galadriel1010 | Birthday Month Fic

Prompt: Fake/Pretend Relationship
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade

Greg is not keen on the idea of accompanying Mycroft as his fake date, especially because the last time he went to one of these things he was Mycroft's real date. It's a bad idea even without the assassin they're expecting. This is why they split up! He's going anyway, of course.

This is my actual birthday fic!

“I still don’t see how I fit into this,” Lestrade protested. He was lying, and he knew Mycroft bloody Holmes knew he was lying, but he was damned if he was going to be the first one to actually spell out this ridiculous plan, because if he did it would sound like it was his idea or that he was at least on board with it, which he absolutely was not. “Unless you want someone to investigate your murder after it happens, it’s really not my division.”

Mycroft gave him a look reserved for those times when he knew Greg was being deliberately obtuse. “You will not be required to perform any great acts of bravery, if that it what concerns you. Your presence will be merely a visible reminder to those who require it that the event has the full attention of the law. And for those that don’t require such a reminder, your presence will be…” Here he grew, for the first time, uncomfortable. “Not entirely unexpected.”

He gritted his teeth and glanced over at his Super, who was doing his best to simultaneously look like he was in charge whilst also fading into the background with metaphorical popcorn. “I see.”

“Good. Then it is agreed.” Mycroft got to his feet and the two of them followed suit. “Thank you both for your assistance in this matter. As I’m sure you appreciate, it is a delicate matter, and of international significance.” He checked his watch and raised his eyebrows just slightly. “I will send a car round for you… tomorrow at 2pm? For your suit fitting. You’ve put on…” He cleared his throat, but Greg knew what he was going to say and bristled despite himself. “I take it you had a good time in Thailand. A wonderful part of the world. You must tell me all about it.”

He didn’t ask how Mycroft knew where he was living, or that he had the following day off, or that he’d been to Thailand. “I’ll see you tomorrow at 2, then. Unless your brother gets himself in trouble again.”

“I’ll see to it that he doesn’t,” Mycroft assured him through a tight-lipped smile. “Chief Superintendent, Detective Inspector.”

He left and Greg remained, held in place by the Super’s burgeoning glare. He stared back as guilelessly as he could. “If this is some Holmes funny business, Lestrade… I can tell when there’s things not being said.”

“Not a Holmes thing,” Greg assured him. “Just a… personal thing.”

The Super didn’t look satisfied so much as resigned, but he let Lestrade go with a warning. “If any funny business comes of this, I’ll have your balls and your badge, in that order.”

###

He got home late, as usual, and found the house already lit up like a Christmas tree and Emma’s car in the drive. It was a squeeze to get his in behind it but he did it, grabbed his bag from the back seat and trudged in and straight through to the kitchen, where Emma had her marking spread across the kitchen table and the Archers playing on her tablet. “I’m going out this weekend,” she told him without preamble. “I’ve got a date.”

“With Anton, or a new one?” He dropped his bag on an empty chair and stuck his head in the fridge. “Have you eaten?”

She hummed. “Got Sushi on the way home. There’s lasagne from last night left though. New one, he’s called John. Not a doctor though, don’t worry.”

He pulled a beer out of the fridge as well as the lasagna and busied himself with them rather than turn to look at her. “I’ve got a date too. Well, not really. Work thing, but it’s a posh dinner and I get to pretend I’m not at work.” He set the microwave going and added airily. “Mycroft needs someone to look pretty on his arm and remind people that the long arm of the law reaches even unto the smoking room.”

The silence that greeted that pronouncement was not entirely, or remotely, unexpected. Greg could feel Emma glaring at his back, but she waited until he’d finally run out of excused and turned to face her, so that he got to see it for himself, before she voiced her feelings. “Mycroft Holmes has asked you on a “date” for work? And you said yes?”

He shrugged. “Technically he asked the Super, so I didn’t get to say either way.”

She huffed. “Isn’t this exactly why you dumped him?”

“I didn’t dump him!” He protested, a little too vehemently judging by the way her eyebrow shot up. “I…” He trailed off. “Yes, it’s why it didn’t work out.”

“It’s why I divorced you.” She looked back at her marking dismissively. “You’re as bad as each other.”

He scoffed. “It’s why you cheated on me, you mean.” The arguments they’d never actually had piled between them, and yet again he left them where they were. It made living together, an essential part of divorced life in the capital, mostly bearable. As long as they left the past in the past, it was fine. But sometimes it reared its ugly head. “You only divorced me because I got my head out of Sherlock’s arse for long enough to notice.”

A smile curled her lips and she glanced up at him again. “It wasn’t just Sherlock’s arse, Greg. But you see what I mean?”

“Don’t worry, I’m under no impressions that I’m a saint. And I’m fine with it, I am. It’s just…” He gestured at her with the beer. “Do you know what it is? It’s that he told me I’ve put on weight. Well, nearly told me. He caught himself, but he noticed. And of course I have, it’s been winter! It’s pissed it down for two months and I’ve been to a million parties, and spent three weeks on a beach in Thailand drinking and eating and not a lot else. It’s nothing to do with him,” he insisted.

Emma clearly didn’t believe a word of it, but she was at least kind enough to keep that to herself.

###

The car that picked him up on the Sunday night was even more luxurious than the one that had collected him on the Thursday afternoon. A Rolls Royce Phantom in dark blue with cream leather seats that he barely dared to look at but found a viable alternative to looking at Mycroft. There was only so long he could stare at the interior of the car before he started looking like an awe-struck schoolboy, though, so eventually he did look at his companion. Employer? Ex. He’d never really found him attractive until they’d been meeting for a coffee for a while, but once the penny dropped he realised he probably always had. Their relationship hadn’t really lasted long after that, compared with however long it had been going on with him blissfully oblivious. A few months of dates cancelled at the last minute, dragging himself out of Mycroft’s bed in the early hours of the morning or waking to an empty bed and a note on the pillow, and a few too many dinners that obliterated the line between personal and professional until something had to give, and for them it was never going to be work.

Mycroft, naturally, looked completely unbothered by it all to the casual eye, but there was something in the set of his jaw and a tightness at the corner of his eyes that gave him away. He raised an eyebrow at Greg’s observation and his gaze flicked to the streets outside. “The talks will likely go on well into the morning, so I’ve taken the liberty of securing a room for you for the night. Questions will be asked if you leave the hotel without me, of course, but…”

“You’re not expecting trouble to hang about?”

Mycroft sighed. “Indeed. If they are going to act, they will have to do it by the third course at the latest.”

Greg laughed. “How many courses are there?”

Dinner was at the Savoy. There were to be seven courses, followed by coffee, and accompanied by a very discreet pianist. The diamonds in the room alone would buy two Phantoms with enough change to pay a driver for each of them for a year, and Greg counted at least four languages in addition to English, three of which he could understand fragments of. It was, in theory, the birthday party for a minor member of the Spanish Royal Family, attended by a select group of the capital’s diplomatic circles – not the appointed ambassadors, but the old families whose conversations shook nations and never, ever got minuted. The basis of a complicated and very valuable arms trade deal would be set in place between courses, and handed over as a virtual fait accompli to the appointed diplomats. That was why he was there as a visible representative of the Metropolitan Police, the doorman who showed them in was MI5, and two of the waitresses were MI6. Greg, Mycroft assured him, was only expected to make polite conversation about rugby, his recent holiday to Thailand, and possibly cars at a push.

“Why isn’t Anthea accompanying you?” he’d asked in the car. Mycroft had any number of beautiful and deadly women in his employment who could have done a better job of keeping up conversation than he could. They weren’t the police but they were, to the sort of people who attended these sort of functions, rather more concerning than the police. One of them had accompanied them to the tailor’s on Thursday and delivered the suit to Emma on Friday night.

Anthea, apparently, wouldn’t have been as believable a companion to those who did not need to see the arm of the law, and her presence would have required complicated explanations. Which Greg took as confirmation that Mycroft had not yet been willing or able to inform everyone present that he and Greg had split up. Considering that it was Mycroft Holmes and ‘not able’ was not a concept he was familiar with, it must be the former, and Greg should have given himself more time to contemplate that before they arrived.

Now he found himself discussing the Six Nations with the very loud, very French husband of a charming Swiss aristocrat, and insisting – incorrectly – that he was actually Welsh rather than English and that his allegiances were very definitely with whoever was playing England at the time, especially if it happened to be France. He gave Mycroft a desperate look over his glass, but Mycroft had been accosted by the charming Swiss aristocrat and several of her friends. Another of the husbands, this time Italian, joined the conversation and allowed Greg to fade into the background and nod or shake his head at the appropriate moments. His eyes wandered over the gathered crowd, small groups with bright smiles chatting about nothing of import. The guest of honour, a refined woman in her mid-50s, was the centre of attention, and Greg was happy to drift around the edges of conversations and watch people. He could do that and get away with it, because he was a copper and it was what coppers did and what people expected of them. So he watched the slow drift of people towards their hosts, and the patterns of movement between the groups, and especially the way people fell into Mycroft’s orbit seemingly by accident. But he knew that nothing around Mycroft was an accident.

They were reunited for the starters, when they took their places at the table and joined in the birthday toast, and then the waitresses – both MI6 and not – began serving the first course. Under cover of the hum of chatter, Mycroft leaned over to him. “Have you spotted anything?”

“Two affairs and a pregnancy. Other than that, nothing much.”

Mycroft looked startled. On him, that amounted to a minute raising of his eyebrow. “Really? I’ve only spotted the one affair.”

“I was joking.” Lestrade told him, and chuckled at the glare he got for it. “You can tell me later though.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told that before.” He caught himself flirting and looked away, to the other end of the table. “I do find myself in some interesting places with you.”

The lady on his right, one of the diamond-encrusted wives, chuckled at his pronouncement. “I haven’t seen your face at one of these parties for some time.” She looked past him to Mycroft with her eyebrows raised unsubtly. “You have been… away?”

He didn’t dare look round at Mycroft, and instead fished for a safe answer. “Work,” he explained. “Serial killer in Shortditch.”

“Really?” She was clearly delighted. “You caught him?”

He stared into the abyss that a conversation about serial killers over dinner always was, and launched in anyway.

###

The third course came and went without incident and Greg found himself relaxing, not least due to the drinks being passed around the table. There was very expensive champagne, some fine red and white wines, and an excellent port. By the fourth course he was starting to feel the effects and switched to water, and by the dessert he was beginning to feel drowsy. The conversation was flowing well, though, and he was able to sit back and enjoy it with no more expected of him than affirmative noises. When they got up from the table after the coffees to move to the bar, he stumbled over his chair and had to apologise to the lady sitting next to him, and assured her that he’d simply been sitting for too long.

Mycroft’s hand on his elbow didn’t surprise him, nor did that hand steering him onto a quiet corridor and out of the way. “Greg, are you quite alright?” he asked.

“I’m fine, just… tired.” He checked his watch and found it was still early, only about ten when he felt like it was past midnight. “Haven’t drunk wine in a while, it’s gone to my head. Once the coffee kicks in I’ll be fine, but I can go up if you’d rather…”

“We’ll go out for a cigarette,” Mycroft told him. “The fresh air will help.”

It did, a little, but not as much as Greg had hoped. He could feel the flush to his skin, and the wary eyes of the other party guests also huddled under the shelter of the terrace with cigarettes or even cigars in their hands. His fingers itched for one like they only did when he was drunk, but when Mycroft offered him one he still waved it off. “No, thanks. Bad idea. I’ve not smoked since…” Since he went through an entire packet the night he told Mycroft to fuck off, as he’d deserved, and woke up feeling sick the next morning, as he’d deserved. “Well, it’s been a while.”

“Two months, three weeks and three days,” Mycroft told him. He blew the smoke away from Greg and didn’t turn back to look at him. “Alas, it seems in this regard I lack your restraint.”

Greg stared at him, the words settling in sluggishly. “Were you counting?”

“No, but I know the date and can do simple arithmetic quickly.” Mycroft smiled at him but it fell quickly and he sighed. “I apologise. I shouldn’t be flippant.”

“It suits you,” he said, honestly but not intentionally. “And I know what I’m doing with flippant.”

“Do you? I’m glad one of us does.” He sighed heavily. “I apologise, Greg. I shouldn’t have asked you to this.”

“Why did you?” he asked, restraint stripped away by expensive alcohol. “Was it Greg you invited, or Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

Mycroft glanced at him. “Will you hold it against me if I say I don’t know?”

“Yes. You know I will.” He learned against a pillar and glared up at the rain. “That’s exactly why you took up smoking again, remember?”

That didn’t get a response. It probably didn’t deserve one. Mycroft simply stubbed out his cigarette in the elegant and pointedly located ashtray and dropped the stub in the bin beneath. “If you’d like to turn in, I can get the key for you, but I’d rather you stayed with me.”

“Why? You don’t need me any more.”

“Because I enjoy your company. Could it not be that simple?”

His honesty disarmed Greg, rare as it was, and they retreated from the rain into the bar, where they turned to soft drinks and settled down at a table with a few of the great and the good to discuss everything apart from the business of the evening. The sluggish lethargy kept tugging at Greg and conversation became harder, but he was now sitting between Mycroft and the wall and couldn’t get out without drawing attention. Time drifted by, from ten to half past felt like a week and then suddenly it was half past eleven, and Mycroft’s hand on his arm dragged his attention back from wherever it had wandered to. Their drinking companions made their goodnights and headed up to their rooms, and Greg realised that there was a decision coming for him and Mycroft as well. Mycroft, though, looked concerned. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked. “You seem… distracted.”

“I’m drunk,” he said plainly. “Or at least verging on it.”

“Yes, that’s what concerns me.” He did look genuinely worried, and Greg tried to sit up a little straighter. It was challenging, though, uncoordinated as he was. “I’m afraid I may have made a grave miscalculation.”

He blinked back at him owlishly. “Will you use smaller words? I can’t tell whether you’re not explaining or I’m just not understanding.”

“I think you’ve been poisoned. And I’m afraid I never even considered the possibility.”

###

The car took them to Thames House rather than a hospital, for a discreet and rapid blood test. Greg slumped in an armchair to wait for the results, feeling like a complete prat, whilst Mycroft paced anxiously. No matter how many times Greg had tried to assure him it was just the champagne, he insisted on checking, and probably double checking if the results came back negative. They’d been through his medical history – no, he wasn’t taking anything, even the statins his GP had prescribed – and the scientists had gone away looking annoyed to have been distracted from what he was sure was very hard work doing not a lot. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been waiting before the footsteps returned, faster than they’d left, and he forced his eyes open to look at them. “Mr Holmes,” she said a touch breathlessly, “You were right.”

Mycroft snatched the toxicology report from them and read it through, lips a thin, sharp line and eyes burning a hole in the page. “What do we need to do?”

Whilst Greg gaped like a fish, the scientist folded her hands behind her and addressed Mycroft alone. “He needs to be admitted to hospital for observation. It likely isn’t life threatening, but it’s best to take all precautions.”

“Wait a second,” Greg protested. “What do you mean? I actually have been poisoned?”

“Temazepam.” Mycroft shrugged his coat on and held Greg’s out for him, helping him into it when his arms refused to do what he wanted. “I promise, I will explain everything in the car.”

They piled back into the same car, which had been waiting for them, and sped off towards Guy’s hospital on the far side of the river. It was a short drive in the middle of the night with little traffic, but Mycroft was as good as his word and launched into an explanation. “I’m afraid I omitted part of the truth when I told you my plan. I was absolutely honest when I said that I believed one of the guests at the party would be targeted, but I neglected to mention which guest. It was, in actual fat, a plot against me that we uncovered. In the eventuality that we were unable to determine the assassin before the event, we deemed it prudent for me to be accompanied by someone who could be trusted to keep a watch for trouble and whose presence might deter attempts. One of the Savoy’s staff was detained after the first course, and a gun was retrieved. I never considered that… Greg?”

He lifted his head and forced his eyes open, but his insistence that he was listening came out slurred. All attempts to pull himself together failed, and Mycroft was growing more frantic by the second. He was aware of the car accelerating and vaguely aware that they were now well past the speed limit, but even the police officer in him was starting to feel it was appropriate. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, and the last thing he was aware of was Mycroft grabbing at his hand and calling his name almost desperately.

###

He was in a coma for two days, first triggered by the overdose and then induced as a precaution. He woke up feeling like his head had recently been vacated by a herd of elephants and he’d been gargling razorblades, and found his hospital room full of flowers. He was on a drip still but the ventilator had gone. And Mycroft was, in contravention of every rule and regulation, sitting at a desk in the corner of the room, shoulders hunched like they never were when he was working.

“You’re awake," he murmured.

“Seem to be.” Greg coughed hard, and by the time he’d got himself under control and pushed himself up to his elbows Mycroft was there with a glass of water with a straw. He drank enough to soothe his throat and settled himself back against the cushions, then looked up at Mycroft again. “How many times have you asked me that?”

“Enough.” He pulled a seat over to the bed and sat down in it, hands tangled between his knees and head hanging below his shoulders. “I am sorry.”

It was the most genuine Greg had ever heard him, no flippancy or avoidance, and Greg decided to push his luck. “For which bit?”

“Do you want me to list them? For putting you in harms’ way, for not warning you about it, for lying to you about the risks, for lying to you about the reasons for picking you out of everyone.” He lifted his head again to look at Greg. “For being the sort of ass who can’t switch off from work and refuses to let other people do it. For putting absolutely no effort into maintaining a relationship with you when we both deserved better, but you especially.”

“That’s a lot to apologise for,” Greg said thoughtfully. “But hang on, if your explanation was a lie, what was the reason you wanted me there?”

Mycroft sighed and looked away again. “Because I just did. When we were discussing options for who could accompany me, your name came up and… and I simply wanted you there. Perhaps I should have brought Sherlock to this, and asked you out for dinner instead.”

“He would have offended everyone and I would have said no. I’m not saying that this was a good idea, mind. But that’s definitely a worse one.” He yawned again and smothered it with the back of his hand. “It’s all sorted, though?”

“The assassin, yes. The rest…” He sighed heavily. “I suppose so.”

He nodded. “Right. That’s alright then.”

The doctor arrived to check on him, tried to explain Temazepam overdose to him until he finally got across the whole “I’m a copper, I know” thing, told him about the two day coma, and gave him strict instructions not to move from the bed except to piss. Mycroft moved out of the way awkwardly, and by the time the doctor had left he’d got his bag packed away and was ready to leave. He refused to look at Greg. “I am sorry for hurting you,” he said softly. “It was pure cowardice on my part.”

“I know,” Greg admitted. “I knew it at the time. But I can’t keep being the brave one.”

Mycroft’s eyes skittered across to him again. He licked his lips and shifted his bag, and eventually lifted his head to look at Greg directly. The indecision was written across his face in capital letters, the fear. Greg saw it, recognised it and acknowledged it, but he wasn’t going to meet him halfway, not anymore. Eventually Mycroft looked away. “You… you’ll be in here a few days at least,” he observed. “Would you mind if I brought you dinner one day?”

Greg let out a breath sharply. As much as he’d been expecting it, he really hadn’t been expecting it. He nodded quickly though, before Mycroft could get the wrong idea. “I’ll be here. If you bring me a book too, you can come back again.”

Mycroft smiled like the sun coming out. “I will bear that in mind. Any requests?”

“I’ll trust your skill and judgement,” he assured him. “Your instincts are good when you bring yourself to trust them.”

He smiled back weakly and reached out for the door handle. “Then I will let you go back to sleep, and bring you dinner and a book this evening. And then you can finally tell me about Thailand.”