Chapter Text
There were days where Gregory enjoyed his job. Days where he bloody well loved his job. And then there were days when he wanted to ask anyone who could listen just why people were determined to make his job more difficult than it already was.
Days like today.
The day in question included finding a waif of an addict breaking into a designated a crime scene, said waif then announcing the deepest secrets of everyone on his team when they tried to stop him from contaminating the area, and more than one of said team trying to clock him for what he'd said. In the melee, the interloper scanned the crime scene and then told Greg precisely who he was looking for.
Greg scoffed and told them to hold the man for questioning.
An hour later and the boyfriend of the victim was being arrested for the murder of the poor woman they’d found in the bedroom and Greg was trying to discuss just how Sherlock Holmes, the odd named twat with the odd shaped face, had known who the murderer was.
The younger man was all too pleased to show off how he knew the identity of the murderer. The woman’s hands had revealed it all and Greg’s team were simply too stupid to see it according to him. Greg was exhausted by the time he let Holmes go and he knew there was no way he’d seen the last of him.
The truth was, Greg didn’t want it to be the last he saw of the lad. It was clear that for all of Sherlock’s brains, he was lost. Cocaine, the younger man had admitted, was the only thing to help when his mind stagnated from boredom. It was clear his addictions were going to be the end of him if no one helped him and Greg wanted to help.
Something told Greg that Sherlock Holmes was worth it. The younger man was amazing in his abilities; he just needed a guiding hand to put him firmly on the good side of things. Either that...or Greg was confusing wanting to help with what would be a monumental cock up of good judgment.
Christ, he just needed a cup of tea, a long holiday or two, and some peace.
He found the tea in the break room, but the peace and the holiday was in short supply. Greg entered his office again to see another man sitting where his ‘consultant’ Sherlock Holmes had been not fifteen minutes before.
Where Sherlock Holmes had perched upon the chair like a disgruntled cat, the man sitting there now made the chair practically a throne. But for all the differences in looks and demeanor, there was an uncanny glint to his eyes hat reminded Greg of the dark haired self-proclaimed detective. It was quite obvious that both men were unremittingly demanding of their right to be in his office, invited or not, and both men certainly made Greg’s copper instincts tingle, warning him to be firm and resolute as an officer of the Metropolitan Police yet to be careful, very careful of where he tread.
"Can I help you?" Greg asked cautiously, “Think you’ve got the wrong floor, mate."
One perfectly shaped eyebrow rose on the man’s forehead. “I’ve heard Sherlock Holmes has aided you with one your cases. Could you confirm that?"
There was no confusion or lack of knowledge in the man’s eyes. Greg could see that the question was only a nod to civility. He came round his desk to sit down and stare at his unwanted guest. “I think you know perfectly well he has."
There was a brief glint of amused respect in the man’s expression before it was quickly hidden away behind a dignified mask. Greg suddenly felt he was in a fencing match. Parry, thrust…point to Lestrade.
“I think you should allow him to work on any cases he sees fit to help you with.”
Greg snorted. “You do know that’s not how the Met works, don’t you? We can’t just have civilians who fancy themselves to be a bit of a detective running around crime scenes.”
His guest smoothed down invisible wrinkles in his waistcoat, clearly stalling for time while Greg argued. Greg saw, and noticed far more than he liked to admit, how well the suit fit him, like it had been made for him. Of course it had. The man practically screamed money and power.
“That’s been arranged. You don’t have to worry about any problems from your superiors,” his visitor stated with a smile that failed to hide the steel beneath what had just been said. Do what I want, the subtext said, or face the consequences.
“Do you think I’m going to accept your word that I’m not going to be hauled in for a reprimand?” Greg asked with a frown, “Pull the other one, it’s got bells on.”
The other man leaned forward. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement that allows him to work on your cases. Come now, you’re a reasonable man. I can make it easier for you to accept what is already going to happen.”
The penny dropped and Greg shook his head. The suit, the cryptic phrasing, and the offer to make it all easier? It all added up. Bollocks. Greg stood up suddenly and pointed at the door. “Get out.”
His visitor became utterly still. “I beg your pardon?”
Oh this was good. The other man radiated pure shock at being thwarted, as if the idea of not getting his way had never entered the man’s brain until this very point in time. Greg would bet his entire salary the posh git wasn’t often told no, if ever he was. He felt rather accomplished, the thrill of it just encouraging the outrage flowing through his veins.
“Look, I don’t know what skint copper you’ve got on your payroll but I’m not going to take any bribe of yours, you posh git,” Greg said, teeth gritted with anger, “Get out and if you’re lucky, I won’t find out who you are and report you.”
“We’ll talk again later,” the other man replied, grimacing for a moment before the expression retreated behind a complete mask of no emotion at all. He nodded once and walked out of Greg’s office, head held high.
Greg felt the hairs on his neck rise. He didn't let his eyes leave the man's retreating form until he'd disappeared into the lift.
An hour passed as Greg worked on paperwork, keeping references to his ‘consultant’ to a minimum for both their benefits, when yet another person entered his office without his permission. Apparently it was the day for it. One look at the woman, smart tailored suit and all, and he knew who had sent her.
There really was no way his earlier guest would have given up so easily, was there? Match two, now in progress.
“Is there a sign on my door that says “Always Open” or something?” Greg growled, “There is a reason people invented knocking you know.”
The woman, smirking now after Greg’s brief verbal rebellion, handed him a thick envelope and then promptly left, no words leaving her mouth at all. God forbid his Lordship allow them to speak. They might stage a bloody coup and then where would they be? Greg rolled his eyes and cursed this day to hell.
The envelope weighed heavy with the implicit demand he read it immediately. He could feel the high quality paper as he turned the envelope over in his hands. His name was written in picture perfect handwriting from a fountain pen on the front. And as he turned it back over he saw a red wax seal, which he quickly broke as he opened the envelope to see what was inside.
Detective Inspector,
I apologise for the misunderstanding of this afternoon. I have cleared Sherlock’s involvement with the Met by your superiors, and as I write this, you should have memos to that effect in your inbox. I’m sure you can understand the concern of an older brother in regards to his difficult younger sibling. Simply put, he needs to help you and for that, he needs your help.
Allow myself to make it up to you by buying you a drink this evening. I’m sure your wife will not mind you being absent for a few hours more.
Sincerely,
Mycroft Holmes
P.S. Get in the black car waiting for you when you leave the building.
Please.
Greg shook his head. Holmes. Of course, the similar eyes, the all-knowing smugness, even the sense of over the top drama about making things easier and Christ, the seal. The fucking seal, family fucking crest and all. It was all confirmation that the man’s pinky finger was posher than Greg’s entire ancestry.
Of course the damn man had to be attractive and enigmatic and sexy as hell with his suits and brown, almost auburn hair too. God, if he weren’t a loyal married man he’d be demanding to have resentful hate sex against the nearest available surface.
It was the pure cheek of the man, the please at the end of the letter being an obvious afterthought, that almost made Greg refuse him. Then the full force of his day and the trouble both Holmes men had caused him hit Greg and he decided the least he could do, the least Mycroft Bloody Holmes could do, would be to buy him a drink.
He stood up, pulled on his jacket, and planned to ask for the most expensive drink he could think of when he arrived.