Chapter Text
By the time he met the illustrious Sherlock Holmes, Detective Inspector Lestrade was simply known as “Lestrade.” He signed his paperwork and cheques “G. Lestrade” and he was high enough in the food chain in the Met that if he wanted to be addressed by his surname only, no one was going to argue with him. When he had been a new recruit, he had preferred the distance it had put between himself and the other officers. Ascending the ranks of the police force had not changed that.
Lestrade wasn’t looking for any intimate relationships.
When he was a young boy, however, his Da had liked to call him Georgie.
“Georgie-boy,” he would tell him. “You’re going to grow up to be a strong man—just like my Da.”
It caught on quickly, of course, but Lestrade had not thought of himself as a Georgie, so every time he was clasped about his shoulders and addressed by his popular nickname, his face would screw up in an affectation of distaste and confusion, but he never said a word. At primary school they called him “Gorgy Georgie” and the teacher said (several times) that he was going to grow up and make someone a very happy woman. He hadn’t been so sure of that, but he let her say it and pat him on the head whilst he felt like he was being treated like a small and friendly lapdog.
His two older brothers treated him that way as well. James and Tristan were over a decade older than he, so he could hardly blame them, but growing up in a household full of adults who insisted upon butchering his name and emphasizing his youth made him feel misplaced and diminished.
It was hard to be anything but thrilled when a man showed up on his doorstep with a letter addressed to “Master Gregory Lestrade.”
Despite containing himself, two siblings, a dear uncle, and his ma and da, their cottage was much too small for a contraption like a doorbell (or so his mum said). Visitors had to knock on their wood and glass-paned door, which made it rattle under every assault, and whoever was closest yelled and answered it.
Greg had been at the top of the stairs, but he had just suffered through yet another day of being called “Gorgy Georgie” and getting the piss taken out of him, so the idea of a stranger being at the door had been interesting enough that he had shouted “I’ve got it!” and pounded noisily down the stairs. The man on the stoop wasn’t a person he recognized and with an electric shock of excitement Greg realized that this singular moment was going to turn out to be very important.
The man was very tall and was dressed in a very nice suit and looked very much like a strong and able bodyguard. Greg tried not to clutch the door as his eyes skittered over the man’s body in a futile search of a gun, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded.
“Hullo?” he asked hesitantly.
The man smiled and said, “You must be Greg.”
Greg nodded his head, feeling vaguely like a puppy being forced to bob up and down like a loon.
“Georgie?” he heard his mum call from inside.
“Just a mo!” he shouted back. “Can I help you?”
The man smiled again and simply handed him a letter. “It’s from the big house up on the hill,” he explained.
Greg frowned but accepted the letter. He was vaguely aware of his father coming up behind him and starting a conversation with the bodyguard come messenger, but he was too busy sliding his slim fingers under the adhesive and carefully tugging the envelope open to listen very carefully to the flow of words over his head.
Gregory Lestrade, it said, you are personally invited to join my wife and I for dinner on 22nd March at our manor on the hill. Your parents are invited as well, but we are eager to meet your acquaintance for we are in search of a companion for our son and we think you might just meet the criteria…
Regards, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes.
It was a very poorly kept secret that Greg’s father was a seventh son of a seventh son. He very rarely had anyone bother him about it anymore as he had a family and a well-established life with nothing remotely fairytale-ish about it (as long as you discounted him falling madly in love with Greg’s mum and never having a lick of trouble between them). But while the village didn’t think it a very huge deal that they had a seventh son of a seventh son in their midst, that didn’t mean that the seventh son himself believed that.
“Georgie,” he had told Greg some years earlier. “You know the lore about seventh sons being special, right love?”
“Yes, da,” Greg answered readily.
“What most don’t know is that there’s legends and sayings about the other sons too. You’ve only got to worry about one, though.”
“I do? Which one?”
“Yours,” his father said as he crouched down to Greg’s level. “You’re going to grow up to be very special, our unexpected boy. The third son of a seventh son is the most important of all: the perfect companion. You’ll be loyal and strong with honor like the knights of England’s past. Whoever you pledge yourself to can expect your support for the rest of your life.”
“What about theirs?”
His father’s face grew solemn. “When they die, you’ll never be able to pledge to another.”
“Da,” Greg said as he emerged from his memories. “Da, I want to go.”
His words interrupted the irritated speech his da was giving to the messenger about his boy being too young to go up to that large house on the hill and that the master of the house was a pillock for asking.
“I want to go,” Greg repeated.
His mum and da were reluctant, but he was the one invited, despite only being twelve, so it was truly his decision. When the afternoon of the 22nd arrived, his mum fitted him in a suit that he’d never worn anywhere but weddings and funerals, but all it did was make him feel stiff and uncomfortable.
As she sat on his bed and tugged at his collar he looked at her shiny brunette hair coiled up on top of her head in a bun and wondered what the other boy would look like. He himself had adults calling him handsome already—he was compact, strong, had the faintest hint of his father’s square jaw, and had his mother’s brown hair (complete with sun-bleached strands). He knew his family was nervous and wanted to make a good impression, but the suit simply wasn’t working for him.
“Mum, about the suit.”
A black car showed up for them at their cottage in front of their rambling garden and took all three of them up to the big house on the hill that had a view of the whole village. Greg slid onto the posh leather seats and was very grateful that he had convinced his mum to let him wear a knit jumper and trousers instead of the suit. The soft wool made him feel less like plucking anxiously at his clothing. The ride in the sleek black car was a short one, but Greg didn’t suppose that the serious driver would have said a word even if it wasn’t.
His mum kept a hand on his in his lap. Instead of feeling like a small child holding hands with his mum in public to keep from getting lost, Greg felt like she was the one reaching out to him for reassurance. So he turned his hand palm up and she threaded their fingers together, causing her ring to glint dully in the dim light. His mum had married his da over twenty years ago but the ring was still polished a brilliant gold despite being encased by the soft wrinkles of her delicate hand.
His father slung an arm around his shoulders and the warm weight anchored Greg between them and kept him from trying to dash out the door and get away. He could appear to be calm for his parents’ sake, but he was an absolute ball of nerves inside. Would he be good enough? What was the other boy like? Could he truly tie himself to one person forever?
When his da spoke of it, it sounded more like a fairytale or something that was believed in but wasn’t necessarily true. Greg knew the dangers, though—every time a child or a teacher extracted a promise from him he could feel it wrapping a tether around his heart and tying him to them until he fulfilled the requirements. It was a frightening responsibility for a small child to be obligated to do exactly what he promised for whomever he promised it to. The tale his da told him about being tied to a single person forever should have frightened him even more.
But Greg knew one thing his da didn’t.
The car pulled to the end of a long drive and slowed in front of the large house. Gravel crunched noisily under the tires and as the sun faded, lights glowed form the many windows facing Greg and his parents. They shined like twinkling fairy lights and charmed Greg even before the driver ushered the little family from the car.
Greg held the hands of both his mum and his da as they approached the front door to the house—more properly called a mansion, he supposed. The door opened before them and they found themselves in a glittering hallway.
Greg could tell that his mum felt dowdy in her plain dress as she held back a little, so he squeezed her hand in comfort before releasing it. She could hold his da’s hand instead, he thought as he pulled away from them and walked bravely across the plush carpet ahead of his parents.
A woman in a sharp trouser suit escorted by a man in casual trousers and shirt descended a grand staircase with a wide banister. “Hullo!” she called out, smiling directly at Greg.
He stopped and his parents stood behind him. He imagined they loomed like overprotective guards, but he straightened his shoulders and stood proudly on his own, regardless.
“Good evening, Mrs Holmes,” he replied. “Thank you for inviting us.”
Her escort—husband, Greg realized when he spotted their matching silver rings—smiled broadly at his greetings.
“Gregory,” he said warmly. “We were very glad to receive your acceptance of our invitation.”
Greg nodded. His mother had wanted to write it for him, but he had wrangled from her the nice cardstock she saved for holiday notes to her mother and had written in his nicest print that he would be very glad to join the Holmes’ for dinner.
The married couple reached the bottom of the stairs and Mr. Holmes said, “Would you join us in the dining room? We wouldn’t want the food to get cold.”
Greg bobbed his head and replied, “Yes, thank you,” somehow finding himself the unspoken leader of his little family. He felt slightly ridiculous claiming such a title when the palms of his hands were prickling with sweat and a hard lump resided in his throat. He patted his damp hands against his trousers and followed the two adults who wished to bind him to their son and tried to shove down his trepidation.
He told himself that he could say yes or no without recrimination, but that was a hard idea to swallow with such luxuries blaring in his face. He suspected that the rug beneath his feet cost more than his parents’ entire cottage, but he brushed the thought aside before it could fester.
“Please,” Mr. Holmes invited, “sit where you would like.”
His mum and da flanked him at the table and Mr. and Mrs. Holmes sat opposite with friendly and welcoming smiles on their faces as a servant served the meal. But Greg could see a sharp intelligence glinting in Mrs. Holmes eyes and the look of a pure bred hunting dog in Mr. Holmes’ face. They were accustomed to getting what they wanted, one way or another.
“Pardon,” his mum spoke up timidly. “But where is the boy? You mentioned your son in the letter.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Holmes replied, her dark hair, nearly black, swung about her face in ringlets and shined underneath the glittering chandelier hanging above their heads as she laughed “He’s away at school, of course.”
“You ask my son,” his da said lowly, eschewing his meal in favor of accusing their hosts, “To be a companion for a boy who is not even present?”
“Da,” Greg said quietly. “Leave it.”
His da shot him a sharp glance but subsided sulkily and began clanging his silverware clumsily against his plate as he sliced up his food. “I just don’t see the sense, is all.”
“Will you tell us of your boy?” his mum asked instead. “We are all very curious, he’s never been to the village.”
Mrs. Holmes smiled broader and Greg had to shake off the feeling that she was baring her teeth like a vicious fox.
“He’s very clever, our Mycroft,” Mr. Holmes boasted. “Two years younger than you, Gregory, but they moved him up two years.”
“That right?” Greg replied, wondering if the poor sod was bullied for being so being so bright.
“He wants to move ahead another,” Mrs. Holmes confided, “But we wouldn’t’ want him too far distanced from his age group. He has trouble making friends as it is.”
“It must be hard for him,” his mum ventured to say, “Being younger than his classmates.”
But before Mrs. Holmes gaze could harden and pin his mum with an icy stare, Greg interrupted, “They’re afraid of him. For being clever.”
All the adults turned to look at him but Greg only speared a crunchy leaf of lettuce with what he suspected was a real silver fork and shoved it in his mouth. “He’s a ginger too,” he noted after chewing and swallowing. He knew it was rude to point, but he did so with his fork anyways. “Like you, Mr. Holmes.” He popped another leaf into his mouth and began chewing noisily.
Mr. Holmes raised his eyebrows so high that they would have disappeared into his hairline if it hadn’t been receding.
Mrs. Holmes, however, only asked, “And how did you reach that conclusion?”
“Most don’t trust gingers,” Greg said matter-of-factly. “Being that and clever would make it twice as bad for him.” He speared a small tomato and popped it in his mouth. When he bit down, the juices flooded his palate with bright flavour—he had never tasted anything like it.
The Holmes’ dropped details about their son throughout that strange dinner. Enough for Greg’s mum and da to be satisfied and for Greg to have more questions to keep stifled.
Did Mycroft play sports? Would he mind if Greg did? Would he call him Georgie like everyone else? Did they expect Greg to go away to boarding school just to keep their son company? What was he really like?
Did he believe in magic?
Greg wasn’t sure that he believed in magic, but he knew deep down in his soul that if he tied himself to Mycroft, not only would he never be free to choose another, he would be protected from binding promises of any sort. Mycroft would gain a forever faithful companion and Greg would gain safety and protection—even at a distance.
All too soon the meal was over. For Greg it seemed like he only blinked. The glitter of the chandelier’s lights sparkled off the china and silver—dazzling Greg to a degree he didn’t’ believe possible. Despite that, he was aware of his mum and da succumbing to the Holmes’ charm and retreating to the den for coffee. Alone, the young boy stood and left the dining room.
His footsteps muffled on thick carpet, Greg wandered the empty manor. Once he ascended the stairs he no longer heard the chatter of the adults in the wide and meandering hallways. He saw no family portraits, only paintings of the countryside and an occasional lace-framed window with inky darkness beyond the frames. The air of the manor seemed to be waiting and prickled Greg’s skin with anticipation.
Mycroft, a brass plate proclaimed form a heavy wood door streaked with flares of red. Greg laid his hand upon the solid paneling and imagined that he could feel the age of the tree from the grain. “What do you think of him?” He asked it. “Is he a good sort?” The door didn’t answer, but when he tried the handle it swung easily open.
“Huh,” Greg breathed into the silent and waiting air. He stepped through the doorway and wondered if he had been transported to the past.
Mycroft didn’t have posters of footballers or the Clash on his walls like Greg did. Instead, he had shelf after shelf of books. Old books with proper covers—not the cheap paperbacks Greg’s mum bought down at the market. Scattered among the books on the hardwood shelves were artifacts that looked like they came straight from an archaeological dig. As Greg stepped towards them, curiously, he noticed arrow heads, remnants of clay pots, and worn down figurines.
The light from the hallway only lit so much of the room, so Greg searched around the door then flipped a switch. To his surprise, wall sconces designed to look like old oil lamps began to glow from periodic points around the room.
Under the warm glow of the dim lights Greg inspected the relics placed among the books. They spoke of a love of history or perhaps archaeology. Either way they were well cared for and Greg was afraid to touch them.
“Doesn’t he have a fine collection Gregory?” a voice asked.
Greg whirled around to see Mr. Holmes standing in the door. The man’s ginger hair glinted red and gold in the soft lighting from the wall sconces. His dinner suit was understated but obviously expensive and well-made from the way it sleekly accentuated the clean lines of his body. He stood like a man who expected to be listened to but wished to be underestimated.
He was not smiling.
“I think a room says a lot about a person,” Greg answered.
“Oh?” Mr. Holmes prompted with a raised eyebrow.
“Mycroft studies a lot, then?” Greg stepped away from the bookshelf he was nearly pressed up against and tried nonchalantly glancing around the room despite Mr. Holmes penetrating stare. The organized desk in the corner caught his attention with it’s carefully corralled pencils in a cup and the top clear of debris. “He likes order, too.” He blinked and looked around again. “He was the one who arranged the shelves, not you. The books he favours most are on the lower shelves that he can reach.” Greg stepped forward to touch a particularly worn one. “You can tell which ones he reads the most.” Then he turned back to look at Mr. Holmes again, feeling a little more confident than he had. “His artifacts tend to be placed lower as well, and not at heights for guests to view easily.”
Mr. Holmes was smiling at him. “I do believe that you are right,” the man conceded, “a room can tell one quite a bit about a person.” He blinked slowly, not unlike a large cat. “And what do you suppose your room says about you?”
Greg swallowed sharply and said, “That I’m an uninteresting slob with an unfortunate inclination for The Clash and footy.”
“Why do you think you’re here, Gregory?” Mr. Holmes said suddenly.
Greg startled at the sudden change in the conversation and felt as though the new mood had changed the feeling in the air entirely, making the room seem darker and a little more confining, but was mostly glad that Mr. Holmes had allowed him to prevaricate. “I’m here because you asked me to be,” he said simply.
“You are not a dull boy,” Mr. Holmes replied.
“I’m fairly average,” Greg said with a shrug. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Your father isn’t average.”
“I’m not going to meet your son, am I?” Greg asked. “He doesn’t know I’m here, he doesn’t know that I exist. Why am I here, exactly? Why did you invite me here?”
“My son likes to study people,” Mr. Holmes said as though Greg hadn’t spoken. He walked to Mycroft’s bed and sat on it with his elbows on his knees and his clasped hands below his chin. “He is interested in the living and the dead. For a while I despaired of him being an archaeologist, but he has turned out to be someone worse than that.”
Greg blinked, bemused, and stared at Mr. Holmes.
“He is a realist,” the worried father said. “My ten year old son can see the worst in people at a glance. He cannot trust and he is not trusted. I want someone he can have unquestionable faith in.”
“I’m a boy from the village,” Greg said bitterly, frowning in contemplation and dismissal. “He’s away at school. Away,” he emphasized. “I’m not going away. I’m staying here with my family, what good am I?”
“I’m looking at the long term,” Mr. Holmes replied.
And that was the moment that Greg realized that Mr. Holmes knew quite a bit more than he ought about Greg.
“Did I mention? While my son is interested in people, I am interested in things that lean towards the…eccentric.”
“Fairytales,” Greg said flatly.
“Fact,” Mr. Holmes rejoined.
"You have no proof." At least, Greg hoped he didn't.
"Of course not," Mr. Holmes agreed genially. "But I do have information. For instance, I know that you were stricken with stomach cramps until you fulfilled a playground promise to a bully to beat him up the next time he harassed someone you knew. I know that you hesitated because of punishment from your teachers but decided that they were a lesser evil than your own body turning against you. I know that every person you make even the slightest promise to has a tie to your soul until you end your engagement with them. I know that until you set foot into my house and ate my food that you felt such a connection with me and that you continued to do so because you felt obligated to hear my proposition about my son, Mycroft."
"What do you get out of this?" Greg demanded. "We are from two different worlds and I can never exist in yours. I cannot join your son in public school, I cannot marry him and look good on his arm like a pretty dolled up wife. I'm a lad from down the village, what's in it for you?"
"I think the question you should be asking yourself, is what would you get out of an agreement to be loyal to my son."
It was at that moment that Greg realized that Mr. Holmes had him between a rock and a hard place. He was a perfect gentleman, of course. If Greg declined an agreement he would never be contacted again. But he would always remember the offer and know what he had turned down. Greg would be missing out on security from himself and he would always know that Mr. Holmes knew that as well. That was the pinch--knowing that Mr. Holmes would know that Greg had declined to his detriment would worry away at him. He would become resentful of the offer and the missed opportunity. He would never trust fully again--but he would eventually make a stupid mistake and tie himself to someone he wouldn't want to be affiliated with.
A young and precocious boy with a tendency to study artifacts and people was not a bad choice in any sort of situation.
"You should have been in the government," Greg stated.
Mr. Holmes laughed and his eyes changed from being cold and calculating to warm and perceptive. "Who says I'm not?" he asked rhetorically. "If you had been born to a different family, you would have already met Mycroft--if you wish to indulge in 'what ifs.'"
"If I had met Mycroft on my own, I would've never liked him." Greg looked away to glance at the room again, sensing he was on the precipice of capitulation. "He doesn't appear to like footy."
Mr. Holmes twinkled at him. Greg didn't think he had ever seen anything more vaguely frightening to him in his entire life. "Do not," he advised, "judge a book by it's cover."
He pulled a worn, green, canvas-bound book from a shelf and handed it to Greg. Greg opened it and had a laugh startled from him when he realized that the book was a history of football in Britain.
He knew then that he wasn't going to say no.
He shut the book with a snap. "My parents can't know that we're more than friends. I want them to think I can separate from him in the future."
Mr. Holmes nodded amiably. "That can be arranged. Perhaps I can tell them that you promised merely to write to my boy until he finishes school?"
"That'll work," Greg agreed. "They'll want you to give me something in return."
"You're already receiving something," Mr. Holmes pointed out.
"You know that," Greg said, "And I know that. But they do not."
Mr. Holmes blinked and Greg felt a glow of pleasure when he realized that he had taken the older man by surprise. "How much have you hidden from your father?"
"Oh," Greg said dismissively. "Not that much." He wasn't willing to reveal to Mr. Holmes anything that the man might not actually know. He was clever enough not to fall for that trap.
"He knows that you can bind yourself permanently to someone," Mr. Holmes said knowingly, sitting up and letting his fists drop from his chin to his knees. His hands brushed against his trouser legs and Greg wondered if the man had ever participated in any honest labor in his entire life. "Hence why you want to deceive him into thinking that your bonding to my son is temporary."
Bonding. The word rang in Greg's head. He had known that was what he was proposing to do--that was what Mr. Holmes was proposing Greg should do--but he hadn't had a label for it. He had been correct in stating it wouldn't be a marriage, but for Greg it would be tantamount to one. He would never be free to another. "Yes," he agreed, figuring that it would be safe enough to admit to that much.
"But he doesn't know that a bonding would offer you security of your own," Mr. Holmes concluded, watching Greg with knew and curious eyes.
"No," Greg said simply.
"You could accept a stipend at the very least.”
Greg hummed noncommittally. "Perhaps," he equivocated.
"Your family has financial issues," Mr. Holmes noted.
"You're a fool if you think my family will take charity," Greg observed flatly.
"But it's not charity, Gregory," Mr. Holmes chided. "It is a simple trade."
"It is not something they would agree to--or me, actually."
"Then what do you suggest, young master Gregory?"
”I don’t want your money,” Greg said flatly.
Mr. Holmes frowned but said nothing in return.
Greg looked Mr. Holmes up and down and wondered if Mycroft would look like his father when he grew up. He wondered if he looked like his father now. He wondered if he had any brothers and sisters or any friends he hadn't told his parents about. "Shall we?"
Mr. Holmes raised an eyebrow and put his hands on his knees to lever himself into a standing position. "Right now?"
Greg shrugged and looked away. "Why not?"
"Is it as simple as that?"
"As simple as that," Greg repeated. But a moment later, he closed his eyes and dove deep inside of himself. A normal promise was as easy as accidentally telling someone that he would save pudding for them at lunch. Little promises like that extended from his soul with spider-web thin strands wrapping stickily around himself and other people. The hazard with them was that sometimes they stuck to other promises and became hopelessly intertwined. He could see them when he wanted to. First he found them within himself and tweaked them with mental fingers to find out where they went. They spoke to him. You promised, you promised, they whispered while telling him what they were. If he opened his eyes he knew that he could see them stretched out in the air around him like he was a puppet entangled with everyone he had ever met. Then he asked, I want to bind myself to someone.
The little bonds grew silent and his soul sang out, Yes.
He looked around and listened for a few moments then opened his eyes. "I pledge myself," he spoke aloud. "To Mycroft Holmes, a young and honorable boy I will be proud to support for the rest of my life. He will forever have my allegiance and my strength—and in return I accept the gift of security from him. Until the end of time I will be bonded to him and him only for anything he requires of me."
With the last of his words, the last binding promise he would ever make snapped to life between himself and a boy who resided many miles away. If the other promises had been delicate spider threads, this one was a strong tether that jerked at him and killed every other promise he had ever made. As it cinched around his soul and yanked, his vision went dark and he began to fall.
He knew nothing more.
"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Lestrade," he heard someone murmur. "When I had realized that your son had wandered away I went to find where he had gone off to. The manor is large and easy to get lost in..."
Greg was in a pair of arms. Judging by their strength and possessiveness he assumed that the man holding him was his father. He was cradled against a broad chest and could feel the rough and starched shirt of the button-up his da was wearing against his cheek.
"Thank you for returning him," his da rumbled. "I apologize for him haring off."
"Oh, it wasn't a problem at all, Mr. Lestrade."
"Thank you for the lovely dinner, Mrs. Holmes," his mother said. "You have a very lovely home."
Greg heard them continue speaking but they subsided to indistinct murmurs that he didn't feel the need to pay attention to. He could feel his bond to Mycroft stretching through the air. It was like wearing chains. Voluntary chains, but a heavy weight he couldn't admit to his da all the same.
His da would never understand.
"Honey," his mother said softly, brushing hair from his forehead. Her gentle hair felt cool and nice against his forehead.
Greg was in bed beneath his covers. He had been tucked in, he assumed, as his arms felt pinned beneath the blankets.
"Mum?" he asked hoarsely.
"We were worried about you," she said, a deep weariness in her voice.
"Is Da here?"
"No, sweetheart. It's just you and me."
Greg kept his eyes shut, ashamed of the secret he was planning on keeping from his parents.
"You made a promise, didn't you."
He nodded.
"A big one?"
"Yes," he said in a small voice.
"My brave boy," she said, her hand petting his hair and coaxing through the strands. “When Mr. Holmes told your da he was going to pay for your school, I thought he’d refuse until he said it was in payment for a promise.”
Greg sighed.
“Sleep, sweetheart. And remember that we love you.”
Hello, Greg wrote. My name is Gregory Aiden Lestrade and I live in the village below your big house. Well, actually, I live outside the village. But I live just down the hill from you. I can see your manor from the garden. I'm twelve years old and support Arsenal. Do you like football? You didn't have any posters in your room, but you did have some books. I wanted to be surprised when your father pointed one out to me, but what kind of person doesn't like football? Not one I'd like to know, I'm sure. I met your father, Mr. Holmes. He loves you very much, you know. Kind of an intimidating bloke, though, and he's pretty determined to get whatever you need--including me.
I want to say straight off that I'm not writing to you because he's paying me, even though my parents think I am. He wanted to give me money, but I said no. I suspect he’s going to anyway. My father's not much like yours—he’s a builder. My two brothers are too. So when I leave school I'll probably build things with my family. My mum does the garden and takes care of me.
I'm the youngest.
Mr. Holmes says that you don't have many friends. He was surprised when I guessed why. Well, I didn't guess, really, it wasn't hard to figure out (I think Mrs. Holmes was impressed). But he thinks I could be your friend. If you like.
I've never really written a letter before, so I'll sign off here.
Sincerely,
Gregory Lestrade
It took three drafts and countless sheets of paper for Greg to write a satisfactory letter to Mycroft. He figured that the letter dropped in the post with Mycroft's school address the only thing contained inside was more than enough of a hint encouraging Greg to hurry up and write a letter. It had been a week since the dinner at the Holmes' and he hadn't heard anything from them since, but his connection with Mycroft thrummed in the air like a live thing that never went away. He never got anything hideously important from it--just a few vague impressions and the occasional emotion trickled down the tether connecting them.
Greg sometimes wondered if Mycroft felt the connection at all, but assumed he did not.
The letter ended up being a little longer than he expected it to be, but that probably occurred because he spent hours and hours focusing on it. He simply couldn't concentrate on anything else until he finished writing it. He wrote in pen but didn't bother with joined-up writing. He wasn't very good at it, for one, and, for two, he didn't feel the need to put a window dressing on who he really was.
"This shouldn't work," he murmured. "Who accepts a letter from a stranger?" But, regardless, he folded the letter and shoved it in an envelope before he could second-guess himself and licked the flap shut. He ripped a stamp off the book he asked his mother to buy him and licked and stuck it to the envelope as well. When he was finished he carefully copied Mycroft's address onto its face with his pen. His hand felt stiff and cramped but he knew he needed to get this done and get it in the post as soon as possible. He labeled the return address G. Lestrade then took it to his mother.
All that was left was to wait.