Interested

"Alright." John huffs in his most serious no-nonsense tone. "What's going on with Lestrade? Seriously, Sherlock, it's driving me mad!"

It had been two days since the break-in at Lestrade's flat, two days since Sherlock refused to stop his manic investigations, and two whole days without communication with Lestrade. John was becoming worried.

"Lestrade's still at Mycroft's safe house." Sherlock told John, being deliberately obtuse. "And I am currently investigating the break-in."

John stared at him, eyebrow raised. "Sherlock."

"Yes, John?"

"You haven't once talked about the case." John pointed out. "And I'm not dumb enough to believe it's because you respect Lestrade's privacy."

Sherlock looked at John. "He made me promise not to involve you."

"Lestrade? When did you get in contact with him?" John asked, slightly confused. Sherlock was silent. "Okay, so you don't want me involved." he deduced.

"This isn't like the other cases." Sherlock sighed.

"Yes, Lestrade's involved, you're on edge, it all makes me worried." Sherlock blinked, John crossed his arms. "There's more to this case than just a break-in." A statement, not a question.

Sherlock nodded.

"And you can't tell me about it?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Is Lestrade in danger?" John asked slowly, his eyes warning Sherlock not to lie.

"Yes." Sherlock replied stiffly.

John was silent for a long time, then he sat down in his designated armchair with a sigh. "A bit unnerving, knowing I know close to nothing about Greg."

Sherlock quirked his eyebrows at his flatmate. "You know his name."

John sighed. "And that he's a cop, once divorced, and likes football." He shrugged. "I know little else."

Sherlock nodded. "He doesn't talk about it."

"Mycroft said that not even he knew everything about it." John hummed.

Sherlock's eyebrows raised. "Oh?"

"Look, Sherlock." John sighed in exasperation at his friend. "Lestrade knows alot about us, watches our backs, lets you..." John flailed his arms. "...Do your business, no questions asked. He's always there when we need him to be, and it doesn't sit right with me when we don't reciprocate the effort."

Sherlock looked at John for a long moment, then he let out a heavy sigh. "Lestrade told me to stay out of it. It was a long time ago." he told him. "Naturally, I didn't. And one of Lestrade's closest collegues died because of it." John's mouth dropped open. "I think the last thing Lestrade wants is for me to pursue his case."

John closed his mouth and swallowed. "What happened?"

Sherlock shook his head. "His superior was shot. I can't tell you anything more."

"Lestrade?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, do you know anything about it?" John nodded slowly.

"Dr. Watson, I'm afraid that is not my story to tell." The government agent shook his head grimly. "In fact, I resolved that it was not my story to know until Gregory decided it was in our best interests."

"Arn't you in the least worried?" John asked impatiently. "Sherlock's on edge, he's saying that Lestrade is in danger! Don't you care, at all?"

"I do, in fact!" Mycroft retorted, then pressed his lips shut, keeping his temper in check. "I do." he said, quieter, a dark look in his eyes as he recalled Lestrade's obsession with the case.

John was silent, startled at the elder Holmes's strange loss of self-control, however brief.

"Lestrade is no fool, despite what Sherlock says." Mycroft continued calmly. "If he needs help, he knows to ask for it."

"Does he?" John asked almost incredulously. "I mean, no offense, Mycroft, but I've known you Holmeses for a while now and I don't know if I would."

Mycroft smiled grimly, almost sharkishly. "Dr. Watson... how long do you think Gregory has known me and Sherlock for?" he asked coolly.

John blinked, thought about it... "I don't know."

Mycroft inclined his head condescendingly. "No, Dr. Watson, ...you don't."

And that alone spoke volumes.

John's been asking questions. -SH

What have you told him? -Lestrade

That people have died and that it was none of his business. -SH

I don't think John's going to drop the matter just because of that. -Lestrade

No, he didn't. He talked to Mycroft. -SH

Oh God. -Lestrade

He's just worried. -SH

I know. That just makes it worse. -Lestrade

Lestrade? You there? -John

Lestrade glanced at his phone and pressed his lips together. As much as he knew he should respond, he really didn't want to. He knew John would be worried and would ask alot of questions that he wasn't quite prepared to answer. He ignored the text and put his phone down.

He had been lying low. Mycroft arranged everything so that he didn't even need to leave the house. He was on leave from the Yard, Anthea took care of all the shopping, and he continued contact with whoever he usually talked with by phone.

It was only day before yesterday that his flat had been broken into and he was growing bored.

He slowly brewed himself a mug of coffee and sipped it as he walked through the house. It was a lovely two-storey house with three bedrooms, a study, and a library. Seriously, who thought to have a library in a safehouse that wouldn't usually be used?

Lestrade moved to the library window and peered out. The house had a small garden in the front and a wrap-around porch, Lestrade couldn't be sure, but he vaguely remembered that the roof was red-tiled. It was a nice house in a quiet suburban neighbourhood.

He set his coffee mug onto a coffee table in the library and moved to one of the shelves. He was pretty certain that not all of the books were even in English. He picked out a Harry Potter book at random and sat down to read it.

He had only been reading it for about five minutes before his mind wandered to other things. Other things like Pupshaw and York.

He closed his eyes. He remembered Pupshaw being blonde, blue-eyed, and taller than he was with years of fighting under his belt. He had no professional training, he learned from experience. He was a strong and silent type, built like a thick tree, a man of few words, who left the talking to York...

York. Maurice York. He was different story altogether! While blonde-haired and blue-eyed like Pupshaw, he was thin and willowy, he had a fragile air about him that gave you the impression that he could be carried off at any moment by a light gust of wind. His voice was soft and gentle, his words glib on his tongue, he could talk circles around anybody he met as long as he conquered his extreme shyness.

Where Pupshaw was strong, York was skillful, Pupshaw's face was hard and chiseled, York's was pale and delicate. Pupshaw's hair was cropped short and York's was of a fair length and combed back. A prince and his knight. Lestrade chuckled humourlessly at the image. York was Welles's young nephew and Pupshaw was his bodyguard so it wasn't that far off-target.

A knock on the front door startled Lestrade out of his thoughts. He stood up and walked to the door, glancing at the grandfather clock as he passed. It was time for Anthea's usual visit. He peeked out of the eyehole, just to be sure, before he unlocked the door and opened it.

"Good evening." Anthea smiled at him, her arms full of shopping bags.

"Evening." Lestrade smiled back politely, but he had the feeling that something was off about her today... It wasn't like he didn't like Anthea, he liked her well enough. There was just that little detail about the way she looked at him sometimes, like she knew there was a big problem and Lestrade was the key to solving it. It creeped him out... just a little bit.

She held up a plastic shopping bag. "I've got food." she said, though no explanation was needed.

"Thanks, I appreciate it." He stepped aside and let her pass into the kitchen. "Anything I can do to help?" he asked her as she dropped her supplies on the kitchen counter and began putting the food away.

She looked at him with a slight smile. "Oh, that's alright. I think you'd do more damage than help."

Lestrade laughed at that. "Anyway, anything from Sherlock?" Anthea looked at him, expression carefully blank. "Nobody's told me anything, but I'm not an idiot." Lestrade told her wryly. "Sherlock's got his hands all over this one, doesn't he? I'd be more suprised if he didn't."

Anthea pulled out her phone when she recieved a text. Oh, so that's what was off about the situation. "Nothing much has turned up from your flat." Anthea told him. "The only evidence we've got is the security footage from the scene."

The scene... Lestrade resisted the urge to bristle at the wording and nodded. "What about the bugs?"

"They didn't speak, apparently." Anthea informed him crisply.

"So they... planned everything they'd do ahead of time?" Lestrade frowned thoughtfully to himself. "Odd, isn't it?"

Anthea rolled her eyes at him. "Inspector, may I remind you that you're on leave?"

Lestrade's shoulders sagged. "I've been here doing nothing for two full days. I'm going stir-crazy."

"Maybe you could take a walk or something? I can have it arranged." Anthea returned her attention to typing out something on her phone.

"Uh, well..." Lestrade scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "There was somewhere I'd hoped to go..."

Anthea raised her eyebrow at him.