He was there to tell Sherlock he was officially and unofficially, off this case. That was it. He would usually cringe at the thought of telling Sherlock he valued his job too much to break the rules to aid Sherlock's cases, but on this occasion, he didn't care. It had nothing to do with rules, or his job, it was to do with knowing he could no longer trust anything Sherlock or his brother had to say.
He had considered confronting them of course, when cold realisation, followed swiftly by burning anger had first flooded through his veins. But in the end, he kept coming back to the same point. After days on end of wondering why one stupid text was weighing on his mind in the midst of an assault case, a new question had taken up residence at the forefront of his thoughts. What difference would it make?
If he did as the law, certainly his job, required him to do, what good could possibly come of it? He had no proof and every reason to believe the supposed victim of the crime had been in some way involved.
It was not a new or particularly unusual occurrence in his job. Crimes were often not what they appeared. Muggings staged to cover domestic violence. Burglaries faked for insurance claims. It was textbook stuff and the police were trained to look for clues.
But not when it involved Mycroft Holmes. Not when it involved a baffling robbery and a vicious assault, staged to cover… what, exactly?
An attack on Mycroft by his brother? Why? Their uneasy relationship was no secret, but this was far beyond that. Lestrade had been there, he'd seen the very real brutality of Mycroft's injuries. Sherlock was more than capable of causing said injuries physically, but was he capable of it in actuality? The attack had been the work of a thug, not a competitor. What could Mycroft have done, in reality or in Sherlock's mind, to warrant such an attack?
Was it possible they had arranged it? He knew the injuries were real, yes, but could they have planned it? Why? What would possess Sherlock to do it, or Mycroft to accept it? Needing it to happen; the cold and obvious answer came to him immediately. If either brother thought it was necessary for Mycroft to be seen to have been attacked, both would see it done.
There were other questions which came from that would which Lestrade was rather afraid to address. Why could it be necessary? What did they know, or what had happened, which neither had shared with Lestrade?
But he would be lying, if he said it was those questions front and centre in his mind. He couldn't say he had any desperate need to know. What he wanted to know, was why they'd lied to him. Why, in the midst of what must, surely have been an unusual set up even for them, had they had to involve him in any way?
The hot flush of humiliation burned through him as he recalled his concern for Sherlock. His sympathy with Mycroft, believing him to be working hard to restore his unshakeable mask. He felt sick. He had been so stupid. He'd really thought he'd understood something they didn't. That he was helping them both, because whether they would admit it or not, the brothers loved each other and when one was hurt, the other bruised.
He didn't know what the reason for the 'help' he was giving both brothers was, but he did know for certain he was being played for a fool. He wanted to be angry, but if he was being honest with himself, all he felt was hurt. Embarrassed.
An image swum unbidden into his mind, Mycroft waking up the first time, groggy, drugged. Scared. Was he so good an actor? Lestrade could not say he'd ever thought so in the past. Had Mycroft not known in advance? He would protect Sherlock from anything, Lestrade knew that, but what possible reason could Sherlock have had?
None of them, were questions Lestrade wanted to answer. He wanted to take Donovan's none too gentle advice and remove himself from any further involvement, but he knew it was not so simple. One or both of the brothers would contact him at some point, expecting their requests or instructions to have been followed.
Lestrade wondered if he would be able to pretend all was well, or feign continuing ignorance. He didn't think it likely he could conceal his ire from anyone, but he was probably wasting his time even trying, with the Holmes brothers.
So he didn't plan to confront either of them. He did, however, want it to be clear he was done with their stupid case. He felt a grim sense of anticipation at the almost certain eventuality of Sherlock trying to argue with him.
In the past, he had tried to reason with Sherlock when he was on one of his tirades. Reason, even plead with. Because he was talented and Lestrade knew he owed Sherlock some of their biggest diverted disasters. Because Sherlock was his friend and he cared about him. He had thought, somewhere deep down, Sherlock might care about him too.
By the time he reached 221B, he had worked himself up into a state of readiness for a fight which he would have thought extremely unhealthy on any other case. He was more than ready to tell Sherlock that he was not obliged to risk his job for the consulting detective's every whim. That having supplied the case notes Sherlock had asked for, the free reign of Scotland Yard and reports on his whereabouts that Mycroft had asked for, he was now backing the hell off and daring Sherlock to tell him he had a problem with that.
His righteous indignation died an immediate death on being let into the flat by John.
He didn't know. Lestrade had no idea how he was certain of this, but he was. He was not so naïve that he didn't know if Sherlock had asked John to keep something from Lestrade, he would, but he was absolutely certain that John would not be sitting around the flat with Sherlock if he knew how his brother had come to be injured.
"Inspector Lestrade, this is a surprise." Another voice greeted him.
Mycroft. Fuck.
In less than ten seconds, his plan had rather fallen apart before his eyes. He had absolutely no desire to be the bearer of screwed up news to John, nor had his planned backing off of the case, involved speaking to Mycroft directly.
But he was there, in Sherlock and John's flat, as though Sherlock hadn't drugged and beaten him unconscious less than a week earlier. He did look better than he had done then, Lestrade observed. Then, it had been hard to see the full extent of his injuries through the blood. There were still blue, green and yellow bruises fading under his eyes, a scrape across the bridge of his nose and a still visible line through his lower lip.
Lestrade's eyes travelled down from Mycroft's, drawn irresistibly to his bandaged left hand, which now sat across his chest in a sling. A very normal looking sling, Lestrade couldn't help noticing. Not an immaculately tailored, Italian sling, fitted with James Bond-esque gadgets.
"Hi, Mycroft." He forced himself to meet the elder Holmes' gaze. "How are you doing?"
Mycroft lips quirked in that weird, politician's smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"I am very well thank you. Sherlock's in his bedroom, if you wanted to see him." His eyes flashed that time and his mouth didn't move.
Lestrade looked to John for help and found him grinning.
"He says he won't come out until Mycroft leaves."
"Oh good, nothing too childish then." Lestrade commented, grimacing slightly as it came out with rather more bite than he'd intended.
John rolled his eyes, noticing nothing amiss.
"Never. Do you want a drink or anything? He might come out if he knows you're here but he might make you wait a bit."
"No, in fact this is pretty handy." Lestrade forced a light tone as he walked up to Sherlock's closed bedroom door. He saw Mycroft and John exchanging a vaguely impressed glance as he moved.
He knocked, though he had no intention of entering.
"I'm busy, Lestrade." Came the answer from within. The tone, the condescending, dismissive, selfish fucking-
"Yeah, me too." Lestrade answered, keeping his voice level with some difficulty. "Listen, Sherlock, I just came to let you know Scotland Yard are off this case. That's officially and unofficially. If you need anything else I'm afraid you need to go elsewhere."
Mycroft's eyes fixed on Lestrade sharply. He felt it, but didn't turn to acknowledge either occupant of the room as he made his way back to the door. Behind him, he heard a scuffling of furniture and papers which told him Sherlock was crossing his bedroom in a hurry.
"Seeya John. Mycroft." He muttered, eyes on the floor as he moved.
"Is there something wrong, Inspector?" Mycroft's voice spoke from behind him, in sync with Sherlock opening his bedroom door.
Lestrade did not want to turn. He wanted to keep walking, right out of the flat door. But even anger could not quite override basic manners. He turned back, planning to answer Mycroft, but Sherlock got there first.
"Lestrade, what are you talking about?" Sherlock asked. "You were already officially off the case."
"Yeah, well, like I said, now I'm unofficially off it too." He answered, forcing himself to look Sherlock in the eye. He was aware of John watching them both, confusion and concern radiating off him without Lestrade needing to look directly at him.
"I thought you had all you wanted with those files you came for, but just in case, I thought I better let you know." It sounded a bit odd to him even as he spoke.
Sherlock's blank face echoed Lestrade's thoughts precisely.
"You came here to tell me you have nothing to tell me." He didn't quite ask.
"And am not going to." Lestrade confirmed irritably. "Courtesy call, but I don't need to be courteous if you'd rather I didn't."
Sherlock frowned, studying him closely.
… "Has something happened? What's wrong, why do you look so nervous?" He questioned, stepping forward and fixing Lestrade with his familiar scrutiny.
"I'm not nervous." Lestrade forced a breath of laughter, as though the drama of Sherlock and Mycroft's reaction was ridiculous. "Nothing's happened, I'm just busy. Scotland Yard don't assign us down time in case we happen to be working on something off the books."
"That's never been a problem before. Why now?" Sherlock asked, apparently unable to imagine Lestrade could possibly change his usual pattern of compliance.
"Sherlock, there is no problem." He stated firmly. "I'm going."
"Greg, are you sure you're alright?" John asked as he turned to leave. Unlike Sherlock, he sounded worried about something other than the case.
Lestrade looked over at him, sighing heavily.
"…Yeah, John I'm fine, really. I just don't have time for this-"
Sherlock stepped forward, moving between Lestrade and the door, not a trace of his bored look remaining.
"I didn't ask for your time, Lestrade. This has taken time nobody asked for. What's going on, what aren't you telling me?"
Lestrade could have cheerfully punched him. He actually sounded concerned. For the first time he could remember, Sherlock seemed worried he might have put his official counterparts in a difficult position. It was just typical, that this would be the one time Lestrade actually didn't have the brass breathing down his neck because of his unpaid consulting detective.
His met Sherlock's penetrating gaze, wishing he could just tell him. Tell him he knew and that if he was honest, he didn't really care why, or how, or what. He could see Mycroft was fine and that the two were clearly still on as close to speaking terms as they had been before. He cared that Sherlock had used him.
He should just have left, as planned. He knew that, but with Sherlock's forceful insistence he found his mouth worked ahead of his brain.
"I don't think what I'm not telling you, is the issue, Sherlock."
The look that flew over his shoulder in Mycroft's direction was unmistakably alarmed. Lestrade would say panicked, except that Sherlock Holmes didn't panic. He certainly didn't let panic make him make sudden and insane decisions like snapping the bolt across the door.
"Get out of the way." Lestrade asked, closing his eyes and swallowing the twin urges to laugh and commit an assault of his own.
"What do you know?" Sherlock asked, voice low and faintly haunted.
Lestrade shook his head. He was not going to engage in this, however hard Sherlock tried.
"Enough. Sherlock, move."
"Sherlock, what's going on, what are you doing?" John asked, sounding utterly baffled. And no wonder. Sherlock had made some fairly bold moves in the past, both inside and outside of the law, but any action he took was usually against criminals, not against Lestrade.
"Sherlock, if the inspector is aware of more than he has stated, I do not imagine you can make him tell you by locking him in here." Mycroft interjected quietly.
Lestrade turned to face him, feeling a shudder pass through him at the calm control of the man. Sherlock's fear-driven stupidity made his blood boil, the arrogance of thinking he could force Lestrade to do as he wanted. But Mycroft, making no attempt to alter or impede Lestrade himself, yet clearly feeling completely in control, turned his blood to ice.
He looked between the brothers and John, feeling pity unexpectedly wedge it's way into anger.
"This is your business, Sherlock. At this moment I have no plans to make it mine, but I don't appreciate being used. Now get out of the way, because I may be a trusting idiot, but I am not afraid of you."
Sherlock was clearly stunned. He wished he could be gratified at that, but scoring points off Sherlock was something his friends did. He stepped aside, staring into mid air, avoiding looking at either Lestrade or John, whose confusion was every bit as palpable as Mycroft's absence there of.
"There are things you don't know, Lestrade." Sherlock told the ceiling.
Lestrade couldn't help the laugh that escaped him, though the bitter sound was unlike him in the extreme.
"Oh believe me, that part I do know. And I don't need or ask you to tell me anything. But you don't have to lie to my face, Sherlock."
Why was he having this conversation? Was he expecting an apology? Sherlock hadn't apologised for letting him believe he was dead for two years. And he'd forgiven him, without condition, without question, he had been so happy to know he was alive. That he had not taken his own life to stop Moriarty, willing to die a self-confessed fraud to save his friends. He knew without needing to ask, that he would have some equally noble reason for assaulting his brother and this time, Lestrade just didn't care. He was not their pawn.
The silence he left behind him was thick as soup. John called after him as he descended the stairs, but he only called back to tell him to talk to Sherlock.
Mycroft could see John's gaze boring into the back of Sherlock's head as he closed the door behind Lestrade. Clearly, he planned to do exactly as the detective suggested.
"What in God's name was all that about?" John broke the silence at last. "What have you done to him?" He demanded. Mycroft suspected he was aiming for light-hearted, as though it might break the extraordinary tension in the room. The shaken sound of his voice removed any form of levity.
"Nothing." Sherlock groused with an impatient shake of the head. "Clearly he's not happy with the need to know basis of this case."
"Oh?" John asked with audible sarcasm. "And those things he doesn't know or need to know, serious enough for you to try to stop him leaving, those would be things I don't need to know either, I suppose?" He asked, this time with undisguised anger.
There was flash of alarm in Sherlock's eyes, stronger than Lestrade had prompted. Now would not be an ideal moment for the consulting detective to try to handle John's anger.
"Doctor Watson, it is in the very best interests of everyone involved, that no one beyond the unavoidable, are aware of certain details of this case." Mycroft interjected. If it had not already been clear he at least knew exactly what Lestrade was so upset about, it was now.
"Oh and Jupiter has spoken!" John barked, rounding on him with a sudden viciousness that took even Mycroft by surprise.
He took a step back, raising his good hand in surrender.
"I meant no offence." He shrugged. It was not up to him to contain or direct John Watson in this instance. That was the deal he and Sherlock had made. Mycroft would handle Lestrade and the press, Sherlock would handle John.
At that moment in time, he couldn't say either of them were doing their job particularly well. Still, it was in neither of their best interests for Mycroft to antagonise the doctor.
John rubbed a hand over his face, a gesture of stress Mycroft had seen more than once. He looked torn. His fairer side could see and wanted to acknowledge, Mycroft was doing his best to be both polite and understanding. Frustration at both brothers, concern for Lestrade and from him, for Sherlock, made him not give a flying fuck about manners.
"Mycroft, could you leave us alone, please?" John asked at last. He wasn't quite looking at Mycroft, but his voice was low and he had worked hard to remove the strong overtones of scorn from his tone.
Mycroft looked to Sherlock. He had absolutely no doubts, his brother would tell John the truth. How John would respond, was more Sherlock's area. He had no desire to remain and bear witness to their fight, but on the other hand… he did not believe Sherlock was at his best, at that precise moment in time.
"I'm not entirely certain that's a good idea…" Mycroft replied softly.
Sherlock's eyes flickered, but still did not engage with anyone in the room.
"Go." He muttered.
John's raised eyebrows were somewhere between smug and expectant. Mycroft tried not to let this rankle him. He would do as Sherlock requested. And then he would catch Sam Merridew quickly, because the truth about his assault was no longer safe.
"Mycroft." Sherlock's voice reached him as he reached the door to the stairs. He turned, but remained silent. Sherlock met his eyes and spoke two words, voice flat and devoid of any indication he cared one way or the other.
"It's fine."
Mycroft fought not to smile as he made his way down the stairs, a bloody awkward descent with only one hand free. Sherlock had put considerable effort into disguising it, possibly for John's sake, more likely for his, but he had just tried to be reassuring.
And he was right, that Mycroft was concerned by the prospect of John's reaction when he learned the truth. John had once told Mycroft that Sherlock could break him in half. He was quite possibly correct, but Mycroft had long suspected the same was true of John and Sherlock in reverse. If riled, he felt the doctor could beat the tar out of Sherlock, if only because he struggled to imagine Sherlock fighting back.
It was unlikely, all told. John would be angry he'd been lied to, but surely not so angry he would consider adding further violence to the mix. He considered the possibility that that had not been what Sherlock meant. That perhaps, he had meant it was alright John was going to know the truth. Not to worry about the leaking of their secret.
That was a question which required consideration. How had Lestrade come to work out the truth?
In fact, how was not the issue. There were two possible lines of inquiry to which Mycroft needed answers. Had Lestrade worked it out? If he had, then had he been able to do so owing to familiarity with Sherlock, or was there incriminating evidence both Mycroft and Sherlock had overlooked?
Or, if Lestrade had not worked it out, who was his informant?
Mycroft's instinctive mistrust of the man who had tipped Sherlock off as to Merridew's intentions, tempted him to believe this second line of enquiry was the most likely of the two. But for what purpose? Why manipulate Sherlock into assaulting his brother, then inform the police? He could surely not imagine that Mycroft would allow Sherlock to be charged for his actions.
There was no remaining evidence, Mycroft was sure of that. Sherlock would not have left any traces of his presence in the warehouse. Mycroft had checked all cameras between and all possible routes between there and 221b in the hours before. They were clear, Sherlock had of course known how to avoid them.
That left two options. Lestrade had worked it out because he knew Sherlock, or someone had told him. Much as his instincts told him Sherlock's informant was not to be trusted, there was nothing to be gained from informing the police.
There was also another telling clue, in Lestrade's reaction. Sherlock had involved him in far worse. He had lied to him on a far grander scale and he used him without mercy all the time. It made very little sense for him to be so upset about this, even considering the added annoyance that this time he had been lied to and used by both Holmes brothers. But even that, was not a unique occurrence. His offence was clearly real, he showed signs of embarrassment, shame even, which were entirely unwarranted. He obviously felt he'd been foolish in some way he never had before. Perhaps he had given more time to the case than either Mycroft or Sherlock had asked him to and in doing so, had stumbled upon the truth.
In fact, Mycroft had not yet reached home when he realised what must have tipped Lestrade off. He had possessed only one piece of evidence that Mycroft's own people had never had reason to look at, which was Sherlock's 'stolen' phone.
Idiot. Mycroft chided himself inwardly. Of course, Lestrade would see through Sherlock's text. It was clever, Mycroft had never suggested otherwise, but it was also far too distracting. Anyone who knew Sherlock or Mycroft, would be fascinated by the bizarre use of a nickname never used by anyone, addressing Mycroft.
Myc, I need to talk to you.
It had been the detail which had let Mycroft know the situation was serious and complex. He had barely blinked at it, assuming that Sherlock would have a reason for needing to alarm him and he'd been right. Lestrade, John, possibly Mrs Hudson, even Molly Hooper…these were all people who would be confused by the nickname.
Confusion, gained attention. Looking at it for long enough, every one of them would have used Sherlock's own maxim to make the inevitable conclusion. Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the solution.
Sherlock using an affectionate shortening of Mycroft's name. Impossible?
Mycroft being fooled into believing a text from a stranger was from his brother. Impossible. Sherlock using an affectionate shortening of Mycroft's name… improbable. But the reality.
Not a gigantic leap and one Mycroft was annoyed at himself for not predicting. Lestrade was good, though Sherlock would never admit and of course, Mycroft only meant it in as far as the limited abilities of the police reached.
And his injured feelings. Those too, Mycroft felt he should have seen coming. He had asked Lestrade to keep an eye on Sherlock. He had heard the sympathy in the other man's voice. Remembered his calm compassion and assurance at the warehouse. He had allowed his sympathy to stand, in order to gain his compliance. Sherlock, Lestrade had helped in flat defiance of his job's requirements, because he had believed he had suffered the shock of the brutal attack on a family member meant to scare him.
Was it worse than their shared effort to pretend he was dead for two years? No, that was absurd. Did Mycroft understand why Lestrade had taken it badly in a way he never had the far worse lies metered to him by both Holmes brothers? Mycroft recalled feeling nothing beyond mild concern at waking in an ambulance after Sherlock's assault, yet feeling fleeting, but real, white hot rage and hurt at Sherlock's stubborn spite over Merridew. Yes, he couldn't help thinking. On balance, he understood perfectly.
He was scared.
Sherlock could see it as clearly as he could see the garish pattern of his jumper. He was acting as though he was angry, he was genuinely showing concern for Lestrade, but beyond it all, John was scared.
Because Lestrade wasn't the only one who had known something was wrong with the case. John hadn't known what it was nor had he sought to investigate, but despite Sherlock's claims to the contrary, John wasn't stupid. He had sensed the same underlying tension Lestrade must have done to work out the truth.
And damn him, for that.
His head rather spun at the hurt of the Scotland Yard detective. He 'didn't appreciate being used', Sherlock didn't 'have to lie' to him. Since when? Stupid man.
No, not stupid. Sentimental. And irritatingly quick off the mark in a way Sherlock had never seen him be before, which was just typical.
Yet there was a certain… resignation, in the way he'd spoken, which made Sherlock profoundly uncomfortable. A discomfort quickly stored in the background of his hard drive, as the front door closed behind Mycroft and he and John were left alone.
"Well?" John asked, voice flat and slightly unsteady.
Controlled. Doesn't want to fight, but will, should he not get an explanation. Sherlock did not have time for this.
"I asked Lestrade for files relating to Merridew's cases, nothing more. Mycroft asked him to spy on me as always. He has, one must presume, worked out that myself and Mycroft both know who we're chasing."
"…You hadn't told him it was Merridew." John extrapolated with pleasingly little ado. If he'd had to explain in any more child friendly chunks, Sherlock might have said something he'd later be told he should regret.
"MI5 had taken the case off Scotland Yard. There was no reason for Lestrade to know the ringleader. It was hardly Merridew himself who stole my phone."
For up to four seconds, Sherlock wondered if he might actually have succeeded in distracting John from the question he'd really asked. Or indeed, in making him think Lestrade was upset not to have been informed about Merridew.
"He called me a couple of days ago, he hung up suddenly just after I mentioned Merridew. That doesn't make any sense, Sherlock, he didn't care. Why would he-" John broke off suddenly and the colour drained from his face. He looked right at Sherlock, eyes searching, possibilities visibly spinning. This in itself, meant that whatever he was thinking, it was not what had actually happened. If he'd worked out what had actually happened, the possibilities would have been narrowed to one.
He had, however, worked out that there was something wrong with Sherlock's version of events.
"How did you know this was ordered by Merridew?" He asked, voice hardening but shaking all the more for his vehemence.
Bingo. Sherlock gave a silent cheer for John's deduction, slow though it was. How were they so sure it was Merridew? It was not as if Sherlock or Mycroft could claim to have only one potential enemy at any given time.
"Because an informant came to me and warned me in advance." Sherlock answered calmly. He was not entirely sure why, but he felt the need to demonstrate he was willing to be honest. John had asked a direct question, which up to that point, he had not.
"You already know who attacked Mycroft. Mycroft too." John frowned. He knew he was still missing something. If they knew Merridew was responsible, knowing which of his minions had pulled off the actual attack was meaningless.
"Yes." Sherlock confirmed. There was absolutely no possibility that John was going to make the final leap on his own.
"Why…"
Sherlock cut him off, unwilling to wait any longer.
"It was me, John." He stated bluntly.
John closed his mouth, staring. He blinked a few times, while Sherlock waited. Outwardly at least, he appeared calm.
"…What?" John asked at last.
"I attacked Mycroft." Sherlock clarified, taking his opening. "He knew what I was planning and agreed. It had to be real and…unpleasant, but I aimed to ensure it wasn't deadly. That way Merridew wouldn't see a need to send someone else."
John made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a snarl.
"You beat up your own brother to save a murderer the hassle?"
"No, John." Sherlock replied with patience he would not generally have been able to summon at any cost.
"I had... a very strong reason to believe Merridew had planned an attack on Mycroft, meant to warn me off. Merridew believes that attack has been carried out. In the absence of a way to prevent it, I neutralised the threat."
Sherlock winced inwardly as John laughed. His voice rang with fury.
"And you think Merridew will just back off? He threatens one of your toys so you break it yourself, that's somehow meant to change his plans?"
Vivid imagery. Sherlock blinked to shake away another vivid image, this one not formed by John's incensed imagination. Shock and fear in cold grey eyes. His focus redirected almost immediately. Clearly, John had rather misunderstood his explanation.
"Merridew doesn't know it was me, John. Up until Lestrade's apparent revelation, only myself and Mycroft knew. Merridew hired a hit, but his man came to me. Gave me a head start, as it were."
If the term sounded facetious, Sherlock was certain John could not miss the gravity of his words. He had not wanted to harm Mycroft. If, in their lifetime, the idea ever had appealed to him, it would have been in a fair fight. Not, a willing submission and a brutal assault.
Perhaps he did understand. Perhaps he heard the deep displeasure in Sherlock's voice, but whatever he felt, John's eyes hardened.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" He growled.
Sherlock waited.
"You had pre-warning that your brother was going to be attacked and instead of oh I don't know, warn him, try to stop it, you just do it yourself? Are you actually, genuinely, out of your mind? Is that what happened? Did you finally blow your hard drive? God knows Mycroft wouldn't see it if it smacked him in the face. Or stamped on his ribs and broke his hand in nine places-"
"Alright, John." Sherlock broke in. He didn't snap, or raise his voice at all, but he brought an end to John's rising tirade, before it brought an end to his hold on his temper.
"It wasn't that simple." He murmured. "There is a limit to how much protection a person can be given. I have no doubt Merridew would kill if just a warning proved too inconvenient. I met with Mycroft and explained. He agreed."
There was a slight lowering of his voice on the last word. Mycroft had agreed, though he hadn't really known why it was Sherlock needed him to agree at the time. His later question of why Sherlock hadn't asked for his help, suggested he had not entirely concurred with Sherlock's analysis of the situation.
"The safest possible position for Mycroft was if Merridew believed the attack had been carried out. His agent reported success, while I was able to limit the damage by doing it myself. It was damage control, not a solution. Catching Merridew will be a solution."
John was staring at him in undisguised disgust.
"My God you really believe this don't you." He breathed. Sherlock bit his tongue to keep from an unwise response.
"You don't think there was anything at all you could possibly have done other than beat the shit out of Mycroft?" He asked with biting sarcasm.
"Not if my intention was to ensure his immediate safety, no. I could of course have acted to keep my own conscience clear, at the risk of his life." Sherlock spoke before he could halt the scathing suggestion.
John's eyes widened. Surprise took the edge off fury, yet sharpened his incredulity.
"...That's...Jesus, Sherlock. Did you really not think there might possibly be any other options?"
One. Sherlock mused silently. One other option, which if he was completely honest, he hadn't actually considered for a moment.
"John. Of course I thought there might. When I was finished thinking I was left with one option."
John was already shaking his head.
"Then why didn't you just tell me the truth?"
He hadn't asked why he hadn't told Lestrade the truth, Sherlock noted as John stormed out of the flat.
He hadn't told Lestrade, because he was a police officer and Sherlock had broken the law. He supposed in addition to grievous bodily harm, he had wasted police time and obstructed an investigation, both officially as well as in the more personal sense that had so upset Lestrade. He knew the truth now and he was duty bound to make his knowledge official.
He wouldn't, of course. Sherlock had no fear Lestrade would turn him in, duty or not. If Sherlock had simply told him however, it would have been a different matter. Lestrade had been on the official investigation into Sherlock's missing phone at the time. To expect him to bury evidence such as a witness' confession, was somewhat beyond the pale even for Sherlock.
It irked him that Lestrade was so blind to this, busy with petty offence at a perceived slight on his intelligence. When was Sherlock ever so circumspect? If he wished to tell Lestrade he was stupid, he would do so without ambiguity. He hadn't told him the truth because doing so was more dangerous than not doing so. It had not been intended as anything other than the most rational course of action.
Not, that rational action was in high supply at that moment, he thought, frowning at the empty staircase after John.
Why didn't you just tell me?
A question which meant he knew why he hadn't told Lestade. And yet, was unable to apply the same rationale to why he hadn't told John either. Because it was safer he not know. Safer nobody knew.
There was an irksome thought beginning to take up residence in the back of Sherlock's mind. That was two of them now, of the extremely limited number of people in whose intellect or other forms of knowledge, Sherlock would occasionally trust. Two, who thought he had this wrong. John had been very direct about it, refusing to accept Sherlock's claim he had no choice. Mycroft had, in his way, offered his support to Sherlock's decisions, but it was clear enough he thought Sherlock's attention was in the wrong place entirely.
It was possible. Sherlock was not so arrogant as to question otherwise. He could have made the wrong decision. He had calculated and dismissed all other options at the time, but he could have been mistaken. Turn his informant down, warn John and Mycroft. Accept his informant's offer, but fake an attack on either John or Mycroft. Accept his offer and carry out the attack himself. Limit the damage. John, or Mycroft.
Mycroft. He was the crux. Unlike John, he had all of the relevant information. He had followed Sherlock's reasoning without difficulty and he had concluded that his actions had been…understandable. Well conceived even. But incorrect. Both in his decision to act without laying the full scope of the situation before Mycroft to see if he could help first and in his efforts to pursue Merridew since.
But he wasn't wrong. Merridew had never put his head above the parapet in a way that made him accessible before. His criminality was invisible. His machinations turned and a trail of destruction was left behind but Merridew himself, was never seen putting a toe out of line. Sending a warning to Sherlock meant he was either planning something different, or Sherlock had annoyed him more than the inconvenience of a henchman in jail, last time their paths had crossed.
Mycroft had heavily implied that Merridew was baiting him. Why draw his attention so obviously, the show him nothing? It was a trap. Mycroft was certain of it. If Mycroft was certain, Sherlock knew better than to doubt.
Where they differed, was in what to do about it. Mycroft was brilliant, without question, but he was no detective. He was relying on his surveillance. Sherlock didn't care if Merridew was laying a trap, he was going to catch him. Taking Merridew off the streets was the best thing he could do for the public, as well as his personal revenge. It was the only way to ensure John's future safety, as Merridew was hardly a man to indulge in fair play.
Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt as he realised he was still more concerned with keeping John safe than with Mycroft.
But Mycroft knew what he was facing, Sherlock reasoned. Mycroft was already pursuing his own version of Sherlock's case, planning to intercept the most active of Merridew's people the moment one of them made a move. John had no idea that Merridew might have eyes on him too, which made him more vulnerable. Concern for him was only rational.
With effort, Sherlock pushed away the doubt and discomfort Lestrade's performance and John's response had left behind. His time trailing Merridew so far had only cemented his feeling that he was planning something big. Mycroft could continue to be his eye in the sky if he so wished. But whatever he was planning, Sherlock was going to catch Merridew and put him where he belonged.