In Free Fall

"A strange thing, words. Once they're said, it's hard to imagine they're untrue."
- Perfect ruin by Lauren Destefano

8 years ago

The night everything changed, it rained. Thick, heavy drops, that splattered loudly against Greg's windows and threatened to leak through the seals. Wind whistled through the cracks. The clouds blocked out the stars, dipping the world outside in complete darkness. Even the feeble gaslights on the street beneath stood defeated by the heavy curtain of water mercilessly drowning everything in its path. Light and noise equally. Greg's eyes wandered over the stash of loose papers and reports on his kitchen table and out the window, staring blindly at the nothingness beyond. The longer he looked, the fewer he actually saw, and soon his mind conjured wild, swirling images that blurred and disappeared before fully taking shape. His ears had adapted to the noise of the rain and lowered his senses for any other sound. It was deafness without silence. And for a brief moment, Greg feared he might never hear anything else again, then wondered if that was, perhaps, kinder. If a woman was stabbed to death beneath his window, he doubted he'd hear her scream.

It was a perfect night for a crime, a perfect night for a miracle.

The sound was so soft, so far away; Greg first thought he'd imagined it. But as he tore his gaze away from the black void outside his window, the erratic tapping was still there. It echoed through the flat and in his head, drawing him out of the trance he'd fallen into. Only when he'd laid down his pen and turned his head towards the kitchen door did he realise it came from the hallway. Someone was knocking on his front door. Startled, Greg leaped out of his seat, the image of a stabbed woman bleeding to death on the cobblestone vivid before his inner eye.

But it wasn't a woman that fell over his threshold, and it wasn't blood that dripped on the thin, worn-out carpet. Instead, Mycroft stood before him, breathing heavily and dripping water everywhere. His hair was dry, but messed up from the coat he'd pulled over his neck and head. Greg had never seen him so dishevelled. In fact, he'd never been anything less than perfectly composed with his impeccable suits and combed hair. Greg's heart soared and he was glad he wasn't deaf. It would have been unbearable, never hearing Mycroft's voice again.

"Gregory…" was all Mycroft managed to say, the word falling from his lips in a breathless rush of utter relief.

Never had his name been spoken with so much emotion, yet Greg could not comprehend any of it, his heart picking up speed at the other man's distress. He reached forward to urgently take off Mycroft's heavy coat, too worried to care about of how wrong, how far out of their usual routine the entire situation was. Mycroft followed blindly, still too in shock to form words. Greg wanted to touch him, to soothe him, anything to chase that hunted look from his eyes.

"I thought…" Mycroft's breath hitched, his hands clenched tight at his side. He looked so lost in the small, empty space that was Greg's hallway, eyes wide with fear and relief. "There was a rumour that an Inspector had been killed because of a civilian interfering with the investigation and I…"

He shook his head and pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, willing the images away that were no doubt assaulting his mind. His shoulders twitched once, twice, and he suppressed a sob that fought its way past his lips nonetheless, raw and painful. Without thought, Greg reached for Mycroft's hands and gently pried them away from his face, the need to comfort him unbearable. Mycroft let him and gripped his hands tightly in return, as if to reassure himself that the flesh beneath his fingertips was indeed warm and alive and not floating dead on the bottom of the Thames.

"Then you did not immediately open the door and…" Before Mycroft could finish that thought, Greg tugged him forward into an embrace, strong arms holding him tight against his chest. He didn't ask how Mycroft had caught wind of the incident, or how he'd acquired his address.

"Shhhh." Greg's fingers gently rubbed up and down the other man's back. Warmth pooled in his belly, spreading out and curling around his heart, pressing against his throat. The pressure built and built until it spilled over in a wave of tenderness that flooded through his limbs and guided his hands up into Mycroft's soft hair. The short strands tingled pleasantly and the skin felt soft and warm beneath his fingers. It was the first time Greg touched Mycroft barring his hands and he couldn't help the soft sigh that escaped his lips.

Mycroft's grip tightened around the warm wool between his fingers. Slowly, unconsciously, he raised his head until their foreheads touched. They remained like this, eyes closed and breathing the same air, lost in the intimacy of their closeness. Before Greg had fully comprehended what he was doing, Mycroft shied away abruptly.

"I should go," he gasped, confused, eyes looking anywhere but Greg's face. "I shouldn't…"

And before Greg had any chance to respond, Mycroft had disappeared through the door. It fell closed with a soft click and Greg stood, stunned, fingers touching his lips where he could still feel the warmth of an almost touch tingling under his skin.

~oOo~

November

Their destination, as it turned out half an hour later, was a residential building of King's College. It was a tall, bulky building, surrounded by a green yard that was suspended in darkness. The only light came from three windows that were occupied despite the lateness of the hour.

Opposite Lestrade, Sherlock rubbed his hands with suppressed glee. "Prepare yourself, Inspector, you have a suspect to interview."

"Who is he?" Lestrade asked, eyes watching Sherlock rearrange his scarf and straighten his coat. Watson had yet to move from where he sat frozen.

"Oh, just a small piece of the puzzle I have been figuring out for the past couple of weeks."

"Still harassing the lab then?" Lestrade frowned. Weeks had passed since the permission had been granted and he would have expected Sherlock to conclude his experiments long before. He looked at Dr Watson, but the man made a great effort to avoid his gaze.

Sherlock stilled in his movement, looking almost offended. "It is not harassment if they profit from my research. Besides, you were surprisingly successful in acquiring a secluded work-space. Not even Prof Farrell seems to know of my doings."

Leaning forward in his seat slightly, Sherlock checked his pockets, nodded and then turned to Watson, who replied with a casual pad with his hands against his coat. Lestrade nearly dismissed it, but then recognised the shape of what exactly it was that Watson had stored in his pocket.

"What are we here for exactly?" he asked sharply, anger at being left in the dark slowly rising.

Sherlock hesitated, eyes meeting that of Dr Watson. "Nothing much, I assure you, just a lead, which might prove resourceful. Now, if you would just follow me then –"

"No," Lestrade finally snapped. He might not match Sherlock's intellect, but he was no fool and 'nothing much' certainly didn't require a firearm. "We are not doing this any longer, Sherlock. I demand to be told why I am here and what it is you have been busying yourself with for the past weeks."

"Please, Lestrade, do not embarrass yourself." He reached for the handle, but Lestrade grabbed his wrist before he could take hold of it.

"I may not be as brilliant as you, but I am not blind. Something is worrying you and I would appreciate to know the stakes before I enter the lion's den!"

Watson stared at him with rapped fascination, surprised by the Inspector's outburst. It caused a pang of satisfaction to surge through Lestrade's veins.

"Fine." Sherlock yanked his hand free and brushed down his sleeve, as if Lestrade had dirtied it with his touch. "I have reliable information that an organised crime ring is planning a widespread attack on the overall public. There are a handful of footmen which I have been able to put names on, one of which I believe is employed here. However, discretion is key, which is why you will question him under the pretence of an ongoing investigation, while I add a few relevant questions of my own. Satisfied?"

Lestrade held firm. "Who, exactly, is this man?"

Sherlock sighed. "James Harrison is a known individual in scientific and political circles, currently teaching organic chemistry at King's College London. Whether he has full knowledge of what his second, rather dubious employment entails, I do not know."

Lestrade nodded, not particularly reassured but satisfied for the time being. "And what do you wish me to do?"

"Spin a tale, anything will do really. Make him nervous and I will take care of the rest."

The walk up to the building was silent, air thick with anticipation and Lestrade found himself holding his breathe as he knocked twice on the heavy wooden door.

Harrison was a short, but slender man, with nearly black hair of fashionable length. It was carefully slicked back, adding a few years to his surprisingly young appearance. Lestrade had trouble aligning this man with the clichéd professor figure years of related cases and no time spent on higher education had installed in his mind. But his small, sharp eyes betrayed the intellect, which no doubt resided behind.

"Prof Harrison – "

"Just Mister, I am afraid." He smiled, teeth white and disturbingly straight. "Apparently, there is only so much room for Professors at this university."

"Mr Harrison, I am Inspector Lestrade with Scotland Yard. We are investigating a case which your class might be involved in." He pointed at the two men beside him. "Those are – " Sherlock threw him an alarmed look " – two of my constables."

Harrison measured him for a moment, eyes staring uncomfortably into his own, then stepped aside to admit them entrance. "Of course. Please, make yourselves comfortable."

They walked along a thickly carpeted corridor into what appeared to be a sitting room. A fireplace and two matching armchairs occupied one side and a round table with a couple of chairs the other. Harrison motioned them to the former and encouraged Lestrade to take a seat. The cushion was soft and he sank in deep, knees uncomfortably higher than his hips. There was the sound of scraping chairs to his right as Sherlock and Watson acquired seats of their own. But Harrison remained standing, one shoulder leaning casually against the mantle frame.

"Mr Harrison, we have reason to believe that a student of this facility has planned and executed a chemical attack against another. Luckily, he failed, but the attempt has none the less been made and needs to be punished. Did you notice any suspicious behaviour over the course of the last ten days, especially on November 5th?" Lestrade asked. "A quarrel, perhaps, anything which might have foreshadowed aggressive behaviour?"

"You have not had much contact with the educational elite, have you, Inspector? There are much simpler means to enact revenge upon another." his tone was carefully neutral, bored almost, but a hint of malice nonetheless emitted from his being. It reminded him bizarrely of Sherlock.

Before Lestrade could respond, Sherlock interjected from behind. "Why would you say that?"

Despite this, Mr Harrison's eyes remained firmly trained on Lestrade. "The classrooms are filled with the rich and the famous. Feuds are like chess; they pass the time."

"And you are well accustomed to this game?" Lestrade inquired carefully. Harrison's smile reminded him of a fox. The light from the fireplace threw deep shadows onto his face only accentuating that impression. Behind him, Lestrade could hear Sherlock fidgeting, impatient to bring forth questions of his own.

"I admit I do find it fascinating. The offspring of some of the most influential people of this country pass me by in the corridors. But in the classroom, reduced to only their intellect, they learn fast that wit can be even more powerful than money. It is the simplicity which awakens my academic side, not the result it yields."

"I believe I do not quite follow." Lestrade itched to turn around and seek out Sherlock's expression, but held himself back.

"A few clever lies, a sharp word here or there can go a long way to ruin. Falling from grace is much like a house of cards. One wavers, the next follows and before you fully realise it, everything is tumbling down. No wealth can help you then. As I said, much more effective."

"Speaking of wealth," Sherlock chipped in. "You are not a Professor, yet teach just as many hours. Does that bother you?"

"Hardly." Harrison shook his head, amused. "And to answer your question, Inspector: No, I am afraid I cannot direct your attention to any particular conspicuous incident." His gaze turned back to Lestrade, just as piercing and all seeing as that of the Holmes'. There was something sinister there, though, something dark Lestrade couldn't quite name. It sent small shivers down his back. Sherlock, unmoved, kept on.

"Do you collect paintings, Mr Harrison?"

"Why would I spend my time on such a dreary activity?" The amusement hadn't abated. "They do so often portray that which has passed, while I prefer to look at what is still to come."

"Then you have no speakable knowledge of art, nor interest in its restoration?"

"No, I'm afraid I must disappoint."

"Very well, then." Sherlock muttered behind him.

Lestrade took that as his cue. "That will be all, Mr Harrison. Thank you for your cooperation."

Sherlock, with his mind no doubt already three tasks ahead, promptly disappeared into the front hall, Watson close on his heels. Lestrade heaved himself out of the armchair and turned to follow, but before he could reach the door, Harrison's spoke again.

"Everything is built on trust, Inspector Lestrade." He was still leaning against the mantlepiece, gaze fixed on the fire flickering beneath. "You can be the most powerful person in existence, but your power is not worth a thing if no one recognises it. That is the problem with influence. If everyone decides you do not have it anymore, then you do not. It is as simple as that."

His eyes met Lestrade's, a smile playing around his lips. "I do believe you will be able to find your way out on your own."

The way back through the halls and down the stairs passed by in a blur as Lestrade tried to catch up with his companions, his skin prickling with unease. A light drizzle had started while they'd been inside, but the moon hang low in the sky, untouched by the clouds.

"Sherlock," Lestrade called out to the duo, which had already flagged down a cab. He caught up to them just in time. The horses were already stomping impatiently, strong muscles steadily flexing beneath the dark skin.

Sherlock whirled around and then said, "Did he seem surprised to you, when I asked him about painting?"

Lestrade blinked, confused. "No, not particularly."

"No, he didn't." Sherlock confirmed. He turned back to the carriage, ready to join Watson who'd already taken a seat.

"Wait!" Lestrade caught his sleeve. "Sherlock, I need answers."

"And you will get them," Sherlock assured him. "But I require time to think first, to fit everything together. Trust me."

And he did, Lestrade noted with a hint of surprise. Despite everything that had happened, all the small betrayals and secrets and lies. Despite the frequency with which his benevolence had been exploited, Lestrade trusted.

~oOo~

8 years ago

The days following Mycroft's sudden appearance at his flat were blurred. Caught in a swirl of conflicted emotion, Greg had thought of little else but what had occurred that night. Mycroft's panicked voice, their embrace, and the heat of Mycroft's bare skin under his fingers. The ghost of Mycroft's breath on his lips haunted him into his dreams, both pleasant and frightening, robbing him of what little rest he was able to catch. Greg couldn't decide what was more excruciating, the unanswered questions running non-stop through his mind or the longing in his heart. Where he had felt alone before, he had now become painfully aware of his loneliness.

Greg realised he wanted, deeply and whole-heartedly. And he hadn't wanted anything for so very long.

But however much he'd wished to see Mycroft again, he had not expected him to show up at his office at five in the evening on a busy Friday, clothed in a fine suit and a dark coat. After over a week devoid of any contact, any communication whatsoever, now here he stood. His polished shoes were just as out of place on the cruddy floor as the man himself in the shabby office.

"Mycroft…" Greg breathed, relief leaving him light-headed. They stared at each other for a few seconds, neither quite knowing what to say. It was the helplessness in Mycroft's eyes, so equal his own, that spurred Greg into speech. "I am glad you are here."

"I apologise for my prolonged absence." His tone was formal, but warm. The uncommon location of their meeting seemed to throw him off just as much as Greg. He let the door fall closed behind him, but didn't approach, unsure where to start.

Lestrade, out of habit, stood up, then remained standing awkwardly beside his desk. Suddenly, he wasn't quite as sure anymore. There was always room for misinterpretation and in this case, it could cost him dearly. Mycroft had not shown any outright interest before their last encounter, but something had clearly formed between them. An understanding, a mutual respect for the other. Something more honest and pure than Greg had felt in a very long time and the thought that he might lose it was unbearable. But to deepen those feelings and explore them further was everything his heart longed for.

"It is quite alright," he assured him. "I understand you needed space to think."

"Yes, yes…" Mycroft nodded absently, then hesitantly took a step forward.

Greg swallowed and fought back the urge to touch him. He dug his fingers into the edge of his desk instead. Fear wound its way around his heart. "I had not expected you to come here, of all places…"

Mycroft visibly braced himself, shoulders drawn back and posture straight. "The occurrences of our last encounter have opened my eyes to conditions and circumstances which I had not considered before. I realised that the boundaries of our association have become blurred and I would like to rectify that."

It was too formal, too final. "Of course," Greg closed his eyes, coldness gripping his body. He feared he might drown in it. Of course it couldn't be, he must have misjudged. There was no possibly way Mycroft could value him as more than a friend.

Then, warm lips pressed upon his, and every fear evaporated in a swirl of light. Greg's attention focused on Mycroft's lips against his. They were warm and soft and full of promise. Happiness bubbled up inside him, filling his chest to the brim. He feared it might spill over and empty his heart upon the floor, his emotions laid bare for all to see. It didn't frighten him as much as it should.

The distinct click of the door handle being pushed down violently ended the peaceful moment. Mycroft recoiled abruptly, nearly throwing Greg off his feet in his attempt to put distance between them. Greg's heart, which had been in the clouds seconds before, plummeted to his feet. Horrified, Greg stared at his superior standing in the doorway, while his heartbeat pounded in his ears. But whatever Greg had feared he might say, nothing could have prepared him for reality.

"Oh Mr Holmes, Sir, my apologies. I was not informed of your arrival. Please, if your lordship would excuse our error and let me personally escort you to my office." He looked around Lestrade's small, cluttered office with distain, as if it was a personal, unforgiving offence to Mr Holmes. Somewhere, something shattered in Greg's body.

"Mr Holmes?" His voice sounded distant, as if it belonged to someone else standing before the door and not staring into the cold, emotionless eyes beside him.

"Yes, of course. You've been consulting with his brother, I believe. Sherlock Holmes." The chief looked at him expectantly, waiting for the penny to drop. The look of recognition, and the gasp of surprise. Waited for him to bow his head and ask for forgiveness for his lack of manners.

But Greg's brain had come to a skittering halt, unable to process anything but the image of the man he'd come to call a friend, a companion. A lover. A person he held dear above all others. Mycroft's – no, Mr Holmes' – posture was rigid and cool, an expression of aloof boredom on his hard features as he turned to the chief. It struck Greg then, that he'd seen that exact same expression before. The nose was the same, as were the crystal-clear eyes, but Lord George Holmes's face had been lined with age his grandson had yet to reach.

"Yes," Mr Holmes tilted his head in agreement, hands clasped behind his back. "Inspector Lestrade has played a vital role in providing my brother with a distraction and a purpose to his life."

And in the blink of an eye, everything changed. It was much like awakening from a dream; a subtle shift of reality – like the raising of a veil – and suddenly the world so sharp and clear, you wonder how you could've ever believed it to be anything else.

"I was not – " The words caught in his throat. "I am afraid I must take my leave." He nodded to the chief. " Apologies, Sir." Then turned to Mr Holmes and bowed slightly without meeting the man's eyes. "Sir."

He fled from the building, blind to his surroundings, as the world collapsed around him. You fool, he chastised himself, you naïve imbecile. And the more he repeated those words, the more they sounded like Lord George Holmes. And by the time he'd reached his flat, grandfather and grandson had merged to one.