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“I’m not… lonely, Sherlock.”
“How would you know?”
******
Mycroft Holmes lay in his bed and stared into darkness. Or rather: stared into the corner of his bedroom where a moonbeam had decided to take residence for a moment before it was time to move on.
‘How would you know?’ Sherlock. Barely back, and already testing his patience. Being his usual charming self, pushing buttons with unerring precision. Annoying little sod. Just like that bloody moonbeam. Mycroft got up and closed the shutters with the sole effect that the moonlight now got filtered through a number of slits, leaving an equally annoying little pattern against the wall. He felt very much like stomping his foot and caught himself at the very last moment. No reason to become childish. He would arrange for the shutters to be replaced this very morning. He went back to bed, pulled the blanket up under his chin and turned to face the other way, away from the moonlight.
‘How would you know?’ Indeed, how would he? During his days he was surrounded by more people than he would like and when it was finally time to return home, there was either more work to do, or it was so late that he fell into bed almost immediately, barely managing to spare his pile of newspapers more than a passing glance. Whenever had he allowed for this to happen? Not that he had ever been a very sociable person with large numbers of friends or followers flocking to him, but there had been a few friendships, some of them closer, some others merely above acquaintance level, but they had been there. Now? Not even a casual acquaintance he could meet for a weekend brunch, should the wish arise, let alone the most non-committal of lovers. Not that he really wanted a lover at the moment, things being as they were, but…
With an annoyed grunt, he pushed away his blanket and got up. His day would start in less than two hours anyway as there was a plane to catch. There was always a plane to catch, or an early morning videoconference to attend. He went into his walk-in closet, snatched his running gear from one of the shelves, went into the bathroom to use the toilet and quickly changed from pyjamas into running tights and shirt. On stockinged feet he made his way into the room where he had set up his treadmill, put on his shoes and stepped on the belt. He wasn’t overly fond of running but not only did he hope it would help him get back into some sort of shape, it was a nod in the direction of a private life, small, but a nod nevertheless.
******
The rain was pouring down. Of course it was. Mycroft had decided to take a walk but the rain had become too heavy to continue on foot, so he had stopped to ring his driver to pick him up after all, but London’s traffic was particularly merciless and his car had been caught in rush hour gridlock. The umbrella kept his head and shoulders dry but did nothing for his shoes or trouser legs. Maybe one of the small lunch cafés would do for the time being. He scanned the street until his eyes settled on one that didn’t look too revolting.
With a sigh he stepped inside and closed the umbrella. There was a queue but not too long, and with suspicious eyes he studied the menu that was on display at the other end of the wall. A coffee wouldn’t poison him and he approached the end of the queue.
“Mr Holmes, what a surprise!” A familiar voice greeted him and he turned around to look into the smiling face of DI Lestrade who was every bit as wet as he was.
“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft replied politely. “I see that you, too, have decided to take shelter from the rain.”
“Yeah that, and to get some lunch, too.” He checked his watch. “Afternoon snack, whatever. You know how it is.” He shrugged and Mycroft nodded, having no idea what the DI was referring to and not really in a mood for a conversation, either. Lestrade cocked his head and inspected the menu. “What are you having?”
“What am I – oh. A coffee.”
“Ah, be warned. Don’t drink the coffee here. It’s witches’ brew,” Lestrade pointed out. “The Chai Latte is alright. I’m having a bagel burger, and a strawberry shake.”
“A bagel burger and a strawberry shake?” Mycroft looked Lestrade up and down. “What are you, fifteen? That’s no proper meal for a grown man.”
“But it’ll have to do. I don’t have much time. Try one of the bagels, they’re really good.” Lestrade nudged him gently. “Your turn.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Your turn to order. Don’t make the others wait.”
Mycroft glanced over his shoulder. The queue had considerably increased during their short conversation, and the young woman behind the counter was looking at him expectantly. He cleared his throat and heard himself order a large vanilla shake, with soy milk, before he knew what he was doing. Behind him, Lestrade sniggered and Mycroft raised a haughty eyebrow at him.
“If you are interested in keeping your job, Detective Inspector, then you will not breathe a word to anyone about this.”
Lestrade nodded, still grinning.
They picked up their order when it was their turn and Lestrade paid for both of them. “Just so you don’t have to hand in a funny expense receipt,” he explained, laughter still in his voice. Mycroft graciously accepted and followed Lestrade to a small table. They sat down and he watched with mild interest as Lestrade tucked into his… what was it… bagel burger.
“That looks unusual,” he remarked diplomatically.
“It’s better than it looks,” Lestrade explained between bites, “you should try it some time.”
“Not if I can help it,” Mycroft said with disgust. “Do you always eat like that?”
“What, with my hands?” Lestrade chuckled. “No. I occasionally sit down at a proper table, and I know how to use cutlery, too. What about you? Posh food with select lunch company only?”
“More often than not,” Mycroft made a face. “Whenever I do have a lunch break to spare, I go for a walk. Helps me clear my head.”
A chat about irregular or non-existing lunch breaks and long evenings followed, and much to his surprise Mycroft found the DI to be pleasant company. So when their conversation shifted to the topic of pastimes and interests, Mycroft admitted he had taken up running a while ago. Although he didn’t really feel comfortable sharing private details, it seemed a good idea right there and then, and Lestrade looked at him with interest.
“Really? That surprises me.”
“And why is that?”
“You don’t strike me as someone to undertake legwork – or indulge in any athletic activity, for that matter.” He gave Mycroft an impish grin, and Mycroft felt the corners of his mouth lift as well.
“I prefer not to attract attention to myself, Detective Inspector.”
“Greg, please. It’s Greg, or Lestrade. No formalities between grown men having milk shakes for lunch.” He winked, and Mycroft stifled a laugh.
“Very well. Greg.” He raised his paper cup. “Mycroft.”
“Mycroft.”
They solemnly toasted each other, and when the bagel burger had been disposed of Lestrade said, quite offhandedly, “I’m in need of a running partner who gets me off my lazy arse on a somewhat regular basis. Fancy stepping in every now and then?”
“Really?” Mycroft asked, surprised. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t enjoy running with me. I’m an indoor runner and would only slow you down.”
“Bollocks,” Lestrade said blithely. “I haven’t signed up for the next marathon and I don’t intend to break any world record either. I run because it’s fun, because it takes me outside and it helps me stay in shape.” He patted his stomach. “Bagel burgers and middle age are not the best of partners, and losing weight is becoming increasingly difficult.”
Mycroft heaved a deep sigh. “And don’t I know that.” He thought about the idea of taking his running outside and found the concept agreed with him. “Well, Detective – Greg, if you think I’m the running partner you’re looking for, let’s give it a try, shall we?”
When Mycroft stepped outside and got into his car, he found that not only had he passed an agreeable half hour but had somehow managed to grab on to a part of his life he had thought to have faded into oblivion.
******
Their first run together took place on a Saturday afternoon but was quickly moved to the early morning hours. Both Mycroft and Lestrade were early risers, not only due to their workload but also by preference. Over the following months Mycroft grew fitter and more comfortable, both with himself and around Lestrade, and their schedule somehow expanded from meeting once per week to meeting twice, then three times, whenever Mycroft wasn’t travelling or Lestrade wasn’t working 24/7 on a case. Their routes became longer and they ran either in comfortable silence or easily chatting, but always in perfect rhythm with each other.
Interestingly, both managed to make time for each other in their busy schedules although neither man’s workload became any less. In addition to their morning routine, Lestrade introduced Mycroft to the hidden beauty of bagel burgers and overprized American coffee chains. Mycroft, in return, treated Lestrade to proper lunches whenever their agendas provided a chance.
******
Then, one particularly lovely Sunday morning, in between two stages of their favourite running track, Mycroft lost his balance while stretching and would have fallen had Lestrade not been by his side in an instant. Strong hands steadied him and dark eyes searched his face with concern, and two security guards turned away grinning as Mycroft found out Lestrade’s lips were a lot softer than they looked, and Lestrade discovered that Mycroft was a devilish good kisser.
There were other ways to increase one’s heartrate and exceedingly pleasant methods to burn off calories, and there, too, they quickly became perfectly attuned to each other.
In the years to come, Lestrade would repeatedly try to coax the truth out of Mycroft about losing his balance that day while doing a ridiculously easy stretching move, because although Mycroft was not a natural athlete, he was far from clumsy. Mycroft stubbornly refused to admit it had been anything other than an accident. It would not do for Greg to find out that the sight of him bending over with his strong legs spread wide had had a disastrous effect on Mycroft’s ability to concentrate on what he was doing. And in the end, Greg didn’t really care as he was happy with the turn his life had taken.
******
Mycroft Holmes lay in his bed and looked into the darkness. Or rather: looked at the moonbeam that had decided to cross the bedroom and had come to rest on Greg’s upper body, caressing his tanned shoulders and putting highlights into his hair. Mycroft smiled and reached out to touch the warm skin that he loved to touch more than anything else and the faint echo of a conversation with his brother drifted through his mind.
‘I’m not lonely, Sherlock.’
Not anymore.