor. He had started sweating hours ago, although Mycroft attributed that to nervousness and not his little episodes striking up again. He wouldn't let them flare up. This was going to be a perfect goddamn day, Mycroft vowed, and he wasn't going to end it in a sobbing mess on the floor. He put his hands on the opposite sides of the chair, and put up his calm and cool face – one that he had perfected over the years, and even more so during the last few months.
That was why he was surprised when a girl who looked no older than eighteen walked in and sat at the large desk in front of him. Mycroft tilted his head to the side.
"Hello. Are you Mycroft Holmes?" The girl asked him, shuffling through a few papers on the desk. She was pretty enough, Mycroft supposed. A slightly olive complexion, dark hair, and a Blackberry in between her fingers. She looked a tad bored with the entire situation, though Mycroft couldn't suppose he would blame her on that point.
"I am. May I ask who you are?" Mycroft asked with corresponding politeness, folding his hands politely in his lap.
It was funny, really. They were both externally polite – small smiles, folded limbs, and a comfortable attitude. However, Mycroft couldn't help but feel the undercurrent of surprise that ran through the room, and he knew that they were both thinking the exact same thing.
I didn't expect someone like you.
"Let's see, who shall I be today?" The girl chuckled, leaning back in the chair and shuffling through a few papers. "I was Helen last week. From the Greek myth, you know. I don't think it quite suited me. Besides, I've always rathered beauty over brains. Ah…let's see. Athena would draw too much attention, and I don't think it's quite smooth on the tongue. How do you feel about Anthea?"
What a strange woman.
"Are you that high-in-command, that you must keep your name private?" Mycroft asked curiously, taking the girl in an entirely new light. Only eighteen, and enough to warrant security clearance? Impressive.
She gave a light laugh. "No, that's a few years down the line. I'm not involved in top secret activity, Mr. Holmes, but I'm a bit of a networking expert between our lovely gentlemen here. The PM has a meeting with the ambassador of Belgium at four, there's a discussion about fracking and environmental concerns at five…I plan and coordinate that sort of thing. A secretary, in other words, though I'm allowed to travel just a bit more."
Mycroft was surprised, and he found a light (though tightly controlled) smile on his face. "How fascinating. May I ask, then, why you're interviewing me?" He tried to keep his question as inoffensive as possible. Quite impressive, that such a young woman would be in control of so much, but what grounds had she to conduct an interview?
"What, did you expect a gentleman over the age of seventy and has enough bigotry to anger an entire nation?" Anthea asked, letting out a slight chuckle. "No, no. Only a few people here have been alerted of your presence, Mr. Holmes. We're quite interested in you, and yours truly was put on the case of researching if you were qualified for the job." She paused, then, to tap a few letters into her phone. "I have to say that what I found was immensely interesting."
That was where Mycroft felt his breath stop. His hands clutched against the sides of the chair a bit tighter; a cold sweat broke out on his neck. He tried to stop the desperate panic, and outwardly, he was fine. His face didn't change a degree. Only someone with a magnifying glass could see that, on the inside, Mycroft was drowning. No, he only quirked an eyebrow and asked, "Oh?"
"Of course. Your father is incredibly well-known – or, rather, was. He retired but a few months ago. He actually didn't give a reason, but…ah, there's always secrets in this sort of business. Don't you agree? Regardless, we actually had your name on file prior. Mycroft Holmes, an intern here some months prior. Again, left without a reason." Anthea drawled, flipping open a file in front of her. "Here's where it gets rather interesting. Here's a note that says Mycroft Holmes applied for an apartment –nothing unusual. You are twenty-four, after all. But there is a police report, here, that says on the night of –"
Mycroft raised one hand to her. "I think that will be quite enough, miss. I always hate repetition. You know, and I know, and I doubt that nobody else need know. Will my current living conditions and the fact that I have a dependent hamper my potential employment? If so, I must take my leave. I would enjoy working here – surely you've seen my taxes. I've always wanted to get into the business of what my father did-" That night, coming home, upset, hearing Mother's and Father's voices through the garden door. "And the money surely wouldn't harm. However, I will always care for my little sibling."
Anthea's lips quirked up in a polite smile. "You may not want to mention that around here. Caring, it seems, has gone remarkably out of style. You shan't find a man who says that he loves his wife, or a father who thinks his child as anything more than a political pawn. Whether they think differently in private, or are sociopaths through and through, I can't say. I've only been around for half a year." She placed the Blackberry to the side. "Regardless, your sibling will not be a problem. We will work around your schedule. After all, you won't be so high up. You'll do paperwork, monitor conferences, sort out an economic crisis or two. Not overly difficult. Certainly not with your resume."
Mycroft nodded, feeling his palms relax on the chair. That put his mind somewhat at ease. "I see. Very well. May I ask why I have been called here, then? What questions am I to ask, or what tasks should I do?"
Anthea looked at him quizzically before collapsing into laughter that made her seem several years younger. "Mr. Holmes, you've already received the job. Your father's name would have gotten you that, even if you had been a barely literate monkey."
Mycroft looked at her in utter shock. Even though he had made a habit of hiding his emotions nowadays, this piece of news was such a bombshell that Mycroft could only look at her dim-wittedly. A few moments passed before she cleared her throat and tilted her head to the side. "I'm here today to give you your assignments, Mr. Holmes. Nothing too difficult, I assure you – just some international issues to read up on, biographies, things like that. You'll be expected to get them done before next week, of course."
"Yes, I see. Would you become my boss, then?" A pause. A counter-statement. "Not that I'm opposed to such a measure, of course – I've found that it's useless to judge maturity and aptitude based on age."
Anthea gave a shake of her head. "No. I'll be your personal assistant, Mr. Holmes."
"Personal assistant? What for? I cannot imagine my job will be too rigorous, with paperwork and such."
"No, it will not, but it has a large potential for growth. Very soon, you will be needing a PA. Or two or three, in fact, but I assure you that I'm very capable." Anthea paused, placing papers in front of her again. "Here's my resume, should you wish to read over it. I'm trained in emergency medical treatment, several different types of martial arts, and hostage negotiation."
Mycroft was stunned. In the matter of minutes, his life had just became a James Bond film. It was absolutely shocking – and yet Mycroft was fond of this Anthea. Perhaps she could become an ally, or a confidante. She did know the worst of his life, after all – and that was something Mycroft would not share willingly. He found himself smiling at her. She took it negatively.
"I will warn you that, should you make a move against me, I will not hesitate to use self-defense and then have you swiftly removed. You're not high up the ladder, yet, it won't be that hard." Anthea commented swiftly, her voice sharp. And…weary, somehow, as if she had given the speech before.
"No, no." Mycroft shook his head, raising one hand up and placing his palm towards her. "I would never do such a thing. You've read over my history, Anthea, and I promise you that there's no record of violence in it." She raised an eyebrow. "Except on one occasion, which I'm sure you can overlook. If it's towards the sexual advances you're worried about, again, have no worry. You have my files. Surely you can deduce my orientation."
Anthea's eyes scanned over the files again, and she nodded. No emotion showed on her face. "Ah, yes, of course, but it's not quite politically correct to assume nowadays." There was a small twinkle in her eye, there. "Of course I don't mind your homosexuality, Mr. Holmes. I only warn you that you may want to be a tad secretive of it. Many men here are open-minded, but, should you ever achieve an elected position, they will use it against you. Unfortunately."
Nodding, Mycroft felt another bit of worry enter into him. Although being 'out of the closet' had never been the worst of his problems…well, it had been a problem, indeed. If he was supposed to be entering into a relationship with Gregory Lestrade (and, given that he was now nearing the time for their date, he should be), that might prove difficult. But he would, as they say, cross that bridge when he came to it. Anthea began to speak to him again, this time in a dismissive voice. "I think that'll be that, Mr. Holmes. I cordially welcome you to this office."
"Wait!" Mycroft found himself saying, standing up as she did. "May I inquire as to my pay? Again, you've seen my financial records. It's a matter of importance."
When Anthea gave the figure, Mycroft took a step back and held onto the back of the chair. The number was exactly triple what he had made at the coffee shop. It was enough to…well, it was enough to do everything. Feed Sherlock every day, move into a nicer flat, perhaps even take Lestrade out on a date every now and then. It made him happy, ecstatic, and he moved forward to shake her hand enthusiastically.
They parted ways soon after. Mycroft enjoyed how she didn't betray much besides professional emotion, and yet how she seemed to sympathize with his dilemmas. He couldn't help but walk with a whistle on his tongue, making his way towards the café where he and Lestrade had agreed to meet.
Already, he had a job. Not his dream job, not quite yet, but so close that it didn't really matter, in the end. It would solve so much of his problems, and then he could focus on others. Perhaps, he hypothesized, should he get Sherlock into a more respectable living condition, and told him to pull together his manners a tad…he would tell Lestrade. That revelation made him so entirely happy.
He hadn't changed from his suit. Hadn't the time, and frankly, he really wanted to see Lestrade's face when he saw Mycroft's attire. He wanted to impress Lestrade, badly, even though he had no real reason for it. All sentiment, and therefore all stupid, but god damn did Mycroft want to see Lestrade's face light up.
He had a job, he had a job, he had an actual, real, well-paying job. Everything would be alright.
That flowed in his head, like a mantra, until he reached the café. It was a small thing, not unlike the coffee shop where he worked at. He had just a little bit of money on him – money which, frankly, he should have been saving for bills. It was his stupid pride picking up again, but Mycroft didn't want to force Lestrade to pay. It would be enormously nice of him to, but Lestrade was just a little better-off than he was ( as far as Mycroft knew, anyway).
He wasn't the first one there, and oh, how he wished he could have taken a photo of Lestrade's face.
It was like a romantic movie, really.
Lestrade's eyes had been searching the room quizzically, and then they had fallen upon Mycroft. His entire face had lit up. A goofy smile, both doggy and sweet, stretched from ear to ear and he rose from his seat to go and see Mycroft. When he finally stopped in front of him, he raised one arm and squeezed Mycroft's shoulder softly. Neither spoke for a few moments, in hope that the other was just as speechless as they were.
Oh, Lestrade looked lovely. He had his leather jacket thrown on top of his work clothes, and Mycroft could catch a glimpse of that devilish motorbike helmet on the seat. His hair was askew, he looked tired, and Mycroft thought that it was the most beautiful face he had seen all day.
"Wow. Didn't know I was taking a celebrity out on a date, My." The pet name rolled off his tongue adorably, and Mycroft could have melted in front of him. "Can I ask what's with the penguin suit? Not that I'm complaining, mind."
There had been a time, perhaps when he first met Lestrade, where he would have tried his damnedest not to show emotion in front of him. Not to let himself feel emotion in front of him. Now, he felt that Lestrade was a separate part of his life. A release, in so many words – in front of him, although he hadn't told him everything, Mycroft could be a regular young man.
He shook his head and gave a shy smile. "Ah, no. A job interview – well, in so many words. I received the job." If that was Sherlock who had asked, Mycroft would have left it at that. A child didn't need to know how much he made, or how happy he was, or how wonderful the job seemed. But Lestrade was different, and Mycroft needed to gush. "And, oh, Gregory, it pays fantastically well. Far more than what I made at the coffee shop. It's the most wonderful thing that could happen, and I am so ecstatic about it."
Lestrade listened to him enthusiastically, and together, they didn't pay any mind to the rest of the café. "My, that's absolutely brilliant. I'm so happy for you – Jesus, that's absolutely fantastic. Something you like doing, yeah? Good for you, My . You deserve it. This is fantastic!" With that, Greg stepped forward, and suddenly, Mycroft was crushed against his chest.
The man hugged like a bear. Of course, it probably helped that the man easily weighed a few stone more than he did. Mycroft couldn't have moved if he wanted to – not that he wanted to, at all. This was even closer than he had been on the motorbike. He was nearly molded against the man's form, and he was nearly overwhelmed by the powerful cologne Lestrade had put on before the date. Mycroft was taken aback at the startling realization that Lestrade had put that on for him, had prepared for a date and had worried over it and had likely looked forward to it for him.
Lestrade leaned back, both hands clutching Mycroft's upper arms. He grinned at him, widely, and Mycroft wondered if they, then, were going to kiss. However, Lestrade regretfully released his shoulders and they went back to their seat. As they did, Lestrade said over his shoulder, "Look, since we're celebrating some good news, why don't you let me pay for the date?"
Mycroft could barely respond for a second. He was so taken aback with the cologne, with what Lestrade had just said and, of course, the initial shock of receiving a well-paying job. For a moment, he could only nod and smile stupidly at him. When Lestrade grabbed his hand from his side of the table, that didn't help. Lestrade finally just chuckled at him.
"Still in shock, eh? No harm in that. I know when I first got accepted to this Yarder position I'm in – well, I could barely talk to anyone for ages. Finally just talked to my mum for about an hour about it, and I could barely sleep that night. It's fantastic, getting a job you've wanted like mad, isn't it?" At that, Lestrade gave his hand a squeeze. "You're going to be brilliant at it, My. I know you are."
Mycroft let out a startled grunt of some sort, and he finally just ducked his head slightly. "I…thank you, Gregory, truly. I'm afraid I'm…I'm still in shock, you see. You may want to speak for a little while. I promise I shall partake in the conversation later."
Lestrade let out a sharp, barking laugh at that. "You're an utter sweetheart, Mycroft, really. I'm glad for you – I know how it is. A young bloke on your own, trying to make your way. When I first got out of Uni…well, hell. I had just cleaned up a few years prior, and my grades weren't the best. I didn't know what I was going to do." Again, a small laugh. "I'm not proud of it, but I slept around a tad in Uni and secondary school. Figured I could always make a living with that, if I had to."
By that point, Mycroft had recovered and was now looking at Lestrade with a raised eyebrow and a confused look. He broke into laughter again. "Jesus, Mycroft, I'm kidding. I'd never do that. It'd put my dear old Mum into an early grave, if I did. Believe me, I got raised well. Received a 'You've got to respect yourself and others' speech every other week."
Mycroft was sure as hell not going to mention that he, himself, had seriously pondered the practice and had only rejected it for Sherlock's sake. He ran his finger around the water glass when it all suddenly came to him. He was on a date with the most good man he had met in ages. He had a job that would pay extremely well. Sherlock, he hoped, was taking care of himself. His face split into a wide smile, and his eyes flit over Lestrade's figure again.
Suddenly, he was filled with the extreme desire to impress him.
"You had to tackle a man to the ground today, Gregory?" Mycroft asked, fluttering his eyelids a bit. God, the art of impressing others had not been lost on him. Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft didn't need a stage – he needed a press conference. "How impressive. I had no idea that I was dating such a brave man."
"Oi, I'm not your boss, My. You can't just butter me up like that." Greg teased him lightly. He let go of Mycroft's wrist, which initially alarmed him. However, in the next second, he had leaned forward and cupped Mycroft's cheek. "And I'm just doing my duty, sweetheart." He insisted.
Mycroft's thoughts were momentarily scrambled by it all. However, his hand reached up to cover Lestrade's comfortably as the man continued.
"Nothing too bad. Just a man trying to rob some little store. Well, he wasn't a man. None of them are, really, but this one was just a kid. That's the way it goes, yeah? Kid grows up in some bad neighborhood, no parents about. Isn't any way to grow up. Poor thing. He tried to pull a gun on my back-up – Sally, her name is, lovely young thing – and I wasn't having it. Got him to the ground without hurting him too badly, and we got him in." As Greg talked, Mycroft was drawn into his eyes – bright and brown, lighting up whenever he got to a crucial point. He knew he was smitten. Hopelessly, foolishly, stupidly, and he knew that he couldn't last for long.
One day, and he didn't know how far away that day was, Mycroft would slip. He would tell Lestrade about Sherlock, and about the night, and the thing, and his previous boyfriend. If Lestrade was a sincerely good man (by this point, Mycroft had no doubts), then he would stay. But would he stay happily, or out of a sense of obligation? Because he didn't want to leave Mycroft alone? He didn't know.
He barely knew Lestrade, and yet, the possibility of losing him (or worse, having him stay around out of a sense of duty) scared him to death.
Their food came around then, and Lestrade started to eat heartily. Mycroft had just ordered a small salad, and he looked at it despondently. He had never hated eating healthily (although, back when he lived with his parents, he never had much of a reason to), but eating in front of others made him nervous. Not to mention there was the depressing realization that he hadn't left anything for Sherlock to eat.
"How's it going there, rabbit food?" Lestrade said, and the words would have been cruel, if it wasn't Lestrade who had said them. He said it with such kindness, such lightness, such teasing foolishness, that Mycroft couldn't help but smile and start eating.
"Quite well, Gregory. Thank you so much for this. I haven't dated in ages, and…well, I think you're rather remarkable. I cannot imagine why you're single, you know." Mycroft attempted a teasing tone. "You're everything a person would be looking for, aren't you? Quite handsome, a true gentleman, a job that can only be admired…you're utterly perfect. Are you sure you're not hiding a wife and children somewhere? Perhaps a few bodies in your closet?"
"I shouldn't think so, My. No secret family, no bodies. Have a little faith, would you?" Lestrade took a sip of his water and leaned back on the chair. "I don't know. Like I said, I was a bit of a punk when I was younger. I couldn't keep a relationship like that, yeah? And, during the last few years of Uni…well, the last person I dated was two years ago. Wonderful girl, really. Awfully sweet. It just didn't work out, in the end. She wanted to travel, explore the world, never stay in one place for more than a year. And me…" He shrugged his shoulders. "I just love London. Born and raised here, I have my sisters and Mum in the country. I couldn't ever imagine wanting to leave. At least, nothing longer than a holiday."
"I quite understand. There's something magical about London, don't you agree? My ideal job would have me travelling, of course, but only because politics requires it to be so. However, I would always love to return here." Mycroft commented, leaning forward on his palm as he chewed the greens.
"So, since we're on the topic of exes on the first date, how did your last one go?"
Oh, hell.
Mycroft shook his head and let out a shaky breath. Lestrade's eyes immediately flashed panic – this wasn't a conversation he should have strayed into. However, Mycroft spoke before Lestrade could.
"Ah, yes. Just a few months ago, really. A charming gentleman, when I first met him. We had been dating for some years – and I was a horribly ugly child, Gregory, you must understand. I thought that I had found the most perfect man. And then…well, we broke up." That was shortening a very long and painful story ( and completely eliminating what had happened after ). "I moved out of my parents' home just a few days after."
"Aw, hell. I'm sorry, My." Lestrade told him, frowning deeply. He cupped Mycroft's cheek again and pulled his chin up just slightly, so that the brown eyes could peer into his. "I'm glad you've taken a chance with me, though. You know that? I'm very, very happy."
The date continued. They chatted, about topics both personal and superficial, and by the time they got up to leave, it was setting dusk. Lestrade paid (despite Mycroft's protests), and they exited. It was dark and warm outside, and Mycroft tugged his suit jacket tighter.
Before Lestrade could offer a ride, Mycroft shook his head. "I think I'll be getting home on my own, Gregory. I need to stop somewhere, quickly, and then I'll just make my way-"
Strong hands landed on his shoulders, and spun him around. Usually, such an abrupt and quick action would have sent him spiraling downwards mentally, but the hands were so strong and soft. Lestrade had spun him around, and Mycroft looked up into those bright brown eyes questioningly.
Lestrade leaned forward and kissed him.
Mycroft's hands, which had previously been pinned to his chest, moved underneath Lestrade's jacket and around his shirt. Lestrade's hands were on either sides of his face, holding him close. He could feel the slight stubble on Lestrade's chin, he could smell the cologne on his neck, could taste the inside of his mouth. It was a warm, intimate, sentimental moment, and any thoughts of panicking were miles away. For a full minute, Mycroft Holmes was just twenty-four, had went on a spectacular date, and was now kissing (and being kissed) by the most wonderful man in London.
They both separated, and Mycroft smiled breathlessly.