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

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

<sub>I've been watching you, detective, for quite a while now. Let's just say you're my new favorite toy.

You're a tad clumsy, aren't you? Yes, of course you are. Don't bother answering, I already know for a fact you are. You ruined a fat lawyer's suit. A very powerful, fat lawyer who has you scared and running.

Feel like conquering your fear?

Of course you do.

You are going to find that fat lawyer and give him the money for his suit and apologize. Seal the deal with a kiss. Don't try anything else, I'll be watching.

If you don't do this by 8 pm tonight, I will detonate a bomb in a subway station. I won't tell you which one and don't bother trying to find out. We both know you'll just fail at it. It's easier to do what I say.

Pucker up, lovely.

-M</sub>

Thus was the note that Gregory Lestrade found waiting on his desk that morning as he strolled in, completely cheerful having had a surprisingly good sleep and a thoroughly satisfying cup of coffee to accompany a savory bagel from Panera’s Bread. He’d also gotten an excited call from his daughter that told him that she’d gotten a role in her school’s play that she was ecstatic for, and Lestrade was ecstatic for her. It was definitely the happiest morning he’d had in ages. And then it wasn’t.

Oh god what oh god fuck shit fucking hell!

He didn’t know quite what to do, in a few seconds of panic. And then he knew exactly what to do.

“Martin!” He barked, calling his subordinate over. When the younger man failed to comply immediately – he was doing something on his computer, probably some stupid game in all likelihood – Lestrade called again, this time loud enough for everyone to hear his harsh, “Boy! Up! Now!”

The kid quickly shut his computer off and paced over to Lestrade, visibly appearing embarrassed at the fact that most of the eyes in the room were now trained on him. “Yesssir?”

“Think it’s good to dick around with your computer?” Lestrade snapped, before quickly rushing into an explanation. “This man, M, do you know who he is?” Martin may be an subordinate, but he’d certainly been around here a lot longer than Lestrade. If the indications of the words were anything to go on – ‘new favorite toy,’ ‘I’ll be watching,’ – obviously whoever this “M” was had at least some previous experience – or experiments – with this crowd.

“M? Yessir, he’s a criminal we’ve not caught, murder, corruption, everything really. Why?”

“Why do you think?” Lestrade asked him, resisting the urge to cuff his sergeant in the back of the head. “He’s left me a note, and I’ve – right now, you have to find out where Mycroft Holmes works, alright? Go on!”

Yes, Lestrade knew exactly who this note was referring to. Mycroft wasn’t particularly fat, but he was most definitely powerful, frightening, and a victim to Lestrade’s soup. The memory usually bothered Lestrade, but not now. Now? Now was the work. And the work always took priority. If he could focus on the work, he could ignore anything for ages. It’d nearly been a coping mechanism for him for a time.

Lestrade looked around, wondering what M meant by “watching.” Spies? Cameras? Taps? What was it? Whatever they were, he would find them later. For the time being, it was nearly crucial that M could see; if he missed everything, there were so many people who would die, and soon, for what? This man’s… amusement? It was sick.

About two minutes later, Martin called back to Lestrade the name of Mycroft Holmes’ law firm. Lestrade quickly readied his small team to come with him (it was just two other people, it wasn’t as if he was doing something dangerous, but just in case), and was putting his coat when suddenly, the door opened and there was a usually unpleasant but right now divine face in front of him.

[MYCROFT HOLMES]

Mycroft found himself with some time. So he decided to finally tie up a loose end in his life. Getting money from a cop. It was on the way home and it would be an easy stop. All he had to do was smile and Lestrade would practically fall apart from fear or whatever. Mycroft could get what he needed quickly and could be on his merry little way.

He walked in to the police station, pausing at the desk at the front to ask where he could find Detective Lestrade. The woman was nice and friendly, giving him exact directions how to find him. He liked people like that. Those kinds of people who knew everything about what they did.

As he approached the main room where the detective seemed to congregate, he noticed an air of expectancy there. Detectives were scurrying around, always doing something. He opened the doors and walked in, his coat slung over his arm as he did. He took a quick scan of the room. Chief's room was to the left. Meeting rooms beside the Chief. Bathrooms down the hall. A small kitchen-like room where there was coffee and, ironically, donuts. It was so very... common.

He spotted Lestrade by a desk, holding a piece of paper and looking oddly relieved. He was looking at him too, which added to it feeling weird. Usually, Lestrade was generally taken back by his presence. This was a pleasant change.

"Detective," Mycroft greeted with one of his smiles. "Glad to see you're here. This won't be a waste of my time."

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

"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 HOLMES]

At first, the detective didn't say anything. He just approached Mycroft, looking like he was bound on accomplishing something and stopped quite close to him. Then he reached out and cupped his cheek and appeared to look apologetic. Mycroft raised a brow quizically.

"Sorry, I know this isn't what you're here for, but I must ask you to comply under the law," Lestrade forced out quickly.

Mycroft wanted to ask what the hell he was talking about. He opened his mouth to say it, but his words were promptly swallowed by the detective. Literally, considering Lestrade was all but devouring his mouth, hard and forceful. He was kissing him. Mycroft's eyes widened exponentionally, his hands moving quickly to the detective's arms and pushing. But Lestrade pressed harder and refused to let up, kissing Mycroft roughly.

Lestrade pulled back for a moment, just long enough to apologize for ruining his suit, before moving back in and forcing another kiss. Mycroft really couldn't do much but comply at this point. He started returning the kiss, trying to force him to slow it down and to not kiss him so painfully.

When it came down to it, Mycroft liked kissing. He really couldn't bother to care who was doing the kissing. Even if it was Lestrade. A kiss was a kiss, and Mycroft rarely complained.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

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 HOLMES]

Once he got the detective to slow down and not hurt him anymore, he wasn't a bad kisser. Mycroft wasn't complaining; it had been a while since he last got any form of affection. Free affection wasn't something to just pull away from. Though, the kiss wasn't exactly affectionate.

Finally, Lestrade pulled away and went off, yelling at Martin if they knew if M had seen. For a moment, Mycroft just stood there listening and rubbing his mouth. Then he realized who they were talking about. M. He knew exactly who that was. He wasn't happy that he knew who it was.

The detective came back after a few moments, looking somewhat apologetic, but not at al regretful.

“Oh, yes, sorry Mr. Holmes, 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. “Do you know how M is?”

Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest and nodded.

"Yes. I do."

He shrugged and looked around. It wasn't a long shot to say he was mad at M for doing this. He'd have to yell at him later. Ignore him after, because that would really make him upset. It was always a good way to get payback.

"He's that serial killer, right?" Mycroft said, looking back at the detective. "I've heard the police say a lot about him."

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

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.

_{OOC: btw, Kay may kill you if Mycroft actually reveals anything of sustenance XD}

[MYCROFT HOLMES]

Lestrade all but pouted at him when he simply stated that M was the serial killer that was going around. Apparently he had expected more. He probably had this notion that Mycroft would put a name to a letter and they would have their killer. Well, he just couldn't do that. He had a personal connection with the person who sometimes goes by M. It wouldn't be right, whether he forced a kiss between the two or not.

"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. Come on. Deduce me."

Mycroft outright glared at him this time. Being compared to his brother was not something that struck his fancy. Mycroft unwound his arms and stood straighter, even taking another step forward so the detective could really get the message.

"You say that like Sherlock and I are birds of the same feather. Sadly, you're mistaken, because there in 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 nawt me and you are doomed to spend the rest of this time being lead by an utter idiot."

Mycroft smiled at the detective to show his point. He leaned in a bit closer, keeping adequate distance but being close enough to have a nice effect.

"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 nawt question me again. Is this understood, detective?"

He leaned back again, still keeping that same smile on his lips.

"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."

Mycroft elegantly folded his arms again to show he was finished for the time being.

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

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

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 HOLMES]

Judging by the reaction he got from Lestrade, Mycroft was spot on with his deductions. He wanted to keep going, to see how far he could push the detective back in to remembering what he really didn't want to. He could have mentioned the gun, how his brother was the one to find him in a compromising position, how just recently he decided against doing that ugly deed. But Mycroft decided that now wasn't the time or the place to do anything of the sorts. The detective was working, and he was pretty sure if he wanted to, Lestrade could easily deck him in the face and not bat an eye about it. He had been punched recently; it wasn't something he particularly liked to do. Lestrade was glaring at him now.

"I don't see the point in getting all upset, detective. You wanted me to deduce you and I did just that."

Lestrade went off for a moment, returning with his wallet in hand.

"How much is it?"

Mycroft shrugged idly. His suit was easily worth two thousand in it's entirety. Probably more if he went and got the pricing on it. He looked at the detective for a moment. Middle class and probably didn't get paid a lot considering his job. Two grand could easily put him out for the month.

"Five hundred."

It was acceptable for the condition of his suit jacket. The sleeve was ruined and not much else damage was done. Five hundred was an easy price to pay.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

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.

[MYCROFT HOLMES]

Lestrade opened his wallet and made a small face. He didn't have the cash on him. That wasn't a problem. Mycroft liked checks better anyways. Less messy. The detective walked the few steps to his desk and bent down, scratching along his check-book before ripping out the piece of paper. Mycroft took it, taking a second to read what he wrote before nodding and folding it crisply, sliding it into his inner jacket pocket.

"Well, Mycroft, you've been very tolerant."

He certainly was. Mycroft didn't like being a part of someone's schemes or pleasures. That kiss was something that he just wanted to happen to get his rocks off. Or it was for some game he had planned. In any matter, it was annoying. He was very tolerant about it.

"Not a problem." Yes it was. "Glad to have been some help."

"Thank you. And, ah, nice to see my debt to you paid off."

Mycroft nodded again and smoothed down his jacket.

"Of course. Let's try not to run in to any more complications, yes?"

He smiled at him.

OOC: Horrible post, awayyyy.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

"Not a problem," Mycroft said, and Lestrade was sure he didn't mean it. "Glad to have been some help." Ah well, it didn't matter if they were sincere with each other; it's not like they had any reason to be. Every time they met seemed to go horribly, actually. A shame; it was good to be friends with a lawyer, and he could've gotten dirt on Sherlock if they were friends. All selfish reasons, but what else did they do anything for?

"Of course. Let's try not to run in to any more complications, yes?" Mycroft smiled, giving Lestrade a smile that he wasn't sure meant. It was snake-like; yes, his new adjective for Mycroft: snake like. Not that Mycroft actually resembled a snake in anyway, but whatever. Lestrade just nodded.

"Sir, M's sent back, we're clear for now!" Martin called out from his place at the computer. Lestrade's expression brightened considerably, and he looked back at Mycroft.

"There now, we've averted a mass murder then!" Lestrade piped excitedly, sounding a bit younger than he should have. But then, snogging the face off a man whom he was on unfriendly terms with in order to avert a national crisis was an unfamiliar event in the world of Lestrade. Or the world of… Earth. So he supposed his euphoria was somewhat more acceptable than it usually would have been. 

He moved forward to shake Mycroft's hand firmly, making a second of eye contact that for once wasn't a glare, but a more than pleased smile, before starting to walk off to investigate the almost-bombing some more.  "Thanks, Mycroft," Lestrade bid the man adieu, forgetting to call the him Mr. Holmes. 

It was just that Sherlock had been Holmes for so long, and even if Sherlock was Sherlock now, Holmes was also still Sherlock. So Lestrade called Mycroft Holmes Mycroft in his head and Mr. Holmes out loud to be polite, but his politeness had slipped seeing as he was a bit too preoccupied with his obsession; his work. The obsession also distracted him enough from thinking twice about accidentally calling Mycroft by his first name. Perhaps work was the only time Mycroft would ever maybe, just possibly, marginally think him not a complete idiot.

"Slán go fóil!"

OOC: Random Gaelic. And it is really hard to write when I ship show Greg and Myc XD. That was my last post unless you want to do more; you can make a final post or not .