Chapter Text
CHAPTER NINE: SHUT UP THE BOX
Sherlock was almost twitching with excitement as he set out photographs in an order that obviously meant something to him. He was oblivious to Lestrade's long-suffering sigh as he set a mug of tea beside him.
"Is there anything else sir would like?"
"Quiet. You're disturbing my train of thought."
Now dressed in far too many clothes for Lestrade's taste and sporting a healthy growth of stubble, Mycroft gave his brother an unamused look. "Yet again you managed to show a complete lack of consideration for others by using all the hot water."
"Bugger," muttered Lestrade, who was last in the queue for the shower. "You'd try the patience of a saint."
Sherlock took a noisy slurp of tea and returned to his reading.
With a seeming lack of purpose, Mycroft drifted over to where Lestrade was now rootling through the fridge.
"Len called while I was getting dressed," Mycroft said, in a voice pitched to carry no farther than Lestrade. "He wondered if you would allow him to carry on working in your flat. Now he's stripped the walls he'd like to work on the woodwork and fireplaces, if you don't mind?"
Lestrade's face lit up with the delight of a man unused to pleasant surprises. "Mind? I'd be euphoric but..."
"You'd be doing me a huge favour," Mycroft assured him with truth. "Len can turn his hand to most things and he's always complaining there isn't enough for him to do when I'm away. You can trust him."
"Yeah, because the idea of you employing anyone untrustworthy..."
"Just eat that damn banana. If you carry on caressing it like that..." Lestrade's chuckle went straight to Mycroft's groin.
"Sorry. I swear I wasn't trying to... I'll have an apple instead." Lestrade gave it a token wipe down the side of his pyjama leg before taking a healthy bite out of it.
Mycroft enjoyed the relish with which Lestrade bit into the rosy skin, his tongue flicking out to capture some juice which threatened to escape. Gregory was wonderfully unselfconscious about the minor pleasures of life.
Lestrade looked up. "You want some?" he offered, through a large mouthful.
"You make an unlikely Eve. No, thank you."
"Better than the serpent. And we're back to phallic symbols. Some of the displays of fruit on the market stalls are real works of art," Lestrade added, because they needed to change the subject. He had no desire to get a hard on with Sherlock in the room.
"I've never noticed," Mycroft admitted.
"Harder to spot in Whitehall as you glide past in your limo," Lestrade pointed out with a grin devoid of malice.
"There is that. Perhaps the Prime Minister will consider a stall at the entrance to Downing Street."
"I'm sure there's a joke in there somewhere but I'll resist."
"For which many thanks," said Mycroft with feeling.
"If you're supposed to be a-political I presume you have to be careful what you laugh at."
"Every politician I meet seems to believe they're the wit of the century. The vast majority are mistaken."
"It's the same with senior officers in the Met.. Fortunately I manage to keep off their radar - or I did till you turned up."
"Let's talk about fruit," said Mycroft hastily.
"Well, that shouldn't take long," said Lestrade, disposing of the apple core before propping himself next to Mycroft. On the far side of the room Sherlock was oblivious to their presence as he checked between two reports.
"You like fruit," noted Mycroft as he watched Lestrade peel something orange that smelt like winter afternoons in front of an open fire, although whether it was a tangerine, mandarin or clementine he had no idea.
Lestrade blinked in surprise at the observation. "I suppose I do," he allowed. "How did you know?"
"Apart from the regularity with which you've been eating it since I arrived?"
"OK, I suppose that would be a small clue."
"Not to mention your complaints at its lack while you and Sherlock were stranded here."
"Have half this clementine before I get a complex," said Lestrade.
"When did this passion for fruit begin?" asked Mycroft idly as he ate the fruit segment by segment, letting the sweetness fill his mouth. The perfume from the oil in the fruit skin was one he associated with contentment and security.
Lestrade nibbled reflectively on a sliver of the skin. "I'm not sure. Maybe it all started when I was a kid. In between trying to shoplift packets of fags I was always nicking fruit from stalls, or the front of green grocers. The displays always caught my eye - the shapes, vivid colours, the smells. At the care home everything seemed to be in shades of beige or grey - including the food, which was a kind of nutritious sludge that all came out of packets or tins."
Mycroft grimaced. "I would imagine anything would have been preferable to that."
"Pretty much," Lestrade conceded. "I think the fruit I nicked must have been the first raw, fresh food I'd ever eaten." He smiled suddenly. "I've just remembered the first time I ate a mango. LeRoy, my first boyfriend, taught me the best way to enjoy them. Forget the prissy English way, with a plate and a knife. You should cradle it between your hands and using your thumbs gently massage the flesh under the skin until it's nothing but liquid sunshine. Then, through a small slit at the top you suck it all out. Sticky and sweet and - "
"Bastard," hissed Mycroft, who had never expected to find the topic of mangoes erotic.
His eyes brilliant and heavy with need, Lestrade gave an unrepentant grin. "Even more fun to eat naked, of course. There's a certain amount of spillage."
Mycroft held up his hands, palms outwards, in a gesture of surrender.
"Sorry," said Lestrade without visible contrition. "Speaking of sex..." Smile gone, he was openly scanning the kitchen as if he had lost something.
"What are you looking for?" asked Mycroft.
"It's only just occurred to me. Is this hut still bugged? Not that it matters to me but you might not want your juniors listening to you when - "
"I removed all the devices when I arrived," said Mycroft in a soothing tone, unconvinced by Lestrade's disclaimer. He wondered briefly if he might not be too accustomed to living his private life under the eyes of his security detail.
"You did?"
"I did," confirmed Mycroft, who was in the mood to find Lestrade's relief endearing.
"I didn't notice."
"You weren't supposed to," said Mycroft with patience.
Lestrade gave a distracted nod, wondering why he had made that ridiculous embargo on starting a relationship - or just having sex. Stupid, stupid, stupid... He gave the kitchen table a wistful look, then realised Mycroft had followed his train of thought with disconcerting ease.
"Time for your cold shower," said Mycroft blandly.
"No one likes a man who gloats," Lestrade pointed out with dignity. But he went to take it just the same.
After a chilly interval in the bathroom, he reappeared to find both the brothers engrossed in cold case files.
"Right, who wants sausages for breakfast, with - Oh, dear God. Mycroft, get those photos of intestines off the kitchen table," Lestrade protested, the frying pan he had just hooked down from a high shelf drooping in his hand.
"You can't possibly be squeamish after your years in a Major Investigation Team," said Mycroft mildly but he was already gathering up the offending pictures face downwards.
"I'm not. But I prefer not to talk about food when facing intestines." Lestrade's expression sharpened. "Hang on, I didn't select any case involving disembowelment. Which file are they from?"
"Mr and Mrs Roman, 16th September, 1964. Their bodies were discovered in their rented flat in Hackney by their fourteen year old son when he came home from school. His twelve year old sister found him sitting beside them, covered in blood where he'd tried to revive them - which also meant the bodies had been disturbed. As, it was presumed, had the - um - "
" - intestines," said Lestrade with resignation.
"Quite so. Alan Roman had seventeen stab wounds, his wife Gemma, nineteen. Both had been eviscerated. Their two month old baby son was asleep in his cot in their bedroom. The pathologist's report is missing but from his notes he hadn't been able to determine the actual cause of death due to the damage inflicted to the heart and surrounding area. Which, I presume, indicates either a considerable amount of luck or a degree of knowledge of human anatomy. Not to mention strength."
"It could," conceded Lestrade, as he sat beside Mycroft at the table. "Only I remember the damage done by a woman weighing seven stone - of course, she was off her head with PCP at the time."
Mycroft eyed him thoughtfully. "So in your experience would you say the first rule of detection is not to make assumptions?" he asked quietly. While he had his own views on the subject, this was Gregory's profession.
About to make a flippant reply, Lestrade paused. He had never known anyone who gave him such full and concentrated attention as Mycroft did. He had the rare gift of really listening, which made you feel as if anything - everything - you said was of importance to him. That what you said mattered. That you mattered. It was heady stuff.
It was also a bloody good sign that he was serious.
Perhaps.
But it made Lestrade open up, as he rarely did about the things which mattered most to him.
"No, that would be the second rule. The first is 'Don't Fuck Up'. I don't think I could do this job if Britain had the death penalty."
"You worry about convicting an innocent?"
"It happens," said Lestrade, his expression grim. "Hardly surprising. Sometimes it's difficult not to get fixated on one suspect, which means there's a danger you unconsciously tailor the evidence to fit the crime. If there's a lot of publicity over a case it's even worse because the top brass get antsy and start pushing for a result without worrying too much if it's the right one. That's when it's easy to make a mistake - or to take your eye off your team, who are more vulnerable to pressure, particularly the ambitious ones."
"You're not ambitious?"
Lestrade exhaled noisily, aware that what he had to say would hardly win the admiration of one of the most powerful men he'd ever met. "The problem is, the higher you go the more paperwork there is and the less real policing you do. I'm already spending too much time behind a desk and as for the paperwork... No, I suppose I'm not. Not since I made DI, which I didn't expect, given my background."
"Background?" frowned Mycroft.
"No degree. Unusual nowadays. But enough about my lack of ambition."
"Not at all. I hear similar comments over and over again. Annie's sister is a nurse and says exactly the same thing. I've met several teachers who love to teach and so have to chose between promotion and the classroom. You enter a profession to do one thing and find yourself being promoted away from it."
"That didn't happen to you?" asked Lestrade curiously.
"No."
"Don't look so wary, I'm not going to ask what you do. But not field work?"
"Do I look like Daniel Craig?"
"Nobody looks like Daniel Craig. You've watched Bond films!" realised Lestrade with delight.
"One. My forfeit in a bet," Mycroft added ruefully.
"You didn't find the film like real life then?"
"Not like mine. Though as I have no head for heights..."
"I'm not too bad, though I wouldn't be daft enough to try any of those stunts. Can you imagine the forensic people trying to... Speaking of which, what did forensics find in the Roman case?"
"There was no foreign DNA. No physical evidence outside that of family life. No suspects. No relatives or friends were traced. The family weren't known to social services. The neighbours rarely saw them - and then not to speak to."
"I thought you only glanced at the file."
"I have an eidetic memory."
"You lucky sod. I wish I did. It would make the paperwork so much easier. I definitely didn't select this case. Too much time has gone by for a realistic conviction without DNA - witness statements would be unreliable, presuming the witnesses were still alive. From what you say there aren't any leads to follow. Where did you find the file?"
"I had nothing to read, so last night I picked up one of the box files by Sherlock's chair. This one slipped out of the folder containing the pathologist's report."
"Which case was it?"
"Number only. A headless woman's torso found in Regent's Canal last year. Never identified. You must think Sherlock can work miracles."
"Hoping," said Lestrade honestly, before he turned round. "Sherlock, how do you fancy a challenge from 1964?"
"What's the case?" he asked, when his attention was finally caught.
Lestrade explained.
"Typical! You couldn't keep your long nose out of it, could you," Sherlock said bitterly to his brother. "By the way, Lestrade, I've solved the Carson case." He failed to look becomingly modest.
Lestrade paused, frying pan in hand as he turned to him. "Yeah? Whodunnit?"
"The brother-in-law."
"Yes, he did. And he received an eighteen year sentence. Well done."
"You knew?"
Lestrade gave him a patient look. "Before I inflict you on my unsuspecting team I need to know there's a faint chance that you'll earn your keep," he said bluntly, seeing no need to sugar the pill.
"Logical," conceded Sherlock with a nod of approval. "So, these other files. Have they all been solved?"
"I wish. The Carson case was complex. To have solved it so fast is impressive."
"Not really. As soon as I realised he was having an affair with his sister-in-law it was quite - "
"What? That's not on file."
"Sloppy police work," sniffed Sherlock disparagingly.
Lestrade glanced at Mycroft. "Permission to backhand him with the frying pan."
"I would rather have breakfast first."
"Then you can brief us about the Roman case while we cook."
"We?" queried Mycroft warily.
"Even you'll be able to manage perfect scrambled eggs," Lestrade assured him.
Narrowing blue eyes suggested that might not have been the most tactful approach but what might have had Mycroft's minions trembling in their boots just made Lestrade grin and give Mycroft a nudge with his elbow before he issued a flurry of instructions.
Even Sherlock allowed that the eggs had been tolerable - there again, he didn't know Mycroft had prepared them. Filled with a ridiculous sense of achievement, Mycroft allowed himself another slice of toast and jam.
"What are you thinking about?" Mycroft asked a glassy-eyed Lestrade when Sherlock went to the bathroom.
"Intestines."
Lestrade looked mildly affronted when Mycroft began to laugh. "What?"
"Not the answer I was hoping for," Mycroft explained wryly as he licked jam from his index finger.
"No?" His mind clearly far removed from matters carnal, Lestrade was frowning at the Roman file. "There's something off about the scene-of-crime photos. Did the scanner turn up?"
Resigned, Mycroft nodded.
"Good. While I'm reading the file could you scan and print several copies of each photo, large as you can without losing definition."
Mycroft was about to point out that his responsibilities were usually more complex when it occurred to him that he was about to make a complete fool of himself. While he suspected he might be one of those 'pompous tossers' Gregory despised, he'd rather Gregory didn't find out just yet.
"Of course," he said.
Sherlock discarded four case files as 'boring', although whether that was because they really were dull, or because he couldn't solve them Lestrade wasn't sure. Just relieved that Sherlock was safely occupied, he lost himself in the minutiae of the Roman file, referring back to the enlarged printouts of the photographs as he read.
After a while he set the file to one side and spread the enlargements over the cleared breakfast table.
"What's so interesting?" demanded Sherlock, stalking over.
"There's something about these," said Lestrade absently. "The point of scene-of-crime photos is?"
"You've forgotten?"
"No, but I'm wondering if you have."
"Must I perform like a parrot?" complained Sherlock peevishly. "Oh, very well, if you insist. The purpose is to record the scene of death and anything else that might be pertinent, both inside and on the exterior, bagging any and every item that may be relevant."
"Exactly. So where's the 'anything else'? The bodies have been extensively photographed at every conceivable angle bar an overhead shot but not the rest of the flat, or even parts of the living room. There are no pictures of the means of entry, let alone of the exterior. The file from the pathologist is incomplete, his photos and full report are missing - though that isn't unheard of. Sometimes they use them for a lecture and forget to return them.
There's no mention of the clothing the children wore when they discovered the bodies. For reasons which aren't made clear it doesn't seem to have occurred to the investigating officer that the boy was a suspect. The sister too."
"The school gave both children an alibi," pointed out Mycroft.
In full work mode, Lestrade spared him only a glance. "I know. I went to the same school just over a decade later. Get yourself on the morning register and you could bunk off for the rest of the day with no one the wiser. 'Education' had more to do with crowd control than learning. It's possible discipline was tighter in the mid-sixties but I doubt it."
"There's the same focus in every picture," noted Mycroft as he leant over Lestrade's left shoulder.
"The Golden Ratio," said Sherlock, peering over Lestrade's right shoulder.
"Obviously, but why?" said Mycroft.
"What's the Golden Ratio?" asked Lestrade, feeling hemmed in.
"Just how ignorant are you?" said Sherlock impatiently.
"Sherlock," said Mycroft, an edge to his voice.
"He's right in this instance. Hackney Comprehensive can't compete with Eton."
"Westminster," corrected Sherlock, pulling a couple of pictures closer.
"Yeah? You jammy sods. More to the point, what's this Golden Ratio?"
"The Divine Proportion," said Mycroft.
"The Sacred Cut," offered Sherlock immediately.
"The Golden Mean," returned Mycroft.
"The - "
"Look, guys, I'm sure you could keep this up all day and I know the crime is thirty five years old but two people were butchered and three children orphaned."
"It was juvenile. And crass," admitted Mycroft with a faint grimace. "I find it easier to focus on the problem or the puzzle rather than the individuals behind it."
"Me, too," conceded Lestrade. "Ignore me. Much as I enjoy a puzzle, there's something about this case that's... So, this Divine Proportion?"
"What it is matters less than what these photographs reveal. I was in danger of becoming too prolix."
Sherlock gave a derisive snort. "Surely not."
Mycroft ignored him to concentrate on marking up one of the scanned copies. "First a rectangle, then a triangle. The spiral starts here and its heart will frame the true purpose of the picture. Like so."
Five photographs later Lestrade was frowning at the intestines. "Either the photographer was so besotted with this Divine Proportion that he allowed it to interfere with his work or he was more involved in the murder than seems feasible."
"We assumed the intestines had been disturbed by the son but this arrangement obviously has some significance for the photographer," said Mycroft.
"Fetish?" said Sherlock.
"Ritualistic?" returned Mycroft.
Busy studying an unmarked photograph Lestrade lost interest in a discussion that rapidly descended into one-upmanship and barbed insults too obscure for him to understand. He helped himself to Sherlock's magnifying glass to examine the album covers of the various LPS which were just in shot, scattered across the carpet.
"Mycroft, the date of the murder was 16th September 1964."
"You've found something."
His eyes sparkling, Lestrade looked up and nodded. "This album cover here 'New Boots and Panties' wasn't issued until September 1977."
"Ah. Hackney Comprehensive one, Westminster nil," said Mycroft, looking amused.
"Well, done. Neither of us would have spotted that."
Lestrade ruffled his already spiky hair. "Damn, was I gloating?"
"Only a little. Allowable in the circumstances. Is the entire file a fake, do you think?"
"That I don't know. The entire Divine Proportion thing could have been done by whoever doctored the original photographs, rather than the original photographer. It would explain why there are so few. The paperwork looks genuine, both in content and aging. I'll check on the Met. personnel involved when I get back. I don't want to involve anyone else until I have a better idea of what's going on. If someone has been altering case files..."
"Quite," said Mycroft, sitting beside him. "If the photographs have been doctored so skilfully a certain amount of time must have been taken. It's unlikely it was intended for your benefit."
"Agreed. Thanks to you, I didn't have much time to make a selection. One of the PCs I started out with is working at the Police Archive in Hendon. He had a few suggestions of interesting but tricky cold cases. He made a copy of the Carson file, then doctored it for Sherlock. My DCS brought everything over just before I had to leave - though how you managed that..." Lestrade glanced up at Mycroft.
"If I told you I'd have to - "
" - kill me? Secret squirrel humour could use some work." Lestrade's expression slowly sobered as the implications of his discovery sank in. "This... A lot of the older case files still aren't stored electronically and I don't see much hope of it happening any time soon - unless our budget improves. Which leaves those files vulnerable. If someone in the main Archives has been playing silly buggers and word gets out, we're fucked because irrespective of the date of a case it will throw doubt on every conviction." He paused as he absorbed the implications. "Worst case scenario, every prison inmate will be after an appeal - the entire judicial system could collapse under the strain."
He rubbed his face with his hand, then looked up at Mycroft. "I know you're supposed to be on leave this week but this is way over my head. If ever there was a time for secrecy this is it. Every copper, every clerk who's worked at the Police Archive for the last forty years needs..."
Mycroft nodded. "Leave it with me."
"You won't tell the Commissioner the truth?" checked Lestrade.
"Mycroft wouldn't recognise the truth if it bit him on the backside," said Sherlock.
Lestrade, who had managed to forget him in the face of far greater concerns, jumped, then looked even more worried. "Sherlock, you know you can't talk about this?"
"He knows," said Mycroft. "And despite appearances to the contrary, you can trust him. As for myself, you might give me a little credit. I have no intention of telling the Commissioner anything until we're farther along with our investigations."
"Then how - ? Never mind. I know you can't tell me. And I do trust you. Sort of."
"And it was going so well up to that point," murmured Mycroft with a faint smile.
"It's just... This is personal." A little of the anger Lestrade felt was beginning to seep through his controls.
"How could it be otherwise. Only a couple of people knew you'd selected the headless torso case. Either the Roman file was placed in the box file deliberately for you to find, or it's been there since the file was opened - only a year ago."
"I hadn't thought it through that far. So...a year."
"Probably. That's where we'll start our investigation anyway," said Mycroft.
"I just remembered. The files. They went missing en route here. There's no possibility - ?"
"I'm sorry, there isn't. They were included in my luggage. Apart from the flight on to me they were in my possession the entire time."
"Damn," said Lestrade softly.
"While you two geniuses were examining the photographs why didn't either of you notice the picture of the London Eye over the fireplace?" said Sherlock, looking horribly smug.
There was a short silence.
"No one likes a smart-arse," Lestrade told him. "But well spotted. At least we know this was done post March 2000."
"No, that was the date of the official opening," said Sherlock absently.
"But why this case?" mused Mycroft.
"I'll contact the local nick," said Lestrade. "I used to know a few of the PCs based there."
"Professionally?" asked Mycroft.
"In a manner of speaking. One of them caught me shoplifting and instead of nicking me, bought me a sandwich and got me talking. Indirectly he's the reason I sorted myself out and knuckled down at school enough to start passing exams. I joined up at eighteen. It's thanks to him that I was able to - a record could have scuppered my chances. While he's dead, some of his mates might still be alive. A couple of pints down their local should do the trick without arousing suspicions."
Sherlock said: "So there's no point my solving this case then?"
Lestrade wheeled around. "You think you can?"
"I have. It was the son. Though the sister must have known, if she wasn't involved herself. She might just have been too terrified of him to say anything."
"He was my first thought. Later you can tell me how we can prove it. For a court of law."
"Ah," said Sherlock pensively.
"Work-in-progress then," said Lestrade.
After a considerable time on the phone Mycroft returned to the living area, glanced around and raised his eyebrows in silent question.
"He went for a walk," said Sherlock.
Mycroft looked at the rain-lashed windows, then back at his brother, who shrugged.
"I didn't say anything. But he was angry."
"With you?"
"With everything."
"It's hardly surprising," Mycroft pointed out.
"Why? It isn't his fault. Is it?"
"No. You've stopped working on the files?"
"There's no point if they're fakes."
"Did you find anything to indicate that they might be?"
"I haven't even opened six of them," Sherlock admitted. "That's why I never spotted the Roman file."
Mycroft had learnt the value of silence years ago. That it worked particularly well with Sherlock was just a bonus.
"I suppose we could go through them all," said Sherlock, after a while. "You have reasonable deductive skills, even if you are too lazy to use them."
The suggestion that they do anything together was unprecedented. Even in childhood any offer had always been made by him, to be met with a sullen silence at best. That Sherlock should offer to share the work that meant so much to him...
His elation well hidden, Mycroft nodded. "A sound suggestion," he said. "Where would you like me to start?"
Lestrade stumbled into the hut as the light was failing, shuddering with the cold. Without a word he began to unpeel himself from his clothing, allowing items to plop in a soggy heap just inside the door. Wearing only his wet jeans, he headed for the bathroom.
"If there's no hot water I'm going to kill Sherlock," he said in passing.
After a glance at his expression even Sherlock had the sense not to respond.
By the time Lestrade reappeared, snug in the qivuit jacket Mycroft had given him, he was met with the delectable aroma of roasting chicken.
"I thought you couldn't cook," he said accusingly.
"I can't," said Mycroft, "but I'm capable of reading instructions. I looked it up on the internet. Though of course the test will be what it tastes like. Tea?"
"Thanks."
Lestrade wrapped his hands around the half pint mug of PG Tips finest as he studied the wall, which was now covered in printouts of scene-of-crime photographs. "I like what you've done to the place."
"Sherlock and I have been looking for anomalies in the other files. So far we've found nothing in the eight files we've double-checked, though given our differing fields of expertise you'll need to check them too."
Lestrade blinked, more moved than he cared to admit by the gesture. "Thanks, guys. I appreciate it. I'll get to work now."
"Um..." Mycroft looked untypically hesitant. "I didn't know what to prepare to go with the chicken."
More like how to, translated Lestrade. "No problem," he said easily.
oOo
While Mycroft got up early the next morning, Lestrade was already flicking listlessly through the Roman file. He nodded to Mycroft, who gave a resigned sigh and went to make tea. He had decided to force Annie to take a pay raise; he'd never appreciated just how demanding food preparation could be. Who knew chickens contained plastic bags full of internal organs? The plastic had melted during the cooking process, rendering their proposed meal inedible.
He checked the available food supplies, wondering what to have for breakfast, and gave the bottle of HP sauce a dubious look, sniffed it and decided to live dangerously and try it with his scrambled eggs. On the same principle he checked his selection of teas and decided to break Lestrade in gently with a pot of Royal Oolong.
Lestrade took a gulp of tea, spluttered and gave Mycroft a look of betrayal.
"At least try it," said Mycroft mildly.
"I will, just not now. First thing in the morning I need tea strong enough to trot a mouse on. Something to wake me up - not least to cope with you."
"I see you're awake enough to negotiate," said Mycroft dryly.
"It would take more than tea for me to be capable of besting you," said Lestrade with conviction, only today there was nothing flirtatious about the exchange. He reached for a pale box file.
"I thought breakfast," said Mycroft.
"You go ahead," said Lestrade absently. "I just want to take a proper look at the Willesley file."
Mycroft reminded himself that dedication to the job was supposed to be a virtue and picked up a box file of his own - not because he was unable to remember the contents but because it would explain his concentration, should Gregory notice him at all, which seemed unlikely at present.
And the fact he was sitting here worrying about it was the reason relationships, particularly this one, were a terrible idea.
oOo
By the following day all the files had been checked and re-checked; none gave any indication of having been tampered with.
His knee stiff and aching after so much inactivity, Mycroft spent the morning walking it off.
He returned to find Sherlock muttering to himself as he divided his attention between a case file and the computer.
"Sherlock, did you ask permission to use the Detective Inspector's laptop?"
"Don't be ridiculous. He isn't using it."
Mycroft opened his mouth, caught Lestrade's amused gaze and closed it again.
"There's no private information on there," said Lestrade "and he seems to know his way around the system better than I do. Let's get some fresh air."
It was then that Mycroft made the delightful discovery that his absence for over two hours hadn't ever registered with Lestrade.
"Of course," he said, because he wasn't miffed enough to cut off his nose to spite his face.
"Good idea," said Sherlock, closing the laptop. "I could use some fresh air. When we get back Lestrade can cook us some lunch."
"Gosh, that'll be a treat," said Lestrade, abandoning hope of time alone with Mycroft.
"You want fresh air?" mocked Mycroft. "Having problems solving a case?" he added sympathetically.
In some things Sherlock was distressingly predictable.
"Alone at last!" said Lestrade, as they headed out into the boisterous weather that was blowing up. "Where did you get to earlier?"
"I spent a couple of hours walking," said Mycroft patiently.
"Oh. Hang on, will your knee be up to another walk so soon?"
"It's fine. Do you want to discuss - ?"
"Work is a banned subject. Favourite London bridge?" added Lestrade abruptly.
"What? Oh well, I suppose it's preferable to asking me my star sign."
"I'm saving that for later."
"I've never taken much notice of the bridges - unless caught in a traffic jam - but I confess a liking for the Millennium Bridge."
"Me, too. Favourite part of London?"
A spirited discussion followed, which saw them twice around the island, pausing only as they met the full force of the wind coming in off the sea. Waves battered the beach, sending froth flying up into the air.
By mutual consent they took refuge in the dunes, settling down behind the shelter offered by the grass humped mounds as sand swirled past them.
"Is your knee really all right?" Lestrade asked. Due to the noise made by the sea and the wind he was distractingly close.
"Provided I don't twist or jar it, it's fine"
To Mycroft's gratification, Lestrade suddenly swooped to cover him; just as he was confidently anticipating that parted mouth, Lestrade muttered, "Are you wearing your gun, only there's someone hiding in the dunes at two o'clock?"
"Ah." Mycroft hoped his chagrin wasn't obvious as he fumbled in his coat pocket for the work phone he had yet to train himself not to carry. A moment later he got the response he expected. "Relax, Gregory. It's only...Moneypenny." It belatedly occurred to him that Gregory had instinctively sheltered him with his own body. Something they would need to discuss - although certainly not at this stage.
Lestrade immediately got to his feet, with an enviable degree of ease considering the soft, unreliable sand underfoot, and immediately held out a hand. While pride wanted to refuse the aid it was easier to accept it rather than collapse when his aching knee gave way. Mycroft had just achieved the vertical when an embarrassed looking Anthea came into view.
"You owe me ten pounds," Mycroft told her sodden figure.
Lestrade blinked. "What?"
"My money was on you spotting her," Mycroft explained, in a voice tinged with amusement.
"So that's what you meant when you told her the fresh air would do her good? You're an unforgiving bugger, aren't you. Remind me never to get on your wrong side."
"Too late," Mycroft assured him, before turning his attention to Anthea.
"Sorry, sir, you were right," she said stiffly. Her nose was cerise with the cold as she turned slightly sideways, to avoid the worst of the wind-driven sand.
"Music to my ears. Where's David?"
"Asleep. We're taking twelve hour shifts. You almost landed on the pup tent," she added. "These dunes are the only shelter available."
"Are you mad, letting a rank amateur act as your security?" said Lestrade, because just for a split second he'd been imagining all kinds of nightmare scenarios.
It was a moment before Mycroft thought to firm his twitching mouth, Anthea's expression one to treasure, not least because her control was usually the equal of his own.
"You might well ask. Anthea seemed to feel that working in the field offered more interest and glamour, and that she would find it preferable to her current work. David has been with me for several years, is highly experienced and agreed to - um..."
"Babysit her?" completed Lestrade obligingly, understanding that Mycroft had his own way of making his point.
Anthea's cheeks were scarlet by this time, her jaw clenching.
"I trust this experience has cured you of wasting your talents?" said Mycroft, who was inclined to be merciful, if only in the hope that he and Gregory might be left in peace - and a degree of privacy.
"Oh, it has, sir," Anthea said fervently.
Sucker, thought Lestrade, not without sympathy.
"What a shame. Then you won't enjoy the next thirty six hours at all. I trust you have sufficient rations?"
"Yes, sir. That roast chicken smelt wonderful," she added with a trace of wistfulness.
"Don't play the sympathy card," Mycroft advised her placidly.
"It wasn't intended for you, sir."
"Ah, I believe you may have miscalculated."
"You two know I'm standing right here," said Lestrade, half-amused, half-resentful. Just what he needed, someone else who could communicate with Mycroft in half-sentences while he needed a join-the-dots sketch with X marking the spot.
Mycroft glanced at him and Lestrade felt a lick of heat. Or maybe not.
"Be elsewhere," Mycroft said to Anthea.
"Afraid I'll cramp your style, sir?"
"Just mine," said Lestrade, who was catching on fast.
She gave him a friendly grin. "You might want to move behind the next dune, if you want to avoid David. I'll be checking the perimeter on the far side of the island," she added, before she sauntered away, managing to look remarkably elegant considering what she was wearing.
"Does she often give you permission to snog?" asked Lestrade as he headed for the next high hump of grass covered sand.
"The situation hasn't arisen before," said Mycroft placidly.
Lestrade turned then, suddenly serious. "Has this...? Will it cause you any...? Your security knowing, about us, I mean?"
"They're not homophobic and it's inevitable that they would have to know about you."
"Ah."
"Will that be a problem?" asked Mycroft, watching him intently.
"They won't actually want a ringside seat, will they? Oh, stop laughing," grumbled Lestrade. "You know what I meant."
"More or less. And no, in usual circumstances we would have considerably more privacy."
"Well that's good. I foresee enough difficulties without performance anxiety entering the frame. And if you don't stop laughing there's not much chance of us kissing."
"There's a chance then?"
"Look, I know I said... Bastard, taking the piss out of the embarrassed man." Lestrade tried to remember the prissy stranger who had irritated him only slightly more than he'd attracted him, then settled himself in the shelter offered by the dunes. "I used to love snogging. You?"
"It's been a while," said Mycroft. Kissing had had little place in his encounters in recent years.
"Me, too."
Mycroft bent his head, nuzzling Lestrade's stubble-covered jaw, before lightly brushing the corner of his mouth with his own, and again, and again, soft and slow, taking his time until Gregory made a gratifying sound of impatience and kissed him until he was hard.
Cross-eyed with lust, Lestrade finally drew away a little, his breathing disorganised, one hand still flat in the small of Mycroft's back, reluctant to lose full contact.
"I think we should - "
"Yes," agreed Mycroft with obvious regret.
"The walk back should cool us down."
"I'll get up in a minute. And you can take that pleased look off your face, you haven't done anything clever," said Mycroft with asperity.
"That's not what you muttered a few minutes ago," pointed out Lestrade, rubbing Mycroft's side. "I could do with a short wait myself. I might have known you'd have an agile tongue."
"Not helping," Mycroft pointed out.
"Not trying to," confessed Lestrade.
"Come on," sighed Mycroft. "Back to the hut before we shock Anthea."
"Could we?" asked Lestrade, looking worryingly interested.
"I rather not find out," admitted Mycroft.
That piece of honesty earned him another pat. "Me neither," conceded Lestrade, offering Mycroft a hand up.
It was only then, as they met the full force of the wind, that they appreciated the storm had arrived.
Sherlock gave them an all-encompassing glance as they all but fell into the hut. "I would ask what you've been doing out there for so long but I'm afraid you might tell me and scar my brain forever. I'm deleting the information right now." He turned his back on them.
"Deleting?" muttered Lestrade, relieved to discover that all his clothing was buttoned and zipped.
"I'll explain later," sighed Mycroft.
Lestrade nodded and smiled smugly to himself. It had to be admitted, it didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to spot that Mycroft had been thoroughly kissed - and if he looked this debauched after a few kisses he couldn't wait to see what he looked like after he'd been...
oOo
After working all morning the following day, Lestrade looked up from his computer just before lunch. "Mycroft, did you say someone had collected my post, only I've just realised I haven't seen any?"
Before Mycroft could reply Sherlock said, "Oh, I wondered what that pile of junk was doing on top of my clean shirts. Do you want it?"
"Tosser," said Lestrade amiably.
Sherlock just grinned before he disappeared to fetch the post.
"I'm beyond apologising," murmured Mycroft.
"You'd think you'd have a collection prepared," said Lestrade mischievously.
"Oh, I do but none to cover what we've put you through."
"Not all bad," Lestrade assured him, his gaze on Mycroft's mouth.
Sherlock strode back into the room. "Here, your post," he said, tossing a bundle of envelopes onto the table.
"Gracious to the end," sighed Mycroft.
To Lestrade's relief there were no bills, only packages from his solicitor, the mortgage lender and a letter from his bank manager confirming the measures taken to protect against unauthorised payments into his account. There was also an astonishing amount of junk mail, which seemingly had the ability to follow you anywhere, then breed.
Relaxed, Lestrade ripped open the last envelope before staring at the contents. Some time later he became aware that Mycroft was standing beside him.
Lestrade pushed back his chair.
"Gregory?" said Mycroft with concern.
"It's nothing. I'm going for a walk," gabbled Lestrade, not sure what he was feeling.
Mycroft tossed him the packet containing the last cigarette and his lighter, thrusting out an arm when Sherlock darted forward to intercept them.
Lestrade grabbed his padded jacket and rushed out of the hut.
"That was my cigarette," protested Sherlock as the door slammed shut. "I was saving it."
"I know. Let it be," said Mycroft absently, resisting the temptation to twitch the abandoned letter closer.
With no such scruples, Sherlock was shifting through the opened mail. "Flat purchase, mortgage, bank manager, notice of the Degree Nisi."
"Ah," said Mycroft.
"I don't see what the problem is. He knew he was getting a divorce."
"Theoretically. Now it's becoming real. Relationships are complicated."
"How would you know?" jeered Sherlock. He was disconcerted to receive a look he didn't know how to interpret.
"I must have read it in a book," said Mycroft colourlessly. It wasn't as if Gregory hadn't warned him that he was an emotional mess...
Sherlock picked up another letter. "It might not have been about the divorce. His wife's pregnant."
"Sherlock! Put that down right now! For God's sake, you can't read other people's mail."
"Don't be absurd, I do it all the time. So do you."
"No," said Mycroft quietly, "I don't." He didn't need to, he had other people to do it for him. It always made him feel slightly grubby but this... A child changed everything. He was aware of a sickening lurch of disappointment. Being the man he was, at the very least Gregory would want to take responsibility for the child. Worst case scenario, he would try to reconcile with his wife.
Caring really was a waste of time and energy. Quite apart from being unacceptably painful.
Lestrade returned to the hut just after dark and went straight into the kitchen area.
"Do you need any help?" asked Mycroft without enthusiasm.
"Just keep Sherlock off my back."
An expert in sub-text, Mycroft nodded and retreated back to the living area, resigned to the sacrifice he was about to make. Not that their current detente would have lasted but he had enjoyed the chance to work with Sherlock, to see him apply his marvellous mind to something worthwhile.
"What?" said Sherlock defensively when he became aware of his brother looming over him.
"I was just wondering what you made of the statements in the Marlow case. Only it seemed to me that the - "
"You can't stop interfering, can you? When I want your 'help' - "
"You would rather the case remained unsolved?"
"Yes!"
While the ensuing 'debate' did nothing to help brotherly harmony, it ensured that Mycroft kept Sherlock's full attention.
Lestrade prepared a meal which he didn't even pretend to eat before he went off to his room to pack.
"We leave tomorrow," Mycroft reminded Sherlock. "What you don't pack will be lost. And you can't keep any of the cold case files so don't waste time trying."
oOo
The hut stripped of everything they had brought with them, Mycroft approached Lestrade. "Walk with me?"
"Sure," said Lestrade, although he looked preoccupied as he pulled on his jacket and followed Mycroft, who was armoured in a grey pinstripe three-piece suit, complete with watch-chain. Only the umbrella was missing. Even his body language seemed different. It seemed impossible that this man's face could ever have been alive with laughter, that he'd held his prick in his hand.
"I'm going to miss this place," said Lestrade. "Though it will be good to be back in London. When - ?"
"I have been considering our discussion about our future plans," Mycroft said, interrupting him. "I may have been too hasty."
The cool, dispassionate voice was its own warning.
Lestrade paused for a moment before he continued walking, his eyes fixed on the passage of his feet rather than his companion, who was looking less familiar by the second.
"You'd rather forget the whole idea," he recognised.
"Just so." For a moment Mycroft's expression was bleak before the bland mask which had seen him through so many difficult moments was back.
Lestrade nodded. Rejection wasn't a novelty and subconsciously he was always waiting for the axe to fall. He dealt with it the way he always coped with it and closed down.
"Well, that's that then. Thank you for telling me in person. I'd best get back or Sherlock will be trying to steal the cold case files again. I expect you'll be busy with calls on the flight."
"I'll be taking a separate flight, on the plane that's approaching," said Mycroft with his first trace of awkwardness.
Turned inward, Lestrade didn't notice. "Of course you will. Well, goodbye." He gave Mycroft a brisk nod and set off for the hut. He didn't look back, or pay attention to the plane that was landing.
He would be fine so long as he didn't stop and think, so long as he didn't allow himself to dwell on what he had lost before it was even his.
Lestrade's journey back to London had been trying. Sherlock had not only fallen out with Mycroft before they set off but had obviously failed to appreciate that he wouldn't be allowed to start work with Lestrade immediately. He didn't take the news well.
It was a while before Lestrade appreciated that it was all a front. Sherlock was afraid - terrified - of being alone again after such a short time off smack. With Mycroft flying off God knows where and himself back to work Sherlock would be alone, and without anything to keep that febrile mind of his busy.
"Look, I'm going to need a few days to catch up on the paperwork that will have built up in my absence. I'll contact you on Wednesday, Thursday at the latest. I've got your new address. In the meantime it's up to you to stay clean. Understand?" said Lestrade. He experienced an unwanted twist of compassion for the younger man - which would have horrified Sherlock if he'd known. Sherlock was going to be a constant, unwanted reminder of Mycroft - the last thing he needed or wanted right now but Sherlock deserved better than to be abandoned.
"I'm not an idiot," snapped Sherlock.
"Far from it."
"I don't have your address."
"No."
"I might need it."
It took Lestrade a moment to pick up on that need for reassurance. "I suppose you might," he agreed. "And you'll be welcome - if you announce your arrival rather than just breaking in."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What made you say that?"
"Call it intuition," said Lestrade dryly. "So, no breaking in. Deal?"
"Deal," said Sherlock sulkily. "Except in an emergency."
Certain that Sherlock's idea of an emergency wouldn't be his, Lestrade shook his head. "No breaking in, period."
"You're worried I'll interrupt you having sex?"
Lestrade flinched. Not thinking about Mycroft wasn't working too well so far. "That's my business. But if you break in our deal's off. Right, this is your new flat," he recognised, as David drew the car to a halt. "Here." He began to scribble quickly on the back of an envelope. "My address, number at the Yard, and my mobile. I'll help you carry your stuff up."
"It's fine," said Sherlock, with his bags at his feet.
"I'll call you Wednesday," Lestrade called, as the car pulled away, leaving the lonely looking figure standing on the pavement.
As David ferried bags and boxes down to his basement flat Lestrade fished for his keys. For a nasty moment he was afraid Sherlock might have pinched them.
"This can't all be mine," he protested, as David almost fell down the stairs, carrying another load of bulging bags.
"Mr Holmes hoped you wouldn't mind but we couldn't leave the bedding and stuff behind. He wondered if you would be able to use it," said David casually.
"Well, it'll save me having to buy some. It's OK, I'll get it all into the house." Lestrade clapped David on the shoulder. "Thanks."
"No problem, sir."
"Greg," said Lestrade patiently, as if he couldn't still hear the soft, precise voice saying 'Gregory'.
"Yes, sir."
"I hope you're this aggravating with Mycroft. Take care. And of him," Lestrade added because he couldn't help himself.
David's expression sobered. "Rely on it, sir."
Alone at last, suddenly it all felt too much: the potential for disaster if news broke that case files had been tampered with, the divorce, Julia, Mycroft...
Keep busy, Lestrade reminded himself before he began to move in all the bags: clothing, bedding, towels, even tins, packets and jars of food. All of which would ease the strain on his stretched finances.
It was several minutes before Lestrade noticed his surroundings. From the wreck he had left he found himself staring at smooth walls, painted a soft bone white, the floorboards sanded and polished, the skirting boards and doors stripped back to reveal polished wood. Work that would have taken him weeks...
On the table was a large basket of fruit and another full of jars of honey, jam and chutney - homemade, of course - and at the bottom a hand-knitted sweater. The housewarming card wishing him well in his new home was signed by Len and Annie Hilliard, and included Len's thanks for allowing him to have so much fun. There was also a short separate note.
'Mycroft asked me to leave the fruit and this for you in case he couldn't be there himself, LH.'
Lestrade stared at the exquisitely wrapped parcel. The note was dated yesterday. Before...
He ripped open what looked like handmade paper to find a perfect die-cast model of an Aston Martin, together with a month's supply of nicotine patches.
He stared at the car for so long without blinking that his eyes began to smart, then pushed up the sleeve of his sweater to apply a patch to his arm, just above the elbow. If he could survive a divorce without smoking full time he could certainly survive the loss of Mycroft Holmes.
But fuck it, there was nothing that said he had to enjoy it.
Shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out.
THACKERAY: Vanity Fair
END
of Part One of the series Fire and Ice