This. This is so unfair.
Lestrade grunted to himself as he turned over on his bed and burrowed under his covers. The digital clock on his nightstand told him it was two o'clock in the morning, but sleep was the last thing on Lestrade's mind.
So - so unfair. This whole situation, it was cruel, unreasonable, wicked, and just plain mean. It was so... Mycroft. It just about sums him up.
Lestrade buried his face in his blanketed hands and groaned.
Mycroft, who kidnapped people and laughed about it. Mycroft, who spoke of international crisises with as little thought or care as if he were talking about the weather. Mycroft, who has everybody of interest under surveilance. Mycroft, who was the British Government... and then some. Mycroft, who lied about Sherlock's death. Mycroft, who had asked-... begged him to lie to his best friend about Sherlock's death...
Mycroft, with his ridiculous suits and umbrellas. Mycroft, who may-or-may-not single-handedly keep the earth spinning on it's axis. Mycroft, who chased him down every time he felt himself being sucked into the Welles Case. Mycroft, who - if Sherlock would outlive God to have the last word - at least outlive Sherlock, just to keep him in line in God's absence. Mycroft, who would lie to his friend about Sherlock's death. Mycroft, who both endangered and saved Lestrade's life more times than he cared to count.
Mycroft, who worried about Sherlock... constantly.
Mycroft, who wanted to court Lestrade.
Mycroft, ... possibly the last man on earth who used words like 'court' or 'woo'... possibly because he was secretly a vampire who lived in times that used those sort of words.
Lestrade ran his fingers through his hair. "Fuck, Mycroft, I'm losing precious sleep over you, you better feel fucking special." he grumbled to the room in general.
He ran the hand in his hair over his cheek.
Mycroft, who may-or-may-not sanitize his hands after a handshake, kissed him.
"Aw, shit!" Lestrade rolled onto his other side, determined not to think about it. Then, he thought better of it. This situation wasn't going to go away even if he tried to ignore it.
He got up, wrapped himself up in a jumper, and padded barefoot to his kitchen to make himself a cup of tea when he realized that he wasn't going to go to sleep anytime soon.
Maybe I shouldn't have gone to deliver Mycroft's Christmas present...
Lestrade shook his head again when he remembered Mycroft's empty house, too big for just one man. On Christmas, when he should be spending the day with family or friends. Sitting at home, alone, in that huge museum of a house.
It was a heartbreakingly lonely thought. Even when Lestrade had run away from home when he was a teenage drug addict, he spent Christmas once with a friend he had met at a club, the other years were spent in the Bates home. In the police academy he hung around with Dimmock, and when he finally made detective, with Meadows... and then he got married. And even after he divorced, he still celebrated with Dimmock, Meadows, and Donovan as well as Sherlock. And then Mycroft and John stepped into the picture with Mrs. Hudson and Molly... Lestrade couldn't remember a Christmas that he celebrated alone.
It wasn't difficult to imagine Mycroft to be a horribly lonely man.
He had his younger brother, who hates his guts. An assistant, who Lestrade was sure had mysterious other things to do on Christmas... like moonlighting as Santa Claus's PA, because Anthea demanded awe like that. And an equally mysterious 'Mummy Holmes' who Lestrade was beginning to think was a myth.
And then there was John, who was in equal parts terrified, annoyed, and wary of Mycroft.
And there was him. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.
Lestrade, who had pickpocketed Mycroft on their first meeting. Who had been both intregued and annoyed by Mycroft. Who knew almost nothing about Mycroft though knowing the cold hard fact that Mycroft knew everything about him. Lestrade, who would have gone mad, gotten killed, kidnapped, and given up on difficult cases if it hadn't been for Mycroft. Lestrade, who liked Mycroft, but was struck terrified at the thought of losing an irreplacable friend in an attempt to attain a lover.
"So unfair." Lestrade growled out decidedly.
What gave Mycroft the right to break his Iceman persona and fall in love? With him, of all people? A highschool drop-out, a runaway, a drug addict, a workaholic, world-weary, downtrodden, grey-haired copper past his prime? What gave Mycroft the right to be so apathic and cold enough to chase Lestrade away to Dorset and then lure him back with a simple apology?
Lestrade's hands tightened around his tea mug, he never bothered with teacups in the privacy of his home.
And what was he, some sort of dog? Who would bark, bite, and growl at Mycroft until he called and made him come running? A stubborn old mutt who followed orders... until he didn't? Who responded to every smile like a pat on the head, every laugh like a treat, and every kindness like an extention of affection?
And what was it about Mycroft that made him compare himself to a dog? Lestrade shook his head and retracted that thought immediately, Mal was a wonderful canine.
He drained the last sips of his tea and deposited his cup into his sink.
And really, nothing good could come from dating Mycroft Holmes... except maybe seeing Sherlock's reaction to the news. Just think about it, Sherlock would be incorrigible... as if there was a time he wasn't. And they would probably have arguments that would have catastrophic National repurcussions. And- and what if Mycroft was actually asexual?
That thought knocked Lestrade clear off mental balance.
He couldn't - shouldn't - try to imagine it. Mycroft who only tolerated physical contact from Lestrade or Anthea... Lestrade snorted out a laugh at the thought of the normally poised and prude Mycroft Holmes in any sexual situation with a woman... or a man. Lestrade gave up and fell into nervous fits of giggles. He couldn't imagine Mycroft being intimate... ever.
Lestrade pressed his lips together thoughtfully.
"Please, accept my clumsy attempts to woo you, because I would like to spend next Christmas with you." Lestrade felt heat prickle at the base of his neck.
Yeah, tonight's kiss - despite being on the cheek - was pretty damn intimate. Shit, 'tonight', was it still the same day? It felt like he was kissed eons ago.
Lestrade dropped his face in his hands. "What the Hell am I doing?" he groaned. "I'm supposed to be asleep!"
"You know what?" he said to himself as he stalked back to his bedroom. "Sod this. Sod Mycroft, I said I'd think about it, and I did. I have a right to go to sleep." He needed to sleep just in case he thought about this whole... thing too much and worked himself into a freakout.
He did not sleep that night. Not. A. Single. Wink.
If he left a panicked voice mail on Anthea's Blackberry during said freakout sometime between four a.m. to five thirty a.m. it was not spoken about.
And if his phonecall was put through to voice mail by Mycroft occupying her phone line with his freakout, that was not spoken of either. And if Anthea demanded a raise in her salary, staunchly refusing to say the reason why, Mycroft allowed it because he trusted that he didn't want to know.
It was a sleepless night for all of them.