Eileenpaints asked, Hm! I have no ideas of my own at the moment, but there’s an unfilled 5+1 Mystrade request over at the kinkmeme that looks fun: “5 times Mycroft attempted to control Lestrade and it failed spectacularly, and the one time he realized a simple ‘Please’ would have saved him so much trouble.”

Five control attempts. One lesson learned.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. You want to tell me what you’re doing on my crime scene?”

“I’m not actually on it, surely.”

“Just take a step back, sir. Back behind the tape. Yeah, see, that’s what we use to show people where the crime scene’s edge is.”

“And here I thought it was just a convenient place to tie a boundary, yet the actual crime scene would be the room where the murder occurred. Novel.”

Lestrade glared at the man, but it had no effect. He held up the tape so the man could duck underneath, but instead, the man smiled, and waved him ahead. “After you.”

Greg snorted, shaking his head at the man’s cheek. “You don’t understand. I’m the police, see, and I have to be here. I’m supposed to find out what happened.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You didn’t know yet? My mistake. I thought it was obvious. Don’t let me detain you. When you’re all done, you can come back and tell me, and I’ll let you know if you were right.” 

Lestrade tipped his head back and studied the man. This got him a prim little smile, but nothing more. “Mind telling me what you’re doing here?”

“Yes.”

Greg waited, then smiled involuntarily. “Right. What’s your name?”

“Your last case as a DS was a murder involving a stabbing with an icicle, wasn’t it?”

“How did you -”

“I think you’ll find the nylon rope in this case was actually a pair of tights. Laddered on the left calf. Don’t tell Sherlock, will you? He does so enjoy these puzzles.”

Lestrade watched the man stride off, an umbrella swinging beside him. He stepped into a black sedan, which was pulling away before he heard Sherlock’s shout from the window.

“Lestrade! Tell them to wait! I need to search her!”

Lestrade tilted his head back to look up at the imperious, impatient face staring down at him. “Yeah, she was wearing green tights. Come down, the van’s still here.”

“I’m not going.”

“It’s hardly optional.”

“Everything’s optional if you say no.”

“Greg.”

“I don’t bloody care.”

“He’s retiring. You never have to face him again. And you will be the only one from your department who isn’t there.”

“The only one with his balls still attached, then.”

“Your career -”

“It’s funny. I survived eighteen years before I had a job, and then it was another seven before it became a career. People switch jobs all the time. Maybe it’s time I found out why.”

“You’d resign over this?”

“God no. But I would skip a retirement party.”

“Childish.”

“Principled.”

“Greg, try the fish. It’s very good.”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

Mycroft eyed the steak. “I’m sure you are.”

“My place?”

“What, tonight?”

“Did you have other plans?”

“I thought maybe I’d sleep.”

“Am I so demanding?”

“You don’t want to go there.”

“Don’t you?”

“Court in the morning.”

“My car can take you.”

“No, really, not tonight.”

“Greg.”

Greg didn’t look up. “I let you down.”

“You haven’t.”

“I let you both… I let you all down. I should have stopped them.”

“No, Greg.”

“I knew better, though. I knew he wasn’t faking. I mean, I’ve been over all the cases. I thought it would just be a formality, and it would all be cleared up by morning.”

“Foolish optimism. Nothing around him ever was.”

“I just thought he’d roll his eyes, and then go babbling on, explaining everything, and the Super would look a right prat, and Donovan and Anderson would have to back off again. I thought it was just another round of the usual rivalry. Sibling rivalry, that’s how I always thought of it.” He glanced up at Mycroft, his lashes wet with tears. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

Mycroft set his hand on Greg’s shoulder. “Please, Greg. Stop this, please.” He shook his head slowly.

Greg frowned up at him, realising that Mycroft had never shed a tear, had never lost his composure. There was no particular tension in his face, and he glanced aside at Mycroft’s hand, resting lightly next to his neck, the fingers relaxed, gentle. For a man whose brother had committed suicide he seemed awfully calm.