Chapter Text
TUESDAY, 4th OCTOBER
Now he was no longer suffering from exhaustion Mycroft was finding it increasingly difficult to get to sleep while propped against pillows wearing both a sling and a hand splint. But there were compensations to being awake at three in the morning, not least the distraction of Lestrade curled at his side, the fingers of his visible hand twitching as he slept.
Mycroft had yet to take for granted the luxury of free time in which to read and had intended to reacquaint himself with his library, but hardback books and only one useable hand were an awkward mix, so he had caved in a bought an e-book reader. The experience of using it was more pleasant than he had anticipated but its contents failed to compete with the soft snuffles emanating from Lestrade, whose face was pressed against him, his regular breathing a damp stirring against the skin of Mycroft's stomach. Mycroft set aside spectacles and reader, and removed the splint from his fingers so he could flick off the bed light without disturbing the sleeper.
The darkness complete, he allowed himself the luxury of stroking the cropped grey hair with the side of his thumb until he, too, fell asleep, marvelling at his good fortune.
On this occasion, Lestrade's nightmare woke them both.
Over breakfast Lestrade was so cheerful it was tempting for Mycroft to believe he had imagined the expression on Gregory's face when he'd started awake, sweating and obviously caught up in an old terror. But he had shaken off any suggestion that he might want to talk about it before snuggling back up against Mycroft and giving an excellent impression of a man asleep.
"You're not wearing your splint," Lestrade noticed belatedly, just before he bit into a pear.
"It's fine."
"Yeah? I'd rather get confirmation from James Bond, so I'll come to the Clinic with you. Before then I thought we could take a wander round Borough Market."
"We must see if we can get any more of those preserved lemons. They're far superior to those at the supermarket or deli. Gregory..."
"Hang on, I recognise that tone," joked Lestrade.
Mycroft pulled a face. "I'm sure you do. But in the interests of full disclosure there's something I should have told you before we moved in here."
Lestrade swallowed his last mouthful of pear. "That would be about the secret door, I suppose."
Porridge slipped from Mycroft's spoon to land soggily in the dish below. "You knew?"
"Oh, please."
"You didn't say anything."
"Nor did you," pointed out Lestrade, licking juice from his fingers in a manner Mycroft found highly distracting.
"When did you find out?"
Lestrade sighed and came clean. "After that thing down at Baskerville. It was pure accident. I came home to collect a file I'd forgotten. As I let myself in I saw someone going down the stairs to the basement. I went after them of course - "
"Of course," said Mycroft dryly.
Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "You really think this is the time?"
Mycroft conceded defeat with a sweep of his hand, in the process realising that perhaps he should have worn the splint after all.
"Anyway, I lost them. So I called David because I didn't want you coming back to an unsecured house. David came clean about the door."
"He didn't mention it to me."
"There was a lot going on around that time. Then we - I moved out..." Lestrade shrugged, before his expression lightened again. "While we're on the subject, does that door mean we could have strangers - to me, at any rate - wandering in and out at will?"
"Certainly not. The reverse, in fact. The sensors were being upgraded, that's all. You were supposed to be working. Although that didn't excuse the lapse by the detail monitoring the approach to the house. The door, which is bomb-proof, can only be opened from this side. I must show you the hidden key pad and sequence. We're unlikely ever to need to use it," Mycroft added with deliberation.
"Fair enough."
Mycroft gave him a look of suspicion. "That's very forgiving of you."
"Nah, I'm just lulling you into a false sense of security. Finish your porridge, it's good for you."
"It's cold."
"It wouldn't be if you'd eaten it straight away. Oh, God, I'm starting to sound like your nanny."
"Fortunately you don't bear any resemblance to Martha Hudson," Mycroft told him as he pushed away the dish before helping himself to several lychees.
As Lestrade drove them back from the Clinic - a tedious process given that they had become caught up in the beginning of the rush-hour traffic - Mycroft's expression was a cross between sulky and glum, while Lestrade's bordered on smug.
"Why don't you just say you told me so and get it over with?" said Mycroft, conceding defeat.
"And risk ruining my chances of a blow job later? Though I did. Perhaps now you'll leave the finger splints on at night. Bond said you should only need them until the end of the week - if you do as you're told."
"Bond had the sense not to phrase it so bluntly," Mycroft pointed out.
Lestrade just grinned, encouraged to note that Mycroft was on the cusp of a huff - a sure sign that he, too, no longer felt he had to be on his best behaviour. He gave Mycroft's thigh a comforting rub. "You're healing, that's all that matters. This traffic's a bugger."
"We could always abandon the car and walk."
"Which would mean splitting up your security, because someone would have to drive this. I don't think so."
Mycroft inhaled and said quietly, "It isn't Ralph's fault that he resembles David physically, while being completely different in every other way."
Lestrade shot him a quick look, relaxing when he recognised the understanding on Mycroft's face. "I know that. I do. And you tell me he's going to be good."
"I have high hopes. But if you're not comfortable with him I can - "
"Don't be daft. You must miss David far more than me."
Mycroft grimaced and nodded. "Though I suspect the enormity of the loss won't sink in fully until I'm back at work. Oh, don't offer Ralph bacon sandwiches, he's a vegetarian and lacto-intolerant. He's twenty three."
"That's young!"
"Training takes time." Mycroft gave his immobilised right arm a sour look. "I'm feeling increasingly middle-aged. And impatient," he admitted.
"I had a clue," said Lestrade, straight-faced. "You're not used to situations you can't control."
"You really are milking this, aren't you," noted Mycroft, minor irritations falling away as he recognised, yet again, just how lucky he was.
"Yeah," said Lestrade with glee. He swung the car into the cul-de-sac that housed their home. "I've thought of some fine motor movements you might enjoy more than those you've been set by the physio. - your fingers around my cock, for instance."
Mycroft was so distracted that it was a full seven seconds before he realised that the door to Guardian House had been opened from the inside and that Len was staring at him with an expression in which affection and distress were equally mixed. He never remembered leaving the car.
A few moments later Len had him in a fierce hug.
Panting slightly as she ran down the stairs, flour on her hands, Annie gasped and grabbed hold of Lestrade.
"He'll hurt Mycroft's shoulder."
Lestrade kissed her cheek. "If he does, Mycroft will think it worth it just to have you home. You are home?" he added with a trace of anxiety.
"Of course we are. If he'll have us back," Annie added, a slight wobble in her voice by this time.
"Don't be ridiculous," said Mycroft, his voice thickened with emotion as he reached for her with his good arm.
Lestrade secured the front door and, looking very pleased with himself, left the three of them to their reunion.
Lestrade gave his dessert spoon one final lick, having eaten far too much of the treacle tart Annie had made for him, while Mycroft neatly finished his crème brûlée.
Len brought the coffee to the table, then handed Lestrade an envelope. "It's a cheque for the money you wired us for the flights. Sherlock rang a few hours after we'd spoken to you. He paid for everything - even arranged cars to take us to and from the airport," he added with a trace of disbelief, because concern for the comfort of others wasn't one of Sherlock's predominant characteristics.
"Of course, it was two in the morning when he rang, but you can't have everything," added Annie as she bent to kiss the top of Mycroft's head before setting down a platter of cheeses and homemade savoury biscuits.
"What on earth did you say to Sherlock?" Mycroft murmured to Lestrade, as he helped himself to some Stinking Bishop cheese to go withe the pear he had selected. "I'd wondered what he wanted the other ten thousand for."
"He does have a better nature. Just hides it well," evaded Lestrade.
As the meal wound its leisurely way to an end the atmosphere around the table was as relaxed as if the schism had never occurred.
When Mycroft had started to explain - but not to excuse himself, because that wasn't his way - Len had smiled and shaken his head.
"No need. Greg told us everything when he called. I just wish we'd been here for you."
Annie blew her nose hard and glared at anyone stupid enough to believe she was having a sentimental moment. "It's just as well Greg explained, because neither of us could make head or tail of what Sherlock was saying."
"Except that he claimed it was all his fault," added Len.
"He's such a drama queen," said Mycroft fondly.
Lestrade almost snorted coffee down his nose, but had the sense not to tell Mycroft what he found so amusing.
Lestrade left Mycroft and Len bonding while he helped Annie in the kitchen.
"What happened to that last piece of treacle tart?" she enquired, as she put the leftovers in the fridge.
"I ate it," admitted Lestrade without shame.
"You'll be too hyped up on sugar to sleep," she said indulgently, before her expression changed. "Is Mycroft really all right? He looks terrible."
"He's doing great. Truly. And trust me, he looks far better than he did last week. He'll be off work until after his birthday."
"Thank goodness for that."
"It's wonderful to have you back."
Annie gave an unimpressed snort. "Don't think you'll be getting treacle tart every night."
"Just as well, or I'd be the size of a house."
"It's wonderful to be home, but I'll need to fly back in a few weeks. Becky's set on returning to England - there are far too many unhappy memories for her in Australia - but she'll need help with the arrangements, and with the children on the flight. Then she needs somewhere to live over here, and she can't afford London prices."
"Would you do me a favour?" said Lestrade abruptly, when Annie had to pause to take breath.
Arrested, Annie looked up, "Of course, love."
"Let Mycroft buy her a house in London. And pay for decent schools and send people over who will organise everything for your sister."
"And he can't talk for himself because - "
"He's only just got you back. He won't risk saying or doing anything that might jeopardise that. And he'd love to do it for you," coaxed Lestrade. "You know he would."
"We've never sponged off him and we not about to start."
"Annie... You know how much he enjoys doing things for the people he loves."
"Oh, give over. We'll see. I'd rather not leave so soon after getting home," she admitted. "That Peter who helped us when we first went over after Becky's accident was a God-send, I must admit. And it'd be grand having Becky close enough to be able to help her out, until she gets herself sorted."
Lestrade nodded encouragingly as Annie talked herself into agreeing.
After seeing Annie the short walk home, Lestrade wandered upstairs to see what had become of Mycroft and found him in his dressing room with Len, who was holding up a shirt on a hanger. When Len noticed Lestrade his expression spoke volumes.
"Who's been doing the ironing while I've been away?"
"Me, as of a few days ago."
"Ah."
"I can iron," said Lestrade with a trace of indignation.
"No, you can't. If it's all the same to you, I'll be seeing to your clothes as well as Mycroft's. Far easier in the long run," Len added firmly.
Lestrade caught Mycroft's slightly anxious expression and gave in with a good grace.
Len gave a satisfied grin. "I could take over helping Mycroft shower and shave in the mornings if you like."
"Not a chance," said Lestrade. "Highlight of my day, that is. Besides, I don't think you'll have time, if you agree to my suggestion."
"You're plotting something," said Len, with the conviction of a man who'd had the care of the two Holmes brothers.
"While Mycroft and I were apart I did some labouring for a charity that renovates houses for the homeless. They're crying out for skilled craftsmen who are willing to help, both with the renovating and training of the unskilled. I wondered if it was something you might be interested in."
Before Len left for home that night he had committed himself to working twenty hours a week at the project.
Mycroft waited until Lestrade had secured the front door before easing him back against it. He began to kiss him with his usual attention to detail.
"Your shoulder," mumbled Lestrade.
"I'm not proposing to use my shoulder," Mycroft assured him.
WEDNESDAY, 5th OCTOBER
"It isn't necessary for us to go through the Central Hall," Mycroft pointed out, as Lestrade headed up the flowing stairs that led to the front entrance of the Natural History Museum.
"I know. But I like to say hello to Dippy," Lestrade explained.
Mycroft gave the faintest of sighs. "Inevitably."
His expression rapt, Lestrade didn't notice, all his attention on the replica, as if seeing it for the first time.
Time passed. But as Mycroft was getting almost as much pleasure from watching Lestrade, as Lestrade was studying Dippy, his patience wasn't strained.
"It's a pity our hall isn't wider, he'd look fantastic there," mused Lestrade, finally turning away.
"Yes, if only it was big enough to hold an eight-five foot replica of a Diplodocus." As they headed for the Dinosaur Gallery Mycroft gave Lestrade a look of indulgent affection. "You really enjoy by-passing the queue, don't you?"
"After all the hours I've spent queuing over the years, you bet I do. It never occurred to me to buy a membership. You're a glutton for punishment."
"I must be," agreed Mycroft, tucking his good arm into the crook of Lestrade's.
"So, Dippy...how many bones are there in the skeleton?"
Mycroft gave him a patient look. "I don't know why you persevere with the fiction that I know more about dinosaurs than you. Two hundred and ninety two. You've told me, several times."
Lestrade gave an unrepentant grin. "I know. But I like listening to your voice."
"Don't tell him that. We'll never get him to shut up," said a familiar voice from behind them.
Mycroft and Lestrade turned as one.
"Sherlock," said Mycroft without enthusiasm.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to eavesdrop," added Lestrade, brusque because he felt self-conscious. Not that he had been saying anything embarrassing, but it had been personal, and not for Sherlock to trample over with his size eleven feet.
"Mycroft may have mentioned it once or twice," said Sherlock airily.
"What brings you to the National History Museum?" asked Mycroft. "I thought you and John were going abroad?"
"We are. But not until John has finished his stint as a locum. He insisted," Sherlock added sulkily. "I'm here to meet a man about some bat bones. Are you working?" he added to Lestrade with would-be casualness.
Lestrade's face lost all trace of expression. "No. I'm suspended, remember?"
"No. I suppose I must have deleted the information. Your suspension is highly inconvenient. But if that's the case, you're no good to me," Sherlock added testily. "Mycroft." And he was gone, striding through the crowd eddying around.
Mycroft glanced at Lestrade's downbent head.
"It's fine," said Lestrade, as if he had spoken. "Come on, you can choose what we look at today."
"Another time. Meanwhile, the dinosaurs await us."
"You talked me into it. But just for a couple of hours. Then you can take me to lunch."
By the time they returned home Lestrade was as relaxed as Mycroft could have wished, despite his frustration at knowing he could get Lestrade reinstated with one phone call.
They settled in the family room, talking easily, until Lestrade became aware of Mycroft's slight preoccupation.
"Go on," he said tolerantly, "listen to the news. You know you want to."
Mycroft didn't waste time denying it. "If you're sure," he murmured, the remote control already in his useable hand.
Lestrade tuned out the sound of the Prime Minister's voice to such good effect that the rest of the news passed him by, until the last item - a fluff piece about Sherlock Holmes.
" - fail to understand why an officer of D. I. Lestrade's calibre should have been suspended at all - let alone for so long. His solve rate is one of the highest in the Met. That, together with his integrity, is the reason I was so anxious to work with him."
Sherlock's image vanished from the screen as Mycroft switched off the television.
"Well, that's that," said Lestrade dully into the silence. "If it wasn't over before, my career is well and truly fucked now."
"What was he thinking," Mycroft murmured, before he ventured a glance at Lestrade, whose stony-faced control told him all he needed to know.
"I think it was his idea of helping," said Lestrade, trying to be fair. "He's never grasped the mentality of senior officers, let alone the IPCC."
Mycroft's BlackBerry began to vibrate on the arm of the sofa: he ignored it.
"It might be important," said Lestrade. "Take the call. I'm fine."
"You haven't asked if I was responsible for that." Mycroft nodded towards the television screen.
"I don't need to. You would have handled it with a couple of phone calls - possibly some discreet blackmail. It's fine. It isn't as if I really expected to get my job back. Take the call," Lestrade repeated gently.
"Can't you control that bloody brother of yours?" demanded Edith Carson by way of greeting.
"I'm putting you on loudspeaker," said Mycroft. "Gregory is with me."
"So I assumed. Greg, I'm sorry. The IPCC were going to announce your reinstatement - at the rank of DCI - tomorrow morning. Now if they do it will look as if they're pandering to Sherlock. You can imagine the publicity."
"I've a rough idea," said Lestrade dryly. "It's fine. Anyway, I've no intention of working while Mycroft is on sick-leave. I'll leave you to chat with him. I'm just off out to get a couple of things."
He handed the phone to Mycroft. "I won't be long. Don't look so worried. I'm not planning to see Sherlock, let alone beat him up again." But his flippancy was forced, his expression strained, before he left the room.
"I'm truly sorry," said Edith. "Shouldn't you be going with him?"
"Ah, you heard. Not right now. He needs time. To mourn. Then I'll take him out of London for a holiday."
"What about your physiotherapy?"
"Gregory can help, if necessary."
"Where will you go?"
"Somewhere with plenty of private roads where an Aston Martin can be driven very fast. Bonus points if its close to the Jurassic Coast."
"I'll get Balasha to organise it for you," said Edith, before she rang off.
Mycroft stared at his BlackBerry in disbelief, wondering just when Gregory had managed to win over Edith Carson.
As good as his word, Lestrade was back in under forty minutes, smelling strongly of cigarette smoke.
"I thought we were giving up," said Mycroft mildly, hoping his relief that Gregory had come back to him wasn't apparent.
"We are. Only... Bugger it. We are." Before Mycroft could help himself from the packet Lestrade crushed it and tossed it into the waste bin in the kitchen. "Let's go to bed."
Under the shower, Lestrade wordlessly hugged Mycroft, his face hidden as water pounded down over them.
Just before they turned into prunes Lestrade drew away a little, holding his face up to the water as if trying to wash away his sense of loss.
Aware that Lestrade needed some time to regroup, Mycroft left the cubicle and began to dry himself, clumsy because he could use only one hand and his injured shoulder was aching fiercely. He felt something at a loss, wishing he could be certain of the best thing to do.
As if sensing his uncertainty Lestrade tweaked away the towel. "You look like a drowned rat. Here, let me."
Mycroft took the line of least resistance and stood passive under the attention. He had expected nothing more than cursory drying but Lestrade took his usual care.
"At least there's no more glass in your skin," he said with satisfaction, "and your scar is coming on a treat. Ignore my hissy fit of earlier. It was nothing to do with you. Just - It would be such a novelty if the top brass actually supported their officers. A twenty year plus career and a good reputation means nothing to them. Still, a DCI..." added Lestrade, crouching down to dry between Mycroft's toes. "If I get the right inspector I could off-load a good three-quarters of the paperwork. Plus the rank gives me a legitimate reason to take an active role in any investigation.
"Thanks for not 'fixing' this with one phone call," he added, as he helped Mycroft into his dressing-gown.
"Even I'm capable of learning eventually. Though I won't pretend it's easy," Mycroft added wryly.
Lestrade gave him an affectionate pat. "I bet. I'm hungry. I think we missed a meal somewhere along the line. Though I don't fancy a takeaway."
"How about cheese on toast? And whatever Annie has left in the fridge? I heard rumour of an apple and blackberry crumble."
"Sold," said Lestrade.
Because Mycroft was obviously in some discomfort, Lestrade carried their haul up to their room; snuggling up in bed made it easier to talk.
"One thought did occur to me regarding your eventual reinstatement," said Mycroft, resigned to Lestrade cutting his toast into fingers for him. "It would be ease itself to leak the fact that rather than being suspended, you were actually acting as a consultant for the security services. It would automatically restore your reputation possibly even enhance it. Your top brass save face _ and then there's the bonus that Sherlock will look naive and out of the loop," he added with satisfaction.
"Ah, brotherly love... He'll be really pissed."
"Won't he just." Mycroft's look of satisfaction faded when he saw that Lestrade had stolen the last slice of toast from his plate.
"I'll save you half," Lestrade promised indistinctly.
"You'd better."
"It's a brilliant plan," Lestrade said. "Not least because the top brass won't actually be certain that I wasn't working for the secret squirrels. You don't mind the security service looking slack because of the leak?"
"Leaks have come in handy a number of times - in fact, they're rarely leaks at all."
Because Lestrade's eyes had regained their sparkle Mycroft magnanimously allowed him to finish the toast, while he made inroads on the crumble.
SATURDAY, 8TH OCTOBER
Lestrade stood at the front door, waving off Annie and Mycroft as they went off to find a suitable house for Annie's sister. He wished he could have gone with them, not least because, ridiculous as it sounded, he was going to miss Mycroft. But this would give Mycroft and Annie a chance to reassure themselves that nothing had been lost in the relationship that was so important to them both.
He turned from closing the front door to see Len approaching. "You need anything?" Lestrade asked, having assumed Len would be happily putting Mycroft's dressing room back in order.
"Just you. While Annie and Mycroft are busy I thought you and I could go through your clothes." It wasn't a question. "Once I understand what you like, I can get busy."
Lestrade sighed but gave himself up to his fate without a struggle, aware that Mycroft would never appreciate the measure of his sacrifice. But it had to be admitted, he wouldn't miss doing the ironing.
After a day in which Lestrade agreed to everything Len suggested, Annie and Mycroft returned home, both looking very pleased with themselves. He wasn't wholly amazed to learn that a six bedroom house in Mortlake had been found, and the children enrolled at age appropriate schools, subject to their mother's approval.
MONDAY, 10th OCTOBER
Lestrade started awake, his heart racing and his skin clammy with sweat. In his mind's eye he could still see Mycroft tumbling into the abyss and himself just too late to save him. There was nothing new about anxiety dreams - as much as anything they were a legacy from his childhood - but this had basis in fact, reinforcing how close he had come to losing Mycroft.
He wiped an unsteady hand over his face and concentrated on controlling his breathing. It was a while before he realised Mycroft wasn't asleep.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you," he muttered, feeling naked and ashamed.
"It's fine."
Lestrade left the bed, pulling on a dressing_gown because of the chill to his over-heated skin. "I'm going to make some tea. Would you like one?"
"Please."
Lestrade flicked on the light, squinting in the brightness; it was a moment before he noticed Mycroft's reddened cheek.
"Shit," he groaned.
"It wasn't your fault," Mycroft said instantly. "I should have known better than to lean over you while you're having a nightmare."
"Even so David will never believe I've done it again. I'll have to..." Lestrade trailed off into silence. "I forgot," he added despondently. "Bugger."
"Bugger," agreed Mycroft, his voice equally flat. "But David would believe in your innocence on this occasion, even if he pretended otherwise the better to enjoy your embarrassment."
Once downstairs, Mycroft pottered around making preparations for his own tea, thenLestrade's.
"I didn't realise how early it is," said Lestrade, with a rueful look at the kitchen clock.
"We can always go back to sleep later, if we want. How would you feel about some buttered toast?"
"Enthusiastic," admitted Lestrade, heading for the bread bin.
"One of life's simple pleasures," mused Mycroft, as he unselfconsciously licked his buttery fingers.
"So's this," said Lestrade. "You and me, I mean. It was the best thing in the world, coming home to you the other evening."
Mycroft stared at him as he absorbed what he was being told. And when he smiled it was so full of love that Lestrade's unwary heart turned over.
THURSDAY, 13th OCTOBER
To Mycroft's relief he was given the all-clear to leave off his hand splint and to remove the sling, although he had been warned to take great care in using that arm.
"Bloody brilliant," said Lestrade, beaming at him. "To celebrate, what do say to another tour of the noisiest building sites I can find?"
"It will be the highlight of my day," Mycroft assured him. "Though I confess, it is helping. I'm coping better with unexpected loud noises - or at least improving my ability to control my response to them. I'm sleeping better too."
"Excellent," said Lestrade with satisfaction, not least at this further proof that, little by little, Mycroft was lowering his guards, his emotions less edited as he tried to give himself fully to their partnership. It had taken Lestrade a while to appreciate how often Mycroft had camouflaged his real feelings. There again, by his own admission Mycroft's only attempt at an intimate relationship with a partner had been several decades ago.
"Perhaps we could follow that with a trip to the gun range. Both of us could use the practice - some of us more than others," Mycroft added with pointed emphasis.
"But - "
"A DCI can hardly go round carrying a knife."
"Ah. Moneypenny told you."
"I am a trained observer," Mycroft reminded him, looking pained.
"And I'm a rotten shot."
"Hence the gun range."
Lestrade gave way after some muttered grumbles, which Mycroft heard unmoved.
His own practice completed, Mycroft stood at the back of the firing range, cans in place, watching Lestrade practice. He was improving, although not to the point where he should ever fire a weapon in a crowded public place. As he sensed he was under surveillance, Mycroft glanced to his side, saw Balasha at the entrance to the range and strolled over to her, removing the protective ear cans.
"This is an unexpected pleasure."
While the tone was pleasant, she knew him too well to take it at face value. "Dame Edith knows I wanted a word with you."
"The alternative never occurred to me. It's good to know you can spare the time."
"The fact we've finally rounded up the last of Moriarty's people helped. Which is, indirectly, why I needed to speak with you. As you suggested, I put Heather in charge of the investigation of evidence tampering at the Police Archive. The good news is that it seems to be limited to the case featuring the Roman family."
"They can't possibly have checked every case in so little time."
"Random sampling only at present. But promising. Because of all the anomalies in the Roman case, it occurred to Heather to check the physical evidence, which, as you're aware, is stored in ancillary warehouses."
Mycroft's expression sharpened. "She's found the physical evidence for the Roman murders? I thought it lost."
"Mis-shelved. Human incompetence several decades ago rather than recent conspiracy. As you can imagine, there's a great deal of material - the contents of the entire flat, in fact. Heather would like your permission to reconstruct the murder scene and set our forensic people loose."
"Why are you mentioning this to me and not Edith?"
"Cost. It would be very expensive. Our budget..."
"And you thought I would pay for it. You're quite correct. I'd like to know exactly what went on in that flat - and why someone felt the need to hide it."
"So would Heather. While involved in this investigation, she's broadened the scope to known associates of the Romans, their neighbours, the neighbourhood..."
"Which Edith no doubt will expect me to pay for," said Mycroft with resignation. "Heather could use a nice little war to keep her fully occupied. Of course I'll pay - on condition that you sort it out with Accounting." He gave a bland smile at her look of dismay. "That's settled then." About to return to watching Lestrade, he paused when she said:
"Sir? You don't want a briefing?"
"I'm on sick-leave," he reminded her, "and just beginning to enjoy it. Besides, if I were needed, you or Edith would have called. I'm fine," he added, recognising the trace of doubt on her face. "Better than fine, in fact."
Balasha followed the direction of his gaze, gave an approving beam and left before he could comment further.
Chamber emptied, Lestrade called up the target before swinging round to where Mycroft was propped against the wall, gesturing for him to slide down the ear protectors.
"I got a bull's eye!"
"You jumped when your protectors slipped off."
Lestrade's expression dropped. "You saw that?"
Eyebrows raised, Mycroft's hint of a smile grew.
"Tosser," said Lestrade without heat. "I hoped you hadn't noticed. "I'll just have to keep at it."
"There's no need. I have security. And I'm always armed."
"Yeah. And if you're attacked when I'm with you you'll be too busy keeping me alive to think of yourself."
Mycroft gave him a look of consternation. "That hadn't occurred to me."
"I thought it might not have."
"Smugness is not an endearing trait," pointed out Mycroft.
"If I had a pound for every time I'd told you that."
"Call it a day. I'm hungry. How about lunch and a look round Tate Modern? You said you've never been."
"Sounds like a plan. Call up the boy wonder. Why isn't Ralph here, guarding your back?" Lestrade thought to ask, his expression hardening.
"I hardly need security when I'm amongst my own people."
"There isn't a soul in sight."
"No. For some reason having the head of British security around puts people off their aim."
"That must be what did it for me," said Lestrade promptly.
Mycroft just gave him an indulgent look and steered him off to lunch.
It was gone midnight before they got to bed. Lestrade wasn't sure if Mycroft's subdued manner was because he'd overdone it, indigestion from the curry, or some other reason.
"What's up?" he asked twenty minutes later, when neither of them were any closer to sleep.
"Nothing."
"Mycroft..."
"It's - "
"If you say 'nothing' again..."
Mycroft gave a barely audible sigh. "Today has been such a happy day. Like all the days since you came back to me. I feel so lucky. That you're willing to give me a second chance."
Silenced for a moment, Lestrade kissed the curve of Mycroft's shoulder. "You daft bugger. I had no alternative. I love you."
"Yes, and that's the wonder of it."
"Tosser," said Lestrade fondly.
"I'm serious. I know I can't be easy to live with. When you left..." This time Mycroft's sigh was louder, his voice flatter. "Happiness has never featured large in my life until I met you. I didn't appreciate the difference it's loss - the loss of you - would make to me. Without you in my life I felt as if I was turning into a ghost," he confessed, made brave by the darkness and Lestrade's thumb, which was describing slow, soothing circles on the back of his hand. "I felt as if anything that was of worth in me was dissolving like mist in the wind."
"Sorry 'bout that," mumbled Lestrade. "I told you I shouldn't have had that curry."
"What?" Melancholy banished, Mycroft pushed himself up on one elbow to peer at him.
"Did I miss something? I must have dozed off."
"Nothing of importance. But do not - and I can't emphasise this enough - fart in bed," Mycroft commanded.
Satisfied that he had jolted Mycroft out of it, Lestrade gave a grin, if not as private as he had assumed.
"Were you playing me just now?" demanded Mycroft, mildly outraged that he had fallen for it.
"Only a little. No wallowing in the past allowed, remember?"
Before Mycroft could reply Lestrade was kissing him, his tongue doing lovely things in his mouth as a warm hand curved around his cock, owning it.
Lestrade rubbed a little more, just to watch Mycroft's face go vague and glazed with pleasure, before he reached for the lubricant. He took his time readying them both, not least because this would be the first time since Mycroft had been injured. As he eased into Mycroft he paused repeatedly to ask 'Is you shoulder okay?' until, for the first time in their relationship, Mycroft yelled at him.
The strain of waiting apparent behind his grin, Lestrade sank the rest of the way home in one blissful stroke.
If Mycroft remembered his injured shoulder at any point after that it wasn't apparent.
"My apologies," gasped Mycroft, forearm over his eyes as he tried to collect himself.
"Don't be daft. It's only me here." Lestrade eased closer, tucking himself around Mycroft. "It's okay. I've got you."
His world back in full focus and glorious technicolour, Mycroft laced his fingers with Lestrade's. "Yes," he said, with obvious satisfaction.
He eased into sleep, aware of Lestrade's mouth curved into a smile against the back of his neck.
END
Part 17 to follow