I've always wondered how Lestrade and Mycroft's first meeting would go and when I found this story looking through my old ones, it was the perfect opportunity to add a second chapter x I would recommend never trying to write Mycroft, which is why I don't go into much detail about their conversation - he's much too difficult to pin-point x
Please read and review x This is actually much longer than the last one, which is a testament to how much easier I find it to write something longer without being distracted :)
It wasn't long after he'd first started using Sherlock on his crime scenes, that he got a call from someone important (he wasn't actually sure who), who told him that he would be having a visitor drop by at some point in the next few weeks to see how his division was functioning. Sherlock wasn't mentioned, but Lestrade had a feeling that he had something to do with it - the young man appeared to have much better connections than you would have first thought.
Lestrade didn't know when this visitor would be coming, and, knowing Sherlock's capability with insulting and affronting people, Lestrade elected to keep the younger man out of the way as much as possible. He didn't know who he would be getting and it was all he didn't need to upset some political hot-shot that could have him fired in less than five minutes.
Yes, Sherlock was definitely being kept away from the crime scenes.
oOo
When the inspector, as Lestrade had named him lacking anything else to describe him, arrived, it was in a sleek black car with what appeared to be a driver. You had to be someone to have a driver in London.
The man who got out was bordering on portly, with an expensive suit and polished shoes, followed by a brown-haired woman who had not yet looked up from her mobile phone, fingers moving rapidly over the keys.
Lestrade told one look and sighed. This was going to be a difficult day, one he wished he could put off.
But when the man took one look at the gruesome scene, eyes blank, and turned away, completely uninterested, Lestrade felt his interest stirred. Not many people reacted like that to murder, never mind one as violent as this.
This was getting odd.
The man started to talk, already knowing odd and small things about him, the kind of things he didn't tell anyone. It was unnerving, and Lestrade got the idea was the point of it, to keep him off-balance until he'd revealed more than he should.
And, right now, he was off-balance.
This well dressed man was spewing sthat thatecrets about his smoking habits and his wife's cooking problems, in a way that was vaguely familiar but he couldn't pin-point.
Very quickly they moved on, discussing the case, Lestrade probably giving out more information to a civilian than he was supposed to. They then moved on to some of his colleges and their work, their dedication, all the usual stuff.
And then on to Sherlock.
Lestrade didn't know what to say.
The questions were well phrased, but somehow direct, and all of them were aimed at finding out whether he actually liked Sherlock Holmes, rather than his capabilities. It was rather odd.
Lestrade didn't know what to say to that either. Did he like Sherlock?
He did, he realised, when the dark-haired man wasn't being a complete pain in the neck and when he was clean. He supposed he split his time between liking the younger man and wanting to wring his neck.
His thoughts seem to show on his face, as his questioner assured him that for Sherlock this was normal.
But speak of the devil and the devil shall appear, in a taxi and wearing a new coat. Lestrade actually quite liked it. It suited him well.
His stumbled straight past them, but froze halfway to the body, spinning around stiffly.
"Mycroft."
"Sherlock."
So they did know each other then. The tension was something that Lestrade didn't want to get in between, instead choosing to edge away. Straight across from him, the woman had finally looked up from her phone, apparently sensing the danger in the air.
"Why are you here?" Sherlock hissed, looking more angry than Lestrade had ever seen him. He waited for Sherlock to say something cutting before reducing the other man to tears or anger, but was stunned when the pair instead chose to glare at each other.
"Checking up on you. You know how I worry," He said smoothly.
"Worry less. If I find one more security camera in my bathroom..."
The portly man, Mycroft (and wasn't it odd that Lestrade hadn't caught his name before?), gave him a cold stare, looking more frightening that Lestrade could have believed.
"Stop removing them then. You know how I fret, brother."
Brother?
He swung his head between the two, only now noticing the similarities. He supposed he should have noticed earlier, what with the ruthless deductions and cold manner.
Well, this was a crime scene. He wasn't going to deal with a family spat here, especially one of the Holmes'.
Luckily for him, the brunette (who had still not let go of her Blackberry) interceded, telling Mycroft that he was needed elsewhere - a crisis in Peru or something of the sort.
Lestrade didn't want to know how he knew that.
Either way, still glaring at each other, Mycroft Holmes strode back into the car, telling Lestrade it was interesting to have met him.
He didn't think that Holmes' have to word nice in their vocabulary.
Sherlock huffed and then disappeared to pester forensics.
If he ever had to listen to the two of them in the same room again...
He would quit and move to somewhere far enough that he would never see them again. It would have to be very far though. Apparently not even Peru was far enough.