Tell Me Lies | Mystrade |

Eleven

A/N: Sorry for being such a swine and not updating in a gafrillion years. Is there anyone still reading by now? :P I've been busy with studies and such and I find myself being a lot tireder this year so I'm not able to stay up so late. I hope this is ok though, and just know that the plot is about to thicken! I love you all so much, thanks for everything!

-CHxx

Mycroft

When I woke up the next morning alone in my bed, I would've thought I had imagined the night before had it not been for the scent of Gregory Lestrade that lingered on my pillow and the dull pain in my arse.

With a sigh, I grabbed the remote control and turned on the television. The early news was on, and to no surprise of mine whatsoever, there was an image of John Watson of the screen, giving a statement about the woman he and Sherlock had 'found' the evening before to a journalist. "She was very badly beaten and her car had been put to the side as though to remove another vehicle."

"Is there anything more you can say about the matter, Doctor Watson?" The reporter asked him.

"Not really, I'm afraid. The police are onto it now, doing fingerprint tests, like." The clever man looked directly into the camera and - so subtly you had to be looking closely to notice - he ever so slightly narrowed his eyes. His message came through loud and clear.

"Thank you for your time, Doctor Watson."

"Not at all."

Sherlock's voice could be heard from a distance calling out to the man, and without waiting for the camera to be turned off, John walked out of the shot. I couldn't help but smile; John was unbelievably good to and for my brother. It was a shame it took Lestrade's presence for me to work that out. It seemed that either he eradicated any ill feelings towards affection or just gave me too much more to worry about. And yet again, he'd gone and left me on my own. For some reason, this time, I didn't entirely care.

As soon as the thought had crossed my mind, the bedroom door opened and Lestrade stepped in. There was a sheepish grin on his face and two take-away cups of what I guessed was coffee.

"I thought you'd left again," I commented with a small smile, resting my head on my arms.

"No. Not this time. Just went to get coffee." He sat on the edge of the bed and kicked his shoes off. "You seem like a cappuccino sort of man, am I right?"

"Surprisingly, you are."

Lestrade laughed as he handed me a cup. "I already know you too well."

We sat in silence for a moment, sipping our coffees.

"You watching this?" Lestrade asked, nodding towards the telly.

"Not really," I sighed, switching the telly off again. "I do have work to do though, so I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to hang around."

"It's fine, I've probably already taken up enough of your time as it is."

"Not at all. Will you stay here?"

"I don't think it's a good idea. I'll go to a motel or something."

"I have a personal favourite: The Waldorf Hilton. Heard of it?"

"That five star place that costs about a million quid a night to stay in where all the pompous pricks of..." Lestrade's voice trailed off when I raised my eyebrows. "I'll shut up now."

"Yes that's the place. And now you're going to be one of the pompous pricks of London who stays there."

"It's really... It's too much, honestly Mycroft."