a/n: thanx heaps for reactions and followings - very encouraging!
2. chain reaction
Greg put down the pen and glanced over the fourth version of the note he was thinking of sending to Mycroft. His hand nearly moved to grab and scrunch up the yellow piece of paper from his Oxford writing pad as well, but he resisted the urge. He felt his correspondent needed a reply, even though the letter that he had been reading, and re-reading after he came back from his late lunch, was never supposed to be in his possession, and was Mycroft even aware of this? Maybe he would be spooked by a reply…? But he wished to return some kind of acknowledgement of his joy, and confusion, and slight state of elation at having just read what he had.
Just one more read through, he thought. Wouldn't do any harm.
New Scotland Yard, 4/9
Mycroft,
It was with rather a lot of surprise that I read the letter you wrote to (at?) me, and it was very clear that I was never actually meant to read it. This added to the wonder: why did I receive it?
Not that I wasn't at all pleased – you write ever so lovely, and I don't feel any reply will be nearly as eloquent and well put together as the (handwritten!) piece I have lying here in front of me. I feel flattered, and bemused…
Whoever made sure that I received it should be thanked and not sacked…
Much love, Greg Lestrade
The hour they'd spent together the day before had been far more enjoyable than Greg had thought when he'd accepted Mycroft's invitation. He had been curious, and a little bit flattered that he of all people would take an interest in his person. Of all the people Mycroft Holmes must meet during a week…
He put the note in a blank envelope, wrote 'Mr M Holmes' and wondered where the hell he would send it to… He had absolutely no idea where the man lived, or worked, and started tapping away on his computer, hoping that POIROT, the official search site of the Metropolitan Police, could help him out.
It turned out that it couldn't. Mycroft Holmes, to his intelligence system at least, was invisible. A text to Sherlock perhaps? Maybe he would be happy to provide him with an address. Maybe he should just send Mycroft a text, wouldn't that be far easier…?
~ wondering if you could help me out? Need to send something to your brother, is there an address available? None in the system here. Would be enormously grateful… - GL
He was well aware of the animosity between the two Holmes men, at the best of times, and he hoped that this week there wasn't a feud of any kind going on. He decided not to actually wait for a reply, and went on with his work. Plenty to keep him busy until this evening.
Hours later he heard the pling of his private phone. He looked to see who it was from, noticed the name 'John' on the display and read the words written to him:
~ sorry, Sherlock in massive strop. I believe that Mycroft can be contacted – of a fashion – at the Diogenes Club, where he seems to spend most of his time. Try there. Cheers – JW
Greg looked puzzled. He had heard of this club, apparently frequented by upper-class fossils that have had positions in either the government, the secret service or in science, and he'd visited the place once, to get an 89 year old chap to tell him if he remembered anything suspicious about the place a week before. He couldn't remember a thing, he said. Greg believed him.
Finding the address of the Club that John had mentioned was easy enough, and so Greg scribbled it underneath the recipient's name, and posted it in the nearest letterbox with trepidation. His letter didn't say urgent, but it had a First Class stamp on it, so he knew it would not get there until tomorrow. Until then he would have some sort of peace. He got himself ready to face his wife at home, wondering if she was actually going to talk to him. Stranger things had happened that day...
Kensington, 5th September
Dear Gregory,
Please accept my sincerest apologies for the drivel I've written, addressed to you. This was never meant to be read at all, it was mere diary-writing, in the form of a letter, and I feel extremely mortified for knowing that your eyes have seen it.
A quick investigation has revealed that my personal assistant has seen it fit to send out the envelope, which had your name on it, and make sure that it arrived, by courier I was told, at your desk. For this I have suspended her, and shall make sure that this will never happen again.
Hoping to have remained in some way worthy of your friendship,
Yours, MH
He sighed as he reread his note. Greg's note to him had been sweet, but he was absolutely sure that this was only out of courtesy. Greg was courteous, and sweet, and funny, and warm and awfully difficult to keep out of his head. Greg, he knew from having seen him deal with Sherlock and thugs and his sergeants, was also direct, when he had to be. Direct, honest, clear.
The past night his dreams were haunted by the Detective Inspector, but not in the way he hoped he would be. DI Lestrade was antagonising Mycroft over what he had written, sneered at him for pouring his heart out, repeated all the dreadful thoughts he convinced the attractive man (that had repeatedly saved his younger brother from a fate worse than death) would be having with regards to himself. What possessed him to be open and honest?!
His hands trembled when he put the note in an envelope, un-crested this time. He wrote the address on himself, not trusting his PA with this job (and anyway, he'd sent Anthea home for the rest of the week, leaving him understaffed and all in a muddle. He might have to look into that decision soon), and gave it to the departments' secretary to deal with in whatever way she saw fit. He wouldn't really mind if the note took three weeks to get to Greg.
NSY, 5/9
Mycroft,
We should stop meeting like this…
Of course you are worthy of my friendship, you daft {scribbled out} man! Stop being so bloody insecure… and for what it's worth: I loved what you wrote, and I really wouldn't mind if you carried on, as it makes a wonderful difference to my awful days. It's been centuries since anybody wrote anything diverting to me, and charming, like that – you have no idea how welcome your letter has been. Yes it confused me at first, and I was a little bit perturbed, but that didn't last very long.
Don't stop on my account, if that means anything…
My love, Greg
p.s. make sure that your PA gets a bunch of roses, with my name plus a 'thank you!' on a card attached to it! She's an angel…
Kensington, 8th September
Dear Gregory,
For a few days I wasn't sure what to make of your note. Although it pleased me, I must add.
I am fully aware of your usual honesty, and felt therefore assured that you must have been true when you said that you were happy for me to carry on writing down my thoughts and sending them your way. A part of me feels that it would be inappropriate, somehow. Would it be? We don't on the whole have dealings in a professional manner, and if you are as happy as you say you are, I cannot find reason to not give in to my desire to convey my thoughts and feelings to you. Despite protestations from a little voice deep down inside, which I will give orders now to belt up (how jolly wonderful that felt too…).
How is your day going, I wonder?
Mycroft sat back in his chair, unsure of how to proceed. It felt nice to write to Greg, although a kind of self-consciousness had set in, which wasn't there when he wrote his first letter. He had felt free, and easy, knowing that what he wrote down was not going to be read, and therefore was more a secret, like when he used to keep a diary (he had his suspicions that Sherlock knew how to get to it, even though he had never actually mentioned it to his older brother…). His secret self was bolder, less repressed, more prone to reveal feelings he would normally keep inside, locked away, far from punishment or ridicule…
He scribbled out the last line.
Even though there are tonnes of things I would like to tell you, here, trusted to this piece of paper, I somehow can't. The way I felt three days ago has gone, and knowing you will read this, knowing you will have an opinion makes me feel uncomfortable. So therefor I shall leave it at this and hope you shall accept my apologies and wished for a good day.
Yours, Mycroft
Convinced that this would be it, Mycroft got a courier to send the letter before he would change his mind. A phone call from the Foreign Office, ordering his presence at the ministry within half an hour, put a stop to any worrying he would indubitably find himself into, if left with nothing else to do. Thank god for international troubles, Mycroft mused.
a/n: while doing research into the Met, i found that the search machine they use is called HOLMES...?! {an acronym for something...} woohahaha! to play with this a bit, i've called it POIROT {acronym for nothing yet...}, to suit my 'alternative universe'...