Archive of Our Own ^beta

The text arrived in the middle of a quiet and rather dull weekend, when for once no one in the entire world seemed determined to engage in mischief on a level severe enough to require Mycroft Holmes' attention...

Mycroft had not obtained the level of authority he held by reaching down the food-chain to snatch low-ranking work from his subordinates on slow days. One key aspect of delegation is to keep your mitts off anything a lesser luminary can accomplish. Any other road leads to madness and conflicts of interest, not to mention to a complete lack of free time. The world looked at from Mycroft's vantage point could easily be seen as infinite labour opportunities spinning out in fractal patterns that could suck every second out of his life.

He resisted such attacks. "Anthea can see to it" was his survival mantra.

On slow days texts coming in on his private phone were worth at least glancing at, for entertainment value and because there was rare time to appreciate them. He was intrigued to see this one was from Lestrade—a good man, and one he'd grown to trust. It was, however, peculiar.

Lestrade: Guess #1: You're a Sting fan.

Mycroft wasn't sure if he was frowning or smiling. If anyone had been there to observe they would not have been sure either, as both expressions seemed to take up occupation of his shield-shaped face. This was not in any sense the sort of text he'd come to expect from Lestrade.

MH: Excuse me?

Lestrade: I'm guessing you're a Sting fan. Right or wrong?

MH: DI Lestrade, have you accidentally texted the wrong person? Or...is this a code of some sort?

Lestrade: Right person. Not a code. Just a sort of bet with myself. Sting: yes or no?

Mycroft stared at the little screen, intrigued in spite of himself. He settled in the chair by the fireplace, considering this frivolous little message. After a moment he did smile, and typed in:

MH: All right. I'll bite. Yes, I admire Gordon Sumner's work. He does the Tyneside proud.

Lestrade: Thought so! XD Yay-me. Guess #2: You know the entire Parrot Sketch by heart.

Mycroft twitched.

MH: Is there a point to this?

Lestrade: Yes or no, Holmes. Parrot Sketch?

MH: Who doesn't know it? I'm a proud Englishman—I know about pining for the fjords and pushing up daisies.

Lestrade: Yes! 2-0, me for the win. Ok, here's a tough one. Guess #3: You figured out Snape was a hero before Azkaban.

Mycroft shook his head, completely gobsmacked—and, quite honestly, amused.

MH: That's a trick question, isn't it? The real intention is to determine if I read Rowling at all, right?

Lestrade: Mostly. Curious about how long it took you to figure out, though.

MH: Figured Snape out in Philosopher's Stone. Read books because one must keep up—but enjoyed her wit, if not her prose style.

Lestrade: Ooooh, 3-Love, plus an unsolicited bonus point! Next guess: Queen?

MH: What about Her Majesty?

Lestrade: Sigh—and one point to you. 4-1, Lestrade/Holmes. I'll try again. Can you sing Bohemian Rhapsody, however badly?

MH: Oh. *That* Queen. Yes, very well. Galileo Figaro. Beelzebub has a devil set aside for me. Happy, now?

Lestrade: 5-1 Lestrade/Holmes. Now, here's a challenging one. Guess #5: You do not actually like pinstripe, but wear it because it's an effective disguise.

MH: Pinstripe is among the least objectionable of my disguises, Lestrade. Tweed houndstooth and argyle socks are another matter entirely.

Lestrade: Damn. Ok, 5-2, Lestrade/Holmes, and a bonus point to you because I didn't even think of tweeds. 5-3, L/H.

MH: You didn't think of tweeds because you seldom see me dressed for the country. What is this really about?

Lestrade: According to John, that Adler woman said that the problem with disguise is that it's self-portrait.

MH: I see. You do know that only the real idiots mistake me for that first level of disguise? The pros know better.

Lestrade: Doesn't stop it from being a revealing self-portrait, according to Adler's First Law.

MH: Why do you care? Have you recently sold out to the Latvians?

Lestrade: Are the Latvians a problem right now?

MH: Not in particular, no. Seriously, what is this about? Why test your skills against my cover persona?

Lestrade: Because it occurred to me that what you pretend to be is bloody unlikely. So I wondered what I could deduce correctly.

MH: You have an advantage—you see me out of context. Or, perhaps, in my true context. It highlights the obvious.

Lestrade: Like the fact that no one of our generation and experience could possibly be the cultural dinosaur you pretend to be?

MH: I believe the expression is "D'oh." No one as socially clueless as my cover persona could function without a trained guide dog to think for him. It wouldn't even have to be one of the cleverer breeds.

Lestrade: Oh, that gives me another point. Several, in fact. Sense of humor, willing to mortify self in public. 7-3, L/H.

Mycroft leaned back in the armchair and considered. This was intriguing, and proving quite enjoyable. Worth the time it was taking.

MH: How long is this likely to go on?

Lestrade: Bored?

MH: You're thinking of my baby brother. I am very hard to bore. There's always something to be learned. How long?

Lestrade: Dunno. Hours, maybe.

MH: Then I think I shall order tea. Serving as your test specimen is dry work.

Lestrade: Go ahead—and while you're at it, Guess #...I've lost track. Guess: You may know good tea, but you enjoy a builder's cuppa when you get the chance.

He rang for the maid and gave the order for the cook before responding.

MH: Who doesn't? Cheap black tea brewed strong with milk and sugar is a patriotic duty.

Lestrade: 8-3!

MH: Oh, you can hardly give yourself that one, Lestrade. That one's far too easy to warrant a point. Try something difficult: do I like ginger nuts, hobnobs, or digestives for dunking?

Lestrade: Trick question. You don't dunk. It mucks up the tea.

MH: My, you are good. All right, that one does win you your 8-3. Even I admit it's insightful. This isn't all from my disguise, though.

Lestrade: Depends on how you look at it. So far as I know, you've never consciously taken off the mask around me.

MH: No. One doesn't.

Lestrade: So it's all things I can deduce through the disguise. Part of the self-portrait.

MH: I find myself still happier you don't work for the Latvians.

Lestrade: I thought they were no trouble.

MH: With you spying for them, they might soon be.

Lestrade: Colour me flattered.

MH: You realize that all people wear disguises, DI Lestrade? I could start deducing you.

Lestrade: I'm pretty transparent. Not much to hide.

MH: Which is a disguise choice in its own right. Good old Greg Lestrade—nothing hidden. No surprises. I suspect you trap any number of criminals with that disguise.

Lestrade: You're trying to turn the game around, aren't you?

MH: Just curious. You've proven you see me quite well. That leaves the question of why you wish me to see you.

Lestrade: Maybe just a decade of working with the Holmes brothers.

MH: Guess #1—you're a much better detective than Sherlock realizes.

Lestrade: Too easy. Sherlock thinks I'm a moron.

MH: No. Actually he doesn't. You know that, though. Nice try, but I'm still on the scent. Your answer, please.

Lestrade: It's still too easy. But, all right. Yes. I'm better than Sherlock realizes, even when he's willing to realize I'm good.

MH: 8-4, L/H. Guess #2: You're sexually fluid—bi, or otherwise adaptive.

Lestrade: Getting a bit personal, sunshine. But, yeah. My turn: You've been out since uni.

MH: Also too easy: in my career the closet is no longer a viable option, and I knew where I wanted to go by uni. But all right, 9-4, L/H. Guess #3: You know you're attractive, but stopped taking it very seriously decades ago.

Lestrade: Looks don't buy you anything but a foot in the door...and there are better ways to get noticed. Keep this up and I'll think you're flirting, by the way.

Mycroft accepted the tea the maid had brought up with a nod, pleased to note the cook had remembered to send artificial sweetener and lemon. He poured himself a cup, while thinking about Lestrade's last text.

Yes, he thought, I'm flirting, now he mentions it. Rather a surprise, that. Now—whatever is dear DI Lestrade doing? That's quite the question, isn't it? If this is how he chooses to flirt with me, he's deduced my weaknesses far too well. Still, it's worth playing on. Definitely worth playing on.

MH: You're the detective—you'll have to deduce whether it's flirting or something else. 9-5, L/H. Guess #4: You prefer to be noticed for your skills and character.

Lestrade: You're not going to ask me questions about pop musicians or what books I read, are you?

MH: Nor about dunking biscuits nor your ability to tell me about the airspeed velocity of African swallows.

Lestrade: Has this turned into a game of interpersonal chicken, Holmes?

MH: Hasn't it always been?

Lestrade: I don't know how to score that response, but I think the points go to you.

MH: Perhaps. But—I think the match goes to you. If you want it to. What's the prize?

Lestrade: Don't know.

MH: Too late, Lestrade. You've already forced me to notice that you're intelligent, manipulative, and perceptive in your own right. Name your goals.

Lestrade: I just wanted to know if I was right about the man under the silly umbrella.

MH: And to know if he was able to be right about you.

Lestrade: That was more of an attendant risk. Those who investigate are investigated in return.

MH: Painted your own self-portrait, Lestrade. But you're not stupid. You knew you would, and you knew I'd notice. Why?

Lestrade: I've worked with you and Sherlock ten years and more, and never doubted you could take me apart in moments if you bothered.

MH: And?

Lestrade: Just wondered if you'd ever bothered to realize I could do the same. And—wondered if I was just fooling myself that I could.

MH: I suspect you see me far too precisely. More than I had chosen to consider.

Lestrade: Does that mean you have to kill me?

MH: No, of course not. Don't be silly.

Lestrade: Guess #...I don't know. Guess # something or other. You're not half so detached as you let on. A total cream puff.

MH: Oh, now that's a low blow. Not a cream puff...

Lestrade: Completely. You're almost marshmallow.

MH: I am nothing of the kind.

Lestrade: Yeah. Right. Tell me another. I've seen you with Sherlock.

MH: I'm vile to Sherlock. He'll tell you so.

Lestrade: He'll turn to you in a cold second when he needs you...or you need him. That train left the station before Reichenbach. And as for you? Baby brother melts you, even if you won't admit it.

MH: My job demands detachment.

Lestrade: No. You just feel safer if you think you're detached.

MH: And how do you intend to score that observation? I think you should deduct a point, myself.

Lestrade: That one's not scored. It's true, though.

MH: We squabble endlessly.

Lestrade: Well, d'oh. Brothers. And Sherlock's an engraved invitation to snark.

MH: He is, isn't he? Awful brat.

Lestrade: You're doting, Mycroft.

MH: Why does it matter?

Lestrade: He's a risk to you. Why don't you cut the ties? You could.

MH: You know the answer. You've proven that. Again, why do you care?

Lestrade: The "Iceman" is the disguise. I'm interested in what the disguise tells me.

MH: You're not John Watson. You don't flirt with danger the way he does. Why court danger now?

Lestrade: John flirts with Sherlock without realizing Sherlock's sexy because he's dangerous. He doesn't even realize he's flirting, or that Sherlock's sexy. I am not John.

MH: That's rather what I said. So—who are you?

Lestrade: You can't deduce me?

MH: Perhaps I dare not.

Lestrade: You'd dare anything.

MH: I'm afraid not. Deduct a point from your total. I'm rather a professional coward, if you must know.

Lestrade: Wild, perhaps. Cautious. But I doubt you hold back when the moment comes.

MH: This is beyond anything in my self-portrait, Lestrade. Your hand paints a more romantic figure than I can support.

Lestrade: No. Logic. Deduction. I see where you are, and what you do, and understand enough to know a true coward couldn't hold that position.

MH: Again, why do you care?

Lestrade: The disguise is off-putting. But I like the man who painted it.

Mycroft's tea was cold. His nerves were increasingly unsteady. He was not, though, bored. He'd have to tell Sherlock.

Or...not.

Definitely not.

MH: And who is that man, do you think?

Lestrade: Summer wearing winter's mask.

Oh.

Oh, good heavens.

MH: That's rather more than flirting.

Lestrade: Huh. You're right. It is. Amazing what I learn about myself. I guess detection is a self-portrait, too.

MH: Yes. But such a marvellous picture. I admire both artist and subject.

Lestrade: Fancy art, do you?

MH: Only very special examples. Vanishingly few, these days. Rare as hen's teeth, if you must know. Consider yourself a unique treasure.

Lestrade: That's rather more than flirting, too.

MH: Yes. It is.

Lestrade: Ah.

MH: Guess # whatever—you like Leonard Cohen.

Lestrade: Point for you.

MH: You used to be a bad boy, before you turned good.

Lestrade: You're cheating. I know you ran checks on me when Sherlock started working with me.

MH: True. But they didn't mean the same thing, back then. Why now? What made you want to see past the mask?

Lestrade: I don't know. I'm free. Sherlock's back. John told me about that Adler thing, and I knew I wanted to solve you.

MH: Guess—You can recite all of the Cheese Shop sketch.

Lestrade: I could ten years ago. These days I need prompting sometimes.

MH: Guess—You wanted to be Han Solo in Star Wars.

Lestrade: Who didn't? Oh. You wanted to be Luke, didn't you?

MH: Guilty, as charged.

Lestrade: I'll have to arrest you, then, won't I?

MH: No cuffs, please, if that was a hint. Not my kink.

Lestrade: Not an issue, for what it's worth. Where are we going from here, Holmes?

MH: I'm at mine. Interested in pursuing the fine analysis of self-portraiture?

Lestrade: I'm all for art appreciation, yeah.

MH: I'll send the car. You're at yours?

Lestrade: Yeah. We'll have to start the game over. I've lost track of the score, but I'm pretty sure you were ahead on points.

MH: It doesn't matter. You won the match, as I thought you might.

Lestrade: Yeah. I guess I did, didn't I?

Mycroft logged in a goodbye, called Anthea to arrange a lift for Lestrade, then sat staring at his phone and grinning like an idiot.

Whatever else was true, it was no longer a dull weekend—and he had a project he wasn't about to delegate.