A/N: This was written for rykoe-little-black-book, as part of the Winter Mystrade Exchange!

Mycroft Holmes tapped his long, elegant fingers as he regarded the CCTV monitors in front of him. His curious hum drew his assistant's attention, and she turned to look at him. He lifted an eyebrow, questioning. "Alie this week, sir," she murmured, most of her attention back on the mobile she held in her hand.

"Find out all you can about the man Sherlock is talking to," Mycroft instructed, leaning back in his chair.

"The silver haired one?" his assistant inquired politely.

"Yes." Mycroft lifted a remote and turned off the monitor, turning back to the files on his desk. "Set up a meeting."

"Yes, sir." She nodded her head and walked out of the room, the sharp noise of her heels on the floor the only sound Mycroft could hear. He allowed a faint smile to curve his lips - she was ever the good assistant, even if she did like to change her name from week to week. It was a useful skill, although he was forever calling her by the wrong name.

Pulling out the top file, he flicked it open, scanning it carefully and ensuring that there were no discrepancies with his memories. While he was careful to store information in the files he maintained in his mind, it was important to check for new developments. It wouldn't serve him well to be caught using outdated information. That was a security risk, and he didn't stand for those.

"Here you are, sir," Alie said, one hand extending the file to him, the other still tapping away at her blackberry. Mycroft inclined his head slightly, setting the file he had been reading to the side and taking the new one from her. "You have an hour before your meeting with the Prime Minister, and then you have a meeting with the Russian delegate later tonight."

"What about…" Mycroft paused.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"What about Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Mycroft finished.

"Tomorrow afternoon, in the normal spot."

"Satisfactory," Mycroft mused, flipping open the file.

"High praise from you, Sir," she murmured, and although Mycroft lifted his head to examine her face intently, he could not see any of the sarcasm he had heard in the tone.

"Out with you." He shooed her with a flick of his hand, although he could not deny a slight amusement She was cheeky, yes, but she was quite good at what she did. It was worth it to encounter the occasional sarcastic quip. It certainly lightened up the occasions he would work seventy two hours with only an hour or two of sleep. Not that he minded, not with so much work to do. Not when personal time simply meant time to reflect on his life. It was nothing that bore thinking about.

Mentally he shook himself out of his reverie, realized he was rubbing the back of his neck - an unconscious habit he had developed when he was a child. Although he had been able to break it in his adulthood, it still showed when he was tired. It was the third full day he had been awake, and although Mycroft's mind was not tired in the slightest, his body was showing signs of extreme fatigue. Bothersome. Regardless, he directed his attention to the file, memorising every last bit.

Gregory "Greg" Lestrade. 5'11", 46 years of age. Married once, recently divorced. Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard. Brief history of alcoholism, family has several addicts, but appears to be sober. Last check up was clean, no known health problems nor psychological disorders.

"Perfectly normal," Mycroft mused. "What are you doing with Sherlock, then?" He tapped his finger on the picture of the DI. Rather nice to look at, even Mycroft had to admit. Silver hair with remnants of the brown it had been originally, striking brown eyes, and a face that was handsome and enjoyable to gaze upon. He shut the file with a snap. No. None of that.

The marriage, however. That was certainly interesting. He allowed himself to open the file and checked a small box. The wife had not been his 'soul mate', then. Fascinating. It was rare the unbonded decided to pair up, for there were often consequences, but there had been occasions where such a thing had been done. Another quick browse confirmed his secondary thoughts. The DI was a Second, or a replacement for someone who had lost their soul mate. Someone's second chance. Mycroft rubbed the back of his neck for a brief moment, feeling the slight grit of the expensive makeup that covered it. It was his reminder, his memory, of times long gone.

Of someone he wanted to forget forever.

"Sir?" The clacking of his assistant's heels warned him just before she slipped into the room. "The Prime Minister is here."

"Of course, of course," Mycroft said smoothly, slipping the files that had been on his desk into a drawer and locking it discretely. "Come in."

The meetings were almost unbearably boring, but Mycroft handled them with his normal efficacy, his polite, diplomatic smile glued on his face. The sun was poking into the horizon up on the upper floors when he at last bid the Russians farewell. "Four hours, sir," his assistant told him, her eyes not leaving her Blackberry as she turned around and left, ensuring that the visitors left as they were told.

Four hours. He could sleep. Or. Mycroft reached over and grabbed the remote, clicking it on. The monitors flickered to life, and he surveyed them quickly until he caught sight of Sherlock. Sprawled out on his ratty sofa, obviously sleeping off a high. Mycroft's heart clenched painfully, and he quickly turned the monitors off. It hurt, as much as he didn't want it to. Sherlock had fallen so far from what he had been once. The cute, smiling, curly-haired boy that hugged his dog around his neck before running off with him for more adventures.

Enough. He stood, grabbing his umbrella and his mobile. A quick glance around his office ensured that everything sensitive was carefully stored in a locked compartment. "I am leaving," he informed his assistant.

"Yes, sir." Her eyes flickered to his face and then back to her mobile. "I shall send a car if you are not back before your meeting."

"Satisfactory." Mycroft checked his mobile briefly before slipping it into his pocket. He noted the date with a faint scowl. No wonder. It had been nineteen years since the Incident. Since he had learned to regard other humans with little but disdain. So instead, to clear his mind, he left the building, and walked.

It did not surprise him when he ended up in front of a small bookshop. He pushed open the door, ignoring the jingle of the bell as he did so, signifying to the merchant that he had a customer. "Hello," Mycroft said pleasantly, his congenial half-smile on his face. It wasn't real, and the merchant knew it, but he also understood, and that was a rare thing.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," he replied, setting down the rag he was using to polish the counter and running a hand through his short blonde hair. "What can I help you with today?"

"I only stopped in to see how you are faring," Mycroft mused, seemingly startled by his own revelation. "How is your rehabilitation proceeding?"

"Good, thanks," the man replied with a nod.

"And your living conditions are satisfactory?" Mycroft continued. Another nod. John Watson was a man of few words, especially when there was little to talk about. "If there is anything not to your liking, my assistant is at your disposal."

"Thank you," John said politely. He watched Mycroft with alert eyes. They were the eyes of a warrior who had seen combat. Who had fought through gunfire, tried to save the lives of countless other soldiers. They were eyes of the man who woke up every morning reliving those memories. He was perfect.

"How is Harriet?" Mycroft inquired, pulling a pocketwatch out of his waistcoat and checking the time. Less than an hour before he had to meet with the detective inspector. That left time for an update and for some brief research on exactly what Sherlock had been doing with the Met, other than nearly getting arrested or charged with possession again. So lost in his own thoughts that Mycroft nearly missed the faint sorrow that crossed John's face.

"Good, thanks," he said steadily, unwilling to betray any more.

"I am pleased to hear that." Mycroft kept his tone pleasant, his face neutral. "Regardless, I must be on my way."

"Always a pleasure to have you drop in," John muttered, resuming his polishing.

Mycroft inclined his head in acknowledgment and left the store, swinging his umbrella as he pulled out his mobile with the other hand and started texting. The first was a request for a car, the subsequent texts for updates on Sherlock from several of his informants. He thought for a moment and then sent for a status update on the DI as well. It was generally preferred to have too much information than not enough, for one could not be properly prepared for battle unless one knew absolutely everything about one's opponent.

Within two minutes, a car slid up next to him and he had the requisite status updates in his inbox. He rather disliked having 'free time'. Particularly when it came in the amount that he could go back to his office, but then he would have to leave again to attend another appointment. It seemed wasteful. "The warehouse," he said curtly, tapping on the divider between himself and the driver. Quickly the car slid away from the curb.

A nap, Mycroft decided, ignoring that the backseat of his innocuous car was probably not the most suitable place for a nap. When he was approaching three days of no sleep, he took his naps where and when they were able to. Mycroft had polished the skill of catnaps, in which twenty minutes sleep snatched here and there could fuel him for three or more days. REM sleep, as ever, was preferable, but Mycroft had long mastered pushing his own boundaries. He had to.

A half hour later and Mycroft was awake and alert, standing in the warehouse and leaning lightly on his umbrella as he managed part of the free world on his mobile phone. His assistant had texted him some documents that needed perusing, determining which pieces of legislature needed a nudge in what was considered the polite direction.

"Who are you?" Mycroft started slightly. He hadn't heard the other man approach, and had only dimly registered the sound of the car re-appearing with his intended prey in tow.

Pocketing his mobile, he lifted his head with a smile. "An interested party."

"Interested in what?" Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade challenged, cocking his head to the side. Mycroft smirked. Oh, so this one thought he was smart. Pitiful.

"What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?" he inquired mildly.

"Who's asking?" the DI said sharply, pulling a mobile out of his pocket and rolling his eyes at it. He had received a text, Mycroft noted from the small flashing light he caught a glimpse of. Sherlock, perhaps? Or one of his subordinates?

"It is as I said. I'm an interested party," Mycroft replied smoothly.

"Why kidnap me?" the DI asked. "Why not go to him directly?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm certain in your dealings with Sherlock you have noticed that he might not be the most - honest person about his own condition, nor does he tolerate inquiries as to his health and overall well being." Mycroft tapped his finger on the handle of his brolly. Boring. They were all so boring. He was almost envious of Sherlock, with his chemical method of coping. Mycroft had no such means. "However, you are looking out for him, are you not?"

"A bit," DI Lestrade replied evasively. "Look, I don't care who you are. If you want to know that berk's business, you ask him. Not me. Now, if you don't mind, I have a crime scene to get back to. I've got to get there before he does."

Mycroft curved his lips up in a smile, although he was aware how frightening it often came across as. "My driver shall ensure that you reach your destination at the pace you require," he said graciously.

"No, thank you." DI Lestrade tipped his head in a mock farewell. "I can make it on my own."

Mycroft inclined his head in acknowledgment, although he could not help the way his eyes followed the other man as he ran out of the warehouse. "Sir?" His assistant stood next to the open car door, her eyes as intent on her phone as ever. "Shall we be going?"

"Yes," he allowed after a few moments. "Upgrade surveillance on Sherlock and this Detective Inspector."

"Yes, sir." Mycroft straightened up and slid into the car, his assistant shutting it as soon as he was settled. He needed more data. There was something strange about the DI, something he could not puzzle out.