Chapter Four

The next time Lestrade woke up, he was endlessly grateful to find himself endotracheal tube-free. His eyebrows quirked a little of their own accord when he completed the thought. Funny things tend to happen to your intellect when you've associated yourself too much with eccentric consulting detectives and their flatmate... who happens to be a doctor.

He opened his eyes blearily and found that Donovan was no longer sitting by his bedside. That was a small relief to Lestrade, he never really enjoyed showing any weakness to his subordinates. The unfortunate reality of the matter was, he was alone.

He tried to figure out if that was a good thing or bad thing.

He didn't have long to contemplate the matter as a soft knock jolted him out of his thoughts. "Who-..." Lestrade coughed through his dry throat. "Who is it?"

The door opened and the one-and-only Mycroft Holmes stood on the threshold, leaning on his umbrella like some larger than life Jimney Cricket. Lestrade blinked, rubbed sleep-induced fogginess from his eyes and looked again. Nope, still there. "Hello." he greeted finally when he had made certain of the government agent's identity. "Can't say I was expecting you."

Mycroft smiled at him pleasantly and strolled comfortably into the ward, twirling his umbrella absently as he went. "I take it you expected Sherlock or Doctor Watson?" He moved nearer to Lestrade's bed, taking his lovely time of it. He poured the detective a cup of water and offered it to him.

Lestrade took a hesitant sip, careful of his sore throat, then promptly downed the cup. "Wasn't expecting anybody in particular." Lestrade admitted, handing the glass back to Mycroft. "Especially not you."

An awkward beat. Mycroft put the glass down on a nearby surface. "Sherlock and Doctor Watson are currently out of the country on a case." he informed Lestrade. "Just in case you were wondering. They probably haven't heard the news yet."

Lestrade grunted. "Just as well, don't want them coming back prematurely." Mycroft and he shared a smile at that. "Do you think it'll be alright if I get up?" He asked hesitantly.

"I don't forsee any problem with that." Mycroft responded. "Should I call a doctor...?" Lestrade shook his head.

"Don't really want any of that right now." He chuckled humorlessly, then he bit his lip, probably because the sheets tucked tight around his body deprived him of any other mode of nervous fidgeting. "Do you-..." Lestrade stopped midsentence, evidently thinking better of his actions. Then he began again. "Do you think it would be too presumptuous of me to ask you to give me a hand?"

Mycroft blinked down at him for a moment. "Not at all." He gripped Lestrade's shoulder firmly as the DI clutched his sleeve and pulled himself upright.

Lestrade gave a small sigh of relief at being at least partially vertical now. "Ah, that's much better." He scooted back to prop himself up comfortably on the headrest.

They sat through another bout of awkward silence. "I suppose you'd want to know what's going on." Mycroft prompted, placing his umbrella across his knees importantly.

Lestrade sent him a piercing look. "Sherlock isn't here to interrogate me on what I'd seen, or hadn't seen. So I don't suppose this has anything to do with him." Mycroft nodded, seeing the logic behind the assumption. "No coppers here for the same reason, if this is an incident related to some criminal I'd helped put away I'm sure my superiors would want to know all the details." Mycroft didn't respond at that.

Lestrade looked at Mycroft, then lowered his gaze to the floor, to the door, and then out the window. "Random attempted murder?" he thought aloud. "A cop killer? An-... an insane-..." he was vaguely aware that he was rambling. Must be the cocktail of painkillers in his system.

"I'm sorry." Mycroft's quiet apology startled him into silence but he still didn't look away from the scenery outside window.

"Why? You don't-... You're not-..." Lestrade blinked rapidly a few times and then sighed in defeat. "I'm never going to know, am I?"

Mycroft furrowed his brow. "It matters on what you want to know."

Lestrade finally looked at Mycroft. "Why." It wasn't a question, it was a resigned statement. "I was shot and assulted in the hospital, it's obvious that someone is trying to kill me. And, for all I know, they might well succeed and I'll never know why they did it. National security, and all that." Mycroft pressed his lips together. Lestrade had every reason to be upset.

Lestrade took a deep breath and stared down at his hands folded loosely in his lap. "I'm drugged, in shock, and I'm rambling, saying things I don't really mean." A sad ghost of a smile passed over Lestrade's face. "Sorry."

Mycroft frowned in genuine confusion. "There's no need to be."

"Just-...You know what?" Lestrade made that same abortive motion with his hands that Mycroft had just seen the day Lestrade had been shot. "I don't care-... and I don't want to know." He shook his head tiredly. "Just as long as you can assure me that none of my subordinates or any other civilians will get dragged into this... thing, okay? Lets just leave it at that."

Mycroft nodded mutely.

Lestrade threaded his fingers through his hair and blew out a breath. "I won't keep you from work any more." he said to Mycroft with a slight smile. "Good evening, Mycroft."

Mycroft took that as his cue to leave.

The moment Lestrade was again alone in the room, he dropped his head into his hands.

He hiccuped softly, not crying, not hyperventilating, not sighing, just... hiccuping, gritting his teeth. It was difficult to explain what he was feeling right now. He didn't feel so very scared, or traumatized by the incident, truth be told. He wasn't angry either. Not knowing what was going on was just one of those things he knew he would have to deal with, concerning Mycroft.

It was something similar to Sherlock witholding evidence. Lestrade didn't like it one bit, but it was just something that he had to deal with.

But, just because he knew this, didn't make it any easier to handle.

Strange. Mycroft thought to himself that night as he sat brooding in his study.

Everything he knew about DI Lestrade was... well, strange, to say in the least. Everything he knew about the man was so different from the simple human psychologies that Mycroft was accustomed to dealing with.

Complicated. Mycroft nodded decisively. DI Lestrade was complicated.

He was a good copper, good at his job, an upstanding citizen... well, as upstanding as an acquaintence of Sherlock Holmes could be. His work ethic was simple enough for his subordinates to understand. Simple rules. Be punctual, be efficient, and be polite. And Lestrade's subordinates respected him enough to follow his rules unless Sherlock was involved, and in that case, Mycroft couldn't blame them.

Lestrade was a man who rolled with the punches he recieved but never struck back unless he had good reason to. He was the man who saved Mycroft's life and now he couldn't do a single thing for him.

Mycroft didn't understand why Lestrade was merely a DI. If he was ambitious he could be so much more. But he wasn't. He was comfortable as a DI. He was comfortable in his own skin, right down to the bones, in fact. He assumed Lestrade was quite pleased with his life.

Again, ...strange.

And Mycroft had no idea how to handle him.