This is my truth tell me yours
Mycroft had been dragged into the warehouse, pushed onto a chair, tied up and left alone. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes turned into hours. Then he heard a voice speaking behind his back. "Mycroft Holmes. In person. I'm impressed." A whistle.
Who was this man?
"Who am I speaking with?" Mycroft demanded. "Why don't you show yourself so we can be properly introduced?"
A laugh.
"You hurt my feelings Mycroft. You already know me."
He tried frantically to place the voice. Where on earth had he heard it before? There was something familiar about it...He couldn't place it though. Clearly it didn't belong to someone worth remembering. "I'm affraid that you have to refresh my memory. It's selective."
"Quite." the voice said.
"Who are you? What do you want from me?"
A whisper in the ear. "Revenge." Revenge? For what? Mycrofts mind searched desperately for an answer. He had propably made some enemies during his lifetime, but surely he would remember them, wouldn't he?
Somehow they had come across it. Maybe it was luck. There it was before them. On the wall. "Freshly carved." Sherlock said. He was touching it, fingers brushing the greek letter.
"And?" John asked confused.
"Don't you see? Lestrade made this. He left me a message. He hadn't his phone. He knew that I'd recognize..." Sherlock stopped in midsentence. "Anderson, that laptop of yours that you carry around. You have it with you?"
"Sure."
"Lestrades phone has a gps, track it to the last location."
"Across the street. Looks like the coffee shop." Anderson shouted out after a while.
Lestrade woke up confused. Tried to make out why he was lying face flat on a floor. Then he remembered, he had passed out. His head ached. He tasted blood in his mouth. Tried to get up. His hands where tied behind his back. This couldn't be good.