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It was late when Lestrade got home from work. Late enough that the guards along the street that don't like him glare at him daring to be a nuisance, walking in the dark how dare he, and the ones that like him give him wry smiles.
"Wouldn't it be easier to have a car, Detective Inspector?" Billy from next door asks.
Lestrade shrugs, hands in pockets, and smiles, pausing for a moment to chat. "I know better than anyone the traffic and blasted taxes of having a car in the city. Doesn't seem worth it, mate."
Billy winks. "Ah, but would you actually have to worry about taxes?"
Lestrade smiles, admitting defeat. "Valid point there, Billy. But I like to walk."
He glances up at his building and smiles. "But walking gives me the chance to take everything in, you know what I mean?"
Billy nods wisely. "Oh yes. The clutter of the tube, the smell, the late trains..."
They laugh together.
"You have a good night, Detective Inspector."
"Thank you, Billy."
He swipes his card at the door next to the gate for pedestrians, and the lock clicks open as soon as his ID is accepted. They don't have anything as ostentatious as a guard that waits in plain sight, but he nods amiably for the man, or the woman, that he knows is watching from somewhere.
Probably CCTV, but it never hurts to be polite.
He has to use his card again to get in the door, but it registers just as fast, releasing the lock quickly. The door sticks, though, so he shoves against it with his hip to budge it open before the lock re-engages. He can't help but smile, after doing this, imagining Mycroft having to do something so plebeian as shove a door open.
He probably has that assistant of his do it for him. No, not her. She's always glued to that blackberry of hers and is probably unaware of how to open a door altogether. No, it's much more likely that his lover has a guard do it for him.
His smile is fond. His lover. He is much looking forward to being home to see him. Regardless that it is now...He squints at his watch, eyes adjusting to the light inside. Hm. Eleven O'clock. At least he knows that Mycroft is most likely already at home.
Lestrade spurns the elevator because, even though his hair is silver (Mycroft calls it distinguished) and he's not getting any younger, he just much prefers to take the stairs.
He could cop out and blame it on the one time he got stuck in one for 5 hours, but if that was the case, he would like elevators, because that was where he met Mycroft.
But the truth is, he just likes the stretch and burn of taking two stairs at a time, and the flush of accomplishment he gets when he reaches the top without slowing down.
He likes being high enough in rank that he has his very own office with a lockable door. He carries home very little, anymore. And tonight, he carries home nothing at all. He has no cases pending, and it's the weekend.
God bless the Queen and the weekends.
For their front door he pulls out a good old fashioned key, brass and heavy in his hand, and twists the lock smoothly.
"Honey, I'm home," he calls out, just to hear his voice.
"In the study," Mycroft calls back.
The study is the spare bedroom, which they have no need of considering Sherlock is the only family either of them have, and he pretty much refuses to be anywhere near his brother at any point, so Mycroft uses it as an office away from home.
He looks at his watch again, just in case he misread it.
11:05
"Isn't it a little late for that, dear?" He closes the door behind himself, locks it, and toes off his shoes right then and there. He figures Mycroft needs some disorder in his life, so he makes sure that his left and right shoes are toppled over and placed wrong. He drops his keys on the entry table, then pads down the hall.
"Just some paperwork, Gregory, nothing important."
"There is always paperwork," Lestrade mutters to himself.
He pads past the study which floods the dim hall with bright light, and into the den towards the kitchen. He puts on a kettle, then looks around, wondering why things seem off. He takes a whiff, then he knows why.
"Was Sherlock here?" he calls out incredulously.
He targets the sofa as the culprit and treads around it carefully as though it is a crime scene. There it is. He stoops, picking up the spent cigarette. "Did he grind this into the rug on purpose? No, what am I thinking, of course he did."
"You're mumbling, Gregory," Mycroft calls from the study.
"Yes, yes." Lestrade dismisses. "What on God's green earth brought your brother into your flat?"
"Our, flat, Gregory. Our flat. Those curtains certainly weren't my idea."
"Will you stop with the curtains?" He pinches the butt between his thumb and forefinger and takes it to the kitchen, depositing it in the bin. The kettle is starting to steam a little, but not at a boil. "What I want to know, is what was Sherlock doing here?"
"What else? Causing havoc and mayhem, of course."
Lestrade grinned. "To your priceless Persian rug, I see that. But what did he do to you?"
"I'll tell you when the tea is ready."
Right on cue, the kettle starts to whistle.
It's a night in, as late as it is, and there's no one to impress, so Lestrade dumps a tea bag each into two heavy mugs, a dollop of honey for both, then fills them to the brim with hot water. A spoon and two mugs clasped in hand, he pads back to the study.
Mycroft is a welcome sight, and looks only half as tired as Lestrade feels. He looks up at his partner hovering in the doorway, and smiles. "Come in, please. Your hovering is ridiculous." The desk lamp lights his auburn hair, red highlights glinting, and Lestrade can't help but think--
"I love you, you know." He deposits a mug on the desk and stirs his own with the spoon before dropping it in Mycroft's mug.
Mycroft smiles warmly. "I love you as well, did your day go well?"
Lestrade scowls, backing to the doorway and leaning on the frame, nursing his piping hot mug of tea. "Absolutely wretched. Yours?"
"I left the office early today because of a reported break-in here at our flat."
Lestrade wants to drop his head into his hands, but they are occupied, so he settles for groaning. "He didn't. What if one of the guards had shot him because he decided to B&E in one of his ridiculous disguises?"
Mycroft's face is solemn. "That's what I asked him. He's under the impression that the neighborhood will save him from my men protecting me."
Lestrade feels the need to groan again. "That immature prat. Must he live to torment others?"
"Yes." Mycroft stirs his tea, the spoon ringing against the ceramic. "I was...glad to see him, though."
"Oh?"
"He asked for help."
Both of Lestrade's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline as he slurps his tea carefully.
Mycroft chuckles ruefully. "Yes, exactly. We might have come to an...agreement."
"Why do I get the feeling that this includes me?" Lestrade says warily.
"Because it does."
"Oh no. I'm staying out of this. He's your family."
"Mi casa es su casa, Gregory."
Lestrade flushes with pleasure, before he scowls again. "And no using flattery to butter me up, you tosser. Sherlock is a whirlwind of trouble that I'd rather avoid altogether."
"He agreed to quit drugs altogether if you help him out."
Lestrade does indeed notice that Mycroft says you, not 'I' or 'we.'
"What in the world does the great git want this time?"
"To work on real cases. Solve murders. With you, I suspect. He does rather have a soft spot for you."
"A soft spot? The last time we met he mugged me on a street corner for an experiment. With a knife at my throat! I can only imagine what he does to people he doesn't like."
"Which you will have the chance to find out about if his boredom streak continues." Mycroft interjects sternly.
"What do you mean?" Lestrade demands, tea almost forgotten. "Are you threatening something?"
"No." Mycroft frowns. "Many apologies, I forget that I can be frank with you sometimes, Gregory. Please forgive me. Sherlock is bored out of his mind with petty cases of puppies up trees, and yes, I do mean puppies, and he wouldn't fit into a real job, not even one like mine, even if he managed to act his way through an interview to get hired from one. He's at loose ends, about ready to do something drastic, and for some odd reason..." He trails off, looking a little puzzled and frustrated. "He looks up to you."
Lestrade smiles into his mug, inhaling the steam as he calms down. "Are you saying that because you don't believe that I am a good role model?"
Mycroft looks up, startled, from where his gaze had landed on his abandoned paperwork. "Oh goodness no. No, what stuns me is that he looks up to anyone at all. I never thought it possible."
"Drugs, eh? Did he agree to the smoking as well?"
"Not as such, but I can hope."
Lestrade pushes off of the door frame and approaches the desk, setting down his tea next to Mycroft's nearly untouched mug. He loosens his tie and looks down at his partner with a smile. "What do you say to calling it a night so that you can convince me I should do this?"
He's already agreed. He knows this, and Mycroft knows this, but the brilliant mastermind smiles slowly and lasciviously anyways. "That," he follows the hint of skin as Lestrade slowly unbuttons his shirt, "My dear Gregory, sounds like a wonderful plan."
~~
In the morning, when Lestrade rises from their warm and comfy bed to put on a pot of coffee, he glances at the door to find his shoes upright and straight under the table. He smiles, shaking his head.
Mycroft has to keep everything in order. But occasionally, he lets something into his life that isn't.
He scratches his belly and yawns, padding down the hall. Perhaps he'll start leaving his tie on the doorknob, just for fun.
FIN