Thank you for taking the time to read my first Mystrade slash fiction, a second Sherlock story I am writing alongside "Only the Lonely". This story is likely to contain some slash-inspired adult content as it progresses, so please do not read if you think you may be offended.
As always, please be kind enough to review my work as it means so much to get responses from others. I love to hear what other fanfic enthusiasts have to say, so please share you opinions.
I really hope you enjoy :)
Lestrade sprang into action the moment the alert had come through. It was not often that an incident made his heart run cold with dread.
Hostage situation at 221b Baker Street. Persons involved unconfirmed, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson believed to be in residence.
"Emergency situation, everyone on full alert!" Lestrade shouted as he stormed through the office. A few officers looked up vaguely, wondering what the problem was.
"Donovan, Baker Street, now!" He continued, pointing at Sergeant Donovan who was talking on the phone at her desk. She sighed irritably and ended the call, wondering what mess Sherlock had got himself involved in.
Sherlock was sitting bolt upright in his armchair, watching the young, nervous man opposite him with a steely unblinking gaze. If it were not for the gun in the man's hand, aimed directly at Sherlock's head, he would have laughed him out of the apartment. The man's hands were shaking nervously and he continually wiped his damp brow with his sleeve. His eyes darted haphazardly around the apartment, focusing on the door, the window, the entrance to the bedrooms, as if expecting someone to leap out at any moment and grab him. Even his posture was nervous and lacking in confidence, his shoulder slumped and his head ducked, as if waiting for something to drop down from the ceiling. He shifted continuously in his seat, unable to remain static for more than a few seconds. It was exhausting to watch him.
Sherlock surveyed him with interest, the gun more something to be wary of rather than seriously frightened. Most likely this poor kid had been hired by someone else, someone who was intelligent enough to get another person to do their dirty work for them, but stupid enough to choose someone just a little too desperate. So what would induce this scared, cowardly lad into committing a crime which would only end in prison? Well, money was the obvious answer, but with the risk so high, what sum of money could possibly be worth it?
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and considered the man again.
Shaking hands...sweating...thin frame and gaunt face, evidently underweight...shabby clothes...fingernails dirty, probably has not washed properly for a few days...obviously driven by desperation...
Sherlock nodded in satisfaction, this was easy. Drink, or more likely, drugs, was at the bottom of this. The need for them would motivate any junkie to risk everything for cash.
"What you nodding about?" The boy asked angrily, strengthening his grip on the gun.
Sherlock smiled calmly.
"You know that the chances of you getting away with this are practically zero," he said with bemused sympathy for this deluded fool.
"Won't," the boy replied insolently, sounding like a bad-tempered teenager.
"And did that even make sense?" Sherlock laughed, his amusement ending abruptly when he saw a most welcome sight behind the boy's closely shaven head. A figure, indistinguishable at present, was slowly creeping noisily up the stairs outside the apartment, their figure just visible through the open door that the boy had forgotten to close. Sherlock was unsure who this was but it could only mean one thing; help was surely here and this tiresome incident was nearly at an end. Anybody who was arriving to take over as hostage-taker from this lad would not bother to creep and disguise their presence.
"Why do you think he asked me, eh?" The boy asked, a droplet sweat running slowly down from his temple. "It's cos he trusts me, right? It's cos he knows I'm gonna pull this right off, and no one can stop me."
"Oh of course," said Sherlock sincerely, forcing himself to focus on the boy rather than the figure who was silently moving into through the door. Sherlock could now see that the figure was a man, short and stocky, with dark hair and a muscular, powerful build. He had briefly caught Sherlock's eye and in an instant, sent him a very clear message in facial expression.
Don't look at me, focus on the boy, I'll have this under control in a matter of seconds.
"He told me not to kill you," the boy said, the gun beginning to shake violently in his hands, "but I swear I will do it if you push me."
With a swift dive and a powerful pounce, the mysterious rescuer suddenly dived at the boy from a distance of around six feet, his right hand effortless swiping the gun out of the shaky grip and his left arm locking around his neck.
"That's enough now, son," he growled in a low, menacing voice, "you're in quite enough trouble as it is."
The boy waved his arms about wildly and kicked out his legs, wriggling desperately to try and escape the man's grip. But his scrawny under-nourished body was no match for the stocky figure that was now pinning him to the ground. His struggle quickly subsided as he realised he was beaten and he lay still, whimpering incomprehensibly into the carpet.
Sherlock rose from the chair and rolled up his shirt sleeves; the flat suddenly felt very hot. He looked down at the pathetic figure on the floor partly in interest and partly in sympathy.
"Foolish kid," he murmured. Sherlock turned his attention from the boy and addressed the man who was now wrenching his victim's arms behind his back, ignoring the squeals of pain, and forcing his hands into cuffs.
"Looks like I owe you some thanks," Sherlock said, "are you one of Lestrade's men?"
"No, he's one of mine," came a soft voice from the doorway.
Sherlock looked up just as Mycroft entered the flat. He was elegantly attired as always, his black three piece suit and pale blue shirt pressed to perfection, a subtlety striped tie finishing the look. Mycroft walked across the room and stared with ill-disguised distaste at the now silent boy curled up on the floor. He tapped the end of his umbrella menacingly close to the boy's head, his lips curling upwards into a sarcastic sneer.
"Dear me sherlock," he said mockingly, "you really do attract a poor class of kidnapper. Where did this one come from? Drop in on his way to college did he?"
"How did you know about this, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked irritably.
Mycroft shrugged lazily and continued to smile at Sherlock in the condescending way that he knew annoyed his little brother so much.
"One of my assistants got a tip-off from the police, thought I'd come along and save them the bother. Seemed sensible to combine a little work with visiting my dear brother."
"Well I can honestly say it wasn't worth the effort," Sherlock said pointedly, "but I suppose the exercise always does you good." His eyes dropped to Mycroft's stomach area and narrowed his eyes critically.
Mycroft's amused face darkened.
"Trust me, Sherlock, if I'd known what a pathetic specimen we would be scooping up, I really would not have bothered."
Mycroft and Sherlock were so focused on sniping at each other that neither heard the soft tread of careful footsteps creeping quietly up the stairs.
Lestrade, Donovan, and a dozen armed officers were silently making their way towards the door of Sherlock's flat, ready to bring the siege to an end. Lestrade had no information regarding to what to expect, so had taken no chances. With agonisingly slow movement, he inched his head around the corner so he could see what was in front on him.
He could see Sherlock, his back to the window and his face looking towards the wall. He was partially obscured by another man, presumably the hostage taker, who was silhouetted in the doorway. Lestrade made a quick assessment of the man in order to determine the level of risk.
Tall, slim build, no obvious signs of explosives or bombs, something long in his hand but it did not look like a weapon.
The man turned slightly to the side and Lestrade was able to see the item. An umbrella. Not dangerous. Therefore this man was not armed.
Lestrade was not one to ponder a situation for too long; he made a snap decision and acted.
"Go!" He yelled at the top of his lungs, tearing forward to reach the door, the full force of his men behind him. With his full strength he grabbed the man roughly by the shoulders, slamming him forcefully into the door frame and his other officers poured into the flat, their guns poised at different angles in order to ensure the entire room was covered.
"That's what you get for pulling stunts in my area, you bastard," Lestrade snarled into the back of the man's head yanking his arm more forcefully than necessary up his back. "Are you ok Sherlock? We got here as quick as we could."
Lestrade turned his head to check on Sherlock and was surprised to see him smiling in amusement, his eyes darting playfully between the man and Lestrade.
"What's so funny?" Lestrade asked, "this one been amusing you or something?".
He gave the man a sharp kick in the back of his shin. The man's knee buckled slightly and he grunted in pain. Lestrade grinned in satisfaction.
"Looks like I owe you thanks, Lestrade," Sherlock said, the smile still hovering on his face, "trust me, there are not many men you will meet who are as dangerous as this one."
"Sherlock, stop" The man said suddenly, his voice low and threatening.
Lestrade was confused. He looked between the two men.
"What's going on?" He asked. Sergeant Donovan was starting to look slightly lost as well, her forehead screwed up in concentration as she tried to work out what was happening.
Sherlock flopped himself casually onto the sofa and rested his feet on the coffee table.
"Graham Lestrade..."
"It's Greg!"
"Sorry," continued Sherlock, "Greg Lestrade, please meet my older brother Mycroft Holmes. I can't quite remember his full job title but I've no doubt you've heard of him. And as much as it would be fun to see him wrongly arrested, he sadly is not your man." Sherlock pointed to the stunned figure on the floor who was looking overwhelmed with confusion. "That's the young gentlemen who tried to take me hostage, albeit with a fairly low rate of success."
There was a stunned silence in the room. The various armed officers avoided each other's eyes, looking at the floor in embarrassment. One lowered his gun. Donovan's eyes grew wide with realisation as her mouth dropped open in horror. Lestrade's stomach filled with dread as he he began to understand what he had done.
"But I thought..." He began, before the room was distracted once more. The boy on the floor had seized the moment when he thought nobody was focused on him to try and escape, and was one frantically kicking away and trying to somehow wriggle his way across the floor. It was a foolish idea as every armed officer in the room lept to restrain him.
Before Lestrade could utter another word, Mycroft shook himself free from the inspector's grip, straightened his suit jacket and marched out of the flat without a backward glance. Lestrade watched him leave, feeling helpless and utterly despairing as he disappeared. He was never going to get away with this.
The next week was a misery for Lestrade as he waited with dread to face the consequences of his actions. Everybody at the yard thought it was hilarious and he received so many cheers and pats on the back for his now notorious actions that he got sick of it. Nobody seemed to see how serious the situation was. He had physically attacked just about the most senior government official he was aware of. He had used unnecessary force, kicking a restrained man, which was strictly against police guidelines. He had embarrassed Mycroft Holmes in front of his own brother and an entire armed squad of officers. He knew that if Mycroft Holmes decided to seek revenge for his humiliating experience, Lestrade's career was over.
Lestrade had never met Mycroft, but had been contacted by him once previously when he had been ordered to assist Sherlock at Baskerville. All he knew about him that he was a formidle character and senior to anyone that might be considered in charge. The Comissioner of police was nothing compared to Mycroft Holmes; he had utmost control over everyone and everything.
Lestrade cringed with horror as he replayed the incident over and over in his brain. Why had he stormed in like a unhinged lunatic and reacted so aggressively? And damn Sherlock, for standing by and laughing as he had unwittingly signed the death warrant on his own career.
For the next week, Lestrade entered work every day with his body as tightly wound-up with stress as a coiled spring. It was the anticipation he could not bear, waiting daily for the inevitable to attend a meeting to discuss a very serious complaint about his conduct. Maybe this was part of Mycroft's sadistic plan, to string out the mental torture for as long as possible so he could enjoy maximum revenge. Every time Lestrade saw one of his superiors approaching him he would start to brace himself for the fallout. But it did not come.
Thirteen miserable days passed, and still Lestrade heard nothing. He even began to gloomily consider what career he could consider once he was forced out of the police.
On the fourteenth morning since the incident at Sherlock's flat, Lestrade was sitting in his office, absorbed in a complicated report he was trying to write. He did not even look up when someone tapped on his office door before entering a second later, without waiting for a reply.
"Oh my God Sir, you will never believe this."
It was Donovan, slightly breathless, her checks flushed with excitement and her eyes sparkling with glee.
"What?" Asked Lestrade without enthusiasm.
"We just got a phone call from the ladies on the desk downstairs. Who do you think has just entered the building? Only Mycroft Holmes!"
Lestrade stared stupidly at her as the weight of her words came crashing down.
"What?" He spluttered in panic.
"Yeah, Mycroft Holmes," she repeated, looking over her shoulder to see if there was any sight on the esteemed visitor. "And guess what? He's on his way up here now to see you."