A/N: For those who have time to spare I'd like to tell you how I got an idea for this story. I was once watching TV, very bored and just switching channels, when I (very unexpectedly) came across a TV show where Mark Gatiss played one of the characters. Of course I just had to watch that episode. As I learned later, it was the TV show Midsomer Murders and Mark Gatiss's character appeared in that episode only. While I watched it I got an idea for this story. The plot is kind of based on that episode, with major differences.
Also I'm not very familiar with British educational system, which is mentioned in passing in the story, so I hoped I didn't mess up anything.
Beta: OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles
Words: 8,155
AU. One intelligent man losing his chance at a career in policy, one sweet old woman having her heart broken, one restless brother leaving his studying to be there for them and one man throwing away his familiar life to atone for what he had done and save himself from his guilt.
Lost Cause
~ Part 1 ~
"Detective Les-trade?"
"Lestrade. The stress on the last syllable." The detective corrected while sitting down into the offered chair. The elderly woman sitting in the arm chair nodded thoughtfully, her lips moved but emitted no sound, practicing the right pronunciation. After a moment her eyes focused back on him and she smiled. "Detective Inspector to be precise."
"Of course," she agreed pleasantly. She was a very sweet woman, emitting friendliness and complacency. "It's curious how this is our first time meeting despite you moving here years ago."
"Well, I have to say it's not a bad thing. Regarding my field of work…" He replied lightly with an answering smile. It lacked sincerity though. He wished not to cross the threshold of this house for another five years; it was only his duty as a detective that brought him here. He looked around uneasily, taking in every small detail of the interior, committing it into his memory as he would not have any other chance to do it.
"It's mostly a quiet town," she commented and looked at him as if waiting to elaborate.
"Yes, the crime rate here is low, which is very good. But sometimes serious crimes happen even here. Unfortunately that's what had happened and I need your help in the investigation."
"And I'll gladly provide it."
"Thank you, Mrs. Holmes."
"Oh, it's my civil duty," She said sitting straighter, her pointy chin going up in the air. After a moment the seriousness fell and her blue eyes twinkled. With a pang of pain Lestrade was suddenly reminded of his past, this exact shade of blue and its mysterious twinkle. "Also it provides at least some sort of entertainment." Mrs. Holmes continued and he had to concentrate on her words again. "This town is very peaceful, but with that it's also quite dull."
"I guess it is very different from London." Lestrade agreed. Too late he realized that he slipped and waited for the woman to catch it.
"It is. You came here from London, didn't you?"
He nodded, relieved that she understood his comment that way. She should not even suspect that he knew about the Holmes family more than what the town rumors provided.
"We used to live in London as well," she said wistfully, her eyes growing unfocused for a moment, remembering. That past was long gone, for the both of them. Lestrade didn't move, unwilling to disturb her musings; he studied her face, marked by time with frown lines, but still peculiarly beautiful. Her straight nose, low eyebrows, high forehead…it all looked too familiar and suddenly he had to turn away, unable to look any more, feeling like a masochist for even considering coming here, let alone actually doing it. His movement alerted Mrs. Holmes to his presence again and she ducked her head, just for a small moment, until meeting his gaze with confidence. "It was a nice time, but we are content with being here."
She continued saying 'we', he couldn't help but notice.
"So, returning to the purpose of your visit, how can I help you?"
"I'm sure you already heard the tragic news."
"Yes," she nodded. "Terrible. I've never expected Mr. Gordon to be…"
"Killed," Lestrade said, seeing that she'd be unable to continue. They needed to establish this fact before he'd be able to question her properly.
"Yes. I always thought he'd die a quiet death in his own bed. Who'd need to do something like that? He was just a harmless old man."
"A wealthy old man," Lestrade pointed out. He didn't want to seem rude but at the same time he wanted to be out of this house as soon as possible. He had first suggested a meeting outside but Mrs. Holmes brushed it off with a laugh.
"I understand what you're implying, but I'd prefer to not believe it. His family loved Jonathan."
"I have to take into account every lead, think through every possibility, however unpleasant it might be."
"I understand," she replied after a long sigh. "I take it you want to talk about Jonathan?"
"Yes," Lestrade agreed eagerly. "I know he was your close friend. I'd like to know how he was these past days. Anything unusual? Maybe he might have said something? Anything, really."
"Let me think…"
Again Lestrade kept quiet, giving the woman some time to gather her thoughts. This time the silence was interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by the appearance of a maid, a young woman with long dark hair, asking if they wanted anything.
"Please, Anthea, some tea would be lovely." After a second of consideration Mrs. Holmes added, her questioning eyes on the DI. "And call for Mycroft. Maybe he'd be able to help."
"No," Lestrade interjected before the maid could make her retreat. He only hoped that the edginess in his voice didn't sound desperate. "I'd prefer this to be a confidential conversation, if you don't mind."
Mrs. Holmes eyed him strangely, luckily without suspicion, but nodded and dismissed the maid. After a minute of awkward silence while the both of them waited for the tea to be served, when Anthea disappeared through the set of the French doors leading to a terrace for the second time, Lestrade reacquired his business attitude.
"Now if you could please answer my previous question, Mrs. Holmes."
They talked for almost an hour, Mrs. Holmes reminiscing about her last meeting with Mr. Gordon, her neighbor, and then with his family and Lestrade taking notes of the facts that seemed significant at that time and asking leading questions when necessary. The tea grew cold, as he had not lifted his tea cup even once, by the time they were finished and he stood up to thank her for the help and depart. In his relief and haste to leave he failed to notice how Mrs. Holmes's attention was caught by something else and her gaze was focused just above his shoulder as he was saying his good bye, so her cheery exclamation caught him completely by surprise.
"Mycroft!"
Lestrade stiffed.
"Oh, he can't hear me from here," Mrs. Holmes lamented. "Why don't you accompany me to the garden, Detective? I'll introduce you to my son."
Lestrade, thankfully able to gather his composure by the time she turned back to him, soundlessly shook his head. With remorse he watched her smile fall.
"I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Holmes, but I do have a lot of work."
Then, in what he'd later call a sudden attack of masochism, he turned his head to look out of the opened French doors to the garden beyond. His eyes immediately fell on a tall figure of a man, walking an alley leading to the house, the maid from before following a step behind. Years had passed and Mycroft Holmes still was gorgeous. Impeccable but simple clothes, light brown trousers with a white button up shirt and a vest; precise but graceful walk, no movement spent unnecessarily; features of his face always schooled into a neutral expression with a pleasant polite smile. Lestrade wasn't able to see his eyes from the distance, but he kept the bright blue of them cherished in his memory.
Mycroft was looking straight at him, but nothing in his face gave any indication of recognition. He half turned, saying something to the maid, no doubt wondering about the identity of their guest. Using this distraction, Lestrade managed to tear his eyes from the man. He turned back to his mother.
"Mrs. Holmes. I'm very grateful for your input but now I really must go. Don't worry, I'll be able to find my way out." He added the last part in a rush, already half way through the door. Not glancing back for a smallest second, no matter how much he wanted to do just that, to stand there for the whole day just watching Mycroft Holmes, he left.
This was the closest he'd got to Mycroft Holmes in years and it was as terrible as it was terrific. One glance. Just one glance and Lestrade felt like running away. Back to London, where he'd never even hear about that man again, but then…he'd never even hear about him. This was worse than the constant reminder of what a terrible person Gregory Lestrade was. The past, one mistake that changed the lives of a small group of people to the absolute worst. One intelligent man losing his chance at a brilliant career in policy, one sweet old woman having her heart broken, one restless brother leaving his studying to be there for them and one man throwing away his familiar life in London to atone for what he had done and save himself from the guilt he felt.
That had happened long in the past, but still weighed on his shoulders as a heavy load.
He groaned under his breath, resisting from banging his head on the steering wheel, lest it'd alert the residents of the house to his still lingering presence. To avoid that, he started the engine and drove away from the Holmes driveway. On the other hand it was nice to see Mycroft again. For the last few years he'd only managed to catch glimpses of the man from afar, when he was sure he wouldn't be noticed. The attention Lestrade craved once when he was younger he now avoided.
Well, after closing the case he simply would go back to devoting his free time to following Mycroft Holmes's life without anyone knowing about it.
/
A week had passed and the case was closed, it might have been out of ordinary for a small town like this but the solution was simple enough, the clues easy to find as the murderer had obviously watched too many detective TV shows but wasn't clever enough to actually use the small amount of knowledge they provided. Life was different from fiction and in reality it was so easy for the criminal to miss a clue, such as a footprint or a fingerprint. And real life, Lestrade always thought with regret, was crueler than fiction. But that had nothing to do with Mr. Gordon's case.
For another week the DI successfully avoided Mrs. Holmes's dinner invitations, blaming his refusals to come on a load of paperwork to do. But the woman was insistent and finally it came to a point where he could not refuse without being rude. He waited for a time when Mycroft Holmes left for London for his usual medical checkup and meeting with his psychotherapist, though that information was kept a secret, everyone thought he was visiting his younger brother. The history of the Holmes family was widely known except for the most recent developments, what most people knew was that five years ago the Holmes family returned to their home town and the Holmes manor was again inhabited. The rest – were rumors. Some people said that Mycroft Holmes got involved in some shady business, stole from the criminal band and now they were looking for him. But if that was true, then surely he'd have found a better place to hide. Others claimed that a quarrel between the brothers was to blame, that their animosity reached such an extent that they couldn't stand being in the same city. That, Lestrade thought, was simply ridiculous. Yes, Mycroft and Sherlock didn't get on but they still managed to stay brothers even when shouting hateful words at each other. There was one rumor saying that Mycroft Holmes had an illness that required a lot of fresh air and rest for the man to get better. Some of the most passionate gossipers suggested that an accident had happened to the older Holmes brother, after which he wasn't able to continue with his usual life style. They also claimed that Sherlock had something to do with this. While the first was closer to the truth than any other rumor, the second was complete rubbish. Sherlock wasn't even in the country when that had happened. Lestrade, on the other hand, was.
Reluctant, he rang the bell to the Holmes residence. Not a minute after the door was opened by a man who led Lestrade to what he assumed was a dining room; a table, too large for such a small family, was set for two. To the side there were two plush chairs with a coffee table between them, which stood facing the fireplace. It was unlit, since it was a middle of summer, but the woman occupying one of the chairs stared inside it, probably lost in her memories again.
"Mrs. Holmes," Lestrade called softly as not to startle her as he came closer to her chair.
"Detective Lestrade, such a pleasure to see you," she rose from the chair and greeted him with a smile. "I was already with a strong conviction that I offended you somehow. You rejected my every invitation."
The laughter in her eyes showed that she wasn't offended in the least.
"I'd never intentionally do anything to offend you, Mrs. Holmes."
Mrs. Holmes laughed. "Oh, I believe you. Come to the table."
Mrs. Holmes was a surprisingly easy going person, one expected haughtiness from a woman of her status and wealth, but she was very nice and even her snobbish side was charming. Pretty much like her sons'. They both took after her in that trait. Or maybe Lestrade was the only person who found Mycroft's arrogance endearing. He used to, at least. Now he didn't even know this man who called himself Mycroft Holmes. Had he changed so much that it'd be impossible to recognize the person he had once been? Or did his personal traits stay even when the man himself had no knowledge where they came from? Lestrade had wondered about it but didn't dare to find out. And to think that once he was the one who knew Mycroft Holmes better than anyone else…
"I have to admit, Detective, I had an ulterior motive behind inviting you to my house." Mrs. Holmes admitted when they were sipping their tea and the mindless chatter ran dry.
"And what might that be?"
"I'm very curious about your investigation." She said and leaned back in her chair eyeing him cautiously, waiting for a reaction. She understood that the materials of the investigation were classified, but the curiosity got the better of her and she ventured the attempt.
"Well, Mrs. Holmes, only because of my affection for you…"
She smiled gleefully, like this was the only thing she had ever wanted and was finally granted. When he nodded and started talking about the case her face transformed, expression growing serious, traces of curiosity still lingering in her blue eyes but it was somber now.
"I wouldn't have thought that Arthur could do this…to his own uncle."
"He decided that the inheritance was worth it," Lestrade replied, not hiding the disgust in his voice.
After that a silence settled, Mrs. Holmes rethinking their conversation, Lestrade just drinking his tea. The loud sound of footsteps in the supposedly empty house took them both by surprise, but if for the woman it was pleasant, then for Lestrade it was terrifying. The purposeful stride could not belong to the old butler. The doors were thrown open, but Lestrade kept his gaze forward, unblinking eyes fixed on the dark mantel of the fireplace just above Mrs. Holmes's shoulder. He noticed how her head turned and heard her gasp.
"No need to be so dramatic," a familiar drawl broke the silence.
"I'm not," Sherlock snapped at his brother.
"I don't know anything more dramatic than throwing double doors open and striding inside. You lack originality."
"Sherlock. Mycroft." Mrs. Holmes exclaimed, elated. "I wasn't expecting you until the day after tomorrow."
That very poorly expressed how Lestrade felt at that moment. He had especially made sure that neither of the Holmes brothers would be at home, not to mention that Sherlock's visits were extremely rare. It was just Lestrade's luck that the younger Holmes had decided to visit this weekend. Had he been more optimistic he might have considered it to be fate, but the thing that closed him up in the same room as Mycroft Holmes could only be evil.
"We decided to surprise you," Mycroft commented. Lestrade felt like he could not stay staring at the wall for any longer, he was already probably giving the impression of a very rude, if not insane, person.
"Please, join us for tea, boys."
"With pleasure," Mycroft replied. There were sounds of steps again and in his line of vision Lestrade could see Sherlock taking a seat on his mother's left. "I wasn't aware you had a guest."
Lestrade tensed as he heard the rustling of fabric on his right as Mycroft took a seat beside him. It was a nightmare. He felt like he could not breathe, every inhale taking too much effort to make, every exhale coming out sharp and noisy. Unable to relax, he attempted to at least appear so. Tearing his eyes from the mantle of the fireplace he half-turned to glance at the two men.
"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade."
As Mrs. Holmes introduced him he nodded his head and turned to watch her instead.
"These are my sons," she said to him. "Mycroft, the older, and Sherlock."
"Yes, I know." He replied.
There was a snort from the younger brother. "I didn't doubt that." It sounded sharp and intentionally offensive. Lestrade's head snapped to look at him. Cold grey eyes were regarding him with open animosity. Knowing grey eyes. He felt an unpleasant shiver run down his spine. That's what he could have expected from Mycroft, but he completely disregarded Sherlock.
"I'm a DI at this town. It won't be professional of me not to know at least the names of the citizens." He replied, keeping the coldness from his voice. He understood the reason behind Sherlock's dislike to him. He felt like he deserved it.
The time stretched, awkward talk continued but Mrs. Holmes seemed oblivious to it. The atmosphere was tense, Sherlock sent Lestrade glares over the table, but the biggest distraction was Mycroft on his right. Every small movement, every word uttered by him was on the forefront of his mind, got all his attention, clouded his judgment. And Mycroft had not even said anything to him.
"So, Detective Inspector, you arrested Arthur Gordon for the murder of his uncle, am I correct?" Just as Lestrade though he might go through this without much damage to his sanity (the irony of the statement didn't escape him) Mycroft decided to change the topic back to DI's work.
"Yes," Lestrade replied shortly. It was rude as he didn't even look at Mycroft as he said that while he could practically feel how the other turned in his seat while asking it.
"It took you a week to do it," Mycroft continued. "That's…a good result."
"A day would have been enough for me," Sherlock commented.
"Unfortunately, you were not here, dear." Mrs. Holmes intervened. "I wish you visited us more often."
Sherlock grumbled something under his breath, but nodded.
"Detective Inspector." A calm voice addressed him again. It was impossible to ignore him any longer, so Lestrade stilled himself and turned to his right. Mycroft, seeing he'd gained the other man's attention watched him in silence for a moment and then continued. "For how long have you been in this town?"
"A couple of years," he answered evasively.
Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. His blue eyes narrowed as they roamed over Lestrade's face. The DI resisted the urge to fidget or turn away, dreading the recognition that might appear in those eyes. It did not but instead Mycroft asked. "Have we ever met before?"
Lestrade could feel the atmosphere shift in the room. On the periphery he'd noticed Sherlock stiffen and watch them intently as he too waited for the answer. Answer. It was a 'Yes' and a 'No' because there were times when they'd met daily, couldn't spend more than an hour separately, but in life after that, this new dull life he now led they had not met.
"You might have seen me in town," he replied, settling for a half truth. They could have really, if Lestrade himself didn't avoid any chance at such meeting like a plague.
"Probably…" Mycroft muttered and, after a second more of staring, turned away to talk to his mother.
Lestrade almost breathed out in silent relief had not the younger Holmes's eyes still bore into him. He answered the look with a leveled stare; momentarily Sherlock narrowed his eyes as if in warning and then broke the stare. Not relaxed but emotionally exhausted Lestrade slumped back in his chair.
Soon the tantalizing dinner came to an end and he was free to leave the Holmes house. Mrs. Holmes followed him to the door, giving him a hug as a good bye and inviting to visit one more time. Mycroft Holmes, after a moment of hesitation, extended his hand for a handshake. Lestrade gulped as his eyes watched the palm and then traveled up the hand, shoulder, unusually white skin of his neck to finally stop on his face. It was the first time Lestrade had actually looked at him. His face was thin, skin pale with a hint of sickness, but that was normal for Mycroft. He was always unnaturally pale and had weak health. His eyes were still the same beautiful shade of blue, calming but perceptive – to lead you to a false sense of safety and uncover all your secrets. Thin lips were pressed into a polite smile. There was an awkward cough that brought his attention back to the present and Lestrade realized that he had been staring for quite a while. He took the offered hand and shook it gently. As he was about to let go his eyes fell on a small barely visible scar on Mycroft forehead, it was situated on the left side almost on his temple. By impulse Lestrade gripped the hand and tugged, making Mycroft stagger and take a step forward to keep his balance.
When his mind caught up with his actions Lestrade let go of the hand as if burned and took two quick steps back. "Sorry," He muttered.
"That's…fine." Mycroft mumbled and, with a bow of his head, left, disappearing back into the dining room.
Lestrade was left alone with Sherlock. Feeling uneasy he looked at the younger Holmes.
"Have a good day," Sherlock muttered impassively and disappeared into the direction opposite from his brother.
That wasn't what Lestrade had expected from him, but he supposed he should be happy for such a cold good bye.
/
The next day was boring as any other for a DI in a small town with a low crime rate, which of course was a wonderful thing, but it left Lestrade with empty boring cases such as a lost cat or something even less significant. Lestrade was sitting in his office, looking through the old reports out of sheer boredom. A sound of raindrops hitting the window was a perfect accompaniment to the whole dull atmosphere. Throwing the papers back on the table he looked away, his eyes trying to make out the sign of a flower shop across the street through the rain. Mycroft loved rain…
"What in bloody hell are you doing here?" The question was quiet but the tone was harsh and unforgiving.
Even though Lestrade didn't notice him come in, he knew who it belonged to. Somehow, he was waiting for this meeting, but definitely not looking forward to it.
"Good morning to you too, Sherlock." He turned in his seat lazily to regard his guest, then motioned with one hand for him to sit down.
"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, his tone holding the same animosity as he fell into a chair.
"Working, as you might see."
"Please, as if this," he waved his hands over the pile of papers on the DI's desk. "Could be called work."
"Well, however small but it is. And I like it." Lestrade shrugged. "It's different from London but not necessarily in a bad way."
Sherlock sneered at the DI, the mere idea of comparing was offending to him. "So, will I get an answer to my question?"
"Yes, once you specify it."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and then looked pointedly at him.
"No, really." Lestrade said. "What exactly do you mean? I can easily say that I got a promotion along with a transfer and that would be it. But I know that such an answer would not satisfy you."
"Did you come here because of him?"
"Yes."
"After what happened?" Sherlock asked, the incredulity in his tone was heavily dosed with anger and, probably, disgust. Lestrade winced.
"It was an accident," he ducked his head as he said that. He didn't want to meet Sherlock's eyes. His hands found their way to the desktop, clasped there to stop them from shaking. Remembering those evens always affected him that way. "A terrible accident. But it doesn't mean I don't feel guilty."
"I never though you did it on purpose."
Sherlock's sudden confession came after a moment of silence. Lestrade lifted his eyes to his in surprise. He frowned, a silent plea for confirmation in his eyes.
"I inspected the place after. With my skills I managed to reconstruct the events of that day."
Lestrade nodded, more to himself than to his interlocutor. "But it was my fault."
"So that's what made you abandon the chance to have a career in London and come to a small town like this one? Guilt?" Sherlock tried to sound casual, but Lestrade could still hear his disgust to such reasons, see it in his eyes.
"Not really." Lestrade admitted and Sherlock's expression turned to the one of curiosity. "I wanted to…to make sure he will be alright. I wanted to be close to him, to be near in case…in any case, really."
He watched Sherlock for any reaction, silently asking how stupid that sounded when he knew Mycroft would not need him, but still…
For Sherlock it seemed a better reason as his face now was simply calm. "You loved him?" He asked very quietly.
"I still do." The answer was blunt and didn't leave place for doubt.
"And yet you haven't even met him since the accident." Sherlock pointed out. The casual way the comment was made indicated that their conversation had moved on from the 'hard part' with small losses.
"How can I?" Lestrade asked rhetorically with a shrug. He felt more relaxed now and settled his steady hands in his lap. He watched his own interlaced fingers for a minute until he dared to break the silence with a whisper. "He doesn't recognize me."
"This is controversial."
"I don't want him to remember," Lestrade admitted. "Not something like that…"
"Well, I don't think it's up to you anymore." Sherlock's comment was delivered with such easiness, as if the consequences of that weren't what Lestrade had feared for very long. "Also, I believe it'd only be for the better for Mycroft to remember the accident. You are the only one who can remind him, you are the only one who was there." When the DI didn't reply to that he continued. "Besides, you won't bring only the bad memories."
Lestrade still shook his head, unconvinced.
"And if you are worried about the 'old issues'," Sherlock added. "Mommy will agree to anything just to see him safe and happy."
"Don't tempt me, Sherlock." Lestrade said sharply.
"Oh, well," Sherlock was standing up, ready to leave. "It's your choice." He stalled in the doorway. "One curios fact, though."
Sherlock was looking right into Lestrade's eyes as he was saying that, to emphasize the meaning. "In Mycroft's study, on his desk, there is a framed picture. From his Eton days. Exactly the same as the one in the top drawer of your desk." With that he stormed off.
Lestrade didn't need to open the mentioned drawer to see the picture; he had it memorized in his mind. It was lovely, showing two young men on the background of one of the college buildings. Mycroft was facing the camera but his eyes were not focused on the lenses while Lestrade's head was half turned, mostly facing the other man. His face was mostly out of sight so it was impossible to recognize if you didn't know in advance who the person on the picture was.
He loved it because of the expression on Mycroft's face. He was happy, smiling at Lestrade with the openness that was usually not in his character; but on that sunny spring day he let himself relax and simply enjoy the company of the other. There was a warm affection in his eyes; he was unaware that they were being watched. Lestrade was very grateful to his friend who had taken this picture. Now it was the only solid proof of that past.
/
It was evening of the next day when Lestrade stumbled into his own house after another boring day of work after he finally managed to distract his mind with something else that was not Mycroft Holmes. He had spent the whole day chasing a lost cat after deciding he'd better do it himself than assigning some Sergeant to that task. He hoped, rather stupidly, it'd get his mind on another subject; and it could have, really. If not for the cat's owner, a middle aged woman who flirted with him at every chance she got and when he didn't respond lamented on the lack of available men in town. This, unsurprisingly, didn't go without mentioning either of the Holmes brothers. So much for a good distraction…
Now, exhausted emotionally and physically, he fell onto the couch and turned on the television to fill the silence of the empty flat. His mind was wonderfully blank. Never in his life had he enjoyed it so much.
At least until the doorbell rang, followed by a tentative knock on the front door. With a groan of irritation he got up, taking off his jacket and throwing it in an indefinite direction on his way. No more knocking followed as the person behind the door waited. Or simply left. Lestrade voted for the second option. He remembered that as he was returning home the rain was starting, so maybe now it was a full storm and whoever had decided to pay him a visit would tire of waiting in the rain and leave.
As he opened the door, there was no storm. The same light drizzle continued to fall. It wasn't what made him freeze on the spot, though. It was Mycroft Holmes, standing on his door step, expectant grey eyes regarding him.
"What?" Lestrade mumbled unintelligently as his brain shut down for a moment. He recovered and tried again. "What are you doing here?" Not the best thing to say to a person he supposedly was meeting only for the second time in his life.
"I wanted to talk to you, Mr. Lestrade."
The name sounded unusual, coming from this man. He still just stood there, half leaning on the opened door with his hand on the door handle, and stared.
"Maybe you can invite me in? The weather is far from nice."
It was a lie, Mycroft loved rain, any kind of it; but it was the best excuse he had. He shifted from foot to foot and frowned, hints of doubt appearing in his blue eyes.
Lestrade took a step back and left the door open. "Of course."
Mycroft followed him into the living room; Lestrade didn't even make an attempt to clean the mess – he wouldn't have been able to make it any better in such a small amount of time, and trying would only have attracted more attention to it. The couch was thankfully clean, well relatively, and Mycroft perched on one end of it. He waited for Lestrade to do the same.
"So, you said you wanted to talk…" Lestrade remained standing, leaning against the wall instead, hands crossed over his chest.
"I know that my brother paid you a visit yesterday."
"Yes."
Mycroft scowled at that simple answer. "I have my suspicions about what the subject of your discussion was, but I'd like to have them confirmed."
"I'm sorry I can't help you. It was a private conversation."
"Well I thought you could since it involved me." Mycroft's gaze was fixed on his face, waiting, analyzing. Lestrade resisted from gulping or looking away, preventing any gesture that could betray his nervousness.
"What makes you think that?" He asked casually and now he allowed himself to look away in feigned boredom.
"I don't think that, Mr. Lestrade." Mycroft replied, his chin was up in the air and eyes narrowed. Lestrade decided that he was totally hopeless if he found even the other man's arrogance cute. There was something very wrong with him; but, well, that wasn't the news. "I know that."
Lestrade shrugged, but he knew it wouldn't work. He looked down at the floor, buying himself some more time. The silence stretched but neither tried to break it, Mycroft waiting patiently and Lestrade collecting his thoughts. This was probably inevitable. This talk. It would have to happen one day; they couldn't have left Mycroft in the dark forever, especially not from his own past. The fact that he had to do it didn't mean that Lestrade liked it. Sherlock thought him to be a trigger to the one memory Mycroft wasn't able to regain. Maybe he was right. Maybe he wasn't.
"Mycroft," he started but stopped as he saw the other man's eyes widen a fraction. "I'm sorry, I mean Mr. Holmes." There was an unmistakable bitterness in his voice.
"No." Mycroft blurted out unexpectedly. He hesitated, avoiding looking the other in the eye. "It's alright."
Lestrade watched him; in the dim lighting of the room it was difficult to tell if there was a blush on Mycroft's cheeks. He always had problems with expressing himself and on some occasions his embarrassment took over his confidence.
"Alright, Mycroft. What do you want to know?" It was a dangerous question but Lestrade supposed he had nothing to lose any more; he was ready to tell the truth.
"What is your name?" As Mycroft asked his business tone didn't match his nervous appearance in the least. Out of all possible questions this was the one Lestrade didn't expect. "Your first name."
"Gregory Lestrade."
Mycroft nodded. "I thought so."
At Lestrade's confused frown he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a piece of paper. When he handed it to the other man Lestrade was able to recognize it as a copy of a picture he kept in his desk. He took it, sliding his fingers over the smooth surface, and watched a smiling face of a younger Mycroft Holmes.
"Turn it around," Mycroft suggested softly.
He did that and noticed a small inscription, black ink on the white background.
Greg and Mycroft
There also was a date below. The writing was very elegant with old fashioned curls; it was done by their mutual friend, the same one who took the picture.
"If my assumptions are right," Mycroft was saying. "I know you. But I don't remember you."
The other just nodded, his throat felt tight like he wouldn't be able to produce any words even if he wanted. Suddenly, despite his resolve earlier, it all was becoming too much too quickly.
"Why is that?"
The lump in Lestrade's throat was still there and he didn't want to say anything. Before he could though, Mycroft beat him to it. "No, that's a wrong question. Obviously this is because the memories of you mostly include only you. So, without you there to remind me they still remain a fog in the back of my mind.
"I also have a reason to believe that you are somehow related to what everyone refers to as the accident. Personally, I find such a name ridiculous. Too much significance to such a small event." Mycroft said coolly.
"Small?" Lestrade croaked out. In his mind it was a terrible underestimation. "It turned your life upside down."
"No, it didn't." Was the cold reply. The whole posture of this man spoke of confidence and defiance. "I refuse to say that it brought any drastic changes. I'm content with the life I lead."
"Content. Not happy," Lestrade underlined before he could stop himself.
"I will be happy once I discover the whole truth. Once I remember it." He was so sure of his words, Lestrade could almost believe him. But how could the possibility of a great political career that surely awaited Mycroft be better than a boring life in a God forgotten town? He voiced his doubts, but put it in less hurtful words.
"You came here from London, didn't you?" Mycroft asked instead of answering. Lestrade had thought he was evading the question but his calculating eyes said that the question was leading to a point.
"Yes."
"Are you happy here?"
This question took him a few minutes to consider. It was awfully boring here, yes. But at the same time it was nice. He enjoyed all those special traits of a small town that London lacked; everyone knew each other, people were always friendly and helpful. It was nice sometimes to have a walk around, and there would be nature surrounding you and not the traffic and buildings so tall they obscured the sun. And Mycroft was here. Healthy and content. That probably was the most important fact.
"Yes."
Mycroft nodded to emphasize the proved point. "So am I. Or will be, once I discover what the accident was actually about."
"And you think I can help you with that?"
"Precisely."
They watched each other in silence, each waiting the other to speak. "So," Mycroft drawled. "Will you help me unravel the mystery?"
Lestrade sighed. "I thought you wanted to remember, not to be told."
"Then remind me," the answer was delivered quickly along with a pointed look. His gaze softened though when he murmured softly. "Gregory, please."
Just like that. Like the years apart had never happened. From his point of view it was so simple, but for Lestrade, from his guilty side, there wasn't anything worse Mycroft could have asked from him. Disregarding his own discomfort, he crossed the space between the coach and the wall in three quick steps, not giving himself time to change his mind, and sat near Mycroft, still leaving some space between them.
"How much do you remember about your days at Eton?"
"Enough," was a laconic reply.
"Mycroft," Lestrade said with exasperation, for the first time during the evening he felt himself relax a little. "You should cooperate."
"I remember a lot of things. Enough to realize that there is something I don't remember. Something big and important." Mycroft paused to make sure he got full attention. "Someone."
Lestrade managed a nod to compensate his sudden loss of words. "Good." He croaked out. After clearing his throat he continued. "We met at Eton. During our last year there actually. For the longest time I thought you were an arrogant prick."
"That's surely very informative," Mycroft commented sarcastically.
He was ignored. "So we somehow became friends." Lestrade continued, while in his mind he was frantically trying to decide whether he should tell the other man about the true nature of their relationship. "That picture," he looked down at the piece of paper still in his hand. "Was taken during our last year. By a friend of mine." He put the picture on the coffee table, but his eyes were still glued to it.
"And?" Mycroft prompted.
"We continued our friendship," Lestrade stumbled over the last word. "After graduating. Different universities weren't an obstacle."
"Friendship," Mycroft repeated with heavy skepticism. "Gregory, trust me it won't come as a shock if you say that we were dating. When you say it."
Lestrade, unexpectedly embarrassed for a moment, looked away. When his gaze returned to Mycroft's face he noticed a smirk that made him feel better. He smiled. "Well then yes, we were lovers."
"I vaguely remember some of the…activities…"
"You mean you remember us…being together?" Lestrade didn't know any more tactful way to put it.
"Yes," Mycroft replied nonchalantly. "That was the way I realized after the accident that I wasn't particularly interested in women. I guess discovering it for the second time was less confusing than the first."
Lestrade chuckled. "I can imagine."
"Did we break up before the accident, after or because of it?"
And that was the most difficult question.
"Mycroft," Lestrade said and instinctively moved closer to the other; he leaned on his right arm, trapped between their thighs on the couch. There was a note of desperation in his voice which didn't go unnoticed. Mycroft's expression changed; confused and worried he watched Lestrade's face, highly aware of his discomfort. "Please, can we not…"
"Gregory," he interjected. "I need to know." As if being closer would help the persuasion, he shifted on the couch until they were pressed together, knees bumping almost uncomfortably.
It felt like all his nerve endings were activated at the same time; he was hyper aware of their proximity, the smell of Mycroft's cologne, still the same, the warmth of his body so close, the tingling where their legs touched; he desperately wanted to touch, wanted to taste, to experience those sensations again. How he missed it; how he missed him. A shudder ran through Lestrade and he felt the answering trembling in Mycroft's form. He reached out, to touch, but drew back quickly. Because no matter how excited he was, it was overcome by fear. Desperate all-consuming fear that suppressed even the desire.
"I don't want you to hate me," he whispered in the small space between them.
Mycroft blinked, momentarily confused, and when it settled in, instead of moving away as Lestrade expected him to do, reached out and gently ran his finger over the other man's cheek and cradled it in his palm. Looking straight into Lestrade's eyes and with the power of his gaze only not letting him look away, Mycroft said. "Gregory, I remember more than you think. More than anyone suspects anyway." He smiled, only slightly but reassuringly. "I won't hate you."
"How can you be so sure?" Lestrade asked, almost musing aloud. With the touch and the smile, his worries dissipated a little but still didn't go away.
Running the pads of his fingers in Lestrade's hair as his hand caressed the other man's jaw, Mycroft replied with an ease those words didn't deserve. "Because I remember why we had to stop seeing each other. Before the accident had happened."
"Do you?" Lestrade asked, voice low and hoarse. He would have attempted to move away but was immobilized by shock. "But then you must know what happened…"
"I'm not sure, but I think I know."
"Why are you still here then?"
"Because I believe," Mycroft's voice was a soothing whisper. "That even though you blame yourself for whatever happened, it's not your fault. It's no one's fault really."
"You can't be so sure in that."
"Would you want to intentionally hurt me?"
"No."
Mycroft nodded as an answer, the words seemingly unneeded. His expression didn't change, the same unwavering confidence in his blue eyes.
"But that doesn't mean-"
"Not your fault." He said emphatically, stressing every word to finally make the other man understand.
Lestrade slumped, defeated by that confidence alone. He touched Mycroft's hand, still on his cheek, and ran his fingers over Mycroft's.
"Now, just tell me." It was a soft command, but impossible to disobey.
"On that day," Lestrade started; he was proud to notice that his voice was even, almost as calm as Mycroft's, but that was mostly due to the fact that he was emotionally drained. "We met because I needed to talk to you. It was the beginning of the summer so we'd decided to meet in the park, one place we both liked to visit. There is a large stone staircase, leading to the higher level of the park; we met not far from it, near the oak tree."
"Yes, now that you described it, I certainly recall a place like that."
"I wanted to see you, talk to you because…"
"Because weeks before that I announced that we should not see each other anymore." Mycroft finished for him.
"I was too angry and hurt at first to try and contact you, but when it passed I wanted an explanation."
For the first time it was Mycroft who looked away in uncertainty. "Mommy found out about our relationship. She wasn't pleased that her older son was dating another man. She didn't mean anything bad," he hastened to add. "She loves me and Sherlock. I guess it was just her first reaction."
"I understand," Lestrade reassured. He knew that Mrs. Holmes was a lovely woman; she devoted all her love to her two sons. Before Lestrade had disappeared from Mycroft's life forever, as he thought at that time, he'd met her only thrice and never had time to actually talk to her, but he knew how much she cared for Mycroft and Sherlock, with Mr. Holmes long dead they were all she had left in her life. Thus she was very protective of them. "She probably never considered how serious our relationship was."
"I guess," Mycroft gave him a weak smile. "Nonetheless, Mommy demanded that I leave you. I argued with her at first, but when I saw how much it was affecting her I …I didn't have a choice. I did hope that she'd calm down with time and take back her rash decision, though."
After a moment of silence, he said, so quietly Lestrade had to lean in to hear the words. "She wouldn't mind now. After what had happened she's too scared to lose me, she'd accept anything. Anything."
Too close. He was too close. Too tempting. Impossible to resist.
Lips locked urgently; with equal passion, equal longing. The hand on his face slid further, grabbing his hair and yanking his head to the side to get the angle right. Mycroft's right hand found a place on his chest, clutching at the fabric of his shirt. The kiss was hot and open mouthed, with no time for gentleness or shyness, a futile attempt to fill all the missed time. Lestrade grabbed his waist, roughly tugging Mycroft forward to bring them flush together. It was uncomfortable but neither of them cared, any thought forgotten in favor of feelings. Soon the fevered kisses weren't enough, Lestrade felt Mycroft pull back without letting go to settle against the cushions; he tugged the other man atop of him, Lestrade complying enthusiastically. They moved and wiggled until they were both lying on the couch, not breaking away for more than a second to take a gulp of air.
Lestrade used one hand to brace himself on the sofa to be able to shift a little. His right leg interjected between Mycroft's, knee sliding slowly up. He tore his lips from the other man's to catch the soft moan that Mycroft breathed out.
"How I missed this," he whispered and bent his neck to nip at Mycroft's jaw and then his pale neck. His hand tightened around the other man's waist, the grip almost crushing in a desperate need to bring him closer than was possible and never to let go again.
"Greg," Mycroft gasped, breathless and Lestrade weakened his hold a little, worried that he was causing pain, and looked at his face. Flushed, Mycroft shook his head, brushing away the concern. He kissed Lestrade softly, fleetingly. "Greg, I-"
Whatever he wanted to say was interrupted by the sounds of music, breaking the moment, too loud in their silence. Mycroft groaned and then hit his head back against the cushion.
"It's my phone," he explained. Not looking at Lestrade he elaborated. "It's Mommy."
After hearing that Lestrade laughed, Mycroft glared at him but it was ruined by the embarrassed blush. "I feel like we are back in Eton," Lestrade commented through his chuckles. "Interrupted by your mother like always."
"I fail to see what you find so amusing," Mycroft replied and with his hands on Lestrade's chest, pushed them back to a sitting position. He took time to straighten his suit jacket and brush back his hair, ignoring Lestrade's grin. "I suppose it's my cue to leave."
He stood up, Lestrade following to walk him to the door.
"But this," Mycroft waved a hand between them. "Is not finished."
He pecked Lestrade on the lips and walked out of the front door to his car.
A/N: Reviews will make me very happy:)
The second part of the story will be posted in two weeks.
Also I know take prompts fo 221B stories. If you have a prompt go to my story Mycroft Holmes Hates and leave it as a review. Or you can just PM me:)