Title: Just Add Enchiladas
Fandom: The Avengers (Marvel)
Rating: T/PG-13 (Swearing, violence; May go up)
Words: 939
Part: 1/?
Warnings: Alternate Universe, Language, Violence, Possible (Highly likely) slash
Characters: Hawkeye, Deadpool, Agent Coulson, Director Fury, etc.
Pairing: Unknown (So far)
Summary:  In which Wade Wilson is just a guy (with some serious skills, a can-do attitude and a screw (or two) loose) and Clint is the guy sent to recruit him. Hilarity ensues and Clint develops a thing for enchiladas. [Pre-Avengers; Shouldn’t contain spoilers]

AN: So, I found this gifset on Tumblr and immediately though it was the greatest thing ever invented.  After spending quite a bit of time debating with myself, I have decided to write it.  I’ll update as I can, but each chapter is going to be heavily influenced by the gifsets posted.  First chapter based on this gifset: [x].  This is pre-Avengers, and Deadpool is not meta-aware, and it’s… unknown if he has his super healing abilities.

About the title… I have no idea.  Because of reasons.

**

A soft groan left him as he reached for the phone, his hand hitting the nightstand a few times before managing to grab his phone.  One eye opened, catching the glaring red numbers of the alarm clock.  He groaned.  Asleep for just over an hour.  Wonderful.

“What do you want?” he asked, holding the phone to his ear.

“I know you just got off a long shift, Agent Barton, but this is important,” the voice on the other side of the line said.  He ran a hand down his face, forcing his eyes open.  He fought through the grog and forced himself to sit up.  The sheet fell off his frame and pooled around his hips. 

“What is it?”

“We’ll be sending you coordinates.  I want you to head to that direction and await further instructions.  This is of the utmost importance, Barton.  Don’t mess up.”

“Tell whoever it is that keeps making you call me that if Agent Coulson doesn’t start making these calls again, you’re going to end up blown to pieces.”

The man at the other end of the line was silent for a long moment.

“Are you threatening me, Agent Barton?”  The man’s voice was a hiss of anger, and Clint smirked slightly.

“Most definitely.”

“Watch your mouth, Barton.”

“Watch your back.  I don’t miss.”

Clint hung up, running a hand through his short blond hair before tossing the phone back on the nightstand.  The long mission he had just left had given him a bit of a headache, and now he had to go on another one on top of it.  Hopefully someone would be sending a car along with those coordinates.  He could nap then.  Clint snorted as he tossed the sheet off his bare body, moving over to the dresser to get something to wear.  As if that would happen.  He never slept around others.  He’d just have to make sure to hide out for a few days for some R&R when this was all over. 

As he slid the boxers over his hips, his phone went off again.  The short beep signaled that he had a text message waiting and he moved over to his phone, opening the text before snorting.  Snow.  There was snow on the ground.

This job just kept getting better and better.

**</span>

“You know, Clint, you have to stop threatening every other agent that calls you.  I do have other things to do.  You know that, right?”

Phil Coulson’s sigh was particularly loud in the earpiece resting just inside Clint’s ear.  He shrugged, though he knew that Phil couldn’t see that and continued, attaching the scope to the top of the gun.  He preferred his bow, but since this wasn’t a mission meant for a death, he figured a gun would do well enough.  Besides.  He wasn’t going to shoot anybody, and the scope helped to make sure this was the right guy.

“Yeah, well, it did the job.  Hey, did this one piss himself?”

“That wasn’t funny, Clint.”

“How was I to know he was deathly afraid of heights?”

Phil sighed again and Clint shrugged, rolling his shoulders before putting his eye to the scope and zeroing in on the car that he had been told belonged to the man he was to find.  The cool wind was turning his ears red, but the jacket he wore kept the rest of his body warm. 

“This is going to be a quick job, right?  I think the barista at the coffee place is going to know my face before too long, and God forbid she start trying to talk to me or anything,” Clint said. 

“It will be quick.  You’re just supposed to keep an eye on him for now.”

“That’s boring.  I wonder what was going through Fury’s mind on that one.  ‘Hey, let’s take our top assassin and make him a babysitter.’  I hate babysitting.”

“Good thing you’re not babysitting then, huh?”

Clint snorted softly before a man jogged into the scope’s vision.  Clint adjusted accordingly and watched as the man got in the car, a black sweater on his frame.  He rubbed his hands together before blowing on them, intending on warming them up.  He put the keys in the ignition before turning it.  Clint raised one eyebrow as the man frowned, his brow creasing.  He made a face, eyes narrowed, before trying again. 

Suddenly, the man just started to bounce, throwing his body back against the driver’s seat and smacking the wheel in aggravation.  Clint couldn’t hear it, but he was sure that the man was cursing.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. wants to recruit this guy?” he asked Phil, his voice laced with amusement.

“Fury thinks he has potential,” Phil explained.  Clint laughed, lifting his head to roll his neck again.

“I think he’s insane!” 

Clint looked back in the scope, watching the man jerk himself against the steering wheel before pounding on the horn.  He didn’t show any signs of slowing down any time soon.

“I kinda like him.”

Phil laughed in his ear, and Clint grinned.

“Just keep an eye on him, Clint,” Phil said. 

“Oh, I think I can do that.  He’s not going anywhere anytime soon.”  Clint feel silent for a long moment before he sighed.  “I kind of wish I had a camera.  This would be awesome on Youtube.”

“Clint…”

“Oh, calm down.  I don’t have a camera, and I’m too professional to put it on Youtube anyway.  Doesn’t mean it isn’t hilarious…”

“Just stick to the mission.”

“Oh, God.  If someone sees him, they’re going to think he’s having a seizure!”

Phil hung up, Clint’s laughter in his ear.

Title: Sweet Suspicions
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: M - Mature
Words: 1,177
Part: 3/?
Characters: Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, etc.
Pairing: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Summary: In the beginning, it was a curious business deal, one that made little sense to the Detective Inspector.  But then, before they were aware of it, it became something much, much more.

AN: I noticed last chapter, I kept switching between Greg and Gregory for Lestrade.  I don’t know which one I like more, but I’ll try to keep it down to just one or the other, not both.  Also, if anyone’s reading this, can I get feedback?  I don’t care if it’s positive or negative, but just acknowledgement that it’s being read would be nice.

**

Greg’s day at the office kept him from being able to think too much about either of the Holmes brothers.  Every time he got a split second of downtime to wonder about the amount of money now in his savings account, or about the strange warning/not-warning that Sherlock had given him, something else stole away his attention. 

It was because of those small, subtle distractions, that Greg had somehow managed to forget about the license plate until he went to shut his computer down.  The small arrow of his mouse lingered over the ‘Shut Down’ button and he thought it over.  Cancelling the action, Greg instead brought up the program to run the plates.  He carefully typed in the numbers and letters, closing his eyes to make sure he remembered them right – twice – before he entered the make, model, and color of the car as well and pressed search.  He leaned back in his chair, his mind wandering as the computer searched for results.

I wonder if there’s anything in the fridge to eat… I could always pop in a shop for something…

Greg’s thoughts were interrupted, not by the results of his search, but by the ringing of his phone.  He picked it up, not bothering to look at the caller ID.

“Lestrade.”

“Your search isn’t going to turn up a result, Detective Inspector.”

He recognized that voice as the voice of Mycroft Holmes.  Next time, he was going to have to check his caller ID before answering.

“Since I don’t know that for sure, it seems best to check into that, doesn’t it?” he responded.  Mycroft’s voice sounded slightly tenser than the last time they had spoke.

 “I’m not the only one who warned you of that today, though, am I?” he asked.  Greg didn’t respond for a long moment, frowning as the search came back, as Mycroft and Sherlock had said.

No results found. Please examine your entry and try again.

“I told you nothing would come up.”

“Are you watching me?”  A soft chuckle.

“Yes, I am.”

There was no shame, no regret, not even a trace of an apology in that smooth, silken voice.  Greg frowned.  Did this man not realize that he had a right to privacy?  He couldn’t just be watched like that, no matter who it was.  No one should have the ability to just watch him at their leisure.  He was not a bird in a cage, after all.  Actually, Greg found that the longer he thought about it, the madder he got.

“Stop.”

“This anger isn’t necessary, Detective Inspector.  After all, it’s not just you.  I watch everyone.”

For some reason, that made Greg madder.  However, instead of raging against him, like he really wanted to do, he hung up the phone.  There was no point in trying to get into a yelling match with ‘the British government’ over the phone while he was in his office.  The phone rang again and Greg looked at it before deciding not to bother answering it.  He pulled up another search tool, typing in the phone number that he had saved as Mycroft’s.  This time, when the phone went off again, it was a text message.  Instead of ignoring it, Greg decided to at least read it.

That was childish. –MH

Greg rolled his eyes and decided against responding to that comment on his behavior.  His phone chimed again and he fought back a sound of frustration.

You’re not going to find anything on the phone number either. –MH

The fact that the computer dinged, only to tell him that no search results had been found didn’t cool Greg’s temper.

Stop watching me. –GL

Greg tossed his phone back on his desk, leaning back and trying to calm himself down before he went on with what he planned to do (which, admittedly, was just get something to eat, head home, and work on more paperwork).  However, his phone went off again.  He reached for it, opening the text and frowning.

I think not, Detective Inspector. –MH

 Greg didn’t respond, but he looked at the text for a long few moments.  Suddenly, he was tired.  This whole thing was exhausting.  Why did Mycroft Holmes choose to watch him?  Was it really because he was the one to get Sherlock off the opium?  Greg doubted it.  Sherlock was the kind of man that, if he really had wanted onto a crime scene, Greg would have called him sooner or later.  If not Greg, than Gregson, for sure.  Someone would have granted him access to the crime scenes they were stumped on.  So why had he quit?

Greg sighed, shutting down his computer and choosing to ignore Mycroft for a while longer as he gathered up his belongings and headed out to his car.  He started it up, driving home and being careful not to let his thoughts stray too far away from the road.  And he definitely didn’t let his mind focus on Mycroft Holmes.  Not even a little bit.

**

“How was your afternoon, brother?  Fairly unpleasant, I assume.”

Sherlock’s voice drifted into Mycroft’s ears as the elder Holmes entered the flat that Sherlock was occupying, though Sherlock did not look away from the window.  In one hand was his violin, the bow in the other.  Sherlock didn’t bother to look at Mycroft, but Mycroft kept his eyes on his younger brother.

“It could have went smoother,” Mycroft admitted, a sort of pained smile on his face.  “I wanted to check up on you.”

“Personally?  Rather odd for you, don’t you think?  Doesn’t Siberia need your attention?”  Sherlock’s tone was somewhat mocking, but Mycroft gave a shrug.

“Siberia can wait,” he said, leaning on his umbrella slightly.  “Someone else has been eluding my attentions.”

“Perhaps you should leave him alone.”

“Him?  Are you so sure you know who it is then, Sherlock?”  Rage lit Sherlock’s eyes as he turned.

“Do not mock me, Mycroft.  I am well aware of your constant communication with the Detective Inspector.  Tell me, are you continuing your association with him for my benefit or your own?”  Usually, when Sherlock was in one of his raging moods, he said things to sting Mycroft.  However, this one caught his attention.  Why would his involvement with Lestrade benefit him?  No, this arrangement was merely a thank you for helping his little brother.  Wasn’t it?

“There is no personal attachment to Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft said, his gaze just as cool as it had always been.  Sherlock laughed, the sound full of derision and condescension.

“If you say so, Mycroft.”

With that, Sherlock turned back to the window, the bow touching the strings of the violin.  Mycroft knew he would get nothing more from his brother, and he sighed, turning to leave.  As he did, his brother’s words rung in his head, echoing for some reason Mycroft could not know.

What benefit would Lestrade have to me?  Mycroft’s thoughts swirled as he got into the car waiting just outside, quietly nodding a greeting to Anthea as the car pulled away.

Title: Sweet Suspicions
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: M - Mature
Words: 2,002
Part: 2/?
Characters: Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, etc.
Pairing: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Summary: In the beginning, it was a curious business deal, one that made little sense to the Detective Inspector.  But then, before they were aware of it, it became something much, much more.

AN: This one took me a while to get out... All I knew at first was that I wanted to write their meeting.  Buuuuuut, I wanted to continue it too.  So... This is what is going on.  I have no idea where I'm going from here.  WE'LL FIND OUT! =D

Disclaimer: I do not own any form of Sherlock or the characters mentioned within, save for minor characters who may be mentioned to help the story along.

**

It was early, far too early for Gregory’s taste, when he got back to New Scotland Yard after his strange meeting with the man, Mycroft.  After the meeting, which hadn’t lasted long after the man dropped the bombshell on poor Gregory, the Detective Inspector had gone home, and stared at the ceiling for what seemed like ages, wondering what it was that this man wanted him to do exactly.  Sure, he had said that he wanted Gregory to report to him every once in a while, telling him how Sherlock was doing, but why? This man was Sherlock’s brother, for the love of God!  Shouldn’t he be able to send his brother a ring every once in a while to check on him?

A chiming noise caught Greg’s attention and he sighed, picking up his cellular phone as he dropped into his chair, exhaustion already creeping into his body.  He frowned as the screen told him he had a new text message and he opened it, expecting it to be from Sherlock. 

I have taken the liberty of depositing some money into your account.  As a thank you for getting him off opium. –MH

Greg didn’t have to think very hard to figure out who ‘MH’ was, but he didn’t like the idea of this man having his phone number.  He added the number to his phone, intending to look up as much as he could on the man later, and then turned on his computer.  As it booted up, he sipped at the coffee he had brought in, making a face at the less-than-stellar quality to the instant breakfast aid.  He typed in his password, looking over the files on his desk as his computer brought itself to full functionality.  He put the coffee down when it did, pulling up his browser and logging into his bank.  He couldn’t fight the curiosity.  Why on earth would this man be able to deposit money into his account?  And how much?  He paused in the act of putting in his bank password.  How did the man even get access to his bank?!  His phone chimed again and he looked at it, opening the text message that appeared.

I’m bored. –SH

Gregory sighed in relief that it wasn’t the elder Holmes, but couldn’t fight the oncoming headache.  Sherlock was a pain to deal with when he was working, but it was worse when he was bored.  Gregory was positive that Sherlock liked to bother him incessantly when he was bored.  He shook his head, choosing to wait before responding to either of the Holmes brothers, if he even decided to respond at all.

Greg put in his bank password and waited patiently as the computer brought up the screen with his accounts.  Mycroft hadn’t specified whether the money went into his checking account or his savings account, so Greg decided to check his checking first.  He skimmed the statement, checking over the balance and finding that nothing seemed to be off.  He opened his savings account and nearly choked on the coffee he had chosen to put back up to his lips.

Five thousand pounds more than he had kept in his savings.  Mycroft had transferred five thousand pounds to his account, just for getting Sherlock to drop his opium habit.  Greg leaned back in his chair, the air expelled from his lungs quickly.  He felt dizzy and overwhelmed.  His phone chimed again and he stared at it, more than a little worried that it would be Mycroft.  But, the Detective Inspector took the phone, opening the text message and groaning at the message there.

I hope you will consider my proposal, Detective Inspector. –MH

“Proposal indeed,” Greg muttered, closing the message and logging out of his bank.  He rubbed his temples for a moment before he shook his head and looked through his cases and his notes, looking both at which ones he needed to finish up on, and which ones would interest Sherlock.

**

As it turns out, none of his cases were dubbed interesting for Sherlock, but the consulting detective was just bored enough that he decided to come along anyway.  When Sherlock walked up to the crime scene, Greg sucked in a breath.  Sherlock hadn’t looked that bad when Greg had seen him yesterday.  Sherlock had always been a tall, lean man, but his skin appeared paler than it should.  His eyes had a sunken in effect, deep purple circles under his eyes that made Greg wince a bit.  However, the sharp glare that was in Sherlock’s eyes when he met Greg’s gaze was unnerving.

“Lestrade.  You and I will have to talk when this is over.  And yes, it’s a very urgent matter,” Sherlock said, his tone dark.  The glare disappeared for a moment for an expression of unhidden boredom as he moved forward, kneeling by the body, pulling out the small magnifier he used while examining bodies.

“Victim was a twenty-four year old tourist from America, if the driver’s license and passport are correct.  New York to be exact-“

The man speaking was cut off as Sherlock stood up, scowling at him.

“Anderson, you shouldn’t speak,” Sherlock said, his voice as sharp as his gaze, “you know the saying.”  Anderson frowned, but curiosity made him unable to let it go.

“What saying?”

“Better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool than open it and remove all doubt.”

Anderson growled at the other man, but stood his ground, staying right where he was.  He opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock stopped him.

“She is twenty-four and she is from America.  New York is also correct, you idiot.  However, she hasn’t been in New York for some time.  Two weeks, at the very least, and has been here instead,” Sherlock said, pulling out his phone and punching in something, reading the screen quickly.  “And she wasn’t here of her own volition.”

Greg watched Sherlock for a moment, fighting the urge to ask.  Luckily, Sally Donovan, another member of his team, asked for him.

“How on Earth could you tell all that?” she asked, her voice filled with doubt, whereas Greg always thought Sherlock’s observations were spectacular.  Sherlock pinned her with the same gaze that Greg always tried to avoid, the one that said that your level of intelligence was almost on par with that of pond scum.

“The passport in her pocket is a fake one, you can tell because the seals aren’t quite right for an American passport.  Not only that, but I think that someone who lived in the United States of America would be able to spell ‘United’ and not put ‘Untied’.  It’s on there, just once, but it’s good enough.  Her clothes speak high fashion, but in the American sense, not in a European fashion, which means New York, or California.  She lacks the standard Californian tan, thus New York.  Her shoes are worn, but not muddy, also means no dirt paths, mostly concrete.  Her watch is on British time, but the date is set up the American way.  Now, there are faded marks on her wrists and ankles, suggesting she was tied up.  It would take approximately two weeks for the marks to fade.  The cause of death-“

Sherlock’s tirade, and Greg’s mind struggling to both accept these facts and not compliment Sherlock’s self-inflated ego, was cut off by Anderson.

“The cause of death was blunt force trauma.  The front of her head is practically mush,” he said, his expression showing pride.  Sherlock gave him a tight-lipped smile, and Anderson’s expression deflated.  Greg compared the smile to one that your mother may give you when she tries to be proud of you when all she wants to do is ask why you had to smash her expensive vase to get your chores done.

“No.  The cause of death was poison, administered under the nail of her left ring finger.  The smash to the head was done later, either in rage or to send a message, but nice try.”  Sherlock’s tone showed that he didn’t think it was a nice try at all.  Greg opened his mouth to say something, but Sally said something first.

“Piss off,” she said, scowling.  “There’s no way all that is true!”  Sherlock sent his glare to her before looking at Greg.

“Lestrade, a moment.”

Sherlock walked to a more secluded spot, and Greg sighed.

“Examine the body and the area.  See if you can find her mobile around here somewhere.  Get the passport to forensics.  And someone try to find this needle mark under her left ring finger!”

Greg moved to stand with Sherlock, watching the taller man quietly for a moment.

“Yesterday when you left my flat, you went somewhere.  Where did you go?” Sherlock asked, his eyes boring into Greg’s.  Greg debated for a moment whether or not to tell Sherlock exactly where he went and why, but, in the end, figured it would be best to just say so.

“When I left, the telephone rang.  No one else was around, so I picked it up.  A man told me to get into the car that was coming up-“

“Listening to strangers on the phone now, Detective Inspector?” Sherlock asked, practically sneering the word.  Greg’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

“I questioned why, was given no answers, and then hung up on.  The car did pull up and I examined it before, ultimately, getting in.”  Which reminded Greg that he still needed to do a search on both the car and the number that Mycroft had texted him from.

“Where you met a man who thanked you for getting me to stop with opium,” Sherlock finished, scowling at something over Greg’s head.  Greg nodded once, watching Sherlock.  The younger Holmes was silent for a long moment before he spoke again.

“Running the car or whatever else you’re thinking won’t bring back anything.  My brother is the British government,” Sherlock said, something icy in his tone.  Greg’s eyebrows both rose together in surprise before his brow furrowed once more in confusion.

“Why would the British government be so interested in me?” he asked.  Sherlock didn’t answer that.

“How much did he put into your savings this morning?”

“Why do you need to know that?” Greg asked.

“Just answer the question, Detective Inspector.”

“… Five thousand pounds.” 

“Not bad for a payment in thanks.  The subsequent payments won’t stay at five thousand pounds… If there are any.”  Sherlock’s narrow-eyed gaze was now on Greg, watching him curiously, trying to work something out.  “Are there going to be subsequent payments?  What did he offer you?”  Greg frowned.

“He said that he wanted someone to report back to him on your welfare, to keep an eye on you.”

“And did you take him up on the offer?” Sherlock asked.  Greg thought back and shook his head.

“I didn’t confirm or deny,” Greg responded.  Sherlock scowled and began to pace in the small space.

“Might as well have accepted the offer.  He’s not going to leave you alone now.  He’s already texted you, hasn’t he?” Sherlock asked.  Greg watched Sherlock, unsure what he was getting into.

“Twice.”

“Give me your phone.”  Greg shook his head.

“This is a bit much, Sherlock.  If he puts anymore money into my account, I’m going to give it back.  It’s not my place to babysit you.  You’re a grown man, even if your decisions aren’t the greatest.  I have no intention of telling your brother what you’re doing as though I were a nanny.”  Sherlock watched him for a moment before shaking his head.

“You’ll tell him, even if you don’t mean to.  You may not have agreed with him yet, but Mycroft will make you, whether you want to or not.”  Sherlock’s gaze was angry for the swiftest of seconds, and then he turned away.  “I have some experiments to do.”

And, just like that, Sherlock disappeared, making Greg wonder exactly what it was he had done wrong.

Title: Sweet Suspicions
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: M - Mature
Words: 1,920
Part: 1/?
Characters: Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, etc.
Pairing: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Summary: In the beginning, it was a curious business deal, one that made little sense to the Detective Inspector.  But then, before they were aware of it, it became something much, much more.

AN: This idea came to me in an RP with my best friend, so we’ll see how this all works out. This is based off of the BBC version of Sherlock, which I am in love with.  Enjoy.  The summary isn't all that great, but I hope you'll give it a shot.

Disclaimer: I do not own any form of Sherlock or the characters mentioned within, save for minor characters who may be mentioned to help the story along.

**

He hadn’t been sure what he was expecting when he did the unthinkable, accomplished the unaccomplishable.  He doubted that was even a word, but he was too tired to try to think of something that would work in its place.  One hand ran over his face, feeling the salt and pepper stubble that he had been too busy to get the chance to shave.  He turned up the collar of his coat against the cold, and his chocolate eyes examined the street for a cab.  Blasted things were never there when he needed them.  A sigh escaped the detective-inspector’s lips as he shook his head, walking down the street.

Gregory Lestrade was a very tired man.  It had been a trying few weeks, what with all the effort it took to keep putting one foot in front of the other.  He had three major cases that needed his attention, a team that didn’t like the people he trusted, and a friend who was going to kill himself if he stayed on the opium.  Keeping an eye out for a taxi, Greg corrected himself.  A friend who was now off the opium.  A lot of very careful negotiating and threats were what got Sherlock Holmes to, albeit reluctantly, kick his opium habit.  After Greg had tried to get a hold of him for several cases with no answer, Greg had resorted to extremes.  Barging into Sherlock’s flat with his team, executing a drugs bust, and swearing that Sherlock would lose access to every crime scene in London had seemed to get the point across.  At least, he was hoping it would.

His thoughts were interrupted by a telephone going off in the booth next to him.  He glanced at the phone booth, wondering if he should answer it.  No one else was really around.  But he had made no real plans to come down this street.  Not only that, but he had his mobile in his pocket.  Why wouldn’t they just call him on that?  Greg shook his head, stopping and stepping into the phone booth, pulling the door closed behind him.  The phone rang again and he took it in one hand, putting it up to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Detective Inspector.  Thank you for answering.  A black car will be pulling up.  I would appreciate it if you would kindly get into the car.”  The voice on the other end of the line was a smooth voice, one that wound itself into Greg’s memory.  Greg, however, frowned and looked around, seeing a pair of headlights coming toward the phone booth.

“Why should I get into the car of a person I’ve never met?” he responded.  The voice was silent for a moment before it spoke again.

“Spare yourself this line of questioning.  You’ll get in the car regardless, and we don’t mind if you remain armed.  Just kindly don’t shoot my assistant.”  The headlights stopped next to the phone booth, the engine still running on the sleek black car.  Greg filed this information away, just in case he had to try to figure out a way to get out of this.

“I don’t think I’ll be getting into the car.”

This time, the voice sighed, and it was one of frustration.

“It has to do with Sherlock Holmes, Detective Inspector Lestrade.  I would appreciate your utmost cooperation in this.”  Greg’s frowned deepened, a crease appearing in his forehead.

“Sherlock?  He doesn’t have any friends,” Greg said, wondering why that was the first thing to pop into his head.  The voice responded with a chuckle, and Greg fought not to smile through his confusion.  Stop that! You’re a detective inspector! Not a schoolboy with a crush! It was a nice laugh though…

“No, you’re right.  But, I never said I was a friend, did I?  The car, Detective Inspector.”

The line went dead and Greg looked at the phone, before he looked at the car.  He could, should he feel like it, just keep walking.  There was nothing in the world that would make him get into the car.  The man on the other line had known that he was armed.  What else could he tell?

Greg stepped out of the phone booth, looking at the car.  Black, Lexus, clean, still shining from a fresh wax?  Greg wasn’t sure.  He didn’t walk to the back door immediately, preferring instead to merely stand at the front.  Tinted windows, tags he was almost completely sure wouldn’t lead to anywhere.  What did this car have to do with Sherlock?  What kind of trouble was Sherlock about to get Greg into?  Before the realization hit Greg that he had already decided to do this, the Detective Inspector was already getting into the car, settled in beside an attractive woman on a Blackberry as the car drove away.

**

The Lexus pulled to a stop outside a warehouse, causing Greg’s eyes to narrow.  He had tried to make small talk with the woman who sat next to him, but she merely gave him uninterested one word sentences, or noises of affirmation until Greg decided silence was the way to go.  In silence, he kept his mind going through his cases, which made the drive rather quick.  Greg had made a mental note to pay attention to where he was going as well, which allowed for him to create a map in his head.  He’d have to remember to look it up later, as well as whoever he was about to meet.

Greg opened the door, the woman merely nodding when he had glanced at her.  Her dark eyes remained on the Blackberry, her fingers moving almost rapidly as she handled whatever it was she was doing.  She had merely stopped typing and had spared him a glance before he closed the door.

“Enter the warehouse.  There’s a path made of crates.  Follow it and do try to hurry.  You’ve kept my employer waiting for long enough.”

He paused, about to respond, but her eyes were already back on the Blackberry.  He frowned, debating saying something else, but shook his head, closing the door behind him.  The car didn’t move, and Greg found that he didn’t really care anymore.  He just wanted all this strangeness explained away.  The comfortable, worn shoes that Greg had owned for years made only soft, muted sounds on the concrete floor of the warehouse as he entered, the door already ajar for him.  His instincts were on alert, ears straining to hear everything around him.  His hand was already on the butt of his pistol, ready to pull it on the first person who was stupid enough to jump in front of him.  He followed the woman’s instructions, following the path of crates stacked high on either side of him, straight toward an opening with a chair sitting in the middle of a pool of moonlight.  Chocolate eyes glanced up, seeing the open skylight that allowed the moon’s gaze to cascade in, unfiltered.  Footsteps, along with an additional tap, tap of some kind of third object – a walking aid? – caught Greg’s attention, and his pistol was free of its holster in a moment, aimed toward the sound.

“Now, Detective Inspector, calm down.  I mean you no harm.”

The voice was the same smooth voice that had put a haze over Greg’s senses before.  There was something in that voice that made Greg’s mind focus on it, rather than on what he should be focusing on (which, in this case, was what the hell was going on).

“Hands where I can see them.”

Out from the shadows of the warehouse stepped a man in a crisp and clean charcoal suit, a white, stain-free dress shirt underneath the jacket.  An almost soft blue-gray tie was around his neck, doing nothing but accentuating the sharp ice of his eyes.  His hair was dark in color, not one strand out of place.  The strange walking aid was revealed to be a black umbrella, the handle a polished brown wood hook-style handle.  His hands, however, were up in the air, though there was nothing but a faint amusement toying with the man’s lips.  Greg shifted, but lowered his gun.  He did, however, keep it in his hand, watching the man with a mix of distrust and a bit of appreciation.  After all, the man was dressed for a formal meeting, whereas Greg was dressed in a pair of worn gray slacks and a white shirt that had seen better days and far too many washes.  His gray jacket was over his torso, but there were wrinkles that didn’t show on the other man.

“I know you have questions, Inspector, and I intend to answer most of them.”  The smooth voice stopped Greg’s thoughts and made him focus in on the wording.

“Most?  I’d prefer all,” the officer responded.  That smile finally slipped onto the other man’s lips, though he looked almost secretly amused, like he knew something Greg didn’t.

“Wouldn’t we all.  Please, sit.”  The man’s free hand gestured to the seat, but Greg didn’t move, merely relaxing his stance a little bit.

“I’d rather not.  Who are you?”  The other man merely shrugged at Greg’s refusal, his umbrella resting before him as his icy blue eyes watched the chocolate-eyed man.

“I’ll get to that question in a moment.  I’m sure you’d like to know what you’re doing here.  That’s far easier to explain.”  Greg was wondering how he got involved in a situation where it was easier to explain why a black Lexus had picked him up down the street from Sherlock’s flat than who a person was, but he kept these thoughts to himself.

“I’m listening.”

The man spun the umbrella absently, shifting to walk around the detective inspector, making Greg a little uncomfortable, though he fought to hide this from his expression.

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man started, “is something of a… friend to me.”

“Sherlock?  The man doesn’t have friends.  Except a skull.”  The man met Greg’s gaze, patience and minor annoyance warring for a moment before he continued speaking.

“And his opium habit bothered me.  I knew it was tearing him apart, yet he refused to listen to me.  But you, Detective Inspector, has done what I have not been able to, and I am here to offer you a job in return,” the man said.

“I already have a job, but thank you.”

“Not quite what I meant,” the man said, stopping Greg from moving.  Greg looked back at him, his gaze a bit suspicious, but the man continued on.  “In truth, all you would have to do is what you already do.  Except, deeper.  Every once in a while, I would need you to report to me on Sherlock’s activities.  Tell me if he is still clean of opium and how he does on cases in the wake of this sudden cease in his drug use.”

“You won’t tell me your name, but you want me to spy on Sherlock?” Greg asked.  “You must be mad.”

“My intentions have nothing to do with insanity, and everything to do with keeping Sherlock safe.  If he continues down this path, he will be completely miserable, and I couldn’t bear to watch that.”  Greg believed the intensity in the man’s voice and sighed.

“And are you ever going to tell me who you are?” he asked.  The man smiled, one that didn’t reach his eyes and seemed to hold more sorrow than joy.

“My name is Mycroft.  Mycroft Holmes.  Sherlock is my little brother.”