An interlude featuring Mycroft and the fate of Lestrade.
When word of the outbreak reached Mycroft, his first thought wasn't of his country, but of Lestrade and then his brother and mother. Frantic phone calls to Lestrade went unanswered, and his surveillance teams were useless in the chaos filled city, most of them having fled or were themselves unreachable. As each day passed with no word, Mycroft felt any hope he might have had to see Lestrade alive again fade.
After a week, the last person Mycroft expected at his door was a thoroughly disheveled Lestrade. "Gregory," he exclaimed in disbelief. As he reached forward to embrace him, Lestrade suddenly jerked back, and Mycroft was left taking in the small details, the ones he never missed, but apparently did today at the shocking sight of Lestrade in his doorway.
The grey pallor of Lestrade's skin, the trembling of his hands, his eyes – jaundiced and bloodshot – spoke volumes, but worst of all was the black blood staining his sleeve and dripping from his hand. It was bad, and Mycroft's heart clenched as he realized what it meant.
Lestrade struggled for words. "Sorry. So sorry. Shouldn't have come. Just had to see you. One last time. I tried. Tried…"
Mycroft stepped forward again, but Lestrade flinched and backed farther away. "Don't. You- I-. Have to keep away. Lock me up or kill me before it's too late. Please. Mycroft. Can feel myself slipping away. Don't. Don't want to become one of those things. Please…" Lestrade trailed off, breathing hard, hands clenched in fists.
By that time, Mycroft's security team was standing at ready. There was no way that Lestrade could have even set foot on the edge of this property without them knowing. He should have been notified immediately, though it made no different now. After a moment's hesitation, Mycroft nodded, motioning them to take Lestrade away. He couldn't kill him, but he could lock him up.
Lestrade's eye's never left Mycroft's as he was led away. Mycroft watched as his throat worked as he fought for words, finally forcing out, "Don't blame yourself. Remember. Never said- Love you. Always."
Those were the last words Mycroft would ever hear him say. It was as if with the locking of the door behind him, Lestrade gave up, and he'd quickly deteriorated.
It was a horrible thing to see what Lestrade had become, to watch as he clawed at the metal wall of his prison, but Mycroft made himself watch, to learn, to search for any sign of the man that was once his lover in the creature that was left before him. He failed. Yet, a part of him held onto that last thread of hope, desperate to believe that the scientists, that Molly and his brother would find some way to reverse it. But Mycroft was a realist, and deep down he knew it was for not; there was no coming back from this. He was fooling himself, but fool he was, he couldn't stop himself from completing this daily vigil. This was his penance to bear.