DI Lestrade was having a rough night. He was exhausted, not from lack of sleep (although that was also true), but because of the same, mind numbing pointlessness of his profession. There had been a particularly vicious murder that he knew, deep down, would never be solved – the victim was a homeless drug addict who nobody seemed to know or want to know. After all, Jane Doe had probably been killed by a drug dealer.
"Wrong." A low, slightly slurred voice stated. Lestrade turned around, finding himself face to face with a young man. He was maybe twenty five, dark, tangled curls framing a sharp face and high cheekbones. He was painfully thin and frail, identifying him as a drug user. Lestrade could see puncture marks on the man's arms, and knew one of them must be very recent.
"I didn't say anything." Lestrade replied with a sigh – he was not in the mood to deal with a high drug addict with an attitude problem. He briefly wondered why this man had not scarpered along with the rest of the junkies, but this thought was interrupted by a curt reply.
"You were thinking it. Loudly." The man gave him a cold stare, but its intensity was greatly reduced by the glazed effect of his eyes and his dilated pupils.
"What do you –" Lestrade started to say, but he was cut off by the rude young man.
"You assume that the killer was a drug dealer or perhaps a boyfriend. This is obviously not the case – the victim clearly died as a result of a carefully planned and perfectly carried out murder, which was covered up to look like a random attack. Look at the knife wound, perfectly central on the chest and very clean. It penetrated at the angle necessary to be lethal, despite the positioning. To be that precise the killer must have done this before, so they're a serial killer. They also led a crowded area to empty quickly, without anybody suspecting their true motives. You're looking for a police officer with a history of child abuse and control issues, probably in their early thirties, male and a non smoker. In fact, I would imagine they're here at the scene, probably with the murder weapon as they haven't had time to ditch it." With that the young man sat down against the floor and quickly nodded off. Lestrade just stared. Then he thought carefully through the reasoning. Gazing at the crime scene, he noticed a youngish male officer with a suspicious smirk. Without even considering the consequences, he strode up to the man and snatched his bag.
An hour later, in shock, Lestrade found himself watching the thin young man who had solved the case. He was still sleeping. The man wore expensive brands, but his clothes had seen far better days – they were dirty and unkempt: just like their owner. His shoelaces were missing and he had scabs and sores down his arms. It looked like he had been sleeping rough for a while.
The detective pulled the man's coat around his frail body. That was when he noticed the red ink. A phone number, written on the label. Wanting to help this lost and vulnerable genius, he took out his mobile and dialled. It rang just once before being picked up.
"Yes?"
"Hello. I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade"
"How did you get this number?" Lestrade quickly explained what had happened. There was a pause on the other end of the line. "I will be with you shortly."
About half an hour later a black car drew up, out of place with the surroundings. A man stepped out, surveying the area with great disdain. When he saw the young man slumped on the ground he sighed. Striding over, he shook Lestrade's hand and shook it gratefully. "Thank you so much for calling, detective inspector. I will take Sherlock from here." At the sound of his name, Sherlock, the previously dormant young man awakened.
"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock said coldly.
"As your brother, I am merely concerned about your wellbeing, as always." Came an even colder reply. "This time why don't you come back with me? I have a room prepared; we can help you get through this little…phase."
"You know perfectly well I am not going anywhere with you. You can't make me. There are witnesses."
"I am merely concerned."
"You said that."
Mycroft sighed. "How about we play for it? I win and you come with me."
Sherlock smirked. "And if I win?"
"I will leave you alone, for a while at least."
"Chess?"
"Chess."
"Pawn e2 to e4."
Lestrade watched in amazement as the brothers played their game, all inside their heads. Unable to track what was going on, he could only guess who was winning. Neither brother paused for long between commands. And then the end came.
"Check mate." stated Sherlock, with an icy tone. Mycroft sighed once more.
"Then I am sorry, because I cannot keep my word." Mycroft beckoned and two men came out from the black car. One of them injected the already drowsy Sherlock with a needle, and he went limp. They carefully carried him into the car. None of the police officers around even noticed; they were all distracted by the crime scene. Lestrade knew he was the only one who would ever know.
"You can't just do that, it's kidnapping!"
"Well, since it is my word against yours and you have no evidence…"
"Where are you taking him?"
"As I told dear Sherlock earlier, I have a room prepared. It's just a shame I couldn't beat him at chess. Good evening Detective Inspector." And with that, Mycroft stepped into the car. Lestrade watched as it pulled away, his mouth slightly open. He wondered if he would ever see Sherlock again. Then he smiled; he still had Mycroft's number.