FIC: Impact. 1/3 Mycroft/Lestrade
Title: Impact 1/3
Author: Elf
Summary: Impact: The action of one object coming forcibly into contact with another.
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: NC17
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: They're not mine. Or yours. But we'll share, right?
Author's Note: Massive 'thank you' to randomly_rusted for long chats into the night and beta-reading. Also thank you to yminga for the translation work. I'm nothing without them.
Lestrade nipped through the traffic, slicing his bike between cars and lane splitting through the stagnant London road system, thinking about getting home and using a bit of the summer evening to have a jog around the local park, and enjoy the last sun of the day.
He checked his mirror and over his shoulder, pulling into the left lane to turn at the junction, and got to the front of the queue at the lights. He watched the opposing lights go to amber, and revved up. As soon as his signals changed to green he let the bike leap off the line, avoiding the swarms of cyclists and turning on to the main road. He grinned, checking behind him for the traffic and then opening up the throttle, cruising at just below the limit, very aware of the crossings and lights he would meet shortly.
He barely registered the large black car until it swung out of the side road at speed. Then he did three things - grabbed the brakes, swerved away and swore loudly.
He'd managed to scrub about half his speed off, but when the choice came between veering away, into the path of a bus, or taking a flyer over the car, he knew neither would be pleasant, and before he had another thought there was a sickening crunch of metal-on-metal and he was airbourne.
The flight wouldn't have won any prizes for grace, and the landing attested to that, as he flailed an arm out to try to catch himself, before his body crumpled onto the tarmac, his helmet rebounding once before he came to a skidding stop.
He blinked, his vision swimming. He could still see the blue sky, through the leaves of the plane trees. He gasped for breath, his lungs unco-operative. But he seemed to be alive, and, as far as he could tell, still had all his limbs attached.
He groaned, dragging in some precious oxygen, and heard the start of cars beeping, signaling that the traffic was showing it's usual level of calm and consideration.
He lifted his left arm - sending a spasm of pain across his shoulders, from where he'd hit the deck.
~~~~~~
He was scanning the evening paper, checking for any news that might be breaking which he ought to know about. Radio three was playing from the car speakers. He was, on some level, aware of the car accelerating a little too abruptly. He might have frowned slightly. And then his world of calm and peace was broken by the sudden braking, which almost threw him from his seat, and the bang and crunch of a very solid impact. He looked up in time to see a body flying across the bonnet and landing heavily on the road.
He dropped the paper and scrambled for the door, working purely on instinct. His driver seemed to have frozen, gripping the steering wheel and staring straight ahead.
The man - he presumed it was a man, by the build - raised an arm, and looked to be about to move.
"Stop! Stay still!" He tried to make his voice commanding, but it didn't seem the man had heard. He leant over, looking in through the clear visor to see two dark eyes, staring back at him, confusion evident.
"You must remain still. You may be injured," he repeated.
The man groaned and moved again, rolling to his side, head still resting on the ground.
"Fucking hell," said a muffled voice.
He felt in his pocket for his mobile phone, and was about to hit the nine key when the man moved again, curling up on himself and apparently trying to push himself up onto his hands and knees.
"No, no," he reached out, his hand gripping the soft, worn leather of the man's shoulder. "No, stay still, are you injured? Do be careful, please. I'm so sorry, I…my driver can't have seen you."
~~~~~~
Lestrade had established that nothing seemed to be broken - his wrist was throbbing, but he could wiggle his fingers, and everywhere else that hurt seemed to be bruised, pulled, battered but intact. He could sense someone looming over him, feel a hand on his shoulder, and he wanted to get up, off the road, away from the wheels passing what felt like far too close to his head.
"…my driver can't have seen you."
He rested on his elbow and fumbled for the chin strap on his helmet, finally releasing it and pulled the helmet off. The shoes inches from his face were brightly polished, leather soled. The trousers a rich fabric. And…'my driver'? He looked at the car - a huge, black sleek beast. No wonder it barely rocked when he hit it. It was built like a tank.
He struggled to his knees, muscles protesting, and suddenly there was a hand around his bicep, gently helping him as he got to his feet.
"I'm so sorry - are you sure you should be getting up? I mean, you're not injured?"
Lestrade shook his still-spinning head and staggered slightly, noting that the grip tightened.
"Here, please, I only live just along the road - let me assist you."
The voice was posh. Lestrade finally managed to drag his gaze up from the ground to take in the waistcoat, jacket, tie and very worried look on the man's face. The clothes seemed old fashioned - fastidious and neat as a pin, and Lestrade was sure he'd caught a glimpse of a fob watch chain. But the face was young - early thirties, at a guess.
"My bike…I," he tried to straighten up, his back muscles protesting. "I need to check my bike."
"I assure you, it will be dealt with, please…I can have it brought to my garage. I'm afraid it seems rather damaged. My people can sort it out."
Lestrade moved, leaning on the bonnet of the car, then looking back to the man. Who, apparently, had 'people'. He certainly had a traumatised driver, who was only now climbing out of the car, looking at the lines of London traffic and the bike-shaped dent embedded just in front of his door. He also heard the wail of approaching sirens.
"Look, I'm okay - if we can move this all out of the way then we might avoid gridlocking most of West London," Lestrade limped to his bike, sighing when he saw the mess the front forks were in.
He half registered that the man was on his phone now, gesturing as he spoke to someone. He sighed, leaning on the bonnet of the car, his left hand idly rubbing at his right wrist where he'd wrenched it upon landing. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. He hunkered down, ignoring the flares of pain that brought, and rubbed his fingers over the dent in the fuel tank where the bars had crashed into it. The entire front end looked as if it was bent, broken and only hanging on by the wiring. He wiped a hand over his face, feeling his neck muscles protest.
He wasn't sure he'd be able to move the bike, even with help. The front wheel looked like it was only just holding on. And the posh bloke in the suit didn't look like he'd be much use in lifting it up or shifting it with no front wheel. The driver was an option, but he still hadn't stopped shaking. He hooked his also-ruined helmet over one of the bent bars, knowing that was destined for the bin now, too.
"Help is on its way," the voice behind him said, and the man gave him a small smile.
"I suppose we should exchange details," Lestrade said, feeling in his pocket for anything to write on or with.
"Please - as I said, I only live just up this road. Do accompany me home, and I will ensure you have all the information you need. I can also arrange a taxi - or perhaps you'd like to call someone, to get you home?"
Lestrade straightened up, hanging onto the car for support and unable to suppress a grimace of pain. He felt as if he were being rebuffed, yet the man was offering to take him to his house - so he'd get an address, and he'd already made a mental note of the car number plate. "Yeah, I suppose…I just need…I think the car'll be okay. Might not get it far before you need to sort out the bodywork rubbing on the wheel…I don't know if we'll manage the bike. I mean, we only need to move it to the side…I just need…"
The man looked up as four burly men approached, all dressed in suits.
"If you could attend to the motorcycle, first," he called. "Have it taken to the garage - carefully. And then one of you will need to drive the car, I'm afraid Whittaker is quite shaken."
Lestrade took a step back as three of the men heaved the bike up, then all-but carried it as they moved it off the carriageway.
"Um, I don't…" he watched as his bike was slowly walked down the side street. "Um, don't even know your name, Mr…?"
"Holmes. Mycroft Holmes."
And a hand was extended in front of him.
He raised his eyebrows and shook it instinctively, ignoring the slight feel of grit from his own palm. An odd man, with an odd name, a car and heavies which screamed money and importance that belied his years.
"Greg Lestrade," he said in reply. "Detective Sergeant."
The man looked neither impressed nor surprised - and Lestrade had generally found people were one or the other. Another odd trait.
The car engine started, and Lestrade made a half-hearted attempt to kick some of the glass from his headlight out of the road, but suddenly one of the heavies was there, picking up the larger pieces.
And the man's - Holmes' - hand was back on his arm, guiding him.
Lestrade turned to look over his shoulder as they walked away, and behind the heavy who was now following them, the traffic was beginning to flow again, as if nothing had ever happened.
Lestrade was beginning to wonder if he was, in fact, dead and dreaming. Or whatever dead people did.
The house was indeed close by, and Lestrade noticed that the heavy somehow melted away as they stepped inside the secure front gate, into the small garden, the tiles on the path perfect and patterned. Holmes climbed the few steps and opened the large front door, standing back - although there was no need, the doorway was so wide - and gesturing inside.
"Allow me to fetch you a drink - and the details for the insurance, of course. I assure you, though, mine will cover it all. I entirely accept it was my car and driver who were in error."
Lestrade nodded, and wondered if he should take his boots off - the house was immaculate. But Holmes walked in without removing his shoes, so Lestrade followed, trying to stretch unobtrusively.
"Are you sure you don't require a doctor? I can call someone…"
Lestrade shook his head. "It's nothing…few bruises. Bit of ice and I'm sure I'll mend," he smiled.
Holmes nodded. "If you're sure. Can I offer you a drink? Tea or coffee - or something stronger?"
Lestrade felt like accepting the latter offer, but decided against it.
"Coffee, thank you."
"There is a bathroom, just on your left in the corridor, if you would like to refresh yourself," Holmes gestured.
Lestrade nodded and followed the directions.
The bathroom was decked out in marble and gold, and was larger than his flat.
He heard a buzzing noise and realised it was a coffee grinder. He hadn't had a decent cup of coffee in months. Perhaps the evening wasn't going to be a total write off. The man - Mycroft, what sort of a name was that? - seemed pleasant, confident whilst dealing with his 'people', and clearly calm and in-charge when dealing with a crisis. Lestrade liked that, liked people who didn't panic and flap about - he saw too much of that every day.
He shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it over the edge of the bath. He took a moment to look at everything - marble surfaces and gold taps, a bath almost big enough to swim in and a separate shower. The place was spotless, too. No old toilet roll cores or hairs in the plug hole here.
He splashed water on his face, removing sweat and grime, and washed his hands. Then he twisted around, pulling up his t-shirt, dragging it off over his head and trying to glimpse some of the damage he'd done.
~~~~~~
Holmes shrugged out of his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and ground the coffee beans. He set the coffee maker going, then pushed the button on the front of the fridge and caught the resulting stream of ice in a sturdy freezer bag. He tied a knot in it and wrapped it in a tea-towel, then headed toward the bathroom.
He was slightly surprised to see the door standing open, and utterly shocked to see the expanse of lightly tanned torso, stretched and twisted as Lestrade tried to see over his shoulder. A line of dark hair dipped below the slightly loose belt and waistband of the leather trousers, and higher up, the glinting silver of two rings through Lestrade's nipples caught his eye. He swallowed, tried to speak, failed, wondered if he should just turn and leave, and then realised he was being held in the gaze of the darkest brown eyes he'd ever seen.
"Ice," said, holding it out, and then realising he should actually walk forward, too. He pulled a face as he saw the graze which ran down the back of Lestrade's ribcage. "I…I really can call a doctor, if you'd like?"
Lestrade waved a hand, accepting the ice and wincing as he reached to try to hold it to the back of his shoulder. "Bit of antiseptic cream'll fix that."
Holmes wanted to reach out and take the ice, to help, hold it against the smooth skin and lithe muscles. He looked at Lestrade, but the gaze from the wide chocolate coloured eyes made him shy away, and he found himself once again staring at the silver hoops on Lestrade's chest. He moved, reaching into the cabinet, trying to gather himself.
"Here, I have…" he held out the tube of antiseptic. "Um…I mean…"
Lestrade smiled and moved the ice from his battered shoulder, balancing it on the edge of the basin. He squeezed some of the cream out onto his fingers, but Holmes could see he was finding it awkward to reach, and despite realising it was a quite ridiculous thing to do, he reached out, and allowed Lestrade's fingers to rub over his own, transferring the cream to them. He kept his gaze firmly focused on the injury and very gently rubbed the cream in, scared of hurting Lestrade.
A stifled giggle made him look up to see Lestrade's lower lip caught between hi teeth, a half smile tugging at his mouth. He licked his own lips unconsciously.
"Sorry, tickles," Lestrade smiled.
Holmes smiled back - he couldn't help it. Lestrade's whole face seemed to light up with the grin and it made him look about ten years younger.
Holmes finished a last swipe of his fingers and replaced the top on the tube, then moved to wash his hands. Lestrade didn't move out of the space, forcing them into very close proximity, and Holmes was all too aware he was under close scrutiny. He wondered how he, of all people, had ended up with a man in his bathroom, half naked, who didn't fit into any of the neat boxes in which he liked to file people.
Biker - with a responsible job, and one which required him to be smart in both senses of the word - yet he was wearing worn out scruffy leathers, rode a bike which was clearly a few years old, and Holmes was fairly certain, had seen more than one minor crash before. And then the piercings. Up until now Holmes had held clear views about what sort of person would with to mutilate themselves in such a way. And this man was not one of those sorts.
What was even more disconcerting was just how attractive he found it. Something which he had always inwardly scorned - fashion, fads, a need to 'express oneself', and extroverted attention-seeking desire to prove what exactly? - and now, here he was, unable to stop thinking about what it would be like to run his tongue over the soft flesh and hard metal.
He gave himself a mental slap. Not thoughts he should be having. Not thoughts he needed to have. Not thoughts suitable for a man in his position.
"I…the coffee should be ready. Please, come through whenever you're ready," he said, ducking away and glad when Lestrade didn't immediately follow him, needing a moment to gather himself and his thoughts.
~~~~~~
Lestrade watched Holmes leave the room, and smiled to himself. He was pretty sure that he wasn't deluding himself when he thought he saw a spark of interest there - and he'd been shocked when Holmes had begun to rub the cream into his skin. But he was certain the other man was utterly confused. All of the earlier confidence replaced by uncertainty - almost awkwardness.
He had always presumed that if you were as rich and powerful as Holmes appeared to be you could have anything in the world. He hadn't ever really thought about what would happen if you didn't know what you wanted.
He shrugged back into his t-shirt and picked up his jacket, wondering if he should wipe up the splashes of water he'd left - and then deciding that was probably going a bit far. He took the ice-pack and headed back to the kitchen.
The large open plan kitchen and sitting room now smelled of rich coffee and Lestrade smiled, dropping his jacket over the back of a chair.
"Sugar? Milk? Cream?" Holmes offered.
"Uh, milk, thanks," he leant back against the worktop, looking down into the garden, holding the ice to the back of his neck.
"Hot or cold?"
Lestrade dragged his gaze back to Holmes. "Huh?"
"Your milk - hot or cold?"
Lestrade didn't know what to say for a moment - he was pretty sure it was a question that had never presented itself to him before. "Cold, I guess?"
Holmes nodded and removed a milk jug from the fridge.
Lestrade wondered what one earth Holmes could do to end up in a swanky townhouse, with impeccable manners, security who looked like they'd twist your head off as soon as look at you, and a chauffeur. He narrowed it down to master criminal, playboy or senior government official. And somehow none of those quite fit.
"Mind if I smoke?" Lestrade asked, gesturing to the door that led out of the kitchen onto some steps.
"Uh, no, indeed, be my guest." Mycroft fiddled with locks and bolts, opening the door to admit the warm evening air and scents from the garden.
Lestrade leant back against the black railings, just outside the door, pulling a pouch of tobacco from his pocket.
"Want one?" he offered.
Mycroft shook his head. "Thank you, but I don't."
He removed a packet of papers from the pouch and arranged the delicate paper at the top, holding it between two fingers. Then he gently pinched up the tobacco and dropped it into place. He rolled the paper carefully, forming the shredded tobacco, then lifted it to his mouth - he just happened to catch Holmes' eye as he slid the tip of his tongue across the edge of the paper, wetting the glue. He finally finished rolling the thin white tube and held it between his lips. He slid a lighter from his pocket and lit the cigarette, taking a deep drag, expanding his lungs. Knowing his t-shirt was just tight enough to give a hint of the piercings it concealed, if you knew what you were looking for. And the flick of Holmes' eyes toward him told him that Holmes did.
He looked down at the neat back garden - a small paved area with furniture, some grass and an ornamental pond, raised out of the ground. There was also a drive, dipping under the house, where Lestrade assumed the garage was housed. The gate which guarded the entrance was obviously electric and clearly slid back across the rear wall when opened. He also spotted security cameras on the wall, looking down into the street as well as at the garage. He wasn't surprised, given the make of the car that lived inside.
When he finished the roll up he licked his fingers and extinguished the dog end with a pinch, then dropped it back into his pouch of tobacco - not wanting to litter Holmes' immaculate garden.
He then sat at the dining table, reaching down to unfasten his boots, and accepting the mug of coffee Holmes offered him gratefully.
"Now, as I said, I shall ensure my insurance company understand that none of the fault lies with you - I'm certain there will be no problems. However, here is my card, should you need to contact me directly. And I'll just fetch you the other details," Holmes said, suddenly all business.
Lestrade sipped his coffee and nodded as Holmes left the room. He turned the card over in his fingers. Mycroft Holmes. No job title, just phone numbers and email. No sign as to what he might do at all. And now, back out here, he had that calm control back again. He almost wondered if everything that happened in the bathroom had been him reading a lot into nothing. Maybe the awkwardness wasn't one of sexual attraction, but of class.
"Here," Holmes walked back into the room. "My driver's details, along with those of my insurance company. I must warn you that the young gentleman may find himself posted…elsewhere, after today's little…display. I shall, however, inform you of any changes."
Lestrade looked up, and didn't know why he was surprised. Maybe he'd been right about the criminal part of his guess - someone who didn't tolerate his 'people' not doing their jobs properly. He hoped the driver would just be let go, and not be a body he'd have to fish out of the Thames in a few weeks time.
"I…uh, it's not the first time it's happened, y'know," he said. "Don't be too hard on him."
"I'm not sure he's quite cut out to be a driver," Mycroft answered, sitting down. "And there are no shortage of tasks he could turn to. I shall have personnel redeploy him to a job where he can cause less damage."
Lestrade nodded, feeling slightly more comfortable.
"I'll give you my details, if you've got something I could write on?"
"Indeed," Mycroft fetched a small pad and a heavy, gold banded, pen.
Lestrade leant over, trying to print the information clearly. He was well aware that he was being watched as the silence stretched, only broken by the slight rustle of him writing. He was suddenly terrified of spelling something wrong. He felt as if he were back at school. He glanced up, to find himself in Holmes' steady gaze and gave a small smile.
"Here," he finally said, passing over the sheet.
Holmes read it, nodding occasionally. "Ah, at the Yard, are you? Let me see…Gangs or drugs?"
Lestrade felt his eyebrows rising. How did the man know he worked in the Yard? There was nothing to suggest…apart from his office phone number. Who would recognise the first digits of that though?
"Murder," he answered, and was pleased at the slight twitch of surprise he got in return.
"I see. I shall have to introduce you to my brother some time. He has a rather…morbid fascination with such crimes. I do hope I'm not keeping you from…"
Lestrade shook his head. "Was on my way home. You were obviously on your way out though - sorry."
Holmes waved a hand. "A social engagement. Unimportant."
He glanced up at the clock. It had just gone seven - Lestrade had no idea where the time had gone - it felt like only a few minutes ago that he was rolling about in the road.
"I'm sorry, I didn't intend to…I can call you a taxi - on me, obviously. Or, if you wouldn't object, I was going to have some dinner…you're most welcome to stay," Holmes offered.
Lestrade let the silence stretch for a moment, trying to decide what he should do. If he went home he could shower and lie down and try to do something about his various aches and pains. But he'd have to go shopping, then cook - or get take-away, but he'd had too much of that recently. Or he could stay, in the stunning house, probably eat something amazing, and then get a free cab home and rest afterwards. He found himself nodding.
"Dinner would be great."
Holmes smiled and stood again, walking to the fridge. "I've got all sorts - is there anything you dislike?"
Lestrade shook his head and consciously stretched out slightly, hips forward, t-shirt tight over his chest. He slid the ice behind the small of his back, almost jumping at the cool on his skin. He was very aware of Holmes' gaze, sliding towards him again, then away, as if he'd been caught. Interesting.
"You must see some terrible things," Holmes said, sounding completely composed. "In your work."
"See some horrible things, meet some scum, yeah, we get all the good stuff," he smiled.
"Have you been with the Met for long? I believe I detect a trace of the Westcountry in your accent - Somerset, or Wiltshire perhaps?"
Lestrade liked to think he'd eradicated his old country burr, but he nodded slowly. "Somerset. But yeah, been with the Met my whole career." He paused, wondering if he should ask. He decided to take the plunge. "So what is it you do?"
There was a moment - a flicker of the eyes - and Lestrade knew he was about to be lied to.
"I work for the Government. Just a minor role - supervisory, really."
Lestrade snorted slightly. "I'm not some flunky you've just met in the corridors of Whitehall," he said. "I've been hit by your car, helped by your people and am in your bloody house - minor role my arse. If I didn't know better I'd say you were the Home Secretary or something!"
Holmes smiled, thank God. Because even as the words were leaving Lestrade's mouth he was wondering if he was somehow right, just what would happen to him - a mouthy rozzer who clearly didn’t know when to keep that mouth shut.
"Well, when you put it like that…I am in control of some things which could be deemed important to national security - that's all. It suits people to know that I am protected."
Lestrade nodded, heeding the signals and not asking anything further.
"Wine?" Holmes offered, and Lestrade accepted, watching the rich red splash into the heavy crystal glasses.
~~~~~~
Holmes watched as Lestrade ate the dinner he had prepared. The spaghetti quickly twisted around the fork tines, the trailing ends sucked into the mouth, excess sauce licked away.
He enjoyed the company - he very rarely invited people into his home, and certainly no one like Lestrade. Occasionally he would entertain his equals and sometimes foreign officials and diplomats. The dinners then were steeped in formality and etiquette. Now he watched as Lestrade ate his food with his fork in his right hand, using his left to gesture with as he spoke. One of his feet was propped on the rung of the chair next to him, boot hanging open, straps loose, buckles making a clinking noise as he moved.
Somehow it was freeing though, it was relaxing. Lestrade spoke of football, Holmes countered with theatre, and was surprised when Lestrade could hold up his end of the conversation. He moved on to opera, which Lestrade admitted having no idea about, but asked intelligent questions and seemed interested. They covered all the normal topics any Londoners would talk about - Tube strikes, traffic, tourists - noticeably staying away from crime and politics.
Finally, the food finished and the wine drunk, he watched as Lestrade stretched out, wincing obviously as his injuries made themselves known. He also noticed the defined muscles, and swallowed. He could imagine running his hands over the strong, taut body, into the messy hair, over the rough stubble of the cheeks and chin. And then tasting the soft lips, seeing them pull into the lopsided grin that he'd come to lust after, over the course of the evening.
"I should get going," Lestrade said. "That was fantastic though - thank you."
"Really?" He smiled. "I suppose I have rather kept you. You should have been home hours ago. I really can't apologise enough."
Lestrade waved a hand, wiping his lips on the white napkin and scrunching it up. "It was almost worth it," he said, and there was the smile again, that gave such warmth to the deep brown eyes.
"I shall be in touch, regarding the insurance," Holmes said, standing.
He watched as Lestrade also stood, stiffly and with a slight limp when he moved. He felt wracked with guilt, yet also strangely happy. It had, he agreed, been almost worth it.
~~~~~~
Lestrade shrugged into his jacket, hissing as the movement pulled the grazed skin. He turned to see Holmes holding out a twenty pound note.
"Please, for your cab fare."
Lestrade smiled. "Thank you - but that's too much, really."
"Nonsense, not after all I've put you through. Besides, I have nothing smaller on me. Please," he took a step toward Lestrade.
Lestrade hesitated for a moment, but he really didn't feel like walking to the tube. He reached out and took it. "I'll get the change back to you," he said, seriously.
Holmes inclined his head, eyes closed, in agreement.
"And I left my keys in my bike."
"Oh, well, downstairs, please, this way. Would you like me to call a taxi for you?"
"No, I'll pick one up fast enough on the main road - thanks, though." He followed Mycroft down a set of stairs and through yet more locked doors into a huge garage, which was more like an operating theatre than a place to store vehicles. The floor and walls were spotless, the car sat in the middle of it, gleaming black, marred only by the dented wing. And there was his bike, a crumpled heap near the wall. He sighed and walked to it, running his hand over the fuel tank and seat. He pulled the keys from the ignition and couldn't help but caress the bent bars and run his fingers over the worn grip.
He turned, knowing he had a sad smile on his face. "Sorry," he said. "It's a bit like losing an old friend, y'know?"
Holmes looked, if possible, more distraught than he felt.
"I'm so sorry. I'm sure we can have it fixed, though - or the insurance…"
"Ah, she's an old girl though - won't get much on the insurance. Don't expect they'll think she's worth it. Maybe I'll try and find something similar second hand. Hey - do you mind if I leave it all here? Helmet and everything? The insurance might want to see it all - get a mechanic to look it over, see if she can be fixed."
Holmes gestured to the space. "That will be fine, as you can see, there's no shortage of room."
Lestrade nodded, taking one last backward glance at the bike before climbing the stairs again.
At the front door he hung back once more, allowing Holmes to unlock and open the door. Holmes stepped back, holding it open, ever the gentleman.
And Lestrade couldn't help it. A combination of the simmering sexual tension he'd been feeling all night, the certainty he had that Holmes would never act on it if not pushed, and half a bottle of very good red wine made him bolder than he would usually be. He stepped forward, crowding into Holmes' personal space, leaning into a kiss - a press of mouths, and just the smallest swipe of his tongue across Holmes' lips, followed by the gentlest of pressure with his hips against the other man. And then he stepped out of the door, across the yard and opened the gate. He glanced backwards, smiling, and saw Holmes' shocked expression, the hand gripping the edge of the door, the other lifting to touch his mouth.
He was sure he'd made the right choice, as he stepped out onto the street and began walking.
Well almost sure, anyway.
TBC...
Chapter Two
Author: Elf
Summary: Impact: The action of one object coming forcibly into contact with another.
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: NC17
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: They're not mine. Or yours. But we'll share, right?
Author's Note: Massive 'thank you' to randomly_rusted for long chats into the night and beta-reading. Also thank you to yminga for the translation work. I'm nothing without them.
Lestrade nipped through the traffic, slicing his bike between cars and lane splitting through the stagnant London road system, thinking about getting home and using a bit of the summer evening to have a jog around the local park, and enjoy the last sun of the day.
He checked his mirror and over his shoulder, pulling into the left lane to turn at the junction, and got to the front of the queue at the lights. He watched the opposing lights go to amber, and revved up. As soon as his signals changed to green he let the bike leap off the line, avoiding the swarms of cyclists and turning on to the main road. He grinned, checking behind him for the traffic and then opening up the throttle, cruising at just below the limit, very aware of the crossings and lights he would meet shortly.
He barely registered the large black car until it swung out of the side road at speed. Then he did three things - grabbed the brakes, swerved away and swore loudly.
He'd managed to scrub about half his speed off, but when the choice came between veering away, into the path of a bus, or taking a flyer over the car, he knew neither would be pleasant, and before he had another thought there was a sickening crunch of metal-on-metal and he was airbourne.
The flight wouldn't have won any prizes for grace, and the landing attested to that, as he flailed an arm out to try to catch himself, before his body crumpled onto the tarmac, his helmet rebounding once before he came to a skidding stop.
He blinked, his vision swimming. He could still see the blue sky, through the leaves of the plane trees. He gasped for breath, his lungs unco-operative. But he seemed to be alive, and, as far as he could tell, still had all his limbs attached.
He groaned, dragging in some precious oxygen, and heard the start of cars beeping, signaling that the traffic was showing it's usual level of calm and consideration.
He lifted his left arm - sending a spasm of pain across his shoulders, from where he'd hit the deck.
~~~~~~
He was scanning the evening paper, checking for any news that might be breaking which he ought to know about. Radio three was playing from the car speakers. He was, on some level, aware of the car accelerating a little too abruptly. He might have frowned slightly. And then his world of calm and peace was broken by the sudden braking, which almost threw him from his seat, and the bang and crunch of a very solid impact. He looked up in time to see a body flying across the bonnet and landing heavily on the road.
He dropped the paper and scrambled for the door, working purely on instinct. His driver seemed to have frozen, gripping the steering wheel and staring straight ahead.
The man - he presumed it was a man, by the build - raised an arm, and looked to be about to move.
"Stop! Stay still!" He tried to make his voice commanding, but it didn't seem the man had heard. He leant over, looking in through the clear visor to see two dark eyes, staring back at him, confusion evident.
"You must remain still. You may be injured," he repeated.
The man groaned and moved again, rolling to his side, head still resting on the ground.
"Fucking hell," said a muffled voice.
He felt in his pocket for his mobile phone, and was about to hit the nine key when the man moved again, curling up on himself and apparently trying to push himself up onto his hands and knees.
"No, no," he reached out, his hand gripping the soft, worn leather of the man's shoulder. "No, stay still, are you injured? Do be careful, please. I'm so sorry, I…my driver can't have seen you."
~~~~~~
Lestrade had established that nothing seemed to be broken - his wrist was throbbing, but he could wiggle his fingers, and everywhere else that hurt seemed to be bruised, pulled, battered but intact. He could sense someone looming over him, feel a hand on his shoulder, and he wanted to get up, off the road, away from the wheels passing what felt like far too close to his head.
"…my driver can't have seen you."
He rested on his elbow and fumbled for the chin strap on his helmet, finally releasing it and pulled the helmet off. The shoes inches from his face were brightly polished, leather soled. The trousers a rich fabric. And…'my driver'? He looked at the car - a huge, black sleek beast. No wonder it barely rocked when he hit it. It was built like a tank.
He struggled to his knees, muscles protesting, and suddenly there was a hand around his bicep, gently helping him as he got to his feet.
"I'm so sorry - are you sure you should be getting up? I mean, you're not injured?"
Lestrade shook his still-spinning head and staggered slightly, noting that the grip tightened.
"Here, please, I only live just along the road - let me assist you."
The voice was posh. Lestrade finally managed to drag his gaze up from the ground to take in the waistcoat, jacket, tie and very worried look on the man's face. The clothes seemed old fashioned - fastidious and neat as a pin, and Lestrade was sure he'd caught a glimpse of a fob watch chain. But the face was young - early thirties, at a guess.
"My bike…I," he tried to straighten up, his back muscles protesting. "I need to check my bike."
"I assure you, it will be dealt with, please…I can have it brought to my garage. I'm afraid it seems rather damaged. My people can sort it out."
Lestrade moved, leaning on the bonnet of the car, then looking back to the man. Who, apparently, had 'people'. He certainly had a traumatised driver, who was only now climbing out of the car, looking at the lines of London traffic and the bike-shaped dent embedded just in front of his door. He also heard the wail of approaching sirens.
"Look, I'm okay - if we can move this all out of the way then we might avoid gridlocking most of West London," Lestrade limped to his bike, sighing when he saw the mess the front forks were in.
He half registered that the man was on his phone now, gesturing as he spoke to someone. He sighed, leaning on the bonnet of the car, his left hand idly rubbing at his right wrist where he'd wrenched it upon landing. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. He hunkered down, ignoring the flares of pain that brought, and rubbed his fingers over the dent in the fuel tank where the bars had crashed into it. The entire front end looked as if it was bent, broken and only hanging on by the wiring. He wiped a hand over his face, feeling his neck muscles protest.
He wasn't sure he'd be able to move the bike, even with help. The front wheel looked like it was only just holding on. And the posh bloke in the suit didn't look like he'd be much use in lifting it up or shifting it with no front wheel. The driver was an option, but he still hadn't stopped shaking. He hooked his also-ruined helmet over one of the bent bars, knowing that was destined for the bin now, too.
"Help is on its way," the voice behind him said, and the man gave him a small smile.
"I suppose we should exchange details," Lestrade said, feeling in his pocket for anything to write on or with.
"Please - as I said, I only live just up this road. Do accompany me home, and I will ensure you have all the information you need. I can also arrange a taxi - or perhaps you'd like to call someone, to get you home?"
Lestrade straightened up, hanging onto the car for support and unable to suppress a grimace of pain. He felt as if he were being rebuffed, yet the man was offering to take him to his house - so he'd get an address, and he'd already made a mental note of the car number plate. "Yeah, I suppose…I just need…I think the car'll be okay. Might not get it far before you need to sort out the bodywork rubbing on the wheel…I don't know if we'll manage the bike. I mean, we only need to move it to the side…I just need…"
The man looked up as four burly men approached, all dressed in suits.
"If you could attend to the motorcycle, first," he called. "Have it taken to the garage - carefully. And then one of you will need to drive the car, I'm afraid Whittaker is quite shaken."
Lestrade took a step back as three of the men heaved the bike up, then all-but carried it as they moved it off the carriageway.
"Um, I don't…" he watched as his bike was slowly walked down the side street. "Um, don't even know your name, Mr…?"
"Holmes. Mycroft Holmes."
And a hand was extended in front of him.
He raised his eyebrows and shook it instinctively, ignoring the slight feel of grit from his own palm. An odd man, with an odd name, a car and heavies which screamed money and importance that belied his years.
"Greg Lestrade," he said in reply. "Detective Sergeant."
The man looked neither impressed nor surprised - and Lestrade had generally found people were one or the other. Another odd trait.
The car engine started, and Lestrade made a half-hearted attempt to kick some of the glass from his headlight out of the road, but suddenly one of the heavies was there, picking up the larger pieces.
And the man's - Holmes' - hand was back on his arm, guiding him.
Lestrade turned to look over his shoulder as they walked away, and behind the heavy who was now following them, the traffic was beginning to flow again, as if nothing had ever happened.
Lestrade was beginning to wonder if he was, in fact, dead and dreaming. Or whatever dead people did.
The house was indeed close by, and Lestrade noticed that the heavy somehow melted away as they stepped inside the secure front gate, into the small garden, the tiles on the path perfect and patterned. Holmes climbed the few steps and opened the large front door, standing back - although there was no need, the doorway was so wide - and gesturing inside.
"Allow me to fetch you a drink - and the details for the insurance, of course. I assure you, though, mine will cover it all. I entirely accept it was my car and driver who were in error."
Lestrade nodded, and wondered if he should take his boots off - the house was immaculate. But Holmes walked in without removing his shoes, so Lestrade followed, trying to stretch unobtrusively.
"Are you sure you don't require a doctor? I can call someone…"
Lestrade shook his head. "It's nothing…few bruises. Bit of ice and I'm sure I'll mend," he smiled.
Holmes nodded. "If you're sure. Can I offer you a drink? Tea or coffee - or something stronger?"
Lestrade felt like accepting the latter offer, but decided against it.
"Coffee, thank you."
"There is a bathroom, just on your left in the corridor, if you would like to refresh yourself," Holmes gestured.
Lestrade nodded and followed the directions.
The bathroom was decked out in marble and gold, and was larger than his flat.
He heard a buzzing noise and realised it was a coffee grinder. He hadn't had a decent cup of coffee in months. Perhaps the evening wasn't going to be a total write off. The man - Mycroft, what sort of a name was that? - seemed pleasant, confident whilst dealing with his 'people', and clearly calm and in-charge when dealing with a crisis. Lestrade liked that, liked people who didn't panic and flap about - he saw too much of that every day.
He shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it over the edge of the bath. He took a moment to look at everything - marble surfaces and gold taps, a bath almost big enough to swim in and a separate shower. The place was spotless, too. No old toilet roll cores or hairs in the plug hole here.
He splashed water on his face, removing sweat and grime, and washed his hands. Then he twisted around, pulling up his t-shirt, dragging it off over his head and trying to glimpse some of the damage he'd done.
~~~~~~
Holmes shrugged out of his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and ground the coffee beans. He set the coffee maker going, then pushed the button on the front of the fridge and caught the resulting stream of ice in a sturdy freezer bag. He tied a knot in it and wrapped it in a tea-towel, then headed toward the bathroom.
He was slightly surprised to see the door standing open, and utterly shocked to see the expanse of lightly tanned torso, stretched and twisted as Lestrade tried to see over his shoulder. A line of dark hair dipped below the slightly loose belt and waistband of the leather trousers, and higher up, the glinting silver of two rings through Lestrade's nipples caught his eye. He swallowed, tried to speak, failed, wondered if he should just turn and leave, and then realised he was being held in the gaze of the darkest brown eyes he'd ever seen.
"Ice," said, holding it out, and then realising he should actually walk forward, too. He pulled a face as he saw the graze which ran down the back of Lestrade's ribcage. "I…I really can call a doctor, if you'd like?"
Lestrade waved a hand, accepting the ice and wincing as he reached to try to hold it to the back of his shoulder. "Bit of antiseptic cream'll fix that."
Holmes wanted to reach out and take the ice, to help, hold it against the smooth skin and lithe muscles. He looked at Lestrade, but the gaze from the wide chocolate coloured eyes made him shy away, and he found himself once again staring at the silver hoops on Lestrade's chest. He moved, reaching into the cabinet, trying to gather himself.
"Here, I have…" he held out the tube of antiseptic. "Um…I mean…"
Lestrade smiled and moved the ice from his battered shoulder, balancing it on the edge of the basin. He squeezed some of the cream out onto his fingers, but Holmes could see he was finding it awkward to reach, and despite realising it was a quite ridiculous thing to do, he reached out, and allowed Lestrade's fingers to rub over his own, transferring the cream to them. He kept his gaze firmly focused on the injury and very gently rubbed the cream in, scared of hurting Lestrade.
A stifled giggle made him look up to see Lestrade's lower lip caught between hi teeth, a half smile tugging at his mouth. He licked his own lips unconsciously.
"Sorry, tickles," Lestrade smiled.
Holmes smiled back - he couldn't help it. Lestrade's whole face seemed to light up with the grin and it made him look about ten years younger.
Holmes finished a last swipe of his fingers and replaced the top on the tube, then moved to wash his hands. Lestrade didn't move out of the space, forcing them into very close proximity, and Holmes was all too aware he was under close scrutiny. He wondered how he, of all people, had ended up with a man in his bathroom, half naked, who didn't fit into any of the neat boxes in which he liked to file people.
Biker - with a responsible job, and one which required him to be smart in both senses of the word - yet he was wearing worn out scruffy leathers, rode a bike which was clearly a few years old, and Holmes was fairly certain, had seen more than one minor crash before. And then the piercings. Up until now Holmes had held clear views about what sort of person would with to mutilate themselves in such a way. And this man was not one of those sorts.
What was even more disconcerting was just how attractive he found it. Something which he had always inwardly scorned - fashion, fads, a need to 'express oneself', and extroverted attention-seeking desire to prove what exactly? - and now, here he was, unable to stop thinking about what it would be like to run his tongue over the soft flesh and hard metal.
He gave himself a mental slap. Not thoughts he should be having. Not thoughts he needed to have. Not thoughts suitable for a man in his position.
"I…the coffee should be ready. Please, come through whenever you're ready," he said, ducking away and glad when Lestrade didn't immediately follow him, needing a moment to gather himself and his thoughts.
~~~~~~
Lestrade watched Holmes leave the room, and smiled to himself. He was pretty sure that he wasn't deluding himself when he thought he saw a spark of interest there - and he'd been shocked when Holmes had begun to rub the cream into his skin. But he was certain the other man was utterly confused. All of the earlier confidence replaced by uncertainty - almost awkwardness.
He had always presumed that if you were as rich and powerful as Holmes appeared to be you could have anything in the world. He hadn't ever really thought about what would happen if you didn't know what you wanted.
He shrugged back into his t-shirt and picked up his jacket, wondering if he should wipe up the splashes of water he'd left - and then deciding that was probably going a bit far. He took the ice-pack and headed back to the kitchen.
The large open plan kitchen and sitting room now smelled of rich coffee and Lestrade smiled, dropping his jacket over the back of a chair.
"Sugar? Milk? Cream?" Holmes offered.
"Uh, milk, thanks," he leant back against the worktop, looking down into the garden, holding the ice to the back of his neck.
"Hot or cold?"
Lestrade dragged his gaze back to Holmes. "Huh?"
"Your milk - hot or cold?"
Lestrade didn't know what to say for a moment - he was pretty sure it was a question that had never presented itself to him before. "Cold, I guess?"
Holmes nodded and removed a milk jug from the fridge.
Lestrade wondered what one earth Holmes could do to end up in a swanky townhouse, with impeccable manners, security who looked like they'd twist your head off as soon as look at you, and a chauffeur. He narrowed it down to master criminal, playboy or senior government official. And somehow none of those quite fit.
"Mind if I smoke?" Lestrade asked, gesturing to the door that led out of the kitchen onto some steps.
"Uh, no, indeed, be my guest." Mycroft fiddled with locks and bolts, opening the door to admit the warm evening air and scents from the garden.
Lestrade leant back against the black railings, just outside the door, pulling a pouch of tobacco from his pocket.
"Want one?" he offered.
Mycroft shook his head. "Thank you, but I don't."
He removed a packet of papers from the pouch and arranged the delicate paper at the top, holding it between two fingers. Then he gently pinched up the tobacco and dropped it into place. He rolled the paper carefully, forming the shredded tobacco, then lifted it to his mouth - he just happened to catch Holmes' eye as he slid the tip of his tongue across the edge of the paper, wetting the glue. He finally finished rolling the thin white tube and held it between his lips. He slid a lighter from his pocket and lit the cigarette, taking a deep drag, expanding his lungs. Knowing his t-shirt was just tight enough to give a hint of the piercings it concealed, if you knew what you were looking for. And the flick of Holmes' eyes toward him told him that Holmes did.
He looked down at the neat back garden - a small paved area with furniture, some grass and an ornamental pond, raised out of the ground. There was also a drive, dipping under the house, where Lestrade assumed the garage was housed. The gate which guarded the entrance was obviously electric and clearly slid back across the rear wall when opened. He also spotted security cameras on the wall, looking down into the street as well as at the garage. He wasn't surprised, given the make of the car that lived inside.
When he finished the roll up he licked his fingers and extinguished the dog end with a pinch, then dropped it back into his pouch of tobacco - not wanting to litter Holmes' immaculate garden.
He then sat at the dining table, reaching down to unfasten his boots, and accepting the mug of coffee Holmes offered him gratefully.
"Now, as I said, I shall ensure my insurance company understand that none of the fault lies with you - I'm certain there will be no problems. However, here is my card, should you need to contact me directly. And I'll just fetch you the other details," Holmes said, suddenly all business.
Lestrade sipped his coffee and nodded as Holmes left the room. He turned the card over in his fingers. Mycroft Holmes. No job title, just phone numbers and email. No sign as to what he might do at all. And now, back out here, he had that calm control back again. He almost wondered if everything that happened in the bathroom had been him reading a lot into nothing. Maybe the awkwardness wasn't one of sexual attraction, but of class.
"Here," Holmes walked back into the room. "My driver's details, along with those of my insurance company. I must warn you that the young gentleman may find himself posted…elsewhere, after today's little…display. I shall, however, inform you of any changes."
Lestrade looked up, and didn't know why he was surprised. Maybe he'd been right about the criminal part of his guess - someone who didn't tolerate his 'people' not doing their jobs properly. He hoped the driver would just be let go, and not be a body he'd have to fish out of the Thames in a few weeks time.
"I…uh, it's not the first time it's happened, y'know," he said. "Don't be too hard on him."
"I'm not sure he's quite cut out to be a driver," Mycroft answered, sitting down. "And there are no shortage of tasks he could turn to. I shall have personnel redeploy him to a job where he can cause less damage."
Lestrade nodded, feeling slightly more comfortable.
"I'll give you my details, if you've got something I could write on?"
"Indeed," Mycroft fetched a small pad and a heavy, gold banded, pen.
Lestrade leant over, trying to print the information clearly. He was well aware that he was being watched as the silence stretched, only broken by the slight rustle of him writing. He was suddenly terrified of spelling something wrong. He felt as if he were back at school. He glanced up, to find himself in Holmes' steady gaze and gave a small smile.
"Here," he finally said, passing over the sheet.
Holmes read it, nodding occasionally. "Ah, at the Yard, are you? Let me see…Gangs or drugs?"
Lestrade felt his eyebrows rising. How did the man know he worked in the Yard? There was nothing to suggest…apart from his office phone number. Who would recognise the first digits of that though?
"Murder," he answered, and was pleased at the slight twitch of surprise he got in return.
"I see. I shall have to introduce you to my brother some time. He has a rather…morbid fascination with such crimes. I do hope I'm not keeping you from…"
Lestrade shook his head. "Was on my way home. You were obviously on your way out though - sorry."
Holmes waved a hand. "A social engagement. Unimportant."
He glanced up at the clock. It had just gone seven - Lestrade had no idea where the time had gone - it felt like only a few minutes ago that he was rolling about in the road.
"I'm sorry, I didn't intend to…I can call you a taxi - on me, obviously. Or, if you wouldn't object, I was going to have some dinner…you're most welcome to stay," Holmes offered.
Lestrade let the silence stretch for a moment, trying to decide what he should do. If he went home he could shower and lie down and try to do something about his various aches and pains. But he'd have to go shopping, then cook - or get take-away, but he'd had too much of that recently. Or he could stay, in the stunning house, probably eat something amazing, and then get a free cab home and rest afterwards. He found himself nodding.
"Dinner would be great."
Holmes smiled and stood again, walking to the fridge. "I've got all sorts - is there anything you dislike?"
Lestrade shook his head and consciously stretched out slightly, hips forward, t-shirt tight over his chest. He slid the ice behind the small of his back, almost jumping at the cool on his skin. He was very aware of Holmes' gaze, sliding towards him again, then away, as if he'd been caught. Interesting.
"You must see some terrible things," Holmes said, sounding completely composed. "In your work."
"See some horrible things, meet some scum, yeah, we get all the good stuff," he smiled.
"Have you been with the Met for long? I believe I detect a trace of the Westcountry in your accent - Somerset, or Wiltshire perhaps?"
Lestrade liked to think he'd eradicated his old country burr, but he nodded slowly. "Somerset. But yeah, been with the Met my whole career." He paused, wondering if he should ask. He decided to take the plunge. "So what is it you do?"
There was a moment - a flicker of the eyes - and Lestrade knew he was about to be lied to.
"I work for the Government. Just a minor role - supervisory, really."
Lestrade snorted slightly. "I'm not some flunky you've just met in the corridors of Whitehall," he said. "I've been hit by your car, helped by your people and am in your bloody house - minor role my arse. If I didn't know better I'd say you were the Home Secretary or something!"
Holmes smiled, thank God. Because even as the words were leaving Lestrade's mouth he was wondering if he was somehow right, just what would happen to him - a mouthy rozzer who clearly didn’t know when to keep that mouth shut.
"Well, when you put it like that…I am in control of some things which could be deemed important to national security - that's all. It suits people to know that I am protected."
Lestrade nodded, heeding the signals and not asking anything further.
"Wine?" Holmes offered, and Lestrade accepted, watching the rich red splash into the heavy crystal glasses.
~~~~~~
Holmes watched as Lestrade ate the dinner he had prepared. The spaghetti quickly twisted around the fork tines, the trailing ends sucked into the mouth, excess sauce licked away.
He enjoyed the company - he very rarely invited people into his home, and certainly no one like Lestrade. Occasionally he would entertain his equals and sometimes foreign officials and diplomats. The dinners then were steeped in formality and etiquette. Now he watched as Lestrade ate his food with his fork in his right hand, using his left to gesture with as he spoke. One of his feet was propped on the rung of the chair next to him, boot hanging open, straps loose, buckles making a clinking noise as he moved.
Somehow it was freeing though, it was relaxing. Lestrade spoke of football, Holmes countered with theatre, and was surprised when Lestrade could hold up his end of the conversation. He moved on to opera, which Lestrade admitted having no idea about, but asked intelligent questions and seemed interested. They covered all the normal topics any Londoners would talk about - Tube strikes, traffic, tourists - noticeably staying away from crime and politics.
Finally, the food finished and the wine drunk, he watched as Lestrade stretched out, wincing obviously as his injuries made themselves known. He also noticed the defined muscles, and swallowed. He could imagine running his hands over the strong, taut body, into the messy hair, over the rough stubble of the cheeks and chin. And then tasting the soft lips, seeing them pull into the lopsided grin that he'd come to lust after, over the course of the evening.
"I should get going," Lestrade said. "That was fantastic though - thank you."
"Really?" He smiled. "I suppose I have rather kept you. You should have been home hours ago. I really can't apologise enough."
Lestrade waved a hand, wiping his lips on the white napkin and scrunching it up. "It was almost worth it," he said, and there was the smile again, that gave such warmth to the deep brown eyes.
"I shall be in touch, regarding the insurance," Holmes said, standing.
He watched as Lestrade also stood, stiffly and with a slight limp when he moved. He felt wracked with guilt, yet also strangely happy. It had, he agreed, been almost worth it.
~~~~~~
Lestrade shrugged into his jacket, hissing as the movement pulled the grazed skin. He turned to see Holmes holding out a twenty pound note.
"Please, for your cab fare."
Lestrade smiled. "Thank you - but that's too much, really."
"Nonsense, not after all I've put you through. Besides, I have nothing smaller on me. Please," he took a step toward Lestrade.
Lestrade hesitated for a moment, but he really didn't feel like walking to the tube. He reached out and took it. "I'll get the change back to you," he said, seriously.
Holmes inclined his head, eyes closed, in agreement.
"And I left my keys in my bike."
"Oh, well, downstairs, please, this way. Would you like me to call a taxi for you?"
"No, I'll pick one up fast enough on the main road - thanks, though." He followed Mycroft down a set of stairs and through yet more locked doors into a huge garage, which was more like an operating theatre than a place to store vehicles. The floor and walls were spotless, the car sat in the middle of it, gleaming black, marred only by the dented wing. And there was his bike, a crumpled heap near the wall. He sighed and walked to it, running his hand over the fuel tank and seat. He pulled the keys from the ignition and couldn't help but caress the bent bars and run his fingers over the worn grip.
He turned, knowing he had a sad smile on his face. "Sorry," he said. "It's a bit like losing an old friend, y'know?"
Holmes looked, if possible, more distraught than he felt.
"I'm so sorry. I'm sure we can have it fixed, though - or the insurance…"
"Ah, she's an old girl though - won't get much on the insurance. Don't expect they'll think she's worth it. Maybe I'll try and find something similar second hand. Hey - do you mind if I leave it all here? Helmet and everything? The insurance might want to see it all - get a mechanic to look it over, see if she can be fixed."
Holmes gestured to the space. "That will be fine, as you can see, there's no shortage of room."
Lestrade nodded, taking one last backward glance at the bike before climbing the stairs again.
At the front door he hung back once more, allowing Holmes to unlock and open the door. Holmes stepped back, holding it open, ever the gentleman.
And Lestrade couldn't help it. A combination of the simmering sexual tension he'd been feeling all night, the certainty he had that Holmes would never act on it if not pushed, and half a bottle of very good red wine made him bolder than he would usually be. He stepped forward, crowding into Holmes' personal space, leaning into a kiss - a press of mouths, and just the smallest swipe of his tongue across Holmes' lips, followed by the gentlest of pressure with his hips against the other man. And then he stepped out of the door, across the yard and opened the gate. He glanced backwards, smiling, and saw Holmes' shocked expression, the hand gripping the edge of the door, the other lifting to touch his mouth.
He was sure he'd made the right choice, as he stepped out onto the street and began walking.
Well almost sure, anyway.
TBC...
Chapter Two