Chapter Twenty Five
Mycroft occupied a seat inside the courtroom half an hour before people would start filing in and the trial would begin.
He was alone, which was why nobody protested the fact that the seat Mycroft sat in was the judge's chair.
He checked his phone for the fourth time in as many minutes.
Nothing.
It was half an hour before the retrial began and still no word from Sherlock.
In his mind's eye he could see the hand of a clock speedily ticking the seconds away.
It was morning. By this time, the sun would be relatively high in the sky, drenching the building in light. He wondered if Lestrade could see the light from where he was. The answer was: not probable.
Twenty-nine minutes to 'all rise for his Lordship'.
He stood.
He must speak to DCI March, who was somewhere in a separate room in the building, waiting nervously to be called in to testify.
He need not worry. He wouldn't be testifying today.
Mycroft stepped out from behind the judge's desk and moved to leave the box when the large double-doors on the opposite side of the room opened.
Lestrade walked in.
Mycroft inhaled sharply and examined the man critically with his eyes.
Lestrade's head was wrapped up in bandages like it had been on the first day Mycroft visited him in the hospital and first found out about his amnesia. He could see a smudge of copper red on the white but Lestrade seemed steady.
His left eye was a bluish shade and swollen shut, his lip was bloody and puffed, but to Mycroft, he was positively beautiful.
Lestrade walked slowly down the aisle and through the low wooden gate of the barrier separating them from the general public seating area and closed the gate behind him out of habit.
He stopped directly between the defense council's bench and the crown prosecutor's. "Mycroft." His voice rang strongly through the empty room like a bell despite his subdued tone.
"Gregory." Mycroft replied. "You're here."
Way to state the obvious, Mycroft. The government agent inwardly winced.
Lestrade sniffed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a wry smile. "Yeah." He looked around at the courtroom. "Here I am." Then, he looked at Mycroft again. "Here we are."
"Here we are." Mycroft repeated, nodding.
"Would you really have gone and stopped DCI March from testifying?" Lestrade asked him, gravitating slowly toward the defense council's bench.
"Yes." Mycroft replied frankly. "Without hesitation."
"You would've let an innocent man remain in jail?" Lestrade said.
"An innocent man could easily be taken out of jail, all it takes is a phone call and a bit of paperwork." Mycroft responded. "A dead man is a little harder to wrangle out of the afterlife."
Lestrade tilted his head a little and chuckled softly. "That's true."
Mycroft left the judge's box and walked down the steps to level himself with Lestrade. "I told you not to do anything irrational." Mycroft sighed. He didn't sound accusing, or spiteful, just a little long-suffering and a lot fond.
"If it's any consolation, I didn't mean to get caught." Lestrade grimaced. "I fucking ran the guy over with my motorbike, Mycroft, I didn't think he'd get back up so soon!"
"Well, next time, be sure to run him over twice." Mycroft said jokingly. "And, did you say you ran him over with a motorbike?"
"Yes, Mycroft." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I ride one."
"Now that is irrationally dangerous." Mycroft intoned solemnly. "Do you know how many motorbikes are involved in car crashes every year?"
"I don't know, but I have a feeling you'll tell me." Lestrade smiled.
Mycroft smiled back. "Maybe some other time." He reached over and pulled Lestrade into a hug. "You irrational man. Don't do this to me."
Lestrade's arms circled around the small of Mycroft's back and all the government agent could think was.
He fits. This is right... this is good. I've missed this. Oh God, for so damn long! Too long...
And then suddenly, his fingers were curling into Lestrade's hair and he was pulling Lestrade closer for a kiss. He could feel Lestrade's hands fist into the back of his suit, bunching the starched material as they kissed, hot and desperate, mouths moving in perfect synchrony with a passion that tingled up Mycroft's spine and blew the top of his head off.
He could feel the heat radiate even from his ears.
And suddenly, Lestrade shoved him back a step, one palm pressed to Mycroft's heaving chest.
The man's eyes were clenched shut and he breathed heavily.
Mycroft's heart sank when he remembered that this was amnesiac Gregory Lestrade, not Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, who was Mycroft's lover.
"Gregory-..."
Lestrade's fingers curled, clutching onto the fabric of Mycroft's suit vest as he caught his breath.
"Jesus, Mycroft, you can snog proper! Give a man a moment to breathe, alright?" he panted. "I thought I was going to faint!"
Mycroft let out a breathy giggle. "I'm sor-..."
Breath regained, Lestrade grinned and pulled him in for another kiss.
And Mycroft let him.
Mycroft opened his eyes a few hours later in his own bedroom in his flat, feeling like he had run a triathlon and slept a century.
His phone rang a second time.
There was a disgruntled noise beside him and Lestrade's head popped up from under the covers of Mycroft's bed. "Wha-...?" He sounded as good as Mycroft felt.
And just as coherent. Mycroft had to smile in satisfaction.
"That's mine." he told Lestrade and rolled over, picking his phone up from the nightstand.
"Mmm. Wake me up in another year." Lestrade mumbled sleepily and promptly fell back asleep, burrowing down under the blankets again.
Mycroft patted the lump of cover where Lestrade was hiding under. "Will do." He accepted his call.
It was Sherlock. "Mycroft, where the Hell are you?" his younger brother demanded even before Mycroft could greet him.
"Um..." Mycroft cleared his throat, but not quick enough to get the tell-tale huskiness out of it.
"Oh my God." Sherlock said, disgusted. "No! No, nevermind, don't answer that question." And he promptly hung up.
"Well how rude." Mycroft 'harrumphed' to his dead phone.
He shifted and threw his legs over the side of the bed to get out and make breakfast. Just as he lifted himself off the bed, arms circled around his waist and pulled him back. Mycroft fell, stunned.
Lestrade let out a displeased little whine. "Nope. No. No coffee, Mycroft." he mumbled, still half asleep. "Stay in bed."
"I-..." Mycroft trailed off. "You love your coffee."
"Nope. Not today." Lestrade grunted back stubbornly, refusing to let go.
Mycroft tugged gently a few times just to see if Lestrade really wouldn't release him but Lestrade held firm in his sleepy embrace, letting himself be lugged by his lover half across the bed into Mycroft's side.
"May I at least relieve myself?" Mycroft asked.
"Haha. No." Lestrade said, his voice muffled behind a face full of blanket. "Nice try."
With a great sigh, Mycroft gave up. "Very well, scoot over."
Lestrade sounded affronted. "You were the one who moved me."
"You wouldn't let go when I tried to leave." Mycroft shot back coolly.
Finally, Lestrade rolled over onto his side of the bed and let Mycroft climb back in. "What time is it?" Lestrade asked.
Mycroft looked at the time on his phone. "Oh my..." He rubbed his eyes and checked again just to be sure. "It's two... in the afternoon."
Lestrade's head popped up. "Say what?" he said dumbly.
"Two in the afternoon." Mycroft repeated.
"Christ, I came straight to the courthouse when the paramedics let me go." Lestrade groaned. "I was supposed to be down at Scotland Yard giving my statement."
"That must've been what the call was about." Mycroft snorted. "Never thought I'd see the day where Gregory Lestrade went and did his own thing while Sherlock Holmes hung around badgering him to give his statement."
Lestrade chuckled back. "No, neither did I." And he fell back asleep for good.
Mycroft smiled at him and pressed a kiss into his silver hair. He and Lestrade could have a proper freak out about the state of their now very complicated relationship when they were more rested.
But until then... Mycroft rolled over and gathered Lestrade into his arms and fell asleep himself.
Until then, he could only hold Lestrade close and hope that he would never have to let him go.