Greg Lestrade had been expecting, anticipating, and in truth dreading the official inquiry into his blind leniency towards the now late Sherlock Holmes. From the moment the news hit him, he'd been waiting for the axe to fall, like a prisoner waiting for the blow that would spell his execution. He wasn't exactly hiding his opinion that Sherlock had died an innocent man. That alone spoke volumes about his total lack of remorse for his association with the "consulting detective".

Greg thought back to the conversation he'd had with Dimmock the evening of Sherlock's demise. The man had all but begged him to change his "official position" on the matter.

"Please, Greg, be reasonable. There's no need to fall on your sword."

He'd laughed at that, as if the other Detective Inspector had made a devilishly suave joke. When he'd met the other man's eyes, his dark gaze blazed with a singularly determined conviction.

"You needn't worry that you might be blamed by association."

Dimmock sighed dejectedly. "That isn't why I'm talking to you. Your reputation precedes you. You've well earned the right to call yourself the very finest DI the Met has to offer. Hell, when I first started out, there was a good length of time I wanted to be you. I only gave up when I realised I'd never be able to emulate your natural charisma. The point is, I've always respected you and I want you to know I still do. I'd hate to watch you throw your good name and career away over a dead man."

"If you're really that concerned, then I suggest you look away when the Commissioner calls me in for an interview."

"Your dogged determination to maintain his honour won't do him any good now. Do you think he'd want you to sacrifice yourself like this?"

Greg's expression turned steely. "Your thoughts on the matter are duly noted, Jeremy. Now if that's all you've got, do please get out of my office."

The next day Greg had fully expected to receive a call or letter of notice alerting him to the impending inquiry into his habitually unorthodox judgement calls regarding Sherlock. Only no such communication from the Commissioner's office ever came. Another day passed and then another, and still no words from On High reached him. After a week of practically looking over his shoulder, Greg was slowly beginning to wonder if there'd be an inquiry at all.

At first he'd thought that the Commissioner must have had his own personal crisis to deal with and would simply get to him in due time, but it was now three weeks after Sherlock's death and there hadn't been the slightest peep from the Commissioner's office. Even if every single person in the Commissioner's family had suddenly died at the same time, there would most certainly have been news from the man's office or second-in-command. Yet strangely and inexplicably there hadn't been.

Dimmock had caught him yesterday in the break room.

"So it appears you listened to me after all," the younger man told him.

"I wouldn't quite call it that," Greg replied, pouring himself a steaming cup of coffee. "I actually haven't been asked for a statement."

The incredulous look on Dimmock's face had almost been comical.

"Three thoughts spring to mind," the man remarked with a wry smile. "And if the Commissioner exempted you from investigation, one of them must be true."

Greg sent him a less than amused look. "Alright Jeremy, enlighten me."

The man jauntily stirred the teabag in his cup with a spoon. He looked at Greg studiously. "One," he said thoughtfully, "You're secretly related to the Queen. Two, you're sleeping with a very powerful government official. Three, it's an honest-to-God miracle of divine intervention."

Greg snorted indecently and rolled his eyes. "Damn, you caught me out. I'm an illegitimate prince and my wife divorced me because she found out I was blowing the PM."

"Do you have an alternative explanation?"

"No."

"The Prime Minister theory isn't that far-fetched you know."

"Wow, thanks for the shining vote of confidence."

"The Commissioner had to have had a reason for letting you off Scot free. And I'm telling you the three explanations I gave you are the only ones that make any degree of sense."

"The last one doesn't."

"Right, you're an atheist. Though I'm sure you've heard people tell you that just because you don't believe in God doesn't mean He doesn't believe in you."

"You go all bloody evangelist on my arse and I may have to give in to my urge to throttle you."

"Sorry, torrid affair with a powerful official it is then."

It was in that instant that Greg knew the name of the person who had singlehandedly saved his professional reputation from total obliteration. He would never in a million years had guessed that the man would do anything like this for him. He wondered just how easy it had been. Not that Mycroft Holmes wouldn't be able to make the ridiculously impossible look like a jaunty little cakewalk. Though shockingly he'd cared enough to make an effort to help him in the immediate aftermath of his brother's death. And despite what was said about the mysteriously powerful "minor government official", Greg knew the man was not without emotion. His chest tightened in sympathy for Mycroft as he imagined the degree of pain he must be in.

Greg wished he had some way of contacting the man. He knew full well it was beyond futile to search for him in a published phone directory and he wasn't sure it was appropriate to make an appointment at the man's office in Whitehall. He didn't think Mycroft would appreciate a face-to-face meeting. He sighed and walked through the entrance of a corner Tesco on the first Saturday he hadn't been on duty in over two months. He was in dire need of beer and toaster pastries, and perhaps a few other items that actually counted as part of the food pyramid.

He meandered through the aisles, plucking random products from the shelves as he went and quickly worked his way to the dairy section. He scanned the selection, and was about to pick up a carton of free-range eggs when he noticed a familiar looking petite brunette surveying the same inventory. He blinked in surprised recognition, hardly believing that Mycroft Holmes' personal assistant was here, standing in an ordinary supermarket surveying an ordinary dairy aisle, her eyes assessing the products before her and for once not glued to her mobile phone.

Before he could think better of it, he found himself saying hello. The woman turned at his voice and stared at him for a couple of seconds before responding.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." she said cordially. "Good afternoon."

Greg found himself smiling at her greeting. Her cool reserve remained unwavering, and after a quick moment she returned her attention to the eggs.

"Is Mycroft here?"

The woman threw him a look like she thought he might be insane.

"Could you perhaps give him a message for me?" he asked in quiet seriousness. Her expression changed then fleetingly, her carefully controlled mask dropping to reveal a heartfelt expression of concern. She sighed and suddenly the carefully erected façade was back in place.

"Today is his forty-second birthday," she told him. "In the ten years I've been in his employ I've initiated the tradition of baking him a cake each year. And as much as he pretends to complain and protest at the gesture, I know it makes him smile." Her mask slid away again and her doe-like eyes were bright with feeling. "Today I'm worried he'll throw it in my face."

"He won't do that, Anthea." Greg told her softly. She flicked him a look.

"You haven't seen him recently," she said, her voice barely audible. "I'm frightened for him."

Greg only just held his surprise in check. That the woman would confide in him such information made his stomach drop in mounting unease.

"He's entirely blaming himself."

"We all grieve in different ways," Greg told her consolingly. "It's part of the individuality that makes us human."

"His behaviour isn't healthy. He won't even answer his mother's calls."

"I suppose that as long as he doesn't start World War III, he deserves some space while he processes his feelings. Men don't tend towards open displays of sentimental emotion even among the average populace, and you know as well as I do where Mycroft Holmes sits on that scale."

"That's precisely what I try to tell myself. But some part of me can't quite kick the feeling that there's something insidiously destructive buried inside him like a ticking time-bomb." Anthea met Greg's eyes in silent pleading. "He might well appreciate hearing you give your gratitude in person. At the very least you'll be a new person for him to contend with and who knows, maybe you'll be the one who succeeds in finding the chink in his armor."

"I'm not sure what I can do that you can't, but I'll certainly give it my best shot."

Anthea smiled prettily. "I'll text you directions and a time shortly, Detective Inspector."

Greg returned the woman's smile. "Very good then. See you soon, Anth-"

"My real name is Anne-Marie. Anne-Marie Althea Porter. I'm sure you can see why I use the name Anthea."

"It's a pretty name though, even if it is a bit . . . "

"Excessively syllabic?" she supplied.

"Yes, something like that," he agreed. He turned to leave.

"Detective Inspector!"

He stopped in his tracks and looked back at her.

"Did you not want a carton of eggs?" she asked proffering him a container.

He blinked. Had he wanted eggs? Oh yes, that was what had made them cross paths in the first place. That and Mycroft's PA's self-proclaimed baking skills.

He accepted the Styrofoam container, nearly launching into a fit of laughter at the strange bizarreness of the situation. He wondered if perhaps he'd accidentally entered some sort of weird alternate reality where Anthea shopped at Tesco like she'd been born for it and ran the world by conducting diplomacy by means of gifting baked goods to foreign officials. That along with the current of flirtatiousness that had ended their conversation made him almost believe it was some sort of ridiculous dream.

He bid Anne-Marie good day and tried his best to process what had just occurred. It didn't bear thinking that Mycroft's mysteriously silent PA had been driven to actually ask for his help in reaching out to her employer. He could only imagine how bad it would have to truly be for that to have occurred. For a man like Mycroft who reigned in supreme control of everyone and everything, holding a thousand strings at his very fingertips, Greg shuddered to think what it would be like for the man to lose his composure.

He flicked on a news station as he drove back to his tiny flat on the West side of London. Well, he thought, as he sat in traffic, World War III didn't seem to have started yet so it seemed Anthea and he still had time to pull Mycroft out of his downward spiral. Yet how, precisely they were going to go about accomplishing that, he had no feasible clue.

Perhaps Anthea would have an idea or two. He could only hope that she was right and his addition into Mycroft's circle wouldn't be harmful to anyone's safety. He shook his head slightly as he drove along the city streets.

He would later wonder in the years that followed if he would have agreed to meet Anthea at Mycroft's town home later that evening if he had known how things would play out.

As it was, he drove along in the late afternoon, having no idea what he was about to get into.