Chapter Six

"You're sure you're alright?" The constable who accompanied Lestrade home, PC Carter, asked as they clambered out of his panda car.

"I'm fine." Lestrade sighed for at least the fiftieth time that day. "Really." He hopped up the few stairs that led up to his front door, just happy to have finally gotten rid of his walking aid. "See?"

PC Carter just raised his hand in a half salute. "Just checking." Then he nodded up to Lestrade's flat. "You want me to-..."

"No!" Lestrade waved him off frantically. "Go home, Carter! I've had enough pampering for the rest of my life."

PC Carter just shook his head with a chuckle and moved back into his vehicle. "Well, goodnight, Sir." he called out and pulled away from the curb.

Lestrade watched the tail lights drift away and turn the corner at the end of the street before sighing in relief. He pulled his keys out from his trouser pocket and thrust it into the lock, turning it.

Or, more precisely, didn't turn it. Not for the lack of trying, though.

Lestrade took a step back to stare at his rebellious lock for a moment. Then he twisted the doorknob.

The flat was unlocked. Lestrade never left the flat unlocked.

He nudged the door open with his foot just in case there were still untainted fingerprints on the knob. He stepped quietly through the doorway and heard glass snap under his weight. He fumbled for the light switch.

His flat was a complete mess from his front door to his still unused attic. No cupboard was unopened, no glass object left intact, whoever the invader of his privacy was even took the liberty to litter the flat with Lestrade's clothes.

Whoever was here was looking for something but as far as Lestrade could see, nothing was taken.

Suddenly, Lestrade's thoughts were interrupted by a noise at the front door, more of a rustle, really. Lestrade grabbed a flashlight and bolted to the door. He arrived just in time to see a figure dash around the street corner and pursued. He stopped at the street corner though, mindful of his injuries, and returned to his flat.

He locked up and trudged to the nearest cafe and ordered a scalding cup of tea just as the clock struck ten o'clock.

At ten fifteen, Mycroft appeared, looming over him like some angel of death with an ominous umbrella in place of a flaming sword. "Good night, DI Lestrade." he greeted.

"Not now, Mister Holmes." Lestrade groaned, rubbing his temples. "I really don't need you to tell me 'I told you so'."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him and sat at the table beside Lestrade's, giving him ample space but being close enough to converse with. They sat in silence for a few long minutes.

Lestrade pressed his lips together into a thin line, a habit of his that usually made itself known when Lestrade entered a particularly gruesome crime scene. "How bad is it?" Lestrade asked solemnly, breaking the silence.

"How bad is what?" Mycroft asked. Apparently, Lestrade had a very peculiar belief that Mycroft could read minds.

"How dangerous are these people?" Lestrade rephrased his question. "The people you're looking for."

Mycroft stared at the condiments tray on his table. "I can't say, for sure." Then he furrowed his eyebrows worriedly. "Why do you ask?"

Lestrade tapped a finger on the surface of his table for a moment. "What are they looking for?"

"Have they done something that caused you to come to the conclusion that they're looking for something?" Mycroft questioned.

"Came around to my flat and made a right mess of things." Lestrade confessed. "And then they came around again just as I got there, saw me, and took off."

When he looked up, Mycroft was typing on his phone. "Did you see anybody well enough to give a description?" Mycroft asked him distractedly.

"No, not unless I was Sherlock." Lestrade sighed. "You know, he'd probably be able to tell you what size, gender, and where the person I saw frequented with what little I saw."

"And how much did you see?" Mycroft asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe just the rear inch of his, or her, boot." Lestrade spat sarcastically and rolled his eyes. "I really don't get how Sherlock does it."

Mycroft ignored him. "Did you call in the police?"

Lestrade snorted and shook his head. "Oh, that's the last thing I want, my subordinates poking around in my stuff... after it's been burglarized and such." He shrugged his shoulders. "Guess it wasn't really smart of me to leave the place unattended, though. Might've been able to lift a few prints from the doorknob..." He eyed Mycroft dubiously. "Though, if you're having such a time of tracking these people down, I don't suppose they'd be daft enough to leave prints, would they?"

Mycroft shook his head. "It's doubtful."

A waitress approached them and Lestrade requested another cup of tea. "I should probably get home, shouldn't I?" Lestrade sighed, taking an appreciative sip and setting it aside. "With it getting late and all."

"You seem to have forgotton that your flat has been very effectively rendered impossible to live in." Mycroft chuckled at him.

Lestrade blinked blankly, then chuckled at himself. "I don't know what's wrong with me right now."

"Yes, I don't think it's safe for you to be on your own." Mycroft nodded. "Do you have some friend that you could stay with for the time being?"

Lestrade shook his head. "I spend more time in the Yard than out of it, most of my friends are officers who are currently still on duty." He blinked blearily at Mycroft. "You've got your men searching my flat, haven't you?" Again, statement not question.

Mycroft didn't answer that. He stood up from his seat and smoothed out the creases on his suit vest. "Well, you're right about it getting late." He was silent for a moment. "I'll book you a room at a hotel."

Lestrade waved him off. "Don't bother, never been able to sleep in strange places, pathetic as that sounds." Mycroft shook his head to signal otherwise. "I'd probably feel safer down at the Yard."

"I don't think that's wise, considering the extent of your injuries." Mycroft sighed. "Besides, sick leaves are for rest and recuperation... preferably stress-free. I don't think you'll get that down at the Yard."

A hint of a smile flitted across Lestrade's face. "You're probably right about that." Scratch that, Mycroft was one hundred percent right about that.

Mycroft sent Lestrade an evaluating glance, then spoke. "I have a spare bedroom you might like to use for the night." Lestrade looked at him, eyes wide with surprise. "Well, it would be better advised to take the hotel room, but..." Mycroft grimaced. "What I'm trying to say is, your company would be most welcome." Then he grimaced again. "And, well, it's the least I can do, considering the fact that my men are intruding in your flat."

Lestrade laughed, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. "I would be glad to take you up on your offer, then." he said awkwardly, then... "That is what people usually say, isn't it?"

Mycroft furrowed his eyebrows a little. "I'm not entirely sure. I don't make it a habit to stay over at other people's houses."

Lestrade chuckled. "Neither do I."