The day had started off as normal as any other day could be, as a detective inspector for Scotland Yard. Gregory Lestrade awoke two minutes before his alarm clock, set deliberately at 4:02 for that very reason. He groaned, rolling half heartedly out of his bed, creating the usual thud as he hit the wooden floor. He had pulled on his gym shorts and a ratty old t-shirt before he laced his trainers and hit the road. It was barely sunrise, the sky only beginning to lighten as he began the usual hour long trek around the park and back to his apartment where he promptly stripped and took a shower.
He arrived at Scotland Yard at 5:30 exactly, the same as every morning that he wasn't called in early to look at a crime scene, and was greeted by the usual receptionist. He collected his files and began the dreadful paperwork. He loved his job; he really did, despite putting up with Sherlock, and Sally and Anderson. The paperwork though, that he could do without. His phone rang periodically during the day, most bearing news of little interest the way it always did, and so when he picked it up off the cradle he wasn't expecting anything of the sort to come through across the line.
"DI Lestrade?" The voice had questioned. He didn't recognize it, though that wasn't particularly out of the usual.
"Speaking?" He had responded, almost hoping that someone had gotten killed, just so he wouldn't have to finish typing up the report explaining why exactly they had a bill for Chinese food as case expenses, courtesy of Holmes.
"I regret to inform you that Elizabeth Michaels was involved in a motor accident this morning. She was rushed to the hospital but passed on en route. I'm to understand that custody of Abigail Michaels passes to you," the voice explained, solemn, caring. Lestrade had no idea how to respond. His mouth opened and closed a few times before finally coming to grips with what had been laid out on the table.
"Where can I pick her up?"
It was that phone call, at approximately 9:25 and three seconds that had completely and entirely uprooted the very foundation that Gregory Lestrade's life sat upon.
It also happened to be that phone call that had uprooted the very foundation that Mycroft Holmes's life sat upon, but for an entirely different reason all together.
There really was no such thing as a normal day for Mycroft Holmes, it was a difficult concept when on any given day he could be starting a war, or passing legislation allowing men to marry monkeys or diffusing a situation in North Korea. He had risen from the couch in his office at six on the dot, after only two and a half hours of sleep, and his assistant stood at the door, his change of clothes on a hanger in one hand, and a cup of tea in the other.
He paused, giving her an inquisitive glance, waiting for her name of the day. Sure enough, it came within moments, "Persephone," she replied brightly, handing off both of the items and retrieving her beloved Blackberry from her pocket, setting right away to texting. It was a little ridiculous really, how many phones she went through in a month. But the keyboards wore out, and an agitated Anthea, or Zena, or Penelope was not something Mycroft was particularly fond of.
"Right, I'll be out in a moment, we have a meeting with the Queen in a few hours," he told her, though the information was a little superfluous, she knew his schedule better than he did. She nodded and stepped out of the room. Mycroft moved to the bathroom in his office, fully equipped with a shower, because he spent very little time at home, and nine minutes and forty six seconds later, he emerged fully dressed, clean shaven, and well groomed.
The next two hours had been relatively boring; just a few minor negotiations between some of the large businesses in England, and finally Pandora had come to collect him for their trip to the queen. He hadn't particularly expected anything from the woman as they sat in the back of one of many cars. He certainly hadn't expected her brow to furrow as she clicked away on her phone, and he definitely hadn't expected her to lock the screen and slip the Blackberry into her lap, and he hadn't expected the fleeting look of worry across her face.
"What's wrong?" He couldn't help but ask, unable to deduce it for himself.
"We've been wrong, sir," she responded, more than a little confused. Mycroft was taken aback. It wasn't that they were never wrong, it happened on occasion, he might have very well been the entire British Government, but he was still a human, and those working for him were exceptionally more so. Rather, he was taken aback by how Aphrodite was taking it. They must have made a rather large mistake for her to be so concerned about his reaction.
"What sort of mistake?"
"Our information about Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was not entirely correct. Rather, it wasn't very correct at all," Juno explained to him, holding his gaze for a few moments before lifting her phone back up and resuming her texting.
"How so," Mycroft grimaced, wondering how they could have been wrong. He had codes for nuclear weapons on a sticky note in his pocket, he was privy to all of the information that he ever could have wanted.
"It seems he got a phone call a few moments ago from a woman from social services. His ex-wife seems to have been involved in an accident; she died on her way to the hospital." His assistant explained further, still focused on the phone in front of her.
"I thought we concluded that the Detective Inspector was not in a relationship and had not been nor considered marriage," Mycroft furrowed his brow, this wasn't a simple slip up, this was a very major mistake, and he couldn't be sure which dot along the communication line had been mistaken.
"We did, I said we made a mistake. That's not all though."
Mycroft remained silent; Hera would continue along on her own, he was sure. His mind was reeling though, trying to grasp the new information presented to him. It seemed unfathomable, that they had been wrong about something so major.
"Oh," Anthea continued, "he has a daughter."
Mycroft had no words.