sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXV

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Prompting Part XXXV

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Mycroft is dependent on alcohol. Needs it in his system to function. Drinks it like water. But he mostly hides it well and Sherlock hates him for it.

Then one day Lestrade finds out--it tips the the balance Of power in their dynamic.

Mycroft does not know how to handle Lestrade's attention and his obvious worry.

Eventual Mystrade please!

Hi OP,
I just wanted to let you know that I am writing a fill for your prompt at the moment. I hope to finish the fic in a week or so (it is already 8000+ words long). This prompt really fired me up and I went wild with it! Maybe at times, it is a bit fluffy, but I hope you will enjoy it nevertheless.
So see you in a couple of weeks. :)

I really hope you enjoy this, OP! Sorry if there are any mistakes in it, it is unbeta-ed, I will update it once I manage to get it beta-ed, I just don't see that happening anytime soon... so there.
It starts kinf of slow, but we will get to the sex, I promise!

-------------

Mycroft knows how to handle things. It’s just that sometimes his mind gets too crammed with the facts; it is in many ways not dissimilar to a box packed full of pages, pages containing numbers, codes – all vital information, which could cause nations to rise. Sometimes, he needs to soften the edges to still remain himself. That’s when he takes his signature tumble-glass, fills it with ice, and pours over some very fine, aged Scotch. He is never short on it, not with the amount of people who want to express their gratitude, and they are not poor people, se he always has a 50-year old Glen McKenna or two on stock.

At first, he only drinks before tense negotiations, when he knows that he is going to need all of his patience. It is much easier to listen to idiotic people rattle on when you feel a pleasurable buzz. He doesn’t drink before meeting someone who matches his intellect, obviously. It is just that 99% of the population doesn’t stand a chance against him, whether he had 2 glasses of Scotch or not.

Sherlock has known it for a long time, of course, but he would never call him on it. All he does is sneer in derision and Mycroft doesn’t feel anything. It is like how Sherlock always mocks him about his weight, it’s nothing, just habitual bickery, no actual meaning behind it. He won’t let his drinking get out of control, he is way too controlled for that. That’s why he needs to drink in the first place – to unwind sometimes. Isn’t that ironic?

Mycroft knows that John wouldn’t admire him if he knew that his patience, his calm comes from the constant burn of whisky in his throat. Nobody would admire him then. But that’s the key: Mycroft is a very private person and an expert at hiding. Only his spies are better then he himself. They also happen to be the only people who know, aside from Sherlock and Mycroft makes sure to keep it that way. There is no harm in letting someone see him have one drink. Letting someone see him having two? Never.

Lately though… sometimes on late nights, after a particularly bitter defeat, or another pointless meeting which has cost him long and hard hours, he can’t keep himself from slipping. He takes an entire bottle, and drinks most of it, without ice, without anything. Just enjoying the burn and the bitterness, which fills everything out, softly, smoothly. He won’t be hung over in the morning, he has built up too much of a tolerance for that. He is just going to be tired and miserable. Nothing he can’t manage.
He is still not sure how it happens. Mycroft needs to contact Sherlock urgently about a possible informant regarding Sherlock’s latest case. As it happens, Sherlock is busy at a crime scene, so Mycroft goes there in the early morning, freshly showered, as awake as he can be after a late night and half a bottle of Scotch.

‘Oh, dearest brother of mine.’ He says with poorly hidden grumpiness. ‘What a pleasure to meet you this early in the morning. If you didn’t mind looking up from that corpse for a moment, I’d like to have a word with you.’

Sherlock starts mouthing back at him, but he can’t quite make out the words. Mycroft can tell that something about that is not right. He can feel the blood rushing out of his face, and nausea washing through him. Damn it, the corpse, it reeks…

‘Oy-oy, careful there!’ Lestrade shouts as he grabs his arm to stabilise him. Strange. Mycroft had not even noticed that he was there. He tries to scramble away, but he is too weak to succeed. To his utter mortification, he starts to retch. He dry-heaves, mostly, but he can smell the reek of the whisky from the night before. Some of the vomit lands on Lestrade’s shoe rather inelegantly. Mycroft would like to be swallowed by the ground, or shrivel up, crawl into a hole and die, not necessarily in that order. But he knows he can’t disappear.

Slowly, he comes to his senses, and starts to see the world normally again, instead of the blackness and the spots which were swimming through his vision a minute ago. He can still feel Lestrade’s sure hands, which are practically holding him up, in his bent position, keeping him dangerously close. He straightens up slowly, as eloquently as he can manage.

‘My sincerest apologies. You may send me the bill for the dry-cleaning, Anthea will take care of it.’ Mycroft says curtly, trying to sound calm. He rips himself away and starts trotting back to his private car as fast as he can, without appearing to be in a haste. Sadly, Lestrade keeps following him, talking nonsense at him.

‘Don’t mention it… wait! What was that? Are you sure, you’re okay now? That was quite sudden there, you might want to see a doctor –’
Mycroft cleans his mouth with the sleeve of his coat and turns back to take one final look at Lestrade with as much dignity as he can muster.

‘I do not find it particularly peculiar that I had a natural reaction to the foul scent of a 2 weeks old corpse. Goodbye, Gregory. Good luck with the case.’

Lestrade is so shocked by Mycroft’s accurate estimation of the victim’s time of death that he forgets to say goodbye. The car screeches away.

Afterwards he goes back to where he had left Sherlock, feeling slightly pissed off. Of course all Holmes’s are ungrateful bastards, but this was uncharacteristically rude, even coming from Mycroft.

‘Your brother is a right bastard.’ He says to Sherlock heatedly. Sherlock seems a bit amused, instead of being offended, which somehow only makes Lestrade angrier.

John pats his arm sympathetically.

‘What you did was bloody nice. He would have hit his head on the ground if you didn’t catch him.’

‘Right, right…’ Lestrade nods, half-lost in his thoughts. ‘What the hell was he doing here anyway? He looked as pale as a ghost. Should have stayed home, instead of contaminating the crime scene… bugger, my boss will have me for this one!’ Says Lestrade, just to prove his point. Sherlock looks at him with an enigmatic expression.

‘Yes, that was rather uncharacteristic of my brother. He is slipping.’ He says the last word very quietly, eyeing at Lestrade in a peculiar way. Lestrade would almost say ‘with intent’. The DI wants to ask Sherlock what he has meant by that, but now it’s Sherlock’s part to pretend deaf with him, rushing off to god-knows where on a clue with John in tow.

Lestrade hates the Holmes family.

He tries not to dwell on it. After some time, he manages, because the workload just gets overwhelming and he doesn’t have time to dwell on anything else. Mycroft sends him a new suit and matching black leather shoes which are way more expensive than the one he kind of vomited on, and anyway, they were not damaged by the incident, so it feels like too much of a compensation. He wants to send them back, but he realises that he doesn’t know Mycroft’s address, so in the ends he takes them home and throws them in the back of his wardrobe. He doesn’t need bloody expensive gifts from selfish arseholes. A sodding ‘thank you’ and an answer would have done.

One night in late January Lestrade is walking home, but he decides to stop by 221b Baker Street first, to inform Sherlock about the latest developments of their current case. He knows that something isn’t right the minute he steps into the flat. He can hear shouting from the kitchen as he makes his way up the stairs. He opens the door quietly and slips in unnoticed into the empty living room.
‘You could at least pretend to be interested in our mother’s state of health. Your insufferable attitude and utter lack of respect is going to be the death of her one day.’ Mycroft says in a decidedly strange tone – it is much more laden with vehemence and bitterness than his usual voice, sounding almost like a true emotional display. Lestrade can’t remember ever hearing anything but cool disinterest in Mycroft’s voice before. Sherlock’s answering tone isn’t unlike his brother’s although much more sarcastic.

‘Oh, bravo, Mycroft, because you are making her so proud with your workaholism… or is that even true anymore? Lately I have been only noticing your alcoholism-‘ Sherlock’s voice is cut off by a sudden slapping sound. Lestrade can’t keep put anymore and bursts into the kitchen, in time to see Sherlock’s shocked expression, and Mycroft’s equally shocked gaze. He is staring at his hand, which no doubt is responsible for the darkening red prints on Sherlock’s left cheek. For a moments, everyone remains frozen, then the brothers both look at Lestrade and he starts to stutter.

‘I… I just came to Sherlock… About the case…’

John chooses that moment to rush down the stairs.

‘What is going on here?’ He takes one look at the scene, at Sherlock’s hand, currently cradling his own reddened cheek, and Mycroft, still holding his hand strangely. The look John gives Mycroft is decidedly feral.

‘How dare you?’ He seethes. ‘Get out! Get out this instant!’ He practically shouts, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulder and pulling him away, as if trying to get him as far as possible. Lestrade is watching Mycroft and doesn’t miss the look of disgust and horror that appears on his face as he stands there frozen, staring at his own hand, which he had laid on his own brother. Then the moment breaks like a charm, and Mycroft is rushing out like a whirlwind. Lestrade runs after him.ú

‘Wait, wait! Mycroft!’

He is gone by the time he gets to the bottom of the stairs. Lestrade is overcome by a feeling of déjà vu and swears silently. He runs back and runs up the stairs again, into the flat. John is sitting on the couch with Sherlock, cradling him against his chest. Lestrade really doesn’t want to interrupt, but he needs answers, now.

‘Sherlock, look, I need to ask you this… has this ever happened before?’

Sherlock looks at him, with a decidedly confused look, but he shakes his head, a clear ‘no’. Lestrade nods and feels his shoulders sag with relief.

‘Just one more question: does your brother have a drinking problem?’

Sherlock nods. Lestrade feels something heavy settle in his stomach.

‘Where do I find him?’

*whispers* I love this. I want more.

It was surprisingly easy to find Mycroft’s flat after Sherlock had given him the address. Lestrade has expected the getting-in part to be a challenge as the door was very high-security – until the DI pushed it accidently and it opened. It hasn’t been closed properly.

He let himself in hastily and found Mycroft crouching next to a giant, expensive looking sofa. He was hugging his legs to his chest and there was definitely some wetness on his cheeks. Lestrade hesitated for a moment; he didn’t want to agonise Mycroft further. He knew that the man would hate him, just for seeing him in his weakened state, but damn it, Lestrade didn’t care at the moment, he needed to be there.

Mycroft looked up at him with a startle.

‘Gre-Gregory…’ He said in a voice so soft and weak, it was barely more than a whimper. It pained Lestrade to hear it. Mycroft coughed, and spoke again, this time not meeting Lestrade’s eyes.

‘I assume you came because you want to press charges against me.’

Lestrade needed a moment to get the meaning of the words and when he did, he rushed to kneel down next to Mycroft.

‘What? No, you idiot! Bloody hell, you are a mess. This-this is not what was supposed to happen. Right?’

Lestrade looked at Mycroft hopefully, hoping that he would get what he was trying to ask. Mycroft did.

‘Never.’ He answered, shaking his head. ‘Never, never would I have… I don’t know how this could have happened! I am always in control. Always.’

Mycroft looked at Lestrade with desperation in his eyes, as if he needed someone to affirm his claims, because he wasn’t able to believe himself anymore. Lestrade hurried to reassure.

‘We all know you didn’t mean to. Sherlock had said so. He’s not angry with you, nor is he hurt. But Mycroft… this…’ Lestrade swallowed. ‘This self-destruction you are conducting has to stop. Now. You said that you are always in control, so you can control this if you want to, theoretically. Correct?’

Mycroft nodded, looking a bit more put-together than he had before. He took out a handkerchief and started to clean his face with it. Lestrade was secretly grateful for that because the painful ache in his chest was finally starting to lessen as he saw Mycroft engage in contact with him. He was truly himself now; respectful and alert. Lestrade took a steadying breath before continuing his speech.

‘You must promise me, here and now, that you will never drink again. Never. Can you promise me that?’

Mycroft clearly hesitated, narrowing his eyes in calculation.

‘It is going to be extremely difficult. I might acquire another addiction to a similar substance. Xanax, Vicodin…’

Lestrade shook his head.

‘No, you won’t. Because I will be there. I will help you, if you allow me to.’ He felt his resolve harden as he spoke.

It was Mycroft’s turn to look confused now. And hell if he didn’t look a lot like Sherlock when he was distraught.

‘Why would you be inclined to do that? You owe me nothing.’

Lestrade dropped his shoulder.

‘Maybe I care. You saved Sherlock’s life more times than he or I can count. Hell, saved mine as well a couple of times. Helped solve a lot of cases, deterred me from some, but never with ill intentions. I think you’re a good man, Mycroft, and I don’t want to see you go down like this. Not if I can help it.’

Mycroft’s face became stormy again, and he buried it in the sofa. Lestrade could see his shoulders shake, as sobs raked him, but Mycroft remained utterly silent. Everything was eerily quiet, it almost seemed surreal, as if everything has lost its colour or as if they were in a church. The world had narrowed down to one sharp point of focus. Lestrade put his hand is on Mycroft’s shoulder, rubbing soothing circles on it.

After that Lestrade put Mycroft to sleep, no matter how unlikely that sounds. Mycroft kept protesting, but Lestrade was having none of it. Thankfully, Mycroft was exhausted and fell asleep as soon as he hit his bed. Lestrade closed the bedroom door carefully.

Once in the living room, he sat down and buried his head in his hands and felt his own tiredness and turmoil wash over him. Despite his earlier resolve, he was not so sure about his actions himself. Shouldn’t he have taken Sherlock’s side? But Mycroft is Sherlock’s immediate family, thus his well-being matters as well – right?

Oh, who is he kidding? He has been fixated on the man since they had first met. He will never forget that day. It was a couple of days after Sherlock had first been arrested for drug possession. Mycroft blackmailed him into letting Sherlock go free of charge, and Lestrade couldn’t even be angry about (not for long, anyway). Everything Mycroft said was clean, sound and rational – flawless in his own unique way. The man’s efficiency was impressive if a little worrying.

Lestrade was in the late stages of his divorce then, full of resentment and shame. Mycroft gave him a target to focus his attention on instead. He gave him Sherlock, asked Lestrade to keep an eye out for him. They have been comrades in a way; after the first round of Sherlock’s detox treatment, Mycroft brought Sherlock back to Lestrade. Lestrade in turn made sure that Sherlock was always occupied and not thinking about returning to cocaine. It gave purpose to his life; meaning in the place of the void that had filled him after Jody left.

Until this minute he had never realised how important Mycroft has been in the process. He always focused on Sherlock, but now… maybe it was because of John. Sherlock had John now. Lestrade didn’t feel particularly jealous or possessive. His mission had been finished years ago. It was ironic that now Mycroft, the very one who wanted to end Sherlock’s drug habit was in much the same position and he seemed none the wiser about it.

Lestrade scoffed. ‘I’m always in control.’ Mycroft had said. What sort of buggery rubbish was that? No one can be in control all the time.

God help him, Lestrade was dreading every single day to come, but he felt his resolve strengthen; he knew he could do this; save a man’s… Mycroft’s life. The way he had saved his. He was only returning the favour. He stopped mulling on the past and started planning.

---------

Lestrade had to realise that he was alone in this. Well, except for Anthea, but it really would have been easier if he had had Mycroft. Asking Sherlock for help was absolutely useless: everything he wanted to do with Mycroft which according to him fell into the category of 'helping' seemed more like petty revenge to Lestrade. Blatantly obvious at that.

Lestrade couldn’t really blame him, going through cocaine withdrawal had not seemed like fun. Then again, Sherlock had only himself to thank for acquiring an addiction in the first place.
The fact remained that Lestrade had no help in his current mission.

Then the solution dawned on him: he would ask Mycroft's help by doing exactly what Mycroft would do with someone in his situation.

So he got Mycroft to check himself into the best private clinic’s rehab program and made him assure that they would not let him out for the full duration: six weeks – which some argued was enough for the physical withdrawal to quell down and the urges to lessen. The clinic offered private therapy as well as different kinds of group therapies and they even held AA meetings once a week. It sounded exhausting, frankly, but at least this way the patients had options to choose from. Nobody was allowed to visit the recuperating patients during that time, so as not to jeopardise their progress.

Surprisingly, it went well. Mycroft stayed the whole duration of the program. When he came out, he seemed tired but determined. Lestrade went to pick him up and take him home by car.

‘Well, here we are.’ Lestrade said as he slowed down in front of the expensive apartment building where Mycroft lived. ‘Feel free to call me if you need anything. And... congrats, lad. You did bloody well. I spoke to the doc only twice, but he –‘

‘Please, stay with me for a while.’ Mycroft interrupted him, spitting out the whole sentence in a rush, so Lestrade did not catch the meaning at first. Then he did and he was sure he had misheard.

‘What, you mean you want me to stay…?’

‘Move in with me. Please. In the program, they said that it is beneficial to count on someone for supervision. In case I have a… weakening of will.’

Of course it was about the program, it made sense now. Lestrade’s eyes crinkled as he thought it over.

‘I’m not sure about this. Couldn’t you ask Anthea?’ He asked back. ‘It might be more convenient. Your schedules are similar. Mine is all over the fucking place, you know that. I wouldn’t be much use, really, we would barely see each other...’

Lestrade felt bad for having to turn Mycroft down, but he knew that what he was saying made sense. It was true in fact – their schedules were probably the direct opposites of each other's.

Mycroft nodded in agreement.

‘Thank you for your helpful suggestion, I'll be sure to do that.’

Lestrade noted that his voice grew placid, almost completely emotionless. He didn’t have time to dwell on it though, because the next moment, Mycroft bid him goodbye and got out of the car. Lestrade was watching him walking up the stairs swiftly, when he suddenly remembered that they had left Mycroft's entire luggage in the boot.

‘Bugger.’ He muttered as he got out dutifully. Frankly, it seemed a bit uncharacteristic that Mycroft would forget about his suitcase – unless this was his way of manipulating Lestrade into doing the heavy lifting, which was not entirely improbable.

Lestrade had prepared a speech about using others by the time he arrived in front of the door of the apartment, and again, found it slightly ajar, so he pushed and entered.

Mycroft was standing at the liquor cabinet, definitely holding a bottle of whisky in his hand and pouring a generous amount upon crushed ice. Lestrade saw white from rage.

‘What the HELL are you doing? Are you bloody insane?! You arse! You selfish bastard – first you check out for 6 weeks, we all root for you, now you are back and you are already –!’ He yanked on Mycroft's wrist and thereby made him look at him.

He was shocked to see tears on Mycroft's face. It was not unlike the time he hid after slapping Sherlock. Except this time he didn’t try to hide it. He was eerily quiet and his face was calm, despite the tears: it was like he was a statue in the rain; nothing spoke of his emotions except for the patches of salty wetness, expression completely blank.

As if he was a five year-old caught red handed trying to steal a cookie, he put the bottle down swiftly, but he didn’t meet Lestrade's eyes.

‘I'm sorry. You are right. I will go to sleep now. It has been a long day.’

Mycroft said the words with shocking normalcy, as if he wasn’t on the verge of a breakdown and possible remission only seconds ago. He trotted out of the room swiftly, leaving Lestrade speechless. For the first time since they had begun the whole ordeal, he felt utterly helpless. He thought he understood Mycroft, but now he knew that he didn’t at all.

The DI didn't think twice about turning the couch into a bed, after he had made sure that he poured out the contents of the entire liquor cabinet into the sink.

-----------------------

Lestrade moved in the next morning. They did not discuss last night’s incident, and if Mycroft was pissed about Lestrade pouring out thousand pounds worth of expensive Scotch, he hid it awfully well.

Mycroft got better and better with each passing day. Lestrade made sure to keep the fridge full and made Mycroft eat with him every time they were home at the same time. Colour has slowly started to return to his cheeks and he gained back the weight he had lost during his stay at the clinic, due to the first, dreadful phase of withdrawal. His migraines grew rarer and rarer and he seemed content more often than not. Lestrade was very satisfied with his progress, especially because he never had to “catch” Mycroft again. He made sure Anthea got rid of each and every bottle of liquor at Mycroft’s office and also got her to watch over Mycroft during work, so he could never sneak a sip. Sherlock was all too happy to follow his brother’s every movement on CCTV whenever he had the time.

Mycroft did not relapse over the next three months. Things got easier as they continued living together. Lestrade learned the benefits of not having to pay rent and having a flatmate who didn’t mind him working crazy hours (day or night). Shockingly, their slots of free time sometimes coincided with each other. Whenever that happened, they shared a meal. Lestrade cooked more often, though Mycroft was rather good at it, but he always cooked spicy Asian dishes, so if Lestrade wanted to have some fish and chips or something equally pedestrian, he had to do them himself. Sometimes they just settled into the armchairs in the living room and read the paper together and bickered at the poorly written articles, or watched the news – Mycroft LOVED to point out how old some of them were, while Lestrade filled him in on the freshest details of his ongoing investigations.

Of course it wasn’t smooth sailing all the way. At first, Mycroft was often late from their shared dinners. But then, when he saw that it annoyed Lestrade, he became extremely punctual. He made sure that he always showed up at the pre-arranged time, or sent a message by Anthea if he couldn’t make it.

One evening, Mycroft had just rushed in and sat down at the dining table when Lestrade came out of the shower, naked save for a towel around his waist. He had completely forgotten that they had agreed on having dinner at eight and was expecting Mycroft for 8.30 instead.

Lestrade was shell-shocked, then he realised his mistake and started to stutter.

‘I… fuck, sorry, I misjudged the time. No food I’m afraid…’

Mycroft’s eyes tinkled with a humour Lestrade rarely saw in them.

‘Shall I have you for dinner then?’

Lestrade definitely felt his cheeks flame up at that implication. He tried to muster up some indignation to tune out the fluttering he suddenly felt in his belly.

‘Shut up, you wanker! You are way too punctual anyway, and always so smug about it too…’ The good-natured bickering turned into more mutual jokes and eventually, Mycroft got to making dinner while Lestrade dressed himself as quickly as he could. They were completely at ease for the rest of the evening, cooking spaghetti alla carbonara in perfect unison.

Thinking back to it now, it was weirdly domestic and perfect. Of course it had to go to hell.

It happened after a long night with his colleagues from the Yard. Lestrade had admittedly drunk more then was advised, so he wound up having a conversation with the new blond secretary of the homicide department. At first it seemed like the girl was genuinely trying to get to know him, but of course it soon turned out that she was actually just looking for a convenient bed, seeing as she lived very far out in the suburbs, so she asked Lestrade if she could crash at his place. Lestrade didn’t have the heart to say no.

He felt bone-crushingly tired as he led them out of the pub and hailed a cab quickly. Once they had been seated on the backseat, the girl started snogging him enthusiastically, which was admittedly a pleasant surprise, though Lestrade had already started to console himself with the thought that at least he could sleep next to a warm body.

It felt nice to lean into the girl’s frame, to finally have someone this close. Lestrade hadn’t realised until now but he had missed human touch - a lot. He was a touchy guy by nature, and he had not had any opportunity to act on that lately – he did not want to freak Mycroft out, so he always restrained the urge, when he felt it in his company.

It looked more and more like Lestrade was going to get a ‘thank-you’-shag for his troubles. The DI was all for it and busied himself with stroking the secretary’s thighs until they arrived to the apartment building. He tried not to come off as creepy as he put his hand on the girl’s waist while they walked up the stairs. Lestrade tried to explain to her that he had a flat-mate, though he must have been rubbish at it, because the girl started to giggle.

‘All right, I won’t wake your Mummy up!’ Before Lestrade could correct that it was Mycroft’s, not his Mum’s peace and quiet they had to respect, the girl had already claimed his lips again. Oh well. It didn’t make much difference…

What he did not expect was that Mycroft might be awake at this hour. It wasn’t that surprising, he often worked insane hours, due to having video conferences with people from other continents sometimes multiple times a day. It looked like Mycroft has just finished working, he sat on the couch with his laptop closed on his lap and was rubbing at his eyes tiredly. He looked up at the noise of them entering and became stock-still.

Now this was awkward. Lestrade tried to detangle himself from the girl and kind of succeeded.

‘Um. Hi. I’ll just… We will just…’ He motioned towards his room and strode in quickly. She uttered a cheerful greeting before Lestrade dragged her away. The DI closed the door behind them and tried to settle his thoughts. What would they need that he hasn’t brought in with himself? Water. Right. He went out to get a bottle from the kitchen, asking the girl to stay put on his bed.

Lestrade heard the front door slam in that exact minute. The living room was empty. He checked Mycroft’s bedroom and found it empty as well, so he came to the conclusion that the man was gone. Lestrade felt an uncontrollable urge to vomit creeping up from his stomach and hurled into the rubbish bin. The cool tile of the kitchen floor felt nice against his palms and cheek.

He woke up next morning in much the same position he had fallen asleep in last night – sprawled across the floor. At first he couldn’t remember how he got home. He went to his room and found a note on the cupboard.

“You look funny when you’re knocked out!
Thanks for the bed, see you next time!
xxx”

It was a girl’s handwriting. Right. The new secretary. He had brought her home and…

FUCK, MYCROFT! Where the hell did he go in the middle of the night? Lestrade was just about to panic before his rational side got the better of him; before he ran out he really ought to check that Mycroft was truly gone and not just sleeping somewhere in the flat, or working at his office.

He brushed his teeth, took a quick shower and hauled on the first pieces of clean clothing he could find, before calling Anthea from the landline.

‘Hey, it’s me, Lestrade. Is Mycroft with you? He left suddenly last night and I was worried he might have–’

‘What have you done to him?’ Anthea answered in a hushed but decidedly angry tone, which was very uncharacteristic for her. Any kind of emotion was, in fact. ‘He called me at 3 pm and made me come to the office with measly fucking excuses! The things he got done since are anything BUT urgent. He fell asleep an hour ago or so, but he was decidedly shaken. Care to explain?’

Please please please continue with writing this!!!

Hey guys!

Sorry it took so long... I finished the fic and uploaded it to another site because it became too f***ing long. :)
I hope you enjoy it!
http://archiveofourown.org/works/1754319/chapters/3749359

Sorry that it took so long guys, here's the rest:
archiveofourown(dot)org/works/1754319/chapters/3749359

Enjoy! :)

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