Greg growled at Mycroft's back.
"That's it? Last night-"
The other man stiffened. "What's done is done, Lestrade, but there is no need to speak of it."
Those words jabbed into Greg's chest. "So what was last night?" he demanded. "A mistake?"
Mycroft turned and looked at Lestrade as if he were only a servant. "I'm glad you understand how the situation stands. I will contact you if I ever need your help again."
The dismissal was painfully obvious. Mycroft settled at his desk as Greg fled from the office.
Mycroft should have been satisfied. He had fulfilled his craving concerning Greg Lestrade, and the DI understood it was never going to happen again.
So why was he so unhappy?
Greg ignored everyone as he fell into retreat. He hadn't cried in years, not even when his wife had left him, but right now that record was being threatened. How dare Mycroft use him like this? He had acted so...affectionate these past few months, then they had ended up in bed last night, and now...
Now he was nothing. Mycroft's eyes had made that clear.
Pulling out his mobile, Lestrade prepared to call in sick to work, but it rang before he could.
"Hello?" he asked tiredly, rubbing at his eyes.
"Ah. Hello, sir," Donovan said through the earpiece. "We've got a triple homicide."
It took him almost an hour to reach the crime scene. He had come to Mycroft's office in a cab, so he'd had to hail another-which took almost ten minutes alone. That and the horrid traffic had his fuse drastically shortened by the time he reached the scene. It was in a suburban area, lots of trees and homes. The one he stopped at was a simple white, one-story affair with a large lawn and garden. The house was hidden from the street by several large willows. Donovan and Anderson were waiting for him at the gate. He walked by them without a word, in no mood for socializing. The pair scurried to keep up with him.
"This house belongs to Mr and Mrs Twain. Their bodies were found inside."
"Who's the third victim?" Lestrade asked gruffly.
"We don't know."
Irritation had him turning on them. "What do you mean, you don't know?" he barked. "Have you even started looking for an ID?"
"We have," Sally answered, attempting to mollify her boss. "But he has no ID on his body, and his features have been removed."
"Removed?"
"Yes, sir. His fingers were cut off, and so was his face. Sir, his teeth were all ripped out. Someone really doesn't want this man to be identified."
"Obviously," Greg snarled. Marching into the house, he followed the stream of investigators into the living room. The scene was not pretty.
The disfigured man was propped up in an armchair, facing the hallway. His body was completely naked. The Twains were arranged less artistically, if at all. The man was slumped against the wall, a bullet hole in his forehead and a streak of blood on the wall behind him where he had slid down. His wife was laying behind the sofa, her bare feet the only thing visible.
"What do we know?" he asked the room at large. Donovan pulled out her pocket notebook.
"The couple was on vacation and weren't meant to come home for another week. We don't know why they were early. The man was killed by a single gunshot to the head."
"Really?" Greg demanded sarcastically. Donovan pointedly ignored him, continuing with her briefing.
"The wife was stabbed multiple times, mostly in the chest and abdomen, before bleeding out."
"What about that man?" Lestrade asked, indicating the nude, faceless corpse in the chair.
"We don't know much," Anderson admitted. "Just that the body looks to be several days old. I think it was frozen to preserve it."
Greg tried to wrap his head around all the information and come to a conclusion, but it wasn't working. A dull throbbing started in his left temple, making thinking impossible.
"Sir?" Donovan asked tentatively.
"What?" the DI snapped.
"I'm always the last to suggest this, but maybe...maybe we should call Holmes in on this. He could-"
"No," Lestrade growled. "We're going to solve this ourselves. I'll be damned before I talk to another bloody Holmes today."