Title: Knight at the Museum
Author: Jessie Blackwood
Pairing: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Fandoms: Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are not my characters, they are public domain. Anything that resembles Sherlock BBC belongs of course to Mr Moffat and Mr Gatiss and is theirs alone. The plot is mine. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is otherwise purely coincidental.
Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Note: Welcome to my new AU, thank you for reading. I have edited, changed names, done a little more plot work, so hopefully this may be better...
I hadn’t named the town they live in but from now it’s called Ashton Parva. In English place names Parva is from the latin and translates as lesser, as Magna is greater. They tend to indicate early medieval. It is not intended to be a real place, just a decent-sized town somewhere within an hour’s commute of London.
For those of you from different shores, Ofsted is our regulatory body that makes sure all our schools and educational establishments are delivering the correct level of educational content, adhering to our National Curriculum and also regulating the standard of care for children. If a school is not performing well, a new Head can be appointed to oversee changes, and bring standards up. Head teachers in the UK are not just administrators. Some of them elect to teach regular classes, although some prefer to step in as the need arises, as emergency cover for instance. And on a side note, we do not get snow days here. If schools close in winter or for any reason, they close, and our holidays are not eroded as a result. I find that really strange... So sue me, I'm a Brit... ;)
Just so you know, Mycroft is in his early thirties in this AU and Greg is early forties, Sherlock (when he appears) is in his twenties. I've worked in and visited many museums in the UK, and this one came to mind after a rather gorgeous guy visited my workspace and I did a double take, because damn he looked so like Rupert Graves it was a sin. So to the guy with gorgeous brown eyes and silvering hair and a grin that should have had all the ladies (and men too) swooning at your feet, this is my tribute. You and Rupert are my muses...
Summary: Mycroft is the newly appointed and youngest Director of The Sherinford, a prestigious museum somewhere in England. Greg is a newly qualified teacher, with a tragic past and a change of career.

***

Chapter 1: Those Who Can, Teach.

Mycroft swept a hand out in front of him, encompassing the dimly lit gallery surrounding himself and his guest. “As you can see, Mr Smith, our collections of Bronze Age artifacts are quite extensive. I am sure you will find ample material for your PhD. If there is anything in our stores that you may wish to study also, then do not hesitate to contact my curatorial team. They shall be only too happy to help.”

His guest simpered a little. Mycroft instinctively detested him. “You are too kind, Director Holmes. This is exceptional, really. I am more than looking forward to furthering my studies here.” He was a man of middle years, somewhat stereotypically professorial (tweeds and brogues) as well as being (in Mycroft’s opinion) overly camp and Mycroft was somehow uncharacteristically disappointed as well as mildly disgusted. “May one ask,” the man was saying, “how are you settling in? The University was very sad to hear of Jonathan’s...retirement.” Jonathan Gilroy, Mycroft’s predecessor, had retired due to ill-health. He had been diagnosed with early-onset dementia, and although he had been an innovative and charming man, his latter years had seen a definite lack of direction and a relaxing of the rules at The Sherrinford. “I do hope the staff have been helpful…”

“Oh yes, they were very welcoming,” Mycroft assured, wanting to wind up this meeting and escape to the safety of his office. “Anthea, my PA, has been very accommodating.”

“Oh good, that’s...very good,” the man cooed. “Well, should you need help with settling in, you know, if you need pointers to a good pub or restaurant, please think of me as a friend you can turn to…”

“Thank you.” Mycroft cringed inwardly. “Most generous of you. Now, if you’ll forgive me,” he checked his watch, “I have a video conference with the V&A that I really must attend. Good luck with your studies.” He turned his back and strode off with a mental shudder. Did that man really just try to come on to me? It might have been a friendly offer but… Mycroft suppressed another shudder. Not his type at all.

He had only recently taken up his position of Director at The Sherrinford Museum after having been head-hunted from a more junior role in the British Museum. Director of The Sherrinford was a prestigious position on his way up the curatorial ladder and so far Mycroft was content. At 35 he was the youngest Director in the Museum’s history and he was aiming to make his mark upon it. It was everything a traditional museum should be; a place of tranquility, of academia, with a reputation for excellence. Its collections were of international renown and a source of national pride.

Not everything on the horizon was so serene however. Gilroy’s complete lack of leadership in the last couple of years had taken its toll. The staff were helpful and appeared competent but had suffered from a severe lack of discipline and a haphazard approach to just about everything. Mycroft was there to make changes, and while the staff had at first been eager to meet their new boss it quickly became apparent that he was not there to make friends. Indeed, Mycroft had done his best to implement new rules and changes that not all the staff were happy about.

He paused in the central atrium, trying to bring back his equilibrium before returning to work. The building was truly magnificent, the glass dome above allowing light into the area, showing off the Gothic arches in the stonework and the mock-medieval tiles on the floor, colours almost as bright as they had been over a century and a half ago. The sweeping staircases behind the main desk lead into the deeper recesses of the galleries that contained everything from Maori war clubs to Mary Quant dresses. It was a museum that owned First World War uniforms, Bernard Leach pottery, Scandinavian glass from the 1950s and shrunken heads from the Shuar people of Peru. Its Bronze Age pottery was among the best in the world and they hosted a coin hoard from the Viking era found less than twenty miles east. It was a museum to be proud of, but it badly needed bringing into the 21st century.

Mycroft was very aware that he was making a few enemies on the staff. Philip Anderson, head of the Conservation team, had more than once been less than professional concerning the speed with which the changes were being implemented, not to mention being very vocal concerning the “draconian rules” that were being “forced on them,” in his opinion. Mycroft kept a weather eye open for any more dissension from that quarter. Anderson was not alone in his thinking either. Sally Donovan was curator of 20th Century History and she was more subtle but just as obstructive in her own way. Thankfully, Anthea Mallory, his PA, was frankly amazing and worth her weight in gold. It was she who had almost single-handedly facilitated his transition as Director as smoothly as possible. He owed her a bonus.

At least Mike Stamford and John Watson seemed to be on his side. Mike was a zoologist who handled the collections of flora and fauna, and John was a doctor and anthropologist who cared for the human remains. They were far more disciplined (John was an ex-soldier) than some of their colleagues and their department was the most organised. They had also not objected to any of his new rules so far.

Mrs Hudson was also seemingly on his side. As both catering and shop manager, she ruled the cafe and museum shop with an iron hand. She took no nonsense from anyone, not even him and Mycroft was happy to leave it that way. Her record was consistently high where the profits were concerned, and Mycroft could see no changes that he could make would improve on her obviously masterful management of one of their main sources of funding.

He knew Anderson did not like his proposal that the conservation team take profitable work from outside sources, thereby gaining much needed revenue. He argued it would be too much work for a department already stressed to breaking. Mycroft’s answer was to consider the possibility of taking on more staff. Anderson had positively bristled.

Mycroft’s revery was broken by the noisy arrival of a group of children through the main doors, scattering rain water everywhere and chattering excitedly. He sighed. Children meant disruption, although education was a large part of their remit. No museum could avoid their work as an educational establishment. Wiggins, on the ball as always, wandered over in their wake armed with a mop and bucket and a 'wet floor' sign. As Cleaning Services Supervisor he was resigned to the endless round of tidying up after visitors.

Mycroft allowed his eyes to wander over the group, currently mustering near the entrance to the classroom that was situated close to the main doors. All told, not badly behaved. Not too loud either. Excited, yes, as most children are when let out of school for a day, but not overly disruptive. A pleasant surprise really. Mycroft’s gaze alighted on one of the adults accompanying the group, a tall man with silvering hair, his voice ringing out with authority. Not a parent helper then. This was most likely the teacher in charge. Mycroft was arrested by the man’s eyes as he turned to glance toward the main desk. They were warm and dark, and he was a deal younger than he appeared at first glance. His smile was wide and cheerful, and it lit his face. There was an obviously boyish charm there. This one was a rogue and no mistake.

“Greg!” Mrs Hudson’s cry was surprised and warm and Mycroft watched transfixed as she bustled over from the shop and took the man in a hug as though he was a long lost son.

“Mrs H. How are you?” The man’s reply was equally warm.

“Fine, dear, fine. Look at you, all qualified. How are things?”

“Really good, Mrs H, thank you. Things are going great.”

“Really though, how are you?” her voice lowered to a pitch Mycroft could not hear and Greg’s smile changed. He didn’t quite lose the smile but gave a philosophical shrug and nodded, murmuring something which appeared positive but there was a brave attempt to cover his obvious pain. Mycroft was intrigued. He watched Mrs Hudson pat Greg on his arm as a mother might, with sympathy and reassurance. The man had undergone some recent trial then? A trial Mrs Hudson knew about and obviously sympathised with. She was definitely on his side.

Mycroft shook himself. This would never do. He turned to go upstairs to his office but his feet would not move. It was rare that one got to see someone who ticked all the boxes on one’s list of attractiveness in a potential partner but Mycroft was seeing that someone now. The man was gorgeous. Everything about his cast of features, his strong jawline, frankly beautiful smile, lovely eyes and broad shouldered frame, met with Mycroft’s approval and he could not take his eyes from the man. Mrs Hudson finally let him go with assurances to keep in touch and he walked over to the main desk, passing right by Mycroft as he did so. Mycroft inhaled, smelling rain, a clean hint of coal tar soap, the woodsy fragrance of aftershave and a whiff of cigarettes. He watched as the man, Greg, signed the paperwork for the school’s visit that Janine, one of the Front of House staff, handed over to him, then went in search of his class. The classroom door shut with a thud and Mycroft blinked, the spell broken.

“Mr Holmes?” Drat the woman. She would most likely have spotted his moment of weakness…

“Mrs Hudson.” Smile and look as though she is the one person you wanted to see.

“Can we help you this morning?” the good lady inquired.

“No, thank you. I was just coming from a meeting. We have a PhD student studying our Bronze Age pottery, he’ll be a familiar face for a while. Mr Culverton Smith, he's a lecturer at the University.”

“Oh, him…”

“You know him?”

“I certainly do. He comes almost every year. You wouldn’t know, being new here, but he’s not a PhD student, not really. Oh he does study, and he is a lecturer, but he’s just not PhD material. He’s changed his subject so many times… I think he just wants to work in a museum. Whenever a job comes up here he'll always go in for it but Jonathan would never employ him. Jon always said he wasn’t Sherrinford material. Enthusiastic but not a team player, if you get my drift. He’s camp as they come. Harmless, really, but Jonathan never wanted him around. Had a bit of a chip on his shoulder there. Doesn’t help that the man is a flirt, he's been known to chat up everyone even remotely gay and even some who aren’t…”

“He offered to help settle me in. Advice on good pubs and such.”

Mrs Hudson giggled. “That wouldn’t be all he would offer, I should think.” She patted his arm reassuringly, almost the same way she had patted Greg’s arm. “Don’t you worry, dear. Nobody cares what your orientation is, they only mind about keeping their jobs.”

“That’s...well…” He hadn’t been aware it was that obvious.

“Mr Holmes, you are welcome here, you know that? Don’t worry about the dissenters. They’ll come around. Nobody hates you, not really. You’re a new broom. It scares people.”

“I am trying to be...accommodating, but there is a job to be done.”

“Oh, I know that, dear. You keep doing it. Things are already better here than they have been for years. People are feeling much more positive about things already, even if they don’t show it.”

Mycroft allowed a small smile to grace his lips. It made him feel immeasurably better to hear her words, even if they were small comfort in the grand scheme of things.

“If it’s of any comfort, Mrs Hudson, you are doing your own sterling job. I have no plans to meddle with your domain or position for the foreseeable future.”

“Thank you, dear,” she said with a broad smile. “Glad we understand each other.”

“Mrs Hudson...Who was that man you greeted just now?”

If anything her smile faltered a little. “Greg? He’s a teacher in town. Sherrinford Primary I think.”

“May I ask how you know him?”

“Oh, I’ve known Greg since he was a lad. He was born here. His mum and I worked at the sweet factory on the edge of town. His dad died when he was quite young. He was a policeman, got shot in the line of duty. Greg idolized his dad, so much so, he joined the police as soon as he was old enough. He’s been in the London Met for years. It’s very sad really.” Her voice faded.

“Sad? What happened?”

“His wife died a few years ago. She was giving birth to their son. Pre-eclampsia apparently. In minutes he’d lost his entire family.”

“That’s...terrible.” That someone so beautiful could suffer so much, it left Mycroft feeling slightly sick.

“Very.” She sniffed. “He had a mental breakdown and had to leave the police. Couldn’t take the stress any more. He left London and came home here. He changed career and qualified as a teacher recently. He looks so much better…”

“It’s good to see he’s on his feet again.”

“It is.” She smiled. “Greg is...lovely, really. So strong too. He’d have made such a good father. I guess he’s decided to help other kids now, though. He’s a great teacher by all counts too. My neighbour, Mrs Taylor, her grandkids are in his class.”

“That’s good to hear, that someone who has suffered such tragedy can rise above it, change his stars, and make a new life.”

“Greg’s a rare one, and no mistake.” She gave him the side eye and smiled, a touch too knowingly. “You like him, I can tell.”

“He’s a very...striking man to look at. However…” He was not going to tell her that the man’s gentle brown eyes had burned themselves into his memory, and the sound of his voice would haunt Mycroft’s dreams for a while… Mycroft straightened his back and checked his watch again. This was all getting far too informal. “I must get back to work. I’ve wasted too much time as it is.”

“Greg Lestrade.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s his name, Gregory Lestrade.”

Mycroft blinked. Why on earth would Mrs Hudson tell me that? Unless… He glanced at her. “Mrs Hudson, I hardly think…”

“Good. Too much thinking is bad for you.” She smiled and walked back into the shop. Mycroft frowned. Janine was doing her best not to smile and to ignore the exchange and get on with answering the question a couple of visitors had asked. Mycroft took himself back to his office, trying not to listen to the voice in his head that was repeating the man’s name over and over…

Gregory Lestrade, Gregory Lestrade, Gregory Lestrade….

***

Chapter 2: Making an Exhibition of Oneself

“Alright, everybody, settle down.” Greg Lestrade walked to the front of the Museum’s classroom and stood next to the Museum’s Education Officer. “This is Miss Hooper. Miss Hooper is going to tell us a little about the museum today and then we’re going to split into your groups and go exploring. You’ll have tasks to do with your Group Leader, so listen carefully to everything Miss Hooper tells you. Yes, Billy?” Greg responded to a skinny arm from a small boy who sported a shock of red hair.

“Please, Sir, I need the loo!”

Greg sighed and rolled his eyes. “Mrs Fenwick, could you please…?” A motherly woman was already rising to her feet as he spoke. She made her way between the children’s seats, extracted the small boy from among his peers and deftly maneuvered him out of the room.

“Right then, everybody else can wait. We shall visit the loos properly after Miss Hooper has spoken to us. Right, over to you, Miss Hooper.”

“Thank you, Mr Lestrade. Right, children, welcome to The Sherrinford…” Greg took a back seat as she launched off into how old the museum was (built in 1889), where the objects in the collections had come from (all over the world) and who had built the place (the Ashton Parva Philosophical Society). Molly Hooper was succinct, and fun, asking questions, keeping the kids engaged, using both weird and mundane things from the collections to illustrate her lesson. Greg found himself sitting just as still and as absorbed by her tale as the kids were when she was telling them about the eccentric Jebediah Winstanley Montmorency Sherrinford. “Jebediah was more than a little obsessed with the things he collected,” Molly explained. “He began collecting things when he was a young man in India during the days of the British Empire, way back in the reign of Queen Victoria.” She explained that his family still lived locally, but he sadly ended his days in the local asylum, dying in poverty in his early sixties after gifting his eclectic collection to the Philosophical Society some years before.

“Okay, so, any questions? Yes?” she said as one skinny girl with green eyes raised a hand.

“You said his name was Sherrinford?”

“I did, yes.”

“That’s what our school is called.”

“Ah yes, Sherrinford Primary. Well, Jeremiah Sherrinford’s descendents still live in this area. Your school was started with money another member of the family put into trust to provide an education for the children of Ashton Parva, so they named the school after him.”

“Why?”

“Well, to honour him and thank him for the gift.”

“What’s a trust?”

“Rebecca, put your hand up if you want to ask a question,” Greg instructed gruffly. He wasn’t about to let his class get away with being rude and shouting out. He caught Molly’s gaze and she rolled her eyes again. He allowed himself a small smile in return.

Molly spent spent a few more minutes answering questions, but the session had gone quickly and they were soon sorted back into their individual groups and were hurrying to visit the toilets before beginning their trek into the depths of the museum. Now came the part where they were off to hunt for the things Molly had been telling them about.

Greg surveyed his small group (the most challenging kids) and began getting them focused on their task. “Right, Harry,” he said to a tall blond boy with blue eyes, a winning smile and a tendency to lie through his teeth. “You’re team leader. You can write the answers down. The rest of you, get looking…”

“SIR! Tell Dave to stop pulling my ponytail…” Maria whined.

“I never…” Dave began but Greg cut him off.

“Shut up, Maria…” Stephen began.

“Stop it, all of you! Right now,” Greg ordered. “Nobody pulls anybody else’s hair, clothing or anything else within reach. Nor do we shout, scream, jump up and down or roll on the floor. We have had this conversation at school, have we not? So IS all that understood? If you don’t behave I shall make sure the people responsible miss the summer trip to the seaside.”

“Sir…”

“Aw, no, Sir…”

“Sir, we never did nuffin…”

“Right, let’s keep it that way, shall we? Harry, first question please.”

Mycroft waded through the overstuffed inbox on his desk and then his other overstuffed inbox on his computer. It was interminable. If it hadn’t been for his awaiting the results of grant applications and requests to borrow certain items from other museums, he would have let his PA deal with his post. As it was, it dragged on for a long time, despite being able to hand certain things off the different departments including the Exhibition Officer. He finally rose from his chair and stretched, a grunt of discomfort escaping as he did so. He let his mind drift back to the handsome teacher. What was his name? Greg with the slightly French-sounding surname. Yes, that was it. Gregory Lestrade. He really did look more like a policeman than a teacher. No surprise for someone who had so drastically altered their career path. Mycroft smiled a little wistfully. The man was single, widowed, and there was no reason to suppose that he would ever be open to a relationship with a man, even if the improbable happened and Mycroft actually got to speak to him. He chuckled at the absurdity of it.

“Holmes, you are getting fanciful in your old age,” he muttered, and walked out the door. He wanted to see how the technicians were progressing on the new gallery. It was a good excuse to stretch his legs. As he passed her desk on the way out, he asked Anthea to field his calls until he got back, then he took the stairs down to the first floor.

“Morning, Mr Holmes.” Anderson said a touch stuffily as Mycroft passed through one the anthropology galleries. Mycroft saw he was engaged in checking the readings on the humidity monitors in the cases containing the shrunken heads. Mycroft was about to reply when there was a squeal in close proximity that had Mycroft gritting his teeth. He fancied the sound should have shattered the glass in the cabinets. A group of small girls had obviously seen the heads.

“Are those REAL?” one squeaked, dashing up to look. She was followed by four more who crowded in, nearly elbowing Anderson aside.

“Dianne Brown, be quiet! Kindly remember where you are,” their teacher murmured in a low but forceful voice. She was small, blonde and dressed in military-style combat jacket and jeans, hiking boots on her feet. She looked ready for anything and certainly not about to take prisoners.

“Sorry, Miss Morstan,” the girl called Dianne replied, subdued. “But are they real? Really?” Miss Morstan peered into the case and nodded. “Yup, they’re real,” she confirmed, and flashed a grin at the girls before shepherding them on. Mycroft only nodded to Anderson who was looking rather disgusted at the invasion. Mycroft gave the children a wide berth, heading down the stairs to the ground floor.

On his way through the local history galleries, he could hear another group of children before he saw them. They were gathered around the Viking exhibit, pointing excitedly at the axes and the excellent example of a sword that had been found in the local river more than fifty years ago. It was his group. Mycroft stopped and took a step back, behind a convenient pillar. Lestrade’s voice carried in the relative quiet of the gallery, not a booming voice, just a resonant one, easily projected to make the children take notice. It would make most people take notice, Mycroft considered. He peered around the pillar carefully, wanting to catch a glimpse without being noticed. He tried to act nonchalantly, as if he was meant to be there, taking an interest in the contents of a convenient case. He rolled his eyes at his own absurdity. If the Director of the museum was not meant to be there, who was? He caught sight of the man as he pointed out the group of mannequins dressed in Viking attire and Mycroft clearly heard him say “You see, there were no horns on Viking Helmets.”

Mycroft found himself puffing up with pride at the man’s knowledge, a small smile curving his lips. There were still teachers out there who did not know that bit of information. Greg carried on, “Archaeologists have only found one helmet that they know absolutely is a Viking one, and not many others from that time. Metal was very expensive…”

“Why, sir?”

“Not easy to get out of the ground, and not easy to work into something. Took a lot of skill to be a metalworker in those days. We are talking over a thousand years ago, Stephen. Their technology wasn’t as good as ours by a long way. Here, you can see some of the tools they used…”

Mycroft peered around his pillar, and saw a vision. Greg had stopped under one of the carefully angled spotlights in the gallery as he pointed the Viking tools out to the children. The light caught his salt and pepper hair turning it silver. Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat. The man was a veritable Adonis. Greg turned suddenly and Mycroft darted back out of sight, heart pounding. What on earth am I doing? Mycroft mentally slapped himself. I am acting like a lovestruck teenager rather than the Director of a noted museum.

“Sir…? There’s a man watching us.”

“What? Where?”

“Behind that pillar, sir…”

Mycroft’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest. Damn that child’s sharp eyes! Momentarily thrown, he had no idea what to do. He considered bolting for safety but caught himself. Stupid! There was no need for such wild behaviour… Carefully, he pivoted and bent to examine the case beside him. He heard footsteps and resisted turning round.

“Excuse me,” Greg said behind him.

“Pardon me?” Mycroft turned. “Were you talking to me?”

Greg found himself tongue tied by the man he found on the other side of the pillar, kneeling beside the case of early medieval coins. Firstly Greg was a bit startled to find that his class hadn't been lying when they said they'd seen someone there. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, the man was very good looking. He was very smartly dressed; a tweed three piece, complete with full Windsor knot on the burgundy tie and a matching square peeking neatly out of his top pocket. His hair was a dark auburn, coppery highlights glinting in the lights. He was also taller than Greg, as was evident when the man rose smoothly to his feet. He was slim too, a lean frame under the suit. Greg suddenly had no idea what to say. The man was gorgeous, despite a somewhat hawk-like nose which he was currently staring down. His eyes were grey leaning to blue and his expression, though a little supercilious, was expectant as they stood there. Greg realized it was the man who had been standing by the admissions desk when he had arrived with his class, the same man he had seen Mrs Hudson talking to as he had been waiting for his class to file into the museum's education room to begin their day. Mrs Hudson had been chatting quite amicably to the man, as though she knew him well, so it was unlikely he was much of a threat. Mrs Hudson was very discerning where people were concerned. The two of them had appeared at ease with each other. Greg had decided the man probably worked at the museum. He definitely had the appearance of a curator. Now here he was again, and Greg, wrong-footed, had no idea what to say to him.

Mycroft deliberately stayed silent and waited to see what the man would say to him. He could see the man’s brain working, trying to decide if he was a potential threat to the safety of the children under his care. First and foremost the man was a protector, his whole demeanor putting himself between this unknown threat and those for whom he was in loco parentis, whether a conscious decision or not. After all, this man had begun his career as a policeman, an observant member of Her Majesty’s Constabulary. Once a policeman, always a policeman, Mycroft thought. Good instincts for being in his current profession.

“Can I help you?” The words seemed to shake the man out of whatever had frozen him and he blinked, uncertain.

“I...well, I was just...um...checking. One of my kids...my class...they thought someone was watching them. I was just…”

“Being careful,” Mycroft supplied. He smiled. “Of course you were. You have the safety of your class at heart, it’s not a surprise. I take no offence at that. Children are somewhat fanciful though. I’m afraid someone reported to me that the coins in one of the cases were showing signs of tarnish, so I was simply wanting to follow that up and was not certain to which case they were referring. Your children probably saw my indecision and wondered if I was lurking suspiciously.” Mycroft comically emphasized the last two words and was gratified when Greg grinned in response. Mycroft was rather pleased with his impromptu cover story, despite the fact that there were no more cases showing coins in that particular area. He hoped Greg would remain oblivious to the fact that Mycroft’s indecision was rather spurious at best.

“Well, sorry to have bothered you," Greg said. "I’d best get back to my class before someone does anything daft. They’re not malicious really, just...well, they’re a little challenging. Rough backgrounds, some of them. They’ve not had an easy start but they do need to be guided.”

“I am sure they are secure in your care.”

“I do my best. Visits like this are very important to them. Most haven’t seen the inside of a museum before.”

“Well, I hope they appreciate your efforts.”

Greg laughed. “Doubtful,” he said. “I’m their teacher, not their friend. Can’t ignore the fact I’m the one gives them homework and makes them behave.” It was Mycroft’s turn to chuckle and Greg actually seemed to be enjoying their conversation.

“I must go,” Mycroft checked his watch. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit.”

“Thanks…”

“Oh, how rude of me. Allow me to introduce myself. Mycroft Holmes.” He stuck out his hand and found it gripped in a warm, dry and very firm handshake.

“Greg Lestrade.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, I assure you,” Greg said gently.

“Sir...Sir, Maria and Stephen are arguing…”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Gotta go,” he said, and dashed off back into the recesses of the gallery. “Oi! You lot, settle down. I will not tell you again…”

Mycroft made himself scarce, as fast as was possible while not seeming to hurry. He turned Greg’s words over and over in his head as he made his way briskly toward the back of the museum and the polythene sheeting across the entrance to one of the downstairs galleries. The pleasure is all mine. All mine. All mine… Mycroft wondered if the man had actually meant those words. Greg Lestrade did not strike Mycroft as a person who said things he did not mean.

Over the sounds of the drilling that reached his ears as he approached Mycroft could still hear Greg’s resonant voice in his memory. He sighed, pulling himself together, concentrating on the sound of muted orders being barked across the room beyond the plastic sheet. He shimmied past the rope barrier, nodding to the attendant on duty. Parting the polythene, he stepped inside, seeing wooden framework in place for the temporary stud walls and bubble-wrapped display cases gathered in the center of the room. Paint tins were stacked in one corner, sporting a range of tastefully matched muted colours. Two men were maneuvering large sheets of MDF into place, while another was fixing them into place with a nail gun, and two others were atop a large scaffolding tower, carefully painting the perimeter walls. He put all thoughts of the teacher out of his head and took in the tall form of the man approaching him across the dusty floor.

“Morning, Mycroft.”

“Terry, how are things?”

Terry Grant, the Exhibition Officer, smiled in satisfaction. “On schedule, believe it or not. We should have the stud walls complete in a couple of days, then the painting can go ahead. The UV sheeting for the windows is due to arrive tomorrow, and we can have that in place by next weekend. Mr Tench tells me the interactive screens will be delivered today.”

“I believe that is correct, yes. I got your email concerning Mr Moriarty. He is coming next Wednesday to oversee their placement and programming, is he not?”

“With luck, yes. He did say he had another job on but he’s making Sherrinford a priority.”

“He’d better, considering how much we’re paying him,” Mycroft remarked dryly. Terry smiled.

“Don’t worry, sir. Jim is okay. He’s experienced with heritage projects, he understands the requirements.”

“That’s good news. Might be a good idea to have Moran help him.”

“I’ll talk to Seb about that this afternoon. He’s out buying a new laptop for Sally at present. Hers died yesterday.”

“Just keep me posted, Terry. I have to say it’s all looking good, even though it does resemble a building site right now.”

Suddenly there was a flurry at the polythene door and a small figure hurtled inside. He was followed by the Attendant on duty who was shouting at him to come back. The boy stopped short when he saw Mycroft, and tried to bolt back the way he had come but was fielded by the Attendant and… Mycroft suddenly came face to face with Greg Lestrade once more, and this time he was looking thunderous. He also looked harassed, although a number of expressions crossed his face in quick succession as he assessed the situation in front of his eyes; relief on finding his pupil, anger that the boy had run off and embarrassment that one of his children should fail him so badly right in front of the person he had been talking to moments before.

“Stephen Wilding, you stop right there!” Greg’s roar had everyone stopping what they were doing, not just the culprit. Mycroft had a fleeting impression of how the man must have been as a policeman; commanding, used to giving orders. “How dare you, young man!” he thundered, dark eyes glowering. He turned to the men in the room and his eyes alighted on Mycroft and Terry. “I am so sorry,” he apologized. “This young man decided to disobey me and ran off. Stephen, apologize. NOW!” Greg ordered in a tone that brooked no argument. The small boy looked at the floor. “I said, now, Stephen. Will I be writing a letter home again?” The boy looked up, fearful at the quiet warning.

“S.s.sorry,” he stuttered, looking chastened.

“Good. Now apologize to this nice gentleman here who had to chase after you.” Greg stood over the child as he apologized to the red-faced attendant and then turned to Mycroft. “And apologize to these gentlemen as well, because you managed to interrupt them.”

Mycroft watched the boy squirm. Eventually a ‘sorry’ was forthcoming, albeit a very small one.

“That's quite alright,” he found himself saying. “Apology accepted, young man, but don't do it again. This area is off limits for a good reason. The builders here are using tools and equipment that could be dangerous to you, coming barging in here.” Mycroft looked at Greg and then back to the boy. “I think you owe your teacher an apology too. That was a silly thing to do and you obviously worried him.” For a moment it looked like the lad was going to rebel but eventually he said “sorry, sir,” in a small voice.

“Come on, you. We've not finished the visit yet and we're wasting time.” Greg turned to Mycroft before they left. “I hope he didn't do any damage…”

“No, no, he did not have enough time to do anything damaging.”

“Good…”

“Please do not worry yourself about the incident. Your timely arrival made sure there were no further problems.”

“Thank you… It's just…”

“I completely understand, the school does not need to hear about it.” Mycroft attempted a smile but the effect was probably not the one he was aiming for. The man looked relieved however, and offered a silently mouthed thank you as he left.

Mycroft turned back to his exhibition officer and found Terry staring at him as though he'd grown two heads.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing… It's just…not how I would have expected you to react, that's all…”

“Come now, Terry, I'm not an ogre. Children can be little buggers sometimes. It's not the teacher's fault if one disobeys now and again.”

“Not what you said last time.”

“What did I say last time?”

“It was after that kid knocked the Tang replica off its plinth. Remember? Something about it being a teacher's duty to make sure they knew what the children under their care were doing at all times.”

“And it is, but as teacher in charge I believe he has taken on the most challenging children so his helpers do not have to bear the responsibility. He can cope with being the one to screw up but he won't foist it off onto people with insufficient training to deal with such problems. Admirable, really.”

“You're doing that thing again, aren't you? That deducing thing.”

Mycroft smiled. “A little, I suppose. A lifetime of reading other people's motives does that to you. Not to mention spending a lot of time with my younger brother.”

Greg breathed a sigh of relief as he counted the last child back onto the bus. It had been a bit of a fraught day but all told he was quietly pleased with his class’ behaviour. They had come a long way since he had taken over at the beginning of the New Year. Newly qualified, he had bagged the job in his home town by recommendation from a former teacher who was on the point of retirement. The Headmistress, Irene Adler, was a career teacher who left him in no doubt that she would be taking a risk on him. She had taken over the reins of the failing school three years ago and their current Ofsted report had subsequently proved to be a good one. However, she was aiming for better. Much better. Ms Adler expected her staff to be very disciplined, and to keep the children under control. Greg's little slip that morning would not have been received well at all, had she known. Greg was relieved that Stephen hadn't damaged anything, and he was more than grateful to the man with the dark auburn hair for not pursuing a complaint. That was the last thing he needed.

Greg loved his job, but sometimes it was stressful. After the Met though, teaching was almost easy. He loved the kids, each and every one an individual whom life had treated less than well. He was gradually bringing them into line, giving them boundaries, sticking to the rules and handing out rewards based on how well they behaved. So far it seemed to be yielding results even if Ms Adler remained stubbornly unimpressed.

Greg missed his wife too. The flat was too empty and there was nobody to boss him gently around in the morning, no one to encourage him when things didn’t go well, nobody to keep going for, no one to eat dinner with or go to sleep alongside. Eleanor had been a wonderful woman, his rock and his encouragement, his friend. He tried not to think of her. Their baby would have been three this year. He watched the kids on the bus settle down with their friends, raise their voices in some schoolyard song, and share sweets, and take selfies… He should have been looking forward to his own children starting school. Instead he was overseeing other people’s kids stumbling through their latter years of primary school, trying to sort them out into decent human beings before they moved on to Secondary level.

Greg thoughts turned to Mycroft again, gratified to have actually met the man, even though he seemed aloof in an academic kind of way. He was unmarried, no kids, but possessed an annoying younger brother (Greg could identify with that though). Mrs Hudson had been more than eager to supply him with the details. She had also informed him that Mr Holmes was gay, which was a surprise. He didn’t broadcast the fact and Greg wondered if he was still closeted. He himself jumped both ways, as the fancy took him. He had been married to Eleanor for nearly eight years, but if his relationship with Nick in uni hadn’t gone wrong, it could have been a very different tale.

Greg was quiet on the bus back to school, contemplative, a little bit melancholy. He could hear Eleanor’s voice in his head; Don’t be daft, Greggybear, he’s gorgeous, and you know it, so go for it.

Don’t be daft yourself, he thought. I’m not ready….

“Sir? Sir? Frankie’s been sick…”

Greg sighed and levered himself out of his seat, grabbing the bucket full of emergency supplies as he did so. Back to reality, he thought, making his way to the back of the bus to rescue Frankie, armed with sick bags, hand wipes and a resigned expression.

Ah, the joys of being a teacher...

***

Chapter 3: Turn Left

Greg watched the last child off the bus and back into her parents’ care, thanked the driver and then strode into the school to collect his briefcase and paperwork. He smiled. There was marginally less paperwork than in the Met but not by much. He opened the classroom door just as his name rang out from the end of the corridor. He froze, his back to her, and rolled his eyes in exasperation. He pivoted to face her, plastering a genial smile on his face as he did so.

“Ms Adler, what can I do for you?” he asked as she bore down on him, patent heels clicking on the parquet. She was wearing one of her signature figure-hugging dresses, the red fabric as pristine as though she had just put it on. After a full day at school, that was no mean feat. Although Ms Adler did not teach as a rule. She took her administrative duties seriously.

“Mr Lestrade, did the trip go well?”

Greg opened his door and stood back to allow her inside and she swept by him, leaving a whiff of expensive but subtle perfume in her wake. Everything about her was immaculate as always, designed to intimidate.

“Yes, it did, thank you,” he said in answer to her question. “I think the kids got a lot of very valuable lessons out of it.”

“It's to be hoped so, considering what it cost. I see you've put in for two more out-of-school visits this year as well. I am not sure that taking your class is such a good idea. Your children can be quite...disruptive. I’m of the opinion that it was the fault of your class that your predecessor left. They’re far too wild…”

“Were too wild, Ms Adler. I like to think they’ve improved somewhat since I took over.” She eyed him in silence for a moment. Greg met her gaze with his own.

“Yes, well, it is well to remember the hire of a bus is not cheap. ”

“Oh, I think you'll find the benefits outweigh the negatives.” Greg smiled, trying not to grit his teeth.

“Hm. Let me be the judge of that,” she said acerbically. “I still think such opportunities are wasted on children like that.”

“Children like what?” There was an edge to Greg’s tone that he could not hide.

“I think the term is underprivileged,” she said pointedly. “In my opinion culture is wasted on them. You ought to be able to give them what they need right here in school, which is the traditional discipline and literacy without the need to resort to money-draining activities like today's.”

“Yes, well…” Greg checked his watch. “Look, I’m terribly sorry but I'm due at a friend's for dinner tonight,” he lied. “I really have to get going.” Irene met this with silent disdain, raking him up and down with a disparaging glance. Greg stood his ground, giving her a quiet smile. He hadn’t spent the better part of his professional life dealing with hardened criminals to capitulate in the face of scorn from this woman. His superintendent would have eaten her for breakfast.

“I'll see you on Monday,” she said eventually. “We shall discuss this further. I am not going to sign off on those trips unless you can give me a very good reason why I should allow money to be spent on children who frankly show the least potential…”

“Certainly I’ll see you on Monday morning. First thing, yeah?”

“Of course. I’ll expect you at 8am prompt. My office. And please, do not even think of being late.”

Greg smiled and nodded and walked briskly off toward the door, battening down his anger. It wouldn't do to lose his composure and it would only serve to make his blood pressure go up and give her the leverage she needed to get him fired. Honestly he sometimes wondered why the woman had even taken him on in the first place considering she seemed to have so little confidence in his abilities. She was a woman who liked to be in charge, he reflected. She was also a woman who wanted everyone to know it.

Outside in his car, Greg took a few deep breaths to calm down. He had the whole weekend off to look forward to. Nobody demanding his time, or breathing down his neck. He missed not having anyone in his life to share things with, but he couldn’t say he didn’t appreciate peace and quiet after a long week at school. He was gripped with a sudden impulse. He checked his watch. It was only 3.30pm. If he was quick, he could drive into town and visit the museum again before it closed. He paused, both hands on the wheel, staring unfocused through the windscreen. What the Hell am I up to, he wondered? One brief encounter and he was going back to...to what? If he was honest, he hoped to lay eyes on Mycroft Holmes again. Damn it all, he thought, what am I, a teenager with a crush? Yet he really did hope to see the tall academic with the auburn hair again.

Greg started the engine and drove out of the car park. It was impulse that made him turn left towards town instead of right toward home. Traffic was still light and he got there in ten minutes, with no hold ups, driving the car up the ramp into the multi-story carpark around the corner from the Museum. He parked up, and found his way down to street level, crossing the road quickly. He hesitated only a moment before climbing the steps up to the main doors. Well, he could always make the excuse that he was there to see Mrs Hudson. It wasn’t like they didn’t know each other after all.

“Can I help you?” Greg looked up and saw the dark haired woman behind the admissions desk regarding him with polite interest. He was aware that he was hovering, eyes scanning the area as if looking for someone.

“Oh...er...yes. I...um...I was wondering if I could see Mycroft Holmes? I met him this morning when I brought my class here. He said he worked here.”

“Oh yes, he does, but I’m afraid Mr Holmes has left word that he’s in a meeting this afternoon, Mr…?”

“Lestrade, Greg Lestrade. Well...could I leave a message? I just wanted to thank him, that’s all…”

“Of course, I can take a message for you.”

“Greg? What are you doing here?” Greg whirled and smiled on seeing the familiar figure bustling towards them.

“Mrs H.”

“To what do we owe this visit? Did somebody forget something?”

“No, no. I, um...I wanted to see Mr Holmes. I met him this morning, and I just...well, I wanted to apologise.”

“Whatever for? What did you do?”

“It wasn’t me, Mrs H. One of the kids, he...um...he got away from me and managed to gatecrash one of the empty galleries this morning, you know where they’re putting up the new exhibition?”

“Oh dear. That was unfortunate. Any damage?”

“No, just disruption. Stephen is a little wild, I’m afraid. Mr Holmes was gracious about it, and I just wanted to apologise properly and thank him for not taking it further with the school.”

“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “Make yourself at home, Greg,” the lady suggested. “You go look at the paintings or something. I’ll be back in a mo.” She patted his arm and then Greg watched as she walked off toward the stairs.

“Mrs Hudson, where are you going?” he asked cautiously.

“Don’t you fret yourself, I’ll be back soon.”

“Mrs Hudson,” Janine tried to warn her, “Mr Holmes told me he was in a meeting all afternoon.”

“Well, we’ll soon find out, won’t we, dear?” she declared, and continued up stairs.

Martha Hudson was nothing if not dedicated when it came to making sure people were happy. She prided herself on her customer service, making sure all visitors to the museum’s shop and cafe were cared for properly. Her traditional cream teas were the talk of Ashton Parva. As such, she took her duties seriously. If those duties stretched a little to encompass things a little out of her purview, well, that couldn’t be helped. She wasn’t the type to abandon anyone in need.

Martha made her way to a door marked ‘staff only’ on the other side of the upstairs gallery. She punched in a code on a keypad, listened to the click and pushed the door open, walking into the staff corridor beyond. She closed the door behind her and turned left, pausing to knock at a rather large oak door half way along the corridor.

“Come in,” said a woman’s voice. Martha opened the door and went inside. Beyond lay a large airy room, painted in muted lilacs and cream, the walls adorned with paintings from the museum collection. On the wall ahead was another door, inset into a heavy frame. A lovely young woman with a mane of dark wavy hair looked up from her seat behind a modern glass desk as Martha entered. A frown drew her perfectly penciled eyebrows together.

“Mrs Hudson? Mr Holmes wasn’t expecting you, was he?” Anthea Mallory might have phrased her words as a question but she knew absolutely well that Martha was not expected. She was a master of organisation and didn’t miss anything.

“No, Anthea, love, he isn’t, but is he in?”

“He’s in a meeting.”

“That’s the official line, yes, but is he in?”

Anthea sighed and smiled. “Martha, it’s more than my job’s worth and you know it. The boss wanted some peace this afternoon. The University has asked him to present a paper at the end of next month and he’s got to finish an application for lottery funding.”

“Oh, come on. Could you at least ask the man if he’s free? There’s someone I know waiting downstairs who wants to see him and have a little chat. I think Mr Holmes might be quite interested in who it is.”

“And who is this person exactly?”

Martha leant over conspiratorially and lowered her voice. “Greg Lestrade. He’s a teacher who came with his class earlier today and Mr Holmes met him in the galleries. Mr Holmes asked me all about him. He was quite interested, if you know what I mean, but if he’s changed his mind, at least you’ve given him the chance.”

“Alright, seeing as it’s you. Give me a moment.” She lifted the phone receiver and dialed. “Mr Holmes? Yes, sir. Sorry to interrupt you but I have Mrs Hudson here. Yes, sir, I am aware...She’s wanting to know if you’re available… Yes, yes, of course, sir… Yes, I am aware but she says there’s someone downstairs who wants to speak to you… A Mr Greg Lestrade, sir…” Anthea was abruptly left staring in a slightly surprised fashion at a dead receiver and moments later, the office door opened. Mycroft stood there, cool and composed and put together in his tweeds.

“Mrs Hudson? Was there something?” He sounded quite irritated at being interrupted and stared at her forbiddingly.

“Oh, Mr Holmes, so nice to see you. I’ve got Mr Lestrade downstairs. He wants to speak to you. You know, just a little chat.”

“Is that so?” Mycroft gave a put upon little sigh and turned to Anthea. “Ms Mallory, would you please take any calls for me, tell them I shall call back tomorrow. I need a break from all those interminable forms anyway.” He paused at the door and turned back. “Where is Mr Lestrade now?”

“He’s in the galleries downstairs, perusing the paintings…”

Mycroft nodded and disappeared out the door. Martha winked at Anthea and disappeared off to her own office. She may just call in on those nice boys in the security office and have a quick look at the gallery cctv on her way…

***

Chapter 4: Once a Policeman, Always a Policeman

Mycroft made his way downstairs and tried, unsuccessfully, to calm the fluttering of a whole cabinet full of lepidoptera specimens that seemed to have taken up residence in his digestive tract. Janine spotted him as he got to the bottom step and smiled. As Mycroft opened his mouth to speak she wordlessly pointed past him toward the 19th Century Gallery. Mycroft shut his mouth with a snap and altered course, heading for the recesses of the halls that held part of the Museum’s extensive fine and decorative art collections. Coincidentally enough, the man seemed to have chosen Mycroft’s favourite part of the Museum to wait in; the galleries housing the Arts and Crafts Movement works, a few pieces by the Pre-Raphaelites, and ceramics by Minton, Pilkingtons and the Martin Brothers.

There had been a deliberate attempt in this part of the museum to create a typical Victorian air about the place. There were strategically placed ferns and aspidistras on pedestals, cared for by Wiggins who made sure the leaves were always dust free and the dead bits pruned. The gallery walls were painted a dark red above a cladding of glossy amber-coloured tiles, their low relief dado rail sporting a twisting rope of grape-laden vines. The decision had been taken to maintain the galleries in their original state, in order to explore the history of collecting as well as show off the pieces in their original setting. Mycroft quite liked the traditional feel to the place. It appealed to his sense of history, not to mention his love of drama.

Mycroft spotted Greg first and paused before making himself known. The man was standing in front of the painting of a curvaceous woman clad in a blue medieval-style dress, vines twisting around her, a mane of wavy red hair framing her face. He was concentrating on the painting, a peaceful look in his eyes. If Mycroft hadn’t known better he would have said the man was conversing with the portrait, his lips moving ever so slightly as he looked at her. Mycroft drank in the sight of the former policeman, trying to rein in his own wayward emotions. He let his eyes roam over the man’s solidly muscled frame, the short strands of hair at his neckline, the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw. He had taken his tie off, shirt collar open beneath his jacket, raincoat slung carelessly over one arm. He was relaxed, unaware he was being watched.

Mycroft shook himself. This would never do. I have faced halls full of historians and academics and critics, and presented more papers than Anthea has had hot dinners, and I am still nervous? Mycroft stepped closer, torn between wanting to watch and not wanting to spook the man. As he watched, Lestrade reached out a hand, and for a moment Mycroft was sure he was going to touch the picture, but then his hand hovered, before pulling back.

Greg was actually enjoying himself. He remembered the gallery from when his mum had dragged him in, bored on a weekend, trailing her while she shopped for new clothes for herself and shoes for him. She had bought them both ice cream as a reward for not complaining and then, when they had eaten those, she had taken him into the museum to waste time before their bus came, with the promise of dinosaur bones and pictures of castles. She had watched as seven year old Greg had dashed about from one gallery to another, asking question after question. Among the paintings, his mum had made up stories about the people in the pictures, about their jobs and their families and their hobbies.

“That one goes fishing on Sundays instead of going to church”, “That lady owns a dress shop and has three children”, “That one owns a small dog…”, “There’s a knight in shining armour on his horse. Like you, Greggy, you’re my knight in shining armour…” He could hear her voice in his head as he passed each portrait, memories triggered by a red dress here or a small dog there, a cornfield or a blue sky, a jousting knight tilting at windmills. He could identify with that one sometimes.

Greg smiled warmly as his eyes alighted on the large portrait of a tall curvaceous woman clad in blue velvet, her head surrounded by an auriol of wavy red hair.

“Hello, love,” he murmured almost soundlessly. He remembered showing this one to his wife on one of their rare journeys home to see his mother. They had joked that Elli could have modelled for this painting, she resembled the subject so closely. Greg greeted the painting like an old friend, although in a way it made his loss more poignant. He smiled and reached out, stopping short of actually touching the canvas. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you…”

“Lizzie Siddall,” a cultured voice said from behind him and Greg whirled to see Mycroft standing not far away.

“Mr Holmes,” Greg said, unable to keep a delighted smile off his face and held out his hand to shake. Mrs Hudson had obviously worked her magic on the man. Mycroft took the offered hand readily enough, his grip firm and dry and cool, long elegant fingers lingering a fraction longer than necessary before letting go.

“Mycroft, please,” he said warmly.

“What was her name again?” Greg asked, turning back to the painting. Mycroft came to stand beside him and they both regarded the oil painting, Mycroft with respect, Greg with wistful pleasure.

“Lizzie Siddall,” Mycroft supplied. “She was the model for many of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood’s paintings. Married to Dante Gabriel Rossetti but she sat for Millais as well. Elizabeth Eleanor Siddall, a painter’s muse and a poet, although in my opinion, her work can be somewhat depressive.”

“To touch the glove upon her tender hand, to watch the jewel sparkle in her ring.” Mycroft was startled as Greg began to recite the words in that gentle resonant voice of his. It sent shivers down the museum director’s spine, although Mycroft wasn’t sure that it wasn’t the emotion the words evoked that did that to him, rather than the man’s voice.

“Lifted my heart into a sudden song,

As when the wild birds sing,

To touch her shadow on the sunny grass,

To break her pathway through the darkened wood,

Filled all my life with trembling and tears

And silence where I stood.

I watch the shadows gather round my heart,

I live to know that she is gone,

Gone gone forever, like the tender dove

That left the Ark alone.”

“That was… very beautiful,” Mycroft murmured. "Poignant."

“Eleanor was my wife’s name. I knew the poetry, but never realised her connection with the painting. I recited that at Ellie's funeral. Seemed appropriate at the time.

“I…” Mycroft was uncertain what to say. “My condolences on your loss.”

“Thank you,” Greg smiled a smile reminiscent of the brave one he had given Mrs Hudson that morning. It seemed to Mycroft that an age had passed since then. Have I only known him since this morning?

“It was three years ago. Did Mrs Hudson tell you? I won’t be surprised if she has. No harm done, it’s no secret.”

“Yes, she might have mentioned something of your history but not a great deal. She loves to gossip but she has no malicious intent.”

“Oh, I know that. She used to look after me when I was little, you know. Mum and she worked in a sweet factory together and she would mind me if mum took an extra shift to make ends meet. She’s still looking after people, even now.”

“And very good at it too.” Mycroft smiled and then asked, “She told me you had something you wished to tell me?”

“Oh, yes. Um...I… I came to apologise, actually.”

“What on earth for?” Mycroft seemed genuinely nonplussed.

“For Stephen’s behaviour earlier, among other things. He had no right to run off, and I admit I was a little lax there, only the kids in my group are….well, they’re somewhat unruly, to say the least, but they’re good kids, they just...need a bit of guidance and someone to believe in them.”

“Honestly, there was no damage perpetrated, so I think you may stop worrying. Children will tax our patience at the best of times.”

“Yes, but...well, thanks, but honestly, normally I have better control.”

“Apology accepted, Gregory. Now let that be an end of the matter. I have no wish to cause ructions.”

“You haven’t, and thank you. If that had got back to my Headmistress….”

“There is nothing for her to fret over. Your children behaved well, in general. There was no damage done…”

“You don’t know the Head of Sherrinford Primary. She’s a stickler for discipline and she already treats me as though I’m the same age as my kids. I’m a rookie teacher and she never stops reminding me of that fact.”

“I gather you were a policeman once.”

Greg nodded. “I was, but she already thinks my former life is an unsuitable one for a teacher. God knows why, considering she wants us to maintain discipline above everything else. I think it has something to do with the fact that I was in Homicide and Serious Crimes. She’s already informed me that the stuff I’ve seen isn’t suitable staffroom conversation material. It’s almost like I worry her somehow.”

“Maybe she has something to hide?” Mycroft smiled, but he was only half joking.

Greg grinned again, mood lightening. “You know what? I couldn’t care less, really. Not my division any more. The kids are my concern now, and…” He paused, shaking his head. “Listen to me. I’m a boring shite when I get going.”

“Nothing that you have said so far has been boring, Gregory…”

“Gregory? God’s teeth, Mycroft, nobody calls me Gregory any more. My mum used to, when I was naughty, but I’m a big boy now.”

“Just because you’re a big boy now doesn’t preclude you from still being naughty,” Mycroft scoffed, and then froze, eyes wide in mortified surprise. What am I saying? Oh, my God… What on earth will he think of me…? Mycroft was certain he had just made a colossal mistake, but Greg’s face crumpled into glee and he let out a full blown belly laugh. He laughed so hard that he started coughing and drew a few stares an elderly couple on the other side of the gallery. Mycroft felt obliged to thump him on the back to stop the coughing fit. It helped Greg to regain some composure, but he was still chuckling.

“Oh, Myc…” He gasped. “You tease…”

“Forgive me. I am not...not usually so…”

“So, what? Funny? Cheeky? Relax, mate, I’m not offended.”

“It’s not my usual behaviour. I would not want you to think that I was...well, frivolous.”

“Being frivolous is hardly a crime.”

“Well, you would know.” Oh, my God, two jokes in as many minutes? What on earth is wrong with me? Greg was chuckling again though and Mycroft risked an answering smile.

“Who’d have thought, director of a museum and a comedian. If this job goes tits up, you could always go on stage.”

“Heaven forfend!” Mycroft protested. “I doubt very much that I should be allowed to inflict my sense of humour on the general public, such as it is.”

“Well, you’ve succeeded in brightening a crap week, so I’m thankful you at least shared your sense of humour with me.”

“You’ve had a difficult time?”

“Ah, it’s just...I don’t want to bore you with the gory details…”

“No, please. Sometimes one needs a sympathetic ear.”

Greg grimaced, as though debating whether to reveal more. “It’s just...frustrating. The Head met me when I got back from the trip today, going on about how expensive it is to hire a coach for kids who are not likely to get much out of the visits. I want to take them out a couple more times but she’s not up for it. I have to see her Monday morning, in order to justify it. It’s not likely to go well. She doesn’t like kids who don’t perform well, she doesn’t think they’re worth spending money on.”

“What on earth is she thinking?” Mycroft was indignant on Greg’s behalf. “They are the ones who need more money spending on them, for precisely that reason.”

Greg shrugged. “The school was under-performing a few years ago and it earned a rotten Ofsted report, well before I came on the scene. Ms Adler was appointed to improve its standing, and she has done an amazing job, but she wants the school to aim higher. Trouble is some of the kids I teach are…” Greg hesitated. He hated to use the words disadvantaged or underprivileged. “They haven’t had the best start in life. They’re good kids, just…”

“Misguided?”

Greg winced. “That implies their parents don’t care and that’s not the case, honestly, they do, but they’re poor, struggling in a lot of cases. The families don’t go anywhere because they can’t afford to, they don’t think museums and galleries are the place to go because they feel they don’t fit in…”

“Now there, Mr Lestrade, they are wrong. It was John Ruskin, the Victorian art critic, who established a museum for the workers, for those who worked predominantly in the Sheffield steel industry. He wanted to enrich their lives, to broaden their minds, to give them somewhere to escape the smog of the city. They did not have to be titled or moneyed to visit the museum, unlike a lot of establishments in those days that charged upward of a shilling for the privilege. It cost them nothing. Ruskin saw a need for everyone to find beauty in their lives. That idealism spawned the garden villages of Cadbury’s Bournville, Lever Brothers’ Port Sunlight, Rowntree’s New Earswick and all the rest. It was the main thrust of the Arts and Crafts Movement, returning to handmade quality but in an affordable form for the masses.”

“Yeah, well, my kids need something else in their lives than people who dismiss them as unimportant or not worth anything. They need someone to believe in them, and these visits have given them something to look forward to and work towards. I won’t let them down.”

“I am sure that you won’t, Greg.” Mycroft stopped himself using the full form of Greg’s name in an effort to show the man that he respected his feelings. “I wonder. did you feel let down by your own teachers when you were a child?”

“What are you now, a psychiatrist as well as a museum director and a comedian?” but Greg was grinning as he spoke.

“No, merely a good judge of character. I would hazard that somewhere along the line, you had someone who had faith in you and you want to return the favour. Paying it forward, I believe is the modern term?”

Greg laughed. “You’re good, Holmes. Yes, I did have someone who took me under his wing, my history teacher, Mr Watson. He was amazing.”

“Watson, you say?”

“Yup, why?”

“Only that I have a curator by that name but he’s much younger than your teacher would be. It’s a common enough surname.”

“A coincidence.”

“I find the universe is rarely so lazy, but one can never tell.”

“Yeah, well, anyway, it wasn’t about his subject anyway. He was just very supportive, he knew I was clever when nobody else thought so. I lost my dad when I was young, and I didn’t have a role model as I was growing up. I was a bit wild too, a rogue, undisciplined.”

“And Mr Watson was your role model?”

“Yes, he was. Kind man. Put me back on the straight and narrow, right enough. Died the year before Eleanor. His son wrote to tell me.”

“That’s good that you had someone like that,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah, well, I was lucky. Some kids are not.”

“I am sure you give them stability and structure, and support.”

“I try. I’m not young any more, I’m no longer an idealist. Hell, I was a copper in London, and nothing either surprises me or phases me anymore after that. I know I can’t change the world, but I can try to change the world for those kids, help them aim for better. They need encouragement, not rejection, they need to know someone believes in them, that’s all. So thank you, for...well, for not giving my Headmistress any more ammunition for cancelling their trips.”

“Look, I wonder… Did you have plans for this evening? Could I invite you to dinner?”

No reply was forthcoming and Mycroft held his breath, unsure if he had been too presumptuous. “Of course, if you’d rather not…”

Well, that came out of left field. Greg realized that the man must have misinterpreted his silence. “No, no, I’ve nothing planned...I...yes, alright. Why not? Where did you have in mind?”

Mycroft let out the breath he had been holding, only to realise he had no idea where to suggest. “I...er...well…” And now it appears I have lost the power of speech as well as that of cognitive function. Mycroft struggled to pull himself together. “Do you have any preference?” he asked softly, but his throat dried and he coughed. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and began again. “What kind of food do you like?”

“Oh...um...There’s that new wine bar across town, we could try that. They apparently do decent food. One of my colleagues, Mary, she went last week and said it was great.”

“That sounds like a good idea then.”

“Yeah? Right then…What time…?”

“Do you need to return home? I usually leave at four, and…” Mycroft checked his watch. “It is well past my home time, so would you care to go now?”

“Sure...but I’m not really dressed for a night out.”

“The establishment in question is quite relaxed, I hear.”

“I could put my tie back on…”

Mycroft smiled at Greg’s suggestion and shook his head. “I doubt it will be necessary. Besides, perhaps we both need to relax. It seems we have both had trying days. Give me five minutes. I need to collect my coat and my keys. Did you come in a car?”

“It’s in the multi-story.”

“I usually catch the train back home.”

“Where do you live?”

“Not far, just a couple of stops away. I’m in Ashton Magna…”

“No shit, so am I.” Greg grinned. “I can drive us home then. Probably the posh end for you though. I’ve got a flat over the Thai restaurant on the High Street I’m afraid. Nothing posh on a teacher’s salary.”

“You did not get a police pension?”

“On a sergeant’s pay, not much of one. Besides, there were the funerals to pay for, and then my car went bust and I needed a new one for work. The School is hard to reach without one.”

“Damn, I am sorry. That was unforgivably rude of me. I had no intent to pry into your personal affairs.” Mycroft was in a tail spin. This man is so easy to talk to. It felt as if they had known each other for years. Yet he did not do dates. He had no idea what to do or where to go with this. This was not his area, by a long chalk. Doubts began to surface. What am I doing? He’ll soon see how boring I am and ditch me before we get any further. Gregory looks like a straight man devoted to sport and beer and cars, and I… I am...what? Gay, academic and boring. My idea of intelligent conversation includes the latest acquisition by the V&A and the contents of Archaeology Today…

“...hadn’t wanted you to know, I wouldn’t have told you.” Mycroft forced himself to focus on what Greg was saying. “It’s okay, Mycroft, seriously. I don’t mind.”

“Yes, well, it was still an invasion of your privacy, considering we barely know each other…”

“Yeah, about that. Look, this might sound barmy, but…” Greg waved a hand between them both, back and forward, “...does this feel...familiar...to you?”

“I have to admit, it feels somewhat as though we have known each other far longer than one day, Greg.”

“I laid eyes on you for the first time…” Greg checked his watch and Mycroft could see him working the figures out in his head, “...roughly seven hours ago. Hell, that’s not even half a day and it feels like I’ve known you for years.”

Well, whatever comes from this, even if he is not attracted to men, never mind me, I think I may have made a friend, Mycroft considered with a smile.

“Come up to my office for a moment, I shan’t be long,” Mycroft invited, and lead the way from the Gallery. Was it his imagination that Greg had murmured a farewell to the painting?

What am I doing? Greg took in the opulent surroundings of the man’s office; the warm wood panelling, windsor chair, heavy mahogany desk. The shelves were lined with books; old volumes of local reference materials, Victoria County Histories, Kelly’s Directories. A blue and white Chinese vase sat on one windowsill, Mycroft probably made more in a month than Greg made in a whole year and he hadn’t denied living in the ‘posh end’ of Ashton Magna. Standing across from him, looking cool and collected, was this gorgeous man who was so put together, so much a part of this environment. He’s not in my league, Greg considered regretfully. However, even if he isn’t, I think we could be friends. He watched as Mycroft took his coat from the hanger behind the door, and laid it over his arm. Greg noted it was very nice quality wool, obviously expensive, probably worth more than twice the monthly rent on his flat.

“So, when do you get off? I mean...what...how long...Do you get the weekend off?” Shit, how crass can you get, you daft idiot? Greg sighed inwardly. Mouth, please engage brain before you open, otherwise this evening is going to be brutally short and best forgotten.

Mycroft ignored the gaff and smiled. “I usually have the whole weekend, although should we have a function planned I usually attend, no matter when it might fall.”

“Nobody to go home to?” Now who is prying?

“No, I am my own man. No one to get home for, no wife, no husband either, and definitely no children.”

“You make that sound like a decree.”

“I have wished it on several occasions.”

“You don’t want kids?”

“I have never experienced any desire to be paternal, although in my case it is doubtful that I will ever have any anyway.” At Greg’s blank look, Mycroft took a breath and decided on a leap of faith. “I’m gay, Greg,” he admitted. “I’m afraid that to paraphrase your words from our earlier conversation, women are...not my division,” he added.

“Well, just so you’re aware, I was married to a woman, for a long time, but...well, I had a boyfriend in University.”

“You did?”

“Yup. If it hadn’t gone pear shaped with him, I might not be talking to you right now. He was an archaeologist, and we were together for four years. I thought he was the one, you know? We hit it off, a bit like this, really.” Greg bit his lip and fell silent.

“If you would rather not tell me…”

“No, it’s fine. It’s just...not good memories, that’s all. We stayed together after university, although I was living back here with mum, and he went off to the Middle East to do some digging for some work experience before he attempted his Masters. It was the height of the AIDS scare, and we were careful but when he got back, he was a bit different. Turned out he’d cheated on me, and he hadn’t been careful, and…”

“Oh, Gregory,” Mycroft said softly, momentarily forgetting to shorten his name.

Greg shrugged. “Dangerous times, Mycroft. He played around, and when he told me, I got mad and dumped him. I didn’t want to speak to him again. I didn’t see him for four years, and then his mum called to tell me he was really sick. Would I come visit? Well...I went, but it was a mess. He died a couple of weeks after I saw him. We made our peace I suppose, but my bosses wanted to know why I’d asked for time off, and I told them a mate was ill. I lied and said he had cancer, because I knew there would be a stink if they knew the real reason, but one of my bosses didn’t believe me. He wondered why I’d wanted to get time off in a hurry, like it was family. So he did a bit of digging and found out the real reason. He was an underhanded shit and he didn’t like me, but the Super was an old mate of my dad’s and he made the man leave it alone, but I was forced to have a blood test, just to set his mind at rest, so he could defend me if necessary. It all came right in the end, it was just a mess. I met Elli during those four years, told her everything. She and I, it felt a bit like this does, I could tell her most things. She supported me through it all…”

“You loved her very much.”

“Yeah, I did. Miss her like crazy sometimes.”

Mycroft gave him a warm smile, while inwardly he was already drawing back, reluctant to get too involved with a man he was already sure he could fall in love with, and fall hard. Mycroft was not without his own history, and although he fully intended to reveal it to Greg at some point, it was history that might prove problematic if they were to become romantically involved. Greg did not yet know about Mycroft’s siblings, and right then, he was happy to keep it that way.

“Come to dinner, Greg. I think we both need a stiff drink.”

“You can have the stiff drink. I’m driving.”

Mycroft huffed a small exasperated sigh. Once a policeman, always a policeman... Note: The Sherrinford museum is based on many of our Victorian museums, begun as a result of collecting by Gentlemen of means in the 19th Century from their travels abroad, as was fashionable at the time. You can reference the British Museum in London, The Lady Lever Art Gallery in Port Sunlight, Liverpool, the Ashmolean and the Pitt Rivers in Oxford, the latter frankly more than reminiscent of Indiana Jones. You can include the Yorkshire Museum in York, and any of the many City Museums from our industrial centers such as Sheffield, Leeds, Bradford, Birmingham, Liverpool, Hull, Manchester, Edinburgh... The list goes on. it is based on my own experience of working in heritage, and what it entails, and many, many visits to museums like these.

***

Chapter 5: Close Encounter

They walked to collect Greg’s car and he drove them across town, the two of them chatting about inconsequential things as they travelled. The new bar had a yard behind it and Greg parked between a rather posh Jaguar and a rather large and unfortunately rather familiar white BMW. As they got out, Greg’s eyes fell on the number plate of the BMW and his heart sank as his worst fears were confirmed.

“Greg?” Mycroft was instantly on the alert as he saw his companion’s expression change. “What on earth is the matter? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Greg sighed heavily. “In a manner of speaking. Well, it’s about as welcome as a supernatural sighting anyway. That is my boss’s car,” he said, pointing to the number plate. “IA19. I’d know it anywhere. God damn, why tonight?”

“Do you want to go somewhere else?”

Greg considered it for a moment. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t care what my boss thinks about me. Couldn’t get any worse anyway. She’s already seems to be looking for a way to get me dismissed.”

“Why on earth would she want that?”

“I think she regrets taking me on, for some reason.”

“You know I was only half joking when I suggested she might have something to hide from an ex-copper.”

“Honestly, I have no idea. I am doing my best not to be paranoid. However, I did say I was expected at a friend’s for dinner this evening, it was how I got out from discussing things concerning future trips right then and there. She may smell a rat…”

“If she confronts you, tell her we changed our plans,” Mycroft reasoned mildly. “None of her business really. In fact, I shall tell her exactly that, if you like.”

“Oh, God, Mycroft, no, please, I…” Greg huffed a short laugh. “I wouldn’t want to subject you to her tender mercies.”

“Whyever not? I’ve faced down a lecture theatre of university dons in order to deliver a keynote speech and not flinched. I think I can handle the headmistress of a local primary school.”

“You have no idea,” Greg murmured. “She lives to intimidate.”

“Then I shall find out, shall I not?” Mycroft smiled, and there was something predatory in his eyes.

Greg’s eyebrows rose. “Seriously? On your head be it, Holmes.”

“Challenge accepted,” Mycroft murmured, and honestly if that wasn’t the hottest thing Greg had heard in a long while. As well as seen, because Mycroft’s demeanour was anything but intimidated. If anything he looked confident, assured, capable. “Come on, Greg,” Mycroft said, his voice warm. “Food awaits. If she sees us, trust me take the lead.”

Inside Speedy’s, as it had been named, they found modern chrome and glass and the furthest thing from old world charm that either man had ever seen. The music was modern acoustic, and not intrusive, and the bar was a sweeping curve of polished black granite, with a distinctly sculptural design. Overall the image was one of cool modernity and it made a nice change in a town that prided itself on being rather traditional when it came to being a popular English tourist destination year after year. The staff, however, were anything but cool. They were greeted enthusiastically and shown to a seat by a cheerful young man whose name badge proclaimed him to be Peter. He handed over their menus and asked if they would like anything to drink.

Greg nervously glanced around as Mycroft proceeded to discuss wines with the young man. He heard a snatch of laughter which drew his gaze to the end of the bar. There, behind a cluster of ferns and a strategically placed floor lamp, he could see the back of her head, expertly coiffed hair held tight against her skull. She had changed her clothes—she was now wearing black—and he could see enough to note it was still the same tailored style, showing off her best features. The lights glinted off something sparkly around her neck. Greg was still clad in the clothes he’d worn for school, and he felt suddenly under-dressed and out of place.

Mycroft picked up on his sudden change of mood, seeing the shutters come down in his eyes.

“She’s over there, behind the fern,” Greg said glumly, once their waiter had departed with their order. “You know though, I am now rather curious as to who she’s with. She’s never revealed she had a partner. Nobody accompanies her to school functions.”

“Maybe she has only just found someone?” Mycroft suggested.

“Possible, I suppose. Hard to think of that battleaxe as having a date though.”

“Anything is possible, Greg. A few hours ago I would have sworn it was impossible for a gay academic museum director with a penchant for chinese porcelain and a rather boring interest in archaeology to find anyone, and yet…” he spread his hands apart, “...here we are.”

Greg looked at Mycroft then, eyes unreadable. “Yeah, we are, aren’t we?” He cleared his throat, a little nervously. “Is that, I mean, do you see this...well...going somewhere, for you and me?”

“Forgiving for a moment the atrocious grammar in that statement, considering you are an educator, Greg, I have to answer in the affirmative. Assuming, of course, that it is something you too would like to explore? After all, should it go no further, I would be content to know I have found someone to whom the term friend might be applied.”

Greg smiled again. “Yeah, that...that would be good. I mean...people are saying it’s past time I moved on….”

“Greg, it is nobody else’s business but yours when the correct time is to move on. If you are not ready, then you are not ready. You should listen to your heart.”

“You know, that’s the most considerate thing anyone has said to me for a long time. Can I be honest with you, Mycroft?”

“Heaven forfend you be anything else, Greg.”

“It’s just...I’m a bloke, and I’m not good at discussing this stuff, you know?”

Mycroft smiled. “That is in itself a myth, you know. Stereotypical, really. Some people are good at discussing their emotions, some people are not. I rather think it is less to do with whether one is a man or a woman and rather more to do with how comfortable one is in revealing that part of oneself. Emotions can be difficult to discuss because they often reflect our innermost vulnerabilities.”

Greg chuckled again. “There you go again. You sure you didn’t sneak a psychiatry degree in there somewhere?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, mildly exasperated. “As I explained, I simply understand human nature. Our emotions make us vulnerable and that is not something you want to share with just anyone. Most of us have trust issues, and that is why people go to counselling. It is often easier to reveal such things to a stranger.”

“Not for me, I’d rather talk to a friend. I guess...admitting things is the hard part.”

“What things?”

“Guilt, I guess.”

“Guilt?”

“Sorry, wrong subject for the dinner table.”

“Nonsense, Greg. It’s perfectly fine with me. So, why guilt?”

“Yeah. Guilt. Well, I put her in that situation, didn’t I? She died because she was bearing our child. Suffered preeclampsia and I lost both of them.” For a brief moment Mycroft saw Greg’s expression flinch with pain, then clear.

“And yet that was a joint decision on both your parts, to start a family, yes?”

“Yes, it was.”

“You did not pressure her into having a child?”

“Hell, no, of course not.”

“Then the guilt, if there is any, has to be born jointly. I am rather of the opinion that you both headed into the business of having children on an equal footing, like most couples, and as such, the dangers were far from both your minds. You might feel guilt, Greg, but I do feel it is a redundant emotion and one not suited to your situation. I cannot see attaching blame is either right or proper in your case.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re not the first to reassure me of that. I know Elli loved being pregnant, every minute of it. Nobody was more surprised than me. She didn’t suffer much morning sickness, and she kept working. She wasn’t your earth-mother type, wide-hipped and sturdy, no. She was slim, even slightly petite, but she was healthy, glowing even. Every scan, nothing wrong. Being a mum-to-be really suited her.”

“So she enjoyed that time of her life, with you?”

“Yeah, she did.”

“Then you should take comfort from that, at least. She was happy?”

“Very happy, we both were. Everything went to shit so fast, I didn’t have time to think. They were both gone, just like that, within hours. It was…”

“Often there are no words to describe it. Suffice to say, I understand.”

Greg sighed, nodding, accepting but sad. Mycroft felt he would give a lot to take that expression from him, to make him smile again, and smile without the underlying grief attached.

“I guess I felt I had to atone somehow…” he said eventually.

“Not an unusual response. Survivor’s guilt.”

Greg nodded. “Exactly.”

“So, if I may ask, what prompted you to change your career to that of an educator?”

“I guess I thought if I couldn’t raise my own kids, I could still raise other people’s, guide them and guard them I guess. Being a copper, I know well what can happen to kids if they leave the straight and narrow, and I am paying it forward, you were right there, to some extent. I couldn’t continue in the Met, it was far too stressful after I lost Elli. I had no time to process anything.”

“And have you had time since?”

“Yeah, enough, I guess. I do feel more on an even keel, and I am loving the job, it’s just...sometimes I wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

“I watch the kids and wonder what ours would have turned out like.”

“Of course you do. You would be a little odd if that did not cross your mind occasionally.” Greg smiled at him, warm and accepting, which in turn warmed Mycroft inside.

“Thanks, Mycroft. It’s not been often that I’ve found anyone who actually didn’t mind me talking about it. I really do appreciate that. So, okay then, to us.” Greg raised his water glass and clinked it against Mycroft’s. “Let’s see where this takes us.”

Despite Greg’s fears, Irene remained seated at her table all evening and he began to think he might just get away with it after all. The food was good, their conversation easy and enjoyable, and the table was far enough away for their conversation to be private. He relaxed as they chatted about their favourites in music, food, art and movies. He was happy to realise that he and Mycroft had a lot in common, despite one or two things on which they were poles apart. The things they differed in were largely trivial though and Greg had never made friends based on politics or religion anyway. Everybody was entitled to their own beliefs, as far as he was concerned, as long as they didn’t hurt anyone. Besides, the differences between them were as important to him as their commonalities. It was what made them individuals. Interesting individuals too, Greg thought. Mycroft actively listened to Greg as he spoke about his work, coaxing details out of him with genuine interest. It was so gratifying to be regarded that way, Greg considered, but he found it was easy to return the favour. He could listen to Mycroft talk about archaeology all day. There was passion in his voice and demeanor when he was talking about something he so obviously loved.

“So are you an archaeologist then?”

“Alas, no, although I have the qualification, just no experience. My interest lies in porcelain, its history and its production. It is an amazing medium, temperamental, beautiful, but hard to create anything of delicacy from unless you know its foibles.”

“I can think of worse things to be interested in.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I get boring when I ramble on about it, but as a creative medium it is beyond compare. You can see the light through it, it can be so thin and delicate, almost glass-like.”

“You know, your eyes light up a bit when you talk about it.”

“They do?”

“Yeah, it’s...kind of nice. Do you own any then?”

“Own any?” Mycroft was still trying to process Greg’s observation about his eyes.

“Porcelain. Do you own any porcelain?”

“If you mean Chinese Porcelain, then yes, a few pieces only, nothing too expensive. I would love to show you sometime.”

“Come up and see my etchings?”

Mycroft barked a laugh. “God, that old cliche?”

“Well, serves a purpose.”

“That is does. Well, I meant it, I would love to share them with you. I have a feeling you appreciate old things.”

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments.”

Mycroft laughed again. “Calling me old, Mr Lestrade?”

“Not at all, I’ve probably got ten years on you, Mr Holmes.”

As the conversation progressed, Mycroft’s fears were being gently allayed too, as he realised they had more than a few things in common. Greg seemed to find him interesting, almost hanging onto every word as the conversation veered onto archaeology. Now they were obviously flirting. However, despite having expressed his hopes as to how things might go between them, he knew he still had a few hurdles to get over first, his family notwithstanding. There came a moment, a pause in their conversation, the perfect time for Mycroft to explain it all, when Greg’s attention was caught by movement. Mycroft followed his gaze and saw that it looked like the Adler woman was on the move. As she came fully into view, Mycroft frowned. She was familiar somehow. He wracked his brain but came up with nothing. He waited to see if she recognised him, which might throw light on the matter.

“Why, Greg, what a surprise. I didn’t expect to see you here. Thought you said you were going round to a friend’s for dinner tonight.” There was an ever-so-slight accusation in the tone, and Greg noted she was looking Mycroft up and down in that assessing manner of hers. Greg opened his mouth to reply but Mycroft beat him to it, pushing his chair back and standing up. He reached out to take Irene’s hand in greeting. Greg rushed a bit to follow, and watched as Irene allowed her hand to be grasped as Mycroft smiled charmingly at her.

“Gregory, do please introduce me,” he said smoothly. There was no answering recognition in the woman’s eyes Mycroft was interested to see. No help there then.

“Yes, of course, forgive me,” Greg said quickly. “Ms Irene Adler, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, this is Irene, my boss. Headmistress of Sherrinford Primary.”

“Ah, yes, Gregory has told me such a lot about you. He tells me you have done a sterling job with bringing Sherrinford up to snuff. That cannot have been an easy job, Ms Adler.” Irene’s eyebrows lifted a little.

“Thank you, Mr…”

“Holmes.”

“Mr Holmes, of course, and no, it wasn’t easy but then if it had been they wouldn’t have bothered hiring me.” She smiled, her eyes assessing him in that cool way of hers. “So nice to meet you.” Still no recognition then, unless she was a very good liar.

“A pleasure. Credit where credit is due, I always say,” Mycroft added before she could say any more. “I must say,” he rattled on, “this place is very good, don’t you think? Greg and I changed our plans and decided to come out for dinner this evening, and I for one am rather glad we did.”

“Yes, I suppose, it is...acceptable,” Irene agreed, as a tall, dark-haired man walked up behind her and laid a hand on her waist. He smiled vaguely and nodded at them.

“Irene, darling, time is getting on,” he murmured in her ear.

“Yes, Charles. I just happened to run into Greg here, one of my teachers. He and his… friend decided to try Speedy’s as well.”

“Good choice, gentlemen. I really rather enjoyed it, despite the name. Well, do excuse us, we’re expected somewhere and we’re running a faction late.”

“Certainly, please do not let us detain you,” Mycroft said smoothly. “Ms Adler, it was nice to meet you.”

“And you too. Have a nice weekend, Greg. I’ll see you eight o’clock sharp, monday morning.”

She breezed past him and Greg watched the two of them head to the door. He sat down with a huff. “Well,” was all he could think of to say. Then he noted Mycroft’s slight frown. “What?” he asked.

“Oh, it may be nothing, but Ms Adler seems curiously familiar, that’s all. She did not seem to recognise me, which is a setback in working out where I’ve seen her before, but I am confident it will come to me.” Mycroft sipped his wine. “Does she live near here?”

“Honestly no idea where she lives. Don’t think it’s local but I’ve truly no clue. She might commute miles, that woman. I’ve never seen her around Ashton Magna, but honestly none of us have any idea.”

“What, no idea at all?”

“Nope, she’s never told us.”

“Are you seriously telling me none of you know? What about her emergency contact?”

“No idea there either, and none of us are that keen to find out where that troll lives. She can go back under the bridge she crawled out from under, as far as we’re concerned.”

“We being the remaining members of staff? Has she no friends on the staff at all?”

“She has the school secretary, Moira, but she’s more of a croney, rather than a friend. I don’t think Adler is capable of friendship really. Neither is Moira, she’s more of a gossip who really doesn’t mix with the staff much. Moira’s tight as a drum and won’t hand out personal details, not even in idle conversation.”

“But she’s a gossip, which means she is happy to discuss the latest juicy rumours?”

“Yeah, but I think she has some kind of personal code. She won’t give up written information, but she’s happy to pass along what people say about each other. I dunno, I’m your average bloke who can’t articulate his emotions, not a middle-aged woman with a fetish for chitchat. I have no idea how her mind works, Mycroft. You’re the people person, not me.”

“Yes, well, in this instance I admit to a woeful lack of experience with gossips. I am surprised that Ms Adler is not more forthcoming. Would it not be to her advantage to engage in friendships with her staff?”

“Adler is definitely not there to make friends, Mycroft. She’s there to turn around a failing school and put her name on the map. Having done that, she doesn’t just want to keep it there, she wants to aim higher. She sets the bar high and sees no reason why we can’t achieve it, no matter how bright the kids are, and some of them are not that bright, believe me. ”

“Does your school not believe in equality?”

“Yes but it’s not about equality, it’s about equal access. There’s a difference.”

“I’m sure there is.”

“Look, you can't tell me you don't implement access measures in your museum. In a school environment, you cannot stick an able-bodied child and a child in a wheelchair in a room and give them the same set of toys and equipment to play on. Both of those kids need toys and play, but they both have different challenges. You need to give them equal access to play but that means adapting to make sure the opportunity is there, for both of them. Wheelchair friendly equipment, wide doors, low tables. The same applies to those with less academic talent. You spend the same money, but you equip with things those kids will learn and benefit from, including trips and visual media they can relate to. Irene bloody Adler seems to not want to do any of that.”

“You are a worthy advocate for your class, Greg.”

“Hmph. Don’t feel worthy sometimes.”

“Put that right out of your head. One only has to hear you put your point across to understand that you are worthy, eminently worthy. Besides, you can now relax. She’s gone.” Mycroft’s grin was triumphant. “Fancy dessert?”

They demolished a piece of chocolate fudge cake each, lingering over it. Mycroft was hard put not to let the way Greg was eating his cake affect him but it was rather a hard task. The man was licking his spoon and making soft orgasmic noises with each mouthful, possibly unaware of what he was doing. Is it too early, Mycroft wondered, to lust after my dinner partner? He’d known the man less than a day. This was ridiculous.

For Greg, he was unaware of the effect he was creating. The cake was so good, and the company too. He was finally free of that woman for the entire weekend, and it crossed his mind to invite Mycroft to spend it all with him. Like embers long neglected fanned back to flame, something that had been dormant too long was stirring back to life. His head, however, told him that this was too much, too soon. One dinner, some conversation, no matter how revealing, did not add up to a relationship, of any kind. He needed time to think, to see how he felt, to examine his innermost feelings. He knew he was not good at expressing those feelings openly, whether it was a man thing or just a general inability, and he had even surprised himself in how open he had been with the man. A man you only met this morning, his mind supplied. No, tomorrow he would lie in for a time with a good coffee and the paper, then he would shower, get breakfast, and possibly go shopping later in the day.

Mycroft insisted on paying the bill. Greg protested, but Mycroft tilted his head on one side and regarded him with a put-upon look. “Greg, I invited you. Please, allow me this little indulgence. You can pay next time.” Greg’s heart did a funny little leap. There would be a next time.

“Better yet, let me cook you dinner,” he heard himself suggesting. Mycroft had smiled, and nodded.

“I very much look forward to that.”

“Well, no close encounters of the Adler kind to put us off our food.”

“No indeed.”

“So, anything you hate? Anything you can’t eat?”

“Nothing comes to mind. I am not particularly fond of olives, or extremely hot food.”

“Okay then, I’ll think of something.”

“Next Friday?" Mycroft suggested. "Tell me how your week went?”

“Done. Seven?”

“Seven it is.”

“Come on then, let me drive you home, Holmes.”

***

Chapter 6: Contemplation

Mycroft directed him to drive through the western edge of Ashton Magna, turning left before they reached the High Street where Greg’s own flat was situated, and into the older part of the small town. They passed a Saxon church and a small village green before Greg drew up in front of a sizable detached half-timbered house with roses rambling around the door.

“This is yours then?”

“It is, although it doesn’t yet feel like home. I bought it because of it’s age. Apparently the front is a 15th Century farmhouse, the back is an 18th Century addition.”

“It’s nice.”

“Would you care to come in?”

“Another time? I’m really kna...er...exhausted, Mycroft. Thanks for the invite though. Look, I’ll see you Friday, seven. I’ll text you the details?”

“Is that a roundabout way of asking for my phone number?”

Greg chuckled. “Of course. However, logic dictates that it would be well nigh impossible to text you without it and you will need directions to my crappy flat if I’m cooking you dinner.”

“Point taken.” Mycroft smiled and recited his phone number, although he needed to do it twice while Greg fought with his phone’s contact list. Finally the offending number was recorded and checked and Mycroft’s phone pinged for proof.

“Right then, have a great week, and thank you for dinner. Wish me luck for Monday.”

“Good luck for Monday, Greg. Although I am sure you won’t need it.” Mycroft shut the door and waved as the car pulled away. He was left on his driveway, wondering about the enigma that was Greg Lestrade.

Greg spent most of Saturday morning lounging in bed, watching catch up tv on his laptop and drinking coffee. He wondered at the man he had met the day before, tried to analyze how he felt: the remembered butterflies as he was waiting, the nerves, the dinner… You know you like him, Greggybear, I do too. Her voice echoed in his head, and he frowned. Was it really what she would have said? “What would you really have made of him, Kitten?” he said out loud.

Eventually he dragged himself into the shower, not bothering to shave. He dressed in comfortable clothes—his jeans and a dark navy polo shirt—and tugged on his trainers, grabbed his jacket from the peg near the door and went out to collect his car from the carpark slot behind the building. He drove seven miles to the industrial estate in the next town, parked up and went shopping in the superstore. Browsing the shelves, he heard a familiar voice and turned to see Mary Morstan walking toward him.

“Morning, Greg.”

“Mary, how are you?”

“Fine, actually. Glad to be away from the Hell Hole. How are you?”

“Not bad. Went to dinner at Speedy’s last night. Every bit as good as you recommended.”

“Yeah? Great. So who did you go with?”

“Oh, nobody special. Just a friend.” Greg swore inwardly. Mary was one of the gossips of the school. “Trouble was I picked the same night to go as the boss…” There, that should deflect attention from me, he thought.

“Irene? No, oh my God. Poor you.”

“Well, she didn’t bother me too much. She was out with a man.”

“A man? Who was he? Do you know?”

“No idea, she didn’t introduce us.”

“Well, what was he like? Boy, I’d have lost that bet then. Was sure she couldn’t have anyone daft enough to put up with her.”

“Looked normal, on first glance anyway. They were going on somewhere else though, he was eager to get them away.”

“Grief, who’d have thought? Anyhow, I’d best get on. Talking of somewhere else to be, I’m away to my cousin’s this afternoon. She’s just had a baby girl. Not seen her since the birth so figured I’d best do my cousinly duty and buy the babe something.”

“Oh, that’s nice for you. Go play Aunty Mary then. Have a good time and I’ll see you next week?”

“Oh yeah, you will. Bye then.” He watched her breeze away and breathed a sigh of relief before continuing with his day.

Mycroft spent the morning staring at his computer. He was finishing up the application for an arts grant that had been cut short the day before by Greg’s arrival, as well as checking his emails and hunting for an out-of-print book he was trying to locate for research purposes. He was also gazing at a picture of Greg Lestrade on the school’s webpages. He told himself he was simply checking the man’s veracity, proving that he was actually dealing with Mr Gregory Norman Lestrade, teacher of a mixed class of years five and six at Sherrinford Primary School, St. Aelred’s Lane, Ashton Parva. Each teacher was listed, with a brief paragraph describing their previous career. There was nothing about him being in the Met’s Serious Crimes unit, just a brief reference to a change of career, and being a former policeman.

The photo was a flattering one; taken three quarter view, Greg was grinning at the camera, brown eyes warm and sincere. He was clean shaven, grey hair just spiked a little, and Mycroft found himself mesmerized. Eventually he sighed heavily, and went back to his work. It took him the rest of the afternoon. By tea time, he gave up and made himself some sandwiches and a pot of tea, taking them out onto his small terrace behind the house. He sat there, listening to the birds twittering in the trees bordering the garden, wondering exactly what he was doing, becoming enamored of a man he had known less than forty eight hours.

Greg spent that evening watching television, eventually taking himself to bed by midnight having exhausted his options for catch up on the day’s football. Falling into a fitful slumber, snatches of lurid dreams broke through his sleep, and by morning he was tired and irritable. He lay there staring at the ceiling, frustrated, blaming it all on his boss, despite the fact that some of the dreams had involved Mycroft Holmes. Greg was not looking forward to the following morning, knowing he would have to be up early in order to make it to school in time for his meeting with Irene at eight. He stayed in bed, reluctant to get up, wondering what to do with his day. Eventually, he fell asleep again, catching up a few hours without any dreams.

When he next woke, relieved and refreshed, it was nearly lunchtime. He sat at the dinner table in his pajamas, working on his laptop on lesson plans for the following month. He took the time to research some resource material for an upcoming topic, and checked his work emails. Amazingly, there was one from the Museum.

Dear Mr Lestrade,

I felt I should write to you concerning your visit last week to The Sherrinford. I am also sending a copy of this email to your Head, because I felt she should be made aware…

Christ, Greg thought. What has he said? His stomach plummeted and he felt sick. If she found out, it would be the death knell for his class visits anywhere, never mind the museum. What changed Mycroft’s mind? Greg had to force himself to continue reading.

...because I felt that she should be made aware that your class behaved in an exemplary manner.

What? Greg frowned, confused.

If only all school visits were as well organised and well mannered.

Greg started to breath again, but he was rendered totally speechless.

I observed your class from a distance as I was checking the contents of one of the cases, and I was impressed at their enthusiasm. I would like to extend the invitation to attend our Museum free of charge for your next visit, in an effort to reward and encourage your class in their learning. I do hope you will consider using the museum more in the future.

Yours sincerely,

Mycroft Holmes

Director,

The Sherrinford Museum,

Victoria Square,

Ashton Parva.

Greg reread the email at least six times. He still couldn’t believe it. Mycroft was actually complimenting his class, and extending an invite for them to go back to the museum free of charge. He had completely ignored the infraction committed by stephen. Greg’s first thought was to wonder why? Irene would put two and two together, she wasn’t a stupid woman. Mycroft had been introduced to her, and she would remember the name.

Greg started to write an email, and stopped. He felt as though he should actually say something face to face. He had no idea why Mycroft would do such a thing. He was not even sure what he felt about it. It was a kind thing to do, but he wasn’t sure if it was a wise idea. However, Irene knew about it now, so there was nothing he could do. Hopefully it might help with her decision tomorrow.

Greg wondered about simply jumping in the car and driving to Mycroft’s to say thank you, but discarded that idea. It was impulsive, and it was very tempting. It was also too much, too soon. In the event, he wrote a very simple thank you email and patted himself on the back for resisting the temptation.

Mycroft,

Thank you. You didn’t need to do this, but I am glad you did.

Thanks again.

Greg Lestrade.

PS See you Friday.

It wasn’t long before a reply arrived. Greg wondered if the man had been waiting for one.

Dear Greg

I really did admire your children’s enthusiasm, and minor infractions can be overlooked for the right cause. Doubtless you will make certain such lessons are learned, and not repeated, in the future. I would love to see you able to uphold your ethic that everyone deserves equal access and therefore decided to extend my invitation to help you over your hurdle on Monday. As I said, I do not believe you will require good luck, but I hope my email helps. I enjoyed our sojourn last night, and I am looking forward to dining with you on Friday.

Have we really only known each other three days?

Regards

Mycroft

Greg read that one six times as well. He shook himself, and smiled, and wrote one line, hit send, and then took himself to bed.

Dear Mycroft,

We’ve known each other for less than 60 hours and so far every minute has been worth it.

Regards

Greg

***

Chapter 7: Be Careful What You WIsh For

“My favourite teacher was a turtle,” Greg announced as he breezed into the staffroom on Monday morning. “I can remember everything he tortoise…” He was met with scattered groans and laughter from the few staff members who were present, and grinned as he threw his coat and briefcase onto a chair.

“Someone’s happy,” Mary said, as she put together a coffee for herself at their little kitchenette. She waved a mug at him and he nodded at her gesture.

“Coffee, thanks, and you could say that, yes.”

“Thought you had a meeting with The Woman this morning?” James Sholto looked over the top of his newspaper and frowned. “Not something I could be happy about, believe me.”

“Oh, not happy about that, no, but the outcome isn’t as bleak as it was on Friday, so I’m not as bummed about it as I might have been. We’ll see what happens. I’m frankly sick of the hold that woman has over us…”

“Well, don’t say anything you may regret later. She’s gunning for anyone who speaks out.”

“Yeah, I know, but I’m not speaking out, I’m arguing for a cause.”

“Greg, I hate to be the harbinger of bad news,” James drawled, amused, “but I should tell you, that’s the same thing, you know.” He smiled wryly and put his paper down to accept the mug of tea Mary handed him. Greg smiled back and took the mug Mary offered him with murmured thanks. Of all his colleagues, Greg liked Sholto best. He was an ex-soldier, had been invalided out and changed his career fifteen years previously and not looked back. He was good too, inspiring, although Greg considered he might have been better in secondary education. However, when he had broached it one time, the man had shaken his head and grinned and told Greg that he would never have been able to stand a bunch of teenagers who didn’t want to be there. In James' opinion years two through six were much more enthusiastic, less world-weary and more receptive to teaching.

The three of them sat around the coffee table and contemplated their mugs for a moment, before Mary spoke, her voice low and intense.

“She really has to go.”

“Pardon?”

“I said, she has to go. Look, Louise left last month because that woman bullied her.”

“To be fair,” James pointed out, “Louise wasn’t that good a teacher.”

“Maybe not but the way Adler did it, it wasn’t right,” Mary argued. “That could have been any one of us. Louise left because of stress, it made her ill. Adler is setting us against each other, and she’s picking off the ones who don’t agree with her.”

“Well, let’s face it, she was appointed to make sure this school became a success,” Greg said. “Now she’s managed it, she’ll likely be gone soon. She’s a career Head, she’ll be looking for pastures new soon.”

“Not soon enough,” James agreed, “but I would agree with you. She’s a new broom and she’s made her mark, and now she’ll be off to somewhere more prestigious. Somewhere in the private sector I would judge. Let the toffs have her, I say. They can pay her an exorbitant salary instead of the public sector. She’d fit in well with the offspring of politicians and entrepreneurs. I’d give her a year here at the most.”

Greg nodded. “She’s not state school material really,” he agreed.

“No, indeed,” James murmured. “She’d look her best at a cocktail party clinking glasses with the odd diplomat before fleecing him to pay for little Johnny’s education.”

“Hm, well, whatever she ends up doing, I wish she’d be quick and move on,” Mary said, voicing her hope. “She had the gall to suggest I was being too soft on my lot.”

“You, soft?” James smiled. “Heaven forfend.”

Greg chuckled. “She’s an unsympathetic piece of work but honestly, I’ve had worse. My Super in the Met was a bastard of the highest order.”

“Poor you. I can’t imagine worse than her.”

“Well, be careful what you wish for,” Greg replied. “Sometimes it’s better the devil you know…”

00000000000000

“So, Mr Moriarty, I’ve heard good things about you, but this isn’t your usual line of work?”

Mycroft handed the man a cup of tea as they sat across from each other in his office. James Moriarty smiled warmly as he took the cup and saucer—Mycroft had made sure Anthea brought out the best china for his guest, a Royal Worcester tea set—and Mycroft was struck by the man’s eyes; dark and actually quite lovely.

“Thank you, and it’s Jim, please,” he replied in a soft Irish brogue, “and to answer your question, no, it isn’t, although I am very familiar with the Heritage Sector,” the man added confidently. “While I’ve done a lot of interactive and augmented reality work for museums, my main work is in software development. I have to say though, I am looking forward to working here. Jobs like this keep my work from becoming too office-bound. I do like site visits.”

“Well, I gather this job will only take a few days?”

“Yes, it shouldn’t take long.”

“And you’ll be working with Mr Moran while you’re with us?”

“I shall. Sebastian has been really helpful. I’ll be back on Wednesday as arranged, bright and early. I just thought I would stop by and introduce myself before then. I hope my turning up unannounced wasn’t inconvenient?”

“Not at all. It was nice to make your acquaintance. Please don’t forget to ask Sebastian for anything you may need while you’re here. I must say, I am really looking forward to viewing the completed results. This is something of an innovation for us, and if it goes well, I am considering rolling something similar out across the rest of the galleries.” They chatted some more as they finished their tea, and then Moriarty took his leave to go and consult with Seb Moran and Mycroft reluctantly returned to his own work.

It was easier said than done. Mycroft’s mind kept drifting, and he checked his watch, wondering how Greg was doing. The email had been a gamble, and he wasn’t sure if it would work. It might blow up in his face, but it had been a calculated risk. He had wanted to do something good for Greg, because Mycroft felt he deserved it. Simply put, Greg was nice. He was a good man, with ethics, someone who had the instinct to protect and nurture and encourage. He was also very easy on the eyes, and Mycroft found himself unable to shake the memory of dark eyes, that cheeky boyish smile, and the hair. God, that hair. His fingers twitched. He almost ached to be able to stroke it, to run his fingers through it. He sighed, and tried to pull his straying wits back to the task in hand.

0000000000000000000

“Good morning, Greg. You’re early.” Her voice was dripping with insincerity. “Do come in. Have a seat and let’s crack on. How was your weekend?”

“Good, thank you, and yours?”

Irene paused a fraction of a second before answering, head on one side as if she was contemplating something. “Enlightening,” she said, and took a seat on the other side of her desk. There is was, Greg thought, the divide. She was always establishing the gulf that separated them, keeping the desk between them, enhancing her superiority. Christ, Mycroft must be rubbing off on me.

“Something amusing?”

Damn, couldn’t keep the smile off my face, could I…? “Just triggered a memory, that’s all. So, down to business?”

“Yes indeed. So, you seem, on the surface at least, to be doing a good job, Greg. Everyone is happy with your progress, and the effect on your class is so far positive, given the challenges they face. However, it would be a pity to...shall we say, ruin things now.”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“You’re doing well, so take care you continue to do so.”

“I don’t see the opportunity arising to stop me.”

“Ah, Greg, the future is always an unknown quantity. So… these visits. I’m afraid I cannot see any argument that will justify my signing off on them.”

“Well, I received an email yesterday, I believe you did too?”

“Concerning?”

“From the Sherrinford, complementing the children and offering a free visit.”

“Yes, I saw it.” Irene was silent for a moment. “Greg, I hope you realise that email doesn’t change anything?”

Greg frowned. “Oh? Why not?”

Irene’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t take you for a fool, Greg.”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t take me for one, either, please.”

“I...I don’t.”

“Good.” Irene regarded him for a minute or two, her eyes studying him. Greg tried not to squirm. Then she smiled. “Greg, Greg, Greg,” she drawled. “Please don’t tell me you can’t see what is in front of your face? Yes, the letter was nice, but I don’t believe it for a second. I know your class, Greg. Your children are still a disruptive, ill-disciplined and disadvantaged mess of humanity, despite your efforts. Granted, there has been an improvement since you took over as their teacher. That speaks more to me about your ability to keep them in line than your ability as an educator, but they are not high fliers, they are not geniuses, they never will be.”

“No, but…”

“No buts. They are not worth expending energy on, in my opinion. This school is no longer struggling, but it is isn’t out of the woods yet and I am not going to sign off on any more trips, full stop, no negotiation. I can see what is happening here, even if you can’t. Mr Holmes is the man you were at dinner with on Friday. You introduced us, if you recall? Oh, he likes you. If I am any judge, he likes you a lot. That letter is a blatant attempt to impress you, to help you, to get into your good books. I’ll be blunt, Greg. Free trip or not, I cannot see how taking your class out of school will help them any more than delivering your lessons in the classroom will. They are not going to benefit…”

“It’s an incentive, Ms Adler,” Greg interrupted sharply. “And if you cannot see that, then there is something wrong. I am sorry you didn’t believe Mr Holmes. They behaved very well indeed, and they should be rewarded, in my opinion.”

“In your opinion. Greg, when I want your opinion, I shall ask for it. Your Mr Holmes has taken a shine to you, which has proved to be beneficial. I shall be taking him up on his offer, of course.”

“I thought you said you wouldn’t countenance any further trips for my class?”

“Not for your class, Greg, no, but there are other classes that could benefit greatly from such a generous offer…”

“How bloody dare you?” Greg snarled. “That invitation was directed to my class, by Mr Holmes. You can’t just dismiss the kids in my class like that. I’ll go to the governors…”

“And I shall of course inform them that I do not think this appointment is going well at all. After all, you’ve just come out as gay…”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You have a boyfriend, Greg. You didn’t object when I suggested Mr Holmes liked you…”

“Accepting one dinner invite does not make us a couple, and that is none of your damn business, or the governors’ either. My orientation has nothing to do with my ability as a teacher. Christ, what century are you living in?”

“It...colours things, though. Don’t you think?" she said contemplatively. "I mean, suddenly finding out one of your teachers is gay, it changes people’s attitudes.”

“And for the record I am not gay, I’m bi. I was married to a woman for six years...”

“And in some people’s opinions, that’s worse…”

“What…? Why? Why do this, Irene?”

“Why? I would have thought that was simple to see. I have a reputation, Greg. I am going places. This school is my meal ticket. Oh, don’t look like that,” she pouted. “I’m no different from any other Head who is concerned with their career. I am on track for a job that will set me up for life, but I cannot and will not allow anything to go wrong here. I know full well what little terrors your class are. I also know that Mr Holmes is not telling me the whole truth and you have lied by omission. This is a small town, Greg. I know a lot of people here. Someone saw how careless you were with your charges. Someone knows exactly what happened. If the governors knew that you let one of your children get away from you, what do you think would be their response? You’re a probationer, Greg, in your first six months teaching. If you screw this up you will never get another job. I shall see to that.” Greg was speechless. He was trapped and he knew it. He hated it and right then, he hated her. “Oh, look at it this way, Greg,” she said brightly. “I shall be out of your hair soon. Then you can hope you get a more sympathetic Head who is more open to expending energy and resources on lame ducks. For now though, keep your mouth shut and your teaching within these walls and we shall get on fine. Rock the boat and you’ll find you’ve taken on the wrong person. Have a nice day.”

“Oh, my God, what happened?” Mary was the first to reach him as he stepped back through the staffroom door.

“You look grey,” James commented. “Are you alright?”

Between them, they guided Greg to a seat and Mary made him tea, hot and sweet. He drank it, hand shaking around the mug. It took him precious minutes to manage to articulate what Adler had said to him. By the time he finished telling them he was, he knew, shaking not with shock but with rage.

“God damn that uberbitch,” Mary was saying.

“Uberbitch?” the comment broke him out of his funk and he started to laugh, a tad hysterically but it wasn’t the all-consuming rage of moments ago.

“If the cap fits,” she said, shrugging.

“Are you fit to teach?” James asked. He checked his watch. “Twenty minutes before the bell. You’ve time to relax a little. Drink your tea.”

“I daren’t have more. I don’t want to be desperate for a pee in the middle of the morning. I’ve got playground duty today.”

“That’s what NTAs are for, you know. You are allowed to pee. Now drink,” James ordered, a little of the ex-soldier rearing its head.

Greg glared but realised that they were working to calm him down, and it was having the desired effect. He took some deep breaths and tried to relax. He absolutely must not let it show in his teaching. His class didn’t deserve it.

“That means there’s a mole at the museum,” James said suddenly. "If she already knew, that means someone saw you."

“Could have been a visitor, although there were precious few when we were there,” Greg added. “I’ve got to go…”

“Relax, Rhiannon will take charge until you get there. She’s capable, and you know that,” Mary insisted.

“Here,” James glanced both ways before he slid a hip flask out of his pocket and handed it over. “Quick swig before you go. Dutch courage.”

Greg took it from him and knocked back a gulp. It was very good single malt. He coughed. “Jesus, that’s…”

“Twelve year old Cardhu, yes.”

“...expensive…”

“Worth it. Now up you get, go teach. You’re strong, Greg. You’ll weather this, and somehow, we’ll get the bitch back for all of it.”

“Can you arrange a sniper?”

“Nice idea. Leave it with me. Now, go. Put it out of your mind, we’ll go for a drink after work.”

Somehow, Greg got through the day. His kids were on their best behaviour. Cherry was kind to Michael and Greg praised her for being nice. Stephen was disruptive but Greg didn’t lose his rag and merely gave him detention over playtime to think about what he’d done. Dave and Maria both did well in reading. As ever, Greg employed his reward system for work well done. Every nice act or extra hard effort at work added five minutes to the time at the end of the day when the whole class sat down in a group in the quiet corner and Greg read to them. Every negative act or laziness took five minutes off. At present he was reading The Hobbit, and they had reached Laketown. It was almost therapy for him to wind down at the day’s end. The kids went home happy, and he went home relatively relaxed.

Tonight though, he felt betrayed. James wouldn’t hear no for an answer and they went for a conciliatory pint at the Three Legged Mare on the edge of town. They spent a decent evening chatting and when Greg got home he felt better about the day, but the hate for Irene had consolidated. No more Mr Nice Guy. Two could play at her game and she did not scare him. If she wanted to play the homophobic card, well, he knew one or two people in the newspaper industry who would be only too happy to hear about a high flying headmistress who was harbouring homophobic tendencies. For now though, he would keep that one under his hat.

There was an email waiting for him the following morning. He sat at the table in the window, basking in the sunshine of an early June morning, scanning his emails while eating his cereal. The one from Mycroft jumped out at him.

Dear Greg,

Are we still on for Friday? I have a function I need to attend which may make me later than intended. Would you be alright if I arrived at eight?

Regards

Mycroft.

Greg sighed. He was tempted to put the man off, break it off before it became anything more, but… He did get lonely, he knew. His flat was empty. So was his life. Although he and James and Mary got on well, could go for a drink after work occasionally, they were not good friends. Mary had a family and James had a wife, they had people who needed them. Greg was on his own. He often didn’t see anybody from leaving school in the evening to going back the following morning. He needed to get out more, he knew. Maybe join a sports group or a class in something at the local college. He should be meeting people. Although he didn’t want to, not really. Bar for Mycroft’s invitation, he had no inclination to date again. Meeting the museum curator had been pure chance, and they seemed to be comfortable around each other. Beyond that he wasn’t sure if he should allow it to go further…

Yeah, he typed, that’s fine. It’s not been the best week, so it’s something to look forward to. See you at eight then.

Greg

Honestly, he wasn’t certain if he was making a big mistake. He tried to process what Irene had said with her suggestions that Mycroft wanted to impress him. He doubted Mycroft wanted to impress anybody, he was too self assured. He didn’t have the need. Perplexed, Greg tried to put it out of mind and concentrated on his teaching for the rest of the week. He couldn’t bring himself to tell the class there would be no more trips.

000000000000000

Wednesday brought Jim Moriarty into the museum to begin work on the interactive screens in the new exhibition. Mycroft found Seb Moran, his IT technician, standing with Jim in the gallery as the screens were being mounted on pedestals by the rest of the Museum’s techies.

“Good morning, Gentlemen. Is everything going well?”

“Mornin’, Boss. Everything’s okay so far. Things okay with you?”

“Yes, thank you. I had notification of a grant application having been successful, so things are progressing nicely. Have you heard anything from Tucker at the British Museum, Terry?”

“Yes, I have,” the Exhibition Officer replied. “He’s happy for us to visit the warehouse next week sometime. Andy tells me that all this,” he swept a hand out to encompass the entire gallery, “...will be ready by the beginning of next week. Painting completed, cases positioned, UV sheet fixed to the windows, then we can put the finishing touches on it. We’ve jumped ahead by almost four days.”

“Great news. Well, keep up the good work. I’ll see you all later.”

Mycroft smiled contentedly. He didn’t like to count his chickens before his eggs were hatched but in this case, things were going well, with a breathing space if something suddenly went tits up. He could relax a little. He decided to go out for lunch and sit in the park at the back of the museum. It was a fine June day, and he wanted to take advantage of it.

He decided to check his emails before he left and saw the reply from Greg. Not been the best week? Oh dear. Mycroft pondered what had happened and considered it likely that something had gone wrong on Monday morning. He should have at least texted to find out. He wrote back quickly, and then took himself off to find lunch.

I am sorry to hear that. I do hope it wasn’t my fault. If it is, I shall endeavour to make amends and due reparation when I see you. Do take care of yourself. Understand that I am here to chat if you need to.

With fond regards

Mycroft

Mycroft sat for slightly longer than he had intended, pondering on what to do for Greg. He would have to find out what had gone wrong. He imagined it wouldn’t be pleasant. What was bothering him was where he had come across the Adler woman before. He knew her, he was certain of it, but how? Somehow, his brain failed to supply the necessary link. Frustrated, he went back inside, just as the phone rang.

“Holmes,” he said automatically.

“Brother, dear.”

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Good God, Mycroft, don’t sound as though one of the four horsemen has just arrived to spoil your day.”

“Hasn't he?"

"Brother, I'm hurt."

"Like Hell you are." Mycroft sighed. "I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I have a lot on my mind.”

“So it would seem. It wouldn’t be a romantic partner, would it? Sentiment is so debilitating, I wonder why people entertain it. You were always the sentimental one.”

“As a matter of fact, I do have more in my life than romance. Precious little of that right now, too. I am up to the eyes in preparation for a rather prestigious exhibition…”

“I know. That’s why I’m calling you.”

“And why on earth would you be calling me about my exhibition?”

“You are hosting a rather important exhibit, are you not?”

“No point denying it, but I would like to know how you know? And what you know? It’s being kept very quiet. or obvious reasons.”

“Yes, well, not as quiet as everyone seems to think. We need to talk.”

“And why would we need to do that? A chat over tea and scones? I hardly think so.”

“Oh, you’ll want to hear this, Mycroft. Someone is planning a heist."

"Pardon?"

"A heist, and the target is The Sherrinford.”

***

Chapter 8: You Might Just Get It

“A what?”

“Dense all of a sudden?” His brother’s tone was waspish.

“I am not dense, I merely fail to understand your implications.”

“A heist, Mycroft. I believe that is the modern parlance anyway. Theft, robbery, a break-in. Larceny of the highest order. I don’t care what you call it, someone is planning one, and planning it against your museum.”

“Well, you’re right about something.”

“I am?”

“Yes, we do need to talk.”

The whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes swept up the steps to the Sherrinford later that afternoon, his long and ostentatious coat billowing behind him. He stopped at the main desk and eyed Janine up and down. “Here to see Mycroft Holmes. I have an appointment.”

“Name, sir?”

“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”

Mrs Hudson did indeed provide them with tea and scones, enough for an army. Sherlock slurped his tea just to annoy his brother, but Mycroft was beyond being annoyed by trivial things like his little brother’s sense of humour.

“So, how do you know that someone is going to attempt a...heist, as you put it?”

“Word on the street. I’ve done my own investigating too.”

“How come? I thought you were cosily ensconced with your bees in Sussex.”

“Oh, I am, but you know I need to return to London…”

“You make it sound as though you’re a vampire that requires its home soil to sleep. Honestly, Sherlock, make sense. You obviously have more than just rumour?”

“I do. However, the police won’t listen to me…”

“As if that surprises me.”

“You need to approach them.”

“What?”

“Hard of hearing all of a sudden?”

“What do you mean, I have to approach them?”

“It will be better coming from the director of the museum that is the target for this robbery rather than from me. Dimmock isn’t talking to me right now.”

“He’s a sensible man.”

“He’s as dim as his name. I swear…” There was a knock at the door.

“Damn it, what now?” Mycroft muttered, and in a louder voice, called out, “Come in.”

The door opened and John Watson appeared. “Oh, er...sorry, Mr Holmes. I didn’t realise you had company…um...Anthea isn’t in at the moment.”

“No, she’s not in. She has a dental appointment.”

“I...er...I thought we had a meeting now?”

“Oh, John...I’m so sorry. I clean forgot we were scheduled to meet this afternoon. I’m afraid I have an emergency meeting…”

“I can come back.” The ex-soldier was staring at Sherlock with interest. Mycroft noticed that his brother was also staring back.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

“Pardon?” John was taken by surprise.

“I said…”

“I know what you said, but why did you say it?”

“Well, you’re ex-military, injured in the line of duty, no longer serving, and you’re here...So, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Um..Afghanistan. How did you…?”

“How rude of me,” Mycroft interjected. “Sherlock, this is Doctor Watson, Head of our Anthropology Department. John, this is Sherlock, my brother.”

“Your...brother, right. Well, it’s nice to meet you.” He stuck out his hand to shake and Sherlock grasped it and shook, grip firm and dry.

“Pleasure,” he returned. Mycroft was interested to note that Sherlock had deepened his voice a little and his eyes were cataloguing every detail of the newcomer.

“Sherlock is...an investigator, of sorts,” Mycroft explained. “He works with the police on occasion. I’m afraid he has brought me some disturbing news concerning the exhibition. Apparently he feels there is going to be a robbery attempted on The Sherrinford…”

“Because of the…” John glanced at Mycroft for confirmation without voicing the reason.

“Exactly.”

“How do you know?” John asked. Sherlock frowned, perplexed.

“I trust Doctor Watson, if you doubt his veracity,” Mycroft said.

“I doubt everyone’s veracity, Mycroft. So, Doctor? Ah yes. Trauma surgeon then?”

“Ex-,” John said, voice flat.

Sherlock paused, expression blank. “To elaborate on your question, I have my sources,” he said. “Reliable sources. The heist is planned to take advantage of the chaos surrounding the arrival of the...object.”

“Then I will appoint more security,” Mycroft said.

“That would put them off, brother. It might make them rethink and then we wouldn’t get a shot at catching them.”

“I am not going on some harebrained adventure, Sherlock. This is madness. No wonder Dimmock won’t speak to you.”

“Let me get this right,” John said. “You think…”

“I don’t think, I know.”

“Okay, you know there’s going to be a robbery here but the police won’t listen?”

“Seems that way.”

“My brother is nothing if not unconventional, Dr Watson. I think he may have stretched his goodwill with the Met too far.”

“Okay, but there must be something we can do. Can’t you speak to the cops, Mycroft? Might be better coming from you. You don’t have to cite Sherlock’s knowledge, just tell them you’ve had an anonymous tip off.”

“Then they’ll have to investigate.” Sherlock grinned. “Well done, John.” He turned back to his brother. “There is something else. I have reason to believe they have an accomplice here, and a contact outside. I think one of my old adversaries has surfaced…”

“Oh, who?”

“I don’t know who your mole is yet, I have to say that, but do you remember the scandal over that Belgravia brothel?”

“Vaguely.”

“Oh, come on, Mycroft. You must remember? Father was livid, it affected a member of the Royal Family…”

“Father was an equerry for Her Majesty,” Mycroft explained to John. “The brothel was very high class but one of the younger members of the Royals got caught up in it. Very distasteful. Father said Her Majesty was most upset. However, Sherlock solved it, destroyed the evidence, as per the Palace’s request but the woman disappeared.”

“She had friends in very lofty places, brother, and if not friends, then she at least had enough damning evidence that she could use as leverage. She had help from somewhere. I am of the opinion she had someone engineer a new identity…”

“Are you okay, Mycroft?” John said as he saw the elder Holmes turn pale. Sherlock took in his brother’s expression with slight alarm. John was quick to get his boss to a seat and check his pulse. “Okay, Mycroft, what’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Seen a ghost. That’s what Mycroft recalled saying to Greg on their arrival at the wine bar. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Effectively, he had. Memory returned with a rush, and Mycroft recalled where he had seen Irene Adler’s face before; last seen smiling seductively from the glossy photos Sherlock had found at the brothel...

0000000000000000000

Greg spent all of friday in a subdued state of nerves. He shot off as soon as he could after the last child had gone, knowing he should stay to clear up and feeling a little guilty about abandoning Rhiannon to do the tidying, but she had shooed him away with a fond smile once she knew he was entertaining. He had already spent the entirety of Thursday evening cleaning, making sure his flat was suitably organised, the washing done, the magazines put away neatly. He changed the sheets on the bed just in case, and laid in a few other essential supplies. He had no expectations of getting laid but it wouldn’t do to be less than prepared.

By five he had made their starter, prepped the desert, and the roast was halfway through cooking. He peeled the veg, set them to steam but delayed the start, then made himself a cuppa and forced himself to sit down. He had his clothes for that evening hanging on a hanger behind his door, and once he had drunk his tea he would go for a shower, and change. He was nervous again. Like a bloody teenager, he thought morosely.

By six most of the dinner was ready. He wouldn’t turn the veg on to steam just yet. Mycroft wasn’t expected until eight so he had plenty of time. He turned the oven down on the roast and basted it, letting it slow cook for the last hour. He would need to let it rest anyway, and talking of resting, he uncorked the wine to let it breathe too; a nice red merlot, to go with the joint. He nearly left it too late to shower, even so. He lifted the roast out first and then disappeared into the bathroom.

What am I doing? He let the hot water wash away the day, scrubbing his hair twice to get rid of the school taint. He had a quick shave, and towelled dry in his bedroom, not sure whether his hair needed product or not. He decided not and automatically picked up the aftershave his wife had liked… and then put it down again. Not tonight. He already felt as if he were betraying her memory.

He chose a dark red shirt, and his dark navy chinos, sliding his feet into his loafers, sockless, and then heading back into the kitchen where he finally switched on the steamer. He dragged out cutlery and a table cloth and laid two places, setting his best glasses out and bringing the wine bottle over.

7.30 ticked past. He sat down, wondering at himself. Eight o’clock ticked past. By quarter past eight, Greg was sure Mycroft wasn’t coming. When his phone pinged, he grabbed it, but it was only James Sholto, wishing him a good weekend and hoping he was okay. Greg sent a swift reply to reassure the man, and sighed. At half past he figured he may as well eat before the food spoiled. He dragged a plate over, and then the doorbell rang shrilly in the silence of the flat. Greg was on his feet in seconds but he paused by the front door, unsure. Then he told himself not to be stupid and fumbled the latch and turned the yale.

“I am so, so sorry, Gregory.” Mycroft stood on the threshold, penitent and wary of Greg’s response.

“Come in, it’s fine,” Greg stood back and held the door for Mycroft to enter. “What happened?”

“Train delay, would you believe? Someone chose tonight to throw themselves in front of it…”

“Oh, charming. You okay?”

“Me? Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

“Well, come on in and make yourself at home. Get comfy, relax, chill, whatever. I think this definitely calls for wine.”

“More than acceptable, Greg, thank you.”

“Food’s ready. We can sit down now…”

“Er...Greg, I...um...I have something you need to know. I think you should be made aware now rather than later…”

“Is it life threatening?”

The question made Mycroft pause. “Er....No...”

“Is anybody going to get hurt?”

“No, not that I’m aware.”

“Then it can wait. Let’s just sit down and eat, and you can tell me afterward. Just let me enjoy this meal with you, and then if there are no more, I can at least say I have had this one chance.”

“Rest assured, this has nothing to do with us. I am not curtailing our relationship, if that’s what worries you. I…”

“Mycroft, sit. Eat. It’s been a long day, and I for one want to relax. Come on, tell me after I’ve had a few drinks.”

Mycroft sighed and smiled. “Alright.” He sat obediently and Greg served them their starter, a baby leaf salad. Mycroft examined it, to find it was scattered with pine nuts and crushed walnuts. It was drizzled with...he tasted it and the flavour burst upon his tongue. “Oh…this is...amazing, truly.”

“Baby leaf salad with pine nuts, walnuts and roasted pumpkin seeds and my own recipe dressing.”

“I had no idea you were such a creative cook.”

“I like cooking, but I like eating more,” Greg replied, grinning.

“What is in this dressing? It’s delicious.”

“Raspberry vinegar, honey and a little bit of olive oil.”

“Creative indeed.”

“I try. Sometimes doesn’t work but you live and learn.”

“You are not afraid to try new things.”

“Not at all. I’ll try anything once.” The grin was back, Mycroft noted. It was a cheeky flirtatious grin, dangerous, roguish. A grin Mycroft found himself easily able to fall in love with.

And why shouldn’t I? He wondered.

For the main course, Greg had cooked a joint and all the trimmings. Roast potatoes, steamed veg, the meat so tender it fell off the bone. Mycroft savoured every mouthful, sighing when it was finished.

“Seconds?” Greg suggested.

“I couldn’t,” Mycroft patted his stomach. “That was beyond words, Greg. Delicious.”

“Dessert then?”

“Oh my, really?”

“Only if you want it, but I warn you, it’s chocolate…”

“In a moment or two?”

“Sure, let this settle a while. We could relax on the sofa, we don’t have to eat dessert at the table.”

The two men got to their feet and Greg went through to the kitchen to switch the kettle on. “You want tea?” he called.

“Thank you, yes.” Mycroft sat down with a sigh.

Greg returned from the kitchen and paused in the doorway. He couldn’t help staring. Mycroft was sitting there, eyes closed, hands folded in his lap, long legs crossed elegantly at the ankles. Damn, but that man’s legs went on forever… He was as ever in one of his favoured suits, a sober charcoal grey number but expertly cut. He looked trim, and Greg’s mouth watered. He swallowed and shook himself and walked into the room. Mycroft’s eyes opened and he frowned.

“What’s up?” Greg asked.

“I still have this thing to tell you.”

“Okay then, hit me with it.” He sat down, side on, facing his guest.

“Where on earth do I begin?”

“Start at the beginning. There has to be one somewhere.”

“Hm, yes, but the problem lies in what to include.”

“Everything?”

“That would take too long.”

“Keep it to the relevant facts then?”

Mycroft leaned back and folded his arms, seeming to have come to a decision. “I have a brother,” he said. “A sister too, but at the moment she is a touch irrelevant. However, they are both younger than I and a great deal more intelligent. My brother was born with an extremely high IQ and you know what they say about the fine line between genius and madness. Sherlock is eccentric, to say the least, and has no idea how to interact with the rest of the world. It sometimes seems he has alienated half of London in his relatively short life…”

“So you have a mad genius brother. Not the worst I’ve heard. At least he’s not locked in your attic.” At Mycroft’s silence, Greg looked up and frowned. “He’s not, is he?”

“Don’t be silly, Gregory. However, you have never met him. Sherlock is something of an obsessive addictive personality and for years I feared he would not reach his 25th birthday. There were many times when I felt the desire to lock him in the attic and throw away the key. However, he seems to have settled into a particular lifestyle which involves his beloved bees and a small cottage in rural Sussex.”

“Bees?”

“Yes. An eternal obsession of his. He adores bees and everything about them. Keeps them at the cottage and studies them. He’s even written books on apiculture.”

“Apiculture?”

“Beekeeping, Greg. Do keep up, and you an educator?” Mycroft smiled at Greg’s annoyed little huff. “Those books of his have been well received but…”

“Hardly page-turners I expect. I gather he’s not the JK of beekeeping then?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Definitely not. As you can imagine, he is a rather strange relative to own up to possessing, and not one I interact with often, but Sherlock has a rather incredible ability to see details, and to link facts together. He adores problem solving, and has, on one or two occasions, even solved cases for the police.”

“Yeah? The police don’t usually consult amateurs.”

“As I said, you haven’t met him. He’s annoying, frustrating and even our parents don’t refer to him much any longer, but he has incredible gifts.”

“That’s sad for your parents.”

“They blame themselves. However, he was born like that and while they did not do anything to help the situation, I do not believe they can be completely blamed for how their genetics combined.”

“So, is this what you wanted to tell me?”

“I’m coming to it, bear with me. Sherlock has a...I would say friend but that means little where he is concerned...an acquaintance, if you will, in the police, one Detective Inspector Dimmock. The man is, I feel, a bit in awe of my brother’s abilities and it gives him a bit of a blind spot, which works beneficially for them both, an odd kind of symbiosis. Dimmock gives my brother the occasional case, current or cold, which Sherlock gets to solve, and Dimmock gets the credit.”

“Doesn’t seem entirely fair.”

“Oh, it is entirely my brother’s decision. He takes no credit. For him The Work is everything, and he couldn’t care less about fame. Besides, fame brings with it notoriety and if there is anything my brother hates it is the fuss that would accompany being well known. He likes his privacy. No, the choice is entirely his. However, one case he worked on was far from cold.”

“Oh?”

“Oh indeed, and this time, Sherlock has approached me concerning an impending robbery.”

“A robbery? Where?”

“My museum.”

“Oh. That’s not good. How does he know?”

“Let us say he has....contacts,” Mycroft murmured. “On the semi-regular times he goes back to London, he mixes with undesirables and criminals with equal alacrity, and manages a network of informants that can only be described as a Met Inspector’s wet dream.”

“You know, I’ve not yet heard anything to worry me. I mean, an impending robbery isn’t nice to find out about but you were talking as if I wouldn’t like to be in your company after hearing what you had to say.”

“Well, quite apart from the...experience that is my brother, and believe me, should anything blossom between us, you will meet him, there’s something he has unearthed that is a little disturbing.”

“Oh?”

“Greg...before I tell you what he found, I want you to understand about my brother. He is...difficult when it comes to people I chose to... well, to get to know. He’s…”

“The jealous little brother?”

“His argument is he doesn’t want to see me hurt. Sentiment to him is superfluous, irrelevant, annoying. It interferes with The Work.”

“The Work?”

“Yes. To Sherlock The Work is everything, his brain is the most important thing to him, and everything else is just transport. He has scared away two former partners of mine simply by deducing their intentions and their life history and laying out their dirty laundry for everyone to see.”

“Well, forgive me for pointing this out, but if they had dirty laundry you didn’t know about, you might have been better off without them.”

“It makes for a frustrating time, however, waiting for the moment when my partners run the gauntlet of my brother’s disapproval, and most likely fail.”

“Well, in case you’re interested, I don’t scare easily.”

“I imagine you don’t. However, it is a bit of a moot point. Sherlock will confront you sooner or later.”

“Best cross that particular bridge when we come to it then. So what else?”

“In the course of his liaison with the Met, Sherlock was involved in a private investigation of a high class brothel in Belgravia, about ten years ago. It catered to those who could afford both their services and their discretion.”

“You’re sure? I don’t recall anything about it. There were some high profile cases when I was a sergeant but I don’t recall a brothel in Belgravia being one of them.”

“There is a good reason for that. Our father was equerry to Her Majesty at the time and it came to light that one of the younger Royals was a frequent visitor to this particular establishment. As such she made perfect blackmail material. It was a distasteful time, despite the fact that Sherlock solved the case. He also destroyed evidence, on the Palace’s say so. The Madam of the brothel got away scot free, and disappeared.”

“So, what happened to her, do we know?”

“Well, she operated the brothel under an assumed name, so no luck there. She had no prior convictions, she was not on any databases, and the trail went cold.”

“So who was she?”

Mycroft’s eyes met Greg’s. “Your boss,” he said gently.

***

Chapter 9: Penny For Them

“What the Holy Fuck are you talking about?” Greg was reeling from everything Mycroft had just told him. He could not believe such a wild accusation. “My boss might be a lot of things but the Madam of a brothel cannot be one of them. Good God, how in Hell could she keep that a secret? She has to have gone through a DBS check to be a teacher in the UK...”

“Her face most certainly is not on any police database. Sherlock told me later that our father had requested MI6 to get involved, but they could find no record of her. If MI6 cannot find anything, I doubt there is anything to find. She dropped off the radar most likely because she had help, maybe from someone who has managed to craft a new identity and paid for her to go through university. Although she herself was receiving a very profitable wage from her practices and working in that sphere she might have had underworld contacts who could facilitate the kind of disappearance she needed. She’s far from stupid. She would have handled her money well; hidden it, invested it, made sure it was accessible even in the event that she had to disappear. She was holding people hostage with the information she had gleaned from them as her clients. She was a blackmailer…”

“Well, she bloody well liked blackmailing me.”

“It’s her nature. She apparently didn’t want money from anybody, just protection. Favours for when she needed them. Probably still has those files somewhere, as insurance. Nobody ever knew her real name. She was only ever referred to as The Woman. None of this ever made it to police files, MI6 saw to that. The Palace thought it too sensitive to risk anyway.”

“But she’s had loads of teaching jobs…”

“Has she? Really? How do you know?” Mycroft asked. “You said yourself she’s secretive. Has anyone actually checked her career beyond the last one or two? References are easy to fabricate, you just have to know the right people, and pay them.”

“I can’t...no, it can’t be.” Greg frowned, his confusion obvious. “I just… I find it impossible to believe. This is not the kind of thing that happens to me.”

“Nevertheless, I am certain it is she. I knew you would be sceptical, so I had Sherlock give me a copy of two of the photos he procured.” Greg eyed Mycroft warily as he fished the photos out of the pocket of his coat and held them up.

“But if this is real, if she really is this person, then what now?” Greg asked. “I mean, can we go to the police? Or MI6? Does your dad still have contacts?”

“My father retired years ago, although he might still have a way of getting in touch. I can ask, but considering she’s not on any police database, taking this further might be difficult.” Mycroft sighed. “The problem is,” he added, “Sherlock thinks she’s involved in the robbery somehow.”

“Oh, bloody great. How?”

“I have no idea, but he thinks there is an accomplice on my staff, a mole if you will, and someone on the outside.”

“And she’s the one on the outside?”

“He thinks so.”

Greg paused. “Hang on though. Strikes me that she’s not the kind to get directly involved with robbery. Blackmail is one thing, but I would imagine robbery would be…well, beneath her, somehow.”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

“Well, you’re the psychologist, Mycroft, but I used to be a copper, you know.”

“I do believe you mentioned it, yes.”

Greg grinned. “Well, my copper’s instincts are not completely dead. How about that man she was with on Friday? Did you recognise him? Might be he’s involved somehow.”

“Unfortunately I’ve never seen him before. However, that’s not to say he’s not involved.”

“Might be good to do an e-fit of him.”

“A what?”

“An e-fit. You know, a facial composite. A photofit?” Greg explained at Mycroft’s blank expression. “Computer generated version of his face,” he added. “Get the police to run it, find out if Adler’s date is anyone they know.”

“Not a bad idea,” Mycroft agreed. "Assuming you have a contact who can do that."

Greg recalled something Irene had said to him on Monday. “You know she intimated to me that she knows someone on your staff.”

“Does she indeed? Did she reveal who? You’re sure she wasn’t merely...blagging, to put it in modern English.”

“During our meeting, she was very...well, dominating, as you might expect. She had the upper hand, alright. She knew one of the kids had run away from me. How did she know that unless someone had told her? You didn’t, obviously.”

“There were a few people who saw that incident. Terry Grant, he’s our Exhibition Officer, was the man I was talking to when your pupil barged in. Barry, the Gallery Attendant on duty, was the one who chased the child. All the workers in the gallery saw it too. So I am afraid it might be difficult to narrow down the field. We’d have a hard time finding out which one is your boss’ informant.”

“Well, she forced me to capitulate to her decision as a result. I tried to threaten her that I would go to the governors when she refused to sign off on the other visits I’ve booked, because she told me my kids were not worth spending money on.”

“What were her exact words?”

“She told me someone knew how careless I’d been with my kids, my charges as she called them. She told me someone had seen what happened and she asked me what I thought the governors would think if they knew I had let one of my children get away from me. If the governors knew that you let one of your children get away from you, what do you think would be their response? Those were her exact words.”

“Hm, so she does know what happened. I wondered if she was just guessing, but it seems not. What else had she to say to you?”

“Plenty. She told me that as I had now come out as gay, because I was obviously on a date with my boyfriend on Friday, and because one of my kids had escaped from me, the governors would probably be persuaded to terminate my contract because I’m a probationary teacher in my first year and they wouldn’t look kindly on the lack of discipline.” Greg took a deep breath. “She thought you were being kind, or trying to impress me, because of your letter. She recognised your name, and obviously put two and two together.”

“Oh, Greg, I am sorry. That sounds suspiciously like my fault, a complete cock up on my part.”

“Nah, you’re not to blame. I should have agreed to go somewhere else for dinner when I saw her car.”

“But then I would not have met her, and my memory of her would not have been triggered. She really said that to you, about being gay?”

“Yes. I actually told her I was bi, to be honest, and that it was none of her business, but she said it colours how people regard you, would put them against me for not disclosing it. She also fully intends to take you up on your offer of visiting the museum, but with another class, not mine. Mine apparently don’t deserve opportunities like that.”

“That woman deserves locking away and throwing away the key. I shall have words, believe me. That invitation was for your class and yours alone.”

“Well, she wants nothing to get in her way concerning her promotion. She apparently has a nice job lined up that should set her up for life and she wants nothing to come between her and it. She warned me not to rock the boat.”

“Well, I have a fear that something very large will come between her and any new job. It will probably scupper her boat, never mind rock it.”

Greg finally took the photos from him and stared at the images. “Bloody Hell,” he said. “She’s younger, but...it’s obviously her. Too good a photo not to be. Bloody Hell,” he repeated, wonderingly. “She still wears the same style dress. Slick as you please and probably costs more than my car.”

“So, we have a problem.”

“Problem? We have to go to the police with this. Look, Mycroft, I have contacts still. I can call someone, get the ball rolling…”

“Who do you have contact with?”

“DCI Bradstreet, for one. Dave is a decent bloke and a good copper. He’d come on board. How much proof does your brother have?”

“Not much, just the word on the street from his contacts, usually the homeless of London.”

“Not the best witnesses, even if they are good informants.”

“No indeed.”

“Let me talk to Dave anyway. We can at least get advice. He’s still with Serious Crimes and I worked with him when he was a DI.”

“Very well then. But tomorrow, because right now I would like nothing better than to partake of that promised chocolate dessert…”

“Right, yes. Good idea. We need to relax and salvage this evening. Gimme a mo.” Greg dashed off, amazed and somewhat shellshocked by the evening’s revelations.

Greg watched Mycroft take a spoon of his dessert and smiled. The white chocolate ganache trailed over passion fruit sorbet and mango sauce was his own idea, and it had obviously been the right choice. He had finished it with milk chocolate curls and a sprinkle of gold metallic dusting sugar.

“Oh, my God, this is… Is divine the right word to use? Gregory, when you said the dessert had chocolate in I had no idea how heavenly it would be.”

Greg’s smile widened into a grin. “Well, it’s not something I advertise my talent in. I mean, not very...well, manly, is it? Sprinkling stuff with gold sugar…”

“Greg, I am surprised at you. There is nothing wrong with a man creating superb dishes like this, no matter how much sugar is sprinkled!” Mycroft shook his head. “In fact the whole dinner has been divine. I’m the one who stuffed it up with mentioning that woman.”

“No, you haven’t, not really. We can always do another date anyway.”

“Yes, we can. However, I cannot hope to repeat your cooking. I am hopeless.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a challenge to teach you.”

“I am hopeless, Greg. I can burn salad.”

Greg laughed. “Well, I can teach, you know. It’s my job.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to smile. “Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

“And I am a good teacher, Mycroft.”

It was that moment, Greg figured later. There is always that moment, the one where everything changes, the pivotal point where things alter course, sometimes for the better, sometimes worse, but it’s the point at which you have to take a chance, that leap of faith. He spooned up a little sauce and ganache and offered it over, teasing Mycroft with it. Greg watched the man pause, eying the spoon, and then he leaned in and allowed Greg to feed him. He licked the spoon, pupils dilating as his tongue swept up the sweet mouthful. Greg felt himself react, an almost electric jolt running through his body as he watched Mycroft enjoy the morsel.

He leaned closer, took Mycroft’s own spoon from his fingers and paused for a fraction of a second, eyes on his, just to allow him an out if needed. Mycroft didn’t take it. His eyes stayed on Greg’s, and Greg took his chance, closing the distance between them and pressing his lips to Mycroft’s. He went gently at first, then more firmly as he met no resistance. Mycroft murmured a soft hum of appreciation and kissed back, and that moment extended, continued into acceptance, the pivotal point reached. For a moment they teetered on the edge, and then overbalanced into a completely new life, a life where they were still friends, that was certain, but where their relationship had solidified into something more, just like that.

He’ll be good for you, Greggybear. Love him well.

oooooooooooooo

Mycroft felt the moment extend, beyond anything he had ever imagined. He let the bliss of the moment take him. He put Irene Adler and his brother and the potential robbery and everything else out of his mind. This… this is life affirming. Greg was everything Mycroft could ever have hoped for and more, and he was desperate not to stuff it up. Sherlock’s revelations might manage to do just that; Greg had yet to meet his volatile sibling, not to mention weather his disapproval. For now though, Mycroft thought, praying to whatever God would listen, just let this moment extend for a while longer, just let me enjoy it for a few uncomplicated seconds before I need to face reality. However it seemed like reality had taken a sideways shift.

“Mycroft.” Greg’s husky voice in his ear broke the moment.

“Gregory?”

“I want to go to bed.”

“Bed?”

“Yes. With you. Now.”

“You want to….with me?”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I’m not sure...I...I’m open to suggestions, I suppose.”

“I can make plenty of those,” Greg replied, as his fingers twined into Mycroft’s. “Please?” he added softly.

“I fail to understand what you see in me, but…”

“I see enough to know I want you. Everybody else who can’t see how insanely attractive you are must be blind. You’re also kind, funny, intelligent… Mycroft,” Greg said softly. “Stay the night?”

Mycroft pondered a while, knowing that Greg was watching him and also doing his best not to influence his decision, despite his obvious desire to keep Mycroft there. It was surprising, it was flattering, it was…beyond his wildest dreams. “Very well,” he replied softly. “If you would like me to.”

“Yeah?” Greg whooped, and then sobered. “Sorry, I was overcome by the moment. That’s great, really…” He huffed a laugh. “Guy my age shouldn’t be acting like a teenager.”

“Greg, a guy your age should never forget to act like a teenager.”

“Oh, okay then. So, how about this…” Greg leaned in and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s, his tongue swiping across the seam of the man’s mouth, begging entry. Mycroft obliged and suddenly Greg’s tongue was plundering his mouth and Mycroft found himself responding in kind. They only drew apart for air, gasping and laughing, and Greg grabbed Mycroft’s hand and towed him across the hall and into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them.

Much, much later, Mycroft found himself on his back in bed, Greg’s weight pinning him as the man moved inside him. It was simply bliss. The only illumination in the room was from the streetlights outside, rain pelting against the windows, the odd car swishing past on the road below. There was just the two of them, lying there in the dark, moving together like they’d been doing this for years. They fit together, he thought hazily, as conscious thought dissolved into sensation. He raked his fingers through Greg’s hair, nails scratching through the short strands, hearing Greg’s moan as he did so. He shuddered in Greg’s arms, holding onto him as if he were a rock in a storm. My own personal storm, he thought. I’m on the crest of a wave, and it’s crashing through me, sweeping away doubts with it. The storm passed, leaving him spent and sated and impossibly content. He gave up thinking and drifted, sinking into sleep easily.

This was too easy, Greg thought.

“Penny for them?” Greg murmured. He was staring at Mycroft from a few inches away in the big double bed. There was a little light coming through the curtains, so probably early then.

“Did you know the word penny is over a thousand years old?”

Greg smiled. “Really?” Mycroft could almost see Greg’s mind working as he sorted through his memory for the information. “What would that make it then? Saxon?”

“Scandinavian.”

“Viking then?”

“Well, Anglo Scandinavian to give them their proper name. Vikings were only a small percentage of the populace. To go a Vikingr,” he explained, pronouncing it vee-king-ger, “was to go adventuring, to make one’s name as a warrior. So not all Scandinavians were Vikings, although somehow we apply the term generically to all those who moved here.”

“Love it when you go all knowledgy on me,” Greg said, nose wrinkling.

“Knowledgy? Is that even a word?”

“Probably not, but it sounds good. Brainy.”

“Brainy?”

“Now I know that’s a word. I’m not a teacher for nothing.”

“Maybe, but being called brainy always made me feel like a nerd.”

“Nah. Didn’t you know, Brainy is the new sexy.”

“It is?”

“Is in my book, so you can continue being your sexy brainy self as long as you wish.”

Mycroft chuckled, happily. “You are impossible, Greg.”

“Try my best. You need someone like me, to remind you to laugh. You’re gorgeous when you laugh.”

“You need me to keep your feet on the ground. You’re a rogue.”

“Ah, but I’m your rogue.”

“Are you, really?”

“If you want me to be, yes.”

Mycroft stared at the hopeful set of eyes looking into his. Then he smiled, and Greg mirrored it, grinning. If I could only wake up to those eyes every day for the rest of my life, he thought. I’m long overdue for the Universe to go my way for a while.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Just how happy you make me.”

“Do I? Great. Glad about that.”

Mycroft’s expression was that of a contented cat. “Thank you, Gregory. I...I’m really not sure I deserve you.” Suddenly his expression crumpled into a frown. “I am really not looking forward to you meeting my brother.”

“Worries you that much, hm?”

“You cannot imagine.”

“Okay, well, how about we get it over with then. We should meet up and discuss this situation anyway. In the morning…”

“I thought it was the morning.”

“It’s far too early to be called morning yet. It’s only four.”

“Oh, alright.”

“So, let’s get some more sleep, and when we get up, I will call Dave Bradstreet, and we’ll go from there. Give your brother a call, see if we can set up a meeting, and then we can decide what to do with the rest of the weekend.”

“Oh.”

“Oh? That didn’t sound too good.”

“The reception that made me late last night, I’m afraid we have another one this evening. We have some sponsors coming to take a look at the place in advance of our new exhibition, we entertained one group yesterday and we have the rest tonight.”

“Okay, so...what time do you have to be off then?”

“Well, I was considering...would you care to accompany me to this one?”

“Me?”

“Yes, Gregory. You. As my plus one.”

“Are we not taking this too fast? I mean, two dates and now I’m accompanying you as...what, your partner?”

“Well, we have had sex, Greg. I would have thought that would have been classed as too soon. It seemed to me my inviting you to a reception pales by comparison.”

“You think it was too soon?”

Mycroft sighed. “No, Greg. Actually I don’t think it was too soon. I meant it could be classed by some people that having sex with a new partner after only a week of knowing them and after what amounts to only two dates, the first of which was perhaps nothing more than two friends eating out together, could be said to be too soon. I, however, do not consider our actions to be peremptory. I consider them to be completely natural, and very satisfying. Something about our relationship is...simple, easy, as though we’ve known each other for years.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been wondering about. I mean...I’ve never known anyone quite like this. Not even my wife, God rest her. Ellie was lovely, and we matched well, we loved each other, but… when we met, it wasn’t this easy. She always supported me, she was my rock, but we still used to argue, to disagree all the damn time. Somehow, we fit together though. Even when we were disagreeing, we were okay about it, we always reached an agreement. My other partners have never been this....well, comfortable, or even satisfying. I just don’t know…”

“Don't worry about it, Greg. It is what it is. Come with me as my guest, nothing more. If anyone asks we can say we met recently at the museum, you have an interest as an educator, I heavily support our educational program, etc, etc. We don’t need to tell them we’re together, just that we’re friends.”

“Okay then, might be a laugh. What should I wear? Not a black tie do, is it?”

“Heaven’s no, just a little formal, that’s all. Smart. A suit, if you possess one.”

“I have two, I’ll have you know, and a tux. Several ties to my name as well. I might even let you decide which one I should wear.”

Mycroft shifted to get more comfortable. “I shall endeavour to bring my copious sartorial experience to bear in order to aid you in your time of need, Greg.”

“Glad I can call on my Knight in Shining Armour,” Greg said, wrapping his arm around the man beside him and spooning behind him. “Time enough for all that later though. Let’s get some more rest. You fair wore me out.”

“I wore you out? That’s a laugh.”

“You were insatiable…”

“Hush, Greg. I need my rest…”

Greg spent the next few seconds tickling the man in his bed until they were both breathless and laughing, which lead to kisses, which lead to other things, which meant they forgot all about getting more sleep.

***

Chapter 10: London Calling

“Bradstreet.”

“Hi, Dave? It’s Greg, Greg Lestrade.”

“Bloody Hell, Greg. How are you, you Tosser? Long time, no see, mate. What you up to? Still teaching?”

“Yeah, I’m still teaching. I’m mostly fine. Well...kind of. Look, I called because I could do with your advice. Any chance we could meet?”

“What’s up, Greg? You’re not in any bother, are you?”

“Not really, well… It’s a bit...complex. Did you ever hear of someone called Sherlock Holmes?”

“Sherlock Holmes? The mad bugger that solves unsolvable crimes? Yeah, he works with John Dimmock, poor bastard. Apparently he’s a right tosser. Only reason they let him is the fact he helped the Commissioner.”

“Jesus, really? What d’he do? Rescue his dog or something?”

“His kids, apparently. Kidnap attempt.”

“Bloody Hell. They kept that quiet.”

“Very. Never made the papers. It was just after you left, when you were...you know…”

“Yeah, during my...hiatus, if you want to call it that.”

“Yes, well, Holmes managed to find the location where the kids were being held. Nearly got himself arrested for complicity along the way though. Was apparently almost supernatural the way he knew. They thought he was part of it until they caught the bastard who did it, plus the fact Holmes had a cast iron alibi for being out of the country when it happened. The kidnapper disclaimed all knowledge of Holmes which also helped. When Holmes deigned to explain how he’d worked it out, it was all a logical progression, but I tell you, Greg, I’ve never met anyone who thinks as fast.”

“So, he started working for NSY after I left?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t help himself though. Swans in as if he owns the place, insults everyone, rubs people up the wrong way, solves the bloody crime then swans off again, bold as you please.”

“Pretty much how his own brother described him.”

“Didn’t even know the Freak had a brother.”

“Freak?”

“Everybody calls him that. He’s sociopathic, according to our police councillor. Gwen met him the once and had him pinned as a sociopath straight off. He doesn’t relate to anybody. His emotions are shallow, and he lacks empathy. He acts superior to everyone in the bloody room. Oh, he can be charming when you first meet him, but it soon wears thin. Hates being criticized, and he’s an impulsive bastard, he dashes off on a whim without sharing anything. Got himself into more than his share of problems because of that. Very high IQ, gets bored really easily, which is why he wants the cases to work on, but he’s a manipulative little shit sometimes. His only redeeming factor is he’s definitely on the side of the Angels. Lawful as all hell, so he’s not likely to cause us a problem, but he’s a cold son of a bitch. I pity his brother really.”

“Well, his brother is a friend of mine, but I’ve yet to have the pleasure of meeting Sherlock. However, Sherlock has brought something to his brother’s attention, a potential robbery being planned against the museum where his brother works. Same town as the school where I teach. I need to talk to someone about it, urgently, really. I need to know where we can go with this.”

“Seriously? How does he know?”

“Potentially it’s very serious. We’ve no cause to doubt his information, but he’s heard word on the street. He has informants, but not reliable ones in court if you get my drift. Look, the museum has a new exhibition opening soon, with some rather special exhibits. It’s all rather hush hush as a result but someone has leaked something somewhere, and Sherlock has heard word that someone is planning a lift…”

“Okay then, can you come to the yard?”

“When? I’m teaching all week and I absolutely cannot take time off.”

“Well, I was thinking sooner than that. Could you manage this afternoon?”

“Well, yeah, but you sure you’re okay with that?”

“I’m calling in anyway, so would 2pm at the pub next door be okay for you? Can’t stay long, but I can manage a half hour or so, would that be enough?”

“That’s okay, yeah. I’ve got somewhere to be this evening myself, so we won’t be able to stay too long either. Any chance we could arrange to have an e-fit done as well though?”

“Who do you need IDing?”

“A guy we saw in the company of someone on the suspect list.”

“Okay then, Greg. I’ll arrange something. I’ll meet you in the NSY lobby, two o’clock.”

“Okay, great. Thanks, Dave. Appreciate it. I’ll...um...I’ll be bringing his brother too.”

“Right then, I’ll see you both soon.”

Mycroft woke to an empty bed. He was comfortable and warm and quite well rested but Greg was gone and the bed on his side was cold so Mycroft decided to locate his partner and find out what was going on. He threw on a robe that was hanging on the back of the door and yawned as he let himself out of the bedroom, padding on bare feet along the hallway. He could hear voices as he approached the living room and Greg was just putting his phone down when Mycroft came in the door.

“Morning, love,” Greg said warmly, his grin sparking off as he saw Mycroft swaddled in a robe that was a bit too big for him.

“Morning,” Mycroft replied. “Anything up?”

“No. Just phoning Dave Bradstreet, get the ball rolling. He wants to know if we can head for London this afternoon? He can meet us at 2pm in the lobby of the NSY building. Would that be okay?”

“Certainly. How are we going to get there?”

“I thought train?”

“Not a bad idea. We can catch the tube at the station in town.”

“My thoughts exactly. We can be back with plenty of time for your evening reception, hm?”

“I should expect so. We can get a cab to NSY from the tube.”

“Yeah, so, I thought breakfast now, shower, sort clothes for tonight…”

“Then drive us to mine and I shall do the same with my clothes. Fetch yours with you, we can get ready at mine when we get back. Maybe...maybe you would stay at mine tonight? After the reception? May be easier? I can order us a cab from home to and from the museum and then you don’t have to drive?”

“Great, yeah, good idea. I’d be glad to stay.” Greg grinned again and mesmerized Mycroft for a second time.

“Good, that’s...very good. Greg…”

“Yeah?” Greg noted Mycroft was very pensive. “What’s up?”

“Thank you. For doing all this. I mean, it isn’t your problem really…”

“Nonsense, Myc. If I can help you, I will. I’m not about to let you face this alone. That wouldn’t sit right with me. Friends help each other.”

“Why? I mean…” Mycroft stuttered to a stop, mouth open on words that wouldn’t come.

“Why what? Why help?”

“No. I mean, why us? Why are we so...comfortable? With each other, I mean? I keep expecting us to argue, or fall out or...something...”

“Soulmates,” Greg said with another smile, but this one was wistful, even a little sad. “My gran, God rest her, used to tell me I’d know when I met my soulmate. Something will click, she said, and everything will be easy from then on. I know it sounds daft but...well, you know I said Elli was my rock? Well, she always supported me and we were best friends as well, but I always remembered what Gran said to me, and I always used to think that maybe Elli and I weren’t actually soulmates. We loved each other, really, but we weren’t always in accord, and we didn’t get along as easily as we might have. Soulmates are more than the sum of their parts. They’re better together, they’re stronger, just...more.” Greg shrugged, as if the English language was failing him. “Sorry, I haven’t the words. I can’t describe it better.”

“According to Greek myth, there was a man named Aristophanes,” Mycroft said (pronouncing it Aristo-fan-eez). “He was a comic playwright in ancient Athens, and he knew Plato, the Greek philosopher. The story goes that Plato asked Aristophanes to present a story about soulmates, in which Aristophanes tells that ancient humans were originally made with two faces, two hearts, four arms, and four legs. Fearing the power of humans, Zeus, leader of the gods, felt there might come a day when a human would take his place as ruler. In their arrogance, the humans tried attacking Mount Olympus, so to punish them and to prevent such an incident from ever reoccurring, Zeus split each human in half, with one set of arms and legs, and one heart, and one face. He also split their souls, and left them to wander aimlessly around the mortal world searching for their other half.”

“Their soulmate.”

“Indeed. The story is more complex than that though. It is in itself an interesting story concerning the acceptance of homosexuality. There were apparently three genders, and each human was either male, female, or androgynous. Aside from having two faces, four arms, and the rest, they had two sets of genitalia too. When they were split, they pined and starved and died for the lack of their other half, so Apollo took it on himself to make adjustments, so to speak. Each human ended up with one pair of arms and legs, one face, one heart, and one set of genitalia. He made it so they could join their bodies in sexual intercourse. Apparently until then they had not been able to do so. The androgynous ones, because they had possessed genitalia of both male and female, sought out the ones with the opposite of what they had. So if they had female genitalia they sought someone with male genitalia to complete them. The first gay couples were born of the men searching out men, and women searching out women, because the males and females had both possessed a pair of identical genitalia and were looking for the same thing, not the opposite.”

“Sad story but kinda nice that they accepted folk like that. I wonder if that’s why we call our partner our other half?” Greg mused.

“Soulmates really are more than the sum of their parts,” Mycroft said. “Each completes the other.”

“That’s...that’s how you make me feel,” Greg said softly. Mycroft looked at him, saw unshed tears in the man’s eyes. “Seriously,” he said, furiously swiping at his eyes with his hand, “I have never met someone around whom I feel...like I’ve known them forever.”

“Me either. I keep expecting to wake up.”

Greg laughed. “Me too.” They fell silent and stared at each other.

“Come back to bed?” Mycroft suggested, holding out his hand. “It’s not yet ten, we have a little time.”

“Time for what?” Greg asked.

“Anything,” Mycroft replied. “I just want to be close to you.”

“Then let’s get as close as we can.” Greg wrapped his arms about his lover and hugged him hard.

“As you wish,” Mycroft replied softly, hugging back.

0000000000

“Greg Lestrade, you old bugger, look at you. Can’t believe you’re teaching rugrats how to add up.”

“And how to behave like proper human beings. My kids are not going to be future murderers or gang members, that’s for certain, not if I can help it anyway. Dave, good to see you, you tosser. You still giving the PCSOs a hard time?”

“Always. Somebody has to.” Dave Bradstreet stood there, all six foot four of him, looming over other Londoners who passed by them, a rock in the sea of people. He greeted Mycroft warmly when Greg introduced him, shaking him by the hand and smiling widely. Greg noticed him glancing at Mycroft more than once as if comparing him to what he knew about his brother. He lead them to the local pub on the corner and they dived into the cool darkness of the interior, seeking refreshment to alleviate the London Summer.

“Christ, I am sorry to have dragged you here on a Saturday.”

“Nonsense, Dave. This is important. Good of you to see us both. It was short notice after all.”

“Yeah, well, good job I was here. Working on a nasty double murder in Shoreditch at the mo. We think we may have the bloke responsible but we’re following up a couple of loose ends before we formally charge the little shite. He’s a weasel. Proper little dipshit. Leaves a bad taste in your mouth almost.”

“Had a few of them in my time.”

“Well, you’re nicely out of it now. Be thankful. All you have to deal with are the petty squabbles of parents whose little darlings didn't come first in the Easter Egg painting competition..."

Greg laughed. "Much you know about teaching, you wanker..."

Dave grinned back. "So, what’s this situation, Greg?”

Greg filled him in with everything they knew. Mycroft answered Dave’s questions concerning Sherlock and what information he had passed on. Finally, Dave drained his pint and sat back.

“Frankly, Guys, I’m not sure what we can do with this.” Greg didn't like the man's lack of enthusiasm.

“Do? You can investigate, surely?”

“Greg, I don’t have to tell you about our lack of manpower, do I?”

“There must be something we can do? I mean, Mycroft might have got further if he said he had an anonymous tip off.”

“Look, without more proof, even if you’d called in a tip off, there’s not a great deal we can do. I mean, you have no potential date…”

“Actually we have," Mycroft answered smoothly. "At least, it was reported that the chaos surrounding the arrival of certain objects to the exhibition would be the time they would use. The exhibition opens on the 20th July. Some of the objects in question are being shipped the week before, on a specific date that has already been arranged. So, ergo, you have a date.”

“Right, well, I can have a word around, see if there’s anything we could follow up on, but honestly, you know as well as I do that we need more than the word of a few homeless folks. And your boss, Greg, if she really isn’t on any police databases, she will not be traceable. We won’t be able to trace either her or her background, although if you suspect fraud, we might be able to get the Sweeny involved. They’ll need a lot more than rumour though.”

“The Sweeny?” Mycroft was puzzled.

“Don’t tell me you never heard of that before?” Dave smiled.

“Sweeny Todd, Flying Squad. It’s rhyming slang, Myc,” Greg explained.

“Ah, I am enlightened.”

“Not to mention a rather infamous television series from the seventies,” Dave added.

“Before my time then,” Mycroft commented.

Greg shot Mycroft a disbelieving look. For all the academic brilliance in that man’s mind, it seemed he was missing out on certain areas Greg thought everybody knew. “They deal with serious crime too, but serious fraud, organised crime, gangs, that kind of thing.”

“I can get in touch with Ron Barker, see if he can help.” Dave got to his feet. “He’s a DI and he’s done more fraud cases than I’ve had hot dinners. Can I give him your number? He could arrange to come see you, sort out an e-fit for you as well.”

Greg nodded. “Sure. Mycroft?”

“Certainly. The exhibition does not open for another three weeks. We planned it to coincide with the start of the summer holidays. If Mr Barker can visit me, I saw the man in question and I have good recall. In the meantime, Chief Inspector, far be it from me to tell me your job, but could you trace Ms Adler's career prior to taking up the position at Sherrinford Primary? Surely if there is any anomaly you might pick it up there?”

“Actually, that's not a bad idea. I'll get someone on it on Monday. So we have a plan. Well, sorry not to be more use, gentlemen, but we’ll see what Ron has to say. Anyway, I’ve got to get gone or the wife’ll have my balls on a plate. Take care, Greg. Nice to have met you, Mycroft.” He shook their hands before moving off, and they watched him wend his way through the patrons near the bar and disappear through the door.

“I felt certain we’d get more from him,” Greg said, disappointed.

“Not to worry, Gregory. I feel we are somewhat further along. We’ll have to see if Sherlock can get us more concrete proof.”

“Wonderful. From what you said, that’s going to be just peachy.” He checked his watch. “Come on. We have an hour before we need to catch a train home. Fancy a walk?”

“Where to?”

“Anywhere. I’m with you, so anywhere is good.”

“Guilty pleasure?” Greg asked as they walked. The sunlight was bright, filtering through the plane trees and dappling the path beneath with shadows.

“Salted caramel.”

“Salted caramel what?”

“Anything. I simply adore the taste. Bad for me, but I cannot summon up the requisite motivation to care.” Greg laughed at Mycroft’s expression. “You?”

“Me what? Oh, right, yes. Um...turkish delight. I love roses, you see. Reminds me of Gran’s garden. Grandad kept plenty of roses because Gran loved them as well. Blue Moon, Ena Harkness, Iceberg, Peace. Have you ever read the story of the Peace rose? It’s amazing.”

“I cannot say I have.”

“Need to lend you the book. I’ve got it somewhere. It would appeal to you, being historical.”

“I look forward to it.” Mycroft’s smile was satisfaction itself as they walked. He badly wanted to reach out and hold hands but didn’t dare. It was too soon, he thought, expecting Greg would not appreciate it. He was startled therefore when Greg’s fingers interlaced with his a little later, and Mycroft looked up to see wariness in Greg’s eyes. For answer Mycroft simply tightened his grip and saw relief replace the wariness in the dark brown depths. Those eyes, he thought, reminded him of fine chocolate; a rich dark velvet brown. They had certainly managed to melt his heart.

The two men walked back to the tube, chatting all the way. They stopped to get a coffee at a vendor’s stall on the embankment. Watching the Thames flow past, Mycroft sipped his coffee and got lost in his thoughts. The function that night would be an important PR exercise, and hopefully get them more interest from their patrons. Mycroft had invited several local civic dignitaries to involve themselves more closely, including their local MP and the Lord Mayor, as well as the leading lights of some local community groups. He had also managed to get three locally born actors to attend; one of whom was in a popular soap, one was a familiar face on game shows while the other was more well known, a Royal Shakespeare Company actor with a string of television roles and a history of supporting charities and arts schemes.

Greg sipped his coffee and gave Mycroft some peace as they stood there quietly amid the bustle of the city. The ever present roar of traffic was notably absent in the town where he taught, and Greg realised he missed the sounds and the smells and the sheer grittiness of the capital.

“Are you alright, Greg?”

Greg turned at the unexpected voice and stared at Mycroft for a moment before answering. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Mycroft said gently.

“Nothing really...I just...I kinda miss this, you know? London. The capital city. It’s quiet where we live and work. It’s….”

“Peaceful?”

“Bland.”

“I thought it was necessary for you?”

“It was. I mean, I’m told I had a complete collapse, mental breakdown, you know? And yes, I did have to leave my job, heal, mourn, whatever, but honestly I cannot recall much of it. I understand I was not in my right mind…”

“Little wonder, considering your loss.”

“Yeah, but… I mean, why me? Plenty of folks lose people every day and don’t snap like I’m supposed to have done.”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not fully, no. Spent four months in hospital, Mycroft. Secure hospital, at that. I was...mentally unstable. Even when I left, it was clear from my evaluation that I couldn’t continue at work in a police role. So I went into something else that made use of my skills.”

“It bothers you, though, doesn’t it?” Mycroft said, perceptively. “You’re worried it could happen again. Were you violent?”

“Apparently, yes. They were calling it PTSD but I’m not so sure.”

“Your recall is hazy at best, you cannot remember exactly what happened and you have an account from other people whom you do not know and therefore do not fully trust as to how you behaved. You worry it might affect our relationship.”

“Spot on as always. You’re brilliant.”

“I observe, nothing more. Troubling as it is for you, sometimes the human brain blocks out things it cannot cope with. It’s a defence mechanism. Sherlock lost his best friend when he was six. The two of them were inseparable. Then the boy, Victor his name was, drowned on a family holiday. Sherlock had waved him off in the car with his parents and little sister, and he never returned. For years Sherlock would not talk about it. When he did, he referred to Victor as Redbeard, and said it was a dog that died. Somehow his brain had transposed a boy into a dog. Less traumatic, the doctors told us. Sherlock had locked the pain away and coped with it the only way he knew how, by forgetting it. For years he would not go near swimming baths, he disliked the seaside, and rivers too. He ceased visiting the one that ran at the bottom of our family home, and even when asked, he could not tell you why. So you see, the brain is complex and difficult to comprehend sometimes, but acts out of self preservation.”

“Fascinating. That would explain a lot about your brother too. Is he okay now?"

"He underwent therapy which was partially successful, but the damage is still there."

"Shame. But what can I do about me, though? I mean, if I wanted to remember?”

“Why do you wish to remember what was an obviously traumatic time for you?”

Greg crumpled his cup and threw it in the bin. “Because I can’t? Because I feel like I have no control over it. I don’t want to be a slave to my instincts. I want to know what happened so I know how I behaved. Hell, I don’t want to be in a position to injure someone I care about.”

“Gregory, you need to stop worrying. Now I am aware of your history, I know to watch for signs, but I very much doubt those same signs will arise again unless you experience another significant trauma. So I think you may put those worries out of your head or you will find they impact negatively on our time together. If you need to talk, then consider me your sounding board.”

Greg couldn’t help the smile that blossomed at Mycroft’s words. His past was worrying him, it worried him every day, but he was used to it by now. To hear Mycroft accept him though, warts and all, that was...there were no words, he thought. He had, by some unaccountable chance, bagged himself a wonderful compassionate loving man. The Universe works in mysterious ways, Greg thought, reaching to grasp Mycroft’s hand in his own again. Fearlessly, they walked hand in hand to the station to get their train home.

***

Next part of Knight at the Museum.

• Main Sherlock Holmes Slash page
• The new stories
• Holmes/Watson stories
• Other m/m pairings & threesomes
• Gen stories