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As soon as Greg Lestrade arrived at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes pointed him toward the vacant armchair in the sitting room.
“All right, Sherlock, I got here quick as I could,” huffed Lestrade, who was a little out of breath from rushing up the stairs. “You said it was an emergency. What's going on?”
Sherlock, resplendent in a dressing gown and bare feet, stalked around the sitting room for a few moments in silence.
Just when Lestrade was about to become very dizzy, the consulting detective suddenly stopped and pivoted toward his visitor.
“My brother.”
The inspector frowned. “Yeah? What about him? Look, if this is about Baskerville ...”
“No. It's about Mycroft,” said Sherlock, beginning to pace again. “He is in need of a lover.”
Greg blinked. “Uh ... what?”
“He requires a lover,” repeated Sherlock. “Someone with whom he can have repeated sexual congress. And perhaps partake in light meals and trips to the cinema. I've decided that you are the best choice. He finds you attractive, and he believes you to be a very intelligent and competent detective, despite all evidence you've displayed to the contrary.”
“Well … I'm flatter – hey!”
“He enjoys walks in the rain, cake, and wines with obnoxiously long names,” said Sherlock, ignoring Lestrade's look of anger. “Now that it's all settled, I have to see to my experiment. I think the hypothalami must be thawed by now. Make sure you pull the door to when you go out. It sticks.”
Lestrade's voice rose in outrage as soon as Sherlock started toward the kitchen.
“Wait a minute! You can't just tell me that you've picked me to shag your brother!”
Sherlock turned around and looked truly puzzled. “John was out on a date last night with a woman who is acquainted with of one of his old medical school friends. He was told that she would be perfect for him and he didn't question it. I'm almost certain they shagged. How is this different?”
Greg rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he decided to join the Metropolitan Police Service, he knew that he'd be often putting his life in danger, but he didn't know his sanity would be on the firing line as well.
“It wouldn't be different if you said something like: 'Oi, Greg, would you fancy asking Mycroft out for a drink sometime?' Not 'Lestrade, go forth and fuck my brother while I play with frozen brain parts.' Where the hell did you even get … never mind.”
Sherlock waved dismissively. “This is what I don't understand about romantic relationships. All of those useless, dull preliminaries when the main goal appears to be sex. John has spent countless hours thinking about how to 'romance' a woman, when all he wanted in most cases was to get her out of her clothing. I'm just saving time and getting to the heart of the matter.”
“There's more to it than that, for me, anyway,” said Lestrade. “For a one-off, okay, fine, you may have a point. But for a relationship, I need to know there's more going on than just what's under their kit.”
“You've known Mycroft for five years. You know exactly who and what he is – decadent, meddlesome, priggish ...”
“Um, Sherlock, usually when someone tries a fixup, they talk about all the good qualities the other person has.”
Sherlock looked puzzled again. “But this is Mycroft we're discussing.”
“Not to mention that I've only been divorced for about three minutes. The ink's barely dry on the decree! I don't know if I fancy getting involved in something, uh, wait.” Lestrade looked suddenly uncomfortable. “What made you even think I'd fancy a bloke anyway?”
“Well, that it's taken you nearly 8 minutes since I first proposed this for you to ask the question at all is a pretty broad hint.” A small smile flitted across Sherlock's face. “That and the fact that I've seen you ogling John's arse.”
“Now wait a minute! –”
“It's all right. It's a nice arse,” said Sherlock. “Mycroft doesn't have one near as round … symmetrical … buoyant ...”
“Um, buoyant?”
The dark-haired man faintly blushed. “But Mycroft is age-appropriate, makes an obscene amount of money, and would spoil you, if that is what you desire.”
“Sherlock, I don't know what I desire, and I don't think having it off with your brother is going to help me make a decision.” Greg took deep, cleansing breaths. “Look, in a way, this is rather sweet, what you're trying to do ...”
“Sweetness has nothing to do with it.” Sherlock pulled a face. “I simply want him to stop meddling in my life and in John's. Perhaps regular sexual activity will –”
“Yeah, okay, okay, I get it.” Lestrade shook his head. “Listen, I've never really given it a ton of thought, but I don't know that I'd be opposed to having a drink or dinner with your brother –”
“Glorious. I'll text him –”
“- Bloody hell, let me finish!” Greg snapped. “I wouldn't be opposed to it, just not now! Leah and I are still trying to sort out custody arrangements, I've just found a flat, and people are still getting murdered so it's not like I don't have an actual job to do. In a month or two, maybe I'll have my head above water enough to think about wines with long names and cakes and that.”
“A month?”
“Or two!” Lestrade stood up. “I can't pinpoint it down to the minute, but if he's still single and you think he'd be interested ...”
“I suppose that will have to do,” said Sherlock, sounding sullen. “I have my experiments to attend to. Remember what I said about the door.”
Lestrade watched the consulting detective disappear into the kitchen and then a rather appalling clanging noise drowned out pretty much everything else. Lestrade suspected Sherlock was doing it purposely in order to speed his departure. He slowly went back down the stairs, being careful to shut the door tightly.
As he waited for a taxi, Lestrade thought over the whole bizarre conversation. He hadn't been checking out John's arse, anyway. He'd thought the army doctor had a spider on his trousers.
And what the hell would Sherlock know about a buoyant arse anyway? Do those even exist?
Greg's mobile went off and he got it out of his overcoat pocket. It was a text from Sherlock with an attachment.
John occasionally sends photos of himself to women he wishes to impress. I don't see the point, but here is what you could call a flattering picture of my brother. SH
Lestrade frowned at the screen as the picture began to download. It seemed to have been taken in a very sunny climate. Was that sand? Yes. It was a beach. Blue water frothing at the shoreline, palm trees in the distance. The very essence of paradise.
But that wasn't the most eye-grabbing part of the photo. At front and center, was Mycroft Holmes. And he was most certainly not wearing a suit ... not one of the three-piece variety, anyway.
His hair looked auburn in the sun and his freckled shoulders and chest were accented by a light tan. But what made Lestrade's eyes almost jump from their sockets were the shorts. Mycroft wore a pair of very abbreviated swim shorts that showcased everything in addition to highlighting a pair of well-formed, muscular legs that seemed to end at about his eyebrows.
Greg's jaw dropped. He stared. And stared. And stared.
After another minute or two, he shakily scrolled through his contacts before he reached the number he wanted.
"... Mycroft? Hi. Greg Lestrade here." He swallowed hard. "Listen ... you wouldn't be free for dinner this weekend, would you?"
fin