Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying (Mycroft, FIN)

"Detective. Glad to see you're here. This won't be a waste of my time," Mycroft greeted him. Lestrade barely heard, though, because, well, he was rather impressed with fate at the moment.

But that didn't matter, he thoughts. Quickly he paced over to the place where Mycroft was standing. He looked the man whom usually scared the living shit out of him directly in the eyes for half a second before he moved quite a bit closer and moved his left hand to Mycroft right cheek. It didn't matter that last time Lestrade had seen Mycroft, being a foot away was uncomfortable. The work came before comfort.

"Sorry, I know this isn't what you're here for," he said briskly, voice all business, "But I must ask you to comply under the law."

And then he kissed Mycroft without another second's hesitation. It wasn't just a quick kiss, no, if was quite long, and hard; forceful. Lestrade was going full out, he didn't mess around with his job. Especially not when there were lives at stake. He did wonder why this all pivoted around him - why M was interested in him at all in the first place - but he would save his egoistical theories for later.

Pulling back for a second, Lestrade added breathily, "Did I ever tell you I'm so sorry for ruining you suit?" before going back to snogging the life out of Mycroft's face. It needed to count, if M saw. Better more than less. And he'd apologised before today, but he wasn't sure if he was supposed to apologise again, and so he had. 

Lestrade may not have been paying altogether much attention to the actual kissing going on - he was busy thinking about the note, deducing, concluding, strategising - but he wasn't so disconnected from reality that he didn't note: Mycroft was really nice to kiss.

Mycroft didn’t seem put off, exactly – in fact, a few seconds into his startled state he began to kiss back – but he did seem surprised, and slightly resistant. Not that he wanted to get away, not at all, but he was trying to pull back slightly. Lestrade then realized how hard he was pushing against Mycroft, harsh and fast, teeth against teeth and all. Slowing down, he relaxed his face - that’s right, M hadn’t said he had to hurt Mycroft kissing him – and went softer, more gentle.

Now, Lestrade, though not the most experienced man in the field of romance, especially in his younger years, was quite good at kissing. He may have not had much interaction with the opposite sex as a kid, but once he was a teenager, well. He was lucky he’d never gotten anything rotten. Still, he liked to think he was a nice person to be with, at least usually, provided he didn’t have the whisky smell on him.

He wasn’t thinking about being a good lover now, though. Now he was thinking about work, and M, and the people that he had to save; his kiss may have been tender, but it was far from heartfelt. And so when he pulled back after a good five seconds more (it was a rather long kiss, really) he was already completely distracted, on to the next thing, and yelling to Martin to find some way to see if M knew. He didn’t know how M would show that he knew, but he still found himself ordering Martin quickly to tell the bomb squad to search the area. M might be clever, but Lestrade didn’t know if he was a liar, too.

Pacing around and yelling at his subordinates, it was practically a minute before he remembered that he’d just kissed someone, and he should probably tell him about that.

“Oh, yes, sorry Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said quickly, genuinely apologetic but not at all embarrassed, “I’ve a note here that says a lot of people will die if I don’t kiss you. So I did.” Lestrade paused for a moment, running scenario’s through his head and discarding unrealistic ones with a flick of consciousness. “Do you know how M is?”

Mycroft crossed his arms, looking quite a bit put off. Lestrade wasn't sure if it was because of the kiss or the whole serial-killer thing, but what Mycroft did not look was scared, like most people would be when they learned they were connected with mass murder. Of course, Mycroft was a lawyer, the best, if he remembered correctly - he was probably excellent at hiding anything akin to fear or annoyance - but there was still something to be deduced by that.

"Yes. I do."

Bingo.

"He's that serial killer, right? I've heard the police say a lot about him."

Or not. Fuck. Lestrade had heard plenty about M himself, which meant the newspaper knew, which effectively meant anything Mycroft knew was equally useless.

Lestrade made an unknowingly very pouty face, slightly glaring at Mycroft Holmes.

"Come now Mr. Holmes, if you're anything like your brother, and I do believe you are, you've got to have something for me." Lestrade vaguely remembered Sherlock mentioning how much he disliked his brother; he didn't really care if the feeling was mutual though, because he just needed information right now.

"Come on. Deduce me." He'd meant to say 'deduce it for me,' or 'deduce this,' but it'd ended up coming out rather…more creepy than he'd intended. Still, his mind was still in too much in a rush to care.

Mycroft very obviously glared at him when Lestrade compared him to Sherlock and moved closer, crossing his arms to show his annoyance.

"You say that like Sherlock and I are birds of the same feather. Sadly, you're mistaken, because there is nothing similar or remotely anything alike between my brother and myself. We have different ambitions, different ways to view the government and how we handle the law. If Sherlock was anything like me, you would have had you man a few days after the first murder, and there would be no serial killer named M who existed. Only a murderer behind a set of iron bars for most likely the rest of their puny life. Sorry to say, Sherlock is in fact not me and you are doomed to spend the rest of this time being lead by an utter idiot. The serial killer by the name of M is not my job to figure out. I am not a detective and I do not work with the police. I told you what I know, and I expect from now on that you do not question me again. Is this understood, detective?"

Though Lestrade would usually be terrified enough  to be described by the eloquent term of the masses, 'shitting himself' by  now, he simply raised an eyebrow. To be honest, he was a little amused at Mycroft's snippity attitude towards Sherlock. All he'd meant, really, was that seeing as he was probably as smart if not smarter than Sherlock, he might be willing to help, but Mycroft obviously thought it a huge insult that the great man himself would even think about persuing a case like his brother for a minute. Perhaps he found being a lawyer more comfortable. Now that it has come to his attention that Mycroft was apparently "fat," Lestrade found himself making a bit of a comparison between Sherlock's lanky frame and Mycroft's… not lanky frame, and the perhaps direct corrolation between their professions. He was quite smug, actually.

"Right, just asking," Lestrade replied easily, succesfully keeping a smirk off his face.

"Now, if you want me to deduce you, that's an entirely different matter. You're well aware of what I am capable of figuring out. Like how you shared a flat in San Francisco with your younger brother and very much liked your space to yourself. Don't get me started on your divorce and how you managed to lose time you had seeing your daughter with that dirty drinking habit."

Right. Not so amusing anymore. Actually, that was just plain mean. Mycroft had no right to talk about that; his forcibly hidden (from himself) past was an item of personal object he'd rather not discuss with anyone, let alone Mycroft. Lestrade just frowned and kept his mouth shut, because he couldn't go getting mad, had to keep him temper, he was on a case. Still, had he not been in work? He might have hit Mycroft.

"Now if you would be ever so kind, I would like what I came here for. The money for my suit."

Lestrade glared slightly at Mycroft - oh, funny, their expressions had traded places in the last thirty seconds, how strange - and replied, "Sure. Hold on."

Signalling for Martin to keep working, Lestrade walked quickly into his office and reached into the pocket of his jacket that was draped over the back of his chair to take out his wallet. He had no idea how much Mycroft was expecting, so he just came back out to Mycroft with his wallet and asked, "How much is it?"

He didn't exactly care if it was too much for him to buy groceries next week, because after that little tidbit about his ex-wife and his foolish drinking? He was completely ready for Mycroft to leave and let him to solve his case.

Mycroft shrugged, seemingly searching for an appropriate pay-off. It annoyed Lestrade that he hadn't thought past the simple concept of getting back his money, but probably just because he was rather annoyed at the eldest Holmes at the moment. Had it been any one else, he wouldn't have minded. But Mycroft was the guy who just had to bring things up, so no, he didn't deserve any of Lestrade's usual casualness.

"Five hundred," Mycroft said coolly. It was both more and less than Lestrade had expected. More, because, well, he'd forgotten that most people were willing to pay much more for a good suit than what he did. Seeing as Mycroft was a lawyer, he probably had to wear suits every day, but Lestrade, who only had to wear one on occasion when he had press reports, rarely spent over three hundred dollars maximum. So five hundred for just cleaning was rather a lot. Then again, the more logical and less personal part of his brain had easily expected to pay much more, seeing as, well. It was Mycroft. That was reason enough, wasn't it? The man probably had his suits tailor-made, or something close to it.

Lestrade opened his wallet and looked at the bills sitting there. He currently had around one hundred fifty in cash. Cheque, then. He nodded to Mycroft, then stepped the few paces towards his desk to lean on the hard surface and quickly scrawl out the words 'Mycroft Holmes, five hundred dollars and 00--,, among the other little intricacies he needed before quickly signing off and the bottom. Ripping the thin piece of paper out, he handed it back to Mycroft.

He looked at the lawyer, and it took him about one and one half seconds to decide that Mycroft probably knew a bit more to this than he was letting on. Still, he couldn't exactly keep him here. Martin had successfully tracked down Mycroft's work number and contact information though, so he supposed he mine as well let the man leave now and find him again later if he needed to. The less time with Mycroft Holmes in his office the better.

"Well, Mycroft, you've been very tolerant," Lestrade said solemnly (at rather less than earnestly, unless he was solely and only referring to, which Mycroft seemed almost too compliant with), and gave Mycroft a curt nod, "Thank you. And, ah, nice to see my debt to you paid off." He really hadn't cared after he'd decided Mycroft was a huge jerk, but honesty was as honesty goes. It was simply something that had to be done. And besides, this gave him an excuse to never see Mycroft again. Probably.