Welcome to chapter 2 of my Mystrade slash, and huge thanks to those who have taken the trouble to leave a review. It honestly means the world to know that someone liked my writing enough to make the effort to leave a few words. Thank you very much, and please keep them coming as your opinions are what makes this writing process worthwhile!
Here's hoping you enjoy chapter 2 :)
"Oh my God."
It was worse than Lestrade could have ever imagined. The worse nightmare possible. So now, not only was he going to get the sack, but Mycroft Holmes was going to do it in person. He would probably have him marched out of the building in front of everybody, for added humiliation.
There was only one desperate plan of action Lestrade could think of; grovel pitifully and hope that Mycroft took mercy on him.
He looked around his office in panic. Lestrade was not the most organised man, but today the office looked at its worse. Clutter and papers and dirty coffee cups were strewn everywhere. In a panic now, Lestrade began to frantically tidy up, gathering up piles of paper and stuffing them roughly into drawers, piling up loose folders and hiding them under the desk. He scooped up five dirty cups, looking around desperately for somewhere to hide them, before resorting to shoving them on the highest bookshelf out of sight. Donovan, who had been watching the spectacle with a bemused smirk, dissolved into fits of laughter.
"It's not bloody funny, Donovan!" Lestrade shouted, "Why don't you help rather than being a pain in the arse?"
I'm sorry, sir," she replied, still laughing helplessly, "it's just..."
She stopped abruptly as they both heard decisive footsteps making their way down the office. She turned to look before returning to meet Lestrade's questioning stare with a scared nod.
"He's here," she said, all sense of the situation being funny suddenly gone.
Donovan disappeared quickly as Lestrade grabbed his suit jacket from where it was hanging over the back of his chair. He put it on, slightly breathlessly, and was just doing the button up when a tall, elegant figure entered his office.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade," the man said in a cool, crisp voice.
It was more of a statement than a question, but Lestrade still nodded dumbly in reply. This was the first time he had actually seen Mycroft Holmes face to face, and as he took in the imposing presence of the man, he felt a strange mixture of fear and fascination.
With his expressionless face and steely gaze, it was hard to believe he and Sherlock were brothers, but Lestrade could clearly see the spark of deep intelligence alive within his eyes. He was holding a long, thin black umbrella which he now leant against the doorframe so both hands were free for him to remove his slim black leather gloves. Lestrade's eyes were transfixed as Mycroft's slender fingers delicately pulled at the fingertips of the gloves, sliding them gracefully off his pale hands. It took Lestrade a moment to stop staring and react when he realised that the right hand was actually being extended towards him.
"Mycroft Holmes," the visitor said, introducing himself without a hint of a smile.
Lestrade nervously accepted the hand in his own and was surprised to find how warm it was. He had been expecting it to be ice cold to match the aura of Mycroft.
"Would you like a seat?" Lestrade asked, his voice sounding oddly strangled.
"Thank you," replied Mycroft, lowering himself into one of the chairs in front of Lestrade's desk. "I hope this is a convenient time. I'm afraid my schedule does not really allow for making appointments."
"Oh no, now is absolutely fine, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, sitting awkwardly in his own seat.
Mycroft seemed to fill the entire room, such was the magnitude of his presence. Lestrade was struck by how elegantly attired he was. Mycroft wore a three piece suit in the deepest possible shade of navy blue, a pristine white shirt that looked brand new beneath. The suit must surely have been made to order as it fitted Mycroft to perfection, tapering in at his narrow waist, skimming over his hips to reach the perfect length. His tie was plain pale blue, adding just the slightest splash of carefully co-ordinated colour to the ensemble.
Lestrade was suddenly awkwardly aware that he must look remarkably scruffy in comparison. His own black suit was at least three years old, one of the cuffs frayed and the trousers beginning to go slightly shiny after withstanding multiple washes. His own white shirt was also old, now dulled with a slight tinge of grey. He had not bothered to wear a tie that day, a decision he was now deeply regretting. He made a mental note that night to bring a selection of ties to work and keep them in his office for occasions like this. But what was the point in that? Chances are he would not have a job before the hour was out.
Mycroft leaned back in his chair and placed his hands together, surveying the inspector with interest.
"I've heard a lot about you from my brother, inspector," he said, "seems you and Sherlock have come into contact quite regularly over the past few years."
"Yes we have," replied Lestrade, "he's certainly been a godsend to me on a number of cases."
Mycroft smiled very slightly. "Well, I was hoping we would therefore have an opportunity to converse at some point, but that opportunity has yet to present itself."
"No, it hasn't," said Lestrade, the memories of his last encounter with Mycroft making his stomach clench with embarrassment. He could not stand the anticipation any longer; he had to act before it was too late to save himself.
"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said suddenly, "I really have to apologise to you most sincerely."
Mycroft raised his eyebrows questioningly.
Why?" He asked, "I've only been here a few minutes, what have you done?"
"For what happened the other week at Sherlock's flat," Lestrade continued desperately, "I am so sorry, Sir, for attacking you like that. I honestly believed you were threatening Sherlock. I'd never have dreamed of anything like it if I'd known it was you. I really am so very sorry."
Lestrade finished, looking pleadingly at Mycroft, and was surprised to see the man looking faintly amused.
"Oh dear, inspector," Mycroft said slyly, "do I detect that this has been causing you some worry for a little while?"
He is certainly as sharp and perceptive as Sherlock, thought Lestrade, no doubt there that they share the same genes. He nodded at Mycroft meekly.
"Well I'm sure you'll be delighted to know in that case, inspector, that I was not in the least bit offended or angry by what happened," he said casually.
Lestrade looked astonished. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him.
"I won't pretend that I appreciated the bruise on the back of my leg," Mycroft said crisply, causing Lestrade to wince with shame, "but I was actually very impressed with your actions. You tackled a potentially dangerous situation with determination and you put yourself at risk for the sake of my brother. Any officer could stand around and hesitate and wait until it's too late, but it was impressive to see someone who trusted their gut instinct and was not afraid to act. And for that, I thank you for being there and putting Sherlock's safety as your priority."
Lestrade could not believe his ears; he had to remind himself to breathe. Could it be possible, that not only was he going to get away with his terrible actions, but he was actually being praised for them? Was it remotely feasible that this situation was going to end significantly better than expected? Although he felt completely clueless as to how to react, Lestrade felt he should make some effort at responding.
"It was nothing really," he said weakly, "I just did what seemed like a good idea at the time. Although on reflection, I decided it wasn't such a good idea."
Mycroft shrugged.
"It could have worked out very differently, but personally I was impressed with your actions based on the actual outcome. So thank you."
"Well, thank you then, sir," said Lestrade, the strangling tension that had suffocated him for days finally dissipating as the warmth of relief flooded his body. He was not going to be sacked; he was still going to work in the police. And Mycroft Holmes himself was praising his conduct. Lestrade re-focused on Mycroft with newly appraising eyes, feeling now a heightened sense of respect towards the man.
"This brings us around to the reason I came to see you, inspector," Mycroft continued, "after seeing you in action, I decided you were just the man we needed for some assistance with an operation. Would you be willing to co-operate?"
Lestrade nodded with excessive vigour, causing Mycroft to smile indulgently. At this moment in time, he was willing to do anything he was told, such was his relief at retaining his position.
"I'm assisting the government with some proposals," Mycroft explained, "to increase London's ability to respond to terrorist threats and major incidents. At present it is felt that the various emergency services are not co-ordinated enough. We are working on some fairly ambitious plans to hold full-scale emergency response practice drills, in the city centre, to involve the police, ambulance service, and all the other various personnel that would be necessary to consider."
Lestrade listened intently, drinking in every word.
"I'm identifying different people across the services that could be of assistance in giving us information with regard to what we need to do to organise such an event. I'm looking for an experienced police officer who can work with me on behalf of the police service, and when Sherlock mentioned your name, I thought you might be ideal. How does that sound?"
Lestrade hesitated with surprise at such an unexpected offer.
"Well, yes sir, of course I'd be happy to help," he replied, but Mycroft had instantly detected his confusion.
"Let me guess," Mycroft said perceptively, "you're hesitating because you cannot understand why I'm asking you, when surely representatives from the Ministry of a Defence or a terrorism specialist seems like a more obvious choice."
Lestrade nodded. Mycroft was so remarkably quick-witted it as impossible to conceal anything from him.
"I'll certainly be seeking advice from all those people as well," Mycroft said, " but in my experience it is also extremely helpful to get the perspective of someone who is actually on the streets, doing the job and working in the city on a daily basis. Their insight can be very different to those who simply co-ordinate from above. So that is what I'm hoping you will agree to."
Lestrade nodded, feeling honoured.
"If you honestly believe I can be of any help, I'd love to be involved."
"Excellent," Mycroft said with satisfaction, and without warning stood up. "Now we have that arranged, I'm afraid I really must go, I have another few meetings to get to as quickly as possible. I'll arrange for my assistant to get in touch and arrange a convenient time for a proper meeting."
Lestrade stood opposite Mycroft, their eyes meeting as they shook hands once again.
"It was a pleasure, inspector," Mycroft said softly, before turning on his heel and leaving the office.
Lestrade watched him go, feeling slightly awestruck by everything that had just happened. He was still standing, looking dazed and lost in thought when Donovan poked her head around the doorframe.
"Wow, you need to tell me everything!" She said excitedly, "I bet you're relieved he is gone."
"Yeah, of course I am," said Lestrade in a forced tone of cheer, as he knew deep down that his reply was untrue. He could not explain why, but he had actually felt disappointed when Mycroft had left.
When Mycroft returned to his office, the file he has asked Anthea to compile was waiting on his desk. Eagerly, he sat in his tall, upright leather chair and began to leaf quickly through the pages.
A complete portfolio of everything that could be found on Gregory Lestrade. Anthea had done well, as Mycroft knew she would. They had access to databases and records that would shock most people in terms of what they contained. With a simple command, Mycroft could find out virtually anything about anybody he chose.
Like a greedy child he devoured every page of the report, scanning the words with his quick eyes for nuggets of tantalising information. An excellent service record, good qualifications, strong references, some interesting comments on his character recorded by a Scotland Yard superior. Finally Mycroft spotted the information he was really seeking; highly confidential notes about Lestrade's personal life.
Divorced, living alone.
Mycroft smiled to himself as he turned the page and found a copy of Lestrade's identification card staring back at him, complete with his photograph. Mycroft ran his eyes hungrily over the black and white image, noting the dark eyes, the distinguished greying hair at the temples, the slight crinkles in his skin which were visible due to his smile.
Mycroft never allowed his personal feelings to show to anyone, but right now, in the privacy of his office, he felt the deepest stirrings of desire as he absorbed the likeness of the man in front of him. Lestrade was just the sort of man he found attractive; masculine and strong but still handsome and striking. The moment he had laid eyes on Lestrade, he had felt the pang on attraction with such an overpowering force, that even he with his facade of icy cool had struggled to repress the burning heat of passion that was threatening to engulf his body. It was that which had driven him to invent this nonsensical story about needing Lestrade's assistance with government work. Mycroft was surprised that Lestrade had believed him so easily, but he also knew that he was an excellent liar and was adept at making any story sound believable if the situation required it. And at this present moment, Mycroft wanted nothing more than to spend some time in Lestrade's presence, not with a mind to acting on his feelings, of course. Mycroft shuddered at the thought; a man in his position could never risk leaving himself vulnerable by becoming personally involved with other people. So he would just have to content himself with a few hours of being in close proximity to Lestrade, allowing the personal but ultimately chaste contact to soothe his desires, albeit only slightly. He could never allow himself anything more intimate than that.
A soft tap came on the door and Anthea entered the room.
"Did I find everything you were looking for?" She asked when she saw Mycroft was looking through the folder she had compiled.
"Perfect, thank you," Mycroft said, "I was hoping you could telephone the inspector at some point and arrange a time when it would be convenient for him to come here for a meeting."
"Of course," said Anthea, taking her phone out of her pocket in order to enter the instruction on her electronic diary. "When would you like to see him?"
Mycroft looked once again at Lestrade's photograph, discreetly stroking his finger down the image, imagining the warmth of skin beneath his touch.
"As soon as possible."