Got My Eye on You Chapter Eighty
What I did on my summer holidays - Part One
Greg watched the baggage carrousel with one eye while keeping the other one out for Sam. He'd been sent off to find a cart, preferably one that took a euro coin instead of a pound coin, because that was all they had left. The flight from Jerez had been significantly delayed, which didn't help, because it meant that Heathrow was far busier now at 8am it would have been at the original arrival time late last night. And Greg still worried about his nephew being able to cope with large crowds, even though over the years, the lad had developed some pretty impressive coping skills.
That's why Greg had agreed with Carole to be the "responsible adult" and take his nephew away with him on his first proper holiday away from his family. It was the start of the summer break, and the trip to Spain had been his treat, a kind of reward for Sam getting through his first year of university on his own. The summer job started the day after tomorrow- as a mechanic's assistant at the local VW garage in Colindale. Sam wanted to put his book learning to practical use, and get his hands dirty on some engines.
So, when Greg had asked him where he wanted to go, there wasn't even a moment of hesitation- "Jerez, Spain- on the 4th of May the third race of the Grand Prix season takes place there." Sam was clearly excited at the prospect of his first opportunity to attend a real Formula one race, and to do so now was just about his dream-come-true holiday.
Lestrade had done a deal. "Spain's fine, but this is my break too, so after the race, we head for the beach. I've always wanted to learn how to windsurf, and the beaches at Cadiz are a great place to go to learn. You might find it fun too- or maybe kite surfing. Something different."
And it had been a great break. Two weeks of sunshine, heat, and activity. Sam's enthusiasm about the car race was infectious, and Greg found himself enjoying the spectacle even more than he thought he would. And Sam found a sport that he could relate to- not windsurfing or kitesurfing; no, his delight was land-yachting, where carts on wheels raced on the flat sand beaches using nothing more than a sail, wind-power and a willingness to take risks. Crash helmets were definitely needed, but Sam just adored the sensation of speed, which nothing on water could ever match. It was more about balance and skill than about bulk or strength, and Sam's shorter height and slighter weight gave him a positive advantage over bigger youths.
So, the two of them had come back from Spain with some great stories, sore muscles and serious tans. Sam wasn't the most talkative companion, but it suited Greg to have a break where the emphasis was on sleeping late, reading a good book, or getting physically exhausted on the beach or in the water.
"Detective Inspector, I believe these are your bags?" The polite question broke through Greg's concentration as he spotted Sam across the baggage hall wheeling a cart toward him.
"What?" He turned to look at a man in a suit who was carrying both his and Sam's suitcases. It took a moment to register the fact that he'd been called not by his name, but his job title. "Who are you?"
"My name isn't important, but my employer would appreciate a word with you, as soon as possible."
Oh, must be one of Mycroft's minions. He gave the man a firm look. "Is everything alright?" Greg did not want to alarm Sam, if something had happened to Sherlock- which was about the only reason why he could imagine Mycroft wanting to speak to him so urgently that he couldn't wait for him to get through the arrivals lounge. He's come air-side; that makes it urgent if he's bending airport security to get to me here.
The man gave a reassuring smile. "Yes. It's urgent, but not life threatening." This was said quietly, and finished before Sam reached them. Greg appreciated the man's discretion and hoped that he had been briefed not to say too much in front of his nephew. Sam adored Sherlock, and would instantly be concerned if there was a problem.
Sam saw the man, but looked straight at his uncle. "Okay?"
"Yeah- just the job reaching out. Let's get you through customs and find your mum. She's probably been having kittens ever since last night when the flight delay was announced." The three of them went through the green channel- nothing to declare. The bottle of Spanish wine that Greg was bringing from Spain for Carole and Stephen was within the personal limits- and he'd been virtuous and passed up the chance to buy bargain priced cigarettes. All the physical exercise had been a great substitute for nicotine cravings.
Carole's reaction to seeing her son was to try to envelope him in a hug.
"Aw, Mum- leave off. I'm not a kid." Then she saw the man standing next to Greg and gave him a puzzled look.
He decided to cut off the questioning. "Duty calls. So, off you go, Sam. Send me the link to the photos when you've got them up." He handed Carole the bottle in the duty free carrier bag and waved her off.
And that was that; he was escorted by the agent out of Terminal Two and into a waiting car. Which was conspicuously empty of one three piece suited Holmes. As he slid into the back of the leather seat, Greg wondered if there would be a rendezvous somewhere. Then his phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Detective Inspector. I trust you enjoyed your holiday?"
"Stuff the pleasantries, Mycroft. I know you don't mean them. What's up?"
"I've arranged with your superiors to extend your holiday for a few days. You're off to sunny Devon."
Greg's brow furrowed. "What's Sherlock up to these days?"
"A rather unusual case of breaking and entering. As in… he broke into a top secret military installation yesterday by pickpocketing my ID; managed to talk his way out somehow, after abusing security protocols. I'd like you to go find out what is going on, please."
The 'please' was a surprising touch. Greg sighed. "Why me?"
"Well, he just might talk to you. He's not really doing so to Doctor Watson, apparently although the doctor did go along for the ride. From what I can find out in the dark depths of Dartmoor, there is a client involved."
Greg smirked. "You mean Sherlock managed to circumvent your efforts to stop casework?"
"Yes. Annoyingly so. It appears I underestimated the client's desperation- he actually arrived at Baker Street unannounced two days ago."
Greg let his amusement show in his tone of voice. "Well, what's a minor British Government Official to do? You could't quarantine Baker Street completely?"
"Levity at my expense is not…seemly, Detective Inspector. And my motive in asking you to make enquiries is well-intentioned, I assure you. Sherlock is not behaving rationally at the moment, and the Doctor was concerned enough to contact me this morning. It appears that Sherlock went AWOL last night. You are more aware of his proclivities than most- and less susceptible to his smokescreens when he is trying to hide unacceptable behaviours."
"Mycroft, maybe if you weren't so hell bent on depriving him of cases, then he wouldn't be doing...whatever you think he is doing. I really don't like being caught between you two."
There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then a somewhat frosty "Very well, Detective Inspector. The alternative is to wake Doctor Cohen out of her retirement and send her down. Somehow, I think Sherlock's receptivity to your presence might be better than to her, but if you insist on being awkward, then there is no alternative."
Ooh, you bastard. "That's a form of emotional blackmail, Mycroft and you know it." On the one hand, Greg didn't like being manipulated so blatantly. On the other hand, whatever Sherlock had done to get his brother so riled up, it did not bode well. If John had been worried enough to contact Mycroft, and now the elder Holmes was talking about sending a psychiatrist down to Devon, then Greg was minded to take it seriously. Finally, he muttered, "Oh, to hell with it. I'll go."
"Good. The driver knows where to take you- some little village on Dartmoor. Some clean clothes from your flat are packed in a case in the boot of the car. Bon Voyage. You will keep me informed, won't you?" It wasn't a polite request, despite the question in the tone. Greg ended the call without replying.
Not a chance in hell. It would take a lot to make Lestrade back Mycroft over Sherlock. As he settled back onto the leather seat and the car drove westwards on the M4, the DI decided that Mycroft probably knew that, and was counting on it. He sighed. The things I do for the Holmes brothers.
Author's Note: If you want to see what is bothering Mycroft and Sherlock's POV on this, check out my other story running at the moment, Fallen Angel, Chapters 14-19.
