Chapter Text
Lestrade checked his phone. One missed call. One voicemail from Mycroft Holmes. No follow up text.
He was immediately concerned. It wasn’t like Mycroft to leave a voicemail; it was even less like him to neglect following up with a text message.
He opened the voicemail and clicked play.
As he listened to the voicemail, something sounded off. It was the way in which he spoke, a little off kilter. Slurred, even. If he didn’t know better, he might conclude that it was a drunk dial. However, he had never known Mycroft to drink to excess.
It was his understanding that Christmas was a tumultuous time for him, though he remembered keenly that he wasn’t one to get drunk to avoid discomfort.
Even still, he sounded like he’d had a couple.
Before Lestrade had the chance to feel anything at the prospect of a dinner date, Mycroft signed off.
“Anyway. Must go. I’m losing consciousness.”
The voicemail ended abruptly.
Lestrade blinked, and stalled. The words landed late.
Instinctively he went to replay the message but froze instead. No, he could play it again from the car.
He grabbed his coat, keys, and headed out the door.
When he reached his car, he hit replay on the message, shoved it onto speaker and threw it into the passenger seat as he clambered into the driver’s seat. He turned the ignition and reversed out of the drive.
“Gregory!” The voicemail restarted.
Normal enough, a little lighter than usual.
“Just calling to tell you that you’re great,”
Slurred, just a touch. Unusually open.
“and I rather think – if it’s all the same to you – we should go out for dinner sometime,”
Obviously yes. He would revisit this.
“after this whole ghastly business of the holidays is over.”
Alright. Sounds normal.
Gripping the steering wheel tightly, his ears strained for the next part over the sound of the engine.
“Anyway.”
Mhm.
“must go.”
Right.
“I’m losing consciousness.”
Lestrade pushed the accelerator.
*
Lestrade felt fortunate that Mycroft had provided an address to their family home, offhandedly one time when they were talking.
It’s a kind of lovely red colour, Mycroft had told him.
Sometimes I coordinate my outfit with the exterior, if I’m feeling particularly bored. Just the pocket square and tie, you understand. Anything more would be fastidious. Mycroft had laughed.
As he drove up to the house now, it was red as Mycroft had described, he certainly didn’t miss it.
Gravel crunched under the tires as he came to an abrupt stop and stepped out. Hand on his holster, he reached the front door and knocked loudly.
Nothing.
He knocked again.
“Police, open up!” He announced at the door.
Nothing.
He tried the handle and it yielded immediately. Unlocked. Quietly concerned, he let himself in.
Badge at the ready. He wanted something official to justify himself with if Mrs. Holmes were to become absolutely monstrous. After all, he was breaking and entering during Christmas dinner.
Thankfully, he heard nothing.
“Mycroft! It’s DI Lestrade!”
As he stepped further into the residence, he saw Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Holmes, and Mycroft. All unconscious. Before he could react to this discovery, Lestrade locked onto movement in his periphery, he unholstered his gun immediately and aimed.
“Identify yourself! What the hell have you done to them?” Lestrade snapped.
“Wiggins, sir!” Wiggins put his hands up immediately, “nothing bad, honest!” he responded quickly. “They’re alright, I swear it. I measured it all out good and proper. Not enough to hurt ‘em, just enough to make ‘em sleep.”
Lestrade eased his aim, just enough to let him speak but still let him know that the threat remained.
“I jus’ did what Mr. Holmes told me.” Wiggins added. “And what with me being his protégé an’ all.”
“Mycroft did?”
“Sherlock.” Wiggins clarified.
“Where’s he?”
“Gone, sir. Out the back, with that short one – er, the army doctor.”
“Gone where?”
“He didn’t say, they jus’ kinda left.”
Lestrade stopped and forced himself to take a breath, wrestling with his anger and turned his attention back to Mycroft. He re-holstered his gun and went to his side.
“Mycroft, can you hear me?” Lestrade put his hand on his shoulder and gave a small squeeze.
“It’ll do no good to wake ‘im. It’s only been an hour, he’s not gon’ make much sense.” Wiggins advised.
Lestrade shot him a look, then returned his attention back to the older Holmes, crouching down to his level. He lowered his voice. “Em, hey.” He murmured.
Mycroft stirred then groaned, taking a tiny inhale.
“Mycroft,” Lestrade exhaled with relief, smoothing his hair back from his forehead.
“Gr’gory.”
“I got your voicemail.”
“mail? – oh.”
“Are you alright?” Lestrade asked, “where’s Sherlock?”
“He’s with –“ Mycroft paused, stopping himself before the name.
Don’t say Magnussen. Mustn’t say Magnussen. He thought to himself.
“- Magnussen.” He finished.
Ugh.
Reflexively, Mycroft mustered himself, and tried for threatening.
The instinct was there. The execution was not.
“Y’didn’t hear that – or else your - computer,” he slurred, pushing himself to stand to make himself look more intimidating. Wordlessly, Lestrade stood up with him, a hand hovering at his shoulder.
“Bad materials. On it.” Mycroft inclined his head expectantly.
“Look frightened.” He added.
Lestrade was not sure how to oblige.
Mycroft grabbed the edge of the dining table as the room tilted. He meant to step forward but staggered backward instead – straight into the chair.
It scraped against the floorboards and toppled.
Mycroft nearly went down with it.
“Woah, woah – easy,” Lestrade steadied him. “Sit down,” he said quietly.
Mycroft ignored him.
“I haf’to find Sherlock.” He slurred.
“You need to sit down -“ Lestrade gently corrected.
“No.” Mycroft said, sharp enough to startle them both, then faltered. He drew a shallow breath, Lestrade’s hand still firm at his side.
“I need-“ He swallowed hard. “A helicopter.”
Lestrade blinked. “I have a car. I drove here.” Lestrade began, “No helicopters unfortunately -”
“- Well, not on me.” Lestrade added, the flicker of humour gone as quickly as it came.
The humour was lost on Mycroft.
It was then that Mycroft placed his hand on Lestrade’s chest. Sincerely. His gaze levelled with Lestrade’s.
Lestrade felt pinned by the intensity of it.
At the edge of truly uncomfortable, Mycroft spoke. “I need you…” He said, breathless.
Lestrade stilled, and his breath caught.
“… to take me - to a helicopter.” Mycroft finished, sincerity maintained.
Lestrade exhaled.
“…Okay.” Lestrade murmured, throat dry as he swallowed. “Yeah. I can do that.” He agreed finally, hoping his agreement would free him from the scrutiny.
“Good… good.” Mycroft’s shoulders relaxed, though his gaze remained fixed on Lestrade even as his vision dimmed. “Helicopter will work.” He whispered to himself. His lashes fluttered as his expression softened.
“Mycroft?” Lestrade checked, reaching out to steady him at the elbow.
“We should go before-“ Mycroft trailed off, pinching the bridge of his nose. He tried again.
“…we should…” His heart fluttered uselessly under the strain of being upright.
Sound fell away. The floor rushed up to meet him.
“Woah!” Lestrade reacted instantly and caught him just in time, hauling him in before he could hit the floor.
Mycroft went slack against him.