In Shock
Police officers milled about in his flat, poking at anything and everything he owned. Lestrade gritted his teeth with slight indignation, but let them do so because that was their job. Still... he didn't like people prodding around in his personal possessions.
"Sir." Donovan said softly as she approached him. "I'm sorry, but I've got to ask-..."
"No." Lestrade ground out. "No, nothing was stolen, and I might have an idea of who did this but I've got no proof. And yes, you can take some stuff down to the Yard for evidence."
Donovan pressed her lips together sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Sir."
Lestrade shook his head. "That's alright. It could've been worse."
His flat was a mess. No piece of furniture was upright, no book or file left un-ripped, no CD unbroken, his clothes, every single article of it was thrown haphazardly out, shredded with a knife, and stained red with wine in an attempt to seem like blood.
It was clearly an intimidation tactic... and it bloody well worked. Lestrade crossed his arms, planted his feet firmly into the ground and tightened his jaw, head held high, refusing to appear affected. Or more, refusing to appear so weak and out-of-control in front of his men.
If Pupshaw and York wanted to see him quiver in fright, he'd be sure to disappoint them.
A black car pulled up on the street outside his flat and Lestrade walked out to meet it. Mycroft dismounted from the back passenger seat and met him halfway, looking concerned. "Are you alright, Gregory?" he asked softly.
"Yeah." Lestrade nodded to him. "I took a look at your surveilance. Whoever did this planned it so that I wouldn't be in the area when they trashed the place." He shrugged. "It might've been worse if I'd walked in on them while they were here."
Mycroft's jaw tightened. "Forgive me for asking, Gregory, but is this-...?" he trailed off.
Lestrade sighed. "Yeah, it's probably Pupshaw and York." He turned to watch the officers march in-and-out of his flat, carrying boxes of his personal belongings and packing them away in vans to be brought to Scotland Yard. "Look at that, looks like I'm finally moving into the Yard." he joked wryly. "I can die happy now."
"You should get a proper bed to sleep in while over there as well, instead of using that tiny open space you sleep in under your desk." Mycroft joked back.
"What can I say?" Lestrade shrugged. "It's cozy under there."
They shared a humorless laugh. "I am sorry, Gregory, that my men did not get there in time to intercept them." Mycroft told him darkly. "The men responsible worked quickly with an efficiancy that I would've liked to have in my own subordinates."
"Pity they put their uses for breaking into my flat and destroying it." Lestrade grumbled. "I liked this flat."
"And I promise you, it will be returned to its former glory before you even know it." Mycroft vowed quietly.
Lestrade reached into his coat pocket and handed Mycroft a plain white card. "I found that on my door." The detective said in explanation.
Mycroft looked at it. One cannot and must not try to erase the past merely because it does not fit the present. He frowned at it. "Ah."
Lestrade nodded. "Uh, huh. Looks like Pupshaw and York want me to remember the case."
"Is there something in particular that was meant by this?" Mycroft asked, gesturing to the card in his hand.
Lestrade sucked in a shaky breath, held it a moment, and released it. "Maybe." Mycroft looked at him. "Look, Mycroft, alot of cops would be glad to kill me for some of the shit I did while undercover. That's why hardly any of the force knows about my... involvement."
"I see." Mycroft handed the card back to Lestrade. "Sherlock and John are worried." he told Lestrade.
The copper looked up. "Did news travel that fast?"
Mycroft shook his head. "John was worried about what had happened in the pub." Lestrade winced visibly. "He texted Sherlock about it, who in turn texted me. A minute later, Anthea informed me that your flat had been broken into."
"Sorry." Lestrade sighed.
"For what?" Mycroft frowned at him. He knew better than to call Lestrade a 'victim' God knows how the man would resent him for it. "You did nothing wrong."
"John's going to be a bit pissed at me." Lestrade grimaced. "I told him nothing was wrong when I left. He's not an idiot, he'd know I was lying."
"Yes, I suppose. Gregory, that man who approached you in the pub...?"
"His name is Nathan Grant. He was a small time dealer, lower on the chain of command. He was close with Pupshaw in a subordinate way." Lestrade told him. "He got of out jail a few years ago."
Mycroft nodded to himself. "You know, you don't have to call Sherlock in on this case if you do not want to." he told Lestrade.
"I know." Lestrade sighed back at him. "But I know better than to think that I can take them down myself. I'm not that naive." He glanced back at his flat where his men were in the process of bringing out a hamper full of soiled and ripped clothes dyed in red. Lestrade shuddered slightly.
"Come, there is nothing we can do here." Mycroft told him, guiding him gently into his car with a soothing hand on his elbow.
"Where are we going?" Lestrade asked him.
"I don't think it would be wise to visit Sandy and Jonah's diner, who knows if we are being watched even now." Mycroft told him. "I would advise you be careful about that."
Lestrade nodded. "I know."
"There is a wonderfuly quaint little cafe a few blocks down from here." Mycroft suggested.
"Sounds great."
John walked into the cafe only about twenty minutes after Mycroft and Lestrade got there. He glanced around at the interior of the cafe and his eyes fell on them. He quickly walked over. "I heard about what happened, Greg. I came as quickly as I could." He placed a comforting hand on Lestrade's shoulder, already in full doctor-mode. "Are you okay?" Apparently, he'd been building it up during the ride before he arrived.
Lestrade shrugged a little. "Yeah, all things considered."
"Thank you for coming, Dr. Watson." Mycroft nodded at him politely but John could see faint hints of sincere gratitude in his eyes.
"Sorry, I hate to ask, but one of you have a smoke?" Lestrade asked with a slight frown. Mycroft reached into his jacket pocket and handed a pack of cigarettes over the table to him. Lestrade took it with a nod of thanks. "I'm just going to step out for a bit." he told his two friends before walking out. Mycroft and John could keep an eye on him through the glass door of the cafe as he smoked.
"Is he alright?" John asked Mycroft.
Mycroft shook his head. "No."
"Should I be worried?" John persisted. "I asked Sherlock about it but he became all tight-lipped about it."
"It is a most... personal matter for Gregory." Mycroft told him with a dark frown. "And I'm afraid the last time Sherlock tried to pry, he only made matters worse."
"Whoever's out there, they broke into his flat, Mycroft! A copper's flat, I'm not stupid enough to believe it was a random act of vandalism!" John exclaimed, worried. "What's going on?"
Mycroft glanced over John's shoulder to where Lestrade was still smoking. "I don't think I have any right to tell you about that. And what Sherlock and I know is mostly speculation anyway." John raised his eyebrows incredulously. "We learned not to pry at Lestrade's past affairs the hard way." Mycroft sighed. "If he does not want us to get involved, I will make an endeavor not to do so."
John turned to follow Mycroft's gaze. Lestrade was now on the phone with someone, Mycroft would later be informed that Lestrade had requested Alex to visit friends far out of the potential danger zone for a while. Just to be on the safe side. Alex went to Prague, Mycroft's men kept eyes on him during transit.
At length, Lestrade hung up, ground out his cigarette, and reentered the cafe. "What did I miss, then?" The copper asked them.
John just shrugged. "Nothing much." Mycroft replied coolly.
"Okay..." Lestrade sat himself down at the table with them.
"You have somewhere to stay, Greg?" John asked him politely.
"Uh, no. But I can stick around the Yard. I'm one of the few that doesn't get kicked out for squatting." He grinned ruefully.
"You know, you can always drop by at Baker Street if you need a place to stay." John offered.
Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Thanks for the offer, John, I appreciate it. But I think I'd rather risk the Yard."
Mycroft laughed. "Quite right."
"I can always find a hotel room or something anyway." Lestrade continued. "It's much simpler."
"Too unguarded." Mycroft cut in. "The security systems are appalling. I have a safehouse in the suburbs if you are so inclined."
"Nah, too far." Lestrade argued.
"To far from what?" Mycroft asked him. "I don't think Scotland Yard would take well to the idea of you investigating your own break-in."
Lestrade grimaced. "True..."
"And I'm sure they'll try to make you take some time off to get over your shock." Mycroft pointed out.
"I'm not in shock."
Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Pupshaw and York have broken into your home, the one place you have the right to feel safe, and destroyed it. Yes you are."
"Am not. Look, my hands arn't even shaking." Lestrade held out his hands for examination.
"It is true that your hands are not shaking." Mycroft sniffed. "But they don't usually shake when you are in shock."
Lestrade sighed in exasperation. "Mycroft..."
"Gregory, you are being stubborn." Mycroft cut him off.
"Ladies, ladies." John interrupted, stifling his laughter at their banter. "Let's just find somewhere for Greg to stay for tonight, for starters, alright?"
Lestrade and Mycroft scowled at each other.
"Very well."
"Fine."
It was soon decided, after Mycroft and John overruled Lestrade's protests, that the copper should stay at Mycroft's safehouse and Mycroft escorted him there just as soon as he dropped John off at Baker Street. Sherlock was not home, Mycroft knew, he was at Lestrade's flat looking for clues. He felt that he should not tell Lestrade that just yet.
Anthea had taken the initiative to pick up some new clothes for Lestrade before they got to the safehouse and they found supplies waiting for him. Lestrade had been a mix of horror and bemusement. "Your secretary knows my exact measurements and the precise articles of clothing I wear to bed." he deadpanned, picking up the dark blue drawstring sweatpants and loose T-shirt Anthea had picked up for him.
Mycroft just shrugged. "Some things are simply not meant to be known, Gregory." Lestrade had laughed at that before seeing Mycroft to the door. "My men will be keeping eyes on you, call immediately if you sense something is amiss."
Lestrade nodded back, rolling his eyes. "Yes, Mum."
Mycroft just frowned at him reprimandingly and walked away in silence.
Lestrade closed and locked the door after him before pressing his forehead on the cool wood with a heavy sigh, tension bled out of his shoulders like a deflating balloon. He rubbed his face ruefully and padded quietly into the bathroom for a shower.
God he was tired.
He turned the shower faucet on as he stripped and stood under the scalding water. Then the full force of what had happened hit him. He let out a haggard breath and pressed his hands against the tiled wall, leaning into it heavily as he squeezed his eyes shut.
His home, invaded by the monsters in his nightmares, torn apart. His safe haven from Sherlock, from Scotland Yard, gone in a matter of minutes. And the things that marked his whole life, his personal belongings, every inch examined by his collegues, people who he'd have to work with again. His treasures, his hobbies, God, his divorce papers... It'd be gossip fodder for months.
Everything.
He clenched his fists and slid down to sit in the bathtub feeling dizzy and overwhelmed. He did not cry, just sort of, dry sobbed. He opened both palms and looked at them catching droplets of water, letting out a strangled laugh.
Son of a Bitch. Mycroft was right. They really didn't shake.