Work Text:
Greg Lestrade was not having the best day. Awake since a quarter of three in the morning, it was now half past one in the morning. He stood back while Donovan questioned a new widow. There was something about the woman that niggled at the back of his mind, something he could not put a finger on.
Same with a book he saw in the window of a shop that morning. And with the new watch he noticed on his boss’ wrist while being royally blasted by him for something that was not his fault.
Greg chastised himself to pay attention before he missed something – else, or nearly did something stupid – again.
Goodness knows I do not need another dressing down from Sherlock Holmes, when I was caught semi day-dreaming.
There had been something about a painting in a different murder’s home that had triggered a similar feeling he could not quite grasp.
“I would think the copious amount of blood on the floor you’re about to step into would have your attention, not- whatever that monstrosity passing itself off as art on the wall. Clearly you don’t need my assistance if you can’t pay attention, Inspector. ”
And with that Sherlock flounced off minutes later.
Now hours after the fact, it still rankled. Suffice it to say when his phone buzzed with a familiar pattern Greg was not in the mood.
Mycroft. Oh, Christ, what does he want?
Before he fully retrieved his phone from his pocket the buzzing stopped. Assuming an accidental dial, and grateful to no have to deal with the man right now, Greg went back to work. He would have completely dismissed the incident if the same did not happen again as he and Donovan left the scene and called it quits for the night.
Greg stared at his phone in surprise. Mycroft Holmes accidentally dialing someone once was a mistake. But twice – within the span of twenty minutes?
That did NOT happen.
Greg immediately dialed the man as he rushed to his car.
“Gregory, I apologize. I was not aware of the late hour and…”
Tired as he was, even Greg heard the falsehood of it. Greg did not lie to himself. He knew Mycroft Holmes to be a master manipulator. If he truly wanted to lie to Greg, he would be none the wiser. Greg did not think twice as he interrupted.
“Bollocks, Mycroft. What do you need?”
“I…”
The phone fell silent. The seconds ticking by was the only reason Greg knew the man had not rung out. As Greg somehow knew he would, he smiled to himself when Mycroft spoke again exactly as the minute mark struck.
“I must suffer being in close quarters with another being.”
Mycroft suffer?
His exhaustion fled; Greg looked at his phone. “Excuse me?”
The uber intelligent genius worked in a position the world does not know exists and is better for it. Mycroft Holmes causes suffering in others who do not listen to his advice in that position. Mycroft himself does not suffer for anything but save his brother and migraines; that his brother, Sherlock, was sometimes the cause of said Migraines, notwithstanding. A man for whom caring is not an advantage is practically a mantra, Mycroft most certainly did not suffer the company of others if he did not have to, including Greg’s. Something he had made known repeatedly in their association, even if that now decade old association has slowly grown into something of a friendship from once acrimonious beginnings.
Greg started his car. “It’s past two in the morning, Mycroft. I’m having a bad day, could you be a little more forthcoming?”
“I know, Gregory... As am I...” Mycroft sighed. Before Greg could take in the enormity of that admission, Mycroft continued. “I... I find myself in the unique mindset of desiring quiet, but not solitude and the Quiet Room will not do. If I must do this – and clearly, I must – the only compromise is to align myself with someone who would cause the least egregiousness to my sensibilities. I lament that it seems it would be… you.”
“I…” It was Greg’s turn to take a full minute to parse through the backhanded part to reach the possible compliment.
He wants company? But not just any company. He wants MY company…
“Where are you?”
“Diogenes, if you’re too tired, Gregory, I will underst-”
“Be there in twenty.” Greg rang out.
---- ----
Greg spied a middle-of-the-night Mycroft sat at his desk. His shirt sleeves were perfectly folded, exposing his forearms. It was only the second time Greg had seen him as such. With his eyes glued to his work, Mycroft blinked when Greg stood in the door and softly cleared his throat.
You called here I am. Your insufferable company.
Mycroft checked the time, seventeen minutes. He gave a slight smile when Greg said nothing else as he closed the door, and hung his trench on the rack.
Always the perfect host, Mycroft gestured between the choice of the wingback chairs by the fireplace, a decanter of what Greg knew would be very expensive brandy on a table between them, or the sofa which had a pillow and a blanket folded on top, in deference to the late hour.
Mycroft stood; a curious look flickered across his face as Greg chose neither but approached the desk instead.
Greg closed the laptop and glared at Mycroft daring him to gainsay him as he pointed to the chairs.
You want quiet, but not solitude, but you are not working while I just sit around and twiddle my…
Caught in Mycroft’s blue/grey gaze he was reminded of the art that had captured his attention – It had the same color. Without looking down he knew then that his boss’ new watch reminded him of Mycroft’s pocket watch. The book he saw in the shop? A copy of Narnia that he and Mycroft had talked about at their last dinner. And the canned lights above Mycroft’s head shone on the ginger hairs of the hirsute man’s forearms. Hair the bright ginger color of the victim’s wife Donovan interviewed.
…Oh
“Gregory?” Mycroft broke the silence. “Are you well?”
He called...
He started to say I saw something today, and it made me think of you, but stopped himself just in time.
...and I came running...
It was then Greg realized these were not one-off occurrences at all. He has been seeing the man in seemingly random things, not just that day, but for quite a while.
...without batting an eye...
Oh shit…
“I’m fine – shall we…?” Greg quickly turned, walked to the chairs, sat, and poured himself a much-needed drink.
He called and here I am…
In a moment of shocking clarity, Gregory Lestrade understood something else:
I’m in love with Mycroft Holmes and I absolutely cannot tell him.
OH SHIT!