Archive of Our Own

After a year or so into their new Arrangement, Lestrade bows to inevitability and moves his stuff into Mycroft's gorgeous Eaton Square house. He can sense that Mycroft isn't particularly pleased at his choice - the daemon owns a ridiculous amount of real estate, snarled up in various pseuds and trust funds, and insanely enough, the Eaton Square house isn't 'one of the nicer ones', as Mycroft puts it, delicately.

Lestrade isn't usually able to appreciate creature comforts; he'd picked the house out of Mycroft's crazy list of properties geographically - the Eaton Square house is simply closest to the Yard, that's all. He's ambled along comfortably over the centuries with a few investments, just enough to keep his projects above water, with a little left over to upkeep his flat. It'd just been a place to rest his head and keep the very, very few sentimental items that he'd accumulated over the years.

In contrast, the Eaton Square house, just like the Unnamed House in the Country that he'd been semi-incarcerated in for nearly a month, is exquisite, not so much a residential property as a showpiece space for art. Impressionist pieces adorn almost every wall, with no apparent particular theme, with bright and vivid colours in the foyer, fading to muted browns and ochre in a lounge. Sculptures and trinkets are displayed in glass cabinets and on pedestals, and the furniture, Mycroft tells him, is Queen Anne.

"This is a bloody museum," Lestrade hasn't finished gawking. He isn't exactly one to appreciate human artistic endeavours, but he still feels incredibly out of place and gauche, and it's only been about twenty minutes. "Are you sure that you're going to let me stay here?"

Mycroft sniffs from where he's primly seated at the armchair close to one shuttered window. "I have more comfortable properties. You'll prefer Mayfair. The car can take you to work."

"I'll use the tube if I want to," Lestrade states, just to annoy Mycroft, and the daemon scowls for a moment before his expression is carefully blank again. Actually, Lestrade hates public transport, even now, when his grace's diminished enough that the press of human souls around him isn't bordering on overwhelming, but he'll be damned if he has to show up at the Yard every morning in an unmarked black car.

"Would you want to, Lestriel?" Mycroft drawls, and he goes from sitting down to being pressed up against Lestrade in a heartbeat, an arm locked around his waist as he rolls his hips slowly and pointedly against Lestrade's arse. "Because if you choose to move into the lion's den," he purrs, his breath hot and ticklish behind Lestrade's ear, "Then you're fair game," he whispers, smooth as sin, a gloved hand trailing down to cup Lestrade's definitely firming cock through his jeans, "And I'll use you up every night, angel. Make you ache from it, even through what's left of your grace. Each step you take, every bump and jolt from the trains, oh, you'll feel it and remember me."

"Maybe I'll want that," Lestrade retorts, because he might be as ploddingly dull as Sherlock thinks, but he likes to believe that he's not stupid. Deliberately, he pushes his hips against Mycroft's hand, as he drawls, "While you head off to your office alone, in your perfectly pressed bespoke suits, and you'll think about me, won't you, daemon? That early morning rush hour, all those humans pushed against me? Touching me?"

He's not as good at words as Mycroft is, but he doesn't need to be. The daemon growls, a serrated, guttural sound that's impossible from a human throat, and Lestrade finds himself jerked around and shoved against the wall so roughly that his breath slams out from his body with a gasp. There's a barely restrained edge of violence in Mycroft's eyes and his power signature's unfurled, his aura thick and stifling in the lounge room, so far apart from the daemon's usual perfect poise, and Lestrade grins, defiant, challenging. Mycroft narrows his eyes, then he takes in a breath, and it's all shuttered away again, though there's a hard gleam to his eyes that tells Lestrade that he's going to end up paying for pushing his boundaries.

"Familiarity seems to breed insolence," Mycroft mutters, though he doesn't pull back when Lestrade leans up to brush a kiss over his mouth.

"Keeps you on your toes," Lestrade shrugs, padding back to the foyer, where of course his two boxes of things and his grubby old suitcase are gone. He sighs. "Mycroft."

The daemon steps into existence beside him. "Your... belongings are in the master bedroom," Mycroft states, with studied disdain, "And their containers have been disposed of. Possibly with fire."

Lestrade grimaces. He'd been fond of that old suitcase. "Tosser. Did you salt and burn my flat, as well?"

"Surprisingly enough, I have been assured by my agent that it is still habitable. Rental proceeds will be banked into the account of your choice."

"Right." That should be a nice supplement to his Sussex project, anyway. "So. Uh. It's Saturday and it looks like I've finished moving in. What do you normally do on a Saturday?"

Mycroft seems briefly surprised that he's asked. "Why?"

"Well, eh," Lestrade makes a helpless gesture at the house. "I've just moved in, haven't I?"

"Ah," Mycroft blinks slowly. "You want to do something. Together."

"Er." Lestrade had been fairly sure that it was customary.

Admittedly, he'd never lived with anyone else before, at least on Earth - garrisons in Heaven probably didn't count, and he'd been too self-conscious to ask anyone about it. The office would go into a collective fit of speculation, Sherlock was certainly out of the picture, and John would probably have some sort of minor heart attack. The doctor had been determinedly convinced that the Unnamed Country House Incident had been his fault, despite all attempts to convince him otherwise, and that Lestrade had come back from it with some sort of advanced version of Stockholm Syndrome.

"What do you normally do on Saturdays?" Mycroft asks instead, mildly.

Lestrade shrugs. He usually ends up in the office, or in Sussex, or any of the other projects that he's tending. "Work."

"As do I."

Oh. Well then. Lestrade supposes that he should have known. "Uh. Suppose we could go get a coffee...!" One moment they're in the foyer, and the next, they're in the ludicrously large master bedroom. There's a gorgeous view of a park, and Lestrade's distracted for all of three seconds until Mycroft drags him down onto the plush bed. Just like the rest of the house, the bed looks antique; it's a solid four poster, the quilts are bloody tapestries, and Lestrade feels awkward, like he's fucking around on some piece of history.

Mycroft rolls his eyes when he says this out aloud. "Your clothes," he instructs, tugging at the faded gray sweater that Lestrade's wearing with evident distaste.

"I'm attached to this," Lestrade tells him, though he grins and obliges, pulling off first his sweater, then unbuttoning the checkered shirt he has on underneath.

"You have the most appalling taste in clothes," Mycroft mutters, ignoring Lestrade's statement. "Jeans. Shoes."

"If you burn any of these I'm going to be upset," Lestrade warns him, shucking off the rest of his clothes and reaching for Mycroft's jacket.

"Mm. Not yet." Mycroft brushes off his hands, and strokes cool fingers down the insides of his thighs, stopping just short of the apex, where Lestrade's cock is firming slowly. He smirks when Lestrade sucks in a sharp breath, and ignores it, stroking up his abdomen instead to peaking nipples. Lestrade's whine of protest cuts into a groan when Mycroft seals his lips over one, sucking, lapping, one hand clenched over his growing arousal, his gloved thumb rubbing and teasing the leaking slit until Lestrade jerks back, clenching his hands on the quilt with a sob.

"Mycroft," he gasps out, as he can't help but thrust into the daemon's grip, "More."

Mycroft hums in response, pressing a final lick to pebbled flesh before rolling him onto his front with easy strength. Lestrade whines, impatient, then he whimpers instead as the daemon presses soft, sucking kisses over his shoulders, where his wings would be rooted were they manifested. Mycroft's hands press down over his biceps, and he can feel - oh - the smooth fabric of his tailored pants, the tight bulge pressed so intimately against his arse, and he wants.

"Mycroft," Lestrade tries again, growling. "Some help here?"

"Bossy," Mycroft rebukes him, nipping him hard over his spine, then lapping over the mark when Lestrade squeaks. "Your wings, Lestrade."

"Yeah? What about them?" Lestrade squirms, but he's thoroughly pinned. Oddly enough, that's always arousing - his dick throbs, and he arches into the next kiss over his back, panting.

"Don't be obtuse, angel. I want to see them."

It's been over two months since Lestrade had grudgingly and painfully drawn his wings out from the ether, in the Mayfair house, and only because Mycroft had pestered him for weeks and finally, in an act of purely sadistic psychological warfare, had started to send bouquets of bubblegum pink, unmarked champagne roses to his office, sparking days of sidelong glances, jokes, and torrid office gossip until he'd caved. Unfortunately, since he needed Mycroft's help to send the wings back-

"The last time I did that, you kept me in that house for days!" Thank Heaven Mycroft hadn't yet figured out how to summon his wings.

Mycroft chuckles, unrepentant. "They're the closest representation of your grace. Beautiful. Sensitive. Delicious." He punctuates each of his final words with a love bite down Lestrade's spine, and Lestrade moans, trying to rub himself on the sheets, he needs friction, but Mycroft's knee presses into his lower back, holding him still.

"Answer's still no, arsehole," Lestrade growls, though his voice wavers a fraction.

"Don't pretend that you didn't enjoy being at my... thorough disposal," Mycroft breathes, his breath ticklish and warm over Lestrade's skin, and he shivers, biting down on his lip. Heaven, but they had probably spent those few days thoroughly defiling every possible surface in the Mayfair house, and in the end, Mycroft had only put his wings back when he'd received some sort of work emergency from the accumulated pile up that he'd ignored.

Twat.

Lestrade struggles pointedly, but Mycroft ignores him, going back to those infuriating, soft kisses over his back, and after a few futile jerks and curses, Lestrade subsides. "Fine. If you'll put them back for me immediately on my say-so."

"All right." The arsehole didn't even have to give it a think. Lestrade scowls, closes his eyes, and concentrates.

It doesn't get any easier, dragging his wings out from the ether, and he's always hissing in pain when his wings finally unfurl into weighted space, shaking themselves out and flaring. "Happy?" he asks over his shoulder, verging on petulance, and Mycroft smirks at him - which is all the warning he gets just before the daemon leans down to rasp his teeth over the root of his wings. Lestrade yelps, then he cries out as Mycroft's teeth sink in, working a mark into the muscle, lapping over the reddened skin before nipping again, and Lestrade's wings heave as he groans, struggling, sobbing as Mycroft works over every inch of exposed wing muscle.

He's a wreck by the time Mycroft's finished, the pillow's wet and so's the quilt, but he can't quite register anything further than the cool hands petting their way down to his hips, the daemon's slurred, serrated growl pressed against the nape of his neck. Mycroft's rough when he finally takes him, and the old bed's groaning alarmingly along with his thrusts, thrashing wings have knocked something possibly priceless off the side table, and Heaven, it's always incredible, letting himself get pulled into the riptide of Mycroft's lusts and burned.

Lestrade's smoking outside the old church in the latest town that Sherlock's decided to terrorize; something or other about a huge dog, apparently, Mycroft had been annoyingly vague on that point. Now that he's unable to step through space, the ride in the train down to the country had been longer than he'd thought; he's tired, irritable, and fairly tempted to just arrest Sherlock and John on random charges and drag them back to London. Investigating incidents of giant domestic animals is definitely not his bloody division, thank you.

He's nearly done with his cigarette by the time a wizened old man pads up from behind him to stand next to him, one of the locals, maybe. The man looks spry for his age, with wisps of silver hair fighting a losing turf war over his domed scalp, and seams of wrinkles have marched out from the edges of his eyes to criss-cross his moon of a face. Liver spots dot sun-darkened skin, and he's dressed for comfort, in soft cottons and slippers.

"Morning," Lestrade offers, when the man doesn't move.

The stranger sighs. "Lestriel. You've faded."

Lestrade drops the cigarette in his shock, then he concentrates, frowning, until he can see the lattice pattern of grace that's almost all hidden by the stranger's craft, and he exhales in relief. "Bloody... don't sneak up on me, Uriel."

"You would have sensed me," Uriel points out mildly. "Centuries ago. You are almost human now, brother. What have you done?"

"I've been answering prayers," Lestrade pushes his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Obviously."

"A waste," Uriel shakes his head. "You know that our grace must be preserved for higher things. One of Heaven's finest, reduced almost to nothing."

"I manage," Lestrade shrugs, holding on to his temper. "I've had better luck than my predecessors."

"None of your predecessors defiled themselves by willingly sharing a daemon's bed," Uriel states quietly, and Lestrade takes a wary step back at the edge of anger and disgust in the other angel's tone. "You dishonour your brothers, Lestriel."

"He doesn't control me." Lestrade's careful not to use Mycroft's name - he doesn't want Uriel's blood on his hands. Of late, the daemon doesn't check on him if he's busy, and he knows that Mycroft's been embroiled in some extremely intricate form of international statecraft for two weeks. "We have an arrangement. I spoke to Aziraphale-"

"Aziraphale does not bed his counterpart," Uriel states flatly. "And besides, his so-called Arrangement is also... under review. Regardless, he has maintained a power balance. While you are now useless. And quite possibly compromised."

"If you send anyone else down here," Lestrade warns him, feeling a sick sense of inevitability about it all, "They'll die."

"That remains to be seen," Uriel notes coldly. "My'crostopheles has been unassailable for centuries. Now, however, he has weaknesses. You, perhaps. And that human pet of his. Sherlock."

"You wouldn't," Lestrade snaps, "We've never involved humans in the War."

Uriel shrugs. "We've heard that Hell is pressuring the Great Tactician to return to the War, which would be disastrous. Sometimes creative methods are necessary. As to you," he adds, flatly, "As lieutenant-commander of your garrison, it is my right to mete discipline and punishment. Will you submit to judgment?"

"What exactly have I done wrong?"

"You've been negligent in your duties, Lestriel. And your involvement with this daemon borders on treason. Are you not here on his orders? In this very town?"

"I..." Lestrade swallows. He can't deny that. "Sherlock is useful to me. He's helped me with my cases. Finding missing children. Catching murderers."

"And how is that relevant to the War?" Uriel asks flatly. "How is your... 'police work' sending more souls to Heaven?"

"I serve and protect," Lestrade counters, "Just as we were commanded by our Father. Besides, it's not my only project, over the centuries."

"We're aware that you have been tolerably successful in some ventures," Uriel notes, his eyes narrowing, "Which is why your sentence will be meted more lightly than most. We will not take much more from you that you have already lost. Come."

Helplessly, Lestrade considers fleeing, calling for Mycroft, perhaps, but the moment passes. He is an angel of the Lord, not one of the Fallen. His orders are not for himself to dictate. And if Heaven has found him wanting, then he has to bow to its will, or risk Falling. Bowing his head, he follows Uriel into the empty church, heart thudding with fear, and he hates how he's beginning to sweat, how his stomach is churning in ugly knots. He can't control his vessel with the amount of grace he has now. If Uriel takes it all away-

"I don't want to be human," he whispers, as Uriel presses a palm to his shoulder when they reach the altar, pushing him onto his knees.

"You won't be. But you may wish that you were." Uriel touches his shoulder, and just like that, his jacket and shirt are gone. Lestrade shivers - the church is old, and the morning air is uncomfortably crisp. "Will you submit to the will of Heaven?"

Lestrade exhales. The fear's going, anyway, leaving something leaden and calm in its wake. "I will."

"Do you repent?"

Ah. Well. Lestrade couldn't lie - he wasn't exactly certain what he should be repenting for, other than possibly letting the power balance in London get so skewed in Mycroft's favour, and he grits his teeth. Thankfully, Uriel doesn't wait for an answer; the other angel moves his cold palm from Lestrade's shoulder to his back, between his shoulder blades, and now Lestrade understands what his punishment will be. Knows the simplicity of it, the cruelty - he's seen it done before, to others, in the early days of the War, when they'd all been picking themselves up after Lucifer's treachery. His skin prickles, and it takes all of his willpower to stay still; his knees are chafing on the wooden panelling and Heaven, here it comes-

The binding seal sears into his back like liquid fire, locking his grace away, and he's screaming, he thinks, his throat feels raw but it's nothing compared to the agony on his back, threading through every aspect of his existence-

"Hey! Hey! What are you doing?" Dizzy, dim, Lestrade hears a reedy voice raised in protest, vaguely familiar, the parish priest, probably. "Get back! I'll call the police!"

"It is done," Uriel states, as Lestrade slumps down onto his flank, panting, cheeks wet from tears, and the other angel vanishes.

"Oh... Oh, Father in Heaven," the priest kneels beside him, his pale, moon-shaped face drawn tight with horror. "Your back, oh, sir, your poor back... who was that? Who was-"

"Get me outside," Lestrade rasps, grabbing at the priest's cassock. "I need to call someone."

John, naturally, freaks out, gabbling on about scars and burns and brands, and Lestrade's never been so thankful for Sherlock's insane questions. They're soothing, in a way. Somehow, they'd managed to get to Sherlock's room in the inn without anyone being too suspicious, as much as the borrowed and now ruined coat from the priest had hurt like the blazes on his back. At least the priest had promised to keep mum after seeing Lestrade's badge.

"It's a circular, geometric sigil," Sherlock stares at his back like he's memorizing it, "Very intricate. Partly hierographical. Rather like a Nepalese mandala."

"Similar concept. Better execution," Lestrade hisses out from gritted teeth. John's applying antiseptic, and it fucking hurts; it's all that he can do not to start whimpering.

"What does it do?"

"Locks... aa... locks my grace away. I'm effectively human, now."

John makes an unhappy sound, but Sherlock merely leans forward. "So you'll grow old? Die? Your grace functions somewhat like a battery or a power source, doesn't it? Without it, aren't you fully mortal?"

"Sherlock," John snaps sharply, but Lestrade shakes his head.

"I don't know. The angels I've seen this done to before never lasted long enough to find out." Suicide tended to be pretty common; for many, abruptly becoming mortal would be unbearable. Thankfully - or not - Lestrade's had decades' worth of practice in fading. "How's the hunt for your dog?"

"We need to eliminate the possibility that it's an actual animal," Sherlock, thankfully, seems satisfied enough to allow the change in subject. "I suspect the innkeepers, but they haven't quite been forthcoming. When you can walk without stumbling around, I suggest that you try your police act on them."

"Sherlock," John protests, horrified, "Lestrade's not in any position to work."

"Give me a day," Lestrade ignores John's medical opinion grimly. The painkillers worked, at least, and he's lightheaded, but he knows that John's right - he really shouldn't be here, but he's clinging on to banal mortal work like a lifeline, using it as a bastion; he doesn't want to think about the War. About his sentence. About Myc-

"Why didn't you call him?" Sherlock asks, his expression carefully intent. "He'll have come."

"I'm a soldier of Heaven," Lestrade frowns at him, but Sherlock merely snorts.

"So you willingly let this happen to you."

"I did. Let it be. I was judged."

It's John who lets out an ugly curse. "Judged? Lestrade, you've done nothing wrong. You should have-"

"And if he'd come," Lestrade adds flatly, "If he had fought Uriel, this town wouldn't exist right now. Collateral damage tends to be a sodding bitch."

That gives the both of them pause. John looks away, his hands twitching, while Sherlock sighs. "You can't keep this from him, you know."

"I know." Lestrade mutters tiredly. "I called him, okay? It hurt so much - I spoke his name once I was out of that church, being supported by that priest to his house at the back. And he didn't come, all right? So I phoned the two of you instead."

Sherlock's expression is frozen, like he's recalculating some equation, and it's John who presses a hand tentatively on his shoulder, greasy from antiseptic. "Lestrade..."

"Mycroft's a daemon," Lestrade shrugs off the gesture, setting his jaw. "He isn't sentimental. He was... it was about the wings," Lestrade mutters, before he can stop himself, "And I don't have those any longer."

He's more or less human now, he knows, subject to all of mortality's frailty, yet able to sense, through it all, at the back of his mind, his grace, just one sigil away, fighting futilely to reconnect. It's Heaven's most exquisite torture, one of the most serious sentences next to execution or a forced Falling, and if Lestrade hadn't already grown used to his diminishing grace, he'd probably have gone mad from it.

As to Mycroft - Lestrade fully understands if the daemon's lost interest. He feels numb at the thought, like he's feeling after a phantom limb, but he pushes the hurt and disappointment away. He should have known better. He'd always known better. Mycroft has the newcomer - whoever it is - to worry about now, anyway.

"We'll solve Sherlock's case," John offers, as he goes back to work on the branded sigil, "Um. After that, I guess, Mrs Hudson has a spare room. Sherlock and I, we've broken into that Eaton Square place before. We can get your stuff."

He's gotten rather fond of that house, with its bright, gorgeous works of art, its delicate antique furniture, its warmth, its view of the park, but Lestrade supposes it might not be appropriate to stay on. Besides, if Mycroft simply ignores him, the house would be far too large, far too empty, back to being more than a museum than a home. "All right," he says, and he's proud that his voice is steady. "Ta."

"Don't mention it," John sounds uncomfortable, even as he moves off to wash his hands. "You've... I can't believe that they did this to you, Lestrade. And you let them."

"You're human," Lestrade tells him, not unkindly. "I don't expect you to understand."

John sets his jaw, like he's going to argue, even as he starts with the bandages, and thankfully, Sherlock chooses that point in time to return to the present. "Do hurry up," he tells John, frowning. "We need to get back into that facility. The DI will be fine by himself."

"What if - what if whoever did this to him comes back?"

"He won't. And even if he does, there's nothing the two of you can do to him," Lestrade states firmly, then he hesitates. Uriel had spoken about Mycroft and weaknesses. "He might come for Sherlock."

"If he was going to, he would already have," Sherlock points out flatly. "And I'm not defenseless."

"'Course you are, you're human-" Lestrade feels slow now, and stupid, and Sherlock is an arrogant little brat who's still utterly convinced of his invulnerability. "You've got to go back to London."

"Perhaps Mycroft is not as sentimental as you angels thought," Sherlock notes, slow and careful, his expression distant again, calculating and recalculating probabilities in his insane machine of a mind, then he glances out of the window. "John, hurry up."

John stares at Lestrade unhappily, even as he finishes bandaging. It's a neat job, but the constriction feels alien. Lestrade's always been able to heal his vessel, before, even when he'd been diminished. It was a stark reminder of his new mortality.

"Go," Lestrade tells him firmly. "I'll be fine."

"We'll be back as soon as we can," John assures him reluctantly.

When both humans are gone, Lestrade gingerly lies down on his flank on the bed, trying to control his breathing. He frowns blearily at the clock on the bedside table, studying the minute hand, then the slow tick of the seconds, and finally, steeling himself, he murmurs, "Mycroft?"

There's no response, no sudden manifestation, no dry retort, not even a text from one of his many assistants. Lestrade clenches his right hand on the sheets, letting out a shaky breath, and reaches for the bottle of painkillers.

John and Sherlock prove that they can be highly efficient and discerning thieves if they ever put their minds to it, and somehow they retrieve every bit of Lestrade's belongings from the Eaton Square house, even the kitschy plastic pink bulldog that an abuse victim had once given to him; Lestrade had thought that Mycroft had discreetly disposed of it.

Mrs Hudson bumbles around as he awkwardly stacks the crates in a corner of the tiny room; it's the loft room, above John's, and it's small for one person, let alone Mrs Hudson and John. He'd briefly entertained the possibility of moving back to his old place, but there's a tenant and a lease, and the proceeds are funding a new project in Whitechapel quite nicely.

He takes a week of sick leave until being at home while Sherlock conducts noxious experiments, whines, and/or scrapes around randomly on his violin start to drive him crazy, then he bundles himself up at work instead, attacking paperwork. Lestrade tells the office that he'd pulled something in his back, to explain the wincing whenever he accidentally brushes against something, and accepts the old age jibes and the chiropractic recommendations with relief.

About two weeks into his new living arrangements, Sherlock upends his meandering sense of comfort by observing, randomly, and during a Saturday breakfast, "He's usually in the Diogenes Club."

"Who?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock frowns at him, like he's being purposefully thick, and John coughs into his coffee.

Lestrade doesn't ask how Sherlock had figured out Mycroft's favourite haunt when Lestrade himself had spent the better part of a century nosing around attempting and failing to figure it out. "So?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, in his bratty, if-you're-not-going-to-keep-up-then-I-shan't-bother way of his, and John eats a biscuit, apparently just to break the silence, and Lestrade settles for poking his rapidly cooling toast and eggs around his plate, his appetite soured. He's honest to himself, because there's no other way to survive eternity, really, and yes, he knows he misses Mycroft. Misses being at the centre of all that crazy attention, that casual power, even misses the daemon's airs and arsehole tendencies. But if he walks down that road, if he goes back to Mycroft and asks the daemon to take him back, he knows where he'll end up, and the sigil Uriel carved into his back would just be Heaven letting him off lightly.

"Right then, I'm off," John's brimming with false cheer; he's taken to pulling Saturday shifts at the clinic, possibly to avoid Lestrade during the morning, when he's at his most maudlin. Lestrade's taken himself off cigarettes, now that he can't filter out the smoke, and the nicotine patches and caffeine habit that he's developed in order to cope makes him cranky.

Lestrade makes a tactical retreat to the office - it's either that or risk suffocation, Sherlock's testing something horrifically purple and smoky on some unsuspecting mould that he'd found under the kitchen sink - and spends a tidy day doing paperwork about a serial pickpocketer who'd hit a pursuer too hard. Sherlock had deigned the case far too mundane; it's just a matter of going through reams of CCTV footage - and normally, Lestrade would have bummed it off on some hapless new junior detective.

Lately, though, it's nice to immerse himself in the utterly mundane. News had somehow gotten out that he's shacked up in Baker Street, and office gossip had been ranging from the disconcertingly close (a falling out with the missus) to the wildly inappropriate (some sort of three-way monkey sex orgy rumour, possibly perpetrated by Gregson). Lestrade carefully maintains his air of black depression and noses grimly around cold cases until the gossip fades down into a sense of unfocused sympathy; even Anderson starts offering to buy him off-duty drinks, and all the tiptoeing feels restful. Homicide isn't exactly known for its stable homemakers, anyway.

His back seems to hurt less over the weeks, and by the time the month comes around and he's trudging in mud in Wembley Yard, staring at an all-too-familiar 'John Doe' found dead just this morning by security, the ache's mostly gone.

He almost misses it.

Uriel's vessel seems even smaller and more wizened in death. His body lies off the tracks, neatly halved, and there's gore and gristle everywhere; distantly, Lestrade can hear one of the new junior detectives being noisily sick, and even Donovan's pale. Anderson goes through procedures, but it's pretty damn obvious to anyone with eyes that it's pointless. Dead stiff, track marks on the arms, unhealthily sallow skin; it looks like a junkie's horrific accident while high or a suicide, and Lestrade grits his teeth, swallowing.

Lestrade can't see the burned signature on the earth where Uriel's grace had been seared away, but he can smell it, smell the sickly sweet burn of the final strands of dead grace from where he stands even as he is now. It's a difficult sensation to forget, even centuries after he's been on the frontlines.

"Smell that?" Donovan's sniffing at the air. "Kind of... like citrus. Sweet."

"Probably irrelevant," Lestrade mutters, pinching at the bridge of his nose, and taking in a rasping breath. Nausea swims in a churning lurch in his stomach, and he swallows bile. He'll be damned before he starts throwing up at a crime scene. "Time of death?"

"Three hours, give or take," Anderson straights up from the bottom half of Uriel's body. "Looks like suicide. Or an accident."

"Yeah," Lestrade breathes, painfully grateful for Anderson's straightforward mind. "Must've been. Check his blood later. See if he was high on anything."

Anderson frowns at Lestrade, oddly, and it takes a dizzy moment before Lestrade realizes he's mis-stepped. Anderson's an old enough veteran of crime scenes to know basic procedure. Thankfully, though, Anderson seems to decide to drop it. "Sure, Inspector," he says mildly, and Lestrade blinks dumbly through the flashes from the forensics camera and tries not to breathe in.

He goes through the rest of the day in a daze, tells Donovan he's coming down with the 'flu, and sneaks off early, something so uncharacteristic that it feels as though every single person in Homicide's staring at his back as he leaves. Heaven, he couldn't have been more obvious if he tried; he can only hope that nobody puts two and two together. Seeing Uriel's body had thoroughly shaken him.

He takes a cab to the Diogenes club, fails to convince the doorman to let him in, even when he flashes his badge - and Lestrade knows he probably looks a fright, shaking, haggard and grim. Short of decking the old man for doing his job, Lestrade knows he's hit a block, so he settles for taking a cab to the Mayfair House, on wild impulse, clenching his fingers tight into his fists as he does so.

The door's locked, then it isn't, when Lestrade growls and shakes the knob, and when he steps inside, the house lights up by itself, soft glows illuminating the sleekly contemporary furniture, the weird, flat-coloured art in shapes and simple portraits along the walls. "Mycroft!" Lestrade shouts, in the foyer. "Come out and talk to me, you fucking twat!"

There's a pregnant pause in which Lestrade thinks that he's going to be ignored again, and then Mycroft abruptly appears, on the black teak staircase, Anthea hooked at his elbow, dressed in a gray bespoke suit with a pale blue shirt, his long fingers gloved in black, expressionless. When he looks Lestrade over, it's so clinical that it hurts.

"Lestriel," Mycroft says finally, neutrally.

"You killed Uriel."

Mycroft lifts a shoulder into an elegant shrug. "He intruded."

"I should just bloody arrest you," Lestrade growls, knowing how stupid his words are even as he says it; Mycroft, the bastard, doesn't even react.

"Are you quite finished?"

He isn't finished - he wants to shout at Mycroft some more, demand to know how Mycroft had done it, disposing of one of the erelim so easily, with no apparent collateral damage, tell the daemon off for being so heavy-handed. The War isn't meant to be fought like this, Lestrade wants to say, tiredly; they're long past gutting each other in the dark and parading the trophies.

But then again, Mycroft's killed all his predecessors, as well. He just didn't normally do it this quickly. Or this publicly. "Yeah," Lestrade mutters, clenching his hands. "I guess I am."

This trip was pointless after all. Lestrade's breaths are shaky as he turns around to get the door, and he's got his hand wrapped around the knob when Mycroft asks, idly, "Why didn't you call for me?"

"I did," Lestrade retorts, tensing. "You didn't fucking come, did you?"

"You know what I'm referring to, Lestriel."

"What, I should have called you down to get one of my brothers murdered? And possibly the whole town while the two of you went at it? Uriel isn't as strong as you are. You would have killed him." Lestrade shudders. "You did."

"Instead, you hang on to your petty notions of loyalty," Mycroft's tone is icy now, which may or may not have been better than indifference. "I can control the fallout - I have. Look what has happened because of your misplaced sentiments."

"Heaven's will-"

"Please," Mycroft interrupts, with dripping disdain, "Had that truly mattered so much to you, you wouldn't have healed all those pointless humans. Would never have allowed me to touch you."

"Now see here-" Lestrade turns around angrily, only to backpedal in shock as he finds Mycroft right there, all the way into his personal space, and he manages a yelp before he's shoved up against the door and kissed like he's about to be devoured; Mycroft's serrated growl is muffled, but the rumble shakes Lestrade to his bones.

He's dizzy by the time Mycroft steps them through space and they land on the bed, and Anthea's gone again, put away. They're still snarling at each other and biting more than they're kissing, his lips and neck feel raw and Mycroft's gotten his gloved hands on the collar of his blue argyle sweater, and with no effort at all, rips it open all the way.

"You bloody wanker," Lestrade hisses; he'd liked that sweater, it was warm and could be machine washed without shrinking. Mycroft tilts his head at him, his eyes narrowed and hard, and Lestrade manages a sharp, "Oh, no, no, no," before Mycroft gets his hands on Lestrade's shirt as well despite Lestrade's frantic grabs. Buttons scatter and lose themselves in the carpeting, and Lestrade's curse melts into a pitchy moan as Mycroft cups him roughly through his pants and kisses him like he's trying to suck Lestrade's tongue down his throat.

"If you do a number on my pants, I swear-" Lestrade chokes on his words as he's suddenly pressed face first into the pillow, wincing as Mycroft drags the sad remains of his shirt and sweater off him and tosses the torn fabric off the bed. A thumb presses against the edge of the burned sigil, just as Mycroft goes very still, and squirming, Lestrade manages to twist around to look over his shoulder.

The daemon's expressionless again, but there's a cold fury in his narrowed eyes as he takes in the damage, cataloguing it in that impossible brain of his, his jaw set tight. "You should have called me," Mycroft growls, pulling off his gloves and tossing them off the bed, then pressing a cool palm over the raised weals of scar tissue.

"You should've come when I actually fucking did," Lestrade snarls in response, and gets bitten for his trouble, over his shoulder, deep enough that he yells in shock and pain. Mycroft kisses the bite almost apologetically, afterwards, his jacket and vest pressed against Lestrade's back as the daemon licks down over the nape of his neck, over the knobs of his spine, and stops just before the sigil again, with an uneven, angry breath.

"I was furious with you." Mycroft's thumbs press hard into his flesh, probably leaving a bruise, over the first circular border of the sigil, then he sighs. "I learned to control myself centuries ago. During the War. Corral every emotion, every impulse." Lips trail down to the second border to the first gate, and Lestrade whimpers; distantly, an age away, he feels his grace stir in response to the power pulsing just beneath the skin of Mycroft's vessel. "Every desire. But you, Lestriel, you ruin me."

Now, however, he has weaknesses, Lestrade recalls Uriel's statement, and he shudders. "They know that now. Heaven. About Sherlock, as well."

"I'm aware," Mycroft seems intent to explore every inch of the still-healing brand with his mouth, and it stings, it aches, and Lestrade's arching, pushing into Mycroft's mouth with a whine. "I've made arrangements."

"What arrangements?"

"That's none of your concern. You are moving back to Eaton Square. The house's warded now."

"Wait a minute," Lestrade protests, and Mycroft chooses that moment to bite down over the scar tissue, over where the root of the wing muscle of his left wing would be, working his way down, and he's squirming and whining instead, angling his arse up to rub against Mycroft's arousal; fucking begging for it, like a cock-hungry slut, and when Mycroft sucks in a sharp breath, Lestrade's afraid that the daemon's going to make him plead. He can't - not with what's happened, not with his back being bitten raw, not with his wings locked just out of reach-

"Calm down," Mycroft murmurs, and the kiss pressed to the edge of his mouth is shockingly gentle, as is the next, and the next, and Mycroft's pressing butterfly kisses on the scars now, as his elegant hands work open Lestrade's belt buckle and tease down his pants and underwear.

By the time Lestrade's naked, he's a quivering heap, and he barely notices the slide of the first slicked finger inside him. Mycroft hums, as though he's surprised to find that Lestrade's clean - he still doesn't have to go through the messy human methods of processing waste, thank Heaven, even with his grace locked. That would have been one exceedingly awkward conversation with John.

At three fingers, Lestrade lets out a pained noise. His pain threshold's fucked now, without the cushion from his grace, and it's been a month since Mycroft's had him. The daemon hesitates, then starts stroking his arms, his flank, as he eases the fingers in gently, spreading him, kissing over his shoulders until Lestrade relaxes again, his body loosening, inviting Mycroft in. When the daemon breaches him, however, it hurts like it hasn't before, and at Lestrade's low, shocked moan, Mycroft slows, until it's an exquisitely slow slide; he feels buzzed on building pleasure by the time Mycroft sinks all the way down. Everything seems amplified, now, pain and pleasure, even the sensation of being so full is incredible. Points for mortality, Lestrade supposes, as he groans.

Instead of fucking him into the bed like he usually would, Mycroft keeps it gentle, slow, rocking in, rubbing up against the sweet nub of nerves within him at each thrust, murmuring a steady, warm litany of praise against the back of Lestrade's neck, and this is better, somehow, beautiful; he feels like he's winding tight, about to shatter, it's too good, but he's on the brink, cock pinned between his belly and the sheets, and when he squirms, Mycroft catches his hips with a hand and keeps him still. He doesn't know how long they spend like this, Lestrade moaning, soft and wounded and shocked, Mycroft silent, until he's babbling, thick, nonsense words, wanting, and Mycroft finally, finally, steals a hand down to his cock and squeezes. When he comes, it's with the daemon's name gasped out in a rush, and he's so dazed that he doesn't quite feel it when Mycroft shoves deep, growling, as he shakes.

Lestrade wakes up in the morning to three terse and increasingly insulting texts from Sherlock and ten gradually more frantic ones from John, whose paranoia has evidently been gradually massaged into borderline clinical proportions from his association with Sherlock, the Met, and the more insane elements of the criminal fraternity. He replies curtly to tell them he's still alive and no, he will not be in a position to buy Sherlock any tea for the foreseeable future, and rolls back into bed with a groan.

His body aches, it's not entirely pleasant, and eventually, Lestrade crawls out of the empty bed and into the shower, feeling far too fragile and sorry for himself. He doesn't bother with the new shirt that's folded on the bed - his back feels sore - and he gets on his boxers and pants before padding downstairs, barefoot and grumpy, craving caffeine and nicotine in equal measure.

Mycroft's seated at the dining table, ostensibly reading a newspaper. There's a plate of toast, a soft boiled egg, sausages and pastries and, yes, a cup of sinfully black, strong-smelling coffee, and Lestrade makes a concerted effort to bend space and time to get to the table as soon as possible.

"Why did you move out?" Mycroft asks, neutrally, when Lestrade gets halfway through the coffee with the focused determination of a new convert.

He sneaks up a glance, but the daemon's still reading. Mycroft's mouth is set in a thin line, though, and Lestrade sighs. "Thought you didn't want me around."

"And why would you think that?"

"I'd lost my wings?" Lestrade suggests, feeling rather stupid even as he says so, and Mycroft rolls his eyes elegantly.

"I'll put that conclusion down to the copious amount of unlicensed painkillers that you no doubt imbibed."

"Could've been put down to the two times I called for you and you didn't show," Lestrade retorts, but it's half-hearted now; the egg's done perfectly and the toast is warm and crisp. Mycroft exhales irritably, but he doesn't argue, and it's a nice moment, this. Usually, even when he'd been at the Eaton Square house, Mycroft would be gone in the morning, already at work; the daemon didn't need to sleep, after all.

"That seal on your back," Mycroft notes, when Lestrade's worked his way through all the food and is nearly through the coffee. "It's a lock, isn't it?"

"Suppose so?" Lestrade's never been good at spellwork details, and Mycroft sighs.

"If it's a lock, it can be undone," the daemon observes, and Lestrade freezes.

"Don't."

"Why not?"

"There was a judgment. I've accepted it. Let's just move on."

"Heaven's will?" Mycroft's lip quirks, but his eyes remain assessing, and Lestrade nods, warily. The daemon hums, as though he's working out another complex set of strategic equations, then he draws the newspaper back up.

"Besides," Lestrade adds, as blandly as he can, "Sex feels better like this." Mycroft glances up sharply, and Lestrade smirks. "It's more intense. And I can still feel all of it. What you did to me. Usually it'll all be fading by now."

"Hmm," Mycroft hums again, frowning, and Lestrade pushes away from the table, satisfied. He's going to have to man up and put on his shirt, get to work. Just as he starts to walk past Mycroft, however, the daemon reaches out and grabs his elbow, and Lestrade ends up sprawled on Mycroft's lap, ungainly and squirming.

"Mycroft," Lestrade growls, as the newspaper's tossed onto the table. "I have to go."

The hard gleam of lust in Mycroft's narrowed eyes is unmistakeable, and Lestrade wets his lips with a shiver. "I should keep you in my bed," the daemon purrs, rubbing a palm over the bruises that he's left on Lestrade's hips. "Fuck you until your legs can't carry you. Mark every inch of you."

"Well," Lestrade's voice hitches, but at least it's coherent, "Then it's a pity we both have work to do, innit?"

For a moment, he thinks that Mycroft might ignore him, carry him back upstairs, and as much as what the daemon's promised will definitely be more than pleasant, Lestrade doesn't want that. If he's to come back to Mycroft, even as he is now, he wants to know that he won't just be another one of the daemon's indulgences. He still has his pride, even though it's been soundly battered.

"At least allow me to send you to work," Mycroft concedes, after a long moment, as the banked desire shunts away. "And I have a salve for your back."

"Leave it," Lestrade decides, because even if he's sore now, it's a reminder of what he's chosen to have, not what's been done to him, and Mycroft takes in a long, shuddering breath, like Lestrade's soundly testing his self-control, and the angel grins. So this, too, is power.

"I didn't think that you'd be so easily manipulated," Sherlock grumbles, sprawled in an armchair in the Mayfair House. Baker Street's come to help him move in, or at least, John has, and Sherlock tagged along just to be contrary, but John's shuffling around instead, gawking. Personally, Lestrade feels that he'd have been far better off not actually knowing how much each paint-splotched canvas actually costs. It seems that one of John's dates had been a gallery curator. "You're an awful excuse for an angel."

"Am I?" Lestrade's moved the box of his clothes up to the bedroom, and is in the process of shuffling the books that he has onto the small space remaining on the black enamel bookshelves in the lounge.

"Come on, Inspector. Agreeing to move into his favourite house? And how are you going to get to work?"

"Car," Lestrade concedes. Mycroft had been pleased. "You learn how to pick your battles."

Sherlock makes a rude sound, rolling his eyes, even as John peers at the large 'painting' of... something. Lestrade has even less of an understanding of modern or contemporary art: as far as he can tell, someone's just attacked some perfectly good canvas by flinging red and yellow paint at it. Still, he has to admit that the Mayfair House is actually more... cosy than Eaton Square; less of a museum, more of a home, although he feels a right twat stepping out of the front door during the mornings in his cheap suits and sweaters. Mycroft hasn't made much headway there, and he won't, if Lestrade has any say in it.

"You've changed him," Sherlock mutters grudgingly then, as Lestrade slots more books onto the shelves. "He's somewhat more bearable now."

Lestrade looks up, surprised, and Sherlock waves a hand dismissively, elaborating, "He's fractionally more personable and I no longer instinctively feel like shooting him whenever he appears."

"And here I was thinking that you'll always find such observations irrelevant," Lestrade marvels, and Sherlock scowls at him, sinking deeper into the couch.

"Heaven will send someone else again, won't they?" John finally comes over to help him with the books.

"Maybe." If there was going to be a replacement, then he or she would be here by now. Given that there haven't been any other gruesome John Does, Lestrade isn't sure, but it's possible that Mycroft's gone back to hiding his tracks. The thought's unsettling, but not as upsetting as it would have been, before. He's been effectively cast out of the War, now.

He's free.

"Lestrade?" John prompts, looking worried, and Lestrade realizes that he's been frozen in the act of picking up The Shock Doctrine, and he grins, a little wryly, as he pushes it in place. On impulse, he fishes out the pink bulldog from the box, turning it over in his hands, and walks over to fit it on the mantelpiece. He knows, this time, that it'll still be there when he comes home.

"Let's finish up. I'll buy the both of you a coffee."