SHERLOCK

HERE WITH ME

Mycroft and Greg once had it all. But they let it fall apart. Just a short, angsty Mystrade ficlet because I was having angsty Mystrade feels.

Author's Note:

Pairing: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade

About: I watched an angsty Mystrade video and... suddenly really needed to write some angsty Mystrade. So here you are; my muse gives you short, angsty Mystrade.

Note: Originally a one-shot, now being continued.

Story Title: Here With Me by Dido

Warnings: M/M slash [not very graphic], minor language

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. The original characters are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing but the plot and make no money from this story.

Chapter One: I Can't Breathe

'It wasn't just me, Mycroft!' Greg shouted, despite he and the man he was shouting at not being alone.

It had been so hard, but he'd kept it all in. Even after seeing Mycroft at 221B before going to the crime scene. Even after seeing Mycroft at the crime scene. Even after seeing him at 221B again, and at Scotland Yard, and at the fucking killer's house, Greg had still kept it bottled up.

But he couldn't do it anymore.

He'd never been really good at hiding his feelings towards Mycroft.

Mycroft looked around in that little way of his and Greg just knew what he was going to say. 'Gregory, this-'

'This is as good a place as any!' Greg interrupted.

'Erm-' John tried, only for Sherlock to grab the back of his jumper.

'We need to leave.'

'What?' the doctor spluttered. 'Why?'

'They need to... talk,' Sherlock said. He looked pointedly at his brother and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

Not waiting for John to agree, Sherlock dragged him out onto the landing and slammed the door shut. There was a few seconds of hissed words before Mycroft and Greg heard their foosteps falling down the stairs.

The two were silent, just staring at each other, Greg with his hands on his hips and Mycroft staring at the floor, leaning on his umbrella. It was a familiar stance that the two had taken on years ago; Greg always staring at the younger man, and Mycroft trying to pretend it wasn't happening.

'It wasn't just me, Mycroft,' Greg repeated, though his voice was soft now.

Mycroft sighed. 'Gregory-'

'Don't Gregory me,' the DI cut in. 'What we had, Mycroft, it was... I can't even...' his voice cracked a little and Mycroft finally looked up. 'You threw that all away.'

'It wasn't my fault,' Mycroft said.

Greg laughed, but it was a broken noise, hollow, and it made Mycroft's heart ache. 'Wasn't your fault?' the grey-haired man demanded. 'You were never there, Mycroft. You know how many nights I spent, laying in bed, just waitin' for you to call?' he demanded. Mycroft said nothing. 'How many dinners went wasted 'cause you couldn't be arsed to send me one fucking text? Or all the cancelled weekends, the afternoons, just... everythin', Mycroft, everythin'.'

'I had to work,' Mycroft said. His voice was low and Greg knew he was trying to keep himself calm. 'I had to make a name for myself, Gregory. And that meant long hours.'

'I get that- I got that,' Greg said. 'But you ignored me. It was like I became just... just some random person. Just someone you occasionally came home to. I wasn't your partner, your husband. I was just... nothin'.'

'You were never nothing,' Mycroft tried.

Greg huffed and turned away, unable to look at Mycroft as he spoke. 'It felt that way,' he mumbled.

The two stood in silence, Greg with his back to Mycroft and Mycroft now staring at him. So many things went unsaid between them, but they were all subjects, arguments, words that they'd said to each other in the past. Fighting about Mycroft not being there, about Greg working the dangerous parts of London, about Mycroft dropping everything for Sherlock and Greg flirting with random men and women.

They'd discussed, argued, ranted and thrown shit until they couldn't stand the sight of each other. Years into their marriage everything had just fallen apart. They'd tried- oh they'd tried hard- to pick up the pieces, to fix everything and make it like it had been; to get back the romantic dates, lazy mornings in bed, and fantastic sex.

But in the end they'd given up. Both had thrown in the towel and walked away; Mycroft to his dark office and a new fancy flat; Greg to Scotland Yard and a crappy place close by.

It was Mycroft who'd started their descent, who'd pushed the button that made everything begin to spiral down. But Greg had added fuel to the fire.

Greg finally inhaled deeply and Mycroft looked up sharply when he heard the tremor in the other man's voice. 'God, I miss you.'

Mycroft smiled weakly. 'I miss you too.'

The DI turned to face him and Mycroft saw tears shining in his eyes. Greg rubbed at them viciously with one hand. 'Why couldn't we make it work?' he asked.

Mycroft shrugged one shoulder but felt Greg deserved a proper answer. 'We didn't try hard enough.'

Greg nodded once- a sharp jab of his head. He wet his lips and looked down, his hands again going to his hips.

'For the record,' Mycroft said and his ex-husband looked up at him, 'I am sorry.'

Greg nodded.

'I needed to reach where I am today,' Mycroft continued.

'Yeah,' Greg said. 'To prove your old man wrong.'

Mycroft didn't say anything. It was the truth and they both knew it.

Greg sighed and rubbed his face again. 'I gotta go,' he said. 'Paperwork and... ya know.'

Mycroft nodded and stepped aside so Greg would have a clear run to the door. He'd made it clear early on in their divorce that he didn't want to touch Mycroft.

But as the DI slowly made his way across 221B, he reached out and brushed his fingers along Mycroft's. The politician looked up and his light blue eyes fell on Greg's chocolate brown ones.

'Mycroft...'

'Yes?' Mycroft asked, sure his heart was going to beat right out of his chest.

'Can... can we just... have coffee?' Greg asked.

Mycroft pursed his lips.

'Just coffee,' Greg insisted.

Mycroft was unsure. They'd "just had coffee" before. And it had always led to accusations and yelling and angry sex in the back of a car or over the couch. And nothing was ever resolved, they never moved on. The feelings and anger they felt for each other just continued to fester.

'Just coffee,' Greg repeated. 'Please?'

Mycroft hesitated before nodding slowly. 'Just coffee,' he echoed.

Greg smiled slightly and touched Mycroft's hand again before leaving. Mycroft stood in the sitting room of his brother's flat, his heart beating hard in his chest, his skin tingling from where Greg had touched him.

He wanted this time to be different. He wanted to talk to Greg, actually talk and listen and move on.

Because he'd learned long ago that his life was empty without the man he loved.

Author's Note: AAAANNNNGGGGSSSTTT!

Hope you enjoyed it :)

Also, due to semi-popular demand, this story is being continued.

Cheers,

{Dreamer}