Work Text:
MEET ON THE LEDGE
SEPTEMBER 2011
Mycroft woke in stages so slow that it took him some time to identify anything. Cotton-wool mouth, sluggish and slow-witted - the aftermath of an anaesthetic, he recognised without enthusiasm. He must have dislocated his shoulder again, this time badly enough to need surgery. He felt remarkably hot and opened his eyes to find the room undulating and Gregory sitting at his side, holding his hand. Odd, because his hair wasn't cropped, and the beard was gone. Which was a good thing, he decided fuzzily. He sank back into dream-confused sleep before he could even murmur Lestrade's name.
oOo
In the two days since he had last seen Mycroft, Lestrade had done everything he could to keep busy; long hours finishing the work on the half-way house meant he had been exhausted enough to be able to sleep for three or four hours a night. With the final building inspection completed, the house would be fully occupied by the end of the week. Tim had already moved in, and with a permanent address, had a better chance of getting a job.
"If you ever want a change of career, call me," said Javinda, handing Lestrade her card.
He smiled and murmured something non-committal. After saying goodbye to Tim and the others, he slipped away from the party. It was time to decide what he did next: there was nothing left for him in London.
oOo
The next time Mycroft was conscious for any length of time he still had a dry mouth but this time was aware of his right shoulder, which felt heavy and sore. His room was one of those at the Clinic, but there was no sign of Gregory, only Balasha sitting by the window, working.
As if sensing herself under surveillance she glanced up and smiled when she saw he was awake.
"Welcome back, sir. You dislocated your shoulder again in the fall. Because you tore your rotor cuff, you required surgery. All being well you should be able to leave the Clinic in a few days, but you'll be in some discomfort for several weeks and will require physiotherapy. They want to keep you in because you also have an infection from a long cut across your side. Your temperature was over one hundred and four for a while, although the infection is responding to the broad spectrum antibiotics. Where did the cut come from, because you must have had it before we left the country?"
Mycroft paused in sipping the water she had handed him. "It was an accident, nothing. Only I forgot to look after it. My fault," he said without much interest. His injured fingers were splinted again, his arm in a sling, and cushioned against his midriff.
"Is there something you wanted?" she asked, when she realised he was inconspicuously searching the room.
"My visitor?" He hoped he sounded casual.
"There have been none. Before you went into surgery you told me you didn't believe in mawkish sentiment and that I wasn't to notify your brother. Would you like me to call him?"
"Sherlock?"
"Yes, sir."
With a sickening lurch, Mycroft realised he must have been hallucinating. Of course there had been no visitors. Even had he known, Gregory wouldn't want to see him. Why would he after...?
His eyes closed, tightening until the muscles around them began to ache; it was unexpectedly difficult to control his mouth.
"Sir?"
"Not now," he said, without opening his eyes. "I'm very tired. There's no need for you to stay, if this place isn't secure we should think about changing jobs." He wasn't completely sure what he was saying. More than anything, he wanted the illusion of privacy - a few moments when he needn't try to pretend everything was fine.
"Of course, sir," said Balasha, as if she had noticed nothing amiss but her mouth had thinned with determination. Enough was enough, she decided as she left the room to work outside. Mr Holmes might disdain 'mawkish sentiment' at his sickbed but she had no objection to it at all, and she rather thought DI Lestrade would agree with her.
Even diplomatic plates were no help with the crowded, narrow street which housed Lestrade's flat and she had to walk one hundred yards down the road. She was just approaching the entrance to the flat when she saw a familiar dumpy figure, security in tow, heading towards her.
"Playing cupid?" inquired Dame Edith dryly.
"Pot, kettle, ma'am."
Dame Edith conceded the point with a shrug and a smile. "I've had enough of watching Mycroft mope around the place. As, obviously, have you. I've had a little chat with DI Lestrade. He'll be attending David's funeral. He's under the impression Mycroft won't be there due to an unbreakable work commitment and has no idea he's been injured."
"Ma'am," protested Balasha.
"Phooey," dismissed Dame Edith with a sweep of her hand. "Better this way, you'll see. Sickbed reunions breed guilt, then resentment, which is no foundation on which to rebuild a relationship. I'm glad we bumped into one another, I want you to handle the negotiations in France, while I'm in the States. I'll brief you on the way back to your flat while you pack. I'm afraid you won't be able to attend David's funeral. I need someone I can trust to hold the fort. I'm sorry," she added, "but you're going to be handling most of the day-to-day running of the Section until Mycroft's back. His idea."
"He reacts badly to medication."
"True. Are you going to pretend you don't believe you're ready for the increase of responsibility?" added Dame Edith trenchantly.
"No, ma'am. But I didn't want it like this."
"We never do. Now, do you have any updates from our Ambassador?"
oOo
David's death had shaken Lestrade, who hadn't appreciated quite how much he had liked the other man until it was too late. In the middle of the night it suddenly occurred to him to wonder if it really had been a car accident.
And it was inconceivable that Mycroft wouldn't find a way to be at the funeral. He must be working on something bloody serious.
Odd that Edith had come to tell him herself. He had the feeling he'd missed something but had been so shaken by the news of David's death...
He'd need to hire a car to get to the church.
And clothes. He didn't have anything suitable for a funeral.
The following morning, because he wanted to do David proud, Lestrade headed off to Mayfair and Savile Row, where he threw himself at the mercy of the first tailor's shop he entered, hoping they could provide something by Friday. Apparently there were such things as semi-bespoke suits, but if it meant he looked less like an unmade bed he was willing to part with over a month's rent to get the complete outfit.
oOo
Lestrade peered into the spotted mirror over the sink as he checked the knot of his black silk tie again, wanting to ensure he got the small details right. Everything from his shoes and socks were new; it had never occurred to him to wear silk socks before. A pity his salary wouldn't stretch to them - if he ever he got his job back...
He felt oddly nervous; his lack of family had the advantage that the only funeral he'd attended had been of his last unofficial foster parents, who had died in a car crash nearly twenty years ago.
Grim-faced, he walked out of the bathroom to find Sherlock making himself at home, while John tried to look as if he wasn't there.
"I let myself in because I wasn't sure if you'd agree to see me," said Sherlock, when Lestrade just stood there, with no trace of welcome on his face.
"Me too," said Lestrade, after a moment.
"You look as if you've seen a ghost."
"Sherlock!" said Watson in exasperation. "Hello, Greg. Sorry, it's been so long," he added with a trace of awkwardness.
Sherlock lurched forward, as if he'd been shoved.
Only then did it occur to Lestrade that Sherlock was nervous. It seemed so unlikely he would have discounted the thought but for the fact Sherlock was swallowing more than usual, avoiding his gaze, and that his visible hand was fidgeting at his side.
He was alive.
Lestrade had been too preoccupied with Mycroft's betrayal to absorb the reality of that until now. Sherlock wasn't dead. He should have been celebrating all this time. It hadn't even occurred to him to seek him out, because all he'd been able to focus on was the extent of Mycroft's betrayal.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock blurted out into the silence. "For the secrecy. For letting you believe I was dead. Mycroft wanted you and John told but you're both far too honest. Anyone watching you would have known I was alive and - "
"It would have been dangerous for you," completed Lestrade.
"More dangerous for us," said Watson. "Sherlock jumped because Moriarty told him - and Mycroft later confirmed it was true - that he had three snipers focussed on Mrs Hudson, me - and you."
Lestrade slumped onto the arm of the sofa as he processed what he had been told. He stopped studying his gleaming black shoes to look up, taking Sherlock, who had been watching him, by surprise. "You can't even remember my bloody name, why would you care?"
"Don't be a bigger fool than you can help," said Sherlock, irritable because any minute now there was going to be a burst of sentiment from Lestrade and John wasn't going to help him through it.
Lestrade's body posture relaxed all of a piece because it was all so gloriously normal. Sherlock was alive, in his right mind, and as irritating as ever.
"You bloody wanker," he said affectionately, getting up and going over to Sherlock, who, while wary, stood his ground. "You're going to hate this but you'll just have to lump it. I owe you big time for all the crap you've put everyone through." Without giving Sherlock a chance to escape, Lestrade took him in a fierce, all-embracing hug, before kissing him firmly on each cheek.
Flustered, Sherlock stepped back and readjusted his coat when he was released, then glanced at John, in obvious plea.
John, Lestrade saw, pretended not to notice.
After a few moments of fidgeting, Sherlock bit the bullet. "So we're all right?"
"No. But we probably will be. Mycroft wanted to tell me?"
"It's one of the few really stupid ideas he's ever had," said Sherlock. "No one knew the truth, except for Molly Hooper. While we'd planned for various contingencies, even Mycroft didn't know for certain that I was alive until he came to identify my body at the mortuary. And I had to wait hours for him to fly back," he remembered peevishly.
Lestrade flinched at the thought of what Mycroft must have gone through.
"When it was safe, Mycroft took me to Guardian House. He'd already had John brought there," continued Sherlock.
"'Brought' is stretching things," said Watson critically.
"Never mind that now. The point is, you were there and - Lestrade, you're dressed for a funeral. Who died?" asked Sherlock abruptly. "From the trouble you've gone to he was obviously important to you."
The fact he had taken so long to notice made Lestrade appreciate just how off-balance emotionally Sherlock must be - and he was pretty sure it wasn't because of him. Or only a bit. Which was more than he would have expected, if asked.
"Yes, he was. I liked him a lot. But it's no one you know." He glanced at his watch and grimaced. "I'm going to be late if I don't get a move on. Lock up when you leave."
"You don't imagine I want to stay in this hell-hole," said Sherlock impatiently, before his expression changed to one Lestrade wasn't sure how to interpret. "Do you know where Mycroft is?"
"No. Why? Missing him?" asked Lestrade ironically.
"I haven't seen him since I got back - ten days ago. It isn't like him to go so long without plaguing me with at least a phone call."
"He's probably busy running the country," said Lestrade, checking he had his wallet and the keys of the hire car. "I must go. I'm glad you're alive," he added at the front door.
"Yeah," said Watson, as the door closed behind Lestrade, "me too. I told you Greg would be okay, you silly sod. Oh, come here."
With his back to the door, where he had paused to light a cigarette, Lestrade smiled to himself. Though it was bloody well typical that Sherlock, who had caused all the problems, should be the one with a happy ending, he thought, as he headed down the stairs two at a time.
Because of the difficulty in finding parking space, Lestrade was later than he had anticipated. He slowed his pace as he entered the lych-gate to the small, sturdy Norman church; there were a number of mourners still waiting to file inside. The churchyard obviously hadn't been used for years, judging from the tilted, lichen-covered headstones, whose carved inscriptions were weathered into near illegibility. The fact the ground on either side of the path was almost two feet higher suggested the stacking system had been resorted to over the centuries.
He took a steadying breath, the back of his neck prickling under the assessing gaze of the discreetly placed security guards, here to protect Edith Carson, who was just going into the church. Grateful to have missed her, because he was in no mood to be cross-examined about anything, least of all his personal life - or lack thereof - Lestrade waited patiently, nodding to various people he recognised as belonging to Mycroft's section.
One thought led to another. Despite himself, he found himself looking for Mycroft, while knowing it must be something very serious to keep him from David's funeral. Moneypenny wasn't here either. Unless he'd missed her.
Lestrade fidgeted, buttoning and unbuttoning his jacket as the reality of why he was here sank home.
As he went in through the porch, the dim light inside the church made him squint. The interior of about as cosy as a freezer, little sun able to penetrate the small windows set in walls that must be over two foot thick, and motes of dust hung in the air in front of them. The air smelt of stone, polish and candle smoke. He eased along to the end of the rear pew to make room for some stragglers and discovered his view of most of the congregation was blocked by a series of large stone pillars.
As the service began he jumped as the vicar's voice boomed out from one of the speakers placed throughout the church, incongruous given the age of the building. The silence during a period for private prayer was broken by the odd cough and once the high, clear voice of a young child asking 'Where's Daddy?'
Lestrade stared fixedly at the head of the woman in front of him, trying not to think of David's delight in his family. He was so preoccupied he missed his place in the service until his neighbour nudged him. He rose hastily to his feet, scrabbling to find his place in the Order of Service pamphlet.
He discovered he must have shifted position slightly because he was now clear of the pillar closest to him, giving a diagonal view across the church to a stony-faced Alice and her immediate family. She was surrounded by her children, parents, four sisters and their families. David had had no family of his own; like Lestrade, he had spent his formative years in Care Homes.
Alice looked years older than in the photos David had shown him. But then how would he react if it had been Mycroft who had -
Lestrade stopped the thought, superstitiously afraid even to think it in case he made it come true. Stupidly it hadn't occurred to him until now. It could have been Mycroft.
David usually accompanied Mycroft when he was abroad.
The idea that Mycroft wouldn't attend his funeral...
On the point of panic, Lestrade was reaching for his mobile phone when he realised he would have been told. Despite everything, Edith or Moneypenny would have told him. He'd nobble Edith after the funeral, just to make sure, pride be damned.
Shaken, the longing which swept over him just to see Mycroft again was so intense it made him shake. It was one thing to give Mycroft a well-deserved bollocking, quite another to turn his back on the best thing that had ever happened to him.
He missed having Mycroft in his life and a high horse was bloody uncomfortable when you were perched on it alone...
The seemingly interminable service finally over, Lestrade watched Alice and her family file pass and leave the church. He had just thanked the vicar, who was standing in the porch, and emerged, blinking into what was now a chilly day, when Jane and Fatima each tucked an arm into the crook of his.
"Thanks for coming," said Jane, sounding gruffer than usual.
"Don't be daft. I just wish it hadn't been necessary. How are you guys holding up?" Lestrade asked.
"Fine," said Fatima, as spiky as he had ever heard her.
"Right. Stupid question."
"No. And I'm sorry," she said immediately. "David's immediate family and closest colleagues are invited to the brief service before the cremation. We'll give you a lift to the crematorium."
While Lestrade appreciated the thought, he would have given a lot to be able to go home.
"I hired a car," he said weakly. "Though I had to park - "
"We know. Someone will drive it back to the hire company for you."
"They won't need the keys?"
Jane looked pained. "Do us a favour. Though I suppose it might look better." She took them from him and tossed them to a middle-aged woman Lestrade hadn't noticed until now.
Then he forgot everything else when he saw Mycroft emerge from the church, an unnatural colour high on his cheekbones - when did Mycroft get cheekbones? - and his right arm in a sling. While you had to know him to recognise the signs, he was moving as if everything hurt, and for a man who stood six foot one in his socks he looked worryingly frail.
Lestrade didn't remember moving, only of standing in front of Mycroft, oblivious to anyone who might be watching them.
"I should have known you'd never miss David's funeral. You were in the car with him," he said with certainty.
"Yes," acknowledged Mycroft. "I'm fine," he added, when Lestrade continued to stare at him.
"Of course you are. When did you leave hospital?" said Lestrade. The lavender shadows under Mycroft's eyes made his skin appear almost translucent, and sweat gleamed on his forehead and upper lip, despite the chill of the wind scurrying around them.
"Earlier today."
"I'm so sorry about David."
Mycroft nodded. "I know how much you liked him."
"His family?"
"Alice was - is - one of us. And even if she wasn't..." Mycroft shrugged, then winced. "We look after our own."
"You do, you mean. Fatima said I'd been invited to the crematorium. Your doing?"
"Alice's," Mycroft corrected. "David must have talked about you to her."
"I bet it was about those bloody condoms," said Lestrade with gloom, before he remembered everything that had happened between them since then. Somehow the last few months didn't seem that important any more. Not in the face of what he could have lost.
"Would you care for a lift to the crematorium?" Mycroft asked, as formal as if they had only just met.
"Yes. Thanks."
Lestrade tried not to notice how much it hurt Mycroft to get into the car. He stilled the instinct to touch, afraid of hurting him.
Despite the soulless modernity of the crematorium, the short service before the cremation was unexpectedly moving, Lestrade haunted by Alice's stoic endurance and the puzzled faces of the oldest child, who must be all of six. Eventually it was over, Alice and the family gone.
Lestrade fixed himself to Mycroft's side and took advantage of the fact they were alone to say, "Instead of thinking about David during the service, all I could think was that it could have been me, burying you. Let's go home."
When Mycroft's head swung round, hope naked on his face, Lestrade added sturdily, "If today's taught me anything, it's that there are worse things than being lied to. Can we dump your driver?"
"Yes." Mycroft would have agreed to anything by this point, yet to be convinced he wasn't hallucinating again.
Mycroft's security, all strangers to Lestrade, made their displeasure felt at this breach of protocol but Lestrade, backed by a hard stare from Mycroft, drove them back to London, the compromise being that their car was the jam in a security sandwich.
The interior of the car provided a haven of surprisingly comfortable peace; inch by inch Mycroft felt the tension leave his body. It felt odd to occupy the front seat - security always relegated him to the rear but he had chosen to sit at this uncomfortable angle the better to watch Gregory.
Drifting, he watched the curve of Gregory's fingers over the gear stick, the curl of his ear, and the unfamiliar hairstyle and beard. But the expression in Gregory's eyes had been gloriously familiar.
He was beginning to feel distinctly unwell, and suspected his temperature had risen again but he knew he wasn't hallucinating this time. Gregory wanted to come home.
He dared not think beyond that fact, wary of hoping again. There was no point expecting too much, there was nothing like a funeral for confusing the emotions.
But perhaps, just perhaps...