"Get in the car, Detective Inspector," a smooth voice said before the call ended abruptly. A discreet black car pulled up, the door was opened by a man in white gloves, and to this day Greg has no idea what came over him, but without hesitation, he hid from the rain and climbed into the back seat.
Honestly, he'd been having the longest week of his life. His wife had left him again, Sam was fighting at school, an arrogant stranger in a coat had been showing up at his crime scenes, and now he'd been abducted. Greg sighed and let himself be carried away through the streets of the city, watching the rain fall on the windows. Who knew? Maybe he'd be dead by the morning and not have any of that shit to deal with. That might be nice. He'd always thought that death would be peaceful, his body decomposing, the atoms that made up his very being just scattering, becoming water, or soil, or rock, and sometimes on a more cheerful day, a star. Something…new, less problematic.
Earlier that week a young man in a big coat had swept into his crime scene, firing off texts and talking like there was no tomorrow. Greg had firmly told him that he needed to leave. The man had pulled himself up to his full height, fixed Greg with a withering stare, and stalked off muttering something about incompetent monkeys.
Greg thought that would be the end of it, that the man was just some pissed bastard with an inferiority complex and a heightened sense of his own intelligence. To be fair, Greg was completely right, although Sherlock had been high, not pissed. But oh no, the next day the man was back again. And again he'd been asked to leave. This time however, he'd stood his ground, after a while Greg had to ask that he was forcibly removed, which he was.
This carried on for the next three days, the man had been verbally abused by every scientist and detective at the scene, and once physically. Due to company policy, Anderson had been suspended from work for a month.
The car slipped through the city unnoticed, the driver avoided busy streets, favouring alleys and side streets, he kept to the shadows. Greg felt a growing sense of apprehension, feeling like the buildings around him were growing, criss-crossing over each other, forming a cage of brick and concrete. He'd never liked the dark, laugh all you want. Yes, he was a policeman who'd wrangled homicidal criminals, and he was afraid of the dark.
Mycroft watched from his office, picture the stereotypical villain, the sort that chuckles darkly and strokes innocent kittens in an entirely creepy manner, picture that minus the kitten. He was tracking the car's progress as it made its way across London, being as high up as he was in the government certainly had its perks. CCTV footage to name one, he'd seen many a drunken joke, sneaky shag in a darkened back street, and student prank, he'd particularly enjoyed the one with the mannequins. He may be important, but he liked a laugh as much as the next highly intelligent, high security government official.
He really did look like a Bond villain, he had the high back leather chair that he could spin around in, he was surrounded by screens, and he was surveying the whole of London from his current position. The only thing that destroyed the image was the Gregg's box on his desk, and the lack of a small fluffy creature to pet.
The car was nearing its destination. Mycroft heaved himself out of his seat, which took more effort than he'd care to admit. He'd start his diet tomorrow, right now he needed to have a nice little chat with a certain DI Gregory Lestrade.
Greg scowled as he got out of the car, what sort of criminal used Battersea Power Station as a hide out? Oh that's right, the sort who uses an umbrella like a cane, wears three piece suits, and sends sleek black cars to pick you up, so that you are the victim of the most comfortable kidnap in history.
The man turned around and Greg was struck with the very strange sensation that he knew him. Something about the way he held himself, confident and arrogant, but somehow concealed, like you wouldn't notice if you passed them in the street. The eyes as well, they were a perplexing mixture of blue and grey and green, and suddenly he had it. The crackpot who kept showing up at his crime scenes, this man was just the same.
"Hello Inspector," said the man with the same deep voice Greg had heard on the phone, "I trust you had a pleasant journey."
Greg was taken aback, "Uh…yeah."
The man smirked, "Quite. I'd like to talk to you about a Mr Sherlock Holmes. What do you know about the man?"
Greg stared up at the man, quite honestly they were very nice eyes, and he did look good in that suit. No. No this man had abducted him, you can't fancy your kidnapper. "Nothing, well almost nothing. He's…certainly eccentric."
"He is that," the man murmured, almost sadly, "I'd like you to let him into your crime scenes. He's destructive, to say the least, when he's bored, he needs the stimulation, and he can help."
"I'm sorry sir," Greg said, "I'm really not authorised to let complete strangers onto my crime scenes."
"Oh I know that, Detective, but I am."
Greg just stood there, mouth slightly open, forehead creased.
"And who exactly are you?"
"An interested party," the man said, "a powerful one. Goodbye Detective Inspector. You'll be hearing from me very soon."
The man turned on his heel, and left. Greg was rooted to the spot, slack-jawed and more than a little attracted to the stranger.
A smartly dressed woman walked up behind him, "I'm to take you home," she said, not looking up from her phone.
"Right," Greg muttered, "New Scotland Yard in that case."
Hallo, thanks for reading this, I hope it was vaguely enjoyable. I am entirely guilty of stealing a line or two of dialogue from A Study In Pink. x