Chapter Text
The first dozen or so times Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes encountered each other they were not exactly themselves. They usually met in the silent, inky blue hour before dawn. Two almost naked bodies glistening wet and warm. Muscles stretching long and taut, and hearts beating at almost double their normal rate.
At first, they didn’t look at each other directly. It seemed just not the done thing to stare. Instead, each stole a glance or two whenever he could manage, trying not to draw the attention of other men nearby.
They both found it difficult at times to hide a gathering storm of desire in their eyes. Mycroft’s gaze followed the solid curves of Greg's biceps and thighs and the pattern of soft dark hair spreading across his chest and down past his waist in a beckoning path. Greg was fascinated by Mycroft’s slim, pale grace. Every movement he made seemed to be effortless, weightless—as if those long limbs were filled with air instead of flesh and bones.
Under the circumstances, they were at first quite happy to be relatively anonymous, stripped not just of their normal suits and ties, but also of their ranks and professional identities. They knew nothing of each other except first names. And in the case of Mycroft—always circumspect, withholding all valuable information—even that was a lie.
“Hey, you’ve been doing this for a while, haven’t you?” said Greg a bit shyly the first time they found themselves alone together. “I just started coming here—name’s Greg, by the way.”
“Ah. Yes, I’ve been coming here for a few weeks. I’m . . . Mike,” answered Mycroft. Hesitating to extend his hand to this stranger, he simply nodded and smiled. But in the smile and the curious blue eyes, Greg saw a possibility that sent a small tremor of anticipation along his spine.
For the next few weeks, three or four days each week, they engaged in a little small talk, a few jokes. The blue eyes began to laugh and shine. Greg now spent his daily commute crafting stories to make Mycroft giggle or blush. Mycroft looked forward to those early morning encounters as bright respites in otherwise dark and dreary weeks. Greg's sudden breaches of Mycroft's normally well-guarded personal space were less disconcerting each time. In fact, Mycroft came to crave those fleeting moments far more than he thought he should.
But just when Greg had decided he would like to bridge the distance between them and make a real connection—maybe ask Mike out for coffee or breakfast afterward . . . he was gone. No warning. No explanation.
The explanation, had Mycroft chosen to supply it, was simple. Mycroft Holmes did not allow himself to give in to distractions that might remove focus from his own work—both as a (quite, quite minor, of course) representative of the British government and as Sherlock’s keeper. Besides, he no longer needed to leave his home for the physical stimulation he craved.
Mycroft enjoyed the stillness, the softer lighting, and certainly the superior aesthetics of his own gleaming, new lap pool. The water glowed turquoise instead of institutional grey. And he felt more comfortable here than in the health club he had been forced to frequent during the renovation--the place he had met Greg Lestrade. He had chosen that club specifically because no one in his circle would ever show up there, so far from their usual elegant haunts.
He dipped one foot in and shivered, but as soon as he pulled his goggles into place and began slicing through the water, he felt warm and loose, and his anxieties dissolved. Solitude suited him, he assured himself, as he counted out the lengths.
But when he slipped into bed later, skin still sensitive and warm from the shower, he heard it: a gravelly, teasing voice, saying, “Mornin', Mike. Feel like a race today?” And he saw the smile. The one that still drew all the air out of his lungs, just remembering it.
Each night for months thereafter, Mycroft tried to recall the sound of that voice as clearly as he could, while the tips of his fingers skimmed over the damp spot on his pyjamas, and he slowly stroked his erection from base to tip. He imagined Greg’s body wrapped around him in the water. As his fantasies progressed, Greg was lying on top, hips pressing firmly down and moving at a perfect pace, chest lifted just enough so Mycroft could tongue and nibble dark, pebbled nipples.
Kisses hot and desperate with wanting. Greg thrusting against him, then into him. Hanging on so tight his muscles ached and trembled.
Greg’s arms around him.
Still around him.
Still.
To be held by someone who doesn't want to let go, thought Mycroft. Yes.
That would be . . . he couldn't put a word to it, for his imagination had reached its limit.
The fingers of Mycroft’s left hand dug into his pillow as he came, burying his face deeply in the softness to muffle his own voice, calling his imaginary lover’s name. Mycroft was ashamed of the weakness this man had brought to the surface. He had time for only tidy, disposable relationships. Not this. Not passion. Not obsession. But he could not bring himself to think of anyone else now, and whispered the name once again, before placing the pillow back beneath his head and welcoming sleep and more dreams.
Mycroft waited one week after ending his trips to the health club—a polite interval, he thought—before sending an agent to find every scrap of information available about this Greg. This policeman. Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft kept his thick file, cryptically labeled Freestyle, in a locked drawer in his bedside table where he could occasionally pull out the photos and year-by-year details of a respectable, but as yet unremarkable life and memorize each one.
And—again, feeling embarrassed by his obsession—he kept one small black and white photo of the man in his briefcase, hidden inside a signed volume of Joseph Brodsky’s verse, marking a poem that reflected one of Mycroft's recurring dreams so precisely that it always made him smile.
If you were drowning, I’d come to the rescue,
wrap you in my blanket and pour hot tea.
If I were a sheriff, I’d arrest you
and keep you in a cell under lock and key.
* * *
One day, based on his newly acquired knowledge of the Metropolitan Police, Mycroft decided to try something different to keep Sherlock occupied. He arranged a series of "accidental" meetings between his brother and Detective Inspectors Dimmock, Gregson, and Lestrade, knowing that the cases they were working would be irresistible to Sherlock, who would surely preen and pose and show off his deductive brilliance along with many of his less admirable qualities.
Mycroft soon recognized that--as he had suspected--D. I. Lestrade alone had the patience and good humor to deal with Sherlock's peculiarities, and they might form a good working partnership. They did so in short order. Now Mycroft had the great pleasure of keeping watch over Greg--from a proper distance, of course--under the guise of his usual sibling surveillance.
For several months, Mycroft felt no need to intervene further in Sherlock's life or to speak to Lestrade himself; he was happy to observe the pair at work. But early one June morning it became clear in several bits of CCTV footage that Sherlock's addictions had returned with a vengeance, so Mycroft prepared himself for the inevitable ugliness, and made plans to pick up the pieces--again. But before he observed signs that Sherlock had crashed, Mycroft was surprised to see his brother exhibiting a few signs of withdrawal.
In the past, Sherlock had suspended his habits only under duress. The duress usually included abduction by Mycroft's minions and, on occasion, temporary imprisonment in a remote cottage in Wales. Sherlock had an abiding hatred of Wales, so sometimes the mere threat of being exiled there was enough to keep him in line.
Mycroft found it curious that the addict appeared to be trying to break free of the demons on his own now. Or, as it turned out, with a bit of help from a man with a blanket and hot tea.