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Greg took a deep breath, knocked on the door of the startlingly white, pillared townhouse and tried not to look too directly into the video camera that he knew was silently scrutinising him. As the heavy door opened, Greg’s eye took in the taller, cleverer, better-dressed, better-looking Holmes brother who stood framed in the doorway, whose voice was as cool as the proverbial cucumber as he greeted Greg with a smooth...
“Lestrade”.
“Mycroft. Hi”.
An elegantly wafted hand instructed Greg to enter and the door closed behind them. A moments silence settled around the two men as they stood in the large entrance hall. Mycroft, as host, knew it was his responsibility to carry them through the polite preamble.
“Thank you, Inspector, for your help in this matter. My brother promised faithfully he would assist me with this... project, and then he-”
Greg nodded with a lop-sided smirk.
“Chickened out?”
The crease between Mycroft's eyebrows deepened momentarily, before being smoothed away with the ease of years of professional practice.
“You make it sound like a tooth extraction”.
Mycroft turned with his panther-like grace and began to silently pad down the plush carpeting towards the staircase. Greg followed automatically. Anxious not to offend, (he’d only been trying to lighten the slight tension in the air, and his own self-consciousness at what was to come) Greg began to babble good-naturedly to Mycroft's silken waistcoated back as they walked
“Nah, it's no problem. If I do this, Sherlock says the next time I want to involve him on a case, he will help out ‘remotely’. No actual physical presence. Which means…”
Greg started listing on his fingers -
- no insulting my staff,
- no licking the crime scene,
- no melodramatic coat-swishing,
- no eye-fuc- I mean, ‘inappropriate flirting’ with his blogger while standing over a corpse,
Just the insight. How could I refuse?”
Mycroft stopped and turned back to face Greg, fixing him with that intensely penetrating gaze that always made Greg shiver.
“Then you are here purely for the quid-pro-quo?”
Greg shrugged with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
“I'm happy to help you out Mycroft, didn't have anything doing today. I owe you anyway, you've got me out of enough scrapes (without me even knowing about it sometimes, I'll bet)”.
Mycroft made a subtle bow with his head in silent confirmation and gestured for Greg to follow as they continued to make their way along the hall and began to climb the stairs in single file. They didn't speak until they had rounded the second flight, when Greg began to self-consciously chat to the waistcoat silk in view again at Mycroft's back, who was two steps ahead (Greg was finding himself tempted to drop back to three steps and get a more interesting view, so distracted himself by saying -)
“Might be fun. Never been an artist’s model before. An' I've seen your work, it's good”.
Greg sensed Mycroft's step slow and watched his head tilt fractionally, but Mycroft didn't turn as he replied
“Is that so? When was this?”
“Sherlock is actually a bit proud of you, you know. Showed me some of your figure work on his phone. Impressive. You are good at people,” (Mycroft made a scoffing noise in the back of his throat) “painting them, I mean. Bold use of background colour too. Can't wait to see what shade you choose for me”.
The answer came without a moment’s hesitation.
“Seafoam green, naturally”.
The speed of the response and Mycroft's choice of words piqued Greg's inquisitive nature.
“Why ‘naturally’?”
A long pause this time, and Mycroft had almost reached the top step of the 3rd flight before responding in an offhand manner (which was unconvincing, given the time he had taken to respond).
“Seafoam green will compliment your skin tone, emphasise the silver in your hair and bring out that hint of hazel in your eyes. The choice was… elementary”.
Greg hastily looked down at his tread on the stairs, ‘Bloody Holmeses. Putting you off balance with their directness and their lack of understanding of English social norms (in this case that both parties should be mortifyingly embarrassed when either giving or receiving such personal observations)’. Greg's eyebrow raised however as he considered the statement.
“You noticed that? I thought that hazel thing was just my mum trying to make my brown eyes sound more interesting”.
Mycroft turned to watch and wait for Greg to reach level with him on the attic landing, before intoning with a weight that most people would interpret as threatening, but Greg recognised as earnestness
“I notice everything”.
They walked through to a large attic room with whitewashed walls, exposed wooden beams and floorboards spattered with paint of every hue. Yellowy autumn sunshine from the large skylights warmed the space (which was cluttered with paint pots, rags and canvases and was more higgledy-piggledy than Greg would ever have imagined a room of Mycroft's to look) and Greg's eye skimmed the many paintings leant against the walls - entirely life paintings, not a bowl of fruit or a bunch of flowers anywhere to be seen, just people. Sometimes just bits of people; a back, some legs, hands etc. Those hands... Greg felt sure he recognised those hands - the long, slender fingers – the realisation of which pulled his eye back to those paintings of sculptured thighs, that lithe, supple back, were those also…? He caught himself licking his lips and forced his gaze to the less intimate sight of the easel, the brushes on the trestle table and a small wooden chair in the corner of the room. Mycroft walked to the easel, motioning backwards with an elegant swish of his fingers to the chair as he went.
“Just pop your clothes on the carver”.
Greg was halfway to removing his jacket on autopilot when he stopped, frozen in mid step, his eyes wide. He looked over, trying to catch Mycroft's eye, but Mycroft was rifling through a jam jar of paintbrushes and wasn’t looking at him.
‘Purposefully not looking at me’, Greg thought.
“My what?”
“Clothes, Lestrade. On the carver chair, if you please”.
‘Extremely not looking at me’, Greg noticed.
“...which clothes, exactly?”
“All of them, naturally”.
Greg barked out a short, incongruous, too-loud laugh.
“Ummmm... Sherlock never said I'd be- I mean, that you wanted... I wasn't expecting to be-“
Hearing the obvious discomfort in Greg’s voice, Mycroft finally looked up.
“Oh. I see”.
Mycroft rolled his chosen paintbrush between his fingers thoughtfully, watching as Greg ran a hand down over his face, puffing a heavy breath through his fingers as he tried to get his head around this unexpected development.
“Now I get why Sherlock was so eager to palm this off. I'm sorry Mycroft, this is awkward…”
Mycroft's eye was cool, his voice commanding as he held Greg's embarrassed glance.
“You said you'd help me”.
“Yeah, but no one said anything about me getting my kit off”.
Mycroft rolled his eyes.
“All my portraiture are nudes, look around you, Lestrade. Those pieces Sherlock showed you must have been more of the same. What did you think?”
“I didn't think-“
Mycroft interrupted with a sniff.
“I can hardly be blamed for your lack of cognitive function”.
Greg bristled at this. It wasn’t his fault Sherlock hadn’t mentioned he’d be doing this starkers. And he wasn’t going to be guilted or bullied into something he hadn’t had time to think through. Greg folded his arms and raised his chin.
“I'm not stripping”.
Mycroft considered his ‘model’ for a moment, then delicately put down the brush he had been twiddling between his fingers and sighed in his best ‘bored Sherlock’ impression.
“Fine. I'll send for a car to collect you”.
“There's no need, I can walk to the tube” replied Greg, the disappointment heavy in his voice as he zipped up his jacket.
Mycroft's voice took on a steelier tone.
“I'll send. For. A car”.
“OK”. Greg was too miserable to argue. This wasn’t how he’d hoped this morning would go at all.
They sat sulking across from each other at the kitchen table, waiting for the car, untouched tea cooling between them. Mycroft was ramrod straight, drumming his fingers stiffly on the tabletop. Greg was slumped back against his chair, arms folded across his chest, legs spread. Their eyes met. Mycroft blinked slowly and looked away. Greg felt like he did as a probationary officer, when he'd disappointed his Sergeant. He was sorry that the morning he had anticipated all week had gone so wrong, but he hadn’t been prepared for what he’d been hit with, and he wasn’t going to feel bad about needing a bit of time to process the request. Of course (he reasoned to himself) having Mycroft tell him to undress had been the dream scenario in his head when he knocked on the door half an hour ago, but this wasn’t the way he had hoped it would happen. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, maybe? He could still get this back on track, get Mycroft talking at least. Then, who knows? Greg sat up a bit straighter and dropped his eyes to the tabletop, mumbling
“Will you be able to find someone else?”
Mycroft's chin raised a fraction higher in the air.
“Immaterial. I had rather set my heart on your form, Inspector”.
Greg looked up instantly, the teasing smile ready on his lips once he'd decided that Mycroft had heard his own words. But he hadn't appeared to. Greg tried to elicit a further response from the petulant man in front of him.
“Not sure you meant that the way it came out”.
Mycroft raised one knowing eyebrow in response. Haughty, but again earnest.
‘Oh?’ Greg’s police officer brain was suddenly paying a lot more attention, looking for clues to confirm or deny the tiny suspicion which that eyebrow had ignited in him.
Mycroft reached out slowly and, picking up a teaspoon, stirred his now tepid tea with a languorous hand. Watching the spoon, Mycroft replied after a considered pause
“I have long coveted an opportunity to make a physical study of you, Lestrade. Your shapeless raincoats and ill-fitting suits have left far too much to my limited imagination” (he looked up now into Greg's eyes) “I have been quite giddy with anticipation to have you...” (he paused purposefully) “…pose for me”.
Greg swallowed, not sure if Mycroft's choice of words was just ‘artist speak’ or if he was intending to communicate what Greg thought he was hearing. Either way, Greg hoped the heat he could feel in his face wasn't visible, his adolescent blush would be instantly recognisable as the pantone shade 'turned on tomato'.
“But… you asked Sherlock to pose, this was a last-minute swap, I'm your sub. Stitution! Substitution!” (he added at speed, his footballing metaphor having accidentally taken on a different meaning, at least, he had thought it was accidental until he'd actually heard himself saying it).
“Hmm”. Mycroft picked up his cup and put it to his lips. Grimacing at the cold liquid, he put the cup down again. Resting his elbows on the table, Mycroft steepled his fingers and gave Greg his full attention, which Greg discovered was a quite dizzying amount of attention.
“An orchestrated ruse, I am afraid. A deception on our part, my apologies. My brother owed me a favour. I wanted to paint you and he said he could make it happen. But,” (and now he narrowed his eyes a fraction, which felt to Greg as if Mycroft were focussing a laser) “either Sherlock is getting better at lying or you didn't see his lie. I doubt the former (Sherlock is expert in many things, but as a liar he has the skills of a six-year-old). If the latter, I wonder if you didn’t see the lie because you were unable to detect the falsehood, 'Detective Inspector'” (this last said with emphasis) “or because you didn't want to detect it”.
Okay, Greg knew when he was busted. Might as well come clean. Greg unfolded his arms and sat forward on his chair.
“Alright, it's possible I may have agreed to the idea of modelling for you a little hastily. I just thought it might be a good opportunity”.
“To?” Mycroft's voice was softer, warmer than Greg had heard it all morning, possibly ever. It felt like encouragement.
“To talk to you. Away from your brother. Away from crime scenes and underground lairs. Get to know you a bit, maybe”.
Mycroft smirked at the reference to the favourite of his many offices.
“It’s hardly a lair”.
“It's a lair and you know it”.
“And now?”
“Now?”
“Do you still think this a good opportunity for us to get to know each other, now that you know what you have signed up for in more detail?”
Greg exhaled, shaking his head and trying not to let the smile show.
“Seems like you're gonna know me a hell of a lot more than I'll know you if we do this”.
Mycroft waited, soundless and still. The master tactician. Greg bit his lip, considering, then made his decision.
“Fine. I'll do it”.
“You will?”
“Yep. The full monty”.
“Thank you, Lestrade”.
“I think you can call me Greg if you’re gonna see me in the altogether”.
Mycroft bowed his head in acquiescence.
“Thank you, Greg”.
Mycroft rose from the table and Greg looked up into the face of a man who looked like the cat that got the cream.
“But I’m only doing this because I couldn't bear to watch you pout anymore”.
“Of course. Very gracious of you” was Mycroft's smug reply.
Greg stood and followed Mycroft out of the kitchen and back down the hallway.
“You sulk even better than your brother, you know that?”.
“I taught him everything he knows”. The smugness was reaching new heights.
A thought struck Greg as he fiddled idly with the zip on his jacket.
“Can we put the rad on? My nethers would appreciate it, if I’m gonna be in the nuddy”.
“Whatever you wish. Greg”.
As they climbed the stairs again, Mycroft leading the way again, Greg was now three steps behind and not feeling even slightly bad about it this time. He contemplated the view of Mycroft's narrow hips and decidedly pert behind, which decided him on his next words. Mycroft was unable to see the look of mischief that slid across Greg’s features as he opened his mouth but, if he had, he still wouldn’t have guessed what Greg was about to propose.
“But I invoke the right of ‘tit for tat’”.
“Equivalent retaliation? I fail to grasp your meaning”.
“Simple. You gotta strip too. My tit for your... tat”.
Greg grinned as Mycroft stopped dead on the stairs, nearly causing Greg to crash into the back of him. Mycroft turned on the stair, iceberg slow, and peered down at Greg over his rapidly pinkening nose.
“What?”
The fact that Mycroft had said ‘what’ and not ‘pardon’ showed Greg that he really had taken the man by surprise. How many people can say they have done that? Greg wondered as he replied
“I’m only ‘in the buff’ if you are. That's the deal”.
Mycroft only managed to exhale an exasperated “Lestrade-“ before he was interrupted and corrected.
“Greg”.
Mycroft spoke slowly, as if addressing an infant.
“Greg. I. Am the painter. You. Are the model”.
“Yep. Got that bit”.
“The painter remains clothed. At All Times. The model is the one who-“
Greg smiled smugly.
“Don't care”.
Mycroft didn’t actually pinch the bridge of his nose, but the action was heavily implied.
“That's not how these things work. Not at all”.
Greg shrugged with a grin.
“Still don't care”.
Mycroft ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth, his piercing glare correctly deducing that Greg wasn’t going to budge on this. So the question was – how much did he, Mycroft, want this?
A lot was the quick answer.
Mycroft considered the facts: he himself would be mostly concealed by his easel and canvas, plus a strategically placed paint pot could be used most advantageously. Greg would have no such cover. Mycroft would still have the better half of the deal. So long as he remembered to move the long mirror that leant against the wall behind his working area, (that he used to bounce light around the studio, but which would give Greg an entirely unacceptable view of his posterior when Mycroft stood at the canvas) then this may not be the disaster it at first appeared. Not ideal of course, but Mycroft wasn’t going to let this opportunity get away from him when he was so close to getting his eyes on Greg’s frame in all its Apollo-esque beauty. Sometimes one just had to make sacrifices. Besides (Mycroft considered pragmatically) he had done 45 minutes on the running machine mere minutes before Greg’s arrival, the effects of which would still be visible, it was good timing if nothing else.
Mycroft made a show of mentally rising above it all for the sake of ‘art’ and replied with an obvious sigh of resignation
“Fine”.
“Then lead the way, Van Gogh” said Greg with a wink and a theatrical swish of his hand to the staircase. Turning back to continue the upward journey, Mycroft was already mentally picking brush widths and trying to recall where he had put his mahl stick, when he heard a purred voice behind him, announcing in a tone as smug as any Holmes
“But the deal is off if you move that mirror by so much as a centimetre, understand?”
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Postscript.
Thirty minutes later, there was more seafoam green on Greg than on the canvas (and Mycroft was quite right, of course, it did bring out his eyes beautifully) and Mycroft was now a wonderfully complimentary mix of porcelain skin, copper freckles and petrol blue paint, which had spilled as the trestle table had given up under the considerable strain. ;)