Chapter Text
When Lestrade got home from the hospital a week and a half after The Incident, something in his flat was different. He froze when he walked into his bedroom. There was a large, queen size bed, with is-this-really-necessary thread count sheets. Instead of what he really wanted to find when he looked on top of the bed – Mycroft with nothing but a bow around his waist – there was a small box tied with a red ribbon and a letter written on parchment paper. Of course. It should have bothered him more than it did that Mycroft had been in his apartment without his permission, or at least one of Mycroft’s people, but he supposed that Anthea had given him the key while he was in hospital. He awkwardly pulled the letter open with one hand in a cast and the other in a sling, letting out a short, somewhat broken laugh as he read it. It was two words.
Thank you.
He opened the box and started laughing. Inside was a journalist-style voice recorder, and when he pressed the play button, Mycroft’s voice emanated from the speakers.
“With your injuries, I could hardly, in good conscience, allow you to sleep on the couch. I am not always good with words, and even if I was, in this case words will never be sufficient to tell you how grateful I am. You saved my brother when I could not, you were brave when I was weak and you took upon yourself what should never have been your burden to bear. What you did cannot be repaid, not in favours, nor finance, nor friendship, but be assured that you have all three if you are ever in need of them.” He sounded cool and controlled, as he always had, but there was something in the undertone, some emotion Lestrade was hesitant to label in case he was hearing what he wanted to hear rather than what was. It could have been raw gratitude and relief, or it could have been something altogether less professional. Needless to say, Lestrade was hoping for the latter.
Mycroft didn’t visit. His umbrella was still hooked over the chair Lestrade hadn’t sat in for months, and he couldn’t bring himself to move it. Anthea texted regularly, but never mentioned Mycroft. He had a bit of a hard time alone in his flat with a broken wrist and a busted shoulder, but he managed. His days were full of boredom as he waited to be put back on active duty. He had no idea what Andrea had said to his boss, but it had obviously been believable because he was given medical leave, no questions asked, and he hadn’t been arrested yet. He took that as a good sign. His doctor from the A&E had told him to spend three weeks doing absolutely nothing apart from his PT exercises, and in that regard he was lucky that the bullet hadn’t shattered any bones on impact. They expected him to regain almost full mobility in six weeks. The morning of his third day home from hospital, he picked up the newspaper that had been delivered to his door and promptly dropped it again.
JAMES MORIARTY DEAD UNDER SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES.
‘Police have linked his death to an ongoing turf war between two gangs and have made several arrests. A juror from the late James Moriarty’s trial, who did not wish to be named, claims, “He threatened my family if I did not vote him not guilty. He was a monster and now that he’s dead, I will sleep better at night.” This new testimony calls into question the dubious results of the trial that gripped the nation. However, police have declined to comment.’
Lestrade almost fell over himself as he pulled a shirt on and fumbled to button it up, grabbing his keys and half-running out of his flat. He needed to be somewhere else, anywhere else. He needed to see people so he wouldn’t see Moriarty’s cold dead eyes staring at him every time he closed his eyes. Even though he knew he had made the right decision, the dreams hadn’t been any less traumatic. He left his jacket hanging in the closet because it was still warm out and he didn’t need to look professional for work, so there was no reason to struggle into it. The walk to 200 Yards calmed him somewhat, but his mind was still reeling when he pushed his way into the café with his good shoulder.
Amy looked up at the sound of the bell and dropped the latte cup she was holding, the shattering sound louder than it should have been in the mostly empty shop. The other barista, Adam, noticed him too and said a few quiet words to Amy before taking over her orders. She came out from behind the counter like a hurricane and threw herself at him, hugging him so tightly he was afraid she’d pop his stitches.
“What the fuck happened to you?” she asked into his chest. “You were being all secretive and squirrely and then suddenly you disappeared for two weeks. I had to ask Gregson what happened to you and all he knew was that you were in hospital. You couldn’t have sent me a text to let me know you weren’t dead?”
She stepped back and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, looking over his injuries with a keen eye.
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s right you are!” she raged, lifting up her Doc Marten-clad foot and stamping down on his foot.
“Ouch!”
“You deserve worse. I was so worried!” she said, taking a hold of his cast and pulling him towards a booth by the window. “You are going to tell me exactly what happened! Spare no details, I helped you and I deserve some answers.”
“I…” he began hesitantly. “Hypothetically speaking, if I had done something… not entirely legal, would you have me arrested?”
She looked him directly in the eye and shook her head. “Not if you had a good reason.”
He let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. She was like a niece to him, and the idea of disappointing her was unbearable. “I made a decision.” He relayed the tale, sparing no detail – except his emotional realisation – until his voice was raw from overuse.
“You,” she said in a shaky voice, “are absolutely nuts. But… what you did. For what it’s worth, it was the right thing to do. It might not have been legal, but what you did saved lives. He was a monster, a parasite who manipulated the justice system. I don’t agree with vigilante justice, but you were protecting your friends and, in my opinion, that counts as self defence.”
“That,” he said, clearing his throat to stop his emotions taking over, “that means a lot.”
She reached over and patted his good shoulder. “I’m proud to call you my friend. Stop second-guessing yourself, you did the right thing.”
“I know that,” he said defensively. “That’s not what was bothering me.”
“I know. You were afraid I’d think of you differently.” She shook her head. “I don’t. Not in the way you’re afraid of.”
“Thank you…” He looked away as he tried to ignore the sudden wetness of his eyes. “I’d best let you get back to work. I have… I have other people I need to see today.”
“Okay,” she said softly. “You have a good day, you hear?”
“I’ll try. I’ll be back at work soon enough and dying for caffeine. As always, call me if you ever need anything.”
She nodded and walked back behind the counter. He smiled his thanks to Adam, who nodded, and left the shop feeling lighter. He hadn’t been lying when he said he had other people to talk to. He had been avoiding John and Sherlock since John’s release from hospital and that wasn’t fair, he had to give Sherlock the opportunity to rage at him some more. He still hadn’t replied to Mycroft’s message. He didn’t know what to say, and the one time he had tried to sleep on the bed had resulted in him going back to the couch. The bed felt empty and he kept rolling over, expecting to see someone else sleeping beside him, which was more depressing than his empty apartment. He was used to being alone on his couch. It was routine. The ache of loneliness had faded away over time, but on a bed large enough for two it seemed so pathetic that it was just him. It was a stupid thought, he knew it was, but he couldn’t help it.
Even though he knew he should call John, or go and visit them, he just couldn’t do it. He was a wreck. He had nightmares every night and he couldn’t even close his eyes to block out the sun without seeing Moriarty’s dead eyes, or John, battered and bruised covered in blood. As a police officer, he had seen plenty of things to add fuel to his nightmares. Some of those experiences faded or were replaced with newfound horrors, but this was something that he knew full well would never go away. Nothing could ever be worse than that, seeing his best friend injured and staring into the eyes of a man he’d killed. Police like him didn’t carry guns, he’d never killed anyone before Moriarty. Sure, he’d hit plenty of people with a baton and even tasered a couple of people, but he had never killed anyone. It didn’t matter that there had never been a person more deserving of death than James Moriarty. It made no difference that he was evil incarnate. Greg had still pulled a trigger, twice, and killed two people. He’d made the decision to end someone’s life outside the parameters of the law and that was something that he expected would haunt him forever.
It took him just over a month to finally make his way to John and Sherlock’s apartment. He thought about calling, but it felt like that was the coward’s way out. If Sherlock was going to rage at him, if John was going to blame him, then he should do them the courtesy of being there in person.
It was too far to walk to John and Sherlock’s flat, especially considering he was technically supposed to be doing as little as possible, so he hailed a cab. He didn’t bother knocking. If it was just Sherlock, he wouldn’t have answered, and John was still recovering. He managed to dodge their lovely, but nosy, landlady and ascended the stairs two at a time. When he walked into their living room, he stopped just inside the door. It looked like a bomb had gone off. There were clothes littering every surface and Lestrade swore he saw a pair of bright red pants on the coffee table. It certainly didn’t take a detective to figure out what had gone on in that room. He stood there, trying very hard not to touch anything and fervently wishing he could delete everything he’d seen.
“Sherlock?” John called, coming out of the bedroom. He was wearing a pair of jeans but no shirt, and Lestrade could see purple and red marks that were definitely not from his fight with Moran. The bruises and cuts were healing well, most bruises already faded to a sickly yellow-brown colour ,and his cast was off.
“Um, nope.” Greg coughed awkwardly. “Just me.”
John flushed and looked around the room. “Right… Hi?”
“I just wanted to see if you were feeling better… Obviously you’ve been cleared for… activity.” He coughed again. “Glad you’re feeling better.”
“I thought you were supposed to be on bed rest?”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I got bored. I saw the paper and thought you might want to chat or something, now that we’re both better and my cast is off. But it’s fine, I’m sure you’re… busy with other things.”
“I saw the paper too. Good job, aye?” John said, running a hand through his hair and looking everywhere but at Greg.
“Okay, I’m just going to get right to it and address the giant elephant in the room, but only because I have to ask.”
“Greg…”
“No, just let me ask,” Greg interrupted, holding a hand up to stop John from speaking. “He knows it’s not just a one time, or a friends with benefits thing, doesn’t he?”
John coughed awkwardly. “Yeah, he does.”
“So you’re going to make a go of it?”
“It looks like it,” he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m happy for you,” Greg said. “After everything you guys have been through, you deserve this. But if he hurts you… Well, I think he knows, now, what I am capable of.”
“Oh, I know,” Sherlock said from behind him. He was leaning against the doorjamb, wearing his trademark coat and a tight purple shirt, open at the throat, despite the red and purple love bite on his neck that he didn’t seem to be attempting to hide. “Should I be delivering you a similar speech promising bodily harm? I understand that it is my duty as next of kin.”
“Excuse me?”
“Mycroft is my brother.”
“And?” Greg asked before the realisation hit him. “Oh, fuck! We’re not… I haven’t even spoken to Mycroft in months. We aren’t like that.”
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and John chuckled. “Come on, Greg. We’re your friends.”
“I know that, which is why I’m telling you this. Mycroft isn’t interested in me. He thanked me for my services and hasn’t contacted me since. As much as I might wish… I mean. He has given me no indication he’s interested.”
“But you are? Interested, that is?” John asked.
“That… is not the point,” Greg said, shifting uncomfortably.
“Oh, come off it, Greg. You analysed my feelings and asked the hard questions. That’s what friends are for, and you’re mad if you think I’m going to pass this opportunity up.”
“What difference does it make?” Greg asked, throwing his hand in the air and wincing as his shoulder pinched. He technically should have been wearing his sling, but he had stopped wearing it when they took the cast off his wrist.
“My brother has predictable patterns. He never strays from those pre-planned arrangements of encounters and conversations. He never kidnapped you, that was his first deviation from his pattern. Then, he made a personal effort to help you on cases when it was not required of him. Then, he let you see him in a moment of weakness and followed your advice. Then, he sat by his phone for hours, waiting to hear that you were out of surgery. Mycroft Holmes doesn’t wait, he doesn’t show weakness and he certainly doesn’t fail to personally evaluate all people I come into contact with on a daily basis. He kidnapped Mrs Hudson, Angelo from the restaurant, and the man I buy my newspaper from every morning, but he didn’t kidnap you. Didn’t you ever wonder why?”
“Well, that certainly makes me feel special. Thanks, Sherlock, for affirming what I already knew. I’m not important to Mycroft, I get that, you don’t have to rub it in!”
“That’s not what I said!” Sherlock snapped. “Mycroft didn’t kidnap you, because caring is not an advantage.”
“What?”
“He was afraid that he would become attached to you if he ever made the effort to talk to you personally. He read your file, saw surveillance photographs, and sent Anthea instead because he saw something in you that scared him and, believe me, I will tease him mercilessly about this for the next fifty years.”
“That doesn’t make any sense!” Lestrade yelled. “Why would he do that? You’re just making fun of me. I know you don’t think we’re friends, but seriously, this is low, even for you. You can’t play with people’s feelings like this, Sherlock. It’s not fair.”
“I’m not being manipulative or malicious,” Sherlock replied angrily. “I’m speaking the truth.”
“You can’t be. You deduced that I’m in love with your brother and you decided to torture me as payback. I know that John got hurt, and I know that it was my fault, but he’s okay, and this is just cruel.”
“Are you?” John asked, finally inputting into the conversation.
“Am I what?”
“In love with Mycroft.”
“Yes, fine. I am in love with Sherlock’s infuriating brother, a man with a mind-boggling amount of power and ridiculous taste in accessories, and I don’t need any more people to tell me that those feelings aren’t mutual. I figured that out for myself, thanks,” Lestrade shouted, visibly deflating by the end. “Are you happy, now? Am I sufficiently humiliated, or would you like more?”
“I think that’s enough,” Sherlock said quietly.
“Great, thanks,” he said brokenly. “I’ll just… go, now.”
He ignored John’s hand on his arm and ran down the stairs, bursting out into the busy London streets. He saw an available cab but ignored it and walked towards his apartment. He lost track of how much time he spent walking, equal parts too long and not long enough. He wanted to think but he didn’t want to feel. He was tired, frustrated, and more than a little broken. He was happy for John, he really was, but it couldn’t have come at a worse time from Lestrade’s perspective. He had managed to avoid the feeling of loneliness for a decade and now, just as he realised the pathetic truth, his best friend went and got himself into a relationship with his flatmate. That sort of love was only sickening for those who were bitter and alone and, at that moment, that was exactly what Lestrade was. Bitter and alone.
When he was close to his flat, he reached for his keys – something that was not as easy as it sounded, considering his hand wasn’t allowing him to grip properly without sending shooting pains from his shoulder. When he finally looked up from his task, he wanted to cry. There, on the street outside his apartment building, stood Mycroft Holmes, leaning against one of his fancy black cars and staring up at Lestrade’s window.
“I should have stayed in bed,” he muttered to himself. It seemed the universe was trying to make him as miserable as possible.
“Here for a report?” he asked as lightly as he could. Mycroft turned quickly to face him and, to Lestrade’s astonishment, smiled a full, real smile.
“You could say that,” he replied cryptically.
“Well, okay then,” Lestrade said with an almost inaudible sigh as he started to climb the stairs to his flat. “Come on up.”
“Thank you, Gregory.” Lestrade literally tripped up the stairs and only just managed to catch himself before doing further damage to his arm. “Be careful,” Mycroft admonished from directly behind him, much closer than Lestrade was expecting. “We can’t have you hurt again.”
He mumbled something unintelligible and walked down the short hallway to his flat, opening the door and gesturing Mycroft to come inside. He was fiercely glad that he’d had enough time on his hands to clean up his flat the day before. This conversation was going to be hard enough without him having to worry about a messy flat, too.
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t got a written report to give you,” he said with a wry smile. “I’m not stupid enough to write and sign incriminating statements, so I hope you’ll be satisfied with a verbal report.”
“I was going to save this argument for later,” Mycroft began, his voice going dangerously soft. “But now that you’ve brought it up, I have a couple of grievances to air.”
Lestrade winced but said, “If that’s what you want, go ahead.”
He watched in horror as Mycroft’s cool and collected mask crumbled in the face of pure, desperate, devastating anger. Mycroft looked so furious that Lestrade had to take a step back. “What were you thinking? I told you it wasn’t your concern. I TOLD you to let Sherlock and me deal with it, but no! The great Detective Inspector Lestrade had to go all secret service on one of the most dangerous men in the world! And for what? A misguided sense of responsibility, want for glory? Tell me that, tell me, because I’m at a loss to understand why.”
“Obviously you don’t know me at all,” Greg snarled in response as he let the pain and frustration of previous few months govern his emotions. “I didn’t risk my life and my career for glory, you absolute IDIOT. What do you think would have happened if I had let you take care of it? It was taking too long, something big was about to happen and if we hadn’t stopped it, I really do think that someone would be dead right now, one of the good guys. I couldn’t let him take away the people I care about! He had already tried to get you fired. For all I knew, he would have tortured or killed you next. So don’t say to me I did it for glory when I risked everything to keep you safe.” He quickly amended it to, “You and your infuriating brother.”
Mycroft sat down heavily on the couch. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. You seem to have a unique and unnerving ability to get under my skin. I… what you did for Sherlock… I already thanked you.”
“Yeah.” Greg sighed. “It was too much, you know. Also a little creepy.”
Mycroft looked apologetic at that. “Ah… yes. Well, I have never been especially good at gauging the social acceptability of my actions, because I’ve never had to be. Sherlock is the same.”
“Speaking of Sherlock,” Greg said with a grimace, “he seems to have finally figured out a few things. I popped by their flat this morning.”
“Yes, I was aware,” Mycroft replied with a soft smile. “He never wastes much time, not when he knows what he wants.”
“I really hope you switched off the listening device you have in his coat while they were going at it,” Greg said, shuddering, and then, when he realised the implications of what he said, froze. “Actually, I hope you switched it off for the entire thing.”
“I can assure you, I have no interest whatsoever in my brother’s sexual exploits,” Mycroft replied with a delicate shudder, and Greg relaxed. “However, the device was switched back on this morning when Sherlock left Baker Street on an errand, and has been on ever since. In fact, my brother sent me a text message not 20 minutes ago.”
Greg tensed and swore in his head when he read the message on the phone Mycroft had handed to him.
Check the recordings on the listening device hidden somewhere on my person, yes, I know about that. You owe me. –SH
“Right,” Greg said quickly, his throat dry and his mind whirling as it braced for the seemingly inevitable rejection. “Tea? I could do with some tea, let me make you a cup.”
He quickly walked past the couch and went to the kitchen to boil the kettle with shaking hands. When he turned back around, Mycroft was standing by the kitchen table, running a finger lightly across the handle of the umbrella he’d left there all those months ago.
“You kept it?” he asked softly.
“I… I was waiting for a good time to give it back,” Greg said uneasily.
“I can tell that you are still sleeping on the couch,” Mycroft said suddenly. Greg blinked in confusion at the change in topic.
“Um…”
Mycroft stepped closer until he was less than two feet away from Greg. “I’ve never been good at expressing myself in social situations,” he said, like it was an explanation. “But I thought you knew. I was so sure that you knew.”
“Knew what?” Greg asked, confused.
Mycroft took one final step forward so he was well and truly in Greg’s personal space. “All those times I told you that you were intelligent, I meant it, but right now you’re being maddeningly dense,” he said matter-of-factly. “I know that it was my turn to be the brave one, but I thought that you never wanted to see me again. You didn’t reply to my message and you always used to reply to my messages. You made me laugh. It seems as though, now that I know how this is going to be received, I finally have enough courage to say it out loud.” He reached out and laid his hand on Greg’s neck, tracing his jawline with his thumb. “I love you.”
“I’m dead,” Greg blurted. Mycroft’s head snapped up and suddenly he was laughing.
“I stand corrected,” he chuckled. “As usual, Gregory, you have managed to surprise me.”
“I’m… not dead?”
“No,” he said softly. “No, you aren’t. But if you ever pull a stunt like the one with Moriarty again, I will kill you myself.” He moved his other hand to rest on Greg’s hip. “I don’t think I could handle getting that call again. I almost fired Anthea and came terrifyingly close to declaring war on Israel.”
“My… Would you like to go out sometime? On a date? With me?” Greg asked eventually, after his brain had rebooted to accommodate for the life-altering impossibilities that were no longer impossible. He winced internally at how lame it sounded, how tentative his voice was, and looked down to hide his red face, but when he looked up from his shoes, Mycroft was smiling.
Mycroft laughed again, the sound rich and happy as he leaned in and kissed him.
It could have been minutes or it could have been hours later when they finally broke apart and Greg asked, “Is that a yes?”
“Yes,” Mycroft replied with another wonderful laugh. “But… I work a lot.”
“So do I.”
“I’m condescending and superior.”
“I’m proud and judgmental,” Greg countered.
“I…”
“No, stop.” Greg said, holding up his hand. “We both have issues, and I know for sure we’re going to fight a lot but, My, I love you, and we can make this work. I know we will find a way to make it work.”
“I rather enjoy fighting with you,” Mycroft admitted sheepishly.
Greg laughed and pulled Mycroft down for a quick kiss. “And I’ll enjoy fighting for you. Now that we’ve got the lovey-dovey shit out of the way, how about we check out the new bed you so generously bought for me?”
Mycroft’s laugh mingled with his as they made their way to their bedroom, and in that moment, in an old room full of hope and new beginnings, Greg decided. He decided that he would be happy to spend the rest of his life fighting with Mycroft, and listening to his wonderful, infuriating genius laugh.
For the first time in a very long while, Gregory Lestrade was looking forward to the future.
End