The tap-tap of thin heels echoed through the deserted hallway. Noiselessly, the heavy door opened and the woman entered a gray, dull office, scarcely decorated, the light falling in a chessboard pattern on over the room.
"This is a high security building with the best security system in Britain. How did you get in?" Mycroft Holmes asked irritably, looking up from his laptop, closing it with a snap. "You should stop hiring straight men as guards, they are so easily distracted." Irene Adler posed in front of the mirror to her right, eyeing herself with extreme satisfaction. "What's the point of consulting me if you aren't going to listen to any advice?" She asked reproachfully, picking up the glass globe, turning it her elegant, thin hands. "I need this man, right where he is now. It's not just your own life you're playing with, Mr Holmes." Her pale green eyes flashed sternly from under long, black eyelashes. Even as a hunted criminal she still dressed to impress. Mycroft scanned her elegant, revealing dress and stockings, as ever equally impressed and annoyed by her indestructible female strength.
"If Sebastian Moran is responsible for my Sister's little experiments he will pay for it." He said darkly. "Look at that, the Ice Man is still there. Funny, I had expected you're little romance with the cop would have melted your heart by now. He is such a sweetheart." Irene sang in a dangerously sweet voice, batting her eyelashes.
"What do you want, Miss Adler?" "Forget about Moran. Get Musgrave, get Clyde, blow up their little playrooms and stay out of this. Your sister is locked away for good, this is over!" Her cold face, her straight, strong posture, her blazing eyes, voice harsh and demanding, everything about her was intimidating and powerful. She dropped the globe back on the table, her long nails scratching the glass. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft stood up, walking around the table to face the woman, his face set in cold determination. "It only takes me one code word and the alarm will go off, sending a fully armed task force to this room. You should leave."
Her eyes blazing with fury, Irene Adler slapped her hand over Mycroft's face, her ring leaving an angry red mark on the pale skin. "I will stop you." She hissed and before he could recover from the unexpected blow, she had slammed the door shut and the sound of her heels faded away.
The unexpected discovery of a possible Moriarty-replacement in England's criminal web had successfully thrown Sherlock of his track, keeping him locked up in Bakerstreet for five days now. Without the consulting Detective by his side, Greg found it hard to progress in their investigation. They had interrogated every person he had ever had contact with. They had taken in Keith Clyde for questioning but he didn't say a word and without the cooperation of Mycroft's minions they had no evidence against him. Mycroft. They hadn't spoken a word since that day in Sherlock's flat. Afraid to intrude, to take a wrong step, he hadn't dared to call or text him,had waited for him to show up but with every passing day he felt more lost. There was a black hole in Gregory's chest, draining his energy, leaving him cold and lost, stumbling threw his work as if he was watching himself from the outside. His head was buzzing.
It had been quite a long time since Greg had seen him so distanced and pained. He was worried about him but he also couldn't shake of that feeling of betrayal. Why didn't talk to him, trust him, open up and let him help? Would that be it, for the rest of their relationship, an up and down of gleeful cuddling one day and cold-hearted stares the other?
Exasperated, he dropped placed his forehead against the cold surface of his desk. It was littered with any files on Musgrave the Scotland Yard could supply him with. They had checked the houses of acquaintances, old homes, alleys, warehouses, hotels, the man was nowhere to be found. Maybe the Woman had lied to them, had sent them on the track of the unimportant footman so that the real villain could escape. Was there even any reason to trust her?
Greg checked his phone. Sherlock still hadn't reported from his faithful foot soldiers in the homeless network and it was getting late again. He turned his ring between his fingers. It all reminded him terribly of his marriage, the distance and the quiet, secrets and lies. Well, of course Mycroft hadn't actually lied to him nor had their relationship been official more for more than a few days, but a burnt child dreads the fire and a divorce was hardly a joyful experience.
With an impatient grunt, Greg got up and put on his coat. There was hardly any point in staying around if he never got anything right. Defeated, the Inspector dragged himself to a cab. He was just about to enter when he got a text.
"Bakerstreet meeting. Now. –SH" He felt dizzy. Mycroft wouldn't join them again, would he? Climbing into the car he heard himself say "221B Bakerstreet".
To his disappointment and his relief, Mycroft had decided not to come and simply mailed his findings. Just as Sherlock had expected, there weren't many.
"Colonel Sebastian Moran. He's a military man, served for a couple of years, an extraordinary sniper, until he was obliged to retire. Spent some years in quiet retirement until the money ran out and he went to streets. That is hardly helpful." He snapped his laptop shut and got up, proudly marching down the room. "My reliable sources on the streets could, however, supply me with a more insightful report than my brother's blind minions." He posed dramatically. "A few months ago a rugged man named Sebastian started showing up on the streets. He kept quiet, never got involved with anyone for a while until Clyde supposedly picked him up to sell find him customers and to make sure the brothel ran smoothly. The "playhouse" as my dear brother called it is also well known as a good source of income for the very desperate though my own direct contacts have higher standards than that if I might say so."
He cleared his throat. "We now know that the man who we believe to be Moriarty's partner in crime mysteriously started posing as a homeless man who then pretended to be a low footman employed by the man he directed in a web of crime. Why do we know it for sure? People who know people who work for Clyde's house of lost souls. I questioned one of the women, a lovely lady by the name of Saphire who has been employed for almost five years, and she confessed that the drug dealer seemed familiar. She felt as if she had seen him years ago, arriving with another scary looking man in Clyde's private office. The woman very clearly remembers her boss being frightened and nervous for the rest of the week after that. Another sweet girl calling herself Chanel could also account for Moran shouting at Clyde for almost getting caught by the Yard about a year ago."
The detective smiled proudly. John cleared his throat. "Also, we blackmailed Clyde to make sure the women worked in better conditions, we made sure we have proof to bring his business down. Sherlock's contacts will check on that regularly and report should there be any trouble." Sherlock gave him a warm, affectionate look. Greg nodded thoughtfully. "That's good news." He said curtly. With a bit of a confused expression, the Detective continued. "So, we know Clyde is unimportant for us right now, Musgrave is his accomplice and still hiding somewhere in London, Sebastian Moran could be taking over Moriarty's position. He would have noticed our interest in him by now so we won't be seeing him on the streets again. We need Musgrave to get to him. I suspect the Yard has been unsuccessful in their search?" The Inspector shrugged half-heartedly, shaking his head. Sherlock gave him an irritated look and continued his dramatic monologue. "The first people who appeared in this mystery are of course the Kratides Siblings. They have not been seen since the incident at the manor and chances are that their bodies are just well hidden. After they achieved their goal of getting to the treasure both of them would have been useless. Since it was clear to them from the very beginning they would have planned it very cleanly, I doubt you will be finding anything before their bodies are already half rotten. Your client, the interpreter, was a more unexpected complication so they took him out in a rush and thus the body was discovered too soon. The receptionist was killed very brutally, a crime of passion, anger. The only precaution they took with her was dumping her in an alley far away from the crime scene. They wanted her to be found. Why? To send a message? To warn us? Warn their other contacts? And why the messy footman crimes if-" "Sherlock." John said quietly, lightly touching his arm. Blinking in confusion, Sherlock snapped out of his deductions and stared. With a nod of his head, John gestured towards Greg, who was staring into nowhere, not quite focussed on the crime-solving. The two exchanged a concerned look.
"Do you need some rest?" Sherlock asked cautiously, gesturing towards the couch. Greg dropped into it, leaning his head against the wall behind him. His friends moved around him, sitting down like a pair of concerned parents. There was confusion in Sherlock's eyes and deep understanding in John's. "It's okay, really, I -ehr- probably just need some rest, it's fine." Sherlock glanced at his friend, then to John and jumped to his feet. "I'll make tea!" He rushed of to the kitchen. Greg smiled weakly. Speaking in a low, quiet voice John asked "Mycroft?". He nodded slowly. "Did you talk to him? After you saw each other here, with Sherlock running around?" He shook his head.
"Why is he so worried? I had thought after Sherlock and I… I'd expected you to just announce it."
Greg took a deep breath. "I don't think it's about being gay or not. I don't know. He is scared of something. Doesn't want his brother to know. Their parents know and they were fine with it and he wasn't all that bothered. I just don't know..." He dropped his head into his hands. Sherlock returned, placing three cups on the table, sitting down on the couch next to his friend. "I suspect this social situation requires me to ask you what is wrong and you to tell me your problems so that we form a strong bond of friendship over the experience." he said seriously. With a smile, Greg nodded. "You really don't have to." Straightening his back, Sherlock said with determination "It is my duty as your friend!...Greg." "I can't tell you much." His voice was beginning to regain energy, warmed by his friends' care (and the tea). "It's not my secret to tell." "Ah a secret! It is connected with the secret girlfriend who you haven't seen for a while and who-" "Sherlock, love, you are not supposed to deduce his problems. It is not a case." John said softly.
"Apologies." Greg took a deep breath, running his fingers through his hair. He felt unexpectedly nervous, his fingertips started shaking. Something burned inside him, the need to talk to someone, openly, to confess all his conflicting feelings, anything to stop this terrible loneliness. But it wasn't secret alone. He couldn't out Mycroft for him. There had to be something he could say. Biting his lip, digging his fingernails into the soft sofa, he breathed out, swallowing his fear. "I don't have girlfriend, Sherlock." His heart threw itself against his ribs. Why was this so hard? There was no logic behind his anxiety, no reason to be this nervous. His chest tightened painfully. "I have a boyfriend."
There was a moment of agonizing silence. "A boyfriend, there's always something." Sherlock smiled, placing his hand on his friend's shoulder. Greg's chest expanded, his heart beat a bit lighter and a part of the weight lifted from his shoulders. "I know what it feels like." John said. "I dated women all my life. I was confused and scared, when I realized I had fallen for a man. Maybe I am gay, maybe I'm bisexual, it doesn't matter in the end." "I am gay!" Sherlock announced. John gave him a puzzled look. "Good for you, Sherlock." Greg laughed hoarsely. "I made him laugh John, I win." "Sherlock, it's not-"
A high-pitched wailing split the air. "Oh fuck she's awake already. Be right back, I'm sorry." John sighed and dashed to little Rosie's room, leaving Sherlock awkwardly sitting beside Greg. They waited in silence, the muffled voice of John calming his daughter sounding from the other room. With a more serious, warm voice he said quietly "I'm there for you, you know." With a sigh of relief, Greg leaned on Sherlock's shoulder, giving up all pretence. Hesitantly, Sherlock reached out and put his arms around his friend. He relaxed. Maybe sometimes you don't have to talk. Maybe sometimes it was enough to know that you were not alone. The hole in chest was still there but it was easier to ignore, as if the embrace of his friend silenced it. Greg closed his eyes, burying his face in Sherlock's shoulder, allowing himself to relax.
It was almost midnight. The humming of the car's engine was the only sound that filled the frosty air. Memories flew through Greg's mind, warm and soft and now so very painful.
"Gregory...I'm afraid. I do not want to lose you."
He didn't want to lose him either. But he felt so helpless.
Mycroft's hand flat against his bare chest, tender and curious and warm.
"You are so beautiful."
His heart ached to be back there, in the dimly lit dressing room, seeing Mycroft so open and vulnerable for the first time.
The warmth of naked skin and soft breath.
"I love you"
Where had he gone wrong? What could he have done to upset him or scare him away? Had he hurt him? How could he possibly have messed this up?
The excitement and joy and absolute, unconditional love.
"Okay. I will be your Boyfriend, Gregory Lestrade."
It stabbed through him like a knife, a flaming, icy, piercing agony that surged through his body.
He opened the door to his flat, walking straight to his bedroom, eager to leave the day behind him, longing for the oblivion of sleep. Just when he had started to undress, there was a knock on the door and his heart skipped a beat. Every step towards his door felt agonizingly slow and far too quick at the same time. Every inch of his body quivered, as he touched the doorknob, hands shaking. Somewhere in the back of his head, a small voice scolded him for acting like a teenager.
He opened the door.
Mycroft's eyes were tired, red-rimmed, dark shadows falling over his face. He wore a suit as always but Greg didn't have to be a super-observant genius to see he had been wearing it for a while, all wrinkled and stained, his cuff a bit torn.
"May I come in?"