Mycroft Holmes was a man not easily rattled. Looking at his face in the mirror of the men's toilet he grimaced at his reflection. He hadn't slept in three days and had been desperately looking forward to the weekend when he had the first free day in his schedule in over three months.
I should have told that stupid man to mind his own business the moment I first laid eyes on him.
But he hadn't done that. Indeed, he'd done quite the opposite. For a time, he'd even convinced himself that he'd loved the bastard. Mycroft sighed wretchedly, wondering what had possessed him to agree to Reinhardt Ericson's request.
The last thing he needed right now was to get involved with anything even remotely to do with extra terrestrials. But the man had been right, he did owe him. And Mycroft Holmes always paid his debts.
Yet the logistics of what he had just agreed to was by far what would contribute the most to causing him a lovely little stomach ulcer. And just focusing and thinking about what he was planning to do next was almost enough to make him call Ericson back and renege on the agreement.
This wasn't something that allowed him the luxury of picking out a couple of particularly talented SAS officers to accompany him to an interrogation. This required discretion. Even if he swore the hapless blokes to absolute secrecy, he didn't have the authority to make them go with him to America to search for aliens on behalf of his ex-boyfriend.
But there was one person that Mycroft was fully confident he could manipulate, as much as that said person would kick and throw a bloody tantrum at the very thought of doing what he told him. Though perhaps, the mere novelty of real life extra terrestrials would be enough to assure his acquiescence. A normal person's interest would at least be peaked at the mention of flesh and blood alien life. Unfortunately his baby brother was most assuredly not a normal person.
It might be best to have a shot or two of nice hard liquor before he went and laid his cards on the table. He might as well be a nice fellow and give that stomach ulcer a friendly invitation.
He found his trusty personal assistant sitting at her desk, digging into a just opened container of Greek yogurt.
"Clear my schedule for the next week, my dear."
"What!? Tell me you're joking."
"Would that I were," Mycroft said rather dismally.
"The world's not ending, is it?" she asked suspiciously.
Mycroft laughed mirthlessly. "It's nothing so Earth-shattering. Although with aliens, you know as well as I do, that one can never be too sure of anything."
"Aliens?" she said. "You told me you stopped managing incidents involving extra terrestrials! Otherwise I wouldn't have had to put off those Scottish chaps that wanted you to review the wreckage they took into custody last year."
"I'm afraid that for this situation I'm making an exception."
The woman snorted indelicately. "Where are you going?"
"Maine."
"Better take a satellite phone. If you go traipsing about in the wilderness there, you'll be cut off from electronic communication otherwise."
"I'm going to take a commercial flight. I'll text you the number of tickets to purchase within the hour."
Mycroft left the building feeling more than slightly ill. He knew that he had to be stark raving mad for even considering going to the next place on his mind. But damn it, the alternative was worse.
His driver pulled around and cracked the window for instructions before Mycroft entered the vehicle. Mycroft exhaled, hoping his uneasiness didn't show.
"Scotland Yard, please, Simon."
Mycroft pulled his door shut with a little more force than was necessary. Simon looked at him carefully in the mirror.
"Bad day, sir?"
"You could say that."
It was barely past noon and though Mycroft couldn't even remember the last time he'd had a drink this early in the day, he quickly poured himself a heavy shot of Juan Patron from the car's mini-bar. He downed the alcohol quicker than he could truly even taste it and added another shot to the brandy snifter before he could think better of it. He then pulled out his phone and scrolled to the name of the man he was dreading to contact. He punched in a text message.
Driving to SY. Meet me outside in 10 minutes. - MH
A minute passed and then another without any reply. Then his phone buzzed.
What's he done this time? – GL
Mycroft rubbed a hand over his face, at odds with how to respond. Should he give the DI a pretext of coming on behalf of his brother? No, given the situation, honesty was by far the better option. He quickly entered another message.
Actually I need to see you about an issue unrelated to my brother. –MH
The reply came in seconds.
Oh? –GL
Mycroft wrote one more message.
I confess it's a lofty request, but you'll be generously compensated for your time and trouble. - MH
When the car pulled up to Scotland Yard he was far from being anywhere near intoxicated, but had a pleasant warmth in his chest from the tequila. Had he not been an atheist, he would have surely taken the time to mutter a prayer before going any further. After a minute of waiting, Gregory Lestrade exited the building and opened the car door. The DI had a wry expression of interest on his face.
"So," he said, holding the door open and showing no inclination of getting into the vehicle. "What might the high and mighty Mycroft Holmes want with an boring and ordinary DI such as myself?"
Mycroft was only vaguely aware that the expression he must have been wearing was not one of unshakable confidence. He watched as the handsome DI arched a brow at his demeanor. They had only spoken a handful of times and always about Sherlock. He wasn't used to talking about personal matters. His heart rate doubled.
"Are you all right?" Lestrade asked a little uncertainly.
"No," Mycroft answered honestly. "No, I'm really not."
Lestrade finally took the seat next to Mycroft.
"Now I'm really afraid to ask what it is if it makes you look like you're going to vomit all over this Italian leather," he said patting the seat.
Mycroft attempted a steadying deep breath and forced himself to look at the Detective Inspector.
"I received a summons from someone in America. There are things, top secret things, that common citizens in the general populace of the planet have no idea exist. I need to help a man deal with a top-secret problem and I need the assistance of intelligent individuals I can trust. This matter is so sensitive that the few men in this country who already have the security clearance necessary for involvement aren't authorized to take on work of this nature outside of the UK. I can't ask them to accompany me to America. However, I can ask my brother, John Watson, and you."
"What exactly is this about?" Lestrade asked.
Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut, dreading what was coming.
"Extra-terrestrials," he said in a semi strangled tone.
Lestrade was silent for almost a full minute. "Why me?" he asked at length. A sharp sensation tugged at Mycroft's gut. "I understand why you'd involve Sherlock, even John, besides his role to keep Sherlock in line, he's a trained military man. But me, what can I possibly offer you, that you need me to join you in something like this?"
"You already get along with John and mostly get along with my brother," Mycroft stated obliquely. Lestrade snorted, not buying it.
"Please," Mycroft said, uncharacteristically putting a note of emotion into his voice. "I need you to be there. Despite what you're going to think, please know that you'll be doing me an unforgettable service that will be handsomely rewarded with financial dispensation. I'm prepared to write you a check comprising six figures."
Lestrade jerked his head at the words.
"You want to pay me one hundred thousand pounds to help you deal with aliens in the United States?"
Mycroft didn't blink as he held Lestrade's gaze. It was now or never.
"No. I want to pay you two hundred thousand pounds for helping me deal with aliens in the United States whilst pretending to be my husband."
Lestrade blinked. His expression might have been comical, but Mycroft was far from being in a jovial mood.
"I can make it three hundred thousand if you want," he added softly.
Lestrade shook his head as if to clear it and looked at Mycroft carefully.
"So this man that contacted you . . . "
"is an ex of mine, indeed."
"You want him to think you've moved on and found someone else."
"After a fashion, yes. I'd do almost anything to assure that he won't try to talk his way into my bed. If he thinks I'm married, he won't cross any lines."
"How long were the two of you together?"
"Three years. I haven't seen him in nearly ten."
"I'm sure you must realise how ludicrous this sounds."
Mycroft gave him a pointed look of misery.
"Oh, believe me. I do."
"Somehow I never quite imagined it'd come to this when I first started working with your brother on a regular basis."
"I know." Mycroft was aware of the painful tension in his muscles and wished he could make himself relax. Damn it but he wasn't used to being to out of control. It was infinitely worse that Lestrade openly witnessed him being in such a state.
"I only have one question, . . ." Lestrade said after a stretch of silence.
"What do you want to know?"
"Well, here's the thing, if your ex-boyfriend is half as smart as a man who secretly runs the real-life X Files should be, you must understand that in order for your little marriage charade to be convincing, your supposed husband must actually be interested in men. Otherwise this man could easily sniff out your lie. So, . . . how did you know I'm bisexual?"
Mycroft's eyes widened at the DI's words. He felt the air go out of his lungs.
"I, . . . I didn't know."
Now it was Lestrade's turn to look surprised. Then he composed himself and favored Mycroft with a genuine smile. Mycroft felt the tension he'd been feeling quickly change to something decidedly different.
"Look, your brother's saved my arse enough times that I owe him more than I care to admit. We both know that Sherlock, being the insolent git that he is, won't ever ask for help when he needs it. So by extension, helping you is as close as I'll get to helping him." Lestrade sighed theatrically. "I've quite given up on normalcy when dealing with anyone whose surname is Holmes. When I first met your brother, I was convinced there was something in his blood. Now with what I know about you, I'm sure of it. You both have it. By the looks of it in equal measure."
"Does that mean you'll help me?"
"I'm most likely proving my insanity in doing so, but yes. If the great Mycroft Holmes, master puppeteer of the shadows, is so distraught at the thought of doing this without me, then sure, what the hell, aliens can't be any worse than some of the shit I've dealt with in this city."
"I hope you understand that I don't say this often, but thank you. I appreciate this more than you can possibly know."
"I think I have some idea."
"I'll have my assistant issue your department an official excuse to explain your absence from work."
"With the cash your offering, I'm not worried about the state of my employment. Especially, if I can keep the money out of the hands of my ex-wife."
"You needn't worry. I'm quite versed in discretion. The only way she'll know about the money is if you tell her yourself."
Lestrade leaned back in his seat. "What now?"
"Now we pay my dear brother a visit."
"Oh, that'll be fun."
Mycroft let out a tired sigh.
"Indeed."
He only hoped his brother was half as amicable about the situation as Gregory Lestrade had been. But he knew full well that wasn't likely.