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Greg Lestrade didn't know why he was the way he was. Why he hurt himself like he did. Maybe he was a sadist. Yes, that had to be it. There was no other reason. Not much else could explain why he found himself besotted with Mycroft I’m-Most-Certainly-Not-The-Entire-British-Government Holmes. Bloody nothing.
What he did know was that Mycroft was attractive. And elegant. And important. He was brilliant, though condescending, but Greg had gotten used to that after spending so much time around Sherlock. Greg knew that spending more time with people proved to make you like them less, but Greg had known Mycroft for a number of years and each day only served to make him want to be closer to Mycroft.
Greg knew that whatever feelings he was developing weren't healthy, but that was really the least of his worries as he sat at his desk, chugging a scalding cup of coffee.
“Long night, sir?” Donovan questioned as she walked into the office, startling Greg. She stood in front of his desk, arms crossed, looking disapprovingly at the shitty disposable cup held to his lips. Greg finished off the last of the coffee and dropped it in the bin beside his desk, humming a vague assent Sally’s way. He turned his attention back to the paperwork on his desk, gripping his pen with a sigh.
“This double suicide case currently owns my arse and apparently so does Sherlock. He refuses to help until I let him take home a bag full of bloody brain matter.” Greg groaned and dropped his forehead against the stack of papers, his pen rolling off to the side of the desk. Sally snorted rather unceremoniously.
“I hate to interrupt your little breakdown, but you have a visitor,” she informed in a decidedly mischievous tone. Greg slowly lifted his head, mortification clear as day on his expression. His eyes landed on Sally, then the figure standing a meter or so behind her in the doorway. Greg immediately straightened as he took in the image of Mycroft Holmes, looking sharp as ever in a three-piece suit with a curious eyebrow raised at Greg.
“Donovan, out,” Greg commanded. Sally smiled knowingly and winked at Greg before she turned and walked towards the door, vaguely nodding at Mycroft as she walked out. Mycroft shut the door behind her and walked forward until he was standing before Greg’s desk.
“Mycroft,” Greg said in place of a greeting.
“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft returned. “Have I come at a bad time?”
“Nah, I’m just a bit stumped at the moment. What brings you to me?” Greg asked, even though he already knew the answer to the question.
“Sherlock, per usual. He’s avoiding me, quite adamantly. He’s also managed to keep out of the way of the… Light surveillance I keep him under.” Mycroft stopped to sigh, his usual stony expression cracking for just a moment to reveal true exhaustion. “I need a favor; I believe that Sherlock may have gotten himself into something serious. What exactly ‘something’ is, I’m not sure. I need you to check up on him.”
Greg had to force himself not to smile after Mycroft had finished. Several things were going through his head at once, the main one being that Mycroft Holmes was asking him for a personal favor. The second thing was that he actually knew something that Mycroft didn’t, for once. Sherlock wasn’t hiding drugs or villainy from Mycroft; he was hiding John Watson. More specifically, his relationship with John Watson. John had defeatedly come to Greg and revealed that he and Sherlock had somehow found themselves doing more than just sleeping in the same bed. Greg hadn’t been surprised at all when John had told him, which had taken John aback. It didn’t take a genius to see the strength of the bond the flatmates shared.
“I can do that,” Greg agreed, leaning back in his chair.
“I don’t believe I ever said that you couldn’t.”
“You’re pushing your luck, Mr. Holmes.”
“Am I?”
Greg grinned, watching Mycroft with tired eyes. “I’ll keep an eye on your brother. Do I need to worry about phoning you or do you have it handled?”
“The latter.”
Greg rolled his eyes, but he was still grinning. “I’ll be looking forward to it. Now get out,” he said dismissively. Mycroft eyed him quizzically, though the corners of his mouth were upturned in a barely-there smile.
“Don't make the mistake of confusing me and your dear Sergeant Donovan.”
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
Mycroft nodded and let himself smile for just a moment, returning to indifference just as quickly as he'd left. “I must be off now, but I will be keeping in contact. Try not to let Sherlock get to you.”
Greg chuckled. “I appreciate the advice. Now really, get out. My team’s got bad ideas about you as it is.”
“Goodbye, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft turned and walked to the door. “Oh, and by the way, it's a murder, not a suicide.” With that, Mycroft left the room, leaving Greg to slump in his chair.
“I can't believe I'm gonna shag him,” Greg grumbled to himself a few moments later. He stiffened when he heard an unimpressed snort from across the room where Sally was standing in the doorway. Upon recognizing who it was, he relaxed and attempted to fight the blood rising to his cheeks. Over the years, he and Sally Donovan had developed a close social and working relationship. Greg’s profession didn’t lend itself to many friends, so connecting with someone who also worked with the force was a god-send.
“Y’know, you don’t have to,” Sally ribbed. Greg smiled, more abashed than he’d hoped for.
“But I’m going to.”
Sally huffed an amused sigh through her nose and walked out of Greg’s office.
---
“I cannot believe I shagged him,” Greg moaned against the rim of his glass. John gave him a look from across the round table.
“I'm sure he isn’t feeling much better, mate,” John replied sympathetically.
“That’s really reassuring, John, thank you.” Greg took a long swig of his pint as John stared at him like he was an abandoned puppy.
“If it means anything, it got better for me,” the shorter man supplied. His smile was all-knowing and Greg could barely restrain himself from kicking John’s shin under the table.
“Y’know, contrary to what the rest of you lot think, they aren’t the same person,” Greg huffed.
John smirked. “I know that. Yours can at least talk to us ordinary plebs for more than twenty minutes without throwing a fit.”
“He’s not mine,” is what Greg chose to interject after John had finished talking. Contrary to what he had spoken aloud, the idea of claiming Mycroft wasn’t all that bad. If he hadn’t been more than a little buzzed, he’d probably be more wary of that thought going straight to his dick. “If you can put up with Sherlock each and every day, I’m sure I can do with Mycroft,” Greg commented absently in an effort to steer the conversation away from erection-inducing territory.
“Mate, you’ve got thick skin and the biggest heart I know. If you can’t get past Mycroft’s walls, then no one can.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Greg admitted, his eyes sad and his gaze intent on the dregs of his
pint.
John sighed. “I’m not drunk enough for this.”
---
“Hello, Gregory,” Mycroft greeted as he walked over to where Greg, Sherlock, and John were standing around the corpse of a young man. He was wrapped in an elegant overcoat, his cheeks dusted with a bit of color from the cold; Greg had to force himself to look away.
The effort was fruitless though, as Sherlock ruined all chance of him preserving any dignity when he opened his mouth next.
“No, absolutely not,” he started, staring in the direction of Mycroft and Greg with wide eyes and a face even paler than usual. “No. This cannot be happening. Lestrade, really?"
“What the hell are you on about now?” Greg defended. He watched as Sherlock’s gaze landed on Mycroft and then it hit him.
Mycroft stood stock still, a carefully steeled expression of indifference painting his face as it usually did. “This is none of your concern, Sherlock.”
“I swear to god, I am not above kicking your arse out of here if you make one snide comment about this. Us,” Lestrade cut in, waving his hand at himself and then Mycroft. You didn’t need to be a Holmes to know what Sherlock was talking about.
Sherlock remained silent, pointedly avoiding Greg’s gaze and instead glaring at Mycroft. He took a few steps toward his brother and narrowed his eyes to intensify his glower.
“If you so much as cause him the smallest bit of distress, I will kill you and make sure your body is never found,” Sherlock growled, lowering his voice a bit. John snorted from where he was standing a few steps back, giving Greg an amused look. Greg returned it with more than a bit of surprise.
“Uh, Sherlock, you do realize you’re supposed to be giving Lestrade this talk, right?” John asked.
“I like Greg better,” Sherlock stated simply. Greg and John gaped at him.
“Since when do you remember my name?”
“Since the first time you corrected me.” Sherlock took a step back and turned to John, a self-satisfied smile pulling at the corners of his lips.
“Sherlock Holmes really does have a heart,” Greg mumbled, more to himself than anything else.
Mycroft chuckled beside him. “I must be going,” he purred, suddenly a bit closer than he had been before. Greg most definitely did not jump at the sound of the man’s voice. “I’ll see you at mine, tonight at eight, yes?”
Greg turned and pressed his hands against Mycroft’s chest. He smoothed the lapels of Mycroft’s jacket, smiling a private smile.
“Get out of here before I make a proper fool out of myself in front of my team,” he muttered. Mycroft smiled and walked off, leaving Greg to smile to himself.
After a few moments, he managed to collect himself and turn back to the case at hand. Sherlock was going off about something that only he comprehended, judging by the look on John’s face. Sally Donovan appeared and walked past the couple, making her way over to Greg with two cups of coffee in her hands.
“I cannot believe you shagged him,” she stated -rather bluntly, if you were asking Greg- and the older man almost spit out the sip of coffee he’d taken.
“If you say anything to anyone, I’ll murder you,” Greg threatened. Sally smirked and Greg felt a chill run through his body that was definitely not product of the breeze that had picked up.
“Rumors spread rather fast in our line of work. Sir.” She gave him one last look and then walked away, leaving Greg with his coffee and a sense of impending doom.