Title: Shot through the Heart
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: Gen
Length: 466
Content Notes: Told backwards (from ending to beginning) Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade (one-sided); voyeurism of a Mycroftian nature; pining Mycroft; cheeky Anthea; references to the 1986 song “You Give Love a Bad Name” by Bon Jovi.
Summary: Someone is watching the Scotland Yard Interdivisional Battle of the Air Bands with unusual interest.


Mycroft pressed ‘play.’
As the voice in the earphones rang out, he tapped the incline and the speed buttons and set off running at a brisk pace.
“Shot through the heart and you’re to blame!”


“I took the liberty of adding a few selections to your current playlist.”
Mycroft frowned at the device in her hand. “My dear, it is a bit capital ‘P’ in the ‘PA.’ I mean, a man’s music selection is a private affair.”
“Stagnation in one’s fitness regime may lead to stagnation in one’s professional realm. Can you or I or the nation afford that?”
He rubbed his jaw.
“You make a compelling argument. Thank you.”


Mycroft smiled. He tapped the screen and it went dark. Then he straightened the pages of the document in front of him and took up his pen, humming.
“Shot through the heart and you’re to blame!”


“And this year’s winner of the Scotland Yard’s Interdivisional Battle of the Air Bands goes to…Homicide & Serious Crimes!”
The rest of the announcement was drown in raucous cheers.


Mycroft held his breath.
The Detective Inspector should not take such risks with his safety! Was his work not perilous enough?
Oh, the hands were buoying him, and he glided atop the crowd like some clumsy sea creature on the ocean floor.
Mycroft swore. Should they drop him, an unforgiving interdepartmental re-organization would be imminent.
He leaned closer to the screen.
Hands. Touching leather. Touch skin wet with perspiration. Touching…
Mycroft rose from his desk.
Tea time.


The Detective Inspector had a very pleasing sense of rhythm.
He was also, unsurprisingly, a natural leader and, perhaps a bit surprisingly, a born showman as well. He and Sargent Donovan appear to be well-versed in their choreography. A judicious choice to place the unfortunate Anderson in the percussion section, where his particular brand of enthusiasm would be better shielded from the judges’ eyes.
And, of course, the wardrobe selection was inspired. Mycroft had never before considered himself a fan of fringe but when coupled with a swaying posterior, like the one he was viewing, well, the allure was undeniable.
“No one can save me. The damage is done!”
Indeed.


Mycroft closed his mouth.
“Shot through the heart and you’re to blame!”
Was the Detective Inspector wearing black leather trousers?
Good Lord.


“Sir.”
He looked up as she slipped him a scrap of paper.

She shut the door behind her as she exited.
The green ink meant personal, not professional, but the two-digit number meant not 221B or his own residence or any of the usual locations of interest to him.
A public feed.
The exclamation point was pure cheek.
Infernal woman! What was she playing at? There was work to be done tonight!
He scowled and tapped a screen.