There was no way round it, Inspector Gregory Lestrade concluded as he sat in his office, staring at his desk in frustration. There was something wrong with this case. The sensation had niggled at him for the two days since Mycroft Holmes' assault.
He accepted an attack on a Government official, especially one of Mycroft's calibre, went somewhat outside of his jurisdiction. Some hours before that case had come to his attention, however, Sherlock Holmes' missing phone had been reported. There were no MI5 agents planning to take that case off his hands and so he continued investigating. It was hardly his fault if the two perpetrators turned out to be the same. Sherlock Holmes was a civilian after all, it was the job of the police to protect and serve civilians.
He didn't have much in the way of hope he could protect Sherlock, but then he also didn't think for a moment he needed it, not with big brother looking over his shoulder. Sergeant Donovan had pointed out that a CID inspector investigating a stolen mobile phone was not exactly correct use of resources, but he had given his reasons for that the moment Sherlock had called him. Sherlock Holmes' phone, in the wrong hands, could well represent a danger to the public.
For two days, he had fruitlessly trawled through old records of cases involving Sherlock, for anywhere to begin on who had stolen his phone and left it in an abandoned car park. He considered his recovery of the phone in said car park, to be the precise edge where his case met MI5's case; of the assault of the man found unconscious next to said phone. He was certain if MI5 felt he was getting in their way, his claims he was actually toeing the line as closely as was physically possible, would not stop them coming down on him, hard. While he did not relish the prospect of demotion to the ranks - a not unlikely outcome of crossing MI5 - he found he could not leave the case alone.
Something, was just wrong.
Lestrade was used to late nights at the office. Mostly, it was because he was swamped with paper work, simultaneously the most frustrating and boring, yet consistent aspect of his job. For three nights in a row he'd stayed late, working alone in the empty station. He felt he'd hit a new low, in the frustrating and boring stakes this time: He was working on a case he'd told his unofficial consultant to stay away from, he'd been told by his MI5 superiors to stay away from himself and one which if he was entirely honest, he couldn't make head nor tail of one way or the other.
Despite the seeming pointlessness of his efforts, something about it all continued to niggle at him. Something didn't add up. When somethings didn't add up, Lestrade's instinct was always, even in post-Moriarty days, to turn to Sherlock. He was more irked than he cared to admit, by being unable to do so. It was one thing to continue to consult Sherlock on a case when he knew it was inappropriate to do so. It was even a bad idea, but acceptable to Lestrade, to consult him for help when MI5 had told him to leave the case to them. What Lestrade could not do, was consult Sherlock Holmes, when Mycroft Holmes had told him not to.
Admittedly, when Mycroft had phoned, he hadn't quite sounded his usual, imperious, terrifying self. He also didn't sound like a man who'd been beaten unconscious and heavily drugged a few hours earlier. Lestrade had been relieved and pleased to hear from him, not only to hear he was okay, but because he thought Lestrade significant enough to contact at such a moment. Lestrade was unlikely to let it go to his head, he knew he was useful to the brothers, but it did relieve the profound feeling of helplessness which went hand in hand with having cases taken over by higher-ups.
Once the necessary pleasantries were dispensed with, which didn't take long when talking to a Holmes, Lestrade had not tried to hide his theory about his attack from Mycroft.
"This was about Sherlock, not you, wasn't it?"
Lestrade had expected Mycroft to give his familiar, polite, but superior admonishment, for Lestrade poking his nose into a case of which he was no longer in charge. Instead, Mycroft simply agreed.
"Almost certainly. You understand Inspector that without evidence, MI5 can't just assume, but nobody among the higher-ups really believe it was politically motivated."
"Even your people?" Lestrade asked, trying not to sound too surprised he was being given information about his Government employer's highest ranks.
Mycroft responded with patience, but sounding grave. It was evidently important he got the point of his call across clearly.
"My people were told by me, that it wasn't. They were by far the easiest to convince. That helps me gain their discretion and prevent anything entering the press that might provoke whoever is after Sherlock. It doesn't help you stop Sherlock trying to investigate. He's not going to let this one go."
"Well, you are his brother Mycroft, can you blame him?" Lestrade responded, his defence of Sherlock both unnecessary and ill thought through. The silence that followed was somewhat tense.
… "Blame, is not the issue." Mycroft replied at last, voice heavy. "Someone meant to warn him off and instead they've ensured he won't stop until he succeeds in beating them."
Lestrade nodded, though that wasn't much use to Mycroft.
"I'm guessing you're not worried on behalf of whoever it was…"
Mycroft gave a grim laugh. "No. I am more than a little bit concerned about Sherlock deliberately running into danger, especially now while he's in a rage and I'm not ideally situated to intervene."
This admission alone, made Lestrade's guts clench in discomfort.
"What do you want me to do?" He asked, hoping he sounded more convinced he could help than he felt.
"Just watch him." Mycroft stated simply. "For preference, he shouldn't be seen around Scotland Yard more than is normal for any questioning you need to do about his phone. Give him any help he asks for, but keep me informed."
"It might not be possible for me to help him officially, Mycroft. I'm not on the case anymore."
As Mycroft spoke again, Lestrade could hear the dark smile in his voice.
"Thank you, Inspector. Good evening."
He was gone before Lestrade could reply. Unofficial help it was then, he thought, rolling his eyes. He was sure, whatever Mycroft's mysterious job was, that it couldn't involve authorisations like that one. He still knew he would do as he was told. He couldn't ask Sherlock to help him solve the case, against Mycroft's orders, but he could be of potential use to Sherlock's unofficial efforts.
He had thought that his charge would take his mind off the case itself and allow him to ignore the irksome feeling everyone was missing something. Three days after Mycroft's call, he had nothing of use or concern for either Sherlock or Mycroft and he had not stopped pouring over the case himself.
MI5 had not been there when Lestrade had been investigating Sherlock's missing phone, or when he'd found Mycroft in the Warehouse. They didn't know either of the brothers well, though Lestrade didn't know Mycroft either. He did know that something was wrong, from the earliest tangents of this case. He also knew, that the two of them knew exactly who they were investigating. He didn't mind that, MI5 would too and it was none of his business anymore. Try as he might, he couldn't get the fake text from Sherlock out his head. He had resigned himself to ignoring the bigger issue of who was sending Sherlock a warning, but continuing to silently investigate for himself, what exactly had happened the day Mycroft was attacked.
He had no illusions he was going to get anywhere, but he knew he wasn't going to sleep well until he got to the bottom of his instinctive unease.
On the morning of day four, Sherlock text him to inform him he would be at the station shortly. He didn't bother to ask why. Sherlock would let him know in his own good time. Instead of wasting time on questions he knew would not receive answers, he began clearing his desk of the near-mindless doodles he'd assembled trying to work out the nagging puzzle of the text that had lured Mycroft to the warehouse four days earlier. Though he could not precisely explain why, he thought it best not to let Sherlock in on his obsession with that aspect of the case. Sherlock had a way of making him feel like a complete moron, for all the ways in which he and rest of the police force would completely miss the point of any case. The point according to Sherlock, anyway.
A knock at the door came as he was organising his desk, opening at his invitation.
"The files on the warehouse assault." Sally Donovan said as she dumped a slender folder on Lestrade's desk.
"Thanks." He muttered, distracted by the hand scribbled notes he was tidying about into drawers.
"I thought that one had gone above us." Donovan remarked, a note of impatience in her voice.
Lestrade glanced up at her, registering the implied question in her statement a few seconds slower than might have been polite.
"It has, I just want to double check some things."
"Right." Donovan sighed, in a voice that let him know she thought he was anything but. The young sergeant didn't like it when Lestrade ignored orders from above. It was another of his eccentricities that belonged in the same category as consulting an unpaid sociopath amateur on his cases.
"Well, Freak's here."
Lestrade looked up, attention engaged at last.
"Get someone to send him up." He answered, standing up and shoving his drawer shut. He could deal with theories and speculation another time. He still was not at all sure what Sherlock could want.
Donovan quite audibly huffed at him.
"Sorry Sir, but why is he here? We don't need him for anything…at the moment."
Her tone made it clear she didn't think they needed him for anything, full stop. Lestrade pondered the possibility she had held back from criticising his continued interest in what was now MI5's case, because she was planning on moaning about Sherlock instead.
"If he's here, he must want to talk to me about something. I didn't call him." He answered calmly.
"Then why don't-"
"Donovan. Send him up." Lestrade interrupted, very much not in the mood for his underling's quibbling over his unofficial agent.
When Sherlock arrived, a few minutes later, Donovan was drilling him on what he wanted, while Sherlock pretended she wasn't there.
"It's got to be a low point even for you, just hanging round here even when you're not 'working'." She sniped as Sherlock reached Lestrade's office, having ignored her completely the entire way.
At her air quoted, snotty remark about Sherlock's 'job', Lestrade felt himself begin to lose his temper.
"Hi Sherlock, come in."
"Lestrade." Sherlock acknowledged, moving into his office without a backward glance at Donovan.
Lestrade, on the other hand, addressed his sergeant directly.
"Donovan, his brother was the victim in the warehouse assault. Is it alright with you if he talks to me now?"
It was good thing she was too embarrassed to do more than stare for a few horrified seconds, before leaving with an awkward nod. Had she stayed, she'd have seen the dark red flush of anger and embarrassment on Sherlock's face.
"Sorry, Sherlock, she was getting on my nerves." Lestrade offered, wondering if he'd overstepped a line. Sherlock had never shown any sign of needing or wanting defence from anyone, when it came to his not entirely enamoured audience at Scotland Yard. If Lestrade was going to choose a reason to intervene, perhaps doing so on such a personal note was presumptuous of him.
If it was, Sherlock seemed to forget about it almost immediately. As suddenly as it had appeared, the dark look in his grey eyes vanished, replaced by a more familiar air of contempt.
"I don't waste time absorbing the droning of the unintelligent and dull, Lestrade." He stated without so much as a blush at the considerable insult to one of Lestrade's officers.
"What can I do for you?" He asked, casting a searching eye over the man before him, as though there was even the slightest chance he'd be able to read him.
Sherlock looked back at him with one eyebrow raised, enough to show he could see the scrutiny to which he was being subjected and was decidedly unimpressed. Lestrade couldn't help a tiny smile. Sherlock's arched eyebrow retreated. With the unspoken discussion passed, Sherlock returned to the voiced one.
"I need access to your files on robbery, drug dealing and minor and major assaults in the last two years."
Lestrade felt sinking resignation hit him before he'd even started arguing.
"Oh, not much then?" He asked, with a sardonic glare.
Sherlock only looked expectant.
"Do you have any idea how many cases that is, Sherlock?" Lestrade inquired, with minimal hope Sherlock would see the question as relevant.
"Before any filtering is done, taking into account the area, the monthly crime figures and the generous margin for error there…"
Lestrade chose to ignore this insult.
"…About five thousand." Sherlock replied with a shrug.
"Right and in what form, specifically, did you want five thousand case files? Delivered to Baker Street by freight truck, maybe?" Lestrade questioned, aware he was being facetious, but also that Mycroft had given him instructions. Sherlock's request had rendered the two elements of Mycroft's instructions, directly contradictory. He had told him first, to ensure any time Sherlock spent at Scotland Yard would look natural for questioning on his phone and Mycroft's assault, which the hours, possibly days it would take to do any meaningful research on the police database for that many cases, would not. But he had also said, to give Sherlock any help he needed.
"I have my own records, Lestrade and I know what I'm looking for. If you could find the files for me I can narrow it down to about a hundred cases."
Lestrade nodded, seeing his afternoon disappear and feeling unwilling to admit it had contained nothing more than fruitless obsession over Sherlock's bloody phone.
"I suppose you know, MI5 have told us they've taken over this case." Lestrade added conversationally, as he began a systematic search through the police database.
"Which, given this is almost certainly about me and not my brother, wasn't very clever of them." Sherlock responded, eyes not leaving the screen.
Lestrade smirked slightly at how close his wording had been to Mycroft's, but made no comment. Sherlock was at the station for almost three hours, during which time Lestrade was forced to do some of his own paperwork to justify his salary and to obscure the fact that what Sherlock meant by help, had been more a request to borrow his computer. Once Sherlock had what he wanted, safely stored on a memory stick, Lestrade asked the question he'd been pondering and somewhat resenting, since Mycroft had phoned him.
"Look, Sherlock, I know you know Mycroft has asked me to keep him updated on what you're doing, but the key was to make sure no one else suspects you're nosing where you shouldn't be. MI5 taking over will have helped you there. I don't mind doing what I can for both of you, but what I don't entirely understand is why either of you are asking for my help, when you both know who you're looking for and I don't."
Sherlock had listened with his usual glazed expression, as though he was entirely on another plane of existence to those likely to be trying to make him pay attention. Lestrade knew him well enough to know he was actually taking in what he said.
"We know who is behind it." He answered slowly. "We know the puppet master, we don't have all of the necessary information yet and as you will have noticed, we disagree on how to proceed."
To ask any more questions would have been as much an exercise in futility as Lestrade's efforts to crack the case himself. Sherlock wasn't going to listen, anymore than either of the two brothers were going to back down and let the other take the case.
"About your brother's request then." He said instead. "You better steer clear of here until you're done."
"And Sherlock-" He added as the consulting detective stood and moved for the door. "Be careful. Puppet Master's haven't ended well for you in the past."
...
From the comfort and privacy of his Pall Mall flat, Mycroft frowned at three desktop monitors, displaying surveillance tapes from across London. Sam Merridew had spent the previous few days doing very little, as far as Mycroft could tell, besides failing to notice he was being tailed for approximately sixty percent of the time. While Mycroft was concerned by the time Sherlock was putting into following the man, he was also grateful he could track both men at once. For the time being, Merridew was not Mycroft's primary concern, but it didn't hurt to keep an eye on him and if he could kill two birds with one stone, all the better.
Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft had not focused his case in a single direction. For the first day following Sherlock's attack he had been so exhausted he couldn't do much by himself, but he could order others to act on his behalf. By the time he had dragged himself into his study on day two, his surveillance loops were all in place, with a list of known associates of Sam Merridew whom Mycroft intended to watch very carefully for a next move.
He was intrigued by the man who had come to offer Sherlock his grim ultimatum. It was an interesting prospect. Mycroft knew Sherlock had made decisions outside of the usual law enforcing roads more than once. It was not beyond the realms of possibility that one of them had a moral code outside of the generally accepted norm. He did not, however, find this explanation entirely satisfactory. Sherlock had made it clear he had felt he had no other options and Mycroft believed him. It was the anonymous tip off which had led Sherlock to this conclusion, which Mycroft distrusted.
He wondered at Sherlock's credulity in the matter, but that he found he could excuse, given the state of Sherlock's always unpredictable emotions when they'd met in the warehouse. Fear, caused clouded judgement, even in the greatest of minds.
If he was a criminal or the associate of a criminal, who had felt he owed Sherlock a life debt, he thought he might have offered a rather less specific ultimatum. Especially, given his claim that regardless of what Sherlock intended to do, he was not going to carry out Merridew's request. As Sherlock's actions could then have no influence on his own, why had the mystery man been so certain Sherlock did indeed have to inflict damage on either his brother or his friend? As opposed to, for example, pretending to have done so.
It was possible that the mystery man was so afraid of Sam Merridew that he did not consider the possibility he could be fooled, but if that was the case, it threw enormous doubt over his apparent faith in Sherlock Holmes. If he was not aware of the full extent of Sherlock's powers, not least in deception, then why would he have trusted him not to simply turn him over to Merridew? Did it occur to neither man in fact, that their blind trust in each other was unutterably stupid? Sam Merridew had made Sherlock Holmes do his dirty work for him and the mystery ally who had apparently helped Sherlock, had done so risking Sherlock simply telling Merridew he had a turncoat in his web. It was exactly the kind of trump card Sherlock would greatly enjoy playing.
In fact, Mycroft could think of only one explanation which fitted all of the facts. Sherlock's decision was born of necessity, if only perceived necessity. It was the mystery man, who had managed to so frighten Sherlock at their shadowy meeting, who most monopolized Mycroft's attention.
Four days into his surveillance and he was becoming certain of two things. One, was which of Merridew's men was their mystery friend and two, that the entirety of Merridew's empire was deliberately trying to bore him to death. He had watched one of them do a grocery run for an elderly relative. What kind of assassin moonlighted as a devoted grandson? And why couldn't he save such things for when the police, or MI5 and not Jupiter Himself were watching his every move? Jupiter, like his brother, was easily bored. Especially when he only had use of one hand, with which to alternately work and throw things at his screens.
"Oh thank Christ." Mycroft breathed as his intruder sensors were tripped. Hopefully it was a good old fashioned assassin come to finish Sherlock's work. Or perhaps offer to pick him up a few things from the corner shop given his inoperative hand.
The intruder was at least moderately competent, in that they had disabled his house alarm. The intruder sensors were deactivated by keys turning in the front door lock and triggered by movement through the door without the lock mechanism being turned. It was an incredibly simplistic device really, but one easily overlooked while one was busy disabling alarms and picking their way through one of the most secure doors in the land.
He moved silently through to the main hallway, picking up his umbrella as he went. Less than a second later, he suffered the indignity of having to brace the confounded thing between his knees to unsheathe his sword, as he lacked both the dexterity to pull and the pain tolerance to really use his left hand at all. Still, he got the job done.
His uninvited guest had at this point made his way through to the office Mycroft had recently vacated. As he moved silently into the shadows behind him, Mycroft watched with a dark smile as any attempt to activate the six consoles was met with the enthusiastic playing of a loud and vibrant children's television show about puppies solving crime.
Undaunted, his intruder continued attempting to bypass his security systems. Mycroft was thoroughly disappointed in the man's instincts.
He stiffened, as Mycroft's sword lay flat against his throat.
"If you don't turn that infernal noise off, Sherlock, I will be forced to put this directly through the screen, which would inconvenience us both."
Sherlock raised his hands, less in supplication, more to indicate he was done playing with Mycroft's computers, all of which obliged him by returning to a blissfully silent black.
Mycroft lowered his sword. He was aware that in the same situation, Sherlock would have enjoyed toying with him, but he had never been as determinedly fond of infuriating people as his brother. Not, that he did so any less, as a result.
"How long have you been standing there?" Sherlock asked, turning to face him with speedily mustered dignity. He looked and sounded just ever so slightly startled. He really hadn't noticed he was there then, Mycroft thought with some relief. It would be just too much to know Sherlock simply hadn't cared whether his intrusion went unnoticed or not.
"Not long. I'm intrigued as to where you thought I was though, you came straight in here."
Sherlock pouted.
"It's late, I assumed you'd be in bed."
Mycroft laughed, partly at the remarkable oversight of having not checked this wild assumption before sauntering into his office and partly at Sherlock's obvious irritation with him for not acting as expected. The case was clearly blunting his senses.
"That, I imagine, is about as likely as you being, for the same reason." He pointed out. The lateness of the hour was hardly an indication that either Holmes brother, otherwise occupied, would be at rest.
"You have recovered, then, I assume." Sherlock remarked dryly. He did not voice his reasoning aloud. That three days earlier it had been clear enough that Mycroft was unable to walk, let alone have returned to a normal routine. Normal for them, anyway.
There was a glitter in Mycroft's eyes which told him he'd observed the truth in Sherlock's expression regardless.
"Admirably, thank you Sherlock. Would you care for a drink?"
"While you tell me who you're tracking and why?" Sherlock swiped one hand out suddenly and flipped the handle of Mycroft's sword out of his hand, rotating it in one smooth movement to be levelled at his chest.
"Certainly."
Mycroft didn't so much as glance at the sword as he walked out of his office, towards the living room.
"You don't really need my help with that, do you? Come on, Sherlock, deduce."
Oh, but I am. Sherlock thought to himself grimly. Far more, in fact, than Mycroft would be comfortable with. He swung down to retrieve the abandoned umbrella in the hallway, returning the slender but viciously sharp sword to it's sheath with a flourish as he joined Mycroft in the living room.
"You warned me off Merridew, so you're definitely trailing me." He studied Mycroft, who had paused next to his drinks cabinet to watch the processes of Sherlock's mind. "Merridew would be an obvious target also, which would have made your life very easy in the last few days…"
Sherlock's voice was mildly rueful as he realised he'd been doing a significant part of Mycroft's work for him.
"Good…" Mycroft prompted. He turned over two glass tumblers with his right hand and studied the various bottles at his disposal.
"You had questions about the man who warned me about Merridew's plan, so you'd be watching him also."
Mycroft almost winced at the preposterous leap of logic. He was interested in the man, certainly. It would be an odd mind indeed who heard the tale of Sherlock's mysterious ally but had no further questions on the matter. It did not follow that he was one of the targets of his surveillance. On the information he'd had to hand, such a conclusion was in fact, not possible.
"Join the dots, Sherlock. I do not know who said man was." His tone was rather more admonishing than he had intended.
Sherlock watched him, absorbing his irritation, his intellectual posturing… his fingers pressed against a crystal wine decanter while he attempted to work the heavy stopper loose with his thumb. His left arm was tense at his side, as though it took umbrage at being left out of tasks in which it was clearly needed.
"All of Merridew's men then, or at least, the main players. One of them is sure to be the man. Watch them for even a short period of time and you'll be able to work it out."
Mycroft was by this time, attempting to use a glass as leverage against the impractical, golf-ball sized stopper. He wasn't doing half badly either. He had raised the top by probably half an inch.
If one did insist on ridiculous, ostentatious home ware and gadgets like umbrella swords, then it was only fair to accept difficulties when not at peak efficiency. Or at least, that was what Sherlock was busy focusing on, to ignore Mycroft's failure to answer him. He had stopped still, gaze fixed on the decanter in his hand.
Mycroft didn't lose his temper and hurl the glass across the room, as Sherlock might have done. Probably twenty minutes earlier. He simply put the glass down, stood still with his eyes closed and breathed deeply. He had better control of his temper than Sherlock did, but he still had the same mechanism. Same will to lash out when frustrated.
He went unnaturally still as Sherlock's footsteps approached. He opened his eyes, but didn't move. Sherlock removed the glass from his hand with a motion he might have been tempted to describe as gentle.
"John would probably advise a sling." He noted, giving Mycroft's bandaged hand a cursory glance.
"Indeed?" Mycroft asked, not moving, not raising his gaze from the brandy bottle. Until he was certain he would see Sherlock as he appeared now, not in the blurred, indistinct and shadowy form he had appeared to his drug addled brain in the car park, he had no intention of moving.
Sherlock's hands moved into his eye line, holding the decanter still with one, removing the stopper with the other. Fascinating really, just how many simple things one took for granted. One damaged appendage, not even a limb, rendered him close to useless.
"It removes the temptation to ignore your injury and thus, exacerbate said injury."
"That sounds like the voice of experience." Mycroft observed, directing his attention at the glass Sherlock returned to his good hand, now containing extremely expensive brandy. "Although I doubt Doctor Watson used the word 'thus'."
"It's to stop you being an arse, who is remarkably stupid for a genius…were his exact words."
Mycroft smiled into his glass. John was nothing, if not reliable.
"Does it hurt?"
Mycroft's good hand tightened on his glass. Interesting, he mused, how closely aligned were anger and shame. He could feel anger, even offence at his little brother for the decision he'd made and for a split second, he thought perhaps he did. He looked up to find Sherlock's attention was preoccupied with his own drink. Anger yes. But not at him.
The injury was debilitating, that made him angry. He had discovered he was rather less infallible than he'd liked to believe. That made him angry too, but more, he despised the burn of shame it left. It was a detail of a case of Sherlock's. A side note, unimportant to the point it did not even have to have been him. John would have been equally acceptable. That, was hard to stomach.
Did it hurt?
Yes. Mycroft rather thought it did.
Sherlock's eyes had risen to meet his and it was clear now, Mycroft had been foolish to underestimate his powers of observation. He looked… unsure of himself. It would not do.
"Sherlock, I am certain a man of your experience, does not need a lesson from me in the effectiveness of analgesic's. I cannot even feel it unless I am, as you so kindly point out, exacerbating the injury. It is inconvenient, I will admit, but nothing more."
Sherlock's grey eyes sparkled. A fine performance. Mycroft always had been a talented actor. Even more so than Sherlock in fact.
It was long time before Sherlock punctured the silence again.
"Did you see anything?"
Mycroft frowned into his brandy. The question appeared to confuse him.
"Nothing I didn't expect to see." He replied just as Sherlock was considering clarification. There was a tone of something odd in his voice, suspiciously like concern.
"What did you expect to see?" He asked, with patience for which he would not have given himself credit.
Mycroft looked up finally, that strange, frustration-laced worry in his face, driving away even the sting of embarrassment at his temporary infirmity.
"Nothing, Sherlock. I expected to see Merridew showing no signs of criminal or even questionable activity whatsoever, with a similar turn to the tedious from his better known employees."
"He's unlikely to advertise his intentions." Sherlock replied slowly, a questioning note creeping into his voice.
Mycroft raised both eyebrows in agreement, waiting for Sherlock to make the deduction he had made three days previously.
"You think he is advertising his intentions." Sherlock got there at impressive speed considering he'd only been tailing one of the six targets Mycroft had been on top of for four days. He glanced at the wall of monitors.
"We're meant to be watching this?"
Doubt. Not unreasonable. It was hard to imagine a master criminal calmly going about his obnoxiously boring life just to intimidate his quarry. Mycroft thought for a moment, before leaning back in his chair. His eyes took on the faintly glazed look they always did when he was hard at thought.
"Supposition. Merridew ordered a shall we say physical warning on one of two targets, five days ago. That being the case, the result is that his hired hand apparently does as asked, carrying out an attack on the more difficult of the two targets. The attention of MI5 is drawn to him, as is the detective he was meant to warn off."
Sherlock was watching him intently. The two of them rarely saw eye to eye; Sherlock didn't like Mycroft's tendency to be looking over his shoulder. At this moment in time he disliked that he was interfering in his case, however personally affected by it he might have been. In the past, he had wondered if Mycroft's pomposity and power had blinkered him beyond repair. What he had never done, was doubted his fundamental brilliance. He knew better, than to dismiss his suspicions.
"So... why isn't he doing anything?" Sherlock questioned, following Mycroft's train of thought without difficulty.
"More to the point, why isn't he looking like he even might do something?"
Sherlock shook his head, certain Mycroft could not be so dense.
"You can't seriously think Merridew actually thought his 'warning' would stop me coming after him? If anything he made certain I would!"
Mycroft was gracious enough to let that little admission go without comment.
"No. I don't. So what exactly was the purpose of hiring someone to attack me or John?"
"To get my attention..."
Mycroft gave a mirthless smile at the conviction beginning to ebb from Sherlock's voice.
"...Except he already had your attention. And if it wasn't direct enough, it certainly is now. So what, precisely, does he want? Because there would seem to be a contradiction here."
Why, where, how… The cogs began to turn with almost visible precision. Mycroft watched, fascinated and satisfied in equal measure, as Sherlock's mind began to spin in the same direction as his.
If Merridew wanted Sherlock's undivided attention, he'd gone precisely the right way about it. Sherlock had assumed this to be an end in itself. Mycroft, had made no such assumption. Possibly because in politics, there was basically no such thing as an end; just another step on a never ending journey for greater power. The idea of going out of one's way just to draw the attention of an irritating private detective was simply, juvenile. And Moriarty was in almost all ways, an anomaly.
...
"I don't know Greg, something feels weird. Sherlock is worrying me."
John knew he probably shouldn't be trying to pry into a serious and indeed, MI5 run investigation, but he was, frankly, bored.
Sherlock had barely visited the flat in three days, ghosting in and out while he chased down Merridew and his cronies across London. He hadn't said so, but John was also pretty certain he'd been keeping half an eye on Mycroft. Which was only fair really, as big brother certainly had more than half an eye trained squarely on Sherlock at the same time.
If either of the two brothers had been willing to speak plainly, they would admit that at that moment in time, their feelings aligned more than they were accustomed. If indeed, they would admit to having feelings. They were both rather worried about the other. Mycroft, about Sherlock's hotheadedness and refusal to back down from an investigation which belonged in Mycroft's world, not Sherlock's. Sherlock, about Mycroft's attack. The all too obvious fact he'd been knocked for six and his failure to recover instantly had disturbed them both.
John remembered thinking Mycroft was inhuman, when he'd phoned on the day of his attack as though nothing had happened. He was neither dense nor bullheaded enough to have held on to that opinion once he could see Mycroft was in fact, merely masking considerable difficulties. Despite this, it was Sherlock, of the two, who was most concerning him. He happened to think Mycroft was right this time. Sherlock should leave well alone.
In the absence of any hope whatsoever that Sherlock might listen to this sage advice, or indeed an opportunity to give it, John had turned to the one source of information he had who did not make him feel like a complete and utter dunce. And Lestrade would at least, share his worries and freely admit to them.
"I know, obviously, there's no love lost between he and Mycroft, but I'd still expect some reaction to the news, but he didn't react at all. And then yesterday, he blew up at Mycroft for being careless with his injuries, after rather callously refusing his request Sherlock let him handle the Merridew investigation himself."
There was a pause on Lestrade's end of the line.
"…Merridew? As in Sam Merridew?"
A sudden, very late jolt of alarm flashed through him. The cold finger of dread at the possibility of exactly what he'd done wrong trickled down his spine.
"Fuck. I thought you knew." He managed at last.
"No." Lestrade confirmed. "But don't worry, it doesn't matter, I'm still only assisting Sherlock at the behest of you know who. Not officially on the investigation at all, in fact very much officially not on it."
John let a short chuckle disguise his breath of relief.
"Merridew, that figures." Lestrade went on, oblivious. "He'd be in the mood for revenge on Sherlock. At last count we think Sherlock has ruined three major drug smuggling efforts that somewhere down the chain, were linked to Merridew, not that we ever got close to him. Quite a few of his henchmen behind bars though, most thanks to Sherlock."
"Revenge, yeah, but via Mycroft?" John questioned. "Man's more of an idiot than Sherlock made him look."
How there could have been an audible difference, he didn't know, but there was. The silence of Lestrade's end that time was…sharp.
"Greg?"
"Yeah, yeah maybe…" Lestrade agreed vaguely. "Well, thanks John, I appreciate you talking to me anyway." He said, apparently forgetting it had been John who'd called him. "Starting to feel a bit like Sherlock's skull between he and Mycroft."
John laughed.
"Welcome to my world. You might have warned me." He teased.
Lestrade was paying enough attention to let out a snort of laughter at that.
"I believe Donovan did so and did not overly impress you in the process."
"Very true." John grinned at the memory. Donovan had at least learned quickly enough to draw a very careful line on just how insulting to Sherlock she was in front of him.
"Well, good luck with whatever Sherlock and Mycroft have you doing, very officially not part of the investigation."
Lestrade hung up slowly, heart hammering against his chest. The text. That damned stupid text that just definitely had something wrong. The image swam before his eyes, unwilling to be pushed back but no longer feeling quite so elusive.
Because there was an answer to his questions. To all of their questions, in fact. They had, presumably, all agreed from the beginning that the person who had sent the text apparently from Sherlock, was Mycroft's attacker. And they were right. But if Merridew was responsible for Mycroft's attack, how on earth had he gotten hold of Sherlock's phone? Why had he left it at the crime scene and why, on earth, would he leave a message so distracting and obviously fake as he had done?
Sherlock had said to him once, in that infuriating, condescending tone of his, something about obvious facts being deceptive. This he had said in reference to a conundrum which had nearly killed him.
Obviously, an overdose clearly self-inflicted, is suicide. But it wasn't suicide. It was the serial killer who had made Sherlock's name…after trying to kill him, of course. But the obvious fact remained.
Sherlock's fake text to his brother was an obvious fact, entirely unconvincing even to the dimmest of observers. Something in his list of obvious factors, was a conclusion, not a fact. An incorrect conclusion, reached exactly as it was meant to be.
Lestrade suddenly wished he had heeded the advice of his superiors and steered clear of the case.
He wished the infuriating, Vulcan-logic of his consulting detective went straight through him, as it did his sergeant and forensics expert.
He wished he hadn't been listening, when Sherlock gave him his best I'm so much cleverer than you, smirk and stated; "There is nothing so deceptive, as an obvious fact."
Myc, need to talk to you. Important. 12 Bolton Rd, level 3, 14:30. S
Sherlock Holmes would never address his brother like that. The text was fake, obviously. But why had Mycroft fallen for it?
Lestrade had never doubted Sherlock's brilliance. He'd never not listened to him, even when he didn't like what he heard, even when he could do nothing about his unofficial detective's insights either way.
He wished he had. Thanks to Sherlock, Lestrade knew who had attacked Mycroft Holmes.