Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade gulped down a swallow of cold coffee. While this particular cup was just shy of something akin to battery acid, the man welcomed the bitterly acrid taste on his tongue. The fact that enough brain cells were still in working order for him to register the sheer magnitude of the ghastliness of the drink told him he still had a bit of useful cognitive function left. He stared at the pile of papers on his desk, and the quickly scrawled notes he'd made in between the margins.

He breathed a harsh sigh and allowed himself to close his eyes. After a lingering moment he opened them, glaring at the files in open irritation when they remained a jumbled mess of documentation and not some sort of holy grail to a consulting detective's innocence.

He hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. Yet sleep was the very furthest thing from his mind. Sherlock Holmes had helped him in ways beyond measure in the past five years. And now it appeared it was finally time for him to step up and return the favor.

Unfortunately, he was very close to exhausting all his resources, and had yet to find the smoking gun that would clear Sherlock's name. Lestrade swallowed hard at that notion, a jolting sensation twisting his gut into a knot.

The truth was, he knew he possessed a means of helping the man. A means he'd vowed he'd never use, for it was the very thing he feared the most. To even think of it was dangerous, in more ways than he would ever care to count. Lestrade was more than happy with the illusion he presented to the world. He enjoyed his life as a mortal human being.

A shudder ran down the DI's spine.

Don't even go there, Lestrade.

He drained the rest of the god-awful coffee. It did nothing to settle the sudden tension in his stomach. He was so good at lying to the world. He was so good at pretending to be something other than what he truly was. None of them had any idea about his true nature, and he wanted more than anything to continue to keep it that way.

You do anything, anything at all, to reveal your power and they'll know. They'll fucking see the proof and there won't be anything you can do to convince them they didn't. The people you count as your friends will turn on you, like you're some kind of rabid animal. They'll train guns on you and you'll let them because you know you don't have it in you to hurt them. Even in self-defence. Not Dimmock. Not Sally. Hell, not even Anderson. They'll call the government black-suits and they'll come and take you into 'custody'. Ha. 'Custody'. More like throw you into a cage at that Baskerville lab and conduct any and all experiments they care to imagine.

He allowed himself to think that Sherlock and John would stand up for him. But even they would be no match for an army of shocked and frightened Metropolitan Police officers. To expect that the public at large and thus the police force would be anything else in the presence of his supernatural power, well that was just ridiculous.

And as great as his otherworldly abilities were, here on this pretty little piece of rock, he was nearly as human as those he existed to protect. He could suffer both physically and emotionally just as they could. In many ways even more so.

Yet despite the facts, he felt so comfortable as a human. While others of his kind would most assuredly tell him that was a pathetically foolish mistake to allow himself to make, . . . he knew with absolute and complete certainty that for him, at least, it could never be a mistake. Being close to humanity made Lestrade feel things. Wondrous things, and it made him revel in this blue-green world that the humans called home. He walked among the people of England appearing to be one of them, lending aid in the form of a Detective Inspector. He shared in their little joys and day-to-day humor, commiserated and empathized with their lives' pain and failure. And while he'd once taken a more active role in protecting them, that was long in the past and now Lestrade Lestrade simply enjoyed being human.

He was driven out of his current line of thought when Donovan rushed into the room. Her brown eyes were wide and her face was uncharacteristically pale. She didn't immediately say anything. The shock, disbelief, and surprising presence of pity writ into her features made Lestrade's blood turn to ice.

"Sir . . . I . . ."

"Out with it, Donovan!" Lestrade barked.

"Sherlock Holmes, Sir . . . we've just received a call. He's commit suicide. Jumped from a roof in front of a dozen witnesses."

Lestrade could barely hear her over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

"I know he was your friend," she continued. "I'm sorry to have to give you this news."

"Where?"

"St. Bart's Hospital."

Lestrade stood and looked at her. "I need some air," he said weakly.

"Take the day, Sir. Dimmock'll look after things here."

Lestrade gave her a mechanical nod and walked past her. He had barely made it outside before he retched onto the asphalt. A few passersby asked if he needed assistance and he waved them away, muttering something about food poisoning.

His shoulders shook as he stood up. There had to be some mistake. The Sherlock Holmes he knew would never have even considered the thought of suicide. He was too bloody stubborn and egotistical.

In another couple of minutes, Lestrade was in the driver's seat of his police vehicle and tore out of the car park with sirens wailing, nearly leaving a trail of burning pavement in his wake. Needless to say, it didn't take him long to reach the scene. All but throwing the Vauxhall Astra into park, Lestrade leapt out of the vehicle and rushed towards the gathered crowd outside the hospital building.

His gut clenched when he noticed the sickeningly large bloodstain on the pavement from twenty feet away. He flashed his badge and manoeuvred his way through the crowd. Sherlock's body had already been removed from the scene.

"All right, did any of you see the man whilst he was standing on the rooftop?" he asked. He scanned the crowd, watching as many people moved off and went on about their business.

"I did," said a strangled weak voice. He followed the sound with his eyes and alighted on a trembling form knelt upon the sidewalk. Several people were standing around the figure. One woman had her hand on the man's shoulder and Lestrade had to step sideways to properly get a look at the speaker's face.

He stilled instantly as he felt his heart stop.

"Oh, God. John," he said softly.

Lestrade stepped forward. He crouched down on the balls of his feet, drawing his face level with John's. He glanced at the women hovering around the blonde soldier. "It's alright," he told them. "I'm a friend." They moved off and Lestrade laid his right hand gently on John's arm. The man trembled under his touch, and gave him the singularly most soul-tortured look he'd ever seen in another person's eyes. John let out a strangled sob and Lestrade pulled him into an awkward embrace, blinking back his own tears as the shorter man buried his face into the side of his neck.

His heightened sense of smell focused on the scent of Sherlock's blood. There was so much it, it had already soaked clean through the knees of John's trousers. He held the man he'd come in the past two years to count amongst his closest friends against him, his insides twisting painfully at the wracking sobs that shook through John's body.

He found he wanted desperately to say something. Anything. But he wasn't fool enough to try and offer meaningless words of comfort. Instead he shifted his position so that he was sitting on the edge of the sidewalk and John twisted in his arms.

"I tried to stop him," he choked out. "He called me . . . said it was his way of leaving a note. Sherlock insisted that what they're saying is all true. He was coerced into making the call . . . I know he was. But, this?! How could he have been forced to this?"

"How is anyone forced to do anything, John?" Lestrade asked softly.

He watched John swallow down a wordless exclamation of perfectly wretched agony. His eyes red, body shaking as if threatening to fall apart, John Watson was a man who'd suddenly arrived into the deepest depths of Hell. He'd discovered the very maximum amount of pain that could be felt by the human heart. It was the exquisite and brutal torture of having both your heart and soul savagely ripped apart at the same time. He could feel no stronger agony than this.

Lestrade rubbed his hand up and down the other man's back in what he knew was a futile attempt to soothe him.

"I think he did it to save you," Lestrade said.

John suddenly pulled away and shot him a look that made it plain the army doctor was wondering if he'd gone insane.

"Put into an impossible situation, . . . forced by Moriarty to choose between your life and his, what does your heart tell you he'd do?"

John swallowed hard. "We've gotten out of impossible situations countless times before," he said thickly.

"Before, yes. But what if this time it truly was impossible? What if Moriarty rigged the cab you'd have taken to explode, or stationed a gunman in the crowd? What if the threat was from something you'd never have seen coming? Sherlock loved you, John. I know he did. He'd protect you at all costs."

John let out a perfectly miserable sound and leaned his head against Lestrade's chest. The DI closed his eyes in shared pain, holding John close as he saturated his shirt with tears.

You could bring Sherlock back for him. You know you could. Be honest with yourself, you know you want to. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to take John to see him in the morgue and turn this man's abject grief into the very deepest elation.

He let out an unsteady exhalation. Was he really prepared to leave the life he'd made for himself behind? Even given this situation, could he really go back on his own word and reveal his true nature to humanity once more?

But it's Sherlock. You know what he means to John . . . and to you. If you do this, they will be so happy to have their life together back that they won't care if you're the Judeo-Christian Satan incarnate. You know they would never purposefully hurt you. They're your friends and friends don't sell friends to shady government laboratories.

Lestrade smiled slightly. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson weren't just friends. He and John were the closest thing to family that he had. And here he was, the only man in England who could bring them back together. In the end, the decision was easy.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Lestrade raised his head. He was met with the sight of Sherlock's brother leaning upon the handle of his ever-present umbrella. His knuckles were white and his gaze was focused on the slowly drying blood that marred the pavement. Lestrade watched as Mycroft's Holmes's eyes hazed with pain. They fell shut for a long moment, Lestrade noticing the hunch of the man's shoulders and the slight spasm in the man's chest as he clearly fought to suppress his grief. When Mycroft opened his eyes, his gaze was distant and bright with unshed tears.

John trained his gaze upon Sherlock's brother. His blue eyes darkened in anger.

"He was your brother, Mycroft. He was your baby brother, and when you were the only one who could protect him, you chose to throw him to the wolves!"

"John," Lestrade chided. "Please, . . ."

"No, Detective Inspector, it's . . . it's alright. John is right enough."

Lestrade held Mycroft's gaze. "No, it's not alright. Nothing about this is right. I won't have Sherlock's lover go blaming his brother for what happened here."

John turned a look on Lestrade. "Is it really blaming someone if they are justly deserving of the accusation?"

"Please, John. Stop. I beg of you," said the DI, softly imploring the army doctor to listen.

"You're kidding, right? If this man here actually had a heart, we wouldn't be here now, and Sherlock he . . . he wouldn't be . . . dead."

"If I had the means to go back in time and change my actions I would," said Mycroft. "You weren't the only person who loved him, you know."

"Go to Hell!" John snarled.

The look of guilt and sorrow that shone in that moment within the depths of Mycroft's eyes made Lestrade's heart ache painfully in sympathy.

"That's enough, John. Really, well and truly so. If you can find it within yourselves to manage it, I think I should like to see him now and I'd like you both to accompany me."

"You go with Mycroft. I don't think I can look at the corpse again."

"Please, John. Please, do this for me, as my friend?"

"It's Mycroft who has to formally identify the body. Not me."

"I'd really like you to be there. I want to say a prayer and think you'd enjoy hearing it. It might give you some peace."

John let out a cold and hollow laugh. "Right, because praying for Sherlock is going to matter a gnat's arse now. It's not like you can bring him back."

Lestrade bit the inside of his cheek gently to keep himself from cracking a smile.

"All the same, John, it would mean a great deal to me to have you there."

The army doctor didn't immediately respond.

"I'll try, Lestrade. But I don't know if I can do it."

"Thanks John. I think it'll make us all feel better."

At this Mycroft actually snorted. Surprised at the sound, Lestrade and John flashed looks at the elder Holmes.

"I'm a militant atheist. As was my brother."

"Even so," the DI told the politician.

"I really haven't the strength to argue with you, Detective Inspector. Though why you should want me in the room with you I can't begin to imagine."

Lestrade helped John to his feet, giving Mycroft a small smile as he did so. The man regarded him with icy detachment. Lestrade knew the man worked with the spooks of MI-5, playing puppet master to any number of secret departments. He was a very unknown quantity. If anyone had the power and means of turning him into some sort of spectacle in a secret research centre, it was this man here. Though for some reason, Lestrade wanted to trust him.

Mycroft had confessed he'd loved Sherlock. Surely, he wouldn't lock him up in some high tech cell and call every scientist in the free world to come gawk at him.

The three of them entered the building and silently boarded the lift that went down to the morgue. When it opened they found a shocked and distraught Molly Hooper in the hall.

Bloody Hell. Add her and it'll be four humans who will know what you really are.

Lestrade met her gaze with somber regard. Her eyes became even more pain stricken as she understood why the three men were there.

"You want to see him," she said sadly. It wasn't a question. Lestrade nodded in affirmation. "I've just finished cataloguing his injuries. Follow me." The woman was doing her level best to keep her voice steady but the quiver in her lips told them she was now about to break into hysterics. Lestrade swiftly moved in and enveloped Molly in a tight hug. She sucked in a harsh breath forcing herself not to fall apart completely.

"I don't think I can be here," John said watching as Molly stepped back and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. He turned to leave and Lestrade snapped his gaze to the army doctor.

"John, please don't go," Lestrade begged him. He noticed the shorter man stiffen at his words. John gave him a beseeching look.

"What are you, Greg, some kind of sadist?" he asked.

"One minute is all that I ask," Lestrade said.

"What are you doing?" Molly asked him.

"Lestrade here wants to pray over Sherlock's body," John told her in a more than just slightly mocking tone. "What kind of asinine idea is that?"

"Oh," said Molly softly. "I think it's a rather lovely idea."

John let out a pained exhalation. "Sixty seconds."

"Follow me," Molly told them. She led them to a large room at the end of the hall a table separating the space between a workstation and a sink. And on that table was a body covered from head to toe in a white sheet peppered with small to midsized blood stains around the crown and forehead. Molly shut the door quietly behind her and turned on the light above Sherlock's deceased form. Mycroft moved to stand beside the head of the body.

"Whenever you're ready, Sir," Molly told Mycroft.

"Proceed," he told her. Molly folded the sheet down and exposed Sherlock's face. She looked at Mycroft who nodded curtly. Lestrade's gut clenched in raw emotion as he caught sight of the gaping head wound. The entire left side of the skull was dented and cracked looking like a gruesome parody of a smashed hard-boiled egg. As the man was still recently dead, blood glistened against his scalp mixed with matted pieces of Sherlock's unruly curls. There was something else that caught the light near Sherlock's hairline. Given the depths of the cracks, Lestrade supposed it was to be expected. He was certainly no stranger to gruesome corpses. Yet seeing Sherlock's grey-white brain matter seeping out of the edge of his skull was so shockingly wrong and beyond horrible, it made the pain in Lestrade's chest multiply to the point that it was painful to draw his next breath.

"Well, start praying," John ordered him in a decidedly military manner.

With effort, Lestrade managed to take in a deep steadying breath.

"Here we go then," he said. There was no turning back now. He stepped up to Sherlock's left shoulder, standing across from Mycroft. He reached out and set his right palm on the dead man's cold shoulder bone. Things then began to change. Lestrade's hand was slowly outlined in bright gold light, flaring brilliantly around the edges. Quickly the light began to travel from his hand into Sherlock's body, illuminating the dead man's skin as if he were some kind of parody of a paper lantern. The light danced and multiplied into dozens of threads of brilliant colors, all moving together in quick looping and crisscrossing patterns as they traversed Sherlock's form. It was a little like the patterns of sunlight seen in an underwater photograph, only much more transfixing. Perhaps a little like the moving animations in Disney's Fantasia, then? Lestrade smiled, feeling warmth return to Sherlock's body. He leant over and exhaled gently over Sherlock's face, his breath producing a puff of sparkling rainbow glittered mist. Every color known to the human eye and even some that weren't shifted and swirled in vaporous clouds around Sherlock's injuries. The blood vanished, gashes knit seamlessly together, and skin returned to Sherlock's normal hue, regaining a healthy pink tint in his cheeks.

The colors were beautiful, even to Lestrade. The progress of the movements made him grin. Joy flooded warmth into his heart as the strings of color playing over Sherlock's skin harmonized their flashes and movements with the light in the mist hovering just above his flesh. It was the universe's greatest light show.

A purple silk shirt, black trousers, and the consulting detective's favorite shoes appeared on his body as well though Sherlock was still quite covered from the waist down.

The rainbows above and below his skin continued their complex pas de deux for a minute more, their color changing patterns increasing in speed and complexity. Finally, at the peak of the intricate choreography, the vaporous glow of Lestrade's breath absorbed into Sherlock's skin and the Detective Inspector became acutely aware of the sound of his own collared shirt ripping at the seams.

His shoulder muscles bunched and shifted as intricately patterned grey feathered wings sprouted from his back. He had a fleeting thought of Donovan, wondering whether she'd call him a freak if she could see him now. He'd probably never know. He stretched his muscles and spread his wings slightly not quite willing to flaunt them, but taking comfort in the pleasure of being in his true form. It had been quite a long time. He pulled off the tattered remnants of his shirt, idly throwing them on the linoleum floor, just as Sherlock began to stir.

Sherlock opened his eyes blearily and blinked a few times. His gaze moved from Mycroft to John, from John to Molly, and at last came to rest upon Lestrade. His gaze narrowed there for a few seconds as if captioned by a "What's wrong with this picture?" He then looked back at John and slowly sat up, discarding the sheet onto the floor. He smiled at the blonde and that was all it took for the doctor to come out of his shocked trance. He nearly leapt forward and threw his arms around Sherlock's neck.

"Don't you ever, ever, ever do something like this again!" John said.

Sherlock regarded the man deeply. "Don't ever sacrifice myself to save you from getting shot by a sniper? It was me or you, John. He made me choose. And if I had to do it all over again I'd make the same choice a thousand times over. I love you, John. I love you more than anything in this world, myself very much included." Sherlock took John's face between his hands and slanted a firm kiss over the army doctor's mouth. John enthusiastically returned the kiss, opening his mouth beneath Sherlock's pliant lips and allowing the consulting detective access to slide his tongue against his in a deeply heartfelt and joyous dance. Mycroft shifted his gaze to Lestrade. The look in the man's dark blue eyes was full of interest. Lestrade met Mycroft's gaze with an easy smile, not expecting him to return it. The ginger haired politician's lips quirked up into a tiny but nonetheless noticeable display of genuine pleasure.

"I suppose I now have at least a couple more secrets to keep. I daresay if this continues, the rumours about me will soon be quite true."

It was then that Lestrade asked a question he would never have dared asked the elder Holmes brother while in human form. "Rumours, you say? The most delicious ones are always partly true, you know. Tell me, what do they say about you?"

Mycroft's little smile turned into a genuine smirk. "Oh, nothing too exciting, I'm afraid. Just that I'm very probably privy to the most confidential information in the entire Northern Hemisphere."

Lestrade let out a laugh. "You mean to say that's not true already?"

"If it wasn't before today, I'm pretty confident it is now." Again, Mycroft graced him with that little teasing smile. The expression looked good on him. Quite good, if Lestrade was honest. He was roused out of thinking about the way Mycroft Holmes' lips moved when he smiled by Sherlock's voice. It seemed the consulting detective and army doctor had finally finished their celebratory snog.

"Right then. Anyone have a packet of crisps or something?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft, Molly, and John simply stared. Lestrade looked at Sherlock and a little assortment of snacks appeared on his lap. Sherlock selected some pretzels and tore the bag open, arching a brow at the shirtless and winged Detective Inspector.

"So shall I continue calling you Lestrade, or do you prefer a different appellation?"

"Surprisingly enough, Lestrade really is my name. But I do rather enjoy Greg or Gregory even."

Sherlock popped a pretzel into his mouth and crunched happily. He then hopped off the table and walked around Lestrade.

"Might I feel your feathers?" he ventured, looking hopeful and perhaps a little sheepish.

Lestrade smiled and stretched a wing out towards Sherlock. "Of course you can! Just mind not to go against the grain if you please."

Sherlock smiled in boyish delight and tentatively ran his fingers down the feathers along the outer edge of Lestrade's mottled grey wing. "Oh that is most utterly delightful," said Sherlock in awe. "Wondrously soft." After a few more moments he looked up at the room's other occupants. "Really, you all must come and stroke his wing!"

Molly took a hesitant step forward. "They might just be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," she breathed in amazement.

Lestrade smiled. "What are you trying to say there, Molly? That my wings are prettier than the rest of me?"

The woman colored instantly. "Oh no, no! Believe me, you're certainly quite handsome, . . . but oh I think you know what I mean."

"I do," he told her. He gave her a knowing wink. She took another decidedly more confident step towards him and he offered her his wing.

"My goodness," she murmured, nearly purring at the pleasure of the contact between her fingertips and Lestrade's gloriously soft feathers. Her voice held a decidedly erotic undercurrent. She peered up at him. "You aren't an angel then, are you? I rather doubt an angel's wings would feel this . . . well, . . . sinful."

"Angels as you think of them don't actually exist. I'm . . . rather a bit more complicated. I'll gladly give you a full explanation in a more comfortable setting."

"What are you then?" John asked, speaking for the first time to Lestrade, his voice only slightly cracking.

"Have you watched Star Trek: The Next Generation?"

"Yes . . ."

"I'm a bit like Q, only instead of being a cosmic trickster, I'm a cosmic protector or guardian of sorts. And I'm not quite omnipotent or omniscient. Earth's a physical world, and as such, I'm subject to its physicality. My body and mind can still feel pain. Mycroft could bayonet me through the chest with that umbrella right now and while it wouldn't be able to kill me it would cause me enough pain that I wouldn't be able to retaliate very quickly."

Mycroft looked at Lestrade with equal parts interest and curiosity.

"How many cosmic protectors are there on Earth, if I may ask?" Mycroft inquired.

"Not many. At the moment, there's probably less than ten of us. We don't exactly keep in touch."

"And to think that all these years I thought you were just a relatively intelligent Detective Inspector," said Sherlock, looking up from breathing in the scent of John's hair. John stood with his back to Sherlock's chest, the consulting detective's long arms wrapped around the doctor's waist protectively.

"I'd like to think I still am," Lestrade told him honestly.

Sherlock snorted impudently. "Sure."

John smiled. "You be nice! If Greg wants to be a Detective Inspector, that's his choice. He makes a damn fine DI, and if you ask me, he deserves to be whatever the bloody hell he wants to be."

"Why not PM? Or even Mycroft's position?" Sherlock asked seriously. Lestrade noted the sideways look the elder Holmes sent his brother. He couldn't help but smile.

"Are we going to discuss the finer details of my existence in St. Barts' morgue?"

"No, we most certainly are not," said Mycroft. "I'll have a car brought round to the nearest exit. It might be a tight fit, I'm afraid, but I'm sure the five of us can squeeze in." He quickly texted a message on his mobile, looking at Lestrade when he finished. "Are you amenable to the idea of having tea at my London townhouse?"

Lestrade stared at the government man, asking the question as if it was the most normal thing in the world to ask of Detective Inspectors who brought their brothers back to life and sprouted enormous feathered wings from their backs in the process.

"I'd like that," Lestrade told Mycroft. The ginger haired Holmes brother then gifted him with a genuine smile that sent warmth into the center of his chest. There was awe, gratitude, and a reflection of such deep happiness reflected in the man's gaze that Lestrade found the wariness of the man he'd earlier felt slipping away entirely. Lestrade took a single step closer to Mycroft. He turned and stretched his wings out to full spread, a good twelve feet from wingtip to wingtip. He heard a couple of footsteps as Mycroft drew closer. Then, a gentle hand settled against his right wing. There was a sudden sharp intake of breath from the man behind him.

"Oh my, yes indeed!" exclaimed the elder Holmes. Lestrade leaned his wing against the man's hand and closed his eyes as the man reverently caressed the feathers with his long aristocratic fingers. Lestrade felt himself relax under the politician's touch. The way the man's hand traced down the flesh of his wing created a bloom of heat that settled low in his body. He made a deep sound of pleasure, that was very nearly a moan, as an unexpected wave of ecstasy shot down his spine.

His eyes suddenly flew open and Mycroft hastily withdrew his hand.

Lestrade swallowed hard. "Sorry," he said quickly, stiffening his shoulders. "It's just . . . been such a long time since anyone's touched my wings," he told Mycroft pivoting to meet the man's surprised gaze. "And you, well forgive me for saying this in front of the others, but you have rather lovely hands."

Mycroft blinked in rapid succession, perhaps at a completely bewildered loss for words for the very first time in his life. He colored slightly under Lestrade's gaze.

"I think we'll all agree we've spent enough time here. Shall we go meet my driver?"

Sherlock smirked at his brother having been caught off guard, very much looking like the Cheshire Cat.

"Ow!" he yelped, glaring down at John who'd covertly elbowed him in his ribs. Molly smiled and shook her head at their antics.

"Just do me one favour," she told the two of them.

"Of course, Molly," said John. "Name it."

Her smile widened. "No silly frilly frocks. I'd much prefer something simple and satin."

"I'm sorry, what?" John asked. Sherlock grinned.

"Honestly, Molly, what do you take us for? Do we look like the type of couple that dictates the exact style and details of what our Maid of Honor wears to our wedding?"

"I don't know. You two are crazy even in the best of circumstances. I just figured I'd warn you now."

Mycroft's mobile buzzed in his pocket. He swiftly answered it.

"We'll be right along, Anthea. Drive round the block once more if you must. I'm afraid I can't give you any more details over the phone."He then ended the call.

Sherlock regarded him innocently, munching loudly on another pretzel.

"Please tell me you're quite ready to leave this place," Mycroft said to his brother.

"Lead the way, brother dear," Sherlock replied, biting a pretzel in half.

Mycroft turned back to Lestrade. "Follow me. The vehicle has two standard bench seats. I should think your best bet would be to sit by the window and curl one wing around the corner and extend the other across the seat. I'm afraid someone will need to sit next to you, and hopefully you can work out the positioning logistics so you aren't in each other's way."

"I'm the smallest," Molly said. "I'll sit next to Mr. Silky Feathered DI,"

Both Lestrade and Sherlock snorted at that.

"What?" Molly asked innocently. Mycroft heaved a beleaguered sigh.

"Look, you may make all make all the innuendos and lewd jokes that you like, so long as you do it in any place that isn't here."

He meaningfully held the door open, a clear indication for everyone to leave the room. He raised a brow imperiously, as if challenging them to question him. Lestrade stepped into the hall, looking about self-consciously, hoping there were no hospital personnel in the corridor. The linoleum-floored hallway was fortunately very empty.

No one spoke as they left the building, each wondering what would happen if a group of strangers saw them. Luckily, the only living things they encountered as they walked to the stretch of asphalt that circled around the back of the building were a group of pigeons.

Lestrade opened the door of the modified black Cadillac Escalade just as the driver rolled down her window and stuck her head out of the vehicle in surprise.

"Hello, Anthea dear," said Mycroft smoothly.

Lestrade ducked into the vehicle folding and bending his wings to find the most comfortable position. Molly got in from the other side and slid into the seat next to him. Mycroft John and Sherlock then squeezed in to the line of seats opposite.

Once everyone was piled in Mycroft turned in his seat to look at his trusted personal assistant. She was staring in the mirror in close-lipped shock at Lestrade.

"Hi," Lestrade said good-naturedly. Mycroft sighed in defeat. He unbuckled his safety belt and hopped out of the car.

"I'm driving," he declared. The brunette blanched at the statement. "No, don't even think of apologising. Come now, Anthea, encountering a man with wings is not something you train for at the Home Office. I won't have you wrecking the car whilst gawking at him. In fact, take my seat so you can gawk at him better."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and Sherlock sighed sliding an arm possessively around John's shoulder.

"Not how you thought your day would go?" Sherlock asked the DI.

Lestrade barked out a stream of laughter. "No Sherlock, I'll admit this is the last thing I envisioned happening when I got out of bed this morning."

Mycroft's assistant buckled herself into Mycroft's previous seat and her boss eased onto the accelerator. John gave Anthea a friendly smile.

"Welcome to our club of merry insanity."

Lestrade could only smile at John's words. Merry insanity indeed.