A/N: Back again! Okay, so it's my headcanon that Lestrade is bad with technology, and that does play a significant role in this chapter. Just keep that in mind while reading. By the way, the stylistic changes I made for these chapters will not be permanent, they just helped out for this part of the story in particular.

Monday, 2:38 PM, Hickory Way

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Do I have to?" John said nothing, merely glaring at him reproachfully. "But Jaaaawn…" Sherlock whined childishly. John had to fight the smile that threatened to break its way through his stern exterior. Sherlock never would have felt comfortable enough around anyone else to act so immature. The relaxed attitude between the two of them made the doctor feel special. Instead of grinning as he wanted to, John deepened his glare, crossing his arms to heighten the effect. Sherlock once again exhaled noisily, "Fine. I'll text Lestrade."

"Thank you." John discontinued his glowering, allowing a small, self-satisfied smile to grace his features.

Sherlock typed hurriedly on his phone for several moments, before pressing the send button and returning it to his coat pocket with a flourish. "I sent him a picture of the note. If he can't figure out what we're doing from that, than he's a bigger idiot that I previously believed him to be." John furrowed his brow. He had hoped that Sherlock would send something more specific, but this would have to do. "Why did you want me to text him anyway?"

"Because he's been trying to reach you all day. It was only common decency to let him know what's going on. Plus, it was a safety measure. No, no, Sherlock, don't you roll your eyes at me. What we're doing here is dangerous. Don't try to pretend otherwise. The text you just sent Lestrade should give us a nice safety blanket if something goes wrong. It's not an unreasonable precaution."

"I suppose not. If we are taking precautionary measures, however, we should power down our phones."

"What? Why?" John asked, alarmed at the idea.

"Because, John, if we leave them on, they could go off and compromise our position. Therefore, it is imperative to our safety that they cannot accidentally make sound. It's the best way to ensure that we will be safe. We need to turn them off."

John opened his mouth to retort, but found he could not argue with his friend's logic. Hopefully this would all be over soon.

Monday, 2:39 PM, Scotland Yard

DI Lestrade had already given up on phoning Sherlock two and a half hours ago when he received the text.

Inspector, John is insisting that I contact you. No doubt you desperately need my help at the moment, but if we are going to catch this criminal I cannot spend all of my valuable time babysitting you and your team. The clue should be self explanatory. Don't bother texting back. Busy investigating. Will contact you again once we are finished.–SH

What was that supposed to mean? What clue? It was typical of Sherlock, being so vague and mysterious in his explanations. His roundabout way of clearing things up had often infuriated Greg in the past. Was there a method to his madness? Perhaps. Whatever the case, it wasn't helpful. Right now, Lestrade needed facts, he needed a lead. This text message gave him neither of those things. If anything, he had more questions now than he did earlier. For one thing, now he definitely knew that Sherlock was investigating without police assistance. Maybe now would be a good time to contact Mycroft. He could help decipher the ostensibly meaningless text. Ah, but no, Mycroft was out of town at some important meeting. The last time they met, the British Government Official had told Lestrade he would contact him once he returned to London. The only thing Lestrade could do was wait for the other man to do that, as hard as that might have been for the DI.

Resignedly, Lestrade began to return to his work, once again forgoing the hope that a Holmes would appear out of nowhere and help him. The best course of action, he decided, would be to minutely examine all the evidence confiscated from that second crime scene. Eventually, they would find whatever clue Sherlock had noticed it might just take them a long while. Before he could go do that, however, several things happened at once. First his phone pinged, alerting him that he had received a message. It was from Sherlock, and Lestrade assumed it was another text. Then, almost instantly after the alert noise, his phone began to ring. It was Mycroft. Greg scrabbled with the phone cursing under his breath. He managed to compose himself before answering the call, accidentally deleting the message alert on the screen in the process.

"Hello, Gregory. It's Mycroft." The man on the other line responded to Lestrade's initial greeting. His casual tone sounded slightly awkward, even over the phone.

"Oh, hello. Back in town, are you?"

"Yes, for the moment. I recall promising to contact you once I got back. Any new developments?"

"About the case? Well, yes. There's been another murder. If you mean about Sherlock, then the answer is no. Same old same old, where he's concerned."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Would you like to meet for dinner tonight?"

Greg bit his lip. His knee jerk reaction was to say yes quickly before Mycroft had time to retract the invitation. He stopped himself for one reason: Sherlock. The consulting detective was already annoyed at him for meeting with Mycroft once. Just imagine what he would do if Lestrade began speaking to Mycroft on a regular basis. He might just burn down all of Scotland Yard. On the other hand, Mycroft could end up being a monumental help. The elder Holmes knew and understood his brother as no one else did. If anyone could help Lestrade get a handle on what was going on here, it would be him. "I don't know how early I'll be able to get away from work."

"Not to worry. I will take care of any complications. The car will be sent for you at 5:45. I couldn't help but notice how ill at ease you were at the restaurant during our previous meeting. I was thinking a more casual setting would suit for tonight. My place, maybe?"

"Oh, um…yes. Yes, that would be fine. Perfect actually. Just…yeah, alright." Greg stammered, feeling suddenly inelegant and clumsy.

They said their farewells, and Greg hung up, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. This was not a date. It wasn't even a get-together between friends. This was a strictly professional meeting, and it was nothing to get nervous about. Or at least that's what he kept telling himself. As a distraction, he returned to his phone. Sherlock had sent him another message, hadn't he? When he looked, however, the supposed message was nowhere to be found. He must have misread the notification. Whatever the case, he had a large job ahead of him, sorting through the evidence. He couldn't afford to waste any more time waiting on a Homes.

Monday, 5:46 PM, Mycroft's Flat

Mycroft could not remember ever being nervous in his life. He conversed with royalty every day, the fate of nations depended on his every decision. He had so much responsibility it occupied his every waking moment. If he screwed up even once it would have catastrophic results. Yet none of that fazed him. Mycroft Holmes did not get nervous. He never worried, he never fretted; in fact, he was never even the slightest bit apprehensive. Then he met Gregory Lestrade and something changed. Greg pushed Mycroft out of his comfort zone, prompting him to do and say things he never would have imagined himself doing or saying.

It was bizarre and slightly disquieting, the affect this ordinary man could have on a powerful man such as Mr. Holmes. As strange as it was, it was also invigorating. Mycroft had never felt more alive than he did at this moment, apprehensively awaiting Greg's arrival. In another one of those spur of the moment impulses, the government official had invited the DI over to his London flat. It was far more personal than their previous meeting place, and, although he didn't doubt the police officer would appreciate the change of scene, Mycroft could only hope that he wasn't over stepping his boundaries.

A text from Anthea alerted Mycroft that DI Lestrade had gotten in the car that had been sent for him. He was on his way. Once again, a strange mixture of excitement and trepidation ran through Mycroft. It was an unfamiliar sensation, but, surprisingly, it was not an unpleasant one. Is this what friendship felt like? Mycroft wouldn't know, he didn't do 'friendship'. This was something completely new to him. Never before had he met for dinner with someone without a real reason. Tonight he was meeting with a man, unrelated to his work, simply because he thought it would be a nice way to spend the evening. In the past he would have considered his desire for companionship a weakness, but no longer. It was odd, this shift in his attitude, and Mycroft was looking forward to seeing how the evening played out. It was certainly going to be interesting.

Monday, 6:27 PM, Mycroft's Flat

"…and now the prick won't even answer my calls. He's shutting me out of my own investigation and there's not a bloody thing I can do about it. I mean, I know I should have seen this coming. The man has been cutting me out of the picture for ages. It was only a matter of time until he decided not to confer with me at all." Lestrade had finished briefing Mycroft on what had occurred in his absence, and was now in full rant mode. "If my boss caught wind of this I'd be sacked instantly, but does Sherlock care? No, of course he doesn't! He runs off on his own without even imagining there will be consequences. And it's not just my neck on the line. He and John could get hurt. The two of them are constantly taking unnecessary risks, seemingly just so Sherlock doesn't have to deal with me and my team. It's completely ridiculous!" He angrily shoved his food laden fork into his mouth, effectively cutting off his speech.

"Are you quite sure you won't accept my assistance?" Mycroft inquired, not for the first time that evening.

"I would, but I'm not sure there's anything you can do. Apparently, there was some big clue at the latest crime scene that my team and I were too thick to notice. Without it, we're stuck at a dead end. I literally have no idea where to go with this investigation now, because we simply have no leads." Greg tried to remember to think before speaking. The last thing he wanted to do was bore Mycroft with some rambling tirade against his brother.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his mind suddenly working a million miles per minute. "What has he said?"

"To sum it up in a word: nothing. He hasn't told us a damn thing."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "No clues? No cryptic messages?"

"Well…" Lestrade paused, "He did send me this text earlier."

Mycroft wordlessly held out his hand, prompting Lestrade to clumsily fumble with his phone for several moments before passing it over for inspection. "Hmm…" Mycroft studied the message with rapt attention. "This was all he sent?"

"Hmm? Oh… yes. That was the only text message." Lestrade answered, his mind clearly returning from somewhere else. The police man flushed lightly, embarrassed at having been caught day dreaming. It wasn't his fault though. Clearly Mycroft was to blame for his overwhelmingly attractive intelligence. It wasn't Greg's fault that Mycroft's eyes were so nice, or that one open button was extremely distracting. Wait…no…he was doing it again. Damn it, Gregory, you're not even half way through the meal yet and your losing your cool. No more wine for you!

It was true though, Mycroft was being much more distracting than usual. He was dressed shockingly casually, forgoing his usual three pieced suit for a simple dress shirt and an expensive pair of slacks. The top button of the mauve shirt was undone, and Lestrade was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain that this was a professional meeting. Not a date, definitely not a date.

"Well, there's not much I can tell you, Gregory." Mycroft looked up from the phone, his lips forming an apologetic smile. "He wrote this with the intention of leaving you in the dark. And, if I'm not mistaken, I believe he knew I would end up reading it."

"Of course he did," Lestrade groaned. "He really isn't going to cut me a break here, is he?"

"No, no I don't think he is."

Monday, 6:53 PM, Mycroft's Flat

The meal had been lovely. Lestrade wasn't quite sure where it had come from, for he was certain that Mycroft hadn't had the time to cook it himself, but that didn't make it any less delicious. The meal was mostly completed at this point, and the two men were spending much more time talking than eating.

"You wear a ring on your finger." Lestrade commented, leaning back in his chair languidly.

"Indeed I do."

"I'm assuming it's not a wedding ring."

"You assume correctly. No, I have never been married." Mycroft absent mindedly played with the ring, aware of Lestrade's eyes following the movement of his fingers. "Nor have I ever wished to be married. No, the ring is a prop. It makes things easier, at the office, if others believe me to be in a committed relationship."

"But you're not." Lestrade said quickly. "In a committed relationship I mean."

"No, I'm not"

Their eyes met for a moment and Lestrade found that his heart was beating far more quickly than the situated merited. His brain continued to supply the information that this was not a date; a fact he was finding harder and harder to believe. In the back of his mind he wondered how many people ever got to see this side of Mycroft Holmes. The Mycroft Holmes that didn't dress in suits, that hosted dinner at his flat, that wasn't cunning and manipulative. Even though Mycroft hadn't told him any secrets or revealed anything personal, the moment felt strangely intimate, as if he had crossed some sort of barrier that divided Mycroft's acquaintances from his friends. Greg found himself smiling and Mycroft mimicked him, the British Government official's eyes sparkling in a way the DI hadn't witnessed ever before.

Unexpectedly, Mycroft's phone let off a shrill, obnoxious beep, cutting through the air like a knife. He checked it then rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue with annoyance."Oh dear, I'm afraid I have to take this. I do apologize."

"No, no, it's fine." Lestrade waved him off good naturedly. The government official sent him one last apologetic smile before excusing himself to take the phone call.

Greg was left alone in the room. His food had been completed long ago, and while there was still wine in his glass the last thing he needed at the moment was more alcohol. After sitting in silence for several long moments, he eventually decided, like the workaholic that he was, to pull out his phone and review the text that Sherlock had sent him. Surely there was a hidden message in there somewhere. Unfortunately, Lestrade was not the best with phones, even with his own, and soon he was lost among the many menus and options. He cursed under his breath, randomly pushing buttons hoping against hopes that he would stumble across a familiar menu by chance. The last time this had happened, the DI had ended up powering down the phone in order to reset it to the default menu. Phones were simply not Lestrade's division.

Suddenly he found himself looking at a photo he knew he had never seen before. It appeared that Sherlock's vague text message had been accompanied by an image. Comprehension flooded Greg's mind, this was the missing text message from earlier. It hadn't been a text at all, it had been a picture! His eyes widened as the implications of what he was seeing dawned on him. Monday, three pm, Hickory Way. It was a time and a place. This is what Sherlock had been investigating.

"I'm so sorry about all that." Mycroft strode back into the room, tucking his phone back into his jacket. "There was a small, international crisis that needed my attention, but the situation is under control now…Gregory?" He hovered at his dinner companion's side, clearly concerned. "Are you alright?"

"I was wrong. There was more to the message." He passed the phone over. Mycroft took the phone, frowning as he read the message on the screen. "It say's three. That was nearly four hours ago, Mycroft. In his text he said he would contact me when he was done investigating."

"Something must have gone wrong." Mycroft handed the DI his phone back, pulling out his own. "Anthea, I need you to send a rescue team to Hickory Way. It seems my brother has gotten himself into trouble again."

A/N: Reviewers shall be loved forever! If you have any questions don't be afraid to ask. I will try to update with a third chapter today so I don't leave you in suspense for too long. I promise nothing, however. You may have to wait a bit. :( Sorry.