Fic: Diogenes (2/2)

[rusty_armour]

Title: Diogenes (2/2)
Author: Rusty Armour
Fandom: Sherlock, The X-Files
Characters: Mycroft/Lestrade, Mulder/Scully, Sherlock, John
Category: Slash, Crossover
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,606
Summary: When an unusual clue turns up during the course of an investigation, Lestrade is thrown into a world he never knew existed and experiences emotions he never thought he’d feel again.
Spoilers: Some spoilers for “A Study in Pink” (Sherlock), “The Truth” (The X-Files), and The X-Files: I Want to Believe.
Notes: This was written for secondskin, who was generous enough to bid on this story at qldfloodauction. Her prompt was the following: “…I would like somehow for Mycroft to be involved in the British version of an X-Files type situation. In my cracky head canon, I know Mycroft has his hands in all manner of super top secret alien and supernatural dealings for the British government.” I hope I’ve managed to fulfill secondskin’s wishes on at least some level. I can honestly say that the organization Mycroft runs is so super top secret that I still haven’t learned its location.

A big thanks goes out to _doodle, who not only donated her Britpicking services through help_nz but was kind enough to provide a thorough beta as well. This story is in much better shape than it was originally because of her. I would also like to thank bamf_hbic, who provided the screencap I used for the fic banner in this post.

Disclaimer: With great power comes great responsibility. Thankfully, I have neither. Sherlock and its characters are owned by other people, though I feel fortunate to have been allowed to play in this wonderful sandbox.

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As Lestrade peered around the open door to Mycroft’s office, he couldn’t see any sign of its usual occupant. He was about to turn and go back to his room when he heard a bump, then a groan, then Mycroft’s voice coming from under his desk.

“Thunderball, let go of that. It’s bad enough you had to knock half my papers to the floor, without you ripping them to shreds. You have a perfectly adequate scratching post and cat toys and, yet, you insist on playing with all of my possessions instead.”

Lestrade had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

“Get off of that. Detective Inspector Lestrade needs to sign it. Really, Thunderball. I can only imagine what the poor man must be thinking right now.”

Lestrade’s mouth fell open, and Mycroft’s head popped up from behind the desk.

“There were two sets of footfalls approaching my office, but I heard only one set – a set in high heels – walk away,” Mycroft said. “If only one person was planning to speak to me then why were there two sets of footfalls?”

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Because the first person was escorting the second person here.”

Mycroft smiled. “And as you’re the only guest we have at the moment, I deduced that you were the set of footfalls that decided to stay.” Mycroft stood up, motioning to the empty chair on the other side of the desk. “Please. Sit down, Detective Inspector.”

“If you’ll stop calling me ‘Detective Inspector’,” Lestrade said.

Mycroft frowned. “I’m sorry?”

Lestrade sat down in the chair. “If I’m really meant to be on holiday, you should be calling me ‘Lestrade’ or ‘Greg’.” His eyes fell on Mycroft’s cat as she leapt on the desk. “And you can stop calling her ‘Thunderball’. I think you’ve made your point.”

Mycroft’s brow creased. “But that’s her name. What else would I call her?”

“No, that was just a joke – and not even a very good one – so you can go back to calling her by her real name,” Lestrade said.

Mycroft smirked. “I can’t. She doesn’t have one.”

Now it was Lestrade’s turn to be confused. “What?”

“I hadn’t named her before last night. I couldn’t think of anything appropriate. Out of sheer desperation, I had taken to calling her ‘Cat’. But that’s not necessary now, is it, Thunderball?” Mycroft scratched under Thunderball’s chin, and Thunderball started purring.

Lestrade crossed his arms. “But Thunderball isn’t a cat’s name. It’s a book and film title. There’s got to be something else you can use.”

Mycroft shook his head. “The name suits her, and it amuses me, De-Greg. I won’t change it.”

Lestrade shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “It’s your cat.” Secretly, he was pleased that Mycroft was keeping the name. He was even more pleased that Mycroft had chosen to call him by his first rather than last name, though he wasn’t sure why it should matter to him one way or another what Mycroft called him.

As if he’d been reading Lestrade’s mind, Mycroft said, “While we’re on the subject of names, I would prefer it if you’d call me ‘Mycroft’. I realize you haven’t called me anything up to this point, but, when the time comes, ‘Mycroft’ would be best.”

Lestrade stared at Mycroft, stunned. Was the man actually flustered? The great Mycroft Holmes was certainly blushing. That much was obvious. “Okay, then, Mycroft. I believe there are some forms you need me to sign.”

There were eight forms and 23 individual sections that required Lestrade’s signature. Lestrade read the first two sections carefully then lost patience and skimmed through the rest.

“I apologize for the extreme tediousness of such an exercise, but these forms are absolutely essential.” Mycroft leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped on the desk. “No doubt you have questions.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said. “Where the bloody hell am I?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Why, you’re in Diogenes, of course.”

Lestrade scowled. “Yes, I realize that, but where is it?”

“Ah,” Mycroft said. “I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly divulge that information.”

“But I just signed eight bloody forms!” Lestrade cried. “What’s it going to take to get me clearance?”

Mycroft gave Lestrade a sympathetic look. “A lot more than that, I’m afraid. Suffice it to say, you’ll be perfectly safe down here.”

Lestrade sat up in his chair. “Down here?” He had noticed the lack of windows, but hadn’t been sure if it was a design feature for the whole building or just one section.

Mycroft chuckled quietly. “Yes, Greg. You’re several metres underground. That much I can tell you.”

Lestrade found he was struggling again not to laugh. “May I see the shark tank or is it classified as well?”

Mycroft sighed. “I was going to give you a tour of the rest of the facility first, but I suppose if we hurry we might be in time for the morning feeding.” When Lestrade gaped at him, Mycroft rolled his eyes. “That was a joke, though, perhaps, not a very good one.”

Lestrade laughed weakly. “Right. A joke. Ha, ha.”

Mycroft rose quickly from his chair. “Come on. I’d better give you that tour as it seems to be the only way I’ll be able to convince you that I’m not a Bond villain.”

Although Mycroft made the mistake of taking Lestrade to the labs first, he was able to strengthen his case when he showed him the kitchen, lounge, infirmary, and library. Lestrade was especially impressed by the library, with its deep upholstered armchairs and tall wooden bookcases that lined the walls from floor to ceiling.

“Please feel free to borrow anything you wish from the collection,” Mycroft said.

Lestrade managed to tear his eyes away from the shelves. “Thanks. I might just do that.”

Lestrade did more than that. He began to spend a lot of time ensconced in the library, with a book in his hands and, more often than not, a cat in his lap, as it seemed that Thunderball had free rein of the unrestricted areas of the building.

Mycroft made a point of visiting the library himself whenever he was available. At first, it seemed to be simply to check on Lestrade, but, soon, he and Lestrade were having animated discussions about the books Lestrade was choosing from the shelves. Mycroft even issued an invitation to dinner in his Diogenes quarters, and Lestrade found himself accepting. However, the visitor Lestrade received in the library the following day wasn’t interested in having a friendly chat or sharing a meal with him. He shook Lestrade from his doze, standing over him imperiously as Lestrade started awake. Lestrade blinked at the figure in front of him in astonishment.

“Sherlock? How did you get in here?”

Sherlock smiled. “Oh, I’ve known about this place for ages. Sneaking in here was child’s play.”

Lestrade nodded grimly. “Of course it was. You could probably have done the whole thing blindfolded, right?”

“Well, as I had to travel down a dark tunnel for most of the way, I did, in a sense, do it blindfolded,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade sighed. “What are you doing here, Sherlock?”

Sherlock frowned, almost looking disappointed. “Why, I’m here to rescue you, of course.”

Lestrade stared at Sherlock in confusion. “Rescue me from what?”

“From Diogenes,” Sherlock said. “From all of this.” He gave an expansive wave of his arm, gazing at the contents of the library in disgust.

Lestrade’s grip tightened on The Big Knockover. “There are men trying to kill me, Sherlock. I was brought here for my own protection. Besides, I like it here.”

Sherlock’s head turned sharply. “You like it here?” He bent over and grabbed Lestrade by the chin. “Let me see your eyes. He’s obviously drugged or brainwashed you.”

“Arrgh! Let go of me!” Lestrade pushed Sherlock away and stood up, putting the armchair between them. “How did you know I was here, anyway? The official story is that I’m taking a course in Manchester.”

Sherlock snorted. “Oh, please. Even Donovan saw through that.”

“Really?” Lestrade couldn’t help feeling proud of his sergeant.

“Yes, apparently you won’t even leave for a dentist’s appointment without informing her, so she thought it was very strange that you would go off to Manchester without a phone call or, at least, an email.” Sherlock picked up the novel from the armchair and began flipping through it curiously. “Of course, I was able to observe that you had been forced to make a rather hasty exit from Scotland Yard. I can’t help wondering if Mycroft is getting sloppy or if he wanted me to know what had happened.”

Lestrade didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. “How did you work that out?”

Sherlock dropped the novel back on the armchair and beamed at Lestrade. “One of the first things to catch my eye was the pair of scissors on your desk. Why on earth would you have needed a pair of scissors? I wouldn’t have even known you had any if I hadn’t rifled through your desk in the past.”

Not surprised by Sherlock’s confession, Lestrade said, “Maybe I wore a new shirt that day and forgot to remove the label.”

Sherlock shook his head. “If that were the case, the scissors would have either been placed back in the drawer after use or buried under case files and paperwork. You removed the scissors that night – and in something of a hurry, judging by the untidy state of the drawer. But why would you possibly be in such a rush for a pair of scissors?” Sherlock leaned against the back of the armchair, removing the distance Lestrade had attempted to place between them. “I think you felt threatened and reached for the first thing you might conceivably use as a weapon. I know that at least one gun was fired. Despite the best effort of Mycroft’s team, I found the spot on the wall where a bullet had lodged itself, as the paint and plaster over the hole were new. You also took cover under your desk when the gun, or guns, was fired. If I hadn’t found that strand of silver hair, the fibre from one of your cheap suits would have told me that.”

“My suits aren’t cheap,” Lestrade grumbled. “They’re just not posh.” He ran a hand across his face. “What makes you think Mycroft was behind any of this?”

“Because Scotland Yard was told, in no uncertain terms, that it would no longer be handling the homicide you had started investigating,” Sherlock said. “That, coupled with your convenient disappearance, reeked of Mycroft’s handiwork. However, you no longer need be a prisoner here. I can get you out.”

Lestrade was about to speak, when he felt a small furry body press against his legs. “Hello, Thunderball. I’d wondered where you got to.” He picked up the cat, scratching her head affectionately.

Sherlock eyed Lestrade and Thunderball disdainfully. “He let you name his cat?” He lifted a hand before Lestrade could even open his mouth. “Before you ask, I knew Mycroft owned a cat because I’ve seen the tell-tale hairs on his clothing, despite his careful efforts to remove them.”

“Actually,” Lestrade said, “I was going to ask you how you knew I’d named his cat.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Because ‘Thunderball’ is a ridiculous name for a cat. Mycroft would have chosen something more scholarly or cryptic.”

“Like ‘Diogenes’?” Lestrade asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade chucked Thunderball under the chin. “Well, the name is certainly scholarly, but cryptic? Diogenes tried to find an honest man, and this organization seeks the truth.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Oh, is that what he told you? Well, you might want to remember that Diogenes was also an exile. While this building is hardly Diogenes’ tub, it is cut off from the rest of London. Mycroft even employs outcasts. He has two former FBI agents on his staff who were at one point fugitives. Not that it’s a problem for him. It’s never a problem for him because, as always, he sets himself above everyone else.”

Lestrade bit his lip. “Isn’t it a bit difficult to be above everyone else when you’re an exile several metres underground?”

Sherlock glared at Lestrade then, as he took in the cat again, his expression grew thoughtful. “He let you name his cat, which means he’s trying to make you happy. Why is he trying to make you happy? It’s hardly a prerequisite for being a prisoner here.”

“I’m his guest, Sherlock,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock ploughed on as if Lestrade had never spoken. “I’d say it was because he was afraid you might stop coming to me with cases if you were unhappy, but you’re just as willing to consult me when you’re grumpy and miserable, so that hardly seems a likely reason. Conclusion? He’s doing it because he wants you to be happy. But why? Why should it matter to him?” Then Sherlock’s face lit up and he clapped his hands. “Of course! I was so stupid not to see it before this. It all makes sense now. It explains everything.”

“Explains what?” Lestrade asked. “Sherlock, what are you talking about?”

“Sherlock, if you’re quite finished harassing my guest, perhaps you could drop by my office. There’s a little matter I wish to discuss with you.”

Lestrade’s head swivelled towards the door before he realized that Mycroft’s voice had come from a speaker in the wall.

Sherlock scowled. “I have to leave now. You can still come with me if you want.”

Although Sherlock had been a complete prat as usual, Lestrade was touched that he’d gone to the trouble of trying to rescue him. “I think I’d better stay here, but maybe you could come back again if I’m not out in a week.” When Sherlock just stood there glowering at him, Lestrade said, “I’ll go smooth things over with Mycroft while you do your Houdini routine.”

Sherlock laughed sharply. “You’re going to ‘smooth things over,’ are you? Is that what they’re calling it now?”

Ignoring the gibe, Lestrade made his way to the door. “See you again soon, Sherlock.”

Unfortunately, Lestrade ended up seeing Sherlock a lot sooner than he expected.





The next day, Lestrade was walking past the infirmary on the way to the gym, when he heard panicked voices and caught sight of a flurry of activity inside. Lestrade stepped into the room, his eyes falling on the pale figure in the bed. The man was hooked up to various machines and was struggling to breathe, despite the oxygen mask. At first, Lestrade didn’t recognize who it was. Then he gave a shocked gasp and moved closer to the bed.

Mycroft instantly grabbed Lestrade’s hand, and Lestrade knew. He understood what Sherlock had been talking about in the library and he just knew. He squeezed Mycroft’s hand before he was pulled away from the bed and dragged out of the infirmary.

Mulder smiled apologetically when they were outside in the corridor. “Sorry but they need room to work.”

Lestrade craned his neck, trying to peer past Mulder’s shoulder into the infirmary. “What happened to him? What’s wrong?”

“He was exposed to some kind of airborne pathogen that was released in his office – his, uh, other office outside of Diogenes,” Mulder said. “Thankfully, his PA was running an errand, so she wasn’t exposed.”

Lestrade’s eyes focused back on Mulder. “But Mycroft…He’ll be okay, won’t he?”

Mulder sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Greg. We weren’t able to get a sample, so we can only guess what we might be dealing with and how much damage it could cause.”

“Get Sherlock,” Lestrade said. “If anyone can find the information you need, it’s him.”

“Isn’t Sherlock the punk kid brother?” Mulder asked. “I can’t get him involved in this. I shouldn’t have even told you anything.”

Lestrade crossed his arms. “Sherlock snuck in here yesterday, so he probably knows more about Diogenes than you do.”

“You’re kidding,” Mulder said.

“No, I’m really not.” Lestrade took Mulder’s arm and steered him towards the lifts. “Go see him, Mulder. Someone will have to inform him about Mycroft anyway, so why not kill two birds with one stone?” He hit the button for the lifts then pushed Mulder through the first door that opened. “The address is 221b Baker Street.”

“You sure are persistent,” Mulder said. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“It’s my job!” Lestrade shouted as the door to the lift closed. He stared after Mulder for an instant then slumped against the wall.

Mycroft was interested in him. All the time Mycroft had chosen to spend with him probably should have made that obvious, but it had taken a more simple gesture – that hand reaching out to grip his own – to make Mycroft’s intentions clear.

Lestrade hadn’t wanted to admit it before, but he found Mycroft fascinating. More fascinating than any other man he had ever met, even Sherlock. Lestrade had initially assumed that this attraction was only cerebral in nature, that he was simply enthralled by the way this brilliant man’s mind worked. However, he was no longer able to deny that it was a physical attraction as well. His body had started to react whenever he was around Mycroft: the nervous excitement, the accelerated heartbeat, the pure unadulterated happiness that seemed to flow through him. It was shocking and completely unexpected.

It wasn’t Mycroft’s gender that was surprising, as Lestrade had realized at a fairly young age that he fancied both girls and boys. No, what surprised Lestrade was that he felt anything at all. He thought he had shut down all such emotions when his wife had died and had been convinced that they would never surface again.

Lestrade’s eyes shot back to the lifts, and he had the urge to leap inside of one and make a break for it. He didn’t know what would happen if he got caught – whether he might be locked away or shot – but he thought it might be worth it if he were spared from a deeper pain. He knew how easy it was to lose someone. He was facing the prospect of losing Mycroft before their relationship could even begin.

Lestrade pushed off the wall, relinquishing the extra support. He took a step, and then another, and then another still. However, instead of moving towards the lifts, he found he was heading back to the infirmary.





The infirmary staff was surprisingly patient with Lestrade. They allowed him to visit Mycroft and even put up with his frequent questions about their patient’s condition. Scully was also sympathetic, though she had no qualms about kicking Lestrade out of the infirmary when Mycroft took a turn for the worse.

Lestrade vented his frustration on the punching bag in the gym then went off to sulk and pace in the library. He was just sitting down in one of the armchairs to make his third attempt to read Red Harvest, when the wooden panel beside the fireplace swung open and Sherlock and John popped out.

Lestrade leapt to his feet, dropping the book on the floor. “So, that’s how you did it.”

“Yes, yes, there’s a secret passage connected to the tunnel. Boring and so predictably Mycroft…” Sherlock trailed off, an almost pained expression forming on his face.

John grasped Sherlock by the shoulder. “Go to him.”

“Yes, all right,” Sherlock said. Then he ran out of the library, his coat fluttering behind him.

“Did he find anything?” Lestrade asked. “Can he help Mycroft?”

John walked over to Lestrade, studying him closely. “When was the last time you slept?”

Lestrade shrugged. “I don’t know. What day is it? It’s not always easy to tell down here.”

John looked pointedly at the clock sitting on the mantle. “And, yet, there are ways of keeping track.” He smiled gently. “Well, it didn’t take much time for you to fall for him. How long have you been down here? A week?”

“This coming from the man who moved in with the younger brother right after meeting him,” Lestrade grumbled. Then his eyes narrowed when John laughed. “So help me, John, if you don’t tell me – ”

“Sorry, sorry,” John said. “I was getting to it. Honest. Sherlock tracked down the man who poisoned Mycroft. It took some coaxing – a lot of coaxing – but Sherlock persuaded him to give us the antidote.”

Lestrade knew that he should probably find out exactly which methods of coercion Sherlock had employed, but, at that moment, he was too relieved to care. He marched out of the library, determined to get into the infirmary, no matter who was guarding the entrance. John was right behind him.

When they reached the infirmary, they were met by a startling sight. While various doctors bustled around their unconscious patient, adjusting IVs and wires, Sherlock was crouched by Mycroft’s head and was speaking to him softly. Then, to their amazement, he leaned across the bed to kiss Mycroft’s forehead.

John quickly yanked Lestrade back outside. “We weren’t here. We didn’t see that. You can’t tell Sherlock.”

Lestrade patted John’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I won’t say a word.”





If Lestrade had possessed less experience of the world, or less experience of Sherlock, he might have thought that the touching scene he had witnessed in the infirmary represented some kind of transformation, that Sherlock had embraced his humanity at last. When Sherlock tracked him and John down in the kitchen, Lestrade didn’t need to see Sherlock’s cold, impassive features to know this wasn’t the case.

John wordlessly poured Sherlock a cup of tea, and Sherlock joined them at the table.

“I’ve solved your case,” Sherlock said. “Mulder is interrogating the murderer – the same man who poisoned Mycroft, by the way – as we speak. No doubt, he’s learning all kinds of useful information that Mycroft will wish to share with the public.”

Sherlock’s tone was sarcastic, but Lestrade couldn’t help noticing that it didn’t contain its usual bite. He really was shaken by what had happened to his brother.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as if he sensed where Lestrade’s thoughts had wandered. “I’d give you the murderer’s identity, but it would involve one of Mycroft’s lectures, which are tedious at the best of times.”

Lestrade calmly sipped his tea. “Well, as I don’t even know the identity of the victim, I suppose that’s one more secret I can live with.”

John snorted and Sherlock’s gaze grew sharper. Lestrade tried not to squirm under the penetrating stare.

“I hope there isn’t a limit to how many secrets you can tolerate because there will be a great deal more if you plan to pursue a relationship with my brother,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “Is that your way of warning me to stay away from Mycroft?”

Sherlock laughed. “No, not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Now it was Lestrade who was scrutinizing Sherlock. “You want me to date your brother? Why?”

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder lazily. “I can’t claim to understand it, but this thing you have with Mycroft – whatever it is – seems to make you happy,” he said. “I read somewhere – and, subsequently, failed to delete the information – that happy people are more productive in the workplace.”

Lestrade winced. “And if I’m more productive, you’ll have more cases, right?”

Sherlock grinned. “Exactly.”

John snorted again and shook his head.

“What?” Sherlock demanded.

John smirked. “That’s not what you said the last time the subject came up. No, you said Lestrade worked too hard and would probably be burnt out by the age of fifty.”

Sherlock glared at John. “I recall no such conversation.”

“Oh, yes you do,” John said. “I know you haven’t managed to delete it from your internal hard drive just yet.” He turned to Lestrade. “Something else Sherlock failed to mention is that if you’re dating Mycroft, it will draw some of his brother’s attention away from him.”

Sherlock sniffed haughtily. “As I said before, it’s a situation that will not only benefit Lestrade but several other people as well.”

“Several other people being you,” John muttered.

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but Lestrade jumped in before he could speak. “I don’t know if I can draw his attention away from anyone. The man’s a genius, and I’m – ”

“Someone Mycroft cares about,” John said.

Lestrade bit his lip. “What if that’s not enough?”

John’s expression softened. “You know the answer. After dealing with Sherlock all these years, you must know the answer: just keep him from being bored.”

Lestrade threw up his hands helplessly. “But how do I do that?”

Sherlock smiled, almost looking sympathetic. “You’re a reasonably intelligent and attractive man, Lestrade. I’m sure you can work it out.”





It was a few hours before a pair of tired blue eyes opened. For an instant, Mycroft Holmes stared at his surroundings blankly. Then that sharp intelligence snapped back into place, and he was reaching up to remove the nasal cannula and trying to sit up. Lestrade caught Mycroft’s hand and gently pushed him back against his pillows.

“That needs to stay,” Lestrade said, “and so do you.” He quickly intercepted Mycroft’s hand again as it next moved towards the IV in his left arm. “And so does that.”

Mycroft apparently wasn’t used to being told what to do, as he tried to haul himself out of bed a second time. “There are responsibilities that can’t be ignored. I need –” Mycroft was cut short by a fit of coughing.

“All you need to do right now is get better. Everything else can wait.” Lestrade picked up the cup on the bedside table and guided the straw to Mycroft’s lips. When Mycroft had finished drinking, Lestrade adjusted his pillows and pulled the blankets up a little higher.

Mycroft watched the proceedings in weary bemusement. “You must have better things to do than play nursemaid, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade gazed at Mycroft sternly. “It’s ‘Greg’ and, no, I don’t. I’m on holiday, remember?”

Mycroft’s eyes widened slightly in alarm. “I’ll speak to Mulder. He must have resolved this issue by now. I’m sure you’re no longer required to be here.”

This time, Lestrade had a hand planted on Mycroft’s chest before Mycroft could make yet another escape attempt. “And I thought Sherlock was stubborn. Jesus, Mycroft, will you stop worrying about everyone else and think about yourself for a change?”

Mycroft stared at the hand on his chest. “But you can’t wish to stay here, not if it’s safe and you’re free to go.”

“I’m not even halfway through my book,” Lestrade said. “Besides, somebody has to make sure you stay put.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m sorry. You appear to be suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.”

“I’m not suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.” Lestrade smiled. “I can’t say I’m doing much suffering at all at the moment.”

Mycroft swallowed, looking nervous. “Nevertheless, I can’t see how your stay could possibly be pleasant, especially if you’re spending any of it at my bedside.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lestrade said. “It could work to my advantage. It certainly levels the playing field.”

“Levels the playing field?” Mycroft asked.

In response, Lestrade leaned forward to kiss Mycroft. Mycroft gasped, but didn’t fight it, opening his lips to Lestrade’s tongue and moaning as that same tongue glided across his own.

Lestrade grinned as he broke the kiss. “So, do I have clearance for that?”

Mycroft seized Lestrade by the front of his shirt and pulled him back down again. “Yes, you have complete and total clearance, Greg.”



Part One