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Break a Curse
Summary: With luck, they might survive their first date… Dear Reader, this letter is to inform you of Cupid’s curse, which will fall upon you if you don’t pass this email on to twelve friends within twelve hours. Mycroft Holmes didn’t believe in the curse and now he hasn’t had a second date in three years… because all his first dates end in disaster. Gregory Lestrade isn’t sure if the curse is real or not, but if dating Mycroft means occasionally getting assaulted with shrimp linguini or nearly electrocuted, it’s worth the risk. Armed with lucky charms and optimism, Greg will have to battle Russian mail-order brides, fire alarms and flying knives if he’s going to win the boy. Notes: Based on the summary of ’Cursed by Cupid’ by Wendy Sparrow. I wrote this in stops and starts. The most interesting thing about the email is that it appears in Mycroft’s inbox at all. The layers of electronic security and various administrative staff should have ensured it was deleted or quarantined long before Mycroft saw it. On the surface, it’s a simple chain letter promising a reward for sharing this banality with others and threatening dire consequences if ignored. Mycroft reads it carefully to be sure there isn’t a hidden message encoded in it, but their standard cyphers reveal nothing. It’s merely a chain letter from an anonymously random email. There is something about the 5s and 8s in the email address that makes Mycroft suspect it’s from Sherlock -- not something he can prove without investing significant time, but probable enough that he’s comfortable with the assumption. Sherlock could be testing Mycroft’s security, trying to find weaknesses he can exploit later. Or simply doing it to annoy Mycroft. Mycroft sighs. It’s such a shame to see a bright mind wasted on pointless puzzles. Even if Mycroft was the type of person to know a dozen people on a purely social basis, he still wouldn’t forward a letter espousing “romantic miracles” and “the love of your life”. Sneering at the threatened “Cupid’s curse” upon all future attempts at romance, Mycroft deletes the email and thinks no more about it. *** Mycroft is not a superstitious man. Superstition is how the unobservant make sense of the world, pretending omens and rituals give them some control over perfectly logical results. The decline in his romantic life has nothing to do with an ignored email. It’s a logical result of circumstances. As the scope of his role has increased, so has the confidentiality of information. He no longer works directly with a particular team; it’s better to sift through multiple written reports to collate an accurate grasp of the situation. Overlapping information is the best way to ensure nothing is missed; multiple sources reduce unconscious bias. This means that he spends most of his days working alone in one of his offices or attended by minimal, well-known staff. The only meetings he attends in person are small committees of his peers. In short, he has fewer daily opportunities to meet strangers, so it’s unsurprising that he dates less. And then there is Mycroft’s natural inclination. He is no longer twenty and intrigued by taking a risk, nor willing to sit through four or five tedious dates to be certain the relationship will fail. He is no longer in his thirties, feeling his youth inexorably slipping away with his thinning hair and receding hairline; no longer desperate to grab at any opportunity, worried it will pass him by. The main comfort of his late forties is that he is comfortable with his own company. He enjoys his house, his club and his work, and living out his days alone no longer fills him with dread. His leisure time is too precious to squander on dates that will not go anywhere. He is more selective, and more than happy to cease a new acquaintance over dessert when it’s obviously doomed. He hasn’t had a second date in years because he knows who he is and has grown more adept at reading the flaws of others. Sherlock may tease him about being cursed, but Mycroft knows that’s preposterous. *** “Do sit down, Quentin,” Mycroft chides sharply, frowning at the scene before him. He’s starting to wish he’d picked a different restaurant. He likes Gauthier, but if this nonsense continues much further, he might not be able to come back here. “It’s broken.” The words are muffled, both from the damage to Quentin’s nose and the bloody napkin he’s holding to it. Mycroft can still make out every outraged word. “He broke my nose. That’s assault. I want him charged.” Mycroft looks over at the hapless waiter now surrounded by other staff. His apology is blazing in the creases on his forehead, the twist of his long fingers, his weight shifted off his left foot. “He tripped,” Mycroft says. It’s as obvious as the waiter’s love for tabby cats, his aspirations to be a sculptor and his Albanian grandparents. “He hit me,” Quentin insists, ignoring the fact that Mycroft is right. Mycroft already had his doubts about this date: Quentin’s wine choices had been pretentious and his attempt to debate the Greek economy had been woefully simplistic. Knowing the man lashes out when his pride is hurt only supports those doubts. “Somebody needs to call the police. He needs to be arrested.” Mycroft could step back and let it happen, but the waiter will be fired and the court’s time will be wasted. Instead, he makes a call. It connects almost immediately. “Lestrade here.” “Detective Inspector, this is Mycroft Holmes. I need to ask a favour.” Mycroft turns away from the table, rolling his eyes at the expression of vindication on Quentin’s face. “There is a matter of an assault charge that I would prefer was handled quietly.” “Quietly?” Lestrade echoes. “You want me to come down there?” “If you would be so kind.” Lestrade doesn’t argue or bicker. He only asks for the address and promises to be there as soon as London traffic allows. The speed of Lestrade’s arrival means he must have used the siren to force his way through. It’s a slight abuse of power that Mycroft appreciates. Lestrade walks into the restaurant like he’s stepping onto a crime scene: not fussy, not showy, but certain he should be here. His shirt is open at the collar, his jacket unbuttoned beneath his trench coat, but he nods his way through the onlookers and people step aside. He’s come on his day off, Mycroft realises, noting the day’s worth of grey stubble. It should make him look scruffy but Lestrade looks ruggedly handsome instead. For an absurd moment, Mycroft wonders how rough it would feel against his fingertips. He blinks the thought away as Lestrade steps closer. “Thank you for coming.” “Where is he?” Lestrade asks, looking around the room. His gaze lingers on Quentin and the napkin pressed over his face before scanning the rest of the crowd. Mycroft nods at the poor waiter. “He tripped, collided with his nose,” he says, looking over at Quentin. “Not Sherlock?” “Not this time,” Mycroft says. “This was more of a personal favour.” Lestrade’s brows shoot up at ‘personal’ and this time when he looks at Quentin, he pays more attention to the dinners between them, the casual glasses of wine and the small table for two. It’s not obvious. It could be a working dinner but Lestrade mutters, “At least one of you dates,” under his breath, and then adds, “He wants to press charges and you don’t want him to?” “If you could discourage him.” *** “So,” Sherlock says, fishing the broken heart from the board game between them. Sherlock prefers playing Operation because it gives him an excuse to show off his dexterity; Mycroft agrees because Sherlock brings out his competitive streak. At some point, Mycroft will stop letting his brother goad him into childish games he’ll most likely lose. “I heard your last date required police intervention.” Mycroft rolls his eyes. There is no official record of that event, but Sherlock’s information comes from a variety of questionable sources. “It was an expedient solution.” “It was the curse,” Sherlock replies gleefully. “It was an unfortunate choice of dinner companion.” Mycroft scowls at the pieces left on the board. He steadies his tweezers above the funny bone. “Nothing more.” *** Mycroft doesn’t give much thought to the snippets of Latvian coming from the kitchen. The service industry across London is fueled by people working long hours for minimum pay, and those people are frequently immigrants with limited English. Hearing a foreign language from the back of a restaurant is expected. The date is better than expected. Paul is charming with a nice smile, and he talks about his position at the Wallace Collection with passion and admiration. They’ve discussed favourite painters and the sheer emotion in the latest exhibition, and it’s all going well until Mycroft hears himself laughing a little too loudly at Paul’s joke. “If you’ll excuse me,” he says, standing up and making sure he feels the weight of his phone in his pocket. “I’ll be right back.” It takes too much concentration to keep his steps steady as he takes the narrow hallway to the gents. He can feel his pulse hammering at his neck, the hot flush on his cheeks. He looks at the dimly lit wallpaper around him, the way the design shifts and swims in front of him, blurring and overlapping in endless repetitive patterns. He notes the way it makes him feel: amused and entertained. He wants to call Paul over, show him this wonderful wall. An entactogen, then. MDMA, perhaps. Something slipped into his drink to allow for quick metabolism into the bloodstream. He thinks of Paul, Paul’s easy smile, Paul reaching across the table to run fingertips along Mycroft’s palm. No wonder the date was going so well; they’re both under the influence of something. It must have been a member of staff. Latvian. There was a corrupt general in Belarus with ties to Latvia, a general whose illegal arms deal fell through due to Mycroft. Despite Mycroft’s excellent memory, the details are fuzzy. Right now, it’s hard to think straight, let alone strategize. Mycroft pulls out his phone. Texts his assistant with the details, orders surveillance on the current employees. It’s a risk for him to be anywhere near his office in this state, and Sherlock is in Scotland investigating missing emeralds. “Need me to rescue you from another bad date?” Lestrade asks and Mycroft doesn’t remember dialling. But the phone is in his hand, and Lestrade’s on the other end, and when he drags his free hand down the wallpaper, the flocking feels incredible under his fingertips. “With some urgency,” Mycroft says and manages to drag the restaurant’s address from his memory. He relays it to Lestrade who hums as he writes it down. It’s a pleasant sound. “You must have a lovely singing voice.” “Are you okay?” The sharp concern in Lestrade’s tone sobers him a little. “Is that some kind of distress code?” “No, but it would be handy right now.” Mycroft can’t remember where the kitchen is relative to this hallway. Doesn’t know if he can be overheard. Doesn’t know if he’s said too much already. “I think I’ve had too much to drink.” Lestrade mutters something about lightweights but Mycroft can hear his keys jingling. “Fine, I’m on my way. Stay there.” When Mycroft gets back to the table, Paul is glassy-eyed. There’s a sheen of sweat across his forehead. Now that Mycroft’s looking for it, he hears the faster speech pattern and the touch of mania in Paul’s voice. “It’s an amazing piece,” Paul says fervently, after enthusiastically describing a light installation south of the river. “We should go see it.” “I’d like that.” He would. Mycroft wants to see Paul again, but it’s unlikely. When Paul wakes up tomorrow, he’ll subconsciouly blame Mycroft for this. There won’t be a second date. “We should go right now.” “I can’t,” Mycroft says but he’s saved from explaining the situation by Lestrade walking through the doors. He’s clean shaven this time, in a wrinkled shirt that he’s worn all day and his phone in his hand. His amused smirk turns into an outright grin when he spots Mycroft. Mycroft wonders at the grin and then realises that he has listed somewhat to his right. He takes his weight off his elbow and sits upright. Paul’s nice smile shines even brighter when he sees Lestrade. Mycroft understands it, of course, but it’s still galling. Lestrade is not there to be leered at. “Paul, this is DI Lestrade.” He waves a hand between them. Gets distracted for a moment by the glide of his hand in the air. “Lestrade, could you explain to Paul the common effects of MDMA?” “What?” “MDMA. Ecstasy. Common effects.” Mycroft can’t. He doesn’t trust himself to explain the drugging without explaining the reason for it -- and that is far beyond what a civilian like Paul should know. Lestrade is now looking at Mycroft. He must see Mycroft’s flushed cheeks, the loosened tie because he’d been desperately hot. “You were roofied?” he asks, suddenly serious and professional and devastatingly handsome. Mycroft nods and ignores Paul, who’s staring at Lestrade’s mouth but not paying any attention to the words spoken. “The drinks.” Lestrade frowns and starts rifling through his coat pockets. He pulls out an evidence bag, wonder of wonders, then takes the empty glasses from the table and seals them inside. “Okay, gentlemen, we’re going to A&E.” *** The car ride turns Paul’s pale complexion to the colour of chalk. He looks distinctly nauseated, so Mycroft stays in the back of the Vauxhall Astra while Lestrade takes Paul in. He wants to sleep this off but he doesn’t feel the least bit tired. Instead, he watches the streetlights reflect on shop windows or runs his fingers over the car’s upholstery. Leather seats would be easier to clean but Lestrade has the standard fabric option. No special requests. No special treatment. No expectation of higher recognition or higher rewards for doing his job and more. Mycroft has both hands flat against the seat, dragging his palms over the fabric just to feel it against his skin, when the car door opens. “Okay, got that sorted. They’re keeping him for observation overnight, and his sister will collect him in the morning.” Mycroft scowls at the thought of Sherlock having to do the same. It seems wrong. He’s supposed to be the sober one getting calls from a hospital; it’s never been the other way around. Then he remembers Sherlock is in Scotland. Saved from that possibility. When he looks up, Lestrade is staring at him. “Yes?” “Your turn. Come on.” “No.” “No?” “A hospital has too many staff. Too many entrances. If this was a planned attack, I’d be too vulnerable there. Take me home.” Mycroft drags a hand against his forehead, trying to think through the haze in his mind. “No, my laptop’s there. Too much information. Take me to a hotel instead. Somewhere they charge extra for WiFi in your room.” Mycroft fishes his phone out of his pocket. He holds it out to Lestrade who blinks and then takes it. “What’s this for?” “Hold on to that for me. I shouldn’t be left with… with…” He can’t remember the words. They’re there, he can hear them in a variety of languages, but in English that word is blank. Just a shape in his mind of keys and locks and files. “With means of contacting someone?” Lestrade asks, still leaning into the back seat through the open door. From this angle, he looks tired. Shadows catch on the soft bags under his eyes. He should sleep more, Mycroft thinks. He should have someone to kiss him on the cheek and suggest an early night. “Mycroft?” “Confidential information. No, that’s not the right word. Sounds similar. Or similar meaning.” Mycroft shakes his head. His vision spins a little so he holds himself very still as he adds, “Classified. That’s the word.” “Classified?” “The amount of information on that phone, the secrets I am privy to… I should not have access to them while I’m incapable of logical thought.” *** Mycroft’s not entirely sure how he ended up on a sofa in Lestrade’s flat. Oh, he can guess the turns Lestrade took and how long he had to wait in traffic, but he’s not sure why. Yet he’s sitting on Lestrade’s sofa -- a deep grey-blue fabric, easy to accessorise, new but not terribly high quality -- being handed a pillow and a duvet. “I know you probably can’t,” Lestrade says firmly, “but try to get some sleep. I’ll come check on you in a bit.” *** Mycroft wakes up the next morning and quickly wishes he was still unconscious. His head is pounding. His tongue feels as if he’s been licking carpet. He stretches out on the sofa and groans like a prisoner on the rack. He aches everywhere: his arms, his legs, his ribs, even his elbows. He feels clammy, skin tacky with sweat, and shirt damply stuck to his back. All in all, it’s a disgusting feeling. He can’t fathom why anyone would wake up like this by choice. He presses the palms of his hands against his eyes -- even his eyelids ache -- and tries to recall last night. It’s blurry snatches of Lestrade muttering soothing nonsense, a cold flannel held against his forehead, fingers petting through his hair the way Mummy used to when he caught a cold. He remembers talking to Lestrade; the taste of sweet, milky tea. He can remember leaning against Lestrade, drooping until his head was on Lestrade’s shoulder. Warm cotton against his cheek and the smell of laundry detergent and deodorant and human being, the same smells on Lestrade’s pillow. He has no memory of what he said to Lestrade. Hopefully, it was nonsense ramblings and nothing especially classified. Although that is why he called Lestrade. The man has proven he knows how to keep a secret when necessary, and he understands that there is a lot of grey in the world. Alongside Miss Hooper, Lestrade stands as one of the few civilians Mycroft would trust with the nation’s security. Mycroft pulls his hands down reluctantly. From the angle of sunshine coming through the tiny kitchen window, it’s late afternoon. The kettle’s been moved and there’s the edge of a mug in the sink. Toast crumbs on the counter. Lestrade ate a quick breakfast quietly, no sign of lunch. He left some hours ago. As expected, there’s a note on the coffee table. “Had to go to work,” says Lestrade’s chunky block capitals. “Call me when you wake up. Greg.” There are years of filling out arrest paperwork in that handwriting, capitals used as an easier way of ensuring legibility, even spacing and a slight slant to his W’s. Mycroft places it down on the table before he can do anything as ridiculous as trace over the letters with a finger. He picks his phone up from the table and dials. “Hey,” Lestrade says, more gently than Mycroft probably deserves. “How are you feeling?” “Like death would be a mercy,” Mycroft replies candidly, “but it will pass.” “Your pulse was back to normal and you weren’t running a fever, so I figured you were past the worst of it when I left.” The idea of Lestrade checking before he went to work… It makes Mycroft feel strangely bashful. “Have you been sleeping all this time?” “Yes. I just woke up,” Mycroft says and then wonders why he bothered elaborating. Lestrade doesn’t need him to state the obvious. “If you want to stick around a couple of hours, I’ll get takeout on my way back.” “No,” Mycroft says quickly. “I’ve abused your hospitality long enough. I am in your debt.” “As long as you hold up your end of the deal.” It sounds like a joke that Mycroft doesn’t understand. “Deal?” “You promised me a knighthood.” Lestrade is clearly amused now. “You said people owed you favours and you could do better than an OBE.” Now Mycroft remembers snippets of last night’s conversation. Remembers complimenting Lestrade and insisting on a way to thank him. Apparently, in the most ridiculous and pompous way possible. Objectively, he knows it’s best that no real information was shared. But the idea that Lestrade thinks he’s a fool, that Lestrade is laughing at him, sits uncomfortably in Mycroft’s stomach. It’s not beyond his abilities. He could orchestrate a knighthood if he wanted to. “It would take some months to arrange.” “Yeah? So I could be Sir Greg? Make the ACPO ranks pay attention to me?” “I think the Queen’s representative would use your full name.” “I don’t think Sir Gregory has the same ring to it. Makes me sound a lot older and a lot posher than I am,” Lestrade says with a chuckle. “So thanks for the offer, but no thanks.” “As long as you know your kindness was appreciated,” Mycroft says earnestly. A little too seriously given the awkward silence that settles between them. Eventually, Lestrade clears his throat and says, “Yeah, it’s fine. Just be careful in future, right?” “Or stop interacting with the human race," Mycroft suggests glibly. "Sometimes, that feels like the easier solution.” *** For the next month or two, Mycroft makes it a personal priority to disassemble the support base of a particular general. He spends more time studying maps of Belarus than talking to people so it’s unsurprising that his next date is almost three months after waking up on Lestrade’s sofa. If Mycroft’s being perfectly honest, accepting tonight’s invitation had less to do with the man, Julian Peterson, and more to do with his last conversation with Sherlock. (Sherlock had looked him up and down, grinning. “Finally decided to give in and accept the curse?” Really, Mycroft had no other choice than to prove him wrong at the next available opportunity.) Julian is reasonably attractive: blonde hair turning white, a healthy tan, good features in a long face. He has nice hands, strong and a little rough from horse-riding. The type of man who has always been physically fit and has put effort into remaining so as he ages. He has the biceps and forearms of a man who spends time at the gym daily. He’s objectively attractive, but more importantly, Mycroft is attracted to him. He would very much like to invite him home, to kiss him against the stair railing and let his fingers explore that carefully maintained physique. He might suggest it if Julian would only stop talking. The man barely pauses for breath, rolling from one self-absorbed story to the next. Tales of being a merchant banker, of buying his new Ferrari, of that time at Capri where the hotel had double-booked the executive suite and tried to bribe him with a complimentary room until the suite was available. It’s bragging in the least interesting way possible. Mycroft smiled through the first few stories but now he’s letting his mind wander, not that Julian’s taken any notice of it. Julian is attractive as long as Mycroft doesn’t pay any attention to the things he’s saying. He couldn’t bear sitting through another evening of this, but he’s sure he can keep nodding and get through the meal. Even if it’s just a one night stand, it would be nice to be touched and feel desirable again. Maybe saying “just” a one night stand in disingenuous. Maybe it’s expecting too much to find an attractive man who can both hold a decent conversation and enjoy Mycroft’s company. Perhaps he should learn to be satisfied with two out of three. When Mycroft thinks back on the last few years, most dates haven’t ended well enough to even include a kiss. Of the ones that have, half of those were awkward goodnight pecks, the kind that clearly signalled that no one wanted to repeat the experience. It feels like a very long time since he’s felt any immediate pull of desire. Mycroft’s so distracted by his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice the waiter approaching with their meals. He startles as the plate appears in front of him and instinctively flings a protective hand in front of him. It catches the heavy white porcelain and sends the plate flying across the table, landing food down in Julian’s lap. All three of them -- Mycroft, Julian and the waiter -- freeze in shock. Mycroft stifles the urge to laugh at the ridiculous situation. Julian slowly looks down at his lap and then snorts like an angry water buffalo. “Do you have any idea how much this suit costs?” he splutters, face going red. “Judging by the cut, it’s one of Kilgour’s,” Mycroft says over the spluttering. From the way Julian’s glaring, tonight is a lost cause. No point holding his tongue any longer. “I’d place it around £4,300.” While Julian takes a ridiculous fuss about dry cleaning costs and rushing off to the gents to salvage his suit, Mycroft asks for another serving to take home. If tonight is doomed, he should at least be able to enjoy a nice prawn linguini. *** Julian doesn’t return to the table so Mycroft pays the bill and takes a surprisingly generous container home with him. He pauses outside the restaurant to fix his scarf and hears a familiar voice call out. “Hey! Mycroft!” When he looks behind him, there is Gregory Lestrade, trenchcoat billowing open as he strides closer. Of course, it is. A disappointing night wouldn’t be complete without Lestrade witnessing it. Mycroft nods his head in greeting. “Sir Gregory,” he says and gets rewarded with a quick smile. “I haven’t seen you in ages,” Lestrade says. It’s one of those imprecise terms that makes Mycroft automatically translate into twelve weeks and four days. “Everything good?” “Busy, but nothing to worry about.” He almost asks what Lestrade’s doing here, but there’s a reflection of red and blue lights from an alley in the distance. Lestrade must be working. Lestrade’s eyes dip down to the bag in Mycroft’s hand. “At least I’m not catching you in the middle of one of those disastrous dates. It’s a nice change.” “Not in the middle, no.” “Really?” Lestrade asks, not even trying to hide the grin on his face. Mycroft glances over his shoulder and spots Julian stomping his way through the restaurant. Length and pace of strides, the width of the restaurant, the indirect route that has to be taken… “I believe that’s him now,” Mycroft says at the precise moment that Julian pushes open the doors, sends a scathing look at Mycroft and then stalks the opposite direction. There’s a large wet mark on the front of his trousers. The timing is perfect. It’s only made better by Lestrade’s startled but honest laughter. “Christ. It went that well, huh?” “I did have high hopes for tonight.” Something flashes quickly across Lestrade’s expression, a moment of sharp curiosity, there and gone. “It was going well?” “Not really. I spent the whole night listening to his tedious anecdotes.” Mycroft can’t simply say: I disliked him but I wanted to use him for sex. There’s no way to say ‘I put up with it to try to get a leg over’ that doesn’t sound sleazy or pathetic. “But at least I have complex carbohydrates to comfort me.” “We’ve got a two-hour wait for SOCO, so I’m leaving the team to wait for them. Perks of being the boss,” Lestrade adds cheekily. “Do you want a ride somewhere?” Mycroft wants to go home. He wants to eat food he probably shouldn’t, sit in his warm comfortable house and remind himself that there are far worse things than being single. Like having to listen to one more boring, pretentious story. “On the proviso that you help me finish this,” he says, rattling the plastic bag in his hand. “Honestly, it’s all cream and pasta. I shouldn’t be left alone with it.” “Deal.” *** He leads Lestrade straight into the dining room and then detours back to the kitchen to heat and plate the food. When he walks in, Lestrade’s sitting at the table, one place left of Mycroft’s usual seat at the head. It’s a large table but sitting across the corner of it, they’re close enough to brush elbows. It’s nice. It means Lestrade doesn’t have to speak loudly when he says, “Were you expecting company? Or is your place always this clean?” It’s no cleaner than it usually is. “I believe clean is an absolute. It either is or isn’t clean.” “No, it’s a sliding scale,” Lestrade says, placing his form down to gesture to each end of the table. “Right from ’messy but mostly clean’ to ‘Gregory Emile Lestrade, clean your room, we have visitors coming’. There’s a wide range of acceptably clean between the two.” It’s an easy conversation. Lestrade talks about his Mum and trudging dirty football boots into the house, and there’s clear affection in his tone. Affection for his parents, for a childhood that he remembers fondly. It’s rather charming and for a moment, Mycroft wishes his date had been half as interesting to listen to. He squashes that thought as soon as it occurs. Firstly, Lestrade has dated women since his divorce: most of them up to ten years younger than him and all of them decidedly pretty. If Lestrade had any interest in dating men, it would be foolish to assume he’d have any interest in dating Mycroft. Mycroft is clever, sharp and middling attractive where Lestrade is unfairly gorgeous and a genuinely decent man. He’s a good man, a kind man; a man who works hard and expects no reward beyond the satisfaction in a job well done. Mycroft works hard because there’s no one else who can do what he does, and there’s little value in being wealthy in an unstable country; it’s in his own best interest to keep everything running well. He’s never fooled himself into believing he is either good or kind. “Look, can I say something?” Lestrade asks after he’s scraped the last strand of linguini from his plate. “It’s not a criticism, just… You remind me of a mate of mine, Dave. Known him since school, forever really, and he’s always had a type.” “Go on.” “Girls at bars, girlfriends, it’s always been blondes. But he’s happily married now. His wife’s a brunette.” Mycroft fails to see the point. “Was she blonde when he met her?” “No. That’s it. Once he stopped looking for a girl who looked a certain way, he found the one,” Lestrade says, displaying his own romantic streak in the choice of words. The idea that someone post-divorce and post-heartbreak could still believe in one true love -- in finding one perfect soulmate -- seems remarkable to Mycroft. He’s had no such setbacks and he’s cynical of the entire concept. “I’m not sure I’m looking for the one. I think it would be nice to occasionally--” Mycroft stops himself before he can end that sentence in a truly pathetic way. It would be nice to have company, another warm body reading on the sofa. It would be nice to be held, to crawl into bed after a long day and fall asleep with someone’s arm around you. It would be nice to get off with someone else’s hand on his cock. They’re all nice things to have in life but they’re hardly necessary. “He had this idea in his head of what his future looked like, right? And restricting himself to girls who only fit that criteria meant he wasn’t really giving himself a chance to fall in love. You can’t fall for a checklist of attributes, it has to be the right person.” Lestrade reaches for his glass of water and takes a few deep swallows. “I’m just saying, you have a type.” Not really, Mycroft thinks. They all had different professions, grew up in different areas of England. There was limited overlap in their choice of hobbies and interests. “A type?” “It’s always bespoke suits and money and posh,” Lestrade says plainly. “Which aren’t bad things and I get that it gives you something in common, but maybe that’s not who you’re supposed to be with.” “Those are the circles I mix in. Those are the men I meet.” Those and people who work for him, but dating the staff is bound to end badly. “Then try something new. Or someone new,” Lestrade says, leaning closer. “Try--” The phone in Lestrade’s pocket rings loudly and they both jerk back. Lestrade pulls it out, answering quickly. “Lestrade here. Yeah? They got there early? Mark that one in the books. Yeah. No, I’m on my way. Ten minutes? Twenty?” Mycroft stands up, glancing around the room to be sure Lestrade hasn’t left anything. No, just his trenchcoat in the hall. Lestrade puts the phone away with an apologetic expression. “I’ve got to go. Right now.” “Thank you for the company,” Mycroft says, walking him out and fetching his trenchcoat on the way. “And I will give some consideration to your advice.” “Good. Just--” Lestrade frowns as he takes his coat, apparently unsure of what to say. “Keep in touch, yeah?” Knowing Mycroft’s luck, he’ll run into Lestrade after his next failed date. “Do take care.” *** While he can see the merit of Lestrade’s argument, it’s easier to agree with it than act on it. Stepping beyond one’s comfort zone may be commendable, but contrary to popular movies, standing around in coffee shops, bookstores and supermarkets doesn’t help Mycroft meet anyone. People don’t start conversations with strangers. Most of the people in those places aren’t single, and those that are have errands to run and are too busy to pay attention to anything beyond their phone. After trying each venue once, Mycroft gives it up as a bad idea. He feels humiliatingly self-conscious and somehow invisible at the same time. He calls Lestrade, hoping for a better suggestion of how people meet when it’s not at galleries or play intermissions. He gets Lestrade’s voicemail -- heralded by a very professional “This is DI Gregory Lestrade. Please leave a message at the tone” -- and doesn’t react fast enough to end the call. “This is Mycroft Holmes,” he says, cursing himself for not hanging up. He barely had a reason to call. He certainly doesn’t have a good reason for leaving a message. “I was trying to get a message to Sherlock. Don’t worry, I’ll call John Watson.” The good thing about having his metaphorical fingers in every pie is that there is always a minor issue somewhere that would benefit from Sherlock’s investigative skills. It’s an easy thing to call John Watson next, and offer paid work to Sherlock. (Surprisingly, Sherlock is bored enough to take it so that’s one less thing Mycroft needs to address himself.) He gets dragged into a conference call with China that afternoon so he misses Lestrade’s return call. Lestrade’s message is relaxed. “Hey, it’s Greg,” he says, “calling you back. Sherlock said he’s busy doing something for you, so you must have got in touch with him. Call me back.” Mycroft considers calling back but it’s the middle of the night. He waits until the next day but it goes to voicemail again. “Mycroft Holmes,” he says, and, “I was just returning your call,” and, “There’s no pressing need for you to call me back.” Awkward is the kindest way to describe the stilted recording. Then there’s a quick trip to Washington and Lestrade calls while he’s in the air. “Greg here. I don’t know how we keep missing each other. I’ll try again later.” And then, “Just me again. Call me back, okay?” The next few days Mycroft is busier than he prefers, sorting out a few messes here and there. Every time he gets a spare minute, it’s an unreasonable time in London. He has to wait until an hour before his return flight. It should be mid-afternoon in London, on a Saturday. Lestrade should be able to answer his phone. It goes to voicemail again. Mycroft’s disappointed. He can hear it when he leaves the last message: “This is Mycroft. No need to call me back. We can declare you the winner in this game of phone tag.” It’s silly. Orchestrating a convenient time to call does not oblige someone else to answer. It’s a Saturday and he’s not on call; of course, Lestrade would have plans for the day. When Mycroft gets off the plane, there’s a missed call from Lestrade. He forces himself to ignore it until he has reclaimed his bags, survived airport traffic, and made it home in one piece. The background noise in the message is loud: chatting people, mostly deep voices, the drone of a TV and the clink of glasses; the unmistakable sounds of a pub. “Hey, Mycroft,” Greg says loudly, trying to be heard over the noise. He’s had enough to drink that his accent’s coming through, flattening his vowels. “I didn’t hear my phone ring. Call me, yeah?” Mycroft plays the message twice more and then deletes it. He doesn’t call back. They’ve both wasted more time on this than the conversation deserves. *** Since meeting someone in general public areas seems unlikely, it’s only logical that Mycroft would fare better in a venue where people come to meet others. A venue where being gay was presumed. In short, a gay bar. The idea of going out to Soho seems trendy and uncomfortably close to home, so Mycroft chooses an establishment out in Stoke Newington. According to Google, the most popular hours are Fridays and Saturdays between 11pm and 2am, so Mycroft plans accordingly. In retrospect, it’s not his best plan ever. There are two floors of dancing and bars, in spaces that would look dingy and worn if the lights were bright enough to see them. Judging by what Mycroft sees, the crowd is a mixture of gay and straight, groups loosely dancing in circles or couples gyrating together, but the majority of them of them are under twenty. Mycroft feels unforgivably old. Even if he’d been the right age, he’s never enjoyed loud music thumping through his breastbone or been especially graceful on the dance floor. He can waltz and he can foxtrot but he’s never had Sherlock’s flair for it; he’s certainly never pushed himself against a total stranger, using them as a pole in a stripper routine. There’s no point coming here and leaving immediately, so he forces himself to stay. He sits at the bar, back to the wall, dance floor and doorway in his line of sight. He keeps a close eye on his drinks being poured, but after one glass of hideously cheap whisky, he orders water. He watches the young people drink and laugh, having fun, and he can’t remember ever being so carefree. It’s not in his nature. He watches them wistfully, wondering what it would be like to be... ordinary. To have a simple job, to only worry about your next pay cheque, to look forward to going out every weekend. It sounds terribly dull to Mycroft, to walk through life and only see the surface, but so many people seem content with it. There are several free seats to either side of him, and yet someone takes the seat right beside him. Dark hair and olive skin -- Arabic mother and Eastern European father -- long, straight nose and very dark eyes. He’s older than the crowd in here but not significantly. Around twenty-nine. His smile shows crooked incisors. “Having fun?” “Not especially,” Mycroft replies. The young man looks confused; the music is too loud and he apparently doesn’t read lips. Mycroft leans closer and repeats himself loudly. “No, not really.” “First time here?” “Probably my last,” Mycroft replies. The young man grins and says, “Mike.” “What?” Mycroft asks, instantly suspicious. He looks to the man’s hands, but there are no telltale callouses, no signs of violence or weapon skills. He spends his days using a laptop keyboard. “I’m Mike,” he says, tapping a hand to his chest to emphasize the point. “You?” “Mycroft.” From the confused frown, Mike didn’t quite catch the name. “Do you want to get out of here? Go somewhere we can talk?” It’s absurd. Mycroft was in university when this boy was born. But he’s also been sitting here for two hours, and he hates it, and he wants to leave. “Where?” “I know a place. Does great pancakes.” It’s the pancakes that convince Mycroft. *** Over a fifteen minute stroll through quiet, fluorescent-lit streets, Mike doesn’t say anything abysmally stupid. It’s standard getting to know you conversation: employment, education, location. Or what did you study at school, where do you work, where do you live now and where did you grow up. All details that Mycroft could deduce, but the conversation is no more tedious than it needs to be. Mike asks about Mycroft’s job (civil servant for the Department of Transport) and confirms Mycroft’s suspicions about his own employment (aspiring writer, he says, but he really means unemployed). “It’s such a modern concept,” Mycroft says because modern is sometimes the best word for immature and indulgent. “This idea of removing oneself from life in order to write. There are great books that were written while their authors held steady jobs.” “Maybe those great books would have been written no matter what,” Mike says, leading them inside to a cafe open unfathomably late. It’s an unremarkable cafe inside, a collection of chairs and tables, with posters covering one wall. There are a few other patrons but it’s mostly empty. They go to the counter to order -- tea and pancakes for Mycroft, coffee and pancakes for Mike -- and then take a table. “That is my point. If the book is extraordinary, it will be written. And if it is not,” if it is as mediocre as Mycroft suspects Mike’s novel will be, given his brief description of it and his lacklustre enthusiasm, “surely it’s better not to devote years of your life solely to that one thing.” The young man nods, considering it as Mycroft considers him. Mycroft likes his confidence, his turn of phrase, his highly photogenic mix of features. Educated to a university level, able to take advice from his elders without being awed by them. DCMS, Mycroft decides, they’re always looking for media-friendly faces there. “I don’t disagree in theory,” Mike says. “But getting work isn’t that easy. I could go back to uni, finish the degree but I’m not sure an arts degree will actually help me find a job.” “Perhaps I could help, with a condition or two.” “How?” “I know a position that needs to be filled at the Department for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport.” He doesn’t know of a specific position, but he knows that Gerald Sanders owes Mycroft several favours and will find a vacancy somewhere. He can employ the boy as a casual; there’s currently an underspend in the departmental budget that allows a little wriggle room on FTE. “Nothing glamorous, office work. I think it’s casual with a view to becoming permanent.” “Really?” Mycroft pulls a pen from his pocket and writes on a spare serviette. Gerald’s name and email address, and then his own name. He slides it across the table. “Email your resume to Gerald and mention that Mycroft Holmes recommended you. Ensure that your resume is honest. If I am vouching for you, there will not be a single untruth in that document. Understood?” “Yes, sir,” Mike says, responding to the tone of authority by sitting straighter and giving a sharp nod. “And…” “And?” Mike looks a little wary, dark eyes watching the serviette lying between them. “The condition?” “Do not lie on your resume. I believe I made that very clear.” “Oh.” The surprise and relief on his face makes it clear he’d worried the condition would be something quite sordid. Something he’d readied himself to refuse, despite the offer of employment. Mycroft thinks it a good sign of his character. “I appreciated the pancakes,” Mycroft says, “but you really are terribly young.” Mycroft looks up at the sound of the cafe door opening and sees-- No. It couldn’t be Lestrade. How could it be Lestrade hurrying inside wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt? This sort of coincidence is unbelievable. No matter how hard Mycroft stares, it is undeniably Gregory Lestrade. Gregory Lestrade wearing loose grey sweatpants low around his hips and a blue T-shirt that’s been put through the dryer so many times it’s shrunk. It clings tightly across the small bulge of fat above each hip and the curve of belly; it also clings to the broad chest and strong shoulders, the lean muscles on his biceps. Not from a gym, Mycroft notes, but a clear sign that Lestrade spends less time behind a desk than he’s supposed to, and more time chasing after Sherlock and forcibly arresting criminals. Mycroft looks away before he can be caught staring. He keeps his gaze on his cup as Lestrade stands at the counter. “Hey, Kristy, I’m out. Any chance you’ve got a spare litre?” “I’ll check,” the cafe girl promises and heads to the back room. She comes back quickly with a carton of milk, and Lestrade passes her a few coins. “Thanks,” he says, tucking the milk under one arm. He turns to leave, glancing around the rest of the cafe, and stops, staring at Mycroft. “What the hell are you doing here?” “I could ask you the same question,” Mycroft replies calmly as Lestrade steps over to their table. “Yeah, but--” Lestrade stops when he notices Mike sitting opposite Mycroft. A quick narrow-eyed glance at his age and dress, and then it’s covered with a friendly expression. “But I’m interrupting. I’ll leave you to your night.” “No need. I was just about to go,” Mike says quickly and Mycroft’s opinion of the young man increases when he stands and adds, “Thank you for the opportunity. I’ll email my resume tomorrow.” Lestrade steps back to allow Mike to leave and then takes his seat. The milk stands to attention at the far side of the table. “This is a strange time for an interview.” “I don’t think he intended it to be an interview,” Mycroft allows. “But I know a department that could use someone photogenic and smart enough to welcome guidance.” Mycroft places his cup back in its saucer. He’s not expecting Lestrade’s hand to dart out to catch the back of his fingers and pull Mycroft’s arm towards him. His grip is firm and warm as he turns Mycroft’s hand to show the ink stamp on his inner wrist. “Were you out clubbing?” he asks, amazed and doubtful. Lestrade releases his hand and Mycroft pulls it back regretfully. “Did you wear a blazer to a club?” “I wasn’t going to wear a suit.” Tan trousers, plain white shirt, sports coat: it’s as casual as Mycroft’s wardrobe gets. He certainly wasn’t going to buy new clothes for this social experiment. “This was your idea, you know. Meet people beyond my social circle.” Lestrade’s expression is indulgent and amused and almost… fond. Mycroft is very good at noticing when someone is attracted to him; he’s less familiar with the signs of being liked. “And how did that go?” Lestrade makes it sound like an inside joke, like he’s laughing with Mycroft and not at him. “About as well as you’d expect. Apparently, twenty is the cutoff for clubs these days. Although to be perfectly honest, even if I’d been twenty I doubt I’d enjoy the experience.” Mycroft reaches for his cup of tea and then finds it surprisingly empty. “And you? Your flat is close to here, isn’t it?” “Round the corner,” Lestrade says. “I couldn’t sleep and I was out of milk, and this place is closer than the convenience store.” Mycroft is suddenly aware that Lestrade probably sleeps in those clothes -- has a flash of imagining soft, body-warm cotton and Lestrade’s sleepy smile -- and that he has no good reason to keep the man from his bed. “Don’t let me keep you. You should go home and enjoy your tea in peace.” Lestrade shakes his head. “I wasn’t talking about clubbing,” he says, ignoring Mycroft’s invitation to leave. “I’m unlikely to strike up a new acquaintance at a coffee shop.” Mycroft knows. He’s tried. “No, I meant…” Lestrade sighs and scratches the back of his neck. Mycroft does not let his gaze waver, does not let himself memorize the play of arm muscles in that simple gesture. Really, it’s quite inconsiderate for Lestrade to wander around in public dressed like that. “Me.” “What?” Mycroft asks, sure he’s missed something. “Do you want to go to dinner sometime?” “Why?” Mycroft asks and then he realises. A date. Lestrade is asking him out. “I thought you were straight.” Lestrade raises an eyebrow at him. “Just because I married a woman doesn’t make me straight.” “Yet you’ve only dated women since your divorce.” “Because I was carrying a torch for a guy,” Lestrade says grudgingly, “and it didn’t seem fair to date men I wasn’t interested in.” “Oh.” Given who Lestrade is, that would match his sense of decency. “I won’t ask why, but I’m glad you’ve changed your mind.” “I didn’t change my mind,” Lestrade says. “I just finally got the nerve to ask him out. I’m not sure he’s said yes yet.” Mycroft reaches for his cup, stalling, then remembers its empty. He puts it back down and looks up to find Lestrade grinning at him. “Yes,” he says clearly and calmly. “I would like that very much.” *** Mycroft doesn’t tell Sherlock. He doesn’t need to. Lestrade is many things but he’s not a deceitful man. “You should tell Lestrade about the curse,” Sherlock says, rolling another double onto the backgammon board. “I’m not going to tell him about something that doesn’t exist.” “Police are superstitious,” Sherlock replies, tapping his piece around the board. “He’d believe you.” Mycroft picks up the dice. He shouldn’t ask. He knows Sherlock’s taunts are only childish attempts to annoy him. He should be smart enough to understand Sherlock’s reasoning, even if he doesn’t spend as much time around Lestrade. He rolls the dice and moves his pieces. He ignores Sherlock’s pointed silence as long as he can. “Based on what evidence?” “He has a lucky tie for court cases.” “Hmm.” Admittedly, that does suggest a superstitious nature, a willingness to believe in lucky charms and curses go hand in hand. But it doesn’t change the fact that curses do not exist and therefore, Mycroft is not cursed. “It’s only fair to warn him,” Sherlock adds helpfully, then rolls another double. Mycroft would suspect loaded dice if he hadn’t checked them himself. *** Mycroft is secretly charmed that Lestrade suggested Gauthier for their date. He likes their selection of dishes, interesting flavours, not too complicated, not restricted to describing themselves in trendy terms of fusions and nouveau cuisine. The host might give him an uneasy glance as he’s shown to a table -- at the back, a little away from other patrons -- but that’s only to be expected. Lestrade arrives right on time. Mycroft watches him follow the host across the restaurant. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black shirt, and a soft-looking leather jacket. For a moment, Mycroft is reminded of his schoolboy crush on a local motorcycle-riding hoodlum, something he hasn’t thought of in decades. That crush was doomed as soon as he talked to the boy and realised he was a cretin. Lestrade grins brightly when he spots Mycroft, and Mycroft allows a small smile in return. “Hey, I’m not late, am I?” Lestrade asks, sitting down. “No, I was early.” “Good. You can never tell with London traffic,” Lestrade starts, and then they’re talking about traffic woes and unpredictable ETAs, about roadworks and ridiculous drivers. Lestrade’s describing a dangerous right turn, moving the salt shaker to demonstrate, when a waiter looms beside them, and Mycroft realises they’ve been talking for fifteen minutes. “Oh, how about a glass of wine, white,” Lestrade says, opening the menu in front of him, “and we’ll figure out what we want to order. Mycroft? Do you want a drink?” Mycroft shakes his head. “Water will be fine.” “Not a fan of wine?” Lestrade asks when the waiter leaves. “Not especially. I do enjoy a good whisky, but I enjoy it more without food.” Lestrade pulls a face. “Beer, yes. A good Guinness. I can’t do whisky.” “No?” “I blame granddad’s Drambuie. I stole the bottle. I was fifteen and a couple of mates and I finished the bottle. Wanted to die the next day.” “I am familiar with the feeling. Rather recently,” Mycroft says, and Lestrade gives a snort of amusement. “Was the infamous Dave part of these shenanigans?” “It was Dave’s idea. Not that Mum ever believed me. I was grounded for a month,” Lestrade says, dark eyes glittering with mischief. Mycroft has the sudden urge to ask about every misdeed, every naughty exploit, to learn what Lestrade was like at eight, thirteen, nineteen. To know everything that doesn’t get recorded in background files and career histories. Mycroft looks down at his menu. People do not ask for every possible scrap of information on a first date. That would be obsessive and invasive. “Perhaps we should work out what to order.” “What would you recommend?” Lestrade asks, and then there’s a buzz. He fishes the vibrating phone out of his pocket, frowning at the number as he answers. “Lestrade here.” Whatever is said, it etches the frown deeper into his face. “But I’m not even on call. What about Peters and Singh?” There’s a pause. Mycroft thinks that they didn’t even manage a drink before the date was finished. It’s still one of his better dates. “The flu? Both of them? And Jacobs sprained his ankle. Fine, I’m coming in, but this is overtime. I had plans,” Lestrade says pointedly, and then, “Yeah, I know. I’m coming in.” Lestrade hands up and puts the phone back in his pocket before he looks up ruefully at Mycroft. “I’ve got to go into work.” “I heard,” Mycroft says. “Go. I’ll deal with the restaurant.” “I’m working next Saturday,” Lestrade says, standing up. Mycroft expects some unfeasible promise of calling, some well-meaning but vague future promise. “What about drinks on Sunday afternoon?” “Are you sure?” Mycroft asks, which is hardly encouraging. “Come on. You agreed to a date, and this doesn’t count. We didn’t even get to the food.” “Well, if this doesn’t count as a date,” Mycroft allows playfully, “we will have to reschedule. If we say four o’clock on Sunday, I could make it.” “Four o’clock. I’ll text you the place.” *** Mycroft arrives in Marylebone just before four, and wonders at Lestrade’s choice. It’s too far from his work or flat to be a local pub, yet he had specifically chosen it. It is comfortably close to Mycroft’s place in Mayfair. Perhaps that was Lestrade’s reasoning: somewhere they could walk back to Mycroft’s. If that’s the ulterior motive, Mycroft rather likes the idea. It’s an old Victorian style pub, warm woods and a long bar, and unremarkable at first glance. A few patrons sitting at the bar, groups sitting at a few tables, but half the tables are empty. Relaxed chatter drowns out the acoustic background music, but it’s not too loud to have a conversation. It’s a Sunday afternoon and there aren’t a lot of patrons, but there are only three women in the place, and they’re all part of larger groups. The pairs sitting around are all men, in their thirties and older, but the body language is wrong. A little too close, a little too attentive, for straight men. Interesting. “Oh, you found it,” Lestrade says behind him. Mycroft glances over his shoulder to see Lestrade run a hand through his hair (damp from the showers outside, rain pattern across his sweater suggests a hunched run from his car). “Yes. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to sit at the bar or a table.” “Do you have a preference?” “Either is fine,” Mycroft says. The bar would be more casual and set a friendlier tone; a table would feel more intimate, would allow for a conversation that wouldn’t be overheard. He would be more comfortable sitting at a table, but either would be acceptable. “Table, it is,” Lestrade says, leading Mycroft to the far side of the room with a gentle hand on his back. It’s high on his back, between his shoulder blades. Mycroft only feels the lightest of pressures through his suit, and yet it catches him by surprise. There’s nothing indecent or suggestive in the gesture; on the contrary, it’s familiar and a little protective. Mycroft knows how to ward off an unwelcome roaming hand and how to defend his personal space with a withering glance. He’s less sure how one welcomes a casual touch. If Lestrade notices him tense in surprise, he doesn’t mention it. He just leads them to the table -- a few seconds walk, nothing more -- and then removes his hand. “What do you want to drink?” “Orange juice, please.” Lestrade nods and fetches drinks from the bar. It gives Mycroft ample time to decide Lestrade is wearing the same dark blue jeans he wore to their last date. This time, with a deep green sweater -- wool and silk blend, judging by the fine sheen, a few small snags showing it’s been in Lestrade’s wardrobe for at least a year -- and brown leather boots. Practical for the weather, but a flattering outfit nonetheless. Lestrade slides over a tall glass of orange juice. “Sure you didn’t want whisky? They have some quality drinks here.” Given the age and disposable income of the clientele, Mycroft would believe it. The reason is much simpler than that. “You’ve already seen me incapacitated once. I would prefer to avoid a repeat performance. After all, dating is all about hiding one’s obnoxious traits.” “You weren’t that bad.” “I believe I fell asleep on your shoulder.” Mycroft adjusts his cuffs, allowing himself a brief respite from his embarrassment. “Hardly an appealing impression.” “You were adorable,” Lestrade says. Mycroft hasn’t been called adorable since he reached double digits. “High as a kite, but adorable. Underneath all that cleverness and the fancy suits, you’re a sweetheart.” The suggestion is preposterous. “I assure you I am not.” “Very, very deep down,” Lestrade says, grinning as he drinks his ale. Mycroft glances around the room, wishin
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