Fic: Haunted. Lestrade/Mycroft. NC17 - Epilogue

TITLE: Haunted - Epilogue
AUTHOR: Elf
RATING: NC17
CHARACTERS: Lestrade, Mycroft, Watson, Sherlock
PAIRINGS: Lestrade/Mycroft
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
WORD COUNT: 25,000
DESCRIPTION: Everyone's off to Mummy's for Christmas. No one could ever imagine what was about to happen.
WARNING: Non-Con, violence, underage sexual activity (15yo), OC death, dub-con.
NOTE: Thank you to randomly_rusted , who held my hand and gave me excellent advice all the way.

Lestrade shook himself before stepping through the door. The weather had turned rapidly from crisp and cold to wet and rainy, and he was soaked just from the short walk from the Tube.

Mycroft appeared from his office, quickly assessed the situation and returned with a fluffy towel, using the corner of it to rub over Lestrade's soaking hair, leaving it standing in soft spikes.

"Here, before you catch your death," he handed the towel over and removed Lestrade's coat and jacket. "Why you insist you won't use an umbrella, like any gentleman would," Mycroft grumbled.

"Hardly a gentleman, am I?" Lestrade retorted, smiling.

"Change out of those wet clothes," Mycroft stepped forward and reached for a kiss, avoiding the damp fabric. "The game starts in ten minutes."

"The game?" Lestrade frowned, toeing off his shoes.

"Arsenal. I thought you'd want to watch it. I've cooked dinner – the only thing missing from the equation is you."

"You don't like football," Lestrade said, eyes narrowing.

"Just as you didn't like the ballet, until you'd been once," Mycroft answered, with a grin.


Lestrade showered and changed, hen headed back downstairs, to find Mycroft cutting up handmade pizzas.

"What the…"

"It seemed appropriate. I followed a recipe – they look all right, although I have yet to taste…"

"Looks great," Lestrade answered. "You know, you don't have to…y'know…"

Mycroft smiled. "I want to. Indulge me?"

Lestrade saw a bottle of his favourite beer sitting out on the side, next to a glass of wine, so found himself a glass and poured it out, savouring the taste.


Arsenal drew the match, much to Mycroft's amusement as Lestrade shouted at the screen as the team conceded, equalised, went ahead and then threw it all away with a late own goal. Mycroft wasn't entirely sure that anyone should care so much about the fate of eleven men and a ball, but he knew he could get used to watching Lestrade watching the football, and made a mental note to get them a box at the Emirates at some point – he was sure he could find someone who would be willing to lend theirs to him.

Lestrade finally slumped back on the sofa. "Unbelievable. Down to ten men and we just hand it to them on a plate," he grumbled.

Mycroft sat still for a moment, and then realised Lestrade was watching him, now.

"What?" Lestrade asked. "You're thinking about something."

Mycroft reached into his pocket and pulled out a small slip of paper. "I…I did a little research. And, well, this is for you. If you want to…"

Lestrade took the paper and opened it. Mycroft watched the emotions plays across his face, hoping he'd done the right thing.

"Yes," Lestrade finally said. "Thank you. Really, thank you."


And so it was that Mycroft found himself in the rain on New Years Day, standing in a sprawling East London cemetery. Lestrade was crouching by a headstone, gently pulling away some of the creeping plants and weeds. He watched as Lestrade ran his fingers over the carved letters, knocking away the moss that had begun to collect there.

Daniel Colman

08/04/1960

19/09/1981

Beloved son,

Taken from us too soon.

"I'm glad someone…" Lestrade stopped. He hadn't expected there to be a headstone, not from what Danny had said about his family. But whilst it was there, it was clear no one had taken any care of it for years. The weeds were long, the headstone overgrown.

He turned as Mycroft knelt on the other side of the plot, putting his umbrella aside for a moment and pulling up some of the longer tufts of grass and weeds.

Once the grave was a little clearer, and looked as if someone cared again, Mycroft stood at the end, looking down at it. Wondering about the boy it contained – and how different their lives could all have turned out. Lestrade finally joined him, standing shoulder to shoulder.

Mycroft slid his arm around Lestrade, holding him close.

"Next time," he said. "We should bring flowers."

Lestrade put his own arm around Mycroft. "Thank you, for letting me say goodbye."

"It was my duty," Mycroft answered, pressing a kiss against Lestrade's forehead.