Chapter Text
Mycroft calls Greg shortly after he arrives home from work. Greg is still angry and lets the call go to voicemail, but to his surprise, Mycroft actually leaves one. Greg almost deletes it, but thinks better of it. He hangs his coat and toes off his shoes while clicking his voicemail button, then sits down on his sofa and listens.
“Greg, I know you’re angry.” Mycroft sounds like he’s describing the weather rather than Greg’s emotional state. “In your position, I would be as well. I know you won’t believe me when I say this, but I am just doing my job. And I know you’re doing yours, and I’m sorry that I implied that your handling of the case was in any way lacking, in front of McDonald, no less. That was extremely rude and I don’t know why I did it, except that this is the way that I usually interact with Scotland Yard and I can’t afford to treat you differently than I would any other Detective Inspector. Apologies.
“However, I cannot apologise for what I did. I hope that in time you can come to agree that was the right and necessary decision given the national security implications of this case.
“It is my hope that you are able to disconnect our professional relationship from our personal one. I know this is not an easy thing to do, but I have faith that we are both mature enough individuals to put our differences behind us once this case is solved. I still care for you, and I’d like to continue seeing you, if you can forgive me for my high-handedness.”
Greg lets out a sigh. Mycroft didn’t apologise for what he did, just how he did it. Still, it’s more than Greg was expecting. And Mycroft made it clear that he still wants to see Greg, albeit not until after the case is solved. Maybe he’s not trying to force Greg to break up with him, after all. But then what is he doing?
But waiting until Mycroft solves the case–by himself–is just not on. Greg knows that Mycroft won’t be home. So he takes a guess, and goes to Mycroft’s bunker office at Vauxhall Cross. He’s surprised no one stops him at the gate. He does have clearance from Lady Smallwood to be here, but he wouldn’t put it past Mycroft to have revoked it. He makes his way through the winding maze under Legoland to the hallway that terminates in Mycroft’s office. There’s a new face at the reception desk: a young man in a grey suit. It is strange not to see Anthea. To the young man’s credit, he stands up and says, “You can’t go in there,” when Greg approaches Mycroft’s door, but Greg walks right past him and inserts his ID card into the lock.
To his shock, the lock flashes green. Greg steps, with some trepidation, into Mycroft’s office, which is dim and gloomy. Mycroft is seated behind his desk. His face looks pinched: forehead drawn, lips narrowed. He sighs. “I thought that you might come here to have it out with me.” He gestures for Greg to sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk.
Greg remains standing. “Well, you thought wrong, then.”
Mycroft arches an eyebrow. “You’re not here to demand that I return your case?”
“Nope.”
“Then you’re here to berate me for my behaviour in front of McDonald.”
“Nope. You already apologised for that.”
“I did. I wasn’t sure you listened.”
“I did. No, I’m not here about the case, Mycroft. I’m here about us.”
Mycroft swallows. “You’re ending things.”
The way Mycroft keeps trying to tell him why he’s here instead of hearing him out is annoying.
“Nope. Though before you apologised, I was wondering if maybe you wouldn’t like me to.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because you’re being an absolute bell-end. And if the reason you’re behaving this way is not because you’re too much of a coward to end things yourself, and you want me to do it for you, then I’m not sure what your objective is.”
Mycroft flinches at the word ‘coward.’ “I am not trying to force you to end things.” He looks at the floor. “I understand why you may believe that, but it was not my intent.”
“So what are you doing? Ever since you’ve been back in London, you’ve been back to your old ways. First it was shaving the beard, and going back to your old wardrobe, which, whatever, I know I’m probably picking nits. Then it was the job, which you assured me was going to be a part-time consulting gig.”
“I know. That is what I was told, and I didn’t deliberately mislead you.”
“What happened, then?”
“A crisis. The stolen passports are only a small part of it.” And Mycroft isn’t telling him more, Greg notes. Again.
“Other people could have handled this crisis. Why you? Are you angling to get your job back?”
Mycroft pauses, as though calculating whether or not he can get away with a lie. “Yes,” he admits. “I thought perhaps if I reminded them of my capabilities, that their confidence in me would be restored.”
“I appreciate your candour.”
Mycroft avoids his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“What about your plans? Your book?”
“That was… fanciful. I’ve never written anything other than research papers and briefs. I’m not… creative.”
“So, you threw yourself back into your work because you’re scared you can’t write a novel?”
“Work is what I’m good at. I’m not any good at writing. Or–” he gestures between them, “--at this. Us.”
“Yeah, I know. Neither am I. So we figure it out. And we do that together. You have to stop shutting me out.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to be.”
“Yeah, well. Figure it out. You could start with the case.”
Mycroft’s lips thin. “You said you weren’t here about the case.”
“I’m not. But you know that Lady Smallwood cleared me to know about Sherrinford. And Eurus. And Magnussen. Stop pretending you can’t bring me in.”
Mycroft sighs. “That was done as a favour to me. Because she knows that I trust you.”
“Really? Because you’re not acting like you trust me.”
“What you have to understand is that my situation is extremely precarious right now. I have no political capital whatsoever. I’m in no position to ask Lady Smallwood for further favours.”
“Then let me do the asking. All I want is for you not to stop me.”
A thousand calculations flit across Mycroft’s face. “Fine. I won’t stop you. But I can’t intercede with her if she says no.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that. I do. That wasn’t why I came here.”
“Why did you come here?”
“To talk. About us. To patch things up.”
“Oh.” Mycroft seems taken aback. “And have we? Patched things up?”
“I don’t know. I mean. You apologised. Sort of. And you explained what you’re trying to do. Kind of. And you’ve at least agreed not to stop me talking to Lady Smallwood. I guess that’s about what I expected.”
Mycroft stands up and walks out from behind his desk. “I’m sorry your expectations for this meeting were so low.” There’s a slight smirk on his face, a sinuousness to his hips. “Perhaps we could further patch things up if I apologise again?” He steps into Greg’s space, places a hand on his chest, and drops gracefully to his knees. “Let me apologise,” he murmurs the words to Greg’s cock, “thoroughly.”
Greg isn’t particularly in the mood, honestly. He came here to make up with Mycroft, not to get a leg over. But Mycroft’s breath is hot on his cock, and his nimble fingers free it and take it into his hand.
“The walls are soundproof,” Mycroft offers, inserting Greg’s soft cock into his mouth. Greg looks down at Mycroft, unsure what to do. Part of him wants to pull away, but he doesn’t want to be rude. He can’t tell if Mycroft is sincere in his desire to apologise or if he thinks he can manipulate Greg into forgiving him by sucking him off. He decides to give Mycroft the benefit of the doubt, and places one hand on the back of Mycroft’s head. He holds it there while Mycroft bobs over him, sucking and stroking.
Even though Greg didn’t start out aroused, there’s no denying Mycroft is good at this. He suckles Greg until his cock plumps to hardness, then uses his tongue to do clever things to Greg’s frenulum. He fondles Greg’s balls while swallowing Greg into his throat. And the sight of him, on his knees in his three piece suit, is making Greg’s brain short-circuit and his toes curl.
“Fuck,” he makes a fist with the hand not in Mycroft’s hair, struggling not to thrust. “Fuck, you’re going to make me come.”
Mycroft hums in acknowledgement, and the vibration starts a cascade of sensation up the backs of his calves and into his balls, and then he’s pulsing into Mycroft’s hot mouth.
Mycroft swallows and swallows, his lips flush with Greg’s groyne. God, but how does he do that?
Mycroft pulls back and takes a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket. He wipes his red lips.
“Fuck,” says Greg, “I was not expecting that. But that was good.”
Mycroft smirks.
Greg wants to tell him off. Make it clear that he doesn’t consider blow jobs a substitute for open communication. But he finds his outrage is softened by the afterglow. “Come here,” he says, and opens his arms for Mycroft.
Mycroft stands up and embraces him, and they kiss. It’s a bit sloppy, and he can taste himself on Mycroft’s lips, salty and a little bitter.
Lady Smallwood’s office is upstairs in the main part of Legoland, rather than down in the tunnels, which means it has better, natural lighting. She has a spacious executive desk and a wingback chair, but the traditional decor makes it seem more like a banker or solicitor’s office. It’s neither as depressing nor as imposing as Mycroft’s bunker space.
“What can I do for you, Detective Inspector,” she says.
“I think you know why I’m here,” says Greg.
She smiles. “You want me to let you join the investigation into the passport-kidney exchange.”
“Yeah.”
“I like you, Inspector Lesrade. I don’t want us to be adversaries. I’ve said before that I think we both care for Mycroft’s well being, and that we should be on the same side.”
Shit. She wants something. Of course she does. Greg should have seen this coming a mile away.
“What do you want?” he asks.
She laughs. “Straight to the point. I’m sure that’s one of the things that endears you to him. You’re not… a political creature.”
He sighs. “I have no patience for these games. But I want something from you, and you want something from me. I’m hoping we can come to some kind of agreement here.”
“I think it’s quite apparent that Mycroft is angling to get his old job back,” she says.
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” Greg says.
“In a word, no. I want what I proposed to you: that Mycroft work as a part-time consultant, reporting to me.”
“You don’t want to share power with him.”
Her smile slips, just a little. “I think, after what happened at Sherrinford, it would be in everyone’s interests if Mycroft took a step back. Yours included. I know this can’t be easy for you. Seeing him throwing himself back into his work. Not having time for you.” Her tone is gentle, but Greg knows it’s a sham.
He can’t let Smallwood under his skin. But what she’s saying is true. Mycroft keeps putting the work ahead of Greg and it bothers him, more than he expected. “This is just until this case is solved,” he protests.
“You know that’s not true. There will always be another crisis.”
“What are you actually asking me to do?”
“Nothing drastic. Just advocate for our position.”
He blinks. “Our position?”
“Yes. Encourage him to stay in a consultant role. Not to over-extend himself.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“You’re a clever man. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“Fine,” says Greg. “I’ll encourage him to keep his work part-time. I can’t promise he’ll listen.”
“I’m sure that if you make a sincere effort, you will succeed.”
“And I’m sure if I fail, you’ll conclude I didn’t try.”
Lady Smallwood’s smile is all teeth. “I’m glad we understand each other, Detective Inspector.”
Greg returns to Mycroft’s office an hour later. “Lady Smallwood has said that I can work with you on this case.”
Mycroft’s eyebrows lift to his hairline. “How did you manage that?”
Greg’s heart is pounding out of his chest. He’s about to lie. To Mycroft. Who can see through everyone and everything. “I just reasoned with her,” he says.
“And what was your argument?”
Greg lets a bit of real indignation filter through. “That I actually am a bloody good detective. And that I’ve already made progress on the case. And that I work well with you and Sherlock. Yes, I got stuck. But I’m sure if you let me see that crime scene, I’ll get unstuck pretty quickly.”
Mycroft nods. “That’s… good. I know that you must think I was trying to keep you out. And I admit, I was a bit, because I was worried about your reaction to my efforts to regain my position. But now that that’s out in the open, and you know my objective, I am looking forward to working together.”
Greg feels like his skin is too tight. Surely Mycroft must see that something is off. But Mycroft just looks at him with a mild, expectant expression.
Greg sits down in one of the uncomfortable chairs in front of Mycroft’s desk. “So, bring me up to speed.”
Mycroft takes a deep breath. “So, the stolen passports are really only the tip of the iceberg. The real question is, how did they know when the van was going to be leaving the printers?”
“Someone tipped them off. You have a mole.”
“Precisely. More than that, I think I know who the mole is. But I can’t tell anyone, especially not Lady Smallwood, until my case is airtight.”
“Why?”
“Because it may appear that I have a bias against this person.”
Greg can feel the wheels in his brain start turning. “You think it’s Sir Edwin.”
“I do, yes.”
“Are you sure? I mean, I know you dislike him. And I know it would be awfully convenient for you if it turned out that he was our man, because you want your job back and he’s currently doing it.”
Mycroft’s brows furrow. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you. And if you won’t believe me, I know that no one else will.”
Greg sighs. “Fine. What makes you think it’s him?”
“Sir Edwin’s mother is on dialysis. She’s ineligible for a transplant, however, because her liver is sclerotic. She’s an alcoholic.”
“Okay,” says Greg. “I can see why that would give him motive. And he’s certainly had the opportunity. But do you have any evidence that he’s the mole?”
“I do not,” Mycroft admits. “But if I watch him long enough, he will make a mistake. And I intend to bring him down when he does.”
“Okay,” says Greg. “So, we suspect Roylott and Sir Edwin, but we can’t currently move in on either. I guess our best lead is the passports.”
“Indeed,” says Mycroft.
“You still haven’t told me where Sherlock found those.”
“At a printer’s in Newham.”
“Can I see the scene?”
“Yes. Tomorrow.”
Greg nods. “We have to track down the people whose faces are on those documents.”
“That is my highest priority as well. I’ve started searching for their faces in IDENT1. Trying to find the real names and addresses of people. We’ve started with asylum seekers.”
“So you admit they’re probably just desperate migrants!”
“Probably. But we cannot rule out any kind of terrorist links.”
Greg shrugs. “Okay. But I’m sure we’ll clear the lot of them.”
“We also need to find out who the recipients of the donated organs are. I am in the process of cross-referencing the lists of people awaiting transplants in Europe with those who have criminal records. We’re looking for people who have money and are having difficulty obtaining organs via legitimate means.”
“Have you tried looking for people who recently took their names off the transplant lists?” asks Greg. “Those could indicate people who received organs.”
“Yes,” says Mycroft. “But so far, the people we’ve found whose names were taken off the lists were either the recipients of legitimate transplants, or are deceased.”
“Okay,” says Greg, “Sounds like the printer’s is still our best bet, then.”
“We’ll go first thing tomorrow, I promise,” says Mycroft.
“Thank you,” says Greg. “For bringing me in.”
“You brought yourself in,” says Mycroft.
Don’t remind me.
“I know we have an early start tomorrow,” says Mycroft. “But will you come to mine tonight?”
“Yeah,” says Greg. He smiles. “I will.”