Chapter Text
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard found himself standing on the sidewalk outside a grizzly crime scene waiting for the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes to arrive. The rain was like ice every time it struck him, forcing Greg to huddle in his coat trying to keep warm.
The harsh crime scene lights seemed incongruous in the well cared for middle class neighbourhood they were in, the perfectly kept gardens and facades, family homes with nice cars in driveways. An idyllic image that in Greg’s jaded experience always seemed to hide monstrous things.
Greg patted his pockets, finding his cigarettes and lighter, pulling one out and lighting it. The draw of nicotine into his lungs was a relief, the red glow of the ember calming. From inside he could hear Anderson and Sally griping and grousing about an amateur coming in and messing up the crime scene.
A gust of wind had Greg shivering in his layers and shifting to protect his cigarette. Taking another drag, his attention was snagged by a sleek black car approaching down the street and slowly pulling up beside the police line. Curious, Greg eyed the car, glancing up and down the street, it wasn’t the usual black cab Sherlock used but maybe he’d gotten a lift.
Greg’s stomach clenched as a well-dressed man exited the car, a black umbrella already up and shielding its bearing from the rain before his foot had even landed on the pavement. The man approached Greg sedately, radiating power and authority with every step.
He had stopped just in front of Greg, the edge of his umbrella just shielding Greg from the worst of the rain and cocooning them in their own little world. “Detective Inspector Lestrade” he said with all the certainty and confidence of one use to being in charge.
Greg wondered why this case would have the higher ups sending a suit to his crime scene. A very well dressed and powerful suit.
“Yes?” Greg could not keep the weariness from his tone, dropping and stomping out the end of his cigarette while maintaining eye contact.
“I’m afraid Sherlock Holmes cannot make it tonight” the man answered, for all the world appearing contrite but Lestrade swore he could see a something in his eyes.
“Bugger” Greg muttered, resisting the urge to swear a blue streak. Oh, it was going to be a long night now. Like Anderson, the higher ups didn’t approve of Sherlock having access to crimes scenes and ongoing investigations, they couldn’t see beyond his past to the value of his observations. Sure, he was a pain in the ass, but he was a very helpful pain in the ass.
Sighing, Greg ran a hand through his hair. “Thanks” he muttered to the suit, beginning to turn to call his team to order “Mr ...” he paused, and turn back around, facing him again.
Who was this man? Greg couldn’t recall him introducing himself. He gazed at him critically, trying to observe him like Sherlock would.
He had all the appearance of a pencil pusher, an average face and build, though something about him kept niggling Greg. He had a sophisticated air of a formidable analytic who could end his career with a couple of words. Who could also give him one hell of a night to remember. Greg pushed the thought away, trying not to frown.
“Wait, who are you? How do you know Sherlock?” Greg asked, his tone abrupt and bordering on accusing.
The man smirked, tilting his head slightly giving Greg a considering once over. His eyes lingering longer than necessary. “Hmm” he hummed, holding out his hand.
Greg automatically grasped it, the man’s touch leaving sparks in its wake.
“Mycroft Holmes.”
Greg’s eyes widened, surely not, “Any relation?”
“Yes” he was smirking now, looking pleased with the chaos he was causing Greg.
“God help us” he breathed, “there are more.”
That smile, thoughts of wild nights and wicked things resurfaced. God, he hoped Mycroft Holmes couldn’t read people like Sherlock could. Greg didn’t think he could handle having his attraction laid bare like that.
Luckily for him observational skills weren’t a Holmes trait or Mycroft had a much better filter as all he did after that was nod his head towards Greg.
“Goodnight, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I’m sure we will meet again” and with that he was turning and strolling back to his car.
The icy rain that had been held off by his umbrella suddenly falling around Greg again as he stood there dumbfounded, staring at Mycroft’s retreating back and vehicle.
“Who was that?” asked Sally from his left, startling Greg. Shaking his head a little, he hummed a noncommittal response, striding back to work pushing thoughts of Mycroft Holmes aside for work.
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In the back of his car Mycroft smiled, recalling the face of the handsome silver-haired Detective Inspector, pupils blown wide and mouth slightly open in a look of such surprise and arousal. He found himself intrigued by the man.
“Anthea. Increase surveillance of Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
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For the next few weeks anytime Greg saw a sleek black car like Mycroft’s, he would recall Mycroft standing close umbrella shielding him from icy rain and Mycroft’s gaze boring into his. Each time this happened, he would force himself to think of anything else; another case, his ex-wife, Sally and Anderson’s questionable workplace relationship. The car was inevitably not the one he wanted it to be, no Mycroft Holmes in his tailored suit waiting for him in the backseat.
He’d tried asking around about Mycroft but his enquires got nowhere until finally the chief inspector quietly told him to stop asking about Mycroft Holmes it was making people nervous.
Slowly over time he was able to stop himself from noticing similar cars and was able to push thoughts of Mycroft aside.
That was until that sleek black car pulled up at another crime scene. Sally was manning the police cordon so Greg could only watch in horror as Sherlock tumbled out of the car followed by the serene Mycroft, umbrella hooked over his arm.
Sherlock in his usual abrupt manner was addressing Mycroft, “Yes, thank you Mycroft. You can go now” however Mycroft wasn’t returning to the car, his gaze had unerringly found Greg’s.
“What are you doing?” Sherlock’s voice was dripping with animosity, his displeasure palpable to all. Mycroft ignored him, crossing the cordon and approaching Greg.
Greg found himself conflicted, Mycroft’s confident gait was doing unspeakable things to him, Sherlock’s horror at the situation was perversely amusing while also embarrassing. Greg knew Sherlock would find a way to use this against him at some point.
Greg found he had consciously moved to meet the two men. Greg considered them, they looked like siblings bickering and antagonising each other.
“I thought I’d observe you working” Mycroft blithely remarked glancing at Sherlock, seeming to challenger the other. He turned back to Greg and smiled, voice a touch lower “If that is amenable to you, Detective Inspector Lestrade?” Greg was frozen, his brain short circuiting.
Sherlock looked back and forth between the two, doing nothing to conceal his horrified and scandalised looks. Greg could feel his cheeks beginning to redden.
“No. Stop that” Sherlock snapped at Mycroft with a scowl.
Mycroft had a look of incredulity as he responded, “Sherlock, really?”
Sherlock shot Mycroft a glare, “Mycroft. Leave.” He demanded scornfully.
Greg watched as Mycroft gave Sherlock an assessing looking before sighing faintly, eveidently deciding fighting with Sherlock wasn’t worth it. He gave Greg one last lingering look and apologetic head tilt, “Until next time Detective Inspector Lestrade”
Greg managed a nod of his own and “Mycroft” before the other was turning and walking away.
Next to him Sherlock huffed in outrage and stalked off, radiating indignation and ignoring Greg.
Greg felt suddenly adrift standing between the two retreating men. Mycroft nor Sherlock had indicated how they were related but that level of enmity and contention was one he’d seen many times between brothers.
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Their next meeting was entirely by chance. It was one of those rare sunny days that coincided with one of Greg’s days off. Greg couldn’t stand to stay inside with the sun shining brightly so he’d pulled on his leathers and taken his bike for a scenic drive through London.
He’d found himself riding aimlessly through the streets of central London before deciding to stop and treat himself to some coffee at a swanky St James cafe.
He was leaning against his bike enjoying a cinnamon roll with his coffee when a familiar sleet black car pulled up in front of him. Frowning at the vehicle he almost missed Mycroft Holmes, umbrella in hand, leaving one of the posh old sandstone buildings surrounding him. Following behind him like baby ducklings were two others. A smartly dressed woman, head down on a Blackberry, likely his assistant as Mycroft was saying something to her. The other was a man in a black baggy suit, he was alert and scanning their surroundings, he was clearly a bodyguard.
Greg saw the moment Mycroft noticed him. He watched as Mycroft’s step wobbled slightly before freezing altogether, his words dying. His assistant only just keeping herself from walking into him looked up at Mycroft’s sudden change. Mycroft’s eyes were wide and his mouth slightly agape, dazed and flushed.
Greg couldn’t help but smile at the show of emotion, smoothly pushing off his bike to an upright position.
Mycroft visibly collected himself, schooling his face back to neutrality. The bodyguard said something that Mycroft waved off before diverting from the path to his car and advancing towards Greg.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade. What a delightful surprise.”
Greg’s stomach fluttered, but the way Mycroft seemed to purr while leaning his weight against his umbrella and his eyes roving over Greg’s leather clad body.
Greg watched as he swallowed, tongue swiftly wetting his lips. It was indecent the things this man did to him; it was a good thing his leather pants weren’t skintight.
“Mycroft, it’s good to see you” he smiled, “and please call me Greg.”
Mycroft’s brow twitched at the nickname before smoothing.
“How are the cases coming along Gregory? Sherlock seems enraptured by the latest little murder spree. I do hope you’re including him in your investigations.”
Greg shrugged good-naturedly, chuckling “close enough. I’d ask how you know about my cases but I don’t think I’d get an answer.”
Mycroft looked cheerful at that, his dimples flashing and hand shifting on the handle of his umbrella. Greg’s attention was fixed on his hands brushing against the material, thoughts racing.
Movement in his periphery had his gaze jerking away, skittering around before landing back on Mycroft’s face. “Who are you? Really?”
Mycroft’s self-satisfied smile widened, “I occupy a minor position in the government.”
Greg was sure his face was bright red, “pull the other one” came out without any thought. Greg was mortified, flushed and harder than he should be at his age.
A deep chuckle was his only answer.
“Good luck with your serial killer, Gregory” thrown over a departing shoulder.
Greg stood there dumbfounded, floundering. There wasn’t a serial kill- .... “Goddamn.”
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Mycroft felt like a puddle, melting into the back seat of his car. That outfit should be confiscated for public indecency. Or confined to the bedroom.
“I’ve updated the Inspector’s file” Anthea remarked, hiding a smile in her Blackberry “to include today’s incident.”
Mycroft tried to regain his composure, straightening his tie. “Yes, thank you. And look into how the motorcycle was missed from the initial report.”
The image of Gregory, encased in leather, flushed and staring with lust at him was one he would be revisiting.
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After that incident Greg was determined to speak to Mycroft however, they never seemed to have a moment alone. There was always a third-party hovering over them; Sherlock, his new roommate Dr Watson, Sally and Anderson, Mycroft’s assistant Anthea, Mrs Hudson and one instance of an overly vigilant bodyguard.
They were confined to lingering glances and undertones of tension in all their interactions. Too often Mycroft would fondle his umbrella handle while they were in company and Greg would be forced to endure the indecency.
Sherlock would give them displeased looks each time before redirecting or splitting them up. Greg wasn’t quite sure if it was horror at the thought of Mycroft with any sexual connotation, a misplaced sense of ownership over Greg’s time, or discomfort overall with two men being attracted to each other. Or a combination of all three.
Sally would rib him after any scene Mycroft attended, teasing Greg in a friendly manner and gently trying to push him into action. From the looks he had seen Anthea giving them, Mycroft was likely experiencing something similar, if a little more reserved.
Greg was at his wits ends, after months of interrupted conversations and failing to speak to Mycroft alone, the unresolved tension was becoming unbearable.
Luckily, before Greg was forced to take drastic action Mycroft was swooping in. Greg had just walked out of his mechanic’s receptions, having just left his car for a service, to find Mycroft waiting for him in the parking lot, his black car idling only by the kerb.
Mycroft had been leaning nonchalantly against his umbrella but straightened when Greg walked out. Smiling widely, Greg walked up to Mycroft.
“It appears that you are in need of a ride, Gregory. Perhaps I can be of some assistance.” Mycroft asked saucily.
“That would be great, thanks Mycroft.” Greg hoped he wasn't blushing.
Mycroft tilted his head in acknowledgement and gestured Greg towards the vehicle with his umbrella.
Climbing into the car, Greg glanced around curiously. The interior was well appointed and understated in its luxury. The leather of the seats felt like full-grain leather, buttery smooth and supple under his hand. While the dark tinting on the windows and partition wall between the driver and the backseat made the space feel private and intimate, like it was their own secret world.
Mycroft gracefully slid in next to Greg and within a moment Greg felt the vehicle begin its journey. His attention, however, was entirely focused on Mycroft, the warmth he could feel radiating from his body so close to his own and his umbrella resting so innocently against Greg’s leg.
Greg couldn’t quash the shiver that racked his body, feeling the source of so many sordid fantasies against his body. He could feel Mycroft’s watchful and knowing eyes on him. His cheeks beginning to flame, Greg looked away, trying to hide his mortification.
A light chuckle filled the empty space, the umbrella moving off his leg until he felt it gently hook under his chin, bring his face back around to face Mycroft.
“There you are” Mycroft breathed softly.
Greg felt his breath catch in his throat, blood pooling south, as Mycroft gently stroked his chin with the umbrella’s tip. Swallowing convulsively, Greg locked eyes with Mycroft.
Greg stared at Mycroft, seeing his barely restrained passion reflected right back at him.
The umbrella remained resting under his chin, Mycroft’s gaze drifted down Greg’s body, long and lingering as he drank in Greg in this state. The temperature in the backseat was scorching, and Greg could feel the tension in his body as he suppressed the instinct to squirm.
Mycroft’s salacious smirk promised wicked things. Greg felt the tip of the umbrella shift, stroking slowly and softly first down his neck, resting for a moment at the hollow of his throat before drifting back and forth across his clavicle.
Greg felt his breath quickening, his chest rapidly rising and falling under the umbrella. His tongue swept over his lips, wetting them before retreating, leaving his mouth open in an ‘o’. Greg thought about pushing the umbrella aside and climbing into Mycroft’s lap, kissing those lips.
He wanted Mycroft’s hands on him, his lips on him. The umbrella continued its trail, now resting on his navel, its owners tightly held constraint looking frayed around the edges. Greg’s eye was drawn to the sizeable bulge he could see in Mycroft’s pants.
He shifted as if to move closer to Mycroft but felt the umbrella press harder into his skin in warning. Greg groaned, Mycroft was going to kill him at this rate. He wanted to be ravished damn it.
Mycroft’s smirk widened, his eyes drinking in the vision that debauched Greg was. He began the tantalising journey further south, ghosting the umbrella over Greg’s crotch, resuming the slight pressure on this thigh, using the umbrella to caress him.
Greg’s eyes had slipped shut at some point as he lost himself in the sensual torture Mycroft was inflicting.
Cocooned in their own world neither man noticed the vehicle coming to a stop. A knock on the partition shocked them both as the driver announced, “Sir, we have arrived.”
Startled and unbelievably aroused Greg stared at Mycroft, frozen in place. With a regret filled sign, Mycroft removed the umbrella from its resting place on Greg’s thigh and bought it back to his side.
Greg could feel the panic and horror begin the set in, his brain stuck in a loop of ‘what the hell just happened’, ‘Christ I’m about to face my colleagues with a raging hardon’ and ‘does he regret it?’ The last one circling loud and fast and swallowing all rational thought.
“Thanks for the lift. Maybe next time I should take you for a ride?” he mumbled, trying not to die of mortification. Not waiting for a reply and feeling like a coward, he stumbled out of the car without looking back. Greg beelined it for his office and once there slumped over his desk. That was the single most erotic thing he’d ever done and he refused to masturbate at work over it. It would have to wait until he was home.
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The Greg’s rapid departure from the vehicle felt like a bucket of ice to Mycroft. He’d pushed too hard. Mycroft studied the umbrella still in his hand. Maybe it was time to retire this one?