Chapter Three

It took a moment to register the line of text that blinked out from his cellphone screen. DI Lestrade shot, being moved to hospital. Mycroft resisted the urge to drop his face in his hands and groan pathetically.

Only because mysterious and powerful government agents do not drop their faces into their hands and groan. They bite the bullet and get to work.

Put him under surveilance. Might try to finish off the job. Keep me up-to-date. Mycroft effortlessly keyed back. Although, he had no need to remind Anthea to keep him in the loop, all his agents would do so without needing to be told. But it was only polite, so he did.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and leaned his elbows on his knees, entwining his fingers contemplatively. Sherlock would kill him if DI Lestrade died, that much was evident. For one moment, Mycroft tried to imagine Sherlock consulting on a case with a different detective.

He shook his head. He couldn't imagine Sherlock tolerating any other copper showing up at his flat, leaning comfortably against his doorframe and dishing out an odd case. Business as usual. No, not without DI Lestrade.

Then arose the question, why was DI Lestrade the one to be targeted? Maybe this incident wasn't linked to Mycroft's case? Maybe it was someone trying to threaten Sherlock? Perhaps this was a case involving a criminal that DI Lestrade had put behind bars? God knows there is a great many of them.

Mycroft frowned. He wasn't a man who believed in coincidences.

He pulled his phone back out and punched in a number from memory. It rang a few times. "Hello." Mycroft greeted when the call was finally connected.

"Hello." Hoover responded. "What is it?"

"There has been a shooting down at the New Scotland Yard. I have reason to believe that this incident is connected to your case." Mycroft informed him. "I just thought you should know."

There was a brief silence on the other end. "DI Lestrade? Got it, I'll look into it." And Mycroft hung up.

He put his phone away a second time and ran his eyes over his paperwork, not really reading the words. Then he sighed in defeat and checked his watch. Every moment that ticked by brought DI Lestrade closer to death or salvation.

Mycroft lowered his wrist, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. There was nothing to be done until Lestrade was announced dead or stable. Mycroft began reading his paper again from the beginning.

He had only gotten past the third line of monotonous font when he realized that he wouldn't get much work done. It was strange. Mycroft never had trouble doing work before.

"Damn it." he cursed and threw down his paper, picking up his trusty umbrella.

"...And earlier this evening, several bombs have been reported to have been set off downtown..." Lestrade stirred and let out a soft groan.

A bombing downtown... He opened his eyes and blinked mutely. Now, the important question, to get up now? Or wait for someone at the station to call in? He turned over in his bed and looked for the source of the sound.

Strange. He was pretty sure he turned off the TV before going to sleep...

He sat bolt upright, not moving his gaze from the door leading to the hall. Then who turned it on?

Maybe Sherlock broke into his flat again? He threw his covers aside and pattered, barefoot, to the door and nudged it open. He could see light flickering through the small open space under the closed living room door.

He slipped quietly over to it and twisted the doorknob.

Whizz-thuk! Lestrade felt his body fall to the floor bonelessly and his head rolled to stare up at the cloudy afternoon sky. Lestrade was overwhelmed by a feeling of deja vu.

Wait... the sky? And why was it so bright...?

Lestrade blinked his eyes open to find himself staring at a strange tiled ceiling. It was just a dream. "Sir?" He twisted his head to the side to see Donovan sitting on a plastic chair by his bedside.

"Do-..." Lestrade croaked and began coughing violently, suddenly very aware of something painful and alien in his throat. The urgent beeping of some machine to his left startled him into near full lucidity and he quickly focused on the need to calm himself.

"Don't talk." Donovan told him firmly, squeezing his shoulder. "Don't move, either. I'm just going to leave for a second to call a doctor." And the pressure on his shoulder was gone.

Lestrade tried to swallow but the inside of his mouth was dry. He lay there, squirming helplessly for a moment or two before a doctor finally hurried in. "I see you're awake." The doctor smiled a well-rehearsed smile that Lestrade knew could just as well mean 'I don't like you, but I'm going to treat you because I'm bound by a hippocratic oath' or 'You're going to die a slow, and horrible death, but I won't tell you that'.

Lestrade just nodded and forced out a muffled groan.

"Don't worry," the doctor told him. "fighting with the ventilation machine is a very good sign, it's proof that your lungs are in very fine condition indeed!"

Lestrade just grunted to signal he heard the doctor.

"Alright, I'm going to take you off the ventilator just as soon as I fix this..." The doctor reached over him to fiddle with the IV drip that was attached to Lestrade's arm.

That was when Lestrade saw it. A ragged scar on the doctor's forearm that made itself known when the ill-fitting sleeve of his doctor's robe slid up as he stretched his arm.

Several things made themselves frightningly clear to Lestrade in that split second.

That the robe evidently didn't belong to its wearer, that the wearer's hand shook due to the slight damages to the nerves in his arm where it was severed, scar on the arm, probably from close combat. Lestrade doubted that any self-respecting hospital would hire anybody with a history of violence. Ergo, this man was not a doctor... nor a nurse. ... And that Sherlock was having some kind of affect on him.

Lestrade's first reaction to these revelations was to lunge at the man, knocking him backward in shock and surprise. Donovan let out a shriek at the sudden show of violence, hands flying up to cover her mouth.

The man leapt back to his feet but was plummeled to the ground again by two men in suits that rushed in at the first sounds of a struggle. A few security guards followed minutes later and the man was bundled quickly out of the ward.

Lestrade doubled over, tumbling out of his bed clutching his throat and gagging on the disrupted tube lodged in his throat, desperately trying to fight the waves of nausea that wracked his body.

Suddenly, there was a presence at his elbow and a kind hand gripped his shoulder, steadying him. And all Lestrade could think was 'Oh, God, don't touch me!' in a panicked mantra. "Don't worry, Mister Lestrade." A female voice cooed soothingly as a hand rubbed his back.

The woman wore a dark dress with a mini-skirt and a rather revealing V-neck, her hair was a silky brunette and fell around her shoulders in rich, brown curls. Of course, Lestrade would've appreciated her company more if he wasn't in the process of retching on an oxygen tube. She stayed with him until the doctors-... real doctors, arrived to treat him.

It wasn't until later that Lestrade realized that he never caught her name, nor had they ever met before. Why did she know him?

Mycroft watched the proceedings with a grim detachment through the CCTV footage from a camera across the street. Couldn't have electronics in the ward, naturally.

He frowned, near glowered at the TV screen, watching as Lestrade was helped (bodily lifted) back to his bed, having given into shock and exhaustion and had thankfully passed out. He should've been vigilant, should've known something might've happened. God knows how close Lestrade could've been to death if he hadn't had the clarity to fight back.

Mycroft gritted his teeth against the cold feeling festering in his stomache at the thought and began tapping the floor incessantly with the tip of his umbrella. Maybe he was coming down with a bug?

He decided that he should probably get himself checked out by a trusted doctor and retire early today.