A/N: The second and the last part of this story. If you like it, please, do leave me a review:)
Beta: OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles
Words: 7,283
Lost Cause
~ Part 2 ~
The morning was beautiful. The summer sun shone upon the large park; people, walking by or lying on the grass, basked in its warmth.
"I just want an explanation!"
"Well then you should probably give me a chance to give you one." His calm tone, mostly devoid of emotions like always, was a drastic contrast to Lestrade's shouting. It only fueled his anger more. His mind, blind with anger and desperation, couldn't comprehend why the other young man was so damn calm when he himself was bursting with suppressed emotions. Too engrossed with his own feelings he failed to notice how badly Mycroft's hands were shaking and how he kept them fisted at his sides, how his eyes were not as impassive as usual, trying to convey what his words could not. He didn't bother to look, so he didn't see.
"If you could be silent for one moment…" Mycroft started but was yet again interrupted.
"I've been silent for a month!" Lestrade shouted; his hands flailed uncontrollably as a way to out his frustration. He took a step toward Mycroft and retreated as jerkily. He added with more calm. "And so were you."
"The circumstances were against me. Against us."
"Those circumstances being…?" For Lestrade those words were no more than stupid excuses.
Mycroft ducked his head, not daring to meet the other's eyes. "You know my mother's opinion on this relationship."
"And so this is a reason to end it?" Lestrade asked dejectedly. "Just like that, throw away everything we had?"
"I wish it hadn't come to this…"
Lestrade snorted, disbelief so obvious it was bordering on cruelty in this situation. "This is stupid." He announced with finality. As if that would help.
Mycroft nodded. Instead of looking at Lestrade, unable to meet his gaze, his eyes wondered around, studying the well-known surroundings. They'd met in this park many times in the past, come here together more times than he can count, walked down the alleys, sat beside the lake he still could see from the hill they were standing at. Half obscured by the tree branches, the dark blue water glistened in the sun. Close behind was a long stone staircase with the balustrade that Lestrade had once tried to slide down. It didn't go well; he was fortunate they were not too high up the staircase then and the fall ended only in a couple of bruisers, a scratch and a wounded pride as Mycroft wouldn't stop laughing.
"So what now?" Lestrade's snappish question brought him back from his thoughts. On instinct, by force of habit, Mycroft lifted his eyes to meet his. Without saying a word he shook his head from side to side.
"Fine." Lestrade didn't register how his voice raised in volume, anger returning to cover up the pain. "Do whatever you want. I don't care anymore."
He swung his hand, taking an abrupt step forward. He was hurt and furious, his features twisted into an ugly expression, all that had been kept inside finally coming to the surface. Mycroft took a step away from him, a pained frown marring his own features.
"Why are you doing this?" Lestrade asked. Even though he knew the answer, understood his lover's – no, now ex-lover's – reasoning, the question still tore at his heart. "Why?"
It came with more fury than he wanted it to; angrily he crossed the distance between them. It was so abrupt; Mycroft took a step back on impulse. And then another to create more distance between them, but in the next moment the matter lost importance. Everything had lost meaning. Because the next thing Lestrade remembered was Mycroft flailing his hands, reaching out to grab onto the other man, but he was standing just out of reach and Lestrade wasn't quick enough to catch him and Mycroft was falling back, his body colliding with stone steps and rolling down and down. Like in slow motion Lestrade watched how his head collided with the grey stone, unable to help, frozen in his helplessness. The stairs finally ended and Mycroft's unconscious body was lying at the bottom of it, unmoving. For an endless moment Lestrade though he was dead. It was the most terrifying thing he had ever experienced in his life.
The second most terrifying thing was when he was in the hospital, standing before the door to Mycroft's room, too scared to enter and see the hate on the man's face. Hate for what had happened. He remembered Sherlock saying that it was an accident in passing, but at the time he didn't pay much attention to that. When the younger Holmes took him aside and repeated the diagnosis Mycroft's doctor had just explained to him, Lestrade didn't know if he should be relieved or grieving. Because Mycroft didn't remember. Some sort of amnesia, he didn't bother to remember what kind exactly; the only thing important was that Mycroft didn't remember.
It was good. The weight of a decision he had to make was gone. He held no memory of their quarrel; that way he didn't hear his ex-lover's shouting and didn't see the anger on his face. There could not be sadness if there was no break up.
It was terrible because there was no break up and no relationship to be broken. No first meeting, no first kiss or first night together. No memory of quiet evenings together, curled up on the sofa watching a movie that bored them both to death but was considered very good so they simply had to watch it. Not even a reminder of everything they had had.
A nightmare in a colorful package.
He didn't see any other way but to leave; to disappear as if he had never existed in Mycroft's life. Not even a memory. Just a mere ghost of a memory. A déjà vu.
He managed to hold on for a couple of years, a period of time spent with no meaning in his life. Because from that time on he considered himself completely alone, having grown cold to his many friends. As the solitude was the only thing he desired, he managed to succeed in his career and got an offer to become the DI. It was merely an offer because by that point he was considering leaving the police. And then he got the chance he was unconsciously waiting for. A position of a DI away from London in a very small town – the one which was the homeland to the Holmes family; the exact place, he knew from Sherlock, Mrs. Holmes took her older son for his rehabilitation period. Without thinking Lestrade agreed. More than anything he wanted to meet his ex-lover, to see with his own eyes how he was doing and to make sure that despite the accident he still could be happy.
He had seen Mycroft on the very first day of his arrival. He looked not much different from how Lestrade remembered, still as calm and detached and handsome, if maybe a bit more relaxed. While Lestrade watched from the distance to see how Mycroft accompanied his mother to her, as he found out later, weekly shopping trip, he had decided a few things for himself. First of all, Mrs. Holmes looked genuinely happy with her older son by her side; and Mycroft loved his mother more than anyone, that was doubtless, and would go to any lengths to ensure her happiness. In some sense that aspiration of his had brought them into this mess, but Lestrade disregarded those thoughts very quickly. It would not do him well to dwell on the past, especially in such a manner. Mommy Holmes had suffered through the ordeal as greatly as the other parties involved.
The second thing Lestrade noted was that Mycroft himself looked good; there was no trace of distress or irritation in his features, which could only mean that he was quite happy here. And thirdly Lestrade decided that if Mycroft was happy here, he could be as well. He'd also have a chance to see the man he still loved occasionally. It should be enough. For the majority of the time it was enough.
Lestrade had also resolved that while he allowed himself to watch Mycroft for as long as his heart desired, he'd not reveal his presence to the other man. He came to this town to look after him and he wasn't going to risk it by bringing back terrible memories of their parting. He could not imagine any other expression but fury on Mycroft's face at their meeting. For what he had done to the person he loved, Lestrade felt he would never be able to look him in the eyes again.
That's how he had settled with a quiet life in a forgotten town watching afar how the life of Mycroft Holmes went by. He'd never thought it'd change…
/
"Detective Inspector, it's a pleasure," the soft voice of Mrs. Holmes greeted him as the woman caught up with him on the street. It was the day after Lestrade got an evening visit from Mycroft; his mind had yet to catch up to his body, which had promptly accepted the old routine of having the other man within reach.
"Good morning, Mrs. Holmes." Lestrade replied somewhat stiffly. His eyes immediately went to Mycroft, just a step behind his mother. Lestrade's smile was tense but not insincere. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."
A lie. Of course he did, having memorized Mrs. Holmes's shopping schedule during his first week in this town. He found it surprising at first that with their status and wealth the Holmes led a very simple life style, so different from how it used to be in London, but after months had passed he realized that there just wasn't much else to do. He surely wasn't going to complain as it gave him a chance to observe the Holmes'.
"Just my usual stroll round the town," Mrs. Holmes commented. Smiling, she leaned to him and put her palm on his elbow. "It's actually wonderful that we met you. I hoped I could talk you into another dinner."
Lestrade's gaze momentarily slid over the woman's shoulder to find Mycroft's eyes to see his reaction. The man gave a discreet nod and, when Lestrade gulped and his hand twitched, a smirk, reading Lestrade's thoughts and desires in those small gestures. "I can't promise you anything," the DI's eyes returned to Mrs. Holmes who was waiting for his answer with anticipation. "But I will see if I'm free this weekend."
"That would be lovely," Mrs. Holmes nodded and, letting go of his hand, took a step back. Her eyes flicked to him and then she half turned to look at her son. Her eyes narrowed, but the moment passed very quickly and, with another smile she said her good bye.
Lestrade nodded to her and, as the mother and son retreated, he followed them with his eyes. A few steps away Mycroft had thrown a glance at him over his shoulder, blue eyes twinkled with mirth. Lestrade sent him a smirk and went on his own way.
/
"Detective Inspector Lestrade?"
"Mycroft?" Lestrade asked in confusion. He pulled the phone away from his ear to glance at the screen; the unknown number was displayed but now that it was associated with Mycroft Holmes's name; he put the phone back to his ear.
"Yes, Gregory." The man on the other end of the line replied. "It's sweet how you can recognize my voice so easily even through the telephone connection."
"There is nothing exceptional about it."
"I'll let you believe that," Mycroft replied; Lestrade could imagine him smirking as he said that. However tired and irritated with mind games he was he couldn't contain a smile. Even years passed and Mycroft still was able to make him feel better so easily.
"Did you want something?" He asked. "Or did you call simply to hear my voice?"
"I was hoping that I can persuade you to come to a dinner in the Holmes household."
"How official," Lestrade snorted. "I never thought you'd want me to dine with your mother so much."
"Well, Mommy will be there. And I will be present as well. Isn't it a good enough reason for you?"
"Depends on how warm your welcome will be."
"I could have promised you something unforgettable…" Mycroft mused. "If not for the fact that, how you graciously reminded me, my mother will be there."
"Hm…you are right. We don't want to traumatize her."
"Not much at least," Mycroft's laugh was quiet, slightly colored by the static of the phone connection. He grew silent after that and Lestrade didn't feel a need to break it.
How long had it been since they talked like that; an easy banter used to be their normal form of conversation. After years of silent glances from afar it felt new and familiar at the same; they were both years older but right at that moment he seemed to himself a youngster, just a step away from his childhood, speaking with the boy he liked for hours and hours on end; there used to be a lot of animated chatter and the breaks of awkward silence and then the comfortable silence.
"I think I'd rather spend time alone with you," he admitted in a whisper.
"Would you?" Mycroft's voice took the same tone; it was so quiet his words were barely heard. It was like they were sharing a secret.
"You know I would."
Mycroft hummed, pleased. "So would I."
Another silence followed. Lestrade moved away from his living room and relocated to the bedroom. He didn't bother to turn on the lights, just shredded his jacket and flopped on the bed. He sprawled on his back, the phone still in hand held to his ear. The sound of Mycroft's breathing lulling after another long day. He closed his eyes and allowed his imagination take control. That breathing, that voice, that man…
"It's decided then." Mycroft's cheerful announcement brought him back to the ground.
"Sorry, what?" Lestrade's words were a bit slurred and he already sounded sleepy.
"I'm coming to your place for dinner."
Lestrade was so surprised he was at a loss for words.
"Saturday should be fine, I think." Mycroft continued, not fazed by the silence on the other end. When Lestrade didn't reply he added hesitantly. "You don't mind, do you?"
"No." He hastened to reassure. "Of course, not. I'm not sure if I'll be able to provide a worthy dinner though. I'm not the best cook, you know."
"I don't mind," Mycroft retorted affectionately. "After all, I had to suffer through some of your cooking masterpieces in my youth."
"It wasn't that bad…"
"It was." The finality in his voice left no place for doubt. Lestrade only hoped that his skills in that area had improved significantly since then, at least to make his food bearable.
"But I promise to be there even if the food is absolutely terrible."
Oh how he loved Mycroft Holmes…
/
It was a week after that when his postponed meeting with Mrs. Holmes happened. Truth be told he had finally agreed to a lunch with her because he hoped to catch a glimpse of Mycroft in the house. In high spirits he entered the small dining room with large windows providing a spectacular view of the garden surrounding the house, but as soon as his feet crossed the threshold he got a feeling that this meeting would not be as pleasant as the previous once. The hostess of the house was sitting in a chair, away from the table; she greeted him with a polite smile, but he didn't fail to notice that it lacked the usual familiarity. It was cold and detached. It made him uneasy.
Nonetheless he answered her greeting, more feeling behind his own smile and, as she gestured for him to sit down in a chair opposite from her, followed the silent order and settled in the chair, not allowing himself to completely relax into the embroidered upholstery.
It may have been just a play of his imagination or the dark clouds outside were to blame, but the atmosphere seemed tense, if not subtly hostile.
"Detective Inspector," Mrs. Holmes started saying after moments of uncomfortable silence for the duration of which she simply inspected him. Her voice was very polite with an edge of coldness, which left Lestrade wondering what he had done to displease her so much. "I need to talk to you about a very delicate matter."
He nodded, unsure what answer could be given to such a statement.
"You seem to me a very nice man. Honorable."
"I'm glad that this is an impression I left on you, Mrs. Holmes," Lestrade retorted, maintaining the cold politeness she had set in the beginning.
"There were however a couple of occurrences that had left me doubtful."
Lestrade gave her a confused frown, but on the inside he already had a vague suspicion that he knew what all this was about. How he had hoped to avoid this confrontation. He sincerely hoped it'd never have to happen, but his realistic side understood that the day would come; he just didn't count on it happening so soon. And he had always imagined Mycroft at his side when that day would inevitably happen.
"I'm dreading to hear what occurrences you mean." That sounded insincere even to his own ears. She knows, I know, we are just dancing around the subject waiting the other to say it first, he thought. The tension grew and he gripped the armrest with a little too much force.
"Mr. Lestrade," the woman said harshly and he flinched, waiting for an angry tirade to come. It didn't though; Mrs. Holmes suddenly slumped in her chair and looked at him with tired eyes. "I'm tired of this constant fight. It never ends." Her quiet bitter laugh interjected between the words. "It never ends because I refuse to give up. I know that if I just left it, I wouldn't have to fight anymore. It's strange really, because it's a one-sided war, if you can call it that."
"With Mycroft," Lestrade added.
Mrs. Holmes nodded. "I just wanted him to be happy. I love my sons more than anyone in the world."
"I understand."
"I'm not sure that you do," she replied, her voice growing stronger again. The confidence returned to her and she sat straighter in her chair. The gaze of her blue eyes turned hard as she stared into his eyes. "I did everything in my power to make sure my sons will have a future they deserved. In Mycroft's case…The political career laid ahead of him. A…" She hesitated and averted her eyes. "A love affair with a man didn't fit in that future."
"Yeah, probably as well as his opinion on the matter," Lestrade couldn't hold back a snort. "Did you ever consider his wishes? Or just your own?" It was cruel, but as she brought up the subject herself he felt the anger, which he had buried deep down long ago, come back to the surface. Contained for so long it was still fresh and intense. It's no one's fault, Mycroft's words ran in his mind. No one's. Lestrade didn't have the right to push all the blame on this miserable woman. She only wanted what was best for her son; what she thought was best. If anyone was to blame….
"I didn't want a fling of his younger days to put a shadow on his future." Mrs. Holmes replied angrily.
"You've never even imagined that it was more than a fling…" He said, the regret and bitterness were unmasked in his voice.
She stood sharply, took a large book from the side table and threw it in Lestrade's lap. He clutched it until it fell to the floor. His fingers glided over the leather cover. A photo album. It was Mycroft's old photo album.
"I never expected you to deceive me like that," Mrs. Holmes muttered. She seemed calmer, but he knew it was only because she managed to take control over her emotions. "When I first met you I thought that you looked kind of familiar; I always had a good memory and my age did nothing to worsen it. I admit it was nothing more than a feeling of déjà vu…I dismissed it." She leaned back in the chair, her eyes fixed on the album. Under her gaze he slowly hooked his fingers over the cover and opened it very carefully. The first page was graced with a picture of Mycroft. He was scowling right at the camera, but the lines around his mouth and the glint of his eyes showed that he was trying to contain a smile. It was his first day at Eton.
Mrs. Holmes's face softened. "He used to be such a lovely boy."
"He is a lovely man now," Lestrade commented.
The woman didn't react to that. She continued with her story. "Then I noticed those glances." She frowned, troubled; she was too tired for anger already. She still had metal power for snide though. "Between you and Mycroft."
Yes, back then and even now they both were too happy to play the game of subtlety properly. Lestrade ducked his head, suddenly shameful for such behavior. Around Mycroft he felt like a teenager again; secret dates and badly concealed glances made him elated.
"So?" He asked with challenge, but it was only a façade.
"I looked through this," she waved her hand in the direction of the album, bringing Lestrade's attention back to it. He turned another page, with affection watching Mycroft's young and carefree smiles, however small they were. On the fifth page his eyes fell on a first photo where Mycroft wasn't alone. He was standing by the window and by his side was another young man; Lestrade's own younger face looked back at him. There was distance between them, they were not touching, standing by different sides of the window, but the connection, just a friendship yet, was tangible.
"Then I realized who you are." The woman's cold voice dissolved the warmth of the memory. "How dare you…" Her voice broke. She looked down, squeezing her eyes tight. "You did this to him."
The accusation stung. Lestrade suddenly felt very cold, sitting frozen in his chair, unable to tear his eyes from the picture. He felt his hands tremble and gripped the leather cover with more force. After a moment of tense silence he bolted from the chair, throwing the album back at the table so that it closed. As if his sudden action gave her a charge of energy Mrs. Holmes started speaking hurriedly, heatedly.
"You did this to my boy. You hurt him. You broke him. You ruined his life."
Every new accusation, delivered in a controlled quiet voice, was another blow to his heart, tearing apart the wounds that had never actually healed. He backed away and then stepped back to her, clutching his hands into fists at his sides. Shocked at such cruelty from this sweet old woman, he turned away sharply and paced, disordered movements reflecting his inner turmoil. He spared one glance at the woman in the chair and stilled.
"Your fault. It's your fault. It's you…You. You." Mrs. Holmes chanted. The lack of any expression on her face as she stared into space was scary.
With terrifying clarity he realized that even though she started with blaming him, her words now were addressed to no one but herself. Without thinking Lestrade reached her in two long strides and lowered on one knee in front of her chair. "Mrs. Holmes," he called out softly. Gently he took her shaking hands. "Mrs. Holmes."
Her tear-filled eyes focused on his face. "You didn't do anything wrong."
Her face hardened again. "I know," she said stiffly and pushed him away. She rose from the chair and moved to the other side of the room. "I know." Her voice cracked. She shook her head. "I just wanted Mycroft to be happy…"
Lestrade slowly rose to his feet. He didn't have anything to say. It was so bizarre, this entire story from the very beginning; everyone involved was left scarred with blame or grief. Years ago when it had happened he couldn't imagine how any of them would be able to have a normal life again, but the last weeks made him reconsider. He got a notion that the happiness wasn't out of reach for them. Was he wrong again?
"I just…" Mrs. Holmes's voice rang clearly in the silence of the room. She stumbled over her words. "I just don't understand…why are you here? Did you follow us? What was the point?"
Mrs. Holmes turned to face him, her blue eyes boring into his, pleading for an answer, struggling to understand. Maybe she already knew, but her old fashioned beliefs prevented her from accepting it.
"Mrs. Holmes," Lestrade held her gaze to strengthen the impact of his statement; it was what he wanted to tell her from the beginning. "I love your son, now as much as before."
Her tortured eyes closed, blocking him away for a long moment. "But you hurt him." She whispered. And then with more strength in her voice, continued. "You broke him. You pushed him down the stairs!" Her eyes snapped open as she shouted and Lestrade backed away at the suffering and anger there. She got up from the chair to put distance between them and crossed the room to stand by the French doors, staring at the garden behind the glass.
"I didn't," he replied weakly, denying what he himself wasn't sure in.
"You did!" Mrs. Holmes spun around and screamed and it reverberated off the walls, filling the room with her voice alone. "You pushed him! And he fell! Fell down those long stony stairs!" Her entire petit frame shook with emotion and she seemed smaller, as if her own words were weighing her down. She reached with her right hand, blindly searching for a purchase, and her palm slid over the glass surface of the window until her nails scraped over it. "I've been there after…I've seen that place. It is so high…" The last word was no more than a tortured sigh.
"How could you do this to a person you claimed you loved!" The angry energy returned to Mrs. Holmes and, even though she looked like her knees would give out and she'd fall any moment, the suffering she'd concealed for a long time burst out and gave her strength to continue.
"I didn't do it!" Lestrade shouted in return. He looked in her face, saw the tears streaming down her cheeks and felt his own spill from the corners of his eyes. This woman, he thought, was mercilessly stabbing a proverbial knife into their wounds. She was hurting him as much as she was hurting herself. He felt defenseless against her attack.
"You did!" She insisted, leaning all her weight on the window behind her. She had the will to fight but her mind, an emotional whirlwind, wasn't able to come up with sensible arguments.
"Yes, I admit, it was my fault." Lestrade retorted. He barely raised his voice but his throat felt raw. "I didn't push Mycroft, I'd never do that to him. But he fell because of me and for that I'd never be able to forgive myself."
Mrs. Holmes was silent, but the fire in her eyes still burned.
"I never wanted something like this to happen," Lestrade said, regret lacing his every word. "When I found out that Mycroft had amnesia…It was…" He paused, forming the words through the lump in his throat. "It was…"
But he didn't finish as the sound of the door opening with a loud bang as the wood hit the wall drowned his words. Both people in the room turned to look who dared disturb their over-emotional conversation.
"Mind telling me what is going on in here?" Mycroft's ever calm voice asked. His eyes flounced from his mother to his lover and back, only the nervousness in those blue depths betrayed his feelings.
"Mycroft," Mrs. Holmes said weakly and the next moment regretted attracting his attention to her. She turned away so that he wouldn't see the tear tracks and wiped them away hastily.
Mycroft lifted his eyebrow questioningly, waiting for an explanation.
"It's nothing," Mrs. Holmes reassured him, but she was too emotionally unstable at that moment to play the part. "Nothing for you to worry about."
"Really?" Mycroft asked skeptically. His eyes softened as he said the next words. "Because I heard most of your conversation, if it can be called that, and it directly concerns me."
"It's-"
Mycroft held his hand up, stopping her from coming up with an excuse. He stepped into the room, the figure of Anthea following like a shadow, but at one glance from him the young woman retreated, closing the door behind her. The three of them stood in silence until Mrs. Holmes pushed herself from the window and sat on one of the chairs by the table. Mycroft's gaze was heavy as he eyed the other two. After a long sigh he said:
"It was no one's fault."
This simple phrase shocked Lestrade and Mrs. Holmes into silence. They watched Mycroft intently, waiting for his next words, both needing it more than they realized.
"It was no one's fault," Mycroft repeated, his words slow and precise, as he tried to convince them in the truth.
"But if I-"
"Gregory," Mycroft interrupted. "I never took you for a masochist."
Mrs. Holmes let out a short laugh; it was on the edge of hysterical.
"I'm telling you that it's not your fault." He turned fully to Lestrade, carefully reaching for his hand. As their fingers brushed and Mycroft's palm slid into his it had an immediate calming effect on the DI. "Stop blaming yourself."
Lestrade gave him a weak tired smile and squeezed the hand in his.
"Mother," Mycroft looked at the woman. Her eyes were glued to their interlocked hands and, startled, she snapped her head up to meet her son's eyes. "There is no fault of yours in this either."
Mrs. Holmes fidgeted in her seat, eyes going to the floor and then back at the two men. Her hands gripped the fabric of her skirt loosely and she took a long deliberate breath. Only after that did she give a faint nod.
"If there is anyone who can make any accusations," Mycroft's tone got colder, irritation shading the words. "It is me. No one else. And I, as you know," he added softly. "Understand that it was nothing but an accident."
"Mycroft," Mrs. Holmes called out softly. She was eager to fill up the possible awkward silence and, now that the needed words were said loud and clear, she felt a need to move on to a more comfortable subject. She looked at her son, her gaze gentle, and with all her motherly care inquired. "Shouldn't you be up in your room? Anthea told me you weren't feeling well in the morning."
Immediately Mycroft expression changed, going from soft calmness to irritation in less than a second. He let go of Lestrade's hand and squared his shoulders, straightening his spine and standing to his full height. "I'm feeling much better now, thank you."
"I know, dear," Mrs. Holmes continued, ignoring the change in her son's attitude. "But just in case, maybe you should go to your room and have some rest?"
"Mother, please stop." Mycroft insisted.
"Mycroft."
"Mother." It was said in a tone cold and detached, emotionless mask slipping into place and finally alerting Mrs. Holmes to his displeasure.
"I think I'd better leave," Lestrade made a move for the door but Mycroft grabbed his hand before he could escape. The grip was iron tight at the first second and then the man remembered himself and unlocked his fingers.
"Stay, it still concerns you too."
Even though he felt like an outsider intruding on a private conversation, no matter that Mycroft claimed otherwise, Lestrade nodded in consent. He already knew what his lover had to say; it had been a problem of this family for a long time, but neither member had viewed it like one. The friends and enemies of the Holmes', the only ones who bothered to understand the three, recognized the full matriarchy of Mrs. Holmes right away. It wasn't that she wanted to have control over her sons' lives, but she still managed to smother them in her love, setting boundaries for their every action. Sometime in high school Sherlock had made it his secondary life goal to disobey her. Mycroft, with his responsibilities as an older son, could never deny 'Mommy' anything. Also with time Sherlock passed his rebellious phase and, even though he denied it, bent to his mother's will without much resistance.
"Mother," Mycroft said after composing himself. He was looking straight in her eyes, almost identical blues staring back at him with slight apprehension. It was then when Lestrade realized that she knew what he was going to say – another truth that everyone knew but preferred to ignore until it burst out in a conflict that had started over nothing. "I'm sorry for what I'm about to do. In no way do I wish to hurt your feelings, but I still probably will."
"Oh, dear," she shook her head.
"I cannot allow this to continue any longer. I know you only mean the best, but please, let me live my own life. I know that after the accident…" he hesitated. He did not want to voice it, but understood that for him to move on it was necessary. "I know how worried and scared you were. But it was long ago. The time when I needed someone to constantly look after me has passed; even Anthea had turned from a nurse to a personal assistant years ago."
Mrs. Holmes lifted her eyebrows questioningly at that but stayed silent.
"I'm very grateful for your care." Mycroft's voice was smooth and even, his eyes held all his emotions. "But it has become overbearing. I know partially it is my fault as well, because I never said 'No' to you, allowing you to lead my life, but now…Now I just want to be on my own."
"So that you'll be able 'to be on your own' with another man?" Mrs. Holmes asked; it could have sounded snide but mostly it just came out bitter.
"Exactly." Mycroft didn't deny that. Instead he blindly reached his hand back for Lestrade to take it. "You never approved of my preferences, but this is a part of who I am."
"I wanted you to be happy," Mrs. Holmes voiced what she always told herself whenever she thought about her sons and decisions she'd made in raising them. "You were young. How was I supposed to understand that it wasn't merely a temporary infatuation? How were you?"
"I understand that." Mycroft nodded. Lestrade squeezed his hand as a gesture of support. "That was before. But now can you see that this is what I really want, what would make me happy?" A note of pleading slipped into his voice and Mycroft didn't cover it up. He wanted his mother to understand.
"If you say so…" Mrs. Holmes muttered and lowered her eyes. She didn't understand, she didn't accept it; she merely bowed under the inevitability.
For Mycroft it wasn't enough; Lestrade knew it from one glance at his gloomy face. But for now it gave them a chance to start anew and try out what they didn't have a chance to try before. For the DI the prospect of a long term relationship, preferably a very long one, was enough to make him smile. They would gain the acceptance of Mrs. Holmes someday, they would have to work on it, just as much as she would, but they would come to an understanding. He'd make sure they would.
Lestrade tugged on Mycroft's hand, drawing him close and switching hands so that the man's right palm laid in his left and he could wind his other hand around Mycroft's waist, pressing the man to his side.
"Everything will be fine," he muttered to Mycroft, kissing his temple softly. His voice was quiet but rang loud in the silent room.
Mrs. Holmes lifted her eyes to them. Slowly, she nodded. The silence continued and, with nothing left to be said, Lestrade steered Mycroft out of the room.
/
"John! Do come in. It's always a pleasure to see my brother's only friend." Mycroft greeted warmly as he opened the door to meet their guests. Cold winter air prickled his warm skin as wind blew past him into the Holmes household. Sherlock scowled at his brother over the doctor's shoulder and was about to deliver a snarky retort but John beat him to it, answering Mycroft's greeting with politeness. They followed him inside, going straight into the dining room where the others had already gathered.
John looked around, taking in the new interior; he rarely visited the Holmes' here. On most occasions they met in London and it seemed between each of his visits Mrs. Holmes changed the color scheme of this room. It was pale yellow this time which harmonized nicely with the wooden parquetry and pearly white upholstery of the chairs around the elongated table. At the end of it a young woman was sitting, a dress of a tame red color attracting attention to her figure right away. She smiled at the new arrivals and he noted that with soft dark hair framing her face she looked quite attractive, very different from the way he was used to seeing Anthea in strict suits. Further behind her a man was standing, John guessed it was the DI Lestrade he had heard so much about over the previous year, ever since Sherlock had burst into his office at the hospital and announced that 'Mycroft had finally realized what an idiot he is'.
"John," Mrs. Holmes exclaimed in a manner similar to her older son and went to hug the doctor. "I rarely have a chance to see you these days."
"Same for me, Mrs. Holmes," the man returned the sentiment with a smile.
"Funny how you're happier to see him than your own son." Sherlock commented as he passed, absolutely impassive, simply making an observation. He strode to one of the chairs by the fireplace and threw himself onto in, getting comfortable.
"Don't be jealous, dear." Mrs. Holmes placated him while letting go of John, gracing him with one more warm smile before retreating further into the room. On her way she slid her hand over Sherlock's shoulder in affectionate gesture. "You at least visit me once in a while unlike John."
"Which is probably for the best," John commented with a glance at Mycroft. The implication that with being the older Holmes's personal doctor he mostly visited in cases of emergencies, but those, thankfully, happened very rarely these days, was very light but did not go unnoticed by those present. "Not that I'm not happy to see you all." He hastened to add.
"Still, you should visit more often," it was Anthea who came up to him next. "And you can drag Sherlock with you. He does not come even nearly enough."
"I visit you more than enough," Sherlock commented from his place by the fire. He stretched in the chair, lazily watching the flames and enjoying the warmth – winter was especially cold that year.
"I can't agree more," Mycroft interjected just out of his habit to contradict. Just like Sherlock he was feeling content and lazy on this cozy winter evening, so he did not want to waste energy on coming up with a more biting retort. He crossed the room to stand beside his lover by the large windows. The view behind them – a magnificent garden all covered in snow – was spectacular.
Sherlock snorted, but did not react in any other way. Mrs. Holmes, after some consideration, took a chair opposite her younger son. "Be nice, boys."
Anthea snickered and John stifled a laugh at the scolding.
"Sure, mother." The Holmes brothers replied in unison, adding to the amusement of their guests.
"Now tell me all the new London rumors." Mrs. Holmes asked Sherlock and John, but it sounded more like a command to the doctor. "I'm especially interested in the mysterious Miss Adler."
Sherlock huffed even before she managed to finish saying the name. "Nothing to tell about."
"The only woman who outwitted Sherlock Holmes," John said wistfully, as if quoting a newspaper headline.
"You make it sound like more than it actually was." Sherlock commented sullenly and defiantly turned away from the curious women and his companion.
"Oh but it was quite an interesting case." John said with a laugh to spite Sherlock. This elicited smiles and pleased gasps from Anthea and Mrs. Holmes, who immediately prompted him to go on with the story. John had a talent for telling stories and he never had a need to come up with the plots for them, his friend's life was more enticing than fiction.
"They love listening to those stories, not even realizing how dangerous all those adventures actually are." Lestrade muttered so that only Mycroft, standing close to him, could hear.
His lover, eyes still on the two women, replied somewhat sadly. "They know. They just prefer not to think about it." He leaned into Lestrade, seeking the other man's warmth, and allowed the DI put a hand around his shoulders. "Just a story to disperse the boredom of the evening."
Taking advantage of the fact that his mother's attention was on Doctor Watson, Mycroft kissed Lestrade, the pressure of his lips lighter than the exhale that escaped them.
"Told you everything would be fine." Lestrade muttered between their lips before giving an answering kiss.
And it was. At least as close to it as it could get. It took almost a year for Mrs. Holmes to get relatively comfortable with the idea of her son having a serious long-term relationship with another man, of being in love with said man. A couple of months more and she acknowledged Gregory Lestrade as an important part of her son's life. She grew to like the man, his habit to be honest and straightforward, his easy-going attitude, when he wasn't stressed, and his sincere aspiration to do anything required for Mycroft's happiness. The care with which he treated Mycroft was the last step to getting if not her blessing than at least her acceptance.
Mycroft hummed agreement. With his eyes closed he nuzzled his lover's cheek, inhaling his scent and simply enjoying the closeness. Since the time when they got together again, more than a year ago now, it still felt fantastic to be able to act so freely, to show his affection without being mindful of every gesture and word. "Merry Christmas," he whispered into Lestrade's warm skin. His eyes closed, he leaned his head on the other man's shoulder and heard a chuckle reverberate in his chest. Strong hands enveloped him in an affectionate embrace.
"It's not until the day after tomorrow." Lestrade answered.
"I know. But it feels like Christmas." Mycroft smiled. His voice dropped even lower, barely heard over the sound of his own breathing. "It's the same giddy happiness of my childhood Christmases."
"Oh…Good then." He planted a soft kiss on Mycroft's temple. "Amazing."
"Yes, amazing." Mycroft breathed out.
The End