Brotherly Love 2/5
Title: Brotherly Love Chapter 2
Author: dweo
Words: 2370
Rating: Teen
Characters: Lestrade, Mycroft, Sherlock
Pairings: Lestrade/Mycroft
Warnings this chapter: None
Beta: The Lovely grassle
Summary: When people say that the day he met Sherlock Holmes had to have been the most incredible day of his life, he agrees. But what Lestrade never tells them is that it had very little to do with Sherlock.
AN: Written for sherlockbigbang
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
He first noticed the black car when he left the crime scene. The car looked discreet and eerily so. His instinct told him to be wary. He wasn't the only one who noticed the car. Sherlock Holmes was standing to the side, looking extremely surly at being denied access to the crime scene. It was clear he had noticed the car too, since an intense glare was aimed at it.
For a short moment he thought he had just imagined it, but he trusted his instincts, and his instincts told him the black car was following him. He knew he should walk to his own car and leave or even call back-up, but something made him keep walking and do the least sensible thing you can do when being followed. He acknowledged the car with a nod and walked down a small side street. Of course, he knew the area well and also knew the car would get stuck, and he could escape on foot from the other end. But he was curious and waited for the car to come to a halt. A rather burly looking chauffeur got out, and even without Lestrade's years of experience he would have known the man was armed and could kill him without blinking an eye.
Lestrade felt his muscles tense, so he fought down his body's flight instinct. The man nodded to Lestrade as he opened the back door rather more politely than expected.
"Please enter the car, Detective Inspector Lestrade. We're already late." Lestrade decided asking what they were late for would probably not yield a useful answer, so he complied with a sigh.
"Thank you," the man said politely as he closed the car door. Lestrade had limited experience of being kidnapped, but he knew this must be the politest kidnapper in the world.
The car drove for about fifteen minutes. The tinted windows didn't allow even the smallest beam of light into the car. He tried to follow the route they were following, but the ride was so smooth he was certain he had missed more turns than he liked, which left him feeling completely disorientated. When the car finally came to a smooth, easy stop, Lestrade felt his heart beat in his throat. The still too-polite kidnapper opened his door and waited patiently for him to step out of the car.
"If you would please enter the club, he'll be waiting for you." Lestrade looked around at these words. The first thing he noticed was that they were in a public place. Always a good sign. The second thing he noticed was that he knew exactly where he was. Also a good sign. And the third thing he noticed was the fact that the club the driver had meant was the Diogenes club.
"Oh shit," he murmured under his breath.
The Diogenes club was the worst kept secret in modern London. Founded in the nineteenth century, it was the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in London, and perhaps even the world, although gentlemen’s club was no longer the appropriate term as these days women were welcome too. The legends about the club were plenty. The membership was selective, extremely so, and neither money nor power could buy your way into the club. None of this did anything to ease Lestrade's apprehension one bit.
He walked up to the door, the sleek black car still waiting at the kerb; no doubt it would stay there until he was inside. He raised his hand to knock, resigned at the oddest thing that had happened to him in the last few months. The door, of course, opened before his knuckles made contact with the wood.
A man dressed as a butler and built like a bouncer opened the door.
"Welcome, Detective Inspector Lestrade," he said, "He is waiting for you in the Stranger's room. Allow me to take you coat." And before Lestrade could even say a word, the other man had already removed his coat.
Then a woman suddenly appeared out of nowhere, waiting politely. She was dressed like a hostess, but looked like she could snap his neck like a twig.
"If you'd please follow me." She sounded cultured, slightly posh, but there was a trace of a northern accent left. There was something that screamed ‘posh education’ to him. Lestrade suspected the woman had more degrees after her name than he could ever dream of. He followed her in silence into a big room, done up in Victorian style. It was warm, cosy and stylish. And as he saw the figure in the corner of the room, everything fell into place.
There, at a table laid for afternoon tea, sat Mycroft Holmes, pouring tea in the surprisingly modern cup in front of an empty chair.
"I'm glad you could join me for tea, Inspector." Mycroft sounded polite and pleasant, but Lestrade detected a steely trace in the voice that told him to obey, never mind how much he wanted to turn and run away.
"You do realise there are steep penalties for kidnapping police officers?" Lestrade said calmly, as he sat down.
"Kidnap, Inspector? It's just a friendly invitation to tea." Mycroft held a tray with sandwiches out to Lestrade, who decided it couldn't get any more surreal and so simply took one.
"Do you always invite people by having a large black car stalking them?"
"Usually? Yes," Mycroft said calmly, putting a small sandwich on the no doubt very expensive plate in front of him. "Although normally there isn't tea to be had." There was so much threat in his voice Lestrade felt his hairs stand on end, and he couldn't suppress the shudder running through his body.
"Why did you invite me for tea?" Lestrade decided he wasn't in the mood for niceties; being kidnapped did that to his patience.
"My brother," Mycroft said simply.
"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked surprised.
"Yes, Sherlock. I wasn't aware I had more than one brother, Inspector." Mycroft sounded haughty. "We can't all be blessed with a large family. What is it, three sisters and two brothers?"
"How…" Lestrade felt the thrill of fear run down his spine again.
"As I’ve already told you, I know more about you, Inspector, than you could ever hide." Again the threat was there in the calm and pleasant voice. "But I didn't invite you to talk about you, not today." To Lestrade's surprise there was something that sounded like regret in Mycroft's voice this time. "It's my brother I'm worried about. I understand he appeared on a crime scene today. Again."
"Yes, the bloody nuisance did almost ruin a crime scene, before I could send him away."
"That was precisely what I wanted to talk about." Mycroft offered a perfect looking scone to Lestrade.
"The fact that I sent him away?" Lestrade asked, his annoyance growing slowly. His hand automatically took a scone.
"Yes. I would prefer it if you wouldn't do that again." The clotted cream was offered almost as a bribe.
"You can't be serious. I can't let him onto a crime scene. All the evidence would be contaminated. Just like it was in the last two cases your brother got involved in. It was sheer luck there was enough other evidence to get a conviction."
"Without my brother there wouldn't have been any court case at all."
"You can't know that," Lestrade protested, but in his heart he knew Mycroft was right.
"I can't, but the chances are in my favour. But I understand his presence will raise unwanted questions and problems. That's why I invited you here."
"He's a junkie," Lestrade said, desperately wondering why such a brilliant, powerful man kept protecting a washed-up addict. "An infuriatingly brilliant junkie, but a junkie nevertheless." For the first time Lestrade saw true emotion on the stoic face, and a flash of pain made Lestrade regret his words.
"I'm sorry." He apologised not for his words, but for hurting the man in front of him.
"You're right. My brother is an addict, and that is why I need you. At the moment his addiction is drugs; cocaine. He is addicted because his mind never stops; only when solving a puzzle, a crime is his mind focussed. It's when he has nothing to focus on, things go wrong. Dangerously so. Then he finds other ways to stop the boredom, other ways to stop the thoughts, to focus his mind."
"His cocaine?" Lestrade asked.
"Yes, and his cigarettes, his guns, his risk taking." Mycroft looked lost in thought for a moment. "I think having him assist you, the police, will help him. Save him from himself."
"Yeah, but I think saving your brother from himself at the cost of having murders walk free won't work in the real world." Lestrade poured himself another tea, drinking it as he watched the older Holmes brother stare at him for a moment.
"Yes, I know. That's why I had my assistant draft this." At those words, several papers were pushed towards him. "You'll find these are Sherlock's credentials, stating he's an independent consultant, a published forensic scientist. Should the need arise you can always use this."
"You faked this?" Lestrade asked, too afraid to touch the papers.
"I didn't have to. Sherlock was first published when he was eighteen, just after he finished his first year at university."
"I hate it when somebody with so much potential wastes it," Lestrade said with a sigh.
"I agree, so why not use him?" Lestrade knew he was being manipulated into doing Mycroft's bidding again.
"Okay, I can accept this, but why hasn't Sherlock used this information before?"
"He probably forgot about it. He never cared about this, other than showing off, proving he is smarter than the rest of the world." Mycroft sighed. "I think it's because he never could outsmart me, so he took on the rest of the world." Out of anybody else's mouth it would have sounded arrogant, but from Mycroft, it just sounded like a fact.
"So why give it to me and not propose it to your brother?"
"Because I like to have some leverage, and I think the threat of taking away his access to a ready supply of games will be slightly stronger if he doesn't know of the existence of these." At these words he gestured to the papers.
"Okay, why me?" Everything until now had a reason Lestrade could understand. This he didn't. Why not go to the commissioner or even one of the many highly decorated superintendents the Met had? Why a not entirely honest cop who’d never lived up to his potential?
"Because you didn't let my brother intimidate you, because you remained calm while he was holding a knife to your throat, because you don't care about being promoted, because you care more about the end result than the way you get there." The words left Mycroft's mouth in a steady stream, and Lestrade knew every single one was meant as a compliment, and he also knew, somehow, the man in front of him wasn't in the habit of complimenting people.
"Also, I think you're the man to protect my brother where I can't." And suddenly it became clear in Lestrade's mind. Mycroft Holmes cared about only one thing, and that was protecting his brother. One day there might be space for something else, but that would also be the day Sherlock was gone.
"I don't know how to reply to that," Lestrade said. "But I'll do what I can to keep your brother safe."
"I know you will." Mycroft smiled a real smile which made Lestrade's stomach do somersaults.
"Did you see the last test match?" Mycroft switched subjects so fast Lestrade was stunned into silence for a moment.
"Erm, I don't really follow cricket," Lestrade said.
"Oh, then I’ll have to tell you about it. It was spectacular," Mycroft said, handing Lestrade the plate with sandwiches, the mask suddenly gone, making him look like a normal man, and no longer like the ruler of the world.
The rest of the tea was spent in peace, talking about sports, books and the latest films. It wasn't until Mycroft's phone broke the relaxed atmosphere that Lestrade realised he was really enjoying Mycroft's company.
"I'm sorry, Gabriel," Mycroft said. Lestrade realised they had switched to first names unnoticed. "I have to return to the office."
Mycroft walked next to Lestrade into the bright sun. Mycroft's mask had returned somewhere between them getting their coats and the club door falling closed behind them. The black car came out of nowhere and floated to a standstill precisely in front of them.
"My office is just around the corner, so I'll say goodbye now." Mycroft shook Lestrade's hand warmly.
"I really enjoyed this," Lestrade said, surprising himself.
"Me too, me too. Here's my card. Call me if something happens to Sherlock.' Lestrade looked at the card. It was plain, but even its simplicity screamed expensive.
"Thanks. I will." Lestrade sat down in the car. Mycroft looked at him intensely, and Lestrade knew this was the last chance he had to ask what had been on his mind the whole time.
"Why though? Why do you protect him, risk everything? It has to be more than the fact you're brothers, because at some point you just give up, think about yourself, and judge it a lost cause." Lestrade couldn't help it; he had to know.
"It takes an addict to understand addiction, Gabriel. And I understand my brother's addiction perfectly." With these words Mycroft closed the door of the car and walked away.
***
Lestrade returned to his desk the next morning. He hadn't slept; thoughts of Mycroft and Sherlock had kept him awake. He put the piece of paper that gave Sherlock permission to be on any crime scene in London safely in his drawer, wondering how he was going to keep this a secret. He was suddenly Sherlock Holmes's protector and he felt like he had signed his own death warrant. His hand found the little black book blindly and in his mind he saw a name being written:
Gabriel Lestrade
Detective Inspector
Shot to the back of the head
Execution.
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Author: dweo
Words: 2370
Rating: Teen
Characters: Lestrade, Mycroft, Sherlock
Pairings: Lestrade/Mycroft
Warnings this chapter: None
Beta: The Lovely grassle
Summary: When people say that the day he met Sherlock Holmes had to have been the most incredible day of his life, he agrees. But what Lestrade never tells them is that it had very little to do with Sherlock.
AN: Written for sherlockbigbang
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
He first noticed the black car when he left the crime scene. The car looked discreet and eerily so. His instinct told him to be wary. He wasn't the only one who noticed the car. Sherlock Holmes was standing to the side, looking extremely surly at being denied access to the crime scene. It was clear he had noticed the car too, since an intense glare was aimed at it.
For a short moment he thought he had just imagined it, but he trusted his instincts, and his instincts told him the black car was following him. He knew he should walk to his own car and leave or even call back-up, but something made him keep walking and do the least sensible thing you can do when being followed. He acknowledged the car with a nod and walked down a small side street. Of course, he knew the area well and also knew the car would get stuck, and he could escape on foot from the other end. But he was curious and waited for the car to come to a halt. A rather burly looking chauffeur got out, and even without Lestrade's years of experience he would have known the man was armed and could kill him without blinking an eye.
Lestrade felt his muscles tense, so he fought down his body's flight instinct. The man nodded to Lestrade as he opened the back door rather more politely than expected.
"Please enter the car, Detective Inspector Lestrade. We're already late." Lestrade decided asking what they were late for would probably not yield a useful answer, so he complied with a sigh.
"Thank you," the man said politely as he closed the car door. Lestrade had limited experience of being kidnapped, but he knew this must be the politest kidnapper in the world.
The car drove for about fifteen minutes. The tinted windows didn't allow even the smallest beam of light into the car. He tried to follow the route they were following, but the ride was so smooth he was certain he had missed more turns than he liked, which left him feeling completely disorientated. When the car finally came to a smooth, easy stop, Lestrade felt his heart beat in his throat. The still too-polite kidnapper opened his door and waited patiently for him to step out of the car.
"If you would please enter the club, he'll be waiting for you." Lestrade looked around at these words. The first thing he noticed was that they were in a public place. Always a good sign. The second thing he noticed was that he knew exactly where he was. Also a good sign. And the third thing he noticed was the fact that the club the driver had meant was the Diogenes club.
"Oh shit," he murmured under his breath.
The Diogenes club was the worst kept secret in modern London. Founded in the nineteenth century, it was the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in London, and perhaps even the world, although gentlemen’s club was no longer the appropriate term as these days women were welcome too. The legends about the club were plenty. The membership was selective, extremely so, and neither money nor power could buy your way into the club. None of this did anything to ease Lestrade's apprehension one bit.
He walked up to the door, the sleek black car still waiting at the kerb; no doubt it would stay there until he was inside. He raised his hand to knock, resigned at the oddest thing that had happened to him in the last few months. The door, of course, opened before his knuckles made contact with the wood.
A man dressed as a butler and built like a bouncer opened the door.
"Welcome, Detective Inspector Lestrade," he said, "He is waiting for you in the Stranger's room. Allow me to take you coat." And before Lestrade could even say a word, the other man had already removed his coat.
Then a woman suddenly appeared out of nowhere, waiting politely. She was dressed like a hostess, but looked like she could snap his neck like a twig.
"If you'd please follow me." She sounded cultured, slightly posh, but there was a trace of a northern accent left. There was something that screamed ‘posh education’ to him. Lestrade suspected the woman had more degrees after her name than he could ever dream of. He followed her in silence into a big room, done up in Victorian style. It was warm, cosy and stylish. And as he saw the figure in the corner of the room, everything fell into place.
There, at a table laid for afternoon tea, sat Mycroft Holmes, pouring tea in the surprisingly modern cup in front of an empty chair.
"I'm glad you could join me for tea, Inspector." Mycroft sounded polite and pleasant, but Lestrade detected a steely trace in the voice that told him to obey, never mind how much he wanted to turn and run away.
"You do realise there are steep penalties for kidnapping police officers?" Lestrade said calmly, as he sat down.
"Kidnap, Inspector? It's just a friendly invitation to tea." Mycroft held a tray with sandwiches out to Lestrade, who decided it couldn't get any more surreal and so simply took one.
"Do you always invite people by having a large black car stalking them?"
"Usually? Yes," Mycroft said calmly, putting a small sandwich on the no doubt very expensive plate in front of him. "Although normally there isn't tea to be had." There was so much threat in his voice Lestrade felt his hairs stand on end, and he couldn't suppress the shudder running through his body.
"Why did you invite me for tea?" Lestrade decided he wasn't in the mood for niceties; being kidnapped did that to his patience.
"My brother," Mycroft said simply.
"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked surprised.
"Yes, Sherlock. I wasn't aware I had more than one brother, Inspector." Mycroft sounded haughty. "We can't all be blessed with a large family. What is it, three sisters and two brothers?"
"How…" Lestrade felt the thrill of fear run down his spine again.
"As I’ve already told you, I know more about you, Inspector, than you could ever hide." Again the threat was there in the calm and pleasant voice. "But I didn't invite you to talk about you, not today." To Lestrade's surprise there was something that sounded like regret in Mycroft's voice this time. "It's my brother I'm worried about. I understand he appeared on a crime scene today. Again."
"Yes, the bloody nuisance did almost ruin a crime scene, before I could send him away."
"That was precisely what I wanted to talk about." Mycroft offered a perfect looking scone to Lestrade.
"The fact that I sent him away?" Lestrade asked, his annoyance growing slowly. His hand automatically took a scone.
"Yes. I would prefer it if you wouldn't do that again." The clotted cream was offered almost as a bribe.
"You can't be serious. I can't let him onto a crime scene. All the evidence would be contaminated. Just like it was in the last two cases your brother got involved in. It was sheer luck there was enough other evidence to get a conviction."
"Without my brother there wouldn't have been any court case at all."
"You can't know that," Lestrade protested, but in his heart he knew Mycroft was right.
"I can't, but the chances are in my favour. But I understand his presence will raise unwanted questions and problems. That's why I invited you here."
"He's a junkie," Lestrade said, desperately wondering why such a brilliant, powerful man kept protecting a washed-up addict. "An infuriatingly brilliant junkie, but a junkie nevertheless." For the first time Lestrade saw true emotion on the stoic face, and a flash of pain made Lestrade regret his words.
"I'm sorry." He apologised not for his words, but for hurting the man in front of him.
"You're right. My brother is an addict, and that is why I need you. At the moment his addiction is drugs; cocaine. He is addicted because his mind never stops; only when solving a puzzle, a crime is his mind focussed. It's when he has nothing to focus on, things go wrong. Dangerously so. Then he finds other ways to stop the boredom, other ways to stop the thoughts, to focus his mind."
"His cocaine?" Lestrade asked.
"Yes, and his cigarettes, his guns, his risk taking." Mycroft looked lost in thought for a moment. "I think having him assist you, the police, will help him. Save him from himself."
"Yeah, but I think saving your brother from himself at the cost of having murders walk free won't work in the real world." Lestrade poured himself another tea, drinking it as he watched the older Holmes brother stare at him for a moment.
"Yes, I know. That's why I had my assistant draft this." At those words, several papers were pushed towards him. "You'll find these are Sherlock's credentials, stating he's an independent consultant, a published forensic scientist. Should the need arise you can always use this."
"You faked this?" Lestrade asked, too afraid to touch the papers.
"I didn't have to. Sherlock was first published when he was eighteen, just after he finished his first year at university."
"I hate it when somebody with so much potential wastes it," Lestrade said with a sigh.
"I agree, so why not use him?" Lestrade knew he was being manipulated into doing Mycroft's bidding again.
"Okay, I can accept this, but why hasn't Sherlock used this information before?"
"He probably forgot about it. He never cared about this, other than showing off, proving he is smarter than the rest of the world." Mycroft sighed. "I think it's because he never could outsmart me, so he took on the rest of the world." Out of anybody else's mouth it would have sounded arrogant, but from Mycroft, it just sounded like a fact.
"So why give it to me and not propose it to your brother?"
"Because I like to have some leverage, and I think the threat of taking away his access to a ready supply of games will be slightly stronger if he doesn't know of the existence of these." At these words he gestured to the papers.
"Okay, why me?" Everything until now had a reason Lestrade could understand. This he didn't. Why not go to the commissioner or even one of the many highly decorated superintendents the Met had? Why a not entirely honest cop who’d never lived up to his potential?
"Because you didn't let my brother intimidate you, because you remained calm while he was holding a knife to your throat, because you don't care about being promoted, because you care more about the end result than the way you get there." The words left Mycroft's mouth in a steady stream, and Lestrade knew every single one was meant as a compliment, and he also knew, somehow, the man in front of him wasn't in the habit of complimenting people.
"Also, I think you're the man to protect my brother where I can't." And suddenly it became clear in Lestrade's mind. Mycroft Holmes cared about only one thing, and that was protecting his brother. One day there might be space for something else, but that would also be the day Sherlock was gone.
"I don't know how to reply to that," Lestrade said. "But I'll do what I can to keep your brother safe."
"I know you will." Mycroft smiled a real smile which made Lestrade's stomach do somersaults.
"Did you see the last test match?" Mycroft switched subjects so fast Lestrade was stunned into silence for a moment.
"Erm, I don't really follow cricket," Lestrade said.
"Oh, then I’ll have to tell you about it. It was spectacular," Mycroft said, handing Lestrade the plate with sandwiches, the mask suddenly gone, making him look like a normal man, and no longer like the ruler of the world.
The rest of the tea was spent in peace, talking about sports, books and the latest films. It wasn't until Mycroft's phone broke the relaxed atmosphere that Lestrade realised he was really enjoying Mycroft's company.
"I'm sorry, Gabriel," Mycroft said. Lestrade realised they had switched to first names unnoticed. "I have to return to the office."
Mycroft walked next to Lestrade into the bright sun. Mycroft's mask had returned somewhere between them getting their coats and the club door falling closed behind them. The black car came out of nowhere and floated to a standstill precisely in front of them.
"My office is just around the corner, so I'll say goodbye now." Mycroft shook Lestrade's hand warmly.
"I really enjoyed this," Lestrade said, surprising himself.
"Me too, me too. Here's my card. Call me if something happens to Sherlock.' Lestrade looked at the card. It was plain, but even its simplicity screamed expensive.
"Thanks. I will." Lestrade sat down in the car. Mycroft looked at him intensely, and Lestrade knew this was the last chance he had to ask what had been on his mind the whole time.
"Why though? Why do you protect him, risk everything? It has to be more than the fact you're brothers, because at some point you just give up, think about yourself, and judge it a lost cause." Lestrade couldn't help it; he had to know.
"It takes an addict to understand addiction, Gabriel. And I understand my brother's addiction perfectly." With these words Mycroft closed the door of the car and walked away.
***
Lestrade returned to his desk the next morning. He hadn't slept; thoughts of Mycroft and Sherlock had kept him awake. He put the piece of paper that gave Sherlock permission to be on any crime scene in London safely in his drawer, wondering how he was going to keep this a secret. He was suddenly Sherlock Holmes's protector and he felt like he had signed his own death warrant. His hand found the little black book blindly and in his mind he saw a name being written:
Gabriel Lestrade
Detective Inspector
Shot to the back of the head
Execution.
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5