Title: Leaving
Author: Jessie Blackwood
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Fandoms: Sherlock
Rating: PG
Note: These are a series of ficlets, short fiction pieces (I hesitate to call them drabbles because I think they're too long, despite the loose definition being 500 words), inspired by one-word prompts from my followers on Tumblr, because I wanted to celebrate passing the 50 follower mark.
Over the last two years since losing my best friend and soulmate, Heather, everyone on Tumblr, particularly the Mystrade crew, have quite honestly saved my life and my sanity. So thanks, guys. These little one-shots are prompted by all of you and are my thank you. I hope you enjoy.
Note2: I guess this is a song fic, in its way. I’ve always loved Coldplay (even though it’s not cool to like Coldplay…) and particularly ‘Life in Technicolour’. I wondered what Greg will do now, post Season 4. Continue on until retirement? Have a mid-life crisis? Eventually get together with Mycroft? This song has always spoken to me about new beginnings, about starting over. So when I got the prompt ‘leaving’ from a friend, I thought...why not. This is a little bittersweet, so allow your imagination to fill the ending in...
Summary: Greg has retired and is moving north, and Mycroft realises a little too late what he might be losing.

***

There's a wild wind blowing

Down the corner of my street

Every night there the headlights are glowing

There's a cold war coming

On the radio I heard

Baby, it's a violent world…

Coldplay, Life in Technicolour

Greg Lestrade slammed the boot shut on his car and glanced down the road. Quiet, as usual. Nobody even looking out their windows. Nobody to see him off either. Not like he hadn’t dropped the hint many, many times over the last month or two. Early retirement while he could still enjoy life, a generous severance package, the house sale. He was finally ready to go. No word from anyone, not John, not Sherlock, not even Mycroft… Greg sighed, and went back up to the house for a final look around. He went in, did a final check of the rooms, making sure that nothing had been missed, but it was a futile exercise. The place was clean. A new family would be moving in in a few days time. The empty rooms held nothing for him; no meaning, no connection, no tug on his heart. He had made no memories here. It was like he had been adrift since the divorce. Nowhere had felt enough like a home.

Oh, love, don't let me go. Won't you take me where the street lights glow

He locked the door, and slipped the keys into an envelope for dropping off with the estate agent on the high street. One final look around and he got into the car. All his furniture had already been shipped, all he had in the car was his overnight and a suitcase. He was making a clean break, going north to be closer to his sister and her family. He had spent a few years in Manchester, a transfer in the nineties, before returning to London after the Millenium. He was heading back up north, this time to Harrogate, a nice quiet town compared to London and Manchester. He’d found himself a nice 1930s house with a good garden on a back way that was relatively quiet. Two bedrooms, a newly fitted out wetroom, a very nice kitchen, and a nice view over the golf course to the rear. But what are you going to do, a small voice kept asking. Write a book, perhaps. Learn something new. Volunteer in Victim Support, maybe. With his experience, he could even join a security firm.

Time came a-creeping, Oh and time's a loaded gun. Every road is a ray of light

He dropped off the keys with the estate agent, and then pulled the car out into midmorning London traffic. For the last time, he thought. He would call by Baker Street one more time, say goodbye to them all. He was a bit miffed if truth be known. He had expected more. Folk just seemed to accept his decision, there was no mention of trying to make him stay, no protests, nothing. Was I so shit at this that nobody wants me to stay?

221b was quiet. “They’re out, love.” Mrs Hudson answered the door at his knock. The knocker was still skewed sideways. “Taking Rosie for a walk. Shouldn’t be too long…”

“No, it’s...okay. I’ve really got to get a move on. Got a long way to go.”

It goes on and on and on and on. Time only can lead you on

“Where you going, dear?”

“Sherlock not tell you? I’ve retired. Going north to be nearer my sister and her family. It’ll be nice…” It’ll be abominable, Lestrade...Why his inner voice had to sound like Sherlock, God alone knew. He smiled, stiffly, and moved back. “I guess I should…” he gestured to the car.

“Very well, dear. I’ll tell them you called.” And that was that, was it? No word, no text, nothing. Greg crossed the pavement quickly and got in his car, started the engine, pulled away from the kerb, leaving Baker Street for perhaps the last time.

Oh, love, don't let me go

Greg drove north, leaving his old life behind…

Won't you take me where the street lights glow

We might have had something, he thought, dispiritedly. If you weren’t a Holmes. God knows, your parents have a lot to answer for…

I can hear it coming, Like a serenade of sound

Blue lights in his mirror actually made him smile. Familiar, understandable. He pulled in to allow the car to pass but was a bit startled when it pulled in front of him and stopped. He sat there as two officers got out and came to the window. Rolling it down, Greg addressed the man approaching him.

“Everything alright there?”

“Are you Mr Greg Lestrade?”

“Yes…”

“Would you exit your car, sir, please?”

“What’s wrong?”

“If you would come sit in the car with me, sir?”

“What? What am I supposed to have done?”

“Just come with me, sir.”

“Hang on…” Greg stayed in his car. “This is a wind up, isn’t it? Who put you up to this, Sally? Dimmock? Come on, this is daft…”

“Mr Lestrade, sir, I need you to come sit with me in the car. Now, please.” The man’s voice hardened. He was serious?

“You’re being serious? What the fu…” Greg sighed and got out of the car before things began to escalate, and dutifully sat in the back of the patrol car. One of the men was on the radio.

“We have him,” Greg heard him say but the crackled response, despite sounding like an affirmative, couldn’t be made out.

“Right, lads, read me my rights, tell me what I’ve done or let me go. I’m not long retired from being a DCI, and I know my rights…”

The men stayed silent. The doors were locked. Greg knew he had no escape route. He got out his phone and texted John, because John Watson was the more responsible of the two. He then called his solicitor, and left a voicemail.

“Would you mind telling me what’s going on here?”

A black car drew up and pulled in behind them. One of the men got out and walked over to it. In the wing mirror, Greg watched as the copper returned, opened his door, and asked Greg to accompany him.

“No,” Greg said firmly. “I know this is highly irregular, and I am going nowhere. Now, either you tell me what is going on or I am going to call someone this instant and have you put on report…” His phone pinged. He glanced at it.

Please do as they say. MH

“What the Holy Fuck is going on?” Greg snapped, getting out and slamming the door. He stalked to the black car. “Mycroft Bloody Holmes, what the Fuck is all this about?”

“It was the only way I could think to stop you,” Mycroft admitted. They were sitting on a park bench, coffees in hand, the police car making sure Greg’s Audi was not going to be clamped for parking on double yellows beside the park they were sitting in.

“Why on earth would you want to stop me. This is making me horrendously late, Mycroft.”

“I…” For once, Mycroft was lost for words. The man looked completely lost, in point of fact.

“Yes?” Greg prompted.

“I don’t...want you to go…” This was delivered in a voice barely there, it was so quiet.

“Didn’t quite catch that.”

“I said I do not want you to leave…”

“Okay, why not? Why the fuck could you not have said something ages ago when I was contemplating early retirement? You leave it right to the last minute...All my furniture’s gone north. I don’t have a bed to sleep on…”

“I could remedy that…and I could have your goods redirected.”

“Mycroft, I’ve bought a house! I’m moving to be nearer my sister and her kids. They’re waiting for me. This was planned six months ago...I’ll be...”

“Alone.”

“What?”

“You will be alone there…”

“Yeah, probably, but it takes time to make friends. There’s a good pub…”

“Gregory…”

“Mycroft, what, for the Gods’ own sakes, what are you trying to say?”

“I don’t want to lose you…”

“Well, where were you when I was organising this? Didn’t hear any objection then. Everybody has been very bloody enthusiastic for me to fuck off. Nobody to see me off, nobody bothered at work…”

“Your colleagues took you for a farewell drink…”

“Not even a whip-round to get me a leaving present. I must have been a shite copper…”

“That isn’t true.”

“What would you know?” There was silence for a moment.

“I do know,” Mycroft said. “You have put up with my brother’s antics for too long, with patience and compassion. You have been through much...with no remuneration.”

“Yeah, well, you do stuff because it’s right, don't you?”

“Gregory...I would very much like to take you to dinner…”

“Then what?”

“I...I would...like to see if...if we could make a go of our...relationship…” For a moment, Greg was tempted to say what relationship, but Mycroft was at that moment looking like a kicked puppy, and it would not have been fair.

“Mycroft...Christ, you Holmeses. Did Sherlock know you were going to do this? Is that why he was conveniently out when I called?”

“I have no idea. I...I have been stricken with indecision for weeks and my assistant...she advised I do something before it was too late.”

“An eleventh hour declaration of intent?”

“Possibly…”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. Look, Mycroft, this is...ridiculous. We’re grown men. You could have called me, any time. You could have….”

“Alas, I have been out of the country for the last month, and returned only yesterday to be faced with news that you were about to leave...I...I panicked. I did the only thing I could think of, and had you tracked down by the local constabulary…” “And treated like a criminal, thanks for that. You could have told them to tell me what was going on.”

“I have made an almighty mess of this, haven’t I?”

“Yes, but then…” Greg huffed a laugh. “I dare say I couldn’t expect anything more. Not from you. You and your brother have a flair for the dramatic. Look, Mycroft, this is silly. Sis is expecting me, and I am late. I should be going.”

“You really mean it, then? No is no.”

“For now. Look, I have a house waiting for me, and people who want me there. A family to visit. Let me go, let me find out what it’s like not to have to get up in the morning, to have a place that’s mine to grow some memories in, and keep in touch. Come visit. You could...make some of those memories with me?”

“I could?”

“Perhaps we could…holiday together…? See where we go. How would that be?”

“Less than I hoped for, but more than I deserve, I suppose.” Greg smiled.

Gravity, release me

They walked back to Greg’s car.

“Escort the inspector to the M1 if you will,” Mycroft instructed the two policemen. “All haste, blues and twos. He has somewhere to be and I have delayed him enormously.” Mycroft turned to Greg. “I presume your Audi can keep up.”

Greg nodded. “You’re giving me a police escort?” He grinned.

“Just to make up for your lost time. It’s the least I can do.”

“You Holmeses.”

And don't ever hold me down

Greg took a moment to study the man before they parted. Mycroft looked defeated, unsure, wrongfooted.

“Mycroft, come visit me. Dinner at mine, next Friday. How about it? Call it my housewarming.”

“You assume I will be free next Friday.”

“Oh, you’ll be free. If this means anything to you at all, you’ll make time. And don’t tell me you can’t commandeer a helicopter or something to bring you north. Get that lovely assistant to cover you and shift your appointments.”

“What time...and I do not have your address?”

“Let’s say seven? And I’m in Harrogate, nice little spa town in Yorkshire. A world away from here. I have a rather nice little 1930s place on a street called Oakdale. I’ll text you the address if you give me your phone number…?” Wordlessly, Mycroft handed over his phone and Greg transferred his number to it, sending himself a text so he could add it to his contact list. “There, I expect you for the weekend, so bring your overnight bag.”

“I shall bring wine, and a plant. Is that not traditional in the case of housewarmings?”

Greg laughed, and grabbed the man into a hug. For good measure, he planted a kiss on Mycroft’s lips, which grew a little heated, a promise of things to come perhaps. He almost had to drag himself away, letting Mycroft go reluctantly.

“Drive safely,” Mycroft ordered, trying to frown, but Greg laughed again and slid behind the wheel, turning on the ignition and checking his mirrors.

Mycroft watched the police car pull out and switch its lights on. Greg pulled out after it, just as the siren’s wail split the air. He walked to his own car, watching the lights into the distance. Next Friday, he thought, come Hell or High Water, World War Three or the prorogation of parliament, he would be in a 1930s house in Harrogate, sipping tea with the man he narrowly lost. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Now my feet won't touch the ground….

***