Fic: Many Hands Make Light Work
Title: Many Hands Make Light Work
Author:ghislainem70
Word count:4893
Rating: PG
Summary: In the wake of the 2011 riots, Lestrade is called by his mum to clean up his elderly aunt's smoke-damaged house. Who should show up to help but Mycroft Holmes?
12 August 2011
Lestrade was deep under the dark waters of his first real sleep in 72 hours. His dreams were of fire, the muffled sound of his own voice shouting behind the mask of his riot helmet, people running and screaming everywhere, broken glass and blood and bottle rockets. "People were like animals that night," a woman said on the news on the first night of the riots, and it got worse before it got better. For now a painful, precarious peace reigned.
His mobile rang and he swam to the surface of the dark water and fumbled for it, a weak jolt of adrenaline shooting his eyes open. It was 5:00 a.m., too early for anything but bad news.
"Greg, darling. Are you all right?"
His mum. He grunted, sat up, rubbed his face. "Sorry, mum. 'Course I'm all right. I'm always all right. Bit knackered."
His parents lived in a quiet suburb outside of Bristol. Still, he had anxiously scanned reports of looting and fires in Bristol proper, wishing he could be two places at once. But as always, London needed him more.
"Why so early? Has something happened?" The jolt of adrenaline spiked harder, and he sat bolt up in his bed. His dad had a bad heart.
"Oh, Greg, I didn't think -- I'm sorry, it's not your dad -- well, not exactly. It's Aunt Tess. I can't leave your father, he's had a bit of a turn -- nothing to worry on, but still. I got a report from community services. She had to be taken from the house -- someone threw a rock through her window--"
"Bloody hell!"
"-- Quite. Then there was a fire all night, the corner shop - you remember the one, Greg? Tessie's house is full of smoke and ash and god know what else. They can't send her home until someone sets it right. And she'll be worried sick about her books."
Aunt Tess was his dad's eldest sister. Greg's idea of her age was hazy but she had to be well into her eighties. She never left her house but to go to the corner shop, and once a year at Christmas. He looked in when he could, but it had been probably six months since he had visited her little book-filled house in Croydon. He cursed himself and the Yard for that, and for what he had to say now.
"Mum. You know I'd be out the door already and on my way. But these riots, now it's quiet again we've over a thousand looters to process, and I've got to do my part. I'm due back at the Yard in two hours."
His mum, always the strong one in a family of coppers, made a little choking sob and said, "I do understand, Greg. I'll tell them Aunt Tessie'll have to hold on a bit till I can get down to Croydon myself."
Greg groaned. Nothing on earth could move him like his mother's tears. There had been rioting even in Bristol, far from his parent's quiet streets-- but he knew well that she had been horrified and afraid nonetheless, not the least from worrying over her son.
"No, mum. I'll tell them. . . I'll tell them I'm going to be in a bit late today, and they can give me a double serving of those files if it'll give my Super any joy. I'm on my way."
"Bless you, Greg. You're so --"
Guilt washed over him. "No, Mum. I'm not. But I'm going to do better."
He shoved what cleaning supplies he had into a bag and headed for Croydon.
He opened the door of his car to the still-strong smell of smoke. Everybody was off the streets, but he felt the neighbor's eyes on him. He gave a confident wave to reassure the watchers, and marched to his aunt's door. The front window was indeed broken. Hot anger which he had thought almost exhausted by this point rose up in his throat as he imagined gentle Aunt Tess's terror as the glass was smashed in. He stomped to the window box to pick out the shards from her geraniums.
And that was when he heard the noise. There was a murmur of voices within the house, loud footsteps treading on Aunt Tess's floors. From the corner of his eye, he caught a wave from Tess's neighbor, Mr. Kazi, across the street. He was frantically pointing to an unmarked white van parked up the road, gesturing toward Tess's front door. Whoever had driven that van was inside the house now, and wasn't anyone that Mr. Kazi had recognised. That, of course, was rather bad. During the riots all qualified officers had been issued firearms. He pulled his gun and stood to the side as he pounded with his fist on the door.
"This is the police! Come out with your hands behind your head. I must warn you that I have a gun, so move slowly and don't give me a reason to use it." Such talk was foreign on his lips, but in the past few days it wasn't the first time he had had to say it.
The door opened and Mycroft Holmes emerged, his hands carefully folded behind his head. Behind him, a sturdy man wearing a spotless butcher's apron and rubber gloves was glowering, but he also folded his hands behind his head and presented himself for Lestrade's inspection.
"Oh sweet Jesus." Lestrade just stared at Mycroft Holmes for a long moment, taking in his sartorial splendour, a herringbone suit in a muted shade of brown, an olive-toned plaid shirt and a dark green knit tie, with sensible tan shoes. This, Lestrade realised, must be Mycroft's weekend wear for the country. As bureaucratic London was still on high alert from the riots, and since Mycroft Holmes occupied an obscure but nevertheless lofty position at the very pinnacle of what he would only refer to as The Government, Lestrade was baffled. Mycroft surely couldn't have been going to his country house, and Croydon was a far from the country as one could imagine. Still, he admired the view while trying to hide the fact. The colours suited Mycroft's colouring very well, although with Mycroft's mysterious factotum looking on he certainly wasn't going to say so.
"I'm afraid not," Mycroft retorted tartly. "But I trust that though I am not a deity, I may safely put my hands down."
Lestrade put his gun up. "What in the hell are you doing here? Sorry. Of course, both of you. Let's go inside."
Inside, the house smelled strongly of smoke and bleach. "I've started with the kitchen," the factotum declared somewhat stroppily, Lestrade thought.
"You've started --- Hold on," Lestrade said. "Mr. Holmes. . . a word in private?"
The factotum retreated to the kitchen and banged the door shut behind him.
"You bugged my flat." It wasn't a question.
"As a safety precaution. I do try to keep a weather eye on my brother at all times. He hasn't been answering his mobile."
Lestrade thought about that. "Your brother's business is his own, and neither he nor John Watson are in the habit of visiting my flat, not that it's any business of yours. I'm an officer of the Metropolitan Police, and I discuss confidential police business in my home. The bug will be gone by the time I go home tonight," he said in a voice of deadly calm.
Mycroft examined his shoes. "Very well," he said uncomfortably.
"And you brought one of your what -- servants? Goons? To my aunt's house?"
"I only wanted. . . ah, that is to say, it sounded as if you might be in need of assistance," Mycroft said.
Lestrade thought about that. Thought about Aunt Tessie, no doubt fretting terribly about her books, her geraniums and her cat. The sooner everything was clean, the sooner Tess could come home. Still, it didn't sit right with Lestrade, and he knew it wouldn't sit right with Aunt Tess.
"Sorry. But we Lestrades don't have servants. If something needs doing, we do it. If something needs cleaning up, we roll up our sleeves and get to work. Thanks for the offer, but I'll be fine on my own," he said.
Mycroft stiffened. "As you like." He gestured to Morris, who departed with a scornful nod to Lestrade.
Lestrade wavered. The truth was that from what he could see, the place was a right mess and it was going to be long, lonely work to set it right. The very last person he could have imagined having for company on this occasion was Sherlock's mysterious and powerful brother, Mycroft Holmes. "Look, Mr. Holmes. . . my aunt barely lets me through the door. She'd never countenance a strange man, let alone two strange men, rummaging through her things."
"I assure you, no 'rummaging' has occurred. Morris was simply cleaning. He isn't a 'goon,' whatever you mean by that. He can, however, assist me in whatever capacity I require, if necessary. But we shall dispense with his assistance, since it displeases you. Am I to take it that I too am dismissed?"
Mycroft suddenly looked ridiculously anxious, Lestrade thought. Taking in his attire, he figured Mycroft had somewhere else to be, somewhere far beyond his own rank and class, such as it was. He couldn't imagine what this cramped, smoke-ridden semi-detached looked like to the elegant Mycroft Holmes. He wondered if Mycroft had ever even been to Croydon before in his entire life.
He capitulated. It wasn't a very long fall to take. His detective's senses were on alert, curious as to why Mycroft was here but too tired to put up any more of a fight.
"I guess I could use an extra pair of hands. . . But I can see you've got places to be, and while I'm grateful for the offer, I'm sure have this all sorted in a few hours."
"What is it called?"
"What?"
"The cat." Mycroft indicated a cushion by the cold electric fire that upon inspection was indeed covered with black cat hair. The cat itself was nowhere to be seen, of course. Lestrade groaned.
"Lucifer. But he doesn't come when he's called."
"I should hope not."
But Mycroft went hunting along, kneeling on the soot-covered floor, looking under the chairs and in cupboards, toppling several piles of books. Aunt Tess possessed, Lestrade reckoned, somewhere above five hundred more books than she had bookshelf space.
"You're ruining your suit," Lestrade said.
"I have others," Mycroft said calmly, as he continued his search.
Lestrade could say nothing to that, and so he went the kitchen to assess the damage.
* * *
Mycroft had kept out of his way, but had carefully watched his labours for a few minutes before taking up a bucket and rag and proceeding with scrubbing in other rooms all on his own. Several hours, numerous buckets and rags filled with black soot, and an entire bottle of bleach later, the house began to look itself again. Lestrade put on a kettle and made some tea.
He had taken tea with Mycroft once, six months ago in Mycroft's club, the Diogenes. It had been a call on Yard business that turned out to be a false alarm. Tea had been a peculiarly ceremonial affair in which they had both, pursuant to the club's stringent rules, remained silent. Lestrade had wondered about Mycroft's hand in the whole strange business, but as he was forbidden to speak, they had merely sipped Mycroft's specially-packaged oolong tea from thin china cups that looked to be fit for Buckingham Palace, and traded significant looks.
They had been just as silent today, while Lestrade wondered what had possessed Mycroft Holmes to come here, let alone help him with such a menial and outright dirty task. He certainly hadn't ever lifted a finger to help Sherlock clean 221b, that much was clear. Sherlock would never permit such a thing, and John did his manful best to keep abreast of the detritus Sherlock left in his wake.
He hoped Mycroft would survive Aunt Tess's Twinings Earl Grey in her beloved mismatched cups, which had happy childhood associations for him. Once, when he was eight, he had stayed a weekend with his aunt and uncle, and had caught a bad cold playing in the rain. She had coddled him thoroughly, read aloud to him from the Three Musketeers, and brewed endless cups of tea with lemon and honey. It became a cherished custom to always use the same cup whenever he called on his aunt. His old cup was still on the rack, and he pulled it down. For Mycroft, he chose what he thought Aunt Tess would have chosen - a red patterned Wedgwood.
It was a hot day. Mycroft was down to his shirtsleeves with his tie askew and his collar unbuttoned, positively covered in soot. Lestrade doubted that anyone had ever seen Mycroft Holmes in public such a state of dishabille. He felt rather privileged, and took a long sip of tea to cover the hot flush rushing up his face.
He noticed the cat was curled at Mycroft's feet, and was even purring.
"I don't know how to thank you," he began, working up to it.
"No thanks are needed." Mycroft was regarding him with those cool blue eyes, as keen as his brother's. But Sherlock had never looked at him like this.
"Look, Mr. Holmes. I'm more than grateful for your help. 'Many hands make light work,' my Aunt Tess always says. But I can't imagine why--"
"Can't you? Who was it that saved my brother, when --"
Lestrade put his hand up. "Now, Mr. Holmes --"
"Mycroft. Please."
"Mycroft. Your brother was in a bad way. I did what anyone would have done, I hope."
"'A bad way.' My brother would have died, and you know it. You cleaned him up, got him sober, kept it quiet. I've been waiting for an opportunity to demonstrate my, ah, gratitude. I deeply regret that your aunt had to suffer in order that I might gain my wish."
Lestrade was speechless. Anyway, if he could talk now, what could he say? People in real life didn't actually talk like this. Not even Sherlock talked like this. He gulped more tea, scrutinized Mycroft's soot-smeared face, his long fingers gingerly holding his cup to his lips.
"I'm sorry about your suit. I did warn you. But there might be a few things upstairs that might fit you. Uncle Herbert was built like you."
Mycroft regarded him over his teacup. "I don't know what to think of that."
"I just meant he was tall. And, uh. Slim. Look, I'm a cop. We write down descriptions every day. In our reports."
"'The suspect was tall, slim, and insufferably dull,'" Mycroft intoned ironically.
Lestrade snorted. "Dull? You? You're the least dull person I've ever met."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but to Lestrade's cop's eye, he looked hopeful. Like someone who has gotten in over their head, but thinks they see something to cling to.
"Really? I never hoped to hear anyone say that to me. Especially not you."
"I admit you're better company when you aren't at your club," Lestrade laughed a little.
"Ah. There are so few people, you see, that would wish to speak to me outside of my Duties, and even less whom I would wish to speak to myself, that the Diogenes suits me perfectly. But I can well understand that it doesn't suit you, Detective."
"Don't be ridiculous. If you're really sure you want me calling you Mycroft, you have to call me by my first name. Now don't pretend you don't know it, like Sherlock."
"Very well. Greg."
There was no more tea. There was a silence, but it wasn't awkward. It was expectant. The last of the day's summer sun shone through the cracks of the boards Lestrade had hammered to the broken window, faded, and vanished. With all of London indoors after the chaos of the riots, it was quieter here than any time in his memory. He suddenly remembered that he had promised to be at the Yard hours ago.
"I've got to be back at the Yard, I need to call my sergeant. And I want to see if they'll release poor Aunt Tess to come home. She'll be missing her books and wanting her own bed."
"And her cat, no doubt." The cat looked up at Mycroft and gave a slow blink of his yellow eyes.
"Lucifer likes you. He doesn't like anyone."
"Hmmmm," Mycroft returned the cat's limpid stare.
"I'll just go get those clean things. You can use them or not. But I figure you probably don't want to be tracking all that soot back into your own house. Or wherever you were going."
"Going?"
Lestrade indicated Mycroft's suit. "In that. Looks like a suit you'd wear to a shooting party at Balmoral."
Mycroft looked both impressed that Lestrade should know such a thing, and dismayed. "You are quite wrong, Detective-- ahem, Greg. I chose this suit purposefully. It is my oldest and most, ah, how shall I say, 'informal' suit."
Lestrade couldn't help laughing out loud at that. "You mean to say this is your casual look? You're having me on."
Mycroft surprised him by smiling a little. "You may mock me. I no doubt deserve it. But no, I'm not having you on. I don't actually possess a 'casual look.' Such as it is, though, this is it."
Lestrade was chagrined. "Sorry. I'm being a right arse. I'll get you those clothes. Uncle Herbert didn't have a casual look either. Follow me, you can change in my old room while I make my calls."
* * *
Sergeant Donovan bitterly complained of her workload, but assured him that even if he appeared tonight, there would be little he could do to make even a dent in the ocean of paperwork. Lestrade promised to be there as soon as he could. The care centre informed him that until they were certain the riots were completely over, they would not return vulnerable senior residents to their homes after dark, and that he should collect Aunt Tess in the morning.
Lestrade found his uncle's old tweed suit with the leather patches on the elbow, carefully hung up with an old packet of loose tobacco in the pocket, giving off a familiar sweetish smell, and a crisp white shirt, still heavy with starch.
"Ta, Uncle Herbie. Hope you don't mind. He's a right handsome gentleman, he'll look very fine in your things," Lestrade addressed his uncle's portrait, a photo taken in his uniform from the war.
There was a discreet knock at the doorway. Mycroft was observing him, those keen eyes taking everything in.
"I'm sorry to be a bother, but there doesn't seem to be much point in me putting on clean clothes when I'm covered in soot. Perhaps I might have a wash."
Lestrade swallowed hard, silently handed over the clothes and showed Mycroft the way to the bathroom at the end of the corridor.
Lestrade couldn't help imagining Mycroft removing that beautiful, besmirched suit and climbing into the old-fashioned claw-footed tub. The very same bathtub he himself used on those occasions when he stayed with his aunt and uncle for the occasional holiday or weekend visit. He had had his very first wank in that tub, feeling marginally safer there than in his parent's house, where he had a youthful terror that his father or worse, his mother would discover him at it. And he had a very active libido in his youth. Not much less now, really. In fact, it was nagging at him this very minute, he finally admitted to himself, despite his underlying exhaustion.
He wondered what Uncle Herbert would think of his nephew's not entirely proper intentions toward Sherlock's elegant brother. He had supposed himself to be an entirely straight, hetero cop his entire adult life. After his divorce, he hadn't been even a little bit tempted by the gratifying number of women who put themselves in his path. And here he was, thinking impure thoughts about Mycroft Holmes, of all people. He didn't think he was far off the mark, though. He felt an illicit tingle when the man looked at him, with that gaze that always looked a beat too long, and not always in the places that they should be if the man were at all of the straight persuasion. He was pretty sure from various barbed remarks hurled by Sherlock (the pot calling the kettle black) that Mycroft Holmes' orientation did not tend toward women. He wondered what he ought to think of Mycroft's intentions toward his own humble self, the middle-aged, overworked Yarder. After all, he was a detective. One of his special talents was sniffing out motives. The Crown didn't generally have to prove motive, but juries would almost never convict without one. It was human nature.
And so, Lestrade collected what he knew of Mycroft Holmes. He was not known for generousity or kindness. He was, however, known for swift distribution of punishments and reprisals when his will was crossed, or thwarted. Although to his knowledge, only his brother Sherlock was actually capable of thwarting Mycroft. Furthermore, Mycroft was hypervigilant where his brother was concerned, and given what he knew of Sherlock, he could not say that Mycroft's concerns were exaggerated. Although his methods were more than a little extreme. He really would have to remind Mycroft that the bug in his flat absolutely had to go. He wondered how long it had been there. And then he wondered how much of the flat, exactly, was bugged. His phone? His kitchen?
His bedroom?
He swore under his breath. If there was a bug in his bedroom, Mycroft would have heard a few things that he shouldn't have. As recently as the night before the riots. And now here he was, offering to scrub the floors of his aunt's house during the height of the riots, wearing his least-good suit, when he was pretty sure Mycroft Holmes ought to be holding the Prime Minister's hand and steering the wheel of Empire.
He grinned.
Mycroft Holmes had a motive to be here, and he was pretty sure expressing gratitude for saving his reckless brother wasn't it.
He took a few steps down the hall. He was powerfully tempted to open the door. In the bath, Mycroft's skin would be damp and the heat would bring out the colour in those pale cheeks. He thunked his head against the wall. He needed a drink.
Trudging downstairs, he was surprised to find a wicker hamper at the foot of the stair, with a note attached.
"With Mr. Mycroft Holmes' compliments," it said. He flung open the door in time to see the white van from this morning driving away, and a glimpse of Mycroft's man Morris behind the wheel.
* * *
Lestrade scrutinised the hamper. It had a little brass plate announcing that it was from Fortnum and Mason, and he whistled low when he saw the bounty inside, fit for even the most demanding gourmand. His stomach rumbled, grumpily reminding him that he hadn't had anything close to a proper meal in three days. The seemingly bottomless hamper contained Spanish ham, Russian caviar, Stilton and Cheddar cheeses, preserves and biscuits, a dark chocolate cherry cake, red and white wine, champagne, and to his great satisfaction, a 10-year old single malt scotch. A discreet tin stamped "M.H." proved to contain loose-leaf tea.
He put the kettle back on and grabbed two fine old tumblers from his aunt's cabinet of good crystal, poured himself three fingers' worth of scotch, settled into an armchair and waited for Mycroft to emerge.
When he did, freshly-scrubbed and wearing his uncle's old suit which proved to be a size smaller than Mycroft usually wore, and therefore showing off every line of his long, lean body, Lestrade had to bite his tongue to keep his mouth from falling open. He held out a glass of scotch.
"Hope you don't mind, I needed a drink, and fortunately for me, you seem to be a mind-reader."
Mycroft blushed, and Lestrade thought that was probably the best thing he had seen in months. Or ever, probably.
"It's very simple. I was aware that our labours here might take a considerable time. I didn't want to presume upon the state of your aunt's larder. I also was aware that there is nowhere within miles that either of us would wish to eat. Morris was instructed to bring us some takeaway, as I believe it is commonly called."
Lestrade guffawed. The scotch was going down brilliantly. He felt rather brilliant himself. "A thousand-pound hamper from Fortnum's isn't what I'd call takeaway. But I'll take it," he said boldly.
"Help yourself."
They munched in companionable silence, until Mycroft asked him about the picture of his uncle in the war, and Lestrade told him his uncle's story.
"You've been in the wars these past few days, detective. You've been very brave."
Lestrade put his drink down. The brilliant warm feeling got a little colder.
"I think you'll have to explain why you think so, and how. There's a thousand police officers on the street now."
"True. But only one in whom I take a personal interest."
They stared at each other. This was a direct opening. Lestrade could either take it, or play dumb. And Mycroft obviously wouldn't believe it of him if he did.
He took another long gulp.
"How personal?"
Mycroft put his drink down and sat forward, his chin resting on his folded hands. He looked thoughtful and, Lestrade thought, rather gorgeous. He wished it wasn't so hot in here, he would love to see Mycroft Holmes by firelight.
"I should think that rather obvious. Or you aren't the detective that I have come to know you to be."
Lestrade decided to give in. It wasn't much of a struggle. Someone had told him recently that life was made of second chances. This was his.
He climbed off the armchair and knelt at Mycroft's feet.
"Very personal, I'd say. As personal as it gets. Based on the evidence."
"Very good, detective."
"I thought you were calling me Greg."
His heart was hammering in his chest as though to jump through his ribcage. He'd never been this close to a man like this. He could feel Mycroft's breath on his face, could smell the scent of soap on his still-damp skin. He wanted to touch. It felt thrilling and strange and right.
He reached out his hand awkwardly, not even sure what he would do. Mycroft grabbed it and trapped it in his own, and he noticed that while Mycroft was spotlessly clean, he was still covered with soot and general filth. Mycroft turned over his hand to expose his slightly cleaner palm, and pressed a light kiss to it. The feel of his lips, warm and tentative, shot a bolt of hot pleasure straight into his belly, just as if he were a bloody teenager.
"I think the first order of business," Mycroft said smoothly, as formally as though addressing the Cabinet ministers, which was a problem for the nation because his instinct was to do pretty much whatever Mycroft was about to ask him to do in that posh, plummy voice. "Shall be to get you cleaned up. Let's run another bath, shall we? What is it that your aunt said?"
"Aunt Tess?" He aksed, stupified with desire. Mycroft stood up, pulling him by the hand, and then they were nearly face to face, so close.
"About hands," Mycroft murmured.
"Oh. That. 'Many hands' ---"
"-- 'make light work.'"
Lestrade didn't let go of Mycroft's hand as he led him back up the stair.
"Oh. That. So. . . I take it you're lending a hand, then, Mycroft?"
"If you don't object. If you do, I hope you'll say so now."
"I think I'd rather say what I was thinking of saying when you gave me tea at the Diogenes Club."
They were at the door to the bathroom now. Lestrade gulped. This was really happening, and it wasn't the scotch or even the chocolate cherry cake. He grabbed the lapels of Mycroft's coat and pulled him down closer, and kissed him. Not the best kiss he'd ever given, but it was his first time kissing a man and it was a lot to take in. He was breathing hard when they pulled apart. They both tasted of chocolate, cherries, and scotch, which counted for something. He was already planning improvements for a second attack on Mycroft's unexpectedly talented mouth.
"Well," Mycroft breathed against his cheek. "Are you going to tell me? What you wanted to say at the Diogenes?"
"You daft idiot, that was what I wanted to say."
"Oh. Then I truly am an idiot, I suppose. I really am very observant. Even more so than Sherlock. It's true, I assure you. But. . . I thought that I was almost certainly quite wrong. Still, I came today."
"Happy to prove you were right all along. And I knew you didn't come here just because you were grateful. You're not the grateful type, Mycroft."
Mycroft smiled radiantly, and, Lestrade noted, not a little smugly.
"I'll bring the champage," Mycroft said. "We're going to get on so very well."
The end.
Author:ghislainem70
Word count:4893
Rating: PG
Summary: In the wake of the 2011 riots, Lestrade is called by his mum to clean up his elderly aunt's smoke-damaged house. Who should show up to help but Mycroft Holmes?
12 August 2011
Lestrade was deep under the dark waters of his first real sleep in 72 hours. His dreams were of fire, the muffled sound of his own voice shouting behind the mask of his riot helmet, people running and screaming everywhere, broken glass and blood and bottle rockets. "People were like animals that night," a woman said on the news on the first night of the riots, and it got worse before it got better. For now a painful, precarious peace reigned.
His mobile rang and he swam to the surface of the dark water and fumbled for it, a weak jolt of adrenaline shooting his eyes open. It was 5:00 a.m., too early for anything but bad news.
"Greg, darling. Are you all right?"
His mum. He grunted, sat up, rubbed his face. "Sorry, mum. 'Course I'm all right. I'm always all right. Bit knackered."
His parents lived in a quiet suburb outside of Bristol. Still, he had anxiously scanned reports of looting and fires in Bristol proper, wishing he could be two places at once. But as always, London needed him more.
"Why so early? Has something happened?" The jolt of adrenaline spiked harder, and he sat bolt up in his bed. His dad had a bad heart.
"Oh, Greg, I didn't think -- I'm sorry, it's not your dad -- well, not exactly. It's Aunt Tess. I can't leave your father, he's had a bit of a turn -- nothing to worry on, but still. I got a report from community services. She had to be taken from the house -- someone threw a rock through her window--"
"Bloody hell!"
"-- Quite. Then there was a fire all night, the corner shop - you remember the one, Greg? Tessie's house is full of smoke and ash and god know what else. They can't send her home until someone sets it right. And she'll be worried sick about her books."
Aunt Tess was his dad's eldest sister. Greg's idea of her age was hazy but she had to be well into her eighties. She never left her house but to go to the corner shop, and once a year at Christmas. He looked in when he could, but it had been probably six months since he had visited her little book-filled house in Croydon. He cursed himself and the Yard for that, and for what he had to say now.
"Mum. You know I'd be out the door already and on my way. But these riots, now it's quiet again we've over a thousand looters to process, and I've got to do my part. I'm due back at the Yard in two hours."
His mum, always the strong one in a family of coppers, made a little choking sob and said, "I do understand, Greg. I'll tell them Aunt Tessie'll have to hold on a bit till I can get down to Croydon myself."
Greg groaned. Nothing on earth could move him like his mother's tears. There had been rioting even in Bristol, far from his parent's quiet streets-- but he knew well that she had been horrified and afraid nonetheless, not the least from worrying over her son.
"No, mum. I'll tell them. . . I'll tell them I'm going to be in a bit late today, and they can give me a double serving of those files if it'll give my Super any joy. I'm on my way."
"Bless you, Greg. You're so --"
Guilt washed over him. "No, Mum. I'm not. But I'm going to do better."
He shoved what cleaning supplies he had into a bag and headed for Croydon.
He opened the door of his car to the still-strong smell of smoke. Everybody was off the streets, but he felt the neighbor's eyes on him. He gave a confident wave to reassure the watchers, and marched to his aunt's door. The front window was indeed broken. Hot anger which he had thought almost exhausted by this point rose up in his throat as he imagined gentle Aunt Tess's terror as the glass was smashed in. He stomped to the window box to pick out the shards from her geraniums.
And that was when he heard the noise. There was a murmur of voices within the house, loud footsteps treading on Aunt Tess's floors. From the corner of his eye, he caught a wave from Tess's neighbor, Mr. Kazi, across the street. He was frantically pointing to an unmarked white van parked up the road, gesturing toward Tess's front door. Whoever had driven that van was inside the house now, and wasn't anyone that Mr. Kazi had recognised. That, of course, was rather bad. During the riots all qualified officers had been issued firearms. He pulled his gun and stood to the side as he pounded with his fist on the door.
"This is the police! Come out with your hands behind your head. I must warn you that I have a gun, so move slowly and don't give me a reason to use it." Such talk was foreign on his lips, but in the past few days it wasn't the first time he had had to say it.
The door opened and Mycroft Holmes emerged, his hands carefully folded behind his head. Behind him, a sturdy man wearing a spotless butcher's apron and rubber gloves was glowering, but he also folded his hands behind his head and presented himself for Lestrade's inspection.
"Oh sweet Jesus." Lestrade just stared at Mycroft Holmes for a long moment, taking in his sartorial splendour, a herringbone suit in a muted shade of brown, an olive-toned plaid shirt and a dark green knit tie, with sensible tan shoes. This, Lestrade realised, must be Mycroft's weekend wear for the country. As bureaucratic London was still on high alert from the riots, and since Mycroft Holmes occupied an obscure but nevertheless lofty position at the very pinnacle of what he would only refer to as The Government, Lestrade was baffled. Mycroft surely couldn't have been going to his country house, and Croydon was a far from the country as one could imagine. Still, he admired the view while trying to hide the fact. The colours suited Mycroft's colouring very well, although with Mycroft's mysterious factotum looking on he certainly wasn't going to say so.
"I'm afraid not," Mycroft retorted tartly. "But I trust that though I am not a deity, I may safely put my hands down."
Lestrade put his gun up. "What in the hell are you doing here? Sorry. Of course, both of you. Let's go inside."
Inside, the house smelled strongly of smoke and bleach. "I've started with the kitchen," the factotum declared somewhat stroppily, Lestrade thought.
"You've started --- Hold on," Lestrade said. "Mr. Holmes. . . a word in private?"
The factotum retreated to the kitchen and banged the door shut behind him.
"You bugged my flat." It wasn't a question.
"As a safety precaution. I do try to keep a weather eye on my brother at all times. He hasn't been answering his mobile."
Lestrade thought about that. "Your brother's business is his own, and neither he nor John Watson are in the habit of visiting my flat, not that it's any business of yours. I'm an officer of the Metropolitan Police, and I discuss confidential police business in my home. The bug will be gone by the time I go home tonight," he said in a voice of deadly calm.
Mycroft examined his shoes. "Very well," he said uncomfortably.
"And you brought one of your what -- servants? Goons? To my aunt's house?"
"I only wanted. . . ah, that is to say, it sounded as if you might be in need of assistance," Mycroft said.
Lestrade thought about that. Thought about Aunt Tessie, no doubt fretting terribly about her books, her geraniums and her cat. The sooner everything was clean, the sooner Tess could come home. Still, it didn't sit right with Lestrade, and he knew it wouldn't sit right with Aunt Tess.
"Sorry. But we Lestrades don't have servants. If something needs doing, we do it. If something needs cleaning up, we roll up our sleeves and get to work. Thanks for the offer, but I'll be fine on my own," he said.
Mycroft stiffened. "As you like." He gestured to Morris, who departed with a scornful nod to Lestrade.
Lestrade wavered. The truth was that from what he could see, the place was a right mess and it was going to be long, lonely work to set it right. The very last person he could have imagined having for company on this occasion was Sherlock's mysterious and powerful brother, Mycroft Holmes. "Look, Mr. Holmes. . . my aunt barely lets me through the door. She'd never countenance a strange man, let alone two strange men, rummaging through her things."
"I assure you, no 'rummaging' has occurred. Morris was simply cleaning. He isn't a 'goon,' whatever you mean by that. He can, however, assist me in whatever capacity I require, if necessary. But we shall dispense with his assistance, since it displeases you. Am I to take it that I too am dismissed?"
Mycroft suddenly looked ridiculously anxious, Lestrade thought. Taking in his attire, he figured Mycroft had somewhere else to be, somewhere far beyond his own rank and class, such as it was. He couldn't imagine what this cramped, smoke-ridden semi-detached looked like to the elegant Mycroft Holmes. He wondered if Mycroft had ever even been to Croydon before in his entire life.
He capitulated. It wasn't a very long fall to take. His detective's senses were on alert, curious as to why Mycroft was here but too tired to put up any more of a fight.
"I guess I could use an extra pair of hands. . . But I can see you've got places to be, and while I'm grateful for the offer, I'm sure have this all sorted in a few hours."
"What is it called?"
"What?"
"The cat." Mycroft indicated a cushion by the cold electric fire that upon inspection was indeed covered with black cat hair. The cat itself was nowhere to be seen, of course. Lestrade groaned.
"Lucifer. But he doesn't come when he's called."
"I should hope not."
But Mycroft went hunting along, kneeling on the soot-covered floor, looking under the chairs and in cupboards, toppling several piles of books. Aunt Tess possessed, Lestrade reckoned, somewhere above five hundred more books than she had bookshelf space.
"You're ruining your suit," Lestrade said.
"I have others," Mycroft said calmly, as he continued his search.
Lestrade could say nothing to that, and so he went the kitchen to assess the damage.
* * *
Mycroft had kept out of his way, but had carefully watched his labours for a few minutes before taking up a bucket and rag and proceeding with scrubbing in other rooms all on his own. Several hours, numerous buckets and rags filled with black soot, and an entire bottle of bleach later, the house began to look itself again. Lestrade put on a kettle and made some tea.
He had taken tea with Mycroft once, six months ago in Mycroft's club, the Diogenes. It had been a call on Yard business that turned out to be a false alarm. Tea had been a peculiarly ceremonial affair in which they had both, pursuant to the club's stringent rules, remained silent. Lestrade had wondered about Mycroft's hand in the whole strange business, but as he was forbidden to speak, they had merely sipped Mycroft's specially-packaged oolong tea from thin china cups that looked to be fit for Buckingham Palace, and traded significant looks.
They had been just as silent today, while Lestrade wondered what had possessed Mycroft Holmes to come here, let alone help him with such a menial and outright dirty task. He certainly hadn't ever lifted a finger to help Sherlock clean 221b, that much was clear. Sherlock would never permit such a thing, and John did his manful best to keep abreast of the detritus Sherlock left in his wake.
He hoped Mycroft would survive Aunt Tess's Twinings Earl Grey in her beloved mismatched cups, which had happy childhood associations for him. Once, when he was eight, he had stayed a weekend with his aunt and uncle, and had caught a bad cold playing in the rain. She had coddled him thoroughly, read aloud to him from the Three Musketeers, and brewed endless cups of tea with lemon and honey. It became a cherished custom to always use the same cup whenever he called on his aunt. His old cup was still on the rack, and he pulled it down. For Mycroft, he chose what he thought Aunt Tess would have chosen - a red patterned Wedgwood.
It was a hot day. Mycroft was down to his shirtsleeves with his tie askew and his collar unbuttoned, positively covered in soot. Lestrade doubted that anyone had ever seen Mycroft Holmes in public such a state of dishabille. He felt rather privileged, and took a long sip of tea to cover the hot flush rushing up his face.
He noticed the cat was curled at Mycroft's feet, and was even purring.
"I don't know how to thank you," he began, working up to it.
"No thanks are needed." Mycroft was regarding him with those cool blue eyes, as keen as his brother's. But Sherlock had never looked at him like this.
"Look, Mr. Holmes. I'm more than grateful for your help. 'Many hands make light work,' my Aunt Tess always says. But I can't imagine why--"
"Can't you? Who was it that saved my brother, when --"
Lestrade put his hand up. "Now, Mr. Holmes --"
"Mycroft. Please."
"Mycroft. Your brother was in a bad way. I did what anyone would have done, I hope."
"'A bad way.' My brother would have died, and you know it. You cleaned him up, got him sober, kept it quiet. I've been waiting for an opportunity to demonstrate my, ah, gratitude. I deeply regret that your aunt had to suffer in order that I might gain my wish."
Lestrade was speechless. Anyway, if he could talk now, what could he say? People in real life didn't actually talk like this. Not even Sherlock talked like this. He gulped more tea, scrutinized Mycroft's soot-smeared face, his long fingers gingerly holding his cup to his lips.
"I'm sorry about your suit. I did warn you. But there might be a few things upstairs that might fit you. Uncle Herbert was built like you."
Mycroft regarded him over his teacup. "I don't know what to think of that."
"I just meant he was tall. And, uh. Slim. Look, I'm a cop. We write down descriptions every day. In our reports."
"'The suspect was tall, slim, and insufferably dull,'" Mycroft intoned ironically.
Lestrade snorted. "Dull? You? You're the least dull person I've ever met."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but to Lestrade's cop's eye, he looked hopeful. Like someone who has gotten in over their head, but thinks they see something to cling to.
"Really? I never hoped to hear anyone say that to me. Especially not you."
"I admit you're better company when you aren't at your club," Lestrade laughed a little.
"Ah. There are so few people, you see, that would wish to speak to me outside of my Duties, and even less whom I would wish to speak to myself, that the Diogenes suits me perfectly. But I can well understand that it doesn't suit you, Detective."
"Don't be ridiculous. If you're really sure you want me calling you Mycroft, you have to call me by my first name. Now don't pretend you don't know it, like Sherlock."
"Very well. Greg."
There was no more tea. There was a silence, but it wasn't awkward. It was expectant. The last of the day's summer sun shone through the cracks of the boards Lestrade had hammered to the broken window, faded, and vanished. With all of London indoors after the chaos of the riots, it was quieter here than any time in his memory. He suddenly remembered that he had promised to be at the Yard hours ago.
"I've got to be back at the Yard, I need to call my sergeant. And I want to see if they'll release poor Aunt Tess to come home. She'll be missing her books and wanting her own bed."
"And her cat, no doubt." The cat looked up at Mycroft and gave a slow blink of his yellow eyes.
"Lucifer likes you. He doesn't like anyone."
"Hmmmm," Mycroft returned the cat's limpid stare.
"I'll just go get those clean things. You can use them or not. But I figure you probably don't want to be tracking all that soot back into your own house. Or wherever you were going."
"Going?"
Lestrade indicated Mycroft's suit. "In that. Looks like a suit you'd wear to a shooting party at Balmoral."
Mycroft looked both impressed that Lestrade should know such a thing, and dismayed. "You are quite wrong, Detective-- ahem, Greg. I chose this suit purposefully. It is my oldest and most, ah, how shall I say, 'informal' suit."
Lestrade couldn't help laughing out loud at that. "You mean to say this is your casual look? You're having me on."
Mycroft surprised him by smiling a little. "You may mock me. I no doubt deserve it. But no, I'm not having you on. I don't actually possess a 'casual look.' Such as it is, though, this is it."
Lestrade was chagrined. "Sorry. I'm being a right arse. I'll get you those clothes. Uncle Herbert didn't have a casual look either. Follow me, you can change in my old room while I make my calls."
* * *
Sergeant Donovan bitterly complained of her workload, but assured him that even if he appeared tonight, there would be little he could do to make even a dent in the ocean of paperwork. Lestrade promised to be there as soon as he could. The care centre informed him that until they were certain the riots were completely over, they would not return vulnerable senior residents to their homes after dark, and that he should collect Aunt Tess in the morning.
Lestrade found his uncle's old tweed suit with the leather patches on the elbow, carefully hung up with an old packet of loose tobacco in the pocket, giving off a familiar sweetish smell, and a crisp white shirt, still heavy with starch.
"Ta, Uncle Herbie. Hope you don't mind. He's a right handsome gentleman, he'll look very fine in your things," Lestrade addressed his uncle's portrait, a photo taken in his uniform from the war.
There was a discreet knock at the doorway. Mycroft was observing him, those keen eyes taking everything in.
"I'm sorry to be a bother, but there doesn't seem to be much point in me putting on clean clothes when I'm covered in soot. Perhaps I might have a wash."
Lestrade swallowed hard, silently handed over the clothes and showed Mycroft the way to the bathroom at the end of the corridor.
Lestrade couldn't help imagining Mycroft removing that beautiful, besmirched suit and climbing into the old-fashioned claw-footed tub. The very same bathtub he himself used on those occasions when he stayed with his aunt and uncle for the occasional holiday or weekend visit. He had had his very first wank in that tub, feeling marginally safer there than in his parent's house, where he had a youthful terror that his father or worse, his mother would discover him at it. And he had a very active libido in his youth. Not much less now, really. In fact, it was nagging at him this very minute, he finally admitted to himself, despite his underlying exhaustion.
He wondered what Uncle Herbert would think of his nephew's not entirely proper intentions toward Sherlock's elegant brother. He had supposed himself to be an entirely straight, hetero cop his entire adult life. After his divorce, he hadn't been even a little bit tempted by the gratifying number of women who put themselves in his path. And here he was, thinking impure thoughts about Mycroft Holmes, of all people. He didn't think he was far off the mark, though. He felt an illicit tingle when the man looked at him, with that gaze that always looked a beat too long, and not always in the places that they should be if the man were at all of the straight persuasion. He was pretty sure from various barbed remarks hurled by Sherlock (the pot calling the kettle black) that Mycroft Holmes' orientation did not tend toward women. He wondered what he ought to think of Mycroft's intentions toward his own humble self, the middle-aged, overworked Yarder. After all, he was a detective. One of his special talents was sniffing out motives. The Crown didn't generally have to prove motive, but juries would almost never convict without one. It was human nature.
And so, Lestrade collected what he knew of Mycroft Holmes. He was not known for generousity or kindness. He was, however, known for swift distribution of punishments and reprisals when his will was crossed, or thwarted. Although to his knowledge, only his brother Sherlock was actually capable of thwarting Mycroft. Furthermore, Mycroft was hypervigilant where his brother was concerned, and given what he knew of Sherlock, he could not say that Mycroft's concerns were exaggerated. Although his methods were more than a little extreme. He really would have to remind Mycroft that the bug in his flat absolutely had to go. He wondered how long it had been there. And then he wondered how much of the flat, exactly, was bugged. His phone? His kitchen?
His bedroom?
He swore under his breath. If there was a bug in his bedroom, Mycroft would have heard a few things that he shouldn't have. As recently as the night before the riots. And now here he was, offering to scrub the floors of his aunt's house during the height of the riots, wearing his least-good suit, when he was pretty sure Mycroft Holmes ought to be holding the Prime Minister's hand and steering the wheel of Empire.
He grinned.
Mycroft Holmes had a motive to be here, and he was pretty sure expressing gratitude for saving his reckless brother wasn't it.
He took a few steps down the hall. He was powerfully tempted to open the door. In the bath, Mycroft's skin would be damp and the heat would bring out the colour in those pale cheeks. He thunked his head against the wall. He needed a drink.
Trudging downstairs, he was surprised to find a wicker hamper at the foot of the stair, with a note attached.
"With Mr. Mycroft Holmes' compliments," it said. He flung open the door in time to see the white van from this morning driving away, and a glimpse of Mycroft's man Morris behind the wheel.
* * *
Lestrade scrutinised the hamper. It had a little brass plate announcing that it was from Fortnum and Mason, and he whistled low when he saw the bounty inside, fit for even the most demanding gourmand. His stomach rumbled, grumpily reminding him that he hadn't had anything close to a proper meal in three days. The seemingly bottomless hamper contained Spanish ham, Russian caviar, Stilton and Cheddar cheeses, preserves and biscuits, a dark chocolate cherry cake, red and white wine, champagne, and to his great satisfaction, a 10-year old single malt scotch. A discreet tin stamped "M.H." proved to contain loose-leaf tea.
He put the kettle back on and grabbed two fine old tumblers from his aunt's cabinet of good crystal, poured himself three fingers' worth of scotch, settled into an armchair and waited for Mycroft to emerge.
When he did, freshly-scrubbed and wearing his uncle's old suit which proved to be a size smaller than Mycroft usually wore, and therefore showing off every line of his long, lean body, Lestrade had to bite his tongue to keep his mouth from falling open. He held out a glass of scotch.
"Hope you don't mind, I needed a drink, and fortunately for me, you seem to be a mind-reader."
Mycroft blushed, and Lestrade thought that was probably the best thing he had seen in months. Or ever, probably.
"It's very simple. I was aware that our labours here might take a considerable time. I didn't want to presume upon the state of your aunt's larder. I also was aware that there is nowhere within miles that either of us would wish to eat. Morris was instructed to bring us some takeaway, as I believe it is commonly called."
Lestrade guffawed. The scotch was going down brilliantly. He felt rather brilliant himself. "A thousand-pound hamper from Fortnum's isn't what I'd call takeaway. But I'll take it," he said boldly.
"Help yourself."
They munched in companionable silence, until Mycroft asked him about the picture of his uncle in the war, and Lestrade told him his uncle's story.
"You've been in the wars these past few days, detective. You've been very brave."
Lestrade put his drink down. The brilliant warm feeling got a little colder.
"I think you'll have to explain why you think so, and how. There's a thousand police officers on the street now."
"True. But only one in whom I take a personal interest."
They stared at each other. This was a direct opening. Lestrade could either take it, or play dumb. And Mycroft obviously wouldn't believe it of him if he did.
He took another long gulp.
"How personal?"
Mycroft put his drink down and sat forward, his chin resting on his folded hands. He looked thoughtful and, Lestrade thought, rather gorgeous. He wished it wasn't so hot in here, he would love to see Mycroft Holmes by firelight.
"I should think that rather obvious. Or you aren't the detective that I have come to know you to be."
Lestrade decided to give in. It wasn't much of a struggle. Someone had told him recently that life was made of second chances. This was his.
He climbed off the armchair and knelt at Mycroft's feet.
"Very personal, I'd say. As personal as it gets. Based on the evidence."
"Very good, detective."
"I thought you were calling me Greg."
His heart was hammering in his chest as though to jump through his ribcage. He'd never been this close to a man like this. He could feel Mycroft's breath on his face, could smell the scent of soap on his still-damp skin. He wanted to touch. It felt thrilling and strange and right.
He reached out his hand awkwardly, not even sure what he would do. Mycroft grabbed it and trapped it in his own, and he noticed that while Mycroft was spotlessly clean, he was still covered with soot and general filth. Mycroft turned over his hand to expose his slightly cleaner palm, and pressed a light kiss to it. The feel of his lips, warm and tentative, shot a bolt of hot pleasure straight into his belly, just as if he were a bloody teenager.
"I think the first order of business," Mycroft said smoothly, as formally as though addressing the Cabinet ministers, which was a problem for the nation because his instinct was to do pretty much whatever Mycroft was about to ask him to do in that posh, plummy voice. "Shall be to get you cleaned up. Let's run another bath, shall we? What is it that your aunt said?"
"Aunt Tess?" He aksed, stupified with desire. Mycroft stood up, pulling him by the hand, and then they were nearly face to face, so close.
"About hands," Mycroft murmured.
"Oh. That. 'Many hands' ---"
"-- 'make light work.'"
Lestrade didn't let go of Mycroft's hand as he led him back up the stair.
"Oh. That. So. . . I take it you're lending a hand, then, Mycroft?"
"If you don't object. If you do, I hope you'll say so now."
"I think I'd rather say what I was thinking of saying when you gave me tea at the Diogenes Club."
They were at the door to the bathroom now. Lestrade gulped. This was really happening, and it wasn't the scotch or even the chocolate cherry cake. He grabbed the lapels of Mycroft's coat and pulled him down closer, and kissed him. Not the best kiss he'd ever given, but it was his first time kissing a man and it was a lot to take in. He was breathing hard when they pulled apart. They both tasted of chocolate, cherries, and scotch, which counted for something. He was already planning improvements for a second attack on Mycroft's unexpectedly talented mouth.
"Well," Mycroft breathed against his cheek. "Are you going to tell me? What you wanted to say at the Diogenes?"
"You daft idiot, that was what I wanted to say."
"Oh. Then I truly am an idiot, I suppose. I really am very observant. Even more so than Sherlock. It's true, I assure you. But. . . I thought that I was almost certainly quite wrong. Still, I came today."
"Happy to prove you were right all along. And I knew you didn't come here just because you were grateful. You're not the grateful type, Mycroft."
Mycroft smiled radiantly, and, Lestrade noted, not a little smugly.
"I'll bring the champage," Mycroft said. "We're going to get on so very well."
The end.