A/N: Greg Lestrade's point of view. Part three. Apologies over the delay. -csf

III.

'Handcuff me, inspector,' Mycroft proclaims, a stoic turn to his eyebrows; oh, the humiliation of it all! If Mycroft Holmes must be perceived as a common criminal, at least let him look dignified and noble, in the aftermath of some lost cause...

Funnily enough, Mycroft Holmes can be quite expressive when he's on a melodrama streak. In these occasions, superior intellectual work falls to the wayside and he reveals a petty childishness that is utterly amusing to the worldly detective inspector. Greg keeps his face straight, just in any case. The detective inspector isn't sure what the older Mycroft brother commands, but it's likely no shorter than the universe.

Greg complies with the gig and clamps his cuffs around Mycroft's wrists, but at once realises this won't be believable. They need to exit swiftly and without questions, and an arrest is just the ticket. And if Greg suspects Sherlock is enjoying this too much, he pointedly doesn't comment. He winks at Sherlock – knowing full well there'll be hell to pay for this later from the other vindictive Holmes – and stomps heavily on Mycroft's foot, causing him to shriek and slouch in pain. Immediately the inspector drags his prisoner out through the corridors, Mycroft much too busy keeping up with a heavy limp to play lead role in Les Mis.

He can still hear Sherlock and John's chuckles from the consulting room he's vacated. The four of them will reconvene outside, as planned.

'I wish you'd refrain from gloating so openly, inspector,' the most powerful man in England remarks, testily.

The inspector grins proudly. He finds he doesn't dislike Mycroft after all, he's clearly not as bad as Sherlock's partial accounts make him out to be. At least when Mycroft's not actively overthrowing foreign potencies or influencing the international price of plutonium, he seems to be a decent enough bloke.

Lestrade is dragging a bedraggled Mycroft down the empty corridors when suddenly a silhouette shadow of a man holding a gun with a long silencer is cast on the floor at their feet, from a sharp corner.

'Dammit!' the inspector halts briskly, getting the older Holmes to ram right into him. He stills them both, desperately looking around for a way out.

A sharp, violent noise erupts from around the corner and next thing Sherlock's curly head is peeking out from the corner, leaning from it, grinning at them. 'Hurry up, inspector! Is your retirement age catching up with you?' the consulting hero teases mercilessly. Greg growls, but redirects Mycroft past the younger Holmes and the fallen assailant, to the lift, leaving Sherlock to handle the man returning to his senses. Right now the priority is to keep Mycroft safe, or all their efforts will have gone to waste.

The metallic doors open with a dull ding and John is already inside, nonchalantly reviewing some patient's charts with a slight headshake. 'Going down?' John acts for the benefit of the old lady and young nurse also inside.

The inspector had once believed Sherlock's claims that John was the worse actor, but never again. Just because Sherlock sees right through him, doesn't mean the rest of London does.

All the ride down to the ground level, the nurse with big blue eyes flirts at John, while John scribbles some side notes on the charts. The old lady eventually notices that Mycroft has been handcuffed by a Yarder, and she gasps in delight. 'Is he dangerous, officer?'

'Very much so, ma'am.'

She only looks the more delighted to be sharing the lift. Mycroft scowls enough to fit the part, for the first time.

Less than a minute later, John has returned the chart to an empty nurse station and the three of them are stepping out of Bart's onto the side street. A Metropolitan Police car stops right at their side, Sherlock at the wheel.

'Hey, that's a proper police car!' Greg protests, as John and the inspector help Mycroft into the back seat.

Much like the landlady, the consulting detective comments: 'I don't think they make improper police cars, Lestrade.'

'You better have not hot wired it, mate!'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Why would I? I pinched the keys earlier, Lestrade.'

John insists on Greg taking the back seat but doesn't try to push Sherlock away from the wheel (his thirst for speed apparently quenched for now). The doctor quickly takes the only available seat - riding shotgun. As soon as Greg understands this he groans to himself. Not through London! Can't those two pity the paperwork?

Sherlock steps on the gas, just as the armed man re-emerges, at the hospital door. The man immediately raises the gun and starts to shoot at the tires of the inspector's car. Nearby panicked passersby scream and duck behind parked cars and into alleyways.

This is going to make tomorrow's newspaper headlines, Greg can sense it.

John gets his gun out of somewhere and aims it through the rolled down window at his side. The enemy is emptying his magazine blindingly; Greg is forcibly keeping Mycroft down; Sherlock is driving wildly; and John shoots once, twice, before a tire pops and their car swerves drastically, nearly ramming the bus stop. John swears as the whiplash nearly shoved him onto Sherlock. He pushes himself back onto his seat, hot gun against his jeans' thigh and pained expression scrunching his face. He is absolutely silent, with controlled, even breathing.

'John, you're hurt!' Sherlock accuses, panic in his voice.

'Flesh wound, is all,' John says through gritted teeth.

The ragged tire is falling apart and Sherlock is forced to turn the car onto the pavement, not bothering to park it properly. The enemy might still be after them. In silent agreement, they all exit Lestrade's abused car onto the street.

'Come on!' Sherlock commands, running in the direction of someone's backyard. He is the first to climb the stone wall and reaches out a hand to pull Mycroft up. Lestrade helps Mycroft manoeuvre himself to the top with his sore ribs, before following suit, the experience as a police officer before the Yard coming back to him with full clarity. Lestrade helps Mycroft down on the other side of the wall, as Sherlock pulls up the short doctor.

'Are you alright?' Greg asks, with evident concern in his voice. Mycroft's refute dies before he voices it. He's not used to someone caring, the inspector understands. 'Can you manage?' Greg asks instead.

Mycroft Holmes is made of sterner stuff, and he nods. 'Legwork,' he scowls comically. 'Never enjoyed legwork.'

Behind them, John's knees buckle as soon as he hits the grass under the wall. Sherlock is by his side in an agile jump before Greg can even move. 'John, tell me you're not seriously hurt!' the genius demands, control cracking immediately.

'Am fine. A bit out of breath, that's all,' John says, holding his arm firmly against his side.

'Don't lie to me!' Sherlock snarls, as he assaults the smaller man, practically divesting him of his paramedic top, trying to see the wound. All the while, John is squealing and protesting like an old maiden.

Mycroft rolls his eyes, and starts walking ahead of them all.

.

'I hold incriminating evidence on the Chandler brothers. Twins, in fact. One was convicted for their multiple espionage crimes.' Mycroft's voice is pondered as they gather into the confined space of someone's old garage, dusty and out of use. The sunset's subdued tones filter in through high dirtied window panes.

'Never heard of them,' the inspector comments. The semi-darkness a cosier atmosphere for the four men hiding away for their safeties.

'The twins' trial was hushed and the press was kept out, naturally. It wouldn't help the public's perception at large to know how close the twins were to selling our secret defence plans to the highest International bidder.'

'You said only one was convicted.'

'Alas! The judged acquitted the other, whom we just had the pleasure of the acquaintance, on the basis of brainwashing by the dominant twin.'

'So we met the quiet one? Could have fooled me...'

'The man we met has lost his entire family and identity, inspector. That tends to rile up even the most peaceful of men.'

'So the guy who's after us is trying to get to that evidence you have on him.'

'Yes, very good, inspector. A nice neat summary.'

'So why didn't you present that evidence in the trial?'

Mycroft's eyes darken. 'My, I see why Sherlock says you're the Yard's shiniest star. Very well, inspector, if you must know the twin at large was my own employee. High rank, top secret. We thought we could buy his cooperation by keeping him out of Pentenville.'

'And now he's after you. Top marks, Myc.'

Mycroft's face immediately contracts in a web of contempt traces.

'I would appreciate if you could call me by my full name or title, inspector Lestrade.'

'What's your full title, "The British Government"?'

Sherlock sniggers. That diverts Greg's attention to the pair, ignoring Mycroft's ruffled feathers. He can see John's complexion has gone very pale, apart from flushed cheeks and ears – in John a sure sign of fever setting in. The doctor is lying back against a couple of old leather luggage pieces, his sleeve now slick and shiny under the dim light, even after Sherlock has tied an old piece of cloth around the bleeding wound.

John needs a doctor, asap. Lestrade then studies Sherlock's solicitous presence by John's side, coaching the doctor to rest and heal by goodwill alone. Sherlock's out of his depth. He notices Mycroft too is scrutinising carefully the tableau, the older Holmes pondering mysterious calculations. He's deciding when John will be too weak, and they will have to cut Sherlock loose. The inspector realises the arrogant Mycroft Holmes isn't even counting on the inspector's help, dismissing him as irrelevant.

John's gone through a long road before proving his worth to the cynical elder Holmes. Greg isn't sure he is keen on suffering through like John did.

'When is your next check-in, Mycroft?' he asks out of the blue.

'Excuse me?'

'A man like you has check-ins. If you don't show up for work, if you have been publicly embroiled in an assassination attempt, your bosses – I'm presuming someone will be above you – are waiting for you to check-in. So tell us, when and where is your next check-in, and can they help?'

Mycroft holds his gaze for long stretching seconds. Eventually he says:

'Anthea will be waiting for me at the London Eye, at sunrise.'

'How romantic.'

The older Holmes hisses: 'We're meant to mingle with the tourists.'

Might not be very convincing in a three piece suit, Greg makes a mental note to find Mycroft some regular clothes for this secret rendezvous.

'And if you don't show up?'

'They'll assume I've been compromised. The outcome of that is not desirable, inspector.'

Greg exchanges a heavy look with Sherlock. He won't leave John. It's up to the inspector to see this one through.

.

TBC