Chapter Twenty Eight
"I take it the diner is open again?" Sherlock remarked when he found Lestrade in the kitchen at Baker Street, stuffing food into the fridge again.
And - as always - his visits were uninvited and unannounced.
"Yeah, thought I'd drop by and say 'hello'." Lestrade nodded, peering into a container of salad to make sure nothing had spilled out on the trip over. "Hi, I'm back."
"Evidently." Sherlock grunted as John pushed him aside.
"Oh, you're back!" the doctor greeted pleasantly.
"Hallelujah, he's not blind!" Sherlock grumbled sarcastically under his breath as he trundled over to his sofa and threw himself face down on it.
John rolled his eyes at his flatmate before turning back to Lestrade. "Hey, Lestrade."
"Call me Greg, I already call you John." Lestrade smiled back. "You two on a case?"
"Just finished, actually." John nodded. "Sherlock's burnt out."
"Good, you hungry?"
"Starving, thanks."
Sherlock lifted his head once to mumble 'Greg?' under his breath and frowned before dropping his head back down to ignore the world.
"Cat! Come here!" Lestrade exclaimed fondly as the feline slunk through the door. "Who's my favorite customer?" he cooed, scooping her up in his arms and scratching that spot behind her ear that made her purr like an engine. "I missed you!"
Cat kneaded his chest with her paws and decided to make several neat little holes in the fabric with her claws in the process.
"I see you missed me too." Lestrade sighed and put her down to eat.
When he stood up, there was a very menacing gun in his face.
Anthea's phone rang, which was rare. Nearly everybody who knew the number knew she preferred texting rather than calling.
She picked up anyway, she knew the number.
"Lestrade?"
"Do you want to help me hide a body?" Lestrade asked without preamble.
"Is this your idea of asking me out on a date?"
"... Will you say yes if it is?"
Anthea sighed. "Where are you?"
"About three blocks away from my diner in a car that isn't mine. Hurry."
"Who did you steal a car from?" Anthea rolled her eyes.
"Whoever sent this guy after me." Lestrade replied."I have a feeling we'll find answers if we know who's after Irene."
"I'll be there in fifteen."
"See you."
"Do you realize how much of my history I will never be able to tell my children, or my grandchildren?" Anthea asked with a heavy sigh.
Lestrade looked at her. "Are you pregnant and didn't tell me?"
"No. I'm just saying." Anthea shrugged. "It's a possibility."
"Oh shut up and grab his legs, will you?"
"Do you have any idea how much I hate you right now?" Anthea asked flatly.
"You threatened to cut off my balls this morning." Lestrade reminded.
"More than that."
"Just help, okay?" Lestrade whined. "I promise: I'll find Irene, I'll find whoever this guy works for, and then you can exact your revenge."
Anthea raised her eyebrows.
"As long as it doesn't involve cutting bits of me off."
"He's gone." Mycroft got the call three nights later in the middle of keeping an eye on Sherlock and John on a case.
He could see John on his phone, talking to Donovan. Probably the good sergeant asking if her flatmate was with them.
Anthea was quiet on the other end of the line for a minute. "What shall I do?" she asked.
Mycroft steepled his hands and pressed his lips to them contemplatively.
"Sir?"
Mycroft sighed. "He will return." he stated simply. "In his own time. I doubt he will make it easy for us to find him before he wants to be found."
"Very well." Anthea returned. "Mind, I'm not happy about it. But okay."
"I am aware."
I'm at 221b Baker Street. I'll send you Irene's address. Merry Christmas, Mycroft Holmes. -Lestrade
Sherlock leaned in and kissed Molly on the cheek.
"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." he said quietly.
Lestrade turned around, facing the kitchen, and fiddled with his phone.
Mantlepiece.
He pressed send.
The Woman's erotic moan echoed through the room.
"Oh dear Lord. We're not going to have Christmas phone calls now, are we? Have they passed a new law?" Mycroft sighed when he received Sherlock's call.
"I think you're going to find Irene Adler tonight." Sherlock announced bluntly.
"We already know where she is. As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters." Mycroft huffed.
"No, I mean you're going to find her dead."
Where are you? -MH
Party's over. No longer at 221b Baker Street. -Lestrade
Get back in sight. I hate you with such a vengeance. -Anthea
Naturally, Lestrade did not reply.
"Look at them." Sherlock said to Mycroft in the morgue. "They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"
And there's a regular Holmes household Christmas in a nutshell.
Mycroft shifted. "All lives end." he said, rolling his cigarette absently between his fingertips. "All hearts are broken." He leveled a warning look at his brother. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."
Sherlock returned the look and barely resisted asking how his brother could possibly know that.
A part of him belatedly realized he didn't want to know the answer.
Instead, he settled for a sigh, exhaling the smoke. He grimaced. "This is low tar."
"Well, you hardly knew her." Mycroft replied mildly.
Sherlock grunted and strode off down the hall. "Merry Christmas, Mycroft."
"And a happy New Year." Mycroft replied dutifully.
He waited until Sherlock was gone before calling John to warn him about his brother's state.
He glanced out of the window when he hung up.
This proved to be a stroke of fate.
In the building across the street, on the same level Mycroft was on, stood a man in a smart peacoat, the dark navy fabric contrasting with his silver hair.
Lestrade's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, slightly taken aback when he realized he had been spotted. Then, he nodded in acknowledgement before turning and walking, flickering in and out of Mycroft's sight down the row of windows lining the building as he walked away.
Mycroft turned and ran, possibly faster and further than he had in years.
He stabbed the elevator button and waiting all of five seconds before turning and scrambling down the stairs and out into the street.
Lestrade was just exiting the building opposite the street and the man walked off down the street without so much as a backward glance, not expecting to be stopped, or perhaps, expecting not to stop even if Mycroft called out to him.
Mycroft jogged across the street, ignoring the honk of a horn, and a cross shout from the driver.
Lestrade did not ignore this.
He turned around and caught sight of Mycroft. He stopped.
Mycroft doubled over, leaning his hands on his knees as he panted for breath. Then, he straightened himself.
"Are you going to run away again, Lestrade?"
