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English
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Mystrade Holiday 2024
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Published:
2024-12-01
Completed:
2024-12-21
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47,989
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25/25
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Cold Hands, Steady Hearts

Chapter 2: DAY ONE

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

As a rule, Mycroft didn’t get disconcerted. He was difficult to fluster, faze, ruffle, disorient, or any other thesauri terms for being generally confused. He woke on the morning of December 2nd in utterly perturbed. 

He did not dream. Or at least, he was usually so tired by the time he went to bed that he didn’t remember his dreams upon waking. But last night, he’d had three separate and equally confusing dreams about gentle eyes, large hands, and cigarettes attached to bright red reindeer sweaters.  

He’d met DI Lestrade before, he was pretty sure. Not completely confident, but he’d been present for enough of Sherlock’s harebrained cases and insane plots against the country that he’d spent a similar amount of time with the contacts at the London Metropolitan. Still, there was no memory he could retrieve of those eyes. The only logical conclusion was that Sherlock had distracted him enough in those moments that he had missed their gentle prodding, the subtle way they begged for your life story and offered comfort. 

Sometimes, he really hated his baby brother. 

Had Sherlock not spent the last month in and out of drug-induced sprees, he would not have had to go to the collected “Yuletide Festival” of the police force to keep an eye on the decisions Sherlock made. Had he not been at that stupid party last night, refusing to go inside and be surrounded by cheer, he would not have run into the DI. Had he not run into Lestrade, he would not have smoked a cigarette with him in the fuzzy space of early winter evening. He would not have had the experience of struggling to carry on a conversation that immediately cut to the heart of Mycroft’s most complicated emotions. He would have had a restful night’s sleep and he would not be staring off into the middle distance, completely missing what Anthea was trying to tell him for the second time. 

“Sir?” she repeated. 

He snapped back to attention, realised his pen was tapping on his desk again, and cleared his throat. 

“Yes to the ambassador, no to the tea. Sorry, Anthea. I had a bit of a late night and am slightly more tired than normal. Can you see if Mark can bring the Eclipse files down? And lunch from the cafe.” 

She nodded, though her brow had furrowed with worry and turned to go. 

“And Anthea?” he added. But then he paused. He had come terribly close just now to asking for details he should not — could not — want. “Never mind.” 

She tilted her head, but resumed her retreat and Mycroft went back to tapping his pen and not accomplishing much of anything at all. 

 

Notes:

I will warn you now that if you spend too much time trying to figure out the timeline of this fic and the events within, you will go mad - because I didn't spend ANY time thinking about it and at some point, that will become apparent. REMEMBER; NO plot, NO purpose. JUST flirting!