A/N: Yeah, I know. I'm still currently writing my Moriarty/Lestrade fic 'Be Still my Beating Heart', but March (lucky number) 18th, is my birthday! A bit of a birthday present for myself. :P

The Inspector, the Government, and the Wardrobe

or (Two Men Who got Stuck in a Wardrobe and Came out of the Closet)

"Lestrade!" Sherlock's bellow echoed through the drafty flat. "Lestrade, where the Hell are you?"

It was a cool spring temperate that morning when Mycroft had blackmailed and verbally man-handled Sherlock into taking a case for him. Lestrade, who had been dragged along for some odd reason or another, did not know the details of the case. Simply that it was of national importance (Mycroft had smiled pleasantly and promised him death and destruction, should he tell.), there was a victim (Only because Sherlock had mentioned so), and it involved a very large, abandoned mansion.

He hated when Mycroft pushed him into situations like this. "What is it, Sherlock?" Lestrade called back from somewhere far off.

"Come!" Sherlock hollered back brusquely.

"Where?" That was John's voice.

"Second bedroom to the right, guest wing." Mycroft spoke just loud enough to be heard in the eerie silence.

There was a clatter of shoes on creaky floorboards and John and Lestrade appeared. "What's going on, then?" Lestrade demanded, crossing his arms and blowing a cobweb from his short-cropped hair.

Sherlock, it seemed, made a face that John recognized because the man let out a groan. "No - look at that face. He isn't going to tell, is he?"

"It's my face, for the last time!" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I look like this-..." he motioned vaguely toward his face "...naturally! I can't make it stop... making faces."

"Sorry," Lestrade interrupted apologetically. "what face is he making?" he asked John.

"The 'I'm about to do something either very clever, or very childish, but I won't tell you what it is because you're the one I'm going to be doing it to' face." John sighed.

"Quite the mouthful." Mycroft remarked dryly, quirking an eyebrow.

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock snapped at him.

"So, we're here." Lestrade splayed out his hands in a way that meant 'you've got the floor, Sherlock, what's the great idea?'

"And I've found important evidence for you." Sherlock spat impatiently, pointing to a wardrobe in the corner of the room. "And I obviously don't have the proper tools to handle it. If you will, Inspector?"

If questioned, everybody in the room could attest to the situation being odd. Sherlock never bothered to let Lestrade have the first go at evidence he found and if Sherlock didn't have the proper tools to collect evidence, you could be certain that Lestrade didn't either.

Nevertheless, Lestrade shrugged his shoulders and played along. "Alright, Sherlock, what am I supposed to be looking for?" He pulled open the empty wardrobe with an eerie creak.

"In the farther corner is a splotch of blood." Sherlock told him.

Lestrade turned to look back at Sherlock annoyedly and examined him once over. "Right, just washed your jacket, then?" he sighed. "Can't have that getting dusty, can we?" he snarked.

Sherlock just smiled back. "What can I tell you? Mrs. Hudson would throw a fit."

Lestrade scowled but crawled into the wardrobe to look for the blood stain. Mycroft moved over curiously to peer after the detective and John made to mimick his movement but was stopped by Sherlock's hand on his arm. John sent Sherlock a questioning look and Sherlock grinned back mischeviously with the 'face' John had explained about earlier.

John wondered if he should send Lestrade some kind of warning.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Mycroft called out, peering into the darkness.

"Sherlock, I can't find a blood splotch anywhere!" Lestrade yelled back.

Sherlock grimaced a bit behind Mycroft. "No, I don't suppose you would." And he gave Mycroft a very unceremonious shove, sending the government agent tumbling into the wardrobe and slamming the door after him with an ominous 'boom'. Mycroft was startled to hear a sharp 'click' of the lock's function.

"Sherlock, what the Hell!" The other three in the room shouted almost simultaneously.

"Oh, don't get your feathers ruffled, brother dear." Sherlock smiled at the closed wardrobe, tossing and catching the key that locked the two men inside. "I've already solved your little case and sent the information to your assistant. You, however, could stay in there until you get your trivial problems sorted. Because, quite frankly, it's annoying me. And don't even hope to contact the outside world because I've pick-pocketed both your phones." Sherlock gave the door a few light raps and turned away. "Shall we go, John?"

"No, sorry, I'm lost." John was spluttering. "What's going on?"

"Um, let's see. I solved Mycroft's case, Mycroft has a problem and it's beginning to affect the way he treats me, I want the problem solved yesterday." Sherlock said brusquely.

"And, being locked in a closet with Lestrade is going to-... oh." John stood imitating a goldfish for a moment or two. "Oh. He's-... in the closet-... with Lestrade." A slow smile crept across his face.

Sherlock smiled at him. "Exactly." And then he proceeded to drag a heavy dresser in front of the wardrobe to keep it effectively closed for when Mycroft picked the wardrobe's lock.

"Right then!" John's voice cracked a little as the two made for the door. "We'll just leave them to it, yeah?"

"Brilliant idea, John."

Fortunately, or, unfortunately, the two trapped inside the wardrobe couldn't hear a thing outside the thick wooden walls.

"What the bloody Hell is Sherlock playing at?" Lestrade growled in the pitch black, too close in Mycroft's personal space.

"I assure you, I haven't the slightest idea." Mycroft spluttered back indignantly, fumbling to stand.

"Oi! Watch where you're putting your hands!" Lestrade yelped back.

The wardobe wasn't very large at all, Mycroft thought ruefully, pressing his lips together. Lestrade was sitting on the floor of the wardrobe with his knees bent, back leaning against one wall, and his feet pressed to the opposite wall. Mycroft was standing on same end that Lestrade's feet were pressed against and he could feel Lestrade's shoes trapped between his own in the narrow space.

"Not very comfortable in here, space-wise, is it?" Lestrade joked dryly, more annoyed at the situation than shocked. Mycroft experimentally stretched out his arm to see how much space there was until the farther wall and was horrified to feel his fingertips brush against it only about three feet from his face. If they both stood up, that would bring them near nose-to-nose.

Sherlock was a bloody sadistic arse to do this to him.

But, another embarrassing thought occured to Mycroft. It was a mercy that the two were rendered blind in the wardrobe so the fact that Lestrade's face would be right near crotch-level wouldn't be too distracting.

The first thing on Mycroft's list of things-to-do when he got out was to kill one Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade suddenly bellowed, pounding a fist into the wooden door. "Quit playing around! It's not funny!" Of course, there was no response. "I'm going to carry out another drugs bust when I get out!" Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the declaration but refrained from saying anything.

Lestrade seemed to come to the realization that no help was coming until Mycroft's men realized their absence and that might take hours. He let out a sigh and let his head fall back onto the wall. "What the bloody Hell is Sherlock doing?" he asked Mycroft.

Mycroft pressed his lips together. He knew very well what Sherlock was doing. It was naive of him to ever think that Sherlock would ignore his short temper after the consulting detective spent the day ridiculing Lestrade, or the fact that he has never kidnapped Lestrade more than twice in his life. (Once when Sherlock first began working with Lestrade and the second when Lestrade succeeded in getting Sherlock off drugs.)

"I don't know." Mycroft lied, wondering if it was a dead giveaway that he'd go out of his way to visit crime scenes instead of having Lestrade brought to him.

They stood and sat in blind silence for what seemed like an eternety. It could've been minutes, or hours, but neither could tell. Realizing this, Mycroft lifted his fingers to his neck and kept a vague sense of time counting his heartbeats.

Five minutes later, Lestrade coughed nervously. "Well, this is... awkward." he blurted.

"Wonderful deduction, Inspector Lestrade." Mycroft snapped back, then he sighed. "I'm sorry."

"No - no, don't worry about it. I'm just about ready to curse a blue streak myself." Lestrade chuckled. They were silent for one-and-a-half minutes more. "Sherlock's a git. A bleeding pain in the arse, the arrogant sod." Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the sudden confession. "What do you have to say about him?"

"Excuse me?" he spluttered.

"On particularly bad days, I say exactly what I think of Sherlock sometimes." Mycroft heard the smile in Lestrade's voice. He liked that, Lestrade was working to keeping their spirits up.

"Sherlock is..." It seemed quite inappropriate to badmouth Sherlock to someone who was, well, a stranger. Even it it was a very handsome and decent stranger who, if Mycroft swallowed his pride long enough to admit, he had been 'keeping surveilance' on.

And, sod it, Mycroft was secretly cyber-stalking him outside work hours.

"Sherlock is what?" Lestrade said encouragingly, shaking Mycroft out of his thoughts.

"Sherlock is my brother who is intellectually gifted..." He could almost hear Lestrade raise his eyebrow. "And... he owns less than sufficient manners." he sighed.

"There we go!" Lestrade chuckled. "Wasn't too hard, was it?" Mycroft didn't even bother responding. "Well, my turn, I think he's an insufferable prick who would live in a morgue if it was possible. Mister Holmes, I can tell you're raising your eyebrow dissapprovingly at me, so stop it. Besides, it's not like he's going to hear you." Mycroft heard Lestrade's clothes shift and guessed that the man was shrugging his shoulders.

He opened his mouth to give some scathing retort but the words came out very different. "Sherlock is very weak against reverse psychology." he said, much to his own shock. "As a child, I'd tell him to touch wet paint and he'd leave it alone."

Lestrade chuckled. "I can always threaten him by witholding cases. Always 'Sherlock, I swear, if you set up your experiments in the Yard, I'll never let you into a crime scene for a month!' Although, drug busts work quite well too."

Mycroft snorted at the situation they were in. Stuck, trapped in a wardrobe with his... object of interest, by Sherlock, and bonding over the man's shortcomings.

"Okay, Mycroft." Lestrade said suddenly. "Spit it out. What the Hell did Sherlock lock us in here for?"

"I don't know. Maybe we annoyed him in some way?" Mycroft offered.

"Bollocks." Lestrade spat.

"Out of spite, perhaps?" Mycroft feigned his puzzlement.

"Not buying it." Mycroft was silent. "Mister Holmes?"

"Mycroft."

"Mycroft, then. What's really going on?" Lestrade asked.

"I'd rather not speak of it." Mycroft responded stiffly.

"Well you'll bloody well have to!" Lestrade expelled exasperatedly.

"I have no obligation to do anything of the sort." Mycroft lobbed back coolly.

Silence overtook them again. A very long, awkward silence that lasted nearly ten minutes, according to Mycroft's heartbeat. Although, the situation might've raised it a bit.

Suddenly, there was a muffled 'thump' from the outside of the wardrobe, causing both men inside to jump. "Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, rapping the handle of his umbrella against the wood.

"Have you gotten rid of your problem?" Sherlock asked from outside.

"Problem?" Lestrade questioned.

"No, then? I'll come back later." And Sherlock was gone again.

"Inspector," Mycroft sighed. "you should've said 'yes'."

"What problem?" Lestrade asked, unperturbed.

"No problem." Mycroft responded icily.

"And, it's Lestrade, if I'm calling you Mycroft."

"Alright," Mycroft relented. "Lestrade." He did quite enjoy being able to call the detective so. He also quite liked Lestrade calling him something other than 'Mister Holmes', 'The Minor British Government', or simply 'The Man with the Brolly'.

"So, problem?" Lestrade prompted.

"No." Mycroft cut him off. "It is a very delicate secret that only Sherlock, I, and no doubt, John knows."

"I won't tell." Lestrade promised.

Mycroft bit his lip. "It is of no importance."

"It is to Sherlock if he's willing to lock you up to get you to solve your problem." Lestrade pointed out.

"It's-... I-..." Mycroft swallowed down his ego. "It is a... minor weakness of mine."

Lestrade was silent for a moment, wondering how Mycroft was supposed to fix his problem in their current situation. "Are you... scared of the dark? Claustrophobic?" he asked almost skeptically.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Damn the man! What he planning on making Mycroft spell it out for him? "No, it's not that. It's... more of a... person."

Lestrade's eyes widened and his eyebrows fled into his hairline. He was so shocked that he had the urge to look around to see if there was anybody else in the vicinity that Mycroft could be referring to.

"Well, if I've shamed myself, I might as well do it right." Mycroft sighed at Lestrade's stunned silence. "Gregory Lestrade, you are a brilliant man, and a wonderful detective. And, as well as owning several physical traits that I find most attractive, you also have a seemingly endless patience for my eccentric brother and a pleasant character that makes you most favorable company and I wish to keep it, more so from now on."

Lestrade just sat gaping at the inky blackness where he knew he should see Mycroft. "That-..." he closed his mouth. "That has got to be the most clinically dished out confession I've ever heard." Lestrade chuckled in his astonishment. "Surprisingly, it works for you."

He shifted his feet, causing Mycroft to jump. "Jesus! Sorry, didn't mean to startle you!" Lestrade apologized quickly. "It's just, my legs are getting kind of cramped, you know?"

Mycroft rapped the wardrobe door with his umbrella again. "Sherlock, let us out!" But Sherlock wasn't there.

"Sod this, I'm going to get up and stretch my legs." Lestrade grumbled, Mycroft could hear his fingers scrabbling on the wooden walls to get some kind of purchase to pull himself up.

After much shifting and shuffling, they were both finally standing... nose-to-nose, like Mycroft predicted.

"Wow, okay, this is a little bit more-... how should I say-... close?" Lestrade offered awkwardly.

Mycroft let out a chuckle and Lestrade shivered as his warm breath ghosted over his skin. "Oh." Mycroft seemed to realize this as well. "Pardon me." And he clamped his mouth shut, shuffling nervously.

"Christ! What-...!" Lestrade yelped in response to the movement.

"That was my umbrella, I swear!" Mycroft exclaimed, mortified.

They were both standing with their backs pressed against opposite walls, face-to-face, with only, what Mycroft claimed to be, his umbrella between them. Lestrade cleared his throat embarrassedly and Mycroft sniffed in response.

"When do you think Sherlock's coming back to check on us?" Lestrade asked.

"I have no idea." Mycroft sighed before remembering their close proxemity again. "Sorry."

"You smell like sweets and peppermint." Lestrade declared.

Mycroft flushed and opened his mouth before thinking better of it and closing it. "I had a biscuit with my tea this morning."

"Oh, thats what it is?" Seemed a bit of an odd curiosity for Lestrade to have in this moment. "And, don't worry, it doesn't smell, or anything."

Mycroft grimaced at Lestrade's frankness in regards to his breath. "I should hope not, I brushed my teeth after tea."

"Which explains the peppermint." Lestrade smiled.

They stood in silence again. "Okay." Mycroft said suddenly, breaking the slience. "There's a very big elephant in the wardrobe, but I suppose we need the space." Lestrade chuckled at that. "I like you, Gregory Lestrade. And, when we get out of here, I would like to take you out for lunch. Well, if lunch has already passed, dinner? I'd even invite you to help me hide Sherlock's body."

Lestrade laughed, sending warm air in waves over Mycroft's skin, his blindness made his other senses sharper and he couldn't help his breath hitching slightly and his blood flowed... not in the direction of his head. "Mycroft Holmes, I will definitely help you dish out whatever revenge you plan for Sherlock. And after that, I'd love to go out with you."

"It's a date, then." Mycroft smiled at him.

There was a brief lax in conversation then... "Um, Mycroft, I have no idea how to tell you this without making this very awkward." Lestrade said nervously.

"I know, I know." Mycroft squeezed his eyes closed for a moment in embarrassment. "Sorry."

"Not that I'm not flattered," Lestrade continued, "but I'm pretty sure that's not your umbrella this time."

"No, I'm afraid it's not." Mycroft sighed. "Again, sorry."

And suddenly, Lestrade's fingertips were ghosting over Mycroft's face as though he were drawing a mental image of him through the darkness. His touch traced over his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, to his eyes, cheeks, chin, and then his lips...

A moment after Lestrade's curious fingertips found Mycroft's mouth, their touch was replaced by a warmer, moister touch. It took Mycroft half a second to realize he was being kissed, slow and chaste, like Lestrade was afraid a sudden, heated kiss would cause shock to the nervous system. Mycroft thought that was very perceptive of him when the soft kiss caused his knees to buckle slightly and he leaned against the wall behind him for support.

Mycroft moved his hands to Lestrade's waist and pulled them closer together, running his hands up and down the muscles on Lestrade's back, feeling the man shiver under his administrations. Lestrade hummed appreciatively and retaliated by nipping on Mycroft's lip and running his tongue over the spot, begging entrance.

Mycroft moaned, opening his mouth and meeting Lestrade head-on in battle for dominance, pushing him back against the wall behind him, he was again reminded of the small space they shared.

Lestrade grunted into the kiss and wedged a hand between their bodies, pressing Mycroft back, effectively tearing their lips apart. "Hang on." he said breathlessly, not removing his hand from Mycroft's abs. Then he began the arduous task of stripping Mycroft of his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. "Jesus, how many layers have you got on?" Lestrade whined impatiently as he tugged Mycroft's shirt back off his shoulders and down his arms.

"Have a little patience, Lestrade." Mycroft chuckled, untucking Lestrade's shirt and popping buttons.

"Are you kidding? I'm going to have to make that a rule; never wear more than two layers unless it's an overcoat. Fuck patience, I'd never be able to wait that long." Lestrade murmured, hands wandering almost inquisitively over Mycroft's bare flesh, mapping his skin with caresses and light scrapes with his fingernails, familiarizing himself with the invisible man called Mycroft.

By that time, Mycroft had gotten his suit jacket and button-up shirt undone and tugged them over his shoulders simultaneously, desperately licking and kissing at his neck and upper chest. "Deal." he murmured, sucking at a sensitive spot on the jucture between Lestrade's neck and shoulder, pressing his knee between the man's thighs.

Lestrade gasped and felt himself growing stiffer, he rocked back, grinding their hips together, squeezing Mycroft's arse as he did so. "Jesus, My-Mycroft!" he gasped, dropping his head back, surrendering his neck to what wonderful tortures Mycroft was current subjecting it to.

Then, suddenly there was a noise outside the wardrobe. "Mycroft? Lestrade?" Sherlock called out.

"For God's sakes, Sherlock! Leave!" Mycroft shouted back before nipping teasingly at Lestrade's ear.

"I'll take that as you fixing your problem." Sherlock responded. "John, I'm not staying here while my brother shags Lestrade only inches away from me. You move the dresser."

Lestrade and Mycroft giggled breathlessly, waiting for John to finish removing the offending piece of furniture. "Um, we'll just-... we'll be taking a cab back to Baker Street now." John voiced awkwardly.

"Okay, I'll take a rain check!" Lestrade called back when Mycroft claimed his mouth in a possessive kiss. "Uh-... on second thought, maybe I won't."

"Good choice." Mycroft murmured against his perspiring skin. "I'm not letting you leave tonight."

"Oh, Mycroft." Lestrade murmured, brushing the pad of his thumb over Mycroft's cheekbone, "Believe me, I'm not going anywhere."

The End