Chapter Thirty Five

"I want to cry." Lestrade whimpered.

"Quickly, tell me what invokes that kind of reaction." Mycroft said dryly. "I'll be sure to use the information well."

"I hate you." Lestrade went on. "And I hate this 'vacation'."

"No really, Lestrade, what happened?" Mycroft sighed, hearing the absolute misery in Lestrade's voice.

"I told you about Ares." Lestrade began.

"Yes, you did."

"I had a few choice words with his previous owners and then I had to go back and ask them what all the meat was for." Lestrade groaned. "You should've seen the confusion on their face."

"What was wrong with the meat?"

"They are vegetarians." Lestrade replied flatly.

Mycroft snickered. "Oh dear."

"Of course we knew it was for Ares, but John didn't, and I couldn't tell him how I knew. And he looked so pleased with himself for assisting the investigation." Lestrade railed on. "It was awkward beyond imagination."

He could hear Mycroft still stifling laughter on the other end.

"I hate you."

"I'm taking care of your dog, it's the least you can do." Mycroft replied crisply as if he hadn't just been wheezing silently into his fist a moment earlier.

"Luckily, John and Sherlock were occupied long enough for me to come up with a cover story about Ares and the reason why the Hound of Baskerville can't be him." Lestrade sighed. "I guess it wasn't a complete waste of time and dignity."

"I suppose."

"On another note: did you try to make John piss himself by sending him into the lab with Ares earlier?" Lestrade asked nonchalantly.

"My brother requested an unoccupied lab." Mycroft shrugged. "I expected him to conduct his experiments himself and only wished to play a trick on him, compensation - if you will - for stealing my IDs."

"And where did things go wrong?" Lestrade asked patiently.

"When Dr. Watson entered the lab and Sherlock didn't." Mycroft replied a little sheepishly. "I was hoping to get back at the both of them. Turns out that Sherlock was also tormenting Dr. Watson in the name of science. Now that things have turned out the way they did, I just feel like a bully."

Lestrade burst out laughing. "Poor old John! Glad it's not me."

"Poor old John is correct." Mycroft said absently. "This was just recorded on his phone."

"Hold on, you've bugged his phone?" Lestrade huffed incredulously.

Then, he heard the woman crying.

"What the..."

"You've got to find Henry."

It took Lestrade's brain less than two seconds to place the voice while his brain kicked into overdrive. "Louise Mortimer." he said aloud.

"Yes, it seems so." Mycroft replied grimly.

"Get me Henry Knight's whereabouts." Lestrade growled. "Maybe we can put this ghost to rest, once and for all."

"Of course." Mycroft responded. "And Lestrade?"

"Yes, Mycroft?"

"Bring your gun." Mycroft said and hung up.

"Should I be worried?" Lestrade joked to himself. A moment later, his phone rang again. "Hello?"

"Lestrade." Sherlock's voice came over the line. "Get to the Hollow. ... Dewer's Hollow, now. And bring a gun."

The younger Holmes immediately hung up.

Lestrade stared at his phone.

"I don't... have a gun." he protested weakly to his dead phone. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock. I work with Mycroft, but I'm still a cook!"

He stood fidgeting for another moment, glaring at his phone before dialing back to Mycroft.

"Oh my God, he knows." he exclaimed dramatically.

"Who knows what?" Mycroft asked back dryly. "And keep it short, I'm quite busy."

"Short version?" Lestrade responded testily. "Sherlock. Gun."

Which could result in so many outcomes.

"Explain." Mycroft sighed impatiently.

"Sherlock told me to bring a gun to Dewer's Hollow." Lestrade expounded.

"Ah."

"So he must know."

"Probably. He's one of the cleverest people I know." Mycroft said. "Perhaps he knows, just doesn't care."

"Why would he even think I have a gun?" Lestrade whined.

"As far as my brother is concerned: you work for me, therefore you must be armed to some degree." Mycroft explained.

"Oh I'm armed, alright." Lestrade growled. "I've got a very large butcher knife-..."

"Which, I'm sure you will continue using solely in your kitchen." Mycroft interrupted.

"-... And I'm very good at using it." Lestrade went on. "I will flay you if you let your brother run his mouth off about a downtown diner chef who shoots people."

"Please don't." Mycroft said, deadpanned. "I like my skin exactly where it is."

"Then keep your brother quiet."

"Now you're just sounding like Irene Adler."

"No, I'm not!" Lestrade grouched. "And I'm serious!"

"I can barely keep control of my brother better than you can." Mycroft reminded him.

"Well, that's your problem!"

"Lestrade, just get to the Hollow. I'm sending you coordinates now." Mycroft deflected.

"I'm not bringing a gun, are you serious right now?" Lestrade swore under his breath to himself in at least four languages.

Mycroft just raised his eyebrows. "Excuse your French."

"Thank you, but you're not helping!" Lestrade exclaimed, rolling his eyes.

"I am indeed helping. I've sent coordinates to your phone." Mycroft sighed. "Just follow the red pin that's on screen."

"What if I want to use another app?"

"You can't. I'm going to lock it. It's on GPS until you've finished the mission."

"What if I need to text?"

"Hacking your phone, now." Mycroft responded crisply, ignoring Lestrade's inquisitions.

The cold-hearted bastard.

The map popped up on screen.

"Fucking fine."

He shrugged his jacket on and reached for his gun. Contemplated for a moment, and then shoved it into his concealed shoulder holster and marched out.

A moment later, he marched back in, threw his gun under the mattress of his bed, and ran back out.

Time to catch a Hound.

Hopefully, without guns being involved.

Because he is trying to act the part of upstanding citizen, thank you very much.