Mycroft Holmes walked quickly to his office. Anthea texted him earlier, saying he mustn't come back to his office, that he must go someplace else, where he won't be found. So, obviously, he headed to his office as fast as possible. He couldn't allow others to distract him from his work, and if Anthea was right and things are as serious as they were claimed to be, escaping would only show weakness, and that was something Mycroft Holmes could not bear with. As he walked in the corridor and got closer to his office, he could hear voices. Most of them of men, but also one of a woman. Something about them was familiar, as if he had ever heard them before, but not directly. One manly voice spoke more loudly than the rest, and as it was spoken the rest were quiet. This voice was more familiar than the rest of them. Just as he managed to identify the voice, he opened the door. It was the voice of DI Greg Lestrade. He opened the door to find his office filled with police officers, ones he had seen his brother with before. Just by the door stood DI Lestrade, his hair gray as he had remembered it from the times he had seen him with Sherlock. His expression was serious, but he could not hide the nervousness he was feeling. "Explain." he asked the DI coldly, ignoring the rest of the people there. The crowd, including Lestrade, seemed frozen for a moment, as if they had not expected a situation like this. But their hesitation lasts only a moment, and then everyone started moving quickly towards him. Before he managed to understand what was going on, the DI announced: "Mycroft Holmes, you are arrested for the murder of Anthea Jenkins." Mycroft was too stunned to resist being put in handcuffs and led into a police car. How was this possible? Anthea had texted him less than an hour ago, alive. How could she be dead? And more importantly – why did they think he was responsible for her death? Only when he was led to the nearest prison, he realized what was happening. "What are you doing?" No answer. Everyone around him ignored him, and continued pulling him closer and closer to a private cell. "You can't do this. I've just been arrested – you can't treat me like a convicted criminal!" "We got special orders to do so." An answer came at last from the DI. "There are enough evidences in order to convict you, which mean that not only you are fired from your position, but you also lose your rights. Your actions are considered as betrayal, which gives us the right to imprison you just for that." "I can't be fired!" he exclaimed in shock. He basically runs the British government – he has no replacement. The officers released him from the handcuffs and shoved him inside the cell. The cell was relatively bigger than others, with a rickety bed and a wooden bench. There was a small coffee table in front of the bench, and a small bookcase against the wall. There were orange clothes on the bench – the clothes of a prisoner. None of this made sense – how could he be treated this way before he was even convicted? "Put on the uniform." The cell's door was closed and locked, and the officers started heading away from him. "Wait!" he cried desperately. Lestrade turned. There was such a look of disgust on his face, one he had never seen before. Mycroft cleared his throat. He couldn't afford himself to sound weak. "I believe I deserve a phone call." Lestrade stared at him for a moment, as if considering the idea of letting him call someone. After a moment, he sighed. "Who would you like to call?" Mycroft hesitated for a moment. He had only one option – the only person who could help him was the same person he wanted least to come. "Sherlock Holmes."