I Lied: Chapter Three

The two stood there for a moment. "Let's get a cab." Sherlock waved to the drivers, trying to catch the attention of at least one. It was to no avail. "We'll just have to run."

Lestrade scowled. "We won't be much use if we're out of breath and dead on our feet when new finally get there. There has to be a cab that will take us, dammit." He too made a futile attempt to hail a cab.

"He's only a few blocks away. If we waste time, we'll be too late. Ad I don't need to lose Mycroft too. He's all I have left."

Lestrade sighed in defeat. "Fine. Come one. He's important to me too." The both of them took off running down the streets.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said, "you're stupid. You know that?" The detective only ignored him. "You are."

"Everyone's an idiot to you, Sherlock," replied Lestrade, running faster.

"Not for that reason." Lestrade sighed. "Why do you love Mycroft so much? I don't get it." He swerved around a corner, almost running into an American couple. Lestrade murmured an apology, but kept running.

"Because I do. And should we really be talking about this now?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Mycroft is sure there's someone is his flat that isn't Anthea. Instead of running there as fast as we can, we're slowing down to talk about the reason I love him."

Sherlock didn't care about Lestrade's pointless excuse. This was more important than that idiot could comprehend. "I have my reasons, Lestrade."

Annoyed, the detective hissed, "Just shut up and run."

"Just trust me. I need to know."

They spun around another corner. "I just do, alright? If I listed all the reasons we would have to run all the way around the world. Besides, you probably won't agree with most of them. You don't see him in the same light I do." He paused his speech. "And I ask again, why is this important?"

"You wouldn't understand. But that's good for now." Sherlock looked up. "Follow me." He began to climb up a fire escape on the side of Mycroft's building. Lestrade followed, almost out of breath.

"This window here leads to his bedroom. He should still be alright. God, I hope we waited long enough."

Lestrade, thoroughly confused by now, hissed, "Move your fat arse, Sherlock."

"Working on it." Sherlock opened the window with some effort and climbed in. Lestrade followed, almost cutting his leg on the windowsill.

"Damn, that hurts."

"You just have to bleed all over with window, don't you?" Sherlock turned his head to a door in the bedroom. "Listen to that. Perfect timing."

Lestrade, preoccupied with his nearly injured leg, looked up. "Hmm?"

"Come on. Mycroft is ready to be saved. Go in there and pretend to be a hero."

"I'll just end up tripping over something," he argued. Sherlock glared at him.

"No more wasting time. You'd run around the world to name the reasons you love him? Then help me save him. All you have to do is untie him. I'll take care of everything else."

Lestrade straightened up with a nod. "Alright. Ready. Set. Go." They raced to the door, shoving it open and immediately moving to where Mycroft was tied to a wooden chair, trying his hardest not to trip over anything on the way.

Sherlock rushed to the connected dinging room, where a figure in black ducked into a hiding place, disappearing. "Come out, now!" he shouted, pulling out John's gun.

Lestrade busied himself with untying his fiancé. "Shit. Are you okay?"

Mycroft coughed, glad to have the gag out of his mouth. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. That man was attempting to get information out of me. Information on Sherlock."

"I knew it," muttered Sherlock. "I'll give you information. Just don't bring anyone else into this. John is dead because of you. Don't hurt Mycroft and Lestrade." Sherlock turned to said people. "Run, will you?"

Lestrade opened his mouth in protest, but at that moment, the hidden attacker decided to launch himself out of the shadows, reaching for Sherlock's neck with his dirty fingers. Lestrade was faster. He pulled put his gun, a standard issue for The Yard, and aimed it directly at the attacker, over the consulting detective's shoulder. He knew full well that Sherlock never kept John's gun loaded unless the blonde himself did it.

"Lay one hand on him, and you're dead." He gave a slight grin. "Sorry, but I'd like to strangle him myself."

Sherlock gave a weak laugh. "You hate me that much?"

"You're a bastard sometimes." He didn't take his eyes off the attacker as he spoke. Neither did Sherlock, analyzing everything about the frozen person.

"I'm not a bastard, I'm a genius. Get your facts straight."

"Right." Lestrade drew out the 'r' sarcastically. "If you're such a genius, you'd probably, you know, bloody move."

Sherlock ducked down, half expecting Lestrade to shoot at the attacker, and hurried to Mycroft's side. He felt like a child running back to his older brother. Mycroft, knowing exactly with the younger thought, gave a smug smirk. "Get that smile off your face." Mycroft only grinned wider. Lestrade busied himself with forcing the person in black (a man, Sherlock was sure of this) to the ground, handcuffing him.

"I really do hate you, Mycroft."

"And I you, brother."

Lestrade looked back to them.

"Take the mask off, will you?" Sherlock said. Lestrade nodded, taking off the mask that concealed the face of their suspect.

"Bloody hell," Mycroft said with a gasp.

Sherlock wasn't so surprised. "Hmm. . ."

Hardly able to contain his mixture of anger and disappointment, Lestrade hissed, "Anderson."

Thank You!

Well. . . That was no what I expected. My co-writer surprised me there. Said co-writer would like to say that she did not 'force' me to watch Sherlock. She only confused me with references to the point where I had to look it up. We'll have more of our Algebra adventures soon!

We do not, however much we want to, own Sherlock. Sadly.