A/N: In the previous chapter, Mycroft addresses Lestrade multiple times as 'Detective Inspector', my fault entirely. I am seriously too used to calling him 'Inspector' that I forgot he was supposed to be a sergeant. Well, I've fixed the mistake and Lestrade is once again sergeant. Just for the people who might be confused. Sorry about that!

Anyway, enjoy.

Cold

Snow. When one thinks about snow, you could imagine sitting by a warm fireplace on a Christmas night and watching white powder accumulate on the frosted window sill, or acres of pure white stretching across a field, glistening in the sunlight.

But when Lestrade thinks about snow, he thinks about grey slush in a back alley, or a particularly icy patch of sidewalk when pursuing a suspect, and maybe even a corpse in a drift, forensic evidence almost purely intact.

But this time, he was stood knee-deep in a recently shoveled mountain of snow and for once he is grateful for the crime scene coveralls. At least he wouldn't get too wet... was still bloody cold, though.

The body was discovered in the early morning by a man scraping snow off the sidewalk in order to move his car. According to his statement, he had been throwing snow over his shoulder for a good seven minutes, or so, before seeing a bare foot poking out from under the white.

The forensics worked quickly to photograph the area around the dumpsite for potential footprints, although since it was snowing all through the night, the chances of catching the killer's footprint were nil.

Next was the body. Snow was scraped off the rest of the body to be examined by the ME before being lifted into the awaiting van to be taken down to the morgue. The woman's limbs were delicately outstretched like the victim had been in the process of making a snow angel when the unfortunate happened. As the body was taken away, Lestrade briefly wondered if the stiffness of the corpse was due to rigor mortis, or if the body itself was completely frozen.

There was a smattering of red ice under where the body was found and Lestrade motioned for the forensics to take over. He hopped out of the snow drift and stomped his feet a little to keep the blood flowing and rubbed his hands together.

Body-... check. Crime scene-... check. Witnesses-... check. Now, all that's missing is a warm cup of coffee and a little sun.

He peered up at the sky through his eyelashes. Still pretty dark. Lestrade had wondered why the witness was out shoveling snow so early in the day. Figures that he was a lawyer and always left for work obscenely early.

"Lestrade!" Lestrade's DI - an elderly man named Keith Meadows - called out to him. "Go see what the commotion out there's about, will you lad?"

Lestrade turned to see Constable Sally Donovan exchanging heated words with a very calm woman who seemed intent to stay right where she was despite Donovan's incessant request that she leave.

The woman seemed to ignore Donovan as she stared at her blackberry. Lestrade couldn't repress a groan. He walked over. "What seems to be the problem here?"

"Sorry, Sir. I tried to get her to leave." Donovan sighed in exasperation.

"That's alright-... Donovan, wasn't it?" The PC nodded. "Right, well, don't worry about it, I'll take care of this." Donovan nodded again stiffly and marched away.

"Mister Holmes wishes to see you." The mysterious blackberry toting woman told him curtly. "Please follow me." She turned on her heel and swiftly walked away.

Desperately wishing he could ignore her retreating figure, but knowing no better alternative, he followed. At a distance. Just because.

He was led to a nearby cafe that shouldn't be open for another hour or so and was let inside. The professional-looking barista at the counter eyed him warily as he passed, but said nothing. Lestrade was guided to a table near the back of the small cafe where Mycroft himself was seated, flipping nonchalantly through a newspaper that really couldn't have been delivered yet. Because it was tomorrow's paper, the showoff.

"Bloody wanker." Lestrade grumbled under his breath.

"Ah, Sergeant." Mycroft greeted, glancing up at him and smiling coolly. "Take a seat." He pointed at the empty chair opposite with his umbrella.

"I'm alright over here, thanks." Lestrade responded equally as calmly, continuing to stand.

"I'd rather you sit, Detective."

"And I'd rather I stood."

They stared each other down, both desperatly wanting to glare at the other - but didn't - for civility's sake. Although, neither really saw a point to being civil when the last time they met, Mycroft had Lestrade nearly fired, and Lestrade pick-pocketed him. "What do you want now?" Lestrade asked finally.

"I see you've taken on the Willow case." Mycroft remarked.

"The what?"

"Your victim."

"We don't even have an ID."

A manila file was produced and tossed onto the table. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and nodded for Lestrade to take it. Lestrade stayed motionless for a moment before finally rolling his eyes with a sigh, his shoulders sagging. He walked over and picked the file up to flip through it. Sure enough, the face in the photo matched the victim's.

"What is this about?" Lestrade asked suspiciously.

"It's a lost cause, Sergeant." Mycroft told him. "You'll never solve this case and I suggest you don't waste your time on it. It will soon be transferred to more... appropriate authorities."

Lestrade snorted. "So, what? I'm to round up the team and tell them to drop the case because the great Mycroft Holmes says to?" He shook his head. "You're mad."

"I never said to drop the case." Mycroft sniffed condescendingly. "I merely said not to waste time on it. You're welcome to try your hand at it, though. It's your choice." I'd like to see you try... and fail. Went unsaid.

"Well, if this is all you've called me out for..." Lestrade said, knowing all too well how much not finishing his sentences annoyed Mycroft.

"Also, I've been thinking, Sergeant Lestrade, about your actions concerning Sherlock." Mycroft declared after a prolonged sip of tea. Tea in a coffee shop, only Mycroft bloody Holmes...

"Right. That's nice, can we skip the chit-chat? I've got a crime scene to be at." Lestrade sighed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Sherlock seems to be easing himself slowly off the intoxicants." Mycroft carried on.

"As long as he's distracted, he's going to be alright." Lestrade nodded.

"That's good. Keep him distracted." Mycroft hummed slowly.

Lestrade seemed at the end of his patience. "What do you want, Mister Holmes? Really, what? I haven't the time for tea and small-talk, you know!"

"The moment I let him out of my sights, he's going to get himself into trouble." Mycroft ignored Lestrade's impatient exclamations.

"This is ridiculous, I'm leaving." Lestrade shook his head with an exasperated sigh and turned to leave.

"All I am asking," Mycroft's voice pursued him, cool, unhurried. "is that you make sure Sherlock doesn't accidentally kill himself in my absence."

A cold wind rushed through the open door and penetrated Lestrade's overcoat, causing him to shiver. He stopped, shook his head with a small sigh, and turned back. "'Accidentally kill himself'?"

"When the cat is away..." Mycroft shook his head grimly. "How do you think Sherlock's past attempts at rehabilitation worked out? He takes drugs the moment those keeping an eye on him glance away. He always cheats because he knows how to mask the evidence of his deception. He never could attempt that around me, he knows I'll only find him out."

A chill settled in Lestrade's spine when the thought of that. Grotesque images of OD'd drug addicts he'd seen in his time with the narcotics division filled his brain. Sherlock wouldn't... he promised not to, didn't he? "Well, if you're so worried about him, you look after him! He is, afterall, your brother." At Mycroft's silence he shook those thoughts away and another thought occured to him. "'In your absence'. Where are you going, Mister Holmes?"

Mycroft's ice-blue eyes blinked, momentarily hiding them from view. "That, I cannot say."

Lestrade's jaw tightened as his stomache dropped. He had that feeling he sometimes got when he just knew a case wasn't going to end well. Realizing he had no idea what to say, Lestrade just nodded curtly and turned to leave again.

He stopped just inside the doorway, watching snowflakes fall in light clusters. He sensed movement behind him and Mycroft was suddenly there behind his left shoulder. The umbrella that was hooked on his arm was now raised and opened with a snap.

"I do sincerely hope you and Sherlock behave yourselves." Mycroft quipped condenscendingly as he made ready to leave.

"I misbehave by Sherlock's rules, only with people who annoy me." Lestrade snapped back, eyebrows quirking.

Side-by-side, they walked out into the snow. One under an umbrella, the other, not. Mycroft moved toward his idling car and Lestrade toward the crime scene. Mycroft neared his vehicle when he turned back.

"Look after him, Sergeant." Lestrade stopped and turned back. The only thing colder than this miserable morning was the tone of Mycroft's voice. Lestrade could almost hear the 'Or else...' hanging above his head.

"I can't promise anything, but I'll see what I can do." He said quietly and turned around again to continue walking. "I hope wherever you're going is worth it!" he threw back over his shoulder with a slightly accusatory tone.

Now that was a low blow, but it landed hard nontheless.

Mycroft merely scowled at Lestrade's retreating back and entered his car.

Lestrade returned to the crime scene and stared at the splotch of red that still showed against the pure white and for a moment wondered who the victim was, what had she gotten herself into? And, more importantly, how did Mycroft Holmes know who she was? If he knew she was there before the witness found her, why had he not called in the authorities? If he had known about the case after the police arrived, how had he known who the victim was? She was buried under the snow...

As much as he didn't want to think about the possibility that Mycroft himself was responsible for putting the body there, he couldn't exactly ignore it either. He glanced down the street just as a black car pulled away, tail lights glistening, bouncing rays of red light on the snow like little droplets of blood.

They did not see each other again for two months.