Fic for Alafaye: What Meager Amends 1/2
Jun. 16th, 2012 09:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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holmesticeTitle: What Meager Amends
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alafaye
Author:greywash
Characters/Pairings: Greg Lestrade; Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade (see notes)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Canon-typical violence. Post-Reichenbach, with all that that entails from a content and thematic perspective.
Spoilers: Through "The Reichenbach Fall". This is set in the BBC universe but contains substantial references to "The Adventure of the Empty House," with copious and unrepentant alterations.
Notes: This is really primarily a gen story, topped with a light sprinkling of Mycroft/Greg; it also contains references to two canon het pairings. The relationship between Sherlock and John is significant but undefined; you can read it as romantic or otherwise, depending on your inclinations, but it's mostly off-screen, and my goal was to keep Greg's reading of that relationship, as an outsider, consistent with what we see in BBC canon.
I'd also like to mention that this story contains both extremely handwavy science and references to a number of corporations involved in nefarious activities; no actual science was harmed in the writing of this story, and to my knowledge, all corporations mentioned herein are entirely fictional. If they happen to overlap, in any way, with any real-life corporations, that is entirely coincidental and is in no way intended to be a statement regarding said real-life corporations or the nefariousness thereof.
Many, many thanks toroane, who helped me work out the idea in the first place and then let me word-vomit at her in chat all along the way, and to airynothing and torakowalski for their usual laser-eyed beta and Britpick.
Summary: It's over and done with, the lot of it, but that doesn't mean Greg has no regrets.
Greg can hear the telly before he even gets the door to the flat open; John's switched it back to the news, even though he's sitting with his back to the screen and he hardly ever pays attention. They've been running public opinion stories about the Monferrer Global controversy all damn week. Greg snags the remote off the arm of the sofa and turns it down.
"Brought up the post." Greg dumps it on the table and starts sorting it out: him, business, business, John, business, him, him.
"Thanks," John says, without looking up from his laptops. "I got hungry—ate the last of the curry. Sorry."
"It was your curry." Greg drops down into the chair opposite and opens the letter from Carla's solicitor; it's more stupidity over the house. He sighs. Every time. Every damn time, he thinks it's finally settled, but he hasn't been right yet. "Anything from the website?" Greg asks, flipping over to his mobile bill.
"No," John says. "Slow week."
"Yeah." March is always slow, apparently. Having seen it come around twice before doesn't make it less irritating. Greg licks his lips. "Thought about taking that case in Sweden?" he asks.
"No," John says. He still hasn't looked up from his computers. "Have you thought about taking up the superintendent on his offer?"
"No," Greg says.
"You could, if you wanted," John tells him.
"Ferguson's a bastard," Greg says, a little more sharply than usual. "Or have you forgotten?"
"No, I haven't forgotten," John says, very quietly. "I did hit him in the face."
Greg breathes out. "Sorry," he says.
"It was ages ago," John says, shrugging.
It was. That doesn't make it better, any of it. It's been three years since Greg left Carla, after all; it's been thirty-three months since the funeral, thirty-two since the end of the hearing, thirty-one since the move. It's been two and a half years since Greg finished trading in that life for this one and he doesn't want to go back, not exactly, but he still lost his job and his marriage and his kids, five days a week; the world still lost a good man and Greg still lost a friend when John lost more than Greg can bring himself to imagine; and it's over and done with, the lot of it, but that doesn't mean he has no regrets.
Greg watches John. John is still focused on his laptops.
"Working on the index?" Greg asks, as casually as he can.
John swallows, the movement of his throat visible, and he looks up and says, "It's practical," like Greg disagrees.
"I know," Greg says.
"His organizational system was nonexistent," John says.
"I know that too," Greg says, leaning back in his chair. "After the Atcheson case—"
"Right," John says.
Greg shifts. "We need to be able to find things in his records," he says. "Going through and indexing them is perfectly logical."
"Exactly," John says. "There's—it'd be one thing if he'd ever got to the point, spelled out the significance of anything in some reasonable sort of a way, but you know what he was like, you know he didn't—"
John stops. He pushes up to his feet. He heads into the kitchen, turns on the kettle, and Greg exhales and leans forward and reaches for the power bill.
The problem is, it is perfectly reasonable, on some level. They do need Sherlock's data. Sherlock had several tens of thousands of files on his laptop, on topics ranging from the identification of takeaway restaurants from a person's rubbish to the less interesting—but still embarrassing—secrets of diplomatic families, and, true to form, the vast majority of them were no better than half-written and all of them were stored under utterly incomprehensible file names and occasionally they're written in code, because Sherlock always was a bit of a bastard. John started digging through them in a half-hearted sort of way during their first job for the police and then began work seriously on creating an index after the Atcheson case, and yes, it's perfectly reasonable and logical and possibly even necessary but Greg isn't actually an idiot, and the walls in their flat aren't particularly thick, and Greg can hear enough in the night to know that John gets up to work on the index when he can't sleep. That's the problem. The problem is that the index is logical and practical and also a sign of something ruined, patched over but not repaired. They have rather a lot of those, between the two of them.
Greg's mobile buzzes in his pocket, once, twice, and he digs it out to check the number, then glances up at John, hunched in on himself in the kitchen, facing away. Greg flips the phone open and tucks it under his ear. "Greg Lestrade," he says, careful to keep his voice even.
"Is John with you?" Mycroft asks.
"Yes," Greg says, and Mycroft sighs.
"Unfortunate," he says. "I know you're reluctant to work with me—"
"Yes, that's correct," Greg says, and Mycroft says, "Not amusing," and Greg doesn't say anything in reply.
"I have a case that might interest you," Mycroft tells him.
"Hm," Greg says. "Well, I'm not sure that we can help you."
"Let me rephrase that," Mycroft says. "I have a case that requires both your special expertise and connections and a great deal of discretion. I'm prepared to pay you handsomely for your services, and I know for a fact that you and John haven't had a case recently."
"Well, you see, there's a bit of a problem, there," Greg says, watching John's back, unmoving.
"I didn't ask for John's assistance, I asked for yours," Mycroft says, very evenly.
Greg doesn't really have a reply to that one.
"I'll need more information," he says, finally.
"Of course," Mycroft says. "If you aren't engaged at the moment, I'd greatly appreciate it if you came down to the Burlington Cafe to meet me."
Greg hesitates. Usually when Mycroft "requests" his assistance, Greg ends up in his office, or an abandoned warehouse. A cafe is new, but not exactly unwelcome. "All right," he says.
"Half an hour," Mycroft tells him, and the line clicks dead. Greg flips his phone shut and tucks it back in his pocket.
"Case?" John asks from the kitchen.
"Maybe," Greg says. "Doesn't sound like much, though. I'll check it out."
"I don't mind," John says, but just then the kettle clicks, and he pours out for his tea.
"No, no, you were working," Greg says, pushing to his feet and grabbing his jacket. "Um—I was going to stop by Tesco's on the way back—are we low on anything other than milk and bread?"
"We're all right on beans, I think," John says, bringing his tea back over to the table. Greg nods and doesn't say anything. It's not really any of his business if John will eat like a teenager when left to his own devices. He always chips in for whatever Greg cooks or orders in and doesn't have an opinion on much of anything other than how hot curry ought to be (very, very hot), and he always does the washing up when Greg cooks. It makes Greg wonder, a bit, how he and Sherlock ever managed to get on. He doesn't actually know if John can't cook, or simply doesn't, but he does know that Sherlock more or less lived on Chinese takeaway and John won't eat it, not even when Brian and Luke are visiting at the weekend and Greg springs for the good stuff. It doesn't matter. John isn't really Greg's responsibility.
"Milk and bread, then," Greg says, nodding. He'll buy oranges, too. "Good luck with the..." He waves at the laptops.
"Yeah," John says. "Call if you need me."
"I will," Greg says, and heads out.
On the Tube, Greg keeps telling himself he's making a logical decision. Business hasn't been so good that they can afford to turn down a job that will pay, if nothing else. It's a good excuse, if he needs it.
The truth of the matter is that voluntarily meeting with Mycroft has, as always, very little to do with logic, and rather a lot to do with curiosity. Greg met Sherlock almost ten years ago, worked with him closely for seven, has mourned him ever since; but Mycroft remains an enigma. At first, their interactions were largely limited to bizarre violations of Greg's personal dignity and autonomy; then they were largely limited to threats that Greg recognized, even at the time, as the last-ditch desperate efforts of a man accustomed to control faced with the explosive unpredictability of someone else's addiction; since Sherlock's death, Greg has seen Mycroft more but spoken with him less, because John still stands between them. However many endless consecutive Sundays it's been now that Mycroft has dropped by the flat to drink tea across from John's arctic and implacable silence, Greg and Mycroft have still never, not once, in ten years, actually managed to have anything that could be considered a normal conversation; instead, they began with barbed and over-personal discussions of Sherlock's various misbehaviors and degenerated after to talking about the weather. In ten years Mycroft has had Greg kidnapped on six separate occasions, intimidated more times than Greg can count, and once, memorably, arrested by a probationary constable who spent the three months following fetching coffee and writing the most tedious reports Greg could give him before finally caving and requesting a transfer out of Greg's unit, but Greg has also seen Mycroft shift entire titanic bureaucracies to smooth the Met's way, usually while Sherlock sulked like a teenager and John acted as though Sherlock had solved the case all on his own. Greg has three sisters and two boys of his own; being a brother should in no way be a mystery to him, but the oceans-wide and turbulent expanse of Mycroft's double-edged interests and obscured affections continue to baffle him. Greg still owns an extraordinarily well-documented and improbably legal pistol; he's had it for years. He'd expected a request for its return, after the funeral, but it never came.
When Greg arrives, Mycroft is standing outside the cafe, still and placid, watching a group of pigeons try their luck on a young tourist with blue trainers and a cheese Danish. Her mother calls for her, and she runs, and the pigeons scatter, and Mycroft says, "Greg," without looking at him, then turns and gives him a measured smile, precisely trimmed.
"Mycroft." Greg tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and lets Mycroft hold the door for him, even though he knows that Mycroft is doing it just because it makes Greg uncomfortable. Mycroft will have, as always, tea (a splash of milk; no sugar). Greg orders a cup of coffee and a ham sandwich. He still hasn't had lunch.
"How goes the private detective business?" Mycroft asks, stirring his tea.
"Bit slow," Greg admits. "Always seems to be slow in March, for some reason."
"I saw the news about Sally Donovan's promotion," Mycroft says. His voice is mild, but it still makes Greg tense up. He doesn't know why Mycroft would bring it up.
"Yeah," Greg says. He thinks his voice sounds all right. "She's been busy. The Hollister case and all that. Making quite the name for herself."
"Especially impressive considering her age," Mycroft says. "And her record."
Ah. Greg leans back in his seat and crosses his arms. "Is this about my badge?" he asks. Mycroft doesn't answer. Greg sighs. "Don't pretend you don't know that Ferguson is trying to get me back," he says. "I won't believe you."
Mycroft watches him. His expression is unreadable.
"I don't want to go back," Greg says. "I'm—I'm not going to go back. I have a job."
"And John needs you," Mycroft says. He makes it sound like a weapon.
"John's a grown man," Greg says. "If I were to go back to the Met, he'd do all right. But I don't like Ferguson and I don't need to go back, I'm not going to go back, and if you're looking for police sources—"
"I'm not looking for police sources," Mycroft interrupts. It's startling. As far as Greg can remember, he has never seen Mycroft admit to anything being urgent enough to merit an interruption.
Unbalanced, Greg says, "Well, good."
"Robert Adair," Mycroft says. Greg stills. He recognizes the tension in Mycroft's voice: year after year of his voice curling scornfully around my brother; whatever emotion might be seeping through, as always, twisted into something that could be more tidily performed. Mycroft asks, "Have you heard about the case?"
Greg takes a sip of his coffee. "Heard a bit on the news, yeah," he says.
"The media's coverage has been almost entirely pure sensationalism," Mycroft says.
"Usually is," Greg points out, and Mycroft nods. "What's your angle? Personal interest?"
"In a way," Mycroft says. He brushes his thumb over the handle of his cup. One Sunday, one of the first Sundays, not very long after Greg and John moved into the flat on Hastings Street because Greg couldn't stay in a fourth-rate bedsit forever and didn't live in his house anymore and John couldn't stand his sister's flat or Baker Street or leaving London, Mycroft had sat across from Greg and rubbed his thumb over the handle of his cup, just the same, and then said, Sherlock, and John had pushed to his feet and walked away, and closed the door to his bedroom very quietly and politely behind his back. It was the first and only time Mycroft brought him up. Mycroft doesn't have tells, and Greg knows it. If Mycroft is letting anything like that slip through, it is completely and entirely deliberate.
"Supposed to have been some sort of junkie, wasn't he?" Greg says. He wasn't, but Greg can't tell what Mycroft has for him, not like this, and he can't come up with a single reason why Mycroft would take an interest in the murder of a twenty-four-year-old boy of mediocre education and undistinguished parentage.
"He wasn't a junkie," Mycroft says, and sighs, and tilts his chin up, meeting Greg's eyes. "Do you know how he was killed?"
Greg hesitates. "Sounded like a stabbing," he says, finally. It's his best guess. The news made it sound bloody, at any rate, and there was no mention of a gun.
"He wasn't stabbed," Mycroft says. "His throat was cut. With a sword."
Greg stares at him. "In a flat in Kensington?" he asks.
"Yes," Mycroft says. "His throat was cut, with a sword, in a flat in Kensington. If you don't believe me, you can call DI Donovan to confirm."
The waitress chooses this moment to materialize with Greg's sandwich, which is lucky; it gives him a moment to organize and narrow the rapid explosion of questions suddenly crowding up his mind. He takes a bite, chews thoroughly, and swallows. Then he says, "I'm still not clear how this is something you'd get involved in."
"He was a civil servant," Mycroft says, and then his lip twists up, and he asks, "Don't you think we look after our own?"
"Well, if that's all it is, I don't think you need a private detective to find out who killed him," Greg tells him frankly. "Not even one with ties to the police. Throat slittings are messy. There's bound to be forensic evidence. If you want I can call Donovan to make sure she gives it special attention—"
"No," Mycroft says, very quietly, and Greg looks at him, steady.
"Are you going to tell me what this is about or not?" Greg asks. "I can't be much help if you're just going to make me flail about in the dark. I don't have the Met's resources, I can't—"
"You don't have the Met's resources," Mycroft says. "But you also don't have their constraints. That is very much what I need, in this instance."
"Are you going to tell me why?" Greg asks. His patience is starting to feel a bit frayed at the edges. He's starting to remember why it is that they've never had a normal conversation; Mycroft approaches even idle chit-chat like a war of attrition.
Mycroft takes a sip of tea.
Greg eats his sandwich, because he might as well.
Finally Mycroft says, "I know who killed Adair, and I know why, and I know how. But that isn't enough for a conviction."
"Right," Greg says. "If the police can't take care of it, can't, um—can't your assistant just—" He tries to come up with a publicly appropriate way to say shoot him in the head, and can't. He takes another bite instead.
"I'm afraid he's beyond my reach," Mycroft tells him.
Greg chews thoughtfully. "I didn't think anyone was beyond your reach," he says, after he swallows.
"This man is," Mycroft says. His tone doesn't invite questions. "If I leave this to the police, there are enough people willing to look in the wrong direction for the appropriate monetary incentive that it's very likely the case will go nowhere. If I give this to you, I know that you will use the police but not rely on them, and I know that you will genuinely look into it and find what there is to be found, and I know that I can trust you to do it carefully, and quickly." He turns his cup, very slightly, anticlockwise, then says, "I am also relatively certain that you aren't being watched."
"Oh," Greg says. "So—that's a possibility."
"Yes," Mycroft says.
Greg takes a sip of coffee. "And that's why you don't want to give it to your staff," he says.
"Yes," Mycroft says.
"Are we being watched now?" Greg asks.
"It's possible, but unlikely," Mycroft says. "You were a friend of my brother's. It's known that I continue to maintain a congenial relationship with you."
"Is that what you call it?" Greg asks.
Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Would you not?" he asks.
"I think of it more as a regularly scheduled invasion," Greg says, "raiding us for provisions, and so on," and very much to his surprise, Mycroft's eyes crinkle up at the corners.
"Well, you do make a very fine serving wench," Mycroft tells him, which throws Greg enough that he has to struggle to figure out how to reply. Mycroft clears his throat and leans back. "But that's beside the point," he says. "The essential matter is that you are uniquely able to do this for me. Will you?"
Greg takes a sip of his coffee, then asks, "Pay?"
"Whatever you ask," Mycroft says.
"Whatever I ask?" Greg echoes, laughing.
"Yes," Mycroft says, "I have ties to the family," and Greg stops, and looks at him.
The problem with Mycroft isn't that he's a heartless bastard incapable of indicating when something holds genuine significance for him. The problem is that he's a heartless bastard who goes to such lengths to obscure and misdirect what, precisely, the nature of that significance might be that Greg has learned to trust nothing less than what looks like something unstudied coming from Mycroft Holmes.
"What sort of ties?" Greg asks.
"Business ties," Mycroft says smoothly.
"You won't tell me?" Greg asks.
"I imagine you'll find out," Mycroft says. "But it's important that you look into this thoroughly for the case to hold up in the end. If I lead you, it increases the likelihood that this will evaporate, and a very dangerous man will go free."
"Oh, good," Greg says. "For a bit there I thought it was just because you don't like to share."
"Well," Mycroft says, eyes crinkling up again, and God, that's disturbing. Greg stuffs the last of his sandwich in his mouth and chases it with three lukewarm gulps of coffee.
"Anything you want to give me at all?" Greg asks. "Just as a place to start?"
Mycroft raises an eyebrow at him. "And here I thought you'd spent thirty years with the police," he says, and Greg rolls his eyes and pushes to his feet.
"Thanks for the sandwich," Greg says, "Next time, on me," and leaves before Mycroft has a chance to work out what to say.
It doesn't take Greg too long to get a copy of the case file from Donovan, with the full approval of her superiors behind it. It's idiotic, really, that Ferguson should be falling all over himself to give Greg all the courtesies that got half their unit called up for hearings after Sherlock's death, but it's also useful, so Greg doesn't complain.
On his way home from New Scotland Yard, his phone buzzes in his pocket. It's from Mycroft, who hates to text, a single sentence: I'd greatly appreciate it if you didn't mention my involvement to John, like Greg would be so stupid. John hasn't forgiven much of anyone for much of anything, and Greg knows it; the two of them can only work together and live together and interact in a more or less friendly way because at a certain point, John had to either start pushing away whatever betrayals were small enough to shift, or suffocate completely. The aftermath of Sherlock's death was indiscriminate and explosive, devastating: a year and change of hearings and retrials and special investigations, Greg's team shell-shocked and unbalanced, suddenly on the wrong side, as the truth ground its way out one exhibit at a time, because the police have always had an obligation to investigate that has never been able to afford exceptions. They cleared Greg and Donovan and Dimmock and the lot of them, eventually; they very nearly managed to clear Sherlock in the end; but there were still weeks and months where John was torn up and drifting, uncertain and grieving, with Greg unshaven and disgraced, out of work, half-homeless. There's a kinship in that sort of overlapping misery, but Mycroft never paid for his misdeeds where other people could see, instead going out of his way to seem untouched and untouchable all along. Two weeks into Greg's hearing, at the pub, John had said, I have a case—one of his old clients—if you're bored, and Greg had felt a confused and confusing rush of guilt and grief and dread and said, Yeah, all right, because he'd thought he owed it to John and Sherlock both; not long after, Mycroft had offered John comfort and sympathy and the open arms of family, and John had just stared at him, impassive and blank, and said nothing, which more or less set the tone for every interaction they've had since.
John's watching telly when Greg gets back, sitting upright at the edge of the sofa with his hands folded in his lap and his mouth firm and determined. Greg wonders if he used to listen to mission briefings like that. They're still on about the handling of the Monferrer Global TB vaccine, like anyone is surprised by pharmaceutical companies making a killing on something that ought to be saving lives. John looks like he takes it personally. Greg just tunes it out and settles down at the table to start flipping through the case file.
The crime scene photos are... bad. That part, Greg doesn't miss much; most of what he works on with John is bloodless, missing jewelry and philandering spouses and small and private frauds. It's boring, but it pays, and neither of them is Sherlock Holmes, and every month or two, they'll get a case with enough actual heft to keep both of them from losing their minds. But a young man, not quite three years out of uni, with his throat slit in his family's flat, is awful in a way that is both mundane and familiar: there is a person who is dead, and there is a person who killed him, and Greg has to find one to make what meager amends are possible to the other. Robert Adair could use a break, and if Mycroft's ruled out shooting the murderer in the head, the task falls to Greg.
Adair took maths at university; struggled to find work after; came to London to stay with his sister and mother out of what reads very clearly as desperation; picked up a job as an entry-level admin in the office of an MP. The sister is older, working at Vauxhall Cross and very likely the source of both Robert's job and the connection to Mycroft; their mother worked as a schoolteacher before her retirement; their father is deceased. Adair had been engaged at university but they'd broken it off since; the former fiancée was the first person who raised Donovan's red flags, too, but Greg goes over her statement several times, and apart from the issue of how, exactly, the very petite Emma Woodley would've managed to kill a man four stone heavier and a handspan taller than her, with no sign of a struggle, with a sword, there genuinely seems to have been very little bad feeling between the two of them. The most interesting note in the file, overall, is that Donovan has been thoroughly stonewalled in her efforts to speak with Adair's boss. Especially given Mycroft's involvement, a politician disinclined to speak with the police seems the most promising direction for investigation, but Greg can tell from every note in the file that he'll get nowhere quickly if he goes there first. Instead, he takes the case file and his mobile upstairs to call Adair's sister, Hannah, to arrange a meeting for later in the evening, then comes back downstairs and asks, "Mind if I have a look at the index?"
"What?" John looks up. Greg points at Sherlock's laptop and John gives him a go-ahead sort of wave and stands up. "Proper case, then?"
"Not really, no," Greg says. He turns the screen towards him; he knows that John won't come and look over his shoulder, even if it's tempting. "Donovan just asked me to check on this fellow whose name's come up on one of her cases." Greg types in Sherlock's passcode; he can do it from memory, now. The index is up in the front window; Greg wonders if John's done anything else today. Greg scrolls down to "Moran". Four entries for "Sebastian": one file tagged "biographical", two tagged "financial," and a fourth, tagged "fraud." Greg sighs and pulls them up, emails them to himself, and then closes the index and pushes the laptop back over to John's side of the table.
"He's in there, I take it?" John's almost smiling.
"Yeah," Greg says, reaching for his jacket. He ought to head out. "Have the criminals always been this predictable?"
John laughs, a very little.
Hannah Adair turns out to be a tall, athletic-looking young woman with short blonde hair and freckles sprinkled across her nose. Her face is at odds with her expression. Greg can easily imagine her laughing, head thrown back, happy and expansive; but in person, with her mouth tight and miserable and her eyes red-rimmed and pinched, she seems strangely unreal, not believable. She sits across from him at a table in a pub just around the corner from the flat where her brother died and tells him about work and their family's growing money worries and coming home that night—coming up the stairs—turning the key—
"Take your time," he says, as gently as he can.
She shakes her head. "I've been over it more times than I can count, you know?" she says, voice stretched thin. "I know—he asked me, you know, what he should do, and I told him he had to do what he thought was right, and I—"
"What was this about?" he asks, leaning forward.
"Oh, God." She sighs, and laughs, presses one trembling hand against her mouth. "I can't—it's so stupid, I thought it was so stupid, I thought—he was very young, Mr. Lestrade. He was—he was twenty-four, and he was young for his age, in a lot of ways, and he still got—worked up, you know, about things not being—right, and." She stops, and shakes her head.
"He was an idealist," he says, very gently.
"Yes," she says.
"And there was something wrong," he prompts.
"Oh, I don't know." She sighs. "It's—he thought there was, yeah." She rubs at her face. "I thought—I thought bringing it up might cause more problems than it'd solve, you know? You can't just—you can't just go throwing accusations around, and I—I got him the job, and I couldn't believe it was anything serious, just—just politics, you know."
"He suspected someone at work?" he asks. "Of something unethical?" It's in line with what he heard from Mycroft, but he still needs the details.
She sighs. "Look," she says. "You have to understand—I never knew, really, what happened at his other job, just that—that they were in trouble, and they sacked him, and then they went under not long after but he still had a lot of resentment about it and said things that were stupid to people he shouldn't have said anything to at all. So when he said there was something not quite right at work, my first thought was—well, it's terrible, especially now that—especially now that he, he may have said something, to someone who—but at the time I thought, 'He's done it again, he's going to be out of work again,' and I feel—I can't believe, I can't believe I thought that, I can't believe that that was what I was worried about, but with the economy being what it is..."
"Not easy to find a new job, no," he agrees. She nods. His fingertips are tingling. "Especially not after being sacked twice. I—um, I don't think it was in the report—where did he work before?"
"Anastas Biotechnical," she says. "Some sort of data analysis. Really more in line with what he studied at uni, you know, than his job here, but he complained all the while about how dull it was. But it was entry-level work—it's always dull, isn't it? I don't know what he expected, really." She hunches her shoulders together, folding her hands in her lap.
Greg watches her, thinking about Donovan's report. "Listen," he says. "Did you mention this to the police?"
"Mention what?" she says, squinting at him a little.
"His job at—what was it?"
"Anastas Biotechnical, up in Leeds," she says. "But they went under."
"Right, yeah," he says. "But did you mention it to the police?"
She frowns at him. "Yeah," she says. "That detective—the pretty Black woman—"
"DI Donovan," he says. His heart is thumping.
"Right," she says. "When she took my statement, she asked about—about where he worked, about where he'd worked before that, and before that, but then he was at uni, and she asked about Emma—his ex, you know, though how on earth anyone could think she could—"
"No, of course," he says. He's not really paying attention. He needs to reread that report. "Listen," he says. "I think I've got a good bit to go on, for now—do you mind if I call you up again, if I have any more questions?"
"That's fine," she says, nodding, and he pats the back of her hand, because he can get away with that sort of thing now that he doesn't carry a badge, and his sympathy doesn't have legal implications.
"We're not going to let it go, you know," he tells her, and her face tightens up, but she nods.
On his way out of the pub, he calls Mycroft.
"Hard at work?" Mycroft asks, the instant he picks up. His voice is lazy, which Greg suspects translates to "guarded".
"Yeah, actually." Greg tucks his free hand in his pocket. "Can I talk? Is this—secure, or whatever?"
"Yes, but I'd still avoid names," Mycroft says. "Mistrust is always the safer option."
"Right," Greg says. "So—I think there's a problem."
"Very likely," Mycroft says.
"I'm concerned that—that someone has got to the police," he says.
"I warned you," Mycroft says mildly.
"Yeah, but what am I supposed to do here, if I can't trust their records?" Greg asks. "If you want something that'll hold up in court, you'll need forensics, you'll need properly gathered and handled evidence, I can't just go in and charm them into doing what I want—"
"I think you rather underrate yourself," Mycroft tells him.
Greg stops, turns back, takes two steps, turns around again, keeps walking.
"Mycroft," he says, finally. "Are you flirting with me?"
Mycroft's silent for a moment.
"I mean," Greg says. "Very flattering and all that, I reckon this is how Kate must've felt at St. Andrews, but—"
"My primary concern is for the Adair case," Mycroft tells him.
"Right, yeah," Greg says. "So, the forensics—"
"Oh, well," Mycroft says, voice steady again. "It seems that in this instance, what you really need is a police insider, someone who might have some insight into whom you could and could not trust—"
"Oh, shove it," Greg tells him, and Mycroft's voice is smooth as he says, "Enjoy your evening, Greg," and rings off.
It's past eight by the time Greg gets back to the flat. John's shut up in his bedroom, but it's unlikely that he's sleeping; Greg can hear the radio going, too low through the door to make anything out, and Greg's laptop is still on the table but John's and Sherlock's are gone. Greg digs out some leftover Chinese from the weekend and gets the Adair file while it's warming up, just to confirm his memory. He's not wrong. There's nothing about Adair's first job, nothing at all, and it's still written up in Donovan's handwriting, and it still has Donovan's name at the bottom.
Greg really isn't sentimental. He knows to trust the evidence, but he knows Donovan, too. He's known her since she was still a probationary constable in uniform, and he thinks about Hannah Adair telling him, He was very young, Mr. Lestrade, and remembers telling Ferguson something similar about Donovan when she was only about twenty-four herself and had recently punched a civilian in the face. It was Sherlock, so he'd deserved it, but that's really beside the point: if someone had asked Greg a day ago, he would've said that Donovan is one of the most upright officers he's ever known, incorruptible, unflinching, and he would've said it without hesitation. It's just that tonight, he couldn't do that.
The microwave dings. He sighs, then digs out a fork. It's been a long day. He doesn't think he can really trust his judgement. He calls his boys and eats his dinner, then shuts himself up in his bedroom and checks his email, finishes paying his bills, watches today's child-mandated sequence of YouTube clips about polar bears (Luke's latest obsession). He lets the file rest, closed, on his bedside table, and watches the last half of the Skyfall DVD he borrowed from Mrs. Hudson, and then he lies down on his back and closes his eyes and does his best to think about nothing at all.
In the morning, John is out. It's Wednesday, which means he has an appointment at ten, which means that he'll run eight miles instead of six and Greg will shower while John's out and then make himself scarce until the afternoon, because the difficulties of dealing with John on a regular basis are nothing compared to the impossibilities of dealing with him right after therapy. Harry, in a moment of disarming and uncomfortable emotional honesty, once told Greg that she didn't know anyone other than her brother who could keep being angry for years without interruption, and then had tried to make it into a joke before John had come back from the loo, but Greg hadn't known what to say to that as a joke, either. John isn't angry. Greg has heard John get angry. Greg has seen John get angry. Greg once, memorably, had to actually physically intervene when John got angry with Sergeant Osbourne after a remarkably insensitive quip about the personal life of a victim, but Greg has been around long enough to know that these days John doesn't get angry about anything that's actually important. On Wednesday mornings Greg might as well be living with a machine programmed to eat beans on toast and drink exactly two cups of tea and then run eight miles and then go to his therapy appointment and then come home and sit in silence, ramrod-straight, with his back to the window and his hands folded in his lap, saying nothing, for hours. Whatever John has been living through, is living through, will continue to live through, it isn't anger. Anger burns itself out.
Greg takes his laptop and the file and heads down to the cafe on the corner, which has WiFi and excellent scones. Greg knows that he needs to make a decision. He probably should've forced himself to do it last night; if Donovan is compromised, the case is in bigger trouble than he can imagine. He doesn't want to think it of her—he can't really believe it of her—but it's her writing and he knows that there's money on the line and it's absolutely certain that someone, here, is lying. He hopes to God that it's Hannah Adair, but he can't figure out what she'd get by telling the police one thing and a police consultant another.
Greg sips his coffee and smoothes Hannah's statement out and reads it again. And again. And again. It's all just as Hannah said, except that there's no reference to an earlier job, no reference to Anastas Biotechnical, no reference to Robert's qualms about his work, just the facts, only some of the facts, and at the bottom, Detective Inspector Sally Donovan, followed by the date.
He stills. Detective Inspector Sally Donovan, in that same familiar writing—except that Donovan's legal name is Sandra, and she's always been rigidly careful to sign her reports, S. Donovan, simply to avoid the issue. He breathes easy for what feels like the first time all morning, and picks up his mobile.
I need some info on a case, he tells her. You out and about?
At scot yrd,, she replies. Endless reports. I can take a break if you come down.
He licks his lips. I need a coffee, he tells her, even though it's blatantly untrue. He still has half a cup. Meet up the street? At that cafe?
She agrees, which means she's understood it as covering for something unsaid, and she's waiting for him when he gets there, working on—indeed—a report on another case and stirring sugar into her coffee. He grabs himself a cup and joins her, and she folds her file shut and says, "Problem?"
"Yeah, maybe," he says, settling into his chair and tucking his laptop and the case file at his elbow. "Hannah Adair. I need to know what she told you about her brother's work history."
She frowns. "It's in her statement," she says. "Do you have your copy?"
"Yeah," he says. "But I want to hear it from you. No, don't look—just tell me what you remember."
She gives him a sharp look, but nods. "Graduated in 2012," she says. "Bit of trouble finding a job; ended up doing some data analysis at a—um, it was some sort of medical research company, I remember that, but I don't remember the name. They went under a little over a year later; he came to London; sister got him the job with Moran. Did I miss anything?"
Greg opens his file and passes her Hannah Adair's statement. It takes a minute, but halfway down the page her eyes widen, and she looks up at him, her mouth pulling thin. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to.
He takes a sip of his coffee and holds out his hand. She passes the statement back over.
"Who do you trust?" he asks.
"Chris," she says instantly, "but he's forensics in the first place, and it's a conflict of interest besides. Hopkins. Dodd."
"Anderson can be useful," Greg points out, leaning forward. "But you're right, you can't leave it all to him. Get him to take one of his men—you trust his judgement?"
"Don't be an ass," she says, and he raises his eyebrows.
"Don't act like it's a stupid question," he says. "I was married. You can love someone and still think they have the common sense of a lemming. Carla has the common sense of a lemming and I know it."
"No offense, but I've met your ex-wife," she tells him. "I think the lemmings win."
"I've always said it, the kinship of sisters, between the two of you," he tells her, and she grins. "But I'm serious about Anderson," he adds. "If you don't trust his judgement, on this one, you can't trust him at all."
"I trust his judgement," she says. "Professionally speaking, I trust his judgement better than just about anyone I know."
"Good," he says. "Then get him to take one of his men, two if he can manage it, and run it all again, all of it, every last thing. You use Hopkins and Dodd. Have them take your statement. Have them retake Adair's statement. Start making copies. Rerun the scene, if you have to. Do it as quickly as you can, and don't bring anything back to the Yard."
"Multiple copies, multiple locations?" she says, mouth quirking up.
He nods. It's—it's a little absurd and he knows it, but under the circumstances, he doesn't think it's unreasonable.
She leans back in her chair and gives him a wolfish sort of smile. "I like this," she tells him. "I feel like a spy."
Part 2
Recipient:
alafayeAuthor:
greywashCharacters/Pairings: Greg Lestrade; Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade (see notes)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Canon-typical violence. Post-Reichenbach, with all that that entails from a content and thematic perspective.
Spoilers: Through "The Reichenbach Fall". This is set in the BBC universe but contains substantial references to "The Adventure of the Empty House," with copious and unrepentant alterations.
Notes: This is really primarily a gen story, topped with a light sprinkling of Mycroft/Greg; it also contains references to two canon het pairings. The relationship between Sherlock and John is significant but undefined; you can read it as romantic or otherwise, depending on your inclinations, but it's mostly off-screen, and my goal was to keep Greg's reading of that relationship, as an outsider, consistent with what we see in BBC canon.
I'd also like to mention that this story contains both extremely handwavy science and references to a number of corporations involved in nefarious activities; no actual science was harmed in the writing of this story, and to my knowledge, all corporations mentioned herein are entirely fictional. If they happen to overlap, in any way, with any real-life corporations, that is entirely coincidental and is in no way intended to be a statement regarding said real-life corporations or the nefariousness thereof.
Many, many thanks to
roane, who helped me work out the idea in the first place and then let me word-vomit at her in chat all along the way, and to airynothing and torakowalski for their usual laser-eyed beta and Britpick.Summary: It's over and done with, the lot of it, but that doesn't mean Greg has no regrets.
Greg can hear the telly before he even gets the door to the flat open; John's switched it back to the news, even though he's sitting with his back to the screen and he hardly ever pays attention. They've been running public opinion stories about the Monferrer Global controversy all damn week. Greg snags the remote off the arm of the sofa and turns it down.
"Brought up the post." Greg dumps it on the table and starts sorting it out: him, business, business, John, business, him, him.
"Thanks," John says, without looking up from his laptops. "I got hungry—ate the last of the curry. Sorry."
"It was your curry." Greg drops down into the chair opposite and opens the letter from Carla's solicitor; it's more stupidity over the house. He sighs. Every time. Every damn time, he thinks it's finally settled, but he hasn't been right yet. "Anything from the website?" Greg asks, flipping over to his mobile bill.
"No," John says. "Slow week."
"Yeah." March is always slow, apparently. Having seen it come around twice before doesn't make it less irritating. Greg licks his lips. "Thought about taking that case in Sweden?" he asks.
"No," John says. He still hasn't looked up from his computers. "Have you thought about taking up the superintendent on his offer?"
"No," Greg says.
"You could, if you wanted," John tells him.
"Ferguson's a bastard," Greg says, a little more sharply than usual. "Or have you forgotten?"
"No, I haven't forgotten," John says, very quietly. "I did hit him in the face."
Greg breathes out. "Sorry," he says.
"It was ages ago," John says, shrugging.
It was. That doesn't make it better, any of it. It's been three years since Greg left Carla, after all; it's been thirty-three months since the funeral, thirty-two since the end of the hearing, thirty-one since the move. It's been two and a half years since Greg finished trading in that life for this one and he doesn't want to go back, not exactly, but he still lost his job and his marriage and his kids, five days a week; the world still lost a good man and Greg still lost a friend when John lost more than Greg can bring himself to imagine; and it's over and done with, the lot of it, but that doesn't mean he has no regrets.
Greg watches John. John is still focused on his laptops.
"Working on the index?" Greg asks, as casually as he can.
John swallows, the movement of his throat visible, and he looks up and says, "It's practical," like Greg disagrees.
"I know," Greg says.
"His organizational system was nonexistent," John says.
"I know that too," Greg says, leaning back in his chair. "After the Atcheson case—"
"Right," John says.
Greg shifts. "We need to be able to find things in his records," he says. "Going through and indexing them is perfectly logical."
"Exactly," John says. "There's—it'd be one thing if he'd ever got to the point, spelled out the significance of anything in some reasonable sort of a way, but you know what he was like, you know he didn't—"
John stops. He pushes up to his feet. He heads into the kitchen, turns on the kettle, and Greg exhales and leans forward and reaches for the power bill.
The problem is, it is perfectly reasonable, on some level. They do need Sherlock's data. Sherlock had several tens of thousands of files on his laptop, on topics ranging from the identification of takeaway restaurants from a person's rubbish to the less interesting—but still embarrassing—secrets of diplomatic families, and, true to form, the vast majority of them were no better than half-written and all of them were stored under utterly incomprehensible file names and occasionally they're written in code, because Sherlock always was a bit of a bastard. John started digging through them in a half-hearted sort of way during their first job for the police and then began work seriously on creating an index after the Atcheson case, and yes, it's perfectly reasonable and logical and possibly even necessary but Greg isn't actually an idiot, and the walls in their flat aren't particularly thick, and Greg can hear enough in the night to know that John gets up to work on the index when he can't sleep. That's the problem. The problem is that the index is logical and practical and also a sign of something ruined, patched over but not repaired. They have rather a lot of those, between the two of them.
Greg's mobile buzzes in his pocket, once, twice, and he digs it out to check the number, then glances up at John, hunched in on himself in the kitchen, facing away. Greg flips the phone open and tucks it under his ear. "Greg Lestrade," he says, careful to keep his voice even.
"Is John with you?" Mycroft asks.
"Yes," Greg says, and Mycroft sighs.
"Unfortunate," he says. "I know you're reluctant to work with me—"
"Yes, that's correct," Greg says, and Mycroft says, "Not amusing," and Greg doesn't say anything in reply.
"I have a case that might interest you," Mycroft tells him.
"Hm," Greg says. "Well, I'm not sure that we can help you."
"Let me rephrase that," Mycroft says. "I have a case that requires both your special expertise and connections and a great deal of discretion. I'm prepared to pay you handsomely for your services, and I know for a fact that you and John haven't had a case recently."
"Well, you see, there's a bit of a problem, there," Greg says, watching John's back, unmoving.
"I didn't ask for John's assistance, I asked for yours," Mycroft says, very evenly.
Greg doesn't really have a reply to that one.
"I'll need more information," he says, finally.
"Of course," Mycroft says. "If you aren't engaged at the moment, I'd greatly appreciate it if you came down to the Burlington Cafe to meet me."
Greg hesitates. Usually when Mycroft "requests" his assistance, Greg ends up in his office, or an abandoned warehouse. A cafe is new, but not exactly unwelcome. "All right," he says.
"Half an hour," Mycroft tells him, and the line clicks dead. Greg flips his phone shut and tucks it back in his pocket.
"Case?" John asks from the kitchen.
"Maybe," Greg says. "Doesn't sound like much, though. I'll check it out."
"I don't mind," John says, but just then the kettle clicks, and he pours out for his tea.
"No, no, you were working," Greg says, pushing to his feet and grabbing his jacket. "Um—I was going to stop by Tesco's on the way back—are we low on anything other than milk and bread?"
"We're all right on beans, I think," John says, bringing his tea back over to the table. Greg nods and doesn't say anything. It's not really any of his business if John will eat like a teenager when left to his own devices. He always chips in for whatever Greg cooks or orders in and doesn't have an opinion on much of anything other than how hot curry ought to be (very, very hot), and he always does the washing up when Greg cooks. It makes Greg wonder, a bit, how he and Sherlock ever managed to get on. He doesn't actually know if John can't cook, or simply doesn't, but he does know that Sherlock more or less lived on Chinese takeaway and John won't eat it, not even when Brian and Luke are visiting at the weekend and Greg springs for the good stuff. It doesn't matter. John isn't really Greg's responsibility.
"Milk and bread, then," Greg says, nodding. He'll buy oranges, too. "Good luck with the..." He waves at the laptops.
"Yeah," John says. "Call if you need me."
"I will," Greg says, and heads out.
On the Tube, Greg keeps telling himself he's making a logical decision. Business hasn't been so good that they can afford to turn down a job that will pay, if nothing else. It's a good excuse, if he needs it.
The truth of the matter is that voluntarily meeting with Mycroft has, as always, very little to do with logic, and rather a lot to do with curiosity. Greg met Sherlock almost ten years ago, worked with him closely for seven, has mourned him ever since; but Mycroft remains an enigma. At first, their interactions were largely limited to bizarre violations of Greg's personal dignity and autonomy; then they were largely limited to threats that Greg recognized, even at the time, as the last-ditch desperate efforts of a man accustomed to control faced with the explosive unpredictability of someone else's addiction; since Sherlock's death, Greg has seen Mycroft more but spoken with him less, because John still stands between them. However many endless consecutive Sundays it's been now that Mycroft has dropped by the flat to drink tea across from John's arctic and implacable silence, Greg and Mycroft have still never, not once, in ten years, actually managed to have anything that could be considered a normal conversation; instead, they began with barbed and over-personal discussions of Sherlock's various misbehaviors and degenerated after to talking about the weather. In ten years Mycroft has had Greg kidnapped on six separate occasions, intimidated more times than Greg can count, and once, memorably, arrested by a probationary constable who spent the three months following fetching coffee and writing the most tedious reports Greg could give him before finally caving and requesting a transfer out of Greg's unit, but Greg has also seen Mycroft shift entire titanic bureaucracies to smooth the Met's way, usually while Sherlock sulked like a teenager and John acted as though Sherlock had solved the case all on his own. Greg has three sisters and two boys of his own; being a brother should in no way be a mystery to him, but the oceans-wide and turbulent expanse of Mycroft's double-edged interests and obscured affections continue to baffle him. Greg still owns an extraordinarily well-documented and improbably legal pistol; he's had it for years. He'd expected a request for its return, after the funeral, but it never came.
When Greg arrives, Mycroft is standing outside the cafe, still and placid, watching a group of pigeons try their luck on a young tourist with blue trainers and a cheese Danish. Her mother calls for her, and she runs, and the pigeons scatter, and Mycroft says, "Greg," without looking at him, then turns and gives him a measured smile, precisely trimmed.
"Mycroft." Greg tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and lets Mycroft hold the door for him, even though he knows that Mycroft is doing it just because it makes Greg uncomfortable. Mycroft will have, as always, tea (a splash of milk; no sugar). Greg orders a cup of coffee and a ham sandwich. He still hasn't had lunch.
"How goes the private detective business?" Mycroft asks, stirring his tea.
"Bit slow," Greg admits. "Always seems to be slow in March, for some reason."
"I saw the news about Sally Donovan's promotion," Mycroft says. His voice is mild, but it still makes Greg tense up. He doesn't know why Mycroft would bring it up.
"Yeah," Greg says. He thinks his voice sounds all right. "She's been busy. The Hollister case and all that. Making quite the name for herself."
"Especially impressive considering her age," Mycroft says. "And her record."
Ah. Greg leans back in his seat and crosses his arms. "Is this about my badge?" he asks. Mycroft doesn't answer. Greg sighs. "Don't pretend you don't know that Ferguson is trying to get me back," he says. "I won't believe you."
Mycroft watches him. His expression is unreadable.
"I don't want to go back," Greg says. "I'm—I'm not going to go back. I have a job."
"And John needs you," Mycroft says. He makes it sound like a weapon.
"John's a grown man," Greg says. "If I were to go back to the Met, he'd do all right. But I don't like Ferguson and I don't need to go back, I'm not going to go back, and if you're looking for police sources—"
"I'm not looking for police sources," Mycroft interrupts. It's startling. As far as Greg can remember, he has never seen Mycroft admit to anything being urgent enough to merit an interruption.
Unbalanced, Greg says, "Well, good."
"Robert Adair," Mycroft says. Greg stills. He recognizes the tension in Mycroft's voice: year after year of his voice curling scornfully around my brother; whatever emotion might be seeping through, as always, twisted into something that could be more tidily performed. Mycroft asks, "Have you heard about the case?"
Greg takes a sip of his coffee. "Heard a bit on the news, yeah," he says.
"The media's coverage has been almost entirely pure sensationalism," Mycroft says.
"Usually is," Greg points out, and Mycroft nods. "What's your angle? Personal interest?"
"In a way," Mycroft says. He brushes his thumb over the handle of his cup. One Sunday, one of the first Sundays, not very long after Greg and John moved into the flat on Hastings Street because Greg couldn't stay in a fourth-rate bedsit forever and didn't live in his house anymore and John couldn't stand his sister's flat or Baker Street or leaving London, Mycroft had sat across from Greg and rubbed his thumb over the handle of his cup, just the same, and then said, Sherlock, and John had pushed to his feet and walked away, and closed the door to his bedroom very quietly and politely behind his back. It was the first and only time Mycroft brought him up. Mycroft doesn't have tells, and Greg knows it. If Mycroft is letting anything like that slip through, it is completely and entirely deliberate.
"Supposed to have been some sort of junkie, wasn't he?" Greg says. He wasn't, but Greg can't tell what Mycroft has for him, not like this, and he can't come up with a single reason why Mycroft would take an interest in the murder of a twenty-four-year-old boy of mediocre education and undistinguished parentage.
"He wasn't a junkie," Mycroft says, and sighs, and tilts his chin up, meeting Greg's eyes. "Do you know how he was killed?"
Greg hesitates. "Sounded like a stabbing," he says, finally. It's his best guess. The news made it sound bloody, at any rate, and there was no mention of a gun.
"He wasn't stabbed," Mycroft says. "His throat was cut. With a sword."
Greg stares at him. "In a flat in Kensington?" he asks.
"Yes," Mycroft says. "His throat was cut, with a sword, in a flat in Kensington. If you don't believe me, you can call DI Donovan to confirm."
The waitress chooses this moment to materialize with Greg's sandwich, which is lucky; it gives him a moment to organize and narrow the rapid explosion of questions suddenly crowding up his mind. He takes a bite, chews thoroughly, and swallows. Then he says, "I'm still not clear how this is something you'd get involved in."
"He was a civil servant," Mycroft says, and then his lip twists up, and he asks, "Don't you think we look after our own?"
"Well, if that's all it is, I don't think you need a private detective to find out who killed him," Greg tells him frankly. "Not even one with ties to the police. Throat slittings are messy. There's bound to be forensic evidence. If you want I can call Donovan to make sure she gives it special attention—"
"No," Mycroft says, very quietly, and Greg looks at him, steady.
"Are you going to tell me what this is about or not?" Greg asks. "I can't be much help if you're just going to make me flail about in the dark. I don't have the Met's resources, I can't—"
"You don't have the Met's resources," Mycroft says. "But you also don't have their constraints. That is very much what I need, in this instance."
"Are you going to tell me why?" Greg asks. His patience is starting to feel a bit frayed at the edges. He's starting to remember why it is that they've never had a normal conversation; Mycroft approaches even idle chit-chat like a war of attrition.
Mycroft takes a sip of tea.
Greg eats his sandwich, because he might as well.
Finally Mycroft says, "I know who killed Adair, and I know why, and I know how. But that isn't enough for a conviction."
"Right," Greg says. "If the police can't take care of it, can't, um—can't your assistant just—" He tries to come up with a publicly appropriate way to say shoot him in the head, and can't. He takes another bite instead.
"I'm afraid he's beyond my reach," Mycroft tells him.
Greg chews thoughtfully. "I didn't think anyone was beyond your reach," he says, after he swallows.
"This man is," Mycroft says. His tone doesn't invite questions. "If I leave this to the police, there are enough people willing to look in the wrong direction for the appropriate monetary incentive that it's very likely the case will go nowhere. If I give this to you, I know that you will use the police but not rely on them, and I know that you will genuinely look into it and find what there is to be found, and I know that I can trust you to do it carefully, and quickly." He turns his cup, very slightly, anticlockwise, then says, "I am also relatively certain that you aren't being watched."
"Oh," Greg says. "So—that's a possibility."
"Yes," Mycroft says.
Greg takes a sip of coffee. "And that's why you don't want to give it to your staff," he says.
"Yes," Mycroft says.
"Are we being watched now?" Greg asks.
"It's possible, but unlikely," Mycroft says. "You were a friend of my brother's. It's known that I continue to maintain a congenial relationship with you."
"Is that what you call it?" Greg asks.
Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Would you not?" he asks.
"I think of it more as a regularly scheduled invasion," Greg says, "raiding us for provisions, and so on," and very much to his surprise, Mycroft's eyes crinkle up at the corners.
"Well, you do make a very fine serving wench," Mycroft tells him, which throws Greg enough that he has to struggle to figure out how to reply. Mycroft clears his throat and leans back. "But that's beside the point," he says. "The essential matter is that you are uniquely able to do this for me. Will you?"
Greg takes a sip of his coffee, then asks, "Pay?"
"Whatever you ask," Mycroft says.
"Whatever I ask?" Greg echoes, laughing.
"Yes," Mycroft says, "I have ties to the family," and Greg stops, and looks at him.
The problem with Mycroft isn't that he's a heartless bastard incapable of indicating when something holds genuine significance for him. The problem is that he's a heartless bastard who goes to such lengths to obscure and misdirect what, precisely, the nature of that significance might be that Greg has learned to trust nothing less than what looks like something unstudied coming from Mycroft Holmes.
"What sort of ties?" Greg asks.
"Business ties," Mycroft says smoothly.
"You won't tell me?" Greg asks.
"I imagine you'll find out," Mycroft says. "But it's important that you look into this thoroughly for the case to hold up in the end. If I lead you, it increases the likelihood that this will evaporate, and a very dangerous man will go free."
"Oh, good," Greg says. "For a bit there I thought it was just because you don't like to share."
"Well," Mycroft says, eyes crinkling up again, and God, that's disturbing. Greg stuffs the last of his sandwich in his mouth and chases it with three lukewarm gulps of coffee.
"Anything you want to give me at all?" Greg asks. "Just as a place to start?"
Mycroft raises an eyebrow at him. "And here I thought you'd spent thirty years with the police," he says, and Greg rolls his eyes and pushes to his feet.
"Thanks for the sandwich," Greg says, "Next time, on me," and leaves before Mycroft has a chance to work out what to say.
It doesn't take Greg too long to get a copy of the case file from Donovan, with the full approval of her superiors behind it. It's idiotic, really, that Ferguson should be falling all over himself to give Greg all the courtesies that got half their unit called up for hearings after Sherlock's death, but it's also useful, so Greg doesn't complain.
On his way home from New Scotland Yard, his phone buzzes in his pocket. It's from Mycroft, who hates to text, a single sentence: I'd greatly appreciate it if you didn't mention my involvement to John, like Greg would be so stupid. John hasn't forgiven much of anyone for much of anything, and Greg knows it; the two of them can only work together and live together and interact in a more or less friendly way because at a certain point, John had to either start pushing away whatever betrayals were small enough to shift, or suffocate completely. The aftermath of Sherlock's death was indiscriminate and explosive, devastating: a year and change of hearings and retrials and special investigations, Greg's team shell-shocked and unbalanced, suddenly on the wrong side, as the truth ground its way out one exhibit at a time, because the police have always had an obligation to investigate that has never been able to afford exceptions. They cleared Greg and Donovan and Dimmock and the lot of them, eventually; they very nearly managed to clear Sherlock in the end; but there were still weeks and months where John was torn up and drifting, uncertain and grieving, with Greg unshaven and disgraced, out of work, half-homeless. There's a kinship in that sort of overlapping misery, but Mycroft never paid for his misdeeds where other people could see, instead going out of his way to seem untouched and untouchable all along. Two weeks into Greg's hearing, at the pub, John had said, I have a case—one of his old clients—if you're bored, and Greg had felt a confused and confusing rush of guilt and grief and dread and said, Yeah, all right, because he'd thought he owed it to John and Sherlock both; not long after, Mycroft had offered John comfort and sympathy and the open arms of family, and John had just stared at him, impassive and blank, and said nothing, which more or less set the tone for every interaction they've had since.
John's watching telly when Greg gets back, sitting upright at the edge of the sofa with his hands folded in his lap and his mouth firm and determined. Greg wonders if he used to listen to mission briefings like that. They're still on about the handling of the Monferrer Global TB vaccine, like anyone is surprised by pharmaceutical companies making a killing on something that ought to be saving lives. John looks like he takes it personally. Greg just tunes it out and settles down at the table to start flipping through the case file.
The crime scene photos are... bad. That part, Greg doesn't miss much; most of what he works on with John is bloodless, missing jewelry and philandering spouses and small and private frauds. It's boring, but it pays, and neither of them is Sherlock Holmes, and every month or two, they'll get a case with enough actual heft to keep both of them from losing their minds. But a young man, not quite three years out of uni, with his throat slit in his family's flat, is awful in a way that is both mundane and familiar: there is a person who is dead, and there is a person who killed him, and Greg has to find one to make what meager amends are possible to the other. Robert Adair could use a break, and if Mycroft's ruled out shooting the murderer in the head, the task falls to Greg.
Adair took maths at university; struggled to find work after; came to London to stay with his sister and mother out of what reads very clearly as desperation; picked up a job as an entry-level admin in the office of an MP. The sister is older, working at Vauxhall Cross and very likely the source of both Robert's job and the connection to Mycroft; their mother worked as a schoolteacher before her retirement; their father is deceased. Adair had been engaged at university but they'd broken it off since; the former fiancée was the first person who raised Donovan's red flags, too, but Greg goes over her statement several times, and apart from the issue of how, exactly, the very petite Emma Woodley would've managed to kill a man four stone heavier and a handspan taller than her, with no sign of a struggle, with a sword, there genuinely seems to have been very little bad feeling between the two of them. The most interesting note in the file, overall, is that Donovan has been thoroughly stonewalled in her efforts to speak with Adair's boss. Especially given Mycroft's involvement, a politician disinclined to speak with the police seems the most promising direction for investigation, but Greg can tell from every note in the file that he'll get nowhere quickly if he goes there first. Instead, he takes the case file and his mobile upstairs to call Adair's sister, Hannah, to arrange a meeting for later in the evening, then comes back downstairs and asks, "Mind if I have a look at the index?"
"What?" John looks up. Greg points at Sherlock's laptop and John gives him a go-ahead sort of wave and stands up. "Proper case, then?"
"Not really, no," Greg says. He turns the screen towards him; he knows that John won't come and look over his shoulder, even if it's tempting. "Donovan just asked me to check on this fellow whose name's come up on one of her cases." Greg types in Sherlock's passcode; he can do it from memory, now. The index is up in the front window; Greg wonders if John's done anything else today. Greg scrolls down to "Moran". Four entries for "Sebastian": one file tagged "biographical", two tagged "financial," and a fourth, tagged "fraud." Greg sighs and pulls them up, emails them to himself, and then closes the index and pushes the laptop back over to John's side of the table.
"He's in there, I take it?" John's almost smiling.
"Yeah," Greg says, reaching for his jacket. He ought to head out. "Have the criminals always been this predictable?"
John laughs, a very little.
Hannah Adair turns out to be a tall, athletic-looking young woman with short blonde hair and freckles sprinkled across her nose. Her face is at odds with her expression. Greg can easily imagine her laughing, head thrown back, happy and expansive; but in person, with her mouth tight and miserable and her eyes red-rimmed and pinched, she seems strangely unreal, not believable. She sits across from him at a table in a pub just around the corner from the flat where her brother died and tells him about work and their family's growing money worries and coming home that night—coming up the stairs—turning the key—
"Take your time," he says, as gently as he can.
She shakes her head. "I've been over it more times than I can count, you know?" she says, voice stretched thin. "I know—he asked me, you know, what he should do, and I told him he had to do what he thought was right, and I—"
"What was this about?" he asks, leaning forward.
"Oh, God." She sighs, and laughs, presses one trembling hand against her mouth. "I can't—it's so stupid, I thought it was so stupid, I thought—he was very young, Mr. Lestrade. He was—he was twenty-four, and he was young for his age, in a lot of ways, and he still got—worked up, you know, about things not being—right, and." She stops, and shakes her head.
"He was an idealist," he says, very gently.
"Yes," she says.
"And there was something wrong," he prompts.
"Oh, I don't know." She sighs. "It's—he thought there was, yeah." She rubs at her face. "I thought—I thought bringing it up might cause more problems than it'd solve, you know? You can't just—you can't just go throwing accusations around, and I—I got him the job, and I couldn't believe it was anything serious, just—just politics, you know."
"He suspected someone at work?" he asks. "Of something unethical?" It's in line with what he heard from Mycroft, but he still needs the details.
She sighs. "Look," she says. "You have to understand—I never knew, really, what happened at his other job, just that—that they were in trouble, and they sacked him, and then they went under not long after but he still had a lot of resentment about it and said things that were stupid to people he shouldn't have said anything to at all. So when he said there was something not quite right at work, my first thought was—well, it's terrible, especially now that—especially now that he, he may have said something, to someone who—but at the time I thought, 'He's done it again, he's going to be out of work again,' and I feel—I can't believe, I can't believe I thought that, I can't believe that that was what I was worried about, but with the economy being what it is..."
"Not easy to find a new job, no," he agrees. She nods. His fingertips are tingling. "Especially not after being sacked twice. I—um, I don't think it was in the report—where did he work before?"
"Anastas Biotechnical," she says. "Some sort of data analysis. Really more in line with what he studied at uni, you know, than his job here, but he complained all the while about how dull it was. But it was entry-level work—it's always dull, isn't it? I don't know what he expected, really." She hunches her shoulders together, folding her hands in her lap.
Greg watches her, thinking about Donovan's report. "Listen," he says. "Did you mention this to the police?"
"Mention what?" she says, squinting at him a little.
"His job at—what was it?"
"Anastas Biotechnical, up in Leeds," she says. "But they went under."
"Right, yeah," he says. "But did you mention it to the police?"
She frowns at him. "Yeah," she says. "That detective—the pretty Black woman—"
"DI Donovan," he says. His heart is thumping.
"Right," she says. "When she took my statement, she asked about—about where he worked, about where he'd worked before that, and before that, but then he was at uni, and she asked about Emma—his ex, you know, though how on earth anyone could think she could—"
"No, of course," he says. He's not really paying attention. He needs to reread that report. "Listen," he says. "I think I've got a good bit to go on, for now—do you mind if I call you up again, if I have any more questions?"
"That's fine," she says, nodding, and he pats the back of her hand, because he can get away with that sort of thing now that he doesn't carry a badge, and his sympathy doesn't have legal implications.
"We're not going to let it go, you know," he tells her, and her face tightens up, but she nods.
On his way out of the pub, he calls Mycroft.
"Hard at work?" Mycroft asks, the instant he picks up. His voice is lazy, which Greg suspects translates to "guarded".
"Yeah, actually." Greg tucks his free hand in his pocket. "Can I talk? Is this—secure, or whatever?"
"Yes, but I'd still avoid names," Mycroft says. "Mistrust is always the safer option."
"Right," Greg says. "So—I think there's a problem."
"Very likely," Mycroft says.
"I'm concerned that—that someone has got to the police," he says.
"I warned you," Mycroft says mildly.
"Yeah, but what am I supposed to do here, if I can't trust their records?" Greg asks. "If you want something that'll hold up in court, you'll need forensics, you'll need properly gathered and handled evidence, I can't just go in and charm them into doing what I want—"
"I think you rather underrate yourself," Mycroft tells him.
Greg stops, turns back, takes two steps, turns around again, keeps walking.
"Mycroft," he says, finally. "Are you flirting with me?"
Mycroft's silent for a moment.
"I mean," Greg says. "Very flattering and all that, I reckon this is how Kate must've felt at St. Andrews, but—"
"My primary concern is for the Adair case," Mycroft tells him.
"Right, yeah," Greg says. "So, the forensics—"
"Oh, well," Mycroft says, voice steady again. "It seems that in this instance, what you really need is a police insider, someone who might have some insight into whom you could and could not trust—"
"Oh, shove it," Greg tells him, and Mycroft's voice is smooth as he says, "Enjoy your evening, Greg," and rings off.
It's past eight by the time Greg gets back to the flat. John's shut up in his bedroom, but it's unlikely that he's sleeping; Greg can hear the radio going, too low through the door to make anything out, and Greg's laptop is still on the table but John's and Sherlock's are gone. Greg digs out some leftover Chinese from the weekend and gets the Adair file while it's warming up, just to confirm his memory. He's not wrong. There's nothing about Adair's first job, nothing at all, and it's still written up in Donovan's handwriting, and it still has Donovan's name at the bottom.
Greg really isn't sentimental. He knows to trust the evidence, but he knows Donovan, too. He's known her since she was still a probationary constable in uniform, and he thinks about Hannah Adair telling him, He was very young, Mr. Lestrade, and remembers telling Ferguson something similar about Donovan when she was only about twenty-four herself and had recently punched a civilian in the face. It was Sherlock, so he'd deserved it, but that's really beside the point: if someone had asked Greg a day ago, he would've said that Donovan is one of the most upright officers he's ever known, incorruptible, unflinching, and he would've said it without hesitation. It's just that tonight, he couldn't do that.
The microwave dings. He sighs, then digs out a fork. It's been a long day. He doesn't think he can really trust his judgement. He calls his boys and eats his dinner, then shuts himself up in his bedroom and checks his email, finishes paying his bills, watches today's child-mandated sequence of YouTube clips about polar bears (Luke's latest obsession). He lets the file rest, closed, on his bedside table, and watches the last half of the Skyfall DVD he borrowed from Mrs. Hudson, and then he lies down on his back and closes his eyes and does his best to think about nothing at all.
In the morning, John is out. It's Wednesday, which means he has an appointment at ten, which means that he'll run eight miles instead of six and Greg will shower while John's out and then make himself scarce until the afternoon, because the difficulties of dealing with John on a regular basis are nothing compared to the impossibilities of dealing with him right after therapy. Harry, in a moment of disarming and uncomfortable emotional honesty, once told Greg that she didn't know anyone other than her brother who could keep being angry for years without interruption, and then had tried to make it into a joke before John had come back from the loo, but Greg hadn't known what to say to that as a joke, either. John isn't angry. Greg has heard John get angry. Greg has seen John get angry. Greg once, memorably, had to actually physically intervene when John got angry with Sergeant Osbourne after a remarkably insensitive quip about the personal life of a victim, but Greg has been around long enough to know that these days John doesn't get angry about anything that's actually important. On Wednesday mornings Greg might as well be living with a machine programmed to eat beans on toast and drink exactly two cups of tea and then run eight miles and then go to his therapy appointment and then come home and sit in silence, ramrod-straight, with his back to the window and his hands folded in his lap, saying nothing, for hours. Whatever John has been living through, is living through, will continue to live through, it isn't anger. Anger burns itself out.
Greg takes his laptop and the file and heads down to the cafe on the corner, which has WiFi and excellent scones. Greg knows that he needs to make a decision. He probably should've forced himself to do it last night; if Donovan is compromised, the case is in bigger trouble than he can imagine. He doesn't want to think it of her—he can't really believe it of her—but it's her writing and he knows that there's money on the line and it's absolutely certain that someone, here, is lying. He hopes to God that it's Hannah Adair, but he can't figure out what she'd get by telling the police one thing and a police consultant another.
Greg sips his coffee and smoothes Hannah's statement out and reads it again. And again. And again. It's all just as Hannah said, except that there's no reference to an earlier job, no reference to Anastas Biotechnical, no reference to Robert's qualms about his work, just the facts, only some of the facts, and at the bottom, Detective Inspector Sally Donovan, followed by the date.
He stills. Detective Inspector Sally Donovan, in that same familiar writing—except that Donovan's legal name is Sandra, and she's always been rigidly careful to sign her reports, S. Donovan, simply to avoid the issue. He breathes easy for what feels like the first time all morning, and picks up his mobile.
I need some info on a case, he tells her. You out and about?
At scot yrd,, she replies. Endless reports. I can take a break if you come down.
He licks his lips. I need a coffee, he tells her, even though it's blatantly untrue. He still has half a cup. Meet up the street? At that cafe?
She agrees, which means she's understood it as covering for something unsaid, and she's waiting for him when he gets there, working on—indeed—a report on another case and stirring sugar into her coffee. He grabs himself a cup and joins her, and she folds her file shut and says, "Problem?"
"Yeah, maybe," he says, settling into his chair and tucking his laptop and the case file at his elbow. "Hannah Adair. I need to know what she told you about her brother's work history."
She frowns. "It's in her statement," she says. "Do you have your copy?"
"Yeah," he says. "But I want to hear it from you. No, don't look—just tell me what you remember."
She gives him a sharp look, but nods. "Graduated in 2012," she says. "Bit of trouble finding a job; ended up doing some data analysis at a—um, it was some sort of medical research company, I remember that, but I don't remember the name. They went under a little over a year later; he came to London; sister got him the job with Moran. Did I miss anything?"
Greg opens his file and passes her Hannah Adair's statement. It takes a minute, but halfway down the page her eyes widen, and she looks up at him, her mouth pulling thin. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to.
He takes a sip of his coffee and holds out his hand. She passes the statement back over.
"Who do you trust?" he asks.
"Chris," she says instantly, "but he's forensics in the first place, and it's a conflict of interest besides. Hopkins. Dodd."
"Anderson can be useful," Greg points out, leaning forward. "But you're right, you can't leave it all to him. Get him to take one of his men—you trust his judgement?"
"Don't be an ass," she says, and he raises his eyebrows.
"Don't act like it's a stupid question," he says. "I was married. You can love someone and still think they have the common sense of a lemming. Carla has the common sense of a lemming and I know it."
"No offense, but I've met your ex-wife," she tells him. "I think the lemmings win."
"I've always said it, the kinship of sisters, between the two of you," he tells her, and she grins. "But I'm serious about Anderson," he adds. "If you don't trust his judgement, on this one, you can't trust him at all."
"I trust his judgement," she says. "Professionally speaking, I trust his judgement better than just about anyone I know."
"Good," he says. "Then get him to take one of his men, two if he can manage it, and run it all again, all of it, every last thing. You use Hopkins and Dodd. Have them take your statement. Have them retake Adair's statement. Start making copies. Rerun the scene, if you have to. Do it as quickly as you can, and don't bring anything back to the Yard."
"Multiple copies, multiple locations?" she says, mouth quirking up.
He nods. It's—it's a little absurd and he knows it, but under the circumstances, he doesn't think it's unreasonable.
She leans back in her chair and gives him a wolfish sort of smile. "I like this," she tells him. "I feel like a spy."
Part 2
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Date: 2012-06-20 09:54 pm (UTC)