Light Me Up

"I was a broke down heartbreak, badly in need,
Of a little of love's electricity,
A busted carnival ride,
In the middle of the night,
Then you flipped the switch,
You turned on the show,
You light me up." – Hunter Hayes

The sun had long since set over London, and Greg and Mycroft were seated in New Scotland Yard poring over a case-file the covert government official had presented that morning. It regarded the murders of two off-duty MI5 agents. Whoever the killer was left no trace in their wake, and an in-depth autopsy was their only hope to point them in the right direction. While waiting for the report from Bart's Specialist Registrar, Mycroft thought it best to check over what had been gathered from the crime scenes.

Greg's shirt sleeves were rolled up—a habit of his when he was thinking hard—and his silver hair was sticking up at odd angles after running his hands through it. Despite the stress of the situation, the auburn-haired Mycroft looked as impeccable as ever. He still wore his three-piece suit and bright white gloves and not a sliver of skin exposed apart from his head and neck.

"Mycroft, we're not gettin' anywhere lookin' over these notes. Why don't we just wait until Molly gets back to us with the autopsy results?"

"There is something important in this file, Detective Inspector, and we're simply not looking hard enough," the older man quipped. Mycroft meticulously picked up a photo taken at the crime scene from the stack. He looked over the picture, analysing every element that could be seen. Greg sighed and picked up one for himself, leaning back in his seat as his eyes scanned the image in hopes of finding something out of the ordinary.

He soon set down the image and moved to pick up a second. "Couldn't Sherlock help with this? Surely he would be able to—"

"Brother mine is not the best choice for cases about such sensitive issues," Mycroft cut him off abruptly. "Also, he doesn't work as well with the staff of MI5 as he does with your team."

"That's sayin' somethin'. . ." He trailed off, leaning back in his chair again to look through the pictures.

After glancing at the third image and finding nothing, the silver-haired man lets out a frustrated sigh. "Are you seriously tellin' me there are no rogue agents that could have done this?"

"All available agents are being questioned and all of their stories have checked out so far," Mycroft replied coolly, his eyes fixed on the photo in his hand.

Greg shook his head, running a hand through his hair once more. "It's useless, Mycroft. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doin'."

"I would rather ensure that nothing was missed," the auburn-haired man said in a clipped tone.

As he set yet another photo down, Greg's phone rang. The sound pierced the frustrated silence that had befallen the room, and as he darted for the device he knocked a long forgotten cup of coffee over in his haste. The contents spilled freely over the desk in reckless abandon.

"Shit!" Greg ignored his phone in favour of quickly scooping up the file and pictures. He then turned to the government official in concern. "Are you alright?"

"Just some stained gloves," Mycroft said casually with a wave of his hand. "Luckily I never leave home without a spare pair."

He quickly grabbed tissues from the box on the desk to mop up the spilled beverage before disposing of them, then headed to his briefcase to find more gloves. The case popped open with two clicks and he carefully stripped the wet gloves off before rummaging through the pockets.

"Where on Earth. . ."

"Here, let me help." Greg immediately stood and joined the other man by looking under various files and digging through the pockets. The two searched the case for a few moments, and the only noise to fill the otherwise silent office was the rustling of papers.

"Got them." Mycroft moved to extract the clean pair from the depths of a pocket as the D.I. moved his hands away from a selection of neatly organised files.

The pair barely felt the red head's hand brush against Greg's bare arm, but both inhaled sharply as a white light blinded them both for a few moments.

When his vision returned, Greg looked up at Mycroft and stared at him in shock. The two men remained quiet, ignoring the phone ringing on the desk until the D.I. found his voice. "You're my soulmate?"

"It appears I am," Mycroft answered quietly, bright blue eyes still fixed on the soulful brown ones.

"Fuck." Greg moved to sit on the floor, breaking his gaze as he tried to take in the information. His eyes snapped back up at Mycroft as the man moved to stand. "So, where do we go from here?"

Greg's phone rang again.

"Aren't you going to take that?" Mycroft asked simply.

"Oh, yeah."

Greg quickly stood up and strode to the desk to grab his phone. "Hey Molly," he said as he turned away from Mycroft. "Sorry, we were busy. I knocked over some coffee and we needed to clean up, but never mind that. . . Right, OK, thanks for lettin' us know. See ya, bye."

The call ended and he turned back toward the government official. "Autopsy and toxicology report showed nothin'."

"I assumed as much," Mycroft sighed.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Which question?"

"Don't play dumb, Mycroft. You know what I mean. We're soulmates! So. . . Where do we go from here?"

"Nowhere," the other man answered simply, turning to collect the pictures and case file. "Caring is a disadvantage, and this whole 'soulmate' business is absolute nonsense."

"What? How's it nonsense? You saw the light, isn't that proof enough?"

Mycroft ignored the question. Instead, he neatly collected his suitcase and made his way toward the door. "Thank you for your assistance, Detective Inspector, but your help is no longer needed. Good evening."

"What? Mycroft—"

The door clicked shut before Greg could utter another word, leaving him alone in the office.

AN: Many thanks to my beta ljgryphon!