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The door was opened violently, and with it came the Detective Inspector, a look of anger on his face as he made his was in front of his desk. He was used to the Detective Inspector barging in unannounced like this, and it seemed nothing could deter him once his mind has made up, of that he had found out long ago. “Ah, Detective Inspector. To what I owe the pleasure?” he asked, waving his hand graciously in the air to dismiss the young intern, a look of relief fleeted across his face, though it was quickly replaced with something of a dread as he walked back to his place outside of his office. He made a mental note to have Anthea reprimand him just for the fun of it so he wouldn’t get off easily.
“You knew.” There was an accusation in his voice, and he didn’t dare to look up, afraid to see what the expressive face had in store for him. Instead, he continued writing on a piece of paper, looking nonchalant as he continued tying the loose strands with each signature he signed.
There was a frustrated sigh, and he could imagine the man running his fingers through the salt and pepper hair, before running them down along his face. “Mycroft,” the calling of his name was soft yet demanding at the same time, and the man couldn’t help but lifted his gaze from the boring papers to the handsome man, a look of expectancy on his face. He simply raised his brow, before resuming his attention to the papers on his desk.
“How long have you known?” he asked, though he suspected the Detective Inspector already knew the answer, so he wouldn’t bother with trifled things.
“There is no use delving into the past, Detective Inspector,” he answered instead, his smooth voice reverberating through the walls, and it somehow didn’t sit quite well with the older man as he sputtered some vulgar words under his breath that Mycroft didn’t bother repeating.
And then, out of nowhere, he heard a laughter. It was a chuckle at first, before it turned into an uproarious laughter. It was really out of place, and it made him to look up, a look of surprise on his face – well, as surprised as Mycroft Holmes could look at least. “To think,” Lestrade began to say between his laughter, “that I spent all these years mourning for that sod, when he’s alive and well. And you knew, but you kept quiet and let me grieve for him.” He stopped laughing now, his face darkened. “You let John go through all that shit, he didn’t deserve that. He out of all people didn’t deserve to go through all that, Mycroft.”
“And what would you have me do?” he asked, strained in his voice, his hands steepled together beneath his chin. Usually he would’ve put an end to it swiftly with an order framed in a polite statement. But he was tired, so tired after making sure his brother stayed alive as he dismantled Moriarty’s vast criminal network one by one. He was tired waiting for the call from Sherlock that he was afraid never to come, only being too late when he heard the news of his body discovered days later. He was tired of keeping up a façade that he did not care, when he cared deeply, especially when it came to his brother.
Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft.
Perhaps his façade was really fading, when he saw the man’s face changed from anger to something else entirely. His feature softer somewhat, and it made him on edge all of a sudden. He was not used to having that facial expression being directed to him, and he was really at lost as to what to do. “Mycroft, you do know that you didn’t need to do this on your own, right?” Lestrade took a step forward, his voice had dropped to a soft whisper, as if he was talking to a wounded animal. No, no. The Detective Inspector wasn’t so cruel. He was being kind. But Mycroft wasn’t used to kindness, not without hidden objectives behind it. But Greg Lestrade was nothing like that. He always put others before him, always taking care of others until he neglected his own welfare. It was what made him good at his job, good at being Sherlock’s friend, good at -
“Your concern is very much appreciated, Detective Inspector, but it is unwarranted.” Mycroft internally cringed at how cold his voice sounded, but he had never felt vulnerable in front of anyone in a long while, and he wasn’t about to start now, even when he had started to consider the Detective Inspector as someone he could trust, his confidant.
He returned to shuffling his papers, resuming his work without looking up to the man once more, giving an air that the conversation was done whether Lestrade wanted it or not. “I see,” the man said quietly. “Well, I’m sorry to have taken so much of your time, Mr. Holmes.” The formalities made him cringed. He lowered his head and took a turn to leave, the steps that followed echoed with his heart beat. Once the door was closed behind the Detective Inspector, Mycroft leaned against his chair, closing his eyes and swallowed hard. He was alone again in his room at the Diogenes club, and suddenly the papers in front of him brought little to no interest to him as all he could think about was the man’s face. The look of hurt on the Detective Inspector’s face was all he could ever thought about, and he wished he could simply ran after him and apologise. But for what he did not know, nor that he cared.
He got up and walked towards the cabinet where he stashed his drinks, and poured a hefty amount into the glass before walking towards the long window pane, looking over his beloved London. His drink went undrunk when his eyes followed the shadowy figured that just left the building, salt and pepper hair came into view as he took a drought of his cigarette, as if stalling for time, before moving towards his car and drove away.
Little that Mycroft knew, that it was the last time he would see the salt and pepper haired man again.