Chapter Twenty
"I've been in contact with a few of my friends in Five and none of them have heard either whisper nor peep from Moriarty. Should I be worried?" Lestrade asked as he cleared dishes when Mycroft next came around the Strangers Cafe.
"Of course you should." Mycroft sighed, prodding a wonderfully moist chocolate cake Lestrade had made. For the sake of his diet, he shouldn't eat it. He would have to settle with giving it a gruesome death. "Sherlock, despite his best efforts, barely even touched him. We cannot assume he has skulked off to lick his nonexistent wounds. He mentioned Moriarty getting a 'better offer'. We are unsure of what that means."
"It probably means that someone is being a more interesting than Sherlock." Lestrade grimaced, scooping up Mycroft's plate, saving the poor cake a horrid demise and sending Mycroft a dirty look for even trying that under his roof. "A part of me doesn't want to know, the other wants to meet this guy, pat him on the shoulder, and wish him good luck."
Mycroft rolled his eyes and put his fork down. "Don't encourage anything."
Lestrade just chuckled back when he noticed a man loitering by the counter near the door. "Hey, can I get you anything?" he asked pleasantly.
The man looked surprised and slightly unsure. "Um... I'm Harold... I work here?"
"Oh, right." Lestrade tapped his forehead reproachfully with his knuckles and Mycroft stifled a snicker. "Shut up." he snapped.
"I didn't say anything." Mycroft smiled smugly.
"You were thinking it." Lestrade retorted.
"Now you're just sounding like Sherlock." the government agent tutted.
"Shut your face." Lestrade grumbled.
Mycroft looked over at the hapless Harold and smiled. "Might I suggest investing in a name tag with the caption: waits tables?" he smirked at Lestrade.
"Shut up, I'm going to kill you." Lestrade growled warningly, growing redder around the ears.
Just then, a mother and her two children entered the diner and Harold immediately went to assist them to get away from his new boss and Lestrade's mysterious friend.
"Honestly..." Lestrade sighed and ran his fingers through his hair and leaned against the counter.
"Anyway, back on the subject of Moriarty..." Mycroft got them back on track. "It's unfortunate that the Bruce-Partington plans could not be retrieved. I do hate leaving loose ends untied."
"I heard Anthea fished the memory stick out of the pool." Lestrade nodded with a slightly theatrical sadness. "Not a scrap of information salvageable."
Mycroft paused, clasped his hands in front of him, rested his chin on them, and just stared flatly at Lestrade for a second. "It's a real shame."
"Yes." Lestrade began picking invisible dirt out from underneath his fingernails. "Yes, it is." A smile pulled gently at the corners of his mouth despite his effort to keep a straight face.
"You have it, don't you?" Mycroft sighed.
Lestrade burst out into snickers. "Yes I do."
"Give it here." Mycroft held out his hand expectantly, palm turned upward.
"I'm surprised that Sherlock didn't notice I switched the hard drives." Lestrade reached into his pocket and dropped the memory stick onto it.
"He most likely did, just didn't care." Mycroft huffed.
"He hid it in the sugar jar. The second most secure place in Sherlock's mind, besides the pocket of his second best dressing gown, and even Mrs. Hudson knows about that one." Lestrade snorted. "Is he six?"
"He has never been the best at hiding things." Mycroft sighed, pocketing the hard drive. "His forte rests in seeking out."
"Well, I'm sure you more than make up for it." Lestrade raised an eyebrow.
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." Mycroft responded mildly. "Seeing as you had the plans and did not immediately contact me about it, may I assume you thoroughly... confirmed the contents?"
"Delicately put." Lestrade hummed. "And there's no use denying it. If anything, I am a very efficient agent."
"I'm not sure you should consider that a positive quality in this instance." Mycroft berated him.
"Hey now, efficiency played a big part in getting those plans back." Lestrade complained.
"And a great talent you have." Mycroft smiled indulgently.
Lestrade leaned in and lowered his voice. "You'd know best about my talents." he grinned.
Just then, the door flew open and Donovan rushed in like a storm.
"And there sails the ship." Mycroft chuckled.
Lestrade rolled his eyes and drew back before calling out to his flatmate. "Heya, Sal."
"Don't talk to me." the sergeant snapped as she stalked through, haphazardly throwing her shoulder bag on a chair.
"Well, I've also got a song prepared." Lestrade called after her. "Or would you prefer the mime?"
That earned him a short laugh from the woman before she disappeared into their second floor flat.
"You sing?" Mycroft asked curiously.
"Like a crow." Lestrade beamed back and promptly broke out into a surprisingly decent rendition of 'Bright Future in Sales'.
Mycroft just covered his face with his hand. He rationalized that if he could not see Lestrade, then nobody could see him, and nobody would affiliate him with the odd chef shuffling into the kitchen to the beat with a stack of dirty dishes.
"I gotta get my-...!" Lestrade sang loudly.
"Gahh!" Howard yelped suddenly. "Not in front of kids!"
"What, that's hardly even a bad word!" Lestrade shouted back, poking his head out of the kitchen.
"Not. In. Front. Of. Kids!" Howard growled back firmly.
Lestrade looked suitably scolded. "... Sorry." And he disappeared from sight again.
Mycroft couldn't hold it in any longer. He burst out into muffled laughter.
"I gotta get my BEEP together!" Lestrade continued singing in the kitchen, undisturbed.
How did such a rowdy child of a man get involved with a stiff-collar organization like MI5?