Title: The Demi-Goblin & the Vampire
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: Teen
Length: 1520
Content Notes: Mycroft/Lestrade; AU; Vampire Mycroft; Demi-Goblin!Lestrade; miscommunication; Lycan!John playing matchmaker; Vampire!Sherlock being a brat; set at the end of "A Study in Pink."
Summary: No one said asking a hairy beast out on a date would be easy.
Author's Note: From my Into a bar AU. Also for my 1_million_words bingo square: The Hairy Beast.


“Sherlock, that’s him. That’s the vampire I was talking to you about.”

“I know exactly who that is.”

A stranger approached, face pale and drawn. “So, another case cracked. How very public spirited, though that’s never really your motivation, is it?”

Sherlock fell.

John’s hand immediately went to the gun in the back of his trousers. The stranger raised two scarred hands in mock surrender. John’s head whipped around, scanning the environs. Then he heard a noise.

Laughter.

Sherlock was writhing, shaking with hysterics, on the ground.

“Oh, this is childish,” huffed the stranger. He turned and strode stiffly towards a waiting car.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” asked John.

“That was my brother Mycroft,” said Sherlock between giggles and snorts.

“Not—“

“Not what?”

“Oh, a criminal mastermind?”

“Close enough. He’d say he occupied a minor position in the British government, but in reality he is the British government when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis.” Sherlock stopped laughing long enough to roll onto his hands and knees and stand up. “Did you see them? The burns?”

“His hands?”
Sherlock looked back at the dark car as it disappeared around the corner and nodded.

“Silver burns from the kind of silver that goblins forge in thin chains for protection. Mycroft, after years of pining, finally summoned up the courage to say something—probably asking Lestrade out on a date—and the pompous arse got it so wrong—doubtful that Lestrade would use such drastic tactics for a polite decline of invitation—that Lestrade believed he was asking to feed from him and, thus, tossed a chain on him. Oh, that’s going to smart and for a long time—his fat ego as well as his porcine hands! Further proof that he is not the smarter one!”

“So sibling rivalry? Childish feud?”

“Mycroft calls it ‘concern.’ Always upset Mummy. Him—not me!”

John smirked. “Is Lestrade interested in your brother?”

Sherlock scowled. “How could anyone be interested in Mycroft? So, Chinese?”

“Yeah.”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Doctor Watson.” Lestrade glanced up from his desk. “You look…the human half of me says ‘well-rested’…the goblin half says…’shagged beyond all recognition.’”

John laughed, then said, “It’s none of my business…”

“Go.”

“…but are you interested in Mycroft Holmes?”

“No. Please leave, Doctor.”

“Call me John.”

“Get out, John!” Lestrade pointed to the door.

“One last question:  before last night, did you have any interest in him?”

“You were correct at the start: it is none of your business.”

“He was asking you out on a date! Not to feed! Think about what he said, his exact words.”

Lestrade’s eyes drifted to the wall.  Then he frowned.

“He fancies you,” said John. “A lot.”

Lestrade snorted. “Are we in primary school? Did he pass you a note?”

“He doesn’t even know me—except to kidnap and threaten me. Oh, and read my medical file.”

“Yeah, he did that to me, too, when I first met Sherlock.”

“I don’t know you or him, but I am getting to know Sherlock. He’s got a couple awful bits about him, but some extraordinary ones, too. Maybe his brother does, too. And, well, look at me. If you have any interest in Mycroft at all, this could be you:  shagged beyond all recognition. Have a good day.”

He disappeared through the doorway.
“Is Mister Holmes…?”

“Unavailable.”

Lestrade nodded. He put his hand in his coat pocket, then took it out. “Would you tell him that Detective Inspector Lestrade stopped by?”

A door opened. “Detective Inspector.”

“Hi, uh, may I have a word?” Lestrade asked, wincing at his tone.

Mycroft nodded and gestured for him to enter the office behind him. “Anthea, no disturbances.”

“Yes, sir.”


Lestrade produced a jar from his coat and set it on the desk. “Peace offering.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. “Unguent.”
“I crafted it myself.” Lestrade glanced at Mycroft’s hands. “It will help. A lot.”

“Thank you.”
“I had a visit from Doctor Watson, uh, John, today. He said that you were asking me out on a date last night, not asking to feed from me. Is that true?”

Mycroft  nodded. “Quite the failure for someone who makes his living wielding words.”

“I’m sorry, Mycroft. I wasn’t listening closely enough. Or I might just be too simple to interpret the nuanced communication of a nightwalker.”

“That last claim is nonsense. I’ve seen transcripts of your interrogations. You’re quite apt with all walks of life and undeath.”

Lestrade leaned forward and took the jar in two hands. He unscrewed the lid. “It’s most effective if the creator applies it.” He looked up to see a trace of pink in Mycroft’s face. He smiled. “Well, now, there’s something you don’t see every day. A blushing vampire.”

“And a civil servant,” added Mycroft, standing and removing his jacket, “reduced to shirtsleeves.  Quite the feat.”

Mycroft jumped in his chair the moment Lestrade took his hand.

Lestrade dabbed the thick cream on Mycroft’s wrist, coating a constellation of angry red welts. “Without this, it will burn badly for a long time. My grandmother made the chain, gave one to each of us kids. She was one of the best forgers the world has ever known and, like most goblins, fiercely protective of her own, even the halflings.”

“Is that why you joined the police force? To protect others?”

Lestrade nodded. “It’s my nature, as the scorpion says. See.”

The marks began disappearing.

“Much better,” Mycroft sighed. “Detective Inspector—“

“Greg?”

“Gregory?”

“A bit like Gran, but okay.”

Mycroft spoke crisply. “I have a small army of thralls available to meet my baser needs in a most efficient and effective manner known, but none are creatures whose companionship I genuinely enjoy. Last night, I was in fact, however ineffectively and inefficiently, merely requesting the pleasure of your company at a time and place convenient to us both.”

Lestrade kept his eyes fixed on his hands as they tended to Mycroft’s. “I suppose the real reason that I threw that chain on you is that it’s damn near impossible for me to imagine someone like you wanting to be with someone like me out of anything other than feral necessity.”

“Well, you’re wrong. Un-dead wrong.”

Lestrade smiled. “Is that a vampire joke?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft, cringing.

Lestrade giggled.

“Well, there’s something you don’t hear every day. A demi-goblin laughing.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you,” countered Mycroft, spreading his fingers and turning his hands over. “It’s gone.”

“I meant thank you for remembering the demi- part.”

“I also want you to know that I am a stout believer in hybrid vigour. Us pure blood are nothing but weak chins and whatever Sherlock is.” He screwed up his face in mock-disgust.

Lestrade laughed again. Then he asked, “Dinner? Or do you even eat human food? I'm not too fond of goblin fare.”

“I do. I am especially fond, perhaps Sherlock has intimated as much, of the final course.”

“Dessert?”

Mycroft nodded.

“There’s a German bakery near my place. I can get a decent cup of coffee and you can get a slice of whatever you fancy.”

Mycroft looked down at the file on his desk. A pink tinge returned to his cheeks.

“Mycroft Holmes, you are a naughty vampire,” Lestrade teased.

Mycroft looked up, one eyebrow raised and shrugged.

“Well, I’m warning you: beneath these rumpled DI threads, I’m a hairy beast.  Might be a bit rough on skin as soft as yours.”

Mycroft’s eyes turned to two pools of liquid obsidian. “If you think your words dissuasive, I assure they are the very opposite.”

Lestrade gestured to Mycroft’s hands. “Is all your skin that cool and smooth?”

Mycroft’s face fell. He nodded. “Always. Everywhere."

“Fuck,” Lestrade breathed.

Their eyes locked.

“Gregory, if it’s not too forward…”

“It’s not…”

“That bakery you mentioned…”

“…has some tasty breakfast pastries.” Lestrade glanced at Mycroft’s desk. “Your work?”

Mycroft closed the open file on top of the desk. “Is happily done for the day.”

“Excellent. Tomorrow’s my day off.”

“Hurrah.”

They both stood, and Lestrade grabbed the jar. “It’s good for all kind of things,” he explained with a wink.

Mycroft bit his lip and busied himself with unrolling his shirtsleeves and fastening the cuffs. As he slipped his jacket on Lestrade said,

“Wait, Mycroft, I’m a twice-divorced, grey-haired, paunchy, hirsute half-breed, are you sure you want to—“

Mycroft put a finger to Lestrade’s lips. “I’m a mildly—some would say extremely—ridiculous, antisocial, centuries-old, workaholic nightwalker. Are you?”

Lestrade smiled. “I am sure I want wrap my hairy legs around you tomorrow morning and keep you warm while I feed you bits of franzbrötchen with my fingers.”

“So you do want to feed me,” said Mycroft with a grin. “Just as I want to leave you—what was the colourful phrase Doctor Watson used this afternoon when he visited? ‘Shagged beyond all recognition.’”

Lestrade snorted. “That lycan may be the making of your brother…”

“…or make him worse than ever.” Mycroft opened the door. “Shall we?”

“Let’s.”