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Visiting 221B Baker Street was always a trying affair. He loved his brother – he really did – but that did not mean he particularly enjoyed his company, especially as Sherlock had made it clear for some years now that he had no desire for his.
As it was, John had invited him and a few others around to Baker Street for his birthday dinner and it was his duty as the man’s brother-in-law to attend. There was of course also the added bonus of Sherlock’s expression when he had answered the door.
“Piss off,” he said. Mycroft raised an eyebrow in return.
“Delighted to attend,” he said, pushing past his brother. A glance around the room showed other guests already present. On the sofa sat John flanked on either side by women – one of them clearly a relation. The sister of course, it was obvious in the colouring, and likely her supposedly estranged wife as well. Pity they hadn’t made it to the wedding.
There were also a few unfamiliar faces – friends of Johns then. Likely army or Barts.
In the corner sat the Detective Inspector Lestrade, the only other in the room whom he recognized. Mycroft had exchanged brief words with the man in the past, usually in an attempt to save his brother a criminal record.
“Hi, Mycroft,” said John making his way from the sofa to stand next to Sherlock. “Glad you could make it.”
“He’s not really,” said Sherlock.
“Sherlock,” said John glancing exasperatedly to his side, “can’t we just have one nice evening? Do you really need to insult every single one of my guests.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Not all of them,” he muttered. “Fine,” he said. “Welcome to John’s fortieth birthday extravaganza. I am so glad you could attend.”
Mycroft had to smile at the attempt.
“We’ll be having dinner shortly – Mrs. H has been cooking up a storm all day,” said John.
“Excellent,” said Mycroft. He appreciated John’s efforts – he truly did. The man had been a somewhat stabilizing force in his relationship with Sherlock. This was mostly because he shouted at them for refusing to get along and Sherlock responded well to his threats
“John!” came a voice from the front door and the host waved apologetically as he went to greet more guests.
Sighing, Mycroft made his way over to the only empty space still going – next to Lestrade.
He seated himself next to the other man and propped his umbrella up against the armrest. Turning towards him the detective inspector nodded in greeting.
“Evening Mr. Holmes,” he said.
“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft nodded in return. Time for some mundane small talk then he supposed.
“Haven’t seen you around in a while,” said Lestrade
“My presence has become… less necessary since the good doctor’s arrival,” replied Mycroft.
Though he could barely admit it to himself Mycroft oftentimes felt envious of his brother. He was happy now, and he had what Mycroft himself had always wanted – someone to share his life with. He certainly no longer needed his older sibling. Nowadays the security detail on Sherlock was less about keeping his brother safe and more about wanting to keep his brother close. Not that they had ever been close in recent years mind but Mycroft had always known that Sherlock at least needed him, even when he did not want him.
“You all right?” asked the other man, rousing him from his melancholy musings.
“Certainly,” he replied.
Silence reigned then between the two men until the detective inspector rose to his feet.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked.
Mycroft began to shake his head but on impulse nodded instead.
“Thanks, a gin and tonic.”
“Coming right up,” he said and wandered over to the kitchen table posing as a bar.
Mycroft rarely indulged in alcohol. He disliked the dulling effect on his mind and in his position it was never wise to be caught short. However, he did enjoy the very occasional drink and surely one could not hurt.
“Here you go,” said Lestrade handing him a half filled tumbler.
“Thank you Detective Inspector,” he said grasping the glass between his fingers and taking a sip. Not the highest of quality but then what could one expect from his teetotaler brother and his lager-drinking brother-in-law.
“Greg or Lestrade, please,” said Lestrade, “I feel like I’m at work with all this detective inspector lark.”
“Greg is short for Gregory, yes?” asked Mycroft. Lestrade nodded. “Very well Gregory, you must call me Mycroft,” he said and tipped his glass towards him.
Lestrade smiled in return.
“I don’t think I’ve been called Gregory in years,” remarked Lestrade.
“Shame, it suits you,” said Mycroft, “I’ve never understood this predilection
for shortening names. “
“You’ve gone by Mycroft your whole life then?”
“For the most part. Various attempts had been name to devise a nickname but none were successful.”
“I can’t call you Crofty then?” said Lestrade, grinning.
Mycroft raised his eyebrow. He took another sip of his drink.
“Certainly not.”
In truth, he had had a number of nicknames as a child, all of them unfortunate. He had always been on the chubby side and his classmates in primary school had taken to calling him “Fatcroft”. Much to his dismay, this moniker had followed him to Eton, often shortened to merely “Fatty,” and while Mycroft had always laughed the title off it had upset him deeply each time he was called it.
“Well shucks,” said Lestrade, his grin becoming wider. His eyes crinkled and Mycroft found himself noticing their colour for the first time – dark brown .
Taking another sip of his drink, Mycroft said, “As I am sure you are aware, I am not a man to be crossed.” He smiled as he said it to underscore that he was merely jesting,
“What, are you going to whack me over the head with that umbrella of yours?” asked Lestrade teasingly.
“Oh dear you’ve foiled my plan,” retorted Mycroft, “I suppose I shall have to employ my usual hit men instead. Lestrade laughed out loud.
Mycroft’s chest started to feel light. He rarely made people laugh.
“Here, I’ll get you another drink,” said Lestrade, pulling the empty tumbler from his fingers, and getting up before Mycroft could refuse.
He watched as the other man walked away. Certainly he had noticed that Lestrade was attractive. It was fact – the man had a handsome face and a pleasing physique and upon meeting him Mycroft had allowed himself half a second of admiration. However, he spent little of his time contemplating such matters. Romance was something he was ill suited towards and he had found it easier to shy away from such entanglements. Mentally he shook himself and focused instead on the surrounding party. A cake had appeared in Sherlock’s arms and everyone was beginning to sing. Lestrade reappeared with his drink and handed it to him.
“A Happy birthday to John.” He said.
“Indeed,” replied Mycroft.
A couple of hours later Mycroft was sitting in the same spot, eyes shut, and grinning widely. He balanced his fifth gin and tonic on his knee.
“You’re drunk,” said a voice to his left, obviously Lestrade. He had a nice voice. A sexy voice. No bad, shouldn’t be thinking things like that.
“Am not,” he mumbled. He feared he was lying.
“Bit of a light weight, huh?”
Mycroft chucked. “Yes alright then.” No point in denying it. The room was beginning to spin and he hadn’t felt this good in years.
“Well I hope you’re drunk. Otherwise it’d mean you were completely serious about the Original Series being better than Next Gen.”
“No you’re the drunk one!” said Mycroft, “as if it could be better…”
“You mean better than William Shatner and plastic starships on a string?”
“You take that back!” exclaimed Mycroft, sitting up. He regretted it a moment later as the spinning got worse and he lurched forward and put his head between his knees.
“Is Mycroft alright?” said a voice from above him. John.
“Bit much to drink is all,” replied Lestrade to his left.
“Ah,” said John.
“Oh look, is Mycroft smashed? Whatever would Mummy say?”
“Shut up Sherlock,” he tried to say but he feared his enunciation may not have gotten the message across.
“I’d better be heading off now,” said Lestrade, “early morning and all.” Mycroft felt his tummy sink. He didn’t want Lestrade to leave. He’d had a good time talking to him for the evening.
“Cheers,” said John, “thanks for coming.
“Where does he live?” asked Lestrade, and Mycroft felt a hand on his shoulder, “I can see him home.”
“Knightsbridge,” said John, “not really on your way.”
“No worries, I’ll detour. It’s the least I can do after plying him with the drink.”
A few minutes later Mycroft found himself in the back of a taxi with Lestrade, leaning against the window and staring as London rolled by.
“Feeling sick?”
Mycroft shook his head. “London is so bright,” he mumbled. Steetlights swished by and cast an amber glow over the city’s puddles.
Shortly after they pulled up outside his townhouse but by then Mycroft had been lulled into a gentle sleep. He felt someone nudge his shoulder but ignored it. He was too tired. He wanted to sleep.
Suddenly the door opened and his wall fell away. He tumbled out of the cab but was caught by a pair of arms before he reached the ground. He felt an arm go around his shoulder and prop him up, guiding him towards the front steps.
“Tea, he muttered.
“Sorry?” said a voice in his ear and they stumbled past the kitchen.
“You’re a guest, you need tea,” he said. Mummy would be appalled if he forgot the tea.
“I’m fine, lets just get you to bed so you can sleep,”
“Mmmhmm,” mumbled Mycroft in reply. His bed was so comfy.
When they arrived in the bedroom Mycroft was dumped onto the bed and hands started undoing the knot of his tie and then removing his jacket. His shirt was untucked and his shoes unlaced and pulled off. Finally a blanket was thrown over him and Lestrade whispered “good night” and patted him on the shoulder again before he left.
The next morning Mycroft awoke to a hammering on the inside of his head and a rumbling in his stomach. He groaned and pulled the pillow over his head.
Glancing at the clock he noted the time – noon. Noon. He had never slept so late. He sat up in bed but instantly regretted it as the pain in his head began to worsen.
On his bedside table sat a glass of water and a bottle of paracetamol. Downing two pills in one gulp he noticed a note underneath.
Hi, Mycroft. Hope you’re not too badly off this morning. Left these out just in case. Give us a text when you wake up so I’ll know you’re still alive. Greg.
Lestrade’s number was scribbled underneath.
Groaning, he tried to recall exactly what had happened the previous night. To be sure he had made an arse of himself. Sherlock would never let him live this down. And Lestrade… he had had to carry him home. And he had spent the whole night talking to him – likely annoyed at having to listen to Mycroft’s foolish drunken ramblings. He flushed when he remembered the feeling of Lestrade’s hands peeling off his coat and untucking his shirt.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket where it had sat all night. Normally he abhorred texting but he was too embarrassed to ring him.
Greetings. Am well now. Apologies for last night. – Mycroft hesitated at the next bit but in the end he added - Allow me to make it up to you? - M
Mycroft pressed send and sank back down into the bed. A couple of minutes later his message alert went off.
No worries, happens to the best of us. What did you have in mind? My apartment could use a good cleaning.
Mycroft smiled.
Dinner? Sat evening? - M
Sure thing :o)