So, straight from 2012 (I think), another Sherlock fic.
Word Count: 3435
Summary: Mycroft is obsessed, not that he'd ever admit it, even to himself. Lestrade is pissed off by his antics.
Nobody can slam Mycroft against a wall and not pay the consequences.
The Met police officer with the grey hair and tired eyes is no exception.
Mycroft opened his file and scrolled down through it. He had a name (Lestrade, Gregory), biometrics, family tree, fingerprints and dental records, and an address to go with the photo. He had everything to make the man regret the day he made an enemy out of him.
Yet, he hesitated.
It was not because of the photo, he told himself, even if the man was incredibly pleasant to look at, in a rough and manly way. It must have been because of the words in the known affiliation row.
He should have expected his brother to be both the reason why he got pushed and slammed against a wall by a stranger, and the reason why he couldn’t do anything about it.
He knew his brother liked to dabble in helping the police, and sometimes he showed up to congratulate Sherlock and taunt him or to offer him a job in the Government, where it would be easier to keep an eye on him.
Sherlock usually snubbed him, or creatively insulted him - sometimes both - and then left.
What had never happened before November 3rd, 2009, around 16:23, was that someone else noticed their exchange and, as soon as Sherlock left the scene, approached Mycroft looking grim and promising murder, then pushed him against the wall of the alley they were in and said to him, while looking into his eyes, “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t even care. I want you to stop showing up at my crime scenes and try to intimidate or blackmail or whatever you do to Sherlock,” he said, one hand on the wall beside Mycroft’s face and the other closed in a fist, gripping his waistcoat. “Leave him alone or I swear I will find out who you are and make you stop personally.” With a last menacing glare he had left the grip on his clothes and walked back to his police car, leaving Mycroft completely astounded.
Mycroft looked at his file at least daily, if not more. Detective Lestrade had become his personal obsession.
Closing the file, Mycroft stared at the wall in front of him, thinking.
What could he do?
He considered picking up the DI and doing his ‘I know everything about you’ routine to intimidate him, but the man didn’t seem someone easily frightened.
Mycroft had considered all the possibilities, or so he thought.
In the end he left his office and went to New Scotland Yard, showed his ID to the receptionist and took the lift to the inspector’s office. He attracted a little attention because he looked so out of place that even the police officers noticed.
He opened the glass door of the office without asking or waiting to be let in.
Lestrade was talking – no, shouting – on the telephone, and didn’t notice him immediately.
Judging by his tone and his imaginative choice of words, it had to be about his brother. Not that Mycroft could blame him.
When he noticed Mycroft, his eyes widened and he hung up to direct his full attention to the intruder. “You,” he said, “Who the hell are you and how did you get here?” He stood up and walked in front of the desk, to remove the obstacle between them. Mycroft just looked pleased by his reaction, and as an answer seemed less and less likely to arrive as the minutes passed, the inspector tried to be more explicit. “I told you I didn’t want to see you again.” He moved closer to Mycroft, to show him out of the door, no doubt.
“I thought you didn’t want me to bother Sherlock, right, Detective Inspector Lestrade?” he parried, taking out his notebook from his jacket and starting to flip through the pages. “I would quote your own words to you, but I don’t want to sound smug.”
Lestrade walked a step closer to him, staring straight in his eyes. “I’ll risk repeating myself, but who the hell are you and what do you want?” he asked again.
Mycroft didn’t flinch or look away, not even when Lestrade was again inches away from touching him. Apparently being in a police station brought up some boundaries, and there was no rude manhandling to accompany the not so subtle threat in his voice this time. “My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I came here to thank you for protecting my brother.”
The look on Lestrade’s face was priceless.
“You are his brother?” he repeated, incredulously, backing away instinctively. A few seconds of silence followed as Lestrade assimilated the news. “Well, that explains a lot,” he remarked eventually.
Mycroft smiled at his comment, thinking that it was a really odd thing to say – even if it seemed to be the most popular choice. “Yes, inspector, and let me tell you that all I do is out of concern for my brother.”
Lestrade snorted and shook his head in disbelief. “Maybe you’re as smart as him, but you are a bigger idiot than he is if you think you’re helping. Now please, I have pedestrian tasks and paperwork to attend to.”
Mycroft left with a half-smile on his lips and a slight bow of his head, he walked out of the office with his head held up high as he questioned himself on how nothing had gone according to his plan.
The inspector put the key in the hole and turned it, then he pushed his front door open. He saw the light on in the living room and glimpsed a figure sitting on his sofa.
He sighed and turned to hang his coat behind the door. “Sherlock, I’m not in the mood for one of your games tonight,” he said, then turned and saw an amused man in a grey three-piece suit sitting on his old sofa, twirling an umbrella in his hands.
“Does my brother break into your flat on a regular basis?” Mycroft inquired, resisting the urge to take out his notepad and write down his answer.
Lestrade blinked a couple of times. “Yes, now I see the resemblance,” he said, walking to the sofa. He stopped in front of Mycroft and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I still don’t know what you are or how you got in my flat without the keys, but I’m tired and have a headache and I really, really don’t have it in me to deal with one of you Holmeses.”
Mycroft rose from the sofa and straightened his neatly pressed trousers. Lestrade just glared tiredly at him – it was a habit, he didn’t do it on purpose – and waited for him to say something. “One of us Holmeses,” Mycroft repeated, amused. His smile edged towards the dangerously threatening, and if Lestrade had known what was good for him he would have started running. “You will find that I’m quite different from my brother.”
“You are a much bigger prat, I’m sure,” replied Lestrade, not intimidated in the least, tickling Mycroft’s pride.
Mycroft put his umbrella down and kept his eyes fixed in the other man’s. He took one step forward until they were nose to nose, never leaving his gaze. “Wrong,” he whispered, unable to resist the temptation to tease him a little.
“Well, it seems evident that on top of seriously screwed up names your parents must have given you a very flexible interpretation of social boundaries, because this is my living room, and I don’t like having people around that I didn’t invite. Or let in, for that matter.”
Mycroft’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and to be honest it was more of a leer. “Then it’s either your age that makes you forget, or you extend a much wider tolerance to my brother’s antics.” This time he pulled out his notebook, and Lestrade peered down, catching a glimpse of tiny but orderly scribbles in longhand – cursing time for his fading eyesight – before the other man snapped it shut. “I believe most of what’s written here does not concern you.”
“Keeping Government secrets? It must require a lot of dedication to be a professional ass on such a level.”
“I see you’ve talked to my brother.”
“Talked is by far too nice a way of putting it. I initiated a conversation; he started cursing at the mention of your name.” Lestrade said, grinning. “Maybe I will take his advice in this field too and show you to the door.” He extended a hand in a mock polite gesture.
Mycroft tilted his head. “I’ll have you know that I invested some of my very limited free time to come and talk to you personally.”
“Then you’d better go straight to the point because in ten minutes I’ll be asleep. Whether you’re still here or out on your ass,” Lestrade replied, not bothering to resist a heartfelt yawn.
“You’re seriously misjudging your ability to intimidate, inspector.”
Lestrade took a deep breath. “I see, you’re the one who’s used to having everyone frightened by walking into a room. Well, no such luck with me. I don’t care what you do with your time, but don’t try to boss me around in my own home.”
Mycroft sustained his gaze, and Lestrade looked away, huffing in annoyance.
“The difference between you and me, Mycroft, is that I don’t mind doing the physical work, and wouldn’t put it beneath me to literally kick you out. So, what shall it be?”
Mycroft rolled his eyes and took a packet of letters which he handed to the inspector out of his jacket. “I think you should take a look at these.” He also handed Lestrade a business card with a number on it. “Then I’m sure you will convene to discuss them with me.”
The inspector didn’t look impressed, and Mycroft gave up, letting himself be escorted to the door without much resistance. “Goodnight, inspector,” he called, and Lestrade slammed the door on his face.
Mycroft had the car stop on the kerb in front of Scotland Yard. He looked through the tinted window and examined his reflection, feeling a bit vain remembering when he had a bit more hair and fewer lines on his forehead.
He waited patiently until he saw the grey haired inspector come out of the front door, then he lowered the top of the window in a dramatic gesture, peeked out, beckoned and closed the window again – no sense letting the warm air out – waiting until Lestrade was within two steps of the door before opening it.
“Ah, inspector, I hoped you could join me,” he said; it wasn’t a polite request and they both knew it.
“There are long days and even longer days,” Lestrade sighed, climbing in because he had little choice, “and days that seem infinite. Guess what kind of day it always becomes when you show up?” he finished, managing to draw a little laugh from Mycroft, almost sincere this time.
“Allow me to drive you home,” the man said suavely as the car pulled into the traffic, “while we discuss my proposal.”
Lestrade crossed his arms in front of himself and sat straighter on the seat of the car. “I thought we were done with this. I won’t let you bloody meddle with my career or cases or anything. I want you out of my life, but since I can’t get rid of Sherlock and you seem to come in the package, I’d be happy with keeping you and the Government out of my sight. Sweep everything you want under the rug. I don’t want to know and I don’t need to.”
Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. This man was infuriatingly stubborn, and the only one truly capable of giving him a headache – something not even dealing with terrorists or orchestrating civil wars could do. “And I believed I agreed on your terms. For the time being. Mine is a different proposal.”
“If it involves spying of any kind, then my answer is ‘no, thanks’. And before you try to find some clever loophole to my point, yes, telling you about my day if it involves Sherlock in any way would feel like spying to me.”
Mycroft really wished for aspirin at that moment. The man had almost made him forget the coffee he had brought in a thermal cup to offer to him. He reached into the compartment and pulled out two sealed mugs. “Coffee, perhaps?” he offered, knowing for a fact by now, that the DI became a bit more malleable after a dose of good quality caffeine – none of that cheap murky water they drank at the Yard.
Lestrade took the mug and nodded in thanks, sipping the coffee. “Why does even the coffee feel like you?”
Mycroft took a sip in turn, finding nothing offensive in it – because he was sure the man was aiming for insulting. “And how would that be?” he asked, faking indifference to hide his curiosity.
“Intense, expensive and tepid.”
“I guess I expected a worse insult.”
“It would be heavenly if I could heat it up,” Lestrade replied, a mischievous glint in his eyes as they exchanged a glare.
Was that... some odd way of flirting? Maybe he imagined it. No, surely he imagined it. “It would have been hot if you hadn’t stopped to listen to the porter’s purposeless chatter.”
“How I choose to waste my time is none of your business. And it’s called being friendly. You might want to try it from time to time.” He paused to take another sip of lukewarm coffee, the pull of caffeine still too strong to resist. “Not that all this intimidating and dangerous routine doesn’t work for you.”
Mycroft crossed his long legs, putting the mug aside to have his hands free. “Well, when you’ve got all that sarcasm out of your system, please, let me know and we can start discussing business.”
“I told you, I don’t accept deals from terrorists. And before you say anything, you do behave like one.”
“I believe my concern for my brother is wasted when I try to manifest it; he does like to evade each and every effort I put in motion. You, on the other hand, seem to have, however little, some influence on his behaviour. I would like you to help me help Sherlock.”
“Piss off, Mycroft.” Lestrade said, knocking on the window separating him from the driver. “Stop here.”
The car continued on, and Lestrade directed a dirty glare at Mycroft, who returned it with an unfazed stare. “Do you know where we are?”
“Could be the middle of the Thames, I couldn’t care any less. Stop the bloody car.”
“Fine.” He pushed a button and told the driver to pull off. “You either don’t know or don’t care about the cocaine, then.”
Lestrade’s mouth was a thin line as the car came to a stop. “I know and I care. He’s taking care of it himself. Just give him an ounce of trust.” He opened the door and exited. “Good night,” he said, bitterly, before slamming the door in front of Mycroft’s astonished expression.
Mycroft asked the driver to circle the area and drive slowly, but the DI had moved away, refusing any help.
They had been a 40 minute walk to the DI’s flat, assuming he knew where he was and what direction to take at every turn.
Good thing London was the city in the world with the most CCTVs.
The day Lestrade found out he had a bug in his phone he didn’t even waste a minute guessing who had put it there. He grabbed his jacket, told his sergeant he was going out to meet “a pompous jerk”, hopped in a cab – it wasn’t police business so he didn’t feel right taking a police car – and headed to Mycroft’s office.
He got in the building, fuming, showed his badge, his fingers, his retina and stormed past Mycroft’s amused PA, slamming the double doors open and making a grand entrance into the man’s office.
“Detective inspector,” Mycroft started, hoping to make small talk, but Lestrade was having none of it that day.
He put a hand in his pocket and pulled out his phone. He slammed it down on the desk as Anthea gently and discreetly closed the office door for them.
Greg locked eyes with Mycroft, who took one look at the mobile phone and then raised his gaze over his tented fingers to his face. “Yes?”
“I’ve fucking had it, with you and your meddling and interfering and sticking your nose in my stuff,” he ranted, letting out all the pent-up rage that had built during his journey there.
“I beg your pardon?” the civil servant asked, feigning ignorance.
“Was it worth the time and effort, to tap my phone?” Lestrade asked, waving said phone under his nose in indignation. “I’m curious to know what you do with the information of how I like my Chinese takeaway. Humour me.”
Mycroft closed his eyes and exhaled softly, then looked up at him. “I haven’t tapped your phone, inspector.”
“And I should believe you, why?” he asked in return, lowering his voice down to normal levels, and Mycroft could undoubtedly hear the strain he put in controlling it.
Mycroft sighed and stood up. “Would anything I could possibly say make you believe I’m telling the truth?”
Lestrade thought about it for a few seconds. “No. Ok, yes, possibly.” He smirked again and sat on the polished oak desk. “Or you could simply admit you’re obsessed with me. And let me decide whether it’s creepy or flattering.”
“Are those the only two choices?” Mycroft asked, looking a bit uncomfortable, probably because Lestrade had sat on top of the draft of the speech for the new prime minister – which would be elected in six months time, thank you very much, no one else was to be aware of it – not that he had done it on purpose, as it had been face down and looked like a blank piece of paper.
“Yes, I think so. So, are you stalking me, Mycroft Bloody Holmes?” he asked leaning forward across the desk, closer and closer to him.
“Of course not,” the other replied, and Lestrade grabbed a file that was barely jutting out of the IN pile.
“Gregory Lestrade,” the man read on the side flap, before pulling it open. He scanned it and whistled. “Apparently I’m in a better shape than I thought. And you’re not stalking me,” he pulled out a photograph, “can I use this for my passport?” he asked sarcastically.
“I’ll admit on having a file on you, and everyone else my brother comes into regular contact with. Believe me: it pays off to know about those who surround him.”
“And trying to bribe them into giving you information or into doing your bidding?” his temper was flaring up again. “Do you have any of my men on your payroll?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
“If I don’t tell you, you’ll never know.”
That had been enough, Lestrade grabbed Mycroft by the tie and pulled him forward, so close that their noses touched. “I am so fed up with people like you, bossing me around and treating me like a puppet. I will not let you control me or my team,” he hissed through his teeth.
“I don’t need to bribe your team.”
Lestrade wasn’t convinced. He still stared into his eyes, uncomfortable position notwithstanding, it placed him in a vantage point and he was taking full advantage of that. “And I should believe you because you lie so well.”
“I only stalk you because of our first encounter,” Mycroft admitted, closing a hand around Lestrade’s wrist and using the other to try and pry the inspector’s hand open, planning to take advantage of his surprise.
Lestrade, however, didn’t let go of the hold he had on the tie, in fact he pulled Mycroft towards him again and clashed their mouths together in a kiss. It was hard, brief and messy, and when he drew back he smirked at Mycroft’s slightly shocked expression. “Took you long enough to admit,” he teased the man, seeing the shock slip away from his features to be replaced by firm determination and wounded pride. But the kiss had been worth it.
“I think you should leave,” Mycroft said, feeling uncomfortable and oddly vulnerable.
“I think you should just shut up,” Lestrade replied, leaning forward to make him.