Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/147677.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Mycroft_Holmes/Lestrade_(Inspector)
  Character:
      Mycroft_Holmes, Lestrade_(Inspector), John_Watson, Sherlock_Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      Christmas, not_a_happy_one_though
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-01-03 Words: 25215
****** Haunted ******
by Elfbert
Summary
     When you've got a job you enjoy, a partner you love and a life that's
     firmly on-track, you don't expect a Christmas gathering to cause the
     past to rear up and threaten to destroy everything. And when it does,
     who can you turn to, without losing the respect of everyone you hold
     dear?
 
Lestrade stretched out his legs, settling back in the large seat. He hadn't
ever been first class on the train before, but he knew there was no way Mycroft
would ever have agreed to anything else.
 
"Comfortable?" Mycroft asked, sitting very neatly, legs crossed, with the
newspaper spread out in front of him.
 
"Mmm," Lestrade answered, craning his neck to read the headlines as best he
could.
 
"I could have purchased you a newspaper," Mycroft admonished, noticing.
 
"What? No, I'll have the sports section though, if you don't want it."
 
Mycroft extracted it and handed it over, then consulted his pocket watch.
"Where is Sherlock? I really expected John to try to keep him in check. The
train is due to leave in under five minutes."
 
"Probably won't leave on time anyway," Lestrade said. "When was the last time
you were on a train that left on time?"
 
Mycroft turned to look at him. "Two thousand and seven, when I was forced to
accompany a party aboard the Royal Train with Her Majesty."
 
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that figures. Well, for us mere mortals,
trains generally don't run on time. More so when Betty's taking up the rails."
 
Mycroft gave a tiny, almost undetectable twitch at the nickname, but any
possible come back was drowned out by Sherlock's arrival, complete with
suitcases and bags (most of which Watson seemed to be carrying).
 
Lestrade jumped up and helped Watson stow the baggage, noticing the slight
sheen of sweat on Watson's brow, despite the crisp cold winter weather.
 
"All right?" he asked.
 
Watson nodded. "Just…well, you can probably imagine. Sherlock doesn't usually
have to worry about things like trains leaving at certain times. He seriously
wanted to take a cab all the way."
 
Lestrade grinned. "I've got beers, if that would help?" he said, in a low
conspiratorial voice.
 
"You have no idea," Watson smiled back.
 
 
Lestrade dropped back into his seat, reaching underneath for his rucksack,
which contained a battered paperback, his laptop and a couple of cans. He
passed one over to Watson, not bothering to offer one to either Sherlock or
Mycroft, knowing they would refuse. But he did also pull out a half bottle of
red wine and hold it out to Mycroft. "Bought you a present," he said.
 
Mycroft couldn't help but allow a small smile to flit across his lips. "You
shouldn't have, Gregory."
 
Lestrade also found a plastic cup and handed it over, shrugging. "I know it's
not your usual crystal…but you're slumming it now," he grinned.
 
The hand that slid over his thigh told him that the gesture was appreciated.
 
Sherlock looked pointedly at the bottle. "Goodness, starting on the alcohol
already, Mycroft? You become more like Mummy every day."
 
"I'm holiday, Sherlock. Everything in moderation. Some of us can trust
ourselves," the pointed look wasn't lost on anyone.
 
"Yeah, holiday – festive season, so let's all get along," Watson said, cracking
open his beer and holding it up. "To a happy Christmas."
 
Lestrade followed suit, first sucking the froth off the top of his can, before
it spilt. "Happy Christmas."
 
Sherlock looked out of the window as the train slowly pulled out of the
station, clearly not intending to join in and Mycroft inclined his head. "Happy
Christmas indeed."
 
Lestrade rolled his eyes at Watson and smiled, taking a long pull of beer and
stretching back out into his easy sprawl, legs sticking out into the aisle to
give Watson some space.
 
"Who are Brentford playing?" Watson asked, seeing that Lestrade was checking
the fixtures.
 
 
Sherlock seemed content with staring out of the window and tapping on his phone
at intervals, Mycroft was reading the Times from cover to cover, and also
periodically checked his Blackberry. So Lestrade and Watson chatted about the
sport, the weather, and various other current affairs.
 
"Ever been before?" Watson asked at one point, after a short silence.
 
"Hmm?"
 
"To see Mrs Holmes, at Christmas."
 
"Oh, no. I usually work, to be honest. I always feel bad at making anyone who
might have plans cover Christmas Day. I mean, people with kids, or who want to
travel to see their folks. And it's not like Myc can ever be sure when he's
going to get a full day without some part of the world demanding his
attention."
 
"Yeah, it must put a bit of a dent in your plans sometimes. Don't know how you
cope. How did he swing getting this time off?"
 
Lestrade smiled. "Anthea threatened him. I don't even know what with – but he's
insisted she have the day off for so many years I guess she was getting her own
back."
 
"She's a resourceful woman," Watson observed. "I certainly wouldn't argue with
her."
 
"Me neither," Lestrade laughed.
 
"Glad to hear it," Mycroft said in a soft voice, not looking up from his
newspaper.
 
Lestrade laughed, and Watson realised he'd never seen the man so relaxed. It
was nice to feel like he'd have someone normal to talk to, if Christmas with
'Mummy' turned out to be anything like as bad as Sherlock had made it sound.
 
 
When they arrived at the small, quiet station in the middle of nowhere, a
gentle snowfall was covering the ground lightly, just enough to turn everything
white. A car was waiting for them, and an elderly man clambered out, his scarf
done up tightly around his neck, leather gloves on. Watson hoped he hadn't been
there long, and immediately helped him stow the various suitcases and bags in
the boot.
 
Sherlock and Mycroft were bickering about something, and Lestrade gave Watson a
look. "Think it'll be like this the whole time?"
 
Watson pulled a face. "I've got a nasty feeling it could be. Unless Mummy has
some sort of magic powers over them?"
 
"We can only hope," Lestrade said.
 
They piled into the big old car, Mycroft in the front, talking to the driver,
who he obviously knew, and the other three in the back.
 
"Come on, Sherlock," Lestrade said, noting Sherlock's glum expression. "It
can't be that bad, spending Christmas with your family."
 
"Something you clearly wouldn't know," Sherlock spat back – and Lestrade
assumed he had lost whatever argument he and Mycroft had been having. He let
the comment wash over him though – Sherlock could be vicious when he wanted,
but Lestrade was used to it, and didn't let it bother him.
 
The car crept between two tall gateposts, the ornate metalwork just clear in
the dusky light. Then there was a short stretch of drive surrounded by foliage
and bushes before an open section of lawns, rolling away into the darkness. The
house itself was lit warmly, the yellow of the lights reflecting back off the
snow, making it look like something from a Christmas card.
 
As the car rolled to a stop the front door opened and a figure was silhouetted
on the step.
 
Mycroft was out of the car quickly, walking towards her, arms spread.
 
"Mummy," he said, leaning down slightly and giving her a hug and a kiss on the
cheek. "Happy Christmas."
 
"And to you. Look at you both – my dear boys, here for Christmas again! I'm so
glad you could come," she stepped down and met Sherlock halfway between the car
and the house. "And my little one – look at you, Sherlock, it's been so long
since I've seen you!" She wrapped him in a hug and he tentatively put his arms
around her in return.
 
"Now, you must introduce me to your friends. Mycroft, Sherlock," she beckoned
them in close.
 
Lestrade felt as if he were lining up for inspection or something, but stepped
forward, his hand out. "Mrs Holmes, it's a pleasure to meet you," he said, and
found himself being regarded with a very familiar expression – he could
certainly tell where Sherlock got his looks from.
 
"Mummy, this is Gregory," Mycroft said.
 
"Pleased to meet you," Mrs Holmes said, and offered her hand in return.
 
Watson then stepped up, and Lestrade caught Mycroft's eye and smiled. He
couldn't pretend he hadn't been slightly nervous – Mycroft had explained that
his mother was a little old fashioned, and Lestrade had overheard a few of the
telephone conversations which had led up to their holiday – including one in
which Mycroft had had to insist they definitely wanted to share a bed, and he
didn't care what the housekeeper thought about it.
 
Mycroft smiled back, so Lestrade assumed he had passed the first hurdle.
 
He turned and grabbed his own large sports bag and Mycroft's suitcase from the
boot of the car, ready to head inside and out of the biting cold.
 
The hallway was large, a grand wooden staircase leading up out of it, and
numerous doors. On various tables and stands were what looked like expensive
vases and various other ornaments, and the head of a badger hung on a plaque
near a grandfather clock. It was all a bit dark and old-fashioned for
Lestrade's taste, but somehow exactly how he'd imagined it, through Mycroft's
descriptions.
 
"Put those bags down, Gregory," Mrs Holmes said. "There's tea freshly made in
the drawing room – and some biscuits, too."
 
Sherlock gave Mycroft a pointed look. "Just remember the diet, Mycroft," he
said in a low voice, earning himself a narrow-eyed glare in return.
 
Lestrade just shook his head, knowing he'd have to – once again – reassure
Mycroft that he was definitely not fat when they were alone, later. He put the
bags neatly near the bottom of the stairs, catching Watson's eye as he did the
same, then followed Sherlock and Mycroft toward a door opposite the stairs. He
stood back to let Watson in first, noticing out of the corner of his eye a
roaring fire in the hearth, and looking forward to thawing his freezing hands
by it.
 
The room had a few large armchairs and sofa, surrounding a low coffee table,
laden with china and teapots, along with an old-fashioned cake stand, the fire
at one end, casting a flickering light over the scene. In the corner stood a
Christmas tree, decorated in twinkling white lights and red baubles and tinsel.
It gave the room and old fashioned feel, and Lestrade smiled.
 
Around the walls were bookshelves, low sideboards and lamps, casting a cosy
warm glow.
 
Lestrade glanced around, his gaze resting on a large painting which covered the
entire chimneybreast.
 
He felt as if he'd stepped into a vacuum. All the breath in his lungs
disappeared – the blood seemed to drain from his face. He almost gasped.

'Stupid boy – be quiet!' the voice barked. 'Did I tell you to move? Did I?'
 
He stood, head bowed, not daring to even look up. He didn't know what he'd done
wrong – he very rarely did.
 
'Did I?' a strong hand grabbed his jaw, fingers digging into his cheeks, the
heel of the hand pressed too hard against his throat.
 
'N…no,' he could barely speak, the pressure was too great.
 
'No what?' The voice had dropped to a vicious whisper.
 
'No, Sir,' he croaked, feeling the grip bruising his flesh.
 
The pressure was abruptly released, but the back of the hand struck him with a
stinging blow – one or two of the gold rings hitting his cheekbone, sharp pain
blossoming.
 
Everyone was sitting down, laughing, talking, the sound washing over him. He
forced himself to step forward, unable to drag his attention from the painting.
The severe gaze, staring down at him, seeing into his very soul, blue eyes in a
stern, chubby, face tracking his every move.
 
He wanted to leave, he wanted to say no, but that wasn't an option. That wasn't
the deal. He blinked away the tears, terrified that his hitching breath could
be noticed, terrified of making any sound. He clenched his hands together in
front of him, feeling a tear escape, run a tickling trail down his cheek and
stop at the corner of his mouth. He dared to flick out the tip of his tongue,
gathering the salty liquid, praying it wouldn't be spotted.
 
His hand found the arm of a chair, and he sank down onto it, sitting on the
edge, his hands clasped together because he knew they would be shaking. He
tried to breathe, to drag oxygen into his lungs, but the room was too hot, the
smells were too strong. He felt bile rising in his throat, and swallowed it
back down, mouth dry. He stared at the dark wood of the table, trying to focus,
trying to function. Trying to drag himself into the present as the past pulled
him inexorably back.
 
'Are they proud of you? Proud of what you've become?' The hand wrapped around
the back of his neck kept his face pressed to the smooth wood. He was
struggling to breathe – the gag in his mouth was sodden, the taste of washing
powder strong in his mouth. The blood and snot in his nostrils made it
impossible to do anything but try to suck in precious air around it.
 
'Not going to answer, you dirty whore?'
 
He couldn't move to shake his head, but he tried anyway. The pressure was let
up very slightly, and he tried again, only for his face to be smashed into the
desk again. He didn't understand, he didn't know what he could ever do that was
the right answer.
 
"..ory?" A hand slid onto his knee and he jumped away, holding out his hand to
protect himself, his heart beating wildly, before looking up to see Mycroft's
worried face. Worried blue eyes. "Gregory? Would you like some tea? Are
you…okay?"
 
He stared, eyes wide, trying to find the answer, trying to remember where he
was. "No, I…no, thank you. I'm sorry, I…"
 
"You look white as a sheet, dear," Mrs Holmes had paused, teacup halfway to her
lips. He stared at her, trying to piece together his shattered thoughts.
 
"I…It's a bit of a migraine," he managed, knowing he had to find some
explanation. "I think, perhaps I should…" he made a vague gesture to the door,
knowing he just had to get out, however he could.
 
"Oh, my poor dear. Daddy used to suffer from terrible migraines, didn't he,
Mycroft?" She made a vague gesture up to the wall, where the man stared down
upon them.
 
"Yes," Mycroft answered, sounding distracted, frowning at Lestrade. Brows
pinched, lips a hard line. Lestrade couldn't help but let his eyes flick up to
the painting again. The same frown. The same lips. "You do look a little pale,
Gregory," the hand reached out again, and Lestrade could feel his eyes
widening, his breathing speeding up. He shrank back, wanting to do nothing but
curl up, away from everyone.
 
"Mycroft, show him up to your room. Gregory, you poor boy – you must lie down
quietly – you should have said something sooner," she smiled benevolently.
"There's plenty of time before dinner – go and rest."
 
'So, Boy? What do you have to say for yourself?'
 
He hated this – hated the questions. 'I…I don't know, Sir.'
 
'You're sorry!' the palm of the hand this time, hard on his cheek. 'I can see
you need a lesson today.' And the handkerchief was removed from the pocket,
shaken out, the crisp folds falling away. The material was rough on the corners
of his mouth, and he couldn't help but let out a small grunt of pain as the
knot was yanked tight behind his head, catching his hair.
 
He nodded, unable to find words.
 
"Come on," Mycroft reached out to help him up, but he ignored the hand, leaning
on the arm of the chair, his muscles feeling like jelly, as if he'd just run a
marathon. "This way," Mycroft picked up the bags in the hallway and waited as
Lestrade began to climb the stairs, his muscles slow to respond, his limbs
feeling as if there were lead weights tied to them.
 
When he reached the top of the stairs Mycroft led the way to the right, pushing
open a door, heading into the room.
 
Lestrade let his hand trail over the wall, half supporting himself, fingers
bumping over the wooden panelling.
 
He was on his knees, unbalanced, one hand found the edge of the drinks table,
fingers gripping the wood to hold himself up. Every thrust smacked his skull
back against the wall, the wood of the dado rail digging into him as he gagged
and choked. Fingers twisted through his hair, forcing his head back. He could
feel spit on his chin, sliding down onto his t-shirt, and he tried to swallow,
tried to breathe.
 
"Here, lie down," Lestrade wanted to shake off the hand on his shoulder, the
thumb pressing into his collarbone, but he couldn't, he was virtually paralysed
with fear. He allowed himself to be propelled toward the bed, and sank down
onto it as Mycroft walked away. A minute later he was back, a glass of water in
his hands. "Here."
 
Lestrade took the water, his hand visibly shaking. He quickly wrapped his other
hand around it, resting them on his legs. "Thank you," he mumbled.
 
'Pardon, Boy?'
 
'Thank you, Sir,' he mumbled, lips swollen.
 
'Better.'
 
He didn't dare look up. He'd learnt the hard way that it would do him no good
to move before he was told to.
 
"Shall I stay? Are you okay? I can turn the lights off," Mycroft hitched up his
trousers and hunkered down in front of Lestrade, looking up at him, reaching to
cover his hands.
 
"No, I mean, I'll just…have a rest," he said quietly. "I'll be fine." He moved
to put the glass down, dislodging Mycroft's touch.
 
"You do look dreadfully pale," Mycroft moved to touch Lestrade's cheek as he
stood.
 
Lestrade shied away from the touch, just stopping himself from throwing up an
arm to ward off the contact. "I'll be okay," he said again, at least as much to
convince himself as to convince Mycroft.
 
Mycroft sighed.
 
"You should go back down – your Mum will be missing you," Lestrade said
quietly, turning away.
 
"I…I'll come back up, to check you're okay," Mycroft said, then paused for a
few seconds before turning and leaving the room, pulling the door closed.
 
Lestrade's hands gripped the edge of the mattress; knuckles white, and tried to
control his shaky breaths.
 
The door closed almost silently, and he finally allowed himself to sniff, a sob
breaking free from his throat as he moved. It had been worse today – he'd hoped
that the sunny summer's day would bring out the best in the man – hoped he'd
get off lightly. But he'd been in a foul mood. Lestrade could still taste blood
and semen in his mouth. He picked himself up, the muscles in his neck stiff and
sore, his jaw throbbing, and stumbled to the water jug. His hands shook as he
poured some into the heavy crystal glass, and he drank it greedily, feeling the
water overflow from his mouth and drip down his shirt. He refilled it as soon
as he'd drunk, gasping for air, and swallowed it all down again. He put the
glass back, hoping it wouldn't be noticed until he was out again, then dropped
back to the floor. Everything told him to get out and run, but he knew he
couldn't escape. He hadn't been told he could go, and to disobey would be
dangerous. He heard footsteps outside in the hallway and dropped his gaze back
to the rich, thick carpet, not daring to look up as the door swung open again.
 
He rolled onto his side, bunching the cover up in his fists, burying his face
in it, and let the tears flow, the gasping sobs muffled in the heavy fabric. He
couldn't believe the nightmare he'd walked into. All he had wanted was a
pleasant Christmas, with Mycroft being able to relax, away from work. And now
he was ruining it – he was spoiling everything. He took a deep, shuddering
gasp, trying to swallow back the tears and emotion. He had to be strong. He was
a different person now – he was a professional, a police officer. He had a good
relationship…and the thought made more tears well up in his eyes, spilling
over, running hot and sticky over his skin, leaving salted trails, wetting the
pillow beneath his cheek. He curled up, as tight as he could, fists and jaw
clenched, trying to regain control. He heard a noise and his eyes snapped open,
staring into the gloom. He could hear the slight muffle of voices, and presumed
his room was above the Drawing Room. He lay, unmoving, staring into the
darkness, seeing only his memories as they played through his head.
 
'Here,' he smiled, holding out the package wrapped in a newspaper, watching the
expression on Danny's face.
 
'You…you didn't 'ave to do that, Frenchie.' But he'd smiled, and taken the
package. 'I didn't…'
 
Lestrade waved a hand. 'You're doing the washing up then.'
 
The gift had been ripped open, to reveal The Clash's new record. Lestrade knew
that Danny loved the band, and their record player was sadly underused – their
collection only numbering a few tatty old specimens.
 
'Thanks, Frenchie,' Danny had stood up, and hugged him.
 
He had hugged back, determined that today – their one day of freedom from work
and the world in general, would be good.
 
They had eaten chicken and vegetables, neither of them really any good in the
kitchen, but both determined to try their best and make the most of what they
had.
 
That evening, lounging on their sofa together, blankets pulled over them to
ward off the cold, because neither of them had money for the meter, watching an
old film on the black and white television, Lestrade had been sure it was the
best Christmas of his life.
There was a gentle knock on his door and he jumped, but didn't respond, feeling
himself shaking with fear. Then the door opened, a shaft of light spilling into
the room. He almost breathed a sigh of relief when it was Watson's figure that
appeared.
"Lestrade? Mycroft was worried. Are you awake?" he said softly.
"Yeah," Lestrade answered, his voice sounding croaky and broken.
"Mrs Holmes found these - painkillers. You should probably take a couple, see
if it makes a difference," Watson approached the bed.
"Yeah, thanks," he sat up, pushing a hand through his hair, trying to act
normally - trying to be normal, when he felt anything but.
"Co-codamol. Have you had them before? They're fairly strong. You're not
allergic to anything, are you?"
Lestrade shook his head and took the offered bottle. "I've had them before,
they'll be fine."
"Right, good. And how are you feeling now? Bit worrying the headache came on
that suddenly - is that normal for you? Do you get migraines often?"
Lestrade shook his head. "Not very, but they're usually sudden," he lied.
"Feeling a bit better, thanks."
"Well take a couple of those - they might make you a bit sleepy, bit woozy. But
they should do the trick. And give us a shout if you need anything."
Lestrade nodded, taking a deep breath, determined to push away the thoughts
fighting to be heard in his mind.
Watson left the room again and Lestrade reached for the bedside lamp, flicking
it on. He looked down at the bottle in his hand. It rattled slightly, but was
heavy with pills. For a moment the thought of taking them all leapt into his
head, but he pushed it away. He was strong enough to cope. He had to be.

The smell of cooking was wafting up the stairs, and Lestrade felt his stomach
roiling. Normally he would have been hungry, but now tension ran through every
muscle in his body, his throat feeling as if it were closing up. He stood,
having no clue how long he'd been away from the others, but feeling as if he
should put in an appearance, before they started really worrying. He took two
of the pills, despite not having a headache, hoping they had some calming
effect on him, then padded silently to the bathroom, splashing water on his
face. He looked at himself in the mirror. The bags under his eyes and dark
stubble about summed up how he felt. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, and he
hoped he could put it down to the headache.

'Jesus, Frenchie, look at you.'
He shied away from Danny's touch, but Danny wasn't that easy to put off.
'Come 'ere, let me at least get a wet flannel on that eye. Christ, looks like
you've gone a couple of rounds with Ali. Which bastard did this?'
''S okay,' he said, jumping slightly as the cold wet flannel was pressed
against his black eye. 'Just got a bit rough.'
'A bit? You should be more careful. Who d'you think's gonna want you looking
like this - it'll lose you tricks. How's your teeth, not missing none of them?'
He shook his head.
'Thank fuck for that. You gotta take care of yourself, Frenchie, cos no other
bastard'll do it for you. You can't let one punter ruin you for the week. Hope
he paid well.'
Lestrade nodded, knowing that Danny was right - but also knowing he didn't have
a choice. Saying 'no' just wasn't an option. He dug in his pocket and removed
the folded notes, holding them out.
Danny counted them and grunted, 'Well, it's something. Don't make it okay
though, Frenchie. You still gotta have boundaries, or you can lose yourself to
this shit.'

He turned away, drying his face on a fluffy, warm, towel, taking a deep,
shuddering breath and steeling himself for what was to come.

He slipped back into the drawing room, giving Mycroft a small smile and nodding
at Watson. He focused on the fire, determined not to look up at the painting.
"Gregory, dear, are you feeling better? You've certainly got a bit more colour
in your face now, hasn't he Mycroft?"
Lestrade sat on the edge of the sofa, next to Mycroft, and forced himself not
to react when Mycroft's hand found his and gave it a squeeze.
"Yes, thank you. A lot better," he said, desperately hoping his voice didn't
sound as odd to everyone else as it did to his own ears.
"Good - those little pills are wonderful. Now, it isn't long until dinner, but
you must have a cup of tea, if you'd like one? Daddy used to say that a nice
cup of tea solved most problems, didn't he boys?" she smiled.
Lestrade forced himself to smile. "Thank you, that'd be great."
Mycroft immediately moved to pour the teapot, making it just how Lestrade liked
it. Lestrade focussed on his actions, battling internally for control. He
accepted the cup, holding it tightly, flashing a small smile at Mycroft.
He sipped the tea, not tasting it. The conversation carried on around him, and
although he tried to keep track of it all he could think of was the painting,
staring down at him. He kept his gaze fixed down, his shoulders hunched,
wishing he were anywhere else. Wishing he'd never agreed to come.
"Gregory?" A hand on his arm made him jump.
"Sorry, yeah - yes?" He had no idea how long he'd zoned out for, or what he'd
missed.
"Your tea will be getting cold," Mycroft said softly. "Mummy was just asking
how long you'd worked at Scotland Yard."
"Oh, um, ten years, now. Started out with the Kidnap Unit, then moved to murder
a few years later."
"And that's how you met my boys, isn't it?" she beamed. "They're so clever,
both of them."

'Can't answer the simplest questions. Too stupid to even try! No wonder you're
earning a living on the streets, what employer would have you? Hopeless in
school I presume. My sons are intelligent – both excelling in their
studies. Any father would be proud of them. How can your father be proud of
you?'
He didn't know if he was allowed to answer, so he looked up, trying to work it
out.
'Well?' The slap was hard, snapping his head to one side.
'He's dead,' he mumbled.
'What?' The voice – and anger – was rising.
'He's dead, Sir,' he said, realising his mistake, forcing his resentment down.
'Dead? Thank heaven for small mercies. At least he doesn't have to know you
make a living on your knees. Although I doubt he was much better – the apple
doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?'

The dinner seemed excellent – Lestrade tried to take an interest in the
conversations, but his mind constantly wandered – and he pushed most of the
food around on his plate, eating just enough to seem polite, tasting nothing,
not feeling any hunger.
Sherlock and his mother were discussing something about science, Mycroft
listening in, and even Watson putting forth opinions and ideas. He hadn't heard
enough to guess what exactly they were talking about – and he doubted he'd
understand even if he had. It just made him feel more isolated – more out of
place, his own education hard won, and now surrounded by people who all sailed
through university, collecting qualifications as if they were free toys from
breakfast cereal packets.
On the wall of the dining room was another picture – a photograph of the
family. Once he would have taken a certain amount of delight in seeing a very
young Mycroft and Sherlock – Sherlock barely more than a toddler in the image,
his hair a riot of curls. Now he couldn't even look at it. If there had been
any doubt in his mind that the man in the painting was the man he'd suffered
abuse from for two long years, it was removed with the photograph. He was
exactly as Lestrade remembered – hawkish eyes, never missing a thing, the same
superior air, the way of looking down his nose at everything. Overweight, but
not massively, just enough to give him slight jowls and pudgy fingers. Still
strong, though - deceptively so. He shuddered slightly.

That evening everyone retired to the Drawing Room again. Lestrade sat for a few
minutes, one leg tucked underneath himself, the sleeves of his jumpers pulled
over his hands. The fire was still roaring away in the hearth, but nothing
could shift the cold he felt inside. His fingers unconsciously found the two-
inch scar on his left arm. He could just feel the slight knot in the skin, even
through the material of his top. He rubbed at it, a small nervous movement,
tracing it over and over. He could feel the gazes that Mycroft and Watson were
casting his way, and in the end he stood.
"I'm, er, going to turn in – still feeling a bit…woozy," he gave Watson a small
smile. "I'll see you the morning – thanks for a lovely dinner, Mrs Holmes."
"Oh, it was nothing, dear," she smiled. "You get off and have an early night –
I'm sure it'll do you the world of good."
He nodded, catching Mycroft's eye and trying to express some form of apology in
his gaze, knowing that he was the one dragging the atmosphere down. Mycroft
just gave a small nod. "I shall be up shortly," he stated.
Lestrade climbed the stairs, feet dragging. He felt totally wrung out – the
effort of keeping his thoughts and emotions in check for hours had left him
utterly knackered. He glanced up at another picture, this one hanging at the
top of the stairs, in pride of place. And he reeled backwards – almost falling
back down the stairs.
Mycroft and his father – obviously at Mycroft's graduation. But what struck him
were the identical expressions on their faces. The slightly haughty, serious
expression, the mirroring of positions – Mycroft in his robes, holding a scroll
in one hand, the other tucked into the front of his gown. His father, dressed
in a three-piece suit, hand resting just inside the jacket. Both of them
looking down slightly at the camera, their poses commanding, imperious.
Lestrade managed to find the wall, to guide himself along the corridor,
shutting the bathroom door behind him and making it to the toilet before
throwing up, his muscles heaving, long after his stomach was empty. He wiped a
shaking hand across his mouth, slumping back onto the floor, his back against
the side of the bath.
'Won't be able to do this forever, will you? Won't keep your looks. What'll you
do then, eh?'
'Don't know, Sir,' he mumbled.
'Too stupid to think that far ahead, I suppose.'
'Yes, Sir,' he answered. There wasn't any point in arguing.
A strong hand slid through his dark wavy hair, grabbing it, pulling his head
back. He bit back a hiss of pain.
'You're lucky, aren't you, that you've got someone like me? Willing to pay for
what little talent you have.'
He wasn't really sure it was a question, but it was better to answer it than
ignore it. 'Yes, Sir.'
'Say it – say you're lucky.'
'I'm…lucky, Sir,' he ground out.
He nodded, approving. 'Now on your knees.'

He hugged his legs up to his chest, hiding his face in his arms as he tried to
choke down the tears, the sobs that were wrenching from his lungs.

'I'm so lucky to have you,' the voice was soft, a smile evident in the tone.
'Lucky to have you too, Myc,' he stroked the leg he could reach, turning his
head where it was resting on Mycroft's stomach. Except it wasn't Mycroft's
face, not any more. He jumped, trying to push himself away, but the hand which
had been resting on his chest moved fast as lightening, wrapping around his
throat, and the fingers which had been gently stroking through his hair twisted
cruelly.
His head shot up, needing to open his eyes, to cleanse the image from his mind
– but it was burned there. After all he'd done, after everything he'd achieved,
to get away from his younger self, to leave behind every aspect of that life,
he had failed in the most spectacular way. He could remember every time that
Mycroft had held his wrists, or pressed him up against the wall, every tug on
his clothing to pull him close, every possessive gesture…and none of them
seemed the same now. Every time he had sensed Mycroft's jealousy, or saw his
anger – it wasn't Mycroft now. It was the man whose expressions he shared.
Lestrade was terrified of finding out what else they shared.
And it was all his fault – somehow his twisted mind had managed to fall for the
replica of the man who had almost ruined his life. He supposed that said a lot
about him, that he worked with a man who belittled him at every chance, and
slept with a man who was the image of the most sadistic person he'd ever met.
 
 He wanted to run – to get up, get out of the house and run and never stop.
Leave everything behind. Leave Gregory bloody Lestrade behind, and become
someone else. Someone who wasn't making such a fucking mess of their life. He
wiped his sleeve over his face, smearing the tears over his cheeks.

'No,' he shook his head, turning away, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He
heard the purr of the car, as it followed him. He didn't look around.
'What makes you think you have the option to refuse?' a voice called out, calm,
assured.
'Get fucked, Mister,' he called, turning up another road. The car remained next
to him.
'Ah, such eloquence. Perhaps it would help if I told you that I could have you
arrested – I could have you charged with all the unsolved crimes in London, if
I chose to.'
'Yeah, if you like,' he kept walking, refusing to look around, staring down at
the pavement instead. 'Probably have you done and all, if I got 'em to look in
on that club at the right moment.'
'Ah, we turn to threats. Well, if that's the way you wish to play it, Boy, then
I can quite easily arrange for your…friend, Daniel, to meet with an
unfortunate…accident.'
He hoped the man hadn't noticed that he'd nearly turned to look at him then –
how did he know about Danny? He felt a coldness gripping his insides.
'We can look after ourselves, Mister. Toff like you can't harm us. Not here,
not on our patch. Ain't the same as when it's just you an' me.'
The car had smoothly slid away, and he'd stopped to watch it. As soon as it
turned the corner he ran, ran back to their spot, and breathed a sigh of relief
when he saw Danny sitting on the wall, swinging his legs and drinking a can of
Coke.
'All right, Frenchie?' he'd grinned, and he'd sat down next to him, stealing a
swig of drink. The toff was all mouth, he was sure. Bloke like that might play
the bully when they were alone, but it was a different game, out in public, on
the street.

He arrived home late that evening, in a good mood. He had a bag of steaming
fish and chips in one hand, bought cheap because it was the final pieces of the
day, and the owner had wanted rid of them. He was whistling the tune that had
been playing on the radio in the chippy, and called for Danny to eat before it
got cold.
Then he saw the bloodstained t-shirt on the floor. He almost took the bathroom
door off its hinges as he crashed through it, finding Danny inside, trying to
stop his bleeding nose, one eye almost swollen closed.
'What the fuck?'
'Dunno, couple of 'em just jumped me, at the end of the road. Bastards. Like
they was waiting for me. Didn't even try an' take my cash, just fuckin' gave me
a pasting.'
He could barely breathe, his chest tightening, cold clenching at his heart. He
pushed back out of the tiny room, stumbled as far as the kitchen sink and threw
up.
He felt tears welling in his eyes again – the memories so fresh he felt as if
he were reliving the moments.
The car slid up to the curb and the man sat in it, motionless, not even looking
at him. He dropped off the wall and walked to it, hating himself, hating the
man inside, hating Danny for being so kind to him, for making him care.
He slumped into the passenger seat.
'Glad to see that you got my message,' the man said, shifting the car into
gear.

He dragged himself to his feet, using the bathroom quickly and crossing the
landing without looking at the photograph. He stripped down to his boxers and
huddled himself in the bed, the cover held tightly in his fists, as far to one
side of the mattress as he could. His eyes were wide in the darkness.
 
He was still wide-awake when he heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs. His
body tensed. He heard the soft scuff of feet on the carpet, the sound of water.
Each noise a step closer to the inevitable. Every fibre of Lestrade's being
wanted to run, to get out, get away. But he couldn't. He could barely breathe.
Finally the door swung open, the wedge of bright light splashing across the
ceiling and the far wall, then dimming as the door was pushed closed. Mycroft
obviously didn't need the light on to know his way around. The rustle of
clothing, the sound of him breathing, the rush and thump of his own heart
beating – all the sounds seemed unbelievably loud to him.
Then the mattress dipped, and for the first time he squeezed his eyes closed,
as if he could will himself away.
"Greg?" the voice was so soft, almost a whisper. He had no idea what to do –
pretend to be asleep, or acknowledge him. Then a hand slid over his hip and
around his waist. Hot breath on his neck. He jumped slightly at the touch. "How
are you feeling?"
Lips nuzzled into the hair behind his ear, and he tried to force himself to
relax – it was Mycroft, who'd never done him any harm, never been anything but
gracious and loving and kind toward him. "Okay," he managed to say.
"Still have that migraine?" The backs of Mycroft's fingers were stroking down
his spine.
"Yeah," his voice seemed hoarse.
"Mummy's worried about you," he continued. "She hopes you'll feel better in the
morning – she seems to like you."
He could feel Mycroft's hand sliding up, over his stomach and to his chest. His
warm body moving closer, shifting until Mycroft was wrapped around him, chest
to his back, spooned together.
He focussed on breathing; on counting each drag of air in, each exhale through
his nose. He couldn't move, couldn't escape.
"Are you cold?" Mycroft murmured. "You feel like you're shivering."
It took him a few seconds to swallow and make an attempt to control his voice.
"'M okay."
Mycroft shifted again, and Lestrade couldn't help but jump again. The hand on
his chest shifted, sliding around and gently kneading his shoulder muscles,
then the back of his neck.
'Is this what you want?' The pain was ripping through him, each thrust worse
than the last. 'You'd rather this? When you say no to me, and go and whore
yourself to other men – selling your body, this is what you'd rather do?'
He had no idea what the man was using on him – just that it was cold, hard and
big. The wood and leather of the desk was cool under his chest and stomach. His
wrists were tied too tightly, and his arms forced upward, almost vertical,
feeling as if his shoulders could pop at any minute. The man was reaching
through his arms, keeping them in place, and resting his weight on the hand at
the back of his neck, forcing his face into the desk. He was completely
helpless.
'IS IT?' the man was shouting, and he could feel the slight flecks of spit on
his skin of his bare back.
'N…no, Sir,' his breathing was ragged, punctuated by sounds that the pain
ripped from him.
'So you won't even think of saying 'no' to me again?'
'No, Sir,' and he'd say anything now, to make the pain stop. There was one
last, vicious thrust, and suddenly the object was removed – and it hurt just as
much, but then it was over, and he could feel the muscles in his legs cramping,
they'd been tensed for so long. And he was released from all holds, his bound
wrists grabbed as he was dragged back off the desk, his damp sweaty skin
catching on the smooth polish of the wood. He fell – crumpled – to the floor,
his breath hitching in pain as his arse hit the carpet. Before he could get his
breath back he heard the sound of a zip, close to his head.
He had to move, his breathing ragged, his limbs shaking. He swung his legs out
of the bed, sitting up, the cover pooling around the small of his back.
"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled, resting his head in his hand, digging his fingers
and thumb into his eyes, pushing away the moisture. "I…I just…" he let out a
huff of breath, trying to calm himself enough to make a coherent sentence. "I
just need to be…alone. I…I'm sorry."
He could swear he felt the heat as Mycroft's hand hovered over his back –
almost touching him, but then withdrew.
"What's the matter?" Mycroft was moving now, the mattress shifting under him,
the covers pulling away slightly. The soft pad of bare feet on carpet,
approaching him. His tone unbearably concerned.
"Nothing, nothing, just…" and he could feel a sob welling up inside him, so he
clamped it down, clenching his teeth, squeezing his eyes closed.
"Should I fetch John? Please – Greg?" There was a new sound – the drag of chair
legs over carpet, and Mycroft was sitting, a few feet from him. Lestrade didn't
look up, just focussed on the bare feet sticking out from the pale blue pyjama
bottoms.
"No, I'm sorry," it came out as a whisper. "I'll be fine."
"I…I'll go and sleep in the Blue Room. It's just at the end of the corridor,
the last door on this side. Please, fetch me if you need me – you will, won't
you?"
Lestrade nodded.
"And…" Mycroft's hand hovered for a second, as if he desperately wanted to
reach out. But he didn’t, the hand instead reaching up, out of Lestrade's
vision, presumably to rub his face or push through his hair. "I didn't mean
this to be stressful for you – I should have thought."
Lestrade remained still and quiet, not trusting his voice to answer.
Mycroft waited for a moment, then stood and made his way out of the room.
Lestrade let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and let the tears
flow silently.

He heard the first movement downstairs long before the sun rose. He presumed it
was the cook or her husband, preparing the food and fires for the day ahead.
His eyes were gritty and sore, and he was tired, but sleep refused to come. He
lay, wrapped in the duvet, holding it close around himself and waited, trying
not to think about the day ahead. As soon as the sun touched the whispy clouds,
casting a soft pink glow over their edges, he dragged himself out of bed. He'd
snatched bare minutes of broken sleep, nightmares and memories plaguing his
mind, tangling and intermingling, only broken by the clock downstairs dutifully
chiming out the hours. He dug around in his bag and pulled out his jogging
gear, dressing quickly before carrying his trainers to the bathroom and swiftly
using it. He crept down the stairs, not wanting to see anyone, and found his
way to the back door. The cook smiled at him as he went through the kitchen.
"Morning, Sir, Merry Christmas to you."
He forced a smile. "And to you."
Once outside his breath billowed around him, the cold immediately pinching at
his face. He began walking, his feet crunching loudly on the thick frost. He
stretched for the bare minimum, not wanting to be still, wanting to move and
run and clear his head. He had no idea where he was going, but headed for the
road, certain he could find paths and tracks to follow. He set a punishing
pace, the cold air burning in his lungs and throat, making his eyes water as
the wind hit them. He could feel the moisture of his breath condensing and
threatening to freeze on his face. The going was rough as he ran down a muddy
track – the frozen ground now as hard as iron. He pushed on, taking in the
stark landscape, almost monochrome with the ice and soil, the odd tree standing
out, skeletal against the sky. His hands were cold, and he wished he'd
remembered gloves, but he pulled his sleeves over his knuckles and kept going.
He ran through fields, vaulting stiles and gates in his path whenever he could,
hating having to stop to negotiate the few he couldn't. Finally he came upon a
small spinney, and with his leg and chest muscles burning he stopped, leaning
over, panting for breath. He flopped to the ground, tucking his feet under the
bottom rung of a gate, linking his fingers behind his head and started sit-ups,
counting them out loud as he did so, ignoring the muscles in his stomach as
they screamed for mercy, revelling in the pain and the effort, pushing himself
harder and harder.
He could remember when he was a new recruit – training to be on the force. He'd
been so proud – so determined. He'd started running then, revelling in the
freedom it gave him, the chance to get away from everyone and think. He'd been
fitter then than ever before in his life – he'd found a place to belong, a
family, of sorts. And he was determined to be the best he could, and make his
superiors proud.
Now he just wanted the pain, wanted the burning, wanted it to blank everything
else out.
His muscles shook as he managed the last sit-up. He allowed himself a few
moments to catch his breath, then turned, his hands pushing into the crisp
grass, and began doing push ups, grunting with the effort, feeling the cold of
the earth rob his hands of heat and then feeling. He wished for the same for
the rest of his body and mind - he would welcome the complete numbness now.
Eventually he couldn't push his arms straight – the muscles shook, then he
dropped onto the cold ground, eyes squeezed closed.
He staggered to his feet, leaning on the gate, then set off again, a slow trot
at first, but continually upping the pace. He completed a circuit of the woods,
meeting only one lone dog walker, and then thought he'd probably been out for
too long already, and didn't know how long it would take him to get back to the
house.

Mycroft slipped silently from his bed and walked along the corridor. His hand
paused over the door handle, and he moved it to knock on the wood instead.
There was no answer, so he twisted the doorknob, not entering, but calling out
in a soft voice. "Greg? It's me – can I come in?"
The lack of answer worried him, so he stepped into the room. The bed was empty,
covers twisted and pushed aside. He took swift steps into the room, quickly
cataloguing the bag – still there, still packed, the pills and water, untouched
on the bedside table. He pulled his dressing gown further around him, looking
for any indication of where Lestrade could have gone. The clothes he had worn
the day before – dark blue jeans and a heavy woollen jumper with a zip at the
neck – were still on the back of the chair. The bag had been moved – clothes
inside it no longer neatly folded, as if something had been pulled from it,
with no regard to the other packing.
He turned and headed out of the room, down the stairs. Once downstairs he
glanced into the Drawing Room and Library, then the Dining Room, even though he
thought it very unlikely anyone would go there. Finally he headed to the
kitchen.
"Good morning, Mister Holmes," the cook smiled, and reached for a kiss on the
cheek, as she always did. "And Happy Christmas to you."
"Happy Christmas to you, too," Mycroft said – manners overruling even his
urgent need to know where Lestrade was. "I was wondering if you'd seen G…Mr
Lestrade," he asked, hoping he didn't sound as worried as he felt.
"Yes, he was up with the lark this morning, Mister Holmes. Wearing his keep fit
clothes, although I think he should have been better bundled up – vicious cold
it is this morning."
Mycroft felt a little of the tension in his chest relax – Lestrade often ran
when he had a particularly difficult case. It would hopefully do him good, and
presumably meant he was feeling a bit better, too. "Right, yes, thank you," he
smiled.
"Breakfast is laid out, Sir, as soon as you'd like," she said. "Just give the
word and I'll have some bacon put on, and the other hot food."
"Thank you," Mycroft smiled. He could remember when he was a young boy, back
home from boarding school, and Cook spoiled him rotten.
A noise made him turn, and he saw Sherlock trailing into the kitchen, clad in
only his ratty old dressing gown. Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Really, Sherlock,
could you not have found something more…" he waved a hand. "Suitable?"
Sherlock gave him a blank stare. "I'm surprised you've come downstairs
improperly dressed yourself," he said, deadpan. "Your standards must be
slipping."
"Master Sherlock," Cook interrupted, and got a kiss on her cheek from Sherlock,
although his gaze never left Mycroft. "Happy Christmas to you."
Sherlock waved a hand, not returning the greeting.
"Where's Lestrade?" he asked.
Mycroft felt the tension returning. "He's gone for a jog," he answered, turning
to leave the room.
"You should have gone with him," Sherlock said, and when Mycroft spun to
answer, Sherlock stared pointedly at his stomach.
Mycroft left without a word, not in the mood to deal with Sherlock's childish
insults, and headed upstairs to dress for the day, passing Watson on the
stairs.
He washed and dressed, putting on a smart suit ready for church, and went
downstairs to wait for everyone else to make themselves ready.
His mother walked into the dining room and glanced over them all, then pinned
Mycroft with a glare. "Is Gregory not joining us for church?" she asked,
obviously not happy with the prospect.
"I...didn't tell him, and he's gone out for a run. I've no idea how long he'll
be," Mycroft answered. "I'm sorry, I..."
His Mother waved a hand, dismissing the excuse. "It really isn't on. But can't
be helped. If he returns he shall just have to miss breakfast and hurry into
his smart clothes."
Mycroft nodded. It hadn't occurred to him the night before that Lestrade might
head out early - or to explain to him the usual sequence of events for the
household on Christmas day.
They walked along the frosty lanes to the nearby church, greeting other
families and locals as they went. Their Mother, knew everyone, and they
frequently stopped to be introduced before finally making it inside the church.
Mycroft hated singing, but he joined in, and was glad that Watson did too,
although no amount of glaring and nudging from his mother cold persuade
Sherlock to do the same.
As they walked back to the house, nearly an hour later, once they had once
again run the gauntlet of locals, and been forced to make small talk with the
vicar, Mycroft scanned the ground for signs of Lestrade's trainers. There was
nothing - not even scuffs in the frost on the driveway.

Once he had changed and headed back downstairs he became caught up in the usual
family rituals, his attention constantly drawn to the windows, waiting to see
Lestrade heading back to the house. His wandering attention wasn't going
unnoticed, he knew, and he fought to keep some sort of control.
"Will Gregory be joining us for lunch?" his mother asked, sounding slightly
peeved.
"I believe so," Mycroft answered, his gaze wandering back to the window and the
bleak white landscape beyond. "I expect he's lost track of time." He gave her
the sort of smile he usually reserved for foreign diplomats.
"Well, really, Mycroft," she admonished. "It's hardly the thing, on Christmas
morning."
She lifted her teacup to her lips, still managing to scowl.
"He, um – Gregory – he hasn't had an easy…life," he finished, glaring at
Sherlock, who was giving him a surprised look.
"Oh dear," his mother answered, not sounding particularly worried.
"Really, Mycroft, airing Lestrade's dirty linen in public, not the done thing,
is it?" Sherlock put on a shocked expression.
Mycroft shot him an angry look.
"He grew up in care, Mother. He hasn't ever really had a family Christmas
before – I just think…it's all a little overwhelming for him."
Watson was looking interested, if a little surprised, Sherlock kept up his
complete indifference, and his mother, finally, was looking as if she might
even forgive Lestrade for his current absence.
Finally he saw a figure, dressed in familiar grey and dark blue, jogging up the
path. His heart felt as if it skipped a beat, and he could see Lestrade was
worn out – feet trudging, although he was still jogging, still moving. A few
minutes later there was the sound of footsteps in the halls, and then a heavy
tread on the stairs. He looked up to find himself pinned between the glare of
his mother and the cold calculating gaze of Sherlock.
Lestrade knew he'd pushed too hard. His legs were shaky with fatigue and he
still had a long way to go. He knew he'd be okay if he could just make it
through the next few days, and get back to London. Away from the house, from
the pictures. Back to his life – his life now, his work. And Mycroft. He had to
hold it together, and he had to somehow get over the memories and remind
himself that Mycroft was a kind, loving man. Who signed away lives on a daily
basis. But he couldn't think about that – he had to remember the Mycroft he
knew, the one who was kind and slightly awkward and far too British and stuffy
sometimes. Just like the man had been, until…and how did he know what Mycroft
got up to, when he was late home or away for days? The stress of Mycroft's job
was obvious – how did he know what other release valves he had? He didn't
suppose the harmless old woman in the house knew her husband had been beating
up rentboys and fucking their mouths whilst shouting abuse at them, either. He
pushed harder, choking back new tears. He just had to hold it together. He'd
managed this far; he'd managed for years. This was just a few days. He'd
managed more than two years of strangers using him any way they pleased, and
he'd always found a way of getting through it, of ignoring his surroundings and
focussing. Just like he did when there was a body at his feet and a ruined life
and he had to catch the killer and not dwell on the victim. He could do it. He
didn't have a choice.
He was almost dead on his feet by the time the gateposts came into sight. He
made his way to the back door, catching his breath, his chest aching, muscles
trembling as he finally entered the house, the heat like a furnace after the
freezing air. He pulled himself up the stairs and grabbed the towel from his
room, heading straight to the shower.

The water was too hot on his chilled skin, making his freezing hands and feet
burn and tingle. He scrubbed his hands over his face, feeling the rough stubble
on his palms, then lathered up his hair and body, quickly, economically. But he
remained under the hot spray, hoping the water would help his tired muscles.
Eventually he turned off the water and dragged a towel over his hair, then
wrapped it around his waist. He gathered his clothes and padded down the
hallway to his room. When he pushed the door open he froze.
Mycroft turned from where he had been gazing out of the window.
"Ah, good morning. And happy Christmas. I hope you're feeling better?"
Lestrade gave a jerky nod, and before Mycroft had got two steps toward him he
quickly walked to the bed – putting it firmly between them, and dropped the
bundle of clothes.
"I...I feel terrible, that all this is causing you such distress," Mycroft
began, approaching Lestrade. "I never meant it to be unpleasant for you. I
imagined you'd enjoy spending a real family Christmas here - you are, after
all, part of the family now."
Lestrade nodded, unable to organise his thoughts enough to say anything.
"Perhaps I should have explained our traditions slightly better - it was a
little thoughtless of you to disappear for such a time on Christmas morning,
though. Mummy does like it if we all eat breakfast together, she was
disappointed."
Lestrade stood, paralysed, as Mycroft stepped forward, arms open, and wrapped
him in a hug. He didn't move, didn't return it, just kept one arm up, in front
of him, close to his chest, the other clinging onto the towel. He felt lips in
his hair, pressing a kiss above his ear and he fought for control - to regulate
his breathing and prevent himself from trying to break free of the hold. It was
Mycroft, no one else - the man had never done this, never held him gently.
Nothing he'd ever done had been gentle.
Mycroft released the hold, and Lestrade found himself staring at their feet -
Mycroft's in smart shoes, his own bare. "Now, if you dress we shall go down and
sit with everyone, before lunch, okay?"
"Yes, Sir," Lestrade mumbled.
Mycroft frowned. "Pardon?"
Lestrade realised his mistake and squeezed his eyes closed for a second. "Yes,
sure, I'll just..." he waved a hand at his bag.
"Good," Mycroft beamed.
For some reason Lestrade expected him to leave, but he didn't, just walked back
to the window, looking out over the garden below. And why shouldn't he,
Lestrade thought - they'd been dressing in front of each other for years now -
it would have been more unusual if Mycroft had left. But now Lestrade's
nakedness made him feel utterly vulnerable. He quickly rubbed himself down with
the towel and grabbed a selection of clothes, slipping on his boxers and jeans
and feeling slightly safer.

Watson glanced up as he crossed the hallway, and saw Lestrade and Mycroft
walking down the stairs. He spotted their linked hands and smiled, glad that
Lestrade had apparently overcome whatever had been bothering him the day
before. Then he caught sight of the look in Lestrade's eyes  - he'd seen
similar expressions before, on the battlefields of Afghanistan, when injured
soldiers feared for their lives. He swallowed, glancing at Mycroft, who looked
his usual calm self, and when he glanced back at Lestrade the look was gone,
Lestrade now looking downwards, his dark eyes just holding the slight sadness
they always seemed to. Watson frowned, and when he returned to the Drawing
Room, where Lestrade and Mycroft were now sitting on the sofa, he kept a close
eye on Lestrade.
The DI was unusually quiet - a stark contrast with how he had been on the train
on their journey to the house. Watson wondered what had changed - he had
thought Lestrade was genuinely looking forward to the chance to spend time with
Mycroft, but now he looked as if he would rather be anywhere else. He had
curled up on the end of the sofa, one leg tucked underneath him, shoulders
hunched, and his right hand was constantly worrying a place on his forearm.
Watson looked at Mycroft, who was in conversation with his mother - he seemed
perfectly normal, almost oblivious to Lestrade's obvious discomfort. A horrible
thought began to form in Watson's mind - he had seen people acting like
Lestrade before - the body language, the need to get away from others, the
denial of anything being wrong. But in the main it had been army wives, cowed
to their husbands' wishes, terrified of putting a foot wrong, for fear of
reprisal. He couldn't imagine that Mycroft would ever dare threaten Lestrade -
and nor could he believe Lestrade would ever stand for it, but it would, he
thought, explain a lot. He'd met more than one squaddy who was fearless on the
battlefield, yet completely under control of a fearsome wife at home, too
ashamed to leave or admit the problem to friends, too terrified of violence or
a life of loneliness to confront it. He vowed to get a chance to talk to
Lestrade on his own.
But first they had to get through lunch - which was wonderful. Watson couldn't
remember ever having goose before, and enjoyed it - as Mycroft obviously did.
Sherlock and Lestrade both picked half-heartedly at theirs, and Watson
remembered Lestrade not really eating much the night before either. In fact,
the more he looked at the man, the worse state he seemed to be in. Bloodshot
eyes, with dark circles under them, hair even more disordered than usual. If
Watson didn't know better he'd say Lestrade was coming to the tail end of a
difficult murder case - not enjoying a family holiday.
Watson tried to make up for the lack of conversation from Lestrade, but was
careful not to drag Lestrade into the conversation with any clumsy direct
questions, too. He did wonder why Sherlock - not famous for his tact - hadn't
said anything. Usually he would be the first person to drag a sensitive topic
out into the open - usually to the detriment of whoever was suffering.
When dinner was over Lestrade helped carry the dishes and utensils out to the
kitchen and load the dishwasher. Watson hoped to get a word with him alone, but
there was never the opportunity, with people coming and going, fetching and
carrying tea and coffee as well as stacking and sorting through the dirty
crockery. It was apparent that Cook and now done her duties, and was off until
the twenty-seventh - leaving them all to fend for themselves on Boxing Day,
eating leftovers and things she'd left for them in the fridge.
As they settled to watch the Queen's speech on television Watson noted Lestrade
helping himself to a large mug of black coffee, wrapping his hands around it
and curling up on the end of the sofa again. It was clear his attention wasn't
on her Majesty, as he stared downward, seemingly at nothing. Watson managed to
catch Sherlock's eye and give a pointed look toward the DI, but Sherlock gave
the barest minimum of shrugs and raised his eyebrows in a silent message that
he was as clueless as Watson was.
At the end of the speech Mycroft stood, brushing invisible dust from his
perfect suit. "A walk, then?" he said, and it was obviously another tradition
as his mother and Sherlock both immediately set about readying themselves.

Sherlock's mother managed to ensnare both her sons and walk arm in arm with
them, so Watson took the chance to drop back and walk next to Lestrade, who was
trudging along, gaze firmly on the ground in front of him.
"Any more headaches?" he asked.
"What? No." Lestrade shook his head. "Fine now, thanks."
"I hope you don't mind me saying so, but you don't seem to be...enjoying
yourself much," Watson said, quietly to ensure the Holmeses ahead couldn't
overhear.
The smile that crossed Lestrade's face was more a wry twist of the lips than a
real grin.
"I hope you don't...Mycroft said, at breakfast, that maybe you were...well, it
was because you weren't really used to...all the family stuff.”
Watson tried to catch the expression on Lestrade's face, but a good deal of his
attention was taken up not tripping over the frozen earth or trailing brambles.
"Did he?"
It wasn't really a question, more an acceptance, Watson thought. "Is
everything...look, tell me if I'm out of line here, but is everything okay,
between you two? I mean, I'm not trying to pry - just, if you need it, you can
talk to me, y'know?"
Lestrade didn't look up. "It's fine - I mean, we're fine. Thanks. It's me, not
him."
Watson frowned a little. "This might sound stupid, but he's not...well,
um...it's just, I've seen blokes before, in the army, suffering domestic abuse
and..."
Lestrade's eyes widened and he looked at Watson. "No, God, no, he'd never...no,
it's not him. Like I said, it's just...he's right, I never thought being here
would...I haven't had a family Christmas since I was six. And it brings back a
lot of...it's not the same, when you're in care, not matter how hard people
try."
Watson nodded, although it worried him how quickly Lestrade was jumping to
Mycroft's defence. "It must have been very difficult."
"It wasn't terrible, but it...as a kid it was pretty hard to understand."
"How did you end up there? I mean, you don't have to tell me. Sorry, that was a
bit blunt."
Lestrade shrugged. "Two dead parents and no relatives who wanted to take me on.
Well, one lot tried, but it didn't work out. And no one knew what to do with an
angry little kid who hated everyone." He didn't look up, and his hands remained
firmly wedged into his pockets, leaving his shoulders hunched.
Watson raised his eyebrows. "Right. Wow. It must have been terrible for you.
Was it a car crash or something?"
Lestrade didn't answer for a moment, and Watson cursed himself for being so
pushy. But finally Lestrade sucked in a breath and shook his head. "No, no
accident. My Dad took a sledgehammer to my Mum's head. Then he slit his own
throat."
Watson could feel his eyes widen, but Lestrade didn't look up.
"He...shit. I'm sorry...I..."
Lestrade silenced him with a wave of his hand. "I'd assumed Sherlock had told
you, although God knows how he worked it out."
"No, he...just sometimes he does seem to understand you shouldn't just blurt
out stuff about people's private lives," Watson answered. "Not often, I grant
you."
"I don't really mind. Doesn't change anything, if people know."
"I can see why...well, it must be odd after all this time, to suddenly be
somewhere like this, all these rituals," Watson said. "Must bring back some
memories you'd maybe rather let lie."
Watson couldn't read the expression on Lestrade's face.
Lestrade wondered how long the walk was going to be - he was dog tired from the
lack of sleep the night before and the long run he had been on that morning. He
appreciated Watson's company though, and felt himself relaxing slightly as they
talked.
"How are Brentford doing?" he asked, smiling. He knew Sherlock neither knew nor
cared about football, and enjoyed the banter he got from Watson - the doctor
didn't think Arsenal were a proper English team anymore, whereas Lestrade
argued that he'd rather they won something than fielded all English players,
with frequent hints that as a Brentford supporter Watson wouldn't understand
the joys of winning, never having experienced it.
Watson rolled his eyes. "Fine, thank you."
"You are welcome to come along to a proper game anytime you want," Lestrade
offered. "I can get a spare ticket."
"I'd rather watch Man United," Watson replied, and was pleased by the look of
horror on Lestrade's face.
"That was very harsh, Doctor," he said.
Watson grinned. "Nice here, isn't it?" he said, changing the subject. "Beats
sitting at home watching 'It's a Wonderful Life' again.
"Prefer 'A Muppet Chrstmas Carol', myself," Lestrade answered. He looked around
– he couldn't deny the scenery was beautiful, but he couldn't help but yearn
for the London streets.
As they finally headed back to the house Lestrade didn't know if he was glad to
stop and rest, or wished he could stay out for longer, away from the oppressive
feeling in the house.

Lestrade sat in the Library, reading an old novel he'd found on the shelves. He
could hear people chattering in the Drawing Room, but was content to stay where
he was - the Library was gloomy, with dark wood shelves lining every wall, but
it meant that there wasn't a single picture in the room. Lestrade had curled up
on one of the leather chairs and turned on the small heater, happy on his own.
When the door opened he jumped slightly, and then swallowed when he saw
Mycroft. He had been trying his best to act normally - to keep control off his
emotions. But he knew it resulted in him being rather distant. He tried to
smile.
"People are turning in for the night," Mycroft said. "I wondered if...well,
should I sleep in the Blue room again? Or..."
Lestrade felt the fear inside him rising again. He tried to clamp down on it.
"No, It's...no."
The smile on Mycroft's face told him he'd done the right thing, and he tried to
mirror it, but he cold feel his heart racing. He told himself he just had to
get through a couple more days, and then he'd be back in London and away from
his demons.
"Are you..?" Mycroft gestured upwards, to indicate the bedrooms.
"You go up, I just want to finish the chapter," Lestrade said.
Mycroft moved closer and Lestrade stamped down the urge to push him away,
instead clenching his teeth and gripping the pages of the book as Mycroft bent
down and kissed him on the forehead.

Once Mycroft had left the room he closed his eyes. Mycroft wasn't the man in
the paintings, he wasn't the man who had made his life hell. He was kind,
loving, affectionate, in his overly stuffy way. But in his mind the two men
merged and switched, Mycroft's smile on the man's face, his frown creasing the
man's brow. Lestrade closed the book, knowing he wasn't going to get anything
else read. He uncurled his aching legs and leant forward on his knees, staring
at the floor. He could do it. He could go upstairs and pretend nothing was
wrong. He'd had years of practice, after all, he thought bitterly. Years of
letting men think he was enjoying himself, years of telling them what they
wanted to hear. He could find the place in himself again, the place he'd
retreated to so many times, when he didn't have a choice but to get on with the
task, whether it was being fucked by a fat sweaty businessman or dealing with a
broken, mutilated body at his feet.

Mycroft was folding some clothes and tidying the bedding - fussing, Lestrade
thought - when he walked into the room after using the bathroom and studiously
ignoring the photo at the top of the stairs. Lestrade moved to his side of the
bed, quickly undressing, feeling particularly vulnerable in his nakedness, but
knowing anything else would be odd. Mycroft climbed into the bed, and Lestrade
followed, knowing his hands were shaking slightly and hating himself for not
being in control.
As soon as he slipped under the covers Mycroft's arms were reaching for him,
and it took every ounce of self-control not to shy away.
“I'm sorry you've felt so rotten," Mycroft said. "I really should have
thought."
Lestrade managed to shake his head, although the movement was small and tense.
"Not your fault. I didn't know...I thought it would be okay too," he said
truthfully.
One of Mycroft's hands was rubbing slow circles on his stomach, and he
concentrated on the movement, because the man had never done anything that was
gentle or soothing.
"Well tomorrow is just for relaxing," Mycroft smiled. "No real plans, although
Mummy does like it if we visit Daddy's grave - I think we all miss him
especially around this time of year."
Lestrade forced himself to breathe and not to react. In, out, in, out.
But Mycroft's observational skills were every bit as good as Sherlock's -
frequently better.
"What...oh, God, I'm sorry, Greg, I'm sorry, how insensitive."
Lestrade felt the arms closed around him in a squeeze. He put his hands up on
reflex, laying them against Mycroft's stomach, ready to wrestle himself free.
"Little bastard. Think it was clever, do you, taking the wallet? Picking my
pocket like some common thief? You're lucky I haven't had your 'friend' dealt
with. Last time was nothing - a scuffle in the street. Next time I'll let them
break his legs - or worse."
The hands were tight on his biceps, shaking him roughly.
"I haven't..." he started.
"Don't lie to me!" the spit flew from the man's mouth. "Who else would it have
been?"
"I wouldn't do…" He was cut off again as the man moved abruptly, grabbing his
wrists and dragging them in front of him. He didn't fight, but instead of the
usual tie or belt being used to secure his wrists the man took both in one
hand, then performed a quick, rough, pat down of the pockets of his jeans.
"Lying, stealing piece of shit," the man shouted.
The hand moved so fast he couldn't struggle away – a sharp slap to his face,
then his right hand grabbed, twisted behind him. He tried to escape, but the
pressure was too great, and when his finger was grabbed and bent fiercely the
crack was audible. It took a few seconds for the white hot nauseating pain to
hit him, and as he was pushed away he gasped, bringing his hand to his chest
and cradling it.
"Now stand there and be quiet."
He gulped down his shuddering breaths, wanting to curl up, to protect his
rapidly swelling hand, to get away from the monster, who was now sitting behind
the desk, watching him.
The silence stretched on, and he knew he just had to stay still and quiet, and
hope the man's anger subsided.
"Come here," Mycroft slid his arms around Lestrade, pulling him closer and
pressing a kiss to his forehead. He rubbed a hand over Lestrade's bicep and
then up onto his shoulder, gently kneading the tense muscles.
When he finally got up he took his time, straightening his suit, then walking
slowly across the room.
"Learnt your lesson?"
There was nothing he could do but nod, trying to protect his injured hand,
hoping if he did the right thing he'd be allowed to leave.
"Good." And the hands reached out, pushing down on his shoulders, forcing him
to his knees.
He fumbled with the belt and the button on the waistband, his left hand
uncoordinated and clumsy.
"Come on, come on you idiot."
He finally got the button undone and freed the man's cock. He didn't look up,
there was no point. He just licked his dry lips and began sucking.
He moved, the actions automatic. One hand down, finding Mycroft's penis and
wrapping his fist around it, his head dipping, pressing his mouth against
Mycroft's chest; dry kisses on the smooth skinand soft hair.
"Greg...Gregory, you don't have to..." and Mycroft's breath caught as
Lestrade's hand moved slightly, adding pressure under the head of his rapidly
stiffening cock.
Lestrade moved further down, then slid his lips over Mycroft's erection, moving
his head and fist in time, using his tongue to swipe over the tip.
The hands were rough in his hair, fingers entangled in the strands, forcing him
to take more, deeper. He breathed through his nose, deep breaths to relax and
control his gag reflex. He didn't care, he just wanted to be good so it was
over, and he could leave.
He swallowed, then opened his throat, taking it in until his lips and nose were
buried in the hair, and he could hear the slight grunts of pleasure, then
fingers pushed into his hair, stroking, gently guiding.

Once he had used the bathroom Watson hesitated slightly, then gently knocked on
the door of Sherlock's room. There was an answering noise and he pushed the
door open, peering around it.
Sherlock was sitting in bed, laptop on his knees.
Watson pulled the chair from by the window over to the bed and sat down
heavily. "Any idea what's wrong with Lestrade?" he asked, getting straight to
the point.
"Hmm? No," Sherlock answered, not even looking up from his screen.
Watson sighed. "He seems…withdrawn. Tired, nervous…it's not like him."
"Family," Sherlock stated. "Or lack thereof."
"I don’t know if…" Watson rubbed his face. "Do you think that's it? I mean…he
seems…Mycroft is almost ignoring him. He can't…why would he do that, if
Lestrade's…hurting?"
Sherlock glanced up at him. "What can he do? Lestrade's past is unchangeable."
"It's not…it's not what you do, when someone you love is suffering," Watson
said.
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, and Watson sighed.
"You'd…I don't know…look after them, not ignore them…You'd want to try and make
sure they were okay every second of the day."
"Mycroft has been worrying. This morning he was distracted, looking out of the
window. I don't believe he knew where Lestrade had gone."
"But…Lestrade would have told him, when he got up – Mycroft would have seen him
wearing his jogging gear."
Sherlock shook his head. "Mycroft slept in the blue room last night. Lestrade
slept in their room alone."
Watson's eyes widened. "But…"
"I presume it had something to do with Lestrade's distressed state yesterday,
which seemed to coincide with our arrival here. As Mycroft implied, there is a
possibility his childhood is affecting his view on the current situation."
"And…there's something about Mycroft, not just about being here. Lestrade
looked terrified, Sherlock – when they were coming back downstairs for lunch.
I've never seen him look like that before."
Sherlock made a small noise. "What would you suggest?"
Watson rubbed a hand over his eyes, leaning forward, resting elbows on knees.
"Do you think…could Mycroft…Look, I don't know how to say this, really, but do
you think Mycroft could be…abusing Lestrade?"
Sherlock stilled, hands frozen over the keyboard, eyes staring at the screen.
It was as if Watson could see the little egg timer symbol hanging in his brain.
Finally he moved – first his eyeballs swivelling to capture Watson in a cold
stare, then the rest of his head following.
"How?"
It wasn't what Watson expected. He'd thought there would be at least a protest.
"There is no point in denying it when it is clear that Mycroft has the
temperament to send people to their deaths with no more than an email. I have
little experience with personal relationships, and even less idea of how he
might conduct himself when with Lestrade. I would think it possible that he
could hold any number of things over Lestrade – although I doubt physical
violence would be one of them. Emotional and financial abuse, or control, would
certainly seem to be possible, however."
Watson shook his head. He didn't want to believe it.
"However, they are both back in the same room tonight," Sherlock continued.
"And past behaviour suggests nothing untoward. Nor do I believe Lestrade's
personality type is consistent with someone who would allow such things to
happen."
"So you think…he told me his parents died…I mean, he told me it was his
Father."
Sherlock nodded. "Yes. In France. Quite brutal. It was in the summer, not
around Christmas, but one can presume that any celebrations which traditionally
revolve around the family could be harder to cope with, for people who are
emotionally inclined to such things."
"It just doesn't seem…right. He said he was looking forward to all this."
"People who lack the ability to control their emotions are often very poor
judges of what will and will not affect them."

Watson sighed and stood up. "Yeah. I suppose…I'll see you in the morning. Sleep
well."
He trudged back to his own room, glancing down the corridor and then slowing as
he heard a slight noise. He felt his cheeks flush as he realized what it was,
and hurriedly walked away, closing his door behind him.

"Oh, Greg…" Mycroft groaned as his entire cock was engulfed in the wet heat. He
reached out to touch anything, trying to run a hand over Lestrade's back, and
finally settling for his fingertips gently rubbing through the soft hair. His
leg muscles twitched as the tongue swirled around the underside of the head,
lips dragging over too-sensitive flesh. He groaned again as Lestrade's fingers
found his balls, gently stroking over them, squeezing gently, just how he liked
it.
Lestrade kept his eyes closed, the visions in his mind flip flopping between
the bastard standing over him, forcing him, giving out satisfied grunts every
time he gagged, and the smell of Mycroft, now surrounding him, the gentle
touches and tickle of fingers at the nape of his neck.
He felt the testicles drawing up, and the cock in his mouth getting even larger
and harder, so he squeezed his hand tightly and increased the pace, letting his
teeth just graze over the shaft.
The semen was slightly cool on his tongue, and he swallowed before the taste
really hit him, milking the erection, sucking away the last traces.
"Mmmmmm," Mycroft reached down, shifting slightly, trying to urge Lestrade back
up into his arms.
Lestrade moved away as Mycroft rolled onto his side, feeling gentle hands rub
against his arms and then reach for him, gently pulling him up the bed. He lay
next to Mycroft, watching the smile on his face, feeling the repetitive
stroking of fingers over his arm. His mind was at war with his senses. Nothing
about Mycroft was the same as the man, except the odd expression, the gestures,
the tone of his voice when angry. And Mycroft had never been angry with him.
He'd never been anything but the perfect partner.
"Should I return the favour?" Mycroft smiled. He slid his hand down Lestrade's
stomach and stopped abruptly when his fingers found the flaccid penis. He
allowed a frown to cross his face for just a moment, then looked into
Lestrade's eyes – or would have, if they had been open.
"'S okay," Lestrade muttered, moving away from the touch.
"It…" Mycroft breathed deeply, trying to collect himself after the orgasm had
scattered his thoughts to the wind. "Are you…what's wrong?"
"Nothing, just…tired, I guess," Lestrade tried to roll over, but a hand on his
stomach stopped him. Soft lips pressed against his shoulder, a huff of warm
breath gusting across his skin.
"Tell me what's wrong, mon trésor?" Mycroft said softly.
Lestrade shifted, causing Mycroft's hand to fall to the mattress. "Didn't sleep
well last night. I'm fine. I'll be okay in the morning."
"I…you shouldn't have…" Mycroft slid his hand over the smooth taut skin between
Lestrade's ribcage and his hip. "You didn't need to do that." The guilt in
Mycroft's tone was plain to hear, and it tore at Lestrade, because he knew the
line was getting too blurred in his head, and none of it was Mycroft's fault.
"I wanted to," he answered, his voice almost catching, his mind in turmoil. And
he desperately wished it were true – wished he'd wanted to do it like he'd used
to, not because his brain told him that it was the only way to distract the man
from causing him pain.
He felt Mycroft shifting next to him, and closed his eyes, willing the other
man to sleep. He hated the questions because he knew he couldn't tell Mycroft
the truth, and every lie turned anther little piece of him back to the boy he
had been, denying himself true feelings, turning a little more of his soul to
stone.
Eventually Mycroft did sleep, after almost an hour of Lestrade dreading every
intake of breath, in case it came back out as a question. Lestrade lay awake
though, staring into the darkness. The white bottle of pills was the only thing
visible in the gloom, a beacon, beckoning him. He knew he could take them all,
and end his pain, end the torment, end everything. And leave behind all the
questions, all the glances, all the confusion. He didn't think even Sherlock
would be able to figure it out.
His mind bombarded him with scenes, and he wasn't sure if he were dreaming or
remembering, half the time.
The warm body behind him shifted, a slight noise of a half formed word, then
relaxed again. He tentatively covered the hand on his chest with his own,
worried he might wake the owner.
It was the middle of winter, and neither of them had the money to feed the
pathetic gas heater, so this was how they spent their nights, once they both
finished working. Huddled together, under blankets, sharing the warmth. It was
as close as Lestrade had ever been to a relationship - of course there was no
sex, but there was so much more. Safety, friendship, and in a funny way, love.
Sex was just a commodity to them now, but knowing they had each other, looking
out for one another, sharing the chores and the money, Lestrade felt like an
equal for the first time in his life. And he felt like he had a friend.

He closed his eyes not long before dawn, and awoke with a start as Mycroft
rolled over, muttering something incomprehensible and pushing the covers off
himself slightly.
Lestrade watched him for a moment, his heart hammering in his chest, adrenaline
running around his system from awaking so suddenly. His eyes felt gritty from
lack of sleep, but he knew he had no chance of dropping off again now, his
hands virtually shaking from the rush of having awoken so suddenly. He very
carefully slid from under the covers, picking up his running gear and heading
out to the bathroom.

Watson awoke to the sound of the gurgling pipes and saw the first glimmer of
dawn showing through the curtains. He sat up, rubbing his face. He'd got some
sleep, but a large part of his night had been spent with thoughts running
around his head, getting him nowhere but more confused.
He walked out of his room, heading for the bathroom just in time to see
Lestrade at the top of the stairs, dressed in his running clothes again.
"Lestrade?"
The man jumped, and Watson was surprised at just how terrible he looked - the
bags under his eyes were dark, his hair a mess and creases from the bedclothes
still marking one cheek.
"Mind if I join you?" Watson asked. "Could do with running off some of that
lunch yesterday." he patted his stomach.
"I'm going now," Lestrade answered.
"I'll be two seconds," Watson said, determined not to be put off now he had
Lestrade on his own with no chance of distractions.
He used the toilet, splashed water on his face and struggled into tracksuit
bottoms and trainers, running down the stairs as he pulled on his t-shirt and
jumper. Lestrade was already outside, stretching, and Watson silently joined
him, only managing to warm up about half his muscles before Lestrade grunted
"ready?" and set off.
At first Watson fell into step beside Lestrade, their breath huge plumes of
white in the crisp morning air. But as Lestrade turned off the road and onto a
track leading across the fields Watson struggled. The cold air made his chest
ache and throat burn. He was losing ground to Lestrade fast. He pushed on, not
knowing whether he should waste breath shouting, or if he should just keep
going for as long as he could. He found he didn't really have much choice, as
his lack of any recent exercise was quickly showing, and he barely had the
energy to drag himself along. He was amazed that Lestrade was this fit.
Finally, as Lestrade vaulted over a gate he gave in.
"Lestrade! Wait up!"
But the man was gone, and Watson clambered over the gate wearily, dropping to
the ground and jarring his ankle. He trudged forward, and finally, at the other
side of the field, found Lestrade, feet tucked under the lowest bar of the
gate, doing sit ups.
"Jesus," Watson gasped, sagging against the metal bars, panting hard. "Didn't
you hear me?"
Lestrade didn't answer, and Watson could see by the grimace on his face that he
was feeling the exertion too. He grunted out each breath as he touched his
elbows to knees; sweat dripping from his face, despite the cold.
"Shit," Watson panted. "What are you running from, Lestrade?"
The brown eyes flicked up to glance at him, before focussing back in front of
him. "Nothing."
"Could have fooled me."
Lestrade struggled to complete a sit-up, finally staying upright, arms draped
over his knees. "Just don't want to be here. Want to go back to London and
forget about all of this."
Watson looked down at him, the sagged shoulders, chest heaving for breath. Then
Lestrade hooked his hand in his t-shirt and wiped it over his face, and Watson
wasn't sure it was just to rid it of sweat or if there were a few tears there
as well.
"Well, not long to go now," he said, hoping it would offer some solace. "Then
back to normality. Or what passes for it, around our way."
Lestrade gave a little huff of breath, and without being able to see his face
Watson was unsure if it were laughter or agreement.
Watson stayed silent until his breathing had finally returned to normal,
watching Lestrade closely. The other man hadn't moved from his position sitting
on the floor.
"Ready to go back?" Watson asked, moving and feeling his muscles were already
too cold.
Lestrade nodded and stood, and Watson could see he was suffering too - and then
realised he must have run the same pace - if not more brutal - the day before.
He winced in sympathy, then began jogging, slowly. He heard Lestrade's
footfalls behind him and gave a small smile. He knew it would be fine, as soon
as they were all safely back in London and away from the Holmes', family house,
Sherlock experimenting, Mycroft running the country and Lestrade busy at work.
Holidays, he knew as a doctor, were the most stressful time of the year.
As they turned into the gates, on the final stretch to the house, with its
warmth and food and relaxation Watson turned to Lestrade. "If you want to talk,
or just...get away from it a little just say, won't you?"
Lestrade gave a small nod, and Watson hoped he really would, and wasn't just
humouring him.

Lestrade clambered out of the shower and slung a towel around his hips, feeling
that he'd been cheated out of his time alone. He understood that Watson was
just showing concern, and a part of him appreciated it - he liked the doctor,
and enjoyed his company, so felt bad at treating him so rudely. But he also
knew it wasn't something he could explain.
Just another day, and they'd be heading back to London, back to work, back to
something like normal. He'd coped before, he could do it again.
He escaped to the library after breakfast, curling up in the armchair and
reading his book. Watson joined him for a while, flicking through some medical
journals he'd brought with him, then browsing the shelves. It was an amicable
silence, and Lestrade appreciated it more than he could have appreciated any
words.
Lunch was an assembly of left-overs and things Cook had prepared in the days
before, and Lestrade picked at them, eating some, but not really feeling
particularly hungry. He could feel the glances that Mrs Holmes was shooting at
him, and had no idea if they were to do with his lack of appetite or his
scruffy appearance. He'd decided against shaving again that morning, preferring
to hide behind his stubble, and knowing Mycroft was less likely to try to grab
a quick kiss if his face was suitably scratchy.
After lunch Mycroft produced a Scrabble set and Lestrade happened to catch
Watson's eye and would usually have laughed at the look of horror in his
expression. Lestrade struggled to think of anything worse than Mycroft and
Sherlock competing at such a game. He refused the play, despite the cajoling,
and was amazed when Watson finally gave in.
He watched for a short while, the words on the board going down with
astonishing speed for three out of the four turns, and Watson struggling each
time. He dreaded to think what it would have been like if he'd tried to play,
given that the Doctor was having such trouble. He didn't understand half the
words on the board as it was. And the expression of concentration on Mycroft's
face - the frown and flash of annoyance whenever Sherlock did particularly well
- reminded him far too strongly of the painting above them, watching over
proceedings.
He made his excuses and headed back to the library, wanting to finish the book
he was reading before they left the next day. He took a last glance at the
painting as he walked out of the room and shuddered a little.

As the sun began to disappear behind the trees Watson stuck his head around the
door. "Going to do some tea, and Christmas cake, if you want some," he smiled.
"Although Mrs Holmes is insisting her boys make it...something about tradition.
So you might want to supervise if you fancy drinking something palatable."
Lestrade gave a small smile - he'd suffered Sherlock's tea once before. He was
pretty sure that he'd purposefully made it so disgusting Lestrade would never
ask again. That or it had been some sort of punishment for daring to ask in the
first place.
He put down his book and stretched as he stood, muscles aching and sore. He
padded across the hallway and down to the kitchen, hearing slightly raised
voices above the sound of the tinny portable radio before he had even got
there.
"Sherlock, please! Mummy did ask nicely," Mycroft was saying.
Lestrade stopped in the doorway, looking at Mycroft, with his hand out, clearly
demanding something from Sherlock.
"So you do it," Sherlock answered, moodily.
"Can't do the simplest of things," Mycroft muttered, removing a jar from
Sherlock's grasp with a snatch.
               ''Cause if there's one thing that she don't need,
              It's another hungry mouth to feed, in the ghetto.'

"Mess up the simplest of bloody tasks," the hand was too fast for him, the
backhander stinging across his cheek.
"And why must you make such a mess? You may wish to live in a pigsty, Sherlock,
but no one else does!"
                        'People, don't you understand,
                        The child needs a helping hand,
               Or he'll grow to be an angry young man some day.'

Then the hand shoved him backwards, hard, and he flailed his arms, trying to
save himself. He hadn't meant to rip the button off, but he knew it was a bad
mistake. His right hand smashed a glass on top of the drinks cabinet as he fell
and he felt something bite into his flesh. He rolled, clutching his forearm.
"Jesus, look at the mess," the man was standing over him, dragging him to his
feet by his collar, choking him. Blood was running down his arm, through his
fingers as he held the wound.
His fingers unconsciously found the slight lump of scar tissue and he pressed
against it.
"Have some respect for other people's property," Mycroft scolded, gathering up
the tea things. "It's hardly much to ask, for the few days you're expected to
act like a normal human being in the company of your family."
                  'So he starts to roam the streets at night
                          And he learns how to steal
                          And he learns how to fight
                                In the ghetto'

"I'll teach you respect," the man hissed, twisting the fabric of his t-shirt,
increasing the pressure around his neck. "Teach you to take care of other
people's property, you dirty whore."
"Just stand there, and be quiet, you can carry the tray in a moment," Mycroft
put the teapot down with more force than necessary, throwing a scowl at
Sherlock, who looked completely unrepentant.
"Now stay there, and this'll keep you quiet." The hard cock pushed into his
mouth, hard, a hand pulling his hair, fingers tight in the thick dark waves.
                        'Then one night in desperation
                            A young man breaks away
                         He buys a gun, steals a car,
                     Tries to run, but he don't get far…'

He was overcome by the images - the sound of Mycroft's voice, so filled with
scorn; the familiar sharp movements, the superiority in the tone. He turned and
headed blindly back along the corridor.
He ran along the streets, away from the car, the blood hot on his arm, his thin
shirt nowhere near enough to keep out the cold. Nowhere was safe – nowhere ever
would be safe from the man. He'd stopped being in control of his own life the
moment the sleek black car had pulled up by the kerb all that time ago. He
could feel tears on his face, and knew people were looking at him – ordinary
people, out doing their Christmas shopping – kids and families, laden down with
bags of presents, sparkling lights in the shop windows. He hated it all, he
hated anyone who could ignore what was happening to him and people like him,
hated anyone who had ever bought another person, or threatened them or picked
on anyone weaker than themselves. The door of a pub opened, spilling the smell
of smoke and beer and warmth out onto the street with a few drinkers. The music
blaring from the speakers inside also drifted out, into the cold night air.
                 'As a crowd gathers 'round an angry young man
                Face down on the street with a gun in his hand
                                In the ghetto.'

He pulled the heavy front door open and ran, not feeling the snow rapidly
soaking through his woollen socks, or the cold pinching at his skin, he headed
blindly across the garden, into the mess of greenhouses and outbuildings, away
from the house, the man, the memories. His breaths came in sobs, ragged and
broken and tears left slick tracks of cold and salt behind on his cheeks.
Finally there was a doorway, dark and inviting and he headed inside, stumbling
over old machinery and mowers, sacks of fertiliser and compost. He sagged
against the wall in the corner, sliding down it, ignoring the rough brickwork
snagging his shirt and then scratching his skin. He hugged his knees, making
himself as small as possible, determined he wouldn't be found, determined to
get away this time.
Movement caught Watson's eye and he glanced out of the window, seeing a figure
he was sure was Lestrade, heading out into the night. He was immediately
worried. "Ah, Mrs Holmes, I'm sorry, I just need to..." he gestured to the door
and left, grabbing his coat and shoving his feet into his boots, tying them as
fast as he could and heading out of the still-open front door. He looked
around, trying to see any sign of where Lestrade might have gone.
There were footprints, just visible in the light spilling from the small
hallway window and Watson set off at a brisk jog, but wary of the slippery
path. He squinted as he moved further from the house, trying to pick out the
vague shadows in the snow, wishing his eyesight would adapt faster. He walked
down the side of the greenhouses, his movements loud as the snow creaked
beneath his feet. When he reached the sheds at the end he stopped, looking for
movement. A crow was calling loudly from a nearby tree and he wanted to hush it
as he listened, trying to see if anything was out of place. He moved again, the
rustle of his clothes loud to his own ears. He looked down toward the fields,
then back to the walled kitchen garden, trying to decide which way to go. Then
he heard it – a sound out of place, a soft noise, like a radio muffled through
walls. He moved, stopping every few paces, trying to ascertain the direction,
and finally ducked into a pitch-black lean-to. He couldn't see a thing, but he
could hear a low muttering, interspersed by sniffs and broken, choked, breaths.
He nearly fell over something, making a noise, and Lestrade fell silent for a
second, as if startled.
"Lestrade?" Watson said, into the darkness.
His eyes were beginning to make use of the tiny amount of light left, and he
could just make out the light colour of Lestrade's shirt, tucked far into the
corner. He groped his way forward, trying to avoid knocking anything else over.
"Lestrade? It's John. Lestrade?" he reached out, trying to find Lestrade's
shoulder. His fingers brushed against thin cotton, and the reaction was
immediate – Lestrade made himself somehow smaller, forcing himself back into
the corner further.
"No, no, please," he muttered, the anguish plain in his tone. "Please," it was
a whispered sob, and Watson withdrew his hand, rubbing it through his own hair,
totally unsure of what to do.
"I…Lestrade? It's John – John Watson. Please, come on back to the house. Come
and…we can talk." He reached out again, trying for reassurance, putting the
palm of his hand on Lestrade's shoulder.
He felt the tremor run through Lestrade. "Please don't, please, I
don't…please…"
The whispers were heartbreaking. Watson withdrew again.
"Lestrade – I'm going to fetch Mycroft. He'll…just…I'll be back, in just a
minute," he said, turning and as soon as he was out of the small shed, running
for the house.

He burst in the back door and was relieved to see a somewhat startled Mycroft,
cutting the Christmas cake.
"Mycroft, Lestrade," he panted, gesturing outside. "You've got to come, it's
Lestrade."
It took Mycroft no more than a few seconds to go from shocked through confused
to direct action, walking briskly to grab his Wellingtons and Barbour jacket.
He followed Watson out into the cold, and Watson headed back to the small shed,
wishing he'd thought to bring a torch. He squinted into the darkness again.
"Lestrade?" He couldn't make out the smudge of light coloured cloth this time,
but his vision had been ruined by the bright lights of the house, so he wasn't
altogether surprised.
"Gregory?" Mycroft said from behind him, and Watson began to wonder if he
hadn't bee hallucinating the first time he had been out there.
"He was just..." he stepped forward, barking his shin on the same piece of
equipment that had got him last time. "He was…" he even reached out, to find
nothing but thin air where he knew Lestrade had been.
"You mean…where can he have gone? Why did you leave him?" Mycroft asked, his
voice rising.
"He wouldn't let me near him!" Watson answered, turning. And then he saw a pool
of light on the snow outside.
"This way," Sherlock called, his voice flat, emotionless. "The prints in the
snow are quite clear. And Lestrade doesn't seem to be wearing any shoes."
Both of them were outside in seconds, staring down at the rounded, scuffed
marks in the thin layer of snow. Sherlock followed the trail with the beam of
the torch, striding out across the lawn.
Once they got in amongst the trees at the bottom of the garden it became harder
to find marks, as the snow was only visible in patches, most of it having been
intercepted by the trees and hedges which loomed over them.

Watson stopped, looking around, peering between trees into the darkness of the
small wooded area. "Christ, he could be anywhere," he said.
"There, Sherlock, move the torch back," Mycroft called, moving toward some old
stone gateposts which flanked the track they stood on.
The torch beam swung back, and Watson could see the huddled figure, pushed into
the shrubbery, almost hidden from view, tight against the stonework.
"Gregory?" Mycroft's voice was soft, pleading.
Lestrade wasn't moving, his head bowed to his knees, arms wrapped around his
legs, curling himself into a tight ball.
"Lestrade?" Watson took a step toward him, hesitated, and turned to Mycroft.
Mycroft crouched down, one hand steadying himself on the gatepost. He hesitated
slightly, then reached out, gently stroking his fingertips across Lestrade's
forearm. Lestrade shrank away, shaking his head, although not lifting it from
where he had tucked it against his knees.
"Please, no," he muttered, barely audible, muffled by limbs and clothing.
"Gregory, it's me, I just want to..."
Lestrade looked up, and Watson hoped that Mycroft had made a breakthrough.
Until he saw the expression of fear and utter misery on Lestrade's face.
"Please, don't hurt Danny, Sir," he said, his voice wavering. "Please don't
hurt him." He was whispering by the end, eyes wide and pleading, tear tracks
visible as shining paths on his skin in the torchlight.
"Danny?" Mycroft sounded confused.
Lestrade dropped his head forward again, hiding his face. "Don't hurt him,
don't hurt him," he continued.
"Greg, please, come back to the house," Mycroft reached out again, but Lestrade
moved quickly to dislodge his hand and burrowed further back into the foliage.
"I don't want to...please, Sir," he bit back a sob.
"I..." Mycroft looked up at Watson, and the anguish was clear to see. "I don't
know what he's talking about," he said, quietly.
Watson knelt down in the snow, hoping that Lestrade wouldn't feel threatened by
both of them.
"Lestrade? Come on, come back to the warm, we can talk - all of us."
"Please, don't hurt him, don't hurt him," Lestrade mumbled. "Don't hurt Danny,
don't..."
"Greg, it's...there's nothing to be afraid of," Mycroft said. "Come into the
house - Mummy will be worried about you."
"Don't care about the money," Lestrade said. "I'll do anything, just don't hurt
Danny, don't hurt him again."
"Again?" Watson mouthed to Mycroft, but it was obvious Mycroft didn't have an
answer.
"Lestrade?" Watson reached out and touched on of the soaking wet socks, knowing
Lestrade's feet must be freezing.
Lestrade looked up again, his eyes wide when he saw Watson.
"Come on, we just want to get you warm inside," he smiled.
"Please, Greg?" Mycroft smiled too.
"He's clearly experiencing a psychotic episode," Sherlock's bored voice floated
from behind them. "I would suggest we call a doctor who can provide appropriate
medication."
"Shut up, Sherlock, you're not helping," Mycroft said, glaring at Sherlock, who
was observing from a short distance, illuminating them all with the torch beam.
Lestrade shied away at the tone. "Don't hurt him, please, don't hurt him," he
said, increasingly agitated.
"Greg- I wasn't…No one is hurting Danny, Greg. Greg, please, look at me – look
at me," Mycroft reached out yet again.
Lestrade lifted his head. "Yes, Sir," he said, very softly. He looked up at
Mycroft, then slowly moved, uncurling and getting to his knees, arms still
wrapped around his chest, as if trying to hold in the little heat his shirt
afforded.
Mycroft almost breathed a sigh of relief and stood, holding out his hands to
help Lestrade up.
Lestrade shuffled slightly on his knees, pushing up ridges of snow as he did
so. Then he reached out with shaky hands and gently tugged at Mycroft's belt,
his other hand pulling down the zip of Mycroft's fly.
"What are...no!" Mycroft grabbed Lestrade's wrists, halting the movement.
Lestrade turned his head down and away, shoulders hunched, clearly waiting for
a blow to fall. Just as abruptly Mycroft let go of him, taking a stumbling step
backward. Lestrade automatically put his hands behind his back, still apart
from the tremors running through him.
"No, I...Gregory?" the words tumbled out of him, and it wasn't entirely clear
to Watson if he was shocked by the actions, or just shocked by them being
performed in front of an audience.
He took Mycroft's arm and steadied him. "I think you and Sherlock should go
back to the house - I'll stay here and talk to Lestrade. I don't think you're
helping."
Mycroft looked at him with such clear anguish in his expression that Watson's
resolve almost wavered - but he was sure he could make more progress on his
own, so he stared Mycroft down.
"Go. The most important thing is to get him calmed down and back in the warm.
That's not going to happen when he's this confused."
Mycroft hesitated, then shrugged off his coat, holding it out to Watson. "Try
to...to keep him warm," he said.
Watson knelt down again, sure not to make any sudden moves. "It's okay," he
said gently. "No one's going to hurt you or Danny. You're fine, yeah?"
Lestrade didn't move, his breathing shaky.
"Relax, everything's okay, you're safe," Watson said, shivering himself and
knowing Lestrade must be freezing. "Look, I've got a coat here - why don't you
have it? It'll be warmer. It's yours if you want it." He put it on the ground
between them.
Lestrade glanced at it, but didn't move. The silence stretched.
"What do you want for it?"
Watson had to strain to hear the words. "Nothing. It's for you."
It was freezing cold, an icy wind blowing through the streets. He'd always
thought that in London - a city crammed full of people and buildings - that
he'd never have a problem finding somewhere warm to sleep. But he'd been on the
streets for months now, and when he managed to make enough money to get a
hostel space it was often too late to get in anywhere. He was becoming adept at
finding the best spots to sleep, though. He could always find cardboard and
sometimes other packaging and making himself as comfortable as possible.
"Hey," a voice said, and he shrank back, not wanting to talk to anyone. "Hey,
seen you around a few times. You must be fuckin' freezing."
He turned away, but it didn't deter the man.
"Look, nothing to be worried about, right? I've seen you up near the bridge - I
work that spot sometimes. Name's Danny." when the man sat down beside him he
could see that he wasn't that much older, and he did recognise the face.
"So what's your name?"
"Lestrade," he said quietly.
"La Strad? What's that then, foreign?"
He nodded. "French."
"Yeah? Well, Frenchie, I got a room, not far from here. If you want you can kip
on my sofa. Ain't a good night to be out. They say it'll snow later."
He looked up, not really believing what he was hearing. "Really? I haven't...I
mean, if you want money..."
"No, mate. I been where you are, that's all. Come on, I'm freezin' my bits off
now."
He followed Danny a few streets, then through a front door and up some grubby
steps. The room was basic - a bed, with a ratty sofa at the end of it, a small
sink and worktop on one wall and a window looking out over the street. But it
was warmer than the doorway he'd been in, and Danny gave him some toast too.
"New to all this, ain't you?" Danny asked, as he stuffed the hot toast into his
mouth.
He nodded.
"You don't have to listen to nothing I say, but I been at it a while, and I can
help you out, if you want."
He nodded, hesitantly, because he didn't feel like he had a choice.
"Not now though, work's over, eh? I got another blanket somewhere, hang on."
The sofa wasn't long enough and was lumpy in places, but as far as he was
concerned it could have been a four-poster in the Ritz.
He reached out and curled his fingers around the edge of the jacket, then
paused, waiting to see what reaction he got. When Watson didn't move he pulled
it to his chest, hugging it.
"Put it on," Watson urged.
Lestrade looked at him, then finally put the coat around his shoulders, but
didn't slide his arms into the sleeves. It was warmer, and he relaxed very
slightly.
"Good," Watson smiled. "That's good."
Lestrade sat back on his feet, staring at the snow. The coat smelt of
aftershave and soap and warmth.
"Smells like Mycroft," he said, reaching up and pulled the collar toward his
nose, inhaling.
"Is...is that..."
Lestrade pulled the coat tighter around himself, wishing it really was Mycroft
wrapped around him. He closed his eyes, letting his head rock forward. "I don't
know what to do," he said quietly. "I..." he shook his head.
Watson wanted to reach out, but he stopped himself. "Lestrade - Greg, do you
know who I am?"
Lestrade nodded. "John."
Watson paused for a second, thinking about the noises he had heard the night
before – Mycroft's voice slightly hoarse and filled with lust, panting
Lestrade's name. And nothing from Lestrade. "Can you tell me something - it's
important. Has Mycroft been hurting you?"
He looked up at Watson. "No...no, Myc wouldn't...No."
Watson nodded, the relief on his face evident. "Will you come back inside with
me? I can keep Mycroft and Sherlock away. I just want to get you somewhere
warmer. Will you come?"
He nodded, trying to stand, his feet numb with cold, his muscles tense from
shivering. Watson grabbed his arm to stop him stumbling and he pulled away
instinctively before stopping himself and gripping Watson's forearm in return.
"Come on," Watson took a step, still holding Lestrade's arm. "We'll get you in
the warm, then we can decide what to do."

Lestrade moved stiffly, his muscles cold, extremities numb he could feel his
socks freezing into the snow as he moved, but Watson kept him going, and before
long they were back in the house. Surrounded by the smell of food and wood
smoke and furniture polish. Lestrade hesitated, but Watson urged him on,
ignoring the open doors downstairs and getting him up the stairs, steering him
into the smaller spare room Watson had been using.
"Right, I'm going to fetch you some dry clothes - stay in there." Watson closed
the door.
Lestrade stood in the middle of the room, the familiar deep aching pain already
beginning in his fingers and toes as they began to warm up. He held the coat
around himself, feeling extremely vulnerable. He heard the low mumble of voices
outside in the hallway and instinctively moved away from the door. He jumped
when it opened, but relaxed when he saw it was Watson with an armful of
clothes.
"Here, get these on," Watson passed him some tracksuit trousers and a jumper.
"You want me to wait outside?"
Lestrade shook his head, and slipped off his wet gear, pulling the fresh
clothing on, silently glad that Watson had at least turned his back to offer
him privacy..
"Now get in under the cover. I asked Mycroft to bring up some tea and leave it
outside the door. How do you feel now?"
Lestrade obeyed Watson's orders, and sat n the bed, the duvet pulled around
him.
"Cold. Stupid. Worried," he answered honestly. He hugged his arms around his
knees again, resting his head on them. "I don't know…"
Watson pulled up the chair and sat down next to the bed. "Just…tell me what you
can. I'm sure it'll help."
Lestrade didn't move. He just sat, his thoughts turning over in his head. He
knew he had to come up with some explanation, and if he could tell anyone it
was Watson. He wished it didn't have to be here, in the family home, but he
didn't see there was another option.
He moved, resting his chin on his arms, pulling the duvet tighter around his
shoulders, looking down at the carpet, not at Watson.
"I knew…I knew their father," he said quietly. "I mean…" he paused, wondering
how he could explain. "I didn't know…didn't know he was. I knew him, and the
pictures, here…it was their Father."
"Right," Watson said, sounding thoughtful and a little confused. "So…I mean, he
died…well, Sherlock gave me the impression he died years ago."
Lestrade nodded. "I don't…Mycroft's said, yeah, maybe fifteen…I don't know."

There was a knock on the door, and Watson jumped up, opening it a crack and
seeing Mycroft standing awkwardly outside, a pot of tea and two mugs, milk and
sugar on a tray. He slid out from the door and took the tray from Mycroft,
putting it down and gesturing for him to walk along the corridor a bit.
"Your father," Watson began, unsure of how to phrase it. "I understand he
passed away some time ago?"
"Nineteen-ninety two," Mycroft answered, frowning. "Why?"
"It…I think the reason that Lestrade is reacting to you has to do with your
father. You do look similar, if you think about it," Watson pointed to the
picture on the wall by them.
"My…but…" Mycroft stared.
"I don't know anything else," Watson said, putting a hand on Mycroft's arm.
"But he's talking…I'll let you know."
Mycroft gave a small nod. "I…yes, thank you."
Watson walked away, picking up the tea and heading back into his room.

Mycroft stood, staring at the picture. He hated to admit it, but he did look
like his Father. He was thinner in the face, and far slimmer – but only through
a lot of effort and abstention on his part, not through chance. He looked back
at the closed door, then walked away, into his and Lestrade's room, moving to
the window and looking out on the darkness.
His Father. He'd been a good man – hard working, provided for his family, only
wanted the best for his sons. He'd spent his money on their beautiful house, on
excellent schooling for both of them. And Sherlock repaid him by ignoring him,
annoying him and refusing the opportunities afforded him. Mycroft, however, had
done his best to follow the family line, to take on a good, responsible job and
show everyone that the Holmes name was still worth something.
He could still remember the first day he went to the office. New suit, new
umbrella, new briefcase. Following his father through the corridors. He had
felt nervous, but his Father had given him confidence to walk with his head
held high.
At the end of his first week his Father had taken him to his club – a mythical
place as far as Mycroft had been concerned up until then. He stepped inside the
door, and, as his Father had warned him in advance, he had stayed silent,
looking around, catching glimpses of further corridors, all dark panelling and
deep carpets. The seats were upholstered in dark red leather, and the smell of
smoke was hanging heavily in the air. He had visited himself, a few times, and
once just after his Father had died, but he never frequented the place like his
Father had. He didn't like the way people thought that social aspect of the job
and the business side could be mixed and mingled, that one could or should
influence the other.
He thought of the fear in Lestrade's expression, the mutterings and mumblings
when he clearly didn’t know where he was or who he was talking to. He had no
idea how Lestrade could ever have met his Father, let alone now be reacting so
badly. But it was obviously something horrific.
He knew that Lestrade had grown up in children's homes, but also knew he didn't
like talking about it, so had never pried. Of course he had glanced at
Lestrade's files – he'd had to, for security purposes. A Care record until he
was sixteen, then nothing for some years until he had joined the police force.
His police record was excellent – the odd incident early on, but that could be
put down to the impetuosity of youth. For the past ten years – his time at
Scotland Yard – his record had been good, with brief moments of excellence.
None of it pointed toward any reason for his Father to have had any contact
with the young policeman.
Then he thought of Lestrade, on his knees, hands reaching for his belt. And
another memory struck him. An older man, after he'd been working for the
Government for some months, asking him if he shared the same 'interests' as his
Father. He hadn't understood, at first. But it had been made clear to him that
his Father enjoyed sexual relations with others – which seemed to be the norm,
amongst the people he worked with, as far as Mycroft had been able to work out.
He had balked at the thought of it, refusing to believe it could be true. Even
in his darkest thoughts he had only ever imagined seedy backstreet brothels,
garishly made-up women involved in vulgar acts. Now he imagined a young man,
with large brown eyes and thick unruly hair. He realized he hadn't breathed for
some time and sucked in a breath, reaching for the chair and sinking into it.
He couldn't believe it. It couldn't be true. There had to be another
explanation – another million explanations.
His Father was a good man. His lover was not a prostitute.
He thought of the night before, Lestrade's fear, jumpiness, what seemed to be
utter unhappiness. And now the thought that deep in Lestrade's subconscious it
wasn't him he was seeing at all – it was his Father. And then Lestrade had…the
mouth on his cock, because Lestrade had been terrified, and not known what else
to do. He felt sick. He had taken advantage, because he hadn't put two and two
together, he hadn't taken enough notice of the person most important to him in
the world, because he'd wanted to gloss over everything and pretend to his
Mother that everything was okay.
The fear hadn't been that of someone who was just being plagued by bad
memories, it was pure fear. It was all encompassing, blinding Lestrade to what
was really happening around him, taking over his mind and his actions. Mycroft
didn't know a lot about prostitution, but he presumed that whilst the memories
may be unpleasant, they wouldn't be causing the level of distress Lestrade was
feeling. So there had to be something else. Something more. Something worse.
He knew his hands were shaking, and he knew there was absolutely nothing he
could do about the situation without talking to Lestrade. And that was the
thing he was currently forbidden to do. He sat in the darkness, for once not
having a clue how to proceed. He could prevent wars in far off lands. But he
didn't know how to save his relationship with a man only a few metres away.

Watson poured out the tea and added some milk, holding it out to Lestrade.
"Try and drink some, it'll help warm you up," he said gently.
Lestrade took the mug and cradled it, gently blowing across the liquid.
"So…tell me about their Father," Watson said, settling back into his seat, a
mug of tea for himself sitting on the bedside table.
Lestrade stared into the milky tea.
"How did you meet him – through the Met.?" Watson prompted.
Lestrade shook his head. "No, before…when…I was sixteen." Then he pulled a
face. "Fifteen. Nearly sixteen."
"Fifteen? What…how did you..?"
Lestrade shook his head at first, and he started to speak, but thought better
of it, struggling for the words.
"I…he…" he stopped again. "He picked me up," he said in barely more than a
whisper. "I was…on the street, and he picked me up. And…and I thought it
was…thought he…all he wanted me to do was stand there, and be quiet, in the
corner of his office. And I thought…it was easy money. But the next time, it…he
was a bastard. And I couldn't do anything. He…"
Watson was frowning, obviously struggling to keep up. "So…hang on, you…" and
his eyes opened wide. "You were…but…how can. Hang on. He picked you up. From
the streets. For…"
"Sex," Lestrade said bluntly, because having Watson dig around for the right
word was more painful than just saying it.
Watson blew out a breath. "Wow. Sorry, I just mean…given, well, now, it's hard
to think…"
"Yeah," Lestrade agreed.
"Right."
A silence descended on the room, and Lestrade could see Watson's brain working
overtime. Some of Sherlock had rubbed off on the Doctor, but unlike Sherlock
you could read every emotion on Watson's face. He wished he couldn’t. He sipped
some of the tea, burrowing further back into the covers, wishing he could be
anywhere else.
"So…" Watson finally said.
Lestrade took a shaky breath. "I need to tell Myc," he said in a low voice. "I
need to…he…it isn’t his fault. Isn't him…I…"
"I agree," Watson said. "But first, just finish your tea, warm up – then, if
you want, I can fetch Mycroft. And I can stay too, if you want. Or if you'd
rather have some privacy, I can go away. But just…don't rush. Just…we've got
time, okay?"
Lestrade didn't move, his eyes staring, unseeing at the carpet.
"Why did I…as soon as I saw the picture…he and Myc look…" he took a shaky
breath. "What the fuck's wrong with me? How could I?"
Watson frowned. "Because you know Mycroft, and you know…he's not like that."
"Didn't when we…" Lestrade rubbed his hand over his face. "Jesus. All the…don't
you think it's fucked up?" He looked up, into Watson's eyes.
Watson swallowed. "It…you can't help who you fall for. As long as he's always
respected you, and you…enjoy each other's company. I mean, I know it'll take a
while, but Mycroft hasn't changed, just…just your knowledge about his family."
Lestrade's fingers found the scar on his arm and he rubbed it, only stopping to
lift his mug to his lips.
Then there was a gentle knock on the door.

Watson stood and walked to it, opening it a small way.
"Is…would…could I speak to Gregory – if…if it's okay, with him?" Mycroft's
voice was soft, hesitant.
Watson turned to look at Lestrade, a questioning expression on his face.
Lestrade froze for a second, then nodded.
Watson stepped back and allowed Mycroft in, then pushed the door closed again.
"Shall I stay?" he asked, pointedly looking at Lestrade for the answer.
Lestrade nodded again, then watched as Mycroft hesitantly sat on the chair,
pulling it away slightly, giving him more space, whilst Watson perched on the
windowsill, watching over them both.
"I'm sorry," Lestrade said. "I…I've ruined Christmas…everything. I…"
Mycroft shook his head. "No, no…I…I understand you…met Da…my Father. And he
behaved…improperly."
Lestrade knew he should have guessed that Mycroft would work it out. Any scraps
of evidence taken in and woven together to get the big picture, in true Holmes
style.
"Yes," he said, almost choking on the word as his emotions threatened to
overwhelm him.
"I…he…he must have…hurt you?" Mycroft looked down as he said it, but then
seemed to make himself look into Lestrade's gaze.
Lestrade nodded, feeling the tears beginning to fill his eyes.
"I'm sorry. I had no…no idea," Mycroft finished in a whisper, knowing it was
partly a lie. He had virtually been told, but he had chosen not to act, chosen
to ignore the evidence presented to him, because he didn't want to believe it.
Chosen to ignore it because it didn't affect him, and he'd thought it was
better to leave things as they were than to cause trouble within the family. He
could never have imagined the trouble he had stored up for himself, but he felt
as if somehow he deserved it – karma.
Lestrade's cup was empty, but he still held onto it, staring at the flowery
pattern.
"I didn't…it's the picture," he said. "I didn't know…Didn't know it was your
Father. And then, when we got here…" He wiped away the tears roughly with the
heel of his hand.
Mycroft couldn't help himself – he reached out and touched Lestrade's foot,
rubbing his hand over the bare skin, the need to touch and reassure Lestrade
overriding his fear of making things worse. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he said,
heartened when Lestrade didn't flinch away.
Lestrade watched Mycroft, the expressions playing across his face, the gentle
movement of one hand over his skin, the slight tremor in the other.
"You must know, whatever he did…I would never…" Mycroft stopped, thinking of
the night before, closing his eyes briefly.
Lestrade saw the fleeting grimace and shrank back, pulling his foot out from
under Mycroft's touch.
"He used…my mouth. He hated any…talking, answering back. He…wanted obedience,
and he…made me suck him off. And if I didn't…he…" he paused, mouth dry, voice
wavering, because he was so terrified that no one would believe him. No one
would believe the man they loved could ever do such things to a kid. They'd
think he was just making trouble, stirring, exaggerating, and he had no proof,
nothing he could say or do to show he wasn't lying. "He punished me…and…I don't
know what it was, just…he tied my wrists and shoved me on the desk and…asked me
if it's what I wanted, like that, and…" he trailed off, shaking his head,
almost feeling the same pain again.
"He…raped you?" Mycroft replied, and instead of surprise Lestrade heard
disbelief.
Lestrade hid his face in his arms, feeling his own breath hot and moist in the
small space he'd created. He was on the verge of crying, but he held it back
with shuddering breaths, because he was sure it was over. He was broken in
their eyes. Broken, used, tainted. He took another breath, wishing for the
control to trust that he could speak again without breaking down.
"I don't mean…I believe you," Mycroft said. "I'm…I'm sorry, I didn't mean to
imply…he…He had a temper, I know. I saw him…but never with us, never…Mummy
wouldn't allow him to…I heard him speak to others, though, staff and…and I know
he was…unpredictable."
Finally Lestrade lifted his head again. "He didn't…he thought it was
disgusting, the sex. Buggery. He hated the idea. He used…something. I don't
know…it was at a club, his club, he…I couldn't get out, when he…"
Mycroft nodded, knowing it were all true. Realising that the club where no one
spoke, where members were permitted to do anything, had hidden secrets in those
passages and offices away from the main rooms.
"And when…he said he'd hurt Danny, if I ever refused. And I did, once…and he…"
Lestrade struggled, past ragged breaths.
"Who was Danny?" Mycroft asked softly. "Your…partner?"
Lestrade shook his head. "My friend. We both…he let me share his bedsit. When I
was on the streets. And…he was very kind. Very…he didn't deserve…" He chewed
his lip, assaulted by the memories. "You know, the worst…the worst thing, worse
than…all the pain, the…fucking, the shouting, the hitting…worse than
everything. When I…got home and found Danny, dead, on the sofa…with…" he could
feel the tears spilling over, running down his cheeks, and he sniffed. "With a
needle still…and…he was just staring, and…the worse thing was that deep down, I
was glad, because without him, I could get away, and…it would all be over,
because he couldn't threaten Danny any more. And I turned around and left, and
didn't stop, left London, left everything…and he was my only friend, my
only…and I just left him."
He wiped at his face with the duvet, but couldn't stop the tears as he
remembered the lifeless body, slumped on the sofa, belt still around his arm,
needle hanging from his flesh. He remembered staring, and his brain going from
disbelief to shock to a sudden realisation that the one thing the man held over
him was gone – that he never had to go back to the club, back into the car. And
he'd turned and walked out, leaving the door open. He'd walked through the
streets, using the money in his pocket from his last trick to buy a one way
train ticket at Paddington, and then called the police, just minutes before his
train left, to tell them that there was a body at Danny's address. Then he'd
hung up and left London, left it all behind him.
Mycroft fell to his knees, putting a hand on Lestrade's foot again, desperately
needing to take him in his arms and hug him tightly, to tell him everything
would be okay, and that they could make it better. But he knew he could do none
of those things. So he stopped short, one hand on Lestrade's foot, the other on
his bicep, and rested his forehead against Lestrade's leg.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he said. "Please, please believe me. I…if there were
anything I could do, anything at all, then you just have to say the word. But…I
wish I could change it, I wish…" he shook his head, rolling his forehead
against Lestrade's shin.
Lestrade hesitantly reached out and touched Mycroft's hair, letting the tips of
his fingers run through the thin strands, feeling the familiar softness.
He remembered calm evenings, lying on the sofa, Mycroft's head resting on his
lap, stroking his fingers through Mycroft's hair. Snatched moments of intimacy
as they both got on with their busy lives – hugs and kisses in the kitchen,
shared showers in the mornings, lazy weekends in bed. A world away from the
slaps and punches in the dark office.
He slid his hand down onto Mycroft's cheek, pulling Mycroft's chin up to look
at him. He studied the blue eyes, the sorrow in their depths. "I know that…you
aren't him," he said softly. "But…I can't…in my head…"
"What can I do?" Mycroft asked, moving his hand to Lestrade's knee. "Tell me
what I can do, please?"
Lestrade shook his head. "Just…be you," he answered, truthfully.
Mycroft hesitated, then got to one knee, stiffly. "Do you mind…I…"
Lestrade shifted slightly, giving Mycroft room to sit beside him.
Watson coughed slightly, and moved.
"Lestrade, shall I…" he inclined his head to the door. "Will you be okay?"
Lestrade nodded, and watched Watson leave the room.

Once outside the door Watson rubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head as
if to try and shake the thoughts inside into some sort of order.
He couldn't believe what he'd heard – perhaps wouldn't have, if he hadn't
witnessed Lestrade's spiral downwards into his breakdown. Watson was amazed
he'd managed to hold himself together as long as he had, really. The shock was
unthinkable – to visit your partner's home for a family Christmas, and have
years of abuse ambush you, along with the realisation that the abuser would
virtually have been your father-in-Law.
He took slow steps down the stairs, and wasn't surprised when a door was pulled
open with a flourish.
"Well?" Sherlock demanded.
"He…I…where's your Mother?" Watson asked.
"Kitchen, preparing food. What happened?"
"I think…you should probably talk to Mycroft –" Watson grabbed Sherlock's arm
as he tried to head upstairs. "Not now. When Mycroft and Lestrade have finished
talking. They need some…time," he finished, hoping that was all it would take.
Sherlock looked at him with the sort of expression that made him feel as if
Sherlock could read every thought he'd ever had – or was going to have.
"Lestrade…and Mycroft. Clearly this is not just about them though. The change
in Lestrade was dramatic, when we entered the house…no, the Drawing Room."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he glanced through the door. "And his behaviour is
that of someone who's been abused. The body language, flinching away from
touch. The…way he reacted to Mycroft outside."
Sherlock looked back into the Drawing Room, then up the stairs. "Our Father.
This has something to do with Daddy, and Lestrade."
Watson could only nod.
"I don't…how…I don't understand how that can…" Sherlock looked upward again.
"Lestrade. He's always shown particular empathy when dealing with cases
involving sexual attack, or sex workers. He was…Does Mycroft…"
Watson nodded, not entirely knowing what the question was going to be, but
fairly certain that the answer was 'yes'.
"Daddy?" Sherlock said, but it wasn't really a question. "I never…how didn't I
realise? Why didn't I see?"
"Sherlock, he was your Father – no one would think…"
"I should have! I should have seen the evidence. My own Father, and I didn't…"
Watson just laid a hand on Sherlock's arm. "Don't…just…"
Sherlock turned and stalked into the room, staring up at the picture.

Mycroft gently put an arm around Lestrade, his hand resting on the covers at
Lestrade's hip – he made sure it wasn't restricting or confining in any way.
"I'm sorry, for what he did to you. For never realising. It…I had no idea, no
idea at all. Even when here, you…I should have seen, should have realised."
"You couldn't," Lestrade answered in a low voice. "No one would ever think…"
Mycroft sighed. He could tell things about people with barely a glance – he
could work out people's pasts and futures, their hopes and dreams – people he
barely even knew. And here, next to him, was the man he knew best in the world,
had not only kept his past a secret, but continued to do so even when it was so
inextricably linked with his present and future.
Mycroft wondered whether, if Lestrade had managed to cope until the next day,
when they were due to go home, if he would ever truly have known. He closed his
eyes, concentrating on the feel of Lestrade beside him, the familiar smell of
his soap and shampoo, the way his own scent mingled with that of their washing
powder. He wondered how on Earth he could have been so blind to the suffering,
so uncaring. He wondered how Lestrade could bear to sit with him, now, knowing
he was the same flesh and blood as the man who had abused him.
"If…you must tell me, if I ever make you feel uncomfortable. If I ever…"
Lestrade nodded.
"Shall we…if you go to our room, I can fetch some food?" Mycroft offered. "You
should eat – after…there's all sorts downstairs."
"Yeah." Lestrade let Mycroft move first, then stood up on aching limbs, pulling
Watson's bedding straight.
Mycroft gathered up the wet jeans and shirt. "I'll put these to dry, too," he
said, and opened the door for Lestrade.
He watched as Lestrade moved carefully, obviously stiff from his run earlier in
the day, added to the tension of the situation.
"Make yourself comfy," Mycroft said. "I shall be back up in a minute."

Mycroft quickly hung the wet clothing in the airing cupboard, then headed to
the kitchen. He gathered some leftovers and cut some bread, wondering if he
should heat up some of the soup that had been left in the fridge. Then he
sensed someone behind him and turned to see Sherlock leaning inside the door,
arms folded across his chest.
"Lestrade," Sherlock said.
Mycroft nodded.
"I understand Daddy used him for sex, probably, given his current age, and the
likely timing of the abuse, when he was a teenager, shortly after he had left
care."
He nodded again, silently. He knew Watson wouldn't have gone into any detail –
but he also knew Sherlock was perfectly capable of working it out for himself.
"No wonder you need to watch what you eat. I hope all this isn't for you," he
gestured to the food Mycroft had on the worktop. "After all, you'd look even
more like Daddy if you put on any more weight."
Mycroft turned away from him, leaning on the counter. "We're…aware of that," he
said haltingly.
There was a long silence, and Sherlock finally moved, leaning next to Mycroft,
his back to the worktop. "Will he…recover?" he asked.
Mycroft gave a small shrug.
Sherlock nodded slowly. "He is…a resilient individual."
"But this is…" Mycroft shook his head.
Sherlock nodded again and walked away.
Mycroft stood still for a minute, then carried on putting a selection of cuts
of meat and some salad with the bread. He also found the pot of mayonnaise and
put it on the tray, then headed back upstairs. He knocked on the door and heard
Lestrade acknowledge, so pushed it open.
"Here. There's some duck, and chicken, bread, salad, coleslaw, and a few mince
pies for afterward," he smiled, putting the tray down.
"Thanks," Lestrade looked over the food, then picked up a piece of the meat and
ate it.
"I…Sherlock knows," Mycroft said. "He…"
"Of course," Lestrade answered.
"He won't say anything," Mycroft looked at Lestrade's expression. "He
doesn't…he just won't."
Lestrade nodded, picking at the salad.
"Tonight, shall I sleep in the blue room?" Mycroft looked at the bed and was
immediately ambushed by the thought of what had happened the night before.
Lestrade stilled, watching him carefully. "Last night…I wasn't…I wasn't just
thinking about him. Don't…just because I was…when you touched me, your fingers
in my hair…I did know it was you."
Mycroft nodded in a jerky movement.
"And…you should stay, in here, tonight. It won't…happen again. Not now."
"If you don't want me to, I won't be…" Mycroft began.
"No, stay. Please, stay," Lestrade looked up at him. "I won't let him do this
to us."
Mycroft nodded again, a small smile on his lips.

Lestrade didn't eat a lot, but Mycroft was satisfied that it was enough and
cleared away the tray, stopping to apologise to his mother when he was
downstairs. Then he headed back to the bedroom, where Lestrade was sitting on
the bed, cross-legged, wearing just his boxers.
Mycroft changed into his pyjamas and used the bathroom, then slid under the
covers, sitting up against the headboard. He smiled when Lestrade sat with him,
their shoulders touching. He reached down and covered Lestrade's hand with his
own, then turned and pressed a soft kiss against Lestrade's temple, smiling
when Lestrade relaxed against him slightly.
"Tomorrow we shall be at home," Mycroft murmured.
Lestrade shifted slightly, slouching down the bed, the covers pooled around his
waist. Mycroft moved too, sliding his arm around Lestrade loosely, pressing his
lips into Lestrade's silvery hair as it rested against his shoulder. Lestrade's
fingers slid between two of the buttons on his pyjama top, and Mycroft smiled
as the fingertips just brushed the hair on his abdomen. He gently stroked his
fingers down Lestrade's bicep, trying to make every movement soft, gentle and
slow.
Lestrade's breathing deepened and his weight increased as he relaxed against
Mycroft.
Mycroft continued to run his fingers over Lestrade's arm, and when, some hours
later, Lestrade stirred, muttering something under his breath, his legs jerking
with small, sharp movement, Mycroft lifted his other hand and stroked it over
Lestrade's hand.
"Shhh," he said softly. "You're safe, you're safe."
He remembered past nightmares, where he'd tried to hold Lestrade tightly, to
soothe away the fear, and now understood why it had never worked.

Mycroft blinked awake, grimacing as his neck protested at the awkward angle it
had taken in sleep. He looked down to see two dark chocolate-brown eyes looking
back at him.
Lestrade gave a small smile. "Morning."
"Good morning," he smiled back. "Sleep well?"
Lestrade nodded. "Yes, finally."

Epilogue

Lestrade shook himself before stepping through the door. The weather had turned
rapidly from crisp and cold to wet and rainy, and he was soaked just from the
short walk from the Tube.
Mycroft appeared from his office, quickly assessed the situation and returned
with a fluffy towel, using the corner of it to rub over Lestrade's soaking
hair, leaving it standing in soft spikes.
"Here, before you catch your death," he handed the towel over and removed
Lestrade's coat and jacket. "Why you insist you won't use an umbrella, like any
gentleman would," Mycroft grumbled.
"Hardly a gentleman, am I?" Lestrade retorted, smiling.
"Change out of those wet clothes," Mycroft stepped forward and reached for a
kiss, avoiding the damp fabric. "The game starts in ten minutes."
"The game?" Lestrade frowned, toeing off his shoes.
"Arsenal. I thought you'd want to watch it. I've cooked dinner – the only thing
missing from the equation is you."
"You don't like football," Lestrade said, eyes narrowing.
"Just as you didn't like the ballet, until you'd been once," Mycroft answered,
with a grin.

Lestrade showered and changed, hen headed back downstairs, to find Mycroft
cutting up handmade pizzas.
"What the…"
"It seemed appropriate. I followed a recipe – they look all right, although I
have yet to taste…"
"Looks great," Lestrade answered. "You know, you don't have to…y'know…"
Mycroft smiled. "I want to. Indulge me?"
Lestrade saw a bottle of his favourite beer sitting out on the side, next to a
glass of wine, so found himself a glass and poured it out, savouring the taste.

Arsenal drew the match, much to Mycroft's amusement as Lestrade shouted at the
screen as the team conceded, equalised, went ahead and then threw it all away
with a late own goal. Mycroft wasn't entirely sure that anyone should care so
much about the fate of eleven men and a ball, but he knew he could get used to
watching Lestrade watching the football, and made a mental note to get them a
box at the Emirates at some point – he was sure he could find someone who would
be willing to lend theirs to him.
Lestrade finally slumped back on the sofa. "Unbelievable. Down to ten men and
we just hand it to them on a plate," he grumbled.
Mycroft sat still for a moment, and then realised Lestrade was watching him,
now.
"What?" Lestrade asked. "You're thinking about something."
Mycroft reached into his pocket and pulled out a small slip of paper. "I…I did
a little research. And, well, this is for you. If you want to…"
Lestrade took the paper and opened it. Mycroft watched the emotions plays
across his face, hoping he'd done the right thing.
"Yes," Lestrade finally said. "Thank you. Really, thank you."

And so it was that Mycroft found himself in the rain on New Years Day, standing
in a sprawling East London cemetery. Lestrade was crouching by a headstone,
gently pulling away some of the creeping plants and weeds. He watched as
Lestrade ran his fingers over the carved letters, knocking away the moss that
had begun to collect there.
                                 Daniel Colman
                                  08/04/1960
                                  19/09/1981
                                 Beloved son,
                            Taken from us too soon.

"I'm glad someone…" Lestrade stopped. He hadn't expected there to be a
headstone, not from what Danny had said about his family. But whilst it was
there, it was clear no one had taken any care of it for years. The weeds were
long, the headstone overgrown.
He turned as Mycroft knelt on the other side of the plot, putting his umbrella
aside for a moment and pulling up some of the longer tufts of grass and weeds.
Once the grave was a little clearer, and looked as if someone cared again,
Mycroft stood at the end, looking down at it. Wondering about the boy it
contained – and how different their lives could all have turned out. Lestrade
finally joined him, standing shoulder to shoulder.
Mycroft slid his arm around Lestrade, holding him close.
"Next time," he said. "We should bring flowers."
Lestrade put his own arm around Mycroft. "Thank you, for letting me say
goodbye."
"It was my duty," Mycroft answered, pressing a kiss against Lestrade's
forehead.
 
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