Chapter Text
The silence between Mycroft and himself was more comfortable than Lestrade had dared hope - not that he'd imagined he would be driving home with Mycroft when he got up this morning. The easy part was the driving - putting the pieces back together, not so much.
Lestrade sighed and tried to give all his concentration to the road, while wishing he hadn't smoked his last cigarette during the drive down to Chislehurst. He fidgeted irritably with his tie. Enough was enough. This time he'd stop smoking for good.
Mycroft watched the subtle changes in Lestrade's body language without surprise. Of course he was angry. Anyone would be. He just wished he knew what to say: 'I'm sorry' didn't quite cover it. Nothing was adequate, given what he had knowingly done. And, if he was honest, would do again in similar circumstances. Which Gregory needed to know, because if he didn't admit that then they started with a lie and -
Exhaustion dragging at him, Mycroft tried to stop thinking altogether as he checked his jacket pocket for cigarettes, only to remember he hadn't smoked since the accident. He'd been smoking when there'd been a crack, followed by a rumbling roar, before the world had turned on its side in a jumble of confusion and terror.
After a few minutes Mycroft regained control of his breathing. He hadn't appreciated what 'flashback' entailed until he'd experienced his first one. Of course, it hadn't been raining out there. Sweat clammy on his skin, he watched the wipers try to keep up with the volume of water dashing against the windscreen, remembering how, when it had shattered, fragments of glass had even found their way inside his underwear.
He returned to the present when he became aware of movement beside him as Lestrade switched on the heater and demister, before tugging his tie free and stuffing it in a pocket, with no regard for the cut of his jacket. He must have gone to some trouble to acquire that outfit in such a short space of time. Wary of breaking the silence, Mycroft kept himself centred by concentrating on the man beside him, accustoming himself to the stern-faced stranger with cropped hair and a close-trimmed beard.
Visibility was poor considering the early hour, purple-black clouds and driving rain making Mycroft grateful for his dry haven. Disorientated by the headlights of oncoming traffic winking at him, he blinked at the distorted halos of gold; light-headed from lack of food and pain, everything began to assume a surreal quality. He concentrated on watching Lestrade, hoping that this time he was real.
As they drew closer to the outskirts of London, congested traffic slowed them to a crawl; Lestrade glanced at his companion. Disconcerted to discover he was under surveillance, he blurted out the first thing that came into his head.
"I've just realised - it's gone lunchtime. Are you hungry?"
Mycroft gave an involuntary grimace of revulsion.
"Nor, me." Lestrade motioned for a car stuck in a side street to pull out ahead of them. "It occurred to me that if I go to my flat I could pack and not need to return there. Shall I drop you off first?"
"I would rather accompany you." Mycroft's soft-voiced courtesy failed to hide his steely determination that they shouldn't be parted.
"Right. Good," added Lestrade, but his smile was strained, his voice tight with tension. "I'd best give security the address so they can check it out."
Mycroft fumbled for his phone, spoke briefly into it, before handing it to Lestrade.
Lestrade blinked in surprise, Mycroft's phone having always been off-limits, before he thought to give the required information and returned the phone to its owner.
"While the area looks a bit run-down, it's a decent community," he said. "Almost a village feel."
"It isn't an area of London I know," said Mycroft, all his years of effortless small-talk abandoning him.
They maintained a limping conversation as Lestrade double-parked outside his flat, after receiving the all-clear from security.
Mycroft made a less than graceful exit from the car, his balance affected by his immobilised right arm. Lestrade stifled the urge to help him, wary of making things worse.
"The flat's on the third floor," he said apologetically. He gestured for Mycroft to go first, so that if he slipped he would have a soft landing.
While Mycroft climbed the first flight with every appearance of ease, by the third he was sweating and the hand not in a splint was visibly unsteady.
The security woman outside the flat - another stranger to Lestrade - nodded, then closed the front door as they went inside, giving them some much needed privacy.
Because he had no idea what to say that wouldn't sound like an accusation, Lestrade muttered something incomprehensible and filled the kettle with water.
Frozen in the centre of what was obviously the main living space - far smaller than his dressing room at Guardian House - Mycroft gained an insight into Gregory's mood during the last six months. Apart from an angular sofa, the only other items were a small table, a lamp, and a new laptop. There were no soft furnishings, the cheap laminate floor scuffed and chipped, the windows bare of even a blind. But everywhere smelled of cleaning products and was spotless, the few items on the kitchen counter lined up with mathematical precision - a sure sign of Gregory's distress. In times of emotional turmoil he cleaned and tidied to excess, as if by so doing he could bring order to his emotional life.
"Tea?" said Lestrade, making Mycroft jump.
"Thank you," he said.
"It's only PG Tips," Lestrade warned, taking two cheap mugs from a wall cupboard that was at least thirty years out of date.
"Inevitably." Mycroft ventured a small smile.
Lestrade's face relaxed into a more familiar grin. "Yeah. Would you prefer a glass of milk? There's plenty."
Mycroft nodded, and they sipped their respective drinks while Lestrade emptied the refrigerator of perishable items, and left the bag at the door to take down to the refuse bin. He collected up his laptop and phone recharger, together with a familiar fire-proof box file that had always contained his personal papers and set them on the table, before glancing around.
"That's everything in here. I should make a start on my clothes," he said.
The relief that Gregory hadn't changed his mind was so great that Mycroft sagged where he stood propped against the support of the wall. "How may I help?" He felt as though he was tiptoeing through a verbal minefield, imminent explosion only a hair's-breadth away.
"No need. I've had plenty of practice at packing." As he realised how that could be interpreted, Lestrade looked up with a grimace. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded. Come through. Have you taken any painkillers recently?"
Mycroft accepted that it had been optimistic to hope Gregory wouldn't notice. "Paracetamol. I react badly to most of the others. It's fine," he dismissed.
Lestrade closed his opening mouth, obviously thinking the better of what he had been about to say, picked up the roll of black plastic sacks he had taken from a kitchen drawer, and ushered Mycroft into the bedroom.
There was just room for a Queen Ann sized bed, with a cheap chest of drawers and a number of hangers holding jackets and trousers balanced precariously over the top of the door. The Venetian blind at the window must have come with the flat because it certainly wouldn't have been Gregory's choice - he just hadn't cared enough to replace it. But there wasn't a speck of dust to be seen on the plastic strips.
It was then that Mycroft noticed the only ornament in the room - the die-cast model of an Aston Martin, which he had ordered while they were on the island. The one gift Gregory seemed to treasure above all others. The only unnecessary item he had taken when he left.
He touched it with a careful finger. Lost to memories, both sweet and unbearable, it was some time before Mycroft appreciated that all movement had stopped. He looked up to see Lestrade holding a pair of jeans and a faded blue Wallace and Gromit sweatshirt defensively to his chest.
"I can't stand this straight jacket any longer." Lestrade gestured to the suit, before retreating into the bathroom to change.
Mycroft stared at the space he had occupied with dawning despair. He hadn't expected that... Hadn't expected...
He sank onto the bed, exhaustion challenging his fragile emotional control. Easing his legs onto the bed, he leant back against a wall painted a shade that Gregory called 'institutional' - a chilly pale blue lacking warmth or subtlety of tone. Gregory hadn't cared enough to paint over it. Not even during the months of his suspension...
Mycroft closed his eyes in a moment of despair. It had never occurred to him that they would be so awkward with one another. Words were his tool of choice and here he was, as inarticulate as...
Self-conscious about his retreat, Lestrade strode back into the bedroom with assumed confidence, only to stop dead when he saw the sleeper.
In the six months they had been apart Mycroft had lost some hair and acquired new lines on his face. The skin beneath his eyes was shadowed violet, and his eyelids had an almost translucent look. Mycroft twitched as he slept and Lestrade's unwary heart twisted.
He had wanted them back together so much but it was dawning on him that it might not be that simple. For one thing they seemed to have forgotten how to talk to one another. Though the fact Mycroft was running on empty probably wasn't helping.
One thought leading to another, Lestrade went into the living room for his phone. He wasn't surprised to find Mycroft and Moneypenny's numbers reinstated, but instead of David's number, there was Fatima's - not the way she would have wanted promotion. Because Moneypenny hadn't been at the funeral, he called Fatima.
"It's Lestrade. Is Mycroft supposed to be on medication?"
"He's supposed to be back in the Clinic by now," she said with a tartness which imperfectly concealed her concern.
"He didn't say."
"It wasn't likely he would, was it." It was the closest Fatima had ever come to discussing his relationship with Mycroft.
"I suppose it wasn't," conceded Lestrade absently. "I'll take him to the Clinic when he wakes up."
"Gregory?"
Lestrade glanced up to see a drowsy looking Mycroft listing slightly where he stood in the doorway. "Change of plan, Fatima, himself has woken up. We'll be there in half an hour or so." He rang off and studied Mycroft in more detail.
"Come on, let's get you seen to," he said gently. "And don't waste your breath saying you're fine."
Once at the Clinic, Lestrade swallowed his surprise when Mycroft made no objection when he followed him into the examination room.
"Are you sure?" murmured Lestrade, while Bond busied himself at a trolley on the other side of the room.
"I'm positive. If I've learned anything during our months apart it's that there have been too many secrets. That will change - except where national security is concerned." Mycroft's eyes never left Lestrade's face, trying to fathom his mood and thoughts. "Will that be enough?"
Not sure what he was being told, beyond the obvious, Lestrade shrugged. "We'll see. You should sit down. You look dreadful."
"I'm sore and I'm tired. Nothing else."
"Then I may as well go home," said Bond dryly, as he arrived in time to hear Mycroft's reassurance.
"Do I have you permission to speak freely in front of DI Lestrade?" he added more formally.
"Full disclosure," said Mycroft, with a faint grimace.
"I thought that must hurt to say," interjected Lestrade, and he sounded so wonderfully familiar in that moment that Mycroft gave an involuntary grin.
It faded the moment he began to undress.
Frozen to the spot, Lestrade winced before Mycroft did as items of clothing were dispensed with. Mycroft's torso was scattered with angry-looking wounds caused by glass from the shattered windscreen, together with an ugly gash down one side that looked older, and more serious.
"Who attacked you?" asked Lestrade, when he trusted his voice.
"It was an accident," said Mycroft, without interest.
"Someone accidentally slashed you with a knife?" Lestrade stood over him, his disbelief obvious.
"It was a swordstick," said Bond, his expression intent as he examined Mycroft's shoulder.
His eyes wide, Lestrade stared at Mycroft. "How did you accidentally slice open your side with the swordstick I bought you?"
"Give me some credit. It was John Watson."
Lestrade face wiped clean of expression. "Ah," he said vaguely.
Because Bond had begun to manipulate his shoulder, Mycroft was too busy trying to be stoic to spot the warning signs.
By the end of the examination Lestrade was almost as pale as Mycroft.
Their escape from the Clinic was delayed when Bond learned that neither of them had eaten that day. They were taken to a room that obviously functioned as a staff dining room and were swiftly served.
Lestrade poked without enthusiasm at the wing of skate, with mashed potatoes and suspiciously vivid green peas. "I thought the food would be better than in a National Health hospital."
"It is," said Mycroft, "just not inspired. This would be improved by some capers."
"No ketchup," said Lestrade sadly, and had the satisfaction of watching Mycroft's face relax into a smile.
"Or brown sauce," said Mycroft.
But when they began to eat they realised how hungry they were, managing cheese and biscuits and some fruit afterwards.
Armed with a list of Mycroft's injuries, medication, treatment and appointments for check-ups and physiotherapy, Lestrade drove them to Guardian House.
"Will there be any supplies?" he thought to ask, as they pulled up outside the house.
"I doubt it. Perhaps we should stay at a hotel tonight," said Mycroft with obvious reluctance. "I have no idea what state the house will be in. I left Sherlock and John here, after meeting Sherlock's plane. I hadn't anticipated having to fly out to the Afghan/Pakistan border within the first few minutes of arriving here."
It was the third time Mycroft had freely offered information but Lestrade hardly noticed, haunted by the image of Mycroft lunging to save David as his door opened over the ravine. Mycroft had dislocated his shoulder in the process, ripped open that wound in his side, and all while maintaining a grip on David's body so fierce that he had torn the tendons in his hand - while staring into the abyss which could have swallowed them up at any moment. And it was all very well for Bond to say the risk of permanent injury was slight, but he couldn't shake off the fear that dust from the shattered windscreen might have caused lasting damage to Mycroft's lungs.
"Gregory?"
Lestrade refocused to find Mycroft watching him with some anxiety. He slipped the key from the ignition and opened the car door before a thought occurred to him. "Do you have a key to the house? I'll open up."
"I left it here."
"Then how are we going to get in? I left mine here when I left," Lestrade reminded him.
The muscles around Mycroft's eyes and mouth tightened. "I hadn't forgotten." He abruptly left the car and, as Lestrade hurried over to him, tried the front door, which swung open with an oiled ease.
"The advantage of having a security detail." Mycroft ignored the rain soaking him and gestured for Lestrade to go in first. It hadn't escaped his notice that they had yet to touch, even by accident; Gregory had seen to that.
Once in the dry, Lestrade became aware of just how wet and cold he had become in a matter of seconds. He nodded an acknowledgement to the security man who had ferried in his belongings and with a pointed 'Bye,' closed and secured the front door behind him.
It was difficult to remember he had once thought of this place as home. It didn't even smell right - though it had to be admitted, it was spotlessly clean.
"Thank goodness someone thought to switch on the central heating." Lestrade knew he was babbling as he eased Mycroft out of his wet jacket, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.
"It is cold, considering it isn't even October," agreed Mycroft. There was safety in platitudes.
Lestrade slung the damp jacket of his suit over a hook on the hatstand, and correctly interpreting Mycroft's horrified glance said: "It doesn't matter, I don't intend to wear this suit again. It'll always be linked to - "
"David's funeral." Mycroft suddenly looked very tired. "I'd almost forgotten it was only this morning."
"It's been a long, stressful day. Let's go upstairs. Tea?" Lestrade was reduced to adding.
"Please."
Lestrade entered the kitchen, paused and gave Mycroft a puzzled look. "I thought you said Sherlock had been staying here. The place is immaculate."
"Yes," said Mycroft, turning to study the family room. "Not at all how I left it. Perhaps John? Though it's difficult to credit that even he could persuade Sherlock to clean."
"I'm not so sure," said Lestrade slowly. "John might have told him to imagine he had to destroy all evidence that he'd been there - as if the house was a crime scene."
"Oh, that would work," conceded Mycroft. "Particularly as I imagine Sherlock is desperate to placate John."
"Sit. I'll see to the tea," said Lestrade briskly. Far better to keep busy than worry about why he and Mycroft seemed less able to communicate now than they had outside the church.
The kitchen was cleaned to a standard to which even Annie would have approved. He said as much, adding: "I suppose there's no chance she and Len are back yet?"
"None," said Mycroft, visibly tensing. "Though her sister has made an excellent recovery. There was talk of her returning to the UK with her family - too many unhappy memories out there. However when I rang Annie and Len - to apologise for allowing them to hear of Sherlock's survival through the press - "
" - the same as the rest of us." An edge had returned to Lestrade's voice. "I take it they weren't thrilled either."
"Annie couldn't stop crying - a mixture of relief that Sherlock was alive, and the fact I'd lied to her. Len took over the call. He...disowned me," said Mycroft, in the bored, superior tone he used at times of deep emotional pain.
Lestrade winced. "He'll come round," he said, after a moment.
"No, I don't believe he will. It's the hurt to Annie he won't be able to forgive." Mycroft looked up then, staring at Lestrade as the reality of what he had done to those he loved sank home with renewed ferocity.
The conversation staggered to a halt again.
Lestrade slumped onto a chair on the opposite side of the table from Mycroft as abruptly as if his legs had been kicked from beneath him. His shoulders hunched, elbows on the table, he linked his fingers over the top of his bowed head, as if trying to hold in all the inconvenient emotions jostling for supremacy.
Frozen in place, Mycroft watched and waited.
When Lestrade eventually straightened, his exhaustion was clear on his haggard face - not that of one night, or two, but, like Mycroft, of days and weeks and months of stress and unhappiness.
"I don't think I can do this after all," Lestrade muttered, looking vulnerable, lost and care-worn.
While it was no more than he had expected by this time, it still shook Mycroft to his core. "Ah," he said, fixing his gaze on his cooling tea. His hands were shaking too much for him to risk trying to drink from it.
"Not us, you pillock," exclaimed Lestrade, in a wonderfully familiar tone that made Mycroft look up, beyond disguising his hope. "Don't you realise? You'd need a crowbar to prise me away from you."
While all Mycroft managed was a winded "Oh," the smile which started in his eyes, lit up the room. "I hoped - That is, I - " He stretched out his uninjured hand, which Lestrade immediately grasped, curling his fingers tightly around Mycroft's.
Lestrade stared at the earnest man, pale with emotional turmoil and physical discomfort, and experienced a surge of love so intense it almost deprived him of breath. He firmly squashed any inclination towards sentimentality and said, "Yes, 'oh'. You can be such a dick."
"I won't attempt to deny it this time." Mycroft raised their joined hands and kissed Lestrade's knuckles without a trace of self-consciousness. "Without you in my life the world felt like an unpeopled wasteland. You're the centre around which everything revolves."
Lestrade's eyes were suddenly over-bright as a rush of emotion swept away long-standing defences. "I'd've said that, if I wasn't an inarticulate copper. Don't look so gob-smacked," he added with an asperity Mycroft found wonderfully cheering after so much soulless courtesy. "You must know you're my...everything. Best friend, lover, partner. You're it with a capital i. I don't know when it happened exactly but I'm not 'me' any more, I'm 'us'."
"But surely... You've been married."
Lestrade shrugged. "There was never this sense of...belonging. Not Julia's fault. Or mine. Like a lot of people we were a make-do couple who hoped for the best. Though I never realised that until the real deal came along. That would be you," he added helpfully.
Mycroft held Lestrade's hand in a grip so tight his fingers began to cramp. "I've nothing with which to compare this, but I felt...incomplete - 'one's not half of two. It's two are halves of one'."
Lestrade's eyes narrowed - and not in a good way. "Hang on, that's a quotation. What'shisname? Cummings. You never use quotations."
Mycroft was so exhausted he had to pause to review the last few moments of their conversation. "Yes. Sorry," he added, because it had obviously been a mistake. Yet again he was beset by the fear that everything which mattered most in his life was trickling away and he had no idea how to stop it.
"You never use quotations. Why now?" pursued Lestrade.
"Because I have no idea what I'm saying," Mycroft confessed. "I'm so afraid of driving you away for good. Loving you isn't enough - "
"It's a bloody good start," murmured Lestrade, irritation falling away like an unwanted coat. He padded over, standing so close they shared body heat, and tweaked gently at the open collar of Mycroft's shirt. "Would it be all right if I kissed you?" he asked in all seriousness.
"It would be perfect," said Mycroft fervently.
Lestrade hesitated for a moment, tilting his head slightly, as if he had forgotten how to fit them together, before his mouth brushed Mycroft's, once, then twice. The third time his tongue tip just touched Mycroft's bottom lip.
Mycroft made an inarticulate sound of need, cupping one side of Lestrade's face with his uninjured hand. Then they were kissing with equal desperation as they tried to bridge the void left by six lonely months.
When they eventually drew apart, Mycroft looked up and with obvious reluctance said: "So when you said you couldn't do this?"
As if unwilling to surrender all points of contact, Lestrade tweaked at the set of Mycroft's sling, before he puffed up his cheeks and slowly exhaled. "I thought I could be grown-up about this. I know you'll have a good reason for what you did, that you wouldn't lightly hurt me. But I've realised I need to know every detail - to sift through the bones. But in the process I'll probably lose it and start shouting and waving my arms about, which would be fine in normal circumstances, but right now you look so damn fragile..."
"I do not," said Mycroft, visibly revolted by the idea of fragility.
Lestrade's expression further softened. "Yeah, you do. So we'll save all that for another day. Okay?"
Mycroft would have given anything to get it over with, because no matter what Gregory said, he couldn't shake off his fear that he wouldn't be forgiven - even someone has warm-hearted as Gregory must have their limits. But this had to be about what Gregory wanted. Time, finally, to put him first.
He nodded. "Whatever you want," he said huskily, just before he was wrapped in the loving warmth that was Gregory Lestrade.
Lestrade gave Mycroft a look of exasperation. "The world won't end if you don't take a shower tonight. And don't even bother arguing. There's no way you can manage by yourself. Besides, it'll give me time to find the black sacks and sellotape left over from when you had to cover my shoulder."
The effort of removing his clothing, even with Lestrade's help, had left Mycroft squinting with pain and sweating, although the bout of coughing hadn't helped. It was also intensely humiliating being helped to undress, but while he insisted on putting on his pyjama bottoms himself, he had the sense to realise the jacket was a step too far.
"I don't believe I was nearly sympathetic enough on that occasion," muttered Mycroft.
"You were. Though, as I recall, I was a hell of a lot grumpier."
"Give me time," said Mycroft dryly, swallowing the tablets Lestrade handed him without even bothering to check what they were.
"Hey, I've just realised. We'll have his and his scars - shoulder and side," said Lestrade.
Mycroft gave him the kind of look he usually reserved for Sherlock when he was at his most irritating. Unlike Sherlock, Lestrade just grinned and kissed the corner of Mycroft's mouth.
"I'll get changed before I get you comfortable."
Mycroft blinked, but nodded his acceptance because he had little choice. But it hurt that Gregory didn't feel comfortable naked in front of him.
He bit the bullet. "You don't usually wear anything to bed."
"No," said Lestrade, fidgeting slightly. "It's still a bit chilly."
"Ah," said Mycroft, allowing himself to hope that it might be his slight temperature distorting reality, rather than Gregory - for whatever reason - feeling uncomfortable naked in front of him.
"Right," said Lestrade briskly,"you're the expert in pillow nests. Sit tight. I'll get the spare pillows and you can tell me how to make one. "
It took some time to get Mycroft propped up in a position of comfort that wouldn't put pressure on his shoulder or side, but they managed it eventually. His head resting just below Mycroft's uninjured shoulder, mindful of the dressing over the cut on his side, Lestrade listened to the rain pounding against the windows. So tired he ached with it, he fought the need for sleep, superstitiously afraid this wasn't real after all. He could feel the side of Mycroft's thumb describing circles on the curve of his biceps and absently-mindedly kissed the first unscarred portion of flesh he could find.
Mycroft twitched.
"You don't like the beard," Lestrade noted into the comfortable silence.
"It isn't that. Only I've never kissed anyone with one before," admitted Mycroft. "It tickled, that's all."
"Yeah? I like the idea of being your first. But I'll shave it off. I miss feeling your skin against mine when we kiss. Now go to sleep. Then I can."
Mycroft craned his neck the better to see Lestrade's expression. "What? Why can't - ? Oh. I thought I was the only one afraid this might not be real - but that's because I hallucinated you while I was at the Clinic."
Lestrade caught his breath on a wince, but had the sense not to say anything because he wasn't convinced Mycroft knew what he had betrayed.
"But you are here, " continued Mycroft, as he stroked Lestrade's shoulder, " - something I doubt I'll ever take for granted again. And, for the avoidance of doubt, you'll need one of your crowbars to get rid of me." He had the satisfaction of feeling Lestrade's mouth curl into a smile against his skin.
As Mycroft caressed Lestrade's cropped hair, the dangers and concerns of the world fell away, insignificant compared to the vastness of what he felt for the man who had been willing to give him another chance. Gregory was so fearless in his affection - or so he had always assumed. But Gregory's haggard, care-worn face was proof he had paid a high price over the last few months.
"What?" mumbled Lestrade, sensing something amiss.
"Nothing. Go to sleep," murmured Mycroft, gently massaging the sub-occipital region of Lestrade's neck with the pad of his thumb.
So Lestrade did, his weight increasing against Mycroft by almost imperceptible degrees.
That he later shocked Mycroft awake, kicking like a dog dreaming of chasing rabbits, seemed almost inevitable. Despite the ferocious ache in his shoulder and the out-of-reach painkillers, Mycroft smiled into the darkness as he lightly stroked the cropped hair. Lestrade's incomprehensible mumbling gradually faded away and he settled back into a quieter sleep without ever waking.
But Mycroft couldn't help worrying about how long it had been since Gregory had enjoyed a peaceful night's sleep.