Stranger Things

The night was cold and wet. Rain drizzled down, had done so for quite a while, and it was creeping past Lestrade's upturned collar and soaking into his back. He was cold, he was tired, and he wanted nothing more than to get out.

Out of the wet clothes, out of the rain, and most of all Greg wanted out of this messy case that had kept him and his team – including Sherlock and John – awake and running for almost three days.

They'd been chasing the kidnappers of a ten-year-old kid, Ryan, son of prominent cabinet member Lord Henry Asherton-Fowley. The boy had been abducted almost three weeks ago but the family had kept it quiet out of fear for their kid's life.

The Yard had only become involved three days ago, when Sherlock's current case, the disappearance of a young woman, had concluded in finding her dead body on Lord Henry Asherton-Fowley's premises. With Scotland Yard traipsing all around the house and garden, the family had finally come clean about the kidnapping, realizing that not doing so would endanger their son's life even more.

The dead woman, Lucy Allen, had been occasionally working as a dog walker for the family (a fact that the fiancé hadn't deemed important enough to mention to Sherlock when he'd presented the case, but Sherlock had deduced it quickly enough). She'd apparently surprised the kidnappers while walking the family dog. According to John, who'd first examined the body and had found lots of defensive wounds, she had tried to fight the kidnappers very hard. And apparently the dog had tried to help.

Both had been killed by multiple stab wounds.

Oddly enough, or perhaps not, it had been the brutal slaughter of the family dog that had upset Sherlock the most.

He had insisted on examining the cadaver himself, sampling saliva, blood and even the smallest traces of fibre with a reverence and care Lestrade had rarely seen him display.

The sampled DNA, well, Greg had hated to admit it but it had the whole of Scotland Yard baffled. It had belonged to three different men that not only had no obvious connection whatsoever with each other, but, and that was the baffling fact, that had all been dead for at least six months. They'd died in completely different parts of the country, and all had died of natural causes. Or so it had seemed.

Huh.

Greg and his team had had no idea how to move the investigation forward without a word from the kidnappers. So far there had been no call for ransom, no letter, nothing. Scotland Yard had been at a loss.

But not so Sherlock.

Even now Greg hadn't fully understood how he had done it. But somehow, Sherlock had.

Greg had seen it in the detective's face. Suddenly something had clicked in that brilliant brain of his and Sherlock had let out a gasp followed by an almost annoyed 'Oh! Of course!'

And then he'd fired off a bunch of deductions so abstruse, intricate and complex that were, for anyone that wasn't the genius Sherlock Holmes, simply too bloody discombobulating to follow.

Greg hadn't even tried. What was the point, really? They'd only have wasted time. Like John had pointed out when Sherlock's enthusiasm had become a tad inappropriate, there had been a kidnapped kid to think about.

Greg had wasted no more time but had done what he'd become rather good at over the years. He'd given Sherlock the reigns and had let him bark out orders, trusting him blindly to lead them to the kidnappers and the, hopefully, unharmed kid.

What had followed then had been a breath-taking chase all over London that had finally ended tonight in an empty warehouse at the docks.

They'd found the kid, scared and dehydrated but otherwise unharmed, thank God. They'd also found a gang of five kidnappers, not four like Sherlock had deduced.
Four were overpowered easily enough, but it had been that bloody fifth member that had given them unexpected trouble. The man had briefly managed to get the jump on them. In the end, it had been Greg himself who'd shot him, but not before both Sherlock and John had been caught in the crossfire.

Sherlock had been shot in the leg and John, seeing his friend go down, had become too frantic in his shock to take the kidnapper out. His shot had missed the man (which was unusual for John but then again, Greg assumed John was rather out of practise) and the kidnapper's return shot had caught John in his right biceps. Despite being hit, John had prepared for another shot but the other man had been quicker with the trigger. Greg had seen and had acted on instinct. He'd pushed John to the ground and, not waiting to hear the enemy's bullet connect with the wall, had fired three times. The kidnapper had sunk to the ground and a pool of blood had slowly but steadily spread out on his chest.

Greg let out a sigh and forced his thoughts away from what had happened inside the warehouse and back to the present. Filling his lungs with the cold and damp outside air helped quite a bit, although it left him yearning for a cigarette. Greg raked a hand through his wet grey hair. The rain had picked up while he'd stood here wool gathering, he realized. He was soaked through to the bone. He sighed again. There would be time for a hot shower later, he hoped. And a fag or two. But for now, he should see to it that this case was wrapped up. He looked around and took stock.

His team was almost finished, having bundled up the surviving four kidnappers in various police cars. The body bag holding the dead one – 'The one I killed', his brain supplied unhelpfully and his stomach gave an unpleasant twinge - was just about to be carried into the hearse.

Quickly Greg let his gaze travel further. There were the two ambulance cars, and Sherlock and John were currently each treated in one. Greg slowly made his way over.

"This is completely stupid", he heard Sherlock complain as soon as he got close enough. "I'm fine. Absolutely fine!"

Greg beelined for the other ambulance. He hadn't fully reached it when he saw John jump down the open back. "It's alright," John threw over his shoulder to the dumbstruck paramedics. "I'll just… yeah. Oh, hi Greg."

"John, where are you…? Shouldn't you…?"

"Where do you think I'm going?" John gestured to the other ambulance and shrugged. "It'll make things easier for everyone if I just… Well, you know how he gets when… yeah, well."

"Right," Greg smirked. "Go on then. Don't let me keep you."

He watched John climb into the back of the ambulance and couldn't help but chuckle. Those two… would they ever manage to catch on to what everyone had seen from the very start? They were it for each other! And clearly, now that the whole Mary business was over and done with and well in the past, they'd eventually…

A large car suddenly screeched to a halt at the edge of the taped-off crime scene. Greg spun around and stared. The back door flew open and a man jumped out, almost falling flat on his face in his haste to get out. Greg recognized him immediately, although he had no idea who had already alerted Lord Henry Asherton-Fowley.

"Where is he? Where is my son?"

Greg cursed inwardly. The family should not yet have been notified. The boy had to be checked out by the paramedics and brought to a hospital, and his parents should see him there and then, not here at the crime scene. Who the hell had gone against protocol and called them? Greg had no time to find out. He let out a sigh and then sprinted over to the agitated man. "Lord Asherton-Fowley!"

"Where is my son, Detective Inspector? Where is Ryan?"

"He's fine," Greg tried to reassure the man. "They didn't hurt him, he's…"

Lord Henry cut him off. "Where is he? I want to see him!"

"Of course," Greg led the man by the elbow to the ambulance John had vacated earlier. There on a stretcher, looking smaller than a boy of ten ever should, was Ryan.

He was hooked up on an IV and bundled up in several shock blankets. His blond hair was dark from dust and grime and his face smeared with tearstains. A paramedic was busy bandaging a small gash on the boy's forehead. Blue eyes peaked out from under the bandage and they widened considerably in relief when the two men approached.

"Daddy!"

Greg let go of Lord Henry's arm so that the man could climb into the ambulance. "Ryan, oh Ryan," the man's voice broke and Greg watched him sink to his knees next to the stretcher. "Oh, thank God, you're okay. I'm here now, Ryan. I'm here. Everything's going to be alright."

From where he stood at the back of the ambulance, Greg watched father and son for a little while. 'This is good,' he thought and felt the earlier twinge in his stomach ease somewhat. 'This is why it's worth it. I did what I had to do, and I'll always do what I'll have to do, for moments like this.'

"All is well that ends well, wouldn't you agree, Detective Inspector?"

The familiar quiet voice startled Greg to no end. He turned around and found himself face to face with none other than Mycroft Holmes.

"What are you doing here?"

Greg knew he had to sound harsh but, frankly, he couldn't care less. He was tired, he was soaked to the bone, he'd just killed a man, and he absolutely wasn't in the mood to deal with Mycroft bloody Holmes. Although, come to think of it, the rain had somehow stopped soaking him. Greg looked up. Oh, right. Mycroft was holding his ever-present umbrella over the both of them. Still…

Greg turned his face back to the man. Mycroft was simply looking at him, looking through him, with this kinda creepy and kinda not look that he had. Eyes Greg had no idea what colour they were seemed to bore into him, making him want to cringe and hide, while at the same time they seemed to pull him in. He could drown in those eyes.

"Well?" Greg ground out when the silence got too much. "This some kind of secret government thing or are you just concerned for your brother? He's over there by the way," Greg pointed to the second ambulance. "So…" He made an awkward shooing gesture that didn't seem to register on Mycroft's mind, at all.

The taller man continued to stare at him, and then he sighed, looked briefly to the ground, and when he met Greg's gaze again, the intense look was gone from his eyes. What was left was a somewhat half-smile, half-shrug that, on anyone else, would have looked apologetic. On Mycroft, it looked just plain weird.

"I…" Mycroft cleared his throat, "…took the liberty of informing Lord Asherton-Fowley of the fact that his son had been found and then I brought him here."

"Of course you bloody did." Greg shook his head. "Should've known. On my team, everyone knows how to follow protocol."

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, just, don't say it," Greg waved off. The utter foolishness of his statement had just crossed his mind. Mycroft Homes was perhaps many things, but not a team player. He probably thought himself to be above such trivial things as proper police protocol – and very possibly he was. Still, that didn't give him the right…

"I merely wished to help. Speed things along, so to speak." Mycroft threw a brief glance into the ambulance where Ryan was still being treated, his father by his side. "Lord Asherton-Fowley is an… acquaintance, and naturally I followed this case. I was informed earlier tonight that my dear brother had deduced the kidnappers' whereabouts and that he, alongside Scotland Yard, would attempt to rescue the boy."

"Does Sherlock know you still have him under surveillance? Does John?" Greg threw in only half-heartily. Of course, they had to know. Or, at the very least, they suspected. In the months since… well, since it all happened, Greg had seen Sherlock often enough tear apart the flat searching for cameras. Not that he'd ever found any.

Mycroft didn't seem to deem Greg's comment worthy of a reply. He simply went on explaining in his detached business-like manner.

"Tonight, I found myself in the rather rare position of having no pressing business matter to attend to. Well, that is, none that required my own personal interference, and everything else I was able to… delegate or postpone."

"In other words," Greg chuckled, "you moved Heaven and Hell to clear your busy schedule so that you could watch out for your little brother."

Again, Mycroft didn't acknowledge Greg's comment in any words. Merely an irritated eye twitch gave him away. "Anyway, so I took it upon myself to inform Lord Asherton-Fowley of the possibility that tonight his son might be found alive and well, and I had him brought to my office in case all would go according to plan. To increase the possibility of a positive outcome, I had a small team of… let's say, special agents ready and on alert nearby."

Mycroft forestalled any protest Greg might have uttered by holding up a hand. "I assure you, Detective Inspector, that it was done in no way out of doubt for Scotland Yard's competence, or yours for that matter. Quite the contrary, I assure you. But, well, you've known my brother for quite a while now, so I'm sure you'll agree with me when I say he can be a bit of a rather unbalanced variable in any equation. And I didn't want to take any risks, not with the life of a child hanging in the balance."

Greg's mouth closed, the protest dying on his lips. Although he didn't always agree with Mycroft's methods, and he sure as hell seemed to have a better opinion on Sherlock's capabilities, and he placed more trust in the Consulting Detective than his brother seemed to do, in the end Mycroft almost always meant well. He loved his brother, of that Greg was sure.

And, Greg had to admit, Mycroft had made a good point. There had been a child's life at stake tonight. Greg didn't want to think about how absolutely shite he'd feel now, had something happened to the boy. In comparison, feeling a twinge of guilt in his gut because he'd had to kill one of the kidnappers was nothing. It had happened in defence of his team (for John and Sherlock were part of his team, if not more, they were friends, too) and he'd do it all over again in a heartbeat, Greg knew.

No, Mycroft had been right. All's well that ends well, hadn't he said so earlier? Still, Greg assumed he could've done without killing anyone. He'd sure as hell sleep better in the future, had he not been forced to…

"Now, wait a minute," he suddenly frowned. "Why didn't you send your agents in? Sherlock was shot and John… and I had to… you could've…"

For a second something like guilt crossed Mycroft's features but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Greg couldn't even be sure it had been there at all. Mycroft shrugged and cleared his throat.

"It seemed to me like you had the situation well under control, so I didn't want to interfere unless I absolutely had to. But Sherlock and John both suffered merely minor injuries, they were only grazed by the bullets, as the paramedics will no doubt confirm, and you…"

"I killed a man!"

"You, Detective Inspector, acted in the most competent and professional manner possible while defending yourself and your team members. You handled and concluded the entire case in the highest proficient way. You caught the kidnappers and saved the child, and it was all done with minimum damage and almost no casualties, and none of severe consequence, I might add. So, congratulations, Detective Inspector, on a job well done."

Greg didn't know what to say. He stared at the taller man, not sure if he'd really heard that right. It had almost sounded as if Mycroft Holmes had not only just defended his actions but paid him a genuine compliment as well. And, on top of it all, it had almost sounded as if Mycroft had just tried to make him feel better.

Huh. Stranger things had happened, right? Oh, wait. No, they hadn't. The great Mycroft Holmes trying to make someone feel better, trying to give comfort and assurance… well, that was definitely the strangest thing Greg had ever experienced.

"I must be asleep on my feet. That's it. Can't be real." Greg tried to shake himself awake and realized in the process that his entire body was shivering and shaking. He was bloody freezing!

"Excuse me?" Mycroft sounded caught off-guard, another thing Greg knew he'd never heard before.

"No-Nothing," Greg managed to get out between his teeth shattering. "Anyway, err, thanks, you know. And, yeah, I should…" He pointed to where Sergeant Sally Donovan and the rest of his team were waiting. "I need to, you know, wrap this up."

"Certainly, Detective Inspector." Mycroft took a step back. Only then did Greg realize how close to each other they'd been standing. Huddled together under Mycroft's umbrella, closed off and… intimate.

'Wait, what? Where the hell had that come from?' Greg almost choked on his own saliva. He let out a quick cough to clear his suddenly dry throat (and his addled brain, he thought shocked).

Mycroft was fixing him with another one of his close stares and Greg felt more exposed than ever. He was suddenly sure that the other man knew exactly what he'd been thinking and would let out a scratching, or worse, pitying comment. But Mycroft surprised him yet again.

"May I perhaps be so forward as to suggest that you, for once, let your Sergeants deal with finishing this case on their own? Certainly, they can be trusted to manage it? Or do they really need you to show them how to put ordinary criminals behind bars? The paperwork can wait till morning, I am sure."

Greg swallowed, not exactly sure what was happening here. Was Mycroft flirting with him? Seriously? And why was he thinking about that? He didn't even like Mycroft! Or did he? Greg wasn't sure. He didn't really know Mycroft. And was Mycroft even… Was he really… Was he suggesting… He wasn't, was he? Oh, for God's sake, there's only one way to find out.

"And what would you so forwardly suggest I should do instead?" Had it come out too suggestive? Too flirty? Not flirty enough? Bloody hell, he hadn't done this in years! At least not with a bloke. Not that he'd ever thought about doing it with a bloke… err, flirting that is. He'd meant flirting, not the other thing. Oh God, now he was thinking about doing the other thing! With Mycroft! Whom he didn't even like!

And now he was shouting at himself in his head. Shut up, Greg.

"Why, Detective Inspector," Mycroft drawled. "I think that… Well, perhaps it would be best for you to go home. You're drenched through and I wouldn't want for you to catch a cold."

Oh. Right.

So, no flirting. How stupid of him to think that… Mycroft had simply been polite. And concerned for his wellbeing. Of course, that's it. He'd been merely concerned. Or, had he? Why had he paused?

Greg let out a sigh. He was confused, and tired beyond measure. He wasn't thinking straight (indeed you weren't. Quite the opposite, right? Shut up!)

"Right," Greg muttered and raked a hand through his hair. Mycroft's eyes, he noticed, followed his every move. "Anyway, yeah. Right." He took a step away from Mycroft. "Go home, I'll do that. Now. So, yeah, err." Another step backwards. "Goodnight, Mycr… I mean, Mr. Holmes. Goodnight. And, you know, thanks. For, yeah." Another two steps back, then a turn, then…

"Detective Inspector?"

"What?" Greg turned back immediately.

"I just…" Mycroft blinked and threw a quick look to the ground before he looked at Greg again. "Mycroft is fine."

"Right," Greg nodded. "Okay. Well, then… goodnight, Mycroft."

He had made four or five more paces away when he heard the soft reply.

"Goodnight, Gregory."

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The End (for now)