When he looked up and saw that his visitor was Mr. Mycroft Holmes, all other thoughts fled his mind; the man had visited the Yard…once? In twenty years or more?
The air in the room suddenly chilled. The elder Holmes collapsed into the nearest chair, and came straight to the point.
"My brother is or will be shortly holding a criminal at his flat in Baker Street," the man stated, calmly enough. "I need you – yes, you sir, and do not argue with me or I shall have words with the Superintendent; Sherlock trusts you – to take the man off his hands before he does something regrettable."
Lestrade's small eyes widened. "What…am I bringing the criminal in for, Mr. Holmes?" he asked slowly.
Was it his imagination, or did the older man's watery grey eyes suddenly grow more watery? "As it stands now, attempted murder," the official whispered. "And it looks probable that it will turn to murder before the night is over."
Lestrade was not as smart as Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but he had learnt a thing or two about deduction.
And it didn't take a consulting detective to suddenly realise exactly what had happened, nor a doctor to know he was about to be sick at the realisation that if they lost one of them, they would lose both.
