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The takeaway boxes had been cleared, the plates piled into the sink – which was blissfully free of the viscera that had been there just that morning – and the wine had been poured.
It was that last bit that proved to be the downfall of the evening.
Gregory Lestrade could hold his liquor. If he barely blinked after three pints of dark ale, a half-glass of generic red wasn't going to make the slightest dent in his demeanor. But for some reason, as he drank the wine, he felt flushed, his head swam, his tongue seemed swollen and his skin felt too tight.
He wondered if Sherlock Holmes had spiked the wine with something. Truth serum? Strychnine? Goldenseal?
And then he looked again and saw the cool blue-grey eyes surveying him, and he understood. He wasn't drunk or poisoned. He was being picked apart by the incredible eyes of Mycroft Holmes.
“Really, Detective Inspector. I would have thought you to be the last person to carry the banner for this unfortunate young lady.”
Lestrade scowled into his glass, taking another sip of his wine against his better judgment. He might be coming apart under the Mycroft's gaze, but the drink wasn't helping much, either.
“To me, she's a victim –”
“ – She lied, Detective Inspector. Her falsehood resulted in wasted police manpower, erroneous press reports, and it can be said that she cost him his position –”
“ – He was a knobhead! –”
“ – He is that, and much more. Much worse. I know Mr. Strauss-Kahn personally. He is a despicable pig of a man and a bully. Anyone who has been in his presence for five minutes or less realizes this.”
Mycroft glanced into his glass, nodding slightly at John Watson who poured him another measure of wine.
“But he did not rape that young lady. For the falsehood, she should be punished with some sort of jail sentence. A fine that she will be utterly unable to pay is the sort of useless correction I've come to expect from the American justice system, however.” He took a slow sip. “If Strauss-Kahn were less reviled, there certainly would have been pressure bought to bear on the Americans.”
“And you would have been the tourniquet, I suppose, Mycroft?” said Sherlock Holmes lazily, plucking the strings of his violin.
The elder Holmes shrugged. “I might have been asked my opinion, yes.”
Lestrade sputtered, his eyes wide. “You would've told them to put her in jail, and they'd've done it, wouldn't they?”
Mycroft took another measured sip. “My views would have been taken under advisement … yes.”
“I don't bloody believe you!” exploded Lestrade. “You would've tossed in a woman with a child, working her arse off cleaning after wastes of skin like that bloke, but then you'd've let him go free with a nice first-class ticket back to Paris with champagne and all?”
“It wouldn't have come to all that, Detective Inspector,” said Mycroft mildly. “Mr. Strauss-Kahn's wife has several private planes at her disposal. The British taxpayer would have been well off the hook.”
“You can't be serious. She was a victim –”
“– You have an unusual idea of what constitutes a victim, Mr. Lestrade –”
“Oh, hell, can we go on to something else? This is boring beyond endurance,” growled Sherlock. “It was boring when it first occurred, it continues to be utterly and unremittingly boring.”
Lestrade turned to the consulting detective. “You can't say you agree with him that she –”
“Boring!” barked Sherlock. “John, I told you this was a dreadful idea. Next time you suggest something of the sort, I will delete it immediately.”
“It wasn't my idea,” said the blond doctor, rolling his eyes. “Greg wanted to give a special thanks for our helping with that case, and I thought it was bloody nice of him to buy us dinner. Good thing, since someone didn't get the meat and veg he was supposed to, and there's not a thing in the refrigerator except sections of large intestine!”
“Experiment,” mumbled Sherlock, tuning a peg on his instrument. “Lestrade, Mycroft, if you are going to continue to be boring, then I would say this … night of collegial conversation and fellowship has officially reached its end.”
“Sherlock!” hissed John, looking at their guests apologetically.
Mycroft rose. “Quite all right, John. I've a busy morning tomorrow anyway. I do appreciate your gracious invitation.”
He turned to Greg. “Good seeing you again, Detective Inspector, and thank you for the charming discourse.”
“Yeah … well, if talking about throwing the book at a girl who probably has been bulled about by men her entire life is charming, good thing I didn't bring up what's going on at that Guantanamo Bay prison.”
Mycroft was about to respond, when Sherlock chuckled darkly, plucking a discordant chord on his violin.
“Thank god!” he exclaimed. “Thank bloody god!”
The red-haired man sighed. “Yes, Sherlock, we're leaving. You can now resume terrorizing John and Mrs. Hudson with putrefying human offal.”
Sherlock grinned at him. “No. Well … yes, that of course ...”
“No.” That was from John, and his eyes brooked no argument. “The guts get binned tonight. There's already such an awful stink, I don't know if it'll ever come out of the wallpaper.”
Sherlock paid John no mind, and glared at his brother. “I wasn't talking about your leaving, though that, as always, is a cause for rejoicing. I was reflecting on the idea that I should be quite thankful that you and Lestrade have given up your idea of becoming romantically involved with one another.”
Mycroft blinked slowly and Greg stood quickly, almost spilling his wine.
“What?”
“Come off it, Lestrade. It's rather obvious. Even more so now that your divorce has been finalized.” Sherlock squinted at the bridge of the instrument. “And you are utterly incapable of discreetly checking out my brother's arse.”
He paled and shuddered. “And I'd thank you to never again give me cause to utter those words.”
“I'd thank you for that, too,” murmured John, looking very disturbed.
Lestrade felt his face heat up and his throat constrict. “I don't know what the hell you're playing at, Sherlock, but –”
“And you, brother dear,” said Sherlock, ignoring the DI utterly, “I know the signs of infatuation in you. I did, after all, share a room with you for some time.”
His smile was insinuating and Greg thought he saw Mycroft actually blush.
“So true,” said the politician in an even voice. “And by that same token, I can recognize the signs in you.”
Sherlock's smile dropped like a pair of forgotten trousers. Both brothers looked toward John.
John noticed that he was now the center of attention, and he frowned. “What?”
Sherlock cleared his throat. “At any rate, while you can be infuriatingly dense, Lestrade, and you, Mycroft, just infuriating, it is gratifying to know that you both, independently of each other, obviously, reached the quite accurate conclusion that a … relationship between you would be an unmitigated disaster.”
He raised his bow in salute. “Cheers to you both.”
Lestrade knew he had to say something. Deny, obfuscate, threaten to bring charges, something to get attention away from the fact that Sherlock knew he fancied his brother, and that now Mycroft knew – if he hadn't already. And John knew.
Dear gods above … wait … when did Sherlock see me looking at Mycroft's arse?
While Lestrade was trying to puzzle that out, Mycroft was shrugging into his greatcoat.
“Sherlock, the next time you feel your guests have overstayed their welcomes, a simple 'Piss off' will suffice. Or dropping said guests out of a window might do nicely.”
“If I thought that would deter you at all, believe me, I'd do it,” grumbled Sherlock.
Lestrade put his cup down and snatched his coat. His face was no less red, but he decided to pass that off to the wine. He felt anger and embarrassment welling up in him, and he wondered what was it about 221B fucking Baker Street that turned him into a figure of fun – in front of others – every time? It was there that Sherlock had announced to all and sundry that the DI's estranged wife hadn't stopped fucking her bit on the side. And here they were again, not five months later, with the declaration that he wanted Mycroft …
Which is true, but for fuck's sake … can't he keep his gob shut on anything?
“I don't think I'm going to have any cases for you for awhile,” snarled Lestrade as he all but ran for the door. “Evening, John. My–, er, Mr. Holmes.” He darted a glance at the elegant man, but turned quickly away.
Greg ran down the steps, glad to be out of there and away from Sherlock's disdain and Mycroft's incisive eyes.
“He needs a case, Detective Inspector. I beseech you. Please.”
Greg wanted one day, just one day, where he wasn't wading through unimaginable gore, unimaginable paperwork, or unimaginable egos. The morning had brought him a triple homicide, red tape to navigate for authorization on a much-needed stakeout, and the Chief Inspector having been in a snit because of a report he'd not seen.
And now, to top it off, he had Mycroft Holmes in his office. Looking quite –
delectable –
– official in his uniform of three-piece, obscenely expensive suit, watch fob and brolly.
“Any case will do. He won't be picky.” The man paused. “You have my word. He is driving John spare, and I fear what he might do if he is left too long without something with which to occupy his mind.”
It had been two weeks since that night at Baker Street, and Greg had been surprised at how successful he'd been in avoiding Sherlock. He'd ignored the detective's texts and calls, and had not been surprised by him at any of his latest crime scenes. Although, the latter was to be expected since the crimes had not been particularly difficult to work out. John had texted a couple of times, but Greg had been terse with the former Army doctor, not wanting to drag him int the silent war he and Sherlock were having.
“It's not my job to keep him occupied,” said Lestrade. “I'm not a seal trainer and cases aren't fish I can just throw to him as a treat.”
Mycroft studied him silently for awhile. “You still can't be angry about the other night.”
Lestrade glowered at him. “I can't? Try me.”
“But Detective Inspector, surely you understand that is Sherlock's modus operandi,” said Mycroft. “He is a petulant, willful child in many ways, and like such children, he uses rudeness as a way of garnering attention –”
“Well, I'm done with the attention I get whenever I go there and your brother decides he can't be arsed to be a good host.” Lestrade was breathing heavily. “It's the second time I've gotten ambushed there, and I'm sick of it.”
The politician tilted his head. “Ah, yes. Sherlock revealed your spouse's affair at the Christmas 'do, yes?”
“Yes.”
“But surely you knew that your now ex-wife was continuing her infidelity. Surely it couldn't have come as a surprise –”
“No. I didn't know.” Lestrade looked down at his desk. “Well, not for certain. She'd wanted to reconcile. I thought she'd thrown the bloke over. Maybe … I wasn't 100 percent sure she had, but I didn't need it thrown in my face in front of a whole bloody crowd of people!”
“That was, I can admit, regrettable,” said Mycroft. “But I can't understand what this has to do with the other night. There was no 'bloody crowd of people.' Just yourself, myself, John and my brother.”
“So?” Lestrade ground out. “That's supposed to make it all right, because I got embarrassed in front of fewer people this time?”
“Forgive me, Detective Inspector, but I assumed your discomfiture at the Christmas party was down to the fact that no one, save you and my brother, even suspected the source of your marital strife.” Mycroft's brow creased in thought. “Whereas the other night, there was no one in that room who was not aware of the situation.”
Greg stared at him, not believing his ears. “You can't seriously be saying that John thinks we fancy each other –”
“My brother tells Dr. Watson everything. Surely you've realized that. Did you not notice the complete lack of surprise in John's expression?”
Lestrade silently shook his head. He'd been a little too busy fighting the impulse to throw his wine – glass and all – at Sherlock's bloody head.
“Our attraction to each other is rather evident,” continued Mycroft casually. “Well, to trained observers, at any rate. Though, my brother is correct in that you are most indiscreet in your ogling.”
Greg's face went red. “Well … I – I … maybe I've seen you aim a glance or two my way!”
A slow smile spread across the redhead's face. “Perhaps I wasn't attempting to be discreet.”
Lestrade felt his mouth go dry at that. Those remarkable eyes were at it again. He would have much preferred them to be undressing him rather than dissecting him, however.
“Look … I've got nothing that Sherlock would be interested in right now. Case-wise, I mean.” Lestrade turned again to his papers. “Maybe in a few days, there'll be something, and maybe I'll text him or John to see if they're interested. I can't promise anything.”
Mycroft was quiet for a moment, his remarkable eyes unblinking.
“You'll forgive me, Detective Inspector. I'm a bit slow on the uptake today. I've only had one cup of tea this morning, you see.” He paused. “You are not angry with Sherlock for disclosing what he did. You are angry that he opined that such a liaison would be … inadvisable.”
“Believe the words he used were 'unmitigated disaster.'” Lestrade couldn't quite keep the sullen tone out of his voice.
“Yes … my brother does have a penchant for using rather harsh language when he's trying to prove a point.”
Lestrade shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, well –”
“Though, in this case, he is quite correct.”
Greg looked up, and he breathed out sharply, feeling a sensation right below his ribcage that was remarkably like a punch in the stomach.
“ … What?”
“He was correct in his assessment,” repeated Mycroft. “A relationship between the two of us would be an awful idea. Terrible, really.”
Greg stared, and his vision became tinted with red and streaks of gray. He wanted to to grab Mycroft by the collar and drag him to the door, kick him in his fucking bespoke-covered arse and leave him in a heap outside by the bins and the discarded donut cartons.
“Well, then there's no more to be said, yeah?” His voice was foreign to him. It sounded as if his throat had been squeezed through a straw. “Anyway, I'm busy. I'll get to Sherlock when I get to him. Close my door on your way out.”
Mycroft didn't move. “Now you are angry with me. I must admit, I am at a loss to understand –”
“That's pretty fucking obvious.” Greg's hands closed into tight fists and he hid them below his desk. “Look, I know that if I so much as touch your umbrella, I'll have my head broken in several places by one of Her Majesty's own, but I do have officers right on the other side of the door who'd be glad to give over their careers in order to kick a bloody Holmes out of NSY. Don't tempt me. Just leave.”
The elder Holmes stood, looking down at Gregory uncertainly.
“I'm confused, Detective Inspector. I thought ...”
Greg looked up, and Mycroft stopped speaking, his lips pressed together in a thin line.
“I see. Forgive me for taking up so much of your time.”
Greg glowered at the man as he walked to the door, umbrella swinging jauntily on his arm. He turned at the door.
“I would thank you for any case you can give to Sherlock. Any at all.” He hesitated, and Greg was sure the man wanted to say something else. But he nodded and simply ended with: “Good morning, Detective Inspector.”
Greg waited for the door to shut before mumbling a half-hearted: “Go fuck yourself.”
But somehow, that defiant declaration made him even more depressed.
(*)
The lapse in judgment came three days later. Greg had gone to the pub and had escaped it before he could make too much of a fool of himself. He was in his new flat – nice enough, but not quite home – and “Love Actually” was on telly. He'd loved the film, but his ex had hated it, citing her aversion to Billy Bob Thornton and Beach Boys music.
Greg watched the film, but found that he couldn't lose himself in the stories as he was usually able to do. His mind hearkened back to Mycroft and their last meeting. The man's words had been hurtful, but his expression when he'd gone to leave puzzled Greg. He'd been shot down by potential lovers many times before. None of them were anything close to what Mycroft Holmes was, with his amazing brain and his sharp wit, but it had happened. Yet, Greg felt demoralized and depressed by it. Watching the movie and seeing the various couples fall deeply in love on-screen sunk him even further into the morass of his loneliness. The pints he'd drunk hadn't helped either.
Finally, when he reached what was for him one of the high points in the movie, Colin Firth's proposal to his beautiful Portuguese love, he found he couldn't take it anymore. Grabbing his mobile, he thumbed for the number and typed without thinking very much about what he was saying or the consequences of his actions.
What the bloody hell's so wrong with me? I'm a good bloke. And a good shag, if I say so myself. - GL
He felt somewhat refreshed having gotten that off his chest, but when his mobile chimed minutes later, Greg felt his stomach start to rebel against all the Guinness he'd swilled.
Detective Inspector. Are you aware to whom you've sent this message? - MH
Lestrade smiled in spite of himself. The damned cautious bastard.
I believe I'm trying to reach the mobile of Mycroft Bloody-hell-I'm-the-British-Government-and-I-can-have-you-sent-to-Mogadishu-if-you-so-much-as-mess-about-with-my-takeaway-order Holmes. Is he in? - GL
The interval between messages was much shorter this time.
We must talk. Where are you? -MH
Greg grunted. That was not the response he'd wanted.
Never mind that you daft bugger. Answer the fucking question. What's so wrong with me that you want to be shot of me even before we've started anything? - GL
The mobile beeped a moment later.
You're at home, of course. You'd not have time for such elaborate answers at a crime scene or a meeting and you'd be making misspellings if you were in a cab or on the Tube. - MH
Stop fucking deducing me and answer the bloody question. - GL
There was a long gap between messages and Greg ignored the telly, staring at his mobile, willing it to come to life. Why wouldn't he answer? What was going on?
We must speak. I'll send a car. - MH
No. No bloody cars. I want to know. Now. - GL
I'd rather it be in person. - MH
I can't tonight. I'm tired. And a bit pissed, actually. - GL
Obviously. - MH
Greg swore under his breath. He had half a mind to leave that unanswered, but his thumbs would not obey him.
Just answer the question. Why would a relationship with me be so bloody awful? - GL
It would not. I simply believed that if it were going to happen, it would've done by now. -MH
Greg stared, not believing his eyes.
Um, I had something called a 'wife' a few months ago. It's not been that long. Christ. - GL
There was another long silence. Greg sighed and was about to give over his attention to telly when the mobile pinged again.
By my deductions, you should have asked to dinner three weeks ago. When you did not, I assumed you had rethought the depth of your attraction to me and decided that a relationship would not be in your best interest. - MH
Greg felt the blood pounding in his ears. What? Wait, what happened three weeks ago?
What was three weeks ago? - GL
I visited that ghastly Underground assault scene. You were admiring my arse rather insistently. - MH
Greg flushed. Oh, right. Did Mycroft have eyes in the back of his head, then? It'd been rather dark down there.
Well, it's a nice arse. But because I gave you a once-over, you thought I was going to chat you up? - GL
Yes. You would have invented some excuse to ring me. And in the course of our conversation, you would have extended the invitation. You did not, so I assumed you had decided to focus your attentions elsewhere. - MH
Greg gnawed his lip. Mycroft had been right. Sort of. He had wanted to ask the man out for pints or a quick meal. He had thought to bring Sherlock into it, just so things wouldn't be extremely awkward. But at the last moment, he'd decided against it. He'd just gotten out of a relationship that had been predicated on lies. He didn't want to start one in that manner. He'd resolved to wait until he had bollocks enough to ring Mycroft and say “Look, I fancy you. Dinner sometime? With me?”
But of course, that hadn't been on Mycroft Holmes's bloody timetable.
He jumped when his phone buzzed again.
Will you have dinner with me? -MH
Greg laughed out loud.
Dinner? Like a date? You know, that thing your brother thinks WE shouldn't ever have? - GL
I know you fancy Chinese, but perhaps something else. Mexican? - MH
No. Answer the question. - GL
Indian? - MH
Are you asking me out? On an actual date? Not just dinner where we'll faff about and talk about Sherlock the entire time? - GL
Hungarian? - MH
Fuck you. - GL
Ah. French food, then. - MH
Greg grimaced at the phone, feeling suddenly sick, sad and weary. He turned off his mobile and glanced at the smiling, happy, faces on the telly for a moment before turning that off, too, curling up on his couch and falling asleep, fully dressed.
(*)
Lestrade found a case for Sherlock two days later. A corpse had been found in a boutique, clad in suspenders and knickers that had been bought at another store, and with an arrow driven through the poor woman's tongue post-mortem. Sherlock had been eager to get started and there he was in his coat and scarf, curls askew, with his tiny magnifying glass deducing away with John in tow.
Greg had just finished getting an update from the PC who'd discovered the body when his mobile buzzed.
Thank you. Another day and John would have moved out. - MH
Greg looked over to where Sherlock was still examining the body, pointing here and there and shaking his head at whatever John was saying. He looked at the message on his mobile again and his vision clouded.
After his text flurry the other night, when he'd turned his mobile back on, he'd had no waiting messages. It was as if Mycroft had known the phone was off and so didn't bother sending anything on. This was the first text he'd received since that time, and Greg was sure that it was in reference to his finally finding Sherlock a case to sink his teeth into. Grimacing, his fingers flew over the mobile's keypad.
I remember birthdays, you know. And anniversaries. And I buy flowers. I'm very fucking thoughtful and romantic, you pillock. I'm a damned good husband, er, boyfriend. - GL
Donovan was talking to one of the Forensic techs and being a bit more friendly with the man than was customary. Anderson was standing nearby speaking to the rest of his team, darting glances over at Donovan and not looking best pleased. Greg sighed. One of these days, he was going to have to transfer her or Anderson out of his division or risk nuclear war.
He frowned when his mobile buzzed. He'd almost forgotten that he was still holding it.
May I see you tonight? I feel I was in error, but I must talk to you. In person. - MH
What sort of error? You've worked out that I'm not a hopeless tit? - GL
I've never thought that. Far from it. Italian? - MH
Why can't you answer a fucking question? And what do you mean far from it? - GL
My deductions may have been in error. - MH
Oh fucking hell. YOU THINK? I was going to ask you out, you clot. I was working up to it. - GL
Ah. That explains it. I didn't account for your unwillingness to employ subterfuge to achieve your aims. - MH
You mean you didn't realize I wouldn't lie to get into your pants. Well spotted. - GL
We must discuss this. Thai? - MH
Greg squinted at the phone and sighed softly as he typed.
Maybe you and Sherlock were right. Maybe it'd be a fucking bad idea to get involved. - GL
I said it was an awful idea. Terrible. - MH
There were a few seconds of silence.
Why? Can you just tell me why? - GL
Your prowess as a lover aside, I'm sure you can work out the difficulties. That is one thing I do have to say. The sex would be phenomenal. - MH
Greg's eyes widened.
Yeah? Care to elaborate? Because I'm sort of not seeing where these difficulties are? - GL
Think harder. And do so with your hands out of your pockets. It helps. - MH
Lestrade pulled an annoyed face. Cheeky git.
Fine. We're different people. I'm a bit rough around the edges. You're posh and elegant. I'm a career copper. You do … god knows what for a living. Sherlock's your brother. My nearest relative lives in Aberdeen. You can start wars. I ... like PG Tips … - GL
Yes? And? This tells you what? - MH
Bloody hell, this WOULD be a bad idea wouldn't it? - GL
Undoubtedly. - MH
We probably shouldn't even consider it at all, yeah? - GL
Most decidely not. - MH
There were a few beats of silence. When his mobile chimed again, Greg was almost afraid to look.
Portuguese? -MH
Greg's fingers stilled on the keypad. Love Actually … it was the engagement scene in the Portuguese village that he'd been watching when he'd first texted Mycroft.
He looked around, suddenly feeling as if he were being watched.
… Maybe. No. Yes. -GL
I'm not sure which answer I'm to accept. - MH
All of them. Maybe Sherlock's right. No, I won't tell him, and yes, I'll have dinner with you. - GL
Splendid. Shall I not send a car? -MH
Greg half-smiled. Sally had finished her conversation and was looking at him oddly, and he turned away, shielding his mobile from the sun.
Are you asking me out or is this a windup? - GL
Do you really remember birthdays? I'm rather rubbish at that, actually. - MH
They call me Almanac Lestrade. - GL
All right, no Portuguese. Fish and chips for that incredibly awful utterance. - MH
Get knotted. Time and place? - GL
7:30. O Fado. Knightsbridge. I hope the case is not a trying one. - MH
Your brother will probably have it solved by lunch. -GL
Doubtless. I look forward to tonight, Gregory. - MH
It wasn't until 45 minutes later, when Sherlock was spinning out a theory involving cheesemongers, a lonely seaside inn at Skegness, and a sex game gone wrong that Lestrade's eyes went huge.
Gregory.
Mycroft had called him Gregory. Not Detective Inspector. Not Mr. Lestrade.
Gregory.
Lestrade stared off into the distance, smiling at nothing in particular, and thus, missed Sherlock breaking off in the middle of his deduction to stare at him suspiciously.
In another moment, the consulting detective's whole face crumpled and he swore savagely beneath his breath, startling John and the nearby Forensics staff into silence.
“Oh no ...”