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Mycroft Holmes was nearly out the door of 221B Baker Street when he heard a voice calling his name. Grimacing a little, he didn’t break his stride, breathing heavily when he caught sight of his car idling at the curb, waiting.
One day, he’d learn. Telling anything of importance to Sherlock that did not have anything to do with a case or one of his brother’s ridiculous hobbies was about as useful as spitting during a monsoon and hoping not to get wet.
Was it too much to ask for his brother to take him seriously for a change and not treat him as a figure of fun? Apparently, it was.
"Mycroft? Mycroft!"
The tall man started a little when he felt a hand grasp his shoulder. He’d heard the voice at the top of the stairs but had heard no footsteps. Had the man floated down to him, then?
Mycroft turned and saw the flushed face of Greg Lestrade peering at him in concern. No. He’d run down the steps, obviously. Mycroft had just been too deep in his musings to notice. Good thing those Chechen terrorists no longer had a price on his head; in the state he was currently in, Mycroft wouldn’t have been able to pick them up if they’d come down Bond Street waving flags and confetti.
"Detective Inspector, I am leaving now …”
"Yeah, I know, it’s just …" Greg took a moment to get his breath. "What happened? What was that all about? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sherlock laugh so hard."
Mycroft’s cheeks burned and he turned abruptly. “Good evening, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
He heard Greg curse beneath his breath before putting a hand on his shoulder once more.
"Sorry, that didn’t come out the way I wanted it, too. Can you tell me what’s going on? One second, we’re all having a nice time, watching Arsenal pound Aston-Villa into the pitch, and the next, Sherlock starts making comments I don’t understand, something about you asking me something … and money … and you’re storming out. What’d I miss?"
Mycroft felt the comforting weight of Greg’s hand through his coat. He knew the man meant well, and was completely befuddled by Sherlock’s not-very-subtle-at-all comments. Mycroft could usually shrug off his baby brother’s cutting remarks, but that night, it had just been too much. A person had his limits, after all.
"It’s nothing, Mr. Lestrade," said Mycroft stiffly, as he gently disengaged Greg’s hand from his shoulder. "My brother’s moods should have ceased being a mystery to me long ago. Please continue your evening. He’ll sulk if you leave, too, and … well." Mycroft forced a smile to his face. "Good evening. It was nice to see you once again."
Mycroft turned and walked to his car, feeling Greg’s dark eyes follow him the entire way. It would have been easier if he could hate Sherlock or rage, or even cry. But he couldn’t do even that. All he could do, all he could ever do, was leave and await the next moment that his brother would humiliate him once more.
Greg Lestrade pointedly ignored Sherlock as he handed John Watson the file.
"Mid-50s. Just married again. Wife was out of town, though that doesn’t rule out her hiring someone to pop the bloke’s cogs. Locked room, but no weapon found, and he was definitely killed with a gun. No traces of gunpowder on his hands, but even if he had offed himself, he couldn’t very well have gotten rid of the gun after the fact, yeah?"
Sherlock’s eyebrow rose, and he started to speak, but Greg interrupted: “This is a backburner case, but I figured it’d be up your alley. I’ve got a ton to do today, so if you don’t mind?” He looked pointedly toward the door of his office.
Sherlock Holmes said nothing, except to hold out his hand for the file, which John gave to him while peering suspiciously at Lestrade. The consulting detective was out the door and fiddling with his mobile before Greg could draw a breath.
John stood in the middle of the floor, still looking at Greg with a small frown.
Lestrade looked up. “You need something, John?”
"Yeah." The army doctor didn’t move. "Why are you being such a shit to Sherlock lately?"
Greg blinked a few times. “Sorry?”
"You’re treating him like he’s got some sort of disease," said John in a low voice, as if afraid to be overheard. "For days now. I’ve seen your texts to him, it’s like you can’t be bothered. And just now, practically tossing him out of your office. He’s actually been fairly decent this week, so …"
"I’m sure his brother might have a differing opinion," said Greg, his jaw clenching.
John looked mystified. “Mycroft? What’s he got to do with anything?”
Greg shook his head. “Just forget it. I do have a lot of work to clear today, and I don’t really have the time or patience …”
"No, seriously, Greg, what’s Mycroft to do with anything?" John crossed his arms. "I don’t think he and Sherlock have even spoken in days."
"Well, can’t say I blame Mycroft there, considering what a twat Sherlock was to him the last time they were in the same room together." Greg’s eyes were cold. "Would it bloody kill him to be civil to the man every once in a while? He was enjoying himself, having an ale just like one of the blokes, watching the match on telly, and then Sherlock starts in on him …"
Greg trailed off. Nearly a week had passed since the little incident at 221B and he still had no real idea what Sherlock had said to cause Mycroft to react the way he had. The man had blushed and nearly tripped over himself to get away. Greg felt his teeth grinding and he glanced up at John, who looked a bit shamefaced now.
"Oh. That." John cleared his throat. "You know as well as I do they can’t stay in the same room together without having a blazing row."
"But he wasn’t doing anything! Mycroft was relaxed. Watching telly. Chatting ...”
... With me. Greg paused a moment. If he were being honest, that was one of the things that had bothered him about the interrupted night. He and Mycroft were having a nice conversation, and then Sherlock had come along and pissed all over it with his comments.
"… And then Sherlock starts throwing out these … jokes or whatever they were, god knows I bloody well couldn’t understand anything, but he knew that Mycroft would, and then -"
"Why do you care?" asked John, frowning. "They fight all the time. Why was this row so different that you’re treating Sherlock like shit over it?"
"Maybe I’m tired of seeing it," said Greg, looking away. "I’ve been in the picture five years longer than you, remember. Back when Sherlock was still using. I’ve seen what Mycroft’s done for him, with Sherlock cursing him from A to Zed the entire time. Sherlock would be bloody dead if it weren’t for his brother. Maybe it burns my arse to see Mycroft trying to make nice and getting his hand slapped every time.”
John rubbed his chin. “It’s how they are. I … don’t know what to say other than that. If it bothers you so much, maybe take it up with Sherlock. But it’s not on, the way you’ve been treating him lately. He didn’t do anything to you, and it’s not right for you to carry on as if he should automatically know what’s bothering you. He’s good, but he’s not that good.”
"Yes, he is, John." Greg felt tired. "Just solve the case, yeah? I don’t feel like talking about this anymore."
John began to speak again but he just shook his head and walked out, closing the office door a bit harder than was necessary.
Greg glared, before letting out a heavy sigh. He was just about to grab his mobile and text a “coffee invite” to Sherlock to perhaps clear the air, when his mobile chimed. He had a new text.
The Art Shoppe. Tonight at 7 p.m. Room 103. -SH
Greg squinted at the screen. He vaguely knew the Art Shoppe. It was a rather posh business at the tail end of Bond Street. The “artistes” got their high-end supplies there, and he remembered his ex taking a pottery class there for a few weeks.
Grimacing, Greg went to answer, not at all interested in playing whatever game Sherlock was running.
Before he could get his thumbs moving, another text came through.
It’s to do with Mycroft. Go and you’ll see what I found amusing. -SH
Greg stared at the new message for several moments. He stood and opened his door. He could see down the hall. John was still waiting for the lift. So he could not have said anything to the consulting detective about what they’d discussed. Well, he could’ve texted Sherlock the substance of their conversation, but if John texted the way he typed, he would still be on the first sentence.
Lestrade closed his door and looked at his mobile again. Seven o’clock at some high-brow place quite a ways from his cozy flat, where he’d see god knows what.
He sighed as he sank down in his chair. Good thing he hadn’t any other plans then, right?
Mycroft looked around the room. It was a slightly larger crowd than usual, but only just. He recognized the quiet, serious older woman who never took her eyes from the center of the room once class had begun, and never made eye contact with anyone once class was over. She’d escaped her abusive lover years before, but she was still frightened, Mycroft knew. He wished he could tell the woman that she was safe - at least in this space.
And then came the bored, vaguely wealthy housewives, all of them in a group, sweetly smiling as they cut each other to ribbons with their eyes. Frenemies? Wasn’t that the term being used these days? They didn’t quite despise each other, but Mycroft reckoned that might change if the carefully coiffed ginger ever discovered that the sweetfaced blonde who was considered just a tick less fashionable than the others in their clique was boffing her husband. He smiled perfunctorily when the blonde beamed at him. Ah. So she was getting bored with her lover. Well. If the redhead’s pinched face was any indication of the man’s prowess in bed, no wonder.
There were the fine-artists-turned-graphic-artists who made their living as such, but who were there to reassure themselves that their skills hadn’t atrophied. And then there were the reverse: graphic artists who were tired of Photoshop, Mac upgrades and unreasonable clients and wished to discover their inner Gaugins.
Rounding out the lot were the hobby artists, and a few blushing individuals who were there simply to gawk and maybe scribble down a line or two.
And there was himself, of course. The center of attention. Well. Until the festivities began.
Mycroft glanced at his watch. Five of seven. It was nearly time.
He took his place in the circle, near the elevated platform that rested next to a chaise longue draped in a velvety-looking fabric. Mycroft cleared his throat and all eyes snapped to him. It was still a little unnerving, but he couldn’t quite understand why. He routinely gave presentations to world leaders and monarchs, yet this was still somewhat new and uncharted territory.
"Good evening," he said, looking out at those surrounding him. He had their undivided attention now. "If you can get your easels set and your charcoals out, we can begin."
Greg cursed the tube as he rushed into the nondescript building on a quiet, well-lit corner. He knew he should have just driven, but he’d weighed the traffic coming into the city against the inconvenience of taking the tube and the tube had come out just slightly ahead. Of course, there had been delays, and he’d had to actually run to get to the Art Shoppe in time.
Checking his watch, he cursed again. It was one minute to seven. Any chance he’d have to scout around and try to figure out what this place had to do with Mycroft was scotched. He was going to have to go straight to the room Sherlock indicated and hope he found the answers there.
Breathing hard, he approached a smart-looking young woman at a desk marked ‘Information.’
"Hello, this is the first floor, yeah?" huffed Lestrade, mopping his brow. "I’m looking for Room 103?"
"Straight back and to your left." The woman gave him a long glance. "You’re quite late, aren’t you? They may have called it off by now. Did you ring?"
Greg blinked at the woman. “Er, sorry, what? I was told to be here at 7 by a … friend. Late for what? Called off what?”
"Oh! You’re here to take the class then?" The woman again gave him a searching look. "Sorry. I thought you were the model."
Lestrade gawked. “M-model? Er … what sort of class is this?”
She chewed her lip and looked worried. “You came here for a class not knowing what class it would be?” Her hand was inching over toward the phone, as if she were poised to call for help.
Greg quickly shook his head. “No, no, I’m to meet someone here …” I think. "I was told to be at Room 103 at 7, and blimey, I am late now. I wasn’t told it was for a class or anything about a model …”
The woman still looked a little unsure, but her hand moved away from the phone.
“Oh. I see.” Her voice was flat. “Well, it’s a Life Art class. Quite popular.”
Greg frowned. Life Art? Something knocked at his brain. An old case that he’d worked as a Constable … something about a bloke stalking lonely older women through a Life Art class where he was a model.
Lestrade flushed. “Oh. You mean … er, where the models are starkers and posing in different positions and all …”
"Er, yes." The woman was giving him a sidelong glance. "Nude modeling. As I said, it’s becoming quite a popular class."
He nodded stoically. “I’ll bet.”
Greg couldn’t immediately see what that had to do with Mycroft, Sherlock or him. If it had been anyone else, Greg would have thought he’d been on the receiving end of a stupid joke, but Sherlock wasn’t prone to joking … or wild goose chases.
The woman nodded. “That’s right. This one was just put on the schedule. New instructor and all. If you don’t want a right chewing out, I reckon you’d better get along. If you’re new, he’ll forgive your being late.”
"Uhhh … I don’t think so," said Greg, edging toward the door. "I think maybe I’ve gotten the wrong end of the stick. The person I’m looking for, I doubt he’d be in this class. I think I’ll ring my friend and see what he’s on about.”
"Suit yourself," said the woman with a shrug. "Though if you really wish to know, there’d be no harm in asking Mr. Holmes if he knows your friend or if he’s ever taken the class."
Greg shook his head again. “No, that’s all right, I’ll figure it -“
When her words registered, Lestrade’s eyes popped out as if they had been on stilts.
"Mr. Holmes?” He stared at the woman. “As in … Mycroft Holmes?”
She nodded. “Yes. He’s the instructor. You’ve heard of him, then?”
Greg barely heard her. His head was spinning. Mycroft Holmes - Mr. Brushed-back, Half-Windsor, Waistcoat-and-Brolly … he was teaching a Life Art class?
"I … yes. He …" Greg cleared his throat. "Er. Straight back and to the left, did you say?"
"Yes, just look for the sign that says Life Art 203." The woman grinned a little. "We nicknamed it ‘Silver Fox Appreciation.' But that’s not in the catalogues, of course."
Greg cocked his head. “Er … Silver Fox Appreciation? Aren’t these, er, humans modeling?”
The woman’s eyebrow rose. “Oh. I meant … well, never mind.”
She gave him another look and then shook her head, already done with the conversation. Greg looked at her a moment more, before heading down the corridor to the room indicated.
The man was magnificent.
Mycroft had to fight hard not to ogle the model as he reclined on the chaise longue, but good lord, he had an almost perfect physique: Broad shoulders, long legs, finely sculpted buttocks, and a long, gracefully arced penis that rested heavily between his thighs. The silver hair at the base of the shaft shone under the soft lights of the classroom, as did the close-cropped hair on his head, also of the same hue.
He sighed as he walked around the students to check their progress. Mycroft’s hands itched to draw the man. He would, later. Well, he would try later. No matter how many of these men he engaged to pose for his classes, no matter how old or comparatively young they were, no matter their features, whenever Mycroft put pencil to paper, the faces staring back at him would never be that of the model, but would always somehow become that of -
The door opened suddenly, and all heads swiveled toward it. The model looked up briefly and then resumed his place.
Mycroft saw the man walk in and his face went pale as milk. Their eyes met briefly, then the dark eyes went to the middle of the room.
There was confusion there, and then … a dawning realization and pinkening cheeks. The dark eyes sought out Mycroft's and held his look.
Mycroft nearly bit through his lip. So. Sherlock couldn’t leave well enough alone. He had to make his humiliation complete. Damn him. Just … damn him.
He waited for the man to close the door and leave. The door closed, yes, but the man was inside, looking uncertain. He was looking at Mycroft, a blush still staining his cheeks.
"Sorry," he said softly. "I didn’t mean to be late. There were problems with the tube. Is it … too late to join?"
Mycroft was aware that the others in the class were sizing the newcomer up, many with more than just casual interest. Some were even glancing curiously at the model and back to the new arrival with contemplative expressions.
Mycroft took a silent breath, and then let it out slowly.
"Not at all. There is a free easel here. I’m afraid, however, I do not have an extra set of charcoals."
"I do!"
One of the women in the bored-housewives set unearthed a new set from her handbag and gave the man a smoldering look.
"Help yourself," she said in a low, sultry register. "I’m Evie, by the way."
"Er. Thanks." He cleared his throat. "I'm Greg. I’ll, uh, get these back to you after class."
Mycroft watched the byplay impassively and he forced himself not to watch Greg Lestrade settle in and prepare to … what? The Detective Inspector didn’t strike him as the artistic type, though as with most things, he was prepared to give it a go. Mycroft considered that for a moment before moving on. He had a class to conduct. And if Greg Lestrade had any further thoughts about the model bearing a more than passing resemblance to himself, he kept those thoughts to himself as he dutifully scribbled away.
The woman was flirting with him.
It disgusted Greg for several reasons, not the least of which being that it made him wonder if his ex had, when she’d taken a class in this very building, had done similar.
He pointedly looked at Evie’s wedding ring when she suggested “a coffee” after class and declined, while thanking her again for the usage of the charcoals. She seemed to wilt when she realized he wouldn’t relent, but she shrugged and said maybe they could do so next week.
Lestrade almost told her that he wouldn’t be there next week, just to see the look on her face, but he didn’t know if that would be the truth. It entirely depended on Mycroft Holmes ... who was taking his sweet-arse time making a reappearance.
He leaned against the wall, opposite the classroom door, looking up each time the door opened, only to have his hopes dashed when Mycroft didn’t appear. He seemed disinclined to come out from whatever hidey-hole he’d gone into, apparently.
Greg hadn’t flattered himself that he could draw. The strangeness of the situation hadn’t been lost on him, but that wasn’t why his work looked like a mishmash of lines, very few of which were recognizable as parts of the human body.
No, the issue was that he knew there was only one way forward, especially after the intermission to allow the model to stretch and take a rest. During the break, the sweet young girl next to him with the lip piercing and the blueberry-colored hair had informed him that the class was called ‘Silver Fox Appreciation' because “Mr. Holmes” always employed male models with grey hair. Some of them were tall, some shorter, some thin, some with heavier builds, but they all had about the same look to them, and that same silver hair.
"Kind of like you!" the girl, who introduced herself as Bonne, had said with a smile. "Is that why you’re taking the class? Did someone tell you about it and you wanted to see what it was all about? Or are you trying to work out whether you’ll go in for modeling?"
"Uh … no, not that," Greg had said, blushing somewhat. "I don’t, er, have the stamina to stay in one place the whole time. But, um, isn’t that a bit odd for this sort of class? Isn’t the point to get you … er … us … to draw from life and get a feel for anatomy? That would mean all sorts of anatomy and women too, yeah?"
"Maybe in the next cycle," Bonne had said with a shrug. "The classes go in five week cycles and the instructors can do as they please. This has been one of my favorites. Mr. Holmes said that he personally finds these sort of men attractive. You know, grey hair, sort of distinguished looking. Like you." She'd winked knowingly at him.
Greg hadn’t been sure how to take that, and the idea that the young woman might have been flirting with him kept him from saying anything more. He’d noticed Mycroft watching them, but when he gave the man a slight smile, the elder Holmes had turned away and busied himself re-draping the cloth on the chaise.
Lestrade glanced at his watch. It had been nearly 20 minutes since the end of class. He didn’t think Mycroft would have sneaked out the back way. He was too genteel for that. Besides, Greg hadn’t seen a second exit.
The minutes dragged on. Thirty minutes. Thirty-five. Forty minutes. Forty-five …
A lone man pushing a broom passed him, giving him a strange look. Greg nodded genially and the man looked surprised. He probably wasn’t used to be acknowledged by anyone in that building. About ten minutes later, the man came back down, still pushing the broom, and gave Greg a somewhat sad smile, as if acknowledging the likely futility of his vigil.
Still Greg stayed. They’d have to cut the bloody lights off before he’d leave. Mycroft was still in the building, he just knew he was.
Greg was rubbing the kinks out of his lower back when the door to Room 103 flew open. He looked up and saw Mycroft in the doorway, halted, his eyes looking much like a deer in the headlights for a split second. Then he seemed to get himself together.
"I see." His voice was low. "I suppose I ought to have expected this."
Greg blinked. “Sorry? What do you …”
"Well, if you’d like to have your say, you’re entitled." Mycroft’s tone was stilted. "I have no idea what I’ve done of late to make Sherlock so immensely hateful, but I suppose that is beside the point."
Lestrade took a breath. “Mycroft, I … what are you talking about?”
"You. Here. Of course." The elder Holmes gazed at him. "Obviously Sherlock told you about my … sideline profession. As brief as it shall be."
"Er, yes and no. I mean he did tell me to come here. He’s realized that I’ve been ticked off at him," said Greg. "Since that night we were all watching the football match. I guess he wanted me to see what he was needling you about. He didn’t really give details except for where I should go and what time."
"Ah." Mycroft shut his eyes briefly. "And the rest, you’ve pieced together for yourself."
"I am a detective, you know. And not a bad one, no matter what your brother says.” Greg smiled slightly, moving nearer when Mycroft still wouldn’t look at him. “I'm a little surprised … I mean, about you teaching an art class.”
"I took an intensive course in studio art at university," said Mycroft, still not meeting his eyes. "I was adequate, but I had no desire for a career as an artist."
"How long have you been teaching?"
"Just three weeks," said Mycroft. "I was pressed into service by … a friend. He needed to … er … relocate suddenly, and someone had to take over his teaching duties for this cycle. There will be a different instructor for the next cycle, though there has been talk that I may be asked back in some capacity."
"I can see why. You’re a good teacher. Very, er … active." Greg cleared his throat. "I mean, with the walking around and all. Do you ever, er, get dizzy?"
Mycroft looked at him then and sighed. “Detective Inspector, we needn’t beat around the bush or make this any more uncomfortable than it already has become. I’ll understand if you wish to limit your interactions with me from now on.”
Lestrade’s mouth fell open. “Why the hell would I want to do that?”
The taller man massaged the stretch of skin between his eyes. “Well, let us see … you’ve discovered that I teach a class wherein I always use a model who … very superficially, I admit … resembles you. I’m sure this information has added a new context to the very unsubtle comments my brother made at his home.”
Greg paused for a second. “Well … I reckon when he suggested I ask you about your new second job, this is what he meant. And I suppose when he said that if I were short on dosh because of the divorce settlement, you might be able to help me out with a second career of my own he meant …”
Greg blushed a little, and he thought of the receptionist earlier mistaking him for a model. Mycroft groaned softly.
"Precisely. I’m sorry that Sherlock saw fit to drag you into this further. Good night, Detective Inspector -"
”- Wait.”
Greg put his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. He remembered doing that at Baker Street and feeling Mycroft’s warmth spread through his palm, making it tingle. Just as it was doing now.
"Don’t." Greg swallowed. "Don’t leave it this way with me, Mycroft. Don’t be embarrassed. I’m … this is … well … flattering."
Mycroft snorted slightly. “How lovely. Exactly the tone I was going for. Next you'll tell me that you don't find it at all ... creepy that I have chosen only models who resemble you.”
"Well, I don't find it creepy." Greg shrugged. "If anything, I'm a bit confused as to why you'd consider anyone looking even remotely like me to be any standard of beauty."
Mycroft laughed shortly. "I know that you've had to downsize your living quarters since your divorce, but surely your flat does come equipped with mirrors?"
Greg smiled. “I mean it. I’m … well … I'm flattered and amazed that you find me attractive enough that you'd want your students to draw ... well, men who look like me. I never could read you, never could tell if maybe you fancied me or not. Now, I guess I know.”
"Yes. I suppose you do." Mycroft’s eyes slid to the side. He was noticing that Greg had not removed his hand. "Well. With that settled, I do believe we can bring this evening to a close."
"Not so fast." Greg resisted the urge to shake the man. How could someone so talented and intelligent be so thick? "I fancy you, too, you know. Have for ages. I wasn't sure how you'd take that, so I've tried to be less obvious about it as I could be, but ...”
Mycroft’s eyebrow rose. “Detective Inspector, while I appreciate your attempts to mitigate the potential awkwardness between us, I don’t think -“
”- Come on, do you really think I risk breaking my neck for just anyone? Those stairs at Baker Street are murder, and I nearly took a header - twice - rushing after you!"
Mycroft stared at him. Greg grinned and nodded.
"I didn’t want you to leave. I didn't think just asking you to stop would do it.” Greg’s smile was lopsided. “And tonight … I wanted to see you. As soon as the bird at the desk told me you were teaching a class here, I wanted to see you in your element. And ask you out for drinks after. I haven’t drawn anything since primary school, by the way. I think the poor girl next to me was traumatized.”
"Considering that she works in a funeral home, I find it hard to believe that anything you drew could faze her." Mycroft was looking at him wonderingly. "That’s why you chased after me last week? You wished me to … stay?"
Greg shrugged loosely. “Or maybe if you didn’t want to, to go with me for pints or something, but you froze me out. I’ve been giving Sherlock hell over it ever since. John called me out.”
"Ah. That explains my brother's fits of pique in the past few days." Mycroft looked thoughtful. "This puts his actions tonight in a somewhat different light. It is possible that he felt that if you knew about this … things between us might, er, 'take off,' as it were.”
"Yeah." Greg smiled a little. "The sneaky little shit."
"Indeed." Mycroft was quiet for a moment. "I’m going to have to do something nice for him, it seems."
Greg laughed. “Probably. So will I, come to that. But it’ll have to be after you do something nice for me.”
Mycroft looked at Greg wonderingly. "I'd be more than happy to pay for drinks tonight. It's the least I can do -"
"Nope. I asked, so I pay. I'm a bit old-fashioned when it comes to dating." Greg said with a wink. "I was thinking that there was something else I'd really like. Maybe after those drinks - and dinner, too, come to that."
Mycroft’s eyes widened slightly. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
Lestrade’s mouth curved into a sneaky grin, and his hand trailed from Mycroft’s shoulder and down his arm as he leaned to whisper in his ear:
"Drawing lessons. Private ones. Very private.”