the little shadow that runs through the grass (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mesmiranda) wrote2010-10-31 09:46 pm
mesmiranda) wrote2010-10-31 09:46 pm
Fic: Homo homini lupus (part 2)
part 1
It's far too late at night when Mycroft finally gets up from his desk. "Go home and get some sleep this weekend, Anthea. If you turn your Blackberry on at all, even once, I will be very, very upset."
"I'm shaking in my four-inch Louboutins, sir."
Oh, yes, the black Alta Rita Diams from this summer's collection. They are magnificent. "Go. Shoo. Have a social life, I hear that's the new thing these days."
"I hear it's overrated, sir." She flashes him a smile, which turns quizzical as he starts loosens his clothing. "Sir, aren't you due for a dinner with DI Lestrade?"
"Just taking the edge off," Mycroft says. He looks at Anthea with his very best poker face; she gives him an utterly knowing look in return.
There's a brief flicker--a shadow fluttering like a flag in the wind--and then a wolf the size of a small lioness trots out from behind the desk. Its fangs are longer than a grown man's index finger, its teeth are sharper than the edge of a diamond, its eyes burn ember-red, and its claws slide out like the blade on Death's scythe.
Anthea scratches it behind the ears. The wolf wags its tail happily; Anthea passes it the umbrella, which it clutches gently around the middle with its teeth as it trots out the door.
--
The dining room is golden and glittering with floating crystals and mirrors; people are twinkling with diamonds and expensive watches as they clatter forks on plates. It can take months--up to a year--to get a reservation here. Mycroft made a quick phone call about it early in the morning, before flinging five suits all over his bedroom in an agony and losing his shoes.
Right now DI Greg Lestrade is sitting alone, stiff and ironed in his best suit, and feeling like a gargoyle. At first the waiter had arched his eyebrows at Lestrade--very blankly, very politely--while looking at his screen. "Holmes reservation," he'd said, more loudly than he meant to, and suddenly the waiter had a dazzling smile.
He hates this. He really does. But it means something to Mycroft, and that means more than anything.
The waitress has stopped by to refill his glass (ice water, because as dearly as he's tempted he's not getting smashed before Mycroft even gets here, for God's sake) about four times. He's lost count of how many times he's checked his mobile.
Another fifteen minutes. Another five minutes, he's going to bolt out of here any second now--
"There you are." A smooth, rich voice like melted chocolate, and Mycroft is hovering over his chair looking like it's going to explode. He's actually in a panic--like this is worse than any international crisis or arms race. For just a moment Lestrade goes a bit dizzy. "I'm so sorry, were you waiting long? I didn't mean to keep you, I just lost track of time--"
"No, it's--it's fine. I was just. It's good." Lestrade waves his water glass vaguely. "Was it a long day at work?"
"Horrible. I reminded myself ten times that I really shouldn't have a world leader assassinated." Mycroft eases down into the chair opposite, face lit up, and Lestrade can't help grinning in reply.
The waiter flutters over with menus then, and follows it up with glinting wineglasses and a bottle and two plates, and slowly Mycroft's shoulders come down from around his ears. The policeman in Lestrade's head watches the tension unravel from Mycroft's back and arms, the lines ease from his face. How often does he get to relax? He ruthlessly represses the urge to knead at those muscles, working out the tension, and looks down at the tablecloth.
"This is nice," he says, as neutrally as possible. It doesn't work; Mycroft Holmes is still grinning like a pleased child, surprised with a brand new toy at Christmas, and Lestrade feels the tips of his ears go red.
"Jeanne-Thérèse is a lovely woman," he says easily, taking a sip from his glass. It's a 1998 Domaine Romanée Conti Pinot Noir, and one bottle costs more than Lestrade's entire salary in a month. "Very good with a throwing knife, I'm not surprised she ended up as a chef."
Lestrade raises his eyebrows. "Right, yeah. And the waiter?"
Mycroft lets it hang for a moment, drawing it out, before whispering very mysteriously, "All we know is, he's called the Stig."
Lestrade can't repress a snort. He is not charmed by this man, he is not being swept off his feet, except that Mycroft is beaming again like he's done something really spectacular and Lestrade is forgetting to fidget and feel horribly shabby and out of place.
"So this business with Iran was keeping you late at the office?" he says, digging into his meal with a fork. The plates come with ornate silver cutlery, but the restaurant is always happy to oblige Mycroft Holmes's request for stainless steel.
"That? Oh, no, I..." Mycroft is fiddling awkwardly with a knife, turning it over and over in one hand. "I was--out. Earlier. I need to take the edge off."
"Of your hunger?" Mycroft's barely touched his food. For some insane, stupid reason that probably has to do with Sherlock, who Lestrade really will ding about the ear one of these days when the DI has a death wish, Mycroft gets nervous about eating in front of Lestrade, like he's afraid of embarrassing himself. Lestrade ruthlessly represses another thought involving edible sauces and chocolate syrup and whipped cream.
"Something like that, yes." Mycroft's mouth twitches and he doesn't look up.
Lestrade absorbs this. "Well, did it work?" he says, his voice softening around the edges.
"Not in the slightest." Still not looking up.
He waits for another beat. "Mr. Holmes, this is probably the best meal I will ever eat in my life, but in five minutes I'll be either in the men's washroom or in the car, your choice, so if you want to arrange some kind of takeaway..."
Mycroft doesn't bother with the food, but does order the rest of the bottle to take home.
--
Much, much later, he wakes up. Lestrade is snoring softly next to him and looking thoroughly and deliciously devastated--covered in bruises, scratches, and bite marks.
Human bite marks. He won't do that to Greg. (He can't let himself imagine it. He can't.)
He runs a hand down Lestrade's thigh, slides it between his legs as he toys with the idea of sleepy, blurry sex--Greg is still wet and loose down there, slippery against his fingers, and he catches his breath. But the detective's had twelve-hour shifts and Mycroft's brother to deal with for the past week, and Mycroft rests his hand instead against Lestrade's chest to feel the rise and fall.
His mobile pings.
"Anthea, I told you..." Mycroft mutters balefully to himself, flailing ungracefully about like a flopping fish for a minute and a half. Finally he grabs it off the dresser and opens the text message.
"Greg," he says, very sharply and very loudly, six seconds later. "Greg, wake up."
"Wha--" Lestrade squints in the darkness, fumbles for the mobile, and stares.
There are two men in the picture. One is blindfolded, nearly naked, his shoulders slumped forward and his mouth set in a thin line; the other is holding a gun in one hand, placed at the first man's temple, and a shovel in the other hand.
John Watson is being made to lie down in a box of silver. The second man is carrying a shovel. And the caption merely reads, "Can you find him in time?"
Lestrade swears, words Mycroft's never heard him use before, and they're both scrambling for their clothes.
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(Anonymous) 2012-06-29 02:35 pm (UTC)(link)