Chapter 4: TANGLING THE STRINGS

The pouring rain had done nothing to cool Lestrade's temper by the time he reached New Scotland Yard.

Fucking unbelievable. Who did Mycroft Holmes think he was? The guy with the ear of the Assistant Commissioner, that's who.

If the AC was bent...

As if his life wasn't complicated enough.

He thought the better of going up to his office, removed the nicotine patch and went back out to buy some cigarettes and a cheap lighter. Then he had to find some shelter under which to smoke the ruddy things.

It was a disgusting bloody habit. But how could you be expected to give them up when arrogant gits like Mycroft Holmes - Just how powerful was he? What was he, come to that?

With no wish to use his mobile, Lestrade nipped down into St. James's Park tube station to use a landline telephone.

The central switchboard at the Department of Transport were well-trained. Within seconds he had been put on to Mr Holmes's P.A., Viola Adair.

He rang off immediately. So Mycroft had got good cover.

Within a short space of time he was back at the Yard, checking the CCTV footage of all the areas Mycroft would have gone through, then the internal security cameras. While it wasn't much of a surprise by this time, Lestrade still felt a chill at his back when he discovered there were no images of Mycroft Holmes.

What did Mycroft have on the Assistant Commissioner? There had been so many scandals about corruption in the Met. recently; every time you thought it couldn't get worse, it did. Now he had to find a way to investigate the AC without involving any of his team - no point risking their careers too. As for looking farther up the chain for help... The DCI was too close to retiring to think of risking his pension, the DCS... Lestrade gave a snort of derision. IPCC was an option but only as a last resort. Until then he was on his own.

He was fighting the urge to go and have another cigarette when it occurred to him that he needed to try to protect himself. Mycroft might be powerful but there was no point making it easy for him - though he'd claimed his job wasn't at risk.

There again, as a secret squirrel he lied for a living.

While he was being driven to Pall Mall to shower and change, still debating whether or not to burn this suit after visiting Sherlock's bedsit, Mycroft called his new assistant for an update on Lestrade's movements.

Three sentences into Grahame's report, which offered a blow by blow account of which foot Lestrade had put in front of the other, Mycroft made a mental note to find an assistant better equipped for the demands of the job. And where to place Grahame where he could do no harm; earnest, thorough and devoid of anything approaching a sense of humour... He would be perfect for transfer to any number of Departments. Works and Pensions was probably the safest.

" - CCTV and internal security footage."

"I left instructions that they were not to be wiped in this instance."

There was a nasty silence at the other end.

"Ah. Sorry, sir. That message didn't get through because..." There was an audible gulp. "...I forgot to pass it on."

Mycroft looked pained. So much for convincing Lestrade he worked for the Department of Transport. Fortunate that every report to date suggested that Lestrade was a sea-green incorruptible.

"Anything more on Lestrade?" he asked brusquely.

"He left instructions for his team to investigate reports on missing homeless people, unidentified bodies or body parts, cross-referenced with missing person reports. He used his office computer to write to his bank and the solicitor who's handling his divorce."

"Concerning the divorce?" said Mycroft, his impatience thinly veiled.

" - to ensure no payments are made into his bank account, except for his salary and expenses - "

With half an ear on the rambling report, Mycroft gave a grudging nod of approval. At least Lestrade wasn't a complete idiot. Unfortunately that also meant he would now be certain that he was a 'secret squirrel'. Which reminded him.

"Grahame, a precis on 'secret squirrels'."

"Sir?"

Dear Lord, there was nothing else for it, he would have to interview the next assistant himself...

It was almost midnight by the time Lestrade got back to his flat, having been so preoccupied that he had started off in the direction of his old house before he had remembered he had a new address. Ridiculous. But proof he needed to get his head down for some sleep.

Despite his fatigue, Lestrade slept poorly, the floorboards seeming excessively hard to his tired body, the noises of the flat different from those to which he was accustomed, and so cold that it made his nose run.

Handkerchiefs. God knows where all his had vanished to but he'd better add them to the list.

He hadn't taken Mycroft seriously at all but if he could command the kind of casual power that could wipe security footage within Scotland Yard then he was bloody dangerous.

He should have left Sherlock to the Thames.

Good deeds always bit you in the arse.

He gave up the pretence of sleep just after five. Not only were the floorboards hard but the flat was close to freezing and he was starving because his last meal had been over twenty four hours ago. Shuddering with the cold, he pulled on as many layers of clothing as he could. Cleanliness could take a back seat until he had heating and hot water and as he couldn't find his electric shaver the itch of stubble would just have to drive him crazy.

After a bowl of porridge, two apples with peanut butter and two cups of tea, he felt more human. It might be a bland diet but it was cheap and nutritious and had seen him through hard times before. The less he spent, the quicker he could get the flat fixed. Maybe then it would feel like home.

With reluctance he took off his padded jacket to pull his decorating sweatshirt over the various layers he was wearing; he wasted no time in starting to strip wallpaper in the large living room. It was hard going, with forty years' worth of decorating to work through - he'd already gone down seven layers of increasingly stubborn paper. He should have invested in a steamer. It was going to take forever with just a scraper, sponge and hot water. But he couldn't go out because of all the deliveries he was expecting. He just hoped the gas man came early - and that the central heating system wouldn't need replacing just yet.

The furniture arrived just after nine, the mattress approximately twenty minutes later.

Lestrade was back stripping wallpaper and fighting the urge for a cigarette when he heard the front door bell wheeze. Batteries. Something else he'd forgotten. Along with new bedding. He and Julia had both forgotten to divide that up. Damn, no wonder he hadn't been able to find a towel last night.

He added towels to his mental list.

Expecting to see the guy from British Gas, Lestrade's smile of welcome congealed when he saw who stood on his doorstep.

There weren't many people who could wear a suit the colour of pale pond-scum and get away with it but Mycroft Holmes carried it off with aplomb.

"I am aware that you are on leave," began Mycroft.

"But you're going to disturb me anyway."

"It would be helpful if we could have a chat."

"Helpful to who?"

"Me, primarily. I wonder if we might talk in the warm."

"Then we'd best sit in your car. I'm presuming that black luxury job is yours? I've no heating. I only moved in yesterday. I was hoping you were British Gas."

"I seem doomed to disappoint you. My car it is."

Mycroft turned away and tackled the tight curve of concrete steps which led up to the street, his pace slower than he would have liked because his knee was still giving him some discomfort after a night spent sitting at a conference table.

"You should take up the stage," said an irritable voice behind him.

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft turned, twisted his knee and hissed as he clutched the railing to maintain his balance.

"Hang on," said Lestrade in a different tone, when he realised there was nothing staged about the other man's discomfort. "If you fall down those stairs and break anything I'll probably end up in the Tower. You'd best come in after all."

"Your concern is touching." Mycroft ignored the hand held out to him and made it back down the steps with a combination of determination, vanity and upper body strength he hadn't been aware he possessed. All his pen-pushing was obviously paying off.

"You haven't seen the inside of the flat," said Lestrade dryly as he closed the door behind them, before leading the way down the wide hall. The tiles had come up better than he expected, he mused as he gestured for Mycroft to head into the living room.

"I'd say make yourself comfortable but..."

Mycroft studied the various layers of wallpaper revealed; some of the colour choices were startling. He glanced at Lestrade.

"I'm quite partial to the black paper with those pink - I'm not sure what flowers they're supposed to be," offered Lestrade.

"Nothing I recall seeing in nature. Astonishing patterns. I'm struck by the dark crimson with... Are they supposed to be Parisian scenes?"

"Not as I remember Paris," said Lestrade, thawing despite himself.

"Once the paper is removed, this room will shine. It has excellent proportions and natural light."

"The bedroom and bathroom are a good size too." The pride of new ownership blossoming, Lestrade found himself showing Mycroft round.

"This was an excellent find, I congratulate you." The cold beginning to bite, Mycroft buttoned his overcoat and tucked his neck as far as it would go into his cashmere scarf. He glanced at Lestrade and was again struck by the unfairness of life. Unshaved, with his beginning to grey hair tufting in all directions and dressed in paint-splattered clothing, Lestrade was still a highly attractive man, while his stubble just made him look as if he should be sleeping on a park bench.

"You timed your visit well. The furniture arrived just before you did. Sit, elevate your leg. I'll make tea. Ah, no milk," discovered Lestrade. "I'll nip down to the corner shop."

A flicker of surprise escaped Mycroft. "Are you in the habit of abandoning your home to a stranger?"

"Oh, I feel as if we're old friends by now," said Lestrade, an edge to his smile. "Have you seen my wallet?"

Mycroft took out his own and extracted a couple of notes.

"Milk a bit pricey in your neck of the woods?" said Lestrade, as he eyed the two fifty pound notes being extended to him.

"I wouldn't know. I keep this well stocked in case I encounter Sherlock. He forgot to pick my pocket yesterday."

"You must be so proud." Lestrade dropped the money back in the general direction of Mycroft's lap and headed for his bedroom, returning a few seconds later with his wallet. "Feel free to spy. Well, of course you do. If British Gas turn up, point them in the direction of the boiler. Oh, hang on a tick." He headed into the kitchen and when he came back tossed something over. "To put on your knee."

Mycroft only just caught the packet of frozen peas in time.

"In lieu of an ice-pack," Lestrade explained.

Finding this place even colder than Sherlock's bedsit, Mycroft nodded his thanks.

Lestrade left without another word.

Mycroft ignored Lestrade's advice about his leg and got up to take advantage of Lestrade's offer to spy. Reports were all very well but he wanted to learn all he could of his unwilling host - and the man who would have responsibility for Sherlock's safety.

Second-hand furniture, the label of the charity shop clearly visible, but solidly made with simple, pleasing lines. There were few personal possessions except for the open boxes of books: non-fiction, mainly concerning the history of London. The bedroom contained a wooden bed-frame, waiting to be put together, a new sprung mattress and a sleeping bag. The clothes hanging from some Heath Robinson device were mid-to-low range, more casual than not. Colours monochrome. Black boxers, black socks. An adventurous dresser then... No sports equipment. No musical instruments. A laptop, three to four years old so wouldn't last much longer. CDs. Mycroft frowned, none of the names meaning anything to him. Basic utensils in the kitchen. Plenty of cleaning products. Food cupboards sparsely filled with cheap staples like pasta and rice. Fridge empty, except for some unpleasant looking cheddar cheese and a few vegetables. Freezer. Duly reminded, he replaced the pack of peas.

Lestrade's finances were stretched to their limit by his mortgage and he had no car or other form of transport. Plus he was in the middle of a divorce. And yet his protective instincts remained undimmed: for Sherlock, even for himself.

"I hope I gave you enough time?" said Lestrade, on his return.

"Why the history of London?" asked Mycroft mildly, declining the bait.

"I'm a Londoner. Its history incorporates a lot of subjects. I don't read much - well, any really, fiction.

"I see you took my advice about elevating your leg," added Lestrade dryly.

Mycroft shrugged that irrelevance aside but he was leaning a little more heavily on his umbrella as he crossed the room.

"You should use a cane, it would give better support," said Lestrade, frowning as he noted Mycroft's halting gait.

In a heartbeat Mycroft's relaxed expression changed to one of prissy containment. "I hardly think - "

"It's any of my business," anticipated Lestrade without resentment. "You're right, of course. How do you take your tea?"

"No milk or sugar, thank you." Mycroft propped a shoulder against the kitchen doorway. "I apologise. I was in a traffic accident a few months ago - due entirely to my inattention. Which makes it a touchy subject for me. A cane would occasion all kinds of tedious questions. And there are times when its preferable to show no signs of weakness. The knee is much better than it was but I tripped and fell yesterday."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "Did Sherlock - ?"

"What? Good Heavens, no. Sherlock might be prone to violence towards himself but never to others."

"So the umbrella... May I ask you something?"

Mycroft looked wary. "I can't guarantee I'll be able to answer you."

"I'm not interested in state secrets."

Lestrade's tone was so casually dismissive that Mycroft gave an involuntary smile.

"Only... And I know you're going to laugh at me but... Is that a sword stick?" Lestrade asked in a rush, nodding to the umbrella.

That the last question he had expected to hear, a splutter of amusement escaped Mycroft's controls before he firmed his twitching mouth.

Lestrade gave him a look of slightly embarrassed resignation. "I knew it."

"How I wish it was," Mycroft said at last. "I've a fondness for Basil Rathbone films. Well, for those with sword fights. Before my accident I was taking instruction in learning to fence but I fear I have no aptitude, natural or otherwise. And, apparently, two left feet.

"I'm afraid this - " he raised the umbrella with care, mindful of the small space " - is simply an umbrella - and an unobtrusive aide if my leg is giving difficulty."

"Pity. No gadgets at all?"

Mycroft came close to making something up just to take away Lestrade's look of disappointment. There was something almost boyish about his enthusiasm, without any of the tedious immaturity which could accompany it.

"I'm merely - "

" - a cog in the Department of Transport." Lestrade didn't bother to hide his disbelief.

"Ah. I believe that ship may have sailed," conceded Mycroft.

"So... An Aston Martin?"

"Oh, Good Lord, no. And before you ask, I loathe martinis, let alone heavily diluted ones full of slush. I'm a pen pusher, nothing more."

"You're a sad disappointment, that's what you are." Lestrade dried the mugs and spoons he had rinsed, his half-smile warm and uncomplicated.

"Not the first time I've been told that," Mycroft assured him.

This time Lestrade's grin lit his entire face. "It takes a brave man to admit that. Still, at least you're armed. An ankle holster, isn't it?"

Mycroft tensed slightly, his expression decidedly frosty.

"You do know how to use it?" pursued Lestrade as he poured hot water over tea bags.

The report on Lestrade had made clear his dislike of guns - and lack of aptitude on the range. Not that he would be required to use one in the normal course of events. Mycroft contented himself with giving the other man a very hard stare.

"It must be nice to have such a long nose," continued Lestrade, on the basis that if he was going down, he would go down fighting.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It gives you so much more to look down. Should you have told me what you have?"

"You're a reasonably intelligent man - "

"Damned with faint praise."

"It seemed likely you would have worked it out by now. While I maintain a low public profile, it's impossible to go completely beneath the radar."

"Instead of trying to bully me into working with your brother why didn't you try to bribe me?" enquired Lestrade, fishing out soggy teabags and dropping them into a carrier bag on the draining board of the ancient sink unit.

"Why would I want a man who can be bought?"

"So not because it would be morally wrong?"

"Morals?" The ginger eyebrows rose in exaggerated surprise. "My dear Detective Inspector. Moral judgments from civil servants! The world as we know it would collapse.

"I'm sorry I was out of the office when you called the Department of Transport," Mycroft added urbanely, in a ruthless display of power. He tried to avoid inhaling the odour of the tea that had been presented to him and followed Lestrade into the sitting room.

"I suppose you have to work some time," said Lestrade, disdaining pretence. Besides, Julia had told him he was a terrible liar. As he had expected, Mycroft was quick to pick up on the inference.

"Am I overstaying my welcome?"

The unexpected, sardonic note in that soft, precise voice, the face now blank of all expression, gave Lestrade pause. But he said only: "Drink your tea before it gets cold."

Mycroft sipped the tea made for him and discovered it bore no resemblance to one of the delicate blends to which he was accustomed. The brew tasted unpleasantly acidic, the tannin making the roof of his mouth prickle. The cheap mug was thick and clumsy, with a handle that owed more to form than function. But he was the guest of a man from whom he needed a favour, so he drank it with every appearance of enjoyment.

"Why would the AC want to do you a favour?" asked Lestrade. He began to strip the wall closest to where Mycroft sat, the other man looking as out of place as Siamese cat in a puddle of slurry.

"The milk of human kindness not an option? To be frank - please don't snort like that, you might give me the benefit of the doubt - I know of no criminal behaviour on his part." He sustained a suspicious look from Lestrade without difficulty.

"OK."

"You don't sound convinced."

"Odd that."

"I appreciate your difficulty but how can I prove a negative?"

"It would hardly be in the public interest to have a bent senior officer."

"Not necessarily true."

"Not helping," Lestrade pointed out in exasperation, before he rubbed his chin. "You're right, of course. I've no way of investigating him without being caught. Whether he's clean or not I'd be in a shit load of trouble and while it might not be a glittering career, it's the only one I've got."

It was an impressive speech. Mycroft even believed some of it, unfortunately not the important part. He gave a faint sigh.

"I've known Peter since my early twenties," he offered, because there were times when it was simply less trouble to tell the truth.

"How well did you know him?"

"Very, in the biblical sense. 'Lovers' suggests a relationship which didn't

exist. We had sex several times - it wasn't memorable enough to remember the

exact number, and parted without trauma. We've met at several functions since. I simply called and asked him for a favour. He had no problem granting it, so long as there was nothing to link him to the decision."

"I'd heard he was a gutless wonder," muttered Lestrade, before he gave Mycroft a speculative look.

To Mycroft's mild disappointment it wasn't the kind of speculation he had been hoping for, although taking Sherlock's detective as a lover would be far too complicated for what would only be a week or two of pleasure.

And he had no doubt it be would a pleasure, he thought, as he watched Lestrade's denim clad backside flex and twitch as he stretched from where he was precariously balanced on an unstable chair.

"So the AC isn't corrupt," said Lestrade, shreds of damp paper cascading down as he work. He spat out a small piece, squinting to avoid getting any in his eyes.

Safety goggles. Step-ladder. The shopping list was getting longer by the minute.

"I have no reason to believe otherwise," said Mycroft. "He is, however, firmly in the closet and has been for years. I've never approved of outing for the sake of it."

"Nor me," said Lestrade. As he turned on the chair seat small flakes of paper were caught in his hair.

It seemed symbolic, thought Mycroft, Lestrade stripping back his personal life. At least he had a personal life...

"His secret's safe with me," added Lestrade.

Mycroft gave him a look of surprise. "I never doubted it."

"Oh." Disconcerted, even a little embarrassed, Lestrade jumped down from the chair to put more water on to boil.

"If Sherlock cleans up his act, I'll give it a go," he said, a moment later, his back to Mycroft.

Mycroft gave a small, secret smile. "Thank you."

Objective achieved, he rose to take his leave just as his phone rang.

"Forgive me, I must take this call, Is there somewhere private - ?"

Lestrade gestured to his bedroom.

Mycroft emerged after twenty minutes, his expression grim. "I need to ask another favour of you and I don't have time for subtlety or finesse..."