Hey guys! Remember the one-shot I mentioned on my profile? Well, it's finally here for you to read! Thank you so much to my beta, Hucklebarry, for helping me out with the descriptions and different words and ideas. You're awesome!
This lighthearted story is based on a dream that Hucklebarry had about Greg running around town to force a mask on a man's face when the man refused. This is the first time in a while that I'm posting something that isn't Harry Potter-related, so I sincerely hope you enjoy my Sherlock story! Sherlock is one of my favorite shows now, and I have to thank Hucklebarry for recommending it to me and getting me into the fandom, so thank you!
There is an established Mystrade relationship in this story. If you don't like it, you can skip to the chase (BERKELEY SQUARE, 8:48 A.M.).
Now that I'm done with my spiel, I hope you enjoy this story as much as Hucklebarry and I enjoyed writing it! Let the chase begin!
WARNING: Language courtesy of Greg's well-earned frustration.
Greg Lestrade turned off the ignition and rested his head on the wheel as he let out a withering sigh, grimacing as his smelly breath ricocheted off his mask and made its way back into his nostrils.
Damn those blasted surgical face coverings.
It had been a long, tiring day for Greg, to say the least. Now that it was over, though, he could finally go through the white, spotless lobby, up the dingy lift (which was in dire need of repair), down to the end of the long, seemingly endless hallway (which probably had cost more than twenty thousand pounds to build), and into his flat where he'd be welcomed into Mycroft's steadfast, loving arms. The inspector had found the hugging quite awkward at first, especially after so many hours of listening to Sherlock's claims of his older brother's social ineptness, but he got used to it after some time, even going as far as to look forward to them, as he did now.
Unbuckling his seatbelt, he got out of the car and slammed the door shut, still feeling the rage and frustration which had plagued him all fucking day. Hopefully, Mycroft's snogging skills would be up to par when he got home: he was in desperate, desperate need of them.
Rolling his shoulders around and popping his knuckles to cease his lack of blood flow, Greg grabbed his jacket and winced at the squeaky sound the door made as he opened it. Stretching his feet and wriggling his toes around in his trainers, he felt as though he were eighty-nine, going on ninety. He hadn't run so much in his life since playing rugby for his school's team as a kid. He probably ran more today than he had ever done in his life. And all because of a man and his refusal to wear a damn mask. It had been like he wanted to get sick with the virus. Thinking of the man's belligerence reminded the inspector of those radicals over in America and their bullshit about the virus not even being real. At least Britons weren't dolts, Greg concluded with satisfaction. At least their people knew. At least their government had the damn virus under proper control.
Damn that sodding coronavirus.
Greg stormed through the sliding doors, not even sparing a glance at the receptionist as she cheerfully said, "Hello!" He didn't pay attention to the group of teens who were always loitering in the lobby, looking for trouble, or the old hag who stood in the corner of the waiting area by the decorative plant with every passing day. He practically punched the button with the arrow pointing up, and he stomped into the lift, not caring that its structure was already weakened and probably couldn't take much more force before the restraints finally crumbled. Greg froze momentarily as it creaked dangerously, but he resumed fuming as soon as he realized he wasn't in any danger.
As soon as he reached the second to the top floor, Greg let his shoulders sag a little, butterflies starting to circle his stomach in anticipatory excitement. Walking out of the elevator, the inspector stopped, marvelling for about the umpteenth time at the sheer elegance of Mycroft's flat complex. The floor he was trodding on was a rich, expensive-looking mahogany wood that Greg couldn't care to guess the price of. The walls were adorned with white wallpaper, lined on the top and the bottom with a gold-coloured foil. Greg had a feeling that there were janitors who cleaned the halls every hour. In fact, he spotted one all the way down the corridor, right next to the door of his and Mycroft's flat.
So that's why the floors are so damn slippery.
Once Greg reached the birch-coloured door, his portal to immediate stress relief, he knocked loudly on it, grumbling that Mycroft hadn't given him a set of his own keys.
After the inspector moved in, Mycroft had vehemently insisted that he be the only one to carry a set of keys due to the compromising situation of his line of work. "As Sherlock likes to frequently point out, I am the British government," his lover had told him. "Wouldn't want you to be pickpocketed in the middle of a street and have that person gain access to me." Greg had just rolled his eyes and said, "Whatever you say, Mycroft," knowing that Mycroft had a much bigger ego than his younger brother, now even more so after Sherlock and John became an item. Coupled with a heightened sense of paranoia after the whole ordeal with Eurus, Greg had decided that he should just let Mycroft be.
As he heard a set of light footsteps come closer, Greg's excitement grew, and as soon as his lover opened the door, Greg ripped his mask off and threw his arms around the taller man, crashing their lips together. Mycroft pulled him inside as Greg kicked the door shut. He felt two hands snake into his cropped hair, drawing him closer and causing a shiver to run down his spine. Greg suddenly became weak in the knees as Mycroft nipped gently on his lower lip, requesting entry. Greg parted his lips obligingly, and he barely kept himself from moaning as Mycroft's tongue ran along his lower teeth, then his own tongue.
"Mmpfh," was the sound that came from the back of Greg's throat, but all that Mycroft felt was a vibration, which evidently made his lover's knees buckle slightly, too. When they finally pulled away, both of them were left feeling breathless.
"And I thought you were law enforcement," said Mycroft, still panting.
Greg arched his eyebrow and crossed his arms, "Meaning?"
"You need to take a shower, Gregory, and now I need to as well," Mycroft declared, brushing his expensive suit with his hands as if it would make his suit cleaner. It did nothing, as the suit was already spotless.
Greg sighed, "For the billionth time, it's Greg. Also, I'll go first since I was out all day. Don't want you to get sick."
Mycroft nodded his consent, "All right, then. But make it quick."
####
After a long, hot shower, Greg found himself wrapped in a warm bathrobe, snuggled against Mycroft's robed chest on the sofa in their sitting room. Greg felt even better as he sensed Mycroft's arm draping over his body.
"So?" asked Mycroft. "You seemed quite set on snogging me senseless when you came home."
Greg shrugged, "Bad day," as he was absentmindedly busying himself by stroking his thumb over the soft fabric of Mycroft's robe.
Mycroft hummed in acknowledgment, intertwining Greg's hand in his own. The government worker then enquired, "Tell me, then. What went wrong?"
Greg shifted in his position so he was looking up at his lover, feeling warmer as he saw the genuine concern in Mycroft's face. He finally decided to disclose his less than successful day by revealing, "A man who bloody refused to wear a mask."
Mycroft chuckled as he carded his fingers through the inspector's hair.
"Really?" he asked bemusedly. "That's all?"
"It felt like I had to run around all over bloody London just to shove a mask on that sod's face," Greg complained. "It was worse than when I played rugby."
Mycroft's eyebrows raised into his hairline, "Rugby? I never thought you to be the rugby type. I always thought you played football."
"Both, actually," Greg corrected. "Played football in primary, rugby in secondary."
Mycroft appeared to scrutinise him, "Hmm. I see. Now, what about that annoying man?"
Greg cleared his throat, readying himself to finally confide in his lover the awful story of how he led himself up to a fantastical failure. After a long pause, the detective started his recount, "Right. We're gonna be here a while, so don't expect to leave anytime soon."
Then, with a sigh, the inspector began his story…
BERKELEY SQUARE, 8:48 A.M.
Munching on a doughnut while sipping some strong, black coffee, Greg looked around the deserted area. It was truly unnerving, seeing a city like London so bare and so cold. During the morning, it was usually crowded, milling about with people heading to work or children heading to school.
Suddenly, he spotted a tall man across the street. Greg nearly mistook him for Sherlock due to his unruly mop of dark hair, but he saw that wasn't the case when he realized what he wasn't wearing: a mask. Sherlock always made sure that everyone was wearing a mask whenever people were around him so as to not infect Rosie, so Greg was sure as hell that Sherlock wouldn't be found outside without one.
Quickly stuffing the rest of the doughnut and downing the remaining coffee in his cup, Greg tightened his adjustable N-95 mask and ran across the street.
"Sir!" he shouted. "SIR!" Greg started running as hard as he could to catch up to the man. As soon as he was on the other side, he approached the Sherlock look-alike.
"Sir, you need to wear a mask."
The man whipped around, and Greg noticed that, unlike Sherlock, the man's eyes were a pair of chocolate orbs instead of the two ice-blues Greg was so used to seeing. His cheekbones were also much lower on his face than Sherlock's, and his expression was one of confusion, something that would be rarely seen on the consulting detective's face.
"Says who?" questioned the man, raising an eyebrow.
"Says me," said Greg. He yanked out his ID and held it in front of the man's face, "I'm Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector for New Scotland Yard. If you don't comply, I'll have to fine you."
The man shrugged, "Okay, then. What's the fine?"
Greg's jaw dropped, "You could seriously kill someone with that attitude." He pulled out a mask from his bag that he always took with him just in case.
"Wear this."
"No," the man said nonchalantly.
"Excuse me?" Greg was immediately taken aback at the man's blatant refusal.
"Like I said, mate. No." The obstinate man then turned around and started walking away with a carelessness that made Greg kick a stray pebble on the sidewalk in frustration. He had never felt so disrespected in his life! Well, whenever he wasn't with Sherlock. Sherlock was the only one who could openly disregard his opinion because he knew that the consulting detective was, more often than not, right on the many occasions he worked with him. This man, on the other hand, wasn't nearly as smart as Sherlock was, so he fully intended to exercise his authority over him and give him a piece of his mind.
At that moment, Greg felt an unfamiliar fire start to burn inside of him. This man, he decided, was going to wear a mask, whether he liked it or not. Greg would succeed if it was the last thing he did. He started bolting after the guy like a man on a mission, which he most certainly was.
"Sir! Please! Wear a mask!"
The man whipped around again, looking confused.
"Mate?"
"Sir, you need to wear a mask. You could infect somebody," Greg insisted as he began to catch up with the other man.
The man closed his eyes and shook his head, continuing to walk away, "Sorry, mate. No can do."
"Don't call me 'mate.'"
"Don't call me 'mate'!" the man mocked while making a superficially annoyed face. He rolled his eyes, "I can't wear a mask."
"Why not?"
The man's eyes looked fearful for a moment, but it was so quick that Greg thought he imagined it.
"Not telling you," said the man lamely. Then, he took off running.
"You sod," muttered Greg. "GET BACK HERE!" and just like that, the chase was on.
Greg charged down the street, determined to catch up with the unruly-haired man.
"IF YOU KNOW WHAT'S GOOD FOR YOU, YOU'LL STOP!" the inspector shouted to deaf ears.
The man just kept on running.
"Immature little bastard," grumbled Greg, stopping to catch his breath. Oh, how he wished he was the young, fresh sergeant that actually had energy instead of the older, weaker inspector that he now was.
Looking up to see the man getting farther and farther away, Greg sucked up his fatigue and continued his race towards the elusive man.
"Get—back—here!" panted Greg. "GET—BACK—HERE!" Oh, I wish Sherlock were here with me, the inspector thought. He'd be able to come up with a way to intercept him.
As Greg gained up on the infuriating Sherlock look-alike, he smiled, only to see said look-alike knock over a fruit stand, causing the former to trip and fall flat on his face.
"Shite!"
Greg pushed himself up, groaning as he picked up some smashed peaches and oranges from his trousers.
Lobbing one of the deformed fruits at the man's shrinking figure, Greg pumped his fist triumphantly as he saw it collide with his dark mop of hair. With the man momentarily distracted, Greg got back up and picked up his pace.
"You're going to wear a mask if you want to live to see tomorrow," Greg threatened as he got closer. He was about to pounce on the man to get a mask on his face when the man recovered from his momentary lapse and careened toward the intersection, but not before throwing a piece of fruit at Greg, which landed right on his face.
Cursing loudly as the man got farther and farther away, he wiped the fruit off of his face and started running again, not caring about the few pieces that were still lodged in his hair.
He chased the man into a slightly busy street. Nobody was walking around, but cars were everywhere Greg looked. He somehow spied the man, who was waiting for the light to turn green so he could cross the zebra crossing. Smirking, Greg made a mad-dash toward the crosswalk, not caring that his knees were sore or that his abdomen was cramping severely. His mouth felt parched, and he knew that he'd need water to keep going. But the guy was just there! Right where he could catch him! He'd get water soon enough.
Unfortunately, though, the light turned green just as Greg could envision forcing the asinine man into a mask. The Sherlock look-alike soon returned to his impossible pace, leaving Greg, metaphorically, in the dust. It was all the inspector could do to not just sink to the ground and cry at the unfairness of it all like a small toddler.
As Greg sprinted across the street, feeling more and more sluggish with each step, he started to lose hope. He'd never catch this guy. What was he thinking?
He spotted a narrow alley, and an idea formed in his head. Best to corner him there.
Greg kept his pace, trying his best to not lose sight of the sod, and as soon as the alley was about ten feet away from them, he tried to corner the guy into it. Except the man didn't fall for the trick. No matter how hard he tried to get the man to run into any small space so he'd have a better chance of catching him, he just wouldn't budge. Giving up on trying to corner him, he resumed chasing him down the empty street, silently hoping for there to be another way that he could trap the man.
Running across another zebra crosswalk, Greg spotted a second alleyway behind a sandwich shop, and he decided he'd try to get the man to go there. His heart was starting to pound in his chest, and he knew he'd collapse if he kept at this any longer.
That was when he spotted a bicycle leaning against a pole. Blessing every divine entity that could possibly exist in this universe, he jogged exhaustedly over to the bike, hopped on, and started pedalling with all his might. He didn't pay any mind when he accidentally rode over a mud puddle, splashing his already-ruined trousers with huge globs of muck. His nose was on fire, and his throat was dry from all the running. His head was hammering, and sweat soaked through his clothes, making him feel even slimier and dirtier than he already was.
C'mon, thought Greg as he got closer to the man. You can catch him. Greg decided that he'd fine the guy four thousand pounds once he was through with this long-winded chase so that he'd at least get extra compensation for the valuable time he wasted. Well, maybe not four thousand, but a guy could always dream.
The man whipped around, and his eyes widened as Greg pedalled faster and faster on the sidewalk. The inspector felt as though he was going at least fifteen kilometres an hour. The guy, clearly sensing the manic danger that was speeding towards him, turned and started sprinting even faster than he was currently going, but Greg was just riding way too fast. He crashed right into the guy's back, and he was forcibly thrown off his seat. He flew through the air, landing right on top of the other guy with a sickening crack.
"Oof!"
"Ugh, I think you broke something," moaned the man a few seconds later.
Greg immediately jumped off of him like he was hot iron.
"Oh my God, I am so, so sorry! Here, let me help you up," said Greg. The inspector grabbed the man's arms and pulled him into a standing position.
"D'you feel any broken bones, any pain?" asked Greg clinically.
"Yes," spat the man. "Everywhere."
Greg sighed, "I'm sorry, sir, but I am going to have to fine you."
"What?!" exclaimed the Sherlock look-alike in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me!"
"You weren't wearing a mask, and you resisted and mocked a member of law enforcement. You're also responsible for the destruction of that fruit stand a few blocks back. I think your fine is well-deserved," Greg bit back.
"Why? 'Cause I'm severely claustrophobic, you're gonna fine me?" asked the man, looking regretful as he said this.
After a moment, the blood completely drained from Greg's face.
Now that he thought about it, it made total, indisputable sense. The street they had been running on was completely open, and when he had tried to chase the man into the two different alleyways, the man would somehow resist, and they'd find themselves in an open space again. He suddenly felt utterly stupid.
"I'm going to sue you, y'know," threatened the man, "and you'll be sorry. Very sorry."
Greg, feeling tired, useless, and very, very addled, put his head in his hands and groaned. The inspector, suddenly feeling inept and completely out of place, softly told the man, "You can go..."
MYCROFT'S FLAT, 6:36 P.M.
"...and afterwards, I had to take the guy to the hospital, and I also had to file a shiteload of paperwork. I have to pay for the man's medical bills 'cause I accidentally broke his arm when I landed on him! Then, I have to appear in the damn court on Tuesday," he flung his arm outward in frustration.
Mycroft sighed and looked sympathetically at his lover, "Well, Gregory, it seems that you are the one at fault here. You should have noticed the signs of severe claustrophobia. I would have." He smirked smugly. Greg, on the other hand, rolled his eyes.
"I, unlike you and Sherlock, do not have the same set of skills you possess to see these kinds of things."
"That is your problem, Gregory. Not mine."
Greg's eyes narrowed, "Why you sodding little piece of—"
But before he could finish, Mycroft silenced him with a lingering kiss. After he pulled away, Mycroft whispered, "Enough about that, my goldfish. Why don't we engage in an evening of romantic dining to soothe your hard feelings?"
Greg's eyes lit up.
"That...would be nice, yes, but I don't think I'm in the mood to go out."
Mycroft laughed, "All right, then. Shall we order in?"
Greg chuckled, "Are you up for Chinese?"
"Oh, yes. I haven't had that in a while."
With that decided, Mycroft picked up his mobile to call the restaurant for takeout, and for the first time that day, Greg felt genuinely happy as he snuggled into his lover's side.
FIN.