A/N: I do not own Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, Sergeant Sally Donovan or Anderson; they belong to the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, Rupert Graves, Mark Gatiss, Vinette Robinson and Jonathan Aris. The plot and Police Constable Yates, Emily Lestrade, Tara Lestrade and other characters who show up briefly, however, are mine. :)

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From out of tragedy, a familiar face appears out of the shadows of the past and back into the life of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, a face that had, many years earlier, broken his heart... and a face that he never stopped loving...

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My second Mystrade fic! :) An Alternate Universe/tragedy/slice of life/hurt/comfort fic that will be a complicated piece of writing jumping forth between the present and the past. It will be interesting, to say the least, so I hope that I do a good job and manage to do the proper transitions at the proper time. I'll be using the same method that SoWrightSoWrong used with her PxE fic, Shadows Passing, with the present in regular text, the past in italics. It's basically a 'boy meets boy in the past, they fall in love but circumstances separate them, one boy moves on, marries and has a family while the other does not, although they never forget about each other, they don't see each other for years and, when tragedy strikes, boys meet again' story.

Hope you enjoy! :)

Thanks to my readers and all those who have favourited, reviewed, story alerted, favourite author or author alerted me. I appreciate it more than I can say! :)

Thank you to my beta reader, Pearls1990, for her AWESOME beta reading! Much appreciated! :)

Special thanks to my beloved husband, DezoPenguin, for all his help, support, advice, nagging (when necessary) and encouragement! I appreciate it more than I can say! Love you!

Comments are appreciated and welcome! :) I'll probably change some things at some point; always room for improvement! :)

Rated T, Alternate Universe/Hurt/Comfort/Drama, male/male relationships, Mycroft Holmes x Gregory Lestrade

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September 21st, 2003
New Scotland Yard
10 A.M.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade cursed softly as he sprinted across the parking lot, his grey trench-coat flying about his legs like broken wings as he raced into the building, dodging an outstretched arm as he flew under an officer's arm and muttering apologies as he ducked into the elevator. He leaned against the wall in order to catch his breath, looking at his watch and cursing again.

Damn it, I'm late! His mouth twisted into a sour grimace as he watched the lit numbers slowly going by as the elevator continued its upward trek, tapping his foot impatiently. Of all the times that Emmie had to be difficult, this morning was not a good time!

He looked up at the passing floors, scowling when it stopped every now and again to pick up people that were waiting patiently outside the doors; he acknowledged greetings to some who worked either with him or on his floor with a lifted hand. God, the Carson case is beginning to heat up and the Lawson case seems stalled right now although it might help if Anderson got the ball rolling! That's something else that I need to do at some point: to talk to Molly and get the forensics report back on the Simpson case; she should have it completed by now!

It had not been a good morning thus far. Emily, affectionately known as Emmie, his six months pregnant wife, had put her foot down and insisted that he eat a good breakfast, like it or not and refused to listen to him when he told her that he needed to get to work or he'd be late. After he'd left home, traffic was jammed for over an hour and he'd had to take a detour when one of the bridges was closed for repairs.

He'd heard that there had been an explosion after he entered New Scotland Yard-late, he ruefully admitted, because his wife had made certain that he'd eaten before he left-and now, that he was here and sprinting down the hall to his office, he wondered why it had gotten so quiet all of a sudden when it was normally a frenetic hubbub of activity that often spilled into the hallways.

He also wondered at the cause of the uneasy and pitying glances that he saw dispersed in the various people standing there like statues in a garden which was something else his sharp eyes picked up on immediately. He also wondered why some members of his team were trying to disuade him from going to the crime scene and what exactly the reasons for it were.

Something's up. They've never acted like this before on a case... at least not like this.

It was indeed curious since the vast majority of people that worked closely under him had never, that he could recall, acted like this and it was clear to him that something was amiss. They refused to meet his gaze when he questioned them directly and noticed the uneasy glances that were passing between them.

He hadn't slept well the night before-there was something about a case that was troubling him-and his temper wasn't as stable as he would have liked; the surreptitious glances they were giving him as he raced into the Yard were really starting to annoy him. When he'd stepped into his office with the team following behind, he put his foot down, literally and figuratively, insisting that they tell him what the hell was going on and to quit acting like guilty schoolchildren.

A stunned and uneasy silence reigned for some time before Police Constable Hannah Yates, a new addition to Scotland Yard since September last, stepped hesitantly forward, her hands twining together and writhing like a nest of snakes. He noted that, while she was the nervous sort generally, that today she was even more restless than she normally was and waited for her to speak.

"Sir," she began hesitantly, looking toward Sally Donovan who stood off a little to the right, tense and silent, "there's-well... been..." She stopped, swallowed and then continued. "There's been an... accident..." Her voice trailed off again into an uncomfortable, strained silence.

All this... over a bloody accident?! Of all days, today is not the day to have to deal with something else! I have enough to deal with as it is!

Lestrade closed his eyes and counted to twenty before he spoke. Twice. When he at last opened his eyes after some time had passed, he looked frostily at each and every face that had turned his way, and even a few that weren't. When he spoke, it was with a tinge of ice.

"There's been an accident? Is that why you're all standing here like a bunch of guilty fools, whispering among yourselves?" He was annoyed and he let it show. "I expect more professionalism from my team members and I bloody well demand honesty, as well, as you should know, P.C. Yates!"

He threw the file he carried in his hand on top of his desk that sounded like a rifle shot when it landed and Yates flinched, her brow furrowing as he turned his angry glare directly on her. "Now, I'll ask you one more time just what the bloody hell is going on here and why you're all doing your level best to avoid answering my question!"

Yates threw an inquiring look at Sgt. Donovan who nodded once, a grim look on her face. Lestrade felt a cold chill of fear wash over him at the look that passed between the two women although he did his level best not to show it outwardly. It wasn't really all that difficult since he really was angry.

There was something in that gaze that struck him to the heart which made the current situation he was facing at home that much worse. His wife of six years, Emily, was pregnant again and this time was proving to be very difficult for her; she'd already had one close call three months earlier and Lestrade couldn't help but to worry about her. He didn't want to have that occur again and she'd been ordered, by her physician, to complete bed rest. Dr. Greene, their regular physician who had known both Lestrade and Emily since they were children, had even admonished Lestrade to make sure that 'damnably stubborn hoyden does it' which, as he well knew, she wouldn't.

He loved her but simply couldn't understand why she refused to take the physician's advice, particularly since he knew that she was having trouble carrying this baby. That had been the source of countless arguments between them as of late and, coupled with the stress that he was feeling at work over the Lawson and Cameron murder cases, had driven him from their home to the pub more often than not which was another thing that he felt guilty about.

He'd remembered the latest flight from home a couple of days ago as he stood there, staring at Donovan and Yates; he'd commiserated with the bartender about the numerous ways that women drove menfolk crazy and, when he took a long draught from his pint, he couldn't help wishing that she would take the doctor's admonitions to heart. Contrary to her belief, the doctor wasn't out to get her by any stretch of the imagination or even being beastly just for the sake of being beastly; he was genuinely concerned for her welfare and had expressed this very clearly to Lestrade on more than one occasion over the past four months.

He had the notion that she probably felt, in his flights from home, that he was deserting her in her time of need although, bless her heart, she never said so. Given the stress he was under with this case and worrying about his very stubborn wife, he couldn't help feeling that he had failed her both by not being there for her and supporting her.

Emily was Emily, however and in the end he'd given up trying to convince her since she refused to take the doctor's advice anyway, going about her daily life much the same as she always had. If he was exasperated with his wife for this reason, he was genuinely enchanted by their four year old daughter, Tara. He smiled as he thought of her.

An even tempered child, she, like her mother, was blonde haired, green eyed with a small spate of freckles over her nose which only added to her charm rather than taking away from it. She was also a very active little girl and could be quite a handful when her temper flared or was up in arms about something but, generally, she was a very good, and precociously intelligent, little girl.

All of this was brought back to him in the look that passed between P.C. Yates and Sally Donovan and he knew, in an instant, that the news, whatever it was, wasn't good.

His legs felt like rubber, threatening to to give out underneath him, a chill washing over him; both Yates and Donovan were at his side in an instant and helped him to his desk, Donovan pulling out the chair and then helping Yates settle him into it.

Yates put her hand on his shoulder, her face full of sympathy while his mind whirled in incomprehensible circles. He knew that look and he also knew that it didn't bode well; it was the same expression on any officer's face when they had tragic news to impart.

"We wanted to spare you, Sir," she said quietly. "Despite how it may have appeared to you,"-her eyes flickered over to Sgt. Donovan briefly and back- "we weren't trying to be deliberately cagey or dishonest. We just... didn't want you to be alone when you heard that..."

"Heard... what?" he asked hoarsely, his hands shaking.

Yates bit her lip, looking very uncomfortable. This was one aspect of her job that she really hated.

"There was an... explosion at 333 Drury Lane, Sir." She paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. "There... there were... casualties..."

Lestrade's eyes went wide, his mouth opening and closing but no sound emerged and it took an act of will just to keep breathing.

333 Drury Lane is... Oh, dear God... it's my house!

Lestrade's face went white as the full implications of what P.C. Yates had just said sank in fully. There had been an explosion at his home and there were casualties...

"Casualties..." He closed his eyes for a moment, counting to ten slowly twice before he opened them again. "How many... were there?" His voice sounded hopeful, praying that one of his family might have been spared. His hands were beginning to shake again and it took every ounce of willpower he possessed to try to keep them still although he could feel slight tremors.

P.C. Yates hesitated before she answered, taking a deep breath. "Two, Sir... actually," Yates corrected herself, swallowing hard, "three if you count the unborn child..."

"Oh... God...!" A moan of sorrow escaped from his tightly compressed lips before he had a chance to stop it and he pitched forward onto his desk, his hands cradling his head. He dimly heard the shouts in the background behind him as the fact that his family was dead became too horribly real.

Emily... oh god... Tara!

The tears came, flowing down his cheeks in a steady stream as his heart broke within him. Emily and Tara were dead... killed in an explosion at their home.

"When?" The question was pulled unwillingly from him, his voice rough with unshed tears.

"Sir?"

"When... did it... happen?"

"Nine forty-five this morning, Sir," Yates replied quietly and Lestrade couldn't suppress another sorrowful moan that rose from his throat, a stab of guilt piercing his heart. Where had he been at that time? Stuck in traffic, his finger tapping the steering wheel impatiently. What had he been doing? Railing against his wife in his mind and blaming her for his being so late among a plethora of other unpleasant thoughts while, unbeknownst to him, he was a widower.

He leaned forward, cradling his head on his crossed arms and wept.