Raining

It was beginning to shower lightly as Lestrade and Anthea pulled up to the cemetary. Lestrade found it difficult to stay away from the place whenever he felt the tugs of obsession drawing him into The Welles case. He asked Anthea to remain outside while he entered, Anthea had frowned at that.

"It's too risky." she told him firmly.

Lestrade rolled his eyes at her. "There are rarely any visitors who frequent this place. Look, I'll talk to the caretaker and ask if anyone is there and if there isn't, you can let me go in and stop anybody from entering after me."

Anthea contemplated that thought for a while, her mysterious mind going over the potential variables of the plan. "Okay." she relented finally.

Lestrade went in, Anthea did not. He did not come out for a long time.

Three hours later, Mycroft arrived on the scene in a second car. He dismounted and walked over to the car that housed his assistant. Anthea opened the door and stepped out even before he reached her. "He hasn't come out yet, Sir." Anthea said, keeping her eyes carefully on her Blackberry so as not to see the concerned frown cross Mycroft's features. The man had a reputation to keep after all.

"How long?"

"Three hours." was the curt reply.

"Anything?" Mycroft asked.

"Nobody went in or out, not even the caretaker." Anthea replied.

Mycroft's grip tightened imperceptively on his umbrella handle. "I see." With that, he turned and walked into the cemetary.

The grounds were just as Mycroft remembered them as, lush, green grass, cracked marble, stone worn down to illegibility. And the rain...

He could feel it tapping his umbrella, squelching under his tailored shoes, soaking into his trousers, scenting the air beautifully...

It had been raining the first time Mycroft came here, when he first learned about Lestrade's case. Lestrade hadn't been carrying an umbrella that time, Mycroft was glad that Anthea had thought to give one to him this time.

He saw the funeral-black umbrella lying discarded on the muddy ground before he saw Lestrade, and he saw Lestrade before he saw the gravestones. "Gregory, what-..." Mycroft inhaled sharply when he saw what it was that disturbed Lestrade so.

The five marble gravestones that Lestrade had been here to visit lay in broken heaps on the grass. It had Pupshaw and York written all over it.

Lestrade was sitting straight down on the moist grass, rain and mud soaking through his clothes. His face was pale and haggard and his eyes were red from crying, but he was not crying now, just staring. Mycroft hurried over toward him. "Gregory."

Lestrade blinked his eyes blearily and looked up at Mycroft with a shaky breath. "I just came and the graves were..." He croaked and shook his head, raking a hand through his wet hair. "Sometimes, I don't even know why I bother with this case anymore."

Mycroft moved slowly to stand by the man's shoulder, shifting the umbrella to cover both of them. "But you do." he told the copper. "Because you care. And maybe that's what makes you a fine detective. You'll get them." He did not need to specify who 'they' were.

"I don't know if I can. I'm scared, can you believe it, Mycroft? I'm fucking scared of them!" Lestrade shook his head angrily, angry at himself.

"But you still pursue them." Mycroft shot back. "You're a good man."

"John's a good man," Lestrade retorted, "he has his share of ghosts but that doesn't mean he goes running off into the dark after them." He sniffed and wiped a raindrop that threatened to drip off the tip of his nose. "I don't know if I can do it anymore. I've buried too many friends for this one bloody case... it's not worth it! It's not something I'm willing to sacrifice."

Mycroft blinked blankly at Lestrade, then his features harded and he scoffed harshly. "Don't act the tragic hero, Gregory, it doesn't suit you." Lestrade looked up at him, slightly startled at his biting tone. "I know who your friends are, and I know that that roster is composed mostly of police officers. You're not a man who tolerates fools, Gregory, and your friends don't need protecting." He shifted. "So stop trying to protect them... and ask them to help you."

Lestrade stared at him for a long moment, then glanced at the broken gravestones and let out a hoarse chuckle at the realization that perhaps Mycroft was right. "Would you?" he asked tentatively at length.

"You had but to ask." Mycroft replied smoothly.

Lestrade stared him in the eyes for a moment as if searching for a hint of insecurity. Mycroft did not give him the pleasure of seeing such a thing, he never did, not to anybody. Lestrade smiled slowly, gratefully. "Thanks." He pushed himself up and picked up his discarded umbrella, he remembered dropping it when he first saw the shattered gravestones. He took one last backward glance at the five dismantled graves and his brow pulled ever so slightly inward like it was prone to do when he was on a case that needed Sherlock's singular skill set. "Well, lets get going, then."

Mycroft smiled a little, just a little proud of the bent but not broken man. "What?" Lestrade asked when Mycroft had stared for a moment too long.

"You're a brave man, Gregory." Mycroft intoned thoughtfully. It was rare that he complimented someone so sincerely. In fact, when was the last time he did?

Lestrade blinked, then smiled bashfully. "'Bravery is by far the kindest word of stupidity' wasn't it?"

Mycroft smiled back. "True, you're an idiot." there was no maliciousness behind his words, just an exasperated affection.

"That's what I've got Sherlock for." Lestrade grinned cheekily with a slight chuckle as he walked past Mycroft to leave the cemetery.

Mycroft stepped aside to let him pass and watched him as he walked off, then he smiled a little, shaking his head in amusement, and followed.

Unit 34. You know where to find it. -Lestrade

John glanced at the message on the screen as he passed Sherlock his phone. "What does that mean?" he asked curiously.

Sherlock took one look at the message and practically leapt from the couch as if fired from a human cannon in a circus act. "It means we've got a case." He exclaimed she he rushed around, flinging his coat on.

"'We'?" John asked. "You're sure Greg wants an... outsider in on the case?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion. John rolled his eyes in exasperation and gestured toward himself. "Oh, don't be an idiot, John."

"I mean it, cause, you never know." Just then, a text buzzed John's phone.

Sherlock's probably already told you about the case. And if he didn't, good for him, I'm impressed. But you might as well know. -Lestrade

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in an I-told-you way. "Well, if that's not an invitation..."

John rolled his eyes at his flatmate and grabbed his coat, paused at the sight of his locked desk drawer and decided to bring his gun just in case.

"Sherlock!" John hissed reprimandingly when his flatmate crouched down to pick the lock on the storage unit. "Just hold on! If Greg called us out here, he should be here with a key right? Just wait for him!" Sherlock scowled at him. "Oh, right, I forgot. You don't do 'waiting'." John drawled back sarcastically.

"But Dr. Watson raises a good point, Sherlock." The Baker Street duo whirled around to see Mycroft standing behind them.

They hadn't even heard the gravel crunch under Mycroft's feet.

"Unreal." John breathed in awe and slight despair.

"Mycroft." Sherlock agreed reluctantly but made it sound like an annoyed growl in his brother's direction.

The man in question produced a key from his pocket. "'With love, from Gregory'." Mycroft smirked tauntingly.

Sherlock snatched the key out of Mycroft's fingers and unlocked the door. He entered first and turned the lights on.

John turned to Mycroft before he entered after his friend. "Where's Greg?"

"He is currently at Scotland Yard with Anthea." Mycroft replied. "He believes he recognizes a few of the hooligans that trashed his flat. Mere vandals, hired help, he's hoping to track them down and gain a lead to Pupshaw and York."

"But-..." John floundered. "Wasn't he on leave?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows challengingly. "Not anymore."

"That's child's play for Mycroft." Sherlock piped up as he stuck his head out of the storage unit doors. "Are you two going to stand out there forever?" Then he disappeared again.

The two exchanged nearly identical eye rolls and followed.