Greg Lestrade waited in anticipation as he rang the bell on the large door of the mansion. He was nervously twitching his pencil, twirling it around in his right hand. It had become something of a habit since he'd started his new job. He was twenty one years old and the newest member of Scotland Yard. Being the most junior officer had plenty of downsides; mainly that he had to deal with unpleasant tasks no one else wanted to take on.
He was carrying out one of such tasks now, going to see the family of a young man they'd arrested and bailed the week before for disorderly conduct. From the sound of it, Lestrade thought the poor bugger needed help. He was an addict of some sort of Opiate drug. It was fairly new import from the colonies and a trend that had swept London, causing misery to those who couldn't handle its effects. According to his seniors, his family were incredibly rich and powerful and therefore not people that he should mess with. They'd want the whole affair hushed up, and Lestrade was sent to make the conditions of that.
The oversized door to the mansion creaked open to reveal a grand entrance hall. Lestrade wasn't at liberty to admire the fine paintings, chandeliers or plush carpets as his attention was immediately drawn to the man in front of him. He was tall and, Lestrade guessed, in his late twenties... yet he had the authoritative air of a man twice that. Lestrade took in the man's dark hair, the loose curl that fell in a comma shape on his forehead and ridiculously long limbs. The man stood casually with a hand leaning on the door, looking down his nose at Lestrade, his shark-like smile giving him a sense of mock politeness and effortless superiority.
"I'm sorry you've had to wait, the butler's away at the moment" The man said, his upper-class accent accentuating every syllable he spoke.
"Officer Lestrade, I'm here on behalf of Scotland yard." Greg introduced himself, silently thankful that his voice didn't shake and give away his nerves.
The man in the doorway's smile faltered then returned so quickly it was almost imperceptible.
"I assume then, that you are here to discuss my Brother's abhorrent behaviour."
Brother...so this must be Mycroft Holmes. According to the information Lestrade had hastily read in the hansom cab on his way out of London, Mycroft basically ran the British Government. A powerful man and one Lestrade did not want to mess with.
"Yes...Sherlock, is he in?"
Mycroft clicked his tongue impatiently then disappeared behind the door, leaving Lestrade hanging.
Lestrade waited for about three minutes, chewing his lip and twiddling his pencil faster.
When Mycroft returned, his curl of hair was slightly off centre and he was accompanied by a coat and umbrella.
"I'm afraid you can't see my brother at the moment, he's...unavailable." He said with a grimace, not wishing to reveal that his eighteen year old brother had barricaded himself in the bathroom. Mycroft had just been greeted by a torrent of swearing, angry gibberish and items being thrown at the door upon requesting that he come out.
"Do you mind if we take our conversation on a little walk, officer? Our mother is at home. She finds it hard enough to cope with Sherlock and I don't wish for her to get wind of this side of the affair..."
Lestrade preferred the outside anyway, neutral territory and all, so agreed. They set off along a country path, Lestrade half a pace behind Mycroft's long strides, through trees that led around the mansion and beyond. Mycroft had thrown his long black coat on and walked with his umbrella clicking along the ground.
The men walked in silence until they were out of sight of the house.
"There is something you should understand about my brother Mr Lestrade, about myself too I suppose." Mycroft spoke casually as if discussing the weather. "We are far from what you would refer to as normal."
"And what do you mean by that sir?" Lestrade inquired.
"I mean that we both have skills far beyond the scope of the average man. People like you and people like us are very different. I have learned to cope with the intellect I've been blessed with and channel it into something constructive, but Sherlock finds it harder. He's more...volatile. Prone to whim and fancy and unable to behave in a socially acceptable manner..."
Mycroft kept up his monologue as they wound their way along forest paths lined with oak trees. He described Sherlock's talents to a somewhat sceptical Lestrade. Mycroft told of how he could tell a person's life story from a glance, or by studying an object they owned, how he'd picked up a violin aged three and been able to play complex pieces instantly. Then he moved on to the darker side of Sherlock's life, the drug addictions and sudden week-long depressive states.
Upon finishing his speech Mycroft stopped walking and turned to Lestrade. They'd reached a clearing in the trees and light shone down in thin beams scattered by the branches. He seemed to be waiting for Lestrade to make some response and Greg shuffled his feet awkwardly through the leaves on the ground.
"I can see your circumstances are unique and believe me I do not think that harsh punishment is what your brother needs in his state..."
"Quite so." Mycroft interrupted with a curt nod.
"However his actions simply cannot be met with complete pardon sir, it's just not policy and it sets a precedent for others -"
Greg's speech was abruptly cut off by the umbrella that Mycroft had thrust horizontally across his neck. Losing his footing, he stumbled backwards, but was saved by the trunk of the large oak that was behind him. Lestrade found himself pinned against the tree by Mycroft's umbrella, which was pressing against his windpipe. The atmosphere had switched in less than half a second.
"I know what Sherlock has done and I will decide how he pays for his actions." Mycroft was now less than a foot's distance from Lestrade and hissed in his face. "You are nothing, officer. I could have you disappear in a matter of minutes, seconds and no one would ever find a trace of you. You hold the painfully naive view that the Met and Scotland Yard is indestructible, but I have the power to crush you all." He moved the umbrella, forcing Greg's chin up so he had to look down his nose to see the other man. Lestrade could feel his warm breath and was aware that his cheeks were burning red with the indignity of it all.
"However, I do not wish to do that." Mycroft continued; his voice soft and threatening, "I must warn you, Sherlock is not the only one who can tell things at a glance. I know your little secret Lestrade."
Lestrade wanted to sink through the floor. He couldn't know. He was bluffing, he had to be.
"I don't know what you're talking about." Lestrade blurted out, his voice sounding strange due to the umbrella restricting his breath.
He reached up his arms and took hold of either end of the umbrella, attempting to push it away, but Mycroft was expecting it and held on. He was now uncomfortably close to Lestrade.
"It's ok Lestrade, I understand. Society is so...unwilling to accept new ideas though; I'd keep it to yourself. Settle down, get married and no one need ever know."
"Stop it." Lestrade growled. "Stop it now."
Mycroft released the umbrella and returned it to its usual spot, hanging casually from his left hand. Lestrade staggered to the side, rubbing his neck and looking at Mycroft out of the corner of his eyes. The smirk he wore infuriated Lestrade and he decided to return the conversation to Sherlock to draw attention away from his private life.
"So how do you consider your brother pays for what he did? He terrified a whole restaurant of people and you just want me to go and tell them that he's getting off scot free?"
"Sherlock has an interest in crime. I'm suggesting that he repay you in work."
"Work?"
"Yes, he's ten times better than the lot of you put together – but don't ever tell him I said that – and it will distract him from the drugs and, I think, do him a lot of good." Mycroft reasoned.
Lestrade sucked a breath through his teeth.
"That may be the case, but we don't let people just come in and work on our cases just because they find it interesting. Especially people like Sherlock."
"There are no 'people like Sherlock.'" Mycroft mocked "He'll solve cold cases in seconds and if all goes well ... I will ensure you will be promoted to detective inspector within the year."
Mycroft knew he had Lestrade at his last comment. He'd seen how nervous Lestrade was, knew he was desperate to do a good job and impress his bosses. He came from a small town, had moved to the city to get this job and needed the money that promotion would get him.
"Well...I want to meet him first."