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mystery-deer · 5 years

Text

When Did You Know

“I have a favor to ask.” Greg’s words seemed to echo back to him. He could feel how they stuttered and petered out, unconfident. There was the sound of pages turning, silence, then his voice. “I’m not in the habit of granting wishes, Inspector.”

He could picture him. Mycroft, dressed to the nines despite the solidarity of his daily routine. From what he gathered he WAS a sort of genie. Or a magic eight ball. Sherlock had told him once while smoking a cigarette that had a heady, sweet smell to it; “My brother IS the government. If it’s a body, he’s the brain. The one behind it all.” He’d then told him that the murderer they were chasing was feeding his missing wives to his dogs, which had kept him up for weeks. God, the carnage. The barking.

And every night, on every one of those nights after the barking had faded and the viscera had cleared. He saw Mycroft there, sitting behind his desk as always, still and stately as a statue. And his heart lurched instead of his stomach.

“You can call me Greg you know. Sherlock does.” “Sherlock has only ever referred to you as Inspector Lestrade or Lestrade.” “Will you come to my ex-wife’s thing with me?”

Silence on the other line again. He waited as Mycroft shuffled papers around and stapled something. “Why are you going to your ex-wife’s-” “It’s not- okay it’s more like my sister’s party but she’s friends with her. They’ve been friends forever that’s how we met.” Greg looked down at his scruffy boots, ran a hand along his jaw for stubble. “And she invited me. My sister, but I know she’ll be there.”

“...and why should I come?” “I don’t know. I just.” He breathed. “I need a date. And...I don’t really, I don’t have a lot of people who’d go right now.”

After the divorce he’d been a wreck. Drinking, showing up late to work, always tired. He felt like there was a dark, oppressive cloud weighing him down, blinding him. People had tried to help at first but it was too much, he was too much. So when the cloud lifted enough for him to see again he saw how alone he was.

“You don’t have to come you know, I know it’s been...hard for you.” His sister had said. He knew she’d said it because she cared, because she loved him but in that moment he felt nothing but rage roiling in his gut. It was so difficult to distinguish care from pity these days. Maybe the only difference was how you looked at it.

“I’m coming.” He’d said, and hung up.

“Fine.” Mycroft said. Greg blinked and looked up even though there was no way the other man could see him. He could see himself though, reflected in the window to his apartment. “What?” “I’m coming.” He said, and hung up.

John was a good doctor, friend, and conversation partner and so after this jarring phone call Greg immediately hailed a cab to 221B. He didn’t know of any other address that John resided in, despite him mentioning multiple times having an apartment and a medical practice somewhere in the city. He was always at Sherlock’s flat, and tonight was no different.

“Greg? It’s late isn’t it?” “Is this about a case?” Sherlock yelled out from somewhere behind the door. “No!” Greg yelled back, John wincing from being stuck between them. “Yes yes, no case!” The doctor grumbled, turning so that Greg could no longer see his face. “Sherlock, I’m going out to the pub with the Inspector.”

Greg half-listened to their hushed conversation. As John said goodbye he leaned back, the door obscuring him partially and his tone becoming a kind of syrupy he usually reserved for patients or young children.

They found their usual pub and ordered their usual drinks, settling into the booth tucked into the corner. Neither of them were showmen and the privacy, even amidst the somewhat rowdy bar crowd put them at ease.

“So, what’s this about?” John asked, looking tired. “Sorry, were you sleeping?” “No, no nothing like that.” He smiled to himself before schooling his expression. “This is about you! Don’t change the subject or I swear I’ll call Sherlock down here to deduce what’s wrong.”

He could imagine it. Sherlock swooping into the place, ignoring all the eyes on him and launching into a gleeful deduction about how he had the hots for his brother. Greg shuddered.

“God no, please have mercy.” They laughed. Somewhere in the bar the music changed to something slow and someone whistled. “I...do you think if you and Sherlock-” He paused, scratching his head. “Do you think if Sherlock was a woman you’d, you know...be interested? In him?”

John took a drink from his mug, looking off into the distance. Greg’s heart pounded, worried that he’d somehow figured something out. It was sometimes easy to forget how smart the doctor was in his own right when he was next to Sherlock.

“I don’t...I don’t think that the nature of our relationship would change.” John said carefully, and Greg wondered if it was the lights or the heat of the bar that made his face appear so red.

Watson coughed and looked away. “Why do you ask?” “I...Mycroft-” Greg started. “Sherlock’s brother!?” “Oh, have you met?” John made a noise that indicated that if they had met, he didn’t wish to meet again soon. In the booth behind them someone began speaking on the phone in french. “Oof, that bad?”

“He isn’t the most pleasant man. Gave me the creeps honestly, don’t know how Sherlock and him came from the same woman.”

Greg thought of Sherlock and Mycroft. The way they spoke too fast sometimes, how when they were in the same room together it was like they were in another, private world. He thought about their eyes. Sherlock’s piercing, brimming with curiosity and good humor while Mycroft’s were dull like pennies, brown jewels plucked and placed in a doll’s head. Mycroft's eyes... He remembered how he looked, surrounded by the ever-changing content of his office. Everything around him was as fluid as the river and he was a rock in the middle, letting the water run off him. Sturdy, calm, watchful. He couldn't think about that right now. Shouldn't. John was looking at him.

“Yeah. Uh, he’s going to a party with me.” Greg winced at his friend's startled laughter, his drink spraying across the table. “Jesus!” “God! Sorry! I just- a PARTY? What’d you do to him!?” “Nothing! I just - I asked, but it was a joke!” He felt his own face flush as he took a swig of his beer. Why had he even come here? “A joke…” he mumbled. He felt like he was being watched, like the universe was wagging its finger at him. "I don't know. Anyway..."

He and John continued drinking throughout the night and when they finally stumbled outside the sky was a light pinkish blue. “Uh-oh! The missus gonna be pissed at you?” Asked Greg, half-carrying John back to 221B. “Who?” “Sherlock!” “Ah, Sherlock? Oh! There’eis!” John slurred, suddenly lurching away from the inspector and into the arms of Sherlock, who was exiting the apartment building in a hurry. His face lit up when he saw the doctor approaching and Greg wondered if he was going to go looking for him.

“Hm? Watson! Good to see you in good health.” “‘Mso...tired.” “I can see that. Come now, up…”

Greg watched as the two of them held onto each other, Sherlock helping John up the stairs without glancing back at him. Neither of them did, too wrapped up in each other to notice. He felt his heart ache a little as he spun on his heels with a wolf whistle and vanished into the throng of people. The image of Sherlock’s gaze, so lovingly and completely focused on John, was nearly haunting in its intensity.

How lucky, he thought. To be so singular to someone in this crowd of millions. (this is a multi-chapter fic, check it out https://archiveofourown.org/works/20127160/chapters/47681659)

#mystrade #my writing #fanfic #mystrade fanfic

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