Archive of Our Own

“Your Majesty,” A sweet voice accompanied a gentle tap at the partially closed wooden door of the King’s study.

                “Yes, Miss Hooper?” The King looked up from the map he’d been poring over for most of the morning. “Do come in,” he added as he noted that the Court Physician was still hovering in the doorway. She was a pleasant- if slightly skittish- presence in the castle, with her bright smile and neatly-done hair. “Was there something you needed?” Mycroft sat up straighter in his unforgiving chair, steepling his fingers.

                “Well, your brother… “ She trailed off, twisting her fingers together with a nervous smile, her joined hands fluttering as though to wave back over her shoulder, gesturing to the absent Prince.

                Mycroft sighed. “Yes. What is it this time?”

                “He and Captain Watson were in the market place, sir,”

                “Have Anthea see that the vendor is recompensed and Captain Watson disciplined,” he waved a hand in slow dismissal, weary of the antics of his brother and restraining himself from adding an ‘again’ to the instructions. “Wait a moment, Molly. Why are you telling me this? Surely the court physician has more pressing matters to attend to?”

                She blushed but met his gaze. “Well, your highness, he sort of- injured himself, so I was… well, I was seeing to that. And I thought also you should know that Sir Jones has- has taken a bad turn, sir.”

                “Oh.” Mycroft stood. “Perhaps I ought to visit him.”

                “He has served well, my lord, but I don’t think… that is, I think you’ll be needing a new Captain of the Royal Guard, sir,”

                “Yes. Well. Happens to us all, doesn’t it,” He closed his study door behind them, taking a moment to lock it with a key from the smooth iron ring at his belt.

                “It does, sir,” Molly confirmed, walking beside him as though unsure she was supposed to be there. Young for a court physician, she’d not yet adapted to the role. It used to be held by a cheerful man called Stamford, but he’d married a woman in a farming village some distance from the city. Unfortunately, he’d not left before introducing Mycroft’s brother to the Captain of the City Watch, John Watson. “I wondered if you had any thoughts on who you might appoint to the post, sir?”

                At least she was growing comfortable with her role as sometime-advisor to the King, Mycroft thought. “Mm… None of the current guard seem particularly suited, do they?”

                “Not to insult their characters, my lord, but not particularly, no.”

                “I’ve been recommended several, and offered many men of good standing in their home countries.”

                “Part of a treaty, your highness?”

                “It would seem prudent, don’t you think?”

                “I wouldn’t know, sir. You rule well; we have not seen war in many years.”

                Mycroft smirked. “Not outright, at any rate.”

                “Does the Queen have a suggestion, my lord?”

                “Anthea? She favors a knight called Lestrade… evidently she saw him fight some time ago and believes I would appreciate both his style and character.”

                “Perhaps you ought to summon him and see for yourself, your highness.”

                “Yes, perhaps I ought.” They stopped beside the door of Molly’s infirmary. “Tell me, how lucid is he?”

                “Not very, your highness. Barely recognizes anyone anymore; the fever is quite strong. I simply don’t think there’s any more to be done, not with his wounds and the illness combined.” Molly looked apologetically up at him.

                “Not to worry, Miss Hooper, I’m certain you have done all you can.”

                “Thank you, sire.” She pushed open the door and held it for him.

                “Hello, Athelney,” Mycroft sat beside the man’s bedside, but could see immediately that his being there or not was of no consequence to his aging knight. The man had been his protector since he was nine and his father ruled from the throne Mycroft now occupied. It was something of a sorrow to see the knight in such a state, and a pity that his suffering had extended for so long. He’d been sick for some time, but the disease had been manageable with the care of Molly Hooper, until Athelney had been gored whilst hunting, his organs now rotting bit by bit no matter what the physician did. “Is he comfortable?” Mycroft asked, looking up at Molly once again.

                “As much as I can make him, sire. Honestly, at this point all that remains is to pray for a swift end,” she clasped her hands, pursing her lips regretfully.

                “Well. You have done what you can.”

                “I have, your highness.”

                Mycroft stood, pushing his hands into the pockets of his breeches and turning away from the bedside of the sick man. “There is nothing for me to do here. I am neither healer nor holy man, and have no business with their work.”

                “Yes, my lord. If I may ask- where will you be, should you be-” her eyes darted to the man slowly expiring. “Needed?”

                Taking her meaning, Mycroft answered, “I shall be with my wife the Queen in her study. Do not hesitate to interrupt.” That was always an amusing instruction to give- sometimes he would tell new members of castle staff or visiting guests that anything they needed, at any time, could be addressed to him or the Queen- in their bedchamber if need be. The momentary looks of trepidation that passed behind their eyes were always entertaining to Mycroft as he watched them fail to comprehend the utter lack of possible embarrassment.

                “Yes, my lord,” Molly dipped her head and dropped a brief curtsey as he left, strolling through the stone corridors and looking idly out the windows, weighing the different offers he had received for seasoned Royal Guards. The only one obviously out was the offer from Queen Adler to the South- he had no need for another spy in his court, and no need of her further allegiance. They left each others’ kingdoms alone, with the understanding that if an altercation were to begin Mycroft’s territory may suffer small losses but Irene’s would be eradicated. That was a satisfactory balance of power, so far as he was concerned.

                “Hello, Mycroft,” Anthea greeted as he let himself into her study. “Have you heard about Sherlock yet?”

                He sighed. “Yes. Actually I hoped you would take the usual-”

                “It’s already done, sir,” she smiled.

                “How efficient of you,” he sat in the chair across from her with a fond smile.

                She smiled back, brushing her dark hair away from her face as she did so, sitting up and abandoning the scrolls on her desk. “That is why you married me, darling,” she added the endearment playfully.

                “I am well aware of the reasoning, Anthea.”

                “I know,” she sighed for him, concern in her warm eyes. “Mycroft… why not…”

                “No,” he interrupted, fingers clenching momentarily around the arm of the chair he sat in. “I know your feelings on the subject, and I am aware that it would cause no strife between us. But the kingdom… Anthea, how would the people feel? No matter who I found, how could it ever be worth the risk?”

                “If you loved him, Mycroft, it would be. It would be like-”

                “Spare me the story,” he said, not particularly offended but ever more impatient with her recurring narrative of the village girl Anthea had given her heart to when she was young. “I know you believe love is some great virtue. It is not. In my case, it is simply a risk. The risk of being found out, the risk of losing respect, of losing power. Anthea, do you truly want Sherlock for a king?” he smiled thinly at that, the joke too oft-repeated to be truly amusing any longer but still a means of ending the conversation.

                She sighed, standing and moving around the desk to rest her hands on his shoulders. “I know.” The Queen said quietly. “I just wish… for you,”

                “Thank you.” He answered. “But we have far more pressing matters to attend to than to sit about and be maudlin over something that cannot be helped.”

                “I still think you ought to choose Lestrade.”

                “Why? Because he’s handsome? Hardly the qualification one needs to guard a royal family.”

                Anthea laughed, squeezing his shoulders affectionately. He covered her hand with one of his own. “I’ve told you, he’s brave too. And strong. He’d be loyal, I know he would. The fact that he’s also handsome just doesn’t hurt is all,”

                “I will take him under consideration. Though, a Scotsman…”

                “He’s not really. He was a travelling knight; he’s got his own retinue and all, and he’s just landed there recently. It could be a show of faith.” She encouraged, moving to stand in front of him, leaning on the desk with her dark purple gown draping over his knees.

                “He is under consideration, thank you.”

                She sighed in playful exasperation. “I’m inviting him to court. For the tournament.”

                “The tournament. Please do stop reminding me.”

                Anthea rolled her eyes at him. “You still fight well, Mycroft.”

                “I have no desire to fight in a tourney designed to observe the birth of my brother. It is a ridiculous tradition and I distain it.”

                “He probably won’t even come,” Anthea soothed.

                “The worst part.” Mycroft informed her. “He doesn’t even appreciate the trouble the whole kingdom goes to.”

                “Who doesn’t appreciate the troubles of the kingdom?” Sherlock’s lazy voice interrupted them, the door to Anthea’s study opening as languidly as the Prince spoke. “Hello, Mycroft. I’ve just come to have the plans for the arena and then I’ll be off, so spare me your lectures, tasks, and overall presence if you can manage to be silent for just a moment.” He strode awkwardly into the room, hampered by the mass of bandages freshly applied to his right foot.

                “I’ve told you, you can’t have those.” Anthea sat firmly on the desk, strategically positioning herself atop the scroll containing the plans under discussion. And now under her arse as well.

                “And I have told you that they are necessary to an investigation.”

                Mycroft stood to face his brother, folding his arms loosely. “Sherlock. Go and lie down; you’re injured.”

                “But a scratch,” Sherlock shrugged his obvious infirmity off. “You need to have the cobbling in the market redone, my lord,” he sneered the title, obviously trying to angle closer toward the desk.

                “You are not halfway subtle, brother mine,” Mycroft glared down the motions, earning himself a surly glare in reprisal as Sherlock evidently admitted defeat, retreating to the door.

                “I will have them,” he promised, leaving with a swirl of his cloak and not bothering to close the door.

                “He will not.”

                “No, sir,” Anthea agreed, turning to gather the scroll and crossing the room to her cupboard, already piled high with things Sherlock was not to have. Mycroft privately thought that that cupboard was one of only two Sherlock-proof locks in the castle, the other being the lock on his private cabinet. Since he was standing, Mycroft closed the door. “Perhaps seeing him fight in the tourney will convince you that Lestrade has merit,”

                Mycroft sighed. “Let it go, Anthea, we shall make the decision based on strategy and character.”

                “A difficult balance to strike,” She observed, returning to her place in front of him. “One could rule out a good number of the applicants, the other more of them.”

                “I know. Still, Moriarty’s offer…”

                “Not Moran. Don’t take his spy.”

                “We are surrounded by his spies; I fail to see why one more would make a difference. Especially a known and obvious one. And in exchange for the promised peace…”

                “He can break his word as easily as he gives it, Mycroft, and there is no guarantee that Moran will not slip a dagger in your back when he is meant to be guarding it.”

                 He stood distractedly, pacing to the window and looking through the rough glass at the courtyard below. “You think I am unaware of the danger; I am not. However, on balance…”

                “On balance it means nothing.”

                “There are certain factors I am aware of that you are not,” he reminded her none too gently. “And I did not say my mind was made up. Who knows, you may yet have your dashing knight Lestrade here,” he teased her gently, watching her reflection in the window as she approached. Anthea liked to be touching him, he had noticed very rapidly after their marriage. While she had always been a valued and supportive counselor, once they’d wed she seemed to have taken it upon herself to try and preclude some kind of loneliness. It was kind of her, Mycroft supposed, though unnecessary. He had learned very early on in his life that to be alone one had to desire the company of others; since he did not, he was immune to the sort of emotional discontent his brother had been prone to before Meeting John Watson. To Mycroft, the event deserved to be capitalized because of the change it had wrought, not only in the younger royal Holmes but in the kingdom as well.

                Anthea stood silently against his back, her arms around him in a loose embrace.

                “What else is there that requires my attention today?” He asked her, idly touching the backs of her hands with his fingertips.

                “There are surprisingly few pressing matters aside from the tourney preparations.”

                “Then let us attend to those, shall we?” He turned and offered her his arm, which she took. “Perhaps if everything is sorted far in advance my brother will not be so tempted to wreak his usual havoc on the proceedings.”

                “I didn’t think you were still capable of wishful thinking,” Anthea told him.

                “Do not underestimate me,” he answered her with a thin smile.

\

\

                It was only days later, the morning of the day before the tourney, that sir Athelney Jones died in the grip of a raging fever.

                “Well.” Anthea observed, joining Mycroft beside the funeral bier. “I suppose…”

                “Yes.”

                They stood silent for a moment. “Goodbye, old man,” Anthea offered for both of them as the body was lifted. The funeral procession would proceed to the shores of the nearby lake and be set adrift. Sherlock would fire a flaming arrow, and the man who had been Mycroft’s greatest protector would be no more, not even in the form of a diseased husk. It drove home unsavory truths.

                “He is dead,” Sherlock observed, an obvious statement even for him. Mycroft wasn’t in the mood to express his usual contempt for his brother’s deductions.

                “And the city is alive,” Captain Watson reported from Sherlock’s other side, standing a respectful space behind the brunet’s shoulder and addressing himself to the King. “Preparations for the Prince’s tourney are complete, and nearly all the guests have arrived.”

                “Excellent. Any trouble?”

                “None as yet, my lord.” He bowed slightly at the waist. “If I might be excused, however, I believe I am to receive the Southern Queen in your highnesses’ absence.”

                “Yes, go ahead, Captain Watson.” Mycroft dismissed the small blond without removing his eyes from the funeral procession, following it after a moment. Sherlock quickly outpaced him, reaching the shores of the lake as Athelney’s body was laid on a raft piled high with reeds and dry straw, dotted with particularly flammable bits of moss. Sherlock took up his bow and took stance as Mycroft halted, watching as the raft began to drift away from shore. Someone lit the tip of the Prince’s arrow ablaze, and Sherlock paused, holding his fire. Mycroft knew what his brother was waiting for; he was waiting too. They both knew the distance from shore, the time it would take for the body to burn, the depth of water needed to fully submerge any remains of the raft or man.

                “I’m sorry,” Anthea took his hand in her own, drawing it away from his side and into the folds of her green gown. “I know he meant a lot to you.”

                Mycroft dismissed the sentiment. “He was useful,” he watched as Sherlock released the flaming arrow, striking exactly where he meant to and lighting the funeral raft as easily as a candle would be. “Replacing him will not be easy; his loyalty was above reproach.”

                “You have the next several days to deliberate.”

                “Yes.” Mycroft turned away from the fire, the bright flames imprinted against the sunrise on his vision for a moment as he moved toward his city. “And I do value your input.”

                “I know,” Anthea reaffirmed. “It’s why you married me,” She squeezed the hand she still held. “Come on; let’s hope Irene isn’t giving John too much trouble.”

                “So long as she doesn’t roam the castle halls nude this time, I shall be satisfied.”

                The Queen laughed, covering her mouth to hide her smile as the city walls loomed before them. “A vain hope, I fear. Do not stake the peace between our kingdoms on it.”

                The guard standing beside the tunnel through the wall nodded respectfully to the two of them, standing aside with practiced precision. Mycroft had only been outside the wall for an hour at most, and yet the city held true to Captain Watson’s word- it was alive. The streets were full of people with baskets of goods, from bread to fabric and everything in between. Trade between the native people and the visitors had already begun, some people holding the distinctively turquoise kohl Queen Adler always brought in abundance, some carrying bright bolts of cloth or well-made boots from King Moriarty’s realm. Mycroft privately thought that if his people knew what sort of soles some of those boots possessed they might not be so keen to wear them.

                People bowed as they passed, even the foreigners alerted to status by the heavy gold crown Mycroft reluctantly wore on occasions such as these. He was loath to derive his power from such a symbol, so easily placed on the head of any man of the right birth, so easily melted down and destroyed. His own people respected him as a ruler independently of the trinket, but it seemed bad form to not don the thing for celebrations that drew people from beyond the walls of his orderly city. Anthea maintained a smile for the crowds, sparing Mycroft from having to acknowledge anyone who did not look directly at him. It was far better to pass by with head high and eyes straight ahead, seeing everything before they came to it and allowing people to be somewhat awed by his presence. He supposed that was the upside of the circlet on his head- it lent him a certain weight not defined by how much it made his neck ache.

                “Any business in town, Mycroft?”

                “No, none. I think it best to return to the castle and be certain that all preparations have been made.”

                “Of course.”

\

\

                Crowds were flowing toward the tourney arena, loud chatter and friendly bets underscored by the laughter of excited children and the sounds of the horses being prepared for mock battles. As Mycroft and Anthea passed, most people inclined their heads and one or two bowed, the populace caught up in rushing to vie for seats.

                “You’re sure you won’t fight? There’s still time-”

                “Anthea,” he looked at her with fond reproach. “There is no need.”

                “I… know…” She spoke absently, suddenly distracted by someone she saw on his other side. He could tell by the way her gaze tracked that it was a person and not an object- they were moving too. It was also obvious that they were quite attractive.

                A page held up the flap for them to enter the curtained pavilion, inside which were two ornate but sturdy wooden chairs, with a third to the side for Sherlock and a slightly less decorated set fanning out from the sides. All stood empty. Mycroft took his seat absently, waving away the page and casting a critical eye over the arena before him. People were filling in across the way, the dirt had been brushed smooth, coats of arms were being carried about the edges, and on each side in the stocks he could see knights preparing to ride.

                “You know, my lord, I’ll… ah, I’ll be right back.”

                “Anthea?” He pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows, looking around, but she was already rushing off, the curtains falling closed over the train of her gown. Oh well. Whoever she’d seen in the market earlier- they were very lucky. And Mycroft trusted her discretion. So long as she came back before the two of them were obliged to perform the opening ceremony for Sherlock’s tournament. Not that Sherlock had bothered to show up yet, of course. He’d likely be off causing mischief until the last possible moment, if he came at all. Watson was entered in the lists, so perhaps Sherlock would deign to watch his friend tilt.

                More troubling than whether or not his brother would attend the tourney were those already in attendance- the faces he could see flashing in the crowd as plainly as though they’d made themselves banners declaring ‘spy.’

It was partly due to the spread of these faces that Mycroft was beginning to grow worried when the curtain was parted by a swooning Anthea, supported by- the most glorious man in creation. Mycroft felt his mouth go dry and attempted to ignore the stranger’s beauty. “Anthea!” He rose, taking her hand. Immediately he saw through her faint- but surely she was pretending for a good reason.

                “You’re the King?” The man asked, his voice the exact pitch and timbre Mycroft would have dreamt of did he dream of such things.

                “Yes. Thank you for returning my Queen,” he attempted a smile, ignoring the way Anthea was grinning in the corner of his vision. “What is your name?”

                “Lestrade,” the knight bowed slightly, blue cloak sweeping forward. “Gregory Lestrade.”

                “Ah.” Mycroft noticed that his knees were a bit weak. How incredibly inconvenient. And damn Anthea for being right, too. “Welcome,” he offered. “I do hope you enjoy the city while you are here,”

                “Thank you, sire.” He bowed again and made as though to turn away. Belatedly- belatedly- Mycroft realized that his words could have been taken as a dismissal. He brushed aside the shock at a belated realization (the first he could recall in his life).

                “Will you be riding in the tourney?” What a ridiculous question. Why else would he be here?

                “I will, sire.” Lestrade easily reengaged in the conversation.

                “And your crest?” Mycroft asked, then leaned back in his seat so as to not appear too interested, completely ignoring Anthea’s obvious excitement.

                “Sire?”

                “Your crest, sir knight. So that I may know for whom to applaud.”

                The silver-haired knight smiled, and despite the polish of his armour it was the brightest thing Mycroft had seen. “I ride in blue, my lord, with a white crest. It is the star of justice, the star that guides me throughout the land.” He said it with a touch of humor, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile as though aware that his declaration of justice sounded ridiculously naive.

                Surely the words ‘my lord,’ were not intended to send said lord’s mind down absolutely unspeakable paths, and yet… Mycroft cleared his throat quietly, hiding the thrill. “A noble cause to pursue, Lestrade. I commend you, and I shall applaud your every victory. Of which I am certain there will be many.”

                “My lord is too kind.”

                Possibly the first time that has ever been said of me, Mycroft thought ironically, smiling at the knight before him. “Surely not. I have no fear that my certainty is misplaced.”

                “I shall do my utmost not to disappoint,” Lestrade smiled again, his eyes- lovely brown eyes, the sort that could be gazed into for days- kind.

                “Here,” Anthea offered suddenly, unwinding a cloth trinket from her hair. “A token of gratitude and of confidence,” She extended the bauble to Lestrade, who smiled gallantly and looped the thing around his neck, where it settled unobtrusively inside his armor. Mycroft wasn’t certain that it was entirely rational to be jealous of a scrap of dyed cloth, but apparently he had lost full rationality somewhere in Lestrade’s lovely eyes.

                “Thank you, my lady. I shall wear it with pride.” He bowed slightly, his eyes not on Anthea but Mycroft, who felt as though he had somehow attracted the full power of the sun’s rays. “And now, if I may beg pardon, my mount awaits; I ride the first heat.”

                “Of course,” Mycroft nodded, waving his hand in reluctant dismissal. “We shall celebrate your victory shortly, I trust.”

                “We shall, my lord,” Lestrade exited the dais, and Mycroft resented the floor-length cape obscuring what had to be a superb view.

                Anthea was practically vibrating, and he released her from the torment of awaiting his judgment by observing, “If he rides as well as he smiles, perhaps there is a forerunner in the competition for Captain of the Royal Guard.”

                “I was certain my lord would be pleased,” she replied, the words demure but the tone as smug as though she had just won the tourney.

                He didn’t bother to verbally admonish her, leaning back in his chair with something of a long-suffering smile as Sherlock joined them in the pavilion. “Hello, Sherlock.”

                The prince jerked his head in reply, lurching into his seat. “Hope you’re not betting on anyone.”

                “And why is that?”

                “John promised me he would win.”

                Mycroft rolled his eyes and didn’t even bother to answer that. He waited until the rest of the court had taken their seats before beginning the tournament and watched several knights ride without seeing much at all. He allowed himself to be intrigued by Lestrade, watching the knight joust while conscious of being watched by Anthea. She was anxious for him to like Lestrade, and Mycroft had to admit that she might well be getting her wish. The knight tilted with a grace and casual style that seemed to blend natural talent with the rules of formal jousting and produced an activity that seemed to come as easily as breathing.

As the competition wore on and Lestrade moved up in the lists, crowd support for him grew. It wasn't long before he had simply to ride into view for the noise level in the crowd to double or even triple. Mycroft found himself thinking idly that it could only be a good thing if the people liked and respected the Captain of the Royal Guard, but quickly shrugged the thought off as unwarranted as yet.

John Watson was unseated by Moriarty's man Sebastian Moran, and Mycroft glanced sideways at his brother as Watson graciously admitted defeat, to the displeasure of the crowd. Sherlock looked as displeased as Moriarty looked smug, and Adler seemed to be trying to offer both sympathy and her hand in marriage to the Prince. Mycroft hid a smirk at that.

"If he wins..." Anthea said, eyes fixed on the riders before her as she leaned towards Mycroft.

"He shall be given due consideration."

The tournament continued uneventfully in Mycroft's opinion, men galloping down the field and plowing into one another with varying degrees of chaos as a result. The two knights to reach the final round were not unexpected; Moriarty's capable second hand man and Sir Gregory Lestrade. They were at the basics evenly matched- similar height and build, good form from each. Moran had a twist about his style, something that subtly reeked of a willingness to subvert the rules, a trait which was oddly echoed in Lestrade's manner of riding, but somehow the older man’s intent seemed purer. Anthea's hand found its way into Mycroft's as the pair of knights took their places at opposite ends and prepared to ride. He didn't look at her but allowed the touch, paying more attention to the angles and intentions of the knights now charging rapidly toward one another.

When they met in the middle it was messy, but a clear victor emerged. Moran's lance smashed into Lestrade's shield with finesse and purpose, but Lestrade leaned into the blow and took the shock with hardy single-mindedness, simultaneously managing to slam his own lance into Moran's breastplate, shattering the blue and gold weapon and unseating Moran suddenly enough that his horse reared and he was tipped into the dirt. Mycroft involuntarily squeezed Anthea's hand in satisfaction and she squeezed back joyfully. Lestrade ignored the shrieking cheers of the crowd long enough to dismount and help Moran to his feet; when he returned to horseback he took with him one of the roses being flung from all sides.

                Lestrade’s victory lap paused when he reached the pavilion where Mycroft sat applauding. He leaned forward, extending one of the roses thrown to him by the onlookers. Anthea took it with a smile, prompting a swell of appreciative noise from the assembled crowd, but for some reason Lestrade’s eyes slipped from her to Mycroft, who felt as though he’d been placed on display. He attempted a congratulatory smile, but before he was sure that he’d schooled his face into the proper expression, Lestrade had moved on. “It smells very sweet, my lord,” Anthea said, holding the rose to her face and casting a knowing look at him.

                “I am certain it does.”

                “Perhaps you ought to give him your congratulations?”

                “Perhaps I ought.” There was no harm in talking to the gorgeous knight, after all. He did manage to wait an appropriate amount of time to maintain decorum before seeking out the knight, finding him in the stable brushing out his own horse.

                “What is the name of your steed?”

                “Anderson.” Lestrade shrugged, patting the horse’s neck, smiling at Mycroft as he entered. “He’s not much in the brains department but he goes where I lead. Not put off by anything; doesn’t startle easily. And he gets attached to people quickly and hard.” The knight nodded to the basket of hay resting beside the door. “Anyone who gives him some of that, he’ll love them forever.”

                Mycroft smiled, liking that the knight knew his mount so well. “He certainly serves you well.”

                “Does his best, that’s all I can ask.” He caught at a splinter of wood stuck in the horse’s mane, tugging it out determinedly. He’s avoiding my gaze, Mycroft thought, and a moment later his deductions caught up to the situation- He finds me attractive. Dear lord.

                “As did you, Sir. I trust you will be remaining with us through the victory banquet?”

                “I will, sire.” Lestrade was doing his best to busy himself, keeping his gaze away from the King in a manner that might almost be considered rude.

                Mycroft took pity on him, and seized the excuse to flee and collect himself. “Then I shall leave you to tend to your steed.”

                “Thank you, my lord,”

\

\

                Preparing for the banquets in honor of Sherlock’s birthday had been a special hell since the day the younger Holmes was born. Even as a child he’d been stubborn and difficult to bring around to the desired course of action, and there had consequently been more than one year when the ceremonies and celebrations were held without the object of their focus in attendance. Because of this, Mycroft had temporarily abandoned his own preparations for the feast and gone to check on Sherlock’s.

                “You are coming tonight, Sherlock.”

                “Sod off,” his brother muttered under his breath, manservant Wiggins trying vainly to make him put on a jerkin.

                “I shall leave you in peace if you agree to arrive on time.” Mycroft bargained.

                “Fine,” Sherlock answered. “Oh, would you-” he exclaimed angrily at Wiggins, ducking around then man’s third attempt to get Sherlock’s arms into the jerkin.

                 Mycroft sighed heavily. “Sherlock Holmes. Put on your jerkin.”

                “Or what? You won’t let me come to the banquet? What a shame.” The Prince folded his arms.

                “If you don’t put that jerkin on yourself, I shall fetch Molly Hooper to do it for you.”

                Sherlock regarded him seriously, weighing the threat. After a moment he acquiesced with as ill grace as possible, rolling his eyes and thrusting his arms out before him for Wiggins to do with as he would.

                “Good.” Mycroft nodded decisively. “I shall see you at the feast, Sherlock.”

                The answering noise was midway between a curse and confirmation, so Mycroft left him to the mercies of Wiggins, whose patience had surely been pushed far enough.

                “Mycroft!”

                “Anthea?” She was dressed beautifully for the feast, hair brushed smooth and twisted into a graceful knot at the base of her neck, adorned with a silvery hair net that matched her gown. The elegant attire did not reflect her apparent mood, a look of confusion discernable beneath her normally placid expression.

                “There is a woman in our bed chamber.”

                He paused. “And you did not put her there?”

                She cast him a disbelieving look. “This is not the moment to develop a sense of humor.”

                “Did you speak with her?” Mycroft asked, changing direction to investigate.

                “No,” Anthea kept pace beside him. “She had her back to me. Plain clothes, dark skin, lovely hair.”

                Detecting the wistful note, Mycroft couldn’t restrain one final jibe-“And you’re certain you didn’t put her there?”

                “Mycroft, this could be serious,”

                He was aware of that fact, but given the bustling state of the castle the odds of someone escaping detection anywhere were remarkably low, and the royal chambers and corridors leading to them were especially busy. “If it were serious, the odds that you would have been allowed to walk in on it are extraordinarily low. Any nefarious purposes are generally denoted by a guard at the door at the very least. More than likely she is simply lost.”

                They turned the corner together, and Anthea tapped subtly at his elbow, nodding toward a woman just leaving the chamber beside their bedchamber- a store room for linens. “Excuse me,” Mycroft used his King voice, firm and mildly condescending. “Do you need assistance?”

                The woman looked him up and down, her wide stance and unassuming clothes telling him she worked for her pay, muscles too lean to be a farmer and balance too perfect to have never ridden long distances. Perhaps some kind of traveling merchant, though one would think she would wear richer fabrics to an event such as this. “I’ve been sent to find the King.”

                “Well done.” Mycroft said with a touch of humor. “And you are?”

                “Donovan, sire, Sally Donovan. I have a message from a John Watson.”

                “Deliver it, by all means.”

                “He asks that you come to the wall when you can. Without Sherlock, he says.”

                Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. It was rare that John Watson summoned him; usually it was the other way around, and Mycroft tended to simply appear at the wall when actually needed there. “Thank you, Miss Donovan. I shall leave you in the hands of the Queen; she will see you to wherever you need be.”

                Having thus provided Anthea with an excuse to talk with the pretty newcomer, Mycroft turned to head for the wall. While the city was surrounded on all sides by a wall, being called to ‘the wall’ meant the guardhouse set into the north wall, the place John Watson had come to use as an office.

                “I was told I was needed.” He declared by way of announcement, closing the door behind himself firmly.

                “Thank you for coming,” John nodded tersely. “There’s a problem.”

                “With what, Captain Watson?”

                John crossed his arms, looking briefly down as he shuffled his stance. When he met Mycroft’s eyes again there was some kind of defiance in his expression. “The feast. It’s… well, I have reason to believe that the food- some of it, at least- is poisoned.”

                “What causes you to suspect that? Sherlock, I presume.”

                The Captain of the City Guard nodded. “He and I, while we were in the market place the other day, overheard some things, and today there came… further evidence…”

                “What evidence is that?”

                “The cook’s daughter was poisoned. I think- and Sherlock thinks- she might have taken a bit of food from her father’s work block. Molly has the daughter, says she ought to recover, but…”

                “Yes, I see.” He tilted his head speculatively. “Have you still got the rats Sherlock sees fit to capture from time to time?”

                “That’s why I asked you here without him,” John explained sheepishly.

                Mycroft nodded. “You’d like to feed the rats from the stores and see whether they live. Sherlock won’t let you do it unless I force him to.”

                “Something like that,” John agreed with a chagrined tilt of his head.

                “Please see that it is done, Captain Watson. I’m sorry to have put the burden of castle operations atop your City Guard duties at this time.”

                Watson shrugged off the apology. “I’m sorry Athelney died. He was a good sort, and it’s an honor to do his job. If only for a short time.”

                “Thank you. Please proceed to the kitchens straight away. I will see that Sherlock is occupied for an hour at the least; that should give you a sufficient window.”

                “Yes my lord.” Watson left the room to collect the rat cage, and Mycroft allowed himself a slight sigh before he too vacated the area, in search of his brother once again.

                Thankfully, the prince was still in his chambers. “Sherlock,” Mycroft opened the door. “I have a task for you.”

                “But it’s my birthday,” the prince said sarcastically.

                “You may enjoy this. I need you to track who may have had access to the food stores- without going near them yourself. You are not to be underfoot in the kitchens. Go into the city and find out who may have poisoned the food meant for the banquet.”

                Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You think I haven’t been working on that? I’ve got sixteen people looking. Adding myself-”

                “Is the most productive thing you could do at this time and will speed the process immensely, given your mental superiority to the layperson you have in your employ.” Mycroft appealed to his brother’s ego, and Sherlock’s expression reflected that he’d recognized the transparent attempt for what it was, but the prince stood anyway.

                “Very well,” he sighed, pushing past Mycroft. The king closed the door of his brother’s bedchamber and went to make inquiries of his own. Even away from his own court, Moriarty knew far too much of the goings on of his surroundings for anyone’s comfort. He would doubtlessly have some idea of the situation, whether he’d caused it or not. So long as Mycroft wasn’t direct in his questioning, it was likely that he get answers there.

\

\

                “Is the trouble sorted?” Anthea asked when Mycroft entered her study.

                “Yes, for now. Only one thing was poisoned, the dates. No difficulty in simply removing those from the table. I’ve instructed Watson to have them burned and the ashes buried in the forest so that they are not inadvertently eaten.”

                “Good. Did you speak with Moriarty on the matter?”

                “He says nothing,” Mycroft sighed in frustration. “I could likely torture him and have no more answers than I do now.”

                Anthea tilted her head at him with a shade of pity in her eyes. “Do you think it was him?”

                “Oh, not directly. A trader from Irene’s land has been arrested; he’s admitted to the crime and produced the remaining poison as evidence against himself.”

                “What is there to be done?”

                “Nothing is to be done. Enjoying the feast is what we can do at this time. I suggest you do.”

                “Mm, not without Sally,” Anthea gave him a saucy wink.

                Mycroft sighed slightly. “Please don’t start inviting people on the basis of whether you find them attractive.”

                Anthea laughed. “We ought to go.”

                “I suppose we must.”

                “Weren’t you just telling me to enjoy it? You ought to take your own advice.”

                “How can I enjoy a previously-poisoned feast when my charming brother will have just discovered we used his rats to test the food?”

                “Have Lestrade sit next to you.”

                “Anthea,” he admonished.

                She just shrugged. “You would enjoy the feast.”

                “Perhaps you should begin inviting people based on how attractive you find them. Then we can both be obscenely obvious and be removed from the throne at best and thrown in the stocks and possibly beheaded! Will you be enjoying yourself then?”

                 “You’re too dramatic,” Anthea muttered, suitably chastened.

                “Forgive me,” Mycroft passed a hand over his face. “It has been something of a trying day.”

                “Consider it forgotten.” She smiled. “Shall we go down?”

                “I think we ought to, yes,” He answered her smile with a trace of his own, and followed her as she left the room.

                “Do you think there is any further danger?”

                “I think there is always danger, but I do not think it will manifest itself tonight.”

                She made a soft sound. “I suppose that is something.”

                “It is.” He stopped as they entered the hall. It was full of servants, some knights, a good deal of the court, each one wrapped in a banner of traits and activities for Mycroft’s eyes only. Well, and Sherlock’s, should the Prince ever deign to arrive.

                “I don’t suppose I could talk you out of considering Moran for the guard?”

                “I have not made a decision yet, which means he is still under consideration. However, I do take your point about him, and have weighed your reservations. They are not unmerited. Be assured, Anthea, I do know what I am doing.”

                She raised her eyebrows slightly and tilted her head in acknowledgement before leaving his side to entertain some of the courtiers.

                “My lord?”

                Turning perhaps too quickly toward Lestrade’s voice, Mycroft arranged his face in a politely welcoming expression. “Ah, our champion of the day. What is it that you require, Sir Gregory?”

                “I wish to apologize, my lord, if I seemed rude in the stables. My attention was… occupied elsewhere.”

                Mycroft did his best not to smirk, touched despite himself by the earnestness on Lestrade’s face. “Consider it forgotten.”

                “I must say I am relieved, your highness,” He smiled a bit rakishly, and Mycroft determinedly told himself that his heart was not beating faster because of it.

                “Oh? And why is that?”

                Sir Gregory’s smile became a fully-fledged grin, daring expression in his eyes. “You do not possess a reputation as a particularly forgiving man, nor a forgetful one, if my lord will forgive the impertinence.”

                Mycroft chuckled lowly. “I can forgive a good deal of impertinence, Lestrade; it is a trait honed over many years in the presence of my brother.” He liked that the knight did not make the accusation to test him or vex him, but merely to jest with him. It was rare that anyone but Anthea attempted humor with him, and a refreshing thing that Lestrade did.

                “And is the Prince in attendance tonight?”

                “He ought to arrive shortly, however I suspect he is elsewhere at the present moment.” Mycroft looked around the hall briefly, confirming his thoughts on the matter. “Will you join me for dinner, Sir Gregory?”

                The knight’s expression was initially delighted and momentarily torn- Mycroft wondered if he knew he was so obvious in his attraction and wished there were a way to reassure the older man that his attentions were neither dangerous nor unappreciated. “I thank you for the honor, my lord.”

                “Nonsense, it is your right as champion.” They turned to the table, and Mycroft took his seat at the head, prompting the hall to fill with the sound of scraping benches as the assemblage took their cue to be seated. As though summoned, Sherlock appeared in the doorway and proceeded directly to his customary seat at Mycroft’s left hand- a position currently occupied by one Sir Gregory Lestrade.

                “Move.” The Prince directed shortly, glaring at Mycroft though obviously speaking to the knight in his place.

                “Sherlock, please.” Mycroft intervened in a low tone. “You are well aware that the tourney champion is afforded a place of honor at the dining table. Sit beside Anthea.”

                “I need to speak with you.” Sherlock answered shortly.

                “Can the matter keep until after the meal?”

                Sherlock nodded grudgingly.

“See that it does.” Mycroft directed him, nodding to the open seat beside Anthea reserved for Sherlock. “Do sit down, brother mine.”

Not bothering to respond, Sherlock sat in the allotted space, turning immediately to Anthea. “Where is John?”

“On duty,” She responded with a shrug.

“I specifically directed that he be present.”

“He did not see fit to leave his post for a feast.” Anthea answered calmly, more than used to dealing with Sherlock. “I had food sent to him.”

“I’m going down there instead.” Sherlock declared.

“You are not to leave until the performances begin,” Mycroft answered with a level stare at Sherlock, freezing his brother in his seat. “In the commotion, you may go.”

“Is it always like this?” Sir Lestrade asked quietly as Sherlock settled sulkily into his seat and Anthea engaged Molly Hooper, seated on Sherlock’s other side, in conversation.

Mycroft turned back to the handsome knight with a sardonic smile. “Unless it’s worse.”

A low whistle denoted Lestrade’s admiration. “And you manage to run a kingdom too.”

“Hello, Mycroft,” Irene Adler’s smooth voice joined them without warning, and he looked up at the beautiful diminutive woman who had taken a seat beside Lestrade. “My compliments on your tourney. Splendid as ever.”

“Thank you, Lady Adler. Have you met the victor?”

She smiled, her painted lips friendlier than her eyes. “I had not had the pleasure.”

Mycroft forced his face to approximate a return smile. “Queen Adler, may I present to you Sir Gregory Lestrade, today’s champion.”

“Charmed.” She extended a hand, and he kissed it chivalrously. “I would love to know what you like.”

“I’m sorry?” Sir Gregory’s expression turned confused and he tilted his head toward Irene as though he had misheard her. Mycroft repressed a sigh, long tired of the southern Queen’s games.

This time Irene’s smile showed her teeth. “It’s nothing, Sir. Tell me, did you enjoy your win or are you a knight who rides without- pleasure…?”

To his credit, Lestrade only shifted slightly uncomfortably. “I very much enjoyed it, my lady. The other knights are all most capable men who proved worthy opponents.”

“Oh, such an honorable gentleman.” She turned her eyes to Mycroft with a hint of derision. “I know you like that.”

“A knight with honor is a rare commodity, it seems,” He said, referring to her fellow Neilson, unseated by John in the second heat and a notoriously fickle fighter off the jousting field.

Irene caught the hint, withdrawing from the conversation with something of a pout.

                “Have I missed something?” Sir Gregory asked, his quiet voice sending a slight shiver down Mycroft’s spine as the knight leaned in closer to avoid being overheard.

                “I would not concern yourself.” Mycroft reassured him.

                The rest of the meal was loud and fast-paced, and Mycroft could see Sherlock hating every minute of it, which was why he called for the entertainment to begin ahead of schedule. True to form, Sherlock did not even acknowledge this before fleeing the space, doubtlessly off to see John at the wall. Mycroft sighed minutely and reengaged in conversation, only a small absentminded part of his attention focused on the performers; only enough to ascertain that they were not dangerous.

                “The feast was most impressive, sire,” Sir Gregory was telling him as the night wound to a close.

                 Mycroft tipped his head graciously, allowing himself to smile. “I am gratified that you enjoyed it. Will you be remaining at the castle?”

                “Yes, I’ve arranged to stop in your city for a time,” Sir Gregory smiled winningly.

\

\

Two nights later, Mycroft sighed heavily, pulling his crown off and dropping it with a thud atop a chest of drawers. The squabbles of people could become so petty, but still they must be granted an audience. At least solving their childish differences was simple.

"Have you heard about the accident in the marketplace yet, sir?"

Turning to look at Anthea, Mycroft shook his head. "What's happened now?"

The Queen pursed her lips smugly. "I know I oughtn't be pleased about this, but one of the visiting knights' horse got loose and kicked someone in the chest down in the market. Victor Trevor."

Determinedly quashing a smile of his own, Mycroft did his best to remain stately. "Oh dear. Is the man badly injured?"

"Dead by the time he hit the ground," Anthea reported seriously. "Caught him a nasty blow."

"Well, we can't have that. I suppose the beast will have to be killed."

"Rather give it a medal." Anthea muttered, dropping a brief curtsey and turning away to go apply the law. "Oh, by the way, I've invited the tourney champion to dine with us." She smiled innocently and left Mycroft with his thoughts occupied by two men.

Victor Trevor was- had been- a spy of Moriarty's, a particularly good one. He'd managed to avoid Mycroft for quite some time and was only detected after months of friendship with Sherlock, who took it remarkably hard both that he'd been betrayed by his friend and that he hadn't noticed the man's true nature. Mycroft wasn't sorry Trevor was dead; he only wished he'd been the one to set the horse loose.

The matter of Lestrade was more complicated. It ought not be, but Mycroft found himself hung up on the knight far more than was practical or logical. He dressed himself for dinner rather than calling his manservant, quietly hoping that Lestrade would prove to be an idiot or hold bigoted views of some sort that Mycroft could use as a basis for dismissing the knight from his mind.

He was the last to arrive to the private dining chamber, and Anthea and Lestrade rose from their seats to acknowledge his presence.

As Mycroft waved them down, Lestrade said, "I was sorry to hear of the passing of Sir Athelney. He was a great knight. I ought to have said something earlier, but at the tournament hardly seemed to be the time." he looked chagrined, and Mycroft fought the irrational urge to fall in love with him right then and there.

"The sentiments and timing are equally appreciated," he allowed himself a thin smile at the knight, whose kind expression could have evoked tender spirits even in the most intractably cruel. Mycroft sat and kept his face relaxed and neutral, hoping not to betray himself. It had never been so difficult before.

"Thank you for extending the supper invitation, my lord." Lestrade said conversationally as food was brought to the table.

"It is our pleasure. Congratulations once again on your victory."

"Thank you, my lord." His brown eyes lingered on Mycroft's face in a way that very nearly made the king blush.

"Sir Gregory, I wonder if you know that we have not yet selected a new captain of the royal guard?" Anthea said lightly, plucking fruit from the plate before her.

"I had heard, my lady. Indeed I confess that I came to the tourney both to try my hand with a lance and offer my services in that capacity."

"Excellent," Anthea encouraged.

"The decision shall be made by the end of the week. Will you stay that long?"

"Of course, my lord. I am on no man's schedule save my own."

"And no woman's either, I trust," Anthea smiled.

Lestrade chuckled briefly, lifting a tankard but not drinking. "No my lady, no woman's either."

"Marvelous," the Queen grinned. "We shall be delighted to have you about the castle."

"And I delighted to be about it," Lestrade commented.

The rest of the evening was passed by recountings of past battles and tourneys, Mycroft paying far more attention to the personality and appearance of the knight than to the events of the stories being told. More than once, Lestrade caught him looking, and the knight gazed back with something in his eyes that made the tension in the room double each time it happened. Once when Anthea was staring at her plate and determinedly not looking at either of them, Lestrade's eyes caught Mycroft's and the knight winked as though he didn't know what else to do and didn't dare simply stare.

Mycroft had never seen anyone so obviously attracted to him, which certainly did not help his resolve against becoming interested in Gregory Lestrade.

As the food was clearing from the plates, Anthea began to guide the conversation toward the need for a new Captain of the Royal Guard. While Mycroft approved of the direction, he gave her a token glare on the grounds that she needn’t do everything quite so independently.

“It is a serious matter, a castle left without a Captain of the Royal Guard,” Anthea started, dabbing delicately at her mouth with her cloth napkin. Mycroft restrained himself from rolling his eyes; surely she could let the matter rest for longer than this. “Are you truly interested in the position, sir?” She smiled in that subtly predatory way only Anthea could, her expression implying that she needed only your skill and could take or leave the rest of you.

Wisely, Sir Gregory looked nervous. “I would be-”

“There are of course others under consideration,” Mycroft broke in, relieving the pressure on the knight.

                “Perhaps Sir Gregory would consent to stay for a short while and weigh the merits of the job? A trial run of sorts?” Anthea suggested swiftly. Mycroft nodded and looked to the silver-haired knight, whom he knew would agree. This saved him from looking as though he were making the decision for personal reasons rather than the professional qualifications Lestrade had in equal measure to his personal charm. He would have to think of some way to thank Anthea whilst ostensibly disapproving of the fact that she had not consulted him prior to making the offer.

                “I would welcome the opportunity, my lady.”

                “Then it is settled.” Mycroft decided. “We shall see to it that a description of your duties, introductions to the staff, and tours of the castle commence upon the morrow.”

                “Thank you, my lord.” Lestrade cast him a look. “Will you be conducting the tour personally, sire?”

                Mycroft quirked a slight smile. “If I can spare the time.”

\

\

                The next dawn did not come quickly enough, and Mycroft hurried as he rarely did through breakfast and the morning session of the counsel. If the others noticed his impatience they did not comment; Anthea looked at him knowingly but otherwise made no reference to his haste. The king wished to speak further with the man who might become the Captain of his Royal Guard; further, Mycroft wanted to talk to Gregory. The knight was an open book, readable and normal in seemingly every way, yet he fascinated Mycroft. Additionally, it was never a bad idea to spend time with the person in whose hands one’s life rested.

                He found Sir Gregory in the library, admiring the massive heavy shelves. “Good morrow, sir.”

                “Good morrow, your highness. I hope you don’t mind my explorations about the castle- it’s quite impressive.”

                “Mm,” Mycroft dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “I am pleased that you have found the library. Is it to your liking?”

                “Very much so,” Lestrade smiled, lifting a book from its resting place and running his hand appreciatively over the cover. His brown eyes glanced up at Mycroft from beneath his lashes and down again just as quickly. The king linked his hands behind his back and endeavored to stand straighter. “I am particularly impressed by the range of subjects on which you have texts. Is book collecting a pastime of yours?”

                Mycroft inclined his head. “When I have the time. Whilst my father ruled, I often travelled to find more exotic volumes. Those, of course, are shelved toward the top- where Sherlock isn’t likely to grab one at random and perform an experiment on it.” He smiled thinly.

                “I saw your brother this morning,” The knight remarked, placing the book back on its shelf and imitating the king’s parade rest pose. “Not in any trouble, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know. Sitting rather quietly with who I believe is your court physician.”

                “Excellent.” He nodded, pleased. “You seem to have been busy this morning. Is there anything left for me to show you?”

                Sir Lestrade’s eyes darkened slightly, or perhaps the light in the room changed. “Anything my lord wishes me to see, of course.”

                “Come,” Mycroft directed without thinking of where they were going but only anxious to break the charge between them. Lestrade fell into step at his side, a position Mycroft thought he could get used to having the knight in. “I shall give you a thorough tour of the castle.” But not quite all of its secrets.

                “As thorough as you like,” Lestrade answered as though he had heard Mycroft’s thoughts. “I would be pleased to know what a patrol route might look like.”

                “I quite appreciate your pragmatism.” Mycroft observed.

                “Hopefully I shall be able to provide you with the opportunity to appreciate many things about me, my lord.”

                I appreciate your wit and ability to mean two things whilst only saying one, the king thought wryly, glancing sideways at Lestrade to find that the knight was watching him back with a speculative look. He allowed a slight smile to pass across his face. “Wonderful. Perhaps we ought to begin with your swordsmanship;” he paused.  “By the time we conclude our ‘patrol,’ the knights ought to be well underway in their practice.”

                “Very good my lord.” Lestrade was smiling now too, and though Mycroft realized that he had very likely just gotten himself into a fair bit of trouble he couldn’t regret it.

\

\

                The knock at Mycroft’s study door was not entirely unexpected, and the door was opened as he was standing. As his visitors proceeded into the room, the king wasn’t sure who to direct his gaze at. On the one hand, Sherlock could certainly use a severe glare, but Lestrade deserved all the attention he could ever be given.

                “So, Sherlock. Mayhem again?”

                “Not my fault,” Sherlock murmured petulantly. Lestrade snorted disbelievingly.

                Mycroft rounded his desk to stand before his brother. “What exactly happened, Sherlock?”

                “There was a fire set to start, Moriarty’s, and John and I were-”

                “Has the fire been dealt with?”

                “Yes, of course,” Sherlock dismissed angrily. “As though I would leave it. It was boring anyway, very rudimentary. A long burning rag and a vat of oil beneath a thatched roof. Stupid.”

                Lestrade let out a small sound of vehement disapproval. “I quite agree.” Mycroft nodded toward him. “So, Sherlock, explain then why you are here, if you handled the situation so impeccably.”

                “We… There was one… we didn’t get. The old woman who sold herbs in the market is dead.”

                “I see. The mayhem then is not yours, simply your failure to prevent. My failure to prevent.” He clasped his hands behind his back, turning away from his brother and staring pensively out the window. “Are you quite sure you have found the rest?”

                “Positive.”

                “Then you may go.” Sherlock left noisily, as always, and Mycroft sensed that Lestrade had remained in the doorway. “Yes?”

                “My lord… I only wanted to say… it isn’t your fault. You cannot know of your rivals’ every activity, and it would only take one agent of espionage-”

                “To kill Madeline. That was her name; Sherlock wouldn’t know, of course. Do you know he thinks you’re called Graham?” Mycroft spoke without turning, looking at the apparently peaceful expanse of his kingdom. “The question is; who, and how many more?”

                “My lord, investigations will be made in the city,”

                “That is Watson’s job. Yours is the security of this castle, and those in it.”

                “Then I shall investigate within this castle, my lord.”

                The mildly defiant tone made Mycroft turn. He regarded Lestrade slightly curiously, heavy weight in his chest caused by Moriarty’s doings lifted slightly by the stubbornly determined set of the knight’s jaw. “I would expect no less.”

                Lestrade backed down instantly, offering a slight bow and making to leave.

                “Thank you,” the king said suddenly, halting his knight in the door.

                Hastily, Mycroft turned back to the window, hearing Lestrade turn back to him more slowly. “My lord?”

                “You may go.”

                “I… yes, my lord.”

                “Lestrade.” Mycroft stopped him again.

                “My lord?”

                Mycroft turned back to face the knight, mind made up. “You have performed admirably. Would you consent to remain here on a permanent basis and become the Captain of my Royal Guard?”

                “I had almost given up hope of my lord ever asking,” he smiled rakishly. “I do have one condition.”

                “Name it.”

                “That I bring my lieutenant.”

                “Of course. What is his name?”

                “Her name, sire, is Sally Donovan. She is the most capable knight I’ve ever known- I’ve ridden against her myself, my lord, and she can almost unseat me.”

                “Of course she is welcome here,” Mycroft assured Lestrade, cutting off what was surely a well-used speech on the merits of a female knight.

                “Then I shall stay.”

                Surely that was too bright a smile to be generated simply by having earned a job, and surely a King ought not feel so pleased by the simple filling of a post…

\

\

                “Are you on duty, Lestrade?”

                The knight jumped, but to his credit did not shout nor drop his book. “My lord! Forgive me, you surprised me. Er- no, not at the moment. Though if there is something you need, of course…”

                “No, nothing. Are you enjoying the library?”

                “Much more now, sire.” His gaze flicked across Mycroft’s face. “I mean that now I am familiar with the castle, it affords me more leisure…”

                “I know what you meant, of course,”

                Lestrade looked at him with hopeful suspicion. “Ah, good.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, obviously. A man as intelligent as you…”

                “I thank you for the compliment, but sadly I must inform you that I did not come merely for your flattery.” Mycroft tried not to pose too much whilst preening at the compliment. “I have come to seek your mediation between your second and my brother.”

                Closing the book he held and putting it back on the shelf with a sigh, Lestrade nodded and made to start towards the door. “What’ve they gotten into this time?”

                “They’re shouting at one another in the courtyard. Sherlock has made some rather loud, rather embarrassing deductions regarding the nature of Donovan’s romantic life. And in addition I believe Donovan finds it- admittedly understandably- unnatural that my brother conduct experiments on the bodies of the deceased prior to their burial.” Mycroft commented as they left the library.

                “He does what?”

                Eyebrows rising slightly, Mycroft replied, “You didn’t know?”

                Running a hand through his silver hair, Lestrade sighed again. “And I don’t believe I want to. I’ll go sort them out.” He turned to the king and bowed slightly before hurrying toward the courtyard.

                Waiting on reports from three messengers and two agents, Mycroft decided that he had nothing more pressing at the exact moment than to monitor the outcome of Sherlock’s conflict with Donovan. He therefore went to the window above where he had observed them arguing, and by the time he got there they had shifted, taking their altercation to a corner fully within his field of vision but very nearly out of earshot. As he opened the window, he noted that both his brother’s and the guard’s postures spoke of impending violence and he hoped that Lestrade would break the tension between them.

                It was only a moment before the knight appeared on the scene. “Donovan!” Mycroft watched as Lestrade strode across the stone courtyard to his second, who turned so that she stood beside Sherlock with her arms crossed. “What is this?”

                Their conversation grew too faint for Mycroft to make out, and from his vantage point he was too distant to read their lips. With a sigh, he pulled the window shut and latched it. He was really letting this go too far.

\

\

The fact that Lestrade was attracted to men and women was as obvious to Mycroft as if he'd caught the knight in bed with one of each. Knowing that about Lestrade was decidedly not conducive to ignoring the gaze he sometimes felt leveled at him, warm and caring and far too affectionate for the normal relationship between the King and Captain of the Royal Guard.

Once when he'd glanced up and met the man's warm brown eyes, Mycroft had become spontaneously convinced that pursuing a romantic relationship with Gregory was a worthwhile course of action regardless of the scandal it could cause. He'd entertained the notion for far too long, unable to break eye contact, until John Watson had come with a report from the evening watch. Gregory Lestrade's presence decidedly improved the castle, from efficiency in changing of the guard to cheerful atmosphere, but it was also a massively tempting distraction. He wasn't sure exactly what he had done to attract Gregory's interest, but it was amply evident that he had it. The knowledge was an uncomfortable companion to the growing affection he felt for the knight.

Alone in his study late one night, Mycroft steepled his fingers and tried to think himself out of the very idea of entertaining the notion of possibly romancing Gregory Lestrade. It would be foolish to risk his reputation on a mere possibility- ridiculous to imagine that anything they might share would be more than furtive and fleeting. Foolish to imagine even that much. And yet every scenario he called up to talk himself out of clinging to the notion somehow had an answer, an evasion, a logical precaution. The longer he sat staring into the fireplace, the more convinced he became that he was capable of sustaining a relationship with Gregory. It was something of a terrifying thought, and far too real of a possibility to ignore.

"Mycroft?" Anthea put her head into the room, and Mycroft started slightly, shaking off most of his thoughts. "Do you know how late it is?"

"I... No, I admit I do not."

She smiled softly. "Nearly dawn. At least come to the bedchamber or the servants will talk." Her playful wink was tempered by a yawn.

"You're quite right." he rose, dousing the embers in the fireplace and following her out the door into the abandoned corridors of the castle. "Anthea, I have a question. Should it become... A possibility, would you be prepared-"

"Yes. Whatever you need doing, I'll do it; you know that."

"I do. But this is not a request I have ever made before." He paused as a servant entered earshot, bowing cursorily to the pair of them before passing out of reach of their words. "I should like to... Attempt a... Well, if Gregory were willing, and if you would-"

Anthea grinned brightly, pushing open their bedchamber door. "Yes. Anything you need. Oh, Mycroft, I'm so happy for you."

"Anthea, if you would allow me to finish a thought-"

She laughed and shook her head. "No, I will not. You've thought long enough, and you know you have my full support in any and every way. Only instruct me and I will obey."

"Your enthusiasm wouldn't have anything to do with your dalliance with his lieutenant, would it?"

"What? Of course not," Anthea lied playfully. "Though, obviously, if I'm escorting you and she's escorting him and you two go off together and leave me with her, well, I wouldn't complain."

"You're incorrigible." Mycroft sighed, sitting on the bed.

"I know." Anthea got into her side of the bed and blew out the candle. "Goodnight, my lord."

"Goodnight, Anthea."

 “Your highness?” A tapping at his door woke Mycroft in what the fading moon told him was the very early morning. Quickly, he went to the door, recognizing the urgent voice as belonging to his Captain of the Royal Guard.

                “Yes?” He slipped into the hallway just in case Anthea still slept. “Oh, dear.” Lestrade was supporting Sherlock, who had blood spattered on one side of his face and sported a clearly broken nose.

                “He was fighting with Moriarty on the wall.” Sir Gregory explained tersely. “I wasn’t there to see what happened to Moriarty, just that John dragged this one to the castle steps. I wouldn’t have seen that either if I wasn’t passing the window just at the moment. Thought you might want to ask him what happened- nothing’s seriously wrong,” he added when he noticed Mycroft’s sharp gaze lingering over his brother’s ribs, ascertaining that they were intact. “Just a bad knock to the head, I think. He was walking when John brought him. Resisting and everything.”

                Mycroft sighed. If Sherlock caused another diplomatic incident he really might have to exile the prince. “I see.” He nodded. “Sherlock,” he added, voice rising slightly. “Are you listening to me?”

                Sherlock shook his head.

                “Good. Can you walk to Miss Hooper, or should I carry you?”

                The threat did the trick; Sherlock stopped leaning on Lestrade, glaring at Mycroft through puffy eyes. “I’ll walk.” His voice was slightly thick, and Mycroft tried not to smile. This was not the moment for levity.

                “Go straight to Miss Hooper, you understand?”

                “Yes.”

                “Sherlock…” Mycroft added warningly, recognizing the rebellion in his brother’s face. “I meant it when I said I would carry you.”

                “’M going.” The prince wheeled around and started off on his own, limping slightly on his left foot- mostly for show. Mycroft rolled his eyes slightly at his brother’s theatrics.

                Lestrade, not possessed of the same deductive skills, fell for Sherlock’s feigned injury. “Is he going to be alright?”

“Thank you for retrieving my brother,” Mycroft sighed, leaning on the stone wall beside the door to his bedchamber. “I trust Miss Hooper will see to his injuries. Are you unharmed?”

                “Yes, sir. Just thought I ought to report the incident to you right away. I apologize for interrupting your rest.”

                “Oh no, Lestrade. I always wish to be awoken when matters concerning my kingdom or my brother arise.”

                “I shall bear that in mind, my lord.”

                “And Lestrade,” he stopped the knight as he turned away. “I… never mind being awoken by you.” He cleared his throat. “Anything you deem necessary surely is.”

                Dark eyes moving over Mycroft’s face, curious and-  affectionate- Lestrade nodded slowly. “Yes, my lord.”

                They stood in the corridor regarding one another, torchlight flickering and natural light weak. Mycroft had never before experienced the sensation of an unspoken ‘I love you’ on the tip of his tongue, ready to tumble forth if he opened his mouth. He could already feel the words spilling from his eyes.

                “Perhaps I ought to… return to patrol.”

                Mycroft licked his lower lip absently and cleared his throat awkwardly when he realized what he was doing. “Yes of course. Goodnight, Lestrade.”

                “Pleasant dreams, my lord.” The knight stood watching him as he retreated into his bedchamber, closing the door regretfully.

                Anthea sat up in bed and commanded him as imperiously as though she were on her throne; “Mycroft, go back out there.”

                “No, Anthea. I’ve told you. It isn’t worth it.”

                “You’re telling me he isn’t worth it?” Even in the dark, Mycroft knew she had crossed her arms and was regarding him sternly.

                He sighed. “Of course he is worth it.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, he felt her shift toward him, reaching out a comforting hand. “But Anthea, the risk.”

                “I know.” She sighed for him, patting his shoulder before retreating to her side of the bed. “Go back to sleep, then.”

                “Yes.” Staring out the uneven glass in the window, Mycroft watched the moon pensively. He found himself thinking in a painfully romantic vein, thinking of Gregory Lestrade. He shut his eyes tightly and tried to sleep.

                Anthea shifted.  “Mycroft?”

                “Yes?”

                “I really believe that you should make your attempt.”

\

\

                “My lord, the Queen said you wished to see me?” Lestrade stepped into the room with his usual effortless grace.

                “She was correct.” And not simply meddling this time. “Do come in,” he added unnecessarily, standing to meet Lestrade and finding himself wrong-footed. This part had been so easy in his mind, but now that he was presented with the opportunity to initiate what he wanted, the words seemed to vanish. He couldn’t remember anything of the sort happening before.

                Lestrade’s brown eyes were warm and curious. “Is something the matter, my lord?”

                “It is… difficult to determine. I suppose that the answer would depend on your definition of ‘the matter.’” He smiled wanly.

                “I suspect my lord did not summon me on castle business,” Lestrade smiled back, much brighter, and took a step further into the room.

                Automatically, Mycroft replied, “All business of mine is business of the castle. But no,” he added, regretting the harshness. “It is a problem of a… personal nature.”

                “I am gratified that I have your trust thus far, my lord.” Lestrade said with one of his gorgeous smiles and a very slight bow.

                “Of course you do.” Mycroft observed thoughtfully. He wasn’t certain when that had happened, exactly.

                “Only say how I may assist you and I shall do so,”

                Mycroft didn’t know how to phrase his request. Assist me by placing your lips repeatedly on mine, seemed slightly too direct. Not to mention crude. He took the more roundabout tact. “Are you aware of the rumors concerning my brother and Captain Watson?” Perhaps this isn’t a particularly good approach either. He winced.

                “If some plot threatening either of them is afoot, sire, I shall immediately-”

                “No, nothing of that sort.” He made himself meet Lestrade’s eyes. There was no reason for this to be so difficult; the knight was inclined in the same manner he himself was, though to a different degree. “The rumors are… fairly accurate. Only they concern the wrong brother. And a different knight.”

                Lestrade took two involuntary steps forward, smiling slightly. Mycroft couldn’t help but smile back, heartened by the impulsive action. “I see,” Lestrade’s voice had dropped as he joined the king beside the desk. They were standing too close together, but Mycroft sensed that this was not the time to step back. “And the Queen… she doesn’t mind?”

                He twitched a smile. “She encourages it.”

                “So she and Sally are-”

                “Indeed.” Mycroft’s smile became full-fledged, laughing at Anthea. “And both are willing to assist in any subterfuge that becomes necessary. Quite devious, the pair of them.”

                “Good, ah, good…” Lestrade took a half-step closer. “So, if you were to find someone… a knight in shining armour for you… it might work out?”

                Mycroft tried to maintain eye-contact. “Yes, I believe it might. I’ve thought about it before… quite a lot recently… and I believe I could maintain a- ah- that is to say that I believe a relationship of whatever duration he wished would be… distinctly possible.”

                “Good, good,” the knight’s hand seemed to be reaching for Mycroft’s, and the king struggled with whether to move or not. “Good for you. I- ah- hope you find your-”

                “I have,” he answered quickly, quietly.

                “I see. And does the knight- does he know?”

                “If he is half as intelligent as I believe him to be-”

                Lestrade smiled brightly, drifting even closer, his hand resting faux-idly on the desk mere centimeters from Mycroft’s. His beautiful dark eyes were fixed on Mycroft’s mouth, and there was nothing for it now but to kiss the knight. So he did, his fingers resting on the chain mail covering Lestrade’s chest. Gregory’s hands pulled him closer, one on his shoulder and the other at his waist, the knight’s lips gentle and relieved. “Thank god.” He breathed against Mycroft’s lips when they drew slightly apart, the king’s lips tingling with the lingering sensation and continued proximity. He managed to see the rest of his life in that moment.

"I suppose I shouldn't get ahead of myself. What is it that you want?"

"I want to be with you, however I can. I'll do whatever I need to. I thought…” Lestrade’s hands flexed spasmodically, keeping Mycroft close. “Well it doesn’t matter, does it? Thank you.” He kissed Mycroft again gently, eyes open and watching the king tenderly.

                “Don’t…” Don’t thank me, Mycroft wanted to say. I’ve just made both our lives infinitely more complicated and possibly more unhappy than we would have been without this.

                “It’s not going to be easy, is it? That’s fine. I’m willing to do whatever I must.” Lestrade was watching him seriously, and Mycroft found himself grateful for the knight’s direct nature and honesty.

                He moved one hand almost idly to caress Lestrade’s cheek. “It will be tasking, and if you should find yourself feeling as though it is not worth the trouble, and the risk…”

                Lestrade caught his hand, bringing it to his lips. “You’ve just given me the best kiss of my life. Don’t start telling me I should leave just yet.”

                “Fair enough.” Mycroft’s lips curved into a slight smile. “I imagine we’ll manage.”

                “We will.”

\

\

                “Hello, my lord,” Gregory greeted formally as they passed in the corridor, Mycroft on his way to the stables and Lestrade evidently on his way back from the same.

                “Hello, Lestrade.” It was a hard thing not to look back over his shoulder as he passed the knight. It had been nearly a week since their first kiss, and they’d yet to manage another. The temptation to simply draw Lestrade into a storage room grew daily, and Mycroft knew he needed a better plan than that if he wished to avoid detection. Unfortunately, the best plan he seemed capable of coming up with at the moment was to have Anthea draw Lestrade into a storage room and take over from her. But that was an even worse idea. There was absolutely no need to begin Arthurian rumors.

                Upon entering the stables, it was easy to locate his quarry. “Sherlock,” he began, moving toward the brunet sitting on the gate to his favorite horse’s stall. “Get down from there, if you break your neck now there will be no heir.” He grimaced.

                “That’s hardly my fault,” his brother shot back, but he did come down. “What’ve you come to harangue me about this time?”

                “I do not harangue you,” Mycroft rolled his eyes.

                Sherlock snorted his disagreement. The lack of argument spoke volumes to his elder brother.

                “What has put you in such a dismal mood?”

                “Mary,” Sherlock answered slowly. “I like her, but there’s something… off.”

                Mycroft held his tongue, confident that his brother would deduce for himself and knowing that he would not be soon forgiven for gossiping about the new baker’s past. Her romance with Sherlock’s best friend was doubtlessly annoying enough for the prince, now that John was not constantly at Sherlock’s beck and call. “I see,” he answered simply.

                “And you are upset over something as well. Don’t like her baking?” Sherlock sneered.

                With a roll of his eyes, Mycroft answered, “Hardly. Is it so strange that I simply seek out the company of my brother on occasion?”

                “Yes!”

                Exasperated, Mycroft parried, “When you are being so petulant, I think so as well.”

                “Then come to the point!”

                “Have you heard from Wiggins lately?” The manservant had been ‘out’ for nearly a week, far longer than he usually went without reporting to Sherlock somehow.

                Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “I’m not concerned. I told him not to risk it.”

                “Very well, if you think that wise.” Mycroft shrugged. The unfortunate reality was that Sherlock would likely rule some day; allowing him decisions now was perhaps the only way to ensure he could make good ones. He turned to go.

                “The north turret is quite drafty, you know.” Sherlock observed, staring at the ceiling.

                “Are you implying I ought to fix it?”

                Sherlock shrugged. “Personally I like that it’s often so cold that no one goes up there if they can help it. Sometimes being alone is pleasant- the rest of the castle gets so loud, don’t you think?” He continued looking upward, speaking as though Mycroft weren’t there.

                “…Ah.”

\

\

                Two months of a relationship in the shadows and the freezing north turret had Mycroft restless. “Anthea,” he declared, walking into her study with no premise. “Unless you are doing something vital, come along.”

                She rose instantly. “Where are we going?”

                “Go fetch Sally and outfit four horses. We’re going for a ride.”

                Anthea grinned hugely. “Yes my lord! Shall I ask the cook to pack a picnic?”

                “If you like.”

                “We’re going out!” Anthea exclaimed quietly, apparently awed. “I’ll go right now!” She wheeled and gathered her skirts, ostensibly trying not to run.

                It was not difficult to find Gregory, and even easier to convince him to join them on a picnic. He had been nothing but patient with Mycroft’s need for absolute privacy and simultaneous rebellion against secrecy. It was true that the circumstances of the relationship were often trying, but there was no denying that the man was worth it in every way. Despite the agitation and restlessness caused by feeling so pinned down constantly, Mycroft could not remember a time when he was happier.

                Whilst within the city, Anthea rode beside Mycroft and Gregory headed the party, Sally bringing up the rear. As soon as they passed beyond the fringe of the trees, where they would not be easily seen, the arrangement reshuffled by silent consensus, Mycroft joining Gregory and Anthea falling back slightly to ride behind Sally. They did not separate for safety’s sake, but riding mere feet from Gregory through a fairly pleasant atmosphere somehow lifted Mycroft’s spirits in and of itself.

                “Where are we bound, my lord?”

                “There is a secluded glen; I have known three people to frequent it in all my years. Not that no one else does, but I have never sighted any tradespeople or villagers whilst there.”

                Lestrade smiled brightly, and Mycroft marveled that that bright smile had not lost any of its power over him. “Wonderful.” He said.

                The party rode on in relative silence, the four of them breathing more freely and occasionally casting relieved glances at one another. Mycroft liked seeing his knight so relaxed, looking at home on his horse and periodically looking about for danger but otherwise simply enjoying the ride.

                Mycroft slowed the horses after some time and they walked past the fringe of the trees into a small, oddly-shaped clearing. It was not swampy, though the ground was slightly soft toward the center. He dismounted and tied his horse at the edge of the trees.

                “My lord, Sally and I will be…” Anthea tipped her head toward the forest at the other side of the clearing, and Mycroft nodded his permission to her. She grinned and continued on, reaching out to take Sally’s hand as their horses ambled into the trees.

                Once they were alone, Mycroft kissed Gregory with a kind of vindictive satisfaction.

                “You really don’t like being trapped, do you?” the knight asked quietly, running his fingers through Mycroft’s hair.

                The king shook his head.

                “Well, we’re outside now.” Lestrade smiled and squeezed his hand. “C’mon, let’s see what Anthea managed to find for lunch.”

                Mycroft watched him fondly, the tension in his chest loosening only to be replaced by the creeping fear that a hunter or traveler would happen by and recognize them. It seemed there was no victory to be had, though even this hidden relationship with Sir Gregory was worthy of the trouble it was like to cause him.

                “Come here,” the knight said, stretching out on the grass and holding his arm up for Mycroft to join him. The king sank slowly to the ground, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. “Do you feel better?”

                “I am concerned about who may happen past,” Mycroft admitted.

                “Me too,” Gregory sighed. “But I suppose we can’t always worry, eh?” He kissed Mycroft’s shoulder, the closest part of the king. “’Sides, no one ever comes out here.”

                “We are out here,” Mycroft pointed out, reaching to take one of Gregory’s hands.

                The knight chuckled resignedly. “True enough.”

                They sat side by side, touching comfortably, and eventually ate lunch. Gregory lay back in the grass when he had finished, unceremoniously pulling Mycroft down beside him. “Did you ever look at the clouds as a child and see what they resembled?” The knight asked.

                Mycroft smiled. “Sherlock was very inventive. I admit I was less so.”

                “Make up for it now,” Gregory suggested, shouldering at him. “Look, there’s a tree.”

                “If that’s the standard of inventiveness, I believe I shall easily make up for my earlier lack,” Mycroft teased him gently.

                “Alright, let’s see you do better then, your highness.” Gregory tacked the last two words on playfully, but remembering his title only dampened Mycroft’s spirits.

                He looked dully at the sky, with the sun observing him as judgmentally as any spy or villager. “The one to the left of the sun looks something like a horse.”

                “Yeah it does. Alright, see the really big cloud bank? That’s a tapestry.”

                The cloud in question was blank and smooth, and Mycroft had to admit it could be a tapestry. He turned his head and smiled at Lestrade, who took the opportunity to lean over and kiss him.

                “Can we do something silly I’ve always wanted to try?”

The king nodded cautiously.

“You want to… ah, you want to ride double?”

                Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. “You think that practical?”

                “Well, maybe not practical,” Lestrade’s white smile outshone the sun. “But fun.”

                “Fun.”

                “Yeah, look,” Lestrade stood and caught up the reins of his mount, easily untying the horse. He mounted gracefully, Mycroft’s eyes tracking the motions of his lithe body. “Okay. See I sit here and then you sit-” he moved back slightly, shifting as the horse adjusted. “Right here. In front of me.” The horse stepped uneasily back and forth, quite evidently unused to his rider’s strange balance.

                “I doubt the horse…”

                “Mycroft. C’mon. Please?”

                He stood up slowly. It was ridiculous to be so easily swayed by one man’s request, but apparently he was. “Where are we going?”

                “I don’t know, back into the forest? Just around a bit.”

                Mounting gingerly, Mycroft took the reins in one hand and patted gently at the steed’s neck with his other hand, trying to reassure the horse. Lestrade’s hands settled around his waist, and Mycroft’s breath drew in sharply.

                “You’ve got the reins, my lord. You may want to direct the horse.” Gregory’s forehead rested against the back of Mycroft’s neck and he could feel the knight’s uneven breathing as his hands moved across the King’s waist.

                “I- I’m not certain I can.”

                Gregory chuckled. “Alright, then just let him wander.”

                “This is a dreadful idea.” His breath hitched. “And I’m horrified that you talked me into it.”

                A whisper of laughter ghosted across Mycroft’s neck. “I didn’t have to talk you into anything,” Gregory answered quietly.

                “We should stop. It’s the middle of the day.”

                “If you want.”

                “I…” One of Lestrade’s hands stilled, firm pressure on Mycroft’s ribcage, and the king’s voice trailed off. “I think we should. That doesn’t mean I want to.”

                The knight sighed very slightly. “I understand.”

                “Thank you,” Mycroft said and dismounted hurriedly, nearly tumbling to the ground in a moment of quiet panic, holding the horse’s reins so the animal remained close whilst Gregory joined him on the ground. “I hope you know that it’s nothing to do with you-”

                “Oh, I know,” Gregory reassured him, darting in close for a brief chaste kiss. “It’s about if we were seen. Would you rather go back to the castle?”

                “I dislike being inside so frequently. It feels as though we shutter ourselves indoors. I admit that I resent it.”

                “Hey… it’s fine, Mycroft. It really is. You know what, let’s go back now. We’ll come outside at night, see the stars… and no one need see us.”

                The king frowned slightly. “Yes, alright. You’re right.”

                Gregory smiled at him, and though it wasn’t genuine it did help very slightly. “We were out for a few hours. We’ve just been sitting here for at least one,”

                “Yes.”

                “I’m sorry.”

                “As am I.” Frustrated, he gritted his teeth and looked away. There were so many possibilities, or there should be. Turning to look toward the treeline, he called out, “Anthea!”

                There was only a brief pause. “Mycroft?” the Queen called back. “Is everything alright?”

                “We’re returning to the castle!”

                He could practically hear her sigh and see her roll her eyes, and a moment later when she emerged from the trees he saw the replay of what must have occurred, Anthea standing and pulling the shoulders of her dress back up to rest on her collarbones, sweeping leaves from her skirts and pacing angrily out of the trees, followed a half-second later by Sally Donovan, leaves in her hair and twigs caught in the chain mail of her armour. “Yes, my lord. One moment.”

                “Donovan!” Lestrade called. “Fix your armour!”

                She snapped a salute that managed to look sarcastic and began pulling flora off of her person. “Why are we leaving? It’s so lovely today,”

                “Because we are, now come on! You bring up the rear.” He swung himself back into the saddle of his horse, and Mycroft felt a twinge of guilt for the obvious disappointment in Gregory’s voice.

                “I would have thought you’d want to take the rear, boss,” Sally muttered, sending Anthea into peals of laughter.

                “Donovan!” Mycroft snapped. “Today, if you don’t mind.”

                Both women quieted, Sally looking chastised and Anthea peering searchingly at him. He turned away from her gaze, mounting his own horse and leaving them to sort themselves out. A moment later he heard the hooves of Anthea’s horse. “What happened?” She asked softly.

                “It is too exposed.”

                “What, the forest? We’re in the middle of the forest, Mycroft, no one comes out here.”

                “I can’t be too careful, Anthea. And you should be wary too; if you were discovered, do you think it would be kept quiet? We could try, but scandal has a way of evading censorship.”

                She sighed. “I know,”

                “Then you know why we are going back.”

                “Yes.” She fell back to ride alongside Donovan, and Mycroft wondered if he should spur his horse to catch up with Gregory. There was something in the set of the knight’s shoulders that spoke of a desire to be alone, which Mycroft grudgingly respected.

                When they arrived back at the castle, he handed off his reins to a stable boy without a word and retreated to his study, barring the heavy door and burying himself in a mound of scrolls. It wasn’t hiding or evading anyone if he really did get work done, he reasoned. All afternoon, however, his work was slowed by thoughts of Gregory, regrets and desires and simple love. More than once he made to stand, thinking to seek out the knight and… apologize? Explain? There was nothing more to say, and yet Mycroft felt as though he had to say something… Each time he made to leave, he sat back down and pulled another scroll toward him, inking his quill and deciding to finish one more thing before he searched out his knight. As the sun began to set, he recognized the futility of both trying to continue working and telling himself that he would find Gregory. He didn’t know what to say, and until he did there was no point in invading the knight’s privacy, which he had clearly wanted on the journey home. So he relocated to the bed chamber and settled down with a book to wait for Anthea. To her, at least, he could admit his harshness and ask her counsel on a course of action.

                It was well past sundown when a knock came at his door, and he knew he’d missed supper but didn’t expect anyone to bring food. “Yes?”

                Anthea stepped into the room, clad in breeches and a tunic with chain mail and a heavy cloak draped over her shoulders.

                “Have I missed something? Are we in battle?” Mycroft asked, amused.

                “I’m going on patrol.” She answered smugly.

                “Honestly, to keep Sally company? Subtlety, my dear, subtlety.”

                Gregory edged into the room looking slightly nervous. “Actually…”

                “What are you doing here?” Mycroft asked, not displeased.

                “I brought him. Decided it was time I did a little moonlighting,” Anthea winked. “After all, nothing like relieving a man of night patrol.”

                “You’re incorrigible.”

                “You’re welcome,” She ducked out, pulling the hood of her cloak up as she went.

                “Listen, I’m sorry about today,” Gregory began, taking a few hesitant steps into the room.

                Mycroft stood to meet him, brushing aside the apology. “No, Gregory, it was my fault. I should have known better than to think I would be comfortable outside in broad daylight, no matter how secluded the area.” He tucked his lips into his mouth for a moment. “Perhaps we could try again some other time, but for now…”

                “You don’t have to explain. I get it. I really do. So long as you don’t want to leave me, I-”

                “Never.”

                Gregory smiled. “Then it’s fine. Whatever you’re comfortable with, that’s what we’ll do. I know it’s stressful, and I don’t want to cause you stress.”

                “Thank you,” Mycroft reached for his lover, and Gregory came willingly into a kiss.

                “Can we… that is, would it be too strange to ask you to take me to bed?”

                Mycroft smiled. “Come to bed, Gregory.”           

                “Happily.”

                “Is this what it will always be like?” Lestrade asked later, his hand brushing lightly up and down Mycroft’s bare skin, pale in the weak moonlight.

                The king reflected on the time since Lestrade arrived; the troubles in the kingdom, the spies within the castle, the secrecy. And the peaceful moments like this one, the dangerously illicit times when he and Lestrade found themselves alone and shielded from view. “Yes,” he said simply, hoping that it would be enough.