Chapter 3

Lestrade hated this time of the year. All the murderers seemed to taken a holiday, and all the drug dealers happily filled the gap.

That was why he was now on his way to interview a possible witness in one of the endless number of drug cases they were to be getting at the moment. He almost started to wish for some dead bodies. The witness was staying in a rundown building, forgotten by all but the lowest dregs of society, which at least meant somebody decided he would need some back-up.

The first thing he saw when he reached the building was the police car standing empty before the house. And then he noticed a group of onlookers, staying at a distance, clearly not wanting to get involved. This was not a good sign, he realised, annoyed.

He was met by a young constable who looked rather green around the gills.

"Constable O'Brien," she said as she shook his hand, "Sir, we've three suspected ODs. Two dead on arrival. One stopped breathing just as we arrived. My partner's performing CPR." She led him through the dark and gloomy corridors of the house to two bodies. They looked right at home in this building.

"There's nobody else present?"

"No, we suspect they fled the building when the first one ODed, leaving the others to die too."

"Of course," Lestrade said sadly.

The first thing Lestrade saw when he walked into the room was O'Brien's partner performing mouth-to-mouth. Clearly it wasn't the first time, although Lestrade hoped for the man it was the first time on a junkie.

"Ambulance is on its way, Jack," the woman said. "ETA three minutes."

"Great, Vicky." The man moved to start the chest compression. This gave Lestrade the change to get a good look at the figure on the floor. An expensive shirt was ripped open, exposing a pale chest. The tanned hands of the sergeant pressed down with force. But it was the pale face Lestrade recognised. A face even paler than usual, the grey-blue eyes half opened, unfocused, full lips turned blue, and dark curls plastered to his sweaty forehead.

"Damn it," Lestrade said, closing his eyes, trying to expel the picture of Sherlock, dead, from his mind.

"Something wrong, sir?" O'Brien asked

"You could say that. I know who he is, and believe me, that isn't good." He looked at Sherlock again.

"Sir?"

"I'm sorry; I've got to make a call." Lestrade felt his heart skip a beat at those words. He knew he had to call him. Not calling him would be cruel; not calling him could cost Lestrade his life. But then again, calling him could cost Lestrade his life too, he realised with a laugh, because Mycroft didn't take it lightly when somebody hurt his little brother.

"Yes?" Mycroft's voice broke through Lestrade's thoughts. It was calm and soft, but Lestrade couldn't stop feeling the pull to obey that voice.

"Mycroft, it's Sherlock."

"What's wrong?" Mycroft's voice dropped an octave and sounded almost scared.

"It looks like an OD. They're working on him now." Lestrade knew he should tell all the facts. Mycroft would know anyway.

"Cardiac arrest?" Mycroft's voice sounded resigned.

"Yes, he's uh…" Lestrade hesitated, watching the other officer do compression on Sherlock's chest.

"He isn't breathing, is he? I can hear them doing CPR in the background. Call me as soon as you know to which hospital they're taking him." Lestrade took the suddenly silent phone from his ear and stared at it, stunned.

Then a soft gasp suddenly came from the ground, and Lestrade looked down before closing his eyes for a short moment. At least Sherlock was breathing again.

"Turn him onto his side," Lestrade said as he watched Sherlock struggling to breathe. "Where's that ambulance?" he suddenly yelled at O'Brien.

"I don't know, sir. I'll have a look." Lestrade kneeled next to Sherlock, who was still unconscious. At least he was breathing now, and that was more than he had been doing a minute ago.

"Sir, sorry, would you move aside please." The paramedics pushed Lestrade aside. They immediately attached all sorts of lines to Sherlock, measuring his heart beat and putting an IV into his hand before loading him onto a stretcher.

"Where will you take him?" he asked. He had somebody to inform, after all.

"King's is the closest that has space at the moment."

"Thanks. His name's Sherlock Holmes, by the way. And I'll contact his family."

'Great, thanks," the driver said as they loaded Sherlock into the ambulance.

Lestrade started to dial and spoke immediately the moment the phone was answered.

"Mycroft, he's breathing again and on his way to King's College Hospital."

"Good. I will make sure the doctors are ready for him. I'll see you there."

"I can't," Lestrade said hesitatingly, "I've two more dead bodies on my hands. I've got to wait until my team gets here before I can even think about leaving."

"I understand," Mycroft said, sounding disappointed that Lestrade didn't drop everything to escort Sherlock to the hospital. Lestrade was sure that was what Mycroft had just done. Sherlock came before anything else in Mycroft's world, even before something as minor as World War III, for instance.

"Sir?" O'Brien said. "What do you want us to do?' And Lestrade knew he had to be the DI again, the highest-ranking officer on the scene.

"Cordon off the street, make sure nobody gets on the scene, and for heaven's sake keep the press away. I'm not in the mood to deal with them at the moment."


Two hours later Lestrade knew he should call the hospital, Mycroft, but if he was honest he didn't want to, just on the chance that Sherlock hadn't made it. He didn't think he could deal with losing Sherlock, and the thought of Mycroft's reaction, Mycroft's grieving made his heart clench painfully. Okay, he knew what that meant; he also knew they were both married to their jobs, and Mycroft's main job was taking care of Sherlock.

"Sir, it looks like a bad batch of cocaine," Donovan said, reading the preliminary report. "They cut it with something nasty." Lestrade closed his eyes at those words.

This meant there would be more dead junkies. Lestrade doubted this was the only batch. It also meant the dealer was good or, and Lestrade wasn't sure if that thought was any better, Sherlock hadn't noticed his cocaine had been contaminated. And if Sherlock made such a mistake, it said enough about his mental state.

"Do we know what it is?" Lestrade asked Donovan.

"No sir, they're still looking into it."

"We need to know. Because we still have a person who could die if we don't know what they used to poison him."

"I'm sorry, sir. Perhaps you should go to the hospital to see if he has regained consciousness. There's nothing more you can do here."

Lestrade nodded, steeling himself for what would await him at the hospital.


Things in the hospital were clearly going as Mycroft wanted, judging by the crying nurse, annoyed-looking doctor and the rather surly looking bodyguard standing next to a closed door.

"Sorry sir, you can't go in there," the bodyguard said as Lestrade moved to the door. Lestrade pulled out his warrant card, but the man still didn't move.

"I'm sorry sir. I'm not allowed to let anybody through."

"I've got to see him, please," Lestrade said, feeling angry. He needed to know how Sherlock was.

Just as he decided to simply push the man aside, the door to the room opened, and Mycroft's ever-present assistant, whose real name still eluded Lestrade, walked outside.

"Ah Inspector, we're waiting for you."

Lestrade made a move to the door, but she closed it before he reached it.

"Before we go in, I'd like to have a word with you." She took his arm and sat him down on one of the uncomfortable chairs in the hallway.

"What is it?" Lestrade said, impatiently looking at the door that separated him from Mycroft and Sherlock.

"I think," she started, "that it would be better for everybody involved if Sherlock was placed somewhere safe. Somewhere he can work on his…issues." Lestrade felt bewildered. Of course he agreed with her. He didn't know Sherlock that well, but Lestrade was certain he would not be able to force him to do anything.

"Of course, but what does it have to do with me?"

"Everything." Her smile was slightly too wide for his comfort.

"Mycroft is very important to me," she said, and Lestrade felt a stab of envy. "Not in that way, "she added, clearly having read his feelings on his face.

"Why are you telling me this?" Lestrade asked.

"Because I think he needs to talk to somebody, or get laid, or both." Lestrade felt his cheeks turn red, like a bloody teenager. The woman in front of him continued, "And since he seems to like you better than most people, you would be the best candidate."

"You want me to sleep with him?" He ignored the realisation that Mycroft actually liked him.

"Yes, please." She sounded almost desperate.

"But he won't, not as long as he has to take care of Sherlock." Lestrade said something he had known for a long time.

"Yes. So if we put Sherlock somewhere safe, Mycroft can get laid and stop his pining, and I can finally spend a night with my husband."

Lestrade groaned. "I hate you," he said, defeated.

"I know, but Mycroft will listen to you. Talk to him, get Sherlock in rehab, and enjoy your night." She stood up and walked to the door, opened it and waited for him to enter.


There were three empty beds in the room, but Lestrade's eyes were drawn to the fourth and only occupied bed and to the figure who was sitting next to it.

"Mycroft?" Mycroft's assistant said softly, and Mycroft looked up, letting go of Sherlock's hand, a smile on his face as he recognised Lestrade.

"Gabriel." He acknowledged Lestrade before turning back to Sherlock. Sherlock looked bad. He was still pale and now Lestrade could take a good look at him, he saw how thin Sherlock had become.

"How is he?" Lestrade sat down on the empty chair next to Mycroft.

"He'll live."

"You know he's very lucky," Lestrade said, placing his hand on Mycroft's.

"It doesn't feel that way." They sat in silence, looking at the too-pale figure in the bed.

"What will you do?" Lestrade asked.

"When he wakes up?"

"Yes. You know he needs help." The knuckles on Mycroft's free hand turned white as he made a fist.

"Yes, and I'll give him all the help he needs." Mycroft sounded haughty.

"Not this time," Lestrade said, coming to a decision. Mycroft looked at him, his eyes icy.

"This is between my brother and I. I would appreciate it if you wouldn't interfere, Inspector." The words were cold and controlled and would have sent even the bravest man running. Lestrade wasn't particularly brave, but he was stubborn, and like a dog holding a bone he wasn't going to let go.

"Actually, you'll find your brother's part of an ongoing investigation, and unless I've a very, very good reason to stop the investigation into your brother's involvement, I will arrest him."

"I'll break you, Inspector." Mycroft stood up suddenly, causing Lestrade's hand to fall on Sherlock's.

"I know you can, but you can't stop my whole team, all those who are currently trying to find the guy who did this to him."

Mycroft turned to him again.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked. "He's my brother."

"Rehab, and I'll drop the charges against him. I will also make sure he won't be a witness if we ever get the dealer."

"There will be no court case," Mycroft spoke softly, "But I agree with your terms." Mycroft looked at his assistant for a moment, and she nodded.

"I'll activate Operation Clean-Up. He'll be moved the moment he's strong enough." She picked up her phone and started a hushed conversation.

"Mycroft, Inspector," she said five minutes later and then left the room.

"Mycroft," Lestrade said, standing close to him, "you need to go home."

Mycroft closed his eyes, a pained look on his face for a moment. Then there was an inscrutable mask back on his face

"I can't." Mycroft walked away from Lestrade.

"Of course you can. He'll live, and you need rest. You can't spend the rest of your life dropping everything for him."

"Yes, no, I don't know." Mycroft looked out the window, his body tense. "I almost lost him once before. I can't lose him again."

"Just take a night off, one night. He isn't going anywhere. Get drunk, talk to somebody. Talk to me," Lestrade said. "Let's go back to my place, and I'll get you a drink."

"Isn't that usually an invitation for sex?" Mycroft turned around, an eyebrow raised.

"Only if you want it to be," Lestrade said, dashing the hopeful feeling down hard. With one last look at Sherlock, Mycroft seemed to come to a decision and walked out of the room. Lestrade couldn't follow quickly enough.

They reached the waiting car without saying a word, and the ride home too was silent too, but to Lestrade's surprise, the silence was rather comfortable. Mycroft sat slightly closer than was necessary, and their knees kept brushing at every turn, while he still kept the appearance of propriety.

"Coffee?" Lestrade asked, as he quickly picked up the dirty plates that littered his flat.

"Something stronger, if you have anything," Mycroft replied as he looked around the flat. Lestrade walked to the drinks cabinet. He pushed aside the cheap stuff until his hand found the expensive bottle of whisky he had been saving for something special. Well, having your fantasy come true was something special indeed. He rinsed the long unused and rather dusty glasses and filled them with the amber liquid.

He walked back into the room and stood still in the doorway. Mycroft had put his jacket on the back of one of the chairs and had rolled up his sleeves. For the first time since Lestrade had known him, he looked casual and relaxed. Mycroft was currently looking at Lestrade's large collection of photographs. Lestrade handed the glass to Mycroft, who took it with a grateful smile.

"Thomas?" Mycroft asked, pointing to the picture in the middle of the wall. Lestrade nodded. He loved that picture. It showed the two of them, Lestrade in uniform, a halo above his head, Thomas in his impeccable suit with two devil's horns on his. It had been New Years Eve, their anniversary, and they had been happy.

"Yeah, that wasn't long before we found out he had leukaemia." Lestrade sat down and watched Mycroft walk around the room, taking in the little details Lestrade didn't notice anymore.

"It's always difficult to lose somebody," Mycroft said, still looking at the pictures.

"Yes it is, but you know all about that, don't you?" Lestrade asked. Mycroft's body stiffened for a moment. "Talk to me?"

"So that's why you invited me," Mycroft's voice sounded amused. "Not to have your way with me, but to talk."

"Of course; why would I ever want to have my way with a good-looking man like you." They stayed in silence for a long moment, enjoying the good whisky and Lestrade really felt content.

"Did you know Sherlock almost died eight years ago?"

"No," Lestrade said, watching as Mycroft sat down beside him on the sofa.

"I always was protective, but in the way an older brother is supposed to be, not like I am now. Victor was Sherlock's friend, a few years older than him, brilliant, an engineer. They were at Uni together, in that short moment when Sherlock thought engineering would be fun. They became friends almost immediately, and of course Sherlock invited him to the holiday house to meet the family. The moment I met Victor, I fell in love, and he surprisingly did the same. We were together for almost five years. "

Lestrade sighed, having a pretty good idea where this was going.

"I had already made my name in the world, and unfortunately somebody decided it would be better if they had some leverage over me. They kidnapped and tortured Sherlock and Victor."

Lestrade felt his heart stop at those words. The thought of Sherlock being tortured made him feel ill. Mycroft too stopped talking clearly, trying to find the right words.

"Come." Lestrade beckoned Mycroft, and he moved closer to Lestrade, who pulled him into his arms. When they were installed on the sofa comfortably, Mycroft continued.

"Sherlock made it. Victor didn't. Sherlock discovered the pleasures of drugs after that. He blamed me and never forgave me, and I agree with him."

"You can't blame yourself for what somebody else did," Lestrade said.

"Of course I can, just like you still blame yourself for not making Thomas go to a doctor sooner." The words hit home, and Lestrade felt the familiar whirl of guilt in his stomach.

"We're both stupid, aren't we?" Lestrade said, a self-deprecating smirk on his face.

"Yes," Mycroft agreed.

"Let's be stupid together," Lestrade said, pulling Mycroft closer

"Gabriel, I," Mycroft started and Lestrade wondered if this would be the moment Mycroft would turn him down, would tell him he wasn't interested after all.

"I can't be in a relationship," Mycroft said, breaking Lestrade's heart.

"Because of Sherlock?"

"Yes. And because of who I am, because of what I am. And because of Victor." There was sadness in his voice and face

"I understand," Lestrade said. He did understand; just didn't agree with any of it. "What if I don't want a relationship? Just tonight or any other night you can give me, to celebrate being alive, to enjoy each other's company. Can you give me that?"

"Yes." Was the simple answer, and all Lestrade needed. Lestrade pulled the other man close, his kiss finding Mycroft's mouth waiting and willing. For now Mycroft was his. And, if only for a few hours, Sherlock and the rest of the world ceased to exist


Light slowly filtered into Lestrade's mind, and for a short moment he felt disorientated before he remembered. His hand shot out to find the bed empty and cold. He felt a short pang of disappointment. He had hoped against all odds he wouldn't wake up alone. He quickly squashed those thoughts. Mycroft would have better things to do than sleep with him. His hand moved over his bedside table to find his phone to see the time. It wasn't until his hand collided with something hot that he sat up and opened his eyes. On his table was his favourite coffee cup, and judging by its temperature it was filled with the hot, life-bringing coffee he hadn't known he needed. He sighed, cradling the cup with a smile on his face. And when he put down the cup, he discovered a piece of paper. He picked it up, reading it with trepidation.

Gabriel,

I apologise for leaving without saying goodbye. But unfortunately something unavoidable came up that warranted my personal attention.

I'm grateful for last night.

Mycroft

Lestrade smiled. Even after the night they'd shared, Mycroft was still the prim and proper civil servant slash ruler of the world.

That night Lestrade sat back down at his desk. His hands tentatively moved, picking up the little black book Donovan had just dropped on the paper work of Sherlock's OD. Another case that wouldn't see the light of day again: no court case, because there was no longer a suspect.

With a sigh he opened the book, found an empty page, and started to write.

ElHaj Diop,
Drug dealer
Shot to the back of the head
Executed