Beta:OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

A/N: And again I remind you, my dear readers, that the story takes place years before the start of the series, thus the character are younger so may seem OOC. But I blame it on their inexperience:)

Chapter 2. Getting Familiar With Mr. Holmes

That must be interesting, Mycroft thought as he looked around the small cluttered living room. Of course he followed the persistent DI not because he had to; one call, one wave of his hand and the situation would have been resolved. He had a meeting planned for the evening but he asked the PA to cancel it, the reason behind it less than dignified. Mycroft was intrigued. He allowed himself to be led by his curiosity, let the insistent charismatic policeman drag him away.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft knew about him, reports on Sherlock's activity included him quite often. Lestrade was promoted to DI half a year before, approximately months after he started working with Sherlock Holmes. Not that there was much enthusiasm on the part of the police at first, some of the policemen still found the consulting detective a nuisance, but Lestrade quickly realized the potential of the arrogant young man who took the crime solving as a game, but was too good in that game. That thing alone was enough to make Mycroft notice him. A person who can stand his brother for so long deserved appreciation; moreover Lestrade wasn't actually talentless in his job.

But the best thing about him, Mycroft admitted to himself, was that the man was good-looking. Very. If not for that small trait of his he'd have never got the pleasure of getting closer to Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft leaned comfortably on the cushions of the old sofa, taking in the interior. Everything was simple, small coffee table with papers scattered all over it, a few different colored mugs squeezed onto the surface here and there; the rest of the furniture consisted of two armchairs, a TV and a bookcase at the furthest wall. The mess was awful, as if no one had cleaned up for months, which probably was the case. With a sigh Mycroft tore his eyes from the particularly big pile of shirts on the floor by the window and turned to face the doorway as he heard the nearing footsteps.

"So Mr. Holmes," the DI frowned. "Do you mind if I call you Mycroft? It's too weird seeing as you are the second Holmes I encountered for the day."

Mycroft nodded stiffly, not pleased with the arrangement but allowing it nonetheless. He wasn't comfortable with familiarity, but in case of association with his brother he could allow Lestrade this small concession.

"Mycroft." Lestrade pronounced, testing how the name sounded. "I take it you are a relative, aren't you?" That wasn't a question Mycroft expected, since the moment he entered the flat he waited for a questioning about the reasons of the failed assassination attempt, not his relation to Sherlock.

"My younger brother," he started stating Sherlock's status in passing, so it wouldn't look like he was actually answering the question. "Has been working with you for some time already, hasn't he?"

"Brother," Lestrade nodded to him. "Interesting. You are kind of similar."

Mycroft couldn't conceal a cringe at the comment.

"As for your question, he has been helping me with some cases. No matter how infuriating he can get, Sherlock's help is invaluable." His unconcern to Mycroft's reaction to him offending Sherlock in passing was rather reckless but refreshing. No need to tell, Mycroft didn't mind; but still most people minded their every word when around him.

"Detective Inspector."

"Gregory." Lestrade interrupted. "I'm calling you by your first name, it's only fair if you do the same."

"Gregory then," Mycroft acknowledged with a small smile. "You brought me here. What are your further intentions?"

"Well, I phoned my colleagues. They started the case, so the police are looking for the man. It's getting late, until morning you'll have to stay here. Then we'll find a nice place to hide you."

"That's stupid," he replied simply. Not even a muscle on his face moved, impassive and calm.

Lestrade frowned. "No, it's not."

"Yes, it is. I should not be here." Mycroft said, but he didn't sound insistent or displeased; if anything his tone was more teasing than anything.

"Too late for you to leave," Lestrade replied lightly, not bothered by it at all.

Mycroft watched him, not bothering to reply. The man was handsome, in his own unique way. His hair were messed up because of a habit of running his fingers through it, and there was stubble on his face. Normally Mycroft would not find it attractive, but for this man and this man alone it gave away a feeling of strength and masculinity. So for Mycroft, who always found powerful men ridiculously attractive, this air of strength about him was very tempting, his raggedy and messed up look unusual for the aristocrat.

"Well then, nothing I can do about it. Seems like I have to stay," Mycroft said nonchalantly, looking away but not missing Lestrade's smirk. From the corner of his eye he watched as the man stepped into the room and made an attempt to tidy up the place. He wasn't very successful in it; the action of picking up shirts from the floor and displacing them on the armchair only gave an illusion of cleaning.

"How about a drink?" Lestrade asked, abandoning the task completely.

"Yes, please."

The DI disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, at least that's what Mycroft assumed. After a moment of consideration he followed, on his way discarding his jacket, making a contribution to the global mess of the place. A report that his PA, whatever her name was, sent to him half an hour ago stated that it was quite possible for him to devote his evening, night and early morning, to communication with the DI without irreparable harm to the state of his business affairs. She knew well that he needed some time off – so why not spend it in the company of a charming policeman. That woman was too perceptive for her own good; on the other hand, if she wasn't then he'd have fired her long ago.

"I've got beer, but I take it your aristocratic highness wouldn't want something so common?" Lestrade asked from his position by the fridge. The sound was muffled as his head was obscured by the white door, one hand on the handle holding it open. "I can find some wine, if you want to?"

Wordlessly, Mycroft stepped close behind him and reached over the man's shoulder. Lestrade's head half-turned, watching the movement until Mycroft's fingers clutched the bottle neck of the beer and tugged it out carefully.

"This will do," he commented and disappeared from the kitchen back to the room.

Lestrade shrugged, took a bottle of his own and followed the man.

Mycroft watched him from his comfortable position, occupying a large part of the sofa. Lestrade had taken off his own jacket the moment they entered the flat, now the sleeves of his white creased shirt were rolled to his forearms and the undone tie dangled from his neck. The whole unkempt look suited him well.

"So what do we do now, Detective Inspector?"

"Gregory. I told you to call me Gregory."

"I do not follow anyone's orders," Mycroft replied confidently, but his blue eyes twinkled playfully. "Unless I want to."

Lestrade smirked and flopped on the sofa, squeezing his body in the small space left by the other man, which left them pressed together tightly, Mycroft's calves of his crossed legs to Lestrade's thighs.

"Will I get an answer to my question, Gregory?"

"I think…that mostly depends on you." Lestrade replied, moving so that he was sitting with his back to the armrest, almost fully facing the other. "Who are you? A man important enough to be assassinated…"

"Please kindly note that technically I wasn't assassinated. That'd have been terrible."

"Oh yes, I can't imagine what my bosses would do to me if some high class person was killed on my watch."

"I can imagine," Mycroft snorted and took a first swig of the beer. It was bad he had to admit, but that didn't affect his mood.

"Well, you must be someone influential. You have a pretty girl as a personal assistant," he explained his conclusion. "Who by the way lied to me today. How do you choose your employees?"

"Lied? Oh dear…" He feigned shock.

"Yes," Lestrade nodded significantly. "She said her name was Aurora."

"It might as well be," Mycroft shrugged. He smiled at the genuine surprise on the other man's face.

"But you called her Anne."

"Because it's convenient. Short."

Lestrade stared at him, speechless. Then he frowned, "What about her real name then?"

"It's a state secret." Mycroft replied, amusement in his voice at having to point out what to him was obvious.

"But she's your PA. No one knows her name, but you freely tell your name."

"Who says it's real?" Mycroft smiled with mischief.

"Isn't it?"

He remained silent for a moment, giving the DI some time to freely imagine whatever his mind could come up with, before ruining the fantasy. "It is my real name."

"Then why..?"

"Well, when I just started my career there was no need for a pseudonym and when I gained enough power to get serious enemies it was too late because my real name was known already," Mycroft explained. It seemed like a casual talk, may be classified as a heart to heart if he was opening the stranger to secrets he had never told anyone. It actually was that way with the exception that those things were unknown facts not because they were vitally important, but just because no one bothered to ask them before. These were insignificant small facts that no one wanted to know.

The silence that settled for the next moments gave Mycroft time to think over the situation. When he allowed the DI to drag him away and bring him to his flat he was shamelessly counting on a nice one night stand with the policeman, but time passed and they were simply talking. The man was asking questions, not prying but the ones that needed full open responses. It was nice but also confusing, because Mycroft knew the man wanted him as much as Mycroft wanted him.

"Did you flirt with my PA?" He asked, voice laced with teasing suspicion.

"No," Lestrade denied quickly. Not very smoothly.

"Then why all the questions about her?"

"Because I'm flirting with you." That was much smoother.

"You are not good at it." Or maybe not.

"Good or not, it works."

Mycroft sent him a doubtful glance, but just for the look of it; it didn't take a genius to understand why even with those terrible flirting skills the man still had enough conquests – he had charm.

"You know what I've been thinking?" Lestrade asked, leaning closer to the other man. Mycroft decided that he had a pretty good idea, but that probably wasn't what the man was going to say. So he asked innocently:

"What?"

"You are just so young," the DI said while his right hand inconspicuously landed on Mycroft's knee. Mycroft stifled his laugh at how absolutely not subtle that move was, but he didn't want to give the impression that it was unwanted. "Too young to have an important position."

"I'm a prodigy."

"Oh…" Lestrade breathed out while his hand made slow circles on Mycroft's thigh. This man doesn't have a clue about subtlety, Mycroft thought with amusement. He played ignorant to the other man's actions. "Does it run in the family?"

"Don't ask about my brother while making sexual advances on me."

There was a moment, a pause, Lestrade resisting from spluttering and looking undignified in front of the man he was trying to impress. And wondered if he was failing spectacularly at that or if the situation could still be saved. Judging by Mycroft's reaction everything was going fine, but by his own standards the conversation was far from smooth. But the man was strange, a touch eccentric; which Lestrade should have expected, seeing how he had been socializing with Sherlock Holmes for some time now.

"Mycroft Holmes," he said quietly, leaning closer to him with a hand on Mycroft's lap as leverage. "You are an interesting man."

Mycroft lifted both eyebrows. "There were so many ways you could have turned my comment to your advantage and that's what you come up with?"

"Sorry, I just speak what comes to my mind." Lestrade replied, not baffled by the lapse.

"That's your strength and weakness at the same time. It makes you honest, mostly." Mycroft analyzed. His voice was soft, words lazily falling from his lips as he regarded the man. "At the same time it could intrude with your job. It's a good thing you're not a politician."

A nice throaty laugh was the answer to his words, making Mycroft smile in return.

"I promise, at work I'm not this reckless," the DI replied as his laughter died down.

"I like reckless," Mycroft commented off-handedly, glancing away for a moment. The corners of his mouth quirked into a smile though. When his eyes returned to Lestrade there was a spark in them.

"Nice to know."

Nice to know. Mycroft repeated in his head; the man had no flirting skills at all. But the tone and the intonations worked their magic instead. The DI's voice was low and slightly hoarse, probably because of the years of smoking. It shouldn't have been arousing, Mycroft preferred his lovers moderate and aristocratic, without the flaws that could be noticed at a fleeting meeting – he didn't need them for longer than the duration of a night. In short, he chose people similar to him. Gregory Lestrade was nothing like that. It was very refreshing and intriguing. Probably dangerous, in a sense of feelings, but Mycroft was ready to take this risk.

"What are you thinking so hard about?" Lestrade asked, returning Mycroft's attention to him. He was sitting even closer now, having moved while the other man was lost in his thoughts.

For a short moment Mycroft considered replying 'You', but that would have sounded like a line from a cliché romantic movie with a script writer who severely lacked imagination. It didn't matter that this would also have been the most accurate answer, so instead he asked:

"Why did you decide to be a policeman?" Far from original but not as bad as the first answer that came to his mind.

"That's easy," Lestrade said with a smile. "I wanted to help people."

That simple? Mycroft didn't ask that. He just looked into the hazel eyes of the DI, the eyes that spoke of honesty and inner strength. Without thinking, letting a minute impulse guide him, Mycroft crossed the small remaining distance between them, gently attaching his lips to the other man's. When, after a moment, he leaned back and opened his eyes those hazels stared dreamily back at him. They half closed again and a firm hand on the back of Mycroft's head guided him in another kiss.

"It's getting late," Lestrade whispered into the small space between them as they parted. He glanced at the window; it was dark outside and rain pattered on the glass, but his gaze quickly returned to Mycroft's face, a small quirk of the man's kissed lips, the redness on his cheeks and the brightness of his blue eyes.

"We should probably go to bed," the DI clarified.

No matter how crude that sounded, Mycroft let the other man slowly pull him to his feet by one hand and lead him to the bedroom.

)(

Lestrade woke up because something felt wrong. It was a silly little feeling of suspicion in the back of his mind, whispering that the time for rest was up and there were things that required his attention. That was probably a habit he got from his time as a detective; he didn't have any stories to tell about what some called intuition that had saved his live more than once but it was a nice aid in the busy world he lived in. As he opened his eyes he was greeted with a pleasant darkness, but then he tore his face from the pillow and looked around the room. Soft morning light was streaming through the windows without curtains (he never bothered to get them since he moved in, which was quite a long time ago) lighting up the room. He held no interest in his own room, so he lowered his gaze from the window to the other side of the bed, which was empty. Empty. When it should not be that way. Unless an important person like Mycroft Holmes decided to make breakfast; somehow Lestrade doubted that.

He sat up, a little unstable since he was still sleepy – Lestrade had never been a morning person. And then came the sound that brought him back to his senses with the speed of light. It was soft, barely audible even in the silence of his flat. It was the front door been closed.

Without thinking Lestrade jumped out of the bed, grabbed a pair of jeans from the floor and, tugging them on, he rushed out of the bedroom into the narrow corridor. He grabbed a shirt from the armchair in the living room (who said that throwing your things all over the place wasn't useful?) and without reducing his speed ran out of the flat on a chase after the fleeing Mycroft Holmes.

A/N: Next chapter will be the last.

As any author I'd be very happy to get your reviews:)