CHAPTER THREE
A/N Previous warnings etc. in Chapter One.
Mycroft had been right, Brussels had been tedious in the extreme. He had no sooner returned to London when there was a crisis in Turkey which had required his urgent attention. Soothing ruffled feathers, foreign and domestic, took some time and he felt as though his feet hadn't touched the ground in weeks. He went straight home from the airport and slept for fourteen hours without interruption.
He knew he probably shouldn't be doing this but he gave his driver explicit instructions and then settled back in his seat. It had been almost three weeks and not a word between either of them.
Taking out his mobile he started returning all the non-urgent calls and e-mails that had built up in his absence and he only looked up when his driver told him they had arrived.
They had stopped in an ordinary street of terraced houses in a quiet London suburb. Number 42 looked no different from its neighbours except all the windows were open and, even through the soundproofing provided by the car, he could hear Britten's War Requiem playing.
Mycroft made to get out of the car. He told his driver not to wait, he would ring when he wanted picked up.
He stood at the gate. Now that he was here he was strangely reluctant to go up and knock at the door. He realised his mouth was dry and his palms were sweating. He chided himself. It was the middle of summer. Except he never had sweaty palms until he contemplated arriving unannounced at this house. He went through the gate and looked for a doorbell. Finding none, he knocked hard, hoping he'd be heard over the soaring oratorio.
Britten was abruptly switched off and he heard footsteps approaching the door. It opened and Greg Lestrade was framed in the doorway.
Mycroft had never seen him in anything other than a suit. Him wearing paint-spattered jeans and a t-shirt threw Mycroft off-balance. He was too well aware he was trespassing here but the urge to see Greg after so much time spent with boring diplomats and civil servants had been almost overwhelming. He just hoped he would be welcome.
"Mycroft! What the…How do you know where I live? Stupid question. Come in, will you?"
"Thank you, Gregory," he said, remembering his manners, only too relieved he hadn't been told to bugger off. As he crossed the threshold he was engulfed in the smell of paint, which made him sneeze.
"Ah. Better come into the garden," said Greg apologetically. "It reeks in here."
Mycroft followed him down the hall, through the tidy kitchen and outside into a small, neatly-kept garden. There was a cushioned bench on the grass with a table beside it on which rested a dirty mug and a half-full ashtray.
"Have a seat and I'll put the kettle on. Tea alright? I think we're out of coffee."
"Tea will be fine. No sugar."
Greg took away the mug and ashtray and returned minutes later with two steaming mugs of tea which he plonked on the table, fishing the now-clean ashtray out of his back pocket and sitting at the other end of the bench with a grunt.
"So, to what do I owe the pleasure?" asked Greg. Mycroft sipped his tea which was excellent.
"I came to see how you are. You and John. I could have rung but…anyway. I see you're keeping busy."
"Yeah. I never really had time to redecorate after my wife left. That's one thing about playing the waiting game, you've got all the time in the world to do the things you never had time for before."
"When is your disciplinary hearing?" asked Mycroft.
"Two days' time. They're really dragging their heels on this one," replied Greg morosely. "Digging up as much dirt as they can."
"I'm sure you've got nothing to worry about."
"But what if I have? I'm a thief-taker, Mycroft, and I'm bloody good at it. If they take that away from me, I don't know what I'll do."
He sounded genuinely anguished and there was real pain in his soft, brown eyes. Mycroft tried to ease it.
"So, what would be the best-case scenario?"
"A formal reprimand, a note on my file for a year in case I screw up again and goodbye any hope of promotion for a while. It's not like I can deny what they're saying, I did let Sherlock help me on a lot of my cases."
"At my behest. And with the support of your old Superintendent as I recall." Said Mycroft sharply.
"Yea, well, knowing my luck I'll end up in uniform again, wrestling drunks on a Saturday night and directing tourists to Buckingham Palace."
"You'll just have to wait and see. It might not come to that."
Greg snorted disbelievingly and Mycroft decided to change the subject.
"How's John? I take it he's not here?"
"He's doing a lot better, "smiled Greg. "He's seeing his therapist again regularly now and he's got a job interview today at the A&E department at St Thomas's."
"That's wonderful news."
"Yeah, he said last week that he needed to do something, he couldn't just sit and brood about what happened. Turns out his particular skill set is very much in demand, especially in a major trauma centre like St Thomas's so I'm keeping my fingers crossed. He says if he gets it he's going to look for a flat as well. Completely fresh start. Oh, don't worry, I'll still keep an eye on him."
"I don't doubt it," smiled Mycroft. "He seems to be doing extremely well when you consider…" Greg interrupted him.
"He loved your brother, Mycroft. And so much of what he's going through now is because of what he didn't say when Sherlock was alive to hear it."
Mycroft looked away, afraid that Greg would be able to see all too clearly what he was thinking and silently cursed Sherlock for leaving him with this mess.
"Never mind John," said Greg softly. "How are you coping? He was your brother."
Mycroft was saved from replying by the slamming of the front door and a familiar voice yelling
Hey, Greg! Where are you?"
"In the garden" Greg bellowed back. Mycroft stood up, suddenly nervous again.
"I should go. It's been nice seeing you, Gregory."
John Watson stepped into the garden as Greg replied.
"Likewise. Don't leave it so long next time, eh?"
Both men turned to look at John. Mycroft was amazed at the transformation. Grief had etched some fresh lines on his face but this John Watson no longer resembled the small earth-bound cloud he had seen at Sherlock's funeral. He looked dapper in a suit and tie and he dropped his briefcase, walked over and shook Mycroft's hand. His eyes were clear and bright without a hint of blame or hatred.
"I'm sorry about your eye," were John's first words.
"Forgotten about. You look well, John."
"All thanks to my Dad over there." Greg laughed and flipped him the V sign. "I dunno what I would have done without him these past few weeks."
"I know. I'll leave you to it. I just came round to see how you were and to hear what was happening with Gregory."
John smirked. If ever there was an I'm-not-buying-it expression, it was all over John Watson's face. Mycroft, to his horror, could feel the back of his neck turning red. He looked at Greg.
"Thank you for the tea, Gregory. I'll leave you in peace."
"Here, I'll show you out," smiled Greg.
When he returned to the garden John had his tie off and his shirt sleeves rolled up and was luxuriating in the warm sunshine.
"So?" asked Greg.
"I got the job," smiled John. "I can start next week."
"Good for you, that's brilliant!"
"Can't wait," said John stretching and yawning. "How about you knock the decorating on the head and we go and get pissed? Celebrate a bit. "
"I thought you'd never ask," sighed Greg.
Back in his office Mycroft sat staring into space for the longest time. He had a lot of work to do but could concentrate on only one thing as he weighed up the pros and cons.
"Bugger it," he said aloud and picked up his office phone, pressing a button.
"Get me Scotland yard, please. The Commissioner's office. Yes, I'll hold. Make sure he knows it's me."
Greg and John were halfway through dinner in Greg's favourite curry house and more than a few pints down when John commented out of the blue.
"Mycroft. He fancies you."
Greg almost choked on his lamb pasanda. He took a gulp of lager to wash it down.
"What d'you mean, he fancies me? "John snorted into his beef Madras.
"I've seen the way he looks at you, especially when you're not looking. He's like a lovesick puppy. Face it, Greg. He likes you a hell of a lot."
Greg blushed. His bisexuality had never really been a secret to those who knew him closely.
"Yeah…well…er…" he stuttered. John howled with laughter.
"Oh, this is perfect! Don't tell me you like him as well?"
"He's gorgeous," admitted Greg. "I've always had a thing for redheads."
"I don't believe it, "John chuckled, wiping his eyes and thoroughly enjoying Greg's discomfiture. "Ask him out. What's the worst that could happen?"
"I could get deported. Or I could vanish without trace," said Greg darkly. He refused to say anything else on the subject and John gave up teasing him.
Greg's dreams were disturbed ones that night and he cursed as he stood at the kitchen sink drinking a pint of water and swallowing paracetamol. His entire future would be decided in two days. He didn't need dreams of Mycroft Holmes to cloud his judgement.
TBC