Work Text:
Luqa International Airport, Malta, 16:00
Gregory Lestrade fidgeted in the airport’s hard seats. Though the sunburn on the backs of his legs was hidden by his khakis, he was only too painfully aware of it, an unpleasant leftover of an otherwise pleasant vacation.
Though he was by himself, he was coming home from celebrating an anniversary: five years as Detective Inspector. Five unbelievable years, so many cases, many resolved and some remaining frustratingly unsolved. Though Donovan and the rest had not always agreed with his bringing Sherlock Holmes in on cases, they did seem to respect their boss. And as the anniversary approached, they had even chipped in to start a fund to send him on a short holiday; he recognized a good idea when he saw it, and provided the rest. Had they done it to give him a much-needed break? To get him out of their hair? He wasn’t sure. But either way, a few days of sun had done wonders.
On the other side of the departure lounge, Mycroft Holmes grimaced in distaste at the chaos…the people…buzzing around him. His return travel from Tripoli had already been harrowing, and now the adrenaline had dissipated and left boredom in its wake. And to make matters worse, he’d accepted the last available seat out of Malta…in coach. He sipped tea that tasted remarkably like the paper cup it was served in, and frowned.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Air Malta flight 102, service to London Heathrow. Now boarding rows 15-22.”
Mycroft came down the aisle, and looked ahead to row 17. He spotted a man, his eyes closed, in the seat next to his. He had hoped for an open seat there, for a little quiet. But this could also work. Seems like he’s drowsing, and if he does sleep I can get some work done. Looks pleasant enough, though. Mycroft put his wheeled case in the overhead bin, and only as he sat down did he realize the man next to him was an acquaintance.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade?”
Greg’s eyes flew open. “Mr. Holmes! What on earth! I’d never have expected to run into you here.” Greg noted Mycroft’s business attire. “You weren’t on holiday, then, I guess?”
“Sadly, no. I was attending to some…minor matters of state. Malta is simply a transfer point in my journey back to London. But, did you enjoy your visit there? Would you recommend it?”
“Yes, it was an interesting place. There is quite a lot of history, and I bet you’d like that. Temples, knights, World War II. I did see some of it, but spent a fair amount of time lying around in the sun doing nothing, as well.” Greg winced as he shifted in his seat, and then looked a little sheepish. “Sunburn.”
The aircraft pushed back from the terminal, taxied to the edge of the runway…and stopped. The captain came on the loudspeaker, announcing that they would be returning to the gate to deal with a mechanical problem.
Lestrade turned to Mycroft and extended his hand. “We’re going to be waiting for quite a while, perhaps. Call me Greg.”
“Thank you very much, Gregory. Please call me Mycroft.”
Gregory?, thought Greg, haven’t heard that since Gran died but I guess I can live with it. He’s different, this one.
“I don’t know if you’re hungry, but I brought snacks, and I’ll share.” Greg produced a crumpled bag with dark stains on the side, and he handed Mycroft a pastry, which he accepted with a dubious expression. “These are pastizzi. They’re a local thing. Try them, they’re actually good.” Mycroft nibbled at the edge of the pastry, and found that it was surprisingly enjoyable. He was intrigued to find that the conversation was, as well. Between sharing war stories about dealing with Sherlock, the two men sat in companionable silence.
The passengers’ grumbling was gradually getting louder by 18:30, when the plane’s intercom stirred to life again. “Ladies and gentlemen, we do further apologize for the delay. We will have to cancel this flight and rebook you for travel tomorrow. We’ll be coming through the cabin with information to help you in rebooking.”
Amid the chorus of groans from the passengers, Mycroft muttered something under his breath. He extracted his phone from the briefcase beneath his seat, and made a phone call. After a few minutes, Mycroft rang off and turned back to his seatmate.
“Would you like a ride back to London? I have an aeroplane coming.”
“Wait a minute, you called a PLANE?” Greg gasped. “Your brother was right, you really are the British Government, aren’t you?” There was no direct response, Mycroft simply looking at him with a bit of reproach. “Gather your things,” he said. “We’ll wait in the VIP lounge.”
The two of them took over the little room on the second floor. Mycroft spent an hour on email, Greg on the last few chapters of his novel. When Mycroft’s inbox was closer to empty and Greg’s book was finished, they indulged in a drink (local beer for Greg, white French wine for Mycroft) and a little conversation.
“Thanks again for the ride back, Mycroft. It will be a great help not to have to battle the airport on two consecutive days. And this will allow me to be back at work on time, too. I do appreciate it.”
“Certainly, Gregory. I wouldn’t want to risk the safety of the citizens of London by extending your absence.” A slight twinkle in Mycroft’s eye belied an otherwise serious expression.
“Good to be missed by someone, I guess,” Greg replied. Mycroft looked puzzled at Greg’s words. “I had understood that you were married?”
“Were is the operative word in that sentence,” said Greg. “No longer, as of a year or so ago. So I’m on my own. Since then, nothing serious. Hell, nothing un-serious very often, either. You might be surprised to hear this, but there’s not such a market for gray-haired coppers whose work schedules depend on who’s dead where. People aren’t exactly breaking down my door.”
People?, thought Mycroft. Not “women?” An interesting choice of words, there. Perhaps there was potential, after all. Feeling a sudden warmth, Mycroft removed his jacket and loosened his tie.
“You do yourself a disservice, Gregory. Your hair isn’t gray. It’s silver. Silver hair is much more attractive.” Greg grinned at the compliment.
Greg looked intently at this enigma sitting across from him. Previously, he had known of Mycroft only what Sherlock said (far from complimentary) and what he had seen at a crime scene now and again (slightly terrifying). But neither of those personas matched the man currently sharing a drink with him. This Mycroft was so different.
Greg wanted to know more, and could think of only one way to find out. He took a deep breath and took a chance. “This minor position of yours seems to come with a lot of responsibility. I’d think it would be difficult for your…family…to deal with your travel and your hours?”
“Sherlock is the only family I have that is remotely dependent on me, and you’ve seen yourself that he more or less operates as he wants. I’m also…on my own, as you say. And you’re right, in the past the duties of the work have posed a challenge. An insurmountable one, in fact.” There was an uncomfortable silence.
Greg noticed Mycroft’s downcast eyes, and flushed red. “Oh. Sorry. Leave it to me to point out what you didn’t want said. I am surprised, though. I can understand my being alone…but you, Mycroft? So cultured and intelligent, and a snappy dresser, and…well. Who wouldn’t?”
Mycroft gave a wry smile. “Apparently more wouldn’t than would. Though, truly, the precise number who would isn’t relevant.” Mycroft met Gregory’s gaze. “I’m looking for only one.”
“Well, isn’t that a coincidence. We have that in common. I’m looking for exactly one, too.”
Just after two AM, a black car dropped Gregory Lestrade off at his doorstep in London. In his pocket was a business card, with a private mobile number written in a neat hand on the back.