Chapter Four-
Lestrade choked on some spit and for the second time that morning was launched into a coughing fit.
Dear Lord—it couldn't possibly—Lestrade couldn't breathe.
"Sorry," came the soft voice again, "I didn't mean to startle you."
Lestrade was able to subdue the coughs. "No, no, not at all, you didn't startle me. I'm just, well I'm surprised, that's all. I mean, it's… wow! It's been ages."
Dull thoughts ached in Greg's head. The natural instinct was happiness. He was so pleased to see him. Joy rushed through his veins, urging him to lunge forward and embrace the man. But the pain held him back. The pain had taken longer to process, but it was more prominent. The joy had been brief; rushing through his veins like electricity. But the pain was the circuit shutting off, the darkness creeping into his bloodline, poisoning it like toxin. This was the man that had abandoned him.
He had spent many hours coming up with the words he'd say if this moment happened. The confrontations, the explosions, the apologies, the begging, the reunion. And now that it was here Lestrade could barely stutter out an audible sentence.
His eyes began to water. God, what a pansy he was. Was he crying? Why on earth was he crying? He thought he'd gotten over this man. He hoped that the coughing fit would be a suitable cover-up for the tears.
"Is it really you?" He asked the other man, his dark brown eyes roaming over his face. He had ginger hair, a large nose, the iconic smart-ass smirk, and eyes that glinted with intelligence. It was definitely Mycroft Holmes.
Something should have happened. There should have been a strong and gentle embrace. There should have been laughter and tears. There should have been words said at the very least. There probably should have even been a good hard punch in the face with the shamble Mycroft had left things in.
But all there was was two men wondering how on earth they had let the other one slip out of their grasp; two men feeling the biting resentment rise in their throats as they remembered how they hadn't spoken for five years; two men staring awkwardly at each other, not sure what to say, the warmth slowly rising to their flushed faces.
Lestrade was the first one to break the silence. He was always less socially awkward. He had always known what to do, what to say… "I thought you were away in India? I thought you'd had… better opportunities there?" He tried to hide the bitterness in his voice.
Mycroft swallowed. "Oh yes, well…. The business in India… didn't work out too well." He thought back to the mosquitos and sweltering heat he'd just escaped from. "I uhm… received a call this morning. Asking me to return to London."
"So you're back then? Staying here? Forever?"
Mycroft couldn't tell if there was dread or hope in Greg's voice.
"Yes, that's the plan."
Another awkward silence fell over the pair. Greg hurried to pick up the papers he'd almost forgotten, stuffing them into his briefcase. "I don't mean to be rude, but I really have to get back to work." He knew it was a cold move, but the panic was finally registering.
Mycroft had broken him, really. Five years ago, with no explanation, Mycroft had suddenly disappeared. No phone call, no note, no explanation. Lestrade had been left all alone, without the best friend that had promised to never leave his side. He'd called in a panic, nearly screaming at Mycroft when he answered. "Where in hell are you?"
Silence. And then.
"I'm in India."
The pain from that moment was finally processing. This man had caused him so much pain… he couldn't bare another moment facing this monster.
He gathered up his briefcase. He wanted to turn around, to say goodbye, to wish Mycroft luck. But he couldn't. It all hurt so terribly. He'd either end up crying or punching Mycroft in the face.
He began to hurry off down the street again.
"Greg!"
The voice stopped him. He should have kept going. He knew he should have kept walking. But he didn't. Because one thing Gregory Lestrade wasn't good at was listening to his gut.
He turned around.
Brown eyes met hazel.
Lestrade waited for him to speak. Maybe he'd finally offer an explanation of why he'd left. An explanation other than "I can't stay here" other than "there's better opportunities where I am now." Or maybe he'd say he was sorry.
But all that was said was, "I need to see you again."