Perseverance (7/7)

[marysutherland]

BBC Sherlock

Rating 15 (swearing, implicit slash)

Summary: Greg's plan to win Mycroft is obviously illegal and stupid. Good job he's got some help...

Note: much of this chapter runs in parallel to the fic that inspired it (Second Skin's Persuasion), and may make more sense if read alongside it.

Betaed by the wonderful Small Hobbit.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

One week, two weeks and no message from Mycroft. I've scared him off, haven't I, Greg told himself. And then in the middle of October, the text arrived:

We have now had to let JM go, without obtaining the outcome that either I or your employers were hoping for.  MH

He wondered if Mycroft suspected his messages were being monitored. Or if he just couldn't bear to say it more directly: they'd got no useful information from Moriarty and he was on the loose again. Last time it had been bombs; what would it be this time? If only they could have shipped him off to Guantanamo instead...

Greg shook his head. You could bend the rules a bit, but not simply break them. Lock one man up without evidence and where would it end? Time to focus on what he could handle. Carefully, he typed out a reply:

Mycroft, thanks for letting me know. I promised I'd buy you a drink and we'd have a chat afterwards, didn't I? Any pubs or bars you fancy going to? Greg

He double-checked it for spelling mistakes, because that'd just wind Mycroft up, and then sent it.

***

There was no reply to his text after a couple of days, so maybe e-mail was his next option, if only so he could make it clearer that he wasn't expecting Mycroft to breach the Official Secrets Act.

Night at the pub

 Mycroft,

I don't know if you got my text or if it's lurking somewhere in some spook's in-tray. What I was suggesting is that we go out for a drink together. You don't have to talk about what's been going on with JM, but it must have been a stressful time. You need to unwind if you're in jobs like ours or you'll just burn yourself out. So come down to the pub, relax and let's have a conversation for once that isn't about Sherlock or mayhem in London, or Sherlock causing mayhem in London.

Greg

***

Still no reply from Mycroft, although it was just possible he was somewhere with a really dodgy internet connection. Only one thing for it; time to make a call.

"Committee for the Standardisation of Export Tariffs," said a familiar woman's voice on the other end of the line. There was only one person he knew who could manage quite that air of polite boredom answering a top secret hotline.

"Anthea, it's Greg Lestrade," he said. "Can I speak to your boss?"

"He's in a meeting. Is it urgent?"

"No, if he can call me back when he's free, that's fine."

"Anything in particular you need to discuss with him?" There was a lazy warmth in Anthea's voice now that suggested either she had hidden cameras trained on him or he was just too damn obvious. Well, no point in trying to hide it.

"I want to ask him out for a date," he said.

"I'll pass your message on," she said, and he could hear his smile. "Good luck, sir."

***

Mycroft didn't return his call, of course. Screwed up that one, hadn't he, Greg told himself, as he sat at his desk and tried to psych himself up to head back to his empty flat. Obviously Mycroft wasn't interested. Time to cut his losses, forget about the man.

Except Mycroft had kissed him bloody enthusiastically for someone who wasn't interested. So what was going on? A phrase of Sherlock's came back to him: You see but you refuse to observe. Maybe it was time to use logic for once.

Mycroft was getting his messages, but he wasn't replying. Too embarrassed to give Greg the brush-off? But this was Mycroft Holmes: he wasn't exactly shy at making his views known. And if he really didn't want to talk to him, it'd be easy enough just to bounce Greg's messages back or tell Anthea to refuse his calls. So Mycroft wanted him to keep calling – or at least didn't mind him doing that. But he wasn't prepared to reply.

Well, Mycroft had replied already, hadn't he? Told Greg 'No'. And then texted him personally to tell him about Moriarty, not left it to some underling. He worried about Greg constantly, so Anthea said. But he wasn't prepared to go out for a drink with him. Perhaps he was just concerned about Greg getting drunk again...

They hadn't been drunk in Mycroft's car that time. And Greg had drunk nothing stronger than coffee when he'd started snogging Mycroft and Mycroft's mouth had opened to his...It was fucking difficult thinking logically when you could feel your own cock stirring, he thought, banging his palms on his desk, trying to focus. Well, maybe it was easy for Mycroft...

No. it wasn't easy for Mycroft to ignore what he felt either. No trace of the normal superior air after they'd kissed, no convincing reasons why them getting together would be wrong. For a man who was so clever, he had some pathetic excuses as to why any relationship between them wouldn't work. But maybe he'd had to tell himself for so long it wasn't possible that he'd started to believe it. When it had been obvious, right from the start. Right from the moment he'd asked Greg to take his shirt off, it had been going to happen.

It still was going to happen. He just had to persuade Mycroft of that.

*** 

It was odd, Greg found, keeping on sending texts to someone who never answered. Irene Adler had done that with Sherlock, hadn't she? Flirted at him all last winter. Mind you, look what had happened to her. On the run from half the world's governments and Sherlock smirking at the fact. Never a good idea to fall for a Holmes. But he couldn't help it; he had just been born stupid. And somehow, the longer there was no reply, the more he felt the urge to up the ante. Show Mycroft just how far he was prepared to go.

***

When it dawned on Greg what he needed to do next, he realised it was obviously stupid and illegal. Which meant, he supposed, that what he needed was the help of someone who liked doing stupid and illegal things...

"Where does Mycroft live?" he asked Sherlock the next time he spotted him alone.

"St John's Wood," Sherlock said. "I take it you're planning to stalk him?"

Greg resisted the temptation to swear and instead muttered: "Only harassment if I'm causing alarm or distress. Do you reckon Mycroft gets distressed easily?"

Sherlock smiled. "An irresistible force meets an immoveable object. Of course, if you did get yourself arrested, that would focus Mycroft's mind, as well as embarrassing him vastly."

"I just want to talk to him," Greg said, and Sherlock smirked a little more.

"He's not interested in your conversation, Lestrade. You'll find my brother at 13 Circus Road. I'm sure he could do with an extra clown."

***

Think of it as another operation, Greg told himself as he stood in the chilly darkness on the pavement by the fancy iron gates. Basic bit of information gathering. He was pretty sure there was someone watching him, as well; he couldn't imagine Mycroft's house wouldn't be well-guarded. If he had made a mistake about Mycroft's interest, things could get extremely awkward.

The street was quiet; it was easy to spot the posh black car approaching. He'd made no attempt to disguise himself and he stared blatantly into the car as it turned into the driveway, through the opening gates. He only caught a glimpse of the passenger in the back seat through the tinted windows, but that was enough. He'd recognise Mycroft's profile anywhere.

Greg checked his watch: 8.14 pm. He decided to give it another hour. See what Mycroft's reaction was, or if he was going out again.

At half-past nine, when the rain got heavy, he went home.

***

The weather forecasters said it was a very mild November; it didn't feel like that when he was spending several hours every night standing around doing nothing. Mycroft's routine was surprisingly consistent; almost every night his car came home between eight and nine. And drove straight past Greg, standing by the gates.

If Mycroft did want him to go away, he could easily ensure it. Presumably he was content to have Greg spending his free time like this. And Mycroft's neighbours seemed pleased – if slightly confused – to have their own DI on the beat. Several were now prone to bring him flasks of coffee and enthusiastic reports about suspected drug barons living in the area. He could keep this up for as long as he wanted. He just wasn't sure any more that it would make any difference. What he was trying to achieve.

But he couldn't give in. There was no way back now simply to working with Mycroft again. This might be all Greg could ever expect to see of him: the profile of the man as he stared ahead, ignoring the watcher outside. Stubbornness? Indifference? Greg wished he could somehow understand what was going on in the other man's mind.

***

December. He should probably put new thermal underwear on his Christmas list, Greg decided, because soon or later it would turn really cold. Or maybe ask for a three-week holiday in the Seychelles. He should get away, find someone else, not keeping pining after Mycroft. He was late getting to his position that night, the crowds of Christmas shoppers already increasing congestion. He hoped he hadn't missed the car, though it was Wednesday and Mycroft was often back later then. But maybe it was time to give up, admit this was never going to happen...

His phone buzzed: a text from Sherlock. He was used to that by now, almost welcomed the additional torment of Sherlock's sarcastic comments. Someone was noticing what he was doing, someone cared. Just not the right brother.

But tonight the text was different:

At the left-hand side of the front wall some of the bricks are damaged. A burglar might be able to climb in. S

He went to check and sure enough, yes, he could see now where an agile crook might be able to scale the thing – it wasn't that high. But there'd doubtless be further security systems inside the property. Mycroft was hardly in danger...

Oh. He really was an idiot, wasn't he? He looked dubiously up at the wall. There was a big difference between him and a nippy twenty year-old – or even Sherlock himself – but he supposed it was possible...

It was easier than he expected, and he found himself wondering exactly who had damaged the bricks. Though of course, the bastard who had done so was just a couple of inches taller than him, so there was one very dicey bit. He wasn't sure his trousers were ever going to be the same again. And he was going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do if he got arrested at this point. Security lights in the garden, but no obvious alarm – or trip wires or ferocious dogs. Not even any hallucinogenic fog. This was starting to look easy. Till he got to the front door of the house and saw what he should have expected: entry controlled by a keypad.

He had a torch in his pocket; he fished it out and did a quick sweep round the back of the house. No obvious weaknesses and if he smashed anything getting in he could be in even deeper trouble. Time to use his brain. Or rather, someone else's. He wouldn't get anywhere with a straight question. But Sherlock loved games. So let's see who he wants to torment more, me or Mycroft?

It took a while to work out how to word the text, straining his ears meanwhile to hear the approaching car. Perhaps he could just wait here by the front door? Would Mycroft talk to him or might he simply refuse to get out of the car? Maybe even have his driver drive him away again, avoid the problem one more time? No, he needed to get in, to confront Mycroft once and for all. He sent off the message to Sherlock, hoping it would lure him in:

So does Mycroft use his measurements as his security code like Irene Adler? Greg

Irene Adler and codewords. There was something more, something that he'd been told about that case, that was nagging at the back of his mind. She'd used some pun, hadn't she, that Sherlock had spotted in the end? He could remember John, rather the worst for wear, telling him about that on the night of his divorce...

No, wrong memory. Mycroft's keypad didn't have letters on, just numbers. And it wasn't John's slurred voice that he was hearing in his head, but Sherlock's. But when had he seen Sherlock drunk? Not for years, surely?

Not drunk, but doped. The day Sherlock had broken into Irene's safe, not her phone. There'd been the stuff about her measurements, but there'd been something more he'd been raving on about in the taxi. Skin...oil...gloves.

Of course, and he should have remembered that one. Not the first time he'd been told that by Sherlock. The most used key on a keypad was probably the first number of the code sequence. He went back and peered at the thing closely, glad he had the torch to hand. Most used key was the number three, quite a lot of use on the zero and six as well, less on the others. Well, that got him...not much further, in practical terms.

His phone buzzed; a reply from Sherlock:

If Mycroft used his measurements, he'd have to change his code every few weeks, depending on the diet. But you're right that it's six digits. S

He texted back:

And the first number's 3 isn't it? So how do I work out the other ones? Greg

The response was immediate:

Mycroft's mind is historical rather than mathematical. He's also very predictable and poor at choosing passwords. S

Why can't he be helpful, Greg wondered, and then remembered that by Sherlock's standards he had been. OK, time for a bit more logic. Six digit number: not so easy to remember a random one if you didn't have a memory like Sherlock's. Someone's phone number, maybe? But why had Sherlock said that thing about history?

Six figures and the first one was three: could be a date. And if Mycroft was poor at choosing passwords, something quite obvious? Though surely he'd know better than to choose his own date of birth? And it couldn't be Sherlock's – his birthday was in early January. He was looking for something that happened on the 30^th or 31^st of the month, wasn't he?

He stopped. It couldn't be, surely? But why else hadn't he been picked up by some kind of security by now? Unless no-one worried about him being there. He reached out and slowly, carefully, typed into the keypad 30. Then 06 and 63. His own date of birth.

He heard the click and the front door opened to his touch. Inside it looked very fancy: marble and chandeliers. He walked in, closed the door behind him. He had broken into Mycroft's house; there was no going back.

He checked the house rapidly, the way he would if this had been a raid. If there were other people here, he wanted to know about it now. But nothing; no sign of live-in staff or Mycroft's aged mother. Or a former partner lurking in the attic. A house full of books and music and pictures that reflected just one man's tastes.

Greg looked at his watch. 8.43. Mycroft might be home soon now. If he did come home, if tonight wasn't the night when he flew out to Bucharest or Cape Town or wherever his friends – his contacts – lived. There was a fancy bench in the hall, but it looked uncomfortable. He sat on the stairs instead, his coat dumped in front of him, because it was warm in the house.

What the hell am I doing here? He knew that, of course. This was what Mycroft wanted, but couldn't admit to. What was it Mycroft had said once about breaking down someone's resistance by talking to them? That deep down people wanted to open up to someone...

The problem was, he was nothing like as eloquent as Mycroft. Talk to him and he'd always outwit you. So it was tempting to skip the words, go straight for the physical stuff. But then that might scare the other man off. Didn't leave many options, did it? Except to hope that Mycroft did want him enough to take the risk, to reach out to him.

He heard the door open and Mycroft come in. He looked weary and after he'd hung up his coat he slumped on the fancy bench in the hall, head in his hands. Shit, Greg thought, he's had another operation go tits up. He's not going to be in the mood tonight.

He sat silently and watched the man. Odd how he wanted to comfort him, to go over there and make things better. It wasn't just desire he felt for Mycroft, never had been. But what the hell did he say? What did he do when, sooner or later, Mycroft opened his eyes again, looked up, saw him on the stairs? The way he was doing right now.

A moment of shock from Mycroft, and Greg smiled and beckoned him over. To his surprise, Mycroft came towards him, slowly and quietly, like he was in some kind of dream. And then he stopped a few feet away and asked:

"What are you doing here, Inspector?"

Greg sighed. Back to the barriers that Mycroft always placed round himself. Try and break them down and he'd just pull away. But perhaps a bit of a push was still worth trying. He stood up, carefully not moving any closer to Mycroft.

"Waiting for you," he said. "I'm waiting for your answer, Mycroft. You know you're taking a bloody long time."

Mycroft's normal poise was nowhere to be seen tonight, his brow furrowing as he said nervously, "I don't understand. I already gave you my answer." He paused, and then added abruptly, "I said no."

Greg smiled at him, shoving his hands in his pockets, so he wasn't tempted to reach out and run a finger down Mycroft's tense jaw-line. He wished he could kiss Mycroft's doubts away, the way he'd tried to at their last meeting. But that hadn't worked, had it? He had to leave Mycroft an exit this time, literally. He stepped back up the stairs, away from the man.

"Oh yes, I remember," he said. "But that's not the answer I want. So, I'm waiting for the right answer. I'm a very patient man. Ask your brother."

Fuck, he thought, as the last bit came out, I shouldn't have mentioned Sherlock. But there was no response from Mycroft to the name. There was no response from him at all. He just stood there looking confused, like he'd turned into some kind of statue. Like his huge brain couldn't process all of this.

Better wake up Sleeping Beauty, Greg decided, and going back down the stairs, he kissed Mycroft on the cheek, a brushing touch, just to remind the man that this wasn't a dream. And then he turned his back on Mycroft and walked up the stairs. Time for Mycroft to make his mind up. To decide if he did want to run away yet again. When he got to the landing he turned to face Mycroft again. It was odd looking down at him; he looked terribly vulnerable, just standing alone in that fancy hall. A man with everything...and nothing.

Greg called out to him, his voice echoing in the space:

"It's been a long day, Mycroft. I want you to take your time getting to your answer – as long as it's

yes – but I think I'll go and have a little rest while you're thinking. Come on up whenever you're ready. First room on the left is yours?"

He didn't wait to see what would happen, because if he did, his nerve might go. He went into Mycroft's bedroom, all nicely chosen neutrals and a big bed, like a very posh hotel. Pulled off his shoes, lay down on the bed. He suddenly realised he was exhausted. Too many sleepless nights catching up on him, now the adrenaline was starting to wear off.

Tempting just to lie back, to give into sleep. Because in his dreams Mycroft did respond. Broke off from their kiss in the office only to tell Greg that he'd always wanted him. That it didn't matter about Sherlock or Moriarty or the pressures of their jobs. That Greg was what mattered now.

In his dreams. If he fell asleep now in Mycroft's bed, he knew what would really happen. He'd wake up and find one of Mycroft's minions bending over him, asking him politely to leave. Telling him that he was an inconvenience for Mr Holmes, who preferred to keep things strictly professional. Mycroft would probably get Anthea to do it...

But the tread he could hear on the stairs wasn't Anthea's. He felt a surge of hope as the door opened and Mycroft walked in. He looked rather nervous, but he had taken his jacket off. From Mycroft that practically counted as foreplay, Greg thought, smiling at him.

Mycroft smiled back and said, in an almost normal voice: "Glad you're finding your way around, Greg. But surely you would be more comfortable with your clothes off?"

"Then why don't you come and help me undress?" Greg said, swinging himself off the bed, and moving towards Mycroft's eagerly lifting hands. "I've been waiting a long time for that."