Mycroft Holmes has considered himself many things. Intelligent. Powerful. Dangerous. Controlling. Calculating. Manipulative. Cunning. However, impulsive was a first. The horror sank in as he realized what he had done. On the screen in front of him was video footage of a certain Detective Inspector’s office, and propped up against the back wall in the far left corner was a black umbrella with the initials M. H. carved into the wooden handle.
“Driver, stop the car here.” Mycroft braced himself as the limousine halted to a stop, keeping his eyes on the silver haired man who was rushing out of the building they just passed.
Anthea looked up from her phone, “Sir?” He could tell she was confused, but she knew better than to question him.
“I will be back momentarily. There is a matter I need to attend to.” He hoped Anthea didn’t see the small beads of sweat starting to form at the back of his neck. Nervous was another thing that Mycroft Holmes was definitely not.
With the small remote in his pocket, he disabled the cameras and made his way to the lead detectives office. As he suspected, no one tried to stop him. Most people were out looking at the newest body from a case.
Searching through the room, Mycroft scowled at himself. There was nothing here that pointed to Gregory Lestrade being anything more or anything less that what his file said about him. Divorced. Focused his time and energy on moving up the ranks of the Scotland Yard. No kids. Clean record.
Stepping back into the black car parked out front, Mycroft couldn’t help feeling confused. The risky trip had been of no use whatsoever to him. Why did he even do that? He couldn’t understand how he was wrong about the Detective Inspector. He had been so sure there was an ulterior motive to taking care of Sherlock. After all, caring is not an advantage.
Mycroft Holmes didn’t make mistakes. He was never so careless but there he was with the sleek mahogany handle staring back at him. He had already seen the inspector walking up the stairs of the Scotland Yard through the front door camera. Any moment now he would walk into his office and question the incriminating evidence Mycroft had left behind.
The door opened and Lestrade walked in. Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat when the inspector walked over to the umbrella. He seemed to look it over, noticing the initials on the handle. With a visible shrug, he placed the umbrella back down where he found it, and started working on the stack of papers on his desk.
For the next hour, Mycroft found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the screen. He was terrified that the man would jump up from his desk and question the lone umbrella in the corner of his room. However, after another hour of eyes glazing over as he watched the man do paperwork, he logged off and went to bed, devising a plan for retrieval.
“Oi! Donovan! You wouldn’t happen to know the poor bloke who left his ‘brella in my office now?” Lestrade questioned her as he walked over to the coffee machine to fill his mug.
“Sorry sir, no clue. Might have been that nasty kid you got running around. I wouldn’t put it past him to go rummaging through your stuff.”
“Nah, I’m sure whoever left it there was in by mistake, no one’s got any reason to go searching me.” He picked up his mug and started to walk away. “Oh, and Donovan? Give Sherlock a rest, would ya? He really does have good intentions.”
He didn’t need to turn around to see the sour look on her face. The curly haired teen had managed to piss off every single detective he ran into. He was an absolute handful and had a knack for getting them bad press. However, when the pale boy with sallow skin and track marks running down his arm stumbled into his office a week ago and rattled off suspects for three different ongoing cases, Lestrade knew he had to protect him.
Lestrade looked over that the kid in his passenger seat. His arms were crossed and lips stuck in a pout as he turned his head to the window and refused to say a word.
“Look, Sherlock was it? You need to give me a relative’s address. I’m not gonna let you run off to be the next body I find.”
The boy retorted, “Wherever you stick me I’ll just run away again.” He smirked, “My family thought throwing money at a rehabilitation center would somehow make it escape proof.”
Lestrade frowned. This kid was clearly a genius. Everything he had said about the cases was true, and he had only used what was in the newspapers to gain whatever insight he had. The boy was smiling but Lestrade knew that he had already had multiple chances to get away from him. He was clearly terrified and Lestrade wasn’t going to push him away. Sighing, Lestrade turned on the engine and started for his apartment.
“Where are you taking me?” Sherlock whipped his head around and glared at him accusingly.
“You’re coming with me.” The boys eyes widened. “I have a pullout couch and takeout in the fridge. If you stay, you’re welcome to both, and I’ll see what I can do about bringing some cases home for you.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “Why are you helping me? What’s in it for you?”
“Listen, all I ask is that you stay clean. Do that for me and I’ll help you get on your feet, mate. You’ve got a brilliant mind, I would hate to see you let that go to waste.”
Sherlock shifted a bit in his seat. “And what if I run away?”
“I’m not gonna stop you, but if you start using again I’ll make sure you don’t get as much as a newspaper clipping about a murder.”
He didn’t give a reply, but he looked less tense than before and began drumming his fingers on his leg. Lestrade took that as an agreement between the two of them.
On his way home, Lestrade stopped by at the corner shop to pick up cereal for himself and Sherlock. As he was standing in line to pay, it hit him how absolutely ridiculous his life is right now. Here he was about to bring home what you could barely even call sustenance for the teenage boy he was letting sleep on his pull out couch. It’s been a week now and he was still completely unsure of how this would work out long term. He barely had enough to support himself, let alone a recuperating child.
“Gregory Lestrade, right?”
He looked up to see the cashier looking back at him. He didn’t even know how the elderly woman behind the counter knew his name.
“Er, yes? How’d you know?”
The lady smiled at him, “I’ll be right back.” She came back with a sack of groceries. “A fine young gentleman left this for you. He said it should last you and your boy for the week.”
“I’m sorry, who paid for this?” Lestrade felt like a stone had been dropped straight into his stomach. He hadn’t told anyone about Sherlock living with him.
“He made me promise not to tell,” she winked at him, “but I am definitely curious to know the secret to getting such a posh handsome man to buy my groceries for me.”
Confused, he pulled out his wallet to pay for the Frosted Flakes.
“Oh hun, you don’t need to worry about that, your boyfriend covered the cereal as well.” She waved excitedly as he walked out of the shop.
Lestrade felt lightheaded on the way home. Who was this mysterious man, and how did he know not only about Sherlock, but where Lestrade buys his food, and on top of that the fact that he was only going to buy cereal.
He came home to find Sherlock writing in a notebook and hunched over the dinner table, which seemed to be covered in small objects. On closer look, he realized those objects were various types of dead insects. “Oi! What is all this rubbish?”
Sherlock didn’t even look up from what he was doing. “I’m cataloging the different types of insects found in London, isn’t it obvious?” He drawled out. “Don’t worry, they’re all dead.”
“You better clean this up, mate,” Lestrade was too worn out to argue. “Hey, did you tell anyone you’re crashing here?”
The teen was giving him his full attention now. His eyes narrowed at the brown bag Lestrade had set down on the counter. “He found me,” Sherlock jumped from the chair and dramatically draped himself across the couch, closing his eyes and steepling his fingers together.
“I’m sorry, who found you?” Lestrade was beyond confused now.
His eyes snapped open and he threw his hands up in the air, “My arch nemesis!”
“I’m sorry, your what?” The panic he had been feeling initially subsided, at least Sherlock knew who their mystery helper was.
“Shhh, I’m trying to think.”
Lestrade rolled his eyes and got ready for bed, this would be a problem for morning.