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The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.
~~ Carl Jung
Lestrade flicked the lights on in the dark flat, let his keys fall to the small table by the door. He stood for a moment looking at the impersonal lounge, then down at the take-away bag hanging from the fingers of his left hand. His life, he thought, was depressing as all hell. He hadn’t had the time or inclination to make this place into a home after his divorce. There was no-one to share his kung pao chicken. No-one to talk to about yesterday, about John’s wedding, Sherlock’s brilliance, Small’s arrest.
He had spent most of the day on Small’s interview and paperwork, gotten the little fucker booked for attempted murder. It was late, and he was exhausted. He went through the lounge into the kitchen and scowled at the breakfast dishes from the day before still sitting on the table. He hadn’t wanted to be late to the wedding. The wedding where he had been the odd-man-out at the table. Hell, even Mrs. Hudson had a date.
He shoved two dirty mugs and a plate still holding half a dried-up bagel to the other side of the kitchen table, put down his dinner, and opened the fridge. He snagged a bottle of Newcastle Brown and twisted the cap off. How many beers had he had at the wedding? He’d lost count. What did it matter anyway? He sank wearily into a chair and took a long swallow. He prodded the plastic bag holding the food he didn’t want to eat anymore and sighed.
The phone vibrated in his pocket. Christ, what now? Maybe he’d just ignore it. He wasn’t the only DI on the force, after all. Someone else could sort whatever it was. Then he took it out, because he always did. He could never shirk his responsibility, never leave anything alone.
He blinked at the name on the screen. Mycroft Holmes. Great. “Yeah,” he said, one hand coming up to rub his forehead, trying to ease the ache that throbbed in his skull, the ache that had stared forming yesterday while he sat in the church. He remembered sinking down in the pew, shoulders tensed against the memories of his own wedding vows.
“Detective Inspector.” He knew that Mycroft knew that Lestrade would recognize the number. He was one of the few people, he imagined, who had Mycroft’s private number. He hadn’t heard directly from Mycroft in years, not since he had helped in getting Sherlock clean all those years ago, but it was still on his speed-dial.
He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Yes, Mycroft? Is something wrong?”
“I’m worried about my brother.”
“Why call me?”
“You are his friend. You were at the wedding. You know Sherlock as few people do. Do you really need to ask me that?”
He had, he realized, been slow. Very slow. He had seen, as Sherlock always said, but he had not observed. He had been preoccupied with his own memories and his own pitiful life all day. What had he seen but not wanted to see? Sherlock white-faced and nervous. Sherlock giving that manic but touching speech. Sherlock trying to behave like a normal human being. For John. Loved most in the world. The slight lift in his arms, as if he had started to hug John back, then the motion checked almost before it began. The hand clenched by his side instead. The violin. The dance. The vow. He had seen the three of them talking. Had seen Sherlock’s face. Had seen him leave early.
“Shit,” he said into the phone.
“Precisely,” said Mycroft.
“How did you know? I just realized. I thought he left early because he’s… well, Sherlock.”
“I know my brother. I assume he left early because he finally realized he is in love with the good doctor. Unfortunate timing for us all.”
“Christ,” said Lestrade, “that’s…. Jesus Christ. I’d always wondered, but then I figured I’d gotten it wrong. Poor kid.” As much as he admired Sherlock, in some ways he still thought of him as a kid. He always saw in those brilliant eyes the shadows of the skinny, drug-addled, other-worldly boy he found in a crack house all those years ago.
He and Mycroft were both silent, each thinking about the boy and the drugs, the boy who had brought them together in a strange working relationship that lasted several years, that had helped deflect Sherlock from his headlong and determined plunge into oblivion.
“You don’t think…,” Lestrade started to ask, tentatively.
“Of course I think it. That is his pattern. Drugs are how he attempts to deal with feelings that threaten to overwhelm him, with disappointment, with tragedy, with grief, with love. With the part of himself he considers unacceptable.”
Lestrade’s heart sank. Poor sod. Then other things that he had seen but not observed coalesced in his mind. He was, quite suddenly, furious with the man on the other end of the phone.
“You know, Mycroft, you’ve never explained to me exactly why he considers those things unacceptable. Never, in all these years. Do you consider them ‘unacceptable’?” He twisted the last word, suddenly not caring if he offended the great Mycroft Holmes. “Did you tell him that? I'm just guessing, but could it possibly be that he took drugs because he could never live up to his big brother? I had a big brother of my own, and I know you can half kill yourself trying….” He felt a thickening in his throat. He tried not to think of David, murdered trying to stop a robbery and assault when he was at uni. David, the reason he had become a policeman. He was tired, he was now afraid for Sherlock, and he was past caring about being polite.
There was a long silence. Then Mycroft said, “I may have…. Perhaps….,” then he stopped.
“Hell, Mycroft, did you somehow convince him that you don’t have emotions? That the both of you are above us common folk, the idiots who care, who screw up their damned lives because they… we….?” Lestrade ran out of breath and ran the hand not holding the phone through his hair. A bit too close to home, that. Deep breath. “Is that why he wouldn't let himself admit what he felt about John? You idiot. I know you’re both fucking geniuses, but that doesn’t mean you’re not human. I’ve seen how much you care about him. What have you done to him?”
“I… I didn’t want to see him hurt. He was such a loving little boy, but our father…. and he was such a passionate boy. I was afraid for him. I thought teaching him control, teaching him…. Oh, God,” said Mycroft. Silence fell again. He could hear Mycroft breathing.
Lestrade closed his eyes. Two idiots disguised as geniuses. He wasn’t sure which of them was worse off at this moment.
“Exactly what is it that you want me to do, Mycroft?”
“Just keep an eye on him. Let me know if anything seems suspicious to you.”
“Can’t you keep him under surveillance? I thought that was your specialty.”
“I promised him after he came back… that I would stop, as he called it, ‘treating him like a child.’ I will at least try to honour that promise. Greg, in some ways he is still that boy. If you could just let me know how he seems to be doing?”
Greg. Mycroft had called him Greg. “Yeah, ok, yeah. I’ll see what I can do. But he’s not around the Met as much as he used to be. Sometimes I don’t see him for days at a time. Or weeks. I’ll talk to Molly. She’s discrete, and she may notice things I wouldn’t.”
“Very well. And thank you.” With that, the connection was cut.
~~~~~
He tried, but both Sherlock and John seemed to be avoiding him. He contacted John post-honeymoon, but the doctor refused two offers to meet for a pint, pleading new-house chores and work. More worrying, Sherlock refused his offer of a case, an interesting one at that. Sherlock had said he was working on a case of his own. He sounded preoccupied, as abrupt and Sherlocky as ever. Molly hadn’t seen him in a while, but she didn’t seem worried. He felt funny about showing up at Baker Street uninvited, so he let it go. He promised himself he’d call Sherlock later.
He let it go until Mycroft Holmes showed up at his door a month or so after the wedding. It was late, he was tired, as usual, and he blinked at the tall man in the immaculate and expensive Glen plaid suit.
“Mycroft. What’s wrong?” There had to be something wrong.
“May I come in, Detective Inspector?” So no more ‘Greg’ then.
“Yeah, sure.” He opened the door fully and turned, then looked from Mycroft to the chaos in the lounge. “Sorry…,” he said, and crossed the room to move piles of files and papers from the sofa. “Sit. A drink. Would you like a drink? Beer?”
Mycroft sat, propping his umbrella against the end of the sofa.
“No,” said Greg before Mycroft could speak. “Not the beer type, are you?”
Suddenly Mycroft smiled. Greg had never seen him do that before. It was small, sweet, and tired. It still lit up the solemn face. “Do you have any whiskey? I could use a drink.”
“Yeah, I think so. Let me look.” Greg went into the dining room. Whiskey wasn’t his usual poison, but he thought there was some…. He rooted around in the sideboard and pulled out a bottle of Laphroaig the commissioner had given him for Christmas after a particularly successful case. Decent whiskey, thank God, he thought. He reached to the side and pulled out two heavy whiskey glasses, part of the same gift.
He took his haul back to the lounge, poured two fingers for each of them, and lifted his glass. Mycroft drained his glass in one go. Greg lifted an eyebrow and refilled the glass. “Hard day, was it?” he asked.
”Sherlock is back on drugs, he attacked me, and he has involved himself in something insanely dangerous. So yes, I’ve had a hard day.”
"Attacked you? No. He wouldn’t….,”
Mycroft sighed and silently held out his left arm, which Greg realized had been held against his side. He extended his wrist out beyond his suit sleeve, his hand palm up, fingers curled in. Greg saw that the wrist was taped and that the flesh on either side of the tape was one livid bruise. Mycroft turned his hand over. Dark bruises across the top of the hand. Finger-shaped.
Oh, Sherlock, thought Lestrade. “Why?” he asked.
“He was high and he was angry. He has involved himself in something that is none of his business, that is, in fact, my business. A… delicate and dangerous matter. He thinks I am complicit in it. He said….,” His voice stopped. The arm dropped back to his side. He shook his head and took another sip of the scotch.
National security, then, thought Greg. Blast Sherlock, always going in where angels feared to tread. Going in half-cocked, no doubt.
"What did he say?" asked Greg gently.
"He said I appalled him.” Mycroft was looking down into his glass. Something vulnerable in his tone made Lestrade think of David. Made him realize how like David Mycroft was. Responsible, upright, dignified, demanding. Vulnerable.
Something made him reach out and put his hand on Mycroft’s arm. “I’m sure he didn’t mean that.”
“Oh, but he did. God knows, we’ve had our differences, but that he could think….” He put his injured hand lightly on top of Greg’s “But thank you.” The hand withdrew.
The hand had been warm and smooth. Greg felt, quite unexpectedly, sorry that Mycroft's hand was no longer on his. He wanted Mycroft to touch him again. Jesus Christ, what was the matter with him? That would be…. What? Dangerous? Pleasurable? Confusing? All of the above. He swallowed.
”What can I do?” he asked.
Mycroft shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t even know why I came here. There’s no one else I can talk to about this. Or him. No-one who would understand. I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do, short of putting him in jail.” Mycroft, unexpectedly, laughed. “He said he had used drugs for the case. I think it’s more than that. I don't suppose you could put him in protective custody, could you, Detective Inspector?”
“Easier if he breaks a law,” said Greg, trying to keep his tone light.
Mycroft sighed. “Just a matter of time, I'm afraid,” he said. He drained the last of his scotch, stood up, picked up his umbrella and, with it, his usual unreadable expression. A shame, really, thought Greg. He looked quite nice when he smiled.
Alone, Greg poured another glass of the scotch. Not bad, actually. He closed his eyes, remembering a hospital room. Sherlock was twenty-two or so, Mycroft barely thirty, if that. Sherlock’s body lay still under the white sheets. He was emaciated, in a coma. Grey skin, arms cross-hatched with scars and needle-tracks, bandages and tubes. Overdose. Accidental or deliberate? They never talked about it afterward. Mycroft was sitting on the bed. He didn’t see Greg open the door. Mycroft smoothed Sherlock’s long, matted hair back from his forehead. He was crying. Greg had closed the door quietly and silently walked back down the hall.
He had forgotten that man over the years. The man in the hospital room, the man who had just been drinking his scotch. He looked down at his hand where Mycroft had touched him. Probably best not to go there. That would be…complicated.
~~~~~
“He’s bolted.”
“And a good evening to you, Detective Inspector." He knew why Lestrade was calling him, of course. John must have told him Sherlock had been shot. He hadn’t seen or talked to Greg since the night he had inexplicably found himself at the man's depressing little flat. Not that he hadn’t thought about him. Often. He was attracted to the man. He would admit that to himself, but he would not act on it. That would be distracting. Complicated. When he found his thoughts wandering to the sympathetic brown eyes, the touch of the strong hand, the spiky salt-and-pepper hair standing at odd angles from where its owner had run his hands through it, he ruthlessly suppressed those thoughts. Didn’t think about running his own hands through that hair, touching that hand again. No. What was it he had just said?
“Bolted? Sherlock? He’s in hospital hooked to… things.”
“Yeah, well, he unhooked himself. Why didn’t you tell me he’d been shot? What the hell is going on Mycroft? John called me. When I went to the hospital to see him, he’d scarpered.”
“Oh, my God,” said Mycroft. “He’s going to get himself killed. I’ll send a car for you….”
“No, I’m already on my way.” Lestrade knew where his real operations center was. He was one of the few people who did. “And don’t give me any shit about national security. I’m going to help find him.”
When Lestrade strode into his office not too many minutes later, Mycroft felt an almost overwhelming urge to stand and press himself against that rumpled coat, to put his arms around the man inside the coat. Absurd and unprofessional. He refused to smile in relief at the simple sight of his face.
“Five known bolt-holes,” he said quickly, “… and the leaning tomb in Hampsted Cemetery.” He fixed his eyes on the screen in front of him. Oh, Sherlock, what are you trying to do, you foolish boy? He flicked a hand at Greg, not wanting to look into his eyes for some sort of reassurance that Greg was in no position to provide.
~~~~~
He had come up empty. No luck in the cemetery. John had called him about Big Ben. Sounded unlikely, but he went there anyway. Strangely, there was a blanket, a can of sterno, and a couple of cans of tomato soup behind the clockface. But no Sherlock.
His little visit with Mycroft had put paid to any crazy notion he might have entertained of, someday or other, asking the man out for drinks or dinner. Mycroft hadn't even looked at him, had dismissed him like any other useful, plebian copper. What he had thought he had seen was just because Mycroft had been vulnerable, for once. Nothing more.
~~~~~
Mycroft stood on the tarmac. Moriarty, or his facsimile, was apparently back. His brother’s plane had turned and was about to come in for a landing. Redemption of a shaky and provisional sort. He swayed with exhaustion, bracing himself on his brolly. He hadn’t slept in… he didn’t exactly remember. John and Mary were looking at each other. John was excited, and Mary was…worried. This might prove to be quite interesting.
Then it occurred to Mycroft that he was, actually, not much interested. He was profoundly grateful that the fates had offered his brother another chance with John Watson. Yet Sherlock was, as he always insisted, a grown man. They would all work it out on their own. Or not. Was this his life, observing other people’s intrigues and passions from the sidelines? Always the responsible one. Always on the outside. Perhaps it was time to take some risks of his own.
”John, Mary,” he said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m taking the car. Some urgent business…. Tell my brother I’ll see him later. Johnson….” He leaned down to speak to the driver. “I’m taking the car. Please call headquarters for another and take everyone whever they would like to go.”
Johnson gave him a faintly puzzled look, but stood up, came around the car, and handed him the keys.
“Mycroft, Moriarty…. Don’t you…?” John saw something in his face, and his voice trailed off.
“Why don’t you and Sherlock start on that. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” John looked dumbfounded. Mycroft smiled. John looked even more dumbfounded.
Mycroft slid into the driver's seat, cranked the car, and punched Greg’s number on speed dial. He put the car in gear and swung it around, heading out toward the motorway.
”Bloody hell, Mycroft. What’s going on? That’s Moriarty on the screen.” Greg sounded dumbfounded. There was, apparently, a lot of that going around.
“Hello, Greg,” he said. “I haven’t a clue. Where are you? Would you like to meet me for a beer?”
“A beer? Mycroft, are you alright?”
“Never better,” said Mycroft. “Sherlock has just been spared from certain death, so I’m going to let my brother and the good doctor get a head start on this one. A beer sounds good.”
“You don’t like beer.”
“Perhaps change is good,” said Mycroft.
”Well, you’re in luck,” said Greg, “I’m at the Two Swans, near the Met. I’m buying.”
“Be there in twenty minutes,” said Mycroft. He accelerated. He smiled. This could be the start of a beautiful…. Well, he planned for it to be much more than friendship.