Archive of Our Own ^beta

Greg was being pelted by heavy rain, ankle deep in sucking mud, looking at another corpse. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence, in fact, it had started to become quite startlingly recurrent indeed, since his recent promotion to Detective Inspector. Greg had little time to yet again wonder at his own choice of profession, before he felt a telling tingle in his fingertips, leading up to his palm being suffused with warmth.

Sherlock Holmes came skipping down the riverbank crime scene like a child at a candy shop and not for the first time Greg considered that whatever powers were running the universe were off their rockers. Because despite what the softly flowing name across Greg's hand read, his Soulmate was most definitely not 'Holmes'. He didn't care that other signs were there as well, like the physical heat that was generated where the name slanted over his skin when Sherlock was near.

It wasn't that Sherlock wasn't a great guy, or anything. Sure, he was an ex-junkie and he was probably a bit mental and he could be a right cock sometimes, but that didn't have to be anything that got in the way of True Love. And maybe growing up and watching all those Disney films as a child had ruined him, but Greg had been waiting all his life for that one special moment to come and then Sherlock had barreled into the Yard one night, loudly professing to have solved a murder, all the while reeking of meth and... well, Greg had always felt like it should have been a magic moment and it was just the opposite. He hadn't felt that Special Feeling people where always going on about when they talked about meeting their Soulmate. He felt robbed, to be honest.

At the time, after having been asked several times he had finally properly (or at least as properly as one three sheets to the wind can) told Greg his name for the report and Greg had almost chocked on his coffee. The look of recognition that came flickering into Sherlock's eyes from behind his obviously drug muddled aura, had been telling. "Do try to control yourself, Lestrade." He had snipped, before commencing his explanations, without missing a beat. Greg had never even told Sherlock his name. Yet his hand had decided to start burning like he had grabbed a fire poker from the wrong end.

After Sherlock's case had been proved and the killer put away, he had been taken on as an official Yard constant and Greg had gotten his promotion. During all the time that had followed that initial moment, Sherlock hadn't said anything. He hadn't flirted or asked Greg out or even bothered to actually learn his first name. Greg had been simultaneously relieved and offended the longer the silence on the matter stretched. He couldn't bring himself to be the one to break it, either. He just kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Sherlock was flitting about doing his usual thing, moving about the crime scene in graceful ways that made Greg feel fumbly and making brilliant deductions that made other present personnel puff up like pigeons. If Greg felt kind of proud, he buried it under his normal civility and mild situational depressive state brought on by the weather.

Until suddenly Sherlock wasn't so elegant or smart-talking after all, because he had tripped, face down in squelching muck. Half of the detectives and forensic staff were laughing within seconds. Normally Greg would have agreed wholeheartedly. However instead, he felt a spike of anxiety as he rushed over to pull Sherlock out of the slog. The fall must have knocked the wind out of Sherlock, because he came up gasping, as Greg did his best to steady him. The left side of his face and hair were streaked with mud and bits of wet grass. That seemed to only make the laughter reach a fever-pitch; by that point it looked like forensics' Anders was nearing tears. Sherlock was obviously trying his best not to react, but his cheeks were pink.

Greg had heard about enough of their heckling. "Just shut up!" He yelled, sending the lot of them a glare. "What the hell is wrong with all of you?!" Greg knew it was an overreaction, but he couldn't help it. Apparently it was unwanted as well - because in an instant Sherlock's face had soured and he had shrugged off Greg's help, turning on his heal and stalking away, towards the tape exit. Greg's face felt like it was on fire as he ignored the now warily milling people and took off after Sherlock.

 He was almost brought up short as he saw Sherlock making his was to a parked car - it was sleek and didn't have plates. A man stepped out of the backseat, with an open umbrella. He kept after Sherlock, at a slower pace. Sherlock seemed to be shouting at the man, while he looked on with a mixture of amusement and mild disinterest. Greg hated to admit it, but the closer he got, the less he was focusing on Sherlock and the more he was becoming fascinated by this new person. A cute smirk with a scrunched nose and mirthful eyes, long fingers holding his umbrella, a fine fitting suit accentuated his form... and oh god, he was staring now and it would probably be okay as long as he wasn't caught at it, but... damn. The guy looked up and met Greg's eyes with his own large blues. "Hello." He said.

For some reason it made Greg stop in his tracks almost ten feet away, unable to move. This man was really beautiful. Like, really, really.

Suddenly the rain let up and the clouds began to rapidly part, rays of sun peeking out. Birds even started to slowly twitter in the distance. The car glinted like a freshly polish diamond, as did the man's flash of teeth as he smiled. He held his hand own congenially. "Holmes." He said politely. "Mycroft Holmes."

And that was definitely Disney Prince Scene levels of ridiculous.

Greg blinked several times before turning to sneer at Sherlock. "Oh, you bastard."

All pouting had been wiped from Sherlock's face as he smirked with evil glee. "See, I told you skulking around and not just introducing yourself was a bad idea, Mycroft. I think you broke him."

Mycroft pulled his hand back quickly and glared a Sherlock. "I do not skulk."

"You're right, the correct term would probably be stalk." Sherlock quipped. "Ever since you saw him trough that one-way interrogation room window at the Yard, it's been 'Oh, I'll tag along to your crime scene, Sherlock, wait up!' and 'Doesn't he have nice shoulders, Sherlock?' and 'I think he deserves a promotion, don't you?'." Sherlock's mocking voice was sickly sweet, and he had his hands cupped to the side of his face. He sighed heavily and leaned back onto the car, with a put-upon scowl. "God, it's been awful."

"I have said absolutely zero of those things." Mycroft's face was bright red and feigning disbelief. He looked like he was considering Sherlock assaulting Sherlock with his umbrella to make him stop talking.

 Greg steadfastly ignored Sherlock grumbling (that sounded suspiciously like "Out loud, maybe.") and asked. "So you've been, what? Watching over me?" Mycroft cringed minutely and looked like he was about to start apologizing or explaining himself before Greg kept speaking. "That's... kind of romantic?" Sherlock perked up and shot Greg a dubious look. "I think?"

Mycroft shuffled in place at bit. "I... I just didn't know what to say." He seemed to find his shoes and very interesting. "I wanted it to be... romantic. This... isn't."

Greg felt sympathy for the other man. He seemed really sweet. Taking another look around the rain freshened world he smiled happily. "Actually, it kind of is. Anyway, I think I messed up this a little bit. Here." He moved forward and stuck his hand out. "I'm Lestrade. Greg, actually, if you like." Mycroft's eyes widened and his lips parted slightly, before he tentatively raised his hand again. From this close Greg could see 'Lestrade' looping in his own signature on Mycroft's skin. He closed his hand over Mycroft's before twining their fingers together. Heat was quickly beginning to spread up his arm and warm his chest. "Nice to meet you."

Sherlock snorted in derision as he pushed himself away from the vehicle. "Let me know when you two are done being gross. I'm going to go do your job Lestrade." He flipped his jacket collar up over his still mud smeared cheekbones. "Maybe I'll even let you and your simple helpers in on what I learn." He called over his shoulder as he moved off.

"Sherlock! Hey, wait a minute!" Greg shouted at his back. He looked back and forth from one Holmes to the other.

Mycroft chuckled softly, pulling his hand back to lay it over his chest. "I'll be here when you're done."

Greg smiled apologetically. "I'll hold you to that." Then he turned to run after Sherlock for the second time that morning. "Get back here! You can't withhold evidence!"